The Mask of Apollo: A Novel

16

THE SOLDIERS REJOICED ALL NIGHT, AT THE expense of anyone they found at hand; then they went back on duty, and the city breathed again. I was scolded by Menekrates for going to Ortygia, and by Thettalos for not having taken him with me. At the mention of Herakleides, our host looked so nervous that, remembering his past hints, I added two and two. Though it was hard to think of so frank a soldier conspiring, yet it was certain that the mutiny had tested the troops’ loyalty, and the Archon’s strength. I wondered if Speusippos guessed.

Two days later, all being still calm, I went to call on Chairemon the tragic poet, taking with me Thettalos, whose work he would certainly know. After asking around (just like a poet, he had forgotten to say where he was staying) we learned he was in Ortygia, as a palace guest.

“Good,” said Thettalos as we went. “This time you can’t leave me to bite my nails all morning, wondering if you’re lying dead in a gutter. Lead me to the tyrant’s lair.”

It was with no great delight that I approached Ortygia. If the gates were to be closed again, I had no fancy to be inside. However, I showed our passes for outer Ortygia (these were easily got from the Athenian embassy) and had them endorsed for the palace citadel by the captain of the guard.

I had expected slackness at the guardhouses, after yesterday, but not what met us everywhere—restlessness, rumor, suspicion. At the Iberian gate two men were quarreling. As the first blows were struck, an officer came up cursing; there was a dangerous moment before they obeyed. We went on, not envying him his employment, nor indeed much liking our own. “Never mind,” said Thettalos. “It’s all in the business. One must study how men behave. Something can happen anywhere—pirates in the islands, satrap wars in Ionia, and in Macedon they’re forever assassinating the king.”

Our one strict check was the last, into the palace citadel. In the park, we found the groves full of men running about, light-armed Cretans going like beaters through the coverts, calling to one another. Some of them stopped us, but passed us through without saying whom they wanted.

In due course we found our way to the second-class guesthouse where Chairemon had a room. All the other inmates—poets, envoys, minor philosophers and so on—were huddled in the courtyard muttering. When Chairemon recognized us they all ran up asking for news. “Of what?” I asked. “If you mean the mutiny, it seems to be over.” Someone said, “Then they’ve not caught him yet?” When I asked whom he meant, he said, “Herakleides.”

“I don’t think so. The place is full of men searching. Why, what has he done?”

Of a sudden, everyone became careful; Chairemon said one could not be sure, one merely heard he was being searched for; if we would come to his room, he had a play he would like to talk about.

When the door was shut, he wrung our hands and thanked the gods for the sound of Attic speech. I thought he would burst into tears. “Never again! I came with Karkinos; he’s been before, and persuaded me to accept—the works of art, banquets, music and so on. Never, never again! Not that I’m concerned in this, not at all.” He looked round at the door. “It’s knowing that anything can happen—really, anything. It’s the thought, just the thought of it.”

I answered, “Pythagoras said, ‘Accept in your mind that anything which can happen can happen to you.’” I had heard this aphorism at the Academy. He looked at me in appeal, as if I could make it otherwise. I saw Thettalos laughing to himself.

It seemed Herakleides had been accused of causing the mutiny, and had gone missing. His friends, including Plato, had been pleading for him, because he had belonged to Dion’s party; and had got a safe-conduct for him from the Archon, to prepare his affairs for exile. Then today, on news that he had been seen, troops had been sent out to catch him. It was now supposed that the safe-conduct had been a trick, to delay his getting away.

“Maybe,” I said. “Or Dionysios just changed his mind.”

“But, surely, Nikeratos, his honor …”

“There’s only one judge of honor, in Syracuse.”

Chairemon blinked. I said, “Never mind, there’s still the theater. If Troy hadn’t fallen, where would we be today?” His eyes reproached my frivolity, but he consented to talk business.

He had a choregos for his new play, Achilles Slays Thersites, and wanted us to do it for the festival. Although he would read it aloud (why do so few poets read well?) it was a good piece of work. It started with the Amazon Penthesilea arriving as a Trojan ally. She challenges the Greeks; Achilles, still mourning for Patroklos, is brought the tale of her victories. Now he has resumed his place as champion of the Greeks, it is for him to meet her. They hail each other, she on the walls and he below, to exchange defiance. Love at first sight. But they are equal in pride and standing; each values honor more than life; they must fight to the death. Achilles wins. He enters from battle walking by the bier on which they bring her breathing her last. There is a lovely speech in which he praises her valor to cheer her parting soul. She’s gone. He kneels and weeps for her, bowed upon the bier. Thersites the mocker, who has been longing to hear that the great Achilles has fallen at last by a woman’s hand, now has his say. What a mourner! he cries. You’ve only just done grieving for Patroklos; now it’s this Amazon, and both of them died through you. Achilles gets up; Thersites takes fright and runs; off stage sounds his deathcry as Achilles fells him with a blow. After a lively scene with Diomedes, who has to demand satisfaction for the blood because Thersites was his kinsman, Artemis appears to stop the fight and reconcile the heroes. Big choral procession, Penthesilea given to her Amazons for burial, to end the play. It is now well known in Athens, but this was its first performance.

