‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.
Onesimus nodded.
‘Here is bread for you, and some flesh of kid, and some wine.’
Onesimus ate and drank with ravenous eagerness, and the old man asked him, ‘A fugitive slave?’
‘I was free born.’
‘Hum-m!’ muttered Philebus, incredulously. ‘Well, you are wet, hungry, ragged, miserable. Will you be our servant?’
‘I am not going to be a priest of the Syrian goddess,’ said Onesimus, with horror.
‘No one asked you to be,’ answered Philebus, with a sneer. ‘You will have light work, good pay, good food.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Only to help in tending the ass, and cooking our meals, and going round with the bag for us when we perform.’