with elaborate designs.  Bracelets, chains, and rings shone about her in the wonted profusion.  Above the flat coils of her hair lay a little bunch of grapes between two vine leaves, wrought in gold, and at her waist hung a dagger, the silver sheath chased with forms of animals.  Standing behind her the little Anglian slave Laetus gently fanned her with a peacock’s tail, or sprinkled her with perfume from a vial; the air was heavy with Sabaean odours.

‘Ah, here is lord Basil!’ pursued Muscula with a mischievous glance at Vivian.  ’He has lived at Constantinople lately—­not thirty or forty years ago.  Tell us, sweet lord’—­she bent towards him with large, rolling eyes—­’was it not Helladius who won for the Greens when Thomas the Blue was overturned and killed?’

‘For all I know it may have been,’ replied Basil carelessly; he had scarce heard the question.

‘I swear you are wrong, Muscula,’ put in the third lady.  ’The lord Basil cares naught for such things, and would not contradict you lest you should scratch his face—­so dangerous you look, much more like a cat than a mouse.  By the beard of Holy Peter! should not Heliodora know, who, though she is too young to remember it herself, has heard of it many a time from her father.  You think too much of yourself, O Muscula, since you ate crumbs from the hands of Bessas.’

The boy Vivian gave a loud laugh, rolling on his cushions.

‘O witty Galla!’ he exclaimed.  ’Crumbs from the hand of Bessas.  Say on, say on; I love your spicy wit, O Galla!  Cannot you find something sharp, for the most grave, the most virtuous Basil?’

‘Hold your saucy tongue, child,’ said Heliodora with a pouting smile.  ’But it is true that Muscula has won advancement.  One doesn’t need to have a very long memory to recall her arrival in Rome.  There are who say that she came as suckling nurse in a lady’s train, with the promise of marriage to a freedman when her mistress’s baby was weaned.  That is malice, of course; poor Muscula has had many enemies.  For my part, I have never doubted that she was suckling her own child, nor that its father was a man of honourable name, and not a slave of the Circus stables as some said.’

Again Vivian rolled on the cushions in mirth, until he caught Basil’s eye as it glanced at him with infinite scorn.  Then he started to a sitting posture, fingered the handle of his dagger, and glared at Heliodora’s neighbour with all the insolent ferocity of which his face was capable.  This youth was the son of a man whose name sounded ill to any Roman patriot,—­of that Opilio, who, having advanced to high rank under King Theodoric, was guilty of frauds, fell from his eminence, and, in hope of regaining the king’s favour, forged evidence of treachery against Boethius.  His attire followed the latest model from Byzantium:  a loose, long-sleeved tunic, descending to the feet, its hue a dark yellow, and over that a long mantle of white silk, held together upon one shoulder by a great silver buckle in the form of a running horse; silken shoes, gold embroidered, with leather soles dyed purple; and on each wrist a bracelet.  His black hair was short, and crisped into multitudinous curls with a narrow band of gold pressing it from the forehead to the ears.