Why do men do such things? Maybe, like dogs, they hate each other’s smell and ask no reason. Lasos had lost nothing much through Onomakritos—in the end his dithyramb had been put on another day—his place at court and his stipend had never been threatened. He had lost some face, which certain men feel more than others. Or, it may be he was just possessed with a love of truth.
Came at last the long-awaited morning. Onomakritos kindled his lamp, and brought forth his own new copy of the Mousaios oracles. He did not unroll the old one. He took a wax tablet from his breast, and began to copy from that.
It was Lasos’ moment. He sprang from his ambush, dislodging a heap of shields which crashed down with a noise like thunder. While Onomakritos sprang up open-mouthed, thinking no doubt that it was an earthquake, Lasos snatched the scroll from his nerveless hand, grabbed up the tablet, and ran straight to Hippias’ house.
The Archon rose early for his devotions. He had just poured the libation when Lasos came rushing up. The ink was still wet on the scroll, indeed had smudged in the scramble; and the wax of the tablet was soft and fresh.
I had thought Hippias a much milder man than his father. I had been wrong. Pisistratos’ hardness was a kind of tool, like a craftsman’s hammer. He used it when the work required, skillfully, and then he put it away. With Hippias, it was a thing you came upon; and so, I think, did the man himself. No Pisistratid ever took kindly to being made a fool of. Lasos told me later that when, for a moment, he wondered if he could have been wrong, it brought him out in a cold sweat.
What proved his case was simply his being alone. No injured seer had come after him to accuse him of impiety. Hippias sent for his brother; they scanned the scroll; went to the sanctuary, untenanted but for an acolyte clearing up the mess (unless you count the goddess, who one assumes had witnessed everything); compared the ancient writing with the new. A messenger, sent to Onomakritos’ house, found him already packing.
Lasos was present when he was brought before the Archons. All he could find to say in his own defense was that these visions had come to him, sent him by some god; and that he wished them to be read by men to come. He was told to be over the Attic border by nightfall; an order he obeyed so fast that he never bade me goodbye.
Lasos came to me to report his triumph; and I asked him what oracle the man had been forging, when he was caught. A prophecy, Lasos said, that the islands off Lemnos would one day sink into the sea.
“What madness,” I said, “to lose a good living for. I’ve sailed by Lemnos, and those islets hardly serve for fishermen to put in overnight. I doubt more than a couple have water. What possessed the man?”
“I can tell you that. He was possessed with a belief that these things would really happen.”
“You mean he really took himself for a prophet?”
“I believe so, now.” He sat back in my guest-chair, quite limp. I called my boy to bring him a cup of wine. He had had his moment; now the flame had sunk in him, leaving him chilled. “Yes, I think that he really thought so. I never saw a man more earnest. He could have fudged up some story; but he never tried. He said he had sought no glory for himself; he’d been content to give Mousaios all the credit; he only wanted his predictions kept safe.”
The wine was good, but he swallowed it down untasted. “He was mad, of course. Not fit to be in charge of anything sacred. What could I do but say so? … Do you know, Simonides, I wish I’d let it alone. I wish I’d never found out.”
Perhaps he wished wisely. I shall never know. While I knew Onomakritos, I never found him base. His songs have lived; even some he made in Persian-held Ionia, when he’d sold himself to the Great King. In the end, he had sold everything: his new master, his old one, and any gift the gods had given him. All to buy him a recall to Athens, though she were enslaved. I wonder what happened to him after Salamis, that false prophet of Xerxes’ victory. And I ask myself even now: if he had stayed in Athens undiscovered, among his forged scrolls, would he have grown so base?
But there, he was mad. I suppose one day we would have found him raving. After all, he never foretold the fate of Samos.
7
I WAS IN KEOS, visiting Philomache for the naming of her third boy. She had borne her second son four or five years before, delighting the heart of the old grandfather Bacchylides, after whom of course he had been named. I had heard great tales of the celebrations, but had had to miss them for the Olympic Games. She had let me know that this was preferring the lesser to the greater. I was resolved not to fail twice.
I found a big baby with red hair and a carrying yell; built on Bacchylides’ pattern, I daresay. Indeed, when I got there, the ancient victor had him naked in his lap, jogging him and admiring his sturdy limbs. “Big babes, tall men,” he said. The infant kicked agreement, and made a puddle in his robe.
The dark elder son stood by, watching in silence. It was clear by now that he would never make the weight for the pankration. Even so, he had been, all his life, the wished-for heir, spoiled by his sisters, sole lord of his small estate. Though his parents were too kind to blow cold towards him, no one had much time for him just then. His throne had passed to another, and he saw it.
I admired the new tyrant, spoke good-luck words and offered gifts. But I was glad that when shopping I had remembered the fallen ruler. I had brought him a little flute, stopped for the Lokrian mode. It was ivory with a gold band; it’s never too soon to learn that music is precious. I saw his parents look sideways; some people think the aulos is no instrument for a gentleman. But he was too young for the lyre, and when he was only three I’d seen him beating time to songs. At all events, he was enraptured, tooted diligently, and was puzzled that he made no music. I took him outside and showed him how to finger it, and in no time he was picking out a tune. After that, he hardly glanced at the usurper’s court.
One thing clouded the feast: Theas had not come. He knew when the birth was due, had sworn to be at the naming, and had a short run to make, no further than from Samos. The sea was calm; but sudden squalls come down from the heights of Mykale, that can wreck a squadron when ships a mile off can barely fill their sails.
However, his ship was descried not long after the naming; and he rode up on a hired mule a little before sunset, when the feasting was still lively. Keos has laws against costly naming-feasts, as against all other extravagance; but Kean wine, if not up to Chian or Lesbian, is very drinkable, and at least there is no law telling guests when to go home.
As always, he appeared like some god of plenty, leading a pack-ass laden with spices and Samian wine, a lapis necklace for Philomache, and a handful of gold luck-charms to hang upon the child. After he had embraced us all and asked us how we did and praised the baby, he said, “Forgive me for being late. I waited in Samos till I was sure of the news. Well, it’s true. Polykrates is dead. Murdered in Sardis.”
There was a moment’s dead hush, then a clamor of questions. Most seamen are good at news-telling, from being so often first with it. Theas took a swallow from his wine-cup, and pitched his voice to carry. “He was lured over the strait by Oroites, the Satrap there, who wanted to buy Kambyses’ favor. He sent word over to Samos that Kambyses wanted him dead, and he planned to fly. Well, after all that madman’s killings, it sounded likely enough. So, would Polykrates take him in, if he brought all his wealth along? He had gold enough to make Samos master of the seas, just like old Minos’ Crete. If Polykrates would come across the strait and swear a peace with him, he could see the gold for himself.”