The landlord of the establishment, a small, red-faced, bustling man, was fussing over some lean thrushes roasting on a spit before the open fire that was roaring on the hearth.  The landlady, lazy, muscular, corpulent, and high-voiced, was expostulating with a pedler who was trying to slip out without settling.  Four other persons, slaves and peasants, were sitting on two low benches beside a small, circular table, and were busy pouring down the liquor which a young serving-boy brought them in tumbler-shaped cups, or eating greedily at loaves of coarse bread which they snatched from the table.  It was so late that little light came into the room from the door and windows.  The great fire tossed its red, flickering glow out into the apartment and cast a rosy halo over the hard brown marble pavement of the floor.  Upon the dingy walls and rafters hung from pegs flitches of bacon, sausages, and nets of vegetables.  Agias stopped in the doorway and waited till his eyes were fairly accustomed to the fire-light.  Over in a remote corner he saw a lamp gleaming, and there, sprawling on a bench, beside a table of his own, well piled with food and drink, he distinguished in solitary majesty Phaon—­too exquisite to mingle with the other guests of the tavern.

The landlord quickly noticed his new customer, and sprang up from the fire.  Agias had on a coarse grey woollen cloak over his light tunic, and he drew his hood up so as partly to cover his face as he stepped into the room.

“Salve!” was the landlord’s salutation.  “What hospitality can the Elephant[104] afford you?”

  [104] Inns were known by such signs.

The good host did not think Agias anything more by his dress than a common slave, and saw no need of excessive politeness.

Agias noticed that he was expected to join the other drinkers around the centre table.

“Eho, mine host!” cried he, letting the fire give one glint on a gold piece.  “Can’t you give me a seat at the other end of the room?  I don’t know these good people, and they won’t thank me for thrusting myself on them.”

“Certainly, certainly,” exclaimed the landlord, all condescension.  “There is a gentleman from Rome drinking by himself at that table over there.  Perhaps he will not object.”

Now was the crisis.  Agias had seen Phaon many times with Lucius Ahenobarbus; but he was reasonably certain that the freedman had never degraded himself by taking any notice of the numerous slaves of Lentulus’s household.  Without waiting for the host to continue, he hastened over to the farther table, and exclaimed with all the effrontery at his command:—­

“Hem! Phaon; don’t you remember an old friend?”

The freedman for once was completely off his guard.  He started up, stared at Agias, and began to mutter excuses for a very short memory.

“Well, well,” cried Agias.  “You have a poor recollection of faces!  Don’t you remember how Pratinas took you to the Big Eagle restaurant, down on the Vicus Jugarius, on the last Calends, and how you met me there, and what good Lesbian and Chian wine there was?  None of your weak, sickening Italian stuff!  Surely you remember Cleombrotus, from whom you won four hundred sesterces.”