But Livius loathed her.  Among other things, he suspected her of being in league with Marcia to protect the Christians.  To him she represented the idealism that his cynicism bitterly rejected.  The mere fact of her unshakable fidelity to Pertinax was an offense in his eyes; she presented what he considered an impudent pose of morality, more impudent because it was sustained.  He might have liked her well enough if she had been a hypocrite, complaisant to himself.

She understood him perfectly—­better, in fact, than she understood Marcia, whose visits usually led to intricate entanglements for Pertinax.  When she had sent the slaves away and they four lay at ease on couches in the shade of three exotic potted palms, she turned her back toward Livius, suspecting he would bring his motives to the surface if she gave him time; whereas Marcia would hide hers and employ a dozen artifices to make them undiscoverable.

“You have not brought Livius because you think he loves me!” she said, laughing.  “Nor have you come, my Marcia, for nothing, since you might have sent for me and saved yourself trouble.  I anticipate intrigue!  What plot have you discovered now?  Is Pertinax its victim?  You can always interest me if you talk of Pertinax.”

“We will talk of Livius,” said Marcia.

Leaning on his elbows, Livius glared at Caia Poppeia, Marcia’s companion.  He coughed, to draw attention to her, but Marcia refused to take the hint.  “Livius has information for us,” she remarked.

Livius rose from the couch and came and stood before her, knitting his fingers together behind his back, compelling himself to smile.  His pallor made the hastily applied cosmetics look ridiculous.

“Marcia,” he said, “you make it obvious that you suspect me of some indiscretion.”

“Never!” she retorted, mocking.  “You indiscreet?  Who would believe it?  Give us an example of discretion; you are Paris in the presence of three goddesses.  Select your destiny!”

He smiled, attempted to regain his normal air of tolerant importance—­ glanced about him—­saw the sunlight making iridescent pools of fire within a crystal ball set on the fountain’s edge—­took up the ball and brought it to her, holding it in both hands.

“What choice is there than that which Paris made?” he asked, kneeling on one knee, laughing.  “Venus rules men’s hearts.  She must prevail.  So into your most lovely hands I give my destiny.”

“You mean, you leave it there!” said Marcia.  “Could you ever afford to ignore me and intrigue behind my back?”

“I am the least intriguing person of your acquaintance, Marcia,” he answered, rising because the hard mosaic pavement hurt his knee, and the position made him feel undignified.  But more than dignity he loved discretion; he wished there were eyes in the back of his head, to see whether slaves were watching from the curtained windows opening on the inner court.  “It is my policy,” he went on, “to know much and say little; to observe much, and do nothing!  I am much too lazy for intrigue, which is hard work, judging by what I have seen of those who indulge in it.”