Couches, such as they were wont to be on at meals, there were not, so each man snatched up the first thing he could lay his hands on to serve as a seat.  When cups were lacking the jugs and vessels from the sanctuary were sent for, and passed from one to another.  Many a youth lounged with his head in some fair one’s lap; many a girl leaned back to back with some old man; and as flowers were not to be had, messengers were sent to the town to buy them, with vine-wreaths and other greenery.

They were easily procured, and with them came the news that the races were to be held next morning.

This information was regarded by many as being of the first importance; Nicarchus, the son of the rich Hippocleides, and Zenodotus a weaver of tapestry—­whose quadriga had once proved victorious—­hastily made their way into the town to give the requisite orders in their stables, and they were closely followed by Hippias, the handsome agitator, who was the favorite driver in the arena for the horses belonging to wealthy owners.  In the train of these three every lover of horses vanished from the scene, with a number of Hippias’ friends, and of flower-sellers, door-keepers, and ticket-holders-in short, of all who expected to derive special pleasure or profit from the games.  Each man reflected that one could not be missed, and as the god was favorably disposed he might surely contrive to defend his own temple till after the races were over; they would then return to conquer or die with the rest.

Then some others began to think of wives and children in bed at home, and they, too, departed; still, by far the larger proportion remained behind—­above three thousand in all, men and women.  These at once possessed themselves of the half-emptied wine-jars left by the deserters; gay music was got up, and then, wreathed with garlands on their heads and shoulders, and ‘filled with the god’ they drank, shouted and danced far into the night.  The merry feast soon became a wild orgy; loud cries of Evoe, and tumultuous singing reached the ears of the Magians, who had once more settled down to calculations and discussions over their rolls and tablets.

The mother of the youth that had been killed still sat huddled at the foot of the statue of justice, enduring the anguish of listening to these drunken revels with dull resignation.  Every shout of laughter, every burst of mad mirth from the revellers above cut her to the heart—­and yet, how they would have gladdened her if only one other voice could have mingled with those hundreds!  When Olympius, still in his fullest dress, and carrying his head loftily as became him, made his way through the temple at the head of his subordinates, he noticed Berenice—­whom he had known as a proud and happy mother—­and begged her to join the friends whom he had bidden to his own table; but she dreaded any social contact with men whom she knew, and preferred to remain where she was at the feet of the goddess.