the first part of a clever poet’s tragedy. In setting down just how events occurred this man was never clear.

Which one will you test?

Quite a few.

But first, will you recite for me an opening from your Oresteia.

Let everyone keep quiet. Achilles, speak.

“O Hermes underground, who oversees my father’s power, be my rescuer, my ally, answering the prayers I make. I’ve come back and returned unto this land.”

You see some flaws in this?

More than a dozen.

But the whole thing's only four lines long!

And each of them has twenty errors.

I warn you, Aeschylus, keep quiet. If not, you’ll forfeit these four lines and owe some more.

Am I to remain silent just for him?

I think that's best.

Right at the very start he’s made a huge mistake—as high as heaven.

You do see you’re talking rubbish.

If so, it doesn’t bother me.

You claim I’m wrong— well, where are my mistakes?

Recite the start again.

“O Hermes underground, who oversees my father’s power . . .”

Orestes says this at the tomb of his dead father, does he not?

I won’t deny it.

Since his father died a brutal death at the hands of his own wife

and by a secret trick, how can he claim that Hermes watches over anything?

That’s not my sense—when he speaks, he means Hermes, god of luck, who watches all the dead. And his words clearly show that this Hermes obtained that office from his father Zeus.

So you’ve made an even bigger blunder than I thought—if this subterranean job comes from his dad . . .

If that’s the case, he’s a grave robber on his father’s side.

That’s cheap wine you’re drinking, Dionysus,

Since his father died a brutal death at the hands of his own wife

and by a secret trick, how can he claim that Hermes watches over anything?

That’s not my sense—when he speaks, he means Hermes, god of luck, who watches all the dead. And his words clearly show that this Hermes obtained that office from his father Zeus.

So you’ve made an even bigger blunder than I thought—if this subterranean job comes from his dad . . .

If that’s the case, he’s a grave robber on his father’s side.

That’s cheap wine you’re drinking, Dionysus,

it lacks bouquet.

Recite another line for him.

And you, take care about the damage you inflict.

“. . . my father’s power, be my rescuer, my ally, answering the prayers I make. I’ve come back and returned unto this land.”

The skilful Aeschylus has just revealed the same thing twice.

How so?

Look at the verse. All right, I’ll tell you—“I’ve come back” is followed by the word “returned”—coming back

and returning—they mean the same.

Yes, by god— exactly like a man who says to someone, “Hey, lend me a baking dish or, if you like, a dish for baking.”

You blithering idiot,

it’s not the same at all. That line of verse has beautifully chosen words.

It does? Then show me what you mean.

To come unto a land refers to someone with a native home— he’s come back—there’s nothing else implied. But when a man arrives who’s been an exile,

he comes back and returns.

By Apollo, that’s good! What do you say to that, Euripides?

I say Orestes didn’t “return” home. He came in secret, without permission from those in charge.

By Hermes, that’s good. But I don’t get what you mean.

Come on then,

try another line.

Yes, let’s have some more. Get a move on, Aeschylus. And you, keep looking out for something bad.

“On this heaped-up burial mound I pray

my father hears and listens . . .”

It’s there again— he’s saying the same thing twice— to hear, to listen—obviously the same.

Well, you fool, he is speaking to the dead. And we don’t reach them even with a triple prayer.

All right, how do you compose your prologues?

I’ll tell you. And if I say the same thing twice or you see extra padding there, some verse that doesn’t suit the plot, then spit on me.

Come on, speak up. I need to clearly hear

try another line.

Yes, let’s have some more. Get a move on, Aeschylus. And you, keep looking out for something bad.

“On this heaped-up burial mound I pray

my father hears and listens . . .”

It’s there again— he’s saying the same thing twice— to hear, to listen—obviously the same.

Well, you fool, he is speaking to the dead. And we don’t reach them even with a triple prayer.

All right, how do you compose your prologues?

I’ll tell you. And if I say the same thing twice or you see extra padding there, some verse that doesn’t suit the plot, then spit on me.

