Now there remained nothing but revenge. Revenged he must be, but how? He might dog Marcus and murder him, only then his own life would be hazarded, since he knew well the fate that awaited the foreigner, and most of all the Jew, who dared to lift his hand against a Roman noble, and if he hired others to do the work they might bear evidence against him. Now Caleb did not wish to die; life seemed the only good that he had left. Also, while he lived he might still win Miriam—after his rival had ceased to live. Doubtless, then she would be sold with his other slaves, and he could buy her at the rate such tarnished goods command. No, he would do nothing to run himself into danger. He would wait, wait and watch his opportunity.
It was near at hand, for of old as to-day the king of evil was ever ready to aid those who called upon him with sufficient earnestness. Indeed, even as Caleb sat there in his office, there came a knock upon the door.
“Open!” he cried savagely, and through it entered a small man with close-cropped hair and a keen, hard face which seemed familiar to him. Just now, however, that face was somewhat damaged, for one of the eyes had been blackened and a wound upon the temple was strapped with plaster. Also its owner walked lame and continually twitched his shoulders as though they gave him uneasiness. The stranger opened his lips to speak, and Caleb knew him at once. He was the chamberlain of Domitian who had been outbid by Nehushta in the slave ring.
“Greeting, noble Saturius,” he said. “Be seated, I pray, for it seems to pain you to stand.”
“Yes, yes,” answered the chamberlain, “still I had rather stand. I met with an accident last night, a most unpleasant accident,” and he coughed as though to cover up some word that leapt to his lips. “You also, worthy Demetrius—that is your name, is it not?” he added, eyeing him keenly—“look as though you had not slept well.”
“No,” answered Caleb, “I also met with an accident—oh! nothing that you can see—a slight internal injury which is, I fear, likely to prove troublesome. Well, noble Saturius, how can I—serve you? Anything in the way of Eastern shawls, for instance?”
“I thank you, friend, no. I come to speak of shoulders, not shawls,” and he twitched his own—“women’s shoulders, I mean. A remarkably fine pair for their size had that Jewish captive, by the way, in whom you seemed to take an interest last night—to the considerable extent indeed of fourteen hundred sestertia.”
“Yes,” said Caleb, “they were well shaped.”
Then followed a pause.
“Perhaps as I am a busy man,” suggested Caleb presently, “you would not mind coming to the point.”