I

AMONG THE RHETORICIANS


 [1] "But look here," I protested, "aren't you professors
hounded by just these same Furies of inflated language
and pompous heroics? How else can you account for all
that wretched rant:

 Nay, but gentle sirs, mark ye well these wounds I
suffered in the struggle to preserve our common liberties.
'Twas on thy behalf I made the supreme sacrifice of
this eye. Vouchsafe me, therefore, a helping hand.
Guide me to my children, for my withers are unwrung
and support my frame no more . . .

And so on.
 "No one would mind this claptrap if only it put our
students on the road to real eloquence. But what with
all these sham heroics and this stilted bombast you stuff
their heads with, by the time your students set foot in
court, they talk as though they were living in another
world. No, I tell you, we don't educate our children at
school; we stultify them and then send them out into the
world half-baked. And why? Because we keep them utterly
ignorant of real life. The common experience is something
they never see or hear. All they know is pirates trooping
up the beach in chains, tyrants scribbling edicts compel-
ling sons to chop off their fathers' heads or oracles con-
demning three virgins-but the more the merrier-to be
slaughtered to stop some plague. Action or language, it's
all the same: great sticky honey balls of phrases, every
sentence looking as though it had been plopped and rolled
in poppy seed and sesame. [2] A boy gorged on a diet like
this can no more acquire real taste than a cook can stop
stinking. What's more, if you'll pardon my bluntness, it
was you rhetoricians who more than anyone else strangled
true eloquence. By reducing everything to sound, you
concocted this bloated puff paste of pretty drivel whose
only real purpose is the pleasure of punning and the thrill
of ambiguity Result? Language lost its sinew, its
nerve. Eloquence died.
 "But in those great days when Sophocles and
Euripides invariably found the exact word, talent
had not yet been cramped into the mold of these
set-speeches of yours Long before you academic
pedants smothered genius with your arrogance,
Pindar and the nine lyric poets were still so modest
that they declined even to attempt the grand
Homeric manner. Nor are my objections based on
poetry Lone. What about Plato or Demosthenes? I
never heard It said of them that they ever submitted
to your sort of formal training. No, great language
is chaste language-if you'll let me use a word
like 'chaste' in this connection- not turgidity and
worked-up purple patches. It soars to life through a
natural, simple loveliness. But then, in our own
time, that huge flatulent rhetoric of yours moved
from Asia to Athens. Like a baleful star, it blighted
the minds of the young; their talents shriveled at
the very moment when they might have taken wing
and gone on to greatness. And once the standards
of good speech were corrupted, eloquence stopped
dead or stuttered into silence. who, I ask you, has
achieved real greatness of style since Thucydides
and Hyperides? Poetry herself is sick, her natural
glow of color leached away. All the literary arts, in
fact, cloyed with this diet of bombast, have stunted
or died, incapable of whitening naturally into an
honest old age. And in painting you see the same
decay: on the very day when Egyptian arrogance
dared to reduce it to a set of sterile formulas, that
great art died."
 [3] Agamemnon, however, refused to let me rant
on an instant longer than it had taken him to sweat
out his declamation in the classroom. "Young
man," he broke in
 I see that you are a speaker of unusual taste and,
what is even rarer, an admirer of common sense. So
I shan't put you off with the usual hocus-pocus of
the profession. But in all justice allow me to observe
that we teachers should not be saddled with the
blame for this bombast of which you complain.
After all, if the patients are lunatics, surely a little
professional lunacy is almost mandatory in the
doctor who deals with them. And unless we
professors spout the sort of twaddle our students
admire, we run the risk of being, in Cicero's
phrase, 'left alone at our lecterns.' Let me over you
by way of analogy those professional sponges in
the comic plays who scrounge their suppers by
flattering the rich. Like us, they must devote their
entire attention to one end-the satisfaction of their
audience; for unless their little springes con their
listeners' ears, they stand to lose their quarry. We are,
that is, rather in the position of a fisherman: unless he
baits his hook with the sort of tidbit the little fishes
like, he is doomed to spend eternity sitting on his
rock without a chance of a bite.
 [4] "So what should the verdict be? In my
opinion, those parents who refuse to impose a stern
discipline upon their sons must bear the blame. As
with everything else, even their children are
sacrificed on the altar of their ambition. Then, in
their haste and greed to reap a harvest, they shove
these callow, newborn babies into the public arena,
and eloquence-that same eloquence which they
profess to honor as the crown of a liberal
education-is chopped down in size to fit a fetus. If,
however, our students' lessons could be graded by
order of difficulty; if the minds of the young could
be molded and shaped by long years of intimacy
with the minds of great thinkers; if these crude
attempts to form a style could be ruthlessly
chastened and these budding talents steeped in the
study of great models, then, and only then, might our
great lost art of oratory recover her old
magnificence. But what do we find instead? The
schoolrooms packed with children wasting their time
and playing at learning; our recent graduates
disgracing themselves in public life and, what is
worst of all, the very things that they mislearned
when young, they are reluctant to confess in old
age. And lest you think l despise the simplicity and
spontaneity of old Lucilius, let me extemporize my
sentiments in verse:

[5] ADVICE TO A YOUNG POET

If greatness, poet, is your goal,
the craft begins with self-control.
For poems are of the poet part,
and what he is decides his art. 
With character true poems begin.
Poet, learn your discipline.

Avoid ambition as the blight of talent.
If the rich invite 
you out to dine, be proud; decline. 
Don't snub your genius in your wine
nor pin your Muse to clique or claque.
Avoid the postures of the hack.


Whether Athena, poet, from her Parthenon smiles
down upon your youth, or Spartan homestead gave
you birth, or African Cyrene where the lovely
Sirens sang, dedicate, I say, your early years to
verse. Drink deep at the great Homeric font and
satisfy your thirst. But when you've drunk your fill,
then discipline your soul by study with the wise: let
logic and the laws of thought be your curriculum
and curb. And when at last the great Socratic
troupe admits you as their friend, shake loose your
reins and give your passions room to run: wield a
free man's prose, those weapons forged in war by
great Demosthenes. Then let the Roman writers
guide you home from Greece; transform your
borrowed taste and build a native style.
Meanwhile, withdraw from court, and let the epic,
martial Muse run proud and free to make such
clangor as she, by lightning march and sudden
ambush, may unloose. Make war your feast; sing
such clamor you unleash the thundered verse of
epic Cicero, bloody but unbowed.
O poet, gird yourself with every goodness you can get,
until the Muse herself usurps your swelling
tongue and sets your name beside the great on
Helicon!

II

GITON, ASCYLTUS, AND I

 [6] But while I was concentrating on
Agamemnon's poem, I failed to see Ascyltus slink
away . . .

Some time later, while we were strolling through
the garden, still hot in argument, a great crowd of
students came pouring out into the portico, just leaving, I
supposed, the speech of the professor who had followed
Agamemnon. But while they were jeering away at
the speaker's ideas and criticizing the whole
structure of his speech, I seized my chance and
quickly slipped away in pursuit of Ascyltus. But I
had forgotten where our rooms were and kept losing
my way. Worse, whichever road I took, I somehow
kept coming back to the place where I had started.
Finally, drenched with sweat and completely limp
from running around in circles, I went up to a little
old woman who was selling vegetables beside the
road.
 [7] "Excuse me, ma'am," I asked, "but would you
happen to know where I live?"
 Apparently charmed by this genteel stupidity, she
said, "But I of course I do." With that, she rose to her
feet and started off while I tagged tamely at her
heels, thinking she must be a prophetess. A few
minutes later, in a much shabbier section of town, she
stopped before a door, pulled back the curtain and
said, "This must be where you live." I was saying
that I'd never seen the place before when I suddenly
saw several women walking suggestively to and fro
and a number of large posters, each stating a price.
Slowly, much too slowly, it dawned on me that the
treacherous old hag had led me to a whorehouse. I
cursed the old bitch out, covered my head in my
robes and sprinted straight through the whorehouse
in the direction of the entrance on the next street.
There in the doorway, just coming in, who should I
meet but Ascyltus himself, looking half-dead and
every bit as exhausted as myself. In fact, for an
instant I wondered whether the same old woman had
brought him there too. Then, with a great laugh of
relief, I threw myself into his arms and asked him
what in the world he was doing in a place like that.
 [8] "Gods," he gasped, mopping away the sweat,
"if you only knew what I've been through!"
"But what happened I asked.
 He was still panting so furiously he could barely
speak. "I've been running around like crazy. I must
have covered the whole city, but I couldn't find our
rooms anywhere. Then a man came up, respectable
family-man type, or so I thought, and very kindly
offered to lead me to my rooms. Well, he steered me
through a lot of back alleys and finally brought me
here. Then he pulled out his wallet and began to
proposition me. He'd already paid the Madam of the
house for a room. The next thing I knew he was feeling
me up, and if I hadn't been stronger than he
was, I'd have been damn well raped by now.

Every person in the place seemed to be completely
drunk on aphrodisiacs . . .

But by uniting our forces, we managed to repel the
invaders attack...

 [9] Dimly, as through a thick fog, I caught sight of
Giton standing at the corner of an alley and I raced
over . . .

 When I asked the boy whether he had made our
supper, he suddenly burst into tears, collapsed on the
bed and lay there wiping his eyes with his thumb.
Frantic at seeing him in such a state, I begged him to
tell me what had happened. Only much later, after my
pleas had turned into threats, did he speak, and even
then with great reluctance. "It's that man," he sobbed,
"the one you call your brother, your friend Ascyltus.
He ran up to my garret a little while ago and tried to
take me by force. When I screamed for help, he
pulled out his sword. 'If you want to play Lucretia,
boy,' he cried, 'you've met your Tarquin.' "
 Furious at such treachery, I rushed across to
Ascyltus and shook my fist in his face. "What do you
say to that?" I yelled. "You male whore, you! You
bugger! Even your breath stinks of buggery!"
 At first he pretended to be insulted. Then he
started throwing his fists around and yelling at the
top of his voice. "Shut up!" he bellowed. "You
stinking gladiator! Even in the arena you were a
washout! Shut up! Thief! You cheap burglar! When
were you ever man enough to take on a real
woman? No, first it was me in the garden. Now it's
this boy in the inn."
 "What's more," I said bitterly, "you sneaked away
when the Professors were debating."
[10] "What the hell was I supposed to do, sap?" he
shrieked. "Die of hunger? Stand there and listen to
that drivel, that rhetoric of broken bottles and cheap
dream analysis? By god, you're ten times worse!
Trying to scrounge a meal by buttering a poet!"
 Finally, however, the squalid argument ended and
we soon found ourselves laughing and at peace
with each other once more and went on to other
things . . .

But the memory of what Ascyltus had done kept
coming back and rankling. Finally, I decided to have
it out. "Ascyltus," I said, "let's face it: we're not
compatible any more. Let's divide our few
possessions and strike out for ourselves, each one on
his own. You're an educated man, and so am I. But
just so we don't tread on each other's toes, I'll
arrange to take a different tutoring job. Otherwise
we'll have a thousand run-ins every day and get
ourselves gossiped about all over town."
 He agreed. However, for today," he added, 'let's
keep together, since our position as professors is
worth an invitation to dinner and we don't want to
lose it. Then tomorrow, if that's what you want, I'll
start looking for another bed and a little friend of my
own."
 "But it's silly," I objected, "to postpone our
decision." . . .

It was sex, of course, that made us part ways so
brusquely. For a long time now I had been anxious
to remove this obstacle in the way of resuming my
old relationship with Giton . . .

 [11] After wandering all over town in a fruitless
search for work, I returned to the room. At last I was
free to make love to Giton without restraint, and
wrapping the boy in the closest of embraces, I took
my fill of a bliss that even happy lovers might envy.
We were still at it, however, when Ascyltus came
tiptoeing up to the door. Finding it locked, he
banged so violently that the bolts rattled loose, the
door swung open, and he walked in and discovered
us at our games. Amused at first, he clapped
his hands and roared with laughter till the whole
room shook. Then he snatched away the cloak I had
thrown over Giton and myself. "Well, well," he
sneered, "what's going on here, my saintly friend?
Are you sharing something with our little friend?"
And not content with sarcasm, he pulled a leather
thong from his pack and began to flog me
mercilessly, punctuating every blow with fresh
sneers: "So that's your notion of sharing with your
friends, is it?"

III

LOST TREASURE RECOVERED

 [12] It was just turning dark when we came into
the market in the main square. There we saw a great
deal of merchandise laid out for sale, most of it
worthless stuff but its shoddiness or suspect
provenance now decently obscured in the half-light.
Happening to have the stolen mantle with us, we
took advantage of the time and place and unrolled a
small strip of it in a dark corner, hoping that the
richness and color of the material might attract a
buyer. We did not have long to wait. After a few
minutes, a peasant-whose face seemed somehow
familiar to me-came up, accompanied by a girl, and
began to finger the mantle very closely. Ascyltus, for
his part, could not keep his eyes off the shoulder of
our peasant customer, and then I suddenly saw him
blanch and gasp with astonishment. With growing
excitement, I began to stare too, for the peasant was
strikingly like the man who had found our tunic in
the deserted place where we had left it. Finally there
could be no doubt: it was the same man. Ascyltus,
not daring to believe his eyes and terrified of
alarming the man, went up closer and, lifting the hem
of the tunic off his shoulder, started to scrutinize it
like a prospective buyer.
 [13] By some absolutely incredible stroke of luck,
the peasant had not yet stuck his meddling fingers
into the seam; in fact, he was condescendingly
offering the tunic for sale as though it were some
beggar's castoff. Seeing that our 
cache was intact and that we were dealing
with a fool, Ascyltus motioned me aside. "Friend," he
whispered, "do you realize that our treasure has
come back to us? That's the same tunic, the one I
was so upset at having lost. And, so far as I can tell,
the gold is still there in the seams, intact. But what
should we do? Should we bring a formal complaint
against him in court for the recovery of our
property?"
 Enormously pleased, not only because we had
recovered our lost cache, but because our stroke of
luck had relieved me of a very ugly suspicion, I told
Ascyltus that we should not beat around the bush,
but take our complaint directly to the authorities and
obtain a court order if the peasant refused to return
our property.
 [14] Ascyltus, having little faith in the authorities,
disagreed. "Who can vouch for us here?" he
objected. "Who knows us? If you ask me, I think we
ought to buy it back, even though it's our own
property, rather than risk a chancy lawsuit:

What good are the laws where Money, is king,
where the poor are always wrong,
and even the mockers who scoff at the times 
will sell the truth for a song?

The courts are an auction where justice is sold; 
the judge who presides bangs a gavel of gold."

 But except for one small coin which we had put
aside to buy lupins and chickpeas, we had literally
nothing. So to keep our quarry from leaving with
our cache, we decided to sell the mantle cheap,
thinking that our profit on the tunic would lighten
the loss on the cloak. Acting quickly, we unrolled
the mantle completely and the veiled girl who had
come with the peasant began a minute inspection of
the design. Suddenly she grabbed the cloak with
both hands and started to scream Thief! Thief!" We,
of course, panicked, but rather than do nothing, we
started tuning away at our filthy tattered tunic and
screamed "Thief!" too. But the discrepancy in what
we were claiming was so great that even the
tradesmen who had come running up at the outcry
burst out in guffaws. Not without justice, I must
admit, since we were struggling for a set of rags that
couldn't even have been used for patches, while
they were claiming a cloak worth a good sum of
money.
 Finally Ascyltus succeeded in silencing them. [15]
"It is obvious," he declared, "that each party prefers
his own property Let them give us back our tunic
and we'll give them the cloak." This suggestion
proved perfectly acceptable to the peasant and the
girl, but some local shysters-or better, sneak-thieves-
anxious to clear a profit on the mantle, demanded
that the articles in dispute should be deposited with
them and the whole matter referred to the judge on
the following day. Their concern, they said, was less
the goods in dispute than the fact that both parties
clearly fell under suspicion of theft, a much graver
matter. Those in favor of impounding the articles
were a majority, and one of the tradesmen, a bald
fellow with a hideously splotched forehead who
used to plead cases now and then, confiscated the
cloak and said that he would produce it in evidence
the next day. By now it was perfectly clear what
their game was: they would make off with the cloak,
while we, of course, would not dare appear in court
for fear of being charged with theft.

The suggestion was quite agreeable to us, and a
lucky incident served both parties. For our peasant,
livid with rage when we demanded that his tattered
tunic be publicly exhibited, threw it in Ascyltus'
face. Then, since we now had nothing to complain
of, he demanded the return of the mantle, the sole
article still under dispute.

