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At the first chance a belt was passed around their prisoner, and his arms securely buckled to his sides. Then the unfortunate Centurion perceived, at last, that all hope was gone.

‘Caesar! tyrant!’ he foamed, as he struggled frantically with his bonds, ‘why did I not bury my blade in your foul heart and relieve the world? Do your worst with me – I care nothing! But dare not to harm her; she is nobly born and of gentle blood; beware, therefore!’

The Emperor waved his hand. There was only time for one agonising look between the lovers, and the Pretorians hurried their prisoner from the room.

CHAPTER XXIV

It would have greatly relieved the distracted mind of Martialis, had he known that he occupied the Emperor’s thoughts to a far greater degree than his beloved Neæra. The brilliant beauty and wit of Plautia was too far in the ascendant, at present, in the Imperial heart to admit of a rival, especially one of such a different type.

To Neæra, when she had been dismissed to safe keeping, Tiberius gave, for the time, no further heed. Weightier matters engaged him, and very shortly after the conclusion of the scene described in the last chapter, he rose from the supper-table and returned to his own apartment, from which he dismissed every one.

Suspicion and dissimulation equipoised the Imperial mind. The former fed the latter, and both were unutterably profound. Only the day before he had yielded to the importunities of the Prefect, and had consented to give him his daughter-in-law in marriage. Sejanus retired in joy, with everything arranged for his early reception into the Imperial family. His plans, long and carefully followed up, were now well-nigh matured, and he laughed in his sleeve at the earnest, trustful affection which the Emperor had displayed very liberally toward him. He was not aware of the fact that he daily and hourly filled the buried thoughts of the old man – thoughts which trusted nobody; that his own eager ambition was blinding him, and actually supplying a fatal web for a subtler mind than his own to weave around him.

The close attention which the Emperor devoted to the Prefect, by a natural sequence, could not fail to follow the person of the Prefect’s favourite officer. If not so familiar with Martialis personally, he was well-informed by report in all concerning him. Up to the moment when the Centurion hurriedly accounted for his movements, the mind of Tiberius was smouldering with passion, on the point of breaking into a fierce flame of summary vengeance for the unparalleled temerity of a reckless invasion of his privacy. At that particular moment his craft seized like lightning upon an idea; his wrath sank subordinate, and became a mere simulation. We shall presently see how his subtle conjectures were realised. For the time, however, Martialis was spared, providing his own stubbornness presented no further obstacle to lenience. His personal attributes, his fearless, soldierly defiance, reached a vein of sympathy which yet lived dormant, far down in the depths of the tyrant’s heart. In his youth Tiberius himself had been comely, tall of stature, strong of limb, and skilled in hardy exercises; therefore the handsome face and athletic form, the extraordinary strength, skill, and address of the young officer, had not failed to arouse his secret admiration. The downfall of his gigantic Nubian struck him with wonder, and relit a ray of the joys of the palæstra of his own youthful days. But more grateful than this to his suspicious nature, was the conclusion he drew from the frank, fearless countenance and the simple faith of the Pretorian. Such a man might be invaluable, and he determined that he should not be uselessly butchered, if it could be profitably avoided. When Zeno stooped, and whisperingly reminded him of the fact of the existence of a door, but seldom used, and hidden by the curtain, immediately behind the position of Martialis, he assented eagerly to the suggestion, which, we have seen, was carried out successfully.

So far all had gone fortunately. The Emperor withdrew; and, from the dark expression of his face, it was readily inferred that the culprit would have short shrift.

When alone, however, in his apartment, and safe from every eye, his mien altered. Fits of abstraction and restless pacings of the room passed the silent time, and as the hour of midnight approached, his impatience and nervousness grew more marked. Several times his hand rested on a small silver bell as if to ring, and, as often, after a few moments of indecision, with his ears strained to catch the least sound in the deep stillness, he turned away. Occasionally he went to one corner of the room, and, drawing back a curtain, placed his ear close against the wall for a few moments. Thence he would return to his seat and his book, for a space, to leave them by and by for another excursion. Many varied positions he occupied, now sitting, now reclining, now ambling hither and thither, impelled by the pains of impatience and anxiety. Trifling with this object, touching that, lifting and examining another, half unconsciously, his state of nervous unrest, finding full vent within the deaf and sightless walls of his retreat, was a wonderful relaxation from the inscrutable impassiveness of his public demeanour.

