“The mother of Tiberius is dead,” replied Macro. “What! has she too been murdered?” exclaimed Gyges. “Nay. Verily do I believe she died of a broken heart,” replied Macro. “But is there no one with whom thou canst communicate?” asked Gyges, despairingly. Macro thought for a moment, and then replied: “Ay, there is Antonia; but she is the mother of Livilla. However, I will see her and procure a letter from her to Tiberius. I will be silent about her daughter. Sejanus only will I accuse. Ay, Antonia can, and she will, help us. She is the only one in Rome whom Tiberius seems to respect. How can I thank thee for thy information, my Gyges? How can I ever repay thee?” “Let me but see my Psyche, O Macro. Let me but send her a letter is all I ask.” “But there are important duties now to be done,” said Macro, thoughtfully. “All communications that go to the emperor must pass through the hands of Sejanus.” “Then no word can be sent to the emperor?” anxiously asked Gyges. “Hold!” exclaimed Macro, excitedly. “I possess a duplicate seal of Sejanus. He gave it me to sign his correspondence. That will help us. But come! I must return to Rome this night. Meet me here two nights hence.” “But I may be prevented,” replied Gyges. “Thou knowest that I am sought by the soldiers.” “I will give thee a passport--” He hesitated a moment, and then added, “Perchance ’twould be better that thou shouldst rest here in this house until I return.” The sub-prefect immediately departed for Rome. “Fare thee well, O Gyges!” he said, as he parted from the charioteer in the atrium. “Thou hast made the name of Macro great.” “Happy omens be thy speed, O future prefect! Fare thee well!” Chapter XX The wind was howling around the bleak cliffs of Capri. Huge waves dashed and broke against the rocks below. On the eastern heights of the island the newly completed Villa Jovis was lost in the clouds. Sheets of rain fell, drenching the island and the surrounding country. Frightful lightnings flashed, and tremendous thunders rolled. The beautiful white columns and statues and the massive walls of the courtyards caught the wind and held it until it escaped with violent whistlings and shriekings. Fields of maturing vines were gutted out by raging torrents. Havoc and ruin relentlessly stalked through the island, uprooting trees and throwing down buildings. A tempestuous sirocco was at its height. Down in the depths of the palace, in a vault to which no daylight could penetrate, the cowardly Tiberius, with a wreath of laurel on his head, crouched, trembling at every burst of thunder. From time to time he would ask what signs there were of clearing. A statue of Victory fell from its pedestal into the courtyard below and was dashed to pieces. The noise of its fall was heard by Tiberius. The tyrant trembled. “What was that noise?” he shrieked. In a few minutes a servant replied, “The statue of Victory has fallen, my lord.” “Call the astrologer!” Tiberius commanded excitedly.