"
"'To which Empire?" I asked. "We split the Eagle
before I was born."
"'What thieves' talk is that?" said my Father. He hated slang.
"'Well, sir," I said, "we've one Emperor in Rome, and I
don't know how many Emperors the outlying Provinces
have set up from time to time. Which am I to follow?"
"'Gratian," said he. "At least he's a sportsman."
"'He's all that," I said. "Hasn't he turned himself into a
raw-beef-eating Scythian?"
"'Where did you hear of it?" said the Pater.
"'At Aquae Sulis," I said. It was perfectly true. This
precious Emperor Gratian of ours had a bodyguard of
fur-cloaked Scythians, and he was so crazy about them
that he dressed like them. In Rome of all places in the
world! It was as bad as if my own Father had painted
himself blue!
"'No matter for the clothes," said the Pater. "They are
only the fringe of the trouble. It began before your time or
mine. Rome has forsaken her Gods, and must be
punished. The great war with the Painted People broke
out in the very year the temples of our Gods were
destroyed. We beat the Painted People in the very year
our temples were rebuilt.
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