Achilles is for the protagonist, but there is a great deal of fat for the second too. Penthesilea dying is a dummy; he can play both her and Thersites. Chairemon had had the script copied so that we could take it home; we walked off so full of it that we hardly noticed the Cretans still rummaging the boskage. Reading as we went, we missed our way, and found ourselves in a new part of the park, among houses which looked dangerously important. I pushed the script into my robe, saying, “We must go back the way we came.”

“By all means,” said Thettalos, “if you know which it is.”

There were three paths behind us, all much alike. Beyond a grove of pink oleanders one could glimpse the palace roofs. “We had better look through,” I said. “If I see which side we are on, I can steer by that.”

We pushed into the bushes. As I saw light, I also heard people talking, and stopped dead, gripping Thettalos’ arm. One of the voices was Dionysios’.

Thettalos, who read my eyes, stood soundless. It was not a time to be found where one had no business, creeping up on the Archon. I recalled Pythagoras’ saying, which I had quoted to Chairemon so lightly.

Thettalos had paled a little, but was already edging softly towards a gap in the leaves. One must study, as he said to me later, how men behave.

At first I could only hear Dionysios’ voice, eloquent with self-pity. Now and again one of the men with him, some two or three, would say, “Yes, indeed,” or “Everyone can witness that,” or “How true!” They were coming towards us; as their words got clearer, fear that they might discover us made me deaf. They paused, however, as they naturally would on coming to a thicket, and I allowed myself to breathe. Dionysios was saying, “But no, a friend of Dion’s can’t do wrong for him. Anyone, a traitor who eats my salt and corrupts my soldiers, anyone before me.” He almost sobbed. He was half-drunk, but quite sincere.

Someone said, “Birds of a feather, sir. You have been too generous to his insolence. The truth is—forgive me for my plain speaking—you don’t value yourself enough. It feeds his pride.”

“When I think—” Dionysios was beginning; then he broke off. They were now walking away; I crept along to share Thettalos’ peephole. There was the Archon with his friends; and crossing the lawn to them came three men, the oldest leading. Thettalos, who was watching entranced, mouthed a name at me with questioning brows. I nodded.

The two younger men stood silent, in attitudes of formal grief. Plato came forward. His shoulders and heavy head were stooping more than I remembered; his beard, which had had some gray in it, was nearly all white, though there was black still in his brows. His eyepits had deepened; from their caves gazed his eyes, piercingly gray. I could almost see Dionysios’ gaze shifting, through the back of his head. However, encouraged no doubt by his admirers, he decided to put a face on it. “Yes, Plato?” he said. “What is it?”

“I am here,” said Plato, “at the instance of these friends of mine. They are afraid you may be taking some new action against Herakleides, in spite of the promise you made me yesterday. I believe he has been seen hereabouts.”

Dionysios’ back jerked upright, giving at the same time a kind of wriggle. “Promise?” he said, sounding indignant. He had tried, also, to sound surprised.

At this one of the other two rushed forward, flung himself on his knees before the Archon, and clasped his hand. He made some plea, broken by weeping. Dionysios allowed his hand to be cried on, drawing himself up and looking powerful. Perhaps for once he felt like his father. Plato stood watching this scene with distaste. After a while he stepped forward, and put his hand on the man’s bowed shoulder. “Courage, Theodotes,” he said. “Dionysios would never dare break our agreement in such a way.”

Dionysios’ pose collapsed. His hand having been let go before he could snatch it back, he folded his arms furiously. “With you,” he said, “I agreed to nothing. Nothing at all.”

As I said, Plato had aged. His stoop had settled into his bones; he would never draw himself straight again. Nonetheless, at these words he grew alarming. Once, I remember, in some old country theater, I came to the skeneroom with a torch at night, and found myself face to face with a great old eagle-owl, hunched in his dark corner, his round eyes glaring into mine. I almost dropped the torch and burned down the building.

“By the gods, you did!” He thrust forward his beak; I could almost see the lifted feathers. The sycophants clucked; the friends looked panic-stricken. In case Dionysios had not taken his meaning the first time, he added, “You promised just what this man is begging for.” He turned his back on the Archon, and walked off.

