Next day Septimius was somewhat thoughtful; he retired early to his tent on the pretence of weariness, and when all was still he stole out of the town. The hour was the same, but how different this night was from the last. A tornado had been blowing from the south all day, raising the sand in huge clouds, which obscured everything and nearly chocked man and beast with a penetrating and impalpable dust.

At last he reached the granite boulder, and crouching in its shade, sat the beggar. He rose as the Centurion approached, and beckoned him silently to proceed. Septimius obeyed and followed in silence, plodding through the deep sand. At last the beggar turned.

"Sir Centurion," he said, "the night is hot and the way heavy; let me ease you of your sword"; and before Septimius could remonstrate or resist, his nimble hands had unstrapped the belt, and slung the sword over his own shoulder. "What men you Romans are!" he continued slightly raising his voice as they passed along a narrow track between high rocks on either side. "You fear nothing in heaven or on earth. I verily believe you would make beefsteaks of the Divine Apis"; and he halted full in the way and seemed to grow before the Centurion's eyes.

The Centurion recoiled, and at the same moment two from each side, four strange white figures, each with the head of a hawk, surmounted by the disc of the sun, glided forth and laid hands on him. Septimius struggled like a snared lion; he threatened them with the wrath of the Emperor, and they answered with mocking laughter. He made one furious rush at the beggar who had betrayed him, and clutched him by the robe. Petamon quietly threw the sword far away over the sand and crossed his arms, while his allies advanced to the rescue. The prisoner was torn away, but not before he had rent off a fragment of the priest's robes, which fell upon the sand. His good sword was gone far beyond his reach, and he was bound and lashed to a rude litter which was brought from behind the rock. The four mysterious phantoms silently raised the litter and bore it across the sands, while Petamon, with a vigour remarkable in one so far advanced in years, led the way.

They had advanced along the sandy tract for some distance when suddenly the eye of Septimius who could just raise his head and look forward by straining painfully against his bonds, caught the glimmer of the moonlight on the water, and before him rose a most unearthly, beautiful scene.

In the midst of a quiet lagoon lay the Sacred Island, Philae, girt in by hills on whose rugged sides the black rocks were piled in the most magnificent confusion - a green spot in the midst of a desert of stone - and, amid the Grove of Palms upon its shore, rose the roofs of temples and the tops of huge pyramidal gateways, while the solemn moonlight poured over all. A boat, manned by four more of the strange hawk-headed beings, was anchored at the shore. Silently the priest embarked, silently Septimius was lifted on board, silently the rowers bent to their oars, and in a few minutes they were passing along under the massy wall which rises sheer out of the water on the western side.

Suddenly the boat stopped and the Priest struck the wall thrice. Silently a portion of the wall swung back and disclosed a narrow stair, up which they carried the Centurion; and by a side door entered the outer court. Before them rose a huge gateway, on each of whose towers was carved the giant semblance of a conqueror grasping with his left hand a group of captives by the hair, while he lifts the right to strike the death-blow. They hurried on through the great Hall of Pillars up a narrow stair, and, opening a small aperture, more like a window than a door, thrust in the Centurion, and left him, bound hand and foot, to his own reflections.

Next morning Lepidus was early astir, and, after going his rounds, entered the tent of Septimius. It was empty, the bed had not been slept on, and there were no signs whatever of the tenant. "Mad boy," muttered Lepidus, "off on some frolic as usual. I must hush it up, or Septimius, great though his family interest be, will get a rough welcome from the General on our return. I must say he is sick. He gives me more trouble than the whole cohort put together, and yet I love the lad for his merry face and his kindly smile."

Noonday and evening came and went, and still Septimius was absent; and next morning, Lepidus, blaming himself much for having delayed so long, gave the alarm that the Centurion had vanished or been spirited away, and instituted a regular inquiry. Little information could be elicited. One of the sentries had noticed Septimius wandering away towards the desert but he was too much accustomed to his officer's little vagaries to take much note of the fact. Doubt and gloom hung over all, for the Centurion, rash as he was, was a brave leader and a kindly, cheerful man. Parties were detached to search the neighbourhood in every direction, and Lepidus could only sit and wait for information, chafing inwardly at every moment's delay.