Come on, speak up. I need to clearly hear

the language in your prologues working well.

“Oedipus to start with was a lucky man . . .”

By god, no he wasn’t—his nature gave him a dreadful fate. Before his birth Apollo said he’d murder his own father— he wasn’t even born! How could he be a lucky man right at the very start?

“Then he became most wretched of all men.”

No, no, by god. He always was like that. And why? Because as soon as he was born,

he was exposed out in the cold, in a pot,

so he wouldn’t grow into a murderer and kill his father. He dragged himself away to Polybus on mutilated feet. And after that he married an old woman, though he was young, and, as things turned out, she was his mother. So he poked out his eyes.

Then he’d have ended happy after all, if, like Erastinides, he’d been a general.

You’re being stupid. I make my prologues well.

Is that so? Well, by god, I won’t scratch each phrase word for word, but with help from the gods I’ll kill your prologues with a little oil jug.

My prologues? With an oil jug?

Yes, just one. The way you write, well, everything fits in— a little fleece, a little oil jug, a little bag—they all mesh nicely in with your iambics. Let me demonstrate.

What this? You’ll demonstrate?

That’s what I’m saying.

All right, Euripides, you’ve got to speak.

“Aegyptos, so many people say, with fifty children in a rowing boat, landing in Argos . . .”

. . . lost his little oil jug.

What’s this stuff about an oil jug? You’ll regret this.

Recite another prologue

so I can see the point again.

“Dionysus clothed in fawn skins leaps among the torches on Parnassus, on that mount he waved his thysrus— there he danced and . . .”

. . . lost his little oil jug.

O dear,

we’ve been stricken with an oil jug once again.

It’s no big deal. In this next prologue he can’t tie in his little oil jug. “Among all men there’s not one living who’s blessed in everything—if nobly born he lacks sufficient livelihood, or else, if basely born, . . .”

. . . he’s lost his little oil jug.

Euripides . . .

What?

It seems to me you should haul in your sails. This little oil jug—

it’s going to introduce a mighty storm.

By Demeter, I won’t even think of it. Here’s one will knock that oil jug from his hand.

All right, recite another one—take care— keep your distance from that little oil jug.

“Abandoning Sidon city, Cadmus, Agenor’s son . . .”

. . . lost his little oil jug.

My dear fellow, buy the oil jug from him, so he can’t shatter all our prologues.

What? I should purchase it from him?

I think you should.

No way. I’ve got lots of prologues to recite—

it’s going to introduce a mighty storm.

By Demeter, I won’t even think of it. Here’s one will knock that oil jug from his hand.

All right, recite another one—take care— keep your distance from that little oil jug.

“Abandoning Sidon city, Cadmus, Agenor’s son . . .”

. . . lost his little oil jug.

My dear fellow, buy the oil jug from him, so he can’t shatter all our prologues.

What? I should purchase it from him?

I think you should.

No way. I’ve got lots of prologues to recite—

it’s going to introduce a mighty storm.

By Demeter, I won’t even think of it. Here’s one will knock that oil jug from his hand.

All right, recite another one—take care— keep your distance from that little oil jug.

“Abandoning Sidon city, Cadmus, Agenor’s son . . .”

. . . lost his little oil jug.

My dear fellow, buy the oil jug from him, so he can’t shatter all our prologues.

What? I should purchase it from him?

I think you should.

No way. I’ve got lots of prologues to recite—

ones where he can’t stick in his little oil jug. “Pelops, son of Tantalus, arrived at Pisa, and riding his swift horses . . .”

. . . lost his little oil jug.

You see—he stuck in that little oil jug once again. Look, my good man, pay his price— use all your means. You’ll get it for an obol. And it’s really nice—a good one.

Not yet— I’ve still got plenty left: “Oeneus once

from his own land . . .”

. . . lost his little oil jug.

Let me at least recite the whole line first—

“Oeneus once from his own land received a bounteous harvest—then while offering

first fruits for sacrifice . . .”

. . . lost his little oil jug.