There was a silence; then Dionysios told Herakleides’ friends to get out of his sight. Next moment he was gone himself, I suppose to urge on the soldiers. The lawn was full of powerful emptiness, like a theater after a play.

We scouted our way back to the public path before either of us spoke. Then Thettalos said, “He called him a liar, in front of all those people.”

I said, “And two of them Dion’s friends.”

“Will he kill him?”

“I don’t know.” I could feel myself trembling a little. “His father would have done it. I don’t suppose he knows himself what he means to do. It’s with the gods.”

“A terrible old man! Niko, can’t we try to get him away? It’s like leaving Prometheus to be gnawed by rats. At least he deserves a vulture.”

“My dear, he has a dozen devoted friends in the city. The best thing for us is to find Speusippos and warn him. He may need it.”

Menekrates, when he heard our news, decided at once to send his wife and children out of town, to her father’s place. She could take some valuables with her, in case rioting broke out. The house was in a turmoil of packing.

We called twice at the house where Speusippos was staying, but he was out, they could not say where. The rest of the day we spent going over Chairemon’s script; but next morning, resolved that Speusippos should be found without more delay, we called again. The porter, who knew me well, said he and the master were both at the house of Archidemos, the philosopher, where Plato was a guest. We stared. He went on carefully, “I understand, sir, the Archon needed the guesthouse. So he asked him to stay with friends.”

We looked at each other with relief. “So Plato is well,” I said, “and staying with friends of his own?” He answered yes. “And your master and Speusippos are both there too?”

“That I can’t say, sir. But that was where they were going.”

No doubt he was keeping things back, but we felt satisfied and walked off in relief, remarking that Plato must be even more glad to go than Dionysios to see the back of him. As Thettalos said, it was the end of a famous friendship, but at least he could go home. I thought of Dion, and how he would take the news.

Our minds now at rest about Plato, we settled down to find a cast and begin rehearsals. There was no chorus, only musical interludes, which would be looked after by a music-master. Chairemon was a very modern author. The third actor I had in mind was free, and brought me a friend to audition for the fourth, who had a few lines; I took him on. The extras were easy. Chairemon had found a reasonable choregos; he was said to be mean by Sicilian standards, and therefore pleased to have Athenian actors, who don’t demand bullion trimmings over everything and real gold crowns. I am a little too vain to hide in a heap of ornaments, so we suited well.

We had been rehearsing two or three days when on the way home I said to Thettalos, “My dear, I said nothing before the others, but whatever are you doing with Thersites?”

He met my eye in a way I knew, which meant he was going to try and talk me round. “Don’t you think it would be new, and in the spirit of the times, to play him for sympathy?”

“What times? The play is about the Trojan War.”

“Well, but it’s true Achilles did kill Patroklos, or cause his death. In Homer, the first thing you hear of Thersites is that he stood up to Agamemnon when he was in the wrong. Who else did?”

“Achilles. Diomedes. Chryses. Odysseus.”

“Well, Thersites spoke for the common people.”

“No, my dear, just for the mean ones. He is the voice of envy, which hates great good worse than great evil. In this Chairemon has followed Homer. Penthesilea is the part to play for sympathy; Thersites offers you contrast.”

“It’s in the modern spirit,” he said. “It’s antioligarchical. Let us show the common man rebelling; they can do with that in Syracuse.”

“God help the Syracusans if they recognize themselves in Thersites. They have forgotten greatness; all the more reason to remind them of it. Achilles’ anger lasted a few days of his life, but scarcely a dramatist has stepped outside them. It is quite bold of Chairemon to show him at his best; why be afraid of it?”

“O Zeus!” he said. “I believe you think I want to steal the scene. Do you think that?”

“No, indeed. I know you. You want to create what your mind has seen. I could do an Achilles to that Thersites—full of nothing but his own importance, indulging his own grief because it’s his, and killing Thersites just for showing him up. It’s not in the lines, but one could put it there. Who knows? The audience might eat it.”

“Well, then, why not?”

“I suppose because men could be more than they are. Why show them only how to be less?”

“One should show them true to life.”

“How not? But whose? Truth is to reckon on Achilles as well as Thersites, and Plato as well as Dionysios. There is truth even in Patroklos, who couldn’t pass by a wounded man, and whom the slave-girls wept for because he never spoke them an unkind word. The world is not Thersites’, unless we give it him.”

“Dear Niko, I didn’t mean to put you out. Don’t think of it again. You are directing, and I promised to be good. I just thought it would freshen the theme a little.”

