by Mary Renault
“What? But the Archon …”
“Every day it’s worse. How not, unless the man had really changed? Plato came here for Dion’s sake. That was the bait. Merely by taking it, he had Dionysios jealous even before he’d sailed. Every word he’s spoken for Dion has been oil on fire. Every friend of Dion’s he takes notice of is a mark against him. It can’t stretch much more without breaking. Each time I come here, I’m cold with fear of what I’ll find.”
I don’t know what he thought his own life would be worth with Plato gone. He did not speak of it, but strode on, a thin quick harassed man, towards Ortygia. I could hardly keep up.
We got over the causeway and through the gates without any trouble. The reason was simple. No guards were there. They had shut the big gates, but left the posterns open.
At the last of them, Speusippos said, as if we had been strolling from the Agora to the Academy, “Well, Niko, thanks for your company on the way.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “What do you take me for? Come on.”
He was in too much haste to argue, and, with the hill, soon out of breath. Nikeratos, I thought, you are too big a fool to live, and so you may find. At the same time, I am inquisitive; there is no sense in putting up with the hardships of travel unless one looks about.
We had got to the barrack quarter, the street, I think, of the Gauls. It was empty, no men off duty standing about, or dicing on doorsteps. The doors hung open. Soldiers have to be very overwrought to stop guarding their things from other soldiers. I was pointing this out to Speusippos, when we heard the yelling.
Someone up ahead had started a kind of paean. Never having heard any of these barbarians in action, I don’t know whose it was; in any case, all the rest took up their own, in a cacophony I can’t describe. Now and then some howl more piercing than the rest would catch the general ear, and they would come in on that with a wordless bellow all together.
I felt a weakness in my knees, like stagefright but worse. “They’re under the walls,” I said. “You can hear. The gates must be shut. No use going further.”
There was a soldier coming down the street. I was all for getting out of the way; so I think was Speusippos; then suddenly he started forward, exclaiming, “Herakleides!”
He was an officer, Sicilian Greek, dark and good-looking, with the dress and speech of a gentleman and an easy, pleasant way. He had been so wrapped up in his own concerns as he came that he had not seen us till he was almost on us; but he did not look scared or ashamed like a man running away and, as soon as he saw Speusippos, gave him an open steady look. Then he said, “I’m off duty.”
“In the name of the gods,” said Speusippos. “Listen.”
He lifted his brows. “What do you mean? I hear nothing.”
Speusippos drew breath to speak, then waited. Herakleides shrugged his shoulders. “Some of my best men are there. Men who got me off the field with a spearhead in me, when they might have left me to be cut and trimmed by the Carthaginians. I can’t stop them; I can only give them an order they won’t listen to, which won’t help discipline tomorrow, and take their names. No names, no floggings. In their place, I’d be there too.” He went off downhill. I remember thinking what a simple, decent fellow he was, and how his men must love him.
Up above, the yelling got louder. Across the top of the street, a troop of Nubians went by towards the palace. They were stamping as they went, and chanting in time with it; now and then they would give a whoop, and leap, tossing up their spears. I pulled Speusippos into a doorway. “Come home,” I said. “What can you do? Those walls there are ten feet thick; they’ll never get in.”
“Not,” he answered, “if the men inside want to keep them out.”
“It’s with the gods,” I said, for want of any other comfort. “Let’s be gone from here.”
He took a few steps with me, then stopped. “No. I’ll wait. If they can get in, then so can I.” No doubt my face was an open book. He pressed my shoulder. “My dear Niko, go back, you’ve come more than far enough. You’ve no call to stay; I have … He would have died with Sokrates, and I’ve had more of my life than he’d had then. If it’s his turn now, I can’t leave him to die alone.”
One part of me applauded this; the rest was angry with him for catching me up in his choice. I said, “No, I’ll come with you to the walls, to see what is going on. If you want to get yourself killed inside, that’s another thing.” And I turned up the street beside him.
