When he reached the camp with his troop, he was summoned to the Prefect to deliver his report, which was received by the commander with every sign of satisfaction. Proceeding, on his own impulse, to describe the dreadful circumstances of the prisoner, he was coldly interrupted and dismissed. He turned to go, inwardly burning with disgust and indignation.
‘Stay, Centurion!’ cried Sejanus; ‘you have been inquired for here to-day—it is right I should inform you.’
‘Indeed! In what manner, and by whom, may I ask?’ said Martialis coldly.
‘By a workman—a potter from Surrentum! Ha! You change colour!’
‘’Tis not from shame at least,’ returned the other haughtily.
‘No, no—from conscious folly rather. You would wed a potter’s girl. You are blind to your own interests. Amuse yourself with her, if you wish, but think twice ere you bind a clog about your neck.’
‘And even such clogs are as easily got rid off as assumed at the present time,’ retorted the Centurion cuttingly.
Sejanus bit his lip, and his brows met darkly. The retort cut home, for he had put away his wife Apicata, to further more freely his guilty intrigue with Livia, the Emperor’s daughter-in-law.
However, he replied sarcastically, ‘That is true; but not in the case of such eminently virtuous men as yourself, Martialis. But just as you think proper—it is your own matter. As long as it affects not your Centurionship I care not—not I.’
‘Rather than suffer that to happen, Prefect, I would relinquish my duties entirely—you need have no fear,’ answered Martialis coldly, and, saluting, he left the room.