Having recovered our cache, or so we thought, we
hurried back to our room, locked the door securely
and burst out laughing both at the tradesmen whose
sharp dealing had restored us our property and the
naivete of our country opponent.

Too easy victory I find
repugnant to my pride.
I like the savor of desire
before I'm satisfied.
IV

THE PRIESTESS OF PRIAPUS

 [16] We had barely finished the supper prepared for
us by Giton's kindness when there came a sudden
imperious pounding at the door.
 The blood drained from our faces. "Who is it?" we
managed to quaver in chorus.
 "Open the door and see for yourselves," said a
voice. At that moment, of their own accord, the bolts
on the door slid back and the door swung wide
before the intruder. It was the veiled girl whom we
had seen with the peasant in the market only an
hour before.
 "So you thought you'd made a fool of me, did
you?" she cried. "Listen. I am the maid of Quartilla,
the lady whose secret rites in the grotto of Priapus
you disturbed. My mistress has come here in person
and asks to be allowed to speak with you. You
needn't be alarmed. Far from having come to
reproach you or punish you, she would like to know
what god has brought two such charming young
men into her vicinity."
 [17] To all this we said not a single word, neither
yes or no. An instant later, Quartilla, followed by a
little girl, made her entrance. Then, throwing herself
down on my bed, she promptly burst into a flood of
tears. For a considerable time she sat there sobbing
away, while we looked on, too dumfounded by her
sobs and this obviously prearranged display of grief
to say a word. By degrees the melodramatic storm
began to abate and the gusts of sobbing came less
frequently. Proudly lifting her head, she removed her
veil. Then, twisting her fingers until the knuckles
cracked, she spoke:
"I confess, gentlemen, I do not know what name
to give to this incredible audacity of yours. Where have
you learned this daring in which you surpass even the
great rogues of mythology? Heaven knows, I pity you. No
man on earth may look on forbidden things as you have
done and escape punishment. Especially here, a land so 
infested with divinity that one might meet a god more
easily than a man. You must not think I have come
here for vengeance. No, the spectacle of your innocent
youth moves me far more deeply than any wrong
you have done me. Moreover, I believe that your
terrible crime was done in youthful ignorance. But all
night afterwards, l tossed in terror, shivering so
horribly that I felt an attack of malaria coming on. So
I asked for a cure in my dreams, and was commanded
by a vision to track you down and cure my malaria
by a certain stratagem. But it is not the cure that
troubles me most; a greater grief ravages my heart
and hurries me down to inevitable death. I am afraid
that in your youthful indiscretion you may be led to
reveal the things you saw in the chapel of Priapus
and divulge our mysteries to the world. And so I
kneel before you now with outstretched hands and I
beg you, I beseech you, not to make a mockery of
our nocturnal rites or reveal a secret so jealously
guarded over the centuries, a secret which scarcely a
thousand men have ever known."
 [18] She concluded this appeal to our pity by
bursting into tears again, buried herself in my bed
and lay there, shaken by protracted sobs. Torn as
much by fear as pity, I tried to reassure her. On
neither score, I said, need she feel concern. No one
would betray her rites; as for her malaria, if some god
had shown her a cure for it, we would do everything
in our power to assist the will of heaven, even if it
cost us  our lives. Relieved by these promises, she
began to brighten up, kissed me several times and
ran a caressing hand through the long curls that
tumbled down about my ears. "Very well," she
laughed, "I'll make my peace with you and settle my
case out of court. However, if you had refused to
help me with my cure, I would have come here
tomorrow with a whole regiment prepared to avenge
my honor and wipe out my wrongs:

The shame of defeat, the victor's disdain: 
I'd rather with neither live.
The wise will fight when honor's at stake; 
the victors are those who forgive."

Then suddenly clapping her hands, she burst out
with such an explosive peal of laughter that we
were terrified. The maid who had announced her
promptly followed suit and even the little girl joined
in. [19] For some time the whole room rang with
shrieks of theatrical laughter, while we looked 
first at each other and then at the women, utterly 
bewildered by the abrupt change in their mood.

 "I have given strict orders," Quartilla announced,
"that no man is to be allowed to set foot inside this
inn today. I am determined to receive my malaria
treatments In complete and uninterrupted privacy."
At this announcement, Ascyltus went white, while I
turned colder than a French winter and couldn't say
a word. But on reflection the fact that there were
three of us relieved me of my worst fears. After all, if
it came to an attempt on our honor, three weak
women were hardly a match for us. If nothing else,
we had the strength of our sex in our favor and we
were not hampered, as they were, by long billowing
dresses. In fact, if matters came to a fight, I had
already paired us off. I would take on Quartilla,
Ascyltus would break a lance with the maid, and the
little girl could be left to Giton.

 At this unexpected blow, we lost all determination
to resist, and the shadow of certain death was
already falling on our eyes . . .

 [20] "If you have anything worse than this in store
for us, madam," I cried, "for god's sake, despatch us
quickly. Our crime is surely not so terrible that we
deserve to die in agony.".

 The maid, whose name was Psyche, carefully
spread a blanket on the floor . . .

 With her hand she began to stroke that part of me
which by now was cold as ice, shriveled with a
thousand deaths . . .
 Thoroughly convinced by now of the dangers of
meddling in the secrets of others, Ascyltus buried
his head in his robes . . .

 Drawing two straps from her dress, Psyche
proceeded to bind us hand and foot.

 The conversation was languishing when Ascyltus
broke out: "Hey, don't I deserve a drink too?"
Psyche, her little plan betrayed by my snickers,
clapped her hands with amazement. "Young man,"
she said to me, "I put the glass beside you. Have you
drunk all that medicine by yourself?"
 "Did he really?" cried Quartilla. "Encolpius drank
all our aphrodisiac?"

She shook all over with a wonderful rippling
laugh . . .

 In the end even Giton could not keep from
laughing too, especially when the little girl threw her
arms around his neck and kissed the unresisting
boy on the lips at least a thousand times . . .

 [21] In our misery we wanted to scream for help,
but there was no one there to come to our aid.
Worse, every time I tried to shout, Psyche gouged
my cheek with a hairpin, while the little girl stood
over poor Ascyltus with a sponge dipped in
aphrodisiac . . .

 As the crowning touch to our miseries, in waddled
a eunuch dressed in a robe of myrtle-green bound
up with a sash . . . Springing at us again and again,
he slobbered our faces with filthy kisses and ground
away at us with his buttocks until Quartilla, holding
her dress up above her knees, drove him off with a 
whale-bone-cane and ordered him to leave us 
poor wretches alone.

 We both of us swore the most solemn oaths that
this terrible secret would die with us both . . .

 Several masseurs arrived next. After a generous
rubdown with oil, we slowly began to revive. Then,
feeling more or less ourselves again, we put on
dinner-clothes and were conducted into the next
room where we found three couches drawn up and a
table, very luxuriously laid out, awaiting us. We were
invited to take our seats, and the meal began with
some sumptuous hors d'oeuvres. As for wine, we
were fairly swimming in it, and it was fine Falernian
at that. After several more courses we had begun to
doze sleepily off, when Quartilla said: "No sleeping,
gentlemen. Must I remind you again that the whole
night has been consecrated to Priapus?"

 [22] Ascyltus, utterly exhausted by his ordeal, had
just dozed off when the little maid whom he had
driven off so rudely tiptoed up to him while he slept
and smeared his face witch soot and painted his lips
and shoulders a bright scarlet. By this time my own
exhaustion was beginning to tell, and I must have
dozed off briefly. The servants in both rooms had
already fallen asleep. Some were slumped on the
floor at the feet of the guests, others stood propped
against the wall, while several lay sprawled, head to
head, in the doorway. Meanwhile the oil-lamps had
burnt low and gave out only a feeble dying flicker.
 Suddenly I woke with a start to see two Syrian
slaves come gliding stealthily into the room and start
to pocket the silver. In their greed, however, they
began to fight over a large two-handled pitcher,
each one tugging at a handle. Without warning the
handles snapped and the pitcher landed with a crash
on the table. The table promptly collapsed,
showering silver and glassware in every direction,
and one heavy goblet landed on the head of a maid
who was lying curled up on the couch. The cut 
was deep, and she screamed with pain, alarming the
two thieves and waking the rest of us from our
drunken stupor. The Syrians, realizing that they had
been discovered, threw themselves on the end of a
couch and with great aplomb started to snore away
as though they had been asleep for hours.
 The butler, awakened by the hubbub, rose and
refilled the flickering lamps, while the servants,
sleepily rubbing their eyes, returned to their posts at
our elbows. Then with a great crash of cymbals a
girl-musician strode in, woke up the remaining
sleepers [23] and the party began all over again.
Quartilla kept urging us to drink up, while the girl
with the cymbals went marching around the room
banging away to get us all back to the proper festive
mood.

 At this point a second eunuch arrived, so
incredibly insipid that he seemed a fitting
representative of the whole menage. Clapping his
hands for attention, he cleared his throat, grunted,
and gave vent to the following:

O fairies, O buggers,
O eunuchs exotic!
Come running, come running 
    ye anal-erotic!

With soft little hands, 
with flexible bums,
Come, O castrati,
unnatural ones!

Having finished his effusion, he promptly started to
slobber me with his loathsome kisses, and before I
knew it, he had straddled me on the couch and,
despite my resistance, pulled off my clothes. Then, for
what seemed hours, he worked on me but without
the slightest success. Meanwhile a river of sweat and
perfume was streaming down his face, leaving his
wrinkled cheeks so creviced with powder that he
looked like some cracked wall standing desolate
under a pelting rain.
 [24] Finally I was reduced to tears and in my
agony cried out to Quartilla, "For god's sake, madam,
help me. Even your passive support would be
appreciated."
At this she clasped her hands with delight. "Oh, what
a funny little man it is! What a fountain of with she
cried. ' But I'm giving you exactly what you want.
Didn't you know we call these fellows passives?"
 But misery wants company, and so did I. "Madam,
I protest," I cried. "Is Ascyltus the only man in the
room who gets a holiday?"
 "That seems only fair," she said. "We must see that
Ascyltus has his share of our passive support."
 The eunuch immediately changed horses and
mounted Ascyltus, kissing him so furiously and
battering him so hard with his buttocks that he
almost murdered him. Giton, meanwhile, had come up
closer to get a better view and was splitting with
laughter at Ascyltus' plight. Eying him narrowly,
Quartilla asked to whom he belonged. When I told
her that he was a friend of mine, she said, "Well,
doesn't your little friend have a kiss for me?" With
that she called him over, pawed him and kissed him a
bit and then reached her hand inside his tunic and
playfully fondled that poor novice tool of his for
some time. "Tomorrow," she laughed, "this will make
a fine antipasto for my lechery. But today's entree
stuffed me so full, I couldn't swallow even this little
tidbit now."
 [25] Suddenly Psyche sidled up giggling, and
whispered something into Quartilla's ear. "A splendid
idea," said Quartilla, "I can't imagine a more
opportune time for deflowering our little Pannychis."
Immediately a rather pretty little girl-the same one
who had come with Quartilla to our rooms-was led
out. I doubt that she could have been more than
seven, but with the exception of myself everybody
present applauded the idea and demanded that the
marriage be consummated instantly. I was shocked,
however, and pointed out that Giton, a very bashful
boy, could hardly be expected to undergo such
drudgery yet. Besides, I protested, the girl was much
too young to be assuming a woman's position.
 "Pish," snorted Quartilla. "Is she any younger than
I was when I had my first man? May Juno strike me
dead if I can ever remember being a virgin. When I
was a little girl, I played ducks and drakes with the
little boys; as I got bigger, I applied myself to bigger
boys, until I reached my present age-whence I
think the proverb arose, she'll bear the bull that bore
the calf." Fearing that Giton might suffer something
still worse if I refused, I rose reluctantly to help with
the ceremony. [26] Psyche placed a saffron veil on
the little girl's head, while a whole troop of
drunken women, led by the eunuch with a blazing
torch, marched off to prepare the room for this
travesty of marriage. Quartilla, flushed and excited
by the gross obscenity of the whole affair, took
Giton by the hand and led him into the bedroom.
 In point of fact the boy made no objection and
even the little girl appeared quite unmoved by the
notion of being a bride. Finally the door was shut,
the bolts shot, and we all took up our positions
around the door. Then Quartilla, standing in the front
row, treacherously cut a skit in the panel and peeked
with lecherous curiosity at their innocent childish
play. With a gentle caress she drew me to the chink
to watch too, and since our faces were often close
together, kept turning her lips to me and stealing
kisses.

 We threw ourselves into bed and spent the
remainder of the night unmolested . . .




V

DINNER WITH TRIMALCHIO

 At last the third day had come with its prospect of
a free meal and perhaps our last meal on this earth.
But by now our poor bodies were so bruised and
battered that escape, even if it-cost us a meal, seemed
preferable to staying where we were. While we were
gloomily wondering how we could avoid the orgy in
store for us with Quartilla, one of Agamemnon's
slaves came up and dispelled our despair. "What's
eating you?" he asked. "Have you forgotten where
you're going tonight? Trimalchio's giving the meal.
He's real swank. Got a great big clock in his dining
room and a uniformed bugler who blows a horn
every hour so the old man won't forget how fast his
time is slipping away." Needless to say, we forgot our
troubles fast when we heard this. We slipped into
our best clothes, and when Giton very sweetly
offered to act as our servant, we told him to attend us
to the baths.

 [27] There we wandered around at first without
getting undressed. Or rather we went joking around,
mixing with various groups of bathers at their
games. Suddenly we caught sight of an old, bald
man in a long red undershirt, playing ball with a
bunch of curly-headed slave boys. It wasn't so much
the boys who took our eyes-though they were
worth looking at-as the old man himself. There he
stood, rigged out in undershirt and sandals, nothing
else bouncing a big green ball the color of a leek.
When he dropped one ball, moreover, he never
bothered to stoop for it, but simply took another
from a slave who stood beside him with a huge sack
tossing out fresh balls to the players. This was
striking enough, but the real refinement was two
eunuchs standing on either side of the circle, one
clutching a chamber pot of solid silver, the other
ticking off the balls. He was not, however, scoring
the players' points, but merely keeping count of any
balls that happened to drop on the ground. While
we were gawking at these elegant gymnastics,
Menelaus came rushing up. "That's him!" he
whispered, "that's the fellow who's giving the meal.
What you're seeing now is just the prelude to the
show." These words were hardly out when
Trimalchio gave a loud snap with his fingers. The
eunuch came waddling up with the chamber pot,
Trimalchio emptied his bladder and went merrily on
with his game. When he was done, he shouted for
water, daintily dipped the tips of his fingers and
wiped his hands in the long hair of a slave.
 [28] But the details of his performance would
take too long to tell. We quickly undressed, went
into the hot baths, and after working up a sweat,
passed on to the cold showers. There we found
Trimalchio again, his skin glistening all over with
perfumed oil. He was being rubbed down, not with
ordinary linen, but with cloths of the purest and
softest wool. During this rubdown, right before his
eyes, the three masseurs were guzzling away at the
finest of his rare Falernian wines. In a minute,
moreover, they were squabbling and in the next
second the wine had spilled all over the floor. "Tut,
a mere trifle," said Trimatchio, they were merely
pouring me a toast." He was then bundled into a
blazing scarlet wrapper, hoisted onto a litter and
trundled off. Before him went four runners in
spangled harness and a little wheelbarrow in which
the old man's favorite rode, a little boy with a
wrinkled face and bleary, mudded eyes, even uglier
than his master. A musician with a miniature flute 
trotted along at Trimalchio's head and during the 
entire trip played into his master's ear as though 
whispering him little secrets.
 Drunk with admiration, we brought up the rear and
Agamemnon joined us when we reached Trimalchio's
door. Beside the door we saw a sign:

ANY SLAVE LEAVING THE PREMISES
WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION FROM THE MASTER
WILL RECEIVE ONE HUNDRED LASHES!

At the entrance sat the porter, dressed in that same
leekgreen that seemed to be the livery of the house. A
cherry colored sash was bound around his waist and he
was busily shelling peas into a pan of solid silver. In the
doorway hung a cage, all gold, and in it a magpie was
croaking out his welcome to the guests.
 [29] I was gaping at all this in open-mouthed wonder
when I suddenly jumped with terror, stumbled, and nearly
broke my leg. For there on the left as you entered, in
fresco, stood a huge dog straining at his leash. In large
letters under the painting was scrawled:

BEWARE OF THE DOG!

