The Mask of Apollo: A Novel

23

I WAS BUSY THAT YEAR. I CAME BACK TO HEAR what everyone else had been doing while I was out of the way. Thettalos, as he confessed, had had an affair with a youth in Corinth. Nonetheless we met again with joy, forgave each other, and talked two days without stopping. It is always so when we’ve been apart, and time does not change it.

Rumor had it that I had been on secret missions in Sicily, to keep me there so long. I held my peace and was praised for discretion. While I was away, Thettalos had been put on the protagonists’ list, and at the Dionysia for the first time we were in rival plays, he as Troilos, I as Ulysses. Each knew he would do his best and there would be no repining; we had outgrown such follies. I won, on a divided vote; his turn would be soon. At the feast, we got so taken up with talking about technique (he could at last direct, and it had been a striking production) that our friends had to drag us apart. I had nearly forgotten whose the party was.

We decided to tour as partners for a while, and went to Ephesos. Once every few years it is a joy to tour with Thettalos; after that, one needs a year or two to get one’s breath. Between his work and his escapades, the days are full and there is not much left of the nights. In his art he pleases himself; in his adventures he always asks my advice, and is as grateful as if he took it.

Here and there we heard news of Sicily: that Dion was still in power; that Dionysios had not tried to return, though much detested in Lokri for his beastly drunkenness and debauching of the local girls. Both armies still served in Syracuse; Dion had packed off Nypsios’ men but kept the rest. The city had never been so well defended since old Dionysios’ day. Dion himself still lived by Pythagoras’ chaste and simple rule.

I heard no more than this; perhaps because I did not ask. The play was over. The hero lives on in honor; the audience knows it; but the theater is empty, and the sweepers have moved in. It is the time for memory.

Returning by way of Delos, we stayed for the feast of Apollo, and put on The Hyperboreans, the setting of which is the island. It was during rehearsals, on one of those dazzling, scorching Delian days, that walking on the Lion Terrace by the lake to get the breeze, we met Chairemon the poet. He had taken care never to go back to Syracuse since he had been Dionysios’ guest, but having spent a whole month there at that time, was reckoned an authority on its affairs. We now heard once more the tale of his adventures, which everyone in Athens knew by heart, except for the touching-up added each time to prove his hatred of tyranny. At the end he said, “Unhappy people! Ever since their cruelty to Nikias’ men in our fathers’ day, they seem under a curse.”

“But now,” I said, “the Erinyes have relented.”

“Do tell us,” said Thettalos, breaking in, “is your new play ready?”

Chairemon never liked being interrupted, even with flattery. He turned back to me. “That we wait to see. It seems that, but for the palace orgies, everything goes on much the same.”

“Come,” I said, “they are living now under law.”

“There is a constitutional council sitting. One can’t expect a statute book overnight, of course. Meantime, military government still continues.”

“That could hardly be helped. Well, the people no longer have to pay for Dionysios’ parties.”

“Taxes are still heavy, I hear. There are the troops to be maintained. They have nothing to complain of—strict discipline, but looked after—none of young Dionysios’ meanness. And then, of course, all who helped Dion to power have been treated well. He was always generous, even in exile; but it’s grown beyond what anyone could meet from a private purse. Well, he’s supreme commander, he can do what he chooses. No one accuses him of spending on himself.”

“Herakleides has really kept those vows, then?”

“Herakleides!” He looked surprised, and pleased to be better informed. “He can’t choose, where he is now.”

“Niko,” said Thettalos, “the flute-player will be there waiting. You wanted that bit of recitative gone over.”

“What!” I cried, “Herakleides dead? A blessing to everyone. The gods owed Dion that.”

Chairemon lifted his brows. “The gods help him who helps himself. In that sense, you may be right.”

“Very true,” said Thettalos. “You will have to excuse us, Chairemon. We—”

“No,” I said. “Wait. Chairemon—how did he die?”

“He was stabbed to death in his house, by some gentlemen of ancient lineage who had been waiting a year for leave to do it. This was withheld, till he moved at Assembly that Ortygia be dismantled and its walls pulled down, as a den of tyranny fortified against the people. They, it seems, had expected this from the time it was surrendered; and Herakleides was getting increased support. It was thought unwise to try him publicly … Appalling, dreadful. But that is Sicily. One has ceased to expect Greek ethics there. One might as well be in Macedon.”

Thettalos, who had been drawing me off, stood quiet, with his hand on my arm. It is a mistake to think, as some people do, that he has no discretion.

