But she had another recourse, and hastened her litter down one of the quieter streets of the Subura, where was the modest house occupied by Julius Caesar before he became Pontifex Maximus.  This building was now used by the Caesarian leaders as a sort of party headquarters.  Fabia boldly ordered the porter to summon before her Curio—­whom she was sure was in the house.  Much marvelling at the visit of a Vestal, the slave obeyed, and in a few moments that tribune was in her presence.

Caius Scribonius Curio was probably a very typical man of his age.  He was personally of voluptuous habits, fearfully extravagant, endowed with very few scruples and a very weak sense of right and wrong.  But he was clear-headed, energetic, a good orator, a clever reasoner, an astute handler of men, courageous, versatile, full of recourse, and on the whole above the commission of any really glaring moral infraction.  He was now in his early prime, and he came before Fabia as a man tall, athletic, deep-chested, deep-voiced, with a regular profile, a clear, dark complexion, curly hair carefully dressed, freshly shaven, and in perfect toilet.  It was a pleasure, in short, to come in contact with such a vigorous, aggressive personality, be the dark corners of his life what they might.

Curio yielded to no man in his love of Lucrine oysters and good Caecuban wine.  But he had been spending little time on the dining couch that evening.  In fact he had at that moment in his hand a set of tablets on which he had been writing.

“Salve!  Domina!” was his greeting, “what unusual honour is this which brings the most noble Vestal to the trysting spot of us poor Populares.”

And, with the courtesy of a gentleman of the world, he offered Fabia an armchair.

“Caius Curio,” said the Vestal, wasting very few words, “do you know my nephew, Quintus Drusus of Praeneste?”

“It is an honour to acknowledge friendship with such an excellent young man,” said Curio, bowing.

“I am glad to hear so.  I understand that he has already suffered no slight calamity for adhering to your party.”

“Vah!” and the tribune shrugged his shoulders.  “Doubtless he has had a disagreeable time with the consul-elect, but from all that I can hear, the girl he lost was hardly one to make his life a happy one.  It’s notorious the way she has displayed her passion for young Lucius Ahenobarbus, and we all know what kind of a man he is.  But I may presume to remark that your ladyship would hardly come here simply to remind me of this.”

“No,” replied Fabia, directly, “I have come here to appeal to you to do something for me which Marcellus the consul was too drunk to try to accomplish if he would.”

Fabia had struck the right note.  Only a few days before Appius Claudius, the censor, had tried to strike Curio’s name from the rolls of the Senate.  Piso, the other censor, had resisted.  There had been an angry debate in the Senate, and Marcellus had inveighed against the Caesarian tribune, and had joined in a furious war of words.  The Senate had voted to allow Curio to keep his seat; and the anti-Caesarians had paraded in mourning as if the vote were a great calamity.