The others burst out laughing at my fright. But when I'd
recovered from the shock, I found myself following the
rest of the frescoes with fascination. They ran the whole
length of the wall. First came a panel showing a slave
market with everything clearly captioned. There stood
Trimalchio as a young man, his hair long and curly in
slave fashion; in his hand he held a staff and he was
entering Rome for the first time under the sponsorship of
Minerva. In the next panel he appeared as an apprentice
accountant, then as a paymaster-each step in his career
portrayed in great detail and everything scrupulously
labeled. At the end of the portico you came to the climax of
the series: a picture of Mercury grasping Trimalchio by the
chin and hoisting him up to the lofty eminence of the
official's tribunal. Beside the dais stood the goddess
Fortuna with a great cornucopia and the three Fates, busily
spinning out Trimalchio's life in threads of gold, while
in the background a group of runners were shown working
out with their trainer. In the corner at the end of the 
portico was a huge wardrobe with a small built-in shrine.
In the shrine were silver statuettes of the household gods,
a Venus in marble, and a golden casket containing, I was told, 
the clippings from Trimalchio's first beard. I began
questioning the attendant about some other frescoes in the
middle. "Acenes from the Iliad and the Odyssey," he
explained, "and the gladiator games given by Laenas."
[30] But there was far too little time to ask about
everything that took my eye.
 We approached the dining room next where we found
the steward at the door making up his accounts. I was
particularly struck by the doorposts. For fixed to the jamb
were fasces, bundles of sticks with axes protruding from
them; but on the lower side the bundles terminated in what
looked like the brass ram of a ship, and on the brass this
inscription had been engraved:

TO GAIUS POMPEIUS TRIMALCHIO,
OFFICIAL OF THE IMPERIAL CULT,
FROM HIS STEWARD
CINNAMUS.

Hanging from the ceiling on a long chain was a two-
bracket lamp with the same inscription, and on each of the
doorposts a wooden tablet had been put up. On one of
these, if I remember rightly, this memo was written:

"The Master will be dining in town on
the 30th and 31st of December."

On the other tablet was a diagram of the orbits of the moon
and the seven planets, with the lucky and unlucky days all
indicated by knobs of different colors.
 We duly noted these refinements and were just about to
step into the dining room when suddenly a slave- clearly
posted for this very job-shouted, RIGHT FEET FIRST!-" Well,
needless to say, we froze. Who wants to bring down bad
luck on his host by walking into his dining room in the
wrong way? However, we synchronized our legs and
were just stepping out, right feet first, when a slave,
utterly naked, landed on the floor in front of us and
implored us to save him from a whipping. He was about to
be fiogged, he explained, for a trifling offense. He had let
someone steal the steward's clothing, worthless stuff
really, in the baths. Well, we pulled back our right feet,
faced about and returned to the entry where we found the
steward counting a stack of gold coins. We begged him to
let the servant off. "Really, it's not the money I mind," he
replied with enormous condescension, "so much as the
idiot's carelessness. It was my dinner-suit he lost, a
birthday present from one of my dependents. Expensive
too, but then I've already had it washed. Well, it's a trifle.
Do what you want with him." [31] We thanked him
for his gracious kindness, but when we entered
the dining room up ran the same slave whom we'd just
begged off. He overwhelmed us with his thanks and
then, to our consternation, began to plaster us with
kisses. "You'll soon see whom you've helped," he said.
"The master's wine will prove the servant's gratitude."
 At last we took our places. Immediately slaves from
Alexandria came in and poured ice water over our hands.
These were followed by other slaves who knelt at our
feet and with extraordinary skill pedicured our toenails.
Not for an instant, moreover, during the whole of this
odious job, did one of them stop singing. This made me
wonder whether the whole menage was given to
bursts of song, so I put it to the test by calling for a
drink. It was served immediately by a boy who trilled
away as shrilly as the rest of them. In fact, anything you
asked for was invariably served with a snatch of
song, so that you would have thought you were eating in a
concert-hall rather than a private dming room.
 Now that the guests were all in their places, the
hors d'oeuvres were served, and very sumptuous they
were. Trimalchio alone was still absent, and the place
of honor- reserved for the host in the modern fashion-
stood empty But I was speaking of the hors d'oeuvres. On
a large tray stood a donkey made of rare Corinthian
bronze; on the donkey's back were two panniers, one
holding green olives, the other, black. Flanking the donkey
were two side dishes, both engraved with Trimalchio's
name and the weight of the silver, while in dishes shaped
to resemble little bridges there were dormice, all
dipped in honey and rolled in poppyseed. Nearby,
on a silver grill, piping hot, lay small sausages, while
beneath the grill black damsons and red
pomegranates had been sliced up and arranged so as
to give the effect of flames playing over charcoal
[32] We were nibbling at these splendid appetizers when
suddenly the trumpets blared a fanfare and Trimalchio was
carried in, propped up on piles of miniature pillows in such
a comic way that some of us couldn't resist impolitely
smiling. His head, cropped close in a recognizable slave
cut, protruded from a cloak of blazing scarlet; his neck,
heavily swathed already in bundles of clothing, was
wrapped in a large napkin bounded by an incongruous
senatorial purple stripe with little tassels dangline down
here and there. On the little finger of his left hand he
sported an immense gilt ring; the ring on the last joint of his
fourth finger looked to be solid gold of the kind the lesser
nobility wear, but was actually, I think, an imitation,
pricked out with small steel stars. Nor does this exhaust
the inventory of his trinkets. At least he rather
ostentatiously bared his arm to show us a large gold
bracelet and an ivory circlet with a shiny metal plate.
 [33] He was picking his teeth with a silver toothpick
when he first addressed us. "My friends," he said, "I
wasn't anxious to eat just yet, but I ve ignored my own
wishes so as not to keep you waiting. Still, perhaps you
won't mind if I finish my game." At these words a slave
jumped forward with a board of juniper wood and a pair of
crystal dice. I noticed one other elegant novelty as well: in
place of the usual black and white counters, Trimalchio had
substituted gold and silver coins. His playing, I might
add, was punctuated throughout with all sorts of vulgar
exclamations.
 We, meanwhile, were still occupied with the hors
d'oeuvres when a tray was carried in and set down before
us. On it lay a basket, and in it a hen, carved from wood,
with wings outspread as though sitting on her eggs. Then
two slaves came forward and, to a loud flourish from the
orchestra, began rummaging in the straw and pulling out
peahen's eggs which they divided among the guests.
Trimalchio gave the whole performance his closest
attention. "Friends," he said, "I ordered peahen eggs to be
set under that hen, but I'm half afraid they may have
hatched already. Still, let's see if we can suck them." We
were handed spoons-weighing at least half a pound
apiece- and cracked open the eggs, which turned out to be
baked from rich pastry. To tell the truth, I had almost
tossed my share away, thinking the eggs were really
addled. But I heard one of the guests, obviously a veteran
of these dinners, say, "I wonder what little surprise we've
got in here." So I cracked the shell with my hand and found 
inside a fine fat oriole, nicely seasoned with pepper.
 [34] By this time Trimalchio had finished his game. He
promptly sent for the same dishes we had had and with a
great roaring voice offered a second cup of mead to
anyone who wanted it. Then the orchestra suddenly
blared and the trays were snatched away from the tables
by a troupe of warbling waiters. But in the confusion a
silver side dish fell to the floor and a slave quickly
stooped to retrieve it. Trimalchio, however, had observed
the accident and gave orders that the boy's ears should
be boxed and the dish tossed back on the floor.
Immediately the servant in charge of the dishware came
pattering up with a broom and swept the silver dish out
the door with the rest of the rubbish. Two curly-haired
Ethiopian slaves followed him as he swept, both carrying
lithe skin bottles like the circus attendants who sprinkle the
arena with perfume, and poured wine over our hands. No one was 
offered water.
 We clapped enthusiastically for this fine display of
extravagance. "The god of war,' said Trimalchio, "ls a
real democrat. That's why I gave orders that each of us
should have a table to himself. Besides, these stinking
slaves will bother us less than if we were all packed
in together."
 Glass jars carefully sealed and coated were now
brought in. Each bore this label:

GENUINE FALERNIAN WINE
GUARANTEED ONE HUNDRED
YEARS
OLD!
BOTTLED
IN THE CONSULSHIP
OF
OPIMIUS.


 While we were reading the labels, Trimalchio
clapped his hands for attention. "Just think, friends, wine
lasts longer than us poor suffering humans. So soak it
up, it's the stuff of life. I give you, gentlemen, the
genuine Opimian vintage. Yesterday I served much cheaper
stuff and the guests were much more important." While
we were commenting on it and savoring the luxury, a slave
brought in a skeleton, cast of solid silver, and fastened in
such a way that the joints could be twisted and bent in any
direction. The servants threw it down on the table in front
of us and pushed it into several suggestive postures by twisting
its joints, while Trimalchio recited this verse of his own
making:

Nothin but bones, that's what we are.
Death hustles us humans away.
Today we're here and tomorrow we're not,
so live and drink while you may!

 [35] The course that followed our applause failed,
however, to measure up to our expectations of our host, but
it was so unusual that it took everybody's attention. Spaced
around a circular tray were the twelve signs of the zodiac,
and over each sign the chef had put the most appropriate
food. Thus, over the sign of Aries were chickpeas, over
Taurus a slice of beef, a pair of testicles and kidneys over
Gemini, a wreath of flowers over Cancer, over Leo an
African fig, virgin sowbelly on Virgo, over Libra a pair of
scales with a tartlet in one pan and a cheesecake in the
other, over Scorpio a crawfish, a lobster on Capricorn, on
Aquarius a goose, and two mullets over the sign of the
Fishes. The centerpiece was a clod of turf with the grass
still green on top and the whole thing surmounted by a fat
honeycomb. Meanwhile, bread in a silver chafing dish was
being handed around by a black slave with long hair who
was shrilling in an atrocious voice some song from the
pantomime called Asafoetida. With some reluctance we
began to attack this wretched fare, but Trimalchio kept
urging us, "Eat up, gentlemen, eat up!"
 [36] Suddenly the orchestra gave another flourish and
four slaves came dancing in and whisked off the top of the
tray. Underneath, in still another tray, lay fat capons and
sowbellies and a hare tricked out with wings to look like a
little Pegasus. At the corners of the tray stood four little
gravy boats, all shaped like the satyr Marsyas, with
phalluses for spouts and a spicy hot gravy dripping down
over several large fish swimming about in the lagoon of the
tray. The slaves burst out clapping, we clapped too and
turned with gusto to these new delights. Trimalchio,
enormously pleased with the success of his little tour de
force, roared for a slave to come and carve. The carver
appeared instantly and went to work, thrusting with his
knife like a gladiator practicing to the accompaniment of a
waterorgan. But all the time Trimalchio kept mumbling in a
low voice, "Carver, carver, carver carver . . ." I suspected
that this chant was somehow connected with a trick, so I asked
my neighbor, an old hand at these party surprises. "Look,"
he said, "you see that slave who's carving? Well he's
called Carver, so every time Trimalchio says 'Carver,'
he's also saying 'Carve 'er!' and giving him orders to
carve."
 [37] This atrocious pun finished me: I couldn't touch a
thing. So I turned back to my neighbor to pick up what
gossip I could and soon had him blabbing away, especially
when I asked him about the woman who was bustling
around the room. "Her?" he said, "why, that's Fortunata,
Trimalchio's wife. And the name couldn't suit her better.
She counts her cash by the cartload. And you know what
she used to be? Well, begging your Honor's pardon, but
you wouldn't have taken bread from her hand. Now, god
knows how or why, she's sitting pretty: has Trimalchio
eating out of her hand. If she told him at noon it was
night, he'd crawl into bed. As for him, he's so loaded he
doesn't know how much he has. But that bitch has her
finger in everything-where you'd least expect it too. A
regular tightwad, never drinks, and sharp as they come.
But she's got a nasty tongue; get her gossiping on a couch
and she'll chatter like a parrot. If she likes you, you're
lucky; if she doesn't, god help you.
 "As for old Trimalchio, that man's got more farms than a
kite could flap over. And there's more silver plate
stuffed in his porter's lodge than another man's got in
his safe. As for slaves, whoosh! So help me, I'll bet not
one in ten has ever seen his master. Your ordinary rich
man is just peanuts compared to him; he could knock them
all under a cabbage and you'd never know they were gone.
 [38] "And buy things? Not him. No sir, he raises
everything right on his own estate. Wool, citron, pepper,
you name it. By god, you'd find hen's milk if you looked
around. Now take his wool. The homegrown strain wasn't
good enough. So you know what he did? Imported rams
from Tarentum, bred them into the herd. Attic honey he
raises at home. Ordered the bees special from Athens. And
the local bees are better for being crossbred too. And, you
know, just the other day he sent off to India for some
mushroom spawn. Every mule he owns had a wild ass for
a daddy. And you see those pillows there? Every last
one is stuffed with purple or scarlet wool. That boy's
loaded!
 "And don't sneer at his friends. They're all ex-slaves,
but every one of them's rich. You see that guy down there
on the next to last couch? He's worth a cool half-million.
Came up from nowhere. Used to tote wood on his back.
People say, but I don't know, he stole a cap off a hob-
goblin's head and found a treasure. He's the gods'
fairhaired boy. That's luck for you, but I don't begrudge
him. Not so long ago he was just a slave. Yes sir, he's
doing all fight. Just a few days ago he advertised his
apartment for rent. The ad went like this:

APARTMENT FOR RENT AFTER THE FIRST OF JULY. AM
BUYING A VILLA. SEE G. POMPEIUS DIOGENES.

 "And you see that fellow in the freedman's seat? He's
already made a pile and lost it. What a life! But I don't
envy him. After the first million the going got sticky. Right
now I'll bet he's mortgaged every Hair on his head. But it
wasn't his fault. He's too honest, that's his trouble, and his
crooked friends stripped him to feather their own nests.
One thing's sure: once your little kettle stops cooking and
the business starts to slide, you get the brushoff from your
friends. And, you know, he had a fine, respectable
business too. Undertaking. Ate like a King: boars roasted
whole, pastry as tall as buildings, pheasants, chefs,
pastrycooks-the whole works. Why, he's had more wine
spilled under his table than most men have in their cellars.
Life? Hell, it was a dream Then when things started
sliding, he got scared his creditors would think he was
broke. So he advertised an auction:

GAIUS JULIUS PROCULUS
WILL HOLD
AN AUCTION
OF HIS
SPARE FURNITURE!

 [39] By now the astrological course had been removed,
the guests were gaily attacking the wine, and there was a
loud hubbub of laughing and chatter. My neighbor's
pleasant prattle, however, was interrupted by Trimalchio.
Lounging back on his elbow, he burst out: "Gentlemen, I
want you to savor this good wine. Fish must swim, and
that's a fact. But I'd like to know if you were really taken
in by that stuff you saw on the top tray. Is that what you
think of me? What does our Vergil say?

Is this what men report of great Ulysses?

