‘It is strange that you, a man of noble blood, should stoop to a girl of a base artisan,’ said Tiberius. ‘Do you say you are betrothed, and meant to marry her?’ ‘I did,’ replied the other, with a little sternness; ‘you have already passed your word for her safety, and that is sufficient assurance: but I have reason to believe, Caesar, that she is not the potter’s child.’ ‘I have already heard that—it requires proof, however—give it me,’ said Tiberius, with an incredulous smile curling his lip. ‘I cannot prove it,’ returned Martialis; ‘but at least I can tell you all I know.’ And he accordingly related the slender facts committed to him the previous night. ‘And this man, Cestus, whom she supposes to be her uncle—is he still in Surrentum?’ ‘I cannot tell. But his last words were, that he would hasten away to Rome at once—I presume to reveal all to her relatives.’ ‘Did he not say who these were?’ ‘I should have said relative,’ replied Martialis; ‘according to his tale there is only one remaining—her grandfather, Fabricius, who lives on the Janiculum.’ ‘Fabricius of the Janiculum,’ repeated Tiberius, tapping his forehead; ‘Fabricius belongs to other days, but if I am not mistaken, his heir is fully with the times. Is he not the worthy Domitius Afer, the bosom friend of the Prefect?’ Martialis was confused and silent, for he saw he had unwittingly betrayed what Cestus had particularly enjoined him to keep secret. ‘If this is so, then the tale certainly grows in interest,’ continued Tiberius, with a dark twinke of his eyes; ‘it lends it more substance and probability.’ ‘I made a breach of trust in causing the name of Afer to be revealed,’ said Martialis anxiously; ‘were he to know, it might prove a risk to her.’ ‘Be at peace, Centurion—I have such sympathy with the knight, that I could ill bear the matter to be interrupted for his sake.’ Caesar smiled grimly, and then his brows knitted in deep thought. He remained thus for some minutes without speaking. The young man’s heart throbbed fast, and it needed a great effort to retain an outward appearance of composure. ‘Centurion,’ said Tiberius, at length raising his head from his breast, ‘I love my Pretorians, and to deal hardly with them pains my heart. I have pondered on your case, and find much in excuse of your conduct—the inconsiderate rashness and haste of your youth, and the overwrought state of your feelings, which was only to be expected. I will not say I pardon you, but I will give you a chance of redeeming your liberty.’ The Centurion faltered out his thanks from a heart overflowing with joy. ‘Anything that may be honestly undertaken I will strain body and mind to accomplish, and prove my sense of your clemency,’ he said.