Towards evening one of the sergeants craved an audience of him, and when they were alone together produced the Centurion's sword and a piece of a heavy golden fringe. He had struck into the desert, come upon a spot where there were evident marks of a struggle, and picked up the sword and torn fringe lying on the ground. Sergeant and officer looked at each other, and the same fear clouded the faces of both.

"Petamon is at Philae?" inquired Lepidus.

"He is, sir."

"Then may Jove the Preserver help the boy, for he will need all his help. I see it now: his foolish scoffs at the gods have reached the ears of the priest, who has hated us Romans bitterly for long, and he has kidnapped the lad. We may be too late to save him. Muster the men at once and let us to Philae - quick!"

In half an hour the cohort were tramping through the sand under the still moonlight, and an hour more brought them to the banks of the quiet river. There was no boat, and they had to halt till morning broke.

At sunrise a boat was brought from the neighbouring village and Lepidus, embarking with a portion of his troop, was rowed over to the Sacred Island. He landed at a flight of steps on the northern side, and mounting them, halted, giving the quick imperative, "In the name of the Emperor." Soon a band of priests, headed by Petamon himself, appeared at the great gateway, and the Centurion, advancing briefly demanded to speak with their High Priest.

Petamon, with the rising sun flashing on his leopard-skin cloak and the golden fringe of his girdle, with his head and beard close shaven, in his linen garments and papyrus sandals, stepped forward.

"I am Petamon, the grandson of Petamon, High Priest of Isis. Roman soldier, speak on."

"I seek," commenced Lepidus; but he stopped abruptly. His eye had caught the glitter of the golden fringe, and he saw that at one side a piece had been torn away. He sprang forwards, and grasped the priest's throat. "Petamon, I arrest you on the charge of kidnapping a Roman citizen. In the name of Caesar Domitian. Soldiers, secure him!"

Priests and soldiers stood for a moment transfixed with amazement while Lepidus released his grasp on the priest's throat, and they stood face to face till the Roman almost quailed before the fierce glare of the Egyptian's eye. The other priests began to press forwards with threatening gestures; they outnumbered the Romans three times, and, though the strength and discipline of the latter would have proved victorious in the end, might have offered a stout resistance; but Petamon motioned them back. "Fear not, children," he said, speaking in the Greek tongue, so that both parties might understand him, "the gods can protect their own, and you, Sir Roman, that have laid hands on the servant of Isis, tremble!" He walked forwards and surrendered himself to two of the soldiers.

"Rather him than me," muttered Sheshonk. "The gods are all very well to fool the people with, but I doubt if Isis herself will save him under the Roman rods."

Petamon raised his eyes and met those of Sheshonk. A few words in the Egyptian tongue and Sheshonk, with a deep obeisance retired into the temple and disappeared.

The soldiers were despatched to search the island, and Septimius heard them several times pass the door of his prison, but his gaolers had thrust a gag into his mouth, so he could give no alarm. He lay there sick at heart.

The search was fruitless, as Lepidus had expected; and he commanded Petamon again to be brought before him. "Sir Priest," he said, "I seek Septimius the Centurion, who is or was in your hands; unless he is restored before tomorrow's sun sinks in the west you die the death."

"It is well," said the priest, while the mock submission of his attitude was belied by his eye; "the gods can protect their own."

Towards evening Petamon requested an audience of Lepidus, and when they were again together addressed him with more civility than he had hitherto condescended to use. He explained that it was the practice that the High Priest should, at certain seasons, sleep in the sacred recesses of the temple, and have the decrees of the goddess revealed to him in visions. He craved permission to perform this sacred duty; it might be for the last time. Lepidus mused for a moment and then gave orders that the priest, chained between two soldiers, should have leave to sleep where he would.

The night closed in; the shrine of the goddess was illuminated; and the blaze of a hundred lamps flashed on the rich colours and quaint designs on the walls of the shrine. Before the altar stood Sheshonk, burning incense, while Petamon, chained between his guards, bowed for a time in prayer. By midnight the ceremony was over; Petamon, chained to a soldier on each side, lay down before the altar; the lights, all but one, were extinguished; the great door of the sacred chamber was closed. Lepidus lay down across it with his drawn sword in his hand, and soon fell asleep.

