‘Of course.’
‘Then, since that is settled, I have resolved that my patron shall be the most powerful of all—the ruler of the world, in fact. To-morrow, if I can be ready, I will go and show the fruit of my labour for the approval of Caesar himself.’
‘What—Caesar!’ cried Cestus, starting violently.
‘Caesar—Tiberius Claudius Nero Caesar,’ replied Masthlion, with a quiet smile at the blank amazement on the features of his companion.
‘Biberius Caldius Mero Caesar—phew!’ muttered Cestus, mechanically giving the Emperor his well-known nickname, which his Imperial wine-bibbing propensities had earned for him.
So murmuring, the Suburan sank back again into his reclining posture against the bench, glaring at the potter.
‘Why, it would seem that I have taken a bolder flight than even the city wit and cleverness of my Roman kinsman could devise.’
‘There is such a thing as taking too bold a flight for one’s welfare,’ replied the other, recovering his voice; ‘and country ignorance will plainly do many a thing which city wit would call folly. Had it been the last Caesar now—had it been Augustus, perhaps you would have been sensible. But this one! To go to Capreae—to run the risk of being drowned, or spitted, ere you set foot in the tiger’s lair—or, failing that, to be hauled before the tiger himself, and straightway hurled from the cliffs into the sea for a mad-brained potter! Gods preserve us, Masthlion—have you taken leave of your senses?’
‘I may have seemed like it some minutes back, but I have returned into my usual sober spirit now. At all events, I have the wit to see clearly what I intend to do.’
‘You would never see Caesar—you would never be allowed to approach within eyeshot—not even to set foot on shore!’