The Mask of Apollo: A Novel

15

IN EARLY SUMMER, THETTALOS GOT BACK FROM his tour. I had awaited this with more pain than hope. Days are long for the young; the past is soon crowded out. But like a homing kingfisher, he came flashing straight back to his bough beside the stream.

All the spoils of his voyage, the theaters, cities, triumphs and troubles, his many scrapes (he was more adventurous than wild) he flung before me. He talked half the night—about the plays they had done, how Miron had directed them, and how he could have done it better. He was just at the age when one must let out one’s new thoughts or burst. Now he was free to tell them all. When he jumped out of bed at midnight to show me how he would have done an upstage entrance if Miron had let him, I saw beyond the open door the mask smiling down on us, amused and kind.

We went everywhere together, a joy to those who wished us well, a grief to the backbiters whose meat is broken friendship, and who had been busy when he left.

One day, when we were sitting with friends in the scentshop, I slipped away to Sisyphos the goldsmith’s to order a ring for him as an anniversary gift—a sardonyx, carved with Eros on a dolphin. While Sisyphos did his sketches, I idled round the shop, and heard some merchant ask if it was true a ship was in from Syracuse. Someone said yes, but not a trader. This was a state trireme, sent by the Archon to fetch Plato the philosopher.

I had been taken up with my own happiness. This news so shook me that I dropped all my morning business, fetched Thettalos from the scentshop, and told him I must go out to the Academy. Though he knew nothing of Plato but what I had told him, he was quite concerned.

“Yes, do go,” he said. “I’ll walk with you. It is wicked to treat the poor old man like this. I suppose he’ll listen to no one but Dion (whom you know I never took to) and his philosophic friends. But one should at least take notice. We owe him a happy evening.” He was remembering a supper for two at home, when we had read The Symposion together. I said that Plato would have enough to do without my troubling him, and I would just ask for news.

“I would like some day, Niko, to talk theater with that man. I doubt all his notions are as silly as you think. It’s time they stopped turning every play on the gods. Half the modern writers don’t believe in them; the rest think like you and me, that they are somewhere or everywhere, but in any case not sitting in gold chairs on Mount Olympos, feuding and meddling like a brood of Macedonian royalty, ready to chop down any virtuous man who forgets to flatter or bribe them.”

Though myself not much above thirty, I often found the talk of the new generation standing my hair on end. At his age we whispered such thoughts; in my father’s day they were a hemlock matter. Yet Plato had said something not unlike it, and he was seventy.

Among the olives of the Academy we greeted Axiothea, but did not linger, since she was not alone. She seldom was, now that Plato had accepted another girl. Lasthenia of Mantinea wore women’s dress, feeling, I suppose, that this suited her soul; she was small and slim, with a kind of serious liveliness. They walked with their heads together, their hands sketching the argument to and fro. It had been a good day for Axiothea that brought her here. For the woman whose mind and body both need men, there is the life of the hetaira; it was not for her. She would have starved and turned sour if Plato had not been above convention. I was glad for her, and wished her joy.

When we reached our destination, Thettalos, who had much delicacy about serious things, said he did not know Speusippos well enough to intrude on him just now, and went to stroll in the gardens.

At Speusippos’ door, I could hear a girl inside crying and pummeling her breast, and wailing, for the hundredth time by the sound of it, “I may never see you again!” Not having the face to knock during this scene, I walked off into the grove. I had heard what I came to know, but, longing to know more, persuaded myself I might be of help if I came back later.

Presently I was aware of two men ahead of me on the path between the trees. It was Plato, with Dion. I stopped, meaning to turn back; but just then Plato caught sight of someone beyond (no doubt he was full of business) and went over there, leaving Dion to wait.

He sat down on a shady bench. I could easily have slipped off unseen. But without pausing even to wonder at myself, I walked straight up to him.

It was impossible I could be welcome, and indeed he returned my greeting less coldly than I expected; perhaps I seemed a good omen, a harbinger of Sicily. At any time up till now, I would have walked on without presuming further. But I sat down beside him.

I conversed, I forget of what—of course, nothing to the purpose. I could see Plato deep in talk; he would be some time yet. Dion was quite civil. I could feel him thinking that when Plato came back, I had manners enough to go; meantime, what with one thing and another, it was his duty to put up with me. My awe, I suppose, had first begun to spill away in Syracuse, with the wine from his broken cup. Since then, too, I had advanced in my calling; and, which perhaps made the more difference, also in love.