The sun was bright when he awoke and, hastily rising, gave orders to change the guard upon the prisoner, and himself entered the chamber to see that the fetters were properly secured. The lamp was burning dimly, and there lay the two soldiers: but where was the prisoner? He was gone - utterly gone. The fetters were there, but Petamon had vanished. Lepidus gave one of his soldiers an angry kick; the man neither stirred nor groaned; he snatched up the lamp and threw its rays upon the soldier's face. It was white and still, and a small stream of blood, which had flowed from a wound over the heart, told too plain a tale. It was the same with the other.

Perplexed beyond measure, Lepidus hastily roused the cohort. It was some minutes before he could get them to comprehend what had happened; and even then the men followed him most unwillingly as he snatched up a torch and hurried back. To his amazement the corpses of the soldiers were gone, and in their place lay two rams newly slaughtered, and bound with palm ropes; the fetters had also vanished. Shuddering and horror-stricken, he left the chamber, followed by the soldiers; and, as he passed out of the temple, met Sheshonk in his priestly robes going in to perform the morning services.

A panic seized the soldiery, in which Lepidus more than half concurred. They were men, they said; why fight against the gods? In half an hour they had left Philae and were marching through the desert to Syene, with weary steps, under the already scorching sun.

Terrified though he was at this tragedy, Lepidus was too honest to abandon the quest. The soldiers refused to assist further in the search, and he was left almost to his own resources. After much thought he published a proclamation in Egyptian and Greek offering a thousand pieces of gold for the Centurion, if alive; five hundred for the conviction of his murderers, if dead; and five hundred more for the head of the priest, Petamon; and threatening the last penalty of the law on all men detaining the Roman a prisoner or sheltering his murderers.

His hopes were faint, but he could do no more; and having despatched a full report of the whole case to the Roman general at Alexandria, he waited, impatiently enough, his heart sickened with alternate hopes and fears.

During the next few days he was much disturbed by the sentiments of disaffection which he heard being muttered among the soldiers. Like all ignorant men they were superstitious, the events which had occurred at Philae had produced a deep impression on their minds, and they murmured almost openly at Lepidus.

This feeling was much increased by an old beggar-man who constantly haunted the camp. He had attracted the attention of the soldiers by some ordinary tricks of magic and was constantly telling fortunes and reciting prophecies all foreboding evil to the cohort if it stayed in the neighbourhood; and, indeed, foretelling the speedy and utter downfall of the Roman power.

Lepidus ordered the beggar to be brought before him, and when he came taxed him with attempting to incite the soldiers to mutiny, and sternly reminded him that the punishment for such an attempt was death. The old man listened quietly and calmly, crossing his arms and fixing his glittering eye, which seemed strangely familiar to Lepidus on the Roman officer.

After a pause he spoke - "My lord," and again the tone struck Lepidus as familiar to his ear, "I serve the gods, and you the Emperor: let us both serve our masters truly. You would have news of Septimius the Centurion? It may be that the gods will permit you to see a vision: shall it be so?"

A curl of contempt was on the Roman's lips as he answered: "You know the proclamation. I am prepared to fulfil its terms."

The old man shook himself like an awakening lion, and again the gesture struck Lepidus as familiar.

"I seek not gold," he said; "give me your attention, and keep the gold for those that need it."

"It is well," said Lepidus; "proceed."

A small stove was burning in the tent; the old man cast upon the charcoal some drugs that raised a dense smoke, and filled the tent with a heavy perfumed smell.

"Look!" said the old man, pointing to the smoke; and retiring behind Lepidus he crouched upon the ground.

A circle of light formed itself clearly and well defined among the smoke, and in its midst Lepidus suddenly saw the image of the bull Apis, as he had seen him once before in Memphis, with all his gorgeous scarlet and gold trappings, and the golden disc between his horns. A moment and the image suddenly grew smaller and smaller, and vanished from the eyes of the wondering Roman.

