by Peter Singer
So when we approached Corinth, partly by land and partly by sea, great throngs of citizens poured out, not just eager to honor Thiasus, apparently, but also wanting to get a glimpse of me. I had become so famous even that far away that I was a not inconsiderable source of income for my keeper. When he saw how many people were incredibly eager to watch my tricks, he locked the door and admitted them one by one. That way, he took in admission fees and got used to raking in a good bit of change every day.
Well, in this assembly was a certain lady of rank, rich and powerful, who, like the others, paid to see me and was delighted by my tricks. Little by little, her constant amazement devolved into an amazing desire. Finding no relief for her mad lust, she became like that bull-loving mother of the Minotaur, Pasiphae, but an ass-version, and burned for my embraces. She offered a large sum of money to my keeper to cohabit with me for one night and he agreed, focusing only on his own gain and not caring whether things would go pleasurably for her with me.
We had already finished supper and left my master’s dining room when we came upon the lady waiting impatiently in my bedroom. Great gods! What copious and magnificent trappings! Four eunuchs quickly constructed a bed for us on the ground, first laying down innumerable little cushions, swelling airily with delicate down. Next they spread coverlets elaborately embroidered with gold and Tyrian purple, and strewed yet more cushions on top of that—cushions of moderate size, in abundance, the sort that refined women use to support their faces and necks. Then they locked the doors of the bedroom and left, not wanting to delay their mistress’s pleasures by long lingering. Inside, wax candles lit up the night shadows, as they flickered with radiant light.
Then, when she had totally stripped herself of her clothes, including the band that had bound her comely breasts, she stood near the light and slathered herself all over with large amounts of balsam oil from a container made of precious tin. Then she rubbed me down generously with the same oil, and even more lavishly bedaubed my nostrils with frankincense. Then she kissed me closely but gently—not the kind of kisses they toss about in brothels, the I-want-your-money kisses of prostitutes, or the don’t-steal-my-money kisses of their customers, but pure and from the heart. And she added the most seductive declarations like “I love you,” and “I want you,” and “I love only you,” and “I can’t live without you,” and all the rest of those phrases women use to encourage men and swear to their own affection.
Then she took me by the halter and made me recline in the way I had learned; it was easy, of course, since it didn’t seem to me that I’d be doing anything new or difficult, particularly when I was about to enjoy the ardent embraces of such a beautiful woman after such a long time without. Anyway, I had soused myself with a large quantity of wine and my desire for sex was also aroused by the fragrant perfumes she had rubbed on me.
But yes, I was anxious as I pondered with considerable fear how I could mount such a petite lady with so many and such big legs, or how I might embrace such soft limbs made of milk and honey with such hard hooves, and kiss her little lips rosy-glowing with ambrosia and morning dew with my large mouth, so misshapen with teeth like boulders. And finally, how on earth could a woman, even one wholly excited to the very tips of her fingernails, take inside her such an immense organ? Pity me, if I split apart a noblewoman and they throw me to the beasts as entertainment at my master’s spectacle! Meanwhile, she kept up soft whispers and sweet purrings, while gazing at me with devouring eyes. Finally she said, “I’m holding you, holding you, my little dove, my sparrow,” and with that she demonstrated that my speculations had been pointless, my fears unfounded; she clenched me tightly and let all of me, every last inch of me, enter. In fact, whenever I pulled back my haunches to spare her, she came back all the way and leaned in ravenously, grabbing my spine and clinging with an even tighter conjoining. By Hercules, I thought I was even a bit inadequate for satisfying her desire, and that the Minotaur’s mother did not dally with her mooing lover in vain. So after a hardworking and sleepless night, the woman left, avoiding the exposure of daylight, and contracted for another such night at the same price.
My keeper was happy to grant these pleasures according to the lady’s taste, partly because he received quite ample compensation and partly because now he was readying a new spectacle for our master. In short, he unhesitatingly lifted back the curtain on all our libidinous acts. The master paid his freedman handsomely and earmarked me for a public spectacle. And since that incomparable wife of mine could not participate on account of her rank, nor could any other woman be found even for a large sum, some worthless woman was located whom the governor had sentenced to be thrown to the beasts. She, along with me, was to fill the arena with spectators, as she publicly exhibited her immodesty.
