the vilest criminal of all in the prison; and the native gaoler, a
superstitious man, considered that he was avenging the God’s wrongs
and securing his favour by harsh treatment of Antiphilus. His
attempts to clear himself of the charge of sacrilege only served to
set him in the light of a hardened offender, and materially to
increase the detestation in which he was held. His health was
beginning to give way under the strain, and no wonder: his bed was
the bare ground, and all night he was unable so much as to stretch
his legs, which were then secured in the stocks; in the daytime,
the collar and one manacle sufficed, but at night he had to submit
to being bound hand and foot. The stench, too, and the closeness of
the dungeon, in which so many prisoners were huddled together
gasping for breath, and the difficulty of getting any sleep, owing
to the clanking of chains,—all combined to make the situation
intolerable to one who was quite unaccustomed to endure such
hardships. At last, when Antiphilus had given up all hope, and
refused to take any nourishment, Demetrius arrived, ignorant of all
that had passed in his absence. He no sooner learnt the truth, than
he flew to the prison. It was now evening, and he was refused
admittance, the gaoler having long since bolted the door and
retired to rest, leaving his slaves to keep guard. Morning came,
and after many entreaties he was allowed to enter. Suffering had
altered Antiphilus beyond recognition, and for long Demetrius
sought him in vain: like men who seek their slain relatives on the
day after a battle, when death has already changed them, he went
from prisoner to prisoner, examining each in turn; and had he not
called on Antiphilus by name, it would have been long before he
could have recognized him, so great was the change that misery had
wrought. Antiphilus heard the voice, and uttered a cry; then, as
his friend approached, he brushed the dry matted hair from his
face, and revealed his identity. At the unexpected sight of one
another, the two friends instantly fell down in a swoon. But
presently Demetrius recovered, and raised Antiphilus from the
ground: he obtained from him an exact account of all that had
happened, and bade him be of good cheer; then, tearing his cloak in
two, he threw one half over himself, and gave the other to his
friend, first ripping off the squalid, threadbare rags in which he
was clothed. From that hour, Demetrius was unfailing in his
attendance. From early morning till noon, he hired himself out as a
porter to the merchants in the harbour, and thus made a
considerable wage. Returning to the prison when his work was over,
he would give a part of his earnings to the gaoler, thus securing
his obsequious goodwill, and the rest sufficed him amply for
supplying his friend’s needs. For the remainder of the day, he
would stay by Antiphilus, administering consolation to him; and at
nightfall made himself a litter of leaves near the prison door, and
there took his rest. So things went on for some time, Demetrius
having free entrance to the prison, and Antiphilus’s misery being
much alleviated thereby. But presently a certain robber died in the
gaol, apparently from the effects of poison; a strict watch was
kept, and admittance was refused to all applicants alike, to the
great distress of Demetrius, who could think of no other means of
obtaining access to his friend than by going to the Prefect and
professing complicity in the temple robbery. As the result of this
declaration, he was immediately led off to prison, and with great
difficulty prevailed upon the gaoler after many entreaties to place
him next to Antiphilus, and under the same collar. It was now that
his devotion to his friend appeared in the strongest light. Ill
though he was himself, he thought nothing of his own sufferings:
his only care was to lighten the affliction of his friend, and to
procure him as much rest as possible; and the companionship in
misery certainly lightened their load. Finally an event happened
which brought their misfortunes to an end. One of the prisoners had
somehow got hold of a file. He took a number of the others into his
confidence, filed through the chain which held them together by
means of their collars, and set all at liberty. The guards being
few were easily slain; and the prisoners burst out of the gaol
_en masse_. They then scattered, and each took refuge for the
moment where he could, most of them being subsequently recaptured.