Midnight had barely passed, when two or three taps proceeded from that corner of the room where he had often paid a visit, and bent a listening ear. His face cleared instantly, and he stepped at once toward the sound. Stooping down he pressed a particular spot in the angle of the wall, and a narrow, secret panel, wholly indistinguishable before, shot silently and swiftly upward. Through the opening stepped Zeno.

‘Well?’ said Tiberius sharply; ‘at last! I have waited almost beyond my patience.’

‘I have not lingered one second longer than I could possibly help,’ replied the Greek; ‘to have come sooner would have been rash.’

‘Is all safe now?’

‘Quite – he is off as sound as can be.’

‘And you are sure that no soul has passed from the palace outwards since supper?’

‘Especial orders were given to all the guards.’

‘Come, then!’

They stepped through the secret opening and drew down the shutter after them. It closed with a subdued, but clear ‘click,’ which denoted the hidden instrumentality of a highly-perfected spring. Zeno went on first with the lamp. They descended two narrow winding flights of steps cut in the rock; and at their foot, another door, as cunningly contrived and hidden away, gave way to their potent touch in the same mysterious manner. They were now in a wider gallery, all rock-hewn and faced with brick. On either side were ranged doors; and, at a little distance away, a lamp hung from the ceiling, like a yellow beacon light struggling with the subterranean gloom. Immediately beneath this lamp Zeno halted before a door.

‘Are there none but ourselves below?’ muttered Tiberius.

‘No one,’ returned Zeno; ‘I despatched every one on one pretence and another, and having seen all clear, locked up the main outlet myself.’

The steward pushed with his finger one of the many iron studs or bolt-heads which strengthened the door. It slid back a couple of inches and disclosed a small peep-hole, through which he peered. Satisfied with his scrutiny he unlocked the door and they went in. The chamber was about twelve feet square, and furnished with a small tripod stand, a stool, and a pallet bed. From the ceiling hung a lamp which threw down a dismal light on the cheerless place.

On the bed was stretched the form of Martialis in careless grace, with one sinewy arm hanging down at length over the pallet-side, toward the floor. His appearance was corpse-like. His closed eyes, his bold, handsome features, his dark hair curling crisply over his brow, seemed all fixed in the tranquil marble beauty of the early moments of death. Not a breath seemed to part his moulded lips, and the steel cuirass which encased his body hid effectually all sign of movement beneath. Tiberius started and turned a frowning, inquiring glance on his companion. Zeno pointed to some victuals and an empty pitcher which stood on the small stand.

‘He has eaten nothing and drunk every drop – he will give no trouble.’

‘How – have you killed him?’ demanded the Emperor sternly.

‘Ah no, Caesar – the drug was harmless for that, but potent enough to make him no better than a clod for some hours; and a mercy for him, as you would say, had you seen his state of mind. We may do what we please with him.’

The steward spoke the truth, for, in the handling to which the inanimate Pretorian was subjected, he exhibited no symptom of consciousness. Underneath his cuirass they found a stout leather belt buckled round his waist. Attached to the belt was a pouch securely fastened, and from this the Emperor drew several scrolls of papyri – the paper of the ancients, made from the Egyptian plant of that name. Taking these to the lamp on the tripod, Tiberius turned his back on his trusty steward, and proceeded to unroll them with eager trembling fingers. He glanced through the written contents of each with a rapid practised eye, but found nothing therein, save dry official reports from the deputy in command of the Pretorian camp at Rome. His countenance fell gradually as he proceeded, and when he arrived at the end, he gave vent to a muttered ejaculation of disappointment. One other scroll remained, which was not of an official nature, but evidently a late production of a bookseller’s shop.

It may be as well to explain that the book of the Romans in no point resembled that of modern days, inasmuch as binding and pages formed no component parts. The work of a Roman author was written on one continuous strip of papyrus or parchment, of more or less length. This was rolled round a stick of appropriate size in the same manner as a modern map or chart, the exterior being neatly finished and lettered with the title of the book. It is probable enough that the latter was also exhibited on a ticket attached to the end of the roll, as affording a readier means of ascertaining any particular book, when laid together on the shelves of the library, or dropped endwise into the circular boxes used for their transport.

