‘It is strange that you, a man of noble blood, should stoop to a girl of a base artisan,’ said Tiberius. ‘Do you say you are betrothed, and meant to marry her?’
‘I did,’ replied the other, with a little sternness; ‘you have already passed your word for her safety, and that is sufficient assurance: but I have reason to believe, Caesar, that she is not the potter’s child.’
‘I have already heard that—it requires proof, however—give it me,’ said Tiberius, with an incredulous smile curling his lip.
‘I cannot prove it,’ returned Martialis; ‘but at least I can tell you all I know.’
And he accordingly related the slender facts committed to him the previous night.
‘And this man, Cestus, whom she supposes to be her uncle—is he still in Surrentum?’
‘I cannot tell. But his last words were, that he would hasten away to Rome at once—I presume to reveal all to her relatives.’
‘Did he not say who these were?’
‘I should have said relative,’ replied Martialis; ‘according to his tale there is only one remaining—her grandfather, Fabricius, who lives on the Janiculum.’
‘Fabricius of the Janiculum,’ repeated Tiberius, tapping his forehead; ‘Fabricius belongs to other days, but if I am not mistaken, his heir is fully with the times. Is he not the worthy Domitius Afer, the bosom friend of the Prefect?’