He had overheard the street talk of two equites, whom in more happy days he had known as rising politicians.
"I hope the consuls are right," the first had said, "that Caesar's army will desert him." "_Perpol_," responded the other, "your wish is mine! If the proconsul really _does_ advance, nothing will stand between him and the city!" Gabinius kept his own counsel.

"In times of war and confusion, the extremity of the many is the opportunity of the few," was the maxim he repeated to himself.
When he was well out of the city and moving up the Via Salaria, the trot and rattle of an approaching carriage drifted up upon him.
"Shall we stop and strip them ?" asked Dromo, one of the accompanying brigands, in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Ay," responded Gabinius, reining in his own plodding draught-horse, and pulling out a short sword.

"Let us take what the Fates send!" A moment later and Servius Flaccus was being tumbled out of his comfortable travelling carriage, while one brigand stood guard over him with drawn sabre, a second held at bay his trembling driver and whimpering valet, and a third rifled his own person and his conveyance.

There was a bright moon, and the luckless traveller's gaze fastened itself on the third bandit.
"By all the gods, Gabinius!" cried Servius, forgetting to lisp his Greekisms, "don't you know me?
Let me go, for old friendship's sake!" Gabinius turned from his task, and held to his nose a glass scent-bottle he had found in the vehicle.
"Ah! amice," he responded deliberately, "I really did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting you thus! You are returning very late to Rome from your Fidenae villa.

But this is very excellent oil of rose!" "Enough of this, man!" expostulated the other.