"Yes."
"A courtesan of Chalcedon...."
"What!... You have authorised a courtesan to touch the holy vessels of the gods with her foul hands!"
"But, divine Augustus, you yourself ordained this procession. Who was there to choose from? All the noble women are Galileans. And then ... none of them would have consented to have exhibited themselves half-naked...."
"Then they are all...."
"No, no! Some of them are dancing-girls, tragic actresses, horsewomen from the Hippodrome. See how gay they are and free from false shame! Believe me, the people like that! That's what they want. And there's a patrician woman!..."
The last-named was a Christian, an old maid looking out for husbands. On her head rose a helmet-shaped wig, a galerum made of blond hair powdered with gold—thickly covered with gems as an Indian idol; impudently painted, she drew her tiger-skin across her withered bosom, and smiled affectedly.
Julian looked down on the people with a sudden impulse of distaste.
Rope-dancers, drunken legionaries, venal women, circus-riders, gymnasts, actors, swarmed and wantoned all round him.
The procession arrived at a place where four streets met. One of the Bacchantes ran to a tavern, whence came an unpleasant smell of rancid frying fish, and bought some greasy cakes for three obols. These she ate, greedily licking her lips; and finished by wiping her hands on the purple silk of her robes, which had been granted for the procession by the Imperial Treasury.