"Narcissus? Yes, I recognize you. Who is this?" Narcissus and Sextus were shrouded in loose, hooded cloaks of raw wool, under which they hugged a change of footgear. Sextus had his face well covered. Narcissus pushed him forward under the guard-room arch, out of the rain.
"This is a man from Antioch, whom Caesar told me to present to him," he said. "I know him well. His names is Marius."
"I have no orders to admit a man of that name." Narcissus waxed confidential.
"Do you wish to get both of us into trouble?" he asked. "You know Caesar's way. He said bring him and forgot, I suppose, to tell his secretary to write the order for admission. Tonight he will remember my speaking to him about this expert with a javelin, and if I have to tell him—"
"Speak with the centurion."
The decurion beckoned them into the guard-house, where a fire burned in a bronze tripod, casting a warm glow on walls hung with shields and weapons. A centurion, munching oily seed and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, came out of an inner office. He was not the type that had made Roman arms invincible. He lacked the self-reliant dignity of an old campaigner, substituting for it self-assertiveness and flashy manners. He was annoyed because he could not get the seed out of his mouth with his finger in time to look aristocratic.
"What now, Narcissus? By Bacchus, no! No irregularities tonight! The very gods themselves are imitating Caesar's ill-humor! Who is it you have brought?"
Narcissus beckoned the centurion toward the corner, between fire and wall, where he could whisper without risk of being overheard.
"Marcia told me to bring this man tonight in hope of making Caesar change his mood. He is a javelin-thrower—an expert."
"Has he a javelin under the cloak?" the centurion asked suspiciously.