performance of the Centurion’s duties is what concerns me; beyond that lies not within my province,’ replied Sejanus.
‘And yet it would be hard not to know something more,’ sighed the potter.
‘To conclude, you may go back to Surrentum with an easy mind as far as I know to the contrary,’ said the Prefect, with signs of impatience. ‘This seems to be a piece of lovers’ folly on the part of the Centurion. If he is fool enough to marry your daughter, she may think herself lucky in her elevation. Many a man in his position, of gentle blood, would have proceeded differently. ’Tis pity none of his family remains to dissuade him from grafting such a poor scion on to their ancient stem.’
‘I care nothing for that – I seek my daughter’s happiness, not her position,’ replied the potter proudly.
‘Good! Then I know nothing more. Is the Centurion an acquaintance of yours, Titus?’ cried Sejanus, turning to the knight.
‘No, I have not the honour,’ answered Afer.
‘Then, potter, you may take that as a strong assurance in his favour,’ added the Prefect satirically.
‘You are in the best of spirits,’ remarked Afer, showing his white teeth.
‘Now, potter, you can go,’ said Sejanus; ‘you have all I can give you – stay, how is your daughter named?’
‘Neæra!’ replied Masthlion.
‘Then your girl Neæra will probably have her own way in the end in despite of you. But deprive me not of my Centurion between ye, or you shall lose my favour, I promise you. He is worth more to me than all the maids, wives, widows, and hags in Campania, honest or not – wait!’
He clapped his hands, and the same slave attended as before – a dark-skinned Nubian.
‘Lygdus, is there not an old family friend of the Centurion Martialis, whom he visits on the Aventine?’
‘Mamercus – near the temple of Diana,’ replied the slave laconically.
‘Go thither, potter, – Mamercus will serve your turn better than I,’ said the Prefect, waving his hand and turning his back.
Masthlion followed the Nubian out of the apartment with a brighter countenance, and was quickly on his way to the Aventine.
‘Your Centurion has caught your own complaint,’ said Afer to his patron jestingly.
‘The gods confound it!’ replied the Prefect, ‘a wife will not improve his Centurionship. The fool! to saddle himself with a wife now – a red-faced, brawny-armed brat of a clay-moulder, most likely. As if there were no other arrangement; I’ll try my persuasion. And so for Capreae, my Titus!’
‘Whenever you are ready, Prefect.’
‘Be back within four days.’
‘No longer; and till then farewell – I leave you happy.’
‘Farewell! Remember our friends at Tibur!’
‘I will.’
Afer bowed, and left the Pretorian commander to ruminate with delight on his good fortune, and to indulge his mind with dreams, more intoxicating and glowing than ever, on the strength of the success of his last, and, perhaps, most important move.
At the gate of the camp, a light two-wheeled vehicle for rapid travelling, and drawn by a couple of handsome, speedy mules, was waiting for the knight. The two slaves, who formed on this occasion the modest retinue of the traveller, had been despatched on before.
After proceeding about nine miles from Rome, the hired vehicle was dismissed back to the city. A couple of hours before dusk Afer arrived, in a second carriage, at the outskirts of the ancient town of Fidenae, which stood on the steep banks of the Tiber, on the Salarian road, which led nearly due north from Rome. He had thus completed two sides of a triangle, and, as the first shades of evening began to gather, he began to traverse the third side in a third conveyance. The road entered the Colline Gate in the Agger of Servius; when he reached that point the dusk was thick enough to prevent recognition. Here the knight descended and paid the driver his fee; then he drew the hood of his cloak over his head, and bent his steps towards the Sublician Bridge beneath the Aventine. In less than half an hour’s rapid walking he arrived at his destination. The bridge was the oldest in Rome, and had been built by Ancus Martius, to connect the fortifications on the Janiculum with the city. It bore a sacred character, and was under especial care. Being constructed of wood, however, the increased traffic and burthens of the growing city began to overweight it. A stone bridge was then built close by, and the old one preserved as a venerable and sacred relic. In the proximity of these Afer loitered. It was now dark, and the feeble glimmering of two oil lamps, suspended in the gloom, denoted to passengers the foot of the modern bridge; its ancient fellow being buried in darkness. Across the river the lights of the Transtibertine portion of the city glimmered, extending up towards the slopes of the Janiculum Hill. Behind the knight the Aventine Mount arose with its answering gleams. The day’s toil was over, but the night was yet young, and there was sufficient stir in the city to pervade the air with a dim hum of life, broken by the tread and voices of passers-by, and the rumble of some belated waggon. Stealing silently along the pitchy stream glided the light of an occasional vessel, its hull shrouded and invisible. No one but the importunate beggars, sturdy, halt, and blind, who haunted the bridge and pestered the passengers, as yet kept the impatient knight company. Suddenly the figure of a man strode under the feeble glimmer of the lamps and bestowed a few hearty curses on the tribe of mendicants. Afer went up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder.
‘Oh, oh!’ said the new-comer in the voice of Cestus; ‘it is you, patron!’
‘It is yet too early,’ replied Afer.
‘There are yet a few arrangements to complete, which will take up a little time,’ replied the Suburan.
‘Come, then, let us about it at once; the old man retires early,’ said the knight, and they disappeared in the darkness toward the Aventine.
CHAPTER VIII
Pleasantly situated on the commanding height of the Janiculum was the villa of Fabricius. More delightful in the enjoyment of its cool breezes during the summer heats, yet in winter or summer, the old ex-senator was seldom away from it for a whole day together. At times, however, he would yield to a desire to make the journey to visit his estates; but this was not often. His suburban villa, and not his birthplace, was the scene of his happiest days of prosperous domesticity. But that was all changed. A few select friends of old times he yet preserved and cherished. With these, and the serene consolations of a well-stocked library, he passed his uneventful days, in calm resignation, under the haunting sense of his loneliness. As he sat and brooded in the seclusion of his silent house, he conjured up the ghosts of former days; he listened to the well-remembered voices – he stirred, and all was gone again. And then, what painful sighs arose from his breast. Alas! how many such had those walls listened to!
On this evening Fabricius sat in his winter room, before a fire which burned brightly in a brazier on the ample hearth, for the October nights were chilly. His elbow rested on a small table, whereon were lying books and writing materials. But the old man’s eyes were bent on the blazing logs, and his mind was far away in the past. The soft light of the silver lamp beside him flooded over his face, and revealed every line and wrinkle, as sharply as the level rays of the setting sun display the seams and furrows on a mountain’s breast. The native expression of courage and determination displayed by the high, bold curves of his features, was relaxed and overborne by an air of melancholy, so deep, that it seemed almost on the point of merging into actual tears had not the entrance of an old grizzled slave roused him from his reverie.
‘What do you say, Natta?’ he asked, not catching the domestic’s announcement.
‘There is a man awaiting in the porch, who wishes to see you.’
‘What kind of a man?’
‘A craftsman, I should say. He has something important to tell – so he says,’ replied the old porter, with apparent sarcasm.
‘Ay,