Demetrius and Antiphilus, however, remained in the prison, and even
secured Syrus when he was about to escape. The next morning the
Prefect, hearing what had happened, sent men in pursuit of the
other prisoners, and Demetrius and Antiphilus, being summoned to
his presence, were released from their fetters, and commended for
not having run away like the rest. The friends, however, declined
to accept their dismissal on such terms: Demetrius protested loudly
against the injustice which would be done to them if they were to
pass for criminals, who owed their discharge to mercy, or to their
discretion in not having run away. They insisted that the judge
should examine carefully into the facts of their case. He at length
did so; and was convinced of their innocence, did justice to their
characters, and, with a warm commendation of Demetrius’s conduct,
dismissed them; but not before he had expressed his regret at the
unjust sentence under which they had suffered, and made each of
them a present from his own purse,—400 pounds to Antiphilus, and
twice that sum to Demetrius. Antiphilus is still in Egypt at the
present time, but Demetrius went off to India to visit the
Brahmins, leaving his 800 pounds with Antiphilus. He could now, he
said, leave his friend with a clear conscience. His own wants were
simple, and as long as they continued so, he had no need of money:
on the other hand, Antiphilus, in his present easy circumstances,
had as little need of a friend.
See, Toxaris, what a Greek friend can do! You were so hard just now
upon our rhetorical vanity, that I forbear to give you the
admirable pleadings of Demetrius in court: not one word did he say
in his own behalf; all was for Antiphilus; he wept and implored,
and sought to take all the guilt upon himself; till at last the
confession of Syrus under torture cleared them both. These loyal
friends whose stories I have related were the first that occurred
to my memory; where I have given five instances, I might have given
fifty. And now I am silent: it is your turn to speak. I need not
tell you to make the most of your Scythians, and bring them out
triumphant if you can: you will do that for your own sake, if you
set any value on that right hand of yours. Quit you, then, like a
man. You would look foolish if, after your truly professional
panegyric of Orestes and Pylades, your art were to fail you in your
country’s need.
_Tox_. I honour you for your disinterested encouragement:
apparently you are under no uneasiness as to the loss of your
tongue, in the event of my winning. Well, I will begin: and you
will get no flowery language from me; it is not our Scythian way,
especially when the deeds we handle dwarf description. Be prepared
for something very different from the subjects of your own eulogy:
here will be no marryings of ugly and dowerless women, no five-
hundred-pound-portionings of friends’ daughters, nor even
surrenderings of one’s person to gaolers, with the certain prospect
of a speedy release. These are very cheap manifestations; the
lofty, the heroic, is altogether wanting. I have to speak of blood
and war and death for friendship’s sake; you will learn that all
you have related is child’s-play, when compared with the deeds of
the Scythians. After all, it is natural enough: what should you do
but admire these trifles? Living in the midst of peace, you have no
scope for the exhibition of an exalted friendship, just as in a
calm we cannot tell a good pilot from a bad; we must wait till a
storm comes; then we know. We, on the contrary, live in a state of
perpetual warfare, now invading, now receding, now contending for
pasturage or booty. There is the true sphere of friendship; and
there is the reason that its ties among us are drawn so close;
friendship we hold to be the one invincible, irresistible weapon.
But before I begin, I should like to describe to you our manner of
making friends. Friendships are not formed with us, as with you,
over the wine-cups, nor are they determined by considerations of
age or neighbourhood. We wait till we see a brave man, capable of
valiant deeds, and to him we all turn our attention. Friendship
with us is like courtship with you: rather than fail of our object,
and undergo the disgrace of a rejection, we are content to urge our
suit patiently, and to give our constant attendance. At length a
friend is accepted, and the engagement is concluded with our most
solemn oath: ‘to live together and if need be to die for one
another.’ That vow is faithfully kept: once let the friends draw
blood from their fingers into a cup, dip the points of their swords
therein, and drink of that draught together, and from that moment
nothing can part them. Such a treaty of friendship may include
three persons, but no more: a man of many friends we consider to be
no better than a woman who is at the service of every lover; we
feel no further security in a friendship that is divided between so
many objects.
I will commence with the recent story of Dandamis. In our conflict
with the Sauromatae, Dandamis’s friend Amizoces had been taken
captive,—oh, but first I must take the Scythian oath, as we agreed
at the start. I swear by Wind and Scimetar that I will speak
nothing but truth of the Scythian friendships.
_Mne_. You need not have troubled to swear, as far as I am
concerned. However, you showed judgement in not swearing by a God.
