Machlyene, and on his arrival there he was the first to announce
the king’s death. ‘You, Adyrmachus,’ he added, ‘are his son-in-law,
and are now summoned to the throne. Ride on in advance, and
establish your claim while all is still unsettled. Your bride can
follow with the waggons; the presence of Leucanor’s daughter will
be of assistance to you in securing the support of the Bosphorans.
I myself am an Alanian, and am related to this lady by the mother’s
side: Leucanor’s wife, Mastira, was of my family. I now come to you
from Mastira’s brothers in Alania: they would have you make the
best of your way to Bosphorus at once, or you will find your crown
on the head of Eubiotus, Leucanor’s bastard brother, who is a
friend to Scythia, and detested by the Alanians.’ In language and
dress, Macentes resembled an Alanian; for in these respects there
is no difference between Scythians and Alanians, except that the
Alanians do not wear such long hair as we do. Macentes had
completed the resemblance by cropping his hair to the right
shortness, and was thus enabled to pass for a kinsman of Mastira
and Mazaea. ‘And now, Adyrmachus,’ he concluded, ‘I am ready to go
with you to Bosphorus; or, if you prefer it, I will escort your
bride.’ ‘If you will do the latter,’ replied Adyrmachus, ‘I shall
be particularly obliged, since you are Mazaea’s kinsman. If you go
with us, it is but one horseman more; whereas no one could be such
a suitable escort for my wife.’ And so it was settled: Adyrmachus
rode off, and left Mazaea, who was still a maid, in the care of
Macentes. During the day, Macentes accompanied Mazaea in the
waggon: but at nightfall he placed her on horseback (he had taken
care that there should be a horseman in attendance), and, mounting
behind her, abandoned his former course along the Maeotian Lake,
and struck off into the interior, keeping the Mitraean Mountains on
his right. He allowed Mazaea some time for rest, and completed the
whole journey from Machlyene to Scythia on the third day; his horse
stood still for a few moments after arrival, and then dropped down
dead. ‘Behold,’ said Macentes, presenting Mazaea to Arsacomas,
‘behold your promised bride.’ Arsacomas, amazed at so unexpected a
sight, was beginning to express his gratitude: but Macentes bade
him hold his peace. ‘You speak,’ he exclaimed, ‘as if you and I
were different persons, when you thank me for what I have done. It
is as if my left hand should say to my right: Thank you for tending
my wound; thank you for your generous sympathy with my pain. That
would be no more absurd than for us—who have long been united, and
have become (so far as such a thing may be) one flesh—to make such
ado because one part of us has done its duty by the whole; the limb
is but serving its own interest in promoting the welfare of the
body.’ And that was how Macentes received his friend’s thanks.
Adyrmachus, on hearing of the trick that had been played upon him,
did not pursue his journey to Bosphorus; indeed, Eubiotus was
already on the throne, having been summoned thither from his home
in Sarmatia. He therefore returned to his own country, collected a
large army, and marched across the mountains into Scythia. He was
presently followed by Eubiotus himself, at the head of a
miscellaneous army of Greeks, together with 20,000 each of his
Alanian and Sarmatian allies. The two joined forces, and the result
was an army of 90,000 men, one third of whom were mounted bowmen.
We Scythians (I say _we_, because I myself took part in this
enterprise, and was maintaining a hundred horse on the hide)—we
Scythians then, numbering in all not much less than 30,000 men,
including cavalry, awaited their onset, under the command of
Arsacomas. As soon as we saw them approaching, we too advanced,
sending on our cavalry ahead. After a long and obstinate
engagement, our lines were broken, and we began to give ground; and
finally our whole army was cut clean in two. One half had not
suffered a decisive defeat; with these it was rather a retreat than
a flight, nor did the Alanians venture to follow up their advantage
for any distance. But the other and smaller division was completely
surrounded by the Alanians and Machlyans, and was being shot down
on every side by the copious discharge of arrows and javelins; the
position became intolerable, and most of our men were beginning to
throw down their arms. In this latter division were Lonchates and
Macentes. They had borne the brunt of the attack, and both were
wounded: Lonchates had a spear-thrust in his thigh, and Macentes,
besides a cut on the head from an axe, had had his shoulder damaged
by a pike. Arsacomas, seeing their condition (he was with us in the
other division), could not endure the thought of turning his back
on his friends: plunging the spurs into his horse, and raising a
shout, he rode through the midst of the enemy, with his scimetar
raised on high. The Machlyans were unable to withstand the fury of
his onset; their ranks divided, and made way for him to pass.