As we walked on, I wondered how much of what I’d said I had picked up from the men of the Academy, even while rejecting their views.

Menekrates’ house had settled down into a place for men. His wife had never worked, so the steward ran it as well as ever. After a few days, one of the servant-girls looked sleek, and had a new necklace; and Menekrates sang in the bath. His wife, a well-born girl, was inclined to bully him.

We were working hard on the play, but there was something just amiss with it. Thettalos was doing Thersites just as I said; but it was overdone, the character had lost all humanity. I could see he was not doing it on purpose; he was above such pettiness; it was only that the life had gone out of the part for him. I must simply leave him to settle down.

There was a rota for rehearsals in the theater; the rest of the time we hired a room in the usual way. Some days went by before our theater turn. We were still working without masks, so I could see with the tail of my eye; as I did my last exit, someone in front jumped up and made for the parodos. I waited. It was Speusippos.

“My dear friend,” I said, “what is it?” He looked unshaven, even unwashed; his robe was dragged about him, and soiled along the border, as if he had trailed it in the dust.

“Niko. Can I speak to you alone?”

“Of course. Not in the dressing room, everyone comes in there. Let us try the shrine of Dionysos.” I thought how gladly I had assumed that all was well with him, so that my work should not be disturbed. At least, if he could sit in the theater, he could not be on the run.

The sanctuary was empty, but for an old slave sweeping down. We sat on the plinth of a votive statue; it was my gilt panther bearing the god, bought from Philistos’ fee.

“I was here all yesterday,” he said, wiping his brow. “Then I found a man with a list, who told me when you would be coming … The guards won’t let me into Ortygia any longer. I don’t know what to do.”

“Ortygia?” I stared in surprise. “I should have thought that would be the last place where you’d want to go. You’re both well out of it.”

“No. Plato is still there.”

“But,” I said, as shocked as bewildered, “they said when I called that he was staying with a friend.”

“He is the guest of Archidemos, yes. But the house is in Ortygia.”

I remembered the porter’s reticence. Syracuse, as always, was full of spies.

“A few days ago,” Speusippos started to explain, “Plato gave great offense to Dionysios—”

“Yes, yes, I know; never mind how. What happened next?”

“Next day, he sent a message that the ladies of the household needed the guesthouse for retreat and purification, before the Arethusa feast. An open lie, but at least a formal slight, better than a dagger in the dark. Or so we thought. Plato said it showed that the man had not surrendered all his soul to evil. The message said that a mutual friend, Archidemos, would gladly put him up till further notice; owing to the uncertain times, the Archon didn’t wish him to leave Ortygia.”

“Can this host be trusted?”

“Certainly, for anything he can control. He’s kin both to Dion and Dionysios, a Pythagorean, who has never touched politics. He reveres Plato deeply. I’ve been visiting every day, till now. Oh, yes, Archidemos is safe, but he’s been anxious all along. With this feeling among the soldiers, anything can happen. And now they won’t let me in.” He picked up the dusty border of his robe, and tugged it through his fingers.

“On whose authority?”

“I should think their own. Each day I’ve been insulted as soon as I was recognized; yesterday a Gaul took my pass to look at, and wouldn’t give it back. They were all laughing. I think they hoped I’d lose my temper; I saw it just in time to hold back. I appealed to a Roman officer who was passing—they’re a little less barbarous than the Gauls—but he said that in his opinion I was being done a favor. I daren’t think what he meant.”

“Are the troops still mutinous, then?”

“No, their demands have all been met. But the long-service men, who led the riot, have revived that old he about Plato wanting them discharged. They feel sure he advised the pay cut; I am told it’s all over Ortygia.”

“Philistos,” I said. This followed the scene upon the gatehouse as night follows the day. “Well, as we saw, the soldiers can’t get into the palace citadel as they choose.”

“You fool!” In the impatience of his trouble, he looked as if he could have struck me. “Archidemos’ house isn’t in the palace citadel. It’s in outer Ortygia, where all the soldiers are quartered. The barracks are less than a stade away.”

I laid my hand on his knee and cursed Dionysios, neither likely to help much. “At least they can hardly attack the house of the Archon’s kinsman.”

“Unless there’s another mutiny, when anything can be done. Or they can break in after dark, bribe a servant to poison him … Niko. Have you a pass for Ortygia?”

“Yes, so has Thettalos. But you can’t use a borrowed one; they know you. You would just end in the quarries.”

“Of course. It’s a great deal to ask, from you especially. I know your feelings about Plato’s theory of art; but as a man … I’ve no one else. Do you think you could go in, and see how things are with him?”

