There is, of course, but one topic.
Enter Drusus and Cecilius.
"Ah!" cries the young prince, throwing himself on the divan at Messala's feet, "Ah, by Bacchus, I am tired!" "Whither away ?" asks Messala.
"Up the street; up to the Omphalus, and beyond--who shall say how far?
Rivers of people; never so many in the city before.

They say we will see the whole world at the Circus to-morrow." Messala laughed scornfully.
"The idiots! Perpol! They never beheld a Circensian with Caesar for editor.

But, my Drusus, what found you ?" "Nothing." "O--ah! You forget," said Cecilius.
"What ?" asked Drusus.
"The procession of whites." "Mirabile!" cried Drusus, half rising.

"We met a faction of whites, and they had a banner.

But--ha, ha, ha!" He fell back indolently.
"Cruel Drusus--not to go on," said Messala.
"Scum of the desert were they, my Messala, and garbage-eaters from the Jacob's Temple in Jerusalem.