“Ah, Heraklea! I knew at Heraklea a certain maiden from Colchis, for whom I would have given all the divorced women of this city, not excluding Poppæa. But these are old stories. Tell me now, rather, what is to be heard from the Parthian boundary. It is true that they weary me every Vologeses of them, and Tiridates and Tigranes,—those barbarians who, as young Arulenus insists, walk on all fours at home, and pretend to be human only when in our presence. But now people in Rome speak much of them, if only for the reason that it is dangerous to speak of aught else.”
“The war is going badly, and but for Corbulo it might be turned to defeat.”
“Corbulo! by Bacchus! a real god of war, a genuine Mars, a great leader, at the same time quick-tempered, honest, and dull. I love him, even for this,—that Nero is afraid of him.”
“Corbulo is not a dull man.”
“Perhaps thou art right, but for that matter it is all one. Dulness, as Pyrrho says, is in no way worse than wisdom, and differs from it in nothing.”
Vinicius began to talk about the war; but when Petronius closed his eyes again, the young man, seeing his uncle’s tired and somewhat emaciated face, changed the conversation, and inquired with a certain interest about his health.
Petronius opened his eyes again.
Health!—No. He did not feel well, he said. He had not gone so far yet, it is true, as young Sissena, who had lost sensation to such a degree that when he was brought to the bath in the morning he inquired, ‘Am I sitting?’ But he was not well. Vinicius had just committed him to the care of Asklepios and Kypris. But he, Petronius, did not believe in Asklepios. It was not known even whose son Asklepios was, the son of Arsinoe or Koronis; and if the mother was doubtful, what was to be said of the father? Who could be sure in that time who his own father was?
Thereupon Petronius began to laugh; then he continued,—
“Two years ago I sent to Epidaurus three dozen live cocks and a goblet of gold; but dost thou know why? I said to myself, ‘Whether this helps or not, it will do me no harm.’ Though people make offerings to the gods, yet I believe that all think as I do,—all, with the exception, perhaps, of muledrivers on the road at the Porta Capena. Besides Asklepios, I had to do with sons of
