Timonides, whom I saw before I sailed, told me that as Dion reached the palace, his mother came out to meet him, leading his son by the hand. Behind them his wife, a woman with graying hair who must have seemed like a stranger, walked in tears. Since her second husband had fled before Dion, she had lived on in Ortygia, the wife of two men and of none. His mother, a noble old woman with the family’s fine bones, and little more of her left, led forth this poor soul by the hand, asking if Dion wished to receive her as his kinswoman, which she was by right of birth, or as his wife, which in her heart she had always been. Dion behaved superbly. If one were writing a play to show him at his best, one might contrive some such scene. He embraced and kissed her tenderly, committed the boy into her care, and had her led to his house with honor. Timonides, wiping his nose when he recalled it, said there was not a dry eye as far as you could look.
“How did young Hipparinos take it?”
“He looked frightened, and sullen. But he may simply have been overwhelmed by the occasion. He is only sixteen or so; plenty of time to correct his upbringing.”
“Of course,” I said. For the play must close here, with the victory procession, the wife restored, the hero at the height of honor, the chorus singing praises, the happy audience going home. I could sail back to Athens, the first with the good news. A long piece of my life, which sometimes had caught up my very soul, was ending in a paean of joy.
Next day, or the day after, I went to pay my respects to Dion, as everyone of consequence was doing. He saw us a dozen at a time; I had expected nothing else, so great was the press; my only wish was to wish him joy. He met us in a plain white robe, simple even for him. In the time of the factions, he had lost weight; but it just showed up the splendid bones of his face, now lit with his fulfillment. He was the savior of his people, had avenged his exile and his wife’s wrongs, conquered a base enemy without once sinking into baseness. He was Dion, and never had been less.
He singled me out for a greeting, saying he had given me short thanks on the Leontini road. His kindness touched me; he had forgiven me my calling, in the fullness of his heart. The plain room was brimmed with happiness and triumph, like a beautiful krater filled with wine.
Some close friends stood round, who would stay when the rest had gone: Timonides, longing, I expect, to be off and write up his history, and Kallippos of Athens, the tyrant-hater, who had long been Dion’s right-hand man. I wondered how he felt when he saw Ortygia empty. His pale eyes wandered, as if looking for something he had lost.
It was time to go. I took a last look at Dion, smiling among his friends, and there came into my mind the story of the old Olympic victor who saw both of his sons crowned in one year. “Die now!” the people cried to him, meaning that no moment of his life to come could equal this. I stood in the doorway, though my exit was already made, looking at his stern happy face, and a voice in my soul, which I could not silence, said, Die now, Dion. Die!
I brushed it from my mind—one must avoid words of ill omen—and went off to take my ship.
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.”