In another chamber, the door of which was guarded by armed men, Orestes was walking up and down in high excitement, looking somewhat the worse for the events of the past night, and making occasional appeals to a gold goblet which stood on the table.
‘Ha! No other than my preserver himself! Boy, I will make your fortune. Miriam says that you wish to enter my service.’
Philammon, not knowing what to say, thought the best answer would be to bow as low as he could.
‘Ah, ha! Graceful, but not quite according to etiquette. You will soon teach him, eh, Secretary? Now to business. Hand me the notes to sign and seal. To the Prefect of the Stationaries—’
‘Here, your Excellency.’
‘To the Prefect of the Corn market—how many wheat-ships have you ordered to be unladen?’
‘Two, your Excellency.’
‘Well, that will be largess enough for the time being. To the Defender of the Plebs—the devil break his neck!’
‘He may be trusted, most noble; he is bitterly jealous of Cyril’s influence. And moreover, he owes my insignificance much money.’
‘Good! Now the notes to the Gaol-masters, about the gladiators.’