I thought, It means canceling a rehearsal, and then, I suppose it will be dangerous. “Certainly,” I said. “I’ll go tomorrow, one can’t get in after dark.” Then I said, “Well, I could try.” It would save time; and then we could still rehearse.

When I got back, Thettalos was pacing about in his best clothes. “Wherever did you go? Have you forgotten the party at Xenophila’s?”

“My dear, that well-named lady must do without me. A subsequent engagement. Give her my regrets.”

He had the truth from me within moments, and asked how I had dared think of going alone. I did not withstand him. Though, as I often told him, he had not sense enough to stay out of trouble, when in it he had great resource.

“Anything that happens,” he said, “shall happen to us both. I suppose I must change my clothes … No, you must change yours. Why do people like us walk about at night? Of course, to parties.”

I had a bath and a scented rubdown, and dressed myself to the teeth. Thettalos went out, coming back with a big straw-lined basket from which poked the necks of wine jars. “I don’t think,” he said, “we need be above buying popularity.”

About sundown we reached the first gatehouse, and showed our pass to the Iberians, saying simply, “We are going to the party.” Everyone at once knew which. They added that we should not find the drink run out.

“I told you so,” said Thettalos to me. “But you would load us up like pack mules. These lads are right. Who’ll help us lighten the weight?”

We got in this way through all five gatehouses. Luckily the Gauls were off duty; they can drink like camels, and we would never have finished up with a last jar in hand, which I rightly guessed that we would need.

By the time we were in Ortygia it was almost dark. A linkboy came touting us; we hesitated, then took him on. It would show us up, but looked more natural for party guests. I had been at pains to learn the way to Archidemos’ house, to avoid asking, but the boy led us easily; it was his trade to know the streets. We skirted the barrack quarter without mishap; it had been wise to dress well, like the friends of someone important. He had just told us the house was round this corner, when he peered ahead, stopped and drew back. We did the same.

It was a good street; all one saw of the houses was high courtyard walls, broken with thick doors and a lodge or two. Outside one doorway, a little way down, was a knot of soldiers. They were loafing about, keeping rather quiet; a child could see (and this one had done so) that they were up to no good.

“This is serious,” I said. “Not like the gatehouses.”

The boy, pressed flat to the wall, said quickly that if the gentlemen did not mind the dirt, he could take us round to the back. We girded our robes, and followed him through alleys just wide enough for a laden donkey, where hens darted squawking from before our feet. Presently he turned and said, “This way, sirs.” This alley was cart-width, and fairly clean. Further on a little fire was burning, with five men sitting round it; slaves, I assumed, till we got a little nearer. Then we saw they were soldiers.

The torch wavered; I started to draw back; then Thettalos said softly, “Too late, don’t stop.” He strode on, pushing the boy impatiently aside, towards the fire. The back gate of a house, no doubt the one we sought, was just beside it. The soldiers stared; a Gaul, a Roman and three Greeks. Even sitting, one could see the Gaul was gigantic. His mustaches almost brushed his chest.

Thettalos said, “Can any of you gentlemen tell us the way to Diotimos’ house? This son of fifty fathers swore he knew the street, and now he’s lost us.” One of the Greeks looked up. Thettalos said swiftly, “Diotimos son of Lykon, the Kyrenian.”

“Never heard of him.” They offered us others of the name, all of whom we rejected. I said it was clear we had been hoaxed; this was what came of wineshop friendships. I was about to add that we were strangers in those parts, when I saw the way they were eyeing our clothes and rings, and noticed that the boy, though still unpaid, had run away. So I told them, with a good deal of self-importance, who we were, adding that the mud had ruined my new robe, which I had meant to wear next day for my audience with the Archon.

They exchanged doubtful looks. My accent had shown I was from Athens. One of the Greeks, who must have been at some time in the theater, peered up. “If you’re the actor, let’s hear a speech.”

“By all means,” I said. “But first, since we’ve lost our party, would you care to help out with this?” I offered the basket with the last of the wine jars. “To Hades with Diotimos, I’d sooner drink with honest men.”

This fine was well received. It was a big amphora, and of course the wine was neat. No one complained of the lack of water. I thought the Gaul would never stop pouring it down. When next they demanded a recital, it was merely for diversion. “I will give you,” I said, “The Death of Ajax, if someone will lend me a sword.”

There was a flash of metal; then the Gaul seemed to jump right at me. The other four grabbed him back; this I could not see well, because Thettalos had thrown himself in between. Bawling with laughter, the Greeks explained that the Gaul, not having followed the dialogue, had thought they were about to cut our throats, and meant to help. It was all over in moments. Thettalos looked like a man who has done the natural thing, and thinks no more about it.

