“He almost fell into the fire chamber,” explained one of the two young slaves who had dragged him from the furnace shed.
A beetle-browed, scowling overseer with a long leather whip came running from an adjacent section of the sheds. “Get back to your work!” he shouted, as he slashed viciously at the slaves. The two fled inside; the burly fellow strode across to the old man on the ground.
“Water! O Zeus, mercy. Water! Water!” the old slave gasped.
The overseer raised his whip. “Stand up, you, or by the gods, I’ll cut you in strips!” he hissed. “Get back to the furnace!” He stood poised to strike the inert man.
“Hold!” Cornelius commanded. “Strike him once, and by the great Jove, you’ll have me to deal with!” Suddenly furious, his eyes blazing, the centurion stepped forward to confront the overseer.
“Who, by the gods, are you?” the fellow demanded insolently. “By whose authority do you interfere with the operation of this plant?”
“By the great gods, my own, if the centurion”—he glanced coldly toward Longinus—“is little enough interested to stop you.”
“Don’t touch him!” Longinus pointed. “And get back to your duties.”
“And who”—the fellow was glowering, his heavy jaw thrust out—“are you, by the gods, to be giving me orders?”
Aroused by the angry words outside the fire chamber, a man rushed from the near-by furnace-shed office. “Porcius, you insolent, blundering fool, put down that whip!” he bellowed. “Don’t you know the centurion”—he gestured toward Longinus—“is the son of Senator Piso, who owns this plant? And the other one is his friend. Now you get back to your work!”