Awe was gone; yet I had come to recover something. The noble beauty of this face was like a splendid mask I had long been used to live with. I studied it now again. So many men of his age (he must now be rising fifty) have faces getting fat, or loose, or drawn with petty cares, or bitter. But his outlines had kept their shape; if his skin had aged, it was a healthy weathering. A royal face—one of those classic masks made of good hardwood that carves like stone.

I forget how we came to talk of Delphi; but I recalled The Myrmidons, and how seldom it was done in Athens. Whichever of us it was who referred to Homer, it was I—as I am not likely to forget—who said, “Aischylos has departed from him here and there. Take Patroklos, for instance. In the Iliad, his father reminds him he is the elder of the friends, while Aischylos makes him the youth beloved. But in any case,” I went on, following my thought, if you can call it that, “I suppose he would still be a man in the flower of his strength, when Achilles sent him into battle.”

It was not till these words were out of my mouth that I perceived what I had been saying. If you ask how such stupidity is possible in a man able to get about and earn his bread, I can only suppose that my soul borrowed my tongue before I knew it. Had it been my own reflection, it was bad enough. But an actor’s memory is like a jackdaw’s nest; it came from Plato’s Symposion.

Even before Dion’s face went dark and cold as a winter mountain, I knew what I’d done, and had lost the look of innocence. To have begged his pardon would have made it ten times worse; nor indeed did I feel the wish. I can’t remember with what form of words he let me know he was not at leisure. He could not have wished me gone more heartily than I did.

One must be prepared sometimes to make an exit when one is upset. Thinking only of what was at my back, I started at running into Thettalos, who made me sit down and tell him what was the matter. At the end he said, “Nonsense. You could have said much more than that. Only wait till you are seventy, and see if I treat you as he does Plato.”

Laughing did me good, but it was not till next day that I felt fit to call on Speusippos.

I found him in his garden, talking with the old Persian slave who tended it, and with the young man Aristoteles to whom he had consigned his specimens before. The place was full of small shelters for delicate plants, rock terraces, wind screens and potting sheds. Seeing him busy, I would have withdrawn, but he said he would be glad of a break, and was only fidgeting there from restlessness. “I must remember,” he said, “to enfranchise old Oitanes in my will, in case I don’t come home. It would break his heart to lose the garden; it would be too much to be sold himself as well.”

He called for cooled wine, and conferred a moment with the young Aristoteles, a dapper youth with thin legs and small, keen eyes. Presently he came back to sit with me against the shady wall of the house, under the vine trellis. Sweet herbs stood in pots around. “I can leave it all to him,” he said. “He never forgets anything. One of our most gifted men, but not at home with first principles. How, how, how—he will probe into that forever; he can’t see that for Plato the use of how is to find the why. Why, Niko, is man? And why does man ask why? When we know that, we have all truth in our fingers. Without, a lifetime of how leads where? Maybe to designing a catapult like old Dionysios’, which can lob a stone two stades from the walls, and kill a man—a mystery of God which we can bring ourselves to destroy because we have never defined it … But why run on? What can I do for you, Niko?”

I told him I had heard he was sailing with Plato, and had just come to say goodbye. “You have no notion,” he said, tilting his head back against the wall with a sigh, “what has gone on since last we talked—and before that, for I kept things back; you were defining my own thoughts to me faster than I could bear … Oh, yes, of course you’re wondering how Plato was induced to go. The only wonder is that he held out so long. He’s had barely a day of peace—do you know, Dionysios has written, over the last few months, to every friend of consequence he has in Athens, urging them to push him on, saying, as a rule, that when in Syracuse he proposed reforms which can only be carried out under his direction. He should know what that’s worth; but you can suppose how he’s felt, with half Athens saying he has power to reform the tyranny, but prefers his ease at home, or is afraid to test his theories. Besides all that, Dionysios has been pressing the Tarentines, and has written to Archytas hinting that the treaty may be denounced if he doesn’t get Plato there. Archytas is trusted like the father of the city; how can he risk the people’s safety for one friend’s, when it must seem to him the friend might even do good by going? Of course the Archon’s Kyrenian guests have written too, praising their host’s progress in philosophy, and his devotion to Plato’s doctrines—which means without doubt that he’s been expounding half-baked versions which Plato would die to hear.” He paused for breath, while his servant set up the wine table.