The Gaul begged my pardon, but added that no other man should have his sword. I bore up under this news (the weapon was about three feet long) and took a Greek one. As I walked off to acting distance, it came to me that I had never handled a real sword before. With its greasy handgrip, old blood in the crevice of the tang, hacked blade and razor-bright edge, it was quite unlike a stage prop.

Needless to say, I gave them Polymachos’ version of the death, known to all actors as the Barnstormer’s Delight. Besides being just their mark, it has that passage where Ajax calls the gods to witness his wounds, and so on, endured in the cause of the Greeks, because of whose ingratitude he is going to run himself through. The soldiers all looked like veterans; the Roman was fairly seamed with war scars. It was, without doubt, the most shameful performance of my life—I dared not look at Thettalos—but I could not complain of the house. They twice stopped the speech with cheering. At the end, since there was nowhere to go off, I had to kill myself on stage; which, having been brought up in the decencies of the theater, I had no notion how to do. I contrived it by turning my back, fearing to the last that I would slice a finger off. As I lay in the dust, loudly acclaimed, I felt myself being lifted in enormous hands. The Gaul thought I had really done it.

I was now everyone’s darling. Returning the sword with thanks, and plied with wine, I said they must be guarding some man of high rank, no doubt, to be posted here all night—a love visit, maybe?

This brought me more than I bargained for. It is a kind of wit I can do without. Athenians, used to the good-natured phallic humor we all enjoy at the Lenaia, have no notion how nasty such jokes can be when cruelty informs them. I kept thinking that these were just five men out of thousands in Syracuse alone, all much the same. They were some time accounting for Plato’s attachment to Dion’s cause, going on to add that it was a pity when they caught him he would have to be finished off quickly, before his rich friends got wind of it. They recounted, like men who sigh for the good old days, how he might have been dealt with in the old Archon’s reign. There had been that Phyton, the general who had wasted everyone’s time by holding out for months at the siege of Rhegium, till everyone inside was skin and bone, the women not worth having nor the men worth selling. Phyton had been hung all day from the top of a siege tower, where the news was shouted up to him that they had just drowned his son. This he took as good news, which spoiled the joke; but when he was taken down, they whipped him through the streets, where each man could suit his fancy. At this the Roman, who had not said much till now, remarked that he had been there, and had seen no sport in it; the man was a good soldier, and bore it, one could only say, as if he had been a Roman. He himself and his mates had decided to put a stop to it by rushing the punishment squad and getting Phyton away. But they had done too much shouting first, so the squad had settled the matter by throwing him in the sea to find his son. There was some argument about this; but the Roman remained obstinate.

The Gaul, who had been getting a speech ready for some time in what Greek he knew, now said he had once seen Plato with his own eyes. It seemed none of the rest had done palace duty. Pressed to tell more, he brooded awhile, and said, “He looked like an Arch-Druid.” The Roman, interpreting, said Druids were a kind of holy warlock among the Gauls; they could call thunder, lightning, mist and wind, wither men away with a curse, and fly at will through the air. The Gaul confirmed all this, and began to look askance at the wall which hid such a person. One of the Greeks, however, pointed out that if Plato could fly through the air at will, by now he would be doing it.

“Sooner or later,” another said, “he’ll come out upon his feet. We’re staying till the midnight watch; then five more of the lads are coming.”

I looked at Thettalos, as if I had just made up my mind to something, as indeed I had. “Do you know,” I said, “what I think?”

“No?” he answered, on cue.

“We’ve had a pleasant party. What harm have these lads ever done us, that we should go off without telling them the truth?”

“You’re right,” said Thettalos. “Just what I was thinking myself. You tell them, Niko.”

They all leaned forward. “In my calling,” I said, “one hears things. But if it ever gets known that I was the man you had it from …” I shuddered. They vowed discretion, slicing their hands across their throats. “Very well, then,” I said, playing up the suspense, “I’ll take the risk. I don’t like to see brave men made cat’s-paws of by those they’ve spilled their blood for.”

I now had a breathless audience. All this last week, the army must have been seething with rumor. I went on, “I’ve had it from someone whose name, by the gods, I dare not tell you, that Plato’s lodged where he is to tempt you men into doing just what you plan to do. I was even told, though I don’t know the rights of it, that he never advised the pay cut; it was put about to set you on. From what I heard, they want him out of the way on account of Herakleides, but no one wants to answer for the deed. So, if it’s done for them, to prove how clean their own hands are they’ll make an example of the killers, beside which Phyton’s end will look like a pleasure party. I don’t know; I’m a stranger here. But when you men struck out for your rights the other day, you seemed to think the wrong man was put up then to be shot at. Well, that’s all I heard. We’ve drunk together; so I give it you for what it’s worth.”

