Anatolus.
Yes, sire, beyond a doubt.
Julian.
They are dead, yes! They know nought, then, either of the defeat at Jerusalem or the other defeats.—Think you many more Greeks will fall in the battle, Anatolus?
Anatolus.
Sire, let us hope the bloodiest work is over.
Julian.
Many, many more will fall, I tell you! But not enough. Of what use is it that <g>many</g> should fall? None the less will posterity learn
Tell me, Anatolus, how think you the Emperor Caligula pictured to himself that sword?
Anatolus.
What sword, sire?
Julian.
You know he wished for a sword wherewith he might at one blow
Anatolus.
Hark to the shouts, sire! Now I am sure the Persians are retreating.
Julian.
[Listening.] What song is that in the air?
Anatolus.
Sire, let me summon Oribases; or still better,—come,—come; you are sick!