“Poor Plato,” I said. “Like a poet when some barnstormer butchers his best lines.”

When the man had gone, he said, “All Dion’s friends have written, too. And there are more of them than all the rest put together.”

I said nothing. He broke off a sprig of basil, and turned it in his hand, peering into the little flowers.

“Dion is my guest-friend of long standing. In any case one owes him justice. He has a son growing up in the Archon’s house. There is his wife …” He was some time silent before saying, “There is another threat Dion does not know of. Plato promised not to tell; those were the only terms on which he could hope to avert it.” Next moment he was distressed at having said even so much, and made me promise to be secret.

I asked when they were sailing. With good weather, he said, in two days’ time. “God knows, Niko, when we shall get home, if ever. Before my wife I laugh at it; poor girl, she’s pregnant, and hardly more than a child herself. I feel cruel to go, but it would be worse forsaking Plato. I wonder how long before you and I sit here again.” He looked round the garden, his eye dwelling here and there. “Will you be playing in Syracuse? It would be good to see you.”

When the ship sailed, I went to see it off, since half Athens was doing the same. It was like a scene in the theater.

Plato and Dion behaved perfectly; no doubt their goodbyes were already said. They exchanged a ceremonial kiss, like two kings in tragedy. I saw Axiothea and her friend shedding open tears, and the eyes of the Academy men were not much drier. They might have been watching Sokrates drink the hemlock. But Dion kept his countenance. His noble bearing so much impressed the audience, I kept expecting applause.

Months passed. It drew near autumn, and no news of Plato’s return. I saw Axiothea seldom, both of us having a good deal to fill our time. Thettalos had been doing short tours, coming home between, and it was natural when I had the right offers for me to do the same. These were brief, happy fasts, on which I worked well.

When sailing weather was clearly ending, I went out of my way to ask Axiothea where Plato was. In Syracuse, she said; Dionysios had persuaded him to winter there, and complete the settlement of Dion’s property.

“Again?” I said. “No, that’s too much!” Little Lasthenia, sharp as a brown bird, added, “I hope he’ll get proper thanks for it.”

Axiothea looked at us sadly. She had always worshipped Dion; but if she felt a loss, she still had the Cause. It looked simpler to her than to me; she had never been in Sicily.

Winter passed; spring came. At the Dionysia, Philemon, a most distinguished artist, bargained with Miron to release Thettalos for the contest. Their play was Herakles in Lydia; Thettalos did Omphale and Iolaos, changing masks with great virtuosity, and most striking in the former role. I could see the pleasure he got from working under an up-to-date protagonist, though old Miron’s discipline had done him good. I myself was doing Theseus in the Underworld, and would gladly have had him for Pirithoos and Persephone; but one can’t have a bird without a broken eggshell. It was one of Theodoros’ prize years; we came back from his party tired and happy, not reminding ourselves that roads and seas were opening, and we would soon be parting again.

Presently, after our seeing a good deal of each other in early summer, Miron got an offer to go to Macedon, and then on north to Byzantion. Knowing from the past that I should find it harder when alone to make any plans, I shook myself like a dog and began to stir about.

Only four days later, when they had barely begun rehearsing, Thettalos came home at noon. He had resigned from Miron’s company.

“Not another day. I knew I couldn’t last out rehearsals, so I played fair by the old monster and gave him time to replace me. Oh, no, Niko, I have to come up for air. O Agamemnon lord of men, boom, boom, ototoi, ototoi, right hand up, left hand out. I feel like some image shut up in a temple strongroom, with the dust settling thicker every day.”

“By the dog!” I cried. “I could clip you over the head. You stupid boy, why didn’t you tell me you didn’t mean to go north? Now I have signed up to go to Sicily.”

“Sicily?” He looked up with his mouth full; he was devouring barley cake and raisins and cheese like a schoolboy back from the wrestling class.

“Yes—signed, sealed and witnessed. I shall be two months away, or more.”

“Have you got a second?”

“What time have I had? If you had only—”

“Dearest of men! I always longed to see Syracuse.”

I started, then subdued my heart, as one covers a cage to stop a bird from singing. “Don’t tempt me, my dear. You know as well as I do that you’ll never rest, now, till you’re creating your own play. It can’t be long—two years, or three; meantime you’re too sensible not to take direction, but will resent whoever you have to take it from. Don’t let me be the one.”

