There came more noise from the bedroom.  Commodus seemed to be trying to get to his feet again.  Marcia ran toward the smaller anteroom and dragged the curtains back.

“Narcissus!”

He came out, carrying Telamonion.  The child lay asleep in his arms.

“Go and put that child down.  Now earn your freedom—­go in and kill the emperor!  He has poisoned himself, and he thinks we did it.  Give him your dagger, Pertinax!”

“I am only a slave,” Narcissus answered.  “It is not right that a slave should kill an emperor.”

Marcia seized the gladiator by the shoulders, scanned his face, saw what she looked for and bargained for it instantly.

“Your freedom!  Manumission and a hundred thousand sesterces!”

“In writing!” said Narcissus.

“Dog!” growled Pertinax.  “Go in and do as you are told!”

But Narcissus only grinned at him and squared his shoulders.

“Death means little to a gladiator,” he remarked.

“Leave him to me!” ordered Marcia.

“Go and sit down at that table, Pertinax.  Take pen and parchment.  Now then—­what do you want in writing?  Make haste!”

“Freedom—­you may keep your money—­I shall not wait to receive it.  Freedom for me and for Sextus and for all of Sextus’ friends and freedmen.  An order releasing Sextus from the guard-house instantly.  Permission to leave Rome and Italy by any route we choose.”

“Write, Pertinax!” said Marcia.  Narcissus glanced at Galen.

“Galen,” he said, “is one of Sextus’ friends, so set his name down.”

“Never mind me,” said Galen.  “They will need me.”

Marcia stood over Pertinax, watching him write.  She snatched the document and sanded it, then watched him write the order to the guard, releasing Sextus.

“There!” she exclaimed.  “You have your price.  Go in and kill him!  Give him your dagger, Pertinax.”

“I hoped for heroism, not expecting it,” said Galen.  “I expected cunning.  Is it absent, too?  If he should use a dagger—­many men have heard me say that Caesar has a tendency to apoplexy—­”

“Strangle him!” commanded Marcia.

She thrust the palms of her hands against Narcissus’ back and pushed him toward the bedroom door, now almost at the end of her reserves of self-control.  Her mouth trembled.  She was fighting against hysteria.

“Light!  Lamp!  Guards!” roared Commodus, and again the ebony-posted bed creaked under him.  Narcissus stepped into the darkened room.  He left the door open, to have light to do his work by, but Marcia closed it, clinging to the gilded satyr’s head that served for knob with both hands, her lips drawn tight against her teeth, her whole face tortured with anticipation.

“It is better that a gladiator did it,” remarked Pertinax, attempting to look calm.  “I never killed a man.  As general, and as governor of Rome, as consul and proconsul, I have spared whom I might.  Some had to die but—­my own hands are clean.”