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‘Then I will drink it for you, O man of tender stomach – you grow delicate,’ said Afer, with a derisive laugh; ‘fortune to us both!’

He drained it off, and the slave disappeared with the emptied cup.

‘If I want thee soon I can hear of thee at the same place, Cestus?’

‘As usual!’

‘I will keep you no longer. Go and feed on the best sausages you can find.’

‘Thanks, noble patron – you will find me ever ready and devoted.’

‘As I found thee this morning. Expect to hear of me very soon.’

With these words they emerged into the hall, and Cestus, drawing a long breath as he saw the way clear, went off at a pace which utterly belied his fainting state.

CHAPTER III

From the centre of his atrium Afer watched his well-furnished client retreat down the passage or lobby which led to the street, and marked, with a sour smile, the hasty stride, or almost leap, with which he vanished out of the sunlight which filled the porch. He stood a while with lips compressed, as, with a heart aching with wrath and mortification, he pondered on what had passed, on the sum of money he was lacking, and the hateful manner of its extortion. Then he turned and bade his slaves prepare to accompany him to the bath, which was an indispensable daily luxury to a Roman, and usually indulged in previous to the dinner hour.

Though not what Rome would call a wealthy man, T. Domitius Afer was of sufficient means, and from his connection with Fabricius, we may gather, of sufficient right of birth, to rank him among the equestrian order. His house, though small, was incontestably ruled by a master possessing the somewhat rare quality of exquisite taste. Harmony and symmetry reigned over all its appointments, ordered by the still more rare magic of the hand, which rounds off the formal chilliness of perfect chastity and regularity, by an artful and timely touch of graceful negligence.

There was no painting, statue, nor carved vase, nor couch, which might not, from its beauty and delicacy of design and finish, have had a place amid the household magnificence of Caesar. The combination of faculties which we call taste can perform wonders of delight with the meanest appliances. It requires inexhaustible resources, together with barbaric ignorance and coarseness, to shock the senses.

Afer remained some minutes pacing up and down the atrium of his house in deep thought. Then rousing himself he beheld his slaves awaiting his departure, with towels, unguents, and other necessaries. Without further delay, therefore, he left the house and proceeded to some private baths in the neighbourhood, where he enjoyed the company of some acquaintances, as well as the physical refreshment of what moderns call a Turkish bath. When he had leisurely gone through this delightful process; when he had finally been scraped with the strigil, rubbed dry and anointed from head to foot with a perfumed unguent, his youthful Greek attendant robed him with most elaborate care to suit his exacting taste, and he left the baths to step into a kind of sedan chair, which awaited him at the doors. He was borne thus, the short distance which intervened, to the house of one Apicius, on the Palatine, the most fashionable quarter in Rome, and finally to become almost the exclusive property of the emperors.

He alighted in a courtyard, whereon opened the magnificent entrance of a very large and imposing mansion. He went in. The lofty interior gleamed with rich marbles and gilding, and the air was laden with the scent of the perfumed fountain which twinkled and sparkled in the shaft of light, descending from the blue sunny sky through the square opening in the centre of the roof. Beyond was the vista of the entire length of the house, through its columns and peristyle to a portico and ornamental garden beyond. The sumptuous magnificence which met the eye at every turn, the priceless statuary, the frescoes on every wall, the rare, polished, carved wood and stone, the ivory, gilding, and tapestries, betokened the lavish extravagance of vast wealth. Crossing the spotless floor of marble, Afer was ushered into a reception room of the same rich character, where lounged or stood some half dozen guests engaged in conversation. Our knight’s attire, though of irreproachable taste and fashion, was modest compared with the superlative richness displayed by some of those he now rubbed against.

Charinus was a dandy of the first water, whose glorious garments, oppressive perfumes, smooth, well-tended, effeminately handsome face and languid hauteur, at once betrayed his disposition and ambition. Flaccus was a dandy, whose still youthful and ambitious mind animated a physical organisation long since bereft of vigour and beauty. Art did its best to disguise the ruthless blight of time, and age put a good face on its impotence, whilst it was being racked with follies and excesses which belonged to its grandchildren. So the withered old trunk stuck itself over with green boughs, seeking to hide its sapless rottenness, but succeeding only in rousing the laughter of men.

