"He's so small and frail that I believe he'll soon turn into a grasshopper, as Plato fancied the poets do."
Publius, like the grasshoppers, could almost live upon air, but the gods had not granted him complete immunity from appetite; and his shaven cadaverous face and discoloured lips were stamped with insatiable hunger.
"Why are you wearing such a long cloak, Publius?" Julian asked.
"It isn't mine," answered the other philosophically. "I share a room with a young man, Hephæstion, who has come to Athens to learn eloquence. He will be a famous lawyer one day. Meanwhile he's as poor as I am, poor as a lyric poet—I need say no more! Why, we've pledged our clothes, our furniture, even the inkstand; but we still have a cloak between us. In the morning I go out, and Hephæstion studies Demosthenes; in the evening he puts on the chlamys, and I write verses. Unfortunately we're not the same height—but what does that matter? I take my walks along the streets 'long-robed,' like the ancient Trojan ladies."
Publius laughed heartily; the cadaverous face took on the expression of a mourner who has incautiously cheered up.
"You see, Julian," continued the poet, "I'm counting on the death of the widow of a very rich Roman landowner. The happy heirs will order an epitaph from me, and are going to pay for it generously. Unfortunately the widow, in spite of everything that doctors and heirs can do, persists in not giving up the ghost. But for that, my boy, I should have bought myself a cloak long ago. Listen, Julian, get up and come with me at once!"
"Whither?"
"Trust me—you'll thank me for it."
"What's the mystery?"
"Ask no questions; get up and come! The poet brings no harm to the poet's friend. You'll see a goddess."