He felt that his short sword and poniard were loose in their scabbards, then entered the peristyle before him.
Silver lamps shed a brilliant light on the polished marble of pillar and floor, on the gilded fretwork of ceiling and cornice, the panelled pictures, the dancing, diamond-flashing waters of the fountain in the midst. Among the doorways which opened on the court was one heavily curtained. Domestics passed in and out ever and anon, and the presence of the soldier stationed before it was evidence that Caesar was within.
Martialis perceived with satisfaction that this man was one of his own troop, and went up to him immediately. The Pretorian drew himself up and saluted, but not without a curious glance at the unusual aspect his officer presented.
‘Welcome back, Centurion!—the Prefect is not within,’ said he, concluding that the object of the aide-de-camp was the commander himself.
‘Where then?’
‘At his house for anything that I can tell, Centurion.’
‘Maybe he awaits me there, for this night I was due.’
‘I can see with my own eyes you have travelled hard, Centurion.’
‘Who is within?’
‘Caesar supping with his friends.’