“All the slaves are sure to have gone to the show, unless any of them should be Christians. Besides, Porphyry would hear you, he’s only in a cat’s sleep,” returned his companion.
“Well, I mean to say it’s a shame. All the town will be in the theatre by this time.”
“How many gladiators, said you?”
“Forty pairs, the best show Campania has seen time out of mind.”
“How has it all come about?”
“Oh, news comes of the death of Postumus, killed by his own soldiers, and this passes as a great victory for want of a better, ‘We must have a day of thanksgiving,’ says Theocles. ‘Right,’ says Leaena, ‘I am dying to see an exhibition of gladiators.’ Theocles demurs at first, expecting to have to find the money—but Leaena tugs at his beard, and he gives in. Just at the nick of time the right sort of fellow pops up nobody knows whence, a lanista with hair like curling helichryse, as Theocritus has it, and a small army of gladiators, whom, out of devotion to the Emperor, he offers to exhibit for nothing. Who so pleased as Theocles now? He takes the chair as archon with Leaena by his side, and off goes every soul in the place, except Pannychis, who cannot bear the sight of blood, and Porphyry, who is an outrageous humanitarian, and us poor devils left in charge of this old dreamer.”
“Couldn’t we leave him to mind himself? He isn’t likely to awake yet.”
“Try him with your cloak-pin.” The student detached the implement in question, which was about the size of a small stiletto. Feeling uncertain what part of his person was to be the subject of experiment, Plotinus judged it advisable to manifest his recovery in an unmistakable fashion.
“O dear Master, what joy!” cried both the students in a breath. “Porphyry! Porphyry!”
The trusty scholar appeared immediately, and under pretence of fetching food, the two neophytes eloped to the amphitheatre.