Not on your life. At dinner, I say, there should be culture 
as much as food. My old master-may his bones rest
in peace-wanted me to be a man of the world and a
gentleman of culture. And I think that last course will show
you there isn't much that I don't know. Listen now, and
I'll explain to you about the zodiac. This heaven, which is
where the twelve gods live, changes into twelve signs.
Now sometimes it turns into the Ram, that is, Aries.
Everyone who gets himself born under the Ram owns
heaps of sheep and lots of wool; besides, his head is hard,
his forehead like brass and his horns like swords. That's
why many professors and also muttonheads are born under
the sign of the Ram."
 We all applauded our droll astrologer and he continued.
"After the Ram, the Universe switches over to the Bull,
who's sometimes called Taurus. The people who are born
under the Bull include bullies and cowboys and people who
lie down in soft pastures. Under the Twins, old Gemini,
you get two-horse teams, yokes of oxen, lechers who are
led around by their balls, and two-faced politicians. Cancer,
or the Crab, is my sign; therefore I walk on many legs and
my possessions stretch over land and sea, for the crab is at
home in both those elements. That's why I avoided putting
anything on my sign for a long time: I didn't want my birth-
sign queered. Under Leo the Lion you get gluttons and big
shots; under Virgo the Virgin you get useless women,
deserters, and those who wear chains on their ankles,
fetters for men, bracelets for women. Stinger Scorpio has
poisoners and murderers. Under Archer Sagittarius you get
cross-eyed thieves who cock an eye at the beets but snitch
the ham. Under Capricorn, because it means goat-horn,
come men who have horns or corns; corn-men are workers
who sweat for their wages and horn-men are cuckolds all.
Aquarius is a water carrier, so under him you find
innkeepers who water the wine and people who are all wet.
But Pisces is for Fishes and he gives us the fishier types of
men: gape-mouthed lawyers or just plain fish peddlers.
That's why things are as they are. The universe goes
whizzing around like a millwheel and is always up to some
mischief and people are either dying or just getting born. As
for the hunk of earth you saw sitting in the middle, that was
packed with meaning too. For dead in the center of
everything sits old Mother Earth, as fat as an egg, and
loaded with goodies like a honeycomb."
 [40] We all cheered and cried "Bravo" and swore that
Aratus and Hipparchus were mere amateurs, not to be
compared with our host. But while we were flattering
him, servants came and draped our couches with special
covers, each one entirely embroidered with hunting scenes
-nets, hunters with spears lying in ambush, and all the
rest. We were wondering what all this was leading up to,
when suddenly there came a hideous uproar outside the
room and then huge Spartan mastiffs came bounding in and
began to gallop around the table. Following the dogs came
servants with a tray on which we saw a wild sow of
absolutely enormous size. Perched rakishly on the sow's
head was the cap of freedom which newly freed slaves wear
in token of their liberty, and from her tusks hung two
baskets woven from palm leaves: one was filled with dry
Egyptian dates, the other held sweet Syrian dates. Clustered
around her teats were little suckling pigs made of hard
pastry, gifts for the guests to take home as it turned out, but
intended to show that ours was a broodsow. The slave who
stepped up to carve, however, was not our old friend
Carver who had cut up the capons, but a huge fellow with a
big beard, a coarse hunting cape thrown over his
shoulders, and his legs bound up in crossgaiters. He
whipped out his knife and gave a savage slash at the
sow's flanks. Under the blow the flesh parted, the wound
burst open and dozens of thrushes came whirring outl But
bird-catchers with limed twigs were standing by and before
long they had snared all the birds as they thrashed wildly
around the room. Trimalchio ordered that a thrush be given
to each guest, adding for good measure; well, that old
porker liked her acorns juicy all right.' Then servants
stepped forward, removed the baskets hanging from the
sow's nose, and divided the dry and sweet dates out equally
among the guests.
 [41] Meanwhile I was desperately trying to figure out
why the sow had been brought in with that freedom cap on
her head. One after another, I tried all kinds of crazy far-
fetched ideas; finally I mustered up my courage and asked
my neighbor. 'Why, gods alive,' he snorted, "even your
slave could have figured that one out. It's no riddle at all,
clear as day. Look: yesterday this sow was served for
dinner, but the guests were so stuffed they let it go Get it?
They let it go. So today naturally she comes back to the
table as a free sow." I cursed myself for being so slow and
decided to ask no more questions. Altogether it was
beginning to look as though I'd never dined in good
company before.
During this exchange a pretty little boy came into the
room, wearing a wreath of vine leaves and ivy in his hair
like a little Bacchus or Father Liber. He did us a number of
imitations of Bacchus under various forms: as Lyaeus,
Bromius, Evius, and so on. Then, warbling some of
Trimalchio's poetry in a shrill soprano, he went around
offering the guests grapes from his basket. Finally
Trimalchio took notice of the boy's efforts and called him
over. "Come here, you baby Dionysus. Little Father Liber,
I hereby liberate you." At this the boy snatched the freedom
can from the boar's head and stuck it on his own.
Trimalchio wheeled back, laughing. "Well, gentlemen,
how did you like that? I've liberated Liber. I ve set the
wine-god free. So let it flow. And drink up, gentlemen.
It's all on me!" We clapped our approval of his elaborate
pun and kissed the little boy soundly as he made the round
of the couches to be congratulated on his new freedom.
 At this point Trimalchio heaved himself up from his
couch and waddled off to the toilet. Once rid of our table
tyrant, the talk began to flow more freely. Damas called for
larger glasses and led off himself. "What's one day? Bah,
nothing at all. You turn round and it's dark. Nothing for it,
I say, but jump right from bed to table. Brrrr. Nasty spell
of cold weather we've been having. A bath hardly warmed
me up. But a hot drink's the best overcoat of all; that's
what I always say. Whoosh; I must have guzzled gallons.
I'm tight and no mistake. Wine's gone right to my head . .
 [42] "As for me;" Seleucus broke in, "I don't take a bath
every day. Your bath's a fuller; the water's got teeth like a
comb. Saps your vital juices. But once I've had a slug of
mead, then bugger the cold. Couldn't have had a bath
today anyway. Had to go to poor old Chrysanthus'
funeral. Yup, he's gone for good, folded his tent forever.
And a grand little guy he was; they don't make 'em any
better these days. I might almost be talking to him now.
Just goes to show you. What are men anyway but balloons
on legs, a lot of blown-up bladders? Flies that's what we
are. No, not even flies. Flies have something inside. But a
man's a bubble, all air, nothing else. And, you know,
Chrysanthus might still be with us if he hadn't tried that
starvation diet. Five days and not a crumb of bread, not a
drop of water, passed his lips. Tch, tch. And now he's
gone, joined the great majority. Doctors killed him. Maybe
not doctors, call it fate. What good's a doctor but for
peace of mind? But the funeral was fine, they did it up
proper: nice bier, fancy drapes, and a good bunch of
mourners turned out too. Mostly slaves he'd set free, of
course. But his old lady was sure stingy with the tears. Not
that he didn't lead her a hard life, mind. But women,
they're a race of kites. Don't deserve love. You might as
well drop it down a well. And old love's a real cancer . . ."
 [43] He was beginning to be tiresome and Phileros
shouted him down. "Whoa there," he cut in, "let's talk
about the living. He got what was coming to him. He lived
well, he died well. What the hell more did he want? And
got rich from nothing too. And no wonder, I say. That boy
would have grubbed in the gutter for a coin and picked it
out with his teeth too. God knows what he had salted
away. Just got fatter and fatter, bloated with the stuff.
Why, that man oozed money the way a honeycomb oozes
honey. But I'll give you the lowdown on him, and no
frills either. He talked tough, sure, but he was a born
gabber. And a real scrapper too, regular pair of fists on
legs. But you take his brother: now that's a real man for
you, friendly and generous as they come, and what's more,
he knows how to put on a spread. Anyway, as I was
saying, what does our boy do but flop on his first big deal
and end up eating crow? But come the vintage and he got
right back on his feet and sold his wine at his own figure.
What really gave him a boost was some legacy he got. And
I don't mind telling you, he milked that legacy for all it was
worth and then some. So what does the sap do next but
pick a fight with his own brother and leave everything to a
total strangers I mean, it just shows you. Run from your
kin and you run a damn long ways, as the saying goes.
Well, you know, he had some slaves and he listened to
them as though they were a lot of oracles, so naturally they
took him in the end. It's like I always say, a sucker gets
screwed. And that goes double when a man's in business.
But there's a saying, it isn't what you're given, but what
you can get that counts. Well, he got the meat out of that
one all his life. He was Lady Luck's fair-haired boy and no
mistake. Lead turned to gold in his hand. Of course, it's
easy when the stuff comes rolling in on its own. And you
know how old he was when he died7 Seventy and then
some. But carried it beautifully, hard as nails and his hair
as black as a crow. I knew him for ages, and he was
horny, right to the end. By god, I'll bet he even pestered
the dog. Boys were what he really liked, but he wasn't 
choosy: he'd jump anything with legs. 
I don't blame him a bit, you understand. He
won't have any fun where he's gone now."
 [44] But Ganymedes struck in, "Stuff like that doesn't
matter a bit to man or beast. But nobody mentions the real
thing, the way the price of bread is pinching. God knows, I
couldn't buy a mouthful of bread today. And this damn
drought goes on and on. Nobody's had a bellyful for years
now. It's those rotten officials, you take my word for it.
They're in cahoots with the bakers: you scratch me and I'll
scratch you. So the little people get it in the neck, but in the
rich man's jaws it's jubilee all year. By god, if we only had
the kind of men we used to have, the sort I found here
when I arrived from Asia. Then life was something like
living. Man, milk and honey day in and day out, and the
way they'd wallop those blood-sucking officials, you'd
have thought old Jupiter was having himself a tantrum. I
remember old Safinius now. He used to live down by the
old arch when I was a boy. More peppercorn than man.
Singed the ground wherever he went. But honest and
square and a real friend! Why, you could have matched
coins with him in the dark. And in the townhall he'd lay it
right on the line, no frills at all, just square on the target.
And when he made a speech in the main square, he'd let
loose like a bugle blowing. But neat as a pin all the time,
never ruffled, never spat: there was something Asiatic about
him. And you know, he always spoke to you, even
remembered your name, just as though he were one of us.
And bread was dirt-cheap in his day. For a penny you got a
loaf that two men couldn't finish. Nowadays bulls' eyes
come bigger than bread. But that's what I mean, things are
just getting worse and worse. Why, this place is running
downhill like a heifer's ass. You tell me, by god, the good
of this threefig official of ours who thinks more of his graft
than what's happening to us. Why, that boy's just living it
up at home and making more in a day than most men ever
inherit. If we had any balls, let me tell you, he'd be
laughing out of the other side of his face. But not us. Oh
no, we're big lions at home and scared foxes in public.
Why, I've Practically had to pawn my clothes and if bread
prices don't drop soon, I'll have to put my houses on the
market. Mark my words, we're in for bad times if some
man or god doesn't have a heart and take pity on this place.
I'll stake my luck on it, the gods have got a finger in what's
been happening here. And you know why? Because no one
believes in the gods, that s why. Who observes the fast
days any more, who cares a rap for Jupiter? One and all,
bold as brass, they sit there pretending to pray, but cocking
their eyes on the chances and counting up their cash. Once
upon a time, let me tell you, things were different. The
women would dress up in their best and climb barefoot up
to the temple on the hill. Their hair was unbound and their
hearts were pure and they went to beg Jupiter for rain. And
you know what happened? Then or never, the rain would
come sloshing down by the bucket, and they'd all stand
there like a pack of drowned rats, just grinning away. Well,
that's why the gods have stuffed their ears, because we've
gotten unreligious. The fields are lying barren and . . .'
 [45] "For god's sake," the ragseller Echion broke in,
"cut out the damned gloom, will you? Sometimes it's good,
sometimes it's bad,' as the old peasant said when he sold
the spotted pig. Luck changes. If things are lousy today,
there's always tomorrow. That's life, man. Sure, the times
are bad, but they're no better anywhere else. We're all in
the same boat, so what's the fuss? If you lived anywhere
else, you'd be swearing the pigs here went waddling
around already roasted. And don't forget, there's a big
gladiator show coming up the day after tomorrow. Not the
same old fighters either; they've got a fresh shipment in and
there's not a slave in the batch. You know how old Titus
works. Nothing's too good for him when he lets himself
go. Whatever it is, it'll be something special. I know the
old boy well, and he'll go whole hog. Just wait. There'll be
cold steel for the crowd, no quarter, and the amphitheater
will end up looking like a slaughterhouse. He's got what it
takes too. When the old man died -and a nasty way to die,
I'm telling you-he left Titus a cool million. Even if he
spent ten thousand, he'd never feel it, and people won't
forget him in a hurry either. He's already raked together a
troupe of whirling dervishes, and there's a girl who fights
from a chariot. And don't forget that steward that Glyco
caught in bed with his wife. You just wait, there'll be a
regular free-for-all between the lovers and the jealous
husbands. But that Glyco's a cheap bastard. Sent the
steward down to be pulled to pieces by the wild beasts, you
know. So that just gave his little secret away, of course.
And what's the crime, I'd like to know, when the poor
slave is told to do it? It's that piss-pot-bitch 
of his that ought to be thrown to the
bulls, by god! Still, those who can't beat the horse must
whop the saddle. But what stumps me is why Glyco ever
thought old Hemmogenes' brat would turn out well
anyway. The old man would have pared a hawk's claws in
mid-air, and like father, like daughter, as I always say. But
Glyco's thrown away his own flesh and blood; he'll carry
the marks of this mess as long as he lives and only hell will
burn it away. Yes sir, that boy has dug his own grave and
no mistake.
 "Well, they say Mammaea's going to put on a spread.
Mmmm, I can sniff it already. There'll be a nice little
handout all around. And if he does, he'll knock old
Norbanus out of the running for good. Beat him hands
down. And what's Norbanus ever done anyway, I'd like to
know. A lot of two-bit gladiators and half-dead at that: puff
at them and they'd fall down dead. Why, I've seen better
men tossed to the wild animals. A lot of little clay statues,
barnyard strutters, that's what they were. One was an old
jade, another was a clubfoot, and the replacement they sent
in for him was half-dead and hamstrung to boot. There was
one Thracian with some guts but he fought by the book.
And after the fight they had to flog the whole lot of them
the way the mob was screaming, 'Let'em have it!' Just a
pack of runaway slaves. Well, says Norbanus, at least I
gave you a show. So you did, says I, and you got my
cheers for it. But tot it up and you'll see you got as much
as you gave. So there too, and tit for tat, says I.
 [46] "Well, Agamemnon, I can see you're thinking,
'What's that bore blabbing about now?' You're the
professor here, but I don't catch you opening your mouth.
No, you think you're a cut above us, don't you, so you
just sit there and smirk at the way we poor men talk. Your
learning's made you a snob. Still, let it go. I tell you what.
Someday you come down to my villa and look it over.
We'll find something to nibble on, a chicken, a few eggs
maybe. This crazy weather's knocked everything
topsyturvy, but we'll come up with something you like.
Don t worry your head about it, there'll be loads to eat.
 "You remember that little shaver of mine? Well, he'll be
your pupil one of these days. He's already doing division
up to four, and if he comes through all right, he'll sit at
your feet someday. Every spare minute he has, he buries
himself in his books. He's smart all right, and there's good
stuff in him. His real trouble is his passion for birds.
I killed three of his pet goldfinches the other day and told
him the cat had got them. He found some other hobby soon
enough. And, you know, he's mad about Painting. And
he's already started wading into Greek and he's keen on his
Latin. But the tutor's a little stuck on himself and won't
keep him in line. The older boy now, he's a bit slow. But
he's a hard worker and teaches the others more than he
knows. Every holiday he spends at home, and whatever
you give him, he's content. So I bought him some of those
big red lawbooks. A smattering of law, you know, is a
useful thing around the house. There's money in it too.
He's had enough literature, I think. But if he doesn't
stick it out in school, I'm going to have him taught
a trade. Barbering or auctioneering, or at least a little law.
The only thing that can take a man's trade away is death.
But every day I keep pounding the same thing into his
head: 'Son, get all the learning you can. Anything you
learn is money in the bank. Look at Lawyer Phiteros. If
he hadn't learned his law, he'd be going hungry and
chewing on air. Not so long ago he was peddling his wares
on his back; now hes running neck and neck with old
Norbanus. Take my word for it, son, there's a mint of
money in books, and learning a trade never killed a man
yet.'"
 [47] Conversation was running along these lines when
Trimalchio returned, wiping the sweat from his brow. He
splashed his hands in perfume and stood there for a minute
in silence. "You'll excuse me, friends," he began, "but I've
been constipated for days and the doctors are stumped. I
got a little relief from a prescription of pomegranate rind
and resin in a vinegar base. Still, I hope my tummy will
get back its manners soon. Right now my bowels are
bumbling around like a bull. But if any of you has any
business that needs attending to, go right ahead; no reason
to feel embarrassed. There's not a man been born yet with
solid insides. And I don't know any anguish on earth like
trying to hold it in. Jupiter himself couldn't stop it from
coming.-What are you giggling about! Fortunata? You're
the one who keeps me awake all night with your trips to the
potty. Well, anyone at table who wants to go has my
permission, and the doctors tell us not to hold it in.
Everything's ready outside-water and pots and the rest of
the stuff. Take my word for it, friends, the vapors go
straight to your bram. Poison your whole system. I know
of some who've died from being too polite
and holding it in." We thanked him for his kindness and
understanding, but we tried to hide our snickers in repeated
swallows of wine.
 As yet we were unaware that we had slogged only
halfway through this "forest of refinements," as the poets
put it. But when the tables had been wiped-to the
inevitable music, of course-servants led in three hogs
rigged out with muzzles and bells. According to the
headwaiter, the first hog was two years old, the second
three, but the third was all of six. I supposed that we
would now get tumblers and rope dancers and that the pigs
would be put through the kind of clever tricks they perform
for the crowds in the street. But Trimalchio dispelled such
ideas by asking, "Which one of these hogs would you like
cooked for your dinner? Now your ordinary country cook
can whip you up a chicken or make a Bacchante mincemeat
or easy dishes of that sort. But my cooks frequently broil
calves whole." With this he had the cook called in at once,
and without waiting for us to choose our pig, ordered the
oldest slaughtered. Then he roared at the cook, "What's the
number of your corps, fellow?"
"The fortieth, sir," the cook replied.
"Were you born on the estate or bought?"
"Neither, sir. Pansa left me to you in his will."
 "Well," barked Trimalchio, "see that you do a good job
or I'll have you demoted to the messenger corps."
 The cook, freshly reminded of his master's power,
meekly led the hog off toward the kitchen, [48] while
Trimalchio gave us all an indulgent smile. "If you don't
like the wine," he said, "we'll have it changed for you. I'll
know by the amount you drink what you think of it.
Luckily too I don't have to pay a thing for it. It comes with
a lot of other good things from a new estate of mine near
town. I haven't seen it yet, but I'm told it adjoins my lands
at Terracina and Tarentum. Right now what I'd really like
to do is buy up Sicily. Then I could go to Africa without
ever stepping off my own property.
 "But tell me," he said, turning to Agamemnon, "what
was the subject of your debate today? Of course, I'm no
orator myself, but I've learnt a thing or two about law for
use around the place. And don't think I'm one of those
people who look down on learning. No sir, I've got two
libraries, one Greek and the other Latin. So tell us, if you
will, what your debate was about."
 "Well," said Agamemnon, "it seems that a rich man
and a poor man had gone to court . . ."
"A poor man?" Trimalchio broke in, "what's that?"
 "Very pretty, very pretty," chuckled Agamemnon and
then launched out into an exposition of god knows which
of his debating topics.
 But Trimalchio immediately interrupted him: "If that's
the case, there's no argument; if it isn't the case, then what
does it matter?" Needless to say, we pointedly applauded
all of Trimalchio's sallies.
 "But tell me, my dear Agamemnon," continued our host,
"do you remember the twelve labors of Hercules or the
story about Ulysses and how the Cyclops broke his
thumb trying to get the log out of his eye? When I was a
kid, I used to read all those stories in Homer. And, you
know, I once saw the Sibyl of Cumae in person. She was
hanging in a bottle, and when the boys asked her, 'Sibyl,
what do you want?' she said, 'I want to die.'"
 [49] He was still chattering away when the servants
came in with an immense hog on a tray almost the size of
the table. We were, of course, astounded at the chef's
speed and swore it would have taken longer to roast an
ordinary chicken, all the more since the pig looked even
bigger than the one served to us earlier. Meanwhile
Trimalchio had been scrutinizing the pig very closely and
suddenly roared, "What! Whats this? By god, this hog
hasn't even been gutted Get that cook in here on the
double!"
 Looking very miserable, the poor cook came shuffling
up to the table and admitted that he had forgotten to gut the
Pig.
 "You forgot?" bellowed Trimalchio. "You forgot to gut a
pig? And I suppose you think that's the same thing as
merely forgetting to add salt and pepper. Strip that man!
 The cook was promptly stripped and stood there stark
naked between two bodyguards, utterly forlorn. The
guests to a man, however, interceded for the chef.
"Accidents happen," they said, "please don't whip him. If
he ever does it again, we promise we won't say a word for
him " My own reaction was anger, savage and unrelenting.
I could barely restrain myself and leaning over, I
whispered to Agamemnon, "Did you ever hear of anything
worse? Who could forget to gut a pig? By god, you
wouldn't catch me letting him off, not if it was just a fish
he'd forgotten to clean."
 Not so Trimalchio, however. He sat there, a great grin
widening across his face, and said: "Well, since your
memory's so bad, you can gut the pig here in front of
us all." The cook was handed back his clothes, drew out
his knife with a shaking hand and then slashed at the
pig's belly with crisscross cuts. The slits widened out under
the pressure from inside, and suddenly out poured, not
the pig's bowels and guts, but link upon link of tumbling
sausages and blood puddings.
 [50] The slaves saluted the success of the hoax with a
rousing, "LONG LIVE GAIUSI' The vindicated chef was
presented with a silver crown and honored by the offer of
a drink served on a platter of fabulous Corinthian bronze.
Noticing that Agamemnon was admiring the platter, Trimalchio
said, "I'm the only man in the world who owns
genuine Corinthian bronze." I expected him to brag in
his usual way that he'd had the stuff imported directly
from Corinth, but he was way ahead of me "Perhaps
he said, "you'd like to know why I'm the onis man who
owns genuine Corinthian. Well, I'll tell you. It's because
I have it made by a craftsman of mine called Corinthus,
and what's Corinthian, I'd like to know, if not something
Corinthus makes? And don't think I'm just a stupid
half-wit. I know very well how Corinthian bronze got
invented. You see, when Troy was taken, there was this
fellow called Hannibal, a real swindler, and he ordered
all the bronze and gold and silver statues to be melted
down in a pile. Well, the stuff melted and made a kind
of mixture. So the smiths came and started carting it off
and turning out platters and side dishes and little statues.
And that's how real Corinthian began, a kind of mishmash
metal, and nothing on its own. Af you don't mind my
saying so though, I like glass better. It doesn't stink like
bronze, and if it weren't so breakable, I'd prefer it to gold.
Besides, it's cheap as cheap.
 [51] "But, you know, there was once a workman who
invented a little glass bottle that wouldn't break. Well
he got in to see the emperor with this bottle as a present.
Then he asked the emperor to hand it back to him and
managed to drop it on the floor on purpose. Well, the
emperor just about died. But the workman picked the
bottle back up from the floor and, believe it or not, it
was dented just a little, as though it were made out of
bronze. So he pulled a little hammer out of his pocket
and tapped it back into shape. Well, by this time he
thought he had Jupiter by the balls, especially when the
emperor asked him if anyone else was in on the secret.
But you know what happened? When the workman told
him that nobody else knew, the emperor ordered his head
chopped off. Said that if the secret ever got out, gold
would be as cheap as dirt.
 [52] "But silver's my real passion. I ve got a hundred
bowls that hold three or four gallons apiece, all of them
with the story of Cassandra engraved on them: how she
killed her sons, you know, and the kids are lying there
dead so naturally that you'd think they were still alive.
And there's a thousand goblets too which Mummius left
my old master. There's pictures on them too, things like
Daedalus locking up Niobe in the Troian Horse. And on
my cups, the heavy ones, I've got the fights of Hermeros
and Petraites. No sir, I wouldn't take cash down for my
taste in silver."
 In the midst of this harangue, a slave dropped a goblet
on the floor. Once he had finished talking, Trimalchio
wheeled on him and said, "Why don't you go hang your-
self? You're no damn good to me." The slave began to
whimper and beg for mercy. But Trimalchio was stem:
"Why come whining to me for pity? As if I got you into
your mess. Next time tell yourself not to be so damn
dumb." However, we interceded once more and managed
to get the slave off. The instant he was pardoned, he
began to scamper around the table . . .