The remaining roll or book, which the Emperor now took up, was sheathed in a purple parchment covering. Sliding off the latter, he found the volume to be of a nature he had already guessed with the accuracy of experience. It was a satire, a vers-de-societé, by one of the poetasters of the day, and very showily got up. As the outer sheath was removed a small slip of paper fell out. It was an epistle, which ran as follows: —

‘Knowing you must at times feel dull with an out-of-the-world feeling, I have sent the accompanying volume in the hope it may prove acceptable; it is only small, and will not add much to the bulk and weight of your despatches. It is the last new thing by Varius, and quite the rage. I have a very poor opinion of the composition myself; but, as an elegant and artistic specimen of the publisher’s workmanship, I think it is as admirable as any I have yet seen – even to the mute wood itself, whose ornamentation you will find well worthy of examination. It is mournful to think that the bookmaker’s art should be so needed nowadays to eke out an author’s want of wit.’

Now it happened that Tiberius, who was very devoted to literature, had already perused the satire he now held. Every new publication of the city was punctually forwarded to him, as might be expected. He, therefore, unrolled the paper, which was about a yard and a half in length, and six or eight inches wide, and glanced his eye down the beautifully charactered effusion. There was also a portrait of the author included on the scroll; but as it was all identical with what he had already seen, he passed it over and bestowed more attention upon the wooden roller, to observe if there was anything about it worthy of more particular notice than he had before given to the one in his own possession. The little roller was plain and coloured black, but each end was ornamented with a boss, rather of conical shape, carved and picked out with brilliant colours. Tiberius gazed at it and strove to compare it mentally with his own specimen. He read the accompanying letter again, and tried hard to discover the peculiar beauties of the wooden cylinder, so particularly recommended. He failed to perceive anything extraordinary, but there seemed to be something in the bulk thereof which struck him as unusual. Turning to Zeno, he despatched him to his library to bring him his own copy. The Greek soon returned, and Tiberius compared the two volumes. They were exactly similar, being copies of the same edition; but, when he placed the wooden cylinders together, he saw at once there was a difference in their circumferences. That which belonged to the Prefect was very perceptibly thicker; but, as the bosses affixed to the ends remained the same size, it followed, that the margin of the projection was less in the Prefect’s than his own. The Emperor knitted his brows, and riveted his gaze on the two cylinders in profound meditation. Then he once more studied the nameless epistle to refresh his memory; after which he bestowed another examination on the books. Something in the relative weights of the cylinders seemed to strike him, so, arranging the rolls of paper to which they were attached as to interfere as little as possible, he balanced the rollers on the tips of his fingers of both hands. Then, as if dubious, he called in the aid of Zeno, briefly pointing out the facts of the case. The Greek took the cylinders into his own hands, and after minutely examining them, he weighed them as his master had done. For a further test he tapped the thicker roller with a little metal key, and listened attentively to the sound. Then he balanced them again, and finally gave it as his opinion, that the thicker roller was lighter than the smaller one, and, moreover, sounded as though it were hollow. The eyes of Emperor and steward exchanged a significant flash.

‘Such a condition is neither usual nor necessary,’ said Tiberius. ‘Let us try and discover the reason.’

The Greek took the suspected cylinder into his long supple fingers, and made a very minute scrutiny of the junction of the bosses at either end. Then, by patient and delicate, but firm manipulation, he proceeded to try if they were detachable. After a considerable amount of persuasive force of handling, one of the bosses yielded a hair’s-breadth. He renewed his efforts, and the Emperor’s eyes glistened. The boss became looser and looser, and in a minute’s time came off altogether. They were now enabled to perceive that the original bosses had been fitted to a new cylinder. That one which had been removed, instead of being affixed in the usual way to a flat surface, had been hollowed a little to receive the end of the roller, and then tightened with a thin application of glue. The roller, as Zeno had suspected, was hollow. He turned it upside down and a little scroll of very thin paper dropped out. The fingers of the Emperor closed on it like lightning. His eyes flamed with a ferocious delight as he carefully unrolled a few inches of the fragile document and read therein.

