Kitabı oku: «Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome», sayfa 27
‘Be at peace, Centurion – I have such sympathy with the knight, that I could ill bear the matter to be interrupted for his sake.’
Caesar smiled grimly, and then his brows knitted in deep thought. He remained thus for some minutes without speaking. The young man’s heart throbbed fast, and it needed a great effort to retain an outward appearance of composure.
‘Centurion,’ said Tiberius, at length raising his head from his breast, ‘I love my Pretorians, and to deal hardly with them pains my heart. I have pondered on your case, and find much in excuse of your conduct – the inconsiderate rashness and haste of your youth, and the overwrought state of your feelings, which was only to be expected. I will not say I pardon you, but I will give you a chance of redeeming your liberty.’
The Centurion faltered out his thanks from a heart overflowing with joy.
‘Anything that may be honestly undertaken I will strain body and mind to accomplish, and prove my sense of your clemency,’ he said.
‘You will find it to your taste, Centurion,’ said Tiberius, speaking with a polished affability which proved irresistible to his astonished prisoner. ‘I propose that you busy yourself in establishing the identity of your betrothed with the granddaughter of Fabricius of the Janiculum. The fate of your endeavours will determine your own.’
Dumfounded with excess of wonder and joy, Martialis was speechless for a few moments. It seemed too good to be true, and he gazed in Caesar’s face with a lurking suspicion that, perhaps, he was, after all, the object of a bitter joke.
‘Do you accept?’ asked Tiberius, smiling.
‘Ah, if I were sure you do not jest.’
‘Should you fail in proving your point you will eventually find it no jest.’
‘It shall not be for the want of a trial – but how am I to commence, and when?’
‘Proceed on your task in the manner you think best; you shall be set at liberty to-night. Since you are so swift and faithful a courier, I will also entrust something of my own to your care. It will, therefore, be necessary for you to proceed to Rome direct. I do not choose it to be known that I have broken the law, which demands that you should be punished – it would be impolitic. It is, therefore, necessary that you depart in absolute secrecy. That will be arranged for you. At nightfall you will be removed to the villa Neptune, whither I am about to start within an hour. I will, again, see you there, and, till then, breathe not a word, or your hope will be cut off at once – nay, you must even continue to appear the downcast prisoner whose hours are numbered.’
‘I will attend to the very letter of your instructions – Caesar will never be better served,’ replied the Pretorian; ‘I only wish you gave me a better opportunity to prove my gratitude.’
‘You are hasty – you have nothing but the tale of an idle vagabond to rely on. If I were in your place, I should have preferred the chance of facing a cohort single-handed. You know the terms – consider them in the interval.’
So saying Tiberius left the cell, and Martialis flung himself on the bed to think on what had passed.
Was this the cruel Tiberius? It was hardly to be realised! It was so extraordinary that his heart failed, as the sickening thought crept into his mind that he was the victim of refined cruelty. His senses were on the alert, with an expectation which was positive pain. If Caesar were as good as his word, he would be breathing the pure air of heaven in a few hours. The thought filled him with the glowing warmth and comfort of wine. On Cestus everything depended. Had he left for Rome? Should he meet him at the house of Fabricius? Had he the proofs, as he asserted, and would they be conclusive and satisfactory to the old man? Was she really anything but the simple girl he had always known her? The potter’s wife said she never had a child of her own. Her beauty seemed never to spring from such lowly parents. She bore no resemblance to them, and her lofty courage was such as comes with the proud blood of ancient ancestry.
Thus, with a multitude of thoughts vivid and wild, presumptive, yet inconclusive, he waited and burned for the hour of his deliverance. It came, at last, in the person of Zeno and half a dozen Pretorians.
The Centurion played his part well, and asked various questions as to his destination and fate; but, when they produced bonds to fasten him, he drew back.
‘No – not those,’ said he proudly; ‘I will go with you, comrades, without giving you the trouble of a knot or a buckle.’
They assented, and presently all left the cell and marched down to the Marina. Here they took boat, and were rowed to the north-west side of the island, where the villa Neptune stood. Ascending the cliffs by a narrow flight of steps cut in the rock, they reached the level ground above and entered the villa. Martialis was conducted to a cell beneath ground, and very similar to the one he had left, save that it was somewhat larger. Wine and food was brought him, and he proceeded at once to make a hearty meal. The fresh air had invigorated him, and dispelled, in a great measure, the vapours with which his drugged drink had filled him. Moreover, it was dusk by the time they had entered the villa, and he expected and hoped to encounter a night’s toil. He had just finished eating when the key rattled in the lock, and Caesar entered.