I was awaiting the day of the spectacle completely suspended in a state of extreme anxiety. Quite often I was inclined to commit suicide rather than stain myself with the infamy of this public spectacle. But deprived of a human hand, deprived of fingers, there was no way I could draw a sword with my round, stubby hoof. I kept consoling myself with one meager hope in this state of ultimate catastrophe: Spring, as she arose again, was already painting the landscape with gem-like flowers and dressing the meadows in splendid brightness, and just beginning to sprout from their prickly stems, bursting forth breathing the fragrance of cinnamon, were roses, which could transform me back into the Lucius I used to be.
And now the day set for the spectacle was upon us. I was led to an enclosure in the theater, as the crowd followed with pageantry and cheers. During the prelude to the spectacle, dedicated to dancing on the stage, I was stationed in front of the gate, where I happily munched on a meal of luscious grass growing at the entrance. From time to time, I delighted my curious eyes with a most entertaining view of the spectacle, since the door was open. Boys and girls, blooming with the freshness of youth, of striking beauty, elegantly dressed, expressive in their movements, were about to perform the Greek pyrrhic dance. After falling into position, they formed an arc in lovely meanders, now bending into a running circle, now joined together in a diagonal, then through a wedge shape into a hollow square, and finally they separated into their different squads. But when the trumpet sounded an end to the many complex formations of their reciprocal choreography, the curtain was raised, the inner screens folded up, and the stage set was revealed:
There was a mountain constructed of wood to look like that famous Mount Ida that Homer sang about, built with superb craftsmanship, planted densely with thickets and live trees. From the very top of its summit, from a fountain fabricated by the craftsman’s hands, flowed a stream of water. A few she-goats were grazing on the grasses, and a young man beautifully clothed in an Asian cloak flowing down from his shoulders like Paris the Phrygian shepherd, a golden tiara covering his head, was playing the master of the herd. Then there was a radiant boy in his teens, nude except for a cloak covering his left shoulder, with striking blond hair flowing in all directions, and in among his locks, his gold wings projected out, glued on symmetrically; his herald’s staff identified him as Mercury. He pranced forward dancingly, bearing in his right hand an apple coated with gold leaf, and offered it to the one playing Paris, while signaling with a nod what Jupiter demanded. Then, gracefully retracing his steps, he disappeared from view.
Then entered a girl with a dignified appearance, made to look like the goddess Juno, for a bright diadem was tight around her head and she held a scepter. Another burst in who you would deduce was Minerva, her head covered in a shining helmet, and the helmet itself covered in an olive wreath. She was holding a shield and brandishing a spear—like Minerva at war.
After them, another girl entered, powerful in her astounding beauty, the grace of her ambrosial complexion marking her as Venus, Venus when she was a young girl, showing openly her perfect beauty, her body nude and unconcealed, except for a thin silken robe casting a faint shadow on her gaze-worthy privates. A curious little breeze was playing lovingly with this raimen
t, now blowing it back so it parted and exposed her blooming youthfulness, now swelling friskily, so it blew against her and the robe clung tightly, and vividly traced her body’s sensuous silhouette.
First Juno came forward to the sound of a flute and promised that if Paris awarded her the prize of beauty, she would grant him the rule over all of Asia.
Next came the girl made into Minerva. She conveyed briskly that if Paris handed her victory in the beauty contest, she would make him valiant and renowned for his trophies in war.
Then Venus came forward to resounding applause. Flutes sweetly harmonized songs in the Lydian mode, but Venus, even more pleasingly, moved serenely and gently with a lingering step, while languidly shimmying her lovely spine. As soon as she came into the judge’s sight, she seemed to promise with a bending of her arms that if she were to be preferred to the other goddesses, she would give Paris a wife of exceptional beauty much like herself. Then the Phrygian youth eagerly handed the girl the golden apple he was holding, as if it were his ballot deciding her victory.
