“Nay, two—mirth—we have cast our sorrows behind us. You said I was a dove, so be it—a pair of doves, perhaps wounded, lamed—but we coo into each other’s ear, and lay our aching hearts together and so obtain solace.”
“I will refuse you nothing,” said Domitia, again kissing her visitor.
Accordingly, a couple of hours later the two ladies started, Domitia taking with her some attendants, but travelling, as was proposed, in the large litter of Domitilla.
This latter lady was, as already mentioned, the widow of Clemens, one of the two sons of Flavius Sabinus, præfect of the city, who had held the Capitol against the Prætorians of Vitellius and had been murdered but a few hours before Rome was entered by the troops that favored his brother Vespasian. On that occasion his sons had escaped, and the elder was married to Julia, daughter of Titus, but had been put to death by Domitian. The younger brother, Clemens, a quiet, inoffensive man, who took no part in public affairs, had been executed as well, shortly before Domitian himself perished.
And now Flavia Domitilla lived quietly on her estate not far from the Ardeatine Gate of Rome.
“How!” said Flavia, suddenly, as she espied the little cornelian suspended on the bosom of Domitia, “you have the Fish!”
“Yes, Glyceria gave it me—long ago.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“Glyceria told me—but it is a dream, a beautiful fancy, nothing more. There is no evidence.”
“Domitia, you have not sought for it.”