‘Have you eaten well, for you have a long journey before you?’ asked Tiberius.
‘I am ready,’ replied Martialis.
‘Then listen! On your own concern, proceed as you think best, but first of all you must carry and deliver a letter for me.’
‘I will ride without a single stop.’
‘Wait until you hear, for this business must be carried out in a different manner, else I had not brought you here. It is necessary, for the reasons already given, that your absence be not known to any one. Whilst you are leagues away, the guard will still be stationed at the upper end of the corridor, under the belief that you are a prisoner. Provisions will still be supplied, and all details will go on, in order that no suspicion may be aroused. I, myself, and the Prefect are journeying down the coast, southward, for a few days, so that no one will interfere – you comprehend fully?’
‘Quite.’
‘This letter you must deliver at the earliest,’ said the Emperor, drawing a small packet from his bosom. ‘Never rest until you have placed it with your own hands in those of the lady to whom it is addressed. Guard it and care for it as your own life. I never wrote a more important and weighty despatch. You see, I place implicit faith in you.’
‘You will have no occasion to repent your faith,’ replied Martialis, who now began to perceive that something more than personal interest in himself was answerable for his ruler’s clemency and strange proceeding.
‘That I fully expect,’ said Tiberius, ‘and, as your absence from confinement is not to be revealed here, it follows, naturally, that your presence must not be known in the city. Were it known there it would speedily be known here. For that end, therefore, you must not stir abroad in the city in daylight. That is all. It is simple. You will deliver the packet promptly at the first nightfall possible. The second night after that you will go and receive an answer and return straightway. The mean time you may use for your own concern; but I forbid you to run any risk of betraying your presence.’
The Emperor clapped his hands and Zeno entered. He bore an armful of clothing, and proceeded to disguise the outward appearance of the Centurion. The cuirass, high boots, and all vestiges of the military profession, were exchanged for the loose garments of a trader, in the breast of which the nimble-fingered Greek adroitly concealed and secured the secret missive of his master. To complete all, a wig was drawn over the close, curling locks of the Centurion, which more than all effected a transformation in the young man’s appearance.
‘’Twill not blind every one, unless the Centurion can manage to alter his speech and bearing to suit,’ said Zeno.
‘It will serve his purpose sufficiently well. Let him never speak until compelled,’ said Tiberius. ‘Now you may start, Centurion. Here in writing is the name and place required for the delivery of the letter. Keep it in your pouch, and do not preserve it longer than necessary. Here is money, also, without which you cannot move. Do not spare it. Go now and be secret. Zeno will conduct you.’
Tiberius nodded, and, Martialis turning round, saw, to his astonishment a narrow opening in the cell wall opposite to the door, and beside it Zeno standing smiling, with a lantern in his hand, ready to conduct him.
‘It leads to the grotto beneath, and so avoids busy eyes above,’ said the Emperor. ‘Vale.’
The steward went through the secret opening, and Martialis followed down a narrow subterranean way for a considerable distance. The descent was continuous, and in some places by means of broad shallow steps. A door closed the exit, and when Zeno opened it he gave the key to his companion.
‘You must return to Capreae by no other way than this. On the upper door you will find a small knob on the left hand side; press it and you will be able to enter your cell again.’
Then desiring him to stand still lest he should fall into the water, the steward lit a torch, with which he had provided himself, and Martialis perceived they were in the largest of those wonderful caverns or grottoes which exist in various places in the island, along the foot of the sea-washed cliffs. As one of the wonders of the island he had been in it before, though, of course, entering from the sea; and had seen with delight and wonder the dazzling effects of the blue refraction of the light in daytime, and the lovely silvery colour which the deep water lent to every object immersed therein. The torch of Zeno gave sufficient light by which to unmoor a light skiff which floated beside the little landing-place on which they stood. The red glare fell on the still, dark, deep water, but failed to pierce to the lofty roof, or yet to the full circuit of the cavern, which nature had curiously domed out of the rock. The Centurion got into the boat and Zeno gave him the torch, advising him, at the same time, to be careful to provide himself with another on his return as well as the means of lighting it. He pushed off the shallop, and the impetus was sufficient to bring it to the outlet of the cavern. This was an orifice of small dimensions, and so low that it did not admit of even a sitting posture in the boat. Guiding his skiff therein, Martialis threw his torch into the water and uttered a farewell which rolled in hollow echoes through the cavern. Then he lay down at full length in the boat, and giving a vigorous shove, swept out into the open moonlit sea without.
