The gaoler pointed to the clay bowl without speaking.
“You do not indulge in luxuries here!” said Quintus bitterly. “That is too vile food for the meanest of my slaves, nay for my dogs.”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“You must get used to it. We are under the strictest orders to treat every one alike by the rules of the place, with no distinction of birth.”
“Indeed—and what is the rule of the place?”
“Porridge and water, with rye-bread for supper. I cannot help it, if you fine gentlemen do not relish it. We often have folks here, who are only too thankful for such food, poor wretches who have not had a morsel for days if the gifts of corn have been stopped.”
“Do you know who I am?” Quintus interrupted his voluble informant.
“No, I rarely get out into the world. It is a year last Feast of Saturn, since I was in the Field of Mars. But I can see by your manner that you are of some noble family.”
“I am Quintus Claudius, the son of the Flamen.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” said the gaoler. “Why, you were caught in a quarry with the Nazarenes.”