A youth at his elbow—his Myrtilus, or comrade, in the day’s chariot practice—answered, much pleased with the attention, “Did I not, my Messala, I were not thy friend.”
“Dost thou remember the man who gave thee the fall to-day?”
“By the love-locks of Bacchus, have I not a bruised shoulder to help me keep it in mind?” and he seconded the words with a shrug that submerged his ears.
“Well, be thou grateful to the Fates—I have found thy enemy. Listen.”
Thereupon Messala turned to Drusus.
“Tell us more of him—perpol!—of him who is both Jew and Roman—by Phoebus, a combination to make a Centaur lovely! What garments doth he affect, my Drusus?”
“Those of the Jews.”
“Hearest thou, Caius?” said Messala. “The fellow is young—one; he hath the visage of a Roman—two; he loveth best the garb of a Jew—three; and in the palaestrae fame and fortune come of arms to throw a horse or tilt a chariot, as the necessity may order—four. And, Drusus, help thou my friend again. Doubtless this Arrius hath tricks of language; otherwise he could not so confound himself, to-day a Jew, to-morrow a Roman; but of the rich tongue of Athene—discourseth he in that as well?”
“With such purity, Messala, he might have been a contestant in the Isthmia.”
“Art thou listening, Caius?” said Messala. “The fellow is qualified to salute a woman—for that matter Aristomache herself—in the Greek; and as I keep the count, that is five. What sayest thou?”