Having rescued his friends from their danger, he rallied the rest
of the troops; and charging upon Adyrmachus brought down the
scimetar on his neck, and cleft him in two as far as the waist.
Adyrmachus once slain, the whole of the Machlyans and Alanians soon
scattered, and the Greeks followed their example. Thus did we turn
defeat into victory; and had not night come to interrupt us, we
should have pursued the fugitives for a considerable distance,
slaying as we went. The next day came messengers from the enemy
suing for reconciliation, the Bosphorans undertaking to double
their tribute, and the Machlyans to leave hostages; whilst the
Alanians promised to expiate their guilt by reducing the Sindians
to submission, that tribe having been for some time in revolt
against us. These terms we accepted, at the instance of Arsacomas
and Lonchates, who conducted the negotiations and concluded the
peace.
Such, Mnesippus, are the deeds that Scythians will do for
friendship’s sake.
_Mne_. Truly deeds of high emprise; quite a legendary look
about them. With Wind’s and Scimetar’s good leave, I think a man
might be excused for doubting their truth.
_Tox_. Now, honestly, Mnesippus, does not that doubt look a
little like envy? However, doubt if you will: that shall not deter
me from relating other Scythian exploits of the same kind which
have happened within my experience.
_Mne_. Brevity, friend, is all I ask. Your story is apt to run
away with you. Up hill and down dale you go, through Scythia and
Machlyene, off again to Bosphorus, then back to Scythia, till my
taciturnity is exhausted.
_Tox_. I am schooled. Brevity you shall have; I will not run
you off your ears this time. My next story shall be of a service
rendered to myself, by my friend Sisinnes. Induced by the desire
for Greek culture, I had left my home and was on my way to Athens.
The ship put in at Amastris, which comes in the natural route from
Scythia, being on the shore of the Euxine, not far from Carambis.
Sisinnes, who had been my friend from childhood, bore me company on
this voyage. We had transferred all our belongings from the ship to
an inn near the harbour; and whilst we were busy in the market,
suspecting nothing wrong, some thieves had forced the door of our
room and carried off everything, not leaving us even enough to go
on with for that day. Well, when we got back and found what had
happened, we thought it was no use trying to get legal redress from
our landlord, or from the neighbours; there were too many of them;
and if we _had_ told our story,—how we had been robbed of
four hundred darics and our clothes and rugs and everything, most
people would only have thought we were making a fuss about a
trifle. So we had to think what was to be done: here we were,
absolutely destitute, in a foreign country. For my part, I thought
I might as well put a sword through my ribs there and then, and
have done with it, rather than endure the humiliation that might be
forced upon us by hunger and thirst. Sisinnes took a more cheerful
view, and implored me to do nothing of the kind: ‘I shall think of
something,’ he said, ‘and we may do well yet.’ For the moment, he
made enough to get us some food by carrying up timber from the
harbour. The next morning, he took a walk in the market, where it
seems he saw a company of fine likely young fellows, who as it
turned out were hired as gladiators, and were to perform two days
after. He found out all about them, and then came back to me.
