Junia laughed.
“I see,” she exclaimed, “no poor maiden whose father is a son of the conquered race could hope for the honour. Ah! well, she courts it not. Here comes my warlike brother. Well, Claudius, how fares it to-day in the wrestling? Hast thou thrown down Casca?”
“Casca!” he exclaimed. “Casca was not in the course at all.”
“What, noble Cæcilia,” the boy said, “is it really true that you part with Casca and Hyacintha? The arena and the schools are full of rumours to-day. Some say one thing, some another, but all agree that Christian superstition has laid an egg in the house of the noble Severus, and that a brood has been hatched.”
“I am sick of questions,” exclaimed Cæcilia, shrinking, as we all do, from the knowledge that our private affairs are made food for hungry gossips. So many of us are like the ostrich, and, hiding our heads in the sand, persuade ourselves that we are unseen and unnoticed. It was really very troublesome and fatiguing to be cross-examined by this boy and girl about private matters, Cæcilia thought! She clapped her hands, and the maidens in attendance, who had retired to a quarter of the hall where they and other slaves and attendants were congregated, signified her desire that her chariot should be ordered for an airing on the wide, smooth road known as Watling Street.
Claudius conducted her to the chariot with an easy grace which he inherited from his mother.
He had been quick to notice the cloud which he had called up on the lady’s face, and Junia’s laugh reached his ear, as, turning to some young associates with whom she was popular, he heard her repeating the news of the day to them.
“I crave pardon if I have seemed to fail in respect, lady,” he said. “I must ask leave to visit Casca before sunset.”
Cæcilia bowed, and smiled graciously.
“We shall see you at supper-time,” she said. “My husband has bidden the Greek dancing-girls to perform before us, and one of them plays the lute with uncommon skill. This will afford amusement for you and Casca.”