Plautia’s countenance was brilliant in colour, and her proud eyes soft and lustrous as they dwelt on the Centurion, who was clothed as a private citizen. She thanked him for his service, and her voice was tremulous and rich. He merely bowed, and muttered some commonplace words in return, and, ere she could say more, he turned away and disappeared amid the throng of passers-by.
Plautia gazed after him for a few moments, and then sank back on her cushions in a deep reverie, which, judging by the smile resting on her lips, seemed pleasant enough to entertain her agreeably for a much longer time than sufficed to bring her to her own door.
The lady entered her favourite apartment, which was pervaded by the perfume of the costly wood burning in a brazier on the hearth. The appointments of the room were as rich and brilliant in colour as herself, and on a small carved citron-[pg 106]wood table stood a delicate basket, tastefully packed with the most beautiful flowers.
Lydia took them up and presented them to her mistress, saying, ‘Martialis sent these with best greetings.’
‘Which Martialis—there are two?’ asked Plautia, receiving them with a smile.
‘Why, Caius Martialis!’ replied the handmaiden in surprise.
‘Humph!’ ejaculated the lady, dropping the basket carelessly, almost flinging it on the table again. ‘They are not such as please me; take them yourself. Who is that without?’
‘Glaucus, your freedman,’ answered a voice at the door, ‘with news!’
‘Enter, Glaucus, with your news!’ cried the lady, relinquishing her outer cloaks and wraps to the care of Lydia, who retired. The freedman entered—a low thick-set man, having a rough, but yet intelligent look about him.
‘Well,’ said the lady, warming herself at the fire, ‘what sort of news—private or public?’