Delphi Complete Works of Petronius

by Petronius

  HIS FATE WAS UNAVOIDABLE

  NO ROCK-HEWN TOMB NOR SCULPTURED MARBLE HIS,

  HIS NOBLE CORPSE FIVE FEET OF EARTH RECEIVED,

  HE RESTS IN PEACE BENEATH THIS HUMBLE MOUND.

  CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEENTH.

  We set out upon our intended journey, after this last office had been wholeheartedly performed, and, in a little while, arrived, sweating, at the top of a mountain, from which we made out, at no great distance, a town, perched upon the summit of a lofty eminence. Wanderers as we were, we had no idea what town it could be, until we learned from a caretaker that it was Crotona, a very ancient city, and once the first in Italy. When we earnestly inquired, upon learning this, what men inhabited such historic ground, and the nature of the business in which they were principally engaged, now that their wealth had been dissipated by the oft recurring wars, “My friends,” replied he, “if you are men of business, change your plans and seek out some other conservative road to a livelihood, but if you can play the part of men of great culture, always ready with a lie, you are on the straight road to riches: The study of literature is held in no estimation in that city, eloquence has no niche there, economy and decent standards of morality come into no reward of honor there; you must know that every man whom you will meet in that city belongs to one of two factions; they either ‘take-in,’ or else they are ‘taken-in.’ No one brings up children in that city, for the reason that no one who has heirs is invited to dinner or admitted to the games; such an one is deprived of all enjoyments and must lurk with the rabble. On the other hand, those who have never married a wife, or those who have no near relatives, attain to the very highest honors; in other words, they are the only ones who are considered soldierly, or the bravest of the brave, or even good. You will see a town which resembles the fields in time of pestilence,” he continued, “in which there is nothing but carcasses to be torn at and carrion crows tearing at them.”

  CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTEENTH.

  Eumolpus, who had a deeper insight, turned this state of affairs over in his mind and declared that he was not displeased with a prospect of that kind. I thought the old fellow was joking in the care-free way of poets, until he complained, “If I could only put up a better front! I mean that I wish my clothing was in better taste, that my jewelry was more expensive; all this would lend color to my deception: I would not carry this scrip, by Hercules, I would not I would lead you all to great riches!” For my part, I undertook to supply whatever my companion in robbery had need of, provided he would be satisfied with the garment, and with whatever spoils the villa of Lycurgus had yielded when we robbed it; as for money against present needs, the Mother of the Gods would see to that, out of regard to her own good name! “Well, what’s to prevent our putting on an extravaganza?” demanded Eumolpus. “Make me the master if the business appeals to you.” No one ventured to condemn a scheme by which he could lose nothing, and so, that the lie would be kept safe among us all, we swore a solemn oath, the words of which were dictated by Eumolpus, to endure fire, chains, flogging, death by the sword, and whatever else Eumolpus might demand of us, just like regular gladiators! After the oath had been taken, we paid our respects to our master with pretended servility, and were informed that Eumolpus had lost a son, a young man of great eloquence and promise, and that it was for this reason the poor old man had left his native land that he might not see the companions and clients of his son, nor even his tomb, which was the cause of his daily tears. To this misfortune a recent shipwreck had been added, in which he had lost upwards of two millions of sesterces; not that he minded the loss but, destitute of a train of servants he could not keep up his proper dignity! Furthermore, he had, invested in Africa, thirty millions of sesterces in estates and bonds; such a horde of his slaves was scattered over the fields of Numidia that he could have even sacked Carthage! We demanded that Eumolpus cough frequently, to further this scheme, that he have trouble with his stomach and find fault with all the food when in company, that he keep talking of gold and silver and estates, the incomes from which were not what they should be, and of the everlasting unproductiveness of the soil; that he cast up his accounts daily, that he revise the terms of his will monthly, and, for fear any detail should be lacking to make the farce complete, he was to use the wrong names whenever he wished to summon any of us, so that it would be plain to all that the master had in mind some who were not present. When everything had been thus provided for, we offered a prayer to the gods “that the matter might turn out well and happily,” and took to the road. But Giton could not bear up under his unaccustomed load, and the hired servant Corax, a shirker of work, often put down his own load and cursed our haste, swearing that he would either throw his packs away or run away with his load. “What do you take me for, a beast of burden?” he grumbled, “or a scow for carrying stone? I hired out to do the work of a man, not that of a pack-horse, and I’m as free as you are, even if my father did leave me poor!” Not satisfied with swearing, he lifted up his leg from time to time and filled the road with an obscene noise and a filthy stench. Giton laughed at his impudence and imitated every explosion with his lips, {but Eumolpus relapsed into his usual vein, even in spite of this.}

  CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEENTH.

