We’re just so black and blue-oo-oo.

Why waste our time moaning? We should stop and look for some way to preserve our hides.

How could we do that?

Well, suggest something.

No, you tell me—that way I can avoid fighting you about it.

No. By Apollo. No.

I shall not speak.

Ah, if only you would tell me what I should say.

Come. Screw your courage up and speak. And then I shall confide in you.

But I dare not. How could I ever utter the delicate phrasings of Euripides— “Can’t thou not speak for me what I must say”?

No, I don’t want that. Don’t toss those herbs around. Instead find us some way we can dance off

and leave our master.

Then say, “Let’s beat off”— all in one word, as I do.

All right, then,

I say, “Let’s beat off.”

Now after “Let’s beat off,” say “out of here.”

“Out of here.”

Very good! It’s like when you give yourself a hand job— at first you say it gently, “Let’s beat off,” then you quickly speed it up—“out of here.”

Let’s beat off . . . out of here, let’s beat off . . .

Ah, we beat off out of here—we run away!

Well, what about it? Doesn’t that sound sweet?

Yes, by god, it does—except for one thing: I’m terrified that beating it like this might be a prophecy about my skin.

Why’s that?

Because when you pound your snake the skin comes off.

The way things are right now

the best thing we can do is head on out and throw ourselves down before some statue of a god.

A statue? What kind of statue? Do you really believe that there are gods?

Of course I do.

What sort of evidence have you got for that?

Well, I’m someone gods clearly do not like. Does that not count as confirmation?

Proof enough for me. So we’d better look someplace else for help. Do you want me to tell this audience what’s going on?

That’s not a bad idea. We could ask them to do one thing for us— show us by their faces if they enjoy what we say and do.

Then I’ll speak up.

We have a bad tempered and crude master. He chews beans and is angry all the time— Demos of the Pnyx, a grumpy old man

who’s half deaf. Last new moon he bought a slave, a Paphlagonian tanner, a great scoundrel, the most slanderous of rogues. And this slave, this tanner from Paphlagonia, observed the old man’s habits. He threw himself down at our master’s feet and began fawning, wheedling, flattering, buttering him up with tiny scraps of leather, saying things like “O Demos, once you’ve tried a single case

then take a bath,” “Taste this,” “Gulp this down,”

“Eat up,” “Take three obols,” “Would you like me to get an evening meal brought in for you?” Then that Paphlagonian grabs from one of us something we’ve prepared and offers it up to our master. Just a few days ago, when I’d kneaded a Spartan barley cake at Pylos, that devilish rogue somehow snuck past me, grabbed the cake I had just made, and presented it as his. He makes sure we keep our distance and will not allow

anyone else to attend on Demos. When our master’s eating dinner, he stands holding a leather thong and flicks away

the orators. He chants out oracles, so the old man is mad for prophecies, and when he sees that he’s quite lost his wits, he goes to work according to his plan— accusing those inside with outright lies, so we get whipped, while that Paphlagonian scampers among the slaves, making demands,

stirring up trouble, taking bribes. He’ll say, “You see how I set things up so Hylas got a beating. If you don’t win me over, then you’re dead meat today.” So we pay up. If we don’t, the old man abuses us,

and we shit out eight times as much.

So now, my friend, let’s come up with something fast— what path or person can we turn to now?

The best way, my friend, is that beating off— getting out of here.

But there’s no damn way we can escape the Paphlagonian. That man sees everything. He has one leg in Pylos, and he keeps his other leg in the assembly—his two feet are spread this far apart.

His arsehole is right here over the Chaones, his hands are there, in Aetolia, and his mind is over here, among the Clopidians.

Then the best thing for us would be to die.

All right, let’s see. The most manly way we two could perish—

what would that be?

The most courageous way? The best would be for us to drink bull’s blood— that’s a good one to choose. Themistocles died from that.

No, by god, not that. But wine— undiluted from the Good Spirit cup! Then perhaps we’ll think of something useful.

O yes, unmixed wine! It’s natural you’d think of having a drink. But can anyone come up with good advice when he is drunk?

What a thing to ask! Bah! You’re a fountain

spouting streams of streaming bullshit! You dare complain that wine disturbs the way we think?

what would that be?

The most courageous way? The best would be for us to drink bull’s blood— that’s a good one to choose. Themistocles died from that.

No, by god, not that. But wine— undiluted from the Good Spirit cup! Then perhaps we’ll think of something useful.