Soon we got to the wide ring-road that circled the palace wall. We could hear the noise further along. As we walked that way, a squad of Romans ran past us shouting to each other. Presently we came to the great main gates, twenty feet high. There was a square before them; below, the Sacred Way cut down towards the causeway, lined with trees, statues and shrines. Filling the square were the soldiers. They had kept together more or less, Iberians with Iberians and so on; beyond this, they were a mob, and the most dangerous sort on earth, being both armed and used to violence. The one comfort was that, since the day was early, they were not drunk.
Now we were near, we could hear that they were shouting in their different uncouth accents, “Dionysios!” When no one came, they threw up stones at the gatehouse. The Nubians were the best shots. There was a sculptured frieze above; they were aiming at the gods’ heads, and had knocked half off already. To my surprise, the Gauls were absent.
There were cheers; all heads turned towards the Sacred Way. Here were the Gauls. Stripped naked for battle, with blue war paint flourished all over them, they were hauling up the slope a huge beam, I should think a keel from one of the naval yards. The crowd rushed to help; the beam came up the square as if on wings. They lined up each side, while some expert started a heaving chant. The gate was oak and iron, but I did not see it holding long.
They rammed it two or three times; the tongues of the hinges began to start. Speusippos watched in silence, no doubt composing himself with philosophy. The Gauls plodded back for another run-in.
A trumpet sounded above the gate. The yells died to muttering. The Gauls laid the ram down for a rest. A Greek voice called, “Dionysios!”
An old man in armor appeared on the gate tower. There was almost silence. It was Philistos.
He looked older than I remembered. His florid face had mottled, his eyes had sunk, his nose was sharper and bluer. At sight of him they growled, but listened. He might not be a loved commander; but he was there, standing in javelin-range. He had earned a hearing.
The upshot of his speech was that there had been a great misunderstanding. Ill-disposed persons had falsified the Archon’s orders. He had been shocked to learn of their grievance. Not only were veterans’ wages being maintained; they would be raised, from today.
There were cheers, of course, triumphant, but ironic. One could hear it in the voice of every race, though the note was different. Even with the Nubians, one could tell.
Philistos gazed down at them. He was a man I detested; but there was not much pleasure in watching an old general shoved out to give his troops this craven he. He did it, I must own, with what dignity it allowed.
He limped stiffly down to the stair rail. The Greek who had called before shouted again for Dionysios; this time it was an open jeer. But no one came.
The mob broke up, and went off in groups shouting and singing towards the wineshops, leaving the ram in the street. The Gauls shouldered past us either side, but noticed us no more than dogs. The morning was getting warm, and the sweat ran down their war paint. It did not blur; it must have been a kind of tattooing. They smelled like horses.
Speusippos and I were left in the empty square, by the ram with its frayed hammered nose. He did not have to die with Plato, nor I with him. I expected him to be looking as relieved as I. But he was standing with his mouth set in a hard, shrewd look that was new to me, gazing after the soldiers. He said, “Dion should know of this.”
Nothing surprised me much by now. I said, “Do you mean what I think?”
“I daresay,” he answered. Then: “I was talking to that girl last night. She was twelve years old when some scout of Philistos’ saw her and hauled her off from home to amuse Dionysios. Her father objected; he went to the quarries and was never seen again. Dionysios hadn’t even decency enough to have her sent home after. She was put out like a stray cat, picked up by some Iberians, and passed around the barracks. Her own story’s nothing to some she told me; but sharing a bed seems to bring it home. He can do anything he likes, to anyone, that one man alone. It’s hard for the mind to grasp it.”
He was right; when one is not bred to it, one doesn’t conceive it, it must be smelled and tasted. Like me, he was too young to remember it at home. For that matter, even the Thirty had at least to agree together. “One man,” he said again.
“If you call him that. I doubt the troops do, now.”
“What was it old Dionysios said on his deathbed, Niko? ‘A city in chains of adamant.’ The chains are rotting. Dion should know.”
