But you, Olympius, you who are the very soul of the revulsion we hope for, you must not be present at the festival.

Indeed, sheltered as you are under Porphyrius' roof, there is a price on your head, and this house swarms with slaves, who all know you; if one of them, tempted by filthy lucre..." "They will not betray me," smiled the philosopher.

"They know that their aged mistress, Damia, and I myself command the daemons of the upper and lower spheres, and that at a sign from her or from me they would instantly perish; and even if there were an Ephialtes among them, a spring through that loop-hole would save me.

Be easy, my friend.

Oracles and stars alike foretell me death from another cause than the treason of a slave.".