‘Please, please … may I – may I at least sing one last song? My threnody, my own funeral dirge. You owe me that, surely? The gods would punish you if you dared send me to my death without a cathartic obsequy of some kind …’
‘I’ll stop you spouting those bloody words,’ snarled the ugly sailor, drawing closer.
‘No, no,’ said the captain. ‘He does have a point. We’ll let our Cygnus sing his swan song. I suppose you’ll need this lyre.’ He fished the kithara from the chest and gave it to Arion who tuned it, closed his eyes and began to improvise. He dedicated the song to his father Poseidon.
‘Lord of the Oceans,’ he sang, ‘King of Tides, Earth Shaker, beloved father. Often have I neglected you in my prayers and sacrifices, but you, O great one, will not neglect your son. Lord of the Oceans, King of Tides, Earth Shaker, beloved –’
Without warning, clutching his kithara tightly to him, Arion leapt overboard and dropped into the waves. The last thing he heard was the laughter of the crew and the captain’s dry voice: ‘That was easy! Now for the spoils.’
If any of them had bothered to look down, a remarkable sight would have met their eyes. Arion had plunged below the surface and was fully intending to open his mouth and let the seawater in without a struggle. Someone had told him that drowning is a sweet and pleasant death, a slow passing into sleep, as long as you don’t fight it. Choking is a terrible panicky nightmare, but true drowning is a serene and painless release. So he had been told. Despite this comforting knowledge, Arion kept his mouth firmly clamped, and with bulging cheeks he kicked at the water, hugging his kithara.
And then, just as his lungs were ready to burst, something amazing happened. He felt himself being pushed upwards. Pushed hard and fast. He was surging through the water. He had broken the surface! He could breathe! What was going on? It must be a dream. The rush of the water, the bubbles and spray, the tilting, rocking horizon, the booming in his ears, the soaking, the roar and the dazzle – it all prevented him from understanding what was happening until he dared look down and through stinging eyes saw that … that … he was on the back of a dolphin! A dolphin! He was riding it over the waves! But its skin was slippery and he began to slide off. The dolphin barrelled and twisted and Arion was somehow righted again. The animal had deliberately manoeuvred to keep him safe! Would it mind if he stretched out one hand and held onto the dorsal fin, much as a horseman might grip the horn of a saddle? The dolphin did not mind, indeed it bucked a little, as if in approval, and increased its speed through the water. Arion slowly reached for the strap of his kithara and swung the instrument behind him so that he could enjoy the ride with two hands on the fin.
The brig was out of sight now. The sun shone down, dolphin and man ploughed furrows through the sea, sending up plumes of iridescent spray. Where were they going? Did the dolphin know?
‘Hey, dolphin. Set your course for the Gulf of Corinth. I’ll direct you when we get there.’
The dolphin gave a series of squeaks and clicks that seemed to indicate understanding and Arion laughed. On and on they went, chasing the never-nearing horizon. Arion, confident of his balance now, pulled his kithara back round and sang the song of Arion and the Dolphin. It is lost to us, but they say it was the most beautiful song ever composed.
At length they reached the gulf. The dolphin negotiated this busy shipping lane with graceful, zipping ease. Sailors on the busy barques, barges and small boats turned to stare at the remarkable sight of a young man riding a dolphin. Arion steered on the fins with gentle tugs this way and that and they did not stop until they had reached the royal docks.
‘Send word to King Periander,’ he said, stepping from the dolphin onto the quay. ‘His minstrel is returned. And feed my dolphin.’
The Monument
Periander was overjoyed by the homecoming of the musician he loved. The story of his rescue filled the court with wonder and amazement. They feasted all night and into the morning. It was evening by the time they set out to see, praise and pet the heroic dolphin. But a sad sight met their eyes. Ignorant dock workers had brought the animal ashore to be fed. It had languished overnight without any water to keep its skin moist and then lay all morning and afternoon on the quayside, surrounded by inquisitive children, the hot sun burning down and drying it up. Arion knelt on the ground and whispered into its ear. The dolphin rippled an affectionate reply, heaved a shuddering sigh and died.
Arion recriminated himself bitterly and even Periander’s instructions that a high tower be constructed to commemorate the dolphin and glorify its memory failed to raise his spirits. For the next month all his songs were sad ones and the palace mourned along with him.
Then came news that the brig crewed by the nine sailors and its villainous captain had been blown by a storm into Corinth. Periander sent messengers to command the crew to come before him, bidding Arion to stay away while he questioned them.
‘You were supposed to be conveying my bard Arion back from Tarentum,’ he said. ‘Where is he?’
‘Alas, dread majesty,’ said the captain. ‘So very sad. The poor boy was swept overboard in the storm. We recovered the body and gave him a most respectful burial at sea. Great pity. Charming lad, popular with all the crew.’
‘Aye. Indeed. Pleasant fellow. Terrible loss …’ muttered the sailors.
‘Be that as it may,’ said Periander, ‘news reaches me that he won his singing competition and came to you with a treasure chest, half of which is my property.’
‘As to that …’ the captain spread his hands. ‘The chest was lost during the violent pitching of the storm. It opened as it slid down the deck and into the sea and we managed to recover some small bits and pieces. A silver lyre of some kind, an aulos – one or two trinkets. I wish it had been more, sire, really I do.’
‘I see …’ Periander frowned. ‘Assemble tomorrow morning by the new monument at the royal docks. You can’t miss it. There’s a carved dolphin on top. Bring what treasure remains and perhaps I will allow you to keep Arion’s share, now that the poor boy is dead. You are free to go.’
‘Have no fear,’ said Periander to Arion as he related to him all that had been said. ‘Justice will be done.’
Next morning, the sea-captain and his nine men arrived early at the monument. They were laughing and relaxed, amused that they had to return only a small amount of Arion’s treasure and might even expect to be given a share of that by the gullible tyrant.
Periander arrived with his palace guards at precisely the appointed hour. ‘Good morning, captain. Ah, the treasure. That’s all you managed to save? Yes, I see what you mean, not much at all, is it? Now, remind me what befell Arion?’
The captain repeated his story fluently and easily, every word exactly the same as it had been the day before.
‘So he really is dead? You really did recover the body, prepare it for burial and then return it to the waves?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And these trinkets are all that remain of the prize treasure?’
‘It grieves me to say so, majesty, but yes.’
‘How then,’ Periander asked, ‘do you account for the discovery of all this hidden in the hollow of your ship’s timbers?
At a sign, some guards came forward bearing a litter on which was disposed the bulk of the treasure.
‘Ah. Yes. Well …’ the captain gave a winning smile. ‘Foolish of us to attempt to deceive you, dread lord. The poor boy died, as I said, and there was his treasure. We are but poor working sailors, sire. Your cunning and wisdom has found us out.’