In the middle of the service? Who stole it?

Back off, my dear man—let him speak to this: “Zeus, as truth reports . . .”

You’ll be destroyed— For he’ll just say “lost his little oil jug.” These oil jugs pop up in your prologues the way warts grow on eyes. For god’s sake, change the subject. What about his lyrics?

All right. I’ll show how bad he is at them. His songs are awful—they all sound the same.

What’s going to happen now? I’ve got an idea how he’ll criticize and mar the one whose lyrics are our finest songs so far. How will his censure ring to a Dionysian king, for me a fearful thing?

His songs are truly quite astonishing. I’ll give quick proof, for I’ll condense them all into a single song.

All right, you do that.

I’ll gather up some pebbles and keep score.

Phthian Achilles, O, you hear the crash— the loud man-slaughtering BASH, why don’t you come, come here to help us? As the primordial race, we honour Hermes by the lake—BASH. Why come you not to our assistance?

That’s two bashes for you, Aeschylus.

Most glorious of Achaean men, O Atreus,

who rules far and wide, learn of me—BISH BASH— why come you not to our assistance?

There’s a third bash for you, Aeschylus.

Be still! Attendants on the bee priestess are nigh to open up Artemis’ shrine—BASH. Why come you not to our assistance? I have authority to utter out in full, to speak those fatal orders ruling us and this our expedition—BISH BASH.

Why come you not to our assistance?

By ruling Zeus, what a pile of bashes! The toilet’s where I want to be right now— this bashing’s swollen both my kidneys.

Don’t go, not before you listen to another group of songs, compressed medleys of this man’s lyric melodies.

All right then, go on. But you can leave out all the bash and crash.

How the Achaeans’ twin-throned power, youth of Greece— Tophlatto-thratto-phlilatto-thrat—

sent by the Sphinx, presiding she dog of unlucky days— Tophlatto-thratto-phlilatto-thrat— swooping bird with spear and with avenging hand— Tophlatto-thratto-phlilatto-thrat—

granting eager sky-diving dogs to light upon— Tophlatto-thratto-phlilatto-thrat— the allied force assembled to assault great Ajax— Tophlatto-thratto-phlilatto-thrat.

What’s this phlatto-thrat? Is it from Marathon? Where did you pick up your rope-twisting songs?

I brought them to a noble place from somewhere fine, lest I be seen to gather up my crop from that same sacred meadow of the Muse

as Phrynichos. But this fellow over here gets his songs anywhere—from prostitutes, Meletus’ drinking songs, flute tunes from Caria, from lamentations or dance melodies, as in a moment I will demonstrate. Let someone bring a lyre here—and yet who needs a lyre for this man? Where is she,

that girl who beats time with her castanets? Come hither, you Muse of this Euripides— for your style fits the songs we’re going to sing.

This Muse is hardly the most gorgeous babe

we’ve ever seen from Lesbos, that’s for sure.

You chattering kingfishers in the sea in the ever-flowing waves

who wet wing-tops with water drops like so much dripping dew, and spiders underneath the roof,

your fingers wi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-inding threads for stretching on the loom, work of tuneful weaving rods, where dolphins, those flute-loving fish, leap at the blue-peaked prows, at oracles and stadiums. I joy in early budding vines,

the spiral cluster, killing pain. O my child, hurl your arms about me . . . You see this foot?

I see it.

And the other one?

I see that too.

You write this sort of bilge and then you dare to criticize my songs—you, who wrote your tunes to twelve-stringed music of Cyrene? Bah! So much for his songs. I still want to check his solo melodies, their lyric style.

O Night, O darkly shining Night, what are you sending me, what dreams of woe, from Hades’ halls— what souls without a soul,

the children of black night, so horrible they raise my hair in black corpse-clothes— murder, murder— such huge fingernails.

Now, servants, light my lamp for me, haul river water in your pails and warm it up, so I may rinse away my dream,

O spirit of the sea.

