“Let us go from this place,” replied Vinicius.
And they went. They passed the lupanaria gleaming with light, the grove, the line of mounted pretorians, and found the litters.
“I will go with thee,” said Petronius.
They sat down together. On the road both were silent, and only in the atrium of Vinicius’s house did Petronius ask,—“Dost thou know who that was?”
“Was it Rubria?” asked Vinicius, repulsed at the very thought that Rubria was a vestal.
“No.”
“Who then?”
Petronius lowered his voice. “The fire of Vesta was defiled, for Rubria was with Cæsar. But with thee was speaking”—and he finished in a still lower voice, “the divine Augusta.”
A moment of silence followed.
“Cæsar,” said Petronius, “was unable to hide from Poppæa his desire for Rubria; therefore she wished, perhaps, to avenge herself. But I hindered you both. Hadst thou recognized the Augusta and refused her, thou wouldst have been ruined beyond rescue,—thou, Lygia, and I, perhaps.”