“Quite the contrary,” cried Lucilia. “If you had grey hair, like Nonius Asprenas, I would not waste words on the matter. But as it is, the Gaulish Circe will end by falling in love with you, and then you will be past praying for.” Quintus looked gaily at the girl’s smiling, mocking face.
“You mean just the reverse,” he said. “For I know you regard me as far from dangerous. Well! I can bear even that blow.”
“That is your new mood! There is no touching you in any way. If you had only half as much constancy of mind as Aurelius!”
“Particularly. Do you know it would be delightful if he could remain here a little longer--I mean for six or eight days. Then he could travel with us to Rome.”
“Go, there is no doing anything with you. Do not you see that I only meant, the long days of travelling all by ourselves--Claudia turns over a book, and you, you old lazy-bones, lie on a couch like an invalid--I find it desperately dull. A travelling companion seems to me to be the most desirable thing in the world--or do you dislike Caius Aurelius?”
“Oh no. If only his trireme had wheels and could travel over land.”
“His ship will take care of itself. He can come with us in the travelling chariot, and then he will be able to see part of the Appian way.[102] It is a thousand times more interesting than a sea-voyage.--Now, do it to please me and turn the conversation on the subject at dinner to-day.”
A slave now appeared on the threshold of the passage, which led from the peristyle to the atrium.
“My lord,” he said: “Letters have arrived from Rome--and for you too, Madam....”
They were three very dissimilar letters, that Blepyrus handed to the two young people. Lucilia’s was from the high-priest of Jupiter; Titus Claudius Mucianus wrote as follows to his adopted daughter:
“Health and Blessings![103] I promised you lately, through Octavia, your excellent mother, that my next letter should be addressed to you, my dear daughter. I know that you value such proofs of my fatherly remembrance, and I am glad that it should be so. However, what I have to write does not concern you alone, my sweet Lucilia, but all of you. The preparations for the magnificent Centennial Festival,[104] which the Emperor Domitian--as you know--proposes to hold in the course of next year, have so completely taken up my time during the last few weeks, that I am sorely in need of the rest and comfort of regular family life. In addition to this, political disturbances of all kinds have occurred. Caesar has sent for me six times to Albanum,[105] and I assure you it has been incessant travelling to and fro. The matter is an open secret; all Rome is discussing the decrees from the Palatine[106] against the Nazarenes.[107] You may remember that superstitious sect of whom Baucis spoke to you--a revolutionary faction, who, a score or so of years since, stirred up the whole city and gave occasion for the stern enactments of the divine Nero? Now again they are stirring up revolt as if they were mad; they are shaking the very foundations of society, and threaten to overturn all that we have till now held most sacred. I must be silent as to personal affairs; enough to say that I am weary and overwrought, and that my heart longs to see you all again. I beg you therefore to make ready to start and return as soon as possible to the City of the Seven Hills. Your mother is now tolerably well again--thanks to all-merciful Jupiter--and Quintus will not be vexed to learn that Cornelia is now staying in Rome again. People are quitting their country homes somewhat early this year; it is long since I have passed the month of September so endurably. I shall expect you then, at latest, by Tuesday in next week. Allowing three days for the journey, I thus give you two days to prepare for it.