by Mary Renault
“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.”
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.
I thought it was just the play for him, all hate and vengeance. Then I was approached by a group of young actors, all eager to get out of Syracuse, and was busy till it was time to find an inn. My former one was still standing. They gave me the room that had been Axiothea’s.
I had refused evening invitations, meaning to be up early, and was going to bed when my host announced a visitor. It was Kallippos.
He was now a man of importance here; it would have been natural, if he wanted to see me, to invite me to wait on him at his house. With some men, I should have thought this unassuming; with him I thought that he would take more care, if it were not near the time.
He was just as I had remembered him at home, when he came sniffing about backstage, except for a certain tautness which he was trying to hide. He asked after my career, and I thought as usual that he was waiting for me to relate some harm that had been done me, so that he could be angry, and that for having no grievance he liked me less. However, this time he did not much care; he was hurrying through the civilities. To help him on, I told him how sorry I was for the artists of Syracuse in their hard times. It was sad, I said, to think they had done better under a tyranny than now with enlightened rule.
At once he began to feel his way with me. It was the only time I have been approached with such a purpose, and I hope the last. It was like some suitor who disgusts one, starting to stroke one on the supper couch, beginning as if by chance. There however one can move aside, whereas I had to pretend to like it. He began with faint
praise of Dion, going on to disappointment and faint excuses. I replied that all this confirmed what I’d heard; I did not say of whom. Then, casting off all disguise, he said it was certain Dion had brought war to the city only to take the tyranny for himself. “We of the Academy”—I could picture Speusippos white with anger—“have been most bitterly deceived.”
I said this was terrible news; that if he wished, I could see Speusippos in Athens and tell him; or would he like me to carry a letter? I was anxious to see if this frightened him; if it did, his plans might not be too far advanced.
“I should welcome it,” he said. “You, with your knowledge of Syracuse, would be believed. You have watched this man’s career; you have seen the tyrant within the egg tap on the shell and crack it, and start to look about for food. You have seen the beginning … are you staying with us long?”
He did not ask idly. I felt my hands grow cold and damp, for he had meant me to understand. His pale eyes waited. I knew, as if I saw through his clothes, that he had a knife on him, in case I showed he had said too much. Why did he think he could kill in the city and not answer for it? That told more than all.
I now had to act for my life; to seem well disposed without seeing his purpose. He wanted me to justify him to the Academy. If I seemed to consent, he would be encouraged. I could think of nothing a man like me could say to him which might persuade him to delay.
