The alabarch advanced and dropped into the seat that Flaccus had indicated.
"This," he observed, nodding toward the dark torch at the proconsul's side, "would lead me to believe thou art inventing rhymes."
"Or conspiracies. Plots and poetry demand the same exciting dusk. Well, has the Herod sued?"
"Not he, but his lady."
"His lady! By Hecate, the mystery is solved. Thus it is that he hath been able to borrow every usurer poor from Rome to Damascus!"
"He wins upon her virtue; but withhold thy interpretation of my words until I show thee what they mean. She is beautiful and virtuous; a Herod and married—a conjunction of circumstances in these days so rare as to be out of nature—therefore, phenomenal. So we toss our yellow gold into her lap in recognition of the entertainment she hath afforded—being unusual."
"Virtuous; that means, faithful to the man she married. No woman is faithful except she loves her love. A just procession in the order of the Furies' reign. The warm of heart, unrewarded; the unworthy, anointed and worshiped."
"This melancholy twilight hath made thee morbid, Avillus. You Romans take womankind too seriously."
"When womankind or a kind of woman can drain the world's purse, methinks she is a serious matter. What sum does she want?"
"Three hundred thousand drachmæ."