That’s it—oh all you who share this house with me, gaze here upon these portents. My Glyce’s fled away— she stole my cock and ran. You nymphs born on the mountain peaks, and you, O Mania, aid me now.

There I was, poor wretched me, at work with all my daily tasks, my spindle full of thread,

my fingers wi-i-i-i-i-i-i-inding, as I wove skeins of yarn to carry off to market

O spirit of the sea.

That’s it—oh all you who share this house with me, gaze here upon these portents. My Glyce’s fled away— she stole my cock and ran. You nymphs born on the mountain peaks, and you, O Mania, aid me now.

There I was, poor wretched me, at work with all my daily tasks, my spindle full of thread,

my fingers wi-i-i-i-i-i-i-inding, as I wove skeins of yarn to carry off to market

for sale in early morning.

But now my bird has flown, flown off into the atmosphere its wing-tips oh so nimble. It’s left me woes, woes, and in my eyes tears, tears— they trickle, trickle down,

O miserable me.

O you Cretans, Ida’s children, seize your bows and rescue me. Swiftly move your limbs, make full circle round this house. And child Diktynna, Artemis, so beautiful, by all means bring your baby bitches to my home.

And you, O Hecate, Zeus’s child, with blazing fire-brands in both your hands,

light my way to Glyke’s place, so I can then reveal her theft and catch her in the act.

Stop the songs.

All right. I’ve said enough. Now I want to bring him to the balance scale, the very thing to test our poetry— to check how much our phrases weigh.

Come here, then, if I have to do this— treating poets just like cheese for sale.

Clever men like these take pains,

for here’s a marvel once again. Devices new and strange they bring. Who else would think up such a thing? I’d not believe it—even though I met someone who told me so.

Come on. Stand beside the balance scales.

AESCHYLUS and EURIPIDES [together]

All right.

Now, each of you grab hold and don’t let go until I yell at you—I’ll say “Cuckoo!”

AESCHYLUS and EURIPIDES: [each one holding a scale pan]

We’re holding on.

Speak your line into the scale.

“I wish that Argive ship had never flown . . .”

“O river Spercheios, where cattle graze . . .”

Cuckoo!!! Let go . . .

The pan on this man’s side has gone much further down.

And why is that?

Why? Because he put a river in it. He wet his words the way wool-sellers do— whereas you put in a word with wings.

All right, let him speak again and match me.

Grab hold again.

AESCHYLUS and EURIPIDES

We’re ready.

So speak down.

“Persuasion has no temple except speech.”

“The only god who loves no gifts is Death.”

Let go. Let go. This one’s going down again. He put death in—the heaviest of harms.

But I put in persuasion—and my line was beautifully expressed.

Persuasion’s light— she’s got no brains at all. Say something else, a heavy line, immense and ponderous,

to make you sink.

A heavy line like that, where can I find such lines in all my verse?

I’ll tell you. “Achilles threw the dice—

“Persuasion has no temple except speech.”

“The only god who loves no gifts is Death.”

Let go. Let go. This one’s going down again. He put death in—the heaviest of harms.

But I put in persuasion—and my line was beautifully expressed.

Persuasion’s light— she’s got no brains at all. Say something else, a heavy line, immense and ponderous,

to make you sink.

A heavy line like that, where can I find such lines in all my verse?

I’ll tell you. “Achilles threw the dice—

“Persuasion has no temple except speech.”

“The only god who loves no gifts is Death.”

Let go. Let go. This one’s going down again. He put death in—the heaviest of harms.

But I put in persuasion—and my line was beautifully expressed.

Persuasion’s light— she’s got no brains at all. Say something else, a heavy line, immense and ponderous,

to make you sink.

A heavy line like that, where can I find such lines in all my verse?

I’ll tell you. “Achilles threw the dice—

two snake’s eyes and a four.” You’d better speak—

it’s the last time the two of you get weighed.

“His right hand grasped the heavy iron club . . .”

“Chariot piled on chariot, corpse on corpse . . .”

This time he got you once again.

How so?

