He glanced quickly into her face, and saw that it was composed, though pale. No trace of fear trembled on the tender curving lips, or dwelt in the calm clear eyes which rested devotedly upon him. New-born qualities of heroism transfigured her, and clothed her with a new beauty. The routine of her humble life had never lighted her fair face with such an unexpected spirit of dauntlessness. That brief glance filled his heart with pride and rapture such as he never felt before, and nerved him with the strength of a Titan. Her unruffled mien flooded his mind with the parting words of Cestus, and he thrilled with joy. Surely, none but noble blood could so nobly withstand such a terrible test. It was a melancholy joy, however, despairing and fierce as it was fleet.
He reared his head, and bent his eyes upon the throng before him with infinite pride and contempt. The dark deep orbs of the Emperor shone upon him from beneath the shadow [pg 356]of their knitted brows, but he returned their gaze disdainfully. He felt himself beyond their vengeance.
From the ghastly visage of Caesar his gaze rested on the warm loveliness of Plautia, whose flushed countenance and sparkling eyes betrayed the excited conflict of her mind. Her yet unconquered love of the young soldier’s manly beauty, blown into fresh flame by the exhibition of his power—the sting of remorse at the unlooked-for effect of her plot, mingled with savage envy at the sight of her rival, and the bitter spectacle of their mutual devotion, were rioting in her breast. His glance was cold and contemptuous, as it was passing and brief, and stung her soul to madness.
The messenger despatched for the Pretorians had sped away only a few moments, when the anxious brows of Zeno contracted suddenly. An eager light came into his eyes, and he stooped to whisper in the Emperor’s ear. Tiberius nodded, and muttered a few words in reply. The Greek touched the elbow of the huge Nubian servant, and they both hurried swiftly out of the apartment.
Martialis saw them, but gave them no heed. He had no further hopes, fears, nor suspicions. His sole object, in what he considered to be the few remaining minutes of his career, was to sell his life as dearly as possible. In expectation of the coming struggle, the slaves had imperceptibly edged away from his vicinity, and were waiting with uneasy suspense. The guests at table, with askant glances at the disturber of their peace, fidgeted as though he might, at any time, burst upon them with a furious onslaught, whilst the stern glitter of the Emperor’s eyes, on the other hand, discouraged any attempt at interference. Asca, the guard, remained at the doorway. He held his lance at the advance, and his face was dejected and chopfallen in the extreme.
Rapid thoughts sped through the mind of Martialis as he surveyed the scene. What if he were to assume the offensive before the arrival of his comrades? Would he thereby better his position? Had he been alone, his fleet foot by a quick dash would have easily carried him free from the palace to the boats. But such an act was impossible with Neæra. It was true he might fall upon the craven, naked flock before him, and turn the room into a shambles. But such a butchery [pg 357]would avail him nothing; and to leave the side of Neæra for an instant would be to endanger her. No, he would meet his fate honestly, and not like a reckless murderous desperado.
Once more he appealed to Tiberius.
‘Will you not send for the Prefect?’ he said; ‘his presence might intercede with you, and gain your gracious clemency for his unfortunate Centurion and this blameless maiden. Force will avail nothing, but the sacrifice of some brave men—as for us, we shall never be parted alive, be assured.’
But Caesar answered nothing; neither did any motion or expression betoken that he paid the least attention to the words. His glance was fixed intently, as it seemed, on the wall, or rather the long curtains which draped the wall behind the Centurion for some distance on either hand.
Martialis forebore to say more, and ere long the critical moment arrived. The rapid tread of many feet was heard through the half-drawn curtains of the door, and some ten or fifteen Pretorians, fully armed, and flashing with their polished harness, filed into the room, headed by the bulky Centurion Macro.