Herodotus or Aëtion (1-5)

I wish it were possible to imitate Herodotus’s other qualities too. I do not mean all and everyone (this would be too much to pray for) but just one of them—whether the beauty of his diction, the careful arrangement of his words, the aptness of his native Ionic, his extraordinary power of thought, or the countless jewels which he has wrought into a unity beyond hope of imitation. But where you and I and everyone else can imitate him is in what he did with his composition and in the speed with which he became an established man of repute throughout the whole Greek world.

By this time he was much better known than the Olympic victors themselves. There was no one who had not heard the name of Herodotus—some at Olympia itself, others from those who brought the story back from the festival. He had only to appear and he was pointed out: “That is that Herodotus who wrote the tale of the Persian Wars in Ionic and celebrated our victories.” Such were the fruits of his Histories. In a single meeting he won the universal approbation of all Greece and his name was proclaimed not indeed just by one herald but in every city that had sent spectators to the festival.

The lesson was learnt. This was the short-cut to glory. Hippias the sophist was a native of the place, and he and Prodicus from Ceos and Anaximenes from Chios and Polus from Acragas and scores of others always gave their recitations in person before the assembled spectators and by this means soon won reputations.

But why need I mention those old sophists, historians, and chroniclers when there is the recent story of Aëtion the painter who showed off his

You may well wonder at the quality of his work that induced a chief judge of the games to give his daughter in marriage to a stranger like Aëtion. The picture is actually in Italy; I have seen it myself and can describe it to you. The scene is a very beautiful chamber, and in it there is a bridal couch with Roxana, a very lovely maiden, sitting upon it, her eyes cast down in modesty, for Alexander is standing there. There are smiling Cupids: one is standing behind her removing the veil from her head and showing Roxana to her husband; another like a true servant is taking the sandal off her foot, already preparing her for bed; a third Cupid has hold of Alexander’s cloak and is pulling him with all his might towards Roxana. The king himself is holding out a garland to the maiden and their best man and helper, Hephaestion, is there with a blazing torch in his hand, leaning on a very handsome youth—I think he is Hymenaeus [*] (his name is not inscribed). On the other side of the picture are more Cupids playing among Alexander’s armour; [*] two of them are carrying his spear, pretending to be labourers burdened under a beam; two others are dragging a third, their king no doubt, on the shield, holding it by the handgrips; another has gone inside the corslet, which is lying breast-up on the ground—he seems to