that woke him each morning. A year ago nothing but the hope of freedom could have meant so much to him; but now freedom had drawn so far away that the hope of a kind master almost satisfied his need for hoping.
Towards the evening of the third day the master of the house returned home, with a great deal of shouting and fuss, a great running to and fro of slaves. When it had all died down a little, and Publius Piso had disappeared into the bath-house to soak off the dust of the journey, the household set about the usual preparations for dinner. Presently Beric took freshly filled lamps into the dining-room, for the evenings were beginning to draw in, and though dinner still began in broad daylight, it was growing dusk before the end, and on his way back across the atrium he met the Lady Lucilla. She was just coming in from the colonnade, with her hands full of little thornless yellow roses, and the white kitten, half grown now, weaving and winding around her; and at sight of him she checked, smiling.
‘I am going to ask Father after dinner,’ she said.
Beric said, ‘Yes, my Lady,’ suddenly breathless, now that his hopes were so near to their testing time.
‘It will be all right,’ Lucilla told him. ‘I am sure that it will be all right. When Father has had a bath and a good dinner, he will be in a good mood. Always he is like that when he has just got home from a journey. And see, I am going to make him a wreath, as though it were for a feast; and that will help.’
Before Beric’s inner eye rose a vision of Publius Piso’s round pink face under the wreath of yellow roses slipping, as his wreaths always did, slightly over one ear.
His eyes met the Lady Lucilla’s, and he knew that she was seeing the same thing. They began to laugh, and they were still laughing, a few moments later, when Glaucus strolled in, remarking silkily, ‘Gossiping with the slaves as usual, I see, Lucilla.’
The laughter went from both of them on the instant; Beric drew back, standing rigidly to attention as he waited to be dismissed, and Lucilla turned on her brother with a small defiant flounce. ‘I was telling Beric that after dinner I am going to ask Father to give him to me.’
Glaucus sank on to a couch piled with gay embroideries, and smiled up to them. ‘I had a feeling something of that sort was in the wind. You are too late, my sweet sister; I have just been closeted with our revered father in the bath-house. He is in a most melting mood, and he has given Beric to me.’
There was a stunned silence. Beric, licking his suddenly dry lips, felt as though he had just taken a blow between the eyes; and yet he knew that deep within him, he had expected something like this to happen.
Lucilla was the first to speak. ‘I do not believe you,’ she said.
‘As you please. But it is perfectly true. Ask Father.’
‘I shall! And if it is indeed true, I shall beg him to unmake the gift. He does not know—he does not understand——’
‘Do,’ Glaucus said lightly. ‘It will not do you the least good. You know how Father prides himself on being a man of his word.’
‘Glaucus,’ his sister said. ‘Why did you do it? You do not really want Beric.’
‘Oh, but I do. I want a charioteer, for one thing, and Beric handles the team well; I watched him bring them back from exercise the other day. Automedan is hopeless with horses, and I am tired of driving myself everywhere, as though I could not afford a charioteer.’
‘As though Father could not afford a charioteer, you mean!’
‘Very well, as though Father couldn’t afford a charioteer.’
‘It is funny how people always think that we are so lucky to have you in the family,’ Lucilla said, with a quiet, white intensity. ‘You were a horrible boy, and you are a horrible man!’
One by one, now that they were useless, the little yellow roses dropped from her hands to the tessellated floor, and the white kitten began to play with them.
Glaucus made her a small
Towards the evening of the third day the master of the house returned home, with a great deal of shouting and fuss, a great running to and fro of slaves. When it had all died down a little, and Publius Piso had disappeared into the bath-house to soak off the dust of the journey, the household set about the usual preparations for dinner. Presently Beric took freshly filled lamps into the dining-room, for the evenings were beginning to draw in, and though dinner still began in broad daylight, it was growing dusk before the end, and on his way back across the atrium he met the Lady Lucilla. She was just coming in from the colonnade, with her hands full of little thornless yellow roses, and the white kitten, half grown now, weaving and winding around her; and at sight of him she checked, smiling.
‘I am going to ask Father after dinner,’ she said.
Beric said, ‘Yes, my Lady,’ suddenly breathless, now that his hopes were so near to their testing time.
‘It will be all right,’ Lucilla told him. ‘I am sure that it will be all right. When Father has had a bath and a good dinner, he will be in a good mood. Always he is like that when he has just got home from a journey. And see, I am going to make him a wreath, as though it were for a feast; and that will help.’
Before Beric’s inner eye rose a vision of Publius Piso’s round pink face under the wreath of yellow roses slipping, as his wreaths always did, slightly over one ear.
His eyes met the Lady Lucilla’s, and he knew that she was seeing the same thing. They began to laugh, and they were still laughing, a few moments later, when Glaucus strolled in, remarking silkily, ‘Gossiping with the slaves as usual, I see, Lucilla.’
The laughter went from both of them on the instant; Beric drew back, standing rigidly to attention as he waited to be dismissed, and Lucilla turned on her brother with a small defiant flounce. ‘I was telling Beric that after dinner I am going to ask Father to give him to me.’
Glaucus sank on to a couch piled with gay embroideries, and smiled up to them. ‘I had a feeling something of that sort was in the wind. You are too late, my sweet sister; I have just been closeted with our revered father in the bath-house. He is in a most melting mood, and he has given Beric to me.’
There was a stunned silence. Beric, licking his suddenly dry lips, felt as though he had just taken a blow between the eyes; and yet he knew that deep within him, he had expected something like this to happen.
Lucilla was the first to speak. ‘I do not believe you,’ she said.
‘As you please. But it is perfectly true. Ask Father.’
‘I shall! And if it is indeed true, I shall beg him to unmake the gift. He does not know—he does not understand——’
‘Do,’ Glaucus said lightly. ‘It will not do you the least good. You know how Father prides himself on being a man of his word.’
‘Glaucus,’ his sister said. ‘Why did you do it? You do not really want Beric.’
‘Oh, but I do. I want a charioteer, for one thing, and Beric handles the team well; I watched him bring them back from exercise the other day. Automedan is hopeless with horses, and I am tired of driving myself everywhere, as though I could not afford a charioteer.’
‘As though Father could not afford a charioteer, you mean!’
‘Very well, as though Father couldn’t afford a charioteer.’
‘It is funny how people always think that we are so lucky to have you in the family,’ Lucilla said, with a quiet, white intensity. ‘You were a horrible boy, and you are a horrible man!’
One by one, now that they were useless, the little yellow roses dropped from her hands to the tessellated floor, and the white kitten began to play with them.
Glaucus made her a small
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