‘Yes,’ echoed the fierce Cingonius Varro; ‘so many slaves so many foes. We nobles live all our lives in a sort of beleaguered garrison. If the Senate does not do its duty, I shall emigrate.’ ‘Who makes our slaves our foes?’ answered Seneca. ‘Mine are not. Most of them are faithful to me. They are my humble friends. I believe they love me. I know that many of them would die for me. We become slaves ourselves because we have so many.’ ‘Tush!’ said Scævinus. ‘These sentimentalities will ruin us. Why, some of us have a thousand slaves, and some of us have more. We don’t know their names, and have to keep a nomenclator to tell us. Galba is the only person I know who keeps up the ridiculous old fashion of all the slaves and freedmen coming in twice daily, to say “Good morning” and “Good evening.” Are we to waste our time in trying to curry favour with them? I _rule_ mine by the lash and the chain and the torture. Ha! Pudens, my grave newly-wedded primipilar; here will be some work for you.’ ‘Never!’ said Pudens. ‘I would rather resign my commission than carry out the Silanian law and superintend the slaughter of the innocent.’ ‘And you, my young Titus?’ asked Petronius. ‘I hear you are going soon to see some military service. Do you think that your step-mother Cænis and the boy Domitian will be able to keep your slaves in order?’ ‘We have but few, Petronius,’ said Titus; ‘but they love us. When I was ill, all the _familia_ were as tender in their attentions as if they had been brothers.’ ‘Like to like,’ whispered Tigellinus. ‘He is half of slave-origin himself.’ ‘And what may _your_ origin be?’ asked Vestinus, to whom the remark had been made, and who loathed Tigellinus.