In the puffy face, and uncertain wavering eyes of Pansa, together with his nervous, trembling fingers, could be seen the demon of drunkenness; whilst his seat apart, and his sullen, dejected, downcast looks, marked a nightmare depression of spirits, during a brief separation from the wine cup.

Torquatus, unlike Flaccus, retained no foolish vanity in his advanced years, and his simple attire bore a strong contrast to the rest. Curiosity might be awakened as to the reason why he was included in the company present, for peevish, snappish acidity was plain as written symbols in his prying, sharp, small eyes, in his hard, withered, wrinkled face, and thin, sourly down-drawn lips. To the host, in the middle of these, Afer proceeded to pay his respects. Unheedful, unanswering to the chatter around his chair, the lord of the house sat absorbed in his reflections. He leant his head first on one hand and then on the other, shifting continuously and restlessly, as if a prey to uneasy thoughts. His face was pale, and his brows slightly contracted. Ever and anon, when his attention was desired to hear something of interest, he gave a nod, or glimmering smile, rather weary and ghastly than otherwise. His dress was the envy even of the dandies, his guests; for his ‘synthesis,’ or loose upper garment, which all wore, as more convenient for table than the toga, was made of silk – a fabric, at that time, in Rome, of such extravagant cost, as to be forbidden by imperial edict only a few years before the date of this story. The appearance of Afer before him roused him from his reverie.

‘Welcome, my friend,’ said he, extending his hand, and shaking himself, as if to clear away all thoughts that interfered with his duties as host; ‘welcome to my poor house!’

‘I trust you marked the poverty as you came through,’ rasped the voice of Torquatus, the sour, ever on the watch to vent a sneer.

‘I came hastily to greet Apicius, our generous host,’ returned Afer, as he exchanged courtesies with the smiling guests, all of whom he knew.

‘And faster still to eat his dinner,’ added the old man.

‘Ho! ho! Torquatus, I see you are in your best humour,’ cried Apicius, joining in the laugh, with more vivacity and briskness in his appearance.

‘Who arrived first to his appointment, Apicius?’ inquired Afer.

‘When my slave called me to the room, I found Torquatus here alone to greet me,’ replied the host.

‘Then has Torquatus the best right to the best part of your dinner, noble host, since his eagerness to eat it outstripped us all. Hungry Torquatus!’

Loud laughter from all drowned the snarling reply of the old man, but his scowling eyes spoke volumes.

‘Thou hast it fairly,’ said Apicius, when the merriment ceased; ‘but don’t be ill-humoured, Torquatus – it so ill becomes thee.’

The juvenile mirth of Flaccus shook his sides at this, and dislocated some of the enamel on his face; and ere the amusement had subsided, the heavy purple curtain of the doorway was drawn aside to admit another comer, a man in the prime of his age, of tall commanding presence and handsome countenance. He bestowed one rapid glance upon the occupants of the room, and ere their eyes, in turn, were drawn towards him, his lips were wreathed in a bland smile.

‘The Prefect Sejanus!’ announced the slave at the door.

As the name of the most powerful man in Rome fell on the ears of the company, it banished the laughter from their lips. Following the example of their host, they pressed around the new arrival, eager to salute him. Flaccus, the elderly dandy, who was a small man, tried to strain himself, like the frog in the fable, into an individual of imposing appearance. Torquatus posed himself into a caricature of a philosopher of elevated and dignified severity. Even the nerveless Pansa elevated his tremulous eyes, and rose from his chair. But when the first greetings were over, the conversation soon fell back once more into a current of liveliness and jest, under the influence of the imperial minister’s good humour and indiscriminate affability.

‘Come, friends, it is time to get to table,’ said Apicius; ‘and for the laggards who are yet absent, let them abide by what their unpunctuality may bring them. Ha! here comes one. Caius, I cannot enter my dinner as an equal attraction to love; but yet, for once – ’

‘What is the finest feast to a man in love! Heed him not, Martialis,’ said Sejanus, grasping the hand of the newcomer. The latter, a young man of about thirty, smiled in response to a shower of badinage which followed this initiative, until a slave entered and announced the feast in readiness to be served.

‘Come, then!’ cried the host; ‘we lack one, but he is ever behind – ’tis part of his religion. Let him take the empty place when he thinks fit.’ So saying, he took Sejanus, as his most distinguished guest, by the hand, and, followed by the others, led the way to the dining apartment, where a table, blazing with an equipage of precious metal, awaited them.

