A grey fog was drifting up from the Tiber, and out of a rift in a heavy cloud-bank a beam of the imprisoned moon was struggling.

Along the road were peasants with their carts and asses hastening home.

Over on the Pincian Mount the dark green masses of the splendid gardens of Pompeius and of Lucullus were just visible.

The air was filled with the croak of frogs and the chirp of crickets, and from the river came the creak of the sculls and paddles of a cumbrous barge that was working its way down the Tiber.
Ahenobarbus felt awed and uncomfortable.

Pratinas, with his mantle wrapped tightly around his head, continued at a rapid pace.