‘Do you accept?’ asked Tiberius, smiling.
‘Ah, if I were sure you do not jest.’
‘Should you fail in proving your point you will eventually find it no jest.’
‘It shall not be for the want of a trial—but how am I to commence, and when?’
‘Proceed on your task in the manner you think best; you shall be set at liberty to-night. Since you are so swift and faithful a courier, I will also entrust something of my own to your care. It will, therefore, be necessary for you to proceed to Rome direct. I do not choose it to be known that I have broken the law, which demands that you should be punished—it would be impolitic. It is, therefore, necessary that you depart in absolute secrecy. That will be arranged for you. At nightfall you will be removed to the villa Neptune, whither I am about to start within an hour. I will, again, see you there, and, till then, breathe not a word, or your hope will be cut off at once—nay, you must even continue to appear the downcast prisoner whose hours are numbered.’
‘I will attend to the very letter of your instructions—Caesar will never be better served,’ replied the Pretorian; ‘I only wish you gave me a better opportunity to prove my gratitude.’
‘You are hasty—you have nothing but the tale of an idle vagabond to rely on. If I were in your place, I should have preferred the chance of facing a cohort single-handed. You know the terms—consider them in the interval.’
So saying Tiberius left the cell, and Martialis flung himself on the bed to think on what had passed.
Was this the cruel Tiberius? It was hardly to be realised! It was so extraordinary that his heart failed, as the sickening thought crept into his mind that he was the victim of refined cruelty. His senses were on the alert, with an expectation which was positive pain. If Caesar were as good as his word, he would be breathing the pure air of heaven in a few hours. The thought filled him with the glowing warmth and comfort of wine. On Cestus everything depended. Had he left for Rome? Should he meet him at the house of Fabricius? Had he the proofs, as he asserted, and would they be conclusive and satisfactory to the old man? Was she really anything but the simple girl he had always known her? The potter’s wife said she never had a child of her own. Her beauty seemed never to spring from such lowly parents. She bore no resemblance to them, and her lofty courage was such as comes with the proud blood of ancient ancestry.
Thus, with a multitude of thoughts vivid and wild, presumptive, yet inconclusive, he waited and burned for the hour of his deliverance. It came, at last, in the person of Zeno and half a dozen Pretorians.