It is no purpose of these pages to enter into a detailed description of the extravagance, the innumerable and curious dishes, of a Roman banquet of the first order. Antiquaries have already done so in accounts which are easily to be met with. The recital of the ingenuity, invention, and wealth lavished on a meal is extraordinary to modern measurement of luxury and extravagance. Fish, fowl, and beast were brought from the ends of the earth, in order that jaded appetites might nibble at them, or at some particular part of them, dressed by a chef of the highest art; and, in the present instance, nothing was likely to be lacking from the feast of one who won historic fame as a gourmand.

Nor was the entertainment deemed sufficient of itself, but it must be served in an apartment of splendour equal to the occasion. That of Apicius did not aspire to the novelty and outlay brought to bear on the saloon of Nero’s golden house of a few years later, which was constructed like a theatre, with scenes which changed at every course. But, for a private individual, of a period just launching fairly into degraded luxury, his dining-room was, perhaps, the most magnificent in the city.

Along with the cunning of workers in ivory and precious metals, the hand of the painter and sculptor had adorned it with the best children of their genius. In the centre of the apartment was placed the square dinner-table, which had the repute of costing the owner a fortune in itself. It was made from the roots of the citron tree, whereby the perfection of beautiful markings was obtained. It was highly polished, and the massive legs which supported it were of ivory and gold, elaborately carved at the extremities into the semblances of lions’ feet. On three sides of the table were ranged three couches of the same costly workmanship. They were spread with deeply-fringed cloth of gold and cushions to match. The latter were to assist the diners in their attitude, for the Roman reclined at full length at his meals; and, while he reached for his food with his right hand to the table, on a lower level than the couch, his left elbow and hand, aided by the cushions, supported his head and upper part of his body in a convenient lounging posture.

The knotty face of Torquatus involuntarily twisted into a grimace of delight as he and his companions stretched themselves in their places around the glittering table. The failing eyes of Pansa emitted a feeble flash as they fell on the old jars of Falernian wine of the Opimian brand, the most celebrated vintage of all, and perfectly priceless.

When all the diners were placed according to the marshalling of the slave who acted as master of ceremonies, the slippers of each guest were drawn off by their own domestics, who attended them to table. A company of musicians struck up a slow measured strain, and the professional carver of the establishment forthwith commenced to show his dexterity in dividing the dressed viands to the beat of the music. Then the diners spread their napkins of fine linen edged with gold fringe, and directing their servants to set before them whatever delicacy they fancied, they forthwith gave their utmost energy and attention to the business of the evening with a zest as critical as keen.

Torquatus gobbled and ravened like a beast of prey. The hard, protuberant muscles of his face heaved and fell, and worked, incessantly, under the skin, which soon began to shine and glisten with perspiration. Charinus, the exquisite, nibbled at the most curious and highly-seasoned delicacies, with the pampered appetite of a gourmand. The first deep draught of old Falernian restored Pansa and restrung his drooping nerves. His eyes brightened, his face lightened, and, with a smack of his lips, he reached briskly forward to the golden platter, which his slave had just placed before him. It was the custom of his countrymen to temper their wine with water; but, beyond cooling it with the snows of the Apennines, Pansa approved of no such folly, so that his slave troubled the water pitcher no more than to give an appearance of decency. As cup rapidly succeeded cup his vivacity returned and his tongue became witty. It was a marvellous restoration. The guest who in the greatest measure followed his example, though still at a considerable distance, was Caius Martialis, who occupied the place next and above his host, on the left hand, or third couch. Dissipation had placed its marks on the noble features of this young man, and he appeared to drink and talk with an increasing recklessness, and even desperation.

Whilst in the middle of the first course the last guest entered the room to make up the number of nine – three to each couch, the number of the muses. The new-comer was rather short in stature and thick-set, with squat, dark features, as though descended from negro blood. As he came into the room he glanced round with a supercilious look. Scarcely bending to his host, he bowed more markedly to Sejanus, whilst the remainder of the company he seemed to ignore utterly. The seat reserved for him was the lowest on the couch next his host – the worst at the table. He took it with a scowl, amid the ill-concealed smiles of the others. Apicius himself, after bidding him welcome, sank back on his cushions with a sigh of triumph and relief. Zoilus the millionaire, the son of a slave, the great rival of himself in the extravagance of Rome, had on a splendid silk garment, but it was only edged with gold, whereas his own was most beautifully figured and wrought with the same all over.

