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[108]
I was dumb with terror of being punished, and too
upset to find a word to say, for the case was only too clear. . . .We were in no
position to speak, or do anything, for to say nothing of the disgrace of our shaven
heads, our eyebrows were as bald as our pates. But when a wet sponge was wiped down
my doleful countenance, and the ink ran over all my face and of course blotted out
every feature in a cloud of smut, anger passed into loathing. Eumolpus cried out
that he would not allow anyone to disfigure free young men without right or reason,
and cut short the angry sailors' threats not only by argument but by force. His
slave stood by him in his protest, and one or two of the most feeble passengers, who
rather consoled him for having to fight than increased his strength. For my part I
shirked nothing. I shook my fist in Tryphaena's face, and declared in a loud open
voice that I would use violence to her if she did not leave off hurting Giton, for
she was a wicked woman and the only person on the ship who deserved flogging.
Lichas's wrath blazed hotter at my daring, and he taunted me with throwing up my own
case and only shouting for somebody else. Tryphaena was equally hot and angry and
abusive, and divided the whole ship's company into factions. On our side, the slave
barber handed out his blades to us, and kept one for himself, on the other side
Tryphaena's slaves were ready with bare[p. 223] fists, and even the cries of
women were not unheard on the field. The helmsman alone swore that he would give up
minding the ship if this madness, which had been stirred up to suit a pack of
scoundrels, did not stop. None the less, the fury of the combatants persisted, the
enemy fighting for revenge and we for dear life. Many fell on both sides without
fatal results, still more got bloody wounds and retired in the style of a real
battle, and still we all raged implacably. Then the gallant Giton turned a razor on
himself and threatened to put an end to our troubles by self-mutilation, and
Tryphaena averted the horrible disaster by a fair promise of freedom. I lifted a
barber's knife to my throat several times, no more meaning to kill myself than Giton
meant to do what he threatened. Still he filled the tragic part more recklessly,
because he knew that he was holding the very razor with which he had already made a
cut on his throat. Both sides were drawn up in battle array, and it was plain that
the fight would be no ordinary affair, when the helmsman with difficulty induced
Tryphaena to conclude a treaty like a true diplomat. So the usual formal
undertakings were exchanged, and she waved an olivebranch which she took from the
ship's figure-head, and ventured to come up and talk to us: What madness," she
cried, “is turning peace into war? What have our hands done to deserve it? No
Trojan hero1 carries the bride of the cuckold son of Atreus in
this fleet, nor does frenzied Medea2 fight her foe by
slaying her brother. But love despised is powerful. Ah! who courts destruction
among these waves by drawing[p. 225] the sword? Who does not find a
single death enough? Do not strive to outdo the sea and heap fresh waves upon
its savage floods.”
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