to the Forum, where beneath the porticos the young aristocrats were
competing for the laurel crown offered for the most skilled in music and
song. Seated on ivory chairs, attended by their handsome slave boys who
fanned them with branches of myrtle, Lachares and his friends played the
flute or thrummed the lyre, singing Greek verses with sweet and
effeminate intonations. In the gathering, some laughed, mimicking the
softness of their voices, but others, indignant, compelled silence,
overcome by the charm which art, even in this womanish guise, exercised
over their uncultured minds.

Late in the morning the clamor from the enthusiastic multitude filled
the broad space of the Forum like reverberating thunder. It was the
people returning from the races, acclaiming the victor. The arrogant
Alorcus, dragged off the back of his horse, was borne on the shoulders
of the most enthusiastic. The olive crown encircled his tossed and dusty
hair. Actaeon was beside him, celebrating his triumph fraternally,
without a touch of envy.

The singers, swept away before this wave of enthusiasm, made off with
their chairs and instruments. The crown of laurel was bound upon
Lachares in the midst of general indifference, and he received no other
congratulations than those of his slaves. All the enthusiasm of the city
was lavished upon the winner in the races; the people were inflamed with
admiration for strength and skill.

The solemn moment had come; the _pompa_ was about to begin. In the
merchant's ward slaves hung red and green bunting from roof to roof
which shaded the streets. The windows and terraces were draped with
multicolored tapestries of complicated design, and slave women placed
censers in the doorways for burning perfumes.

The rich Grecian women, followed by their servants who carried sedan
chairs, went in search of places where they could sit on the steps of
the temples or in the shops at the Forum, and the people ranged
themselves along the houses, impatiently awaiting the arrival of the
procession which was forming outside the walls. Flocks of children
completely nude ran through the streets waving branches of myrtle,
shouting acclamations in honor of the goddess.

Suddenly the people stirred, bursting into cries of enthusiasm. The
pageant in honor of Minerva had entered through the gate of the Road of
the Serpent and was advancing slowly toward the Forum, through the ward
of the merchants, who were the organizers of the