The ædile shrugged his shoulders; the young Sallust, who was thought the best natured man in Pompeii, stared in surprise. The graceful Lepidus, who rarely spoke for fear of disturbing his features, cried, "Per Hercle!" The Parasite Clodius muttered, "Ædepol;" and the sixth banqueter, who was the umbra of Clodius, and whose duty it was to echo his richer friend when he could not praise him—the parasite of a parasite,—muttered also, "Ædepol."
"Well, you Italians are used to these spectacles; we Greeks are more merciful. Ah, shade of Pindar!—the rapture of a true Grecian game—the emulation of man against man—the generous strife—the half-mournful triumph—so proud to contend with a noble foe, so sad to see him overcome! But ye understand me not."
"The kid is excellent," said Sallust.
The slave whose duty it was to carve, and who valued himself on his science, had just performed that office on the kid to the sound of music, his knife keeping time, beginning with a low tenor, and accomplishing the arduous feat amid a magnificent diapason.
"Your cook is of course from Sicily?" said Pansa.
"Yes, of Syracuse."
"I will play you for him," said Clodius; "we will have a game between the courses."
"Better that sort of game, certainly, than a beast-fight; but I cannot stake my Sicilian—you have nothing so precious to stake me in return."
"My Phillida—my beautiful dancing girl!"