_Tox_. What can you mean? Wind and Scimetar not Gods? Are you
now to learn that life and death are the highest considerations
among mankind? When we swear by Wind and Scimetar, we do so because
Wind is the cause of life and Scimetar of death.
_Mne_. On that principle, you get a good many other Gods
besides Scimetar, and as good as he: there is Arrow, and Spear, and
Hemlock, and Halter, and so on. Death is a God who assumes many
shapes; numberless are the roads that lead into his presence.
_Tox_. Now you are just trying to spoil my story with these
quibbling objections. I gave _you_ a fair hearing.
_Mne_. You are quite right, Toxaris; it shall not occur again,
be easy on that score. I’ll be so quiet, you would never know I was
here at all.
_Tox_. Four days after Dandamis and Amizoces had shared the
cup of blood, the Sauromatae invaded our territory with 10,000
horse, their infantry being estimated at three times that number.
The invasion was unexpected, and we were completely routed; many of
our warriors were slain, and the rest taken captive, with the
exception of a few who managed to swim across to the opposite bank
of the river, on which half our host was encamped, with a part of
the waggons. The reason of this arrangement I do not know; but our
leaders had seen good to divide our camp between the two banks of
the Tanais. The enemy at once set to work to secure their booty and
collect the captives; they plundered the camp, and took possession
of the waggons, most of them with their occupants; and we had the
mortification of seeing our wives and concubines mishandled before
our very eyes. Amizoces was among the prisoners, and while he was
being dragged along he called upon his friend by name, to witness
his captivity and to remember the cup of blood. Dandamis heard him,
and without a moment’s delay plunged into the river in the sight of
all, and swam across to the enemy. The Sauromatae rushed upon him,
and were about to transfix him with their raised javelins, when he
raised the cry of Zirin. The man who pronounces that word is safe
from their weapons: it indicates that he is the bearer of ransom,
and he is received accordingly. Being conducted into the presence
of their chief, he demanded the liberation of Amizoces, and was
told in reply, that his friend would only be released upon payment
of a high ransom. ‘All that was once mine,’ said Dandamis, ‘has
become your booty: but if one who is stripped of all can have
anything yet left to give, it is at your disposal. Name your terms:
take me, if you will, in his place, and use me as seems best to
you.’ ‘To detain the person of one who comes with the Zirin on his
lips is out of the question: but you may take back your friend on
paying me a part of your possessions.’ ‘What will you have?’ asked
Dandamis. ‘Your eyes,’ was the reply. Dandamis submitted: his eyes
were plucked out, and the Sauromatae had their ransom. He returned
leaning on his friend, and they swam across together, and reached
us in safety.
There was comfort for all of us in this act of Dandamis. Our
defeat, it seemed, was no defeat, after all: our most precious
possessions had escaped the hands of our enemies; loyal friendship,
noble resolution, these were still our own. On the Sauromatae it
had the contrary effect: they did not at all like the idea of
engaging with such determined adversaries on equal terms; gaining
an advantage of them by means of a surprise was quite another
matter. The end of it was, that when night came on they left behind
the greater part of the herds, burnt the waggons, and beat a hasty
retreat. As for Amizoces, he could not endure to see, when Dandamis
was blind: he blinded himself, and the two now sit at home,
supported in all honour at the public expense.
Can you match that, friend? I think not, though I should give you
ten new chances on the top of your five; ay, and release you from
your oath, too, for that matter, leaving you free to exaggerate as
much as you choose. Besides, I have given you just the bare facts.
Now, if _you_ had been telling Dandamis’s story, what embroidery we
should have had! The supplications of Dandamis, the blinding
process, his remarks on the occasion, the circumstances of his
return, the effusive greetings of the Scythians, and all the _ad
captandum_ artifices that you Greeks understand so well.