Why are you surprised, you deplorable folks, or should I say you cattle of the marketplace—no, vultures in togas!—if all the judges these days sell their verdicts at a price, when at the very beginning of time, bribery corrupted a case involving both gods and men? And when that judge Paris, a rustic shepherd chosen on the recommendation of great Jove, sold the primeval verdict for libidinous gain, at the cost of the extirpation of his entire race?* And what sort of judgment was that among the clever Athenians who brought us law and were our teachers in every branch of knowledge? That divinely wise old man Socrates, whom the Delphic oracle declared the wisest of all men, they unjustly convicted through fraud and invidiousness for allegedly corrupting the youth, when he was actually restraining them. Executed with the noxious juice of poisonous hemlock! A stain of eternal disgrace on their citizens! Now the most distinguished philosophers prefer his holy principles to all others, and in their highest endeavors to attain a state of happiness, they swear in his name!
But in case someone should object to my outburst of righteous indignation, thinking to themselves, “So now we have to put up with a philosophizing ass?!” I will go back and return to the story where I left off.
After the Judgment of Paris was concluded, Juno, along with Minerva, left the stage, putting on sad and angry faces, expressing their indignation at their rejection. But Venus, celebratory and buoyant, demonstrated her happiness by dancing with her whole chorus. Then, from the highest peak of the mountain, saffron mixed with wine burst forth high into the air from a hidden pipe, and as it fell here and there, it rained down a fragrant shower on the goats grazing about, until they were stained to a better look, exchanging their natural whiteness for a yellow brightness. Finally, when the whole theater was smelling sweet, the wooden mountain entered a voracious hole in the earth.
And now here was a soldier making his way down the middle of the street to fetch from the public prison—at the crowd’s insistent demand—that woman I mentioned before, condemned to the beasts for her polymorphous crimes, and destined for a brilliant wedding with me. Already what was evidently to be our wedding couch was being carefully made up: a bed shimmering with Indian tortoiseshell, fluffy with a mass of down, and brightly colored with a cloth of Chinese silk. But I was beginning to feel great anxiety; beyond the shame of engaging in intercourse in public, beyond the contamination of contact with this evil and polluted woman, was the fear of death. I was reflecting to myself that since we would obviously be stuck together in a sexual embrace, it could turn out that whatever beast was released to destroy the woman would not be so cleverly wise, so skilled in its trade, or so dutiful and restrained that it would tear apart the woman lying at my side, but would spare me as innocent and not guilty in a court of law.
Therefore, no longer concerned about my shame, but about my very safety, while my keeper devoted all his attention to preparing the bed just right, and all the slaves were occupied either in readying the animal hunt or rapt with excitement over the erotic spectacle ahead, I was given freedom for my own decisions and reflections. Anyway, no one really thought such a tame ass needed guarding, so, little by little, I took stealthy steps forward until I reached the door that was nearby, then tore off at the quickest pace I could. I rapidly covered a whole six miles and arrived at Cenchreae, which is famous as part of the whole noble colony of the Corinthians, and is washed by the waters of the Aegean Sea and the Saronic Gulf. The port there offers a safe refuge for ships and is thronged with people, so I avoided the crowds, selected a secret spot on the shore right near the frothing waves, and stretched out my tired body in the soft lap of the sand to rest. For the sun’s chariot had passed the last turning post of the day, and as I surrendered myself to the evening’s quiet, a sweet sleep overcame me.
* In mythology, Paris’s reward for judging Venus the most beautiful of the three goddesses was Helen, wife of Menelaus, the Greek king. The Trojan War was launched by the Greek expedition to take Helen back from Paris.
