Voyage To the Lower World (6-10)

Bring up the wounded next, Hermes. Now I can get to work. Tell me how you were killed. Or no; I had better look at my notes, and call you over. Eighty-four due to be killed in battle yesterday, in Mysia, ‘These to include Gobares, son of Oxyartes.

Adsunt.

The seven who killed themselves for love. Also Theagenes, the philosopher, for love of the Megarian courtesan.

Here they are, look.

And the rival claimants to thrones, who slew one another?

Here!

And the one murdered by his wife and her paramour?

Straight in front of you,

Now the victims of the law,—the cudgelled and the crucified. And where are those sixteen who were killed by robbers?

Here; you may know them by their wounds. Am I to bring the women too?

Yes, certainly; and all who were shipwrecked; it is the same kind of death. And those who died of fever, bring them too, the doctor Agathocles and all.

Then there was a Cynic philosopher, who was to have succumbed to a dinner with

Here I stand this long time, my good Clotho. Now what had I done to deserve such a weary spell of life? You gave me pretty nearly a spindleful of it. I often tried to cut the thread and away; but somehow it never would give.

I left you as a censor and physician of human frailties: pass on, and good luck to you.

No, by Zeus! First let us see our captive safe on board. Your judgement might be perverted by his entreaties.

Let me see; who is he?

Megapenthes, son of Lacydes; tyrant.

Come up, Megapenthes.

Nay, nay, my lady Clotho; suffer me to return for a little while, and I will come of my own accord, without waiting to be summoned,

What do you want to go for?

I crave permission to complete my palace: I left the building half-finished.

Pooh! Come along.

Oh Fate, I ask no long reprieve. Vouchsafe me this one day, that I may inform my wife where my great treasure lies buried.

Impossible. 'Tis Fate’s decree.

And all that money is to be thrown away?

Not thrown away. Be under no uneasiness. Your cousin Megacles will take charge of it.

Oh, monstrous! My enemy, whom from sheer good-nature I omitted to put to death?

The same. He will survive you for rather more than forty years; in the full enjoyment of your harem, your wardrobe, and your treasure.

It is too bad of you, Clotho, to hand over my property to my worst enemy.

My dear sir, it was Cydimachus’s property first, surely? You only succeeded to it by murdering him, and butchering his children before his eyes.

Yes, but it was mine after that.

Well, and now your term of possession expires.

A word in your ear, madam; no one else must hear this.—Sirs, withdraw for a space.—Clotho, if you will let me escape, I pledge myself to give you a quarter of a million sterling this very day.

Ha, ha! So your millions are still running in your head?

Shall I throw in the two mixing-bowls that I got by the murder of Cleocritus? They weigh a couple of tons apiece; refined gold!

Drag him up. We shall never get him to come on board by himself.

I call you all to witness! My city-wall, my docks, remain unfinished. I only wanted five days more to complete them.

Never mind. It will be another’s work now.

Stay! One request I can make with a clear conscience.

Well?

Suffer me only to complete the conquest of Persia; and to impose tribute on Lydia; ... and erect a colossal monument to myself, ... and inscribe thereon the military achievements of my life. Then let me die.

Creature, this is no single day’s reprieve: you would want something like twenty years.

Oh, but I am quite prepared to give security for my expeditious return, Nay, I could provide a substitute, if preferred;—my well-beloved!

Wretch! How often have you prayed that he might survive you!

That was a long time ago. New,—I see a better use for him.

But he is due to be here, shortly, let me tell you. He is to be put to death by the new sovereign.