A terrible revulsion of feeling swept through, and shook, the frame of the elder Martialis. At the look of his brother he gave a hysterical gasp and dropped his head into his hands.
Plautia pointed to the fallen goblet with an impressive gesture, and said, ‘It has already taken the life of one man this night. Had you drunk therefrom you would have shared his fate. That cup yet reeks of the fatal drug. Though I saw you not fill it, fortune be praised that my poor eyes perceived it ere your lips touched its horrid brim.’
‘How, the death of a man?’ repeated the bewildered Centurion.
‘Even so! From that very cup at the close of this night’s feast,’ said she, waving her hand over the glittering disorder of the table, ‘Apicius, of his own will, drank a poisoned draught.’
The young soldier was horror-struck. He looked around and shuddered.
‘Apicius—poisoned himself!’ he muttered. ‘This is a dreadful tale—and for what reason, in the name of the gods?’
‘Your brother can tell you better than I—he was his bosom friend, and, moreover, was present,’ answered Plautia, turning away, as if to hide a sudden burst of feeling.
‘Nay!’ said Lucius hastily, and with deep sympathy, ‘I will trouble you no more with my presence. I will learn, in sad time enough, the terrible tale—I would spare you the pain of a fresh recital. Alas, I dreamt not what had happened, and yet I remarked it strange that Apicius was not here. You will pardon me, Plautia. ’Tis a sudden and bitter blow—farewell!’
He gathered up his cloak, and, as he turned to the door, he spurned the goblet with his foot, muttering some expressions of abhorrence and disgust.
‘Stay, Centurion,’ said Plautia, ‘go not without quenching your thirst. If I was lucky enough to rob you of your first draught, here is wine enough, and of the purest.’