coarseness, utterly untouched by the suggestion of vulgarity, and yet--

"It is strange she should take up with fancy religions," said Pertinax
under his breath.

She was pagan in every gesture, and not a patrician. That was
indefinable but evident to trained eyes. Neither he, who knew her
intimately, nor the newest, newly shaven son of a provincial for the
first time exploring the wonders of Rome, could have imagined her as
anything except a rich man's mistress.

She plunged into the pool and swam like a mermaid, her companions
following, climbed out at the farther end, where the diving-boards
projected in tiers, one above the other, and passed through a bronze
door into the first of the sweating rooms, evidently conscious of the
murmur of comment that followed her, but taking no overt notice of it.

"Who is to be the next to try to reason with her--you?" asked Boltius
Livius.

"No, not I. I have shot my bolt," said Pertinax and closed his eyes, as
if to shut out something from his memory--or possibly to banish thoughts
he did not relish. There came a definite, hard glint into Livius's
eyes; he had a name for being sharper to detect intrigue and its
ramifications than even the sharp outline of his face would indicate.

"You have heard of her latest indiscretion?" he asked, narrowly watching
Pertinax. "There is a robber at large, named Maternus--you have heard
of him? The man appears and disappears. Some say he is the same
Maternus who was crucified near Antioch at about the time when you were