“So,” I said, “there have been reforms, then?”
“Oh, yes. As I was saying, Dion did wonders in the first couple of months, getting people out of the quarries who had been in for years, or recalling exiles. When Philistos applied, I suppose he advised consent as a matter of principle. It can hardly have been Dionysios’ doing; he was too young to have known the man. At all events, he came. They say he’s spent his leisure writing history, as all these broke generals do, so no doubt he’s kept himself informed. He’s still very game for his age; he’d hardly set his house in order before he gave a party, quite up to the former ones, so people say who remember. Dion left early. But young Dionysios stayed. The party broke up two mornings later.”
“And that was the beginning?”
“Well, he always stole a little entertainment behind his father’s back. No, I think it first came home to him then that he was the Archon and could do just what he liked.”
My mind returned to my second audience at Ortygia, and his face when he spoke of the pleasures of Syracuse. As Menekrates said, it was the mourning that had kept me from taking notice.
“It might have been worse,” he went on. “It might have been blood he had a taste for. But while living like a mouse in his father’s wainscot, he hadn’t much chance of making enemies. He called for no heads but maidenheads. All he fancied was a party that would last forever, without his father roaring in to demand quiet for his writing, and pack everyone home. So the next banquet was at the palace. I heard a good deal about it from a girl I know who dances with a snake. Remarkable what she has taught it; you must see her act. But she left on the third day of the party; by then they were looking for something fresh. When the host wants novelty, and can pay, with the place so full too of hetairas and acrobats and so on, one thing leads to another. After a week or so, there was no tale coming out of Ortygia so farfetched that someone couldn’t cap it. There has always been a back-door traffic between the citadel and Carthage; the old man used it when he chose; Philistos knew of it. Now instead of secret treaties, the exchange or death of hostages, and so on, it came in useful for summoning jugglers, fire-swallowers, knife-dancers, or experts in never-mind-what.
“From time to time the party would come out for fresh air, first into the streets of Ortygia, later, sometimes, through all the gates into the town. Pretty soon, when the torches were seen weaving along, wives and sons and daughters were bundled behind locked doors; the revelers seemed to think they conferred a favor on anyone they ravished; no one was expected to pull a long face and spoil the fun. Anyone on business was shown the door at once. Soldiers and ephors ran the city; the bribery rate doubled overnight, when they knew no one was watching them.”
I asked, “What did Dion do?”
“Looked in at the party, so my friend told me, to try and get sense out of someone. Of course Dionysios refused to delegate, and only tried to make him drink. That was while she was there; next time he came, I expect everyone was dead-out on the floor, or busy on the couches. So he bided his time, and waited for his philosopher friend from Athens; and not in vain … Well, at least no artist starved. Between parties, a play nearly every week; we don’t keep them for the high feasts as you do in Athens. I can live half a year on what I’ve made. A good thing, for the grasshoppers’ summer is over.” He gave me a glance under his brows, as if in hope he had said enough.
“All summers end,” I answered. “I’d not heard of this when I set out; I was only hoping for something at the festivals.”
He stood silent, biting his lip, his dark brows pulled together. There was now no mistaking it; he looked bitter. I was getting on edge, and told him sharply to come out with it, whatever it was.
“I wish,” he said, “you’d stopped at the tavern and heard it there.” He walked past me into the high-walled courtyard. It was green now with vine-shade, and the gourd dangled great yellow flowers. It gave his face the tint of bronze that has lain under the sea. He came back in again and I thought, “Now it is coming.”
“Who wants to bring a friend bad news? The truth is, Niko, your Dion and his Sophist want to make an end of the theater. Finish it, root it up. That’s all.”
I said, “What? Impossible,” while feeling the shock that only truth can give. “But the festivals are sacred.”
“So sacred that the theater is unworthy of them. Or so the word goes round.” The hot dark anger of Sicily set his face in a frowning mask; then he overcame it, and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Niko. One would think I was blaming you for it. Maybe one shouldn’t believe all one hears. This I do know, though. Artists were everywhere in Ortygia, giving recitals, asked to supper, paid in gold. Now, overnight as it were, since this Plato came, nobody, no matter how distinguished. And what’s more, for thirty years at least, there’s been a play on the Archon’s name day. One of his own, if he had one ready, but always something. This month, the new Archon’s day came round. Nothing, not even a party. Just sacrifices and hymns.”
The shadows had lengthened in the courtyard. Its green light had become cold-looking, like light before rain. I thought of Delphi, of the painted wine cup with Eros in it, the talk by lamplight. I could remember thinking what a high-class supper I had been asked to, all conversation instead of jugglers and flute-girls, a real gentlemen’s symposion. I had no more expected this to come of it, than at a fencing class one expects to be run through.
“Don’t you think,” I said, “that Dionysios is just lying up with a crapula? Has your cousin Theoros heard anything? After a debauch like that, there must be some palace stomachs needing physic.”
“I saw him yesterday in the street. He waited, so I walked away. If Theoros wants to give me news, I can guess what kind it will be. No, Niko, no crapula lasts so long. It’s this philosophy. Everyone says so.”
We were looking at each other with faces of disaster, when I remembered what this meant. Dion had won the victory he, and the Academy, had been praying for. I ought to have been rejoicing.
Trying to bring all this to terms, I said, “But surely, then, he must have given the city proper laws, and called a free Assembly? Even if the theater stops for a time, and artists have to tour, you are citizens too, so wouldn’t the good outweigh the bad?”
“If that happened, it might. There were rumors at first, when we had the amnesty. But nothing came of them. I tell you, Niko, I don’t mean to sit here eating up my savings. I must get upon the road, as soon as I find a man to tour with. I could make up a company of nobodies tomorrow and play lead, but I’d far rather do second to a good protagonist. More credit, more pleasure, and the money about the same.”
“I’m ashamed to ask,” I said, “whether I would be good enough.”
He flashed his white teeth and grasped my hand, saying, “I hadn’t the face to ask outright.” I told him I had come here in the hope of it; we laughed, and at once found all our prospects looking brighter.
“I tell you what,” I said. “Tomorrow I’ll present myself to Dionysios. He told me to, next time I came, so I’ll take him at his word. I’ll learn what I can, and while I’m there I’ll try to see Dion too. If I do, I’ll ask him straight out about the theater. Then at least we’ll know where we stand.” In spite of everything, I was wondering whether he might have some business for me.