And then, when at last he was drained dry, she
left him, pursued another gilded youth from Crete,
and went over to him; now she loved him, and he
put faith in it.
Neglected not only by Charicleia but by the
toadies, for they too had now gone over to the
Cretan whom she loved, Deinias sought out Agathocles, who had long known that things were going
badly with him. Though overcome with shame at
first, nevertheless he told the whole story—his
passion, his desperate straits, the woman’s disregard, the Cretan rival—and in conclusion said
that he would not remain alive if he could not
have Charicleia. Agathocles thought it unseasonable at that moment to remind Deinias that he used
never to be glad to see him, and him only, of all
his friends, but used always to give preference to
his toadies in those days. So he sold all that he
had, the house that he had inherited in Samos,
and came back bringing him the price, three talents.
When Deinias received this, it was at once patent
to Charicleia that in some way he had once more
become handsome. Again the maid, and the notes,
and reproof because he had not come for a long
while; and the toadies came running up to dangle
a line for him, seeing that Deinias was still good for
a meal.

 
But when he had promised to come to her,
had actually come, in the early hours of the night,
and was inside the house, Demonax, the husband
of Charicleia, whether through accidental detection
of him or through arrangement with his wife—both

 

stories are told—springing out upon him as if from
ambush, gave orders to lock the outer door and to
seize Deinias, threatening him with burning and
scourging and coming at him with drawn sword,
as an adulterer. 
Perceiving what a calamitous situation he was in,
Deinias seized a bar that lay near and killed not
only Demonax himself, striking him on the temple,
but also Charicleia, not with one blow in her case, but
by striking her first with the bar again and again
and afterwards with the sword of Demonax. The
servants stood speechless in the meantime, dazed
by the suddenness of the thing; then they tried to
seize him, but when he made at them too with the
sword, they fled, and Deinias made good his escape
in spite of his monstrous deed. 
The time that remained until dawn he spent with
Agathocles in going over all that had happened and
considering what would come of it in future. At
dawn the magistrates appeared, for by then the
thing had been noised abroad; they arrested
Deinias, who himself did not deny that he had
committed the murders, and brought him before the
Salariae’ who then administered Asia. He sent
im to the Emperor, and before long Deinias was
committed to the island of Gyaros, one of the
Cyclades, condemned by the Emperor to live there
in perpetual exile.
 
Agathocles alone of all his friends kept with him,
sailed with him to Italy, went to the trial with him,
and failed him in nothing. Moreover, when at
length Deinias went into exile, he did not desert his
comrade even then, but of his own accord sentenced
himself to live in Gyaros and share his exile; and

 

when they were completely in want of necessities,
he joined the purple-fishers, dived with them, brought
home what he earned by this, and so supported
Deinias. Besides, when the latter fell ill, he took care
of him for a very long time, and when he died, did
not care to return again to his own country, but
remained there in the island, ashamed to desert his
friend even after his death. 
There you have the deed of a Greek friend which
took place not long ago; I hardly think five years
have passed since Agathocles died in Gyaros.
 TOXARIS 
I do wish, Mnesippus, you had told this story
without taking an oath, so that I might have been
able to disbelieve it, for this Agathocles whom you
have described is very much of a Scythian friend.
However, I have no fear that you will be able to
name any other like him.
 MNESIPPUS 
Listen then, Toxaris, to the tale of another,
Euthydicus of Chalcis. It was repeated to me
by Simylus, the sea-captain of Megara, who took his
solemn oath that he himself had seen the deed.
He said that he was making a voyage from Italy to
Athens at about the season of the setting of the
Pleiades, carrying a miscellaneous collection of
assengers, among whom was Euthydicus, and with
im Damon, also of Chalcis, his comrade. They were
of the same age, but Euthydicus was vigorous and
strong, while Damon was pale and sickly, just
convalescing, it seemed, from a prolonged illness.

 
 
As far as Sicily they had made a fortunate passage,
said Simylus; but when they had run through the
straits and in due time were sailing in the Adriatic
itself, a great tempest fell upon them. Why repeat
the many details of his story—huge seas, cyclones,
hail, and all the other evils of a storm? But when
they were at last abreast of Zacynthos, Zante. ! sailing with
the yard bare, and also dragging hawsers in their
wake to check the fury of their driving, towards
midnight Damon became seasick, as was natural in
weather so rough, and began to vomit, leaning outboard. Then, I suppose because the ship was hove
down with greater force towards the side over which
he was leaning and the high sea contributed a send,
he fell overboard head-first; and the poor fellow was
not even without his clothes, so as to have been able
to swim more easily. So he began at once to call for
help, choking and barely able to keep himself above
the water.
 
When Euthydicus, who happened to be undressed
and in his bunk, heard him, he flung himself into the
sea, got to Damon, who was already giving out (all
this was visible at a long distance because the moon
was shining) and helped him by swimming beside him
and bearing him up. The rest of them, he said,
wanted to aid the men and deplored their misfortune,
but could not do it because the wind that drove them
was too strong; however, they did at least something,
for they threw them a number of pieces of cork
and some spars, on which they might swim if they
chanced upon any of them, and finally even the gang
plank, which was not small.


 

Think now, in the name of the gods! what firmer
proof of affection could a man display towards a
friend who had fallen overboard at night into a sea so
wild, than that of sharing his death? I beg you,
envisage the tumult of the seas, the roar of the breaking water, the boiling spume, the night, the despair;
then one man strangling, barely keeping up his head,
holding his arms out to his friend, and the other
leaping after him at once, swimming with him, fearing
that Damon would perish first. In that way you can
appreciate that in the case of Euthydicus too it is no
common friend whom I have described.