‘Haste – bring tablets, paper, anything – like the wind!’ he whispered excitedly. Zeno hastened away, and Tiberius, huddling against the lamp, devoured the contents of the secret missive with eyes starting from his head, and mouth agape in astonishment. Rage, hate, and delirious joy thrilled him as he read. His hands, his body, and his limbs trembled with the force of his excitement. Swiftly reading to the close, he dropped the little quivering paper, and laughed with triumph. Startled by his own voice he looked fearfully round at Martialis; but the Centurion lay deathlike in the profound stupor of his drugged slumbers. With uneasy, hasty steps the Emperor paced the narrow dungeon, muttering inaudibly until Zeno entered with writing materials. Then he sat down to make a copy of the secret, and evidently fateful, missive intended for the eyes of the Prefect alone.

The task occupied longer than it would otherwise have done, owing to the agitated mind and trembling fingers of the writer; but at length it came to an end. The original letter was restored to its hiding-place in the roller, and the boss skilfully replaced by Zeno, who carefully heated the incrusted glue over the flame of the lamp to cause it to hold firmly.

The documents were then replaced in the pouch of the Centurion, and his dress arranged without a sign to show that he had been tampered with.

‘Send to the Prefect with the first light of day, and acquaint him with the position of his courier and the causes thereof,’ said Tiberius. ‘He will, without doubt, attend personally – let him see his messenger if he wishes, and obtain his despatches with his own hands. When that is done and he is gone, I will see this youth myself. We have made a good night’s work – you will find it to your benefit as to mine – now to bed!’

CHAPTER XXV

Martialis awoke, or rather came gradually to consciousness, next morning, with a dull torpor weighing on him like lead, and a brain confused and racking with pain. Zeno’s sleeping potion, whatever it was, had been mixed with a liberal hand. Memory came slowly back through the stupor which clogged his senses, and he instinctively felt for the despatches of which he had charge. They were there all right, and he turned his heavy aching head toward the little table. A jug stood thereon along with the victuals he had left untouched the night before. To his joy he found it had been replenished with water. His mouth was parched and his lips dry and cracked, and he drank with avidity. The grateful draught restored him vastly, and he also partook of some bread and fruit. Then lying back again on the bed he gave himself up to his poignant reflections, and awaited what should follow.

He had ever the most strict injunctions to deliver papers and despatches to no one but the Prefect himself, whenever he was employed as their bearer, therefore there arose the idea in his mind, and a hope also, that his commander would be one of the first to visit him, if allowed. At any rate, captive as he was, he determined not to give up his charge to any one but the Prefect himself, or to some one authorised by the Prefect, in writing, to receive the same. Thus he might be able, perhaps, to cause his commander to visit him in person, an act he was earnestly desirous of, since he hoped to gain his influence in his behalf, and more especially in that of Neæra. Of her his mind was filled with fears and imaginings which tortured him with sufferings of suspense too deep to be described. He knew nothing of the time, whether it was night or day, since he was beneath ground; but he had been lying long awake when he heard a key put into the door. To his joy his conjectures were realised by the entrance of Sejanus. The Prefect was genuinely troubled at the situation of his favourite officer, and drew from him a detailed relation of what had occurred.

‘You were ill-advised in being so bold and desperate,’ said Sejanus, shaking his head. ‘A calmer method would have been more politic.’

‘I think not, though I never stayed at the time to deliberate,’ returned Martialis sternly. ‘Being too late to deliver her ere she reached this accursed place, I knew that no escape but death remained for her – therefore I gave her the means. But for a cunning trick all had been successful, and you, Prefect, would now have been lacking a Centurion and a few Pretorians.’

‘Humph, it is better as it is, Martialis – we must have you free of this place again.’

‘Preserve her, Prefect; I care little for myself if I am assured of her safety. Do this for me, I adjure you; for I have spared nothing in your service. Pray and entreat him, and if he be still pitiless, do as I did, and find the means of providing her with a secret weapon of freedom. She will bless you as I will – promise me, Prefect, in mercy to her – to us both! The gods only know what agony of mind is mine. The torture of thinking of the pure, sweet girl in the power of those wretches above us – to imagine her shrinking in their foul, pitiless hands – oh!’ The young man shook his clenched fists and then buried his face in his hands.

His distress, and the poignant groan which closed his speech moved his commander’s heart, albeit not over sensitive in such matters.