The enormous acquired wealth of this individual, and his ostentatious use of it, made him a very noted leader of fashion; but, while people applauded and truckled to him they scoffed aside at his innate vulgarity and arrogance. He began his dinner, at once, by asking haughtily and ill-humouredly for some unusual dish. It was at once supplied. Apicius ate calmly on, and the rest smiled and winked covertly. It was a trial of strength between the champions of luxury. The same thing happened more than once throughout the banquet; but nothing, however rare, in the range of culinary art was lacking from the plate of Zoilus that his ingenuity could suggest. The face of Apicius, though calm and stoical, covered a heart devoured by anxiety. A slight defection of his cook, a slight oversight in the study of their records, a trifling mistake or misadventure in the combination of their ingredients, might have opened the way for his rival’s adverse, if courteous criticism. But everything was perfect. The household, from its officers downwards, had surpassed itself. The result was the perfection of culinary and decorative art, combined with the utmost variety and rarity. Praises flew from lip to lip. Some were fired into ecstasies of admiration and wonder; pleasure sat on every countenance, except that of Zoilus. He had remained silent for full a quarter of an hour. His ingenuity was exhausted, and his enemy’s armour unpierced. It was the culminating point of the complete pre-eminence of Apicius. He gave a sign, and the butler, with much solemnity and ceremony, set a magnificent dish on the table with his own hands, amid a flourish of the musicians.

The guests looked on curiously.

Apicius announced the name of the delicacy which steamed on the gleaming gold. He bade them try it. Its style was entirely new and novel to Rome. A portion was cut and handed to Sejanus; after him the others were served. Its delicious and novel flavour was proved by the enraptured expressions of each feaster as he tasted the portion set before him. It had only one fault, as Pansa said, with a sigh – there was not enough of it. Zoilus was left to the last, and the only remaining piece on the dish was placed before him. Livid and trembling with passion he motioned it away, muttering something about his inability to digest it. Apicius, therefore, with mock regret, beckoned the slave to transfer it to himself.

‘Good!’ said he, when he had finished it, speaking to his steward, whose glance hung upon him. ‘Tell Silo, Hippias, and Macer, that they have surpassed themselves. Their master is well pleased with them – with you all. He will not forget.’

It is to be regretted that history has preserved only the tradition of this remarkable production of Apicius’ kitchen, the fame of which subsequently filled aristocratic circles. Further than relating that the foundation of the dish was the carcase of a small unknown animal, captured in the limits of the empire, and brought home by a recently arrived ship, all details are wanting.

Gradually, after this interesting incident, the guests, languidly, fell more at their ease on their cushions, with laden stomachs and appeased appetites. Beyond nibbling furtively at sweet dainties and fruits, there was only inclination left to sip at the precious wine, and to employ their tongues and laugh at each other’s wit. But from this stage Apicius himself relapsed once more into his former fit of silent, unconscious abstraction. The minutes gathered into hours, and chatter and jest flew uninterruptedly around. Only at times the host was roused by the jesting challenges of his guests, rallying him on the subject of his absorbed reflections. Among the numerous glorious entertainments of Apicius this, the guests admitted to each other in many an aside, was the most perfect Rome had yet known. And yet, instead of being blithe and jocund with success, the hospitable entertainer reclined with melancholy, fixed eyes – opening his lips only to sip his wine from time to time. This could not fail to have an effect eventually, for what ought to have been the inspiration of their conviviality was cold, fireless, and mute. They struggled on for some time, but, at length, their cheerfulness sank beneath the chilling influence of those fixed, sad, downcast eyes and heedless ears. A social meeting largely takes its tone from its leader, and when the conversation became slower and more fitful, Afer exchanged glances with Sejanus and Flaccus with Charinus. Meaning looks went round from each to each to the seemingly unconscious Apicius, and from Apicius back to each other. Zoilus had no love or good-feeling to detain him. More or less discomfited and snubbed, he waited no longer, kicking against the pricks, but seized the opportunity and began to rise, briefly hinting that his absence was necessary.

‘Stay!’ said Apicius, suddenly starting, as if from a dream, at hearing these words spoken in his ear. ‘Stay yet for a few moments, Zoilus. I – I implore your pardon, friends, for I see I have fallen a prey to my reflections and forgotten you. It was behaviour unworthy even of a barbarian – I pray you give me your indulgence!’

