It was growing late, but the proconsul apparently was manifesting no impatience. All the afternoon he had been transacting the routine business of a provincial governor--listening to appeals to his judgment seat, signing requisitions for tax imposts, making out commissions, and giving undivided attention to a multitude of seeming trifles. Only Decimus Mamercus, the young centurion,--elder son of the veteran of Praeneste,--who stood guard at the doorway of the public office of the praetorium, thought he could observe a hidden nervousness and a still more concealed petulance in his superior's manner that betokened anxiety and a desire to be done with the routine of the day. Finally the last litigant departed, the governor descended from the curule chair, the guard saluted as he passed out to his own private rooms, and soon, as the autumn darkness began to steal over the cantonment, nothing but the call of the sentries broke the calm of the advancing night. Caesar was submitting to the attentions of his slaves, who were exchanging his robes of state for the comfortable evening _synthesis_. But the proconsul was in no mood for the publicity of the evening banquet. When his chief freedman announced that the invited guests had assembled, the master bade him go to the company and inform them that their host was indisposed, and wished them to make merry without him. The evening advanced. Twice Caesar touched to his lips a cup of spiced wine, but partook of nothing else. Sending his servants from his chamber, he alternately read, and wrote nervously on his tablets, then erased all that he had inscribed, and paced up and down the room. Presently the anxious head-freedman thrust his head into the apartment. "My lord, it is past midnight. The guests have long departed. There will be serious injury done your health, if you take no food and rest." "My good Antiochus," replied the proconsul, "you are a faithful friend." The freedman--an elderly, half-Hellenized Asiatic--knelt and kissed the Roman's robe. "My lord knows that I would die for him." "I believe you, Antiochus. The gods know I never needed a friend more than now! Do not leave the room." The general's eyes were glittering, his cheeks flushed with an unhealthy colour. The freedman was startled. "Domine, domine!" he began, "you are not well--let me send for Calchas, the physician; a mild sleeping powder--" For the first time in his long service of Caesar, Antiochus met with a burst of wrath from his master. "Vagabond! Do you think a sleeping potion will give peace to _me_? Speak again of Calchas, and I'll have you crucified!" "Domine, domine!" cried the trembling freedman; but Caesar swept on:-- "Don't go from the room! I am desperate to-night. I may lay violent hands on myself. Why should I not ask you for a poisoned dagger?" Antiochus cowered at his master's feet.