Poenulus, or The Young Carthaginian (798-851c)

How now, villanous Procurer?

He, with whom you have the dispute, has made off.

I hope he’s gone hence to utter perdition.

It’s proper that we should wish the same.

To-morrow I’ll bring my action against the fellow.

Anything further with me—?

You may go; put on your own dress.

It wasn’t for nothing that I turned soldier. I made a little booty in-doors. While the household of the Procurer was asleep, I got myself well filled with the entrails.

I’ll be off from here in-doors.

’Twas kindly done by you. Assistants, you have lent me your good services. To-morrow morning I beg you’ll meet me at the court of justice. (To COLLYBISCUS.) Do you follow me in-doors. (To the ASSISTANTS.) To you, farewell!

And you, farewell! (AGORASTOCLES goes into his house, followed by COLLYBISCUS.) This fellow wants a thing that’s notoriously unfair;

he thinks that we are to serve him at our own expense. But such are all these rich people of ours: if you do anything of service, their thanks are lighter than a feather; if there’s any offence, they show vengeance like lead. Let’s now go to our houses, if you like, forthwith,

since we’ve effected that for which we lent our services, to ruin this corrupter of our fellow-citizens.

I’m awaiting in what way my plot is to proceed. I’m bent upon ruining this Procurer, since he torments my afflicted master; but he in his turn beats me, and strikes me with his fist and heels.

It’s a misery to be in the service of one who is in love, especially one who is debarred from the object which he woos. Heyday! I see Syncerastus, the Procurer’s servant, betaking himself from the Temple. I’ll listen to what he has to say.

It’s quite clear that Gods and men neglect the benefit of him who has a master like a person of such character as I have for a master.

There’s not another person anywhere in the world more perjured or more wicked than is my master, nor one so filthy or so defiled with dirt. So may the Gods bless me, I’d rather pass my life either in the stone quarries or at the mill, with my sides hampered with heavy irons, than pass this servitude with a Procurer. What a race this is!

What corruptors of men they are! Ye Gods, by our hopes in you, every kind of men you may see there, just as though you had come to Acheron —horse and foot, a freed-man, a thief, or a runaway, if you choose, one whipped, chained, or condemned to slavery. He who has got money to pay, whatever sort of person he is—all kinds are taken in; throughout all the house, in consequence,

are darkened spots and hiding-places: drinking and eating are going on, just as though in a cookshop, and in no less degree. There may you see epistles written in letters inscribed on pottery[*], and sealed with pitch: the names are upon them in letters a cubit long; such a perfect levy on vintners[*] have we got at our house.

Upon my faith, it is quite wonderful, if his master doesn’t make him his heir;

for really, the way he soliloquizes, he’s making a speech over him as though dead and gone. I’d both like to accost the fellow, and yet I listen to him with extreme delight.

When I see these things going on, I’m vexed that slaves, purchased at the heaviest price, should at our house be robbed of the savings[*] which ought to go to their masters. But at last nothing is left visible: badly gotten, badly gone.

This man goes on talking quite as though he himself were an honest fellow, when, upon my faith, he himself is able to make worthlessness more worthless.

Now I’m taking home these vessels from the Temple of Venus, where with his sacrifice my master has not been able to propitiate Venus on her festive day.

Charming Venus!

But our Courtesans, with their first victims, appeased Venus in an instant.

O charming Venus, once again!

Now I’ll go home.

Hallo! Syncerastus!

Who’s calling Syncerastus?