And now let me introduce you to another friend, not inferior to
Dandamis,—a cousin of Amizoces, Belitta by name. Belitta was once
hunting with his friend Basthes, when the latter was torn from his
horse by a lion. Already the brute had fallen upon him, and was
clutching him by the throat and beginning to tear him to pieces,
when Belitta, leaping to earth, rushed upon him from behind, and
attempted to drag him off, and to turn his rage upon himself,
thrusting his hands into the brute’s mouth, and doing his best to
extricate Basthes from those teeth. He succeeded at last: the lion,
abandoning his half dead prey, turned upon Belitta, grappled with
him, and slew him; but not before Belitta had plunged a scimetar
into his breast. Thus all three died together; and we buried them,
the two friends in one grave, the lion in another close by.
For my third instance, I shall give you the friendship of Macentes,
Lonchates, and Arsacomas. This Arsacomas had been on a visit to
Leucanor, king of Bosphorus, in connexion with the tribute annually
paid to us by that country, which tribute was then three months
overdue; and while there he had fallen in love with Mazaea, the
king’s daughter. Mazaea was an extremely fine woman, and Arsacomas,
seeing her at the king’s table, had been much smitten with her
charms. The question of the tribute was at length settled,
Arsacomas had his answer, and the king was now entertaining him
prior to his departure. It is the custom for suitors in that
country to make their proposals at table, stating at the same time
their qualifications. Now in the present case there were a number
of suitors—kings and sons of kings, among whom were Tigrapates the
prince of the Lazi and Adyrmachus the chief of the Machlyans. What
each suitor has to do is, first to declare his intentions, and
quietly take his seat at table with the rest; then, when dinner is
over, he calls for a goblet, pours libation upon the table, and
makes his proposal for the lady’s hand, saying whatever he can for
himself in the way of birth, wealth, and dominion. Many suitors,
then, had already preferred their request in due form, enumerating
their realms and possessions, when at last Arsacomas called for a
cup. He did not make a libation, because it is not the Scythian
custom to do so; we should consider it an insult to Heaven to pour
away good wine: instead, he drank it all off at one draught, and
then addressed the king. ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘give _me_ your
daughter Mazaea to wife: if wealth and possessions count for
anything, I am a fitter husband for her than these.’ Leucanor was
surprised: he knew that Arsacomas was but a poor commoner among the
Scythians. ‘What herds, what waggons have you, Arsacomas?’ he
asked; ‘these are the wealth of your people.’ ‘Waggons and herds I
have none,’ was Arsacomas’s reply: ‘but I have two excellent
friends, whose like you will not find in all Scythia.’ His answer
only excited ridicule; it was attributed to drunkenness, and no
further notice was taken of him. Adyrmachus was preferred to the
other suitors, and was to take his bride away the next morning to
his Maeotian home. Arsacomas on his return informed his friends of
the slight that had been put upon him by the king, and of the
ridicule to which he had been subjected on account of his supposed
poverty. ‘And yet,’ he added, ‘I told him of my wealth: told him
that I had the friendship of Lonchates and Macentes, a more
precious and more lasting possession than his kingdom of Bosphorus.
But he made light of it; he jeered at us; and gave his daughter to
Adyrmachus the Machlyan, because he had ten golden cups, and eighty
waggons of four seats, and a number of sheep and oxen. It seems
that herds and lumbering waggons and superfluous beakers are to
count for more than brave men. My friends, I am doubly wounded: I
love Mazaea, and I cannot forget the humiliation which I have
suffered before so many witnesses, and in which you are both
equally involved. Ever since we were united in friendship, are we
not one flesh? are not our joys and our sorrows the same? If this
be so, each of us has his share in this disgrace.’ ‘Not only so,’
rejoined Lonchates; ‘each of us labours under the whole ignominy of
the affront.’ ‘And what is to be our course?’ asked Macentes. ‘We
will divide the work,’ replied the other. ‘I for my part undertake
to present Arsacomas with the head of Leucanor: you must bring him
his bride.’ ‘I agree. And you, Arsacomas, can stay at home; and as
we are likely to want an army before we have done, you must be
getting together horses and arms, and raise what men you can, A man
like you will have no difficulty in getting plenty of people to
join him, and there are all our relations; besides, you can sit on
the ox-hide.’ This being settled, Lonchates set off just as he was
for the Bosphorus, and Macentes for Machlyene, each on horseback;
while Arsacomas remained behind, consulting with his acquaintance,
raising forces from among the relations of the three, and, finally,
taking his seat on the ox-hide.
Our custom of the hide is as follows. When a man has been injured
by another, and desires vengeance, but feels that he is no match
for his opponent, he sacrifices an ox, cuts up the flesh and cooks
it, and spreads out the hide upon the ground. On this hide he takes
his seat, holding his hands behind him, so as to suggest that his
arms are tied in that position, this being the natural attitude of
a suppliant among us. Meanwhile, the flesh of the ox has been laid
out; and the man’s relations and any others who feel so disposed
come up and take a portion thereof, and, setting their right foot
on the hide, promise whatever assistance is in their power: one
will engage to furnish and maintain five horsemen, another ten, a
third some larger number; while others, according to their ability,
promise heavy or light-armed infantry, and the poorest, who have
nothing else to give, offer their own personal services. The number
of persons assembled on the hide is sometimes very considerable;
nor could any troops be more reliable or more invincible than those
which are collected in this manner, being as they are under a vow;
for the act of stepping on to the hide constitutes an oath. By this
means, then, Arsacomas raised something like 5,000 cavalry and
20,000 heavy and light armed.
Meanwhile, Lonchates arrived unknown in Bosphorus, and presented
himself co the king, who was occupied at the moment in affairs of
state. ‘I come,’ he said, ‘on public business from Scythia: but I
have also a private communication of high import to make to your
Majesty.’ The king bade him proceed. ‘As to my public errand, it is
the old story: we protest against your herdsmen’s crossing the
Rocks and encroaching on the plains. And with reference to the
robbers of whom you complain, I am instructed to say that our
government is not responsible for their incursions, which are the
work of private individuals, actuated merely by the love of booty;
accordingly, you are at liberty to punish as many of them as you
can secure, And now for my own news. You will shortly be invaded by
a large host under Arsacomas the son of Mariantas, who was lately
at your court as an ambassador. I suppose the cause of his
resentment is your refusing him your daughter’s hand. He has now
been on the ox-hide for seven days, and has got together a
considerable force.’ ‘I had heard,’ exclaimed Leucanor, ‘that an
army was being raised on the hide: but who was raising it, and what
was its destination, I had no idea.’ ‘You know now,’ said
Lonchates. ‘Arsacomas is a personal enemy of mine: the superior
esteem in which I am held, and the preference shown for me by our
elders, are things which he cannot forgive. Now promise me your
other daughter Barcetis: apart from my present services, I shall be
no discreditable son-in-law: promise me this, and in no long time I
will return bringing you the head of Arsacomas.’ ‘I promise,’ cried
the king, in great perturbation; for he realized the provocation he
had given to Arsacomas, and had a wholesome respect for the
Scythians at all times. ‘Swear,’ insisted Lonchates, ‘that you will
not go back from your promise.’ The king was already raising up his
hand to Heaven, when the other interrupted him. ‘Wait!’ he
exclaimed; ‘not here! these people must not know what is the
subject of our oath. Let us go into the temple of Ares yonder, and
swear with closed doors, where none may hear. If Arsacomas should
get wind of this, I am likely to be offered up as a preliminary
sacrifice; he has a good number of men already.’ ‘To the temple,
then, let us go,’ said the king; and he ordered the guards to
remain aloof, and forbade any one to approach the temple unless
summoned by him. As soon as they were inside, and the guards had
withdrawn, Lonchates drew his sword, and putting his left hand on
the king’s mouth to prevent his crying out, plunged it into his
breast; then, cutting off his head, he went out from the temple
carrying it under his cloak; affecting all the time to be speaking
to the king, and promising that he would not be long, as if the
king had sent him on some errand. He thus succeeded in reaching the
place where he had left his horse tethered, leapt on to his back,
and rode off into Scythia. There was no pursuit: the people of
Bosphorus took some time to discover what had happened; and then
they were occupied with disputes as to the succession. Thus
Lonchates fulfilled his promise, and handed the head of Leucanor to
Arsacomas.