O yes, unmixed wine! It’s natural you’d think of having a drink. But can anyone come up with good advice when he is drunk?

What a thing to ask! Bah! You’re a fountain

spouting streams of streaming bullshit! You dare complain that wine disturbs the way we think?

What can you find better than some wine for getting men to act effectively? You see that when men drink, they get wealthy, they are successful, they win their lawsuits, they become happy and help out their friends. Come, bring me out a jug of wine right now, so I can refresh my mind and think up something really clever.

By all the gods,

what will you end up doing to both of us with this drinking of yours?

Something good. Go get it, while I sit myself down right here.

For if I do get drunk, then I’ll spatter tiny schemes and fancies, minuscule ideas,

in all directions.

It’s a good thing I wasn’t caught in there stealing this wine.

Tell me—what’s the Paphlagonian doing?

That slanderous rogue has been licking up some cake he confiscated. Now he’s drunk—

lying on his back, snoring on his hides.

Well, come on then, pour me a generous hit of that unmixed wine . . . for a libation.

There. Take it and offer a libation to the Good Spirit.

Drink this and swill down the fine Pramnian spirit. O excellent Spirit, the idea is yours—not mine.

All right tell me. I’m asking you. What is that great idea?

Get inside there and steal the oracles

belonging to the Paphlagonian— quickly while he’s asleep.

All right, I’ll go. But I’m afraid I might find this Good Spirit becomes the genius of my misfortune.

Let’s see now—I’ll bring this jug over here beside me so I can moisten my mind and come up with some fabulous idea.

That Paphlagonian—what a noise he makes farting and snoring. Thanks to that I grabbed the sacred oracle, the one he guards so carefully, without him noticing.

You are the craftiest of men! Give it here, so I can look it over—and pour me a drink. Hurry up! Well now, let me see. What’s in here?

O these prophecies! Quick!

Give me a drink! Come on!

Here you go. Well? What does the oracle say?

Pour me another.

That’s what it says there? “Pour another drink”?

O Bacis!

What is it?

Quick! Pass me that cup!

Bacis really gets to use that cup a lot.

O you disgraceful Paphlagonian!

So that’s why you’ve been protecting yourself all this time! You’re terrified of this oracle— it’s about you!

Why’s that?

In here it says how he’s to be destroyed.

And how is that?

How? Well, this oracle clearly predicts that first a dealer in hemp will come along and, to start with, control city business.

That’s one wheeler dealer. So who comes next? Tell me.

After that one comes another— someone who deals in sheep.

That’s two dealers.

What’s supposed to happen to that second one?

He’s to be in charge until someone else, a more repulsive man, comes on the scene. Once that happens, he dies. His successor is a leather dealer and a robber, a Paphlagonian with a screaming voice, like the raging stream of Cycloborus.

So Fate decreed that the dealer in sheep would be toppled by the leather dealer?

That’s right.

Then heaven help us—we’re in trouble!

I wish some other dealer might show up

from somewhere—just one!

Well, there is one— he has a splendid trade.

Tell me who that is. Come on, I’m asking you.

Want me to tell you?

Yes. For god’s sake!

The man who will destroy the Paphlagonian is a sausage dealer.

A sausage dealer? O Poseidon, what a trade! Where on earth do we find a man like that?

Let’s go look for him.

Hey, there’s one coming here, as if he’s off to market. A stroke of luck!

Hey, sausage seller—you blessed creature. Come on over here, dear friend—over here. You show up as a saviour for the city and for the two of us.

What’s going on? Why are you calling me?

Come over here,

so you can find out your enormous luck, how tremendously fortunate you are.

Come on, take that table from him. Tell him what the god’s oracle proclaims. I’ll go and keep watch on the Paphlagonian.

All right. First of all, set that equipment down on the ground here. And make a sacred salute to the earth and to the gods.

There! What’s going on?

O you most blest of men! And wealthy, too! Today you have nothing, but tomorrow you will be immensely great, chief leader of a happy Athens!

My good fellow, why not leave me alone to wash my tripe

so you can find out your enormous luck, how tremendously fortunate you are.

Come on, take that table from him. Tell him what the god’s oracle proclaims. I’ll go and keep watch on the Paphlagonian.

All right. First of all, set that equipment down on the ground here. And make a sacred salute to the earth and to the gods.

There! What’s going on?

O you most blest of men! And wealthy, too! Today you have nothing, but tomorrow you will be immensely great, chief leader of a happy Athens!

My good fellow, why not leave me alone to wash my tripe

and sell my sausages, instead of mocking me?