16
THE SOLDIERS REJOICED ALL NIGHT, AT THE expense of anyone they found at hand; then they went back on duty, and the city breathed again. I was scolded by Menekrates for going to Ortygia, and by Thettalos for not having taken him with me. At the mention of Herakleides, our host looked so nervous that, remembering his past hints, I added two and two. Though it was hard to think of so frank a soldier conspiring, yet it was certain that the mutiny had tested the troops’ loyalty, and the Archon’s strength. I wondered if Speusippos guessed.
Two days later, all being still calm, I went to call on Chairemon the tragic poet, taking with me Thettalos, whose work he would certainly know. After asking around (just like a poet, he had forgotten to say where he was staying) we learned he was in Ortygia, as a palace guest.
“Good,” said Thettalos as we went. “This time you can’t leave me to bite my nails all morning, wondering if you’re lying dead in a gutter. Lead me to the tyrant’s lair.”
It was with no great delight that I approached Ortygia. If the gates were to be closed again, I had no fancy to be inside. However, I showed our passes for outer Ortygia (these were easily got from the Athenian embassy) and had them endorsed for the palace citadel by the captain of the guard.
I had expected slackness at the guardhouses, after yesterday, but not what met us everywhere—restlessness, rumor, suspicion. At the Iberian gate two men were quarreling. As the first blows were struck, an officer came up cursing; there was a dangerous moment before they obeyed. We went on, not envying him his employment, nor indeed much liking our own. “Never mind,” said Thettalos. “It’s all in the business. One must study how men behave. Something can happen anywhere—pirates in the islands, satrap wars in Ionia, and in Macedon they’re forever assassinating the king.”
Our one strict check was the last, into the palace citadel. In the park, we found the groves full of men running about, light-armed Cretans going like beaters through the coverts, calling to one another. Some of them stopped us, but passed us through without saying whom they wanted.
In due course we found our way to the second-class guesthouse where Chairemon had a room. All the other inmates—poets, envoys, minor philosophers and so on—were huddled in the courtyard muttering. When Chairemon recognized us they all ran up asking for news. “Of what?” I asked. “If you mean the mutiny, it seems to be over.” Someone said, “Then they’ve not caught him yet?” When I asked whom he meant, he said, “Herakleides.”
“I don’t think so. The place is full of men searching. Why, what has he done?”
Of a sudden, everyone became careful; Chairemon said one could not be sure, one merely heard he was being searched for; if we would come to his room, he had a play he would like to talk about.
When the door was shut, he wrung our hands and thanked the gods for the sound of Attic speech. I thought he would burst into tears. “Never again! I came with Karkinos; he’s been before, and persuaded me to accept—the works of art, banquets, music and so on. Never, never again! Not that I’m concerned in this, not at all.” He looked round at the door. “It’s knowing that anything can happen—really, anything. It’s the thought, just the thought of it.”
I answered, “Pythagoras said, ‘Accept in your mind that anything which can happen can happen to you.’” I had heard this aphorism at the Academy. He looked at me in appeal, as if I could make it otherwise. I saw Thettalos laughing to himself.
It seemed Herakleides had been accused of causing the mutiny, and had gone missing. His friends, including Plato, had been pleading for him, because he had belonged to Dion’s party; and had got a safe-conduct for him from the Archon, to prepare his affairs for exile. Then today, on news that he had been seen, troops had been sent out to catch him. It was now supposed that the safe-conduct had been a trick, to delay his getting away.
“Maybe,” I said. “Or Dionysios just changed his mind.”
“But, surely, Nikeratos, his honor …”
“There’s only one judge of honor, in Syracuse.”
Chairemon blinked. I said, “Never mind, there’s still the theater. If Troy hadn’t fallen, where would we be today?” His eyes reproached my frivolity, but he consented to talk business.
