as a spinner of lying yarns: ‘Will nobody throw the fellow

into the sea? He deserves the horror of a real Charybdis—

he and his preposterous Cyclopes and his Laestrygonians!

I’d sooner believe in his Scylla, or those Cyancan rocks

that clash together, and the mighty winds tied up in a wine-skin,

or how Elpenor was struck with an elegant tap by Circe,

who packed him off to grunt amongst the swinish oarsmen.

Does he take the folk of Phaeacia for such a witless lot?’

That would have been a fair response from a guest, still sober,

who had drunk no more than a sip of wine from a jar of Corcyra;

for the Ithacan told that tale on his own; there was none to confirm it.

I have a story which, strange as it sounds, recently happened

when Iuncus was consul, beyond the town of sweltering Coptus.

Mine’s a collective story; the stage can boast nothing like it.

You may look through all of tragedy’s wardrobe from Pyrrha on,

but you’ll find no people guilty of outrage. Now hear this example

of appalling barbarity, which has come to light in modern times.

Ombi and Téntyra are neighbours; but an old, long-standing feud

blazes between them still. It’s an open wound and a source

of undying hatred. The madness infecting the two communities

comes from the fact that each detests the other’s religion,

convinced, as it is, that the only deities worth the name

are those it worships itself. When one of the towns was holding

a sacred feast, the enemy’s chiefs and leaders resolved

to a man that the chance should be seized to prevent the folk from enjoying

the happy auspicious day; they must not be allowed the pleasure

of a splendid banquet, with tables set at Cross-road and temple,

and couches that knew no sleep by night or day and were sometimes

found in place by the sun on his seventh circuit (yes, Egypt

to be sure is uncouth; but in self-indulgence its barbarous mob

aspires as high, or so I have found, as scandalous Canopus).

Victory, too, would be easy over a wine-sodden enemy,

slurred in his speech and reeling drunkenly . Here there were menfolk

prancing about to a negro piper, complete with perfumes

(such as they were) and flowers and garlands over their eyebrows.

There stood hunger and hate. It began with noisy insults;

but when tempers are boiling, these are the bugle that starts the fray.

Raising a common cry, they charged. In the absence of weapons

bare fists flew; and scarcely a jaw was left unbroken.

From the press of battle few, if any, emerged with a nose

that was not smashed in. Through all the ranks you could see men’s faces

mangled, with unrecognizable features; cheek-bones poking

through gaping wounds, knuckles covered with blood from eyes.

And yet the combatants think it is just a game—like children