Please, please, don't talk about that one— not unless I’m sick and need to throw up.

Then what’s the point of my being here like this? Why do I get to carry all the heavy baggage if I can’t tell the usual porter jokes—you know, the ones Ameipsias and Phrynichus and Lycias, too, in all their comedies

provide the slave who carries all the bags?

Just don’t. Those jokes are all so feeble— when I have to watch a play and hear them by the time I leave I’ve aged at least a year.

Alas, for my neck beneath this triply damned yoke. I suffer all this pressure and can’t tell my joke.

It’s an outrage, sheer insolence, that I, Dionysus, son of Winejar, have to walk like this, sweating along so he can ride at ease without a care and carrying no load.

What!?

Aren’t I carrying the load?

How can you be? You’re riding on your ass.

I’m loaded down. All this stuff . . .

What do you mean by that?

What I just said carries lots of weight.

Isn’t the donkey carrying our load?

No, no way. Not the load I’m holding.

How come? How can you be carrying anything at all when someone else is carrying you?

I’ve no idea. But my shoulder’s falling off.

All right, then. Since you claim the donkey’s useless to you,

why not take your turn and carry it?

What a wretched life! I should have gone away to fight at sea— then I’d be free and I’d have told you straight what you could do with that ass of yours.

Get down, you useless idiot! We’re there— by the door I’m aiming for, my first stop.

Hey, in there! Doorman! I’m summoning you.

Who’s banging on this door—smashing at it like some wild centaur. My god, what’s this?

Hey, my boy . . .

What?

Didn’t you see?

See what?

How scared he was of me?

Yes, by god, he was, scared you’re nuts.

By holy Demeter, I can’t stop laughing. I’ll try biting my lip. No, no use. I can’t stop laughing at him.

Come here, my good man. I need something from you.

I can’t help myself—he’s so ridiculous. Seeing that lion skin above that yellow dress. What’s going on? Do people with large clubs now walk around in leather booties?

Where on earth do you think you’re going?

I’ve done naval service under Cleisthenes.

At that sea battle?

Yes—and sunk enemy ships, twelve or thirteen of them.

How scared he was of me?

Yes, by god, he was, scared you’re nuts.

By holy Demeter, I can’t stop laughing. I’ll try biting my lip. No, no use. I can’t stop laughing at him.

Come here, my good man. I need something from you.

I can’t help myself—he’s so ridiculous. Seeing that lion skin above that yellow dress. What’s going on? Do people with large clubs now walk around in leather booties?

Where on earth do you think you’re going?

I’ve done naval service under Cleisthenes.

At that sea battle?

Yes—and sunk enemy ships, twelve or thirteen of them.

How scared he was of me?

Yes, by god, he was, scared you’re nuts.

By holy Demeter, I can’t stop laughing. I’ll try biting my lip. No, no use. I can’t stop laughing at him.

Come here, my good man. I need something from you.

I can’t help myself—he’s so ridiculous. Seeing that lion skin above that yellow dress. What’s going on? Do people with large clubs now walk around in leather booties?

Where on earth do you think you’re going?

I’ve done naval service under Cleisthenes.

At that sea battle?

Yes—and sunk enemy ships, twelve or thirteen of them.

How scared he was of me?

Yes, by god, he was, scared you’re nuts.

By holy Demeter, I can’t stop laughing. I’ll try biting my lip. No, no use. I can’t stop laughing at him.

Come here, my good man. I need something from you.

I can’t help myself—he’s so ridiculous. Seeing that lion skin above that yellow dress. What’s going on? Do people with large clubs now walk around in leather booties?

Where on earth do you think you’re going?

I’ve done naval service under Cleisthenes.

At that sea battle?

Yes—and sunk enemy ships, twelve or thirteen of them.

Just the two of you?

Yes, by Apollo, we did.

Then I woke up.

I was on board with Euripides’ Andromeda, reading to myself aloud, when suddenly a huge urge seized my heart. You’ve no idea how strong.

An urge? How big was it?

The size of Molon—tiny.

