‘I saw them when the guard demanded to see them. The man is Tucca, one of the oldest islanders and wine-growers. He is well known.’
‘Is he, indeed? I crave his pardon, but he looked most villainously to my eyes. He should get himself a better tunic. But what seemed the letter like—the writing?’
‘It was quite strange to me.’
‘It is necessary that I see it. The Centurion has left the island till evening—you understand. We will go in again for a space. Come!’
Lygdus bent his head and retired to the rear, until Sejanus and his confidant had re-entered the officers’ quarters. Then in a minute he appeared before the Prefect and the knight with the ill-fated epistle in his hands.
‘No one saw you, Lygdus?’ said Sejanus.
‘No one. The Centurion’s room is empty, and this was lying on his couch.’
‘Warm water and open it.’
The slave brought a cup of hot water, and, by its aid, he softened the wax and removed the thread in a most dexterous manner, which bore strong evidence that it was not the first time such a task had been required of him.
The handwriting was large and bold, but palpably disguised. The keen eyes who perused it were easily assured of that.