Around the pillars
twined the June roses, pink and yellow, and mixed with them were
vines, of starry jessamine, shedding forth a faint, delicious odor,
akin to that of orange-blossoms.
Here were chairs of rare woods inlaid with ivory, and couches,
gracefully formed, covered with soft silks and cushions embroidered in
gold.
Claudia sank down, as if she were weary, and a slave sprang forward to
remove the white outer garment, worn upon the street to cover the
costly silk one, and the jewels which she had worn in the
amphitheatre.
Aurelius was conversing with the dark-skinned porter.
"Has Martius returned?" he asked.
"Yes, master. He came in about two hours after noon, but went out
again almost immediately."
"Leaving no word?"
"No, master."
The porter stood watching his master as he walked away. There was a
strange expression on his strongly marked face. He was pitted with
small-pox, and over one eye was a deep scar. He had never forgotten
how he got that scar, how he had fallen beneath a blow struck by that
man's hand, the man who owned his body, but not his soul.
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