“Truly, Niko, I swear, it will be Elysium to work for you. I’ve been living like someone flat on a frieze. I shall talk my mind out, seeing it’s you; that I can’t help; but I’ll never cross you. All Miron taught me was to know how good you are.”

“It would never do,” I said, trying to sound resolute.

“Fate intends it. Look how I left him, the very day.”

“You’ve picked up his superstition, if nothing else.”

He came and sank down beside my chair. He had filled out his boyish hollows; his stride, like a young lion’s, had both weight and grace. He was born to play heroes, though not in Miron’s style. He flung his arm across my knees, and went into Patroklos’ speech from The Myrmidons, putting in all the grace notes. False to the sacred honor of our bed, O most unthankful for those many kisses … Please, Niko, take me to Sicily!”

“Well,” I said, “now, if you grumble, you’ve put yourself in the wrong beforehand. I was holding out for that.”

He called me a monster and embraced me. Within the month we sailed.

Since it would be easy to find third and extra men in Sicily, we sailed alone. Good weather, and showing him the sights, made it a pleasure trip. At Tarentum, I did not omit paying Archytas my respects, in case he had letters for Plato. He thanked me, and said he had just sent a messenger. Though courteous, he was not talkative, and seemed to me an unhappy man. He had sent a leading Pythagorean in Dionysios’ trireme, to help persuade Plato; if he had had a hard choice between his people and his friend, and was concerned for the outcome, he had my sympathy, but there was no reason why he should confide in me. He told me Plato and Speusippos were both reported in good health, and in favor with Dionysios. He forgot to ask how Dion was.

The Syracusan consul had of course announced our arrival; but I was amazed to find, when we made port, how many people turned out. Thettalos exclaimed that I must have made the hit of a generation last time I came. But I soon learned the secret. When I had pushed his silver talent back at Philistos, I had supposed it would go straight into his treasury. As I now found out, he had done precisely as I asked. He had commissioned a life-sized bronze of the god, with a gold vine-crown, riding a gilded leopard. Of course, his own name was on the plinth as well as mine; he had the right, as choregos. I don’t know if he did it for that, or because with all his vices he was too pious to rob a god. At all events, there it stood, in the sanctuary by the theater; the citizens now supposed I was the richest actor in Greece.

Our informant was Menekrates, who met the ship, sumptuously dressed and looking just what he was, a successful actor-manager who played all the big Sicilian cities, visiting Italy once a year. Last time he stayed with me in Athens, I had seen he was doing well; he must have been rising ever since. He carried us off, not to the lodging in the lower town, but to a great new house above the theater, with a fountain court paved in black and white mosaics, and a carved marble balcony facing the sea. Two pretty gold-skinned children came running out to meet him, from which I guessed, before I saw her, that he had married one of those blond wives so much prized in Sicily.

I had never been there so late in summer; the streets were griddle-hot and dusty, the hills parched brown; but his courtyard, piped from a spring above, was fresh and green, and his thick walls were cool. We supped lying on cushions of Persian stuff, with two men and a boy to wait. Nothing was too good for us. It was his way of saying I had turned his luck, that day at Leontini.

We talked theater at first. A big drama festival was coming on the feast of Arethusa, the local river-goddess. I had been met on the dock with a message from the tragic poet Chairemon, on a visit here from Athens, asking me to see him before I made any plans. In Sicily it’s catch-as-catch-can for artists; no draw like ours at home.

It was not till the slaves had cleared and left us with the wine that I mentioned Plato. I had noticed our host had grown more careful in his talk. He had more to lose.

“Plato?” he said. “I’ve enough to keep me busy without running after sophists, especially when they’re as meddlesome as that old man. If we get through to the festival without a riot here, and looting in the streets, we can thank the gods rather than him. I’m thinking of sending Glyke and the children into the country.”

Startled by all this, I said it was inconceivable that a man like Plato would be conspiring against his host. “No doubt,” he answered. “But with the advice he gives, he’ll hardly need to. What the Archon’s just done—and everyone blames Plato for it—is to put his veterans on half-pay. Don’t go near Ortygia. I tell you, there’ll be trouble.”