 Then Trimalchio shouted, "Out with the water, in with
the wine!" We dutifully applauded the joke, and partic-
ularly Agamemnon who was an old hand at wangling
return invitations.
 By now Trimalchio was drinking heavily and was, in
fact, close to being drunk. "Hey, everybody he shouted,
"nobody's asked Fortunata to dance. Believe me, you never
saw anyone do grinds the way she can." With this he
raised his hands over his forehead and did an impersonation
of the actor Syrus singing one of his numbers, while
the whole troupe of slaves joined in on the chorus. He was
just about to get up on the table when Fortunata went
and whispered something in his ear, probably a warning
that these drunken capers were undignified. Never was a
man so changeable: sometimes he would bow down to
Fortunata in anything she asked; at other times, as now, he
went his own way.
 [53] But it was the secretary, not Fortunate, who
effectively dampened his desire to dance, for quite without
warning he began to read from the estate records as though
he were reading some government bulletin.
 "Born," he began, "on July 26th, on Trimalchio's estate
at Cumae, thirty male and forty female slaves.
 "Item, five hundred thousand bushels of wheat
transferred from the threshing rooms into storage
 "On the same date, the slave Mithridates crucified alive
for blaspheming the guardian spirit of our master Gaius.
 "On the same date, the sum of three hundred thousand
returned to the safe because it could not be invested.
 "On the same date, in the gardens at Pompeii, fire broke
out in the house of the bailiff Nasta . . ."
 "What?" roared Trimalchio. "When did I buy any
gardens at Pompeii?"
 "Last year," the steward replied. "That's why they
haven't yet appeared on the books."
 I don't care what you buy," stormed Trimalchio, "but if
it's not reported to me within six months, I damn well
won't have it appearing on the books at all!"
 The reading was then resumed. First came the directives
of the superintendents on various estates and then the wills
of the gamekeepers, each one excluding Trimalchio by a
special clause. There followed a list of his overseers,
the divorce of a freedwoman by a nightwatchman for
being caught in flagrante with an attendant from the baths,
and the banishment of a steward to Baiae. It closed with the
accusation against a cashier and the verdict in a dispute
between several valets.
 At long last the tumblers appeared. An extremely insipid
clown held up a ladder and ordered a boy to climb up and
do a dance on top to the accompaniment of several popular
songs. He was then commanded to jump through burning
hoops and to pick up a big jug with his teeth. No one much
enjoyed this entertainment except Trimalchio who claimed
that the stunts were extremefy difficult. Nothing on earth,
he added, gave him such pleasure as jugglers and buglers;
everything else, such as animal shows and concerts, was
utter trash. "I once bought," he bragged, "several comic
actors, but I used them for doing farces and I told my flutist
to play nothing but Latin songs, the funny ones."
 [54] Just at this point the ladder toppled and the boy on
top fell down landing squarely on Trimalchio. The slaves
shrieked, tie guests screamed. We were not, of course, in
the least concerned about the boy, whose neck we would
have been delighted to see broken; but we dreaded the
thought of possibly having to go into mourning for a man
who meant nothing to us at all. Meanwhile, Trimalchio lay
there groaning and nursing his arm as though it were
broken. Doctors came rushing in, Fortunata at their head,
her hair flying, a goblet in her hand, and filling the room
with wails of distress. As for the boy, he was already
clutching us by the legs and begging us to intercede for
him. My own reaction was one of suspicion. I was afraid,
that is, that these pleas for pity were simply the prelude to
one more hoax; for the incident of the slave who had
forgotten to gut the pig was still fresh in my mind. So I
started to examine the room rather uneasily, half expecting,
I suppose, that the walls would Split open and god knows
what contraption would appear. And these suspicions were
somewhat confirmed when they began flogging a servant
for having bound up his master's wounded arm with white,
rather than scarlet, bandages. Actually, as it turned out, I
was not far wrong, for instead of having the boy whipped,
Trimalchio ordered him to be set free, so that nobody could
say that the great Trimalchio had been hurt by a mere slave.
 [55] We gave this ample gesture our approval and
remarked on the uncertainties of human existence. "Yes,"
said Trimalchio, "it would be a shame to let an occasion
like this pass by without some enduring record of it." He
then called for writing materials and after a brief but
harrowing effort produced the following lines:

We think we're awful smart, we think we're awful wise,
but when we're least expecting, comes the big surprise.
Lady Luck's in heaven and we're her little toys,
so break out the wine and fill your glasses, boysl

From this beginning, the conversation went on to poetry,
and for a considerable time somebody was maintaining
that the best poet of all time was the Thracian poet,
Movsus. Then Trimalchio turned to Agamemnon and
said, "Professor, what's the difference between Cicero and
Publilius in your opinion? To my way of thinking, Cicero
jogs along better but Publilius has him all beat when it
 comes to the message. What, after all, could be more
profound than this?

Extravagance and Waste have breach'd our walls,
and Mars' vast ramparts crumble down in
ruin To please thy palate, Rome, that haughty
birds the peacock, glisters in his cage to die;
the cock Tom Afric strand thy victim is; upon
thy Dlate the capon perisheth. Lot e'en the
friendly stork, our peregrine, blest bird of
piety that stalks on stilts, cold winter's
refugee, who rattleth on the tiles and struts the
roof in sign of Spring, now builds his final nest-
upon the plate of Greedl
 Ah, and why should distant Ind
produce the harvest of her pearl, that berried
stone? That matrons should, forsooth, in baubles
dress and raise their shameless legs upon the
couch of lust?
 Why, why should emeralds
make magnificence of green, and rubies
glow with coruscation of expensive fire unless
sweet Chastity, among such stones, ought
better blaze her innocence abroad? O shame, that
brides in gossamer should go, and filmy gauze
their nakedness should glozel

