Satyricon Page #3

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(laughter)

(belches)

How's that sound, fortune teller?

The sound is limpid.

That presages developments.

Are you expecting a visitor?

Try again.

(belches)

That's nice. l am very happy for you.

Fanciful dear boy, regular to me.

Very rompish.

Come here. Sit on my knee.

Come and sit by your old uncle.

(Trimalcione recites rhyme)

(Vulgar Latin)

Leave me alone! We all know you were

born in the market. l transformed you...

Got any more to say?

Architect, take the statue

of this harpy off my monuments!

- Don't shout at me.

- You miserable old fungus!

So vicious, so brutish. Ugh!

Old and ugly, you are.

(laughter)

Fetched from a market

to a house fit for an empress.

Look at you! Gobbling like a turkey.

l'll make you suffer.

l'll make you eat your turds.

l love this ragamuffin because he's clever,

not because he's beautiful.

He can divide by ten, read a book,

and has bought a chair for himself.

What, still complaining, fatty?

Remember that this luxury

you enjoy is due to me.

l submitted to my master's pleasure.

For 1 4 years he used me for his passion.

Whatever l do, the master commands.

But l helped the mistress to joy also.

l became joint heir with the emperor

and built five ships,

loaded them with pigs, perfume and

slaves, and founded a fortune, didn't l?

All that l touched grew and grew.

Once l was a cockroach,

now l'm a king. Such is life.

You, steward, prepare for me

my panoply of death and unguent.

Put a sample of wine before me,

such as will be used to wash me bones.

Life passes like a shadow.

Sooner or later, death comes to us all.

Comes to me mind some poetry.

Hearken now.

''The company here represents a mime.

One actor plays a father, one actor

plays a son, a third plays rich old age.

But at the comedy's finish, consider

the false faces returning to reality.''

- How's that for poetry, eh, poet?

- So l am to tell the truth?

- Those verses you robbed from Lucrezio.

- What did you say, vagabond?

''Consider the false faces

returning to reality.''

That's Lucrezio! That's Lucrezio!

Bastard! How dare you

question my verses!

lt is l's the poet, not you!

- You don't scribble verses...

- Push him into the oven.

Question my talent? lnto the fire!

l fed you, nourished you in this house.

l'm the poet!

Bang him into the furnace. lngrate!

You dare...

Pass him off and spit him! Away with him.

A serpent at me breast.

Never see him again!

(Eumolpo) You can't treat

a philosopher so! l'm an artist!

l tell you, solely queens and emperors

have such a monument funereal as mine.

Abinna is making it a work of art.

Oh, what a tomb.

Covered in marble and gold.

On the front, over 1 20 foot high,

frescoes of the life of Trimalcione.

We see his ships in full sail,

plus the statue of his favourite dog.

And what about his epitaph?

''Here lies Gaius Pompeius Trimalcione.''

''Philanthropist, benefactor.

He was pious to a fault.''

''Very brave, self-made.''

''Left 30 million sesterces.''

''Never asked much of philosophy

and the same to you.''

Fate has it you are invited

to my beatific funeral,

and must eat, drink

and think nice things of me.

Chant some songs,

play beautiful music very soft.

(chanting)

Adieu, adieu. Fare you well.

Now mourn for me. l am dead.

Mourn for Gaius Pompeius Trimalcione.

Mourn for Trimalcione.

Trimalcione!

Trimalcione!

Oh, such a great man! (sobs)

Oh, a person much loved indeed.

Oh, why could l not die with him?

l want to give you a present.

Here, take this bracelet.

Solid gold. Here, take it.

And me, eh? Me? What about me?

What about your earrings?

Toss 'em out.

Toss 'em all out, the greedy swine.

And get my bracelet back from that black.

Not a soul may tell us, for none come

back ready to talk of the mortuary.

We will never know what is death.

We all know what is life, don't we, then?

The story of the Matron of Ephesus,

you all know.

lt starts ''There was this lovely

young widow, beautiful and virtuous.''

She'd just become a widow.

(keening)

You see her weeping, faithful to the end.

She will not leave the tomb.

What love she has, what grief.

She do/ Night and day she do/

Five days without

is a long time without within.

She is left, starving herself to death.

Outside, nearby, is this thief

hanging up, swinging.

The corpse must not be took off and

to see so is a beautiful young soldier.

(woman weeps)

See, you are starving to death.

How can you serve love by death?

You must drink something.

You must drink. Take it.

You deserve life.

God-given joys of life, as long as possible.

Put the question to the corpse here.

He does not need convincing.

Please drink a little.

The hanged man has been cut down!

While l was here in the tomb, the robbers'

parents must have carried his body away.

l shall certainly be punished

with death myself. A horrible death!

But why do l tarry?

l prefer death at my own hands.

No! No, my dear.

To lose two men in my life,

one after the other, would be too much.

Better to hang up a dead husband

than lose a living lover.

''Better to hang up a dead husband

than lose a living lover.''

(laughter)

Poets may die, Encolpio.

But what import if poetry remains?

Friend, my friend.

Companion of my dying moments.

You will say

''l cocked Eumolpo the poet.''

You will say ''Ah, yes...''

Yes, dear.

Should l have riches of Trimalcione,

l'd leave you a pond, a navy,

ships with sailor boys.

But all l can leave you

is what l have enjoyed myself, which is...

- Which is?

- Which is... l leave you poetry.

l leave the seasons, most bright-jewelled

spring and yellow summer.

l leave the wind in change,

the sun in bloom, the sea, kind sea-wash.

l leave the earth, kinder again.

The mountains,

their torrents of water, clear tears,

and the great shapely clouds

pass so solemn in the sky.

Light as puff.

See them, yours, dear, as remembrances

of our hands that touched our lips.

l leave you arbours of trees,

birds and animals.

Light love, sad love and the stars,

Encolpio, l leave you.

Noises, song, rumour.

The voices of man,

the pealing of musical bells,

l leave you.

Bittersweet. My eyes' drug.

Gitone, l love you still.

Speak to me, dream love.

You left me for another.

Do l deserve...

(grunting)

(impatient shouting)

Terror. We are fallen

into the hands of Lichas of Taranto,

a thrice-dotted villain who combs

the sea for precious objects, people.

People like us who are beautiful

and will give pleasure to Caesar.

Gitone is beautiful. My love is beautiful.

We are doomed to be the playthings of the

solitary, diseased Caesar on his island.

Wretched fate has me by the balls again,

swinging on them.

So near my love, and yet so far, my love.

Please to remove your tunic

so l try it on my shoulders.

- Give me!

- No!

Hey.

(chanting)

- Hail to Caesar!

- (all) Hail to Caesar!

(sings)

Ein gutes Fressen fr die Haie.

He's much too beautiful.

Don't bruise this one.

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