The Tragedy of Grēgórios
The less-famous Greek tragedy by the illustrious Sopohclóse. Translated by C. M. Setledge
Grigor the barbarian, warrior of the forest people, knew the spear and the shield, knew the flaming balls of oil and the torched fields and the salted earth, but he had not known love. He was a man of one mistress, the mistress of the death-dance on the battlefield that guided his hand to impale a roman legionary, to decapitate the squire boy and make mush of his innards. But he knew not the tender love of an affectionate heartfelt female companion. His soul grew weary with each passing battle turning unknown women into widows several marathons away.
He took up writing poetry in the privacy of his tent to some unknown love. He spent his nights dreaming of lush bosoms and sultry candlelit late-night dinners, his soul soaring above the battlefield, his heart imbued with an imaginary romance. Another head plopped at his feet as a geyser of blood spewed from his most recently defeated foe. The spray of red-hot blood across his body only made him feel acutely aware of his devastating loneliness.
“Grigor!”
“Yes, Barbar Da Barbar?”
“I’ve noticed your sword hangs limply of late at your side, bar-har-har-bar-har-har!” Barbar da Bar bar-har-harred heartily in his usual barbarious hackle. “Has the wash of Roman blood left you wanting? When your fill of drink is here for the taking?”
Grigor, forming an injection of “Barbarbar” was interrupted.
“Oh no! No barbarbar. I have a new post for you!”
And just like that Grigor was sent as a reconnaissance spy into the heart of unconquered Rome with naught but a limp sword and poetry stuffed under his furs. These furs he exchanged for a toga in an attempt to blend in, which was immediately breached by his barbar-barbarious accent. In an ill-fated attempt to mask his accent he began adding an “-ius” to the end of his name. And though he already stuck out like a Pharisee inquiring of the Oracle at Delphi, to Grigor’s great misfortune, Grigor-ius sounds a lot like grēgórios, which in Greek means vigilant and watchful…
It happened thusly:
One fine morning in spring Grigor was pleasantly enjoying an abundance of sunshine that was altogether foreign to him. In naught but his toga, two sizes two small, he was airing most liberally his flesh. It could not be but helped that a masked painted-eyed woman of the locals noticed his rich endowments.
“You look foreign to these parts my lord,” she said while batting dark sultry eyes at Grigor.
He rose, placed his hand over his chest and stammering, his mouth flapping like a flag beaten by the wind, introduced himself. “My name is Grigorius.”
At the introduction of his name all she heard was “Bar-bar grēgórios.” The literal translation being akin to “Barbarian Spy.”
“Shh, shh your secret is safe with me.” She put her finger to his lips. That one soft finger smiting more mightily than any of his deathblows. In an instant, he was quelled. Grigor’s mind, body and soul soared. His heart gushed as all his dreams for love came to a hard point. He then proceeded to kneel before her to pronounce his undying love in a torrent of unintelligible barbars.
He procured his poetry and read, but unfortunately she couldn’t understand his foreign language. But there is one language spoken by all tribes and nations and that is of love. Whether sincere or a cheap imitation she gave him hers under a tent for a handful of silver coins.
Leaving Grigor behind and gesturing for him to stay put while she fetched more wine, she promptly went to the authorities.
Once captured he was flogged for information, swiftly gutted and separated head from body in a tidy decapitation. They cast his body into the ilk-heap of degenerates of a mass unmarked grave.
Enjoying C. M. Setledge? Have another:
What an unfortunate first time for Grigor