“And you did not even see him at his best,” exclaimed Favorinus, the Gaul, the sophist and rhetorician. “He has received an unfavorable oracle and the stars seem to confirm the prophecy. This puts him out of tune. Between ourselves let me tell you I know a few who are his superiors in dialectic, but in his happiest moments he is irresistible-irresistible. Since we made up our quarrel he is like a brother to me. I will defend him against all comers, for, as I say, Hadrian is my brother.” The Gaul had poured out this speech in a defiant tone and with flashing eyes. He grew pale in his cups, touchy, boastful and very talkative. “No doubt you are right,” replied Apollonius, “but it seemed to us that he was bitter in discussion. His eyes are gloomy rather than gay.” “He is my brother,” repeated Favorinus, “and as for his eyes, I have seen them flash--by Hercules! like the radiant sun, or merry twinkling stars! And his mouth! I know him well! He is my brother, and I will wager that while he condescended--it is too comical--condescended to dispute with you--with you, there was a sly smile at each corner of his mouth--so--look now--like this he smiled.” “I repeat, he seemed to us gloomy rather than gay,” retorted Apollonius, with annoyance; and Pancrates added: “If he does really know how to jest he certainly did not prove it to us.” “Not out of ill-will,” laughed the Gaul, “you do not know him, but I--I am his friend and may follow wherever--he goes. Now only wait and I will tell you a few stories about him. If I chose I could describe his whole soul to you as if it lay there on the surface of the wine in my cup. Once in Rome he went to inspect the newly-decorated baths of Agrippa, and in the undressing-room he saw an old man, a veteran who had fought with him somewhere or other. My memory is greatly admired, but his is in no respect inferior. Scaurus was the old man’s name--yes--yes, Scaurus. He did not observe Caesar at first, for after his bath his wounds were burning and he was rubbing his back against the rough stone of a pillar. Hadrian however called to him: ‘Why are you scratching yourself, my friend?’ and Scaurus, not at once recognizing Caesar’s voice, answered without turning round: ‘Because I have no slave to do it for me.’ You should have heard Caesar laugh! Liberal as he is sometimes--I say sometimes--he gave Scaurus a handsome sum of money and two sturdy slaves. The story soon got abroad, and when Caesar, who--as you believe--cannot jest, a short time after again visited the bath, two old soldiers at once placed themselves in his way, scrubbed their backs against the wall like Scaurus, and called out to him ‘Great Caesar, we have no slaves.’--‘Then scratch each other,’ cried he, and left the soldiers to rub themselves.”