‘Nay, noble Apicius, every one is liable to be overridden by his thoughts,’ said Sejanus.

‘True, and I will forthwith give you the clue to mine,’ was the reply.

‘Ha! we will, therefore, begin again,’ quoth Pansa, in thick tones, holding up his empty goblet for his slave to refill.

They all laughed, and then bent their eyes on the face of Apicius with renewed interest.

‘Nothing, dear friends, but the most sorrowful thoughts could have led me to exhibit such conduct toward you,’ said their host. ‘It has been my greatest ambition – ever my pride and pleasure to see my friends happy around my table.’

‘Dear Apicius, you have ever succeeded, and not the least this day,’ said Martialis gently.

A murmur of approval ran round the couches.

‘You do me honour,’ resumed Apicius; ‘you have been good friends and companions hitherto, and I have done, humbly, my best to return your love. Be patient, I will not detain you long; and especially as you will never again recline round this table at my request. I am grieved to say it,’ continued he, after allowing the expressions of startled surprise to pass, ‘but I am resolved to change my condition, and Rome will know me no more.’

Ill-concealed joy lighted up the vulgar face of Zoilus, but the visages of Torquatus, Flaccus, and Pansa were blank and thunderstruck at this unlooked-for announcement.

‘Say not so, Apicius!’ quoth Martialis, turning his prematurely worn, but noble face toward his host, ‘you rend our hearts.’

Apicius, with a fond look, laid his hand gently on the speaker’s shoulder, but did not speak.

‘This is rank treason that cannot pass,’ said Sejanus jestingly. ‘Rome cannot spare thee, noble Apicius – thou shalt not even leave thy house – I shall send a guard of my Pretorians, who shall block thee in.’

A faint smile rested on the lips of Apicius at this conceit.

‘We shall see how that plan will act, Prefect,’ said he. ‘Send thy Pretorians – a whole cohort – only you must be quick.’

Torquatus sat dumb and forgot his jibes; the remainder listened for what was to follow.

‘It is true, my friends, I am about to quit the pleasures, the bustle, the virtues and vices of our beloved city of the hills. I am eager for perfect serenity, far from the struggling crowd, and I go shortly to see it.’

‘Whither? We will seek you out – I, at least,’ interrupted the voice of Martialis next to him.

‘Thou shalt learn ere very long, my Caius. Which among you does not, at certain times, if not constantly, wish for the tranquillity of the rustic, whose music is the whisper of the groves, the rippling of the stream, and the notes of the birds? Eating simply, sleeping soundly, rising cheerfully. Contented with what the gods have given him – the summer sun, the pure air, the green pastures, sweet water and the vine-clad slope; a heart unvexed by ambitions, envyings, ingratitudes. When I see him wander, wonderingly, through the streets, I envy him his brown cheek, his clear skin, his cheerful simplicity, his vigorous body which cleaves the torrent of pallid citizens. He seems to breathe the odour of the quiet groves and dewy grass. I am sick at heart and weary, friends. I loathe the sight of my once loved city of the hills – the marble, the stone, the thronging people. Peace! Peace! That song of Horace haunts me. Hear it, although you know it well – it will help you to divine my spirit in a little degree.’ He then recited the beautiful song of Horace, the sixteenth of his second book, of which we offer the following translation, inadequate as it is: —

 
‘Whosoever tempest-tossed
Upon the wide Aegean waters,
Prays the gods for peace and rest,
When darkling the moon is hid
Amid the murky clouds,
And guiding stars shine not
To cheer the sailor’s breast.
 
 
‘War-torn Thrace cries Peace!
And Peace! the quivered Median bold:
But, Grosphus, it is neither bought
With purple, gems, nor gold.
For neither riches
Nor the lictor of a consul’s nod,
Can drive the troubles of a mind aloof,
Nor flout the cares which flit
About a gilded roof.
 
 
‘With him who lives with little
Life goes well;
Whose father’s cup
Shines bright upon a simple board:
Whose slumbers light
Are never harmed by fear, nor sudden fright,
Which tells of hidden hoard.
 
 
‘Why strain ourselves to gain so much
In this short life of ours?
Why change our childhood’s homes for lands
That glow with other suns?
What banished man whose fate is such
He fain would shun himself?
 
