And you’d check to see if his scales were working properly.”

“You don’t need to tell me that either, Eupator.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And if the weights and scales were in good working order, you’d check to see how much that piece of meat weighed, and you’d know at once who was right, the butcher or your wife. It’s odd, Philagoros, how people are smarter when it come to their cuts of meat than when it comes to public affairs. Is Nikomachos guilty or innocent? The scales will tell us, if they’re in good working order. But if they’re to weigh accurately, you mustn’t blow on the pans to make them tilt to one side or the other. Why do you claim that the authorities investigating this Nikomachos affair are scoundrels or the like?”

“No one said that, Eupator.”

“I thought you didn’t trust them. But if you have no reason to distrust them, then why on earth are you and your crowd blowing on their pans? Either it’s because you don’t care whether the truth comes out, or because you only want to split up into two parties and quarrel. May the gods damn all of you, Philagoros. I don’t know if Nikomachos is guilty, but you’re all damned guilty of trying to interfere with the course of justice. It’s odd how inferior the willow twigs are this year; they bend like string, but they’ve got no firmness, no substance. We need warmer weather, Philagoros, but that’s in the hands of the gods, not in ours.”

August 3, 1926

Thersites

It was night, and the men of Achaea sat huddled close to their campfires.

“As usual, the mutton wasn’t fit to eat,” said Thersites, picking his teeth. “I’m surprised you take it lying down, Achaeans. I bet they had spring lamb for dinner, at the very least; but of course stinking goat is good enough for us old soldiers. Boys, when I remember that roast mutton of ours back home in Greece — ”

“Knock it off, Thersites,” grunted the old veteran Eupator. “War’s war.”

“War,” sniffed Thersites. “Please! You call this war? Hanging around here ten years now, all for nothing? I’ll tell you what it is, boys: this is no war, it’s nothing but fancy generals and bigshots taking an overseas outing at government expense. And us old soldiers, we’re supposed to gape in wonder at the way some sniveling young pup, some mama’s little darling, runs around the camp swaggering with his shield. That’s what it is, boys.”

“You mean Achilles, son of Peleus,” said young Laomedon.

“Him or another,” declared Thersites. “Anyone with eyes in his head knows who I mean. Nobody can pull a fast one on us, boys: if it really was a question of conquering that stupid Troy, we’d have taken it long ago. One good sneeze and it would’ve been a pile of ruins. Why don’t they just launch an assault on the main gate? You know, a really solid, impressive storming with shouts, threats, and belting out songs of war — and our tour of duty would be over in no time.”

“Hm,” muttered the level-headed Eupator, “Troy won’t fall by shouting.”

“You’re really wrong there,” hooted Thersites. “Even a child knows the Trojans are cowards, sissies, and gutless riffraff. We ought to let them know once and for all, at the top of our lungs, just who we are: Greeks! You’d see how they’d come crawling and begging for mercy! All we’d have to do is attack the Trojan women a few times when they went out to fetch water in the evening — ”

“Attacking women,” said Hippodamos of Megara, shrugging his shoulders, “that just isn’t done, Thersites.”

“War’s war,” Thersites proclaimed bravely. “A fine patriot you are, Hippodamos! You think we’ll win the war because every three months his Lordship Achilles stages a public scuffle with that clumsy fool Hector? Why, those two are in cahoots and collusion just for the fun of it; those duels of theirs are nothing but a big act so us yokels will think the two of them are battling it out for our sake! Hey, Troy, hey, Greece, come gawk at the mighty heroes! And the rest of us, we’re nothing; our suffering’s not worth a cat’s whisker; not even a dog barks when we go by. I’ll tell you something, Achaeans: Achilles plays the hero only so he can skim off all the cream for himself and squeeze us out of any credit for the war. He only wants himself talked about, as if he was the be-all and end-all — and those others aren’t any better. That’s how it is, boys. And the war drags on like this only so Mr. Achilles can puff himself up like god-knows-what kind of glorified warrior.