“When did you write?” he demanded, when he had the horse under control again.

“A month ago.”

Norbanus lapsed into a moody silence, critically staring at his friend when he was sure the other was not looking.  Sextus had always puzzled him by running risks that other men (himself, for instance) steadfastly avoided, and avoiding risks that other men thought insignificant.  To write a letter critical of Commodus was almost tantamount to suicide, since every Roman port and every rest-house on the roads that led to Rome had become infested with informers who were paid on a percentage basis.

“Are you weary of life?” he asked after a while.

“I am weary of Commodus—­weary of tyranny—­weary of lies and hypocrisy—­ weary of wondering what is to happen to Rome that submits to such bestial government—­weary of shame and of the insolence of bribe-fat magistrates—­”

“Weary of your friends?” Norbanus asked.  “Don’t you realize that if your letter fell into the hands of spies, not only will you be proscribed and your father executed, but whoever is known to have been intimate with you or with your father will be in almost equal danger?  You should have gone to Rome in person to consult your father.”

“He ordered me to stay here to protect his interests.  We are rich, Norbanus.  We have much property in Antioch and many tenants to oversee.  I am not one of these modern irreligious wastrels; I obey my father—­”

“And betray him in an idiotic letter!”

“Very well!  Desert me while there is time!” said Sextus angrily.

“Don’t be a fool!  You are not the only proud man in the empire, Sextus.  I don’t desert my friend for such a coward’s reason as that he acted thoughtlessly.  But I will tell you what I think, whether or not that pleases you, if only because I am your true friend.  You are a rash, impatient lover of the days gone by, possessed of genius that you betray by your arrogant hastiness.  So now you know what I think, and what all your other friends think.  We admire—­we love our Sextus, son of Maximus.  And we confess to ourselves that our lives are in danger because of that same Sextus, son of Maximus, whom we prefer above our safety.  After this, if you continue to deceive yourself, none can blame me for it!”

Sextus smiled and waved a hand to him.  It was no new revelation.  He understood the attitude of all his friends far better than he did his own strange impulses that took possession of him as a rule when circumstances least provided an excuse.

“My theory of loyalty to friendship,” he remarked, “is that a man should dare to do what he perceives is right, and thus should prove himself entitled to respect.”

“And your friends are, in consequence, to enjoy the privilege of attending your crucifixion one of these days!” said Norbanus.

“Nonsense.  Only slaves and highwaymen are crucified.”