Florus now gave the signal for the feast, and there entered a train of pretty Greek maidens with baskets containing wreaths of flowers, for to dine ungarlanded would have been a departure from fashionable usage. Berenice chose a wreath of violets; Florus made a similar selection. “The flower honored by a princess must be _my_ choice, too,” he whispered. This little by-play did not pass unnoticed by Crispus. “Florus is madly in love with her,” commented Rufus. “For the matter of that, who isn’t?” “I thought that Florus already had a wife,” said Crispus. “That’s no obstacle in these lax days, when a man takes a new wife with each year. It is whispered that Florus contemplates divorcing Cleopatra.” “Where is Cleopatra at this present time?” asked Crispus. “In Rome,” answered Tertullus, as he fixed a garland of roses upon his head, “looking after her precious husband’s interests. He takes advantage of her absence to pay court to Berenice, who cares not a whit for him, and intends no hurt to Cleopatra. Berenice is not to be too hastily condemned,” he continued, observing Crispus’ frown. “Her action in this matter, as in all others, is guided by two motives--love of her people, and love of her own superstition. Now, Florus, in the exercise of his procuratorship, can, if he be so minded, inflict injuries upon the Jewish people, and can also, though to a limited extent, interfere with the administration of their public worship. ‘But,’ argues our fair Berenice, ‘he is not likely to adopt these courses while seeking to win _me_, who am a Jewess. Therefore, for the good of the Jews I will amuse him with hopes.’ Now after this long speech,” added Tertullus, “let me eat. I can see the lampreys coming, and they are my favorite dish.” And the delicacy being set before him, Tertullus applied himself thereto. After a time he raised his voice and addressed the procurator. “I have myself, O Florus, given great attention to the breeding of lampreys, but I confess that I can never get them to attain the delicate flavor of those bred by you.” Two or three other guests made similar remarks. Florus smiled with the air of a man who, having discovered an excellent thing, is determined to keep it to himself. “Now, it is precisely because I happen to know _how_ the delicate flavor is acquired,” whispered Rufus, “that I avoid partaking of that dish.” “By the trident of Neptune,” said Tertullus, “I wish you would communicate the secret to me, for I am mightily fond of lampreys.” “Well, keep it a secret, for Florus may not thank me for telling it. Whenever one of his slaves commits a fault worthy of death, the poor wretch, instead of being hanged, is flung into the piscina to feed the lampreys. By the gods, I do not jest,” he added, as he noted Tertullus’ look of incredulity. “Get his chief piscinarius into a corner, put a dagger to his throat, and he’ll confess that what I say is true.”