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. In falling,
he had struck his head against the corner of the marble pedestal
supporting the statue of the god who ruled in this household, and had
been carried away unconscious.

Ah, no, he had not forgotten!