and dip his dink.

But not to beat you on the spot when they proved that you’re the slave—and one who claimed you were the master.

If he had, he’d have had regrets—and that’s a fact.

What you just did is worthy of a slave, something I love to do.

Forgive my asking, but what is it you love to do?

It's more than love— almost ecstasy—when I can curse my master out of ear shot.

What about really bitching,

whenever you’ve received a total thrashing

and run outside?

Yes, I do like that, too.

What about sticking your nose in everything?

By god, there’s nothing finer—that’s for sure.

By Zeus, divine protector of our race,

what about listening to our masters’ chat when they spread gossip . . .

I’m even crazier for that!

. . . then passing on the gossip all around,

to everyone outside the house?

You mean me? Every time I do that, I piss myself.

By Phoebus Apollo, give me your hand, let me kiss you, and you kiss me.

Tell me, by Zeus, patron of all flogged slaves like us, what’s going on inside the house, that noise, all that yelling and abuse?

Oh that— that’s Euripides and Aeschylus.

Ah ha!

Big, big trouble’s in the works down here among the dead—a massive civil war.

What about?

There’s a custom in these parts that in the arts—the great and worthy ones— the best man in his special area

gets all his meals for free at City Hall in the chair of honour next to Pluto . . .

I get it.

. . . until someone else arrives who has more skill than he does. At that point, he has to yield his place.

But why would this get Aeschylus upset?

Well, he had his chair, the one for tragedy, as the finest

in that form of art.

Who’s got it now?

When Euripides came down to Hades he started showing off his rhetoric

to thieves, bag snatchers, parricides, to all the ones who steal—and here in Hades that’s most of us. Well, they listened to him, heard his counter-arguments, his twists and turns, and went nuts for him. So they then proposed he was the wisest of all men. With that, Euripides got so worked up he claimed

that chair where Aeschylus sits down.

Didn’t people throw stuff at him?

My god, no. Quite the opposite. They all cried out

to have a trial set up which could find out which of the two men was the wiser poet.

When Euripides came down to Hades he started showing off his rhetoric

to thieves, bag snatchers, parricides, to all the ones who steal—and here in Hades that’s most of us. Well, they listened to him, heard his counter-arguments, his twists and turns, and went nuts for him. So they then proposed he was the wisest of all men. With that, Euripides got so worked up he claimed

that chair where Aeschylus sits down.

Didn’t people throw stuff at him?

My god, no. Quite the opposite. They all cried out

to have a trial set up which could find out which of the two men was the wiser poet.

The crowd of scoundrels?

Yes, that bunch— they made a din, by god—right up to heaven.

Didn’t Aeschylus get some support?

It's like this audience—too few good men.

So what’s Pluto planning to set up?

A contest— there's going to be a trial right here, a test of skill.

What about Sophocles— how come he didn’t claim the poet’s chair?

My god, he wouldn’t. When he first arrived he kissed Aeschylus, shook him by the hand, and kept his distance from the chair of honour.

And now, according to Cleidemides, he means to sit by as a substitute. If Aeschylus wins out, he’ll keep his place. If not, in this contest of poetic skill

he says he’ll fight on to the bitter end against Euripides.

So this affair is on.

Yes, in a minute. In this very spot

some fairly weird things will be going on— they’re testing poetry with balance scales!

What?! They’ll weigh tragedy in milligrams?

And they’re bringing out some measuring sticks, rulers for words, framed rectangles . . .

Will they be constructing bricks?

. . . bevels, too, and wedges—all because Euripides

says he’ll test their tragedies, every word.

Well, my guess is that Aeschylus isn’t liking this at all.

He just glared,

lowering his head as if he were a bull.

Who’s going to judge this trial?

That’s difficult. Wise men are hard to find—in short supply. And Aeschylus didn’t really hit it off with the Athenians . . .

Perhaps because he thought that most of them were criminals.

. . . and he considered other people

worthless as judges of true poetry.

. . . bevels, too, and wedges—all because Euripides

says he’ll test their tragedies, every word.

Well, my guess is that Aeschylus isn’t liking this at all.

He just glared,

lowering his head as if he were a bull.

Who’s going to judge this trial?

That’s difficult. Wise men are hard to find—in short supply. And Aeschylus didn’t really hit it off with the Athenians . . .

Perhaps because he thought that most of them were criminals.

. . . and he considered other people

worthless as judges of true poetry.

So at last they turned toward your master, since he’s got some knowledge of that art.

But let’s go in. There’s always trouble for us, every time our master’s in a rush.

Now the loud-roaring hero feels in full his fury— that valiant vehemence which surges up within, when he confronts his rival in poetic craft, sharpening smooth-talking tusks, just like a boar. His frenzied passion's going to make those eyeballs roll. The battle’s here at hand—helmet-glancing war, horse-crested words, while splintered axles break apart, as the subtle chisel-worker tries to push and parry