I could believe him. Old Dionysios had had an excellent name with soldiers of fortune everywhere, if with no one else, because he rewarded long service. The country round was full of paid-off men settled on land he had given them, often enough at the citizens’ expense. They made a useful reserve, and encouraged recruiting. Menekrates said, “He was one to skin a flayed ox, as the saying is. But everyone knew where the money went; on power. Every few years, when the Carthaginians came, we had the good of that whether he cared or not. But the young one, who’s pretty near as greedy, spends on his pleasures. While he’s idling, we get twenty extortioners where we had one before. Believe me, he can’t afford to stint his garrison. Let’s say no more; it’s hearsay only, and least known’s best. But Plato must know too much, or too little, to give such counsel.”

“If he ever gave it. I’d lay a year’s takings against. We heard all this last time, put about by Philistos. It was just a tale.”

Thettalos, who had maintained a modest quiet but could not forbear supporting me, said all Athens knew that Plato had come out about his friend Dion’s property, and to try for his recall.

“Recall?” said Menekrates, staring. “If Dion wants to come home, he’ll have to recall himself, not wait to be invited. Then, who knows … But that’s dangerous talk. We’ve traveled; we’ve seen in other cities what comes of that.” He walked over to the doorway, to make sure the slaves had gone to bed. Coming back, he said, “As for the property, God reward all true friends, but in Plato’s case I don’t know who else will. Dion’s land was all sold up this spring. There was some talk of putting it in trust for his son, young Hipparinos; but where’s the odds? It would go the same way as if Dionysios spent it.”

I remembered Dion’s words at Tarentum. “How old is the boy?”

“I suppose about fourteen. He’s a favorite with his uncle the Archon, who’s fond of saying he won’t grow up a spoilsport like his dad. He comes to all the parties. I was at one myself not long ago, after a Madness of Herakles that took well. Plato was there too. A handsome lad, they say, not unlike Dion when he was that age. But the Academy won’t see him; his education’s well in hand. The liveliest of the girls was sent over to his supper couch, but I couldn’t see he had much to learn. His hand was down her dress all through the first course, and up it all through the second. Old Plato did try, at the start, to get a word with him, but the boy laughed in his face. Even his uncle had to remind him he was speaking to a guest, though he couldn’t keep from smiling.”

Thettalos gave me one of his looks when Menekrates’ back was turned. He had speaking eyes; sometimes one could see it even through a mask.

“Where is Plato staying?” I asked. “His nephew is a friend of mine, and I’d like to see him.”

“Plato himself has that house in the palace garden he had before; it’s the Archon’s chief guesthouse. But I don’t think the nephew’s staying there. Maybe he wasn’t asked very heartily. I heard he was with religious folk, Pythagoreans. I’ll inquire tomorrow. Thettalos, dear boy, your cup—you’re drinking nothing. I’ll show you our theater, while Niko’s hunting sophists. The acoustics are first-class, but you need to know them.”

Next morning I went to the house where Speusippos and Plato had stayed before. For fear of missing him, I was there before sunup; when the slave reported him still in bed, I said I would wait till he woke. This was not long; while I sat on the rim of the courtyard fountain, two smiths came in with a great new bolt for the outer door. They said, as they clattered, that they were sorry to rouse the master, but they were pushed with orders like this. One must blame the times.

The din soon woke Speusippos, who looked out to see what it was. A pretty tousled girl, clutching her dress, appeared behind him; he had not counted on early rising today. Having urged her to go home quickly and not loiter in the streets, he turned and saw me. “Niko!” he said, and laughed shortly as he caught my eye. “I heard you were in Syracuse. Have you been waiting long?”

I said I was sorry his night had been cut short so rudely. “No,” he said, “it’s as well I woke. I must see Plato in Ortygia; it’s better to go early, while the streets are quiet. They seem to be expecting trouble. Come in while I finish dressing.”

His host greeted us going in, a silver-haired old man shrunk with age, but upright and with a skin like a baby’s. In Speusippos’ room, with the tumbled bed still warm with the scent of the girl, he said, “I don’t think he saw her leave. Not that I’ve ever deceived him; he knows I follow the philosophy rather than the regimen, which, let us admit, has picked up much superstition since the founder’s time. He’d say, I suppose, that I’ve set myself back two or three rebirths with last night’s work. ‘The body is the tomb of the soul.’ Well, I was on edge, which my soul was taking no good from; besides which, I’ve learned from her more than she ever set out to teach, as I’ll tell you sometime. I must go; will you walk along with me?”

As we headed for Ortygia, I remembered Menekrates warning me not to go near the place. But I was ashamed to be less bold than a philosopher, not to speak of forsaking a friend. So far, only one thing was to be noticed about the streets—that they were empty.

