“And how will it be with the Christians?” asked Festus, from Liguria. “Wouldst thou not like to be a dog and bite them?”
“I should not like to be thy brother.”
“Thou Mæotian copper-nose!”
“Thou Ligurian mule!”
“Thy skin is itching, evidently, but I don’t advise thee to ask me to scratch it.”
“Scratch thyself. If thou scratch thy own pimple, thou wilt destroy what is best in thee.”
And in this manner they attacked him. He defended himself venomously, amid universal laughter. Cæsar, clapping his hands, repeated, “Macte!” and urged them on. After a while Petronius approached, and, touching the Greek’s shoulder with his carved ivory cane, said coldly,—
“This is well, philosopher; but in one thing thou hast blundered: the gods created thee a pickpocket, and thou hast become a demon. That is why thou canst not endure.”
The old man looked at him with his red eyes, but this time somehow he did not find a ready insult. He was silent for a moment; then answered, as if with a certain effort,—
“I shall endure.”