“My father ordered me to ask you the following riddle. Whoever solves it will become my minister.

Ataxeres told them the riddle. The wise men were five in number.

“But who will check our answers, Your Majesty?” one of the wise men asked the young king.

“No one will,” Ataxerxes answered. “I trust your word. If you assure me that you have solved the riddle, I will believe you without putting you to the test.”

The wise men sat around a table, and began trying to work out the riddle. That very day, toward evening, one of the wise men appeared before Ataxerxes and said: “I have solved the riddle.”

“Excellent. I herewith appoint you as my minister.”

The following day three more wise men solved the riddle. Only one wise man, Artazostra, remained seated at the table. He could not solve the riddle. A week passed, a month passed, and Artazostra still sat at the table struggling to solve the riddle. A year passed. Two years passed. Pale, thin, and haggard, he sat there filling hundreds of sheets of paper with scribbles, and yet he was nowhere near finding the solution.

“Put him to death, Your Majesty!” the other wise men who had solved the riddle said to the king. “He has tricked you by passing himself off as a wise man!”

Yet Ataxerxes did not put Artazostra to death, but waited patiently. Five years later, Artazostra appeared before the king, fell to his knees, and said: “Your Majesty! This riddle is unsolvable!”

The king helped the wise man to his feet, kissed him, and said: “You are right, wise man! This riddle is in fact unsolvable. With your words you have answered the one question that weighed heavily on my heart: You have proved to me that there are still honest men in the world. And as for you,” he said, turning to his four ministers, “you are nothing but swindlers!”

Perturbed, one of the four ministers asked: “I suppose you want us to leave?”

“No! Stay!” Ataxerxes said to them. “Swindlers though you are, I need you.”

And thank God, they did stay.

For Evil Too Let Us Be Thankful

“O almighty Zeus! Powerful hurler of thunderbolts!” a poet once prayed to Zeus. “Send me a muse to inspire me!”

Ancient history was not one of Zeus’s strong points. So it should come as no surprise that he made a mistake, and instead of sending Melpomene he sent Terpsichore to the poet. Terpsichore appeared before the poet, and the poet, instead of composing ditties that he could sell to magazines, went and enrolled in dance classes. He danced for a hundred days and a hundred nights, and then suddenly thought: “Zeus did not listen to me. He is making fun of me. I prayed for inspiration and he has taught me how to do a jig!”

And the poet impudently wrote a scathing ditty about Zeus. The Olympian god hurled down a thunderbolt at him. The poet died.

Conclusion

And so my dear children, do good and you shall triumph.

SOOTHSAYER AND SOOTHSAYERESS

Nanny is reading the old quartermaster’s fortune.

“I see a road.”

“Where to?

Nanny waves her hand northward.