re they
would remain until the morrow; whilst the scribes and auctioneers made
haste to scramble down from the heights of the rostrum, the heat of the
day having rendered that elevated position well-nigh unbearable. Only
Dea Flavia's retinue lingered in the Forum. Standing at a respectful
distance they surrounded the gorgeously draped litter, waiting, silently
and timorous, the further pleasure of their mistress; and behind Dea
Flavia her two Ethiopian slaves, stolidly holding the palm leaves to
shield her head against the blazing sun which so mercilessly seared
their own naked shoulders.

"Grant me leave to escort thee to thy litter, Augusta!" murmured a timid
voice.

It was young Hortensius Martius who spoke. He had approached the catasta
and now stood timid, and a suppliant, beside Dea Flavia, with his curly
head bare to the scorching sun and his back bent in slave-like
deference. But the young girl seemed not to hear him and even after he
had twice repeated his request she turned to him with uncomprehending
eyes.

"I would not leave thee, Dea," he said, "until I saw thee safely among
thy slaves and thy clients."

Then at last did she speak. But her voice sounded toneless and dull, as
of one who speaks in a dream.

"I thank thee, good Hortensius," she said, "but my slaves are close at
hand and I would prefer to be left alone."

To insist further would have been churlish. Hortensius Martius, well
versed in every phase of decorum, bowed his head in obedience and
retired to his litter. But he told his slaves not to bear him away from
the Forum altogether but to place the litter down under the arcades of
the tabernae, and then to stand round it so that it could not be seen,
whilst he himself could still keep watch over the movements of Dea
Flavia.

But she in the meanwhile remained in the same inert position, standing
listlessly beside the body of Menecreta, her face expressing puzzlement
rather than horror, as if within her soul she was trying to reconcile
the events of the last few moments with her previous conceptions of what
the tenor of her life should be.

The curse of Menecreta had found sudden and awful fulfilment, and Dea
Flavia remained vaguely wondering whether the gods had been asleep on
this hot late summer's day and forgotten to shield their favoured
daughter against the buffetings of fate. A freedwoman had roused
superstitious fear in the heart of a daughter of the Caesars! Surely
there must be