Having finished his game, Trimalchio was served with a helping of
everything and was announcing in a loud voice his willingness to join
anyone in a second cup of honied wine, when, to a flourish of music, the
relishes were suddenly whisked away by a singing chorus, but a small dish
happened to fall to the floor, in the scurry, and a slave picked it up.
Seeing this, Trimalchio ordered that the boy be punished by a box on the
ear, and made him throw it down again; a janitor followed with his broom
and swept the silver dish away among the litter. Next followed two
long-haired Ethiopians, carrying small leather bottles, such as are
commonly seen in the hands of those who sprinkle sand in the arena, and
poured wine upon our hands, for no one offered us water. When
complimented upon these elegant extras, the host cried out, "Mars loves
a fair fight: and so I ordered each one a separate table: that way these
stinking slaves won't make us so hot with their crowding." Some glass
bottles carefully sealed with gypsum were brought in at that instant; a
label bearing this inscription was fastened to the neck of each one:
OPIMIAN FALERNIAN
ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD.
While we were studying the labels, Trimalchio clapped his hands and
cried, "Ah me! To think that wine lives longer than poor little man.
Let's fill 'em up! There's life in wine and this is the real Opimian,
you can take my word for that. I offered no such vintage yesterday,
though my guests were far more respectable." We were tippling away and
extolling all these elegant devices, when a slave brought in a silver
skeleton, so contrived that the joints and movable vertebra could be
turned in any direction. He threw it down upon the table a time or two,
and its mobile articulation caused it to assume grotesque attitudes,
whereupon Trimalchio chimed in:
"Poor man is nothing in the scheme of things
And Orcus grips us and to Hades flings
Our bones! This skeleton before us here
Is as important as we ever were!
Let's live then while we may and life is dear."