  “Young men,” said he, “many are they who have been seduced by poetry; for, the instant a man has composed a verse in feet, and has woven a more delicate meaning into it by means of circumlocutions, he straightway concludes that he has scaled Helicon! Take those who are worn out by the distressing detail of the legal profession, for example: they often seek sanctuary in the tranquillity of poetry, as a more sheltered haven, believing themselves able more easily to compose a poem than a rebuttal charged with scintillating epigrams! But a more highly cultivated mind loves not this conceited affectation, nor can it either conceive or bring forth, unless it has been steeped in the vast flood of literature. Every word that is what I would call ‘low,’ ought to be avoided, and phrases far removed from plebeian usage should be chosen. Let ‘Ye rabble rout avaunt,’ be your rule. In addition, care should be exercised in preventing the epigrams from standing out from the body of the speech; they should gleam with the brilliancy woven into the fabric. Homer is an example, and the lyric poets, and our Roman Virgil, and the exquisite propriety of Horace. Either the others did not discover the road that leads to poetry, or, having seen, they feared to tread it. Whoever attempts that mighty theme, the civil war, for instance, will sink under the load unless he is saturated with literature. Events, past and passing, ought not to be merely recorded in verse, the historian will deal with them far better; by means of circumlocutions and the intervention of the immortals, the free spirit, wracked by the search for epigrams having a mythological illusion, should plunge headlong and appear as the prophecy of a mind inspired rather than the attested faith of scrupulous exactitude in speech. This hasty composition may please you, even though it has not yet received its final polishing:”

  CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEENTH.

  “The conquering Roman now held the whole world in his sway,

  The ocean, the land; where the sun shone by day or the moon

  Gleamed by night: but unsated was he. And the seas

  Were roiled by the weight of his deep-laden keels; if a bay

  Lay hidden beyond, or a land which might yield yellow gold

  ’Twas held as a foe. While the struggle for treasure went on

  The fates were preparing the horrors and scourges of war.

  Amusements enjoyed by the vulgar no longer can charm

  Nor pleasures worn threadbare by use of the plebeian mob.

  The bronzes of Corinth are praised by the soldier at sea;

  And glittering gems sought in earth, vie with purple of Tyre;

  Numidia curses her here, there, the exquisite silks

  Of China; Arabia’s people have stripped their own fields.

  Behold other woes and calamities outraging peace!

 
Wild beasts, in the forest are hunted, for gold; and remote

  African hammon is covered by beaters, for fear

  Some beast that slays men with his teeth shall escape, for by that

  His value to men is enhanced! The vessels receive

  Strange ravening monsters; the tiger behind gilded bars

  And pacing his cage is transported to Rome, that his jaws

  May drip with the life blood of men to the plaudits of men

  Oh shame! To point out our impending destruction; the crime

  Of Persia enacted anew; in his puberty’s bloom

  The man child is kidnapped; surrenders his powers to the knife,

  Is forced to the calling of Venus; delayed and hedged round

  The hurrying passage of life’s finest years is held back

  And Nature seeks Nature but finds herself not. Everywhere

  These frail-limbed and mincing effeminates, flowing of locks,

  Bedecked with an infinite number of garments of silk

  Whose names ever change, the wantons and lechers to snare,

  Are eagerly welcomed! From African soil now behold

  The citron-wood tables; their well-burnished surface reflects

  Our Tyrian purples and slaves by the horde, and whose spots

  Resemble the gold that is cheaper than they and ensnare

  Extravagance. Sterile and ignobly prized is the wood

  But round it is gathered a company sodden with wine;

  And soldiers of fortune whose weapons have rusted, devour

  The spoils of the world. Art caters to appetite. Wrasse

  From Sicily brought to their table, alive in his own Sea water.

  The oysters from Lucrine’s shore torn, at the feast

  Are served to make famous the host; and the appetite, cloyed,

  To tempt by extravagance. Phasis has now been despoiled

  Of birds, its littoral silent, no sound there is heard

  Save only the wind as it rustles among the last leaves.

  Corruption no less vile is seen in the campus of Mars,

  Our quirites are bribed; and for plunder and promise of gain

  Their votes they will alter. The people is venal; corrupt

  The Senate; support has its price! And the freedom and worth

  Of age is decayed, scattered largesse now governs their power;

  Corrupted by gold, even dignity lies in the dust.

  Cato defeated and hooted by mobs, but the victor

  Is sadder, ashamed to have taken the rods from a Cato:

  In this lay the shame of the nation and character’s downfall,

  ’Twas not the defeat of a man! No! The power and the glory

  Of Rome were brought low; represented in him was the honor

  Of sturdy Republican Rome. So, abandoned and wretched,

  The city has purchased dishonor: has purchased herself!

  Despoiled by herself, no avenger to wipe out the stigma

  Twin maelstroms of debt and of usury suck down the commons.

  No home with clear title, no citizen free from a mortgage,

  But as some slow wasting disease all unheralded fastens

  Its hold on the vitals, destroying the vigor of manhood,

  So, fear of the evils impending, impels them to madness.

  Despair turns to violence, luxury’s ravages needs must

  Repaired be by bloodshed, for indigence safely can venture.

  Can art or sane reason rouse wallowing Rome from the offal

  And break the voluptuous slumber in which she is sunken?

  Or must it be fury and war and the blood-lust of daggers?”

  CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTIETH.