“My dear Chairemon!” I said. “The deed doesn’t surprise me; but I’ll believe that Dion gave it countenance when I see water run uphill.”

“I assure you, I had it from Damon the banker, who was there on business, a very sober man. Dion as good as owned to it in the funeral oration, but said it was necessary for the sake of the city.”

“What funeral oration?” I heard my own voice, sounding stupid. “Who spoke it?”

“Dion, as I said. He gave him a state funeral, because of his past services, and made the speech himself … You are feeling the heat, Nikeratos. This is the fiercest sun in Greece. Let’s go under the stoa.”

“We must get on,” said Thettalos, shoving me. “A rehearsal call.” Chairemon said he would walk with us to the theater. The streets were hotter than the terrace. Thettalos walked in the middle, to give me quiet. I heard Chairemon say to him, “I daresay this self-sufficiency has grown on Dion since his son died. He has no other.”

I woke from my daze. “Has he lost his son?”

“Say rather he never regained him. He had acquired all the tastes of his uncle, and did not like correction. It must have been a trial to Dion, both as a father and a public man. They say he was somewhat severe. One can’t believe all one hears; it may not be true the boy threw himself off his father’s roof. Very likely he was drunk, and stumbled.”

The skeneroom seemed dark after the brilliant light outside. Thettalos had packed off Chairemon at the door. “My dear,” he said, “I wish I’d told you in Samos. But it was the night before the performance when I heard; there was no sense in upsetting you; and then I kept thinking some better news would overtake it.”

“He did it for the city,” I said. “Or so he saw it. How he must have suffered! But the oration, the state funeral … Who could conceive such a thing?”

Thettalos said in his lovely voice, “The god for his presumption struck him down, But then, relenting, raised him to the stars. That’s how I think he conceived it. Come, Niko, let’s work, or you’ll get no sleep tonight.”

I had been back in Athens some weeks when I heard from Speusippos, asking me to see him at the Academy.

I had been keeping away, mostly because Axiothea was still so shy of me. The memory of our Dionysia confused her, and brought back too much else of that night. The look into the temple had been more than her soul could bear, and she had thrown herself into philosophy, trying to understand why the gods allowed it. She said it was better than the peace of ignorance, and no doubt she knew best. But it was a good while after this before we had our old ease together. Meantime, after having made sure I had not got her with child, I did not intrude. Lately, too, I had been afraid of hearing any more news from Syracuse. This summons disturbed me, for Speusippos did not entertain at the Academy, and there was only one sort of business in which I would be of use.

“Niko,” he said as soon as we were alone, “have you any engagements in Sicily?”

Once I would have answered yes, whether it was true or not. But I shook my head, and waited.

“Then,” he said, “I can only beg you, if you are my friend, if you love Dion, to make some pretext for going. None of us is expected there; a sudden visit would look strange, and might hasten the very thing we fear.” He picked up a letter from his table. Still I did not say that I would take it, but looked at him and waited. When he saw he would have to tell me more, he said, “Plato asked me to keep it as secret as I could. This man, you understand, has been at the Academy; never really one of ourselves, but the world doesn’t make such distinctions. The truth is, we have fears for Dion, even for his life. Not from known enemies, whom he can well deal with, but from a trusted friend.”

“Kallippos?”

“What?” he cried, almost jumping up in his chair. “You knew?”

“Only now. I should have known. He is a man in love with hatred. He has lost Dionysios; where else can he look? I saw it in his face, if I had only understood it.”

“We have heard from friends at Tarentum. Someone who had been sounded came to warn them. He said he had first warned Dion himself; but Dion would not believe him. Now you see what I ask of you, and why.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll go. Dion deserves that much of his fellow men.”

He looked at me with sadness; as I suppose I had looked at him. “You have heard, then. Try, Niko, to think of him as a man trapped not by any baseness in his soul, but by its magnanimity.”

“I do. It comes easily to an actor. Tragedy is full of it.”

“He is accused of prolonging his own authority. This I am sure is unjust. Plato and I have sent out a draft constitution, the best that the city as it is will bear; Corinth has sent advisers too. But where there’s justice, no one gets all he wants to everyone else’s loss. Such things take time to agree on; there has been faction and distrust; Herakleides left his legacy.

“What will Dion be, in the end?”

“A constitutional king.”

Even now the word sang in my ears like a great line in a play. I said, “Surely it was ordained by heaven.”

“A king under law. He will have no powers of punishment; those are vested in the judges. There will be a senate, and some form of consultation with the people, not yet determined.”

