Satires 1.9 (Fairclough)

I was strolling by chance along the Sacred Way, musing after my fashion on some trifle or other, and wholly intent thereon, when up there runs a man I knew only by name and seizes my hand: “How d’ye do, my dearest fellow?” “Pretty well, as times are now,” I answer, “I hope you get all you want.”

As he kept dogging me, I break in with, “Nothing you want, is there?” But he: “You must know me; I’m a scholar.” To this I say, “Then I’ll esteem you the more.” Dreadfully eager to get away I now walk fast, at times stop short, then whisper a word in my slave’s ear, while the sweat trickled down to my very ankles. “O Bolanus,” I kept saying to myself, “how lucky to have your temper!” while the fellow rattled on about everything, praising the streets and the city. I want to visit a man you do not know. He’s ill abed, a long way off across the Tiber, near Caesar’s gardens.

I’ve nothing to do, and I’m not a poor walker; I’ll keep on with you to the end.

Down drop my poor ears like a sulky donkey’s, when he has come under a load too heavy for his back.

Then he begins: “If I do not deceive myself, you will not think more of Viscus or of Varius as a friend than of me: for who can write more verses or write more quickly than I? Who can dance more daintily? Even Hermogenes might envy my singing.

Here was my chance to break in: “Have you a mother or kindred who are dependent upon your welfare?”

Not one; I have laid them all to rest.

O happy they! now I am left. Finish me; for now draws near to me that sad fate, which a Sabine dame, shaking her divining urn, sang for me in my boyhood:

No wicked drug shall prove his end,

No foeman’s sword shall death him send,

No cough or pleurisy or gout:

A chatterbox shall talk him out;

And if he’s wise, as he grows old,

He’ll steer quite clear of talkers bold.

We had come to Vesta’s temple, a fourth of the day being now past, and by chance at that hour he was due to give answer to a plaintiff, on pain of losing his suit, should he fail to appear. “As you love me,” he says, “do help me here a while!” “Confound me if I either have strength to stand up, or know the laws of the land! and besides I must hurry, you know where.”

I wonder, said he, “what I ought to do, whether to leave my suit or you.” “Me, I pray!” “No, I won’t,” said he, and started to go ahead. As for me, since ’tis hard to fight with one’s master, I follow.

How stands Maecenas with you, he thus begins afresh, “a man of few friends and right good sense? No one ever made wiser use of his luck. You might have a strong backer, who could be your understudy, if you would introduce your humble servant. Hang me, if you wouldn’t find that you had cleared the field!”

We don’t live there on such terms as you think. No house is cleaner or more free from such intrigues than that. It never hurts me, I say, that one is richer or more learned than I. Each has his own place.

That’s a strange tale, I can scarce believe it.

And yet ’tis so.

You add flame to my desire to get closer to him.

You have only to wish it; such is your valour, you will carry the fort. He’s a man who can be won, and that is why he makes the first approaches so difficult.

I’ll not fail myself. I’ll bribe his slaves. If shut out to-day, I’ll not give up. I’ll look for the fitting time; I’ll meet him in the streets; I’ll escort him home.

Life grants no boon to man without much toil.

While he is thus running on, lo! there comes up Aristius Fuscus, a dear friend of mine, who knew the fellow right well. We halt. “Whence come you? Whither go you?” he asks and answers. I begin to twitch his cloak and squeeze his arms—they were quite unfeeling—nodding and winking hard for him to save me. The cruel joker laughed, pretending not to understand. I grew hot with anger. “Surely you said there was something you wanted to tell me in private.”

I mind it well, but I’ll tell you at a better time. To-day is the thirtieth Sabbath. Would you affront the circumcised Jews?

I have no scruples, say I.

But I have. I’m a somewhat weaker brother, one of the many. You will pardon me; I’ll talk another day.

To think so black a sun as this has shone for me! The rascal runs away and leaves me under the knife.

It now chanced that the plaintiff came face to face with his opponent. “Where go you, you scoundrel?” he loudly shouts, and to me: “May I call you as witness?” I offer my ear to touch. He hurries the man to court. There is shouting here and there, and on all sides a running to and fro. Thus was I saved by Apollo.