 
‘Grim, cankering care climbs up the brazened ships,
And swifter than the stag,
Or eastern wind which sweeps
The storms and rattling rain,
It leaveth not the bands of horsemen
Trooping o’er the plain.
 
 
‘Be happy for the day,
And hate to think on what may follow!
Tempering all bitterness
With an easy laugh;
For no such happiness there is
As knows no sorrow.
 
 
‘Swift death bore off Achilles, and old age
Hath shrunk Tithonus —
Time, mayhap, will give to me
That which it denies to thee.’
 

This foreign rendering can give only a faint idea of the effect which Apicius produced upon his hearers, by the beauty of his elocution, in his native tongue; for it was given in a voice of singular, pathetic melancholy. The hot burning tears dropped silently from the down-turned face of Martialis. Then, for a brief moment, he raised his swimming eyes toward his friend. All that was purest and noblest in his nature struggled with those welling drops, from beneath the load of a careless, misguided life, and beautified his weary face. The voices of the others were raised in entreaties and arguments, and even Torquatus summoned a snarling joke. But Apicius was firm, and only shook his head.

‘Think not that I go heedlessly,’ said he; ‘we have passed many delightful hours together. Although I shall henceforth be absent, I would not have my memory altogether die amongst you. I have, therefore, to ask each of you to accept of a slight memorial which may, at various times, as I hope, recall something of Apicius and his days.’

‘But you tell us not where you go,’ murmured Martialis once more.

‘Patience, Caius – you shall know; it is within easy reach, on an easy road.’

Martialis made a gesture of pleasure, and Apicius gave a sign to his butler. On a sideboard stood a row of nine objects of nearly equal height, entirely draped and hidden by white gold-fringed napkins thrown over them. They were curious and unusual, and had, many times, already, excited the inward curiosity of the company.

The slave advanced to these and carefully took the first. At a nod from his master he placed it before Martialis, on the table, with the snowy white napkin still hiding whatever was beneath. The next was placed before Sejanus. The others before Charinus, Flaccus, Torquatus, Pansa, Afer, and Zoilus in rotation. One was left. Apicius pointed to his own place. The slave put it down before him, and the table was ranged round with these mysterious white-robed objects.

‘Friends,’ said Apicius calmly, ‘beneath those covers you will find the presents which I give to you in token of our fellowship. I have striven to the best of my ability to render them suitable and useful to their owners. Look at them and accept of them, I pray.’

They all, with more or less eagerness, lifted the napkins from their allotted gifts and sat gazing thereat, at Apicius, and each other with mingled expressions of ill-suppressed anger, mortification, and disappointment. The napkin before Apicius was still untouched, and he received the rancorous glances which were shot towards him, with a calm, scornful expression.

Before Sejanus was a small representation of a lictor’s fasces, a miniature axe bound up in a bundle of twigs; but in addition to the axe was the model of an iron hook, such as was used to drag the bodies of traitors and malefactors down the Gemonian steps into the Tiber.

The cheek of the conspirator flushed, and from beneath his gathering brows he flashed a look as dangerous and dark as a thundercloud.

‘Be not offended, Prefect,’ said Apicius; ‘I act as a true friend who fears not the truth, and not as a parasite, who bestows nothing but what may prove pleasant to the ear.’

His cold, mocking tone belied his words, and, ere he finished, Zoilus, with a face purple with rage and fury, had jumped from his seat and dashed the article he had uncovered to the floor. It was a small figure of a negro, carved in ebony, having its nakedness barely draped in a ludicrous fashion with a little cloak of figured silk.

‘What!’ cried Apicius jibingly; ‘displeased with the image of your grandfather?’

But Zoilus, speechless and shuddering with his boiling feelings, rushed from the room with his slaves. He was followed by a titter, which the biting satire of the proceeding even wrung from the offended natures of the others.

Torquatus sat scowling before a small stand, on which was placed a common wooden platter having a copper coin in the centre. Pansa evinced his disgust of a similar stand bearing a diminutive cup of silver. The figure of a very ancient goat on its hind legs, having a garland of roses around its horns, caused Flaccus to fume and fret immoderately. Afer smiled scornfully upon a miniature gilded weather-vane; whilst a mirror, upheld by an Apollo, with an averted face, was regarded by Charinus with ineffable disdain.

Thus had Apicius amused his invention. A small bronze casket was deemed sufficient for Martialis. It was unpretentious in its outward appearance; but a fast-locked box ever provokes curiosity.