I asked how Plato was, and if his mission had prospered. He made the gesture of a man so weary of his troubles that he can hardly bear to talk of them. “Plato’s as well,” he said, “as he’s likely to be after wasting a year for nothing, or worse than that. I suppose you’ve heard. All Dion’s property has been sold up, a hundred talents’ worth or more; and Dionysios has ceased even to pretend that he’ll get a drachma.”

I exclaimed suitably. There seemed nothing to say.

“You think Plato should have foreseen it. Of course he did. But with all these protestations, appeals and guarantees, he couldn’t be certain. Short of that, he didn’t think he should hold back.”

“When my bad day comes, God send me such a friend.”

“He’s always been the same. At Sokrates’ trial, neither his kin nor his friends could keep him from getting up to testify. When the court laughed him down because of his youth, which I daresay saved his life, he fell so sick with grief, they doubted he’d outlive Sokrates. May he keep his luck. I tell you, I begin to wonder.”

“What? But the Archon …”

“Every day it’s worse. How not, unless the man had really changed? Plato came here for Dion’s sake. That was the bait. Merely by taking it, he had Dionysios jealous even before he’d sailed. Every word he’s spoken for Dion has been oil on fire. Every friend of Dion’s he takes notice of is a mark against him. It can’t stretch much more without breaking. Each time I come here, I’m cold with fear of what I’ll find.”

I don’t know what he thought his own life would be worth with Plato gone. He did not speak of it, but strode on, a thin quick harassed man, towards Ortygia. I could hardly keep up.

We got over the causeway and through the gates without any trouble. The reason was simple. No guards were there. They had shut the big gates, but left the posterns open.

At the last of them, Speusippos said, as if we had been strolling from the Agora to the Academy, “Well, Niko, thanks for your company on the way.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “What do you take me for? Come on.”

He was in too much haste to argue, and, with the hill, soon out of breath. Nikeratos, I thought, you are too big a fool to live, and so you may find. At the same time, I am inquisitive; there is no sense in putting up with the hardships of travel unless one looks about.

We had got to the barrack quarter, the street, I think, of the Gauls. It was empty, no men off duty standing about, or dicing on doorsteps. The doors hung open. Soldiers have to be very overwrought to stop guarding their things from other soldiers. I was pointing this out to Speusippos, when we heard the yelling.

Someone up ahead had started a kind of paean. Never having heard any of these barbarians in action, I don’t know whose it was; in any case, all the rest took up their own, in a cacophony I can’t describe. Now and then some howl more piercing than the rest would catch the general ear, and they would come in on that with a wordless bellow all together.

I felt a weakness in my knees, like stagefright but worse. “They’re under the walls,” I said. “You can hear. The gates must be shut. No use going further.”

There was a soldier coming down the street. I was all for getting out of the way; so I think was Speusippos; then suddenly he started forward, exclaiming, “Herakleides!”

He was an officer, Sicilian Greek, dark and good-looking, with the dress and speech of a gentleman and an easy, pleasant way. He had been so wrapped up in his own concerns as he came that he had not seen us till he was almost on us; but he did not look scared or ashamed like a man running away and, as soon as he saw Speusippos, gave him an open steady look. Then he said, “I’m off duty.”

“In the name of the gods,” said Speusippos. “Listen.”

He lifted his brows. “What do you mean? I hear nothing.”

Speusippos drew breath to speak, then waited. Herakleides shrugged his shoulders. “Some of my best men are there. Men who got me off the field with a spearhead in me, when they might have left me to be cut and trimmed by the Carthaginians. I can’t stop them; I can only give them an order they won’t listen to, which won’t help discipline tomorrow, and take their names. No names, no floggings. In their place, I’d be there too.” He went off downhill. I remember thinking what a simple, decent fellow he was, and how his men must love him.

Up above, the yelling got louder. Across the top of the street, a troop of Nubians went by towards the palace. They were stamping as they went, and chanting in time with it; now and then they would give a whoop, and leap, tossing up their spears. I pulled Speusippos into a doorway. “Come home,” I said. “What can you do? Those walls there are ten feet thick; they’ll never get in.”

“Not,” he answered, “if the men inside want to keep them out.”

“It’s with the gods,” I said, for want of any other comfort. “Let’s be gone from here.”

