obeisance, and then looked inquiringly from one to the other.
‘Martialis summoned thee, he hath need of thee, Festus,’ exclaimed Plautia haughtily; and, passing to the door, she summoned the domestics.
‘It is true I sent for thee,’ said Martialis briefly.
‘This is a woeful sight,’ said the lawyer, as the slaves crowded in, and, under the directions of the lady, lifted their dead master and bore him away to his own room. ‘It was only this very morn that I saw him and spoke with him in the forum of Caesar, as well and content as ever he was, to all seeming.’
Martialis took the key of the casket and placed it in the lawyer’s hand.
‘Open the box – it was the gift of Apicius to me, his friend.’
Plautia took up her position on one of the couches, stretching her magnificent form on the place and cushions which had before been occupied by Sejanus the Prefect. The long, loose, flowing drapery of the Roman female clung and moulded itself to the voluptuous curves of her figure. Gems and trinkets of gold glittered amid the wreathed and plaited masses of her bluish-black hair, and numberless jewels flashed upon the fingers of her dainty white hands. Her features were slightly aquiline, but perfect and delicate in outline, and her ivory-like skin was warm and glowing with the tints of a ripe peach. With her bold, imperious, black orbs she looked like a queen as she reclined, the most apt and brilliant centrepiece of that apartment of gorgeous splendour.
The grave, elderly Festus, as he opened the casket, cast at her a glance filled with admiration. Martialis buried his face in his hands, as if fearful of allowing his hungry eyes to rest upon her, except at intervals, when the matter in hand called for some remark.
When the lawyer opened the casket he found therein several papers. After glancing at each in turn, he took one up and said, ‘This is the will of M. Gabius Apicius, bequeathing his property solely to Caius Julius Martialis, knight, his friend.’
‘Read!’ said that unhappy personage in a hollow tone.
Festus obeyed. The task was brief and did not occupy many minutes. The remaining papers were found to be informal inventories of effects. Martialis bade him read them also. They were long; including, as they did, everything of value in the house. Plautia signified her impatience long before it was ended, and, during its progress, a slave entered to announce that Sabellus of the Aventine was not to be found.
When the wearisome monotone of the lawyer at length ceased, Martialis raised his pale face from his hands.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the lawyer suddenly; ‘here I find the value of the whole computed. Deducting the debts due, and a few minor bequests, the balance amounts to an estimate of ten thousand sestertia.’3
Plautia started on her cushions at the statement.
‘What!’ she demanded, contracting her fine black brows; ‘ten thousand sestertia, free?’
‘Absolutely, as the will expressly states,’ replied Festus. ‘The whole total reaches a huger sum, but there are debts, as before mentioned. No money is spoken of – these inventories must be realised.’
‘Was this the poverty he fled from? Why, it is a fortune – a heaven to the greater part of mankind!’ she exclaimed.
‘Ay, but not to the mind of Apicius,’ interrupted the voice of Martialis; ‘for remember – scarce a coined piece within his coffers. Everything gone but what the walls of the house compass. Had Apicius lived it was necessary to live as hitherto. To do that he must needs have despoiled his home – the noblest in Rome – of its treasures. Rather than strike, to all, the note of disgrace and ruin, he did as he did. It was pride, not fear – it is too plain. But small or great as the remnant may seem to thee, Plautia, thou art his nearest of kin – to thee, therefore, it belongs. I have no claim but what the love of a friend has given me. I render it up – take it therefore.’
‘A noble deed!’ quoth Festus.
The glance of Plautia softened a little, and she held out her jewelled, white hand to the young man. With eyes aflame he seized it, and covered it with kisses.
‘It is truly high-minded and generous of thee, Martialis,’ she said.
‘Take it – I need it not!’ he answered eagerly.
‘Foolish!’ she rejoined, drawing her hand away and accompanying her words with a mocking smile. ‘Bid Festus teach thee to be wiser than rob thyself.’
‘It is a question for his own heart to decide,’ remarked the lawyer, replacing the papers in the box.
‘Festus has done his part and I will keep him no longer – say no more!’ said Martialis.
The lawyer rose at this hint, and at the same moment a voice came from the doorway. Looking thither they beheld a tall cloaked figure standing in the doorway, regarding them and their surroundings with keen eyes.
Martialis started. ‘Lucius!’ he exclaimed.
‘Even so, brother,’ returned the new-comer.
It was indeed the Centurion, bearing the stains of hard travel on his garments and a jaded air on his face.
Plautia rose to her feet. Her cheeks were suffused with a sudden flood of crimson, and her bosom stirred her tunic with deeper and more rapid pulsations. A delicious tremor seemed to melt her natural stateliness of carriage. Her eyes, so full of haughtiness and will, encountering the calm gaze of the Pretorian, sank like a timid child’s, shaded beneath a deep sweeping fringe of eyelashes.
A deadly sickness crept about the heart of Caius Martialis, for his senses, preternaturally sharpened, saw all.
‘Do you seek me?’ he demanded, scarcely able, or caring, to conceal the bitterness of his tones.
The Centurion dropped his cloak from his shoulder and stepped forward, whilst, at the same time, Festus, the lawyer, glided from the room.
The resemblance between the brothers was traceable in the mould of their features. But, whilst those of the soldier were scarcely so finely carved as were his elder brother’s, they were considerably more manly and decided. The expression of spirit and determination which was characteristic of his bronzed face and fearless glance, were less perceptible on the countenance of the civilian. The vigour and robustness of the younger eminently fitted him to press forward in the battle and strife of the world; whilst the characteristics of the elder were of a more delicate organisation, which seeks the calmer atmosphere and placid occupations of retirement and study. The personal appearance of the Centurion, which has already been alluded to, spoke for his habits. His commanding stature, rude health and strength and perfection of physical training were all at the service of the readiness and resource of mind which seemed to lie charactered in the glances of his eyes. On the other hand, the person of Caius was medium-sized, and the signs of habitual ease, indulgence, luxury and pleasure, were only too plainly stamped on his face, to the deep injury of its native nobleness and delicacy.
‘Do you seek me?’ said the latter.
‘No – I seek the Prefect. Not at the camp, I was directed to follow him here. No porter in the lodge to tell me – no slave visible. I found a light here – if I have intruded I am grieved, but you paid no attention to my knock.’
‘Sejanus has left some time ago – a long time.’
‘Whither, then, Caius, do you know?’
‘No – nor care – faith not I!’ was the careless and somewhat uncourteous answer.
‘You have travelled far?’ broke in Plautia’s voice; deeper, softer, and more melodious than hitherto.
‘I have, Plautia, and I trust the Prefect will not lead me much farther.’
‘Whence have you come? You are fatigued – I see it in your face. You must, then, have ridden a prodigious distance; for your fame, as a horseman, has reached even me. You are a very centaur, so rumour tells me.’
‘Rumour tells many idle and foolish things, but, as I have posted fifty leagues