Martialis nodded, and Charicles, with much humility and expression of sympathy, withdrew.
‘’Twas for himself then,’ he muttered, as he passed quickly through the deserted hall. ‘O precious drug, swift and sure as light, when did you ever fail or disgrace me!’
The eye of Martialis fell on the casket which Apicius had bequeathed him. He stood regarding it for a few moments, and then turned to a slave who remained, and said, with renewed vigour of faculties, ‘Let the kinsfolk of Apicius be brought hither at once, if not already sent for—Plautia, his sister, Sabellus, his uncle; and go you, yourself, bring with you back, in all haste, Festus the lawyer, from nigh the forum of Caesar—haste!’
The slave disappeared and left him once more alone. He stood and gazed on the face of the dead, and his grief broke beyond his control. Half-smothered sobs broke from his lips, and his eyes were blind with hot pouring tears.
‘Oh Apicius,’ he groaned, ‘if thou wert weary of the world, hadst thou so little regard for our love and companionship? This is thy retreat from men so easily found! Easy indeed—thou didst not err. All may reach it when they list, gods be praised! For in whose ear can I whisper, as I whispered in thine, all that oppressed me? Gone—gone, Apicius! Thou hast forsaken thy friend—selfish—selfish! Did you deem the void would be filled by another of your blood? Oh, miserable thought!’
He lay stretched on a couch murmuring in broken sentences, but, as the leaden minutes lagged on, he became more composed. The sound of a voice without made him leap to his feet. The next instant the heavy curtains were thrust back, and a young, richly-attired female stepped into the apartment. Despite the crushing blow the heart of Martialis had received, it gave a bound at the entrance of the new-comer. Her stature was above the feminine standard, and her figure large and voluptuous, but perfect in symmetry and grace. Whilst giving the impression of robustness and vigour, its stately carriage admirably matched the brilliant and haughty beauty of her face. The gaze of Martialis was riveted on her. Scarcely deigning to return the look, she swept up to the suicide and bent over him. Drawing herself up again she [pg 50]cast her glance over the room,—the disordered table with its litter of plate and luscious fruits, fallen cups and crumpled napkins, all glittering in a jumble of confusion under the light of the huge candelabra. Thence her brilliant black eyes flashed upon him who stood by, with infatuation and misery written on his face.
‘Speak, Martialis, what led him to do this?’
‘I know no more, Plautia, but what he said before us all here but now,’ answered the young man, sweeping his hand toward the table; ‘he was tired of life—he had spent his patrimony—poverty haunted him—so he drank and died, ere one could move or speak.’
‘Poverty!’ echoed she. She looked round again upon the extravagance which glowed in every part of the room, and her red lips curled in scornful incredulity.
‘Even so,’ he rejoined.