Again the circle formed, and this time he saw the Centurion Septimius sitting at his tent door, and, stranger still, he saw himself in converse with him.

But suddenly, whether it was the perfumes or the excitement that overcame him he never knew, but the circle of light, the old man, the tent spun round and round, and he sank fainting to the ground.

When he awoke from his swoon the stove was burnt out, the old man was gone, and he hardly knew whether he had been dreaming or not. He felt dull and heavy and could scarcely rise. His servant entered with a light. He glanced at his finger, on which he wore his signet-ring, with which all important despatches must be sealed, and which marked their authenticity - it was gone. He felt in his bosom for the secret orders which the general had entrusted to him rather than to the headlong Septimius - they were gone too.

Back in Philae - on the fifth day after Lepidus so hurriedly left it - Septimius was still alive. A scanty allowance of bread and water was daily furnished him and his bonds had been somewhat loosed, but he had not seen the light of day since his capture, and his heart sank within him in hopeless despondency. Release seemed impossible, rescue hopeless. He could see no way out of his calamities, but by death. He had never seen or spoken to any one since his capture; invisible were the hands that had relaxed his bonds, and invisible the attendants who supplied his daily food.

Petamon had been stirring here, there, and everywhere, rousing priests and people, reminding them of old wrongs and old memories, and urging them to join in one strong effort, and expel the Roman despots.

The news of Lepidus' proclamation had just reached the Island of Philae. It was the turn of Sheshonk to officiate at the altar of Isis, and, while the incense was burning, he stood for a few moments wrapped in deep thought.

"Petamon is crafty and wise," so his meditations ran; "but Rome is strong, and we can never resist her. Better swim with the flood of the river and release that Centurion - and the gold, ay, the gold! - and the wrath of the gods, what of that? I have helped the trickery here for so many years that I hardly know whether there be gods at all. Petamon believes in them; but I am not Petamon. The gold is my god."

The evening closed, the night was half spent, and Petamon, who had been away all day had not returned, when Sheshonk stole silently up the stair with a bundle under his arm, and, touching the spring, entered the dungeon of Septimius. The Centurion enquired in a languid voice who it was.

"A friend," whispered Sheshonk. "Hush, Sir Centurion, and hearken. Lepidus, your second in command, has offered a thousand pieces of gold for your safe return; do you confirm the offer?"

"Ay, and add a thousand to it," answered the Centurion.

"I have an old father in Rome, who values his son at that sum ten times told."

"Good," said the priest. "Petamon seeks your life and in a few days will take it; you cannot be worse than you are, therefore, you can lose nothing by trusting me - will you do so?"

"I will," said the Centurion.

A knife was drawn across the cords which bound him, and he stretched his limbs. Cautiously the priest struck a light with flint and steel and lighted a small lantern, after which he produced from his bundle a pair of huge hawks' heads, surmounted by the disc of the sun, with great glass eyes, and a pair of white disguises, such as the original captors of Septimius had worn. The Centurion eyed them and muttering to himself, "So much for the hawk demons," proceeded to array himself in the disguise, while Sheshonk did the same. This accomplished the priest opened the door and they cautiously descended the stair. They met a young priest, but at a whispered word from Sheshonk he bowed and passed them by. They entered a small chamber on the west side; the priest touched a mark on the floor, and a trapdoor opened at their feet, showing a dark stair. Down this they made their way, the priest stopping for a moment to draw a heavy bolt on the underside of the trap-door to impede pursuit. After some time the Centurion heard a rushing of water above him, the passage grew damper and damper, and the priest in a whisper explained that they were passing under the bed of the river. In a little while they again ascended a high flight of steps, another trap-door opened at the touch of Sheshonk, and they emerged in a small temple on the island of Snem. The priest silently opened the door, and they stole out.

The moon had set and the night was almost dark. Cautiously picking their steps they crossed the island, and found at the other side a small skiff lying at anchor, and two swarthy Nubian rowers in attendance; a few words passed between them and Sheshonk. "We must wait," he said, "till the day breaks; they dare not pass the cataract by night. Sleep if you can, and I will watch."

