“The gods defend me, but I shall be yoked to one of the Dirae!” stammered Ahenobarbus.

Chapter XI

The Great Proconsul

I

The plot was foiled.  Drusus was unquestionably safe.  So long as Flaccus had the affidavits of Phaon’s confession and the depositions of the captured gladiators stored away in his strong-box, neither Lucius Ahenobarbus nor the ever versatile Pratinas would be likely to risk a new conspiracy—­especially as their intended victim had carefully drawn up a will leaving the bulk of his property to Titus Mamercus and AEmilia.  Drusus had no near relatives, except Fabia and Livia; unless the Ahenobarbi were to be counted such; and it pleased him to think that if aught befell him the worthy children of his aged defender would acquire opulence.

But after the excitement was over, after Phaon had been brought up from the inn at Gabii to Praeneste, and there had the truth wormed out of him by the merciless cross-examination of Curio and Flaccus; after the freedman had been suffered to depart with a warning and threat to his prompters, after the captured gladiators had been crucified along the roadway leading toward Rome, and the wreck left in the atrium of the villa caused by the attack had been cleared away,—­after all this, then the reaction came.  Drusus, indeed, found that though the sun shone bright, its brightness was not for him.  He had friends in plenty; but not such friends as he needed—­as his heart craved.  Truth to tell, he was one of those more delicate natures to whom the average pity and the ordinary demonstrations of sympathy come with an offending jar, and open, not heal, long-festering wounds.  Curio was kind, but could only hold out the vaguest hopes that, for the present at least, anything would compel the consul-elect to consent to his niece’s marriage with a mortal enemy.  Flaccus took the same position.  The hard-headed man of money thought that Drusus was a visionary, to be so distraught over the loss of a wife—­as if the possession of a fortune of thirty odd millions did not make up for every possible calamity.  Antonius was still less happy in his efforts at consolation.  This dashing young politician, who had been equally at home basking in the eyes of the young Egyptian princess, Cleopatra, eight years before, when he was in the East with Aulus Gabinius, or when fighting the Gauls as he had until recently under his uncle, the great proconsul,—­had now been elected Tribune of the Plebs for the coming year; and was looking forward to a prosperous and glorious career in statecraft.  He had had many a love intrigue, and made such matters a sort of recreation to the real business of life.  Why Drusus—­who certainly had very fair worldly prospects before him—­should not console himself for one unsuccessful passage of arms with Cupid, by straightway engaging in another, he could not see.  He plainly intimated to his friend that there were a great many women, almost if not quite as good looking as Cornelia, who would survey him with friendly eyes if he made but a few advances.  And Drusus, wounded and stung, was thrown back on himself; and within himself he found very little comfort.