As Casca read this letter, his face betrayed surprise and emotion, which Antonius, lying back with half-closed eyes, was not slow to discern.
“I crave leave,” Casca said, “to return whence I came till the morrow. I have books and parchments which I must have carried hither, and I must see good Clœlia, the mother of Caius, and take leave of her.”
“Well, be it so,” was Antonius’s reply, in a lazy tone. “Meet me in the Coliseum to-morrow, when there will be some sport with thy father’s enemies, the Christians. By Jove!” Antonius said, “I care not whether they live or die, though we should miss some sport if there were no more to be thrown to the beasts. Vale! Vale!” he exclaimed, waving his hand, and leaving Casca free to depart.
CHAPTER IX.
DAYSPRING.
Clœlia received the news of Casca’s immediate departure with that self-repression which at the time of greatest trial characterised the old Roman matron.
The inevitable was accepted, and she merely said—
“It was but likely that your noble father should desire to place you amongst the nobles, but you depart to scenes of license, I fear, and to see the hunt after pleasure put before honour and the welfare of Rome. It was not always thus. There were times when the sons of our great city strove after all those gifts which should make them her worthy protectors and defenders. They call Rome now the mistress of the world, but her children have grown weak since the arms of their great mother have embraced so many strangers and aliens. I would, my son Casca, that you were to be committed to one even of less exalted rank than Antonius, who, if report speaks truly, lives the life of luxury and ease which is as a canker-worm at the root of the gourd.”
Casca’s tender, gentle spirit was touched at the emotion which Clœlia could not entirely hide under her quiet calm manner.