You silly fool! Forget about your tripe!

Look over there. Do you see those people, all those rows?

I see them.

You’re going to be lord and master of them all, in control of the marketplaces and the harbours and of the Pnyx. You’ll stomp on the Council, keep generals in line, tie people up, throw them in jail—and in the Prytaneum you’ll be sucking cocks.

Me?

Yes, you of course. But you’re not seeing the whole picture yet. Climb up on this table of yours—gaze out

at all the islands there surrounding us.

I see them.

What do you see? Trading ports? Merchant ships?

Yes. I see those.

All right then, how can you not be immensely fortunate? Now turn your right eye towards Caria and the other eye towards Carthage.

I’ll be happy once I dislocate my neck!

That not the point. All that land is to be traded away, thanks to you. For you are going to be the most powerful of men—this oracle

says so right here.

Then explain this to me— How am I, a seller of sausages, going to change to someone respectable?

The very reason you’ll be powerful

is that you’re a shameless market rascal— and impudent, as well.

But I don’t think I’m good enough to have great influence.

Good heavens, whatever is wrong with you to make you say you are not good enough? You must, I’m sure, know something remarkable

about yourself. What about your parents? Don’t you come from good and honest people?

By god no! Nothing but worthless rabble.

O you fine fellow! Such amazing luck! For political affairs you really have such great advantages!

But, my good man, I have no education, nothing but reading and writing, and I’m bad at those— real bad.

That’s the only thing stopping you,

that you can read and write, even poorly—

real bad. You see, a leader of the people no longer needs to have any training or be honest in his dealings. Instead he should be ignorant and disgusting. But you must not disregard what the gods are offering to you in this oracle.

What does the oracle say?

By the gods, it’s good—but its style is rather intricate, written as a sophisticated riddle.

“But when the eagle tanner with his crooked claws

shall in his beak seize the stupid, blood-sucking serpent, then will perish the Paphlagonian’s pickled garlic, and then the gods will bestow enormous fame on those whose vocation is to market tripe unless they would prefer to sell their sausages.”

How has this got anything to do with me?

Well, the eagle tanner is that man there—

the Paphlagonian . . .

Those “crooked claws”— what are they?

What those words mean is clear. He seizes things in crooked hands, like claws,

and confiscates them.

What about the serpent?

That’s obvious. The serpent is elongated, as is the sausage, which is also long. And sausages, like serpents, suck up blood. Hence, it says the serpent will now conquer the eagle tanner, unless the snake’s resolve is broken down by words.

Well, this oracle makes me sound good. Still, I’m wondering how I’ll be capable of ruling people.

That’s ridiculously easy. Keep doing

what you’re doing. Make a complete hash of public business, mix things together like sausage meat, and always win people to your side with well-cooked little phrases to sweeten them. The other qualities a leader of the public really needs you have already—a disgusting voice and disreputable birth—and what’s more, you’re a product of the marketplace. You possess all the qualities essential

for politics. The oracles agree, including Apollo’s shrine at Delphi.

So crown yourself with a garland wreath, make a libation to the god of idiots, and then give that man what he deserves.

Who is going to help me out? Rich men fear him, and poor men are so terrified they fart.

But there are a thousand excellent men, the Knights, who hate him. They will assist you— along with the upright and honest men

among the citizens, all people here in this audience who have any brains, and me. The god will help you out as well. Have no fear. You won’t see a face like his—

the men who make the masks were just too scared to dare prepare something that looked like him. Still he’ll be easy enough to recognize. This audience is smart enough for that!

What the hell! The Paphlagonian— he’s coming out! We’re done for!

By the twelve gods, you won’t get away with this— an ongoing conspiracy against the public! What going on with this Chalcidian cup? You must be stirring an insurgency among Chalcidians. You will be killed— you pair of polluted rogues—you will perish!

Hey, why are you backing off? Stand up to him!

O noble sausage seller, do not betray our public cause!

You Knights, cavalry men, help us out—now is a time of crisis! Simon, Panaetius! Charge the right wing!

They’re getting close. Come on, defend yourself! Wheel round for an attack! Their cloud of dust is clearly visible. They’re coming on— almost here. So fight back! Chase him away! Get that Paphlagonian out of here!

Hit him! Hit that wretch who spreads confusion among the cavalry! That tax collector! That gaping gulf of greed! That Charybdis! Villain, villain, villain—I’ll say that word

again and again, for he’s a villain many times a day! Beat him! Chase him off!