The miserable man played his part, feeling like he was drinking his own son's blood. The emperor sent him perfume and a wreath, and ordered guards to watch whether he would use them. He did. On the very day he buried his son — or rather, the day he didn't even get to bury him properly — he sat down to dinner with a hundred other guests. Old and sick with gout, he drank more than would have been proper even at a child's birthday party. He shed no tears. He didn't let his grief show by even the smallest sign. He ate as if his begging had actually saved his son's life. You ask why he did this? He had another son.
The wretched creature went through his part, feeling as though he were drinking his son's blood: the emperor sent him some perfume and a garland, and gave orders to watch whether he used them: he did so. On the very day on which he had buried, nay, on which he had not even buried his son, he sat down as one of a hundred guests, and, old and gouty as he was, drank to an extent which would have been hardly decent on a child's birthday; he shed no tear the while; he did not permit his grief to betray itself by the slightest sign; he dined just as though his entreaties had gained his son's life. You ask me why he did so? he had another son.