And besides, he had no intention of adopting brigandry as a profession, though he realized that he must make a reputation as a brigand if he hoped to be anything else than a helpless fugitive.  As a rebel against Commodus it might be possible to raise a good-sized army in a month or two, but that would only serve to bring the Roman armies out of camp, led by generals eager for cheap victories.  He must be too resourceful to be taken by police—­too insignificant to tempt the legions out of camp.  Brigandry was as distasteful to him and as far beneath his dignity as the pursuit of brigands was beneath the dignity of any of those Roman generals who owed their rank to Commodus.  For them, as for himself, the pettiness of brigandry led nowhither.  Only one object appealed to them—­fame and its perquisites.  Only one object appealed to himself:  to redeem his estates and to avenge his father.  That could be accomplished only by the death of Commodus:  He laughed, as he thought of himself pitted alone against Commodus the deified, mad monster who could marshal the resources of the Roman empire!

Such thoughts filled his mind until he reached the lonely cross-road, where the narrower, tree-lined road to Daphne met the great main highway leading northward over the mountains.  There was the usual row of gibbets reared on rising ground against the sky by way of grim reminder to slaves and other would-be outlaws that the arm of Rome was long, not merciful.  Five of the gibbets were vacant, except for an arm on one of them, that swayed in the wind as it hung by a cord from the wrist.  The sixth had a man on it—­dead.

Scylax, who was waiting for him, rode out of the gloom on the mare, leading the Cappadocian, and reined in near the gibbet, not quite sure yet who it was who strode toward him.  Scared by the stench, the horses became difficult to manage.  The leading-rein passed around one of the gibbets.  Sextus ran forward to help.  The Cappadocian broke the rein and Scylax galloped after him.

So Sextus stood alone beside the rough-hewn tree-trunk, to which was tied the body of a man who had been dead, perhaps, since sunset.  He had not been torn yet by the vultures.  Morbid curiosity—­a fellow feeling for a victim, as the man might well be, of the same injustice that had made an outlaw of himself—­impelled Sextus to step closer.  He could not see the face, which was drooped forward; but there was a parchment, held spread on a stick, like a sail on a spar, suspended from the man’s neck by a string.  He snatched it off and held it toward the moon, now low on the horizon.  There were only two words, smeared with red paint by a forefinger, underneath the official letters S.P.Q.R.: 

“Maternus-Latro.”

He began to wonder who Maternus might have been, and how he took the first step that had led to crucifixion.  It was hard to believe that any man would run that risk unless impelled to it by some injustice that had changed pride into savagery or else shot off all opportunity for decent living.  The cruelty of the form of execution hardly troubled him; the possible injustice of it stirred him to his depths.  He felt a sort of superstitious reverence for the victim, increased by the strange coincidence that he had made use, without previous reflection, of Maternus’ name.