“What induced you to send that first message to Heliodorus’ daughter? Who bought you?”
“Bought?” repeated the Oriental. “That sounds so unpleasant, Caius Bononius. Prophesying was my ordinary business. Like every one else who practises a profession, I was at the disposal of any one who paid for my art.”
“Then, who paid you?”
“Agathon, Philemon’s son.”
“But you have no scruples about ruthlessly destroying the happiness of two human beings for glittering gold?”
Olbasanus shrugged his shoulders.
“If Hero believed it was thus appointed by fate, the fact was a potent consolation for all the grief of renunciation. Besides—do you know whether this union was for their happiness? My oracle interposed, separated two persons who wished to be united: well, this was really the will of fate; for everything that happens is absolutely necessary, and events are strung on the infrangible threads of chance. If you tell me that my prophecy would have destroyed their happiness, I shall answer with equal confidence: it would have saved them from misery.”
“Admirable logic, by Hercules!” replied Bononius. “But we won’t argue about the matter! So Agathon bought—or paid you. Did he tell you his reasons?”
“I did not ask him; but as I knew the man, I guessed them. I knew that Agathon had been on the verge of ruin for several months, and having learned that Hero is one of the richest heiresses in the seven-hilled city....”
“How did you learn that?”