There was a
certain king called Hkrikros, who had a fearful temper and no
immediate successor in his own family; his married sister,
however, had provided him with a large stock of nephews from which
to select his heir. And the most eligible and royally-approved of
all these nephews was the sixteen-year-old Vespaluus. He was the
best looking, and the best horseman and javelin-thrower, and had
that priceless princely gift of being able to walk past a
supplicant with an air of not having seen him, but would certainly
have given something if he had. My mother has that gift to a
certain extent; she can go smilingly and financially unscathed
through a charity bazaar, and meet the organizers next day with a
solicitous 'had I but known you were in need of funds' air that is
really rather a triumph in audacity. Now Hkrikros was a Pagan of
the first water, and kept the worship of the sacred serpents, who
lived in a hallowed grove on a hill near the royal palace, up to a
high pitch of enthusiasm. The common people were allowed to
please themselves, within certain discreet limits, in the matter
of private religion, but any official in the service of the Court
who went over to the new cult was looked down on, literally as
well as metaphorically, the looking down being done from the
gallery that ran round the royal bear-pit.
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