He reached his observatory and sat down to rest and deliberate. Capreae lay before him amid the blue sea, with [pg 258]the white gleam of its palaces tipping its rugged peaks and peeping amid its terraced groves. With this lovely picture filling his vision, he sat for full an hour absorbed in thought, and then noting the position of the sun, he rose and walked away homeward. He had reconciled himself to his position, and had come to the conclusion that his only policy was to wait and be watchful. He also determined, on the least suspicion of danger, to carry off the potter and his family to Rome—Neæra at least; if, however, he could persuade them to go at once so much the better. He could do nothing at Surrentum; he was tired of it, and he would feel safer in the city, whither he would eventually be obliged to go to carry out his scheme. Why not, therefore, go at once and wait there? The thought also tormented him, that something might occur which might rob him of his revenge. He burned and itched to set the wheels of his machinery in motion, however slightly, and he resolved that day to take the first step for that end. If it was no more than a mysterious hint to certain people, that something was in the wind, it would be sufficient for a commencement. His spirits rose and his steps quickened as this determination was arrived at, and, re-entering Surrentum, he proceeded to the dwelling of a professional scribe near the Marina. He entered and found that individual busy at his table, inditing an epistle to the dictation of a young and good-looking woman, who instantly became silent and turned away her head at the Suburan’s entrance. The writer, who was a bald, shrivelled, and short-sighted old man, did not immediately perceive the cause of the sudden stoppage of his customer’s eloquence, and casting a longing look at a large open book at his elbow, cried out testily, ‘Well, well, what next?—oh it’s you, is it? you’ll have to wait outside till I’ve finished!’
‘A love letter, eh! All right, I’m sorry to interrupt,’ replied Cestus, giving a leer at the young female who tossed her head.
He went outside and waited till she came forth, and then returned to take her place at the scribe’s table.
‘Well!’ snapped the old man, tearing his eyes from his book with a vicious wrench, as if the patronage which brought him his livelihood were a nuisance instead of a thing to be thankful for.
‘Tablets, wax and thread of your best, old man; bring them out and let me see them,’ answered Cestus. ‘I and a comrade have a good joke in hand, and I want you to write a line or two of mystery. You must put your best finger foremost, and shape your letters so as to make them look as if they came from some aristocrat.’
He drew a piece of silver from his pouch and threw it across the table to the scribe, whose watery, old eyes glinted as his grimy fingers caused the coin to vanish with an astounding celerity. Cestus laughed, and the same grimy talons selected the articles required, which the Suburan took into his hands. He examined them carefully, not with a view of satisfying himself of their quality, about which he knew nothing whatever, but for the purpose of assuring himself that they bore no mark or impress which might afford a clue to their origin. This proving to his satisfaction, he told the old man to go on with his reading, whilst he considered upon the style the document was to take. After a few minutes’ deliberation he bade the scribe take his pen and write the following with every care:—
‘You may praise the gods and rejoice, Fabricius. When thieves fall out then may honest men look to get their own. The treasure you lost shall return to you. Prepare to receive it and deal vengeance. These tablets ere you receive them shall touch her very hand. You have often been deceived, but now wait the truth. Do you recognise this ribbon? Keep it carefully till the remainder is forthcoming. Patience and, above all, silence! I am beset; and to breathe a word would be destruction to me and to her. Beware, therefore!’
‘That’s all—now read it out!’ said Cestus; and the old scribe did so accordingly.
The Suburan laughed in his most boisterous style, and rubbed the palms of his thick, strong hands together vigorously with every appearance of satisfied delight at his composition.
‘Bravo!’ he exclaimed; ‘that’s just it, to the very letter—tolerably plain and tolerably mystified. If this don’t turn out the best frolic of my life call me a chuckle-headed fool. Get you the thread and wax ready, father!’