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.