A ROUND THE FIRST WATCH OF THE NIGHT, awakened by a sudden fear, I see the full orb of the moon gleaming brightly with a splendid paleness, just rising out of the waves of the sea. As I came face-to-face with the quiet secrets of the dark night, I was certain that the supreme goddess reigns with surpassing power and majesty, that the totality of human affairs is ruled by her providence, and that not only tame and wild animals but even inanimate objects flourish by the power of her light and her might. All bodies on the land, in the sea, and the sky now increase along with her waxing and then decrease in compliance with her waning. Now that Fate was evidently satisfied with my terrible sufferings and finally furnished me hope of salvation, I decided to pray to the magnificent manifestation of the goddess before me. So I quickly shook off my sleepy lethargy and rose up happy and alert. Eager for purification, I gave myself straightaway to a sea bathing and submerged my head in the waves seven times, since divine Pythagoras established that number as most fitting for religious rituals. With a tear-stained face, I prayed to that most powerful goddess in these words:
“Queen of Heaven, whether you are nurturing Ceres, primordial mother of agriculture who, joyous at the recovery of your daughter from the underworld, showed us cultivated food and removed that animal food, the ancient acorn, from our tables, and now make fertile the Eleusinian fields. Or whether you are heavenly Venus, you who, at the beginning of time, created Love and joined together the different sexes, propagating the human race with a perpetual progeny, and now are worshipped in your sea-girt sanctuary at Paphos. Or whether you are Apollo’s sister, Diana, who relieves the birth pangs of the female with soothing remedies, have reared so many tribes of people, and are now worshipped in the famous sanctuary at Ephesus. Or whether you are Proserpina, fearsome, howling in the night, crushing attacks by the ghostly dead with your triple form and guarding the gates of the underworld—you who wander in disparate groves, worshipped in diverse rites. By whatever name, by whatever rites, in whatever form it is right to worship you:
Lift me up; I have suffered much,
Restore my good fortune, now fallen,
Grant me respite and rest,
I have endured cruel adversity;
May my struggles be over,
May my dangers be done.
Deliver me from this dread guise of a quadruped,
Return me to the sight of my own people,
Return me to the Lucius I was.
And if some offended deity is pursuing me with unappeasable wrath,
At least let me die if I am not allowed to live.”
As I poured out prayers like these along with wretched laments, sleep once again overcame me in my exhaustion, lying in that same sandy bed. I had scarcely closed my eyes when there emerged before me from the deep sea a divine apparition, raising aloft a face venerable even to the gods. And then, little by little, the whole body of this brilliant manifestation seemed to stand before me, shaking off the seawater. I will try to describe t
o you her wondrous appearance, if only the poverty of human speech allows me skillful expression, or the goddess herself furnishes a plentiful abundance of articulate eloquence.
First of all, her hair, long and luxuriant, somewhat curled, flowed softly down and spread freely on her divine neck. A complicated crown adorned with varieties of flowers was twisted around the top of her head, and in the middle, above her forehead, a flat, round disk like a mirror, or rather a symbol of the moon, flashed with a radiant light. On the left and right sides, the crown was held together by the coils of rearing serpents, and all along the top it was adorned with sheaves of wheat. She wore a dress of many colors, woven of fine linen, here pellucid with a white radiance, there yellow with florid saffron, and over there, fiery with rosy redness. But what most of all confounded my gaze was her black cloak shimmering with a dark brilliance, circling round about her and coming back up at her right side to a knot at her left shoulder. While part of the garment hung loose, it was supported by rows of pleats and flowed down to the lower edges, which were adorned with knotted tassels.
All along the woven border and in the main body of the fabric were scattered glittering stars, and in their midst was a half-moon breathing forth flames of fire. And where the hem of that cosmic cloak flowed along the ground, a continuous garland of every flower and fruit was attached. Her accoutrements were diverse. In her right hand, she held a bronze rattle that looked like this: through a narrow strip of metal curved like a belt, a few rods ran crossways; as she shook it with triple-beat jerks of the wrist, the rods emitted a sharp sound. A gold cup was hanging from her left hand; on its handle, where it was clearly visible, an asp was raising its head high, swelling out its neck. Sandals interwoven with palm, symbol of victory, covered her ambrosial feet. She deigned to address me with her divine voice as she breathed forth the rich spices of Arabia:
