All this concluded, he went to the door and window before taking from his girdle a little scroll. Softly he said, “This is the thing, Niko. The rest could go by a courier. Not this. That’s why I said a god had sent you.”
I took it. It had no superscription. He said, “I see you understand.”
Now that I was charged with the errand I had come to do, I did not stay much longer, either in that house or in Syracuse: just long enough to give my company a farewell party, and bid adieu to my friend of the night before. I do not name him; he is now the head of a very ancient house, and I have never been one to kiss and brag.
There were two letters in the scroll, the inner one for Dion, the outer for Archytas of Tarentum. I pondered the best hiding place, in case I should be searched. Opening the mask-box, I said, “My lord Apollo, two of your servants want help. If you value this man Plato as much as people say, you will look after his affairs. I leave this in your care.”
Just before the ship cast off, some of the Romans came aboard, and searched the ship, as they said, for treasonable matters. They never looked inside the mask, though they stared right at it. The god’s face must have overawed them. I concluded therefore that he did take Plato seriously, and it should be borne in mind.
Though we had a fair wind to Tarentum, the rumor of Plato’s murder had got there first. Ships cross almost daily between Messene and Rhegium, whence news spreads overland. Sighting a ship with the paintwork of Syracuse, every Pythagorean in Tarentum came to the dock to ask if the tale were true. Some knew me, so came to me first. In their relief they made as much of me as if I had saved his life myself.
I was taken straight to Archytas. Like a good host, and a true philosopher, he offered me refreshment before talking business, and sat quiet as a statue by one of his model machines, though I saw his toes twitch under his robe. I told him all I had heard from Speusippos, and gave him his letter from Plato. Then I asked whether Dion had passed this way, and where he was.
He said, smiling, “Two questions, my friend, with easy answers. Yes to the first. To the second: In the room next door.” Then he said with his soldier’s dignity, “Where else would Dion go?”
He questioned me a little longer. I was surprised Dion should have stayed outside, till I remembered he had only just heard that Plato was not dead. Philosophers understand each other, as actors do; of course he had to be given time to compose himself.
Just then through the window I saw him pacing in the orchard. He was tired of waiting, and had come out to show he was ready.
I found him on a marble seat under a plum tree bowed with fruit. I remember the limewashed bark, the heavy-sweet scent of windfalls in the long grass, the wasps humming round their juicy caves.
He was haggard, and had lost more weight than one would think possible in so few days; but the good news had pushed his griefs aside, he was calm and smiling.
I told him all I knew, adding that I did not believe the Archon would ever give countenance to Plato’s death, Rather, it seemed to me he even had some excuse, and perhaps a fair one, for taking him into the citadel, because of this danger from the troops. “In Ortygia, everyone is accountable. Dionysios may have other motives; he is more devious than he knows himself. But that will be one, I think.”
He said, “I wish Plato were in better health,” and fell silent, his look of care returning. Presently he said, “You see me, Nikeratos, a man exiled for no crime; fallen from high estate, like the characters you portray.” He smiled slightly. “It is said that while Sokrates was awaiting death, his wife lamented that it was the injustice of it she could not bear. He answered, “Why, my dear, you would not rather I had deserved it?” But if Plato should die in Syracuse, I shall admit that though men have been unjust to me, the gods have not … A man more precious than empires, both to us and to men still unborn, with who knows what wisdom yet undistilled in him. He is clear of all misjudgment, except his faith in me. He had not seen Syracuse for twenty years; Dionysios he had known only as a child who rode upon my shoulder. For no living man but me would he have gone again to Sicily. And I sent for him—this is the irony the gods themselves must laugh at—for this very thing which has made and broken alclass="underline" his charm that can make discourse beautiful and catch the soul through the heart. Was Oidipos himself more blind?”
I said, “You had only seen the son in the father’s shadow.”
He shook his head, then looked at me. “Nikeratos. Is it true, as I am told, that you refused a talent of silver from Philistos, because of a certain mask?”
“Yes. It was sent without my knowledge; I saw it first on stage.”
“Well, it is rightly said that there is good in every state of man. In misfortune, one can count one’s friends.” Of course he had been new to exile and disgrace when this news had come, so it had touched him. Instead of shutting his door to me forever, he had opened even his heart.
I wondered if he was in need, and how one could go about offering help to so proud a man. But he now told me he would be taking a house in Athens. From policy, or decency, or just because he could never have faced Plato otherwise, Dionysios had had clothes and money put in the exile’s boat, and not landed him at Rhegium like a castaway. He had been told, too, that his goods and household slaves would be sent him. This would enable him to live like a gentleman, by the standards of Athens; but one can’t ship land abroad, and unless his yearly revenues came too, he would not be rich, or not as Sicily understands it.
His wife Arete, Dionysios’ half-sister, had written confirming that his money and movables would follow; but it was clear, since he said nothing of it, that she was not coming to share his exile. He spoke of her, as it seemed to me, with pity rather than longing. It was said to be a state alliance, which had never warmed up in the marriage bed. I recalled his study, so like Plato’s, a man’s room well-kept by men.
“Dionysios will not harm her,” he said. “But I am most anxious for my brother Megakles. He has never concerned himself with philosophy; but he is a man of honor, who would revenge an insult to our house, as Philistos knows very well. If he is wise, he must be in flight from Syracuse already, before he meets a knife in the dark. And above all, there is my son.”
I said that if Dionysios had been ashamed to offer the father violence, he would scarcely harm so young a lad, his own kindred too. Dion said, “Not in his body, I daresay. But my wife will go back to her brother’s house, and take him with her. I would wish him anywhere else on earth. He is restless, easily led, impatient of correction; he shows no bent to philosophy.”
“He must be young,” I said, “for that?” I suppose a man of Dion’s life and standards would expect a good deal from his son.
He was staying on a while, he said, at Tarentum, to await news of his brother and to enjoy the company of his friends. “I had forgotten,” he said, “that such peace as this existed.” His goods and servants would be shipped here; he would have a good deal of business; so he accepted my offer to take his letters to Athens. My ship was loading cargo, and would be there until next day.
I called next morning. He was sitting at his window, which overlooked the orchard, listening to the chorus of the birds, late and sleepy with autumn. The air smelled of the turning year, and in the eaves a dove was cooing. He told me that yesterday, after I left, he had had good news. His brother Megakles had been hidden by family friends as soon as they knew of Dion’s exile. He had boarded a ship at Katana, which had just touched at Tarentum on its way to Corinth. He had sailed straight on there, where he had friends, but had called to tell Dion he was safe, and had managed to bring a good deal of money with him. They would meet again in Athens.