‘My best efforts shall not be wanting,’ he replied. ‘Think better of it. It is early yet, but as soon as Caesar is stirring, I will put this matter right, depend upon it – why, I cannot do without thee.’

Martialis uttered his thanks, and, after some more questions in connection with his mission to Rome, the Prefect buckled the courier’s belt underneath his cloak and departed from the cell.

The weary time lagged on until the prisoner once more rose from his recumbent position to greet his commander, who returned with a grave look on his dark handsome face. Martialis beheld it with a failing heart.

‘I have done what I could, and have gone as far as I could, with safety; but you have provoked him in no light fashion,’ said Sejanus, shaking his head.

‘And she?’ cried the young man.

‘Well, as to her, you may rest easy. She is no longer in the palace, but has been sent away to the household of Livia for safe keeping.’

‘Thank heaven! And to you, thanks are all I am able to give for your good offices,’ cried Martialis.

His voice choked – his lip trembled. The revulsion of feeling was too much for his overstrung nature to bear, and tears stopped his voice.

‘There is nothing due to me,’ said the Prefect; ‘the transfer was already accomplished; but, being where she is, she shall not fail of careful watching. The noble Livia, as you may have heard, becomes my bride ere long.’

‘I knew it not, but wish you every joy,’ said Martialis, yet without warmth; for he could not help recalling to his thoughts the Prefect’s divorced wife Apicata, who had been frivolously put aside, no doubt to make way for his present betrothal. ‘It may be I have only a few hours to live, but the sting of death is gone since I know my Neæra is safe. Tell her, Prefect, that my last thoughts were of her and for her.’

‘Humph, Caesar is ruffled without doubt, but he does not make away with my Pretorians so easily,’ said Sejanus, with a proud curl of his lip; ‘you may leave your last will and bequest over for a space yet.’

‘It is all in your hands, Prefect,’ returned the other.

Sejanus retired, and Martialis was left once more alone with his thoughts. They were tranquil and even buoyant to what they had been, and he began to conjecture and weigh arguments in the discussion of his own case. He had no craven fear of death, but, at the same time, he was young and an ardent lover, and life had gone pleasantly with him. It cost him a deep pang to think on what might have been, and Neæra being out of peril, his hold on the hope of liberty was strengthened in spite of himself. He knew the stern relentless nature of Tiberius, but he relied on the influence of the commander, who he was certain would hazard much in his defence.

So he ruminated and turned these things over and over in his mind, wondering when he should again see the light of day. Zeno, with a guard, paid him a visit to attend to his wants, and bring him a fresh supply of provisions, but the worthy Greek was singularly uncommunicative.

When they were gone the prisoner ate and drank more heartily than he had hitherto done, and, lying down again, fell asleep.

He was awakened by a touch on his shoulder. Opening his eyes he saw, to his extreme surprise, the Emperor himself standing by his side. He started up and perceived they were alone together. His heart beat quickly, and wild thoughts began to rise. There was the tyrant defenceless before him – the cause, as he believed, of the present situation of himself and Neæra, – an old man, whom he could crush like a nutshell, delivered to his hand. Whilst his mind flamed with this idea, his eye instinctively sought the door, to ascertain whether it was closed upon them. Tiberius, meanwhile, stood motionless before him. He read the young man’s passing thoughts quite readily – not a motion or glance escaped him.

‘We are alone, and it occurs to you that I am now in your power,’ said he, with the utmost calmness; ‘I admit it.’

A flush arose to the cheek of Martialis. It needed no words of Caesar to show him that he had little to gain from such a desperate act, save a momentary satisfaction of savage revenge.

‘I have been sorely tried,’ he replied, drawing a deep breath; ‘if such an idea flashed into my mind it died on the instant – you need have no fear.’

‘I knew it,’ said Tiberius; ‘I love my Pretorians, and an officer and youth of such prowess as you have proved yourself to possess, is well worthy of the mature consideration of a ruler. The circumstances of your case are so unusual that my interest has led me to visit you personally.’

Martialis bowed his head.

‘One thing seems to demand forbearance, and that is your youth, with its hot unreasoning blood. Without thought, scruple, or calculation of a moment, you plunge headlong into my chamber, amid my guests and servants, utterly regardless of everything, in pursuit of your sweetheart, just as you would, doubtless, have rushed into the midst of a band of Satyrs.’