“That’s where it rubs?”

“How not? Don’t tell anyone in Syracuse, except Dion, that you come from us—for your own sake, as well as his.”

“I will take good care. I have known Kallippos a long time.”

“There is a great freight of human good,” he said, “almost safe in harbor. You may yet save it for the world, Niko. Go with God.”

The year was turning mildly. The ship labored through calm seas under oars. At evening the sky was pale red above a pale blue horizon; the ruddy hair of the Thracian rowers smoldered like embers. Their chantyman sang endlessly, an air like a breaking wave, mounting in a wail, crashing with the oar stroke. We were three days late at Syracuse, but I lost the sense of passing time in the space and quiet of the sea. At night I would look at the low stars turning, not knowing if I fell asleep late or soon. For the first time since boyhood, I had no wish to end the voyage.

Syracuse had been cleared of rubble and almost rebuilt. Everything seemed quiet. The same thin-legged, swag-bellied children were scavenging among the pi-dogs. Now, though, when a carriage passed they would sometimes chuck a stone after it. They would not have dared before.

I went to the theater tavern, to account for my presence with the story I had prepared: I had been told that now things were settled down here, the theater was not getting as much encouragement as it should. Athenian actors were concerned about it, and I had come to see, before any of us risked capital on the journey. I talked vaguely of looking out for talent. This brought the answers I needed. There were still plays at the greater festivals; but as the Commander never went, those who liked to stand well with him also stayed away. In Athens, choregos duties are a tax levy on rich men; in Syracuse they had just done it for the glory, or to please the Archons. Some could afford it no longer; others would not, without hope of gaining by it. Theater was as good as dead, except that Kallippos the Athenian had lately sponsored The Offering Bearers, which had pleased the people and given a few artists work.

I thought it was just the play for him, all hate and vengeance. Then I was approached by a group of young actors, all eager to get out of Syracuse, and was busy till it was time to find an inn. My former one was still standing. They gave me the room that had been Axiothea’s.

I had refused evening invitations, meaning to be up early, and was going to bed when my host announced a visitor. It was Kallippos.

He was now a man of importance here; it would have been natural, if he wanted to see me, to invite me to wait on him at his house. With some men, I should have thought this unassuming; with him I thought that he would take more care, if it were not near the time.

He was just as I had remembered him at home, when he came sniffing about backstage, except for a certain tautness which he was trying to hide. He asked after my career, and I thought as usual that he was waiting for me to relate some harm that had been done me, so that he could be angry, and that for having no grievance he liked me less. However, this time he did not much care; he was hurrying through the civilities. To help him on, I told him how sorry I was for the artists of Syracuse in their hard times. It was sad, I said, to think they had done better under a tyranny than now with enlightened rule.

At once he began to feel his way with me. It was the only time I have been approached with such a purpose, and I hope the last. It was like some suitor who disgusts one, starting to stroke one on the supper couch, beginning as if by chance. There however one can move aside, whereas I had to pretend to like it. He began with faint praise of Dion, going on to disappointment and faint excuses. I replied that all this confirmed what I’d heard; I did not say of whom. Then, casting off all disguise, he said it was certain Dion had brought war to the city only to take the tyranny for himself. “We of the Academy”—I could picture Speusippos white with anger—“have been most bitterly deceived.”

I said this was terrible news; that if he wished, I could see Speusippos in Athens and tell him; or would he like me to carry a letter? I was anxious to see if this frightened him; if it did, his plans might not be too far advanced.

“I should welcome it,” he said. “You, with your knowledge of Syracuse, would be believed. You have watched this man’s career; you have seen the tyrant within the egg tap on the shell and crack it, and start to look about for food. You have seen the beginning … are you staying with us long?”

He did not ask idly. I felt my hands grow cold and damp, for he had meant me to understand. His pale eyes waited. I knew, as if I saw through his clothes, that he had a knife on him, in case I showed he had said too much. Why did he think he could kill in the city and not answer for it? That told more than all.

I now had to act for my life; to seem well disposed without seeing his purpose. He wanted me to justify him to the Academy. If I seemed to consent, he would be encouraged. I could think of nothing a man like me could say to him which might persuade him to delay.

So I became full of my own affairs, which surprises no one in an actor. I told him about a play I had just read, how I would direct it unless I changed my mind, what Syracusan actors I might take on, consulting him about each. I told him I had meant to call on Dion on behalf of us artists, asking him for his patronage, but now could not make up my mind to it after what I’d heard; I must sleep on it and think again. He soon had enough of this, and got ready to go. To see him off smoothly, I commended his reviving that fine old play, The Offering Bearers. He paused at the door with a meaning smile. “It was a comfort, I think, to those who mourned for Herakleides. And it reminded them that the mourners for Agamemnon did more than weep.”

