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.
&nb
sp; “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, ha
d 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.