He felt that his short sword and poniard were loose in their scabbards, then entered the peristyle before him. Silver lamps shed a brilliant light on the polished marble of pillar and floor, on the gilded fretwork of ceiling and cornice, the panelled pictures, the dancing, diamond‐flashing waters of the fountain in the midst. Among the doorways which opened on the court was one heavily curtained. Domestics passed in and out ever and anon, and the presence of the soldier stationed before it was evidence that Caesar was within. Martialis perceived with satisfaction that this man was one of his own troop, and went up to him immediately. The Pretorian drew himself up and saluted, but not without a curious glance at the unusual aspect his officer presented. ‘Welcome back, Centurion!—the Prefect is not within,’ said he, concluding that the object of the aide‐de‐camp was the commander himself. ‘Where then?’ ‘At his house for anything that I can tell, Centurion.’ ‘Maybe he awaits me there, for this night I was due.’ ‘I can see with my own eyes you have travelled hard, Centurion.’ ‘Who is within?’ ‘Caesar supping with his friends.’ ‘Know you which friends?’ ‘Flaccus, Marinus, Priscus, the philosophers, and the Roman lady,’ replied the legionary. The three first named were companions of Tiberius, the third of whom we have already known. The Roman lady Martialis knew to be Plautia. He passed his hand across his forehead. The question was as useless as the answer. The slaves, who idled here and there in twos and threes about the court, were the natural repositories of household secrets and tattle. He eyed them and gnawed his nether lip. ‘Have you been in the palace long?’ he asked again. ‘I have wellnigh worn out my spell of duty, I should say, Centurion—at least I brought Caesar hither from his dressing‐room.’ ‘Tell me, Asca,’ said Martialis, dropping his voice, ‘since you have been here within‐doors, have you seen or heard anything of the arrival of some of Caesar’s slaves bearing with them a woman—a young girl?’ ‘Only a few minutes ago, Zeno, the worshipful steward, marshalled a couple such into Caesar’s presence—they had a woman with them, and they are there now.’ ‘Ah, and she?’ demanded the young man, with an energy which caused the soldier to recoil a step. ‘What was she like—her appearance? Quick, Asca, speak!’ ‘Truly, Centurion, I scarce gave her any heed, except that she was taller than common—her face was well shrouded moreover,’ quoth the surprised Asca. ‘Was that all? Was there nothing said? Did you not hear whence they came? Can you tell me nothing of her looks, her voice, dress, or anything to guide me?’ ‘Well, she seemed very unwilling; and when they first came and demanded entrance, Plautus—that is one of the slaves who came along with her, sent in Caesar’s signet ring, along with the word Surrentum, upon which Zeno came out and——Stop, Centurion, stop——!’