  “Three chieftains did fortune bring forth, whom the fury of battles

  Destroyed; and interred, each one under a mountain of weapons;

  The Parthian has Crassus, Pompeius the Great by the waters

  Of Egypt lies. Julius, ungrateful Rome stained with his life blood.

  And earth has divided their ashes, unable to suffer

  The weight of so many tombs. These are the wages of glory!

  There lies between Naples and Great Puteoli, a chasm

  Deep cloven, and Cocytus churns there his current; the vapor

  In fury escapes from the gorge with that lethal spray laden.

  No green in the aututun is there, no grass gladdens the meadow,

  The supple twigs never resound with the twittering singing

  Of birds in the Springtime. But chaos, volcanic black boulders

  Of pumice lie Happy within their drear setting of cypress.

  Amidst these infernal surroundings the ruler of Hades

  Uplifted his head by the funeral flames silhouetted

  And sprinkled with white from the ashes of corpses; and challenged

  Winged Fortune in words such as these: ‘Oh thou fickle controller

  Of things upon earth and in heaven, security’s foeman,

  Oh Chance! Oh thou lover eternally faithful to change, and

  Possession’s betrayer, dost own thyself crushed by the power

  Of Rome? Canst not raise up the tottering mass to its downfall

  Its strength the young manhood of Rome now despises, and staggers

  In bearing the booty heaped up by its efforts: behold how

  They lavish their spoils! Wealth run mad now brings down their destruction.

  They build out of gold and their palaces reach to the heavens;

  The sea is expelled by their moles and their pastures are oceans;

  They war against Nature in changing the state of creation.

  They threaten my kingdom! Earth yawns with their tunnels deep driven

  To furnish the stone for their madmen’s foundations; already

  The mountains are hollowed and now but re-echoing caverns;

  While man quarries marble to serve his vainglorious purpose

  The spirits infernal confess that they hope to win Heaven!

  Arise, then, O Chance, change thy countenance peaceful to warlike

  And harry the Romans, consign to my kingdom the fallen.

  Ah, long is it now since my lips were with blood cooled and moistened,

  Nor has my Tisiphone bathed her blood-lusting body

  Since Sulla’s sword drank to repletion and earth’s bristling harvest

  Grew ripe upon blood and thrust up to the light of the sunshine!’”

  CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIRST.

  “He spake ... and attempted to clasp the right hand of Fortuna,

  But ruptured the crust of the earth, deeply cloven, asunder.

  Then from her capricious heart Fortune made answer: ‘O father

  Whom Cocytus’ deepest abysses obey, if to forecast

  The future I may, without fear, thy petition shall prosper;

  For no less consuming the anger that wars in this bosom,

  The flame no less poignant, that burns to my marrow All favors

  I gave to the bulwarks of Rome, now, I hate them. My

  Gifts I repent! The same God who built up their dominion

  Shall bring down destruction upon it. In burning their manhood

  My heart shall delight and its blood-lust shall slake with their slaughter.

  Now Philippi’s field I can see strewn with dead of two battles

  And Thessaly’s funeral pyres and Iberia mourning.

  Already the clangor of arms thrills my ears, and rings loudly:

  Thou, Lybian Nile, I can see now thy barriers groaning

  And Actium’s gulf and Apollo’s darts quailing the warriors!

  Then, open thy thirsty dominions and summon fresh spirits;

  For scarce will the ferryman’s strength be sufficient to carry

  The souls of the dead in his skiff: ’tis a fleet that is needed!

  Thou, Pallid Tisiphone, slake with wide ruin, thy thirsting

  And tear ghastly wounds: mangled earth sinks to hell and the spirit
s.’”

  CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SECOND.

  “But scarce had she finished, when trembled the clouds; and a gleaming

  Bright flash of Jove’s lightning transfixed them with flame and was gone.

  The Lord of the Shades blanched with fear, at this bolt of his brother’s,

  Sank back, and drew closely together the gorge in Earth’s bosom.

  By auspices straightway the slaughter of men and the evils

  Impending are shown by the gods. Here, the Titan unsightly

  Blood red, veils his face with a twilight; on strife fratricidal

  Already he gazed, thou hadst thought! There, silvery Cynthia

  Obscuring her face at the full, denied light to the outrage.

  The mountain crests riven by rock-slides roll thundering downward

  And wandering rivers, to rivulets shrunk, writhed no longer

  Familiar marges between. With the clangor of armor

  The heavens resound; from the stars wafts the thrill of a trumpet

  Sounding the call to arms. AEtna, now roused to eruption

  Unwonted, darts flashes of flame to the clouds. Flitting phantoms

  Appear midst the tombs and unburied bones, gibbering menace

  A comet, strange stars in its diadem, leads a procession

  And reddens the skies with its fire. Showers of blood fall from heaven

  These portents the Deity shortly fulfilled! For now Caesar

  Forsook vacillation and, spurred by the love of revenge, sheathed

  The Gallic sword; brandished the brand that proclaimed civil warfare.

  There, high in the Alps, where the crags, by a Greek god once trodden,

  Slope down and permit of approach, is a spot ever sacred