HE slaves moved about the couches with goblets of honeyed wine. Glabrio in the middle, the fat host, drank and shone. The guest on his right, a dark, merry fellow, was busy with the breast of a peacock. The other man helped himself, from the panniers of the silver mule on the table, to black and white olives, and looked out across the cedar wood and tortoise shell and gold to the violet sea and the sunset.
“By Pollux,” said Glabrio in an unctuous voice, “you neither eat nor drink, Cæsar. One of these mullets? The loin of the bear? Come, man, a sucking pig at least?”
“You are the most splendid of hosts, my dear Glabrio. Your only fault is that in your house a man can never get anything to eat.”
“Nothing to eat?” Glabrio's jaw fell as he looked at mullets and eels, hares and peacock, boar and sow.
“Or drink, either. If I might have some bread, and nothing but snow.”
Glabrio roared at his slaves,
“Pray do not scold the lads, my friend,” Cæsar drawled. “They have offered me everything that is richest. And how could they honor me more than by supposing your tastes are mine?”
“You flatter me, Cæsar. You make me proud, by Hercules!”
Cæsar bowed to him and ate the bread. The third man, Cœlius, who was now at a jelly of eels, laughed at him. “What a Stoic you are, Caius!”
“My dear Marcus! I detest the gloomy tribe. I am a sworn Epicurean. I live for pleasure.”
“I can give it you,” Glabrio chuckled, “I'll show you a Venus to-night. And a Venus taught by the Muses! She sings like a siren. She dances like the nymphs. You shall see her veiled and unveiled—alabaster!”
“Our Glabrio becomes a poet,” said Cæsar, and took a quince stuffed with almonds.
White slaves and black bore the dishes out. From the ceiling came down a silver hoop hung with sweetmeats and fruits. Golden lamps shone on the tables, on the mounds of snow, on the scented steam hissing from the urn which stood by the golden goblets.
“Gods, who can drink hot on such a night?” said Cœlius.
“Well, it gives a man heart,” chuckled Glabrio, who was shining now more than ever. “And you'll like the scent, I think. Why, Cæsar, you are drinking nothing but snow.”
“I do not want a heart, my friend.”
“By Pollux, you must see my Zoe.” Glabrio clapped his hands.
Flute-playing girls came in and with them a girl who walked with her hands clasped behind her, her head bowed, her eyes cast down. She was all that is demure. But her bosom beat high and fast. Her little feet were bare, her arms bare, too, and the simple white robe she wore clung closely to a body of rich but slender fashioning. About her wrists were little garlands of red roses, and white roses were bound in her black hair.
“Hither, darling,” said Glabrio, and when she stood before him put out a fat arm and lifted her head. She showed a face of Greek perfection, flushed, smiling, but with a strange mockery. “In spirits to-night? A good girl now, eh?” He patted her. “Show us your best.” And he turned, grinning, to Cæsar. “Well, is she not a prize? I paid two hundred thousand sesterces for her, and Dromo warrants her in her teens and of the best Athenian breed. She looks it, and, immortal gods, she ought to be, for two hundred thousand sesterces.”
Cœlius laughed and held out his goblet to the girl, who bowed low and drew back.
“Whom does your smile mock, child?” said Cæsar, in Greek.
“I do not understand, sir,” she said, looked at him full a moment, and bent her head again.
“Come, dance, dance,” Glabrio cried. “What will you dance, Zoe?”
“I will dance Andromeda,” she said.
The flutes began to mourn and she cast herself on the ground. She lay quivering, contorted, then dragged herself up and slowly, bent, faltering, moved with gestures of distress across the room to fling herself against the wall as if she were crucified. There she stood, the shape of her body in relief against the crimson marble, her white arms spread rigid, her head drooping like a broken flower, her bosom shaking. She looked up. Again they saw that strange smile, but now it was bolder. Her arms moved, moved slowly, and then with a start of surprise at finding themselves free. Slowly, shyly, she stepped forward and then, as the music changed its mode, she broke into a wild dance of joy and triumph, and whirled out of the room.
Cœlius applauded. Cæsar turned on his couch. “But she has a soul, my good Glabrio,” he said in a tone of surprise,
“A queer dance. I do not care for it. It does not warm a man,” Glabrio said and called out. “Zoe! You have not pleased. Dance your unveiling.”
Slowly Cæsar let down his long legs from the couch, stood up, and arranged his toga elaborately.