“To Caesar I will go,” answered Drusus; and of himself he asked, “What manner of man will this prove, whom I am serving?  A selfish grasper of power?  Or will he be what I seek—­a man with an ideal?”

II

Night was falling on the dark masses of the huge Praetorium, the government-house and army barracks of the provincial capital of Ravenna.  Outside, sentinels were changing guard; Roman civil officials and provincials were strolling in the cool of the porticos.  Laughter, the shout of loungers at play, broke the evening silence.  But far in the interior, where there was a secluded suite of rooms, nothing but the tinkle of a water-duct emptying into a cistern broke the stillness, save as some soft-footed attendant stole in and out across the rich, thick carpet.

The room was small; the ceiling low; the frescos not elaborate, but of admirable simplicity and delicacy.  The furniture comprised merely a few divans, chairs, and tripods, but all of the choicest wood or brass, and the most excellent upholstery.  One or two carved wooden cupboards for books completed the furnishings.

There were only two persons in the room.  One of them,—­a handsome young Hellene, evidently a freedman, was sitting on a low chair with an open roll before him.  His companion half sat and half lay on a divan near by.  This second person was a man of height unusual to Italians of his day; his cheeks were pale and a little sunken; his dark eyes were warm, penetrating; his mouth and chin mobile and even affable, but not a line suggested weakness.  The forehead was high, massive, and was exaggerated by a semi-baldness which was only partially concealed by combing the dark, grey-streaked hair forward.  He was reclining; if he had arisen he would have displayed a frame at once to be called soldierly, though spare and hardly powerful.  To complete the figure it should be added that on one finger he wore a large ring set with a very beautiful seal of an armed Venus; and over his loose but carefully arranged tunic was thrown a short, red mantle, caught together on the left shoulder—­the paludamentum, a garment only worn by Roman military officers of the very highest rank.

The general—­for so his dress proclaimed him—­was playing with a stylus and a waxen tablet, while the young Greek read.  Now and then he would bid the latter pause while he made a few notes.  The book was Euripides’s “Troades.”

“Read those lines again,” interrupted the general.  The voice was marvellously flexile, powerful, and melodious.

And the freedman repeated:—­

  “Sow far and wide, plague, famine, and distress;
  Make women widows, children fatherless;
  Break down the altars of the gods, and tread
  On quiet graves, the temples of the dead;
  Play to life’s end this wicked witless game
  And you will win what knaves and fools call Fame!"[122]