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.