Pretty Hero was indeed pale; pale and sad, despite the faint smile of courtesy that hovered around the small, pouting mouth, and the impression was increased by her thick, light-brown hair, which in a simple, waving line framed the symmetrical brow. She gazed without interest at the motley throng, listened unsympathizingly to the eager words of her excited companion. Behind her, by the side of a fresh, blooming girl of fifteen, whom Caius Bononius supposed to be the Lydia so often mentioned by Rutilius, walked Heliodorus, the father of the pallid Hero, evidently in an angry mood, for his brows were contracted, his lips tightly compressed. He seemed to be absorbed in an earnest conversation with Lydia.
“Is that Hero?” asked Bononius. “And who is the unattractive fellow talking to her so eagerly?”
“Agathon, a countryman of Heliodorus. I’ve often met him at the city prefect’s.”
Bononius and Philippus now passed the group. Philippus bowed. Bononius gazed fixedly now at Hero, now at her companion, Agathon. There was something in this man’s appearance which seemed familiar, though he thought he most distinctly remembered that he had never met him before in his life. So he forgot all regard for courtesy, and when Heliodorus had also passed with Lydia, Caius Bononius, spite of the city custom which forbade such things, could not refrain from gazing after their retreating figures.
When he thus caught a back view of Agathon’s form a recollection like a revelation suddenly darted through his brain. That was the same thin figure which, on the evening he was standing with Lucius Rutilius at Olbasanus’ door, came out of the ostium[6] and walked away. The bearing, the peculiar movement of the right shoulder, the whole appearance,—all was unmistakable.
The young man now clearly perceived what had hitherto been as incomprehensible to him as the wondrous nocturnal apparitions—Olbasanus’ motives. Everything Olbasanus had predicted to the unhappy Rutilius and sorrowing Hero was by Agathon’s direction. The motive that influenced the latter required no explanation. Hero was young, beautiful, rich,—and Agathon was a suitor for her favor. Caius Bononius especially emphasized the wealth—it already filled him with satisfaction to be able to despise the aforesaid. Agathon more heartily than would have been allowable if his intrigue had been caused solely by a mad passion for the charming young girl.
True, this discovery did not make the incomprehensible things Rutilius and Bononius had witnessed in the Chaldean’s house one hair’s breadth more intelligible; but Bononius had gained fresh courage and energy to advance, by the employment of every possible means, towards the goal on which, freed from the last remnants of metaphysical doubts, he now boldly fixed his gaze. He was now aware that Olbasanus was no fanatic, no enthusiast who at least partially deceived himself, but a juggler, who served as the tool of the base selfishness of a malicious sneak. This juggler must be unmasked—the youth’s determination to do this was as firm as the devotee’s faith in the mercy of deity.
The centurion had noticed his companion’s agitation and, with his natural frankness and absence of reserve, asked what there was in the Sicilian’s appearance to cause so much surprise—had Caius Bononius discovered in Hero some neighbor at the circus, for whom he had long sought in vain, or recognized in Agathon a troublesome rival? The youth was in a mood that renders the heart communicative and desirous of seeking counsel from others; he had long prized the centurion as a reliable and discreet man; besides, he thought he perceived that Philippus also cherished no special regard for Agathon.
One word led to another.
Strolling a little apart from the throng, Bononius at first gave the centurion some hints and then, after Philippus had sworn by all the gods to maintain the most inviolable secrecy, told him the adventure at Olbasanus’s.