Once upon a time, the indomitable muscleman Maciste was in the midst of fighting off a gang of bandits, when he was seized by a sudden, irresistible urge to put his hands on his hips and laugh. Unfortunately for him, at that very moment, one of the bandits was creeping up behind him and preparing to plunge a wicked-looking dagger into his back, and surely would have done so, had he not been forestalled by the timely arrival of the wandering philosopher/thief Antiseptus of Nurbia, who was occasionally troubled by apprehensions of his own nonexistence. Intoxicated fool that he usually was, Antiseptus immediately stepped into the fray and proceeded to engage the bandit in a philosophical discourse so convoluted and tedious that both of them quickly became too confused to continue. The bandit sat down on a rock and started to cry, and Antiseptus graciously permitted Maciste to finish him off.
“Who are you, friend?” Maciste inquired, once the bandits were dispatched and the dust began to settle. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before.”
“Well, I am only a transient ontological manifestation of an inconsequential archetype,” Antiseptus responded, “and I generally try to remain as inconspicuous as possible.”
“I didn’t understand the first part of that,” said Maciste, “and I didn’t much like the sound of it, either. Now I am grateful for your help, but I think you had better tell me plainly who you are, if you don’t want me to kick your ass.”
“I must beg your pardon, then,” said Antiseptus, as obsequiously as he could. “I certainly did not mean to offend you. Antiseptus is my name, and I am only a poor old man with an advanced degree in philosophy.”
“Well, that explains it, then,” said Maciste. “Nobody understands philosophers. All the same, that tongue of yours is a mighty weapon. This is the first time I’ve ever seen a ruffian like that reduced to tears by mere words. I am in your debt.”
“It was nothing,” said Antiseptus. “Perhaps you will do something analogous for me one day.”
Maciste was considering how to continue this conversation (or perhaps whether it was even worth continuing), when a singular-looking individual, clad in a coarse burlap tunic and topped with a rusty Hittite helmet, suddenly sprang out from behind a large boulder and rushed straight at Antiseptus, knife in hand, caterwauling fearfully.
“Hold!” shouted Maciste. “Put up your knife and behave yourself. This is…er…so-and-so…the philosopher. He is a friend.”
“Philosopher!” jeered the newcomer, stopping just short of his intended target. “What do we need him for? Philosophers are even more useless than politicians. Let me slit his throat. The crows are hungry this morning.”
“Hold, I say!” Maciste repeated. “He is a friend.”
“Bah!” grunted the newcomer disgustedly, sheathing his knife. Then he thrust his face uncomfortably close to Antiseptus’ and added: “Philosopher, eh? Useless parasite! Do you know who I am, philosopher?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Antiseptus, “but I am sure I would be marginally gratified to find out.”
“You think so, eh?” the newcomer retorted. “Well, I am Blivenessar the Assyrian, that’s who I am, and you’d better not mess with me.”
“Indeed,” said Antiseptus, tugging speculatively at his droopy white moustache. “I don’t think I’ve ever met an Assyrian before.”
“You don’t want to meet an Assyrian,” said the newcomer with a menacing scowl. “We’re a very nasty lot, you know. We hardly ever take any prisoners, and when we do, we let our women skin them alive with their fingernails.”
“Enough lies!” interjected Maciste forcefully. Then he turned to Antiseptus and said: “Allow me to introduce the latest in a series of dubious traveling companions. His real name is…er…well…something or other…and he is not an Assyrian. I do not associate with Assyrians. Assyrians are the scum and dregs of humanity. He is a Greek.”
“Oblivenes!” shouted the newcomer exasperatedly. “My name is Oblivenes! Why can’t you ever remember anyone’s name, you raging mass of steroids? Oblivenes of Sparta, I might add. My people are the greatest warriors in all Greece.”
“I found the great warrior drunk in a gutter in Laodicea,” added Maciste.
“Almost landed on top of me is more like it,” Oblivenes shot back.
“I don’t know why I put up with you,” grumbled Maciste, as he began gathering up his belongings and preparing to depart.
“Because I’m the only one that can find boys depraved enough or retarded enough to satisfy your kinky desires,” Oblivenes declared triumphantly. “Do you know what he likes to do? He likes to—”
“Silence!” thundered Maciste. “One more word on that subject, and I swear by all the gods that I will let this philosopher explain his philosophy to you. We have no time for any more of this nonsense. The sun is already high and we must be on our way.”
As Maciste continued with his preparations, Antiseptus politely inquired where he might be going.
“To the great city of Pthythia,” Maciste replied. “The young prince has come of age, and his coronation will take place in a fortnight. I promised the king his father that I would be there. You are welcome to travel with us if you have no other plans.”
“I never have any plans,” said Antiseptus. “I go wherever I am impelled by the intricate and inscrutable web of parameters that define my existence. Is it a prosperous kingdom you travel to?”
“Well, adequate,” said Maciste. “The food is edible, and I can promise you a dry bed.”
“And possibly a wet dream,” Oblivenes snidely concluded.
“In that case, I shall be pleased to travel with you,” said Antiseptus.
“Then let us go at once,” said Maciste. “Come along…er…whatever your name is.”
To be continued...