I scarcely closed my eyes all night. Knowing Dion always rose at dawn, I got up in the dark so as to lose no time. He had gone back, as I knew already, to his old house in Ortygia.

The gatehouses were still manned. The guards were civil, though, and only asked my business; one did not need a pass. No one had followed me there. I must have persuaded Kallippos he need not trouble.

Dion’s house looked the same as ever, well kept, simple and clean. This time no lively boy came peeping. I looked at the roof; on the side where the slope fell away, it was a long way down.

At the door the porter told me I had just missed the master. He had gone up to the palace, to start the business of the day.

In the porch, between the red lions of Samian marble, a sturdy Argive with polished armor saluted and took my name. He led me in, though I had no need of it. I knew the way so well my feet could have taken me by themselves.

The clothes racks were gone from the searching room. It was just an antechamber, with a few people waiting already, early though it was. I remembered the faces one had seen hereabouts in the old days: frightened, or insolent, or cunning; faces that watched each other, eager faces of flatterers. They were gone; but the new ones were not those of happy men. Worry, resentment, impatience, long-suffering duty, all these I saw. I did not see hope or dedication. I did not see a smile, or love.

However, I had not long to look; almost at once a clerk came out to say the Commander would see me. I went in, hearing angry mutters from those who had come first. The gilt bronze grille stood open. I entered the room I had not seen for a dozen years.

All the gaudy trimmings had gone. It was almost bare; there was only one bit of furniture that I remembered. Dionysios couldn’t take that off to Lokri; it would have sunk the ship. It stood in its place, on its bronze winged sphinxes, solid as a tomb, just where it had been when its first owner sat at it to write Hectors Ransom. Behind it, in a good plain chair of polished wood, was the master of Ortygia.

I would hardly have known him. His hair was almost white. He had never carried spare flesh, but his body had had the athlete’s hard smoothness. He was lean now; the loose skin on his arms dragged about his battle-scars. He might have been sixty; but he had shaved his beard, perhaps to try and look younger, as aging leaders must if they can. Between his strong cheekbones and the fine arched brow above, the skin of the eyelids looked brown and creased, with blue shadows under; the inner ends of his eyebrows were drawn together in a fixed frown he no longer seemed to feel. His dark eyes looked at me with a kind of hunger—for what? For old years, for some simple comfort of man to man, for a message of good tidings? I don’t know; he put the need aside, whatever it was, with an air of habit. He had been weak in sending for me first, and was angry with himself, but too just to turn it on me.

He stood up. I was from Athens, where citizens are not kept standing before seated men. It was the courtesy of a king to one who had been his host in exile. We were going, I suppose, through the formalities of greeting. I remember only his face. A king, I had said; he will be king at last; the gods ordained it. Well, now I looked on it; the name was nothing, here was the thing. Always, when I had pictured it, I had seen him as on that day in Delphi long ago, when he came into the skeneroom like the statue of a victor. I had seen his face like the antique masks of Apollo, which stamp on youth the wisdom and strength of manhood. Now I stood before a king—an old king weary of the burden, stained by the sins that power forces men’s hands to when they dare not lay it down, bearing their shame with his other cares in a stubborn fortitude, the familiar of loneliness, forgotten by hope.

The godlike mask was off; as with the lover of my boyhood, it was I who had put it on him for my own need. Who does not dream of clear water when the springs are brack? But I had only dreamed; he had tried to bring the dream to pass. Now he had all which if he had sunk his soul to evil could have made him glad. Old Dionysios had had it and died content. He suffered because he had loved the good, and still longed after it. And I thought, I too am marked with my trade. Next time I play Theseus in the Underworld, I shall remember him.

“Sir,” I said, “I’ve a letter here from Speusippos; may I beg you to read it soon? Since I came here myself, I’ve learned that the warning in it is true. The man it names has approached me. He is planning an armed revolt, which is almost ready. He intends your death.”

He heard me steadily, without change of color, nodded, and held out his hand for it. I think he would have asked me to sit while he read it, then remembered there was no other chair and went on standing himself. It was a fairly long letter, but he skimmed it quickly, looking for something; when he had found that, he laid it aside.

“It seems,” he said, “that Speusippos told you what he had heard. It was only Kallippos you were warned of? No one else?”

