Cæsar was submitting to the attentions of his slaves, who were exchanging his robes of state for the comfortable evening synthesis. But the proconsul was in no mood for the publicity of the evening banquet. When his chief freedman announced that the invited guests had assembled, the master bade him go to the company and inform them that their host was indisposed, and wished them to make merry without him. The evening advanced. Twice Cæsar touched to his lips a cup of spiced wine, but partook of nothing else. Sending his servants from his chamber, he alternately read, and wrote nervously on his tablets, then erased all that he had inscribed, and paced up and down the room. Presently the anxious head-freedman thrust his head into the apartment.
"My lord, it is past midnight. The guests have long departed. There will be serious injury done your health, if you take no food and rest."
"My good Antiochus," replied the proconsul, "you are a faithful friend."
The freedman—an elderly, half-Hellenized Asiatic—knelt and kissed the Roman's robe.
"My lord knows that I would die for him."
"I believe you, Antiochus. The gods know I never needed a friend more than now! Do not leave the room."
The general's eyes were glittering, his cheeks flushed with an unhealthy colour. The freedman was startled.
"Domine, domine!" he began, "you are not well—let me send for Calchas, the physician; a mild sleeping powder—"
For the first time in his long service of Cæsar, Antiochus met with a burst of wrath from his master.
"Vagabond! Do you think a sleeping potion will give peace to me? Speak again of Calchas, and I'll have you crucified!"