Septimius was too glad of the permission; he had slept but ill in his dungeon, and, taking off the heavy mask, he buried his head in his garments and fell fast asleep.

In a few hours the morning broke, and ere the sun was risen Sheshonk and Septimius were on board the boat. The rowers pulled stoutly at their oars, and they soon neared the cataract, whose roar became louder as they advanced. Before them lay a stretch of the river, fenced in on either hand with desolate rocky hills; here, there, everywhere, in the course of the stream jutted out the heads of black rocks, round which the water foamed and raced like the stream of a mill dam. The Centurion shut his eyes and held his breath; the current caught them; they were hurried helplessly along for a moment, stern foremost, and were on the point of being dashed upon a rock, when a dexterous stroke of one of the oars righted them: a rush - a tumult of waters - dashing spray and the roar of the current for a moment, then the boat floated again in calm water and the danger was past.

In a few moments they reached the Roman encampment. The Nubians, at a word from Sheshonk, pulled away up the stream, while the two hawk-headed ones hurried through the camp, to the no small wonderment of several drowsy sentries.

Lepidus was just awakening with the weary disheartened feelings of one who dreads impending misfortune, when the flap of his tent-door was thrown back, and the sleepy officer fancied he must still be dreaming when he saw a strange hawk-headed phantom rush into the room.

It was no phantom, for it hugged him close in his arms, and a voice - the voice of Septimius - issued, hollow sounding, from the depths of the mask: "Dear old Lepidus. I never thought to see your face again."

There was little time for greetings and congratulations. Sheshonk was urgent on them to complete their work and the legionaries, their fears dispelled by the reappearance of the young Centurion, hastened again across the desert to Philae, burning so hotly to wipe out the insult that had been offered to the Roman name that they never felt the sun.

Several boats were lying at the shore, and while Lepidus with the main body of the men made for the stairs upon the northern side, Septimius and a few chosen followers, under the guidance of Sheshonk, crept along under the western wall in a small boat and reached the secret door. It opened obedient to the touch of the priest, and silently they mounted the stair - they met the other party in the great Hall of Columns; the island seemed deserted - no living thing was to be seen.

Sheshonk's eye twinkled.

"Five hundred golden pieces for Petamon's head!"

"Ay, and five hundred more," said Septimius.

The priest beckoned them on. They entered the sacred chamber where Petamon had kept his vigil on that memorable night, and Lepidus half shuddered as he looked round at the familiar paintings on the wall. The altar was prepared and the fire burning on it. The priest advanced and set his foot heavily on one side of the step in front. Suddenly altar and step, solid though they seemed, rolled away noiselessly to one side, disclosing a passage beneath. The Romans leapt down, Lepidus hastily lighting a torch at the altar fire as they did so. The passage led them to a small room in the thickness of the wall, and throwing in the light of his torch, he saw the arms and accoutrements of the two murdered soldiers, and the fetters that had bound Petamon lying in a corner. Here the passage apparently terminated abruptly, but the priest raised a stone in the roof with his hand, and they crept up through the narrow aperture thus opened, and upon Sheshonk touching another spring, a square aperture opened, through which they glided into a chamber, and gladly hailed the light of day as it glimmered faintly through the door.

They searched the whole temple, but in vain; secret chambers they found more than one; even the dungeon of Septimius was opened, but nothing was discovered, and even the bloodhound sagacity of Sheshonk seemed for a moment at fault.

But his eye soon brightened, and he led them through the court under the high painted pillars, and opening a door in one of the sides of the pyramidal gateway, proceeded up a long narrow stair. Suddenly a rustle of garments was heard above them, and they caught sight of the robes of Petamon, his leopard-skin cloak and his golden fringe, as he fled before them. The two Romans dashed after him like greyhounds on a hare, but as they reached the top of the staircase Septimius stumbled and fell, and so checked the pursuit for an instant. He recovered himself, but in that instant Petamon, casting back on his pursuers a glance of baffled malignity sprang from the tower, and in another moment lay, dashed upon the pavement of the hall.

