Balbilla escorted her, and Florus betook himself to the “Olympian table,” the famous eating-house kept by Lycortas, of whom he had been told wonders by the epicures at Rome.
When Verus was alone with his wife he went up in a friendly manner and said:
“May I drive you home again?”
Domitia Lucilla had thrown herself on a couch, and covered her face with her hands, and she made no reply. “May I?” repeated the praetor. As his wife persisted in her silence, he went nearer to her, laid his hand on her slender fingers that concealed her face, and said:
“I believe you are angry with me!” She pushed away his hand, with a slight movement, and said: “Leave me.”
“Yes, unfortunately I must leave you. Business takes me into the city and I will—”
“You will let the young Alexandrians, with whom you revelled through the night, introduce you to new fair ones—I know it.”
“There are in fact women here of incredible charm,” replied Verus quite coolly. “White, brown, copper-colored, black—and all delightful in their way. I could never be tired of admiring them.”
“And your wife?” asked Lucilla, facing him, sternly. “My wife? yes, my fairest. Wife is a solemn title of honor and has nothing to do with the joys of life. How could I mention your name in the same hour with those of the poor children who help me to beguile an idle hour.”
Domitia Lucilla was used to such phrases, and yet on this occasion they gave her a pang. But she concealed it, and crossing her arms she said resolutely and with dignity:
“Go your way—through life with your Ovid, and your gods of love, but do not attempt to crush innocence under the wheels of your chariot.”
“Balbilla do you mean,” asked the praetor with a loud laugh. “She knows how to take care of herself and has too much spirit to let herself get entangled in erotics. The little son of Venus has nothing to say to two people who are such good friends as she and I are.”
“May I believe you?”
“My word for it, I ask nothing of her but a kind word,” cried he, frankly offering his hand to his wife. Lucilla only touched it lightly with her fingers and said:
“Send me back to Rome. I have an unutterable longing to see my children, particularly the boys.”
“It cannot be,” said Verus. “Not at present; but in a few weeks, I hope.”
“Why not sooner?”
“Do not ask me.”
“A mother may surely wish to know why she is separated from her baby in the cradle.”
“That cradle is at present in your mother’s house, and she is taking care of our little ones. Have patience, a little longer for that which I am striving after, for you, and for me, and not last, for our son, is so great, so stupendously great and difficult that it might well outweigh years of longing.”
Verus spoke the last words in a low tone, but with a dignity which characterized him only in decisive moments, but his wife, even before he had done speaking, clasped his right-hand in both of hers and said in a low frightened voice:
“You aim at the purple?” He nodded assent.
“That is what it means then!”
“What?”
“Sabina and you—”
“Not on that account only; she is hard and sharp to others, but to me she has shown nothing but kindness, ever since I was a boy.”
“She hates me.”
“Patience, Lucilla; patience! The day is coming when the daughter of Nigrinus, the wife of Caesar, and the former Empress—but I will not finish. I am, as you know, warmly attached to Sabina, and sincerely wish the Emperor a long life.”
“And he will adopt.”
“Hush!—he is thinking of it, and his wife wishes It.”
“Is it likely to happen soon?”
“Who can tell at this moment what Caesar may decide on in the very next hour. But probably his decision may be made on the thirtieth of December.”
“Your birthday.”
“He asked what day it was, and he is certainly casting my horoscope, for the night when my mother bore me—”
“The stars then are to seal our fate?”
“Not they alone. Hadrian must also be inclined to read them in my favor.”
“How can I be of use to you?”
“Show yourself what you really are in your intercourse with the Emperor”
“I thank you for those words—and I beg you do not provoke me any more. If it might yet be something more than a mere post of honor to be the wife of Verus, I would not ask for the new dignity of becoming wife to Caesar.”
“I will not go into the town to-day; I will stay with you. Now are you happy?”
“Yes, yes,” cried she, and she raised her arm to throw it round her husband’s neck, but he held her aside and whispered:
“That will do. The idyllic is out of place in the race for the purple.”
CHAPTER VIII
Titianus had ordered his charioteer to drive at once to Lochias. The road led past the prefect’s palace, his residence on the Bruchiom, and he paused there; for the letter which lay hidden in the folds of his toga, contained news, which, within a few hours, might put him under the necessity of not returning home till the following morning. Without allowing himself to be detained by the officials, subalterns, or lictors, who were awaiting his return to make communications, or to receive his orders, he went straight through the ante-room and the large public rooms for men, to find his wife in the women’s apartments which looked upon the garden. He met her at the door of her room, for she had heard his step approaching and came out to receive him.
“I was not mistaken,” said the matron with sincere pleasure. “How pleasant that you have been released so early to-day. I did not expect you till supper was over.”
“I have come only to go again,” replied Titianus, entering his wife’s room. “Have some bread brought to me and a cup of mixed wine; why—really! here stands all I want ready as if I had ordered it. You are right, I was with Sabina a shorter time than usual; but she exerted herself in that short time to utter as many sour words as if we had been talking for half a day. And in five minutes I must quit you again, till when?—the gods alone know when I shall return. It is hard even to speak the words, but all our trouble and care, and all poor Pontius’ zeal and pains-taking labor are in vain.”
As he spoke the prefect threw himself on a couch; his wife handed him the refreshment he had asked for, and said, as she passed her hand over his grey hair:
“Poor man! Has Hadrian then determined after all to inhabit the Caesareum?”
“No. Leave us, Syra—you shall see directly. Please read me Caesar’s letter once more. Here it is.” Julia unfolded the papyrus, which was of elegant quality, and began:
“Hadrian to his friend Titianus, the Governor of Egypt. The deepest secrecy—Hadrian greets Titianus, as he has so often done for years at the beginning of disagreeable business letters, and only with half his heart. But to-morrow he hopes to greet the dear friend of his youth, his prudent vicegerent, not merely with his whole soul, but with hand and tongue. And now to be more explicit, as follows: I come to-morrow morning, the fifteenth of December, towards evening, to Alexandria, with none but Antinous, the slave Mastor, and my private secretary, Phlegon. We land at Lochias, in the little harbor, and you will know my ship by a large silver star at the prow. If night should fall before I arrive there, three red lanterns at the end of the mast shall