“Only him. I knew him in Athens. He took less care with me than I expect he did at the Academy. He is a dangerous man.”

“Subtle, let us say, and capable.” He smiled at me, the smile of a king to a simple fellow who means well. “Set your mind at rest, Nikeratos. If Kallippos is dangerous, it is only to my enemies. I shall give you a letter for Speusippos, if you will be good enough to carry it, which will reassure him.”

I was alarmed, rather than surprised by this. Men expect of others what they know of themselves, I thought. So I described to him all last night’s talk, leaving nothing out, even what might insult or wound him. The thing had gone beyond delicacy.

“Yes, yes.” He sounded indulgent. I could hardly believe my ears. “As I told you, he is a subtle man. For some time he has made it his business to test people in the city whose loyalty he feels doubt of. Of course he asked my leave; someone he tested might, as you and others have done, loyally report to me. I am sorry he so mistook you, Nikeratos. But now you understand and I hope are satisfied. Thank you nonetheless for your good will.”

I said something. I believe I even apologized. My whole body seemed one grief. All was gone—the bronze-hard honor, the pride of Achilles, pure as fire. There was just an old king, fallen to the sad needs of sick power, who had learned to use a man like Kallippos as a spy.

I said whatever I said, and waited for leave to go. Yet he kept me back, asking things about Athens, with that hunger in his face again. I had never known him to talk for the sake of talking. He was alone, and would always be; perhaps even the memory of other days was something.

“You may assure Speusippos,” he said, “that his fears are groundless. Even my own wife and mother were deceived, and I could not reassure them. Kallippos did so, however, by taking the holy oath of Demeter in the sacred grove. You must understand, Nikeratos, that Syracuse is not Athens.”

I thought of the road to Leontini and answered, “No.”

“These people are my charge. Fickle, foolish, cowardly, abject as they are, my forebears helped to make them so. I must save them in spite of themselves, and give them time to grow before the Carthaginians make them slaves forever. You do not know, Nikeratos, you who show kings and rulers at a simple crux of fate, the base means men require of those who would rescue them from their baseness. Do you know they have wanted me to pull down the monument of the elder Dionysios, the father of my wife, the man who for all his faults loved me more than his own son, for he trusted his life to me alone? Can they think I would buy their love so sordidly?”

“We must respect the dead,” I answered. “They are helpless, as one day we shall be.”

“Helpless?” he said, staring at me out of his sunken eyes. “You think so? You hold with Pythagoras that they sleep in Limbo, till they are brought before the Judges to choose their own expiation? You don’t believe in dead men’s vengeance, the stuff of all your tragedies?”

“I don’t know, sir,” I said. “All actors are superstitious. But I think I would rather leave it to the gods. They know more of the truth.”

“You are right,” he said. “That is the answer of philosophy … I had a strange dream yesterday, if one can say one dreams when one is waking. I was reading in my study, when my eye was caught by some movement. I looked up; at the end of the room was an old woman with a broom, sweeping the floor. No servant would do so in my presence; as I looked in surprise, she turned towards me. She had a face, Nikeratos, like the masks of the Furies in The Eumenides, more dreadful than I can describe. The mask was alive, with eyes like green-burning embers; and the snakes moved in her hair.”

I saw sweat on his brow. With almost any man I knew, I would have gone up and laid my arm across his shoulders; but of course I knew I could not. “Sir,” I said, “you have been spending yourself night and day for the city, without getting much thanks for it to ease your heart. You dozed, I expect, as you read, and dreamed of some fright in childhood. When those masks come on, I’ve heard of women miscarrying in the theater. In my opinion, no young child should see the play at all.”

He smiled, chiefly from pride, but I saw in it too a certain kindness. He was about to dismiss me. Suddenly—I suppose it was his words of ill omen—I was possessed by the thought that I should never see him more. Like a fool I exclaimed, “Sir—remember how happy you were at Athens. Everyone there honors your name. Why don’t you come back to the Academy? Think what joy it would give to Plato.”

He drew himself up, if that was possible for a man who still held himself straight as a spear. His brows lifted; for a moment in the old worn face I saw the imperious youth I had glimpsed at Delphi. “To Plato? To come running like a coward, with nothing achieved save to have changed tyranny for chaos—back to Plato, who three times risked his life here for my cause and me? I had rather have died unborn, than return from battle a man who threw away his shield.”

“You speak like Dion, and I see it must be so. Forgive me, sir; but since Kallippos thinks you are in danger, don’t people see you too easily? I had not much trouble in getting in—not like the old days.”