The soldiers and Sheshonk, horror-struck hastened down, and were standing beside the body - Lepidus had just recovered from the finger of the priest the signet-ring that he had lost, and was in the act of drawing the roll of secret orders from his bosom - Sheshonk had raised his head-dress and was wiping the perspiration from his brow, when from aloft a sharp dagger was hurled with unerring aim. It cleft the skull of the traitor, and he fell, with scarcely a groan, on the top of Petamon's corpse.

The Romans looked up: no one was to be seen. With a party of soldiers they searched the huge gateway towers, but without a guide such a quest was hopeless, and they never traced the hand from which the dagger came.

Their main object was accomplished. Petamon was dead, and with him expired all chances of a revolutionary outbreak. Sheshonk was dead too; but as Lepidus said, that saved the good gold pieces.

The same evening they returned to Syene, and next day the camp was broken up, and the cohort embanked on the river and floated down to rejoin the garrison at Memphis.

In six months Septimius and Lepidus left Egypt for good, and when they were fairly out of sight of land they seemed to breathe more freely.

"I owe you many a good turn, Lepidus, old boy," said the Centurion; "but I'll never admit, to the end of time, that Apis would not have made splendid beefsteaks."

"Whoever said he wouldn't?" retorted the other, his grim features relaxing into a smile; "only I think it would need a braver man than either you or I to eat them under the nose of old Petamon."

The wind began to freshen, and the ship headed to the deep sea, and towards home.

Some Unpublished Correspondence of the Younger Pliny by Darrell Schweitzer Tragically for the Flavian emperors, under whose rule it started so promisingly with Vespasian, it ended all too familiarly with the reign of terror of Domitian's final years. But thankfully better days were to come and after the brief reign of the elderly Nerva, Trajan became emperor. He would be both popular and successful. Trajan was great friends with the lawyer and writer Pliny the Younger (AD 61-112), the nephew of the elder Pliny, who had died during the eruption of Vesuvius. Many of Pliny's writings survive, including ten volumes of Letters, the last of which is his correspondence with Trajan during Pliny's governorship of Bithynia. No doubt there was even more correspondence lost over the years and in the following story Darrell Schweitzer, who is better known as a writer of fantasy fiction but who has a passion for the Roman world, rediscovers one such sequence of letters.

1. Pliny to the Emperor Trajan I have written to you previously, Sir, about my encounter in Bithynia with persons vulgarly called "Christians", and have gratefully received your advice on how such criminals are to be dealt with, which ones are to be spared, and which offered up to punishment.

I discovered, in the course of my investigations, as I have previously mentioned, that these persons comprise a degenerate cult carried to ridiculous lengths, but that through the moderating influence of the law, many persons might be reformed and directed back to the correct worship of our gods.

The affair has, however, had a kind of sequel. If I may trouble you again with a long description of these matters, I would like to describe the case of a young girl, which seems to press beyond the bounds of the practical guidelines you have given me. If I were the right kind of poet I would find here the material for a tragedy, dealing as it does with the themes of young lovers and love lost, of conflict between a father and his child, the delicate balance between justice and compassion, and the mysteries of the world of the dead.

I shall not waste your time with fancies, however. You, who bear on your shoulders the responsibility for nothing less than the welfare of all mankind, will doubtless want to know only the facts . . .

2. Trajan to Pliny Before you departed on your mission, my dear Pliny, I took you aside and requested that you write to me whenever you felt the impulse to do so, not merely in an official capacity dealing with finances and waterworks, but as a friend might to another friend, to share the experience of his journey with another who is far away and cannot see and hear what he himself sees and hears.

3. Pliny to Trajan . . . I proceeded from Nicomedia to the shore of the Euxine Sea, and there my party followed the road through one town after the other, staying at the homes of prominent citizens, dealing with such matters as might need to be dealt with. I am accompanied, as you know, by two very capable men, both of whom you met at least briefly before I departed from Rome. They are my Greek physician, a freedman called Arpocras, a wise and inquisitive fellow, whom I fondly call, when he is not within hearing, Little Aristotle, for, like that philosopher he inquires into all things tirelessly; and, secondly, my assistant Servilius Pudens, a Roman knight of unquestionable reliability and loyalty. This Pudens is, however, of a more choleric disposition, easily excited, and quick to leap to conclusions, but sensible enough (especially when moderated by Arpocras's cooler judgments) not to act upon his conclusions until he is more certain of them. I call the pair - when both are out of earshot - my two crows, for their frequent arguments may sound like strident squawking, but in fact they share a kind of philosophical discourse.

