It was a fearful sort of confidence.

Drusus had been warned promptly by Agias.
Old Mamercus had straightway taken every precaution, and forced his foster son to put himself in a sort of custody, which was sufficiently galling, in addition to the ever present sense of personal danger.

The villa at Praeneste was guarded quietly by several armed slaves and peasants; not a morsel or drop passed Drusus's lips that had not been tested and tasted by a trusty dependent.

The young man was not to go to Rome, despite his infinite yearning to see Cornelia, for every opportunity would be given in the dark city streets for an assassin.
In fact, Drusus was virtually a prisoner in his own estates, for only there could he feel reasonably safe from attack.
All these precautions Cornelia knew, for Agias was a master at smuggling letters in and out.

She had told Drusus frankly all that had passed, and how that she was acting as she did only for his sake.