“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.