There followed a gabble of which I understood about one word in three. They discussed it in the idiom of Ortygia, the mixed argot of the foreign troops, thick with the terms of their trade. It seemed I had made sense to them. Indeed, when I thought about it, it made sense even to me. It would be just Dionysios’ style.

I had spoken vaguely of Herakleides, not knowing if they favored him. It seemed they did; so I said it was known all over the inner citadel that Plato had quarreled with the Archon on his behalf. I did not say I had witnessed it, which would have made them sure I must be lying.

Presently the Greeks named some friends they thought should hear of this, and got up, followed by the Roman. The Gaul, however, had rolled into the shelter of the wall, with his cloak about him. When called, to my dismay he stayed where he was; he must have decided to watch alone. I could have cried with vexation, after all that work. Then the Roman went and pulled his arm. He turned on his back, and gave a great snore like a boar’s grunting. He was dead drunk. The others shrugged, and went off.

We walked the other way till they had turned the corner. We could still hear them going off down the alleys. “And now,” said Thettalos, “how are we going to get in?”

“I shall be surprised, with things as they are, if no one is watching this gate inside.”

I tapped. There was no answer, but I could hear breathing. I announced my name, adding that we were friends of Speusippos, sent to bring him news of Plato. A stealthy voice was heard, asking me to repeat my name. I did so. It said, “Can you prove who you are, sir?”

“By the dog!” I answered. “Didn’t you hear me outside just now? I made noise enough.” Thettalos started laughing. I said with what restraint I could, “Fetch your master Archidemos, and I will recite him some Euripides if he insists. But hurry, in the name of Zeus. There may be more soldiers coming soon.”

There was an iron-barred squint in the gate; a different eye appeared in it. The fire still gave some light. I heard the bolts being drawn. Archidemos was there beside his porter. He was an elderly man, tall, rather severe (perhaps just from hiding his fear), with the plain good dress of these rich Pythagoreans, and a family look of Dion. He apologized for our being kept outside; the gate was double-barred again. We declined refreshment, pleading our haste, and paused only for a slave to wash our feet, which were filthy, before going in to Plato.

He was sitting at a table, with a writing stand in front of him, working on the wax. I remember noticing he had just rubbed out about half a frame; but the fact that he was trying to work at all showed the man was a professional.

He knew me at once; so I wondered, while I was presenting Thettalos, why his face showed so much dread, till he asked after Speusippos. Then it came to me that when he had failed to pay his daily visit, they had all supposed him murdered. I said he was well, and warned Plato of the danger he was in himself.

He heard me without much change of countenance, his face just setting a little more into its lines. “Thank you,” he said when I had done, “for confirming a warning I had yesterday. Some seamen came here, for no reason but that they were fellow Athenians, and, like sailors everywhere, democrats to whom an autarchy is odious. They had heard some tavern talk among the mercenaries, and advised me not to go out. But this guard, I believe, is new. It seems I have God to thank that Speusippos was turned away.”

“Sir,” I said, “we’ve rid you of the men out there, or so I hope, at least till midnight. I’ve been thinking that since actors move about more easily than most men, and with luck one can always appeal to the Delphic Edict, it might be worth your while to take the risk of coming with us now, before things get worse. I don’t suppose any of the gatehouse guards would know you by sight.” I added, with apology, “I’m afraid, sir, we are supposed to have been to a party, and we would all have to go back as if that were true.”

Before the words were even out of my mouth I knew it was no use; but I had never thought he would be amused. I could see his courtesy holding it in. “My dear Nikeratos, you speak like a true friend and fellow citizen; also a brave man. I am not less grateful to you both than if I had taken your offer, and owed you my life; pray believe this. But as you see, I am an old man, set in my ways, and without the skill for which you are so widely honored. I don’t think I could sustain the role of an old Pappasilenos, reeling home in a vine-wreath, before so shrewd an audience. I should be unmasked before long, and either end my life in a way not much to the credit of philosophy, or survive to delight the comic poets, and make my friends, both here and in Athens, ashamed to go out of doors. That would be a certain gain for tyranny; my death here, perhaps not.”

He had been looking at me; now his glance was caught by Thettalos, who all this while had been sitting, perfectly still, on a cross-legged stool with a woolen cushion, himself forgotten, all ears and eyes.

As I’ve said, he had never been a pretty boy; nor was he now what people today call handsome. He had the northern face, with strong cheekbones; his nose and chin were too boldly carved to please a modern sculptor. Yet if I could tolerate the notion of any actor playing without a mask, it would be Thettalos. I suppose by now I was in danger of getting used to him. Now, seeing through another’s eyes, I thought, That is beauty.