He took a few steps with me, then stopped. “No. I’ll wait. If they can get in, then so can I.” No doubt my face was an open book. He pressed my shoulder. “My dear Niko, go back, you’ve come more than far enough. You’ve no call to stay; I have … He would have died with Sokrates, and I’ve had more of my life than he’d had then. If it’s his turn now, I can’t leave him to die alone.”

One part of me applauded this; the rest was angry with him for catching me up in his choice. I said, “No, I’ll come with you to the walls, to see what is going on. If you want to get yourself killed inside, that’s another thing.” And I turned up the street beside him.

Soon we got to the wide ring-road that circled the palace wall. We could hear the noise further along. As we walked that way, a squad of Romans ran past us shouting to each other. Presently we came to the great main gates, twenty feet high. There was a square before them; below, the Sacred Way cut down towards the causeway, lined with trees, statues and shrines. Filling the square were the soldiers. They had kept together more or less, Iberians with Iberians and so on; beyond this, they were a mob, and the most dangerous sort on earth, being both armed and used to violence. The one comfort was that, since the day was early, they were not drunk.

Now we were near, we could hear that they were shouting in their different uncouth accents, “Dionysios!” When no one came, they threw up stones at the gatehouse. The Nubians were the best shots. There was a sculptured frieze above; they were aiming at the gods’ heads, and had knocked half off already. To my surprise, the Gauls were absent.

There were cheers; all heads turned towards the Sacred Way. Here were the Gauls. Stripped naked for battle, with blue war paint flourished all over them, they were hauling up the slope a huge beam, I should think a keel from one of the naval yards. The crowd rushed to help; the beam came up the square as if on wings. They lined up each side, while some expert started a heaving chant. The gate was oak and iron, but I did not see it holding long.

They rammed it two or three times; the tongues of the hinges began to start. Speusippos watched in silence, no doubt composing himself with philosophy. The Gauls plodded back for another run-in.

A trumpet sounded above the gate. The yells died to muttering. The Gauls laid the ram down for a rest. A Greek voice called, “Dionysios!”

An old man in armor appeared on the gate tower. There was almost silence. It was Philistos.

He looked older than I remembered. His florid face had mottled, his eyes had sunk, his nose was sharper and bluer. At sight of him they growled, but listened. He might not be a loved commander; but he was there, standing in javelin-range. He had earned a hearing.

The upshot of his speech was that there had been a great misunderstanding. Ill-disposed persons had falsified the Archon’s orders. He had been shocked to learn of their grievance. Not only were veterans’ wages being maintained; they would be raised, from today.

There were cheers, of course, triumphant, but ironic. One could hear it in the voice of every race, though the note was different. Even with the Nubians, one could tell.

Philistos gazed down at them. He was a man I detested; but there was not much pleasure in watching an old general shoved out to give his troops this craven he. He did it, I must own, with what dignity it allowed.

He limped stiffly down to the stair rail. The Greek who had called before shouted again for Dionysios; this time it was an open jeer. But no one came.

The mob broke up, and went off in groups shouting and singing towards the wineshops, leaving the ram in the street. The Gauls shouldered past us either side, but noticed us no more than dogs. The morning was getting warm, and the sweat ran down their war paint. It did not blur; it must have been a kind of tattooing. They smelled like horses.

Speusippos and I were left in the empty square, by the ram with its frayed hammered nose. He did not have to die with Plato, nor I with him. I expected him to be looking as relieved as I. But he was standing with his mouth set in a hard, shrewd look that was new to me, gazing after the soldiers. He said, “Dion should know of this.”

Nothing surprised me much by now. I said, “Do you mean what I think?”

“I daresay,” he answered. Then: “I was talking to that girl last night. She was twelve years old when some scout of Philistos’ saw her and hauled her off from home to amuse Dionysios. Her father objected; he went to the quarries and was never seen again. Dionysios hadn’t even decency enough to have her sent home after. She was put out like a stray cat, picked up by some Iberians, and passed around the barracks. Her own story’s nothing to some she told me; but sharing a bed seems to bring it home. He can do anything he likes, to anyone, that one man alone. It’s hard for the mind to grasp it.”

He was right; when one is not bred to it, one doesn’t conceive it, it must be smelled and tasted. Like me, he was too young to remember it at home. For that matter, even the Thirty had at least to agree together. “One man,” he said again.

“If you call him that. I doubt the troops do, now.”

“What was it old Dionysios said on his deathbed, Niko? ‘A city in chains of adamant.’ The chains are rotting. Dion should know.”