A Friend of Caesar | Page 2

For this
spot was near "cool Præneste," one of the favourite resorts of Latium to
the wealthy, invalid, or indolent of Rome, who shunned the excessive
heat of the capital. And they were wise in their choice; for Præneste,
with its citadel, which rose twelve hundred feet over the adjoining
country, commanded in its ample sweep both the views and the breezes
of the whole wide-spreading Campagna. Here, clustering round the hill
on which stood the far-famed "Temple of Fortune," lay the old Latin
town of the Prænestians; a little farther westward was the settlement
founded some thirty odd years before by Sulla as a colony. Farther out,
and stretching off into the open country, lay the farmhouses and villas,
gardens and orchards, where splendid nuts and roses, and also wine,
grew in abundant measure.
A little stream ran close to the highway, and here an irrigating
machine[1] was raising water for the fields. Two men stood on the
treadmill beside the large-bucketed wheel, and as they continued their
endless walk the water dashed up into the trough and went splashing
down the ditches into the thirsty gardens. The workers were tall,
bronze-skinned Libyans, who were stripped to the waist, showing their
splendid chests and rippling muscles. Beside the trough had just come
two women, by their coarse and unpretentious dress evidently slaves,
bearing large earthen water-pots which they were about to fill. One of
the women was old, and bore on her face all the marks which a life of

hard manual toil usually leaves behind it; the other young, with a clear,
smooth complexion and a rather delicate Greek profile. The Libyans
stopped their monotonous trudge, evidently glad to have some excuse
for a respite from their exertions.
[1] Water columbarium.
"Ah, ha! Chloë," cried one of them, "how would you like it, with your
pretty little feet, to be plodding at this mill all the day? Thank the Gods,
the sun will set before a great while. The day has been hot as the lap of
an image of Moloch!"[2]
[2] The Phoenician god, also worshipped in North Africa, in whose idol
was built a fire to consume human sacrifices.
"Well, Hasdrubal," said Chloë, the younger woman, with a pert toss of
her head, "if my feet were as large as yours, and my skin as black and
thick, I should not care to complain if I had to work a little now and
then."
"Oh! of course," retorted Hasdrubal, a little nettled. "Your ladyship is
too refined, too handsome, to reflect that people with black skins as
well as white may get heated and weary. Wait five and twenty years,
till your cheeks are a bit withered, and see if Master Drusus doesn't
give you enough to make you tired from morning till night."
"You rude fellow," cried Chloë, pouting with vexation, "I will not
speak to you again. If Master Drusus were here, I would complain of
you to him. I have heard that he is not the kind of a master to let a poor
maid of his be insulted."
"Oh, be still, you hussy!" said the elder woman, who felt that a life of
labour had spoiled what might have been quite the equal of Chloë's
good looks. "What do you know of Master Drusus? He has been in
Athens ever since you were bought. I'll make Mamercus, the steward,
believe you ought to be whipped."
What tart answer Chloë might have had on the end of her tongue will

never be known; for at this moment Mago, the other Libyan, glanced
up the road, and cried:--
"Well, mistress, perhaps you will see our master very soon. He was due
this afternoon or next day from Puteoli, and what is that great cloud of
dust I see off there in the distance? Can't you make out carriages and
horsemen in the midst of it, Hasdrubal?"
Certainly there was a little cavalcade coming up the highway. Now it
was a mere blotch moving in the sun and dust; then clearer; and then
out of the cloud of light, flying sand came the clatter of hoofs on the
pavement, the whir of wheels, and ahead of the rest of the party two
dark Numidian outriders in bright red mantles appeared, pricking along
their white African steeds. Chloë clapped her little hands, steadied her
water-pot, and sprang up on the staging of the treadmill beside Mago.
"It is he!" she cried. "It must be Master Drusus coming back from
Athens!" She was a bit excited, for an event like the arrival of a new
master was a great occurrence in the monotonous life of a country
slave.
The cortège was still a good way off.
"What is Master Drusus like?" asked Chloë "Will he be kind, or will