‘You are right – I was excited to desperation – I would have followed her anywhere – nor do I now repent,’ said the young man frankly; ‘the welfare of my betrothed is more to me than life itself.’

Tiberius nodded gently, with a countenance as impassive as the Sphinx.

‘I entreated your pardon, Caesar, for my rude intrusion into the privacy of the Imperial chamber, and I humbly submit my fault once more for your forbearance and forgiveness,’ added Martialis quickly.

‘It was a fault which set at defiance all discipline, authority, and respect. What then is the punishment? You, as a soldier, ought to know.’

‘I am well aware that my offence brings me within the extreme punishment of all. Caesar is master of life and death.’

‘Is there any reason why the penalty should not be enforced?’

‘I am ready,’ said Martialis, calmly returning the gaze of the Emperor. ‘But, as a soldier, who has ever done his duty, two requests might be mercifully granted.’

‘Name them.’

‘That I suffer no dishonourable death, and that the maiden may be returned to her people in safety and honour. Or, if these be too much, grant, at least, the latter, and deal with me as you will as regards the former.’

‘I have said that your headstrong youth claims an amount of indulgence, and I grant both requests.’

‘Thanks from my heart.’

‘Your betrothed shall not be harmed – she is now in safe keeping. There is the first condition settled.’

‘Then I am at peace.’

‘And for the other, you shall name yourself the manner of your death.’

‘A single sword-thrust here,’ said the Centurion, laying his hand over his heart. ‘I bear an old and honourable name.’

Tiberius bent a long and searching gaze upon him, and then rising to his feet, paced up and down the cell for some moments.

‘I love my Pretorians, and cannot bear to see them come to harm,’ he muttered. The words reached the ears of Martialis, whose heart throbbed with renewed hope which would not be denied. Then Caesar returned to his seat and said, ‘The Prefect has spoken to me concerning you – has he seen you here?’

‘He came for the despatches I bore,’ answered the Centurion; ‘I know he would speak favourably of me.’

‘He did so – you often act as his courier?’

‘Very frequently.’

‘I remember to have seen you before in that capacity.’

‘I have often had the honour of carrying important letters between the Prefect and yourself.’

‘Yes, you are favoured with his confidence. Do your missions ever include any diplomatic or political business?’

‘No – I know nothing of either, and have no desire to learn. My profession suffices to fill my entire attention.’

‘Good,’ said the Emperor approvingly; ‘you are a soldier, pure and simple, as you ought to be. It is all the more pity you have committed this fault.’

He rose from his seat and walked the cell again. Martialis watched him anxiously.

‘It is strange that you, a man of noble blood, should stoop to a girl of a base artisan,’ said Tiberius. ‘Do you say you are betrothed, and meant to marry her?’

‘I did,’ replied the other, with a little sternness; ‘you have already passed your word for her safety, and that is sufficient assurance: but I have reason to believe, Caesar, that she is not the potter’s child.’

‘I have already heard that – it requires proof, however – give it me,’ said Tiberius, with an incredulous smile curling his lip.

‘I cannot prove it,’ returned Martialis; ‘but at least I can tell you all I know.’

And he accordingly related the slender facts committed to him the previous night.

‘And this man, Cestus, whom she supposes to be her uncle – is he still in Surrentum?’

‘I cannot tell. But his last words were, that he would hasten away to Rome at once – I presume to reveal all to her relatives.’

‘Did he not say who these were?’

‘I should have said relative,’ replied Martialis; ‘according to his tale there is only one remaining – her grandfather, Fabricius, who lives on the Janiculum.’

‘Fabricius of the Janiculum,’ repeated Tiberius, tapping his forehead; ‘Fabricius belongs to other days, but if I am not mistaken, his heir is fully with the times. Is he not the worthy Domitius Afer, the bosom friend of the Prefect?’

Martialis was confused and silent, for he saw he had unwittingly betrayed what Cestus had particularly enjoined him to keep secret.

‘If this is so, then the tale certainly grows in interest,’ continued Tiberius, with a dark twinke of his eyes; ‘it lends it more substance and probability.’

‘I made a breach of trust in causing the name of Afer to be revealed,’ said Martialis anxiously; ‘were he to know, it might prove a risk to her.’