“I should be rejoiced and honoured to have the opportunity,” was the reply; and then in another tone Domitius added, “Lentulus, do you believe in astrologers?”

“I do not really know,” answered the other, uneasily.

“Neither do I,” continued Domitius.  “But suppose the stars speak truly; and suppose,” and here his voice fell, “it is Caesar who is highest in power, in ability, in good fortune;—­what then for Pompeius? for us?”

“Be silent, O prophet of evil!” retorted Lentulus, laughing, but not very naturally.

Chapter VII

Agias’s Adventure

I

Pisander’s view of life became a score of shades more rosy when he seized the hand of the handsome slave-boy, then embraced him, and began praising the gods for preserving his favourite’s life.  Then the worthy philosopher recollected that his wisdom taught him there were no gods, and he plunged into a rambling explanation of his position, which would have lasted forever, unless Agias had cut him short with a merry gibe, and told him that he must positively come to a tavern and enjoy at least one beaker of good Massic in memory of old friendship.  And Pisander, whose spareness of living arose more from a lack of means than from a philosophic aversion to food and good cheer, was soon seated on a bench in one of the cheap restaurants[91] that abounded in the city, balancing a very large goblet, and receiving a volley of questions which Agias was discharging about Valeria’s eccentricities, Calatinus’s canvass, Arsinoe, Semiramis, and the rest of the household of which he had been a member.

  [91] Popinae.

“But you haven’t told me, Agias,” finally interrupted the poor philosopher, who had been struggling in turn to satisfy his curiosity, “how you are here, and not—­ugh!  I hate to think of it—­feeding the dogs and the crows.”

Agias’s face grew grave while he gave the story of his release by the Vestal, and subsequent transfer of ownership.

“What was the name of the young man who purchased you, eh?” interpolated Pisander.  “I didn’t get it.”

“Quintus Livius Drusus,” replied Agias.

“Who?” cried the philosopher, starting up.

“Quintus Drusus, of Praeneste,” repeated the other.

“Ai!  Ai! In the name of Zeus!” cried Pisander, dropping the beaker, and spilling the wine all over his threadbare himation.  “Oh, such a plot!  Such a crime!  Was ever anything so villanous ever heard of before!”

“My dear Pisander,” exclaimed Agias, all amazement, “what is the matter?  Your speech is as obscure as Cinna’s[92] poem called ‘Zmyrna,’ which I’ve heard was ten years in being written, and must be very fine, because no one can understand it.  No more can I fathom you.”

  [92] A poet at that time of some little reputation.