[56] "But next to literature," he continued, "which 
profession do you think has the roughest time of it? To 
my mind, doctors and money-changers are the worst off. 
Doctors, because they have to guess what's going on in
the tummies of poor mankind and when the fever
comes. But doctors I despise: they're always sticking 
me on a diet of roast duck. Money-changers come next 
because they have to detect the phony copper beneath 
the silver. Now of dumb animals the ones who have things 
worst are oxen and sheep. Poor dumb oxen, because it's 
their work that puts the bread in our mouths, and sheep 
because the clothes on our backs we owe to! them. 
And it's a dirty shame, I think, the way we eat their 
mutton and wear their wool when the poor dumb sheep 
pay the bill. But bees are really good; thegre almost 
like gods, I say, because they vomit honey and pretend 
they got it from Jupiter. Of course, they sting too, 
but that's because there's a bit of bitterness in all 
good things . . ."
 He had started in easing the philosophers out of their
jobs when servants brought around jars from which we all
drew slips. Then the boy whose task it was read each of
our slips aloud. Every one contained some conundrum or
pun which entitled us to a humorous present. Thus when
the slip SOUR SILVER SAUCES SOW was read, a leg of ham
topped by a silver cruet filled with vinegar was carried in.
HEADREST earned a neck of mutton, while HINDSIGHT AND
LAMBASTING was matched by a bowl of lamb gravy with
buckeyes floating around in it. HORSERADISH AND PRUNES won
a riding whip and a pruning knife, and several wrinkled
plums and a jar of Attic honey went to the slip reading
PLUMAGE AND FLYTRAP. For GOOD FOOD FOR FOOTWEAR? they
produced a fillet of sole broiled on the sole of a sandal.
SOMETHING FOR THE DOG, SOMETHING FOR THE FEET won a pair of
rabbit-lined slippers, while MUSSELS AND SOME LETTERS IN AN
ENVELOPE received a mouse tied between two eels and a pod
of peas. We chuckled at these jokes, but there were
hundreds of them and I have forgotten most of them by
now.
 [57] Ascyltus, however, was no longer able to swallow
his snickers and he finally tossed back his head and roared
and guffawed until he was almost in tears. At this one of
Trimalchio's freedmen friends, the man just above me at
the table, took offense and flared out in wild rage. "You
cheap muttonhead," he snarled, "what are you cackling
about? Entertainment isn't good enough for the likes of
you, I suppose? You're richer, huh? And eat better too?
I'll bet! So help me, if you were down here by me, I'd
stop your damn bleating
 "Some nerve he's not, laughing at us. Stinking
runaway, that's what he is. A burglar. A bum. Bah, he's
not worth a good boot in the ass. By god, if I tangle with
him, he won't know where he's headed! So help me, I
don't often fly off the handle like this Still, if the flesh is
soft, I say, the worms will breed.
 "Still cackling, are you? Who the hell are you to snicker?
Where'd your daddy buy you? Think you're made out of
gold, eh? So that's it, you're a Roman knight? That makes
me a king's son. Then why was I a slave? Because I
wanted to be. Because I'd rather be a Roman slave than a
tax-paying savage. And as I live and breathe, I hope no
man thinks I'm funny. I walk like a free man. I
don't owe any man a thing. I've never been hauled into
court. That's right: no man ever had to tell me to pay up.
I've bought a few little plots of land and a nice bit of
silver plate. I feed twenty stomachs, not counting the dog.
I bought my wife's freedom so no man could put his dirty
paws on her. I paid a good two hundred for my own
freedom. Right now, I'm on the board for the emperor's
worship, and I hope when I die I won't have to blush for
anything. But you're so damn busy sneering at us, you
don't look at your own behind. You see the lice on us but
not the ticks on yourself. Nobody but you thinks we're
funny. Look at your old professor there: he aporeciates us.
Bah, youre still sucking tit; you're limp feather, limper, no
damn better. Oh you're rich, are you? Then cram down
two lunches; bolt two suppers, sonny. As for me, I'd
rather have my credit than all your cash. Who ever had to
dun me twice? Forty years, boy and man, I spent as a
slave, but no one could tell now whether I was slave or
free. I was just a curly-headed kid when I came to this
place. The town hall wasn't even built then. But I did
everything I could do to please my master. He was a good
man, a real gentleman, whose fingernail was worth more
than your whole carcass. And there were some in that
house who would have liked to see me stumble. But thanks
to my master I gave them the slip. Those are real trials,
those are real triumphs. But when you're born free
everything's as easy as saying, 'Hurry on down.' Well,
what are you gaping at now, like a goat in vetch?"
 [58] At these last words, Giton, who was sitting at our
feet, went rudely off into a great gale of whooping laughter
which he had been trying to stifle for some time. Ascyltus'
tormentor promptly trained his fire on the boy. "So you're
snorting too, are you, you frizzle-headed scallion? You
think it's time for capers, do you, carnival days and cold
December? When Aid you pay your freedom tax, eh? Well,
what are you smirking at, you little gallowsbird? Look,
birdbait, I'll give it to you proper and the same for that
master who won't-keep you in line. May I never eat bread
again, if I let you off for anyone except our host here; if it
weren't for him, I'd fix you right now. We were all feeling
good, nice happy party, and then those half-baked masters
of yours let you cut out of line. Like master, like slave, I
always say.
"Damnation, I'm so hopping mad, I can't stop. I'm no
sorehead either, but when I let go, I don't give a damn for
my own mother. Just you wait, I'll catch you out in the
street someday. You mouse, you little potato! And when I
do, if I don't knock your master into the cabbage patch, my
name's not Hermeros. You can holler for Jupiter on
Olympus as loud as you like, and it won't help you one
little bit. By god, I'll fix those frizzle-curls of yours, and
I'll fix your two-bit master too! You'll feel my teeth, sonny
boy. And you won't snicker then, or I don t know who I
am. No, not if your beard were made out of golds By god,
I'll give you Athena's own anger, and that goes for the
blockhead who set you free! I never learned geometry or
criticism or hogwash of that kind, but I know how to read
words carved in stone and divide up to a hundred, money,
measure, or weights. Come on, l'll lay you a little bet. I'll
stake a piece of my silver set. You may have learned some
rhetoric in school, but let me prove your daddy wasted his
money educating you. Ready? Then answer me this: 'I
come long and I come broad. What am I?' I'll give you a
clue. One of us runs, the other stays put. One grows
bigger; the other stays small. Well, that's you, skittering
around, bustling and gaping like a mouse in a jug. So
either shut up or don't bother your elders and betters who
don't know you exist. Or do you think I'm impressed by
those phony gold rings of yours? Swipe them from your
girl? Sweet Mercury, come down to the main square in
town and try to take out a loan. Then you'll see this plain
iron ring of mine makes plenty of credit. Hah, that finished
you. You look like a fox in the rain. By god, if I don't pull
up my toga and hound you all over town, may I fail in my
business and die broke! So help me! And isn't he
something, that professor who taught you your manners?
Him a professor? A bum, that's what he is. In my time, a
teacher was a teacher. Why, my old teacher used to say,
'Now, boys, is everything in order? Then go straight
home. No dawdling, no gawking on the way. And don't
be sassy to your elders.' But nowadays teachers are trash.
Not worth a damn. As for me, I'm grateful to my old
teacher for what he taught me . . ."
 [59] Ascyltus was on the point of replying, but
Trimalchio, charmed by his friend's eloquence, broke in
first: "Come on now. That's enough. No more hard
feelings. I want everyone feeling good. As for you,
Herrneros, don't be too hard on the boy. He's a little
hotheaded, so show him you're made of better stuff. 
It's the man who gives ground in arguments like 
this who wins every time. Besides, when
you were just a little bantam strutting around the yard, you
were all cockadoodledoo and no damn sense. So let
bygones be bygones. Come on, everybody, smiled The
rhapsodes are going to perform for us now."
 Immediately a troupe of rhapsodes burst into the room,
all banging away on their shields with spears. Trimalchio
hoisted himself up on his pillows and while the rhapsodes
were gushing out their Greek poetry with the usual
bombast, he sat there reading aloud in Latin. At the end
there was a brief silence; then Trimalchio asked us if we
knew the scene from Homer the rhapsodes had just recited.
"Well," he said, "I'll tell you. You see, there were these
two brothers, Ganymede and Diomedes. Now they had this
sister called Helen, see. Well, Agamemnon eloped with her
and Diana left a deer as a fill-in for Helen. Now this poet
called Homer describes the battle between the Trojans and
the people of a place called Paros, which is where Paris
came from. Well, as you'd aspect, Agamemnon won and
gave his daughter Iphigeneia to Achilles in marriage. And
that's why Ajax went mad, but here he comes in person to
explain the plot himself."
 At this the rhapsodes burst into cheers, the slaves went
scurrying about and promptly appeared with a barbecued
calf, with a cap on its head, reposing on a huge platter-it
must have weighed two hundred pounds at the very least.
Behind it came Trimalchio's so-called Ajax. He pulled out
his sword and began slashing away at the calf, sawing up
and down, first with the edge and then with the flat of his
blade. Then with the point of the sword he neatly skewered
the slices of veal he had cut and handed them around to the
astounded guests.
 [60] Our applause for this elaborate tour de force,
however, was abruptly cut short. For all at once the
coffered ceiling began to rumble and the whole room
started to shake. I jumped up in terror, expecting that some
acrobat was about to come swinging down through the
roof. The other guests, equally frightened, lay there staring
at the roof as though they were waiting for a herald from
heaven. Suddenly the paneling slid apart and down through
the fissure in the ceiling an immense circular hoop,
probably knocked off some gigantic cask, began slowly to
descend. Dangling from the hoop were chaplets of gold
and little jars of perfume, all, we were informed, presents
for us to take home. I filled my pockets and then, when I looked
back at the table, saw a tray garnished with little cakes; in
the center stood a pastry statuette of Priapus with the usual
phallus propping up an apron loaded with fruits and
grapes of every vanety. You can imagine how greedily we
all grabbed, but then a fresh surprise sent us off again into
fresh laughter. For at the slightest touch the cakes and fruit
all squirted out jets of liquid saffron, splattering our faces
with the smelly stuff. Naturally enough, the use of the
sacred saffron made us conclude that this course must be
part of some religious rite, so we all leaped to our feet and
shouted in chorus, LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR, FATHER OF OUR
COUNTRY! Even this act of homage, however, failed to
prevent some of the guests from pilfering the
fruit and stuffine their napkins full. And I, of
course, was among the chief offenders, thinking nothing
in this world too good to fill the pockets of my Giton.
 Meanwhile three slaves dressed in snowy tunics had
made their entrance. Two of them set out Trimalchio's
household gods, small statues with the usual gold
medallion of the owner on the chest. The third boy
brought around a bowl of wine and solemnly intoned a
prayer to the gods for blessings on the house and guests.
The names of his household gods, Trimalchio told us,
were Fat Profit, Good Luck, and Large Income. And
because we saw all the other guests piously kissing
Trimalchio's medallion, we felt embarrassed not to do
likewise. [61] We then offered our congratulations to our
host and wished him the best of health and soundness of
mind.
 Trimalchio now turned to his old friend Niceros. "You
used to be better company, my friend," he said, "but now
you're solemn and glum, and I don't know why. But if
you'd like to make your host happy, why not tell us the
story of your famous adventure?'
 Niceros was delighted to have been singled out. "So
help me," he said, but may I never earn a thing, if I'm not
ready to burst at your kind words. Well, here goes.
Happiness here we come! Though I confess I'm a bit
nervous our learned professors are going to laugh me
down. Still, so what? I'll tell you my story and let them
snicker. Better to tell a joke than be one, I say."
 With these "winged words" our storyteller began.
"When I was still a slave, we used to live in a narrow little
street about where Gavilla's house stands now. There the
gods decreed that I should fall in love with the wife
of the tavernkeeper Terentius. You remember
Melissa, don't you? Came from Tarentum and a
buxom little package, if ever I saw one. But, you
know, I loved her more for her moral character than
her body. Whatever I wanted, she gladly supplied,
and we always went halves. I gave her everything I
had, and she'd stow it all safely away. What's more,
she never cheated.
 "Well, one day, down at the villa, her husband died.
Needless to say, I moved heaven and earth to get to
her, for a friend in need is a friend indeed. [62] By a
stroke of real luck my master had gone off to Capua
to do some odds and ends of business. So I grabbed
my chance and persuaded one of our guests to go
with me as far as the fifth milestone. He was a soldier
and strong as the devil. Well, we stumbled off at
cockcrow with the moon shining down as though it
were high noon. But where the road leads down
between the graves, my man went off among the
tombstones to do his business, while I sat by the road
mumbling a song to keep my courage up and
counting the graves. After a while I started looking
around for him and suddenly I caught sight of him
standing stark naked with all his clothes piled up on
the side of the road. Well, you can imagine: l stood
frozen, stiff as a corpse, my heart in my mouth. The
next thing I knew he was pissing around his clothes
and then, presto! he changed into a wolf. Don't think
I'm making this up. I wouldn't kid you for anything.
But like I was saying, he turned into a wolf, then
started to howl and loped off for the woods. At first I
couldn't remember where I was. Then I went to get
his clothes and discovered they'd been changed into
stones. By now, let me tell you, I was scared. But I
pulled out my sword and slashed away at the
shadows all the way to my girlfriend's house. I
arrived as white as a ghost, almost at the last gasp,
with the sweat pouring down my crotch and my eyes
bugging out like a corpse. I don't know how I ever
recovered. Melissa, of course, was surprised to see me
at such an hour and said, 'If you'd only come a little
earlier, you could have lent us a hand. A wolf got
into the grounds and attacked the sheep. The place
looked like a butchershop, blood all over. He got
away in the end, but we had the last laugh. One of
the slaves nicked him in the throat with a spear.'
 "That finished me. I couldn't sleep a wink the rest
of the night and as soon as it was light, I went
tearing back home like a landlord chasing the tenants. 
When I reached the spot where my friend's clothing had
been turned into stones there was nothing to be
seen but blood. But when I got home, I found the
soldier stretched out in bed like a poleaxed bull and
the doctor inspecting his neck. By now, of course, I
knew he was a werewolf and you couldn't have
made me eat a meal with him to save my own life.
You're welcome to think what you like of my story,
but may the gods strike me dead if I'm feeding you
a lie."
 [63] Far from douing him, we were all dumb with
astonishment. "I, for one," said Trimalchio, "wouldn't
dream of doubting you. In fact, if you'll believe me, I
had goosebumps all over. I know old Niceros and
he's no liar. Nope, he's truth itself and never
exaggerates. But now I'm going to tell you a horrible
story of my own, as weird as an ass on the roof.
 "When I was just a little slave with fancy curls-
I've lived in the lap of luxury from my boyhood on,
as coddled as they come-my master's pet slave
happened to die one day. He was a jewel all right, a
little Dearl of perfection, clever as hell and good as
good. Well, while his mother was tearing out her hair
and the rest of us were helping out with the funeral,
suddenly the witches started to howl. They sounded
like a whole pack of hounds on the scent of a hare.
Now at that time we had a slave from Cappadocia, a
giant of a man, scared of nothing and strong as iron.
That boy could have picked up a mad bull with one
hand. Well, this fellow whips out his sword and
rushes outside with his left arm wrapped in his cloak
for a shield. The next thing we knew he had stabbed
one of those wild women right through the guts-
just about here, heaven preserve the spot! Then we
heard groans and when we hooked out, so help me,
there wasn't a witch to be seen. Well, our big bruiser
came stumbling in and collapsed on a bed. He was
covered from head to toe with black and blue spots
as though he'd been flogged though we knew it was
that evil hand that had touched him. We shut the
door and went back to work. But when his mother
went to give him a hug, she found there was nothing
there but a bundle of straw. No heart, no guts, no
anything. As I see it, the witches had made off with
the body and left a straw dummy in its place. But it
just goes to show you: there are witches and the
ghouls go walking at night, turning the whole world
upside downs. As for our big meathead, after the witches 
brought him back, he was never the same again, and died
raving mad a few days later."
 [64] We were, of course, dumfounded, and no
less credulous than amazed. So we kissed the table
and implored the spirits who walk by night to keep
to themselves and leave us in peace when we went
home from dinner that night.
 I must admit that by this time I was beginning to
see the lamps burning double and the whole room
seemed to be whirling around. But Trimalchio was in
splendid form and turned to another of his guests.
"Come on, Plocamus," he joshed him, "won't you
entertain us with a story? You used to be better
company, you know. Remember those bits from the
plays you used to recite and the songs you sang? Oh
well, I suppose we're all getting along now and we're
not what we used to be. So it goes, so it goes."
 "My rcing days ended," declared Plocamus, "the
day I got the gout. But when I was younger, I almost
got T.B. from singing so much. Remember? The
dancing and the recitations and the good old times
we had at the barbershop? Why, except for Apelles, I
doubt the world has ever seen my equal." With that,
he clapped his hand over his mouth and mumbled
some hideous doggerel which he later boasted was
Greek.
 Not to be outdone, Trimalchio promptly launched
into an imitation of a bugler. That over, he turned his
attention to his pet slave, that cruddy-eyed little boy
with hideously stained teeth whom he called
Croesus. At the moment Croesus was busily engaged
in wrapping up a disgustingly fat lapdog with a
Ereen shawl and at the same time trying to force half
a loaf of bread down the poor dog's throat, though
the dog was on the point of throwing up. This little
tableau gave Trimalchio the brilliant idea of having
Bowser, "the guardian of my hearth and home," as he
expressed it, brought in. Immediately an immense
mastiff on a leash was leil into the room and ordered
by a kick from the porter to lie down beside the
table. Tnmalchio tossed him several chunks of white
bread. "Nobody in this whole house," he declared,
"loves me as much as that mutt." Croesus, instantly
jealous of this handsome praise of Bowser, dropped
his lapdog to the floor and sicked him on to yap at
the big dog. Dowser naturally responded by filling
the room with ear-splitting barks and nearly
tore Croesus' dog to pieces. The uproar continued
until someone knocked the chandelier onto the
table, smashing all the crystal goblets and splattering
several of the guests with burning oil. Wishing to
appear unruffled by the damage, Trimalchio kissed
Croesus and told him to clamber up on his shoulders.
This the boy promptly did, riding his master
piggyback, beating him with the palms of his hands,
and shrieking, "Horsey, horsed guess how many
fingers I'm holding upl" For a while the utter
confusion and uproar silenced even Trimalchio. But
at the first opportunity he ordered a great vat of
wine to be mixed and divided among the slaves who
were standing about ready to serve us. "If anyone
refuses," he barked, "dump it on his head. The day's
for work, the evening's for pleasure."
 [65] Following this extravagant display of
kindness came a course the very memory of which, if
you will believe me, I still find sickening. For instead
of the usual small bird or thrush, each one of us was
served a plump chicken and several goose eggs
sporting little pasty caps. Trimalchio insisted that we
sample the eggs, saying that they were nothing but
geese minus the bones. Meanwhile someone was
hammering at the door and before long a carouser
dressed in a splendid white robe and accompanied
by a throng of slaves made his entrance. His face
was dignified and stern, so stern in fact that I took
him for the oraetor, slammed my bare feet onto the
cold floor and mady ready to run for it. But
Agamemnon laughed at my fright and said, "Relax,
you idiot, it's only Hatinnas. He's an oflficial of the
impenal cult and a mason by trade. They say he
makes first-rate tombstones."
 Somewhat reassured, I sat down again but
continued to observe Habinnas' entrance with
mounting amazement He was already half-drunk and
was propping himself up by holding on to his wife's
shoulders with both hands.
 He was literally draped in garlands of flowers and a
stream of perfumed oil was running down his
forehead and into his eyes. When he reached the
place reserved for the praetor, he sat down and
called for wine and warm water. Trimalchio was
delighted to see his friend in such spirits and called
for bigger glasses before asking him how he had
eaten.
 "Only one thing was missing," Habinnas smiled,
"and that was you. My heart was really here the
whole time. But, by god, Scissa did it up brown. She
put on one fine spread for that poor slave's funeral, 
I'll say that for her. What's more, she set 
him free after his death. And what with the 5 per cent tax, 
I'll bet that gesture cost her a pretty penny. 
The slave himself was valued at about two
thousand. Still, it was very nice, though it cut across my
grain to have to pour out half my drinks as an offering to
the poor boy's bones."
 [66] 0'But what did they give you to eat?" Trimalchio
pressed him
 "If I can remember, I'll tell you," said Habinnas. "But
my memory's so bad these days, I sometimes can't even
remember my own name. Let's see, first off we had some
roast pork garnished with loops of sausage and flanked
with more sausages and some giblets done to a turn. And
there were pickled beets and some wholewheat bread made
without bleach. I prefer it to white, you know. It's better
for you and less constipating too. Then came a course of
cold tart with a mixture of some wonderful Spanish wine
and hot honey. I took a fat helping of the tart and scooped
up the honey generously. Then there were chickpeas and
lupins, no end of filberts, and an apple apiece. I took two
apples and I've got one wrapped up in my napkin here. If I
forgot to bring a little present to my pet slave, I'd be in hot
water. And oh yes, my wife reminds me: the main course
was a roast of bearmeat. Scintilla was silly enough to try
some and almost chucked up her supper. But it reminds me
of roast boar, so I put down about a pound of it. Besides,
I'd like to know, if bears eat men, why shouldn't men eat
bears? To wind up, we had some soft cheese steeped in
fresh wine, a snail apiece, some tripe hash, liver in pastry
boats and eggs topped with more pastry and turnips and
mustard and beans bolted in the pod and-but enough's
enough. Oh yes, and they passed around a dish of olives
pickled in caraway, and some of the guests had the nerve to
walk off with three fistfuls. But we sent the ham back
untasted. [67] See here, Gaius, why isn't Fortunata
eating?"
 "You know how she is," said Trimalchio. "Until she's
put the silver away and divided the leftovers among the
servants, she won't touch even a drop of water."
 "Well, if she doesn't come and eat right now," said
Habinnas, "I'm leaving."
 With that he started to rise and probably would have left
if Trimalchio had not signaled and the whole corps of
slaves shouted four or five times in chorus: "FORTUNATA!"
She promptly appeared, her dress bound up so
high by a pale green sash that beneath her cherry-colored
tunic I could glimpse her massive ankle-rings of twisted
gold and a pair of golden slippers. She wiped her fingers
on the handkerchief she wore around her neck and sat
down on the couch beside Habinnas' wife, Scintilla.
Scintilla clapped her hands, Fortunata kissed her and burst
out, "Why, darling, it's been just ages since I've seen
youl"
 In this way the two women chattered on for some time.
The next thing I knew Fortunata was undoing the bracelets
on her grotesquely fat arms and showing them off for
Scintilla to admire. Then she undid her anklets and finally
her hair net, which she kept insisting was woven of pure
gold. Trimalchio, who was observing this byplay with
interest, ordered all her jewelry brought to him.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I want you to see the chains and
fetters our women load themselves with; this is how we
poor bastards are bankrupted. By god, she must be
wearing six and a half pounds of solid gold. Still, I must
admit I've got a bracelet that weighs a good ten pounds on
its own. That was the value of two or three thousandths of
my profits for the year, the same amount I give to Mercury
as the patron-god of business." To prove his boast, he
ordered a pair of scales brought in and the weights passed
around for us to test. For her part, Scintilla was not to be
outdone and took off the large locket which she wore
around her neck and called her "lucks piece." Out of it she
drew a pair of golden earrings and handed them over for
Fortunata's inspection. "They're a present from my
husband," she said. "Thanks to his generosity, no woman
on earth has a finer pair."
 "Generosity, my ass," snorted Habinnas. "You'd pester
the life out of me to get a couple of glass beans. If I had a
daughter, so help me, I'd have her ears chopped off. If it
weren't for the women, things would be as cheap as dirt.
But money-they waste it like water. Swallow it cold and
good and piss it hot and useless."
 By this time both the women were high and sat there
giggling and exchanging little hugs and kisses, Fortunata
boasting about her abilities as a housekeeper and Scintilla
complaining of her husband's favorites and his indifference
to her. At one point during this tender scene Habinnas rose
stealthily to his feet, tiptoed over behind their couch and,
grabbing Fortunata by the knees, toppled her over
backwards onto the couch. As she fell her tunic slipped up
above her knees. Fortunata gave a piercing shriek, threw
herself into Scintilla's arms and tried to hide her blushes in
her handkerchief.
 [68] Once the confusion had died down, Trimalchio
ordered the dessert brought on. The servant immediately
removed not merely the dirty dishes but the tables
themselves and replaced them with fresh ones. The floor
was sprinkled with saffron sawdust and powdered mica,
something I had never seen used for this purpose before.
"Behold your dessert, gentlemen, these fresh tables," said
Trimalchio. I've made a clean sweep of everything, and
that's all you get. That's what you deserve; that's your
dessert. Haw, haw. But if there's still anything in the
kitchen worth eating, boys, bring it on." Meanwhile an
Alexandrian slave was passing us hot water for our wine
and at the same time doing an imitation of a nightingale,
but Trimalchio kept muttering, "Change that stinking
tune." Then the slave seated at Habinnas feet and clearly
acting on his master's orders started to chant a passage
from Vergil, the one beginning:

