In a corner, at ease on the divan, Messala himself may be seen. Around him, sitting or standing, are his courtierly admirers, plying him with questions. There is, of course, but one topic.
Enter Drusus and Cecilius.
“Ah!” cries the young prince, throwing himself on the divan at Messala’s feet, “Ah, by Bacchus, I am tired!”
“Whither away?” asks Messala.
“Up the street; up to the Omphalus, and beyond—who shall say how far? Rivers of people; never so many in the city before. They say we will see the whole world at the Circus to-morrow.”
Messala laughed scornfully.
“The idiots! Perpol! They never beheld a Circensian with Cæsar for editor. But, my Drusus, what found you?”
“Nothing.”
“O—ah! You forget,” said Cecilius.
“What?” asked Drusus.