Banishment was banishment.  “An exile?”—­no, he was not that!  He was still a citizen of Rome, he still had his property and his rights—­she was no exile’s wife!  Yes, she must stay in Rome.  It was futile for her to argue.  Caesar was inexorable.  She asked him when he must go.  He said before another sunrise, to-morrow must not see him within the city limits.  The words held no new meaning for her.  What were hours and minutes to the dead?  They talked in broken sentences.  She promised to comfort Perilla.  He was glad his father and mother were dead.  He hoped her daughter could come to her at once from Verona.

They were interrupted by the stormy arrival of a few faithful friends—­how few they were she did not realise until later.  Rufus was the first to come and she thought it strange that he should break down and sob while Ovid’s eyes were dry and hard.  Knowing the servants, he undertook to tell them what had happened to their master.  Their noisy grief throughout the house brought a dreary sense of disorder.  Sextus Pompeius arrived and characteristically out of the chaos of grief plucked the need of practical preparation for the long journey.  He brought out maps and went over each stage of the way.  Only the sea journey from Brindisi to Corinth would be familiar to Ovid, but Pompeius had seen many years of military service in various northern stations, from the Hellespont to the Danube, and knew what to recommend.  Although Tomi was a seaport, he advised making the last part of the journey by land through Thrace.  He knew what dangers to fear from the natives, what precautions to take against sickness, and what private supplies a traveller might advantageously carry with him.  They made a list of necessary things and Pompeius sent some of Ovid’s servants out to procure what they could before night.  The rest could be sent on to Brindisi before the ship sailed.  He would see to that, Fabia need have no care.  It was a great disadvantage that they could not control the choice of the travelling companions, but he would go at once and see if he could exercise any influence.

The packing consumed several hours.  This unemotional activity would have strengthened Fabia, had it not had a completely unnerving effect on Ovid.  The preparations for a wild and dangerous country seemed to bring him face to face with despair.  He rushed to the fire and threw upon it the thick manuscript of his Metamorphoses.  Looking sullenly at the smouldering parchment he began to talk wildly, protesting first that no one should see any of his work unfinished and then passing to a paroxysm of rage against all his poetry, to which he attributed his ruin.  He began to walk up and down the room, pushed his wife aside, and declared that he was going to end his life.  In the long nightmare Fabia found this hour the most terrifying.  She could never express her gratitude to Celsus who had come after Pompeius left and who now alone proved able to influence Ovid.  By a patient reasonableness he made headway against his hysterical mood, bringing him back, step by step, to saner thoughts.