Meanwhile Aeneas' fleet still rode the heavy swell . . .

Altogether it was the most atrocious sound that ever fell on
my ears. Not only was his pronunciation barbarous, a kind
of sing-song rising and fading of the pitch, but he also
jumbled in verses from some obscene farce, so that for the
first time in my life Vergil actually jarred on me. At the
end, however, Habinnas clapped enthusiastically and said:
"You wouldn't believe it, but he's never had any formal
training. I sent him off to learn from the hawkers at the
fairs, and he can't be beat at imitating muledrivers and
barkers. And he's real smart, does everything: makes
shoes, cooks, bakes . . . In fact, he'd be perfect if he
didn't have two bad points: he's been circumcised and he
snores. He's cross-eyed too, but I don't mind that. Venus
has a bit of a squint, they say. And I bought him for next
to nothing . . ."
 [69] "You haven't mentioned all the little bugger's
tricks," broke in Scintilla angrily. "He's a little pimp and a
fairy, that's what he is, and someday I'll see he's branded
for it."
 Trimalchio guffawed at this. "Come on, Scintilla, don't
be jealous. We know what the score is with you too. And
why not, I'd like to know. Cross my heart and hope to
die, if I didn't have a few tussles in the sheets with my old
master's wife too. In fact, the old man got suspicious, so
much so that he shipped me off to a farm in the country.
But stop wagging, tongue, and I'll give you some bread to
munch."
 At this point that damned slave of Habinnas, obviously
under the impression that we had been praising him, Dulled
a clay lamp with a spout out of his tunic and for a Pull half
hour sat there mimicking a bugler while Habinnas hummed
and fiddled his lower lip up and down in a kind of jew's
harp accompaniment. Then, to crown all this, the stave
stepped out before us all and first parodied with two straws
the flutists at the plays and next, waving a whip and
twisting himself in his cloak, did an imitation of a
muledriver. Habinnas called him over finally, gave him a
kiss and a glass of wine and said, "Nice work, Massa. I'll
see that you get a pair of shoes for this."
 This deadly entertainment would never have ended if the
servants had not brought on another course, consisting of
pastry thrushes with raisin and nut stuffing, followed by
qunces with thorns stuck in them to resemble sea urchins.
We could have put up with these dishes, if the last and
most sickening course of all had not killed our appetites
completely. When it was first brought in, we took it for a
fat goose surrounded by fish and little birds of all kinds.
But Trimalchio declared, "My friends, everything you see
on that Platter has been made from one and the same
substance." I, of course, not the man to be deceived by
appearances, had to turn and whisper to Agamemnon, ''I'd
be very surprised if everything there hadn't been made out
of plain mud or clay. At the Carnival in Rome, I've seen
whole meals made from stuff like that."
 [70] I was still whispering when Trimalchio said, "As
surely as I hope to get richer-but not fatter, please god-
my cook baked all that junk out of roast pork. In fact, I
doubt if there's a more valuable chef in the whole world.
Just say the word, and he'll whip you up a fish out of
sowbelly, pigeons out of bacon, doves from ham and
chicken from pigs' knuckles. That's why I've named him
Daedalus, and it suits him to a T. And because he's an
inventor and a genius, I've brought him back some fine
cutlery from Rome." He then ordered the knives brought in
and passed around for us to admire and inspect. He also
gave us permission to test the blades on the stubble of our
cheeks.
 Suddenly two slaves came rushing in looking as though
they'd had an argument while drawing water at the well at
least they were carrying large jars on their backs and were
obviously furious with each other. Trimalchio offered to act
as arbiter of their argument but they refused to abide by his
decision and began to pummel each other with their sticks.
We were appalled by this drunken insolence but
nonetheless kept our eyes glued to the fight. Suddenly we
noticed that oysters and mussels were sloshing over from
the jugs and a slave caught them as they fell and handed
them around in a dish. Unwilling to be outstripped in
extravagance, the clever chef matched the oysters by
bringing around hot buttered snails on a silver grill and
singing all the time in a hideously dismal, quavering voice.
 What happened next was an extravagance so fantastic
that I am almost embarrassed to mention it. However,
young slaves with long flowing curls came around to each
of us in turn, wreathed our legs and ankles with garlands
of flowers and anointed our feet with perfume from a silver
bowl. Then a generous amount of this same perfume was
poured into the oil lamps and even into the wine bowl.
 By now Fortunata was almost desperate to dance and
Scintilla was clapping her hands even more frequently than
she opened her mouth. Suddenly Trimalchio had an idea.
"You there, Philargyrus," he called out to a slave, "I know
you're a fan of the Greens in the races, but come and sit
with us anyway. You too, Cario, and tell your wife to do
the same." Well, you can imagine what happened. The
dining room was by now so packed with slaves that in the
rush for seats the guests were almost shoved bodily from
the couches. For my part, I had to endure seeing the
cook-the one who had made the goose out of pork and
who reeked of pickles and hot sauce-installed just above
me on the couch. Worst of all, not content with a place at
the table, he had to do an imitation of the tragic actor
Ephesus and then had the brass to bet his master that the
Greens would win the next race in the Circus.
 [71] But Trimalchio was charmed by the challenge. "My
friends," he brayed, "slaves are human too. They drink the
same mother's milk that we do, though an evil fate grinds
them down. But I swear that it won t be long -if nothing
happens to me-before they all taste the
good water of freedom. For I plan to free them all in my
will. To Philargyrus here I leave a farm and his woman.
Cario inherits a block of flats and the tax on his freedom
and his bed and bedding. To my dear Fortunata I leave
everything I have, and I commend her to the kindness of
my friends. But I'm telling you the contents of my will so
my whole household will Love me as much when I'm
still alive as after I'm dead."
 Once the slaves heard this, of course, they burst out with
cheers and eflusive thanks. But Trimalchio suddenly began
to take the whole farce quite seriously and ordered his will
brought out and read aloud from beginning to end while the
slaves sat there groaning and moaning. At the close of the
reading, he turned to Habinnas. "Well, old friend, will you
make me my tomb exactly as I order it? First, of course, I
want a statue of myself. But carve my dog at my feet, and
give me garlands of flowers, jars of perfume and every
fight in Petraites' career. Then, thanks to your good
offices, I'll live on long after I'm gone. In front, I want my
tomb one hundred feet long, but two hundred feet deep.
Around it I want an orchard with every known variety of
fruit tree. You'd better throw in a vineyard too. For it's
wrong, I think, that a man should concern himself with the
house where he lives his life but give no thought to the
home he'll have forever. But above all I want you to carve
this notice:

THIS MONUMENT DOES NOT PASS INTO
THE POSSESSION OF MY HEIRS.

In any case I'll see to it in my will that my grave is
protected from damage after my death. I'll appoint one
of my ex-slaves to act as custodian to chase off the people
who might come and crap on my tomb. Also, I want you
to carve me several ships with all sail crowded and a
picture of myself sitting on the judge's bench in official
dress with five gold rings on my fingers and handing out
a sack of coins to the people. For it's a fact, and you're
my witness, that I gave a free meal to the whole town
and a cash handout to everyone. Also make me a dining
room, a frieze maybe, but however you like, and show
the whole town celebrating at my expense. On my right
I want a statue of Fortunata with a dove in her hand. And
oh yes, be sure to have her pet dog tied to her girdle. And
don't forget my pet slave. Also I'd like huge jars of wine,
well stoppered so the wine won't slosh out. Then sculpt
me a broken vase with a little boy sobbing out
his heart over it. And in the middle stick a
sundial so that anyone who wants the time of day
will have to read my name. And how will this do
for the epitaph?

HERE LIES GAIUS POMPEIUS TRIMALCHIO
MAECENATIANUS,
VOTED IN ABSENTIA AN OFFICIAL OF THE
IMPERIAL CULT.
HE COULD HAVE BEEN REGISTERED
IN ANY CATEGORY OF THE CIVIL SERVICE AT ROME
BUT CHOSE OTHERWISE
PIOUS AND COURAGEOUS,
A LOYAL FRIEND,
HE DIED A MILLONAIRE,
THOUGH HE STARTED LIFE WITH NOTHING
LET IT ME SAID TO HIS ETERNAL CREDIT
THAT HE NEVER LISTENTD TO PHILOSOPHERS.
PEACE TO HIM.
FAREWELL.

[72] At the end he burst into tears. Then Fortunata
started wailing, Habinnas began to cry, and every slave
in the room burst out sobbing as though
Trimalchio were dying then and there. The whole
room throbbed and pulsed to the sound of
mouring. I was almost in tears myself, when Trimalchio
suddenly cried, "We all have to die, so let's live while
we're walting! Come on, everybody, smile, be happy.
We'll all go down to the bath for a dip. The water's hot as
an oven."
 "Hurrah!" shouted Habinnas. "We'll make one day do
the work of twol" With that he leaped up in his bare feet
and ran after Trimalchio who was clapping his hands with
approval and excitement.
 I turned to Ascyltus. "Well, what do you think? As for
me, the mere sight of a bath would finish me off."
 "Pretend to go along," he whispered back, "and when
they head for the baths, we'll make off in the confusion."
 Agreed on our strategy, we followed Giton's lead


