ink of what Nero did to them; and Marcus Aurelius did
little less. They will catch it again when Commodus turns on his
mistress Marcia; he will harry them all the more when that day comes--
as it is sure to. Marcia is a Christian; when he tires of her he will
use her Christianity for the excuse and throw the Christians to the
lions by the thousand in order to justify himself for murdering the only
decent woman of his acquaintance. Sic semper tyrannus. Say what you
will about Marcia, she has done her best to keep Commodus from making a
public exhibition of himself."

"With what result? He boasts he has killed no less than twelve hundred
poor devils with his own hand in the arena. True, he takes the
pseudonym of Paulus when he kills lions with his javelin and drives a
chariot in the races like a vulgar slave. But everybody knows, and he
picks slaves for his ministers--consider that vile beast Cleander, whom
even the rabble refused to endure another day. I don't see that
Marcia's influence amounts to much."

"But Cleander was executed finally. You are in a glum mood, Sextus.
What has happened to upset you?"

"It is the nothing that has happened. There has come no answer to that
letter I wrote to my father in Rome. Commodus's informers may have
intercepted it."

Norbanus whistled softly. The skewbald Cappadocian mistook that for a
signal to exert himself and for a minute there were ructions while his
master reined him in.

"When did you write?" he demanded, when he had the horse under control
again.

"A month ago."

Norbanus lapsed into a moody silence, critically staring at his friend
when he was sure the other was not looking. Sextus had always puzzled
him by running risks that other men (himself, for instance) steadfastly
avoided, and avoiding risks that other men thought insignificant. To
write a letter critical of Commodus was almost tantamount to suicide,
since every Roman port and every rest-house on the roads that led to
Rome had become infested with informers who were paid on a percentage
basis.

"Are you weary of life?" he asked after a while.

"I am weary of Commodus--weary of tyranny--weary of lies and hypocrisy--
weary of wondering what is to happen to Rome that submits to such
bestial government--weary of shame and of the insolence of bribe-fat
magistrates--"

"Weary of your friends?" Norbanus asked. "Don't you realize that if
your letter fell into the hands of spies, not only wil