‘Thine only. Through you I shall know the rest.’
‘For their sakes, then, we are Pretorians.’
‘So I see,’ observed Fabricius, with gentle impatience.
‘Well, then, I am Centurion thereof, and my name Martialis. But what of that? We all have done, one as much as another, and the whole amounts to nothing,—come, sir, and I will send two or three to guard you home.’
The old man, still somewhat confused and trembling, murmured once or twice the name he had heard, as if it bore some familiar sound.
‘Your name seems to ring in my ears as if I had heard it of old,’ he said; ‘but that in good time. Having given me your name, you will not, therefore, refuse me the honour of your friendship. Give me your word, you will visit me, and speedily. In the Transtibertine I am to be found by the simple asking.’
‘Willingly! I accept your kindness with pleasure,’ answered Martialis, with growing impatience to go onward.
‘Come with me now! Your men could return without you,’ urged the old man.
‘What—entice me from my duty! Nay, you would not,’ cried Martialis, shaking his head and laughing.
‘He would be bold, indeed, who would try to seduce an officer of our Prefect,’ interposed the quietly bitter voice of him who sat on the led horse, ‘especially when that zealous and frank-minded Prefect sends his officer to lead a son of Germanicus, like a felon, to Rome.’