“By the spear of Mars! it is Marcus himself, Marcus returned from the dead! Welcome, my lord, welcome.”
Marcus led his horse through the deep archway, and when Nehushta had followed him into the courtyard beyond, returned, closed and locked the door.
“Why did you think me dead, friend?” he asked.
“Oh! my lord,” answered the steward, “because all who have come home from the war declared that you had vanished away during the siege of the city of the Jews, and that you must either be dead or taken prisoner. Now I knew well that you would never disgrace your ancient house, or your own noble name, or the Eagles which you serve, by falling alive into the hands of the enemy. Therefore, I was sure that you were dead.”
Marcus laughed bitterly, then turning to Nehushta, said:
“You hear, woman, you hear. If such is the judgment of my steward and freedman, what will be that of Cæsar and my peers?” Then he added, “Now, Stephanus, that what you thought impossible—what I myself should have thought impossible—has happened. I was taken prisoner by the Jews, though through no fault of mine.”
“Oh! if so,” said the old steward, “hide it, my lord, hide it. Why, two such unhappy men who had surrendered to save their lives and were found in some Jewish dungeon, have been condemned to walk in the Triumph this day. Their hands are to be tied behind them; in place of their swords they must wear a distaff, and on their breasts a placard with the words written: ‘I am a Roman who preferred dishonour to death.’ You would not wish their company, my lord.”
The face of Marcus went first red, then white.
“Man,” he said, “cease your ill-omened talk, lest I should fall upon my sword here before your eyes. Bid the slaves make ready the bath and food, for we need both.”
“Slaves, my lord? There are none here, save one old woman, who attends to me and the house.”