‘Toxaris,’ he exclaimed, ‘consider your poverty at an end! In two
days’ time, I will make a rich man of you.’ We got through those
two days somehow, and then came the show, in which we took our
places as spectators, Sisinnes bidding me prepare myself for all
the novel delights of a Greek amphitheatre. The first thing we saw
on sitting down was a number of wild beasts: some of them were
being assailed by javelins, others hunted by dogs, and others again
were let loose upon certain men who were tied hand and foot, and
whom we supposed to be criminals. The gladiators next made their
appearance. The herald led forward a strapping young fellow, and
announced that any one who was prepared to stand up against him
might step into the arena and take his reward, which would be 400
pounds. Sisinnes rose from his seat, jumped down into the ring,
expressed his willingness to fight, and demanded arms. He received
the money, and brought it to me. ‘If I win,’ he said, ‘we will go
off together, and are amply provided for: if I fall, you will bury
me and return to Scythia.’ I was much moved.
He now received his arms, and put them on; with the exception,
however, of the helmet, for he fought bareheaded. He was the first
to be wounded, his adversary’s curved sword drawing a stream of
blood from his groin. I was half dead with fear. However, Sisinnes
was biding his time: the other now assailed him with more
confidence, and Sisinnes made a lunge at his breast, and drove the
sword clean through, so that his adversary fell lifeless at his
feet. He himself, exhausted by the loss of blood, sank down upon
the corpse, and life almost deserted him; but I ran to his
assistance, raised him up, and spoke words of comfort. The victory
was won, and he was free to depart; I therefore picked him up and
carried him home. My efforts were at last successful: he rallied,
and is living in Scythia to this day, having married my sister. He
is still lame, however, from his wound. Observe: this did not take
place in Machlyene, nor yet in Alania; there is no lack of
witnesses to the truth of the story this time; many an Amastrian
here in Athens would remember the fight of Sisinnes.
One more story, that of Abauchas, and I have done. Abauchas once
arrived in the capital of the Borysthenians, with his wife, of whom
he was extremely fond, and two children; one, a boy, was still at
the breast, the other was a girl of seven. With him also was his
friend Gyndanes, who was still suffering from the effects of a
wound he had received on the journey: they had been attacked by
some robbers, and Gyndanes in resisting them had been stabbed in
the thigh, and was still unable to stand on account of the pain.
One night they were all asleep in the upper story, when a
tremendous fire broke out; the whole building was wrapped in
flames, and every means of exit blocked. Abauchas started up, and
leaving his sobbing children, and shaking off his wife, who clung
to him and implored him to save her, he caught up his friend in his
arms, and just managed to force his way down without being utterly
consumed by the flames. His wife followed, carrying the boy, and
bade the girl come after her; but, scorched almost to a cinder, she
was compelled to drop the child from her arms, and barely succeeded
in leaping through the flames; the little girl too only just
escaped with her life. Abauchas was afterwards reproached with
having abandoned his own wife and children to rescue Gyndanes. ‘I
can beget other children easily enough,’ said he: ‘nor was it
certain how these would turn out: but it would be long before I got
such another friend as Gyndanes; of his affection I have been
abundantly satisfied by experience.’
There, Mnesippus, you have _my_ little selection. The next
thing is to settle whether my hand or your tongue is to be
amputated. Who is umpire?
_Mne_. Umpire we have none; we forgot that. I tell you what:
we have wasted our arrows this time, but some other day we will
appoint an arbitrator, and submit other friendships to his
judgement; and then off shall come your hand, or out shall come my
tongue, as the case may be. Perhaps, though, this is rather a
primitive way of doing things. As you seem to think a great deal of
friendship, and as I consider it to be the highest blessing of
humanity, what is there to prevent our vowing eternal friendship on
the spot? We shall both have the satisfaction of winning then, and
shall get a substantial prize into the bargain: two right hands
each instead of one, two tongues, four eyes, four feet;—everything
in duplicate. The union of two friends—or three, let us say—is
like Geryon in the pictures: a six-handed, three-headed individual;
my private opinion is, that there was not one Geryon, but three
Geryons, all acting in concert, as friends should.
_Tox_. Done with you, then.
