‘Well, I can bide my time,’ said Cestus, rising to go. ‘No one was ever worth much that could not. He may rest where he will until I am strong—and then!’
The Suburan shook his fist, and, bidding farewell to his friend, took his slow way homeward.
With this daily increase of exercise his body began to gather something of its wonted firmness. His last excursion was down to the river bank, where he took passage in a regular trader to Puteoli. The vessel was to sail the following day, and Cestus took his farewell of his host with many expressions of gratitude.
The voyage to Puteoli is not long, and in that most important centre of commerce Cestus remained two days. He stayed at a public inn, and, on the evening of the second day, he left the town after dark, and took his way toward Neapolis.
‘Good!’ he muttered to himself, as he quitted the gates; ‘if any curious eyes have been watching me now they will be mystified. They may search Puteoli from end to end, and they will as soon find my kinspeople as myself;’ the said [pg 186]kinsfolk being, in fact, a mere fabrication as far as Puteoli was concerned.
He did not think it prudent to strain his budding strength by traversing the whole distance to Neapolis on that night, so he put up at the first tavern he met with, at a convenient distance from Puteoli. The next morning he was astir early and entered Neapolis. Here he loitered for a day, and then proceeded on a leisurely walking tour of the bay. He ambled along through the towns and past the villas which lined that matchless shore, drinking in the pure air, and enjoying the scenery as far as he was capable of doing. He had a well-filled purse, and he took his ease at his inn, where he fed and drank of the best. He did not overtask his strength, and every day increased it, for, indeed, he could not have hit upon a better plan for that end.
In this way he proceeded through Herculaneum, Pompeii, Stabiae, the most considerable towns on his route, till at length, on one afternoon, he sat to rest himself upon the worn basin of the self-same ancient fountain, of which we have already spoken, on the verge of the town of Surrentum.
‘Houf!’ he sighed, as he seated himself; ‘and here is the place at last! And now to find my potter!’ He sank into a reverie, and then lifted his head and looked around him. ‘The place looks the same as far as I can remember—it must be fourteen years since I was here. Fourteen years! How in the name of the furies do I know what has happened since then! Tibia, my sister, may be dead and dust by this time—her husband too, and—and the whole lot, and then what better shall I be? It is strange I never seemed to think seriously of this till now, at the very gates of the place—what if they are gone, flitted to no one knows where—Greece, Egypt, Africa, Gaul,—why, then I shall have only the small satisfaction of treating my patron to a taste of his own play—humph! No matter, I shall soon know.’
He arose from his seat and walked a few paces onward, when he called to a lad who was nigh.
‘Boy, do you know a potter hereabouts, by name Masthlion—if he be dead or alive? or——’