PART III
CHAPTER I
Though Quintus Fabricius had long since withdrawn from public life, and spent his days mainly in the library of his mansion, he was not altogether so secluded in his habits, as to entirely forego the society of two or three ancient friends and colleagues of the busy days of politics gone by. From supper at the house of one of these, he returned one evening at an early old-fashioned hour, and upon entering his own hall, was met by Natta, his ancient steward, who informed him, that a man who had travelled for days to see him, was now awaiting him on some pressing business. Fabricius, thinking, perhaps, it was some affair connected with some distant estate, desired the visitor to be brought, and, entering his favourite library, sat down before the fire, being still deep in the thoughts of a literary discussion which had raged over the supper-table. In a few moments Natta ushered in Cestus. He looked pale and worn; his brows wore an anxious wrinkle, and his glance was uneasy and restless. It was now the fourth evening following that on which Martialis had quitted him in the despoiled dwelling of Masthlion. The wind blowing fair, and promising a speedy voyage, he had embarked on a trader bound for Ostia, but contrary to expectation the passage proved long and tedious, owing to the wind falling light and baffling. On reaching port, with a mind overwrought with impatience, he posted along without stop, until he reached the mansion on the Janiculum. It was not without an amount of distrust he appeared before the old ex-senator. It was no pricking of conscience for the wrong he had done him, but purely fear, lest he might be recognised in connection with the part he had played in that self-same room, at no great distance of time back, when he had acted the part of a murderous decoy. He trusted, however, to his changed appearance, which he had ever maintained, and, at the worst, was confident that he had the power to make almost his own terms.
He met the scrutiny of Fabricius, therefore, with his accustomed boldness, and when, after a lengthened survey, the old man motioned him forward and asked his business, he felt relieved with the assurance that he was not recognised.
‘I have come a long way from the south – I have been travelling for days to see you,’ said he; ‘that means important business, noble Fabricius, and I must ask you to hear it alone with me.’
But Natta was deaf to the hint and moved not from his post behind; nor did his master give him any sign to do so.
‘My steward has my confidence in everything – go on!’ said Fabricius.
‘You will pardon me, but before a third person I cannot speak; nor would you suffer another to be present if you knew what I had to say.’
‘Then leave it unsaid!’ replied the old man testily.
Cestus drew near him and said in a low tone,
‘Did you not receive a letter, not long ago, containing a piece of ribbon?’
Fabricius started and fixed an intent look on the Suburan. His breast heaved with a sudden emotion.
‘Well, what of it?’ he said.
‘You did receive it, then?’ said Cestus.
Fabricius nodded hastily.
‘Then I am the bearer of a further message from him who wrote that letter and sent that ribbon – and see, here is my warrant!’
Cestus drew from his breast the remaining portion of the faded ribbon from which he had cut the former piece enclosed to Fabricius. When the eyes of the latter fell on it, his frame trembled with an agitation he could not hide. He motioned Natta to depart, and when the door was closed, he unlocked a cabinet, and took therefrom the tablets he had received, with the ribbon in question. His eye had told him, at a glance, that the two portions were of the self-same fabric; but, partly to hide his feelings, and because he felt he could scarcely trust his voice, he nervously went on fitting the severed ends together.
‘You see that all is right – that one piece has been cut from the other,’ said Cestus at length.
‘Who are you, and what do you know of this?’ asked Fabricius, in a voice which palpably trembled. ‘Something in your face or tone seems familiar to me.’
‘I cannot say whether I resemble any one you know, noble sir,’ replied the Suburan, with sang froid; ‘but, touching the ribbon, it was sent because it is of an uncommon pattern; for which reason it was also thought you might remember and recognise it, as having been worn by the child, your granddaughter, long ago.’
‘I could not remember it; but when it came, like a message from the dead, I searched among the little garments and clothing in the child’s room, which remains undisturbed as when she left it, and there I found some more of the same pattern. How came you by it? Tell me quickly what you know; and yet most likely it is nothing but another befooling – another deception of a foolish, fond, old man!’
‘I know well enough you have been fooled many times, but I know just as well, that you never had a proof like this – something to see and touch – something that fits into its proper place, in this affair, without any denial. This is different to the tales and tricks which have been specially made to draw money from your coffers. The girl is alive and well, and I have other proofs, better than this, to show and tell you.’