_Mne_. And, Toxaris,—we will dispense with the blood-and-
scimetar ceremony. Our present conversation, and the similarity of
our aims, are a much better security than that sanguinary cup of
yours. Friendship, as I take it, should be voluntary, not
compulsory.
_Tox_. Well said. From this day, I am your friend, you mine; I
your guest here in Greece, you mine if ever you come to Scythia.
_Mne_. Scythia! I would go further than Scythia, to meet with
such friends as Toxaris’s narratives have shown him to be.
ZEUS CROSS-EXAMINED
_Cyniscus_. _Zeus_
_Cyn_. Zeus: I am not going to trouble you with requests for a
fortune or a throne; you get prayers enough of that sort from other
people, and from your habit of convenient deafness I gather that
you experience a difficulty in answering them. But there is one
thing I should like, which would cost you no trouble to grant.
_Zeus_. Well, Cyniscus? You shall not be disappointed, if your
expectations are as reasonable as you say.
_Cyn_. I want to ask you a plain question.
_Zeus_. Such a modest petition is soon granted; ask what you
will.
_Cyn_. Well then: you know your Homer and Hesiod, of course?
Is it all true that they sing of Destiny and the Fates—that
whatever they spin for a man at his birth must inevitably come
about?
_Zeus_. Unquestionably. Nothing is independent of their
control. From their spindle hangs the life of all created things;
whose end is predetermined even from the moment of their birth; and
that law knows no change.
_Cyn_. Then when Homer says, for instance, in another place,
Lest unto Hell thou go, _outstripping Fate_,
he is talking nonsense, of course?
_Zeus_. Absolute nonsense. Such a thing is impossible: the law
of the Fates, the thread of Destiny, is over all. No; so long as
the poets are under the inspiration of the Muses, they speak truth:
but once let those Goddesses leave them to their own devices, and
they make blunders and contradict themselves. Nor can we blame
them: they are but men; how should they know truth, when the
divinity whose mouthpieces they were is departed from them?
_Cyn_. That point is settled, then. But there is another thing
I want to know. There are three Fates, are there not,—Clotho,
Lachesis, and Atropus?
_Zeus_. Quite so.
_Cyn_. But one also hears a great deal about Destiny and
Fortune. Who are they, and what is the extent of their power? Is it
equal to that of the Fates? or greater perhaps? People are always
talking about the insuperable might of Fortune and Destiny.
_Zeus_. It is not proper, Cyniscus, that you should know all.
But what made you ask me about the Fates?
_Cyn_. Ah, you must tell me one thing more first. Do the Fates
also control you Gods? Do _you_ depend from their thread?
_Zeus_. We do. Why do you smile?
_Cyn_. I was thinking of that bit in Homer, where he makes you
address the Gods in council, and threaten to suspend all the world
from a golden cord. You said, you know, that you would let the cord
down from Heaven, and all the Gods together, if they liked, might
take hold of it and try to pull you down, and they would never do
it: whereas you, if you had a mind to it, could easily pull them up,
And Earth and Sea withal.
I listened to that passage with shuddering reverence; I was much
impressed with the idea of your strength. Yet now I understand that
you and your cord and your threats all depend from a mere cobweb.
It seems to me Clotho should be the one to boast: she has you
dangling from her distaff, like a sprat at the end of a fishing-
line.
_Zeus_. I do not catch the drift of your questions.
_Cyn_. Come, I will speak my mind; and in the name of Destiny
and the Fates take not my candour amiss. If the case stands thus,
if the Fates are mistresses of all, and their decisions
unalterable, then why do men sacrifice to _you_, and bring
hecatombs, and pray for good at _your_ hands? If our prayers
can neither save us from evil nor procure us any boon from Heaven,
I fail to see what we get for our trouble.