through the portico to the main entrance. There, however,
we were given a deafening welcome by the
chained watchdog, and his furious barking and growlmg
so terrified Aseyltus that he tumbled backwards into the
fishpond. The mere painting of that same watchdog had
nearly been my ruin earlier, and the real thing frightened
me so horribly that, between my fear and my drunkenness, I
managed to fall into the pool myself while trying to haul
Ascyltus out. Fortunately for us the porter soon appeared,
which somewhat calmed the dog. Finally the porter
succeeded in dragging us both, wet and shivering, out of
the pool to terra firma. Meanwhile Giton had prudently
made friends with the dog by tossing him all the tidbits
we'd carefully saved from supper, and bribed by these
offerings, the dog had finally stopped barking. Utterly
soaking and shaking all over, we asked the porter to open
the gate and let us out. "You're badly mistaken,
gentlemen,' he replied, "if you think you can leave by the
same way you came. No guest in this house ever goes out
by the same door again. There's one way in and another
way out."
 [73] So what were we poor devils to do now, trapped in
this strange labyrinth of a placed As it was, we would have
given anything in the world to be standing in a hot bath. At
last, however, we succeeded in persuading the porter to
lead us to the baths. There we stripped off our soaking
clothes and went in, leaving Giton at the entrance so he
could dry our clothes over the bath furnace.
 The bath itself was narrow and shaped like a coldwater
cistern, and we found Trimalchio standing in the middle of
the pool. But even here there was no escape from his
revolting bragging. As for himself, he was saying, he
preferred to bathe in private, away from the crowd. In this
very spot, moreover, there once used to be a bakery which
he had bought out, etc., etc. Finally when simple
exhaustion forced him to sit down, he became fascinated by
the weird acoustics of the vaulted room and began in a
drunken bass to murder some of Menecrates' songs. At
least I was told by those who pretended to understand his
gibberish that they belonged to Menecrates' repertoire.
Meanwhile some of the other guests were cavorting around
the edge of the pool and screeching out popular songs.
Others, holding their hands behind their backs, were trying
to pick up rings from the floor with their teeth, and still
others, kneeling down on the ground, were attempting to
arch themselves backward until they touched their toes.
Leaving the drunkards to their games, we went on ahead
and sampled the hot bath which had been drawn for
Trimalchio.
 In no time at all the water had cleared the wine fumes
from our heads, and we were taken into a second dining
room where Fortunata had laid out some of her prize 
possessions. There was a number of curious lamps, but I
particularly remember several figurines of fishermen
in bronze and some tables of solid silver covered
with gilded goblets into which fresh wine was being
strained before our eyes. "My friends," said
Trimalchio, apropos of nothing, ' my pet slave is
having his first shave today. He's a good boy and a
model of thrift. So let's celebrate. We'll drink until
dawn!"
 [74] Pat to these last words, a cock ominously
crowed somewhere. Alarmed by the coincidence,
Trimalchio superstitiously ordered the servants to
Pour some wine under the table and even to sprinkle
the tamps with wine. Then he slipped his ring from
his left hand to his right and said, "Buglers don't
bugle for kicks, and that cockcrow means there's a
fire nearby or somebody's died. Don't let it be bad
luck for us, please heaven. Whoever fetches me that
calamity-crowing rooster first, gets a fat reward." In
half a minute, somebody had bought in the rooster
from somewhere, and Trimalchio promptly ordered it
cooked. The chef, Daedalus, that culinary genius
who had whisked up birds and fish from the leg of
pork, beheaded the bird and tossed it into a pot. And
while the cook drew off the boiling broth, Fortunata
ground up the pepper in a little wooden mill
 We were sampling this unexpected snack, when
Trimalchio suddenly remembered that the servants
had not yet eaten. "What?" he roared, "you haven't
eaten yet? Then off with you. Go eat and send in
another shift to take your places." So a fresh shift of
slaves soon appeared at the door, all shouting,
"Greetings, Gaiusl" while the first shift went out
with a cry of "Goodbye, Gaius!"
 At this moment an incident occurred on which our
little party almost foundered. Among the incoming
slaves there was a remarkably pretty boy. Trimalchio
literally launched himself upon him and, to
Fortunata's extreme annoyance, began to cover him
with rather Drolonged kisses. Finally, Fortunata
asserted her rights and began to abuse him. "You
turdl" she shrieked, "you hunk of filth." At last she
used the supreme insult: "Dog!" At this Trimalchio
exploded with rage, reached for a wine cup and
slammed it into her face. Fortunata let out a piercing
scream and covered her face with trembling hands as
though she'd just lost an eye. Scintilla, stunned and
shocked, tried to comfort ha sobbing friend in her
arms, while a slave solicitously applied a glass of
cold water to her livid cheek. Fortunata herself 
hunched over the glass heaving and sobbing.
 But Trimalchio was still shaking with fury. "Doesn't
that slut remember what she used to be? By god, I
took her off the sale Platform and made her an honest
woman. But she blows fierself up like a bullfrog.
She's forgotten how lucky she is. She won't
remember the whore she used to be. People in shacks
shouldn't dream of palaces, I say. By god, if I don't
tame that strutting Cassandra, my name isn't
Trimalchiol And to think, sap that I was, that I could
have married an heiress worth half a million. And
that's no lie. Old Agatho, who sells perfume to the
lady next door, slipped me the word: 'Don't let your
line die out, old boy,' he said. But not me. Oh no, I
was a good little boy, nothing fickle about me. And
now I've gone and slammed the axe into my shins
good and proper.- But someday, slut, you'll come
scratching at my grave to get me back And just so
you understand what you've done, I'll remove your
statue from my tomb. That's an order, Habinnas. No
sir, I don't want any more domestic squabbles in my
grave. And what's more, just to show her I can dish it
out too, I won't have her kissing me on my
deathbed."
 [75] After this last thunderbolt, Habinnas begged
him to calm himself and forgive her. "None of us is
perfect," he said, "we're men, not gods." Scintilla
burst into tears, called him her dear dear Gaius and
implored him by everything holy to forgive
Fortunata. Finally, even Trimalchio began to blubber.
"Habinnas," he whined, "as you hope to make a
fortune, tell me the truth; if I've done anything
wrong, spit right in my face. So I admit I kissed the
boy, not because of his looks, but because he's a
good boy, a thrifty boy, a boy of real character. He
can divide up to ten, he reads at sight, he's saved his
freedom price from his daily allowance and bought
himself an armchair and two ladles out of his own
pocket. Now doesn't a boy like that deserve his
master's affection? But Fortunata says no.-Is that
your idea, you high-stepping bitch? Take my advice,
vulture, and keep your own nose clean. Don't make
me show my teeth, sweetheart, or you'll feel my
anger. You know me. Once I make up my mind, I'm
as stubborn as a spike in wood.
 "But the hell with her. Friends, make yourselves
comfortable. Once I used to be like you, but I rose to
the top by my ability. Guts are what make the man;
the rest is garbage. I buy well, I sell well. Others have
different notions. But I'm like to bust with good luck.-You
slut, are you still blubbering? By god, I'll give you
something to blubber about.
 "But like I was saying, friends, it's through my
business sense that I shot up. Why, when I came here
from Asia, I stood no taller than that candlestick
there. In fact, I used to measure myself by it every
day; what's more, I used to rub my mouth with lamp
oil to make my beard sprout faster. Didn't do a bit of
good, though. For fourteen years I was my master's
pet. But what's the shame in doing what you're told
to do? But all the same, if you know what I mean, I
managed to do my mistress a favor or two. But mum's
the word: I'm none of your ordinary blowhards
 [76] "Well, then heaven gave me a push and I
became master in the house. I was my master's brains.
So he made me joint heir with the emperor to
everything he had, and I came out of it with a
senator's fortune. But we never have enough, and I
wanted to try my hand at business. To cut it short, I
had five ships built. Then I stocked them with
wine-worth its weight in gold at the time-and
shipped them off to Rome. I might as well have told
them to no sink themselves since that's what they
did. Yup, all five of them wrecked. No kidding. In
one day old Neptune swallowed down a cool
million. Was I licked? Hell, no. That loss just whetted
my appetite as though nothing had happened at all.
So I built some more ships, bigger and better and a
damn sight luckier. No one could say I didn't have
guts. But big ships make a man feel big himself. I
shipped a cargo of wine, bacon, beans, perfume and
slaves. And then Fortunata came through nicely in
the nick of time: sold her gold and the clothes off her
back and put a hundred gold coins in the palm of my
hand. That was the yeast of my wealth. Besides,
when the gods want something done, it gets done in
a jiffy. On that one voyage alone, I cleared about five
hundred thousand. Right away I bought up all my
old master's property. I built a house, l went into
slave-trading and cattle-buying. Everything I
touched just grew and grew like a honeycomb. Once
I was worth more than all the people in my home
town put together, I picked up my winnings and
pulled out. I retired from trade and started lending
money to ex-slaves. To tell the truth, I was tempted
to quit for keeps, but on the advice of an astrologer
who'd just come to town, I decided to keep my hand
in. He was a Greek, fellow by the name of Serapa, 
and clever enough to set up as consultant to the gods. 
Well, he told me things I'd clean forgotten 
and Laid it right on the line from A to Z. 
Why, that man could have peeked into
my tummy and told me everything except what I'd
eaten the day before. You'd have thought he'd lived
with me all his life.
 [77] "Remember what he said, Habinnas? You
were there, I think, when he told my fortune. 'You
have bought yourself a mistress and a tyrant,' he said,
'out of your own profits. You are unlucky in your
friends. No one is as grateful to you as he should be.
You own vast estates. You nourish a viper in your
bosom.' There's no reason why I shouldn't tell you,
but according to him, I have thirty years, four months,
and two days left to live. And soon, he said, I am
going to receive an inheritance. Now if I could just
add Apulia to the lands I own, I could die content
 "Meanwhile, with Mercury's help, I built this
house. As you know, it used to be a shack; now it's a
shrine. It has four dining rooms, twenty bedrooms,
two marble porticoes, an upstairs dining room, the
master bedroom where I sleep, the nest of that viper
there, a fine porter's lodge, and guestrooms enough
for all my guests. In fact, when Scaurus came down
here from Rome, he wouldn't put up anywhere else,
though his father has lots of friends down on the
shore who would have been glad to have him. And
there are lots of other things I'll show you in a bit.
But take my word for it: money makes the man. No
money and you're nobody. But big money, big man.
That's how it was with yours truly: from mouse to
millionaire.
 "In the meantime, Stichus," he called to a slave, "go
and fetch out the clothes I'm going to be buried in.
And while you're at it, bring along some perfume and
a sample of that wine I'm having poured on my
bones."
 [78] Stichus hurried off and promptly returned
with a white grave-garment and a very splendid robe
with a broad purple stripe. Trimalchio told us to
inspect them and see if we approved of the material.
Then he added with a smile, "See to it, Stichus, that
no mice or moths get into them, or I'll have you
burned alive. Yes sir, I'm going to be buried in such
splendor that everybody in town will go out and
pray for me." He then unstoppered a jar of
fabulously expensive spikenard and had us all
anointed with it. "I hope," he chuckled, "I like this
perfume as much after I'm dead as I do now.' Finally
he ordered the slaves to pour the wine into the bowl
and said, "Imagine that you're all present at my
funeral feast."
 The whole business had by now become
absolutely revolting. Trimalchio was obviously
completely drunk, but suddenly he had a hankering
for funeral music too and ordered a brass band sent
into the dining room. Then he Dropped himself on
piles of cushions and stretched out full length along
the couch. "Pretend I'm dead," he said, "say
something nice about me." The band blared a dead
march, but one of the slaves belonging to
Habinnas-who was, incidentally, one of the most
respectable people present -blew so loudly that he
woke up the entire neighborhood. Immediately the
firemen assigned to that quarter of town, thinking
that Trimalchio's house was on fire, smashed down
the door and rushed in with buckets and axes to do
their job. Utter confusion followed, of course, and we
took advantage of the heaven-sent opportunity,
gave Agamemnon the slip, and rushed out of there as
though the place were really in flames.

VI

GITON, ASCYLTUS, AND I AGAIN

 [79] We had no torch to light us on our way as we
wandered, and the lateness of the hour-it was now
the dead of night-precluded all hope of meeting
someone with a light. Worse still, we were drunk and
so unfamiliar with the area that even in broad
daylight we would have lost our way. So for nearly
an hour we stumbled about, drawing our bleeding
feet over the shards and splinters of broken crockery
scattered along the streets, and it was only Giton's
remarkable act of foresight which saved us in the
end. Terrified of getting lost even in daylight, the boy
had shrewdly blazed every column and pilaster along
our route with chalk, and now, even through the
pitch blackness, the blazings shone brightly enough
to keep us on our path. At last we reached the inn,
only to find that our ordeal was not yet over. For the
old landlady had spent the night getting drunk with
her boarders and I doubt she would 
have stirred even if you set the bed
on fire. Indeed, we would have been doomed to
spending the night on the doorstep if one of
Trimalchio's agents had not happened to come by
with a convoy of ten wagons. For a short time he
pounded and hammered at the door; then, getting no
answer, he smashed it down and we entered through
the breach.

 O gods in heaven, what a night we kept,
 how soft the bed! Together warmed, we
 slept so twined in love, so crossed upon a
 kiss, it seemed his soul was mine and mine
 was his. Goodbye, I thought, to every grief
 of man. Farewell, all carel
  -That night my doom began.

 Alas, I boasted of my happiness too soon. For the
instant my drunken hands relaxed their grip on
Giton, Ascyltus, that wizard of my destruction,
ravished the boy away in the darkness to his own
bed and took his pleasure of another man's love.
Whether Giton felt nothing at all, or merely
pretended not to notice, I do not know; but all night
long, oblivious of every moral law, eveny human
right, he lay with Ascyltus in adulterous embrace.
Waking, I went groping with my hand for the boy's
body in the bed and found, O gods, my treasure
stolen! For one instant-if the word of a lover can be
believed-I was tempted to run myself through with
my sword and join, as the poets say,

 that sleep I slept to the endless sleep of
 death.

But in the end prudence prevailed. I slapped Giton
awake, and fixing Ascyltus with a look of terrible
fury, I cried,
 Since, in your perversity, you have broken your
promise and trampled upon our friendship, pack
your belongings and leave. Go stain some other bed
with vour adulteries."
 He made no objection, and we divided our spoils
with painstaking fairness. Then he said: "Very well.
Now we split the boy."
 [80] I took this as merely some feeble parting joke,
but the next thing I knew he had wrenched out his
sword with fratricidal fury. "No longer, miser," he
cried, "shall you hunch over your treasure in lonely
lust. Either give me my share, or I'll cut off my piece
with my sword in revenge.
 I pulled out my sword, threw my cloak about
my arm and prepared to give battle. Leaping
between us as we raved, poor Giton took us by
the knees in turn, and with the tears streaming
down has face implored us not to let that humble
tavern witness a new Thebaid, nor to soil with
each other's blood the sanctity of a glorious
friendship. "If you must have murder," he cried,
"behold, I offer you my throat, bared to your
blow; plunge your swords home; kill me, for it
was on my account that you broke your word as
friends."
 Touched by this pitiful entreaty, we put our
swords away. For his part, Aseyltus promptly
proposed a solution to our problem. "Let the
boy," he said, "follow the one he prefers. Let
him have a free choice of his own lover."
Convinced that a relationship as old as Giton's
and mine was like a bond of blood, unbreakable,
I accepted without fear. In fact, I fairly jumped
at the Proposal and the decision wash referred to
the judge witfiout delay. With no hesitation,
without even the pretense of hesitation, the boy
rose and chose-Ascyltus! Thunderstruck by this
bolt from the blue, I dropped my sword and
collapsed on the bed. Had I not begrudged my
enemy a total triumph, I would have done away
with myself then and there. Ascyltus, flushed
with success, swaggered out with his winnings,
leaving me, once the dearest of his friends, the
companion of his every joy and sorrow, alone
with my anguish and despair, in a strange land,
dejected.

 Friendsiup lasts while there's profit in
 the name The dice are fickle; fortune
 spins about. But oh, my smiling friends of
 better days, where was your love, when
 my luck ran out?

 The comic actors strut the stage, bow and
 grin. The cast: old Moneybags, Father
 and Son. The farce ends, the smiles come
 off, revealing the true face below, the
 bestial, leering one.

 [81] My suicidal frenzy soon vanished. But
fearing that Agamemnon's assistant, Menelaus,
might come up and find me in my room alone
and so compound my miseries, I packed my
possessions and went with my grief to a lonely
lodging house along the shore. There, for three
days I shut myselfup alone, tasting over and
over again all my wrenching 
loneliness and humiliation. Again and again I
beat my breast; my heaving lungs were weak
from sobbing and my sighs and groans rose so
frequently and so deeply that I could barely give
voice to my grief. Over and over again I cried
aloud:
 "O gods, why could not the earth have
swallowed me up, or this sea that rages so
wildly even against the innocent! Was it for this
that I fled from justice, that I deserted the ring
and murdered my host? Is this the reward of all
my courage and my crimes-to be abandoned, an
outcast, a beggar, in a cheap inn in a Greek
town? And who is the author of my Loneliness?
A young man polluted with every perversion and
vice; a man who by his own admission deserves
to be banished; who paid for his freedom with
his debauchery and his debauchery with his
freedom; whose body is bought as one buys a
ticket; who was treated like a woman even by
those who knew him to be a man! And what of
his partner in crime? A little boy who gave up his
trousers for skirts; whose mother persuaded him
never to be a man; who played the part of a girl
in a prison for slaves; who broke his word,
destroyed a friendship sanctified by time and
usage to go romping in another bed, and then-O
unspeakable shame! -sold his all, like a whore,
for one night's work! And now the lovers lie all
night tangled in each other's arms, and when
their lust has run its course, perhaps they mock
me, jeering at my loneliness. By god, but they
shall pay me for its Either I am no free man, or
they shall pay me for this crime with their own
lives!"
 [82] With that, I belted on my sword and sat
down to a good meal as a precaution against
losing my battle through simple weakness. Then
I dashed down into the street and began to race
like a madman up and down through the arcades
and porticoes. My face was taut with fury,
images of blood and slaughter kept pounding
through my head, and my hand clutched
convulsively at the hilt of my sword. Suddenly
some soldier-though deserter or plain thief was
probably what he was-caught sight of me. You
there, soldier," he shouted, "what's your
regiment? Who's your commanding officer?"
With splendid presence of mind, I promptly
supplied him with a fictitious regiment and
imaginary officers. "Since when," he asked me,
"do soldiers in your army do their marching in
white shoes?" At this my confusion and
trembling gave the show away and he ordered me to
surrender my sword to him and to
look sharper next time. In this way, cheated of both
my sword and my revenge, I made my way back to
my room. Gradually, however, my temper began to
cool and in a short time I was feeling quite grateful to
him for his highhandedness in taking away my
sword.

 Knee-deep in water, the ripe fruit dangling
 overhead, poor Tantalus stands, devoured by his
 need.
 So the miser too, I think, must look, licking with
 dry tongue, unsatisfied, the taste of greed.

There is little point in expecting much of your
own projects, when Fate has projects of her own.