The Spook Who Spoke Again: A Flavia Albia Short Story by Lindsey Davis Page A

sailing off to Sicily.
    ‘Why is he going there?’ I whispered to Chrysis.
    ‘Absolutely no bloody idea, pet.’
    ‘To get him out of the way so he can come back,’ explained Davos, as he came off stage – which was actually off track, of course, since we were at the Circus of Gaius and Nero, not at a proper theatre.
    Davos plumped himself down, holding a copy of the play, so he could wrote notes on it. He seemed to get bored with that quickly so he gave me the scroll to help me follow. It was not much help.
    The play continued like this:
Mother :
Stay with us, Moschion, my son. Do not go to Germania Libera!
Pause. Even longer pause
Davos:
rushes back on stage
Bloody hell, I’d already left for Sicily … No, wife, he shall go to Britain.
Mother:
Why, they are all mad in Britannia, and painted blue.
Father:
Then nobody will notice that Moschion is mad too. He shall be escorted by our loyal slaves, clever Congrio and wily Bucco.
Mother:
Then take good care of him for us, wily Congrio and clever Bucco.
    Moschion, Prince of Chersonesos Kimbrike, then did not go anywhere, though his father did. Perhaps Moschion had stayed at home because he was supposedly going away to be educated at a university, even though he was clearly too dim. Besides he was busy pursuing the Beautiful Virgin so he had no time for study. There are no universities in Germania Libera, it is all huge forest.
    Word then came that after two days at sea a warlike pirate sailed up and set upon Moschion’s father and killed him. I felt sad for Moschion.
    Congrio, the thin old clown, was to appear next and tell jokes to cheer us up. I had seen him already on the sidelines, huddled with someone wearing the ghost’s costume. The ghost seemed to be telling him a new joke, which they were busy writing down. Congrio was clutching a large scroll that Chrysis told me was his joke book. If anyone tried to borrow or steal it, Congrio would kick off in an apoplectic fury. Sometimes if they ever found it unattended people moved it for a game, though they never moved it very far, nor owned up who did it. That was very funny.
    Presumably because he had no time to learn the new joke, Congrio brought the scroll on stage with him and read it out. First he explained what had happened to the old man, Moschion’s father, who had ended up missing at sea. I said it to you in one sentence, but Congrio spouted on endlessly. If this was meant to be amusing, I failed to see why. Facts should be told in a plain way and get on with it. Then he did his joke.
Congrio:
Three intellectuals went into a bar.
Bucco:
aside
Jupiter, who writes this stuff? You just can’t get the poets nowadays.
Congrio:
When the waiter came to greet them with offers of refreshment, the Platonist decided that since the three parts of the soul are Wisdom, Courage and Temperance, he would wisely ask for bread to line his stomach, bravely try a high priced wine, but restrain himself to a half flagon.
    The Aristotelian disagreed. He thought the perfect form of the human soul is reason, separated from all connection with the body. So he would try to get extremely drunk on anything the waiter brought him, until his body had no idea where it was and his mind lost all capacity to reason.
    The Cynic claimed the highest good is to spurn every kind of enjoyment, so he would order the terrible housewine then not even drink it. The kindly waiter took pity on him, offering to supply the primal substance identified by Thales of Miletus – which is water.
Bucco:
This is tedious. Get on before we all pass out!
Congrio:
The waiter brought their order, then the three intellectuals spent a pleasant afternoon at the bar, engaged in discourse of the finest kind, each one drinking according to his personal philosophy. Eventually it was time to leave. The waiter had been keeping a careful eye on them, for he had met intellectuals before. He jumped in to present their bills, pointing out that in the spirit of Pythagorus, the world