_Zeus_. These are nice questions! I see how it is,—you have
been with the sophists; accursed race! who would deny us all
concern in human affairs. Yes, these are just the points they
raise, impiously seeking to pervert mankind from the way of
sacrifice and prayer: it is all thrown away, forsooth! the Gods
take no thought for mankind; they have no power on the earth.—Ah
well; they will be sorry for it some day.
_Cyn_. Now, by Clotho’s own spindle, my questions are free
from all sophistic taint. How it has come about, I know not; but
one word has brought up another, and the end of it is—there is no
use in sacrifice. Let us begin again. I will put you a few more
questions; answer me frankly, but think before you speak, this
time.
_Zeus_. Well; if you have the time to waste on such
tomfoolery.
_Cyn_. Everything proceeds from the Fates, you say?
_Zeus_. Yes.
_Cyn_. And is it in your power to unspin what they have spun?
_Zeus_. It is not.
_Cyn_. Shall I proceed, or is the inference clear?
_Zeus_. Oh, clear enough. But you seem to think that people
sacrifice to us from ulterior motives; that they are driving a
bargain with us, _buying_ blessings, as it were: not at all;
it is a disinterested testimony to our superior merit.
_Cyn_. There you are, then. As you say, sacrifice answers no
useful purpose; it is just our good-natured way of acknowledging
your superiority. And mind you, if we had a sophist here, he would
want to know all about that superiority. You are our fellow slaves,
he would say; if the Fates are our mistresses, they are also yours.
Your immortality will not serve you; that only makes things worse.
We mortals, after all, are liberated by death: but for you there is
no end to the evil; that long thread of yours means eternal
servitude.
_Zeus_. But this eternity is an eternity of happiness; the
life of Gods is one round of blessings.
_Cyn_. Not all Gods’ lives. Even in Heaven there are distinctions,
not to say mismanagement. _You_ are happy, of course: you are king,
and you can haul up earth and sea as it were a bucket from the
well. But look at Hephaestus: a cripple; a common blacksmith. Look
at Prometheus: _he_ gets nailed up on Caucasus. And I need not
remind you that your own father lies fettered in Tartarus at this
hour. It seems, too, that Gods are liable to fall in love; and to
receive wounds; nay, they may even have to take service with mortal
men; witness your brother Posidon, and Apollo, servants to Laomedon
and to Admetus. I see no great happiness in all this; some of you I
dare say have a very pleasant time of it, but not so others. I
might have added, that you are subject to robbery like the rest of
us; your temples get plundered, and the richest of you becomes a
pauper in the twinkling of an eye. To more than one of you it has
even happened to be melted down, if he was a gold or a silver God.
All destiny, of course.
_Zeus_. Take care, Cyniscus: you are going too far. You will
repent of this one day.
_Cyn_. Spare your threats: you know that nothing can happen to
me, except what Fate has settled first. I notice, for instance,
that even temple-robbers do not always get punished; most of them,
indeed, slip through your hands. Not destined to be caught, I
suppose.
_Zeus_. I knew it! you are one of those who would abolish
Providence.
_Cyn_. You seem to be very much afraid of these gentlemen, for
some reason. Not one word can I say, but you must think I picked it
up from them. Oblige me by answering another question; I could
desire no better authority than yours. What is this Providence? Is
she a Fate too? or some greater, a mistress of the Fates?
_Zeus_. I have already told you that there are things which it
is not proper for you to know. You said you were only going to ask
me one question, instead of which you go on quibbling without end.
I see what it is you are at: you want to make out that we Gods take
no thought for human affairs.
_Cyn_. It is nothing to do with me: it was you who said just
now that the Fates ordained everything. Have you thought better of
it? Are you going to retract what you said? Are the Gods going to
push Destiny aside and make a bid for government?
_Zeus_. Not at all; but the Fates work _through us_.
_Cyn_. I see: you are their servants, their underlings. But
that comes to the same thing: it is still they who design; you are
only their tools, their instruments.
_Zeus_. How do you make that out?
