“Does Marcia give Christian reasons to the emperor?” asked Pertinax, his forehead puzzled.

“No, no.  No, by Hercules.  No, no.  Marcia is as skillful at managing Commodus as he is at hurling a javelin or driving horses.  She talks about the dignity of Caesar and the glory of Rome—­uses truth adroitly for her own ends—­argues that if he continues to keep company with gladiators and jockeys, and insists on taking part in the combats, Rome may begin to despise him.”

“Rome does!” murmured Pertinax, his eyes and lips suggesting a mere flicker of a smile.  “But only let Commodus once wake up to the fact and—­”

Bultius Livius nodded.

“He will return the compliment and show us how to despise at wholesale, eh?  Marcia’s life and yours and mine wouldn’t be worth an hour’s purchase.  The problem is, who shall warn Marcia?  She grows intolerant of friendly hints.  I made her a present the other day of eight matched German’ litter-bearers—­beauties—­they cost a fortune—­and I took the opportunity to have a chat with her.  She told me to go home and try to manage my own wife!  Friendly enough—­she laughed—­she meant no enmity; but shrewd though she is, and far-seeing though she is, the wine of influence is going to her head.  You know what that portends.  Few men, and fewer women, can drink deeply of that wine and—­”

“She comes,” said Pertinax.

There was a stir near the bronze door leading to the women’s disrobing hall.  Six women in a group were answering greetings, Marcia in their midst, but no man in the Thermae looked at them a moment longer than was necessary to return the wave of the hand with which Marcia greeted every one before walking down the steps into the plunge.  She did not even wear the customary bracelet with its numbered metal disk; not even the attendants at the Thermae would presume to lose the clothing of the mistress of the emperor.  Commodus, who at the age of twelve had flung a slave into the furnace because the water was too hot, would have made short work of any one who mislaid Marcia’s apparel.

She did not belie her reputation.  It was no wonder that the sculptors claimed that every new Venus they turned out was Marcia’s portrait.  Her beauty, as her toes touched water, was like that of Aphrodite rising from the wave.  The light from the dome shone golden on her brown hair and her glossy skin.  She was a thing of sensuous delight, incapable of coarseness, utterly untouched by the suggestion of vulgarity, and yet—­

“It is strange she should take up with fancy religions,” said Pertinax under his breath.

She was pagan in every gesture, and not a patrician.  That was indefinable but evident to trained eyes.  Neither he, who knew her intimately, nor the newest, newly shaven son of a provincial for the first time exploring the wonders of Rome, could have imagined her as anything except a rich man’s mistress.