‘Man – man! if money be your object, you are labouring in vain,’ said Fabricius, feebly endeavouring to appear firm and resolute; ‘I have spent my last coin in the folly, and now when extreme age is beginning to lay its hold on me, I have at last learnt my lesson from experience. In no great time now I shall be with my fathers – there will be an end of my sorrows – for that I can now wait. If you are bent on extortion and falsehood your opportunity is gone. Nay more, I will put an end to such deception, and claim the help of justice – so take care!’
‘It is a pity you never did so before,’ said Cestus. ‘Had you done so, you might possibly have learnt something which would have saved you no end of bother, disappointment, and money. However, all that you shall learn presently. I have something to ask of you, it is true; but I ask it on condition that you fulfil your promise, only, when you are fully satisfied and claim your grandchild. You see how certain I must be when I can offer such terms.’
‘What is it you ask?’
‘That you give me your solemn promise, to allow me to go unharmed by you or any one else, and that, in consideration of my services, you will reward me with what you consider a fair return – the amount I leave to your own liberality.’
‘Why do you wish me to guarantee to keep you safe and unharmed? What necessity for this, when your action would be kind and merciful in the highest degree?’
‘Because, when you hear the history of the whole affair, it is possible my part in it may not please you,’ said the Suburan coolly.
‘If you have wronged her or me you shall be punished, and everything shall be wrung from you, as you deserve, without guarantee or reward.’
‘Then, in that case, I will go no further; and you shall never see or hear of your missing grandchild again, simply for the reason, that I, alone, know who and where she is, and I, alone, hold the proofs of the same. I desire to serve myself as well as you; but, at the same time, I will not thrust myself into danger on that account. Without your promise in writing I will say nothing, except this, that she was safe and well until four days ago, when something occurred which has put her in some danger – you must understand she has grown up tall and comely. I have, therefore, come at much cost and fatigue, in mercy to you and her. Her situation at present is not to be envied, and the sooner we come to terms and see to her welfare the better.’
‘I must know more than this – this is only a tale like others I have heard, save, that it is, perhaps, more ingenious and plausible,’ said Fabricius, in a great tremor. ‘Give me more proofs – show me that I may place faith in you, and you will find that I shall not be behindhand with you in anything that is fair and reasonable.’
Cestus knit his brows and mused a little.
‘I thought it would have been enough for any man to see I was no impostor,’ he said at length, pointing at the ribbons; ‘the child wore those when she was taken away from here – is it not enough?’
‘No!’ answered Fabricius.
‘To give me such a paper will not in any way commit you, Fabricius; for, in it, you will not undertake to fulfil your promise, till you are satisfied that I have done my part in the business.’
‘I will do nothing without further assurance that I am not trifled with – let that end it!’
‘Very well, then, in consideration for the young girl, for whom I have a regard, I will give way a point from what I had determined, in order that she may not be sacrificed – otherwise your stubbornness would ruin all. If I were to bring you the clothes she wore when you lost her, even to an amulet, would you then give me the writing?’
‘Yes, if they satisfied me as being hers.’
‘Would you know them?’
‘I would know the amulet.’
‘Good – then I will bring them!’
‘Have you not them with you?’
‘No; but they are not far away,’ said Cestus, with a cunning grin. ‘I am not in the habit of surrendering myself so completely; but now, with the assurance of your promise, I will do what I had no intention of doing. You may send your slaves along with me if you wish.’
‘Go alone. If you do not return I shall know that one more attempt on my credulity has failed.’
‘A few minutes will set your doubts at rest,’ replied Cestus, and he left the room.
As soon as he was gone, the patrician poured out some wine, with a trembling hand, and drank it to brace his aged frame against the nervous tremor which possessed it. His agitation would not allow him to rest, so he wandered up and down the apartment. Once or twice he listened at the door which stood ajar, and, whilst doing so, heard the sound of returning steps. It was his visitor returning with Natta at his side. Both entered as before, but the suspicious steward again received the sign to withdraw. Cestus advanced to the table, beside which Fabricius has reseated himself, and laid thereon a bundle, carefully wrapped up and tied.
‘These are the traps,’ he said, and proceeded to open the parcel. Taking out the tiny garments of a child he displayed them on the table.
The old man, with a strange inarticulate cry, seized them in his hands, and examined them with a devouring eagerness.
‘See!’ said Cestus, laying his broad finger-tip against an embroidered mark on one of the little linen underclothes, ‘here is a mark of ownership, I take it.’
‘Yes, yes! But the amulet!’ cried Fabricius feverishly.