He had a choregos for his new play, Achilles Slays Thersites, and wanted us to do it for the festival. Although he would read it aloud (why do so few poets read well?) it was a good piece of work. It started with the Amazon Penthesilea arriving as a Trojan ally. She challenges the Greeks; Achilles, still mourning for Patroklos, is brought the tale of her victories. Now he has resumed his place as champion of the Greeks, it is for him to meet her. They hail each other, she on the walls and he below, to exchange defiance. Love at first sight. But they are equal in pride and standing; each values honor more than life; they must fight to the death. Achilles wins. He enters from battle walking by the bier on which they bring her breathing her last. There is a lovely speech in which he praises her valor to cheer her parting soul. She’s gone. He kneels and weeps for her, bowed upon the bier. Thersites the mocker, who has been longing to hear that the great Achilles has fallen at last by a woman’s hand, now has his say. What a mourner! he cries. You’ve only just done grieving for Patroklos; now it’s this Amazon, and both of them died through you. Achilles gets up; Thersites takes fright and runs; off stage sounds his deathcry as Achilles fells him with a blow. After a lively scene with Diomedes, who has to demand satisfaction for the blood because Thersites was his kinsman, Artemis appears to stop the fight and reconcile the heroes. Big choral procession, Penthesilea given to her Amazons for burial, to end the play. It is now well known in Athens, but this was its first performance.
Achilles is for the protagonist, but there is a great deal of fat for the second too. Penthesilea dying is a dummy; he can play both her and Thersites. Chairemon had had the script copied so that we could take it home; we walked off so full of it that we hardly noticed the Cretans still rummaging the boskage. Reading as we went, we missed our way, and found ourselves in a new part of the park, among houses which looked dangerously important. I pushed the script into my robe, saying, “We must go back the way we came.”
“By all means,” said Thettalos, “if you know which it is.”
There were three paths behind us, all much alike. Beyond a grove of pink oleanders one could glimpse the palace roofs. “We had better look through,” I said. “If I see which side we are on, I can steer by that.”
We pushed into the bushes. As I saw light, I also heard people talking, and stopped dead, gripping Thettalos’ arm. One of the voices was Dionysios’.
Thettalos, who read my eyes, stood soundless. It was not a time to be found where one had no business, creeping up on the Archon. I recalled Pythagoras’ saying, which I had quoted to Chairemon so lightly.
Thettalos had paled a little, but was already edging softly towards a gap in the leaves. One must study, as he said to me later, how men behave.
At first I could only hear Dionysios’ voice, eloquent with self-
pity. Now and again one of the men with him, some two or three, would say, “Yes, indeed,” or “Everyone can witness that,” or “How true!” They were coming towards us; as their words got clearer, fear that they might discover us made me deaf. They paused, however, as they naturally would on coming to a thicket, and I allowed myself to breathe. Dionysios was saying, “But no, a friend of Dion’s can’t do wrong for him. Anyone, a traitor who eats my salt and corrupts my soldiers, anyone before me.” He almost sobbed. He was half-drunk, but quite sincere.
Someone said, “Birds of a feather, sir. You have been too generous to his insolence. The truth is—forgive me for my plain speaking—you don’t value yourself enough. It feeds his pride.”
“When I think—” Dionysios was beginning; then he broke off. They were now walking away; I crept along to share Thettalos’ peephole. There was the Archon with his friends; and crossing the lawn to them came three men, the oldest leading. Thettalos, who was watching entranced, mouthed a name at me with questioning brows. I nodded.
The two younger men stood silent, in attitudes of formal grief. Plato came forward. His shoulders and heavy head were stooping more than I remembered; his beard, which had had some gray in it, was nearly all white, though there was black still in his brows. His eyepits had deepened; from their caves gazed his eyes, piercingly gray. I could almost see Dionysios’ gaze shifting, through the back of his head. However, encouraged no doubt by his admirers, he decided to put a face on it. “Yes, Plato?” he said. “What is it?”
“I am here,” said Plato, “at the instance of these friends of mine. They are afraid you may be taking some new action against Herakleides, in spite of the promise you made me yesterday. I believe he has been seen hereabouts.”
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.