“The old days?” he said. “I hope not, or why am I here? Better death before this day’s sunset, than such a life.”

He said a few words more, promising me the letter for Speusippos if I would come back tomorrow, then wished me goodbye. I went away thinking, Well, then, after all I am sure of seeing him again.

I went about the town, saw one or two friends, and was told that a certain young actor, who I had been told had promise, had been seeking me. It seemed a pity not to see him, so in the evening I went to the theater wineshop.

Through lack of custom, they were still serving all kinds of people; it was not the pleasant place it used to be. The long table at the bottom end was full of soldiers, young Greeks with their heads together, talking quietly. They looked strong young louts; when such men are quiet, one always suspects mischief. Just as I had been served my wine, a man got up from among them and went out. I recognized Kallippos. If the wretched fellows had been foolish, then, they would soon be sorry.

They went on talking in a huddle; they were in street dress, without their arms, so I supposed could not be up to much harm just now; yet they were neighbors I did not like, and I decided I would wait no longer. I had almost stood up, when a man of about fifty, who had been sitting alone in a corner, crossed to my table. “Nikeratos,” he said, “I have been making up my mind whether to greet you, or if you would remember me after so long.”

He had a kind, gentle, failed-looking face, which must once have been handsome. I could not recall if we had met, but liking the look of him, I murmured something. He went on, “No, of course you could not; you were just a boy, walking on in your father’s plays. But I would have known you anywhere … Once, long ago, we met to read The Myrmidons.”

“Ariston!” I said, and grasped his hands. It was like meeting a stranger; I had forgotten our love like a dream; but all through these years I had cherished gratitude. It was his kindness I had remembered.

He told me he had been touring each time I came before. I don’t think it was true; I think he had been out of work, and was afraid of seeming to trade upon the past. Never having heard his name in Syracuse, I had thought he must be dead; but it was just that he was not a very good actor. His robe was darned; he looked hungry, but had bought his own drink before he spoke to me. I suppose that now, when no one had work in the city, it had come easier.

I resolved at once that I would take care of him, get him to Athens, and find him something; but that must come later, for he was a man with self-respect. So we talked of the past, and so on, while at the long table the young soldiers muttered together, or laughed sharply like boys up to something bad which frightens them, but not enough to make them cry off.

Once I heard something, some phrase I can’t bring back, which caught at my mind, so that for a moment I tried to listen. I think it was, “He’ll have gone to his house,” which might have meant anyone in the city. I don’t know why I noticed it. Yet I did, and my attention wandered from Ariston, just long enough for him to feel it, and for me to know he did. This I could not bear. I was too well dressed to afford it. I would not have hurt him for the world. It is true, too, that I would not think of myself as such a man. To each his own shape of pride.

So I turned my mind to him, and talked, and listened, and got him to take a good meal with me; and before we had finished, the young Greeks left all together.

We parted, arranging to meet again (I knew better than to ask where he was living), and I walked towards my inn in the dying sunset. In the south night falls quickly; red turns to purple as you look. Whether it was this brooding light, or words heard and not heeded stirring in my head, or whether some new note reached me through the city’s noise, I cannot tell, but of a sudden my heart jumped, and I understood. I had heard the truth from Kallippos. It was to Dion he had lied.

I began to run through the streets towards Ortygia. People stared at me; I ran as a child does from some bugbear he knows that only he can see. As the fading day sank to a murk in the west like blood, I knew I was running from the knowledge in my soul that it was too late.

Already shouts came from Ortygia, passed along from gatehouse to gatehouse. On the palace roof stood a man with two torches, signaling his news against the darkening sky.

I did not run on, in the hope that my fears were folly, that the tumult had some other cause. I knew; and now fear was over, I did not even grieve. It was all that was left him, to die like a king in tragedy, treading upon purple to the axe behind the door. He was freed from his prison in Ortygia, in the only way he could be freed, before it closed on him forever. I had no need to be told he had died with courage, fighting like a soldier against them all. I hoped, for as long as it was possible to hope in vain, that he had not fought alone.

I had no wish to stay on in Syracuse and speak his epitaph. There was no one here to write it; that was for the old man in Athens, who had written it, I suppose, already in his heart. As for me, Kallippos would not take time to look for me, a vain actor with a head for nothing but his roles. I would sail with Ariston, who had been kind when kindness or cruelty had power to shape my soul, and see he did not die hungry, or alone. That, I thought, is as much as most men can hope to bring away from the march of history, when all is said.