Claudius thought truly that Casca was in no mood for dancing-girls and music, but scarcely expected to find him in the state of melancholy prostration in his chamber, which at first seemed almost like despair.
Claudius had a warm heart, and was sincerely attached to his friend.
He took his accustomed place opposite him, and rallied him on his sad looks.
“Have you heard my fate?” Casca asked.
“Fate! I hear you are to depart to Rome with Burrhus: a very pleasant fate, by Apollo! I would I were to accompany you. But, for the sake of all that is holy, try to wear a brighter face. Half the young Romans in Verulam will envy you, to say nothing of a hybrid like me, your humble servant. Nay, now, Casca, be not a woman,” Claudius exclaimed, with some contempt in his tone; “it is womanish to give in and moan.”
Casca had hidden his face in his long, thin hands, and tears trickled through his fingers.
“If you had a father like mine,” Casca murmured, “you would not wonder at my condition. He came up hither this morning, raving like a beast in the arena. He seized me by the robe, and poured forth a string of epithets I will not repeat. He accused me of conniving at the poor slave’s flight, of contaminating my sister, of being the laughing-stock of all Verulam, a poltroon, a fool, and I know not what beside. He swore by all the gods that I should be placed under Burrhus to fight as a true Roman should if the Emperor sends out a legion to one of the insubordinate provinces. And I, oh! Claudius, I loathe fighting. I hate bloodshed. I crave for peace.”
“I would I could take your place,” said Claudius, “but my old father would not hear of it if your father agreed thereto. He looks upon me as the guardian of Junia, though, forsooth, I am but a poor guardian. She springs like a tigress if I attempt to check her in any wild course,” Claudius sighed. “Now, you have a sister who is like a daughter of the gods. You may well be ready to lay down your life for her. How can her parents send her hence?”
“It is all from the same cause, the dread of the Christian superstition,” Casca said. “They dread her being infected by poor Ebba’s teachers. The poor wretch seldom spoke of her new religion; until the day of Alban’s execution she kept silence. I trust we shall be spared the sickening spectacle of her head brought back. I can never forget the horror when the ghastly head of the runaway Syra was brought into the atrium,” and Casca shuddered.
“Nay, Casca, thou wert surely not designed by the gods for a Roman. Thou shouldst have been born in one of those far-off islands in the south, where the effete Greeks lie in flower-wreathed bowers, and, chewing the leaves of the lotus, pass away life in alternate slumber and song. Especially, good Casca, wert thou never designed by the gods to live in our own rude country and associate with us poor Britons.”