There were no stars above, no moon, no wind.

A sickening miasmic odour rose from the low flat country sloping off toward the Adriatic--the smell of overripe fruit, of decaying vegetation, of the harvest grown old.

There had been a drought, and now the dust rose thick and heavy, making the mules and travellers cough, and the latter cover their faces.

Out of the darkness came not the least sound: save the creaking of the dead boughs on trees, whose dim tracery could just be distinguished against the sombre background of the sky.
No one spoke, unless the incoherent shouts of the German to the mules be termed speech.

Antiochus and Caesar were sunk in stupor or reverie.
Drusus settled back on the cushions, closed his eyes, and bade himself believe that it was all a dream.