_Cyn_. I suppose it is pretty much the same as with a carpenter’s
adze and drill: they do assist him in his work, but no one would
describe them as the workmen; we do not say that a ship has been
turned out by such and such an adze, or by such and such a drill;
we name the shipwright. In the same way, Destiny and the Fates are
the universal shipwrights, and you are their drills and adzes; and
it seems to me that instead of paying their respects and their
sacrifices to you, men ought to sacrifice to Destiny, and implore
_her_ favours; though even that would not meet the case, because I
take it that things are settled once and for all, and that the
Fates themselves are not at liberty to chop and change. If some one
gave the spindle a turn in the wrong direction, and undid all
Clotho’s work, Atropus would have something to say on the subject.
_Zeus_. So! You would deprive even the Fates of honour? You
seem determined to reduce all to one level. Well, we Gods have at
least one claim on you: we do prophesy and foretell what the Fates
haye disposed.
_Cyn_. Now even granting that you do, what is the use of
knowing what one has to expect, when one can by no possibility take
any precautions? Are you going to tell me that a man who finds out
that he is to die by a steel point can escape the doom by shutting
himself up? Not he. Fate will take him out hunting, and there will
be his steel: Adrastus will hurl his spear at the boar, miss the
brute, and get Croesus’s son; Fate’s inflexible law directs his
aim. The full absurdity of the thing is seen in the case of Laius:
Seek not for offspring in the Gods’ despite;
Beget a child, and thou begett’st thy slayer.
Was not this advice superfluous, seeing that the end must come?
Accordingly we find that the oracle does not deter Laius from
begetting a son, nor that son from being his slayer. On the whole,
I cannot see that your prophecies entitle you to reward, even
setting aside the obscurity of the oracles, which are generally
contrived to cut both ways. You omitted to mention, for instance,
whether Croesus—‘the Halys crossed’—should destroy his own or
Cyrus’s mighty realm.’ It might be either, so far as the oracle
goes.
_Zeus_. Apollo was angry with Croesus. When Croesus boiled
that lamb and tortoise together in the cauldron, he was making
trial of Apollo.
_Cyn_. Gods ought not to be angry. After all, I suppose it was
fated that the Lydian should misinterpret that oracle; his case
only serves to illustrate that general ignorance of the future,
which Destiny has appointed for mankind. At that rate, your
prophetic power too seems to be in her hands.
_Zeus_. You leave us nothing, then? We exercise no control, we
are not entitled to sacrifice, we are very drills and adzes. But
you may well despise me: why do I sit here listening to all this,
with my thunder-bolt beneath my arm?
_Cyn_. Nay, smite, if the thunder-bolt is my destiny. I shall
think none the worse of you; I shall know it is all Clotho’s doing;
I will not even blame the bolt that wounds me. And by the way—
talking of thunder-bolts—there is one thing I will ask you and
Destiny to explain; you can answer for her. Why is it that you
leave all the pirates and temple-robbers and ruffians and perjurers
to themselves, and direct your shafts (as you are always doing)
against an oak-tree or a stone or a harmless mast, or even an
honest, God-fearing traveller? ... No answer? Is this one of the
things it is not proper for me to know?
_Zeus_. It is, Cyniscus. You are a meddlesome fellow; I don’t
know where you picked up all these ideas.
_Cyn_. Well, I suppose I must not ask you all (Providence and
Destiny and you) why honest Phocion died in utter poverty and
destitution, like Aristides before him, while those two unwhipped
puppies, Callias and Alcibiades, and the ruffian Midias, and that
Aeginetan libertine Charops, who starved his own mother to death,
were all rolling in money? nor again why Socrates was handed over
to the Eleven instead of Meletus? nor yet why the effeminate
Sardanapalus was a king, and one high-minded Persian after another
went to the cross for refusing to countenance his doings? I say
nothing of our own days, in which villains and money-grubbers
prosper, and honest men are oppressed with want and sickness and a
thousand distresses, and can hardly call their souls their own.