When the craft was brought up at the landing‐place on the mainland,
Plautus, followed by five of his crew, sprang ashore and with all haste
made toward the posting‐house.
The superintendent was in a long stable, overlooking the business of
feeding and making snug for the night the animals under his charge.
‘Horses!’ demanded Plautus laconically, as he strode inside, followed by
his gang.
‘Humph—on whose business?’ said the superintendent suspiciously.
‘Caesar’s!’
‘Humph! I must have more than your word for that.’
Plautus, without speaking, thrust his fist close up under the official’s
nose, and displayed a signet ring gleaming on one of his bony fingers.
The man of horses bobbed back his head with an angry gesture, which made
the new‐comers laugh, and turning to the grooms, said snappishly, ‘Give
him Livilla.’
Plautus again thrust his ring under his visage. ‘I said horses,’ he
growled roughly; ‘here are six of us. Nor will the nag Livilla do for
me—pick out your own, lads, and no more palaver.’
This was soon done, amid much noisy mirth and rude jesting, and in a few
minutes they were all speeding along the road to Surrentum, making the
most of the last minutes of departing daylight.
Arriving at the town, they proceeded at a walk, in straggling order, to
attract less attention. The streets were now dark, however, and the
passers‐by few in number; nevertheless Plautus, in the van, thought fit
also to defeat any idle curiosity by taking a devious route.
Within a hundred yards of the dwelling of the ill‐fated Masthlion, the
band dismounted; the sweating horses were fastened in a gloomy corner, and
a man left in charge of them. Plautus, with the remainder, proceeded to
the house.
The outer door was closed and all was dark and silent. Plautus, ordering
his companions to remain without until he called them, knocked loudly. A
light step came running within.
‘Father, is it you?’ called the glad tones of Neæra’s voice.
A bolt was drawn, the door opened, and the girl herself stood in the
entrance, holding a light above her head, whilst she peered beneath, with
eager expectation written on her face.
‘No, my pretty wench, it is not your father, that’s very sure,’ quoth
Plautus, as he came forward out of the darkness into the feeble light
thrown by the lamp.
Neæra, with a cry of alarm, started back at the sight of the shrouded
figure and the harsh features of the speaker.
‘Stop,’ he said, making good his entrance inside the shop; ‘don’t be
afraid nor run away. If I’m not your father, I’ve come from your
father—that is, if you are the daughter of Masthlion the potter.’
‘I am,’ said the disappointed girl, whose anxiety to learn of the absent
one struggled against feminine suspicion and timidity of the ill‐favoured
visitor. ‘What have you to tell me of him? Why does he not come home? When
is he coming?’
‘For a particular reason he has not come home; nor is he coming yet. That
is why he has sent me to bring you to him. To speak truth, he is taken
very ill, and you are bidden to go back with me, straightway, to tend
him.’
‘That shall be my business,’ said a voice behind; ‘ill, did you say—my
husband ill?’
‘Eh!’ ejaculated Plautus, scanning the wrinkled anxious face of Tibia as
she came forward; ‘are you his wife?’
‘Yes,’ cried Neæra for her, in great agitation; ‘tell us, good sir, if he
is very ill—speak quickly and tell us all.’
‘How many more are there of you?’
‘None—save a kinsman who dwells with us for a space—oh, tell us of my
father.’
‘And where is the kinsman—is he in the house?’
‘No—no! Somewhere in the town. You are cruel in tormenting us—speak then,
and say what we are to do?’
‘I have already told you. He has sent for you—he is ill, dying—so haste
and come along, if you would see him alive.’
A smothered cry broke from Tibia’s lips, and Neæra turned pale.
‘Dying?’ murmured the girl, tottering back against the wall.
‘It was me he should have sent for—his wife,’ said Tibia, confronting the
wily ruffian; ‘you have made a mistake surely. At any rate she shall not
go.’
‘She must, and quickly.’
‘It would be impossible for a girl, as she is, to go with you now; it is
my place and duty to go to my husband—she must remain.’
‘Ah, mother, can we not both go? Where is he, and how are we to travel?’
said Neæra, pale but self‐possessed.
Plautus scowled and gnawed his lip for a moment. Then he said, ‘Well,
well! I admit the wife has a claim before the daughter. Go you, therefore,
and get your cloak—let the girl remain by the house. All blame must be on
your head.’
Tibia instantly departed into the upper rooms with the assurance that she
would not be long.
‘You have not yet told us where my father is,’ said Neæra, when they were
alone; ‘you are unkind, as a messenger, to those who hold him dearest. Did
he send no words beyond bidding me to go—no token? Speak, for the love of
the gods!’
‘I don’t recollect, but I’ll bring in my comrade and see if he has a
better memory,’ replied Plautus.
He whistled and his accomplices filed in. Neæra, in great alarm, turned to
dart away down the passage into the house, but Plautus dexterously placed
himself in the way. At the same moment a cloak was twisted round her head,
which stifled the cry on her lips. To pinion her limbs was the work of an
instant, for the worthy slaves were prepared for every emergency, and made
light of her struggles. Thus gagged and helpless she was borne outside.
The remaining four men instantly closed the door and passed into the
house, carrying the light with them.
The unhappy Tibia was surprised in her room, where she was hastily
collecting a few articles for her supposed journey.
‘What do you want?’ she cried, as the ruthless slaves crowded into the
narrow room.
They advanced toward her, and she screamed in affright at their menacing
aspect. One of them rolled his eyes to his leader and half drew a knife
from his belt. But no orders had been given for any further use of the
weapon, and Plautus, from experience, kept to the letter of his
instructions.
‘Silence, hag!’ he roared, ‘and keep your traps—you can stay and keep
house since your girl has now gone. As for your husband, he doesn’t want
you, for he is at the bottom of the sea, and his glass pot with him—we put
him there as we came along to‐night.’
As if his pitiless brutality were a matter of humour, the wretch
accompanied it with a grin. The poor woman gave an agonised cry, and sank
down beneath his terrible words, as though pierced with the kinder thrust
of a sword.
‘You have killed her,’ said one of his comrades.
‘Not I,’ returned Plautus; ‘she’ll make a sturdy widow yet—it was well
behaved to go off in that fashion and save us trouble.’
The insensible dame’s mouth was gagged, her poor, frail limbs tied, and
then the room ransacked. There was nothing, however, which seemed worthy
of any particular notice, and they proceeded to devote a similar attention
to the remainder of the house.
Every glass article was smashed, to prove it did not possess the
interdicted malleable quality, and, in the search for whatever might have
some bearing on the same luckless invention, the whole of the poor
appointments of the dwelling were tossed hither and thither. This process
was very rapid and thorough, and occupied only a few minutes.
The workshop outside was then entered, and a work of devastation entered
upon. The furnace was pulled down bodily. Every article which could be
destroyed was utterly wrecked. Every nook and cavity was zealously raked
out and explored, and finally, when the rigorous examination was
completed, the potter’s tools, which had been gathered together, were
thrust in a sack and carried away.
In another minute the marauders had regained their horses. The whole
campaign had been executed with a rapidity, silence, and completeness
which left nothing to be desired, and reflected the highest credit on the
discipline of the Imperial household.