For a woman?

No, no.

A young lad, then?

Certainly not.

Well, then, a man?

Ugh!

Did you grab hold of your Cleisthenes?

Don’t mock me, brother. I’m not doing so well, tormented by such hot desires.

Tell me, my little brother, what’s it like?

I can’t explain.

But I’ll try to show you by analogy.

Have you ever had a craving for some stew?

For stew? In my life maybe ten thousand times.

Is that explanation clear enough to you? Or shall I try some other way?

Not about stew! That I understand completely.

Well then,

that’s how much I’m eaten up with my desire for Euripides.

Even when he’s dead?

So no one’s going to talk me out of it— I have to find him.

Right down in Hell?

Or even lower, by god, if there’s such a place.

But I’ll try to show you by analogy.

Have you ever had a craving for some stew?

For stew? In my life maybe ten thousand times.

Is that explanation clear enough to you? Or shall I try some other way?

Not about stew! That I understand completely.

Well then,

that’s how much I’m eaten up with my desire for Euripides.

Even when he’s dead?

So no one’s going to talk me out of it— I have to find him.

Right down in Hell?

Or even lower, by god, if there’s such a place.

What’s the point of that?

I need a clever poet. There’s none around. The ones we’ve got are all so wretched.

What? Isn’t Iophon still up there?

He’s the only good one left—if he’s any good. I’m not really sure if that’s the case.

If you’ve got to take a playwright back, why not Sophocles? He’s better than Euripides.

Not ’til I get Iophon all by himself, without his father, Sophocles, so I can test the metal of his poetry. Besides, Euripides is such a rascal he may try to flee Hades

and come with me. But Sophocles was nice— easygoing while on earth and down there, too.

What about Agathon? Where’s he?

He’s left us— a fine poet lamented by his friends.

Where’s he gone?

Off to feast with saints.

And Xenocles?

O by god, may he drop dead!

Well then, Pythangelos?

What about me? In pain all this time—my shoulder's sore as hell.

Surely you have other artsy-fartsy types— thousands of tragic poets—all of them

way more wordy than Euripides?

No, no— all chatterboxes, twittering swallows in a music hall, mere foliage—disgraces to the artist’s craft.

Once they get a chance to stage their plays,

to crap all over tragedy, they disappear. If you looked you’d never find one playwright, someone creative who could well declaim a worthy sentiment.

That word “creative”— what’s it mean?

Someone poetical enough to give utterance to something grand, something like

“the sky, Zeus’s pied-a-terre,” “the foot of time,” or this—“a mind that will not swear

on sacred offerings but a perjured tongue

that’s false with no sense of its perfidy.”

You like that stuff?

Like it? I’m crazy about it.

I swear it’s all bullshit—and you know it.

Now, now, don’t try to tell me what to think, not with tragedy. You’re no expert there.

I still say it sounds like total rubbish.

Why not teach me how to stuff my guts?

WHAT ABOUT ME??!!!!!

That’s the reason I’ve come here and dressed like you—so you can fill me in, in case I need to know, about this place—

who welcomed you down here, who'd you meet

that time you went down after Cerberus. Tell me about the harbours, resting places, bakeries and brothels, water fountains, the cities, highways, all the detours, the local customs and the fine hotels, the ones with fewest bugs.

Still no word of me.

O you valiant heart! Are you man enough to venture down below?

Forget my courage. Show me the highway, the shortest one there is,

that takes me directly down to Hades.

Don’t prattle on about the temperature— and say it's way too hot or cold for me.

Let’s see . . . what should I mention first of all?

Which one? Hmmm. You could try a stool and rope— you could just hang yourself.

Stop it right there. That way gives me a choking feeling.

There’s a straight short cut, well traveled, too— with pestle and mortar . . .

You mean hemlock.

That’s it!

Too cold—too much like winter. Right away

the shins get frozen solid.

All right, then.

You want me to tell you how to get there fast.

Yes, by god. I’m not one to take a hike.

How about a stroll to Kerameikos . . .

Okay, what then?