He put in two chariots and two stiffs. A hundred Egyptians couldn’t shift that load.

No more contest with me word for word— put him in the scale pan with his wife and kids, throw on Cephisophon. Let him step in, sit down—he can bring all his books. For me—

I’ll only speak two verses of my own.

These men are friends of mine, so I won’t judge the two of them. I don’t want to be at war with either man. One of them, I think, is really clever. The other I enjoy.

Won’t you fail to get the thing you came for?

What if I chose the other man?

Take one— whichever one you wish, so you don’t leave and make your trip in vain.

May gods bless you. Look, how ’bout this—I came here for a poet.

What for?

So I might save our city and let it keep its choruses. Therefore, whichever one of you will give our state

the best advice, well, that’s the man I’ll take. So first, a question for each one of you— What’s your view of Alcibiades? This issue plagues our city.

The people there— what do they think of him?

What do they think? The city yearns for him, but hates him, too, yet wants him back. But you two, tell me this—

what’s your sense of him?

.EURIPIDES

I hate a citizen who helps his native land by seeming slow, but then will quickly inflict injuries which profit him but give our city nothing.

By Poseidon, that’s well said. Now, Aeschylus,

what’s your view on this?

The wisest thing is not to rear a lion cub inside the city, but if that's what the citizens have done, we’d must adjust ourselves to fit its ways.

By Zeus the saviour, this decision’s hard.

One spoke with skill, the other was so clear. All right, each one of you speak up again. Tell me of our state—how can we save her?

Use Cinesias as Cleocritus’ wings— then winds would lift them over the flat sea.

A really funny sight. But what’s the point?

In a sea fight, they’d take some vinegar,

and dump the bottles in opponents’ eyes. But I know the answer—let me speak.

All right, say on.

When those among us

who have no faith act faithfully, and things bereft of trust are trusted . . .

What’s that? I don’t get what you’re saying. Speak out more clearly—more matter with less art.

If we removed our trust from politicians on whom we now rely, and used the ones we don’t use now, we could be saved. It’s clear we’re not doing well with what we’re doing now, if we reversed our course, we might be saved.

Well put, O Palamedes, you clever man.

Did you come up with this idea yourself, or is it from Cephisophon?

It’s mine alone. that bit about those jars of vinegar— Cephisophon’s idea.

Now you. What do you say?

About our state—acquaint me first of all with those in her employ. Surely they’re good men?

Of course they’re not. She hates those worst of all.

She loves the ne’er-do-wells?

Not really— but she's got no choice. She has to use them.

How can one save a city like this one,

which has no taste for woolen city coats or country cloaks of goat skin?

By Zeus, to get upstairs, you’d best come up with something.

Up there I’d talk, but I don’t want to here.

Don’t be that way. Send something good from here.

When they consider their foe’s land their own and think of their land as the enemy’s, and when they look upon their ships as riches and see their wealth as wretchedness . . .

Yes, but jury members wolf down all the cash.

You should decide.

I’ll make my choice between them. I’ll choose the one who’s pleasing to my soul.

Do not forget those gods by whom you swore to take me home. You have to choose your friends . . .

My tongue made that oath, but I choose Aeschylus.

What have you done, you foulest of all men?

Me? I’ve picked Aeschylus to win. Why not?

Do you dare to look me in the face after you’ve done the dirtiest of deeds?

What’s dirty if this audience approves?

You’re heartless. Will you never think of me now that I’m dead?

What if living isn’t really dying, or breathing dining, or sleep a pillow slip?

Come inside now, Dionysus.

What for?

So I can entertain you here, before you go.

An excellent idea, by god. I won’t say no.

Blest is the man with keen intelligence— we learn this truth in many ways Once he’s shown his own good sense he goes back home again.

He brings our citizens good things as well as family and friends, with his perceptive mind.

Blest is the man with keen intelligence— we learn this truth in many ways Once he’s shown his own good sense he goes back home again.

He brings our citizens good things as well as family and friends, with his perceptive mind.