‘We are not totally unacquainted,’ said Afer, bowing coldly, whilst the other returned the salutation in silence; ‘I have the honour of knowing his brother more intimately.’ ‘Brother! I never asked thee, Lucius, of any brothers or sisters—tell me, then!’ interposed Fabricius. ‘I have one brother only.’ ‘The nearest friend and heir of Apicius, whom you have heard of, uncle,’ said Afer; ‘he who spent his patrimony, and after dinner, t’other day, poisoned himself because his treasure‐chest was empty.’ ‘I heard something of a tale—Natta told me, I think. If I mistake not, nephew, it was there you dined only a few days ago?’ ‘I witnessed the whole affair; the Centurion’s brother was left as chief mourner, and, I understand, what remains of the wealth of Apicius goes entirely to compensate him for his long devotion. But the Centurion knows better than I how the matter lies—perhaps brotherly affection has divided the generosity of Apicius.’ ‘For that information I must refer you to the same source whence you derived the other,’ replied Martialis coldly. ‘It is what neither belongs to me nor to thee, nephew,’ said Fabricius. ‘You will make me know your brother at the first opportunity, Centurion.’ ‘Ask him to dine with you, uncle; but you will have to provide him with a more artistic banquet, in order to give him an opportunity of proving his critical powers. Caius Martialis, the Centurion’s brother, is well known for his perfect knowledge of the elegant arts and pleasures of life. No one disputes his dictum as to the beauty of a woman, or the flavour of a dish, or the fold of a garment—especially feminine,—or the business of the bath, the action of a player, the knowledge of the midnight city—the whole delicate art, in fact, of sustaining a continuous and uniform course of pleasure, without rushing into undue excess, or relapsing into ennui. His acquaintance is a privilege, uncle, and you will find it so.’ ‘I prefer that my host should judge for himself of the character of my brother, rather than accept it from your lips,’ said Martialis, with the hot blood tingling in his veins at the sneering tones and curling lip of the speaker. ‘That has ever been my custom, Centurion, and there is no reason why I should alter it in this case,’ interposed Fabricius. ‘Take your place, nephew—eat and drink, and tell me how the time has gone with you since you went away.’ ‘No, uncle, your turn before mine—I am burning to hear an account of this adventure. How came you, in Heaven’s name, to be on the Aventine at that time of night?’