‘Here ’tis,’ replied the Suburan, drawing from his bosom a little soft leather bag, having a fine steel chain attached.
His companion pounced on it, and plucked out a small agate, carved into the shape of an open hand, bearing a curious symbol cut into the palm.
He gazed on it for a few moments, with his wrinkled face twitching. Then he pressed it convulsively to his lips, and, sinking his head, buried his face in the child’s garments on the table, huddling them up against his silvery hairs with both arms.
Cestus, anxious and impatient as he was, forbore to break the silence.
At length Fabricius raised his head and spoke in a broken voice, ‘I am an old man and you must excuse my weakness, friend – the sight of these trifles tries me hard.’
‘Drink!’ said Cestus, filling a cup; ‘there is nothing like good wine to cheer one. Forget what has passed and think on the good time that is coming to wipe it out.’
‘Thanks!’ answered Fabricius, taking the cup with an unsteady hand. ‘Fill yourself also a draught,’ which invitation Cestus obeyed, nothing loth.
‘Here’s to the speedy restoration of your little maid,’ he said, and bottomed the cup. ‘Now, as you are satisfied that these trifles are really genuine, and that I am not deceiving you, I must ask you to write me that little document; after which, you shall know the whole story, which will contain certain items which will astonish you without doubt.’
Fabricius reached his writing materials and wrote, slowly and painfully, a brief undertaking, by which the personal safety of Cestus would be assured, and his efforts suitably rewarded, upon the satisfactory restoration of his grandchild.
Cestus perused the document, and, finding it satisfactory, put it away carefully in his breast.
‘Thanks! thanks! I value, and rely upon your word equally; but then I may fall into other hands, in which case this paper might be useful. I will commence and tell you from the beginning, and you may brace yourself up to hear something which will startle you.’
He poured out and drank some more wine, and then began his declaration.
‘Your little maid was stolen from your own porch, here on the Janiculum, fifteen years ago, all but three months and three days – if you have the day marked, consult it, and you will find I am right.’
Giving a start of surprise, Fabricius began to count with the fingers of one hand on the table, to assist a mental calculation.
‘You are right, without doubt,’ he said finally; ‘how come you to know this?’
‘None so well as I,’ returned the other, ‘you shall learn.’
He then related the manner in which the child had been enticed and snapped away from the porch of the house, the various places she had been hidden away, until her final removal to Surrentum. The extreme minuteness of the narrative was too extraordinary not to impress his listener’s mind with an inward conviction of its truth, but, as our reader is already acquainted with its tenor, it need not be recapitulated here.
‘Yes, noble Fabricius, Surrentum is full of potters,’ said Cestus, concluding, ‘and with one of them, called Masthlion, and his wife Tibia, was finally lodged your little maid; and, with them, a childless pair, she has grown up well cared for and tended, as I know well. She thinks herself their child to this hour, and it is time you took her to your own nest. Her poor feathers cannot hide her breed. She is known by the name of Neæra.’
Fabricius sat looking at the Suburan with the torture of his mind imprinted on his pale face. ‘Why do the gods permit such cruel deeds?’ said he; ‘for what reason was this wickedness perpetrated?’
‘Money,’ said Cestus.
‘Money!’ echoed Fabricius, leaping to his feet in horror; ‘was she sold, then, for a slave?’
‘Not at all,’ replied the Suburan quietly; ‘cannot you understand? Money has been at the bottom of it all. You have an enormous amount of it, and the child was in some one’s way. Once out of it, and then who comes next? Why your loving nephew, Afer – now do you see?’
‘Fellow, what do you mean? Do you dare to cast even so much as a doubt upon the honesty of a knight – a relative of mine? – take care!’
‘More than that, your honour, I say it was no other, and through no other, than your nephew, T. Domitius Afer, that your child was kidnapped.’
‘Fellow!’
‘It is true enough. He wanted her out of the way so that he might be your heir. For that end he hired a certain individual, now alive, for a comfortable sum to put her aside, so that she might never more be heard of.’
‘I’ll not believe it,’ cried the old patrician hoarsely; ‘it must be proved – where is that wretch whom you say he hired?’
‘What would you do with him supposing I brought him?’
‘Were I forty years younger I would tear him limb from limb with my own hands – but now nothing remains to me but the justice of the law.’
‘Neither the one nor the other, although he is within your reach at this moment, for I am the man who was employed by your sweet nephew – I am the man who took away your child!’
Fabricius stood dumfounded for a moment, and his jaw fell.
