If I were dead, what would it matter to me if obloquy was imputed to my name, if my enemies triumphed, if the world went to chaos over my grave.

It would not mean so much as a single evil dream in my perpetual slumber." Caesar was no longer resting on the bank.

He was pacing to and fro, with rapid, nervous steps, crushing the dry twigs under his shoes, pressing his hands together behind his back, knitting and unknitting his fingers.
Drusus knew enough to be aware that he was present as a spectator of that most terrible of all conflicts--a strong man's wrestle with his own misgivings.

To say something, to say anything, that would ease the shock of the contest--that was the young man's compelling desire; but he felt as helpless as though he, single handed, confronted ten legions.
"But your friends, Imperator," he faltered, "think of them! They have made sacrifices for you.

They trust in you.