Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome. Graham John William

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СКАЧАТЬ gave him a hasty, but keen glance; and the potter, in his turn, surveyed the famous and dreaded Prefect with a fearless but respectful gaze. Bowing his square, sturdy frame, he waited to be addressed.

      ‘Who and what are you, and what do you want with me?’ asked Sejanus, skimming his glance furtively over the welcome letter which he had just received.

      ‘My name is Masthlion, and I am a potter of Surrentum,’ replied the other; ‘and, as I venture to trouble you, noble sir, on a personal matter, concerning one of your officers, perhaps it would be prudent if this soldier did not hear it.’

      Sejanus looked up in surprise, and regarded his visitor more curiously. With an amused look on his face, he nevertheless nodded to the sentinel, who silently retired from the room. The deep-set, expressive eyes of Masthlion then rested on Afer, who had picked up a book from the table, and was idly unrolling it.

      ‘As your business is not of the State, perhaps my friend can remain?’ said the Prefect sarcastically.

      ‘No, Prefect, my business is not of the State,’ replied the potter, ‘but I have come seeking information respecting one of your Centurions, and you must judge whether it be right the noble knight hear it or not.’

      ‘Know then, potter of Surrentum, that I do not enter into nor suffer the inquiries of any idle person with regard to my officers,’ said Sejanus sternly.

      ‘I will leave it to your generosity, when I tell you the circumstances which have brought me to make the request.’

      ‘Let me hear!’

      ‘I am only a poor man, earning my bread with the labour of my hands, yet the peace of my home, and the welfare of those belonging to me, are as dear to me as to the noblest,’ said Masthlion. ‘I have a daughter, Prefect; all the more precious to me because she has no sister or brother – ’

      ‘Ah, I perceive,’ uttered Sejanus, with the shadow of a smile curling his lips. ‘Go on!’

      ‘Ay – it is easily guessed!’ replied Masthlion, ‘and it needs few words. This Centurion of whom I speak, in passing through the town, saw my daughter. Since that time he has come more than once to visit her at my house. She has been called beautiful, Prefect, but she is not his equal. I bade her tell him so, and forbid him. On that he demanded her in marriage; but though she loves him, yet I will be satisfied that he is not one to deal lightly or carelessly by her, or I will not consent.’

      ‘You have forgotten the name of the Centurion, which is indispensable,’ said the Prefect; ‘and yet I can only guess one.’

      ‘His name is Martialis.’

      ‘Even so! The Centurion may well not object to as many journeys as I can give him, and also prefer the land route to the sea – here is the explanation.’

      Sejanus burst into a laugh, whilst Afer, who was seemingly immersed in his book, stroked his chin.

      ‘Potter, you are right,’ continued the Prefect. ‘Men and women, to be prudent, should not marry out of their station. Your daughter must be a paragon of loveliness, or cleverness, or goodness, to have ensnared my Centurion.’

      ‘She is such as she is, Prefect, and ensnares no one,’ returned Masthlion, with a frown of his shaggy eyebrows.

      ‘Whichever way it be, if they have fallen in love with each other you may as well leave them to it, for you will be hard put to rule them,’ laughed the commander. ‘When a woman is truly in love she parts with what little forethought she had, and leaves her senses to find themselves in cooler days. As for Martialis, I can only tell thee, potter, he is not the man to change his mind lightly, or take away his hand when he has once set his grip.’

      ‘I am sore beset,’ said Masthlion sadly; ‘in Surrentum I could know nothing; here in Rome I thought I might learn something.’

      ‘The performance of the Centurion’s duties is what concerns me; beyond that lies not within my province,’ replied Sejanus.

      ‘And yet it would be hard not to know something more,’ sighed the potter.

      ‘To conclude, you may go back to Surrentum with an easy mind as far as I know to the contrary,’ said the Prefect, with signs of impatience. ‘This seems to be a piece of lovers’ folly on the part of the Centurion. If he is fool enough to marry your daughter, she may think herself lucky in her elevation. Many a man in his position, of gentle blood, would have proceeded differently. ’Tis pity none of his family remains to dissuade him from grafting such a poor scion on to their ancient stem.’

      ‘I care nothing for that – I seek my daughter’s happiness, not her position,’ replied the potter proudly.

      ‘Good! Then I know nothing more. Is the Centurion an acquaintance of yours, Titus?’ cried Sejanus, turning to the knight.

      ‘No, I have not the honour,’ answered Afer.

      ‘Then, potter, you may take that as a strong assurance in his favour,’ added the Prefect satirically.

      ‘You are in the best of spirits,’ remarked Afer, showing his white teeth.

      ‘Now, potter, you can go,’ said Sejanus; ‘you have all I can give you – stay, how is your daughter named?’

      ‘Neæra!’ replied Masthlion.

      ‘Then your girl Neæra will probably have her own way in the end in despite of you. But deprive me not of my Centurion between ye, or you shall lose my favour, I promise you. He is worth more to me than all the maids, wives, widows, and hags in Campania, honest or not – wait!’

      He clapped his hands, and the same slave attended as before – a dark-skinned Nubian.

      ‘Lygdus, is there not an old family friend of the Centurion Martialis, whom he visits on the Aventine?’

      ‘Mamercus – near the temple of Diana,’ replied the slave laconically.

      ‘Go thither, potter, – Mamercus will serve your turn better than I,’ said the Prefect, waving his hand and turning his back.

      Masthlion followed the Nubian out of the apartment with a brighter countenance, and was quickly on his way to the Aventine.

      ‘Your Centurion has caught your own complaint,’ said Afer to his patron jestingly.

      ‘The gods confound it!’ replied the Prefect, ‘a wife will not improve his Centurionship. The fool! to saddle himself with a wife now – a red-faced, brawny-armed brat of a clay-moulder, most likely. As if there were no other arrangement; I’ll try my persuasion. And so for Capreae, my Titus!’

      ‘Whenever you are ready, Prefect.’

      ‘Be back within four days.’

      ‘No longer; and till then farewell – I leave you happy.’

      ‘Farewell! Remember our friends at Tibur!’

      ‘I will.’

      Afer bowed, and left the Pretorian commander to ruminate with delight on his good fortune, and to indulge his mind with dreams, more intoxicating and glowing than ever, on the strength of the success of his last, and, perhaps, most important move.

      At the gate of the camp, СКАЧАТЬ