‘What?’ shouted Fabricius, ‘am I living in a dream the gods have woven round me? Martialis, did you say—Lucius Martialis, a Pretorian—tall above the common?’
‘The same—he seemed to know you when I spoke your name, and said you had lost a child.’
‘Oh, wonder of heaven—the man of all I would have chosen—the son of my old playmate! Alas, alas, the more you say, the more unhappy and hopeless the case! Do you not know that the young man has been flung into a dungeon, awaiting perhaps his death?’
‘By Pluto, no—how could I?’ cried Cestus, aghast.
‘It is here, in a letter received this morning from my nephew,’ replied Fabricius, taking an epistle from a drawer and glancing down its contents. ‘Listen!’
—‘By the way, the Centurion Martialis, for whom you took such a sudden fancy, has fallen into disgrace and one of the palace dungeons, for bearding Caesar in his own hall, in pursuit of a wench, a sweetheart of his, who had been brought off to the island, I believe, by force. Of course it means death in some shape or other.’
The face of Cestus grew dark and sullen as a thundercloud, and he folded his arms across his chest without a word.
‘What is to be done?’ said Fabricius, the extremity of distress breaking down the repugnance and indignation with which he regarded his companion.
‘The luck seems against us,’ answered the Suburan bitterly; ‘he must have played the rash fool. At any rate, your letter shows that I am to be believed when I make you a statement. All we can do is to get there as fast as we can and make the best of a bad job. In whatever plight the girl may be, I can prove who she is, and you can have your fling at your dutiful nephew.’
‘A poor consolation,’ muttered Fabricius; ‘but I cannot rest until I fathom this strange story; were it for nothing but the sake of this unfortunate Martialis I would seek admittance to Caesar, who is not unknown to me personally. We will start before dawn—you will remain here in the house until then.’