“Dion is my guest-friend of long standing. In any case one owes him justice. He has a son growing up in the Archon’s house. There is his wife …” He was some time silent before saying, “There is another threat Dion does not know of. Plato promised not to tell; those were the only terms on which he could hope to avert it.” Next moment he was distressed at having said even so much, and made me promise to be secret.
I asked when they were sailing. With good weather, he said, in two days’ time. “God knows, Niko, when we shall get home, if ever. Before my wife I laugh at it; poor girl, she’s pregnant, and hardly more than a child herself. I feel cruel to go, but it would be worse forsaking Plato. I wonder how long before you and I sit here again.” He looked round the garden, his eye dwelling here and there. “Will you be playing in Syracuse? It would be good to see you.”
When the ship sailed, I went to see it off, since half Athens was doing the same. It was like a scene in the theater.
Plato and Dion behaved perfectly; no doubt their goodbyes were already said. They exchanged a ceremonial kiss, like two kings in tragedy. I saw Axiothea and her friend shedding open tears, and the eyes of the Academy men were not much drier. They might have been watching Sokrates drink the hemlock. But Dion kept his countenance. His noble bearing so much impressed the audience, I kept expecting applause.
Months passed. It drew near autumn, and no news of Plato’s return. I saw Axiothea seldom, both of us having a good deal to fill our time. Thettalos had been doing short tours, coming home between, and it was natural when I had the right offers for me to do the same. These were brief, happy fasts, on which I worked well.
When sailing weather was clearly ending, I went out of my way to ask Axiothea where Plato was. In Syracuse, she said; Dionysios had persuaded him to winter there, and complete the settlement of Dion’s property.
“Again?” I said. “No, that’s too much!” Little Lasthenia, sharp as a brown bird, added, “I hope he’ll get proper thanks for it.”
Axiothea looked at us sadly. She had always worshipped Dion; but if she felt a loss, she still had the Cause. It looked simpler to her than to me; she had never been in Sicily.
Winter passed; spring came. At the Dionysia, Philemon, a most distinguished artist, bargained with Miron to release Thettalos for the contest. Their play was Herakles in Lydia; Thettalos did Omphale and Iolaos, changing masks with great virtuosity, and most striking in the former role. I could see the pleasure he got from working under an up-to-date protagonist, though old Miron’s discipline had done him good. I myself was doing Theseus in the Underworld, and would gladly have had him for Pirithoos and Persephone; but one can’t have a bird without a broken eggshell. It was one of Theodoros’ prize years; we came back from his party tired and happy, not reminding ourselves that roads and seas were opening, and we would soon be parting again.
Presently, after our seeing a good deal of each other in early summer, Miron got an offer to go to Macedon, and then on north to Byzantion. Knowing from the past that I should find it harder when alone to make any plans, I shook myself like a dog and began to stir about.
Only four days later, when they had barely begun rehearsing, Thettalos came home at noon. He had resigned from Miron’s company.
“Not another day. I knew I couldn’t last out rehearsals, so I played fair by the old monster and gave him time to replace me. Oh, no, Niko, I have to come up for air. O Agamemnon lord of men, boom, boom, ototoi, ototoi, right hand up, left hand out. I feel like some image shut up in a temple strongroom, with the dust settling thicker every day.”
“By the dog!” I cried. “I could clip you over the head. You stupid boy, why didn’t you tell me you didn’t mean to go north? Now I have signed up to go to Sicily.”
“Sicily?” He looked up with his mouth full; he was devouring barley cake and raisins and cheese like a schoolboy back from the wrestling class.
“Yes—signed, sealed and witnessed. I shall be two months away, or more.”
“Have you got a second?”
“What time have I had? If you had only—”
“Dearest of men! I always longed to see Syracuse.”
I started, then subdued my heart, as one covers a cage to stop a bird from singing. “Don’t tempt me, my dear. You know as well as I do that you’ll never rest, now, till you’re creating your own play. It can’t be long—two years, or three; meantime you’re too sensible not to take direction, but will resent whoever you have to take it from. Don’t let me be the one.”
“Truly, Niko, I swear, it will be Elysium to work for you. I’ve been living like someone flat on a frieze. I shall talk my mind out, seeing it’s you; that I can’t help; but I’ll never cross you. All Miron taught me was to know how good you are.”
“It would never do,” I said, trying to sound resolute.
“Fate intends it. Look how I left him, the very day.”
“You’ve picked up his superstition, if nothing else.”
He came and sank down beside my chair. He had filled out his boyish hollows; his stride, like a young lion’s, had both weight and grace. He was born to play heroes, though not in Miron’s style. He flung his arm across my knees, and went into Patroklos’ speech from The Myrmidons, putting in all the grace notes. False to the sacred honor of our bed, O most unthankful for those many kisses … Please, Niko, take me to Sicily!”
“Well,” I said, “now, if you grumble, you’ve put yourself in the wrong beforehand. I was holding out for that.”
He called me a monster and embraced me. Within the month we sailed.
Since it would be easy to find third and extra men in Sicily, we sailed alone. Good weather, and showing him the sights, made it a pleasure trip. At Tarentum, I did not omit paying Archytas my respects, in case he had letters for Plato. He thanked me, and said he had just sent a messenger. Though courteous, he was not talkative, and seemed to me an unhappy man. He had sent a leading Pythagorean in Dionysios’ trireme, to help persuade Plato; if he had had a hard choice between his people and his friend, and was concerned for the outcome, he had my sympathy, but there was no reason why he should confide in me. He told me Plato and Speusippos were both reported in good health, and in favor with Dionysios. He forgot to ask how Dion was.
The Syracusan consul had of course announced our arrival; but I was amazed to find, when we made port, how many people turned out. Thettalos exclaimed that I must have made the hit of a generation last time I came. But I soon learned the secret. When I had pushed his silver talent back at Philistos, I had supposed it would go straight into his treasury. As I now found out, he had done precisely as I asked. He had commissioