‘Admit him then, and the sentinel as well.’
The slave retired, and, in a few moments, the armed Pretorian made his appearance, ushering in our potter, whom we left on his way to the camp.
Sejanus gave him a hasty, but keen glance; and the potter, in his turn, surveyed the famous and dreaded Prefect with a fearless but respectful gaze. Bowing his square, sturdy frame, he waited to be addressed.
‘Who and what are you, and what do you want with me?’ asked Sejanus, skimming his glance furtively over the welcome letter which he had just received.
‘My name is Masthlion, and I am a potter of Surrentum,’ replied the other; ‘and, as I venture to trouble you, noble sir, on a personal matter, concerning one of your officers, perhaps it would be prudent if this soldier did not hear it.’
Sejanus looked up in surprise, and regarded his visitor more curiously. With an amused look on his face, he nevertheless nodded to the sentinel, who silently retired from the room. The deep-set, expressive eyes of Masthlion then rested on Afer, who had picked up a book from the table, and was idly unrolling it.
‘As your business is not of the State, perhaps my friend can remain?’ said the Prefect sarcastically.
‘No, Prefect, my business is not of the State,’ replied the potter, ‘but I have come seeking information respecting one of your Centurions, and you must judge whether it be right the noble knight hear it or not.’
‘Know then, potter of Surrentum, that I do not enter into nor suffer the inquiries of any idle person with regard to my officers,’ said Sejanus sternly.
‘I will leave it to your generosity, when I tell you the circumstances which have brought me to make the request.’