You could not say Plato’s face softened; it was more like a lamp touched by the taper, as he turned that way. I felt power flow out, and that charm which, as Dion said, had made and undone his cause.

“Does my choice surprise you? No, I see that you have understood. I must have been about your age, or a little more, when an old friend of mine in Athens was accused of changing the gods’ worship, and corrupting the minds of us young men. He was put on trial for his life, the best man, I may say, whom I ever knew. We—all his friends—were present, in the hope of doing something for him.”

Thettalos listened with deep attention; I who knew him could see him taking part of the sense from the voice, and storing it away.

“I had hoped to be called in evidence for the defense, since my witness was relevant to the charge; or at least, if we could not get remission, to have the sentence commuted to a fine. But he would not appeal for this. When he saw it meant disowning the truth he lived by, he replied in words something like these: ‘It would be strange, Athenians, if I who stood my ground in the line of battle, facing death at my commander’s order, should desert the station where God posted me, from fear of death, or any fear. For what death is, we do not know; and no man can tell whether this which is feared as the greatest evil, may not really be the greatest good. But injustice, and disobedience to our betters, of whom God is best of all: these I know to be dishonor. So, if you say to me, This time we will let you go, on one condition, that you do not ask such questions any more, then I shall answer, Men of Athens, I honor you and love you. But I shall obey God, rather than you.’”

He must have seen me move, for he turned to me, saying, “You have heard these words?”

“Yes,” I said, seeing Dion’s face above the broken wine cup. “Yes, indeed.”

He spoke some while with Thettalos, who told me after that he would remember it all his life. He was amazed my mind could have wandered; but it had concerns of its own. Soon I remembered that time was passing; whether with Plato or without him, we must be away. As I waited for a chance to say this, I recall Thettalos saying (for he had talked as well as listened), “And yet, sir, men’s souls put me in mind of scattered seeds, which may fall in cracks of the earth, or at a stream’s edge, or where a stone rolls over them, so that each has to find its own path to the light and rain. Can one seed know it for another?”

Plato cast a look of longing at him, not for his body, though he had found that pleasing, but because he had to let him go with their dialogue scarcely begun. “You are standing,” he said, “at the very threshold of philosophy. What do we know, and what only guess? We know that without sun the shoot will not grow green, and without water it will die, just as we know that numbers cannot lie to us, but have the constancy of God. These things we can prove. Where proof ends, knowledge ends. Beyond, we must test each step, learning never to love opinion more than truth; never forgetting that men see as much truth as their souls are fit to see; always, till we pass through death and go forth to know ourselves, ready to go back to the start and look at all our premises, and begin again.”

I said it was time to be on our way, and asked if there were not some service we could do him. “Indeed there is,” he said. “You can tell Speusippos how I am placed, and ask him to send word to Archytas at Tarentum, or go himself if he can. Dionysios guaranteed my safety to Archytas, who can therefore ask formally for my release. If that is refused, Dionysios will have to answer for me to Archytas or anyone else whom it may concern—even to himself, a thing which in his case should never be overlooked. If you will do this, I and my friends will be much beholden to you.”

The back-door guard was still absent. On the way to the gatehouses, we picked up some draggled wreaths shed by homebound revelers, and put them on. We were let through, in return for a good account of the party at each gate. When we were past the last and had turned the corner, Thettalos stopped, threw his wreath in the gutter, and dragged the back of his hand across his brows.

“Well,” I said to him, “some of them wanted to rescue Phyton. I shall sleep better tonight for knowing that.”

“Niko, take those filthy twigs off your head, you don’t know what you look like.” He removed my wreath, and stroked down my hair with his hand. “Well, you have won, you monster; I shall have to reconsider Thersites.”

He was a great success. Whether the troops would have recognized themselves I am not sure, but the audience left them in no doubt. Chairemon, terribly put out, said it would have been as much as any judge’s life was worth to give the play a prize; and we thought it better to leave the city before dawn next day.

While finishing our tour in other towns, we heard three pieces of news. The first was that Herakleides had kept ahead of Dionysios’ search party and crossed the border into the Carthaginian province, to take ship for Italy; the second, that a state galley had come from Tarentum to ask for Plato, and that the Archon had let him sail. The third was that Dionysios had declared he could endure no longer to have his sister Arete joined in marriage to an exiled traitor who was his open enemy. Without her consent, in his authority as heirophant, he had pronounced her divorce from Dion, and had given her hand to a certain Timokrates, his favorite drinking companion.