It happened on that afternoon when we arrived at Heracleia Pontica, as these two (who shared the carriage with me) were in the middle of some furious sparring-match about which of the heroes of the Trojan War had journeys through these regions in ages past, and whether or not the local monuments to this or that legendary person were of merit or merely a means for the locals to beguile a few coppers out of the gullible traveller . . . as this well-chewed-over argument drifted somewhere between comedy and tedium, sufficient to distract me for the moment from the documents I was glancing through . . . at this juncture a runner from the town approached and announced that he was a servant of one L. Catius Magnus, who most earnestly desired that we dine with him that night.

"Well, I shall be glad to be free of the dust of the road, and other discomforts," said Arpocras, rolling his eyes towards Servilius Pudens.

"I? I am classified as a discomfort? I am a hardship of the journey?" said Pudens, mortified, as if he were about to leap out of the carriage and stalk all the way back to Rome, which is an absurdity, because the over-large, ever-sweating Pudens would hardly have lasted a mile in the heat. But this was for show, as always. Their friendship is never threatened by such displays.

"We could afford to relax and spend a pleasant evening," I said.

Arpocras's gaunt - and indeed crow-like - features narrowed, and he spoke in a low voice. "I think there is more than relaxation here. This Catius Magnus seems a trifle overeager to make our acquaintance."

"It's obvious enough," said Pudens. "He wants to be seen entertaining the Emperor's own representative, to make himself seem more important. It's a great way to impress the natives."

"I don't deny that, friend Pudens. Nevertheless, I think there is more to it than that."

"Indeed, we shall see," I said, in the tone of a judge, hoping to make peace between them, for, indeed, I was weary from the journey, my head had begun to ache, and just now I was not in a humour to be amused by two squawking crows.

It turned out that Lucius Catius Magnus offered us every possible comfort. He stood at the doorway of his house as our company approached. Indeed, we must have looked to the locals like an invading army, possibly a hundred persons in all, myself, my staff, servants, many carriages and wagons, and a troop of mounted guards bringing up the rear. All were accommodated. The soldiers and most of the servants camped in a vacant space nearby. Catius Magnus, perceptively discerning that Arpocras and Pudens were more than mere functionaries, invited the three of us to bathe and dine with him.

So the hours passed pleasantly enough. After bathing, we strolled in the cool evening breeze beneath a colonnade, at the edge of a vineyard. The scenery was extremely attractive. I could almost imagine myself back in Italy, gazing out, not over the Euxine, but the Bay of Neapolis towards Capreae. This Magnus had made every effort to transplant a bit of home, here in Bithynia, or, perhaps I should put it, to make at least a patch of this foreign soil truly Roman.

Magnus himself turned out to be a man somewhat younger than myself, about thirty-five, the twice-great grandson of a soldier who had served with Pompey and helped colonize the area when he retired. The family had prospered through investments and trade. By the standards, at least, of a provincial town, they had grown great. Magnus, like his father and grandfather before him, was a member of the local senate. His family held several priesthoods. He himself officiated over regular sacrifices to the gods, to the Emperor's genius, and also to the spirit of the Divine Augustus, whose small temple the local senators maintained at their own expense.

Magnus went on in this vein - gods, sacrifices, rites, loyalty - for more than I thought ordinary. It piqued my curiosity. Indeed, when, over dinner, I exchanged a glance with my ever-alert Arpocras, he seemed to reply wordlessly, Ah, we near the heart of the matter.

Pudens winked. When he is impatient, one side of his face twitches in an odd way.

So we came to the heart of it, suddenly. Imagine some mishap in the theatre and an actor's mask suddenly falls off. There is his face, revealed, dismayed, and he has no secrets any more.

Catius Magnus interrupted his own small-talk.