theatre, but the theatre was empty now, so they were at a loss what to do next. There was nobody about to take vengeance on except the Guards, and the Guards were armed.
The Imperial Salute decided them. They rushed forward shouting: 'Hochi Hochi Long live the Emperor Claudius!' and began frantically dedicating their assegais to my service and struggling to break through the crowd of Guardsmen to kiss my feet. I called to them to keep back, and they obeyed, prostrating themselves before me. I was carried round and round the Court.
And what thoughts or memories, would you guess, were passing through my mind on this extraordinary occasion?
Was I thinking of the Sibyl's prophecy, of the omen of the wolf-cub, of Pollio's advice, or of Briseis' dream? Of my grandfather and liberty? Of my father and liberty? Of my three Imperial predecessors, Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, their lives and deaths? Of the great danger I was still in from the conspirators, and from the Senate, and from the Guards battalions at Ac Camp? Of Messalina and our unborn child? Of my grandmother Livia and my promise to deify her if ever I became Emperor? Of Postumus and Germanicus? Of Agrippina and Nero? Of Camilla? No, you would never guess what was passing through my mind. But I shall be frank and tell you what it was, though the confession is a shameful one. I was thinking, 'So, I'm Emperor, am I? What nonsense! But at least I'll be able to make people read my books now. Public recitals to large audiences. And good books too, thirty-five years' hard work in them. It won't be unfair. Pollio used to get attentive audiences by giving expensive dinners. He was a very sound historian, and the last of Romans. My History of Carthage is full of amusing anecdotes. I'm sure they'll enjoy it.'
That was what I was thinking. I was thinking too, what opportunities I should have, as Emperor, for consulting the secret archives and finding out just what happened on this occasion or on that. How many twisted stories still remained to be straightened out. What a miraculous fate for a historian! And as you will have seen, I took full advantage of my opportunities. Even the mature historian's privilege of setting forth conversations of which he knows only the gist is one that I have availed myself of hardly at all.
The End
About the Author
Although he is a primarily a poet, ROBERT GRAVES in over forty years of writing has also made distinguished contributions as a novelist, critic, translator, essayist, scholar, historian, lecturer and librettist. Born in London in 1895, Mr.
Graves left school when World War I broke and served as a captain with the Royal Welsh Fusiliers in France. First recognised as a 'war poet' along with his fellow officer Siegfried Sassoon, he won international acclaim in 1929 with the publication of Goodbye to All That, an autobiography vividly appraising the effect of the war years on his generation.
After the war, Mr. Graves was granted a Classical scholarship at Oxford, and subsequently went to Egypt as the first Professor of English at the newly formed University of Cairo. Since 1932 he has lived with his wife and famfly in Deya, Majorca, except in time of war J, Claudius first appeared in 1935 and won both the Tames Tait Black and Hawthorne prizes.