Then the blood rushed to his face; his eyes flamed with terrible wrath, and, with a stride, he confronted Cestus.
‘Dog!’ he shouted hoarsely, as he clutched the Suburan with a grasp which was inspired with the vigour of youth.
But Cestus, in no way disconcerted, calmly pulled out the written guarantee from his bosom and held it up. The old man eyed it, hesitatingly, for a brief moment; then dropped his hands and tottered back to his chair, wherein he sank with a groan.
‘You have just cause for anger, and I admit it,’ said Cestus, in a lower and more respectful tone; ‘but you cannot now move without me, and I will do all I can to make amends. After all I am not so much to blame as your nephew. At that time I was an idle vagabond – you see I don’t attempt to hide myself – dwelling in the Subura, and your loving nephew, Titus Afer, tempted me with a handsome sum to do this thing. Only, mark you – I was to put the child clean out of the way – that is to say, I was to strangle her, drown her, kill her in the best and quietest way possible.’ – Fabricius hid his face in his hands. – ‘That was what I was paid to do, and, if I had done that, the job would have served his turn most effectually, as he intended, and you would never have been the wiser, perhaps. But bad as I was, there was left yet a soft spot in my heart, and to that is owing the life of the little maid. I couldn’t bring myself to hurt her; and, moreover, what did I know but what she might be useful to me in the future. It turns out now that I was wise. A dead child is of no use to any one, but a living one is – vastly so at the present time. You will, therefore, see that I had to deceive your worshipful nephew. He thinks she is dead, as I told him she was, and all his pretended help in searching for her was nothing but a blind. Your money went, most of it, into his own pocket – and a comfortable income it was.’
Fabricius was overwhelmed. He rose unsteadily to his feet, and his face was ashen pale. Such terrible deception was scarcely credible to his trustful nature, and yet the evidence seemed too weighty to be easily explained away. Its great perfectness of detail, the unhesitating business-like manner of its delivery – above all, the clothes and amulet – were beyond doubt. Yet he eyed the man before him with unconcealed distrust, contempt, and indignation, to which, however, the Suburan was utterly indifferent.
‘Tell me what reasons have impelled you to come to me now and confess all this villainy,’ said Fabricius, in hollow tones.
‘Because I am sorry for what I did, and wish to make some amends,’ replied Cestus.
‘And for this penitence you require to be paid,’ rejoined the other, with withering scorn; ‘by your own showing you have made terms for committing a desperate sin, and have probably extorted every sesterce possible in that direction; now you betray your accomplice, and come to extort more from me, under a mask of righteousness.’
‘I have told you nothing but the truth, and you may twist it as you like,’ replied Cestus, unmoved; ‘bear in mind, but for me, there would have been no child at all to welcome back.’
‘I have only your word for that, so far.’
‘The terms made are not to be carried out, on your side, until you are satisfied with your bargain. That is enough to show, of itself, that I am in earnest. I must live, and to your own generosity I leave the payment. But it is not altogether that for which I am here. Your nephew, the worshipful knight, has dealt very scurvily with me, after his nature. He is a hundred times more rascal than myself – a mean, cowardly dog, knight as he is. I have two surprises in store for him – one, when he is confronted with the girl he paid me to kill, and the other, when his eyes fall on me, whom he struck down one night, not long since, in the streets, and left for dead. He thought, when he did that, his secret was for ever safe. But I was picked up with a hole in my side, and so well tended in a house I can take you to, that, after a hard fight of it, I came round. I bethought me of the girl I had left in Surrentum, and I stole away to see how she fared, and to pick up strength. I have been living for weeks, waiting and watching in my sister’s house; for it was my sister, and her husband, the potter, who took her from me. They have loved her like their own child, and she treats them as her parents, for she knows nothing to the contrary. Watch well your nephew, therefore, when he first sets eyes on me – if his conscience don’t visibly trouble him it will be strange. But there is more yet to be told you, and we are wasting time. When I came away, matters in my sister’s house were in a bad state. Masthlion had gone to Capreae, to show Caesar some new kind of glass he had discovered. He was a fool and it cost him his life; for he found the bloody tyrant in the humour to reward him with a bed at the bottom of the sea. And more than that, a gang of slaves, from the palace, I suppose, arrived after dark, and sacked the house, and took off the girl back with them. You must understand she has uncommon good looks, and is good prey for this island, which is no place for her. Now you know what reason there is for haste to protect her. I could do nothing; but you are a patrician and powerful, and to you Caesar will listen.’
