enforced a passage, after the usual custom, by a rough and ready use of their brawny arms and shoulders. The remaining three slaves walked in the rear, each bearing some trifling burden of personal attire or convenience belonging to their master. In the centre walked Fabricius himself.
He was tall and spare, but with a slight stoop. His features were regular and handsome. His hair, though closely cropped, was yet thick and luxuriant, but white as snow. He could not have been less than seventy-five years of age; but the vigorous, free motions of his limbs, and the healthy hue of his aged, wrinkled face, denoted a still sound constitution, preserved by a temperate mode of life. His dark eyes, though somewhat sunken, were yet bright and quick. As he now passed along, engaged with no train of thought in particular, their expression was one of settled melancholy abstraction. His mouth was closely knit and firm, but, occasionally, as some poor neighbour saluted him, his lips curved into a kindly smile. His vigorous old age, and the natural nobility of his appearance, were calculated to inspire respect; but there were also distinctions in his dress which marked his rank. His toga was made of wool, in its natural colour of greenish white, a fashion of garment which was preserved by men of distinguished rank long after the toga itself had fallen into disuse. On the right breast of his short-sleeved tunic, where it peeped from beneath the graceful folds of the toga, might be seen a glimpse of the ‘Angustus Clavus,’1 or narrow purple stripe, which was woven into the garment, and ran down perpendicularly from each shoulder. The high buskins on his feet were each fastened in front by four black thongs, ornamented by a small crescent, the exclusive, sartorial badge of senatorial rank. Such little particulars were trifling enough in extent, and unnoticeable to a stranger, but to a Roman eye they denoted at once the rank and importance of the wearer. They were, however, unnecessary in the poor and crowded suburb through which he and his slaves passed leisurely towards the river. He was well known to the humble inhabitants, in consequence of the proximity of his mansion, which stood on the height overlooking them; and, also, by acts of liberality and good-nature, which ever met with full appreciation. Hence, as he wound his way through the crowded and not altogether sweet-flavoured district, his vanguard of slaves before mentioned had only occasion now and again to use their voices to open a free passage. The people gave way readily, with gestures of respect.
The main street of the district which they traversed brought them, in a few minutes, nigh to the river, just where it curved round the point of land. In a right line before them stretched the Aemilian Bridge, leading direct to the Palatine Mount and the city; to the left hand forked another road over the island of the Tiber. At this junction the leading slaves halted and turned to learn their master’s pleasure as to his intended route. The old man hesitated as if undecided, and, as he did so, a slim personage presented himself before the stationary group. Two or three rings on his fingers proclaimed his gentility as a Roman knight, and every fold of his toga was disposed with the most scrupulous exactness. He might be about forty years of age, with straight black hair, a long nose, curved very much downwards, and small black eyes, rather too prominent and close set to be called handsome. As he halted, his lips parted in a smile, which displayed a row of brilliant white teeth. The slaves of Fabricius, on perceiving him, made him marked obeisance.
‘Titus Afer!’ murmured one of them in his master’s ear.
Fabricius looked up from his momentary deliberation or abstraction.
‘Ha, nephew, is it you?’ said he.
‘Even so, dear uncle. You seem to be on the horns of a dilemma,’ returned the new-comer; ‘have you started out to dine, uncle, not having settled where to turn in for your dinner?’
‘Why, no; I am going to dine with my old friend Florus on the Quirinal – but you, nephew?’
‘Oh, I! – it is of no consequence – I was coming just to spend an hour with you. It is three days since I have seen you. With your permission I will turn and go along with you, for a space, on your way, whichever it is!’
‘By the Circus Flaminius; it is less crowded, though a little longer in distance,’ said Fabricius.
He gave a slight motion of his hand, indicating the left turn, and they took their way over the Cestian Bridge unto the island of the Tiber, sacred to Aesculapius. Thence by the bridge of Fabricius they were quickly on the opposite bank, and passing round by the outer side of the Capitoline.
So far they walked in silence. The elder seemed absorbed in abstraction, and the younger to be waiting, as if in deference to his relative’s cogitations. At length the old man turned his head toward the slaves who followed and waved his hand. They fell back farther in rear.
‘Were you coming to tell me aught of your mission, Titus?’ he began.
‘I went as you desired,’ returned his nephew, nodding.
‘It was good of you, as ever, nephew; but to no purpose, I suppose – as ever,’ said the old man, adding the last words with a weary, half-suppressed sigh.
‘None at all!’ rejoined Afer, with another and deeper sigh. ‘The woman was six-and-twenty years old if she was a day; and, as for her appearance, she was as likely to have grown from your Aurelia, as a barn-door fowl from an eaglet. These tales and rumours are detailed by knavish people simply to work upon your weakness, uncle, and to squeeze your purse – why listen to them?’
‘Ah, nephew – how can I shut my ears?’
‘You are an unfailing, bottomless gold-mine to these people.’
‘Oh!’ cried the old man fervidly, throwing up his open palm to the blue heavens, and looking up with a burning glance of his sunken, sorrow-laden eyes, ‘if the good gods would only give me back my lost darling, the joy of my old age, – my gold, and all that I have, to the last farthing, might be flung, if need be, broadcast over the streets of Rome.’
The black brows of the nephew knitted at the vehement words.
‘And, truly, if what you have spent already, uncle, on this vain quest were sown broadcast, there would scarce be a gutter vagabond in the city that would not be the richer. You have done all you can do, and I have helped to the best of my ability.’
‘You have, nephew, right nobly. Think not that I have forgotten it.’
‘Then why cast good after bad? Will you not be assured after all these silent years of the hopelessness of all efforts?’
‘If I lived to a hundred years, nephew, I could never sever hope from me – it is part of me.’
‘And I have none left, though I grieve to say it, and, moreover, my reason is less governed by feeling than yours – poor Aurelia!’
‘The gods overlook us,’ said Fabricius, with a quiver in his voice, while the lips of the other curled in scorn.
‘The impudent scoundrel, whom you sent to pilot me to his supposed discovery, demanded two thousand sesterces ere he would budge. It is horrible, but I was forced to pay the extortioner. I would not mention it, uncle, but for my misfortune of being not too well provided with property.’
‘It shall cost thee no more than it ever has,’ returned Fabricius; ‘thou shalt have it back and another two thousand, as well, for thy kindness.’
‘Nay – I should seem to make a trade of robbing you like the rest of them.’
‘Say no more, nephew, I insist upon it.’
The other shrugged his shoulders and was silent, and so they reached the foot of the Quirinal Hill, upon which the house was situated where Fabricius was to dine. Here Afer halted.
‘You are for the bath then?’ said Fabricius.
‘Even so; and then to dine with Apicius.’
‘Ah! we old-fashioned men dine at an old-fashioned hour. This Apicius gives feasts such as we could never dream of.’
‘The finest in Rome.’
‘Well, every one to their own tastes. Florus and myself will, no doubt, enjoy our modest entertainment as much as Apicius his profusion, though it cost nothing in proportion. It is a foolish, empty way of spending one’s money, Titus.’
‘From