It was already past midnight. The sky was covered with clouds. He could only move at a walk, when, on reaching a bridge, he saw a dark group of people coming from a side path.
It seemed to be a band of prisoners guarded by soldiers. At that time of wars with the barbarians, robbers and thieves had increased so much that they gave the prætorians uninterrupted work. Manlius supposed that he had met such a company, and quietly returned the salute of the passing soldiers.
Only one circumstance seemed strange—a woman's tall figure, with a long white mantle floating around it, rode at the end of the train. When she saw Manlius stop she stopped too, as if she expected something. They remained thus a short time, looking at each other; then they turned and rode on. It was impossible to distinguish any one's features in the darkness.
Manlius paused again, glanced back, and considered whether to return and ask some question; he did not know himself what.
But pleasanter thoughts soon occupied his mind, and as the clouds parted, allowing a silvery streak to glide over the Tiber, his spirits also brightened, and he dashed joyously forward to the beloved home of Sophronia.
He could already see the colossal outlines of the Mesembrius villa, when he perceived in the road a magnificent lectica, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and hung with silk curtains, such as in those days only the most aristocratic women used in traveling. Two splendidly caparisoned sumpter mules were harnessed to the four poles, beside which marched two slaves.
Therefore the young man's surprise was so much the greater when he saw a man's ugly, pock-marked face thrust out between the curtains, and instantly recognised Ævius, the base parasite, who was ready for half a sestertia to compose a panegyric upon the last gladiator, and had prepared for Carinus Cæsar's greyhound a genealogy, according to which, on the mother's side, it had descended directly from the she-wolf that suckled the twin brothers Romulus and Remus.
Manlius could not repress a smile at the singular situation of the panegyrist.
"Oho, Ævius, how long has the Cæsar had you carried about in a lectica like an aristocratic courtesan?"
"Be merciful, Manlius, and do not jeer at me. I am the most miserable writer of verse since Pegasus became the steed of poets. Just think what a favorable opportunity presented itself to secure immortality. Yesterday afternoon I learned that by the Cæsar's command a band of idol-worshipping Christians would be surprised at their meeting place on the Tiber; and I instantly hired a horse—a horse that exactly suited me, for I could not miss the chance of perpetuating so rare a spectacle by the power of my lyre for the benefit of posterity. There would be so many things priceless to us poets, such as killing, crucifixion, boiling in pitch, and similar matters. And now how have I fared! On the way the gods of Egypt threw me into the company of an accursedly charming woman who was being borne along in this superb traveling litter. First, this woman lured my secret from me, then she lured me off my horse to sit by her side in the vehiculum; and with Junonian perfidy to a heaven-aspiring Ixion, she sprang out on the other side, swung herself upon my horse, which she sat with the ease of an Amazon queen, and laughing merrily gave me the advice, if I was a poet, to use Pegasus, then dashed along the road I had pointed out, leaving me in this time-killing apparatus, which is more tiresome than the hour-glass. She probably reached the scene of the spectacle in season, while I, with these two mules and two asses, lost my way so completely that I am obliged to return to Rome."