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[28]
I cannot linger over details. We went into the
bath. We stayed till we ran with sweat, and then at once passed through into the
cold water. Trimalchio was now anointed all over and rubbed down, not with towels,
but with blankets of the softest wool. Three masseurs sat there drinking Falernian
wine under his eyes. They quarrelled and spilt a quantity. Trimalchio said they were
drinking his health. Then he was rolled up in a scarlet woollen coat and put in a
litter. Four runners decked with medals went before him, and a hand-cart on which
his favourite rode. This was a wrinkled blear-eyed boy uglier than his master
Trimalchio. As he was being driven off, a musician with a tiny pair of pipes
arrived, and played the whole way as though he were whispering secrets in his ear.
We followed, lost in wonder, and came with Agamemnon to the door. A notice was
fastened on the doorpost: “NO SLAVE TO GO OUT OF DOORS EXCEPT BY THE
MASTER'SORDERS. PENALTY, ONE HUNDRED STRIPES.” Just at the entrance stood
a porter in green clothes, with a cherry-coloured belt, shelling peas in a silver
dish. A golden cage hung in the doorway, and a spotted magpie in it greeted
visitors.
Petronius Arbiter. Petronius. Michael Heseltine. London. William Heinemann. 1913.
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