Most of the riders ahead dismounted and walked past the image, saluting it with right hands raised.  Many of them tossed coins to the priest’s attendant slave.  Sextus remained in the saddle, his brow clouded with an angry scowl.  He drew rein, making no obeisance, but sent Scylax to present an offering of money to the priest, then rode on.

“Your dignity appears to me expensive!” Norbanus remarked, grinning.  “Gold?”

“He may have my gold, if I may keep my self-respect!”

“Incorrigible stoic!  He will take that also before long!”

“I think not.  Commodus has lost his own and destroyed Rome’s, but mine not yet.  I wish, though, that my father were in Antioch.  He, too, is no cringer to images of beasts in purple.  I wrote to my father recently and warned him to leave Rome before Commodus’s spies could invent an excuse for confiscating our estates.  I said, an absent man attracts less notice, and our estates are well worth plundering.  I also hinted that Commodus can hardly live forever, and reminded him that tides flow in and out—­by which I meant him to understand that the next emperor may be another such as Aurelius, who will persecute the Christians but let honest men live in peace, instead of favoring the Christians and ridding Rome of honest men.”

Norbanus made a gesture with his right hand that sent the Cappadocian cavorting to the road’s edge, scattering a little crowd that was trying to pass.

“Why be jealous of the Christians?” he laughed.  “Isn’t it their turn for a respite?  Think of what Nero did to them; and Marcus Aurelius did little less.  They will catch it again when Commodus turns on his mistress Marcia; he will harry them all the more when that day comes—­ as it is sure to.  Marcia is a Christian; when he tires of her he will use her Christianity for the excuse and throw the Christians to the lions by the thousand in order to justify himself for murdering the only decent woman of his acquaintance.  Sic semper tyrannus.  Say what you will about Marcia, she has done her best to keep Commodus from making a public exhibition of himself.”

“With what result?  He boasts he has killed no less than twelve hundred poor devils with his own hand in the arena.  True, he takes the pseudonym of Paulus when he kills lions with his javelin and drives a chariot in the races like a vulgar slave.  But everybody knows, and he picks slaves for his ministers—­consider that vile beast Cleander, whom even the rabble refused to endure another day.  I don’t see that Marcia’s influence amounts to much.”

“But Cleander was executed finally.  You are in a glum mood, Sextus.  What has happened to upset you?”

“It is the nothing that has happened.  There has come no answer to that letter I wrote to my father in Rome.  Commodus’s informers may have intercepted it.”

Norbanus whistled softly.  The skewbald Cappadocian mistook that for a signal to exert himself and for a minute there were ructions while his master reined him in.