So he found the friends in the elegant drinking-room, where the bronze lamps upon the tortoise-shell slabs on the walls were already lighted, and the guests, crowned with roses and ivy, lay upon the cushions of the horse-shoe-shaped triclinium.
A stupefying mixture of wine-odours and flower-scents, a glare of torches and glow of colour, met him upon the threshold.
"Salve, Cethegus!" cried the host, as he entered. "You find but a small party."
Cethegus ordered the slave who followed him, a beautiful and slender young Moor, whose finely-shaped limbs were rather revealed than hidden by the scarlet gauze of his light tunic, to unloose his sandals. Meanwhile he counted the guests.
"Not less than the Graces, nor more than the Muses," he said with a smile.
"Quick, choose a wreath," said Kallistratos, "and take your place up there, upon the seat of honour on the couch. We have chosen you beforehand for the king of the feast."
The Prefect was determined to charm these young people. He knew how well he could do so, and that day he wished to make a particular impression. He chose a crown of roses, and took the ivory sceptre, which a Syrian slave handed to him upon his knees.
Placing the rose-wreath on his head, he raised the sceptre with dignity.
"Thus I put an end to your freedom!"
"A born ruler!" cried Kallistratos, half in joke, half in earnest.