Climb up the tower there— right to the very top . . .

And then what?

Take a look at the torch race starting up— when the spectators all yell out “They’re off!” then off you go as well.

Off? Where to?

Down.

No, I can’t take that road. I’d pulverize

both rissole wrappers of my brain.

What’s left?

The road you used.

O, an enormous journey! At the very start you come to a vast lake— immense and bottomless.

How do I get across?

In a tiny boat—miniscule—like this [indicating the size]. An ancient sailor takes you for a fee— two obols.

Take a look at the torch race starting up— when the spectators all yell out “They’re off!” then off you go as well.

Off? Where to?

Down.

No, I can’t take that road. I’d pulverize

both rissole wrappers of my brain.

What’s left?

The road you used.

O, an enormous journey! At the very start you come to a vast lake— immense and bottomless.

How do I get across?

In a tiny boat—miniscule—like this [indicating the size]. An ancient sailor takes you for a fee— two obols.

Two obols? It’s amazing what two obols can buy anywhere. How come it’s here in Hades, too?

That was Theseus. He started it. Once past the lake you’ll find snakes.

You’ll see thousands of them, horrific monsters.

Don’t keep trying to scare me. That won’t work. There’s no way you’ll get me to turn back.

Then a huge sewer, always full of liquid turds— and lying in it anyone who harmed a guest or screwed a lad and then took back the cash, or smacked his mother, punched his father’s jaw, or swore false oaths, or else had copied out

a speech of Morsimus.

By god, with them in the

shit should lie whoever learned a war dance by Cinesias.

Next the breath of flutes will sound around you.

You’ll see the finest light, just like in Athens, and myrtle groves, with happy men and women gathered there to celebrate and clap their hands.

So who are they?

Those are the initiates, the ones who celebrate the mysteries.

Then, by god, in these mysteries I play the ass. I’ll not stand for this a moment longer.

Those ones will tell you all you need to know. These initiates live closest to the road

which takes you to the doors of Pluto’s place.

And so, my brother, I bid you fond farewell.

Good bye—god keep you healthy, too.

You there—take up the baggage once again!

Before I’ve put it down?

Yes, and hurry up.

Come on, I’m begging you. Hire one of them— someone carrying the corpse. That’s why they’re here.

And if I don’t find anyone?

I’ll do it.

Fair enough. All right, they’re bringing out a corpse

You there . . . you stiff . . . I’m talking to you . . . Hallo!

You want to take a little luggage down to hell?

How much?

This stuff here.

Will you pay two drachmas?

My god, no. Less than that.

Then go away.

Hang on, my dear fellow. Can’t we haggle?

If you don’t pay two drachmas, forget it.

How about nine obols?

No bloody way! I’d rather you shoved me back to life again.

What a pompous boor!

To hell with him— I’ll take the stuff myself.

That’s my good man— a loyal and worthy slave. Let’s get that boat . . . .

Ahoy there! Coming alongside.

What’s this?

This?

By god, it’s the lake Hercules talked about. And I see the boat . . .

You’re right. Thanks to Poseidon. This must be Charon.

Ahoy there, Charon . . . Greetings, Charon . . . Charon, halloooo!

Who’s seeks a rest from work and trouble? Who’s heading for Fields of Forgetfulness, Never-never land, the Cerberians, the Ravens and Tartarus?

That’s me.

Then jump aboard.

Where do you put in? The Ravens? Is that a stop?

Yes, by god—

a special stop just for you. Get in.

All right, my lad, hop in.

I won’t take the slave—

What’s this?

This?

By god, it’s the lake Hercules talked about. And I see the boat . . .

You’re right. Thanks to Poseidon. This must be Charon.

Ahoy there, Charon . . . Greetings, Charon . . . Charon, halloooo!

Who’s seeks a rest from work and trouble? Who’s heading for Fields of Forgetfulness, Never-never land, the Cerberians, the Ravens and Tartarus?

That’s me.

Then jump aboard.

Where do you put in? The Ravens? Is that a stop?

Yes, by god—

a special stop just for you. Get in.

All right, my lad, hop in.

I won’t take the slave—

not unless he fought at sea to save his skin.

Not me, by god, no way. My eyes were bad.

Then you must make a detour round the lake.

Where do I wait for you?

At Wuthering Rock— right by the rest stop.

You got that?

I got that.

Why am I so unlucky? When we began I must've really pissed somebody off.

Sit down there—at that oar.

Anyone else?

Hurry up—all aboard! What are you doing?

What am I doing? I’m sitting on this oar. That’s what you ordered me to do.

Come on, fatso—park your butt right here.

There!

not unless he fought at sea to save his skin.

Not me, by god, no way. My eyes were bad.

Then you must make a detour round the lake.

Where do I wait for you?

At Wuthering Rock— right by the rest stop.

You got that?

I got that.

Why am I so unlucky? When we began I must've really pissed somebody off.

Sit down there—at that oar.

Anyone else?

Hurry up—all aboard! What are you doing?

What am I doing? I’m sitting on this oar. That’s what you ordered me to do.

Come on, fatso—park your butt right here.

There!

not unless he fought at sea to save his skin.

Not me, by god, no way. My eyes were bad.

Then you must make a detour round the lake.

Where do I wait for you?

At Wuthering Rock— right by the rest stop.

You got that?

I got that.

Why am I so unlucky? When we began I must've really pissed somebody off.

Sit down there—at that oar.

Anyone else?

Hurry up—all aboard! What are you doing?

What am I doing? I’m sitting on this oar. That’s what you ordered me to do.

Come on, fatso—park your butt right here.

There!

Can you pick up the oar? Stretch your arms.

Like this?

Don’t be such a fool. Set your foot there. Now pull the oar with all your force.

How can I? I’ve had no practice. I’m no sailor. And besides, I’m not from Salamis.

How am I supposed to row a boat?

It’s not hard. You’ll hear lovely melodies once you make the effort.

Songs? Whose songs?

The amazing music of the swan frogs.

All right, then. Get the tempo going.

Yo ho, heave ho. Yo ho heave ho.

Brekekekex koax koax Brekekekex koax koax.

Can you pick up the oar? Stretch your arms.

Like this?

Don’t be such a fool. Set your foot there. Now pull the oar with all your force.

How can I? I’ve had no practice. I’m no sailor. And besides, I’m not from Salamis.

How am I supposed to row a boat?

It’s not hard. You’ll hear lovely melodies once you make the effort.

Songs? Whose songs?

The amazing music of the swan frogs.

All right, then. Get the tempo going.

Yo ho, heave ho. Yo ho heave ho.

Brekekekex koax koax Brekekekex koax koax.

Children of the marsh and lake harmonious song now sweetly make,

our own enchanting melodies

koax koax. The songs we sang for Nysa’s lord, for Dionysus, son of Zeus, in Limnai at the Feast of Jars as people in their drunken glee thronged into our sanctuary. Brekekekex koax koax.

I’m starting to get a pain in the ass from all your koax koax.

Brekekekex koax koax.

Not that you give a damn about it.

Brekekekex koax koax.

Piss off—and take that koax koax with you. Nothing but koax koax.

Yes, and for us that’s fine you meddling fool—so asinine. Music-loving Muses love us too as does goat-footed Pan

playing music on melodious pipes.

Apollo as he strums his lyre

loves us and what we sing, for in the marshy waters here we grow the reeds that bridge his string. Brekekekex koax koax.

Well, I’m getting blisters and a sweaty bum. Next time I bend down it’s going to speak . . .

Brekekekex koax koax.

Stop it, you music-loving tribe!

No, no. We’ll sing on all the more—

if we’ve ever hopped on shore

on sunny days through weeds and rushes rejoicing in our lovely songs as we dive and dive once more, or as from Zeus’s rain we flee to sing our varied harmonies at the bottom of the marsh, our bubble-splashing melodies.

Brekekekex koax koax—

from you I’m catching your disease!

If that’s the case, you’ll never please.

That’s hard on us.

But worse for me— I may blow up here as I row.

Brekekekex koax koax

Go on. Keep croaking. I don’t care.

We’ll croak on ’til our throats wear out. We’ll croak all day.

Brekekekex koax koax You never beat me in this play!

And you’ve no chance to win your way,

not matched with us.

And you’ve no hope outdoing me.

No, no. If I must I’ll yell all day, koaxing you to get my way— Brekekekex koax koax

You see. Sooner or later I was going to win— and make you stop your harsh koaxing din.

Stop it. Ship that oar alongside here. Get out . . . and pay your fare.

Two obols? Here.

Xanthias! Hey, Xanthias!

Over here!

Come here!

Greetings, master.

All right, what have we got?

Nothing but filthy muck—mud and darkness.

Did you see the men who beat their fathers— or perjurers—the ones he mentioned?

You mean you don’t?

By Poseidon, yes I do! Now I see them. So what do we do next?

We’d better get away from here. Hercules mentioned to us it's the place where wild beast prowl.

To Hell with him! He was talking big to make me scared.

Xanthias! Hey, Xanthias!

Over here!

Come here!

Greetings, master.

All right, what have we got?

Nothing but filthy muck—mud and darkness.

Did you see the men who beat their fathers— or perjurers—the ones he mentioned?

You mean you don’t?

By Poseidon, yes I do! Now I see them. So what do we do next?

We’d better get away from here. Hercules mentioned to us it's the place where wild beast prowl.

To Hell with him! He was talking big to make me scared.

He saw I was a fighter, and he’s jealous. No one’s more full of it than Hercules.

But I’m keen now for some adventure, some exploit worthy of this expedition.

Of course you are. What’s that? I hear a noise.

What? Where is it?

Behind us.

Get behind me.

No, it’s up ahead.

You get in front.

My god! Now I see it. Ooooh, a monstrous beast!

What’s it like?

It's weird—all sorts of shapes.

Now it’s an ox—no, no, a jackass— now it’s a woman—what a gorgeous babe!

Where is she? I’ll go say hello.

Hold on a minute!

She’s not a woman any more. Now she’s a bitch!

It’s Empusa!!

Her whole face is on fire!

Her legs—does she have one made of bronze?

Yes! By Poseidon, yes! The other’s made of cow shit. And that’s no lie.

Where can I run?

Where can I run?

O holy man, save me—so we can drink together.

We’re screwed! O lord Hercules!

Don’t call me that! I’m begging you, my man—don’t say that name!

Then Dionysus . . .

That’s worse than Hercules.

Beat it! Shoo! Come on, master.

What’s going on?

Cheer up—we’ve come through everything just fine. Now like Hegelochus we can recite “After the storm I see the seals are calm.” Empousa’s gone .

You swear?

Cross my heart.

Swear again.

Yes, by Zeus.

Swear it one more time.

By Zeus, I swear.

That was a close shave— looking at her almost made me puke.

You were so terrified you stained your pants.

Woe, woe, why do such ills afflict me so? Which god shall I accuse of thus destroying me?

Beat it! Shoo! Come on, master.

What’s going on?

Cheer up—we’ve come through everything just fine. Now like Hegelochus we can recite “After the storm I see the seals are calm.” Empousa’s gone .

You swear?

Cross my heart.

Swear again.

Yes, by Zeus.

Swear it one more time.

By Zeus, I swear.

That was a close shave— looking at her almost made me puke.

You were so terrified you stained your pants.

Woe, woe, why do such ills afflict me so? Which god shall I accuse of thus destroying me?

How ’bout Zeus’s airy pied-a-terre or the foot of time?

Listen!

What is it?

You don’t hear that?

What?

A tune played on the flute.

Ah yes, and now the scent of torches just came wafting o’er me, torches of mystery . . .

Shhhh. Let’s squat down here— keep quiet and pay attention.

Iacchus, O Iacchus, Iacchus, O Iacchus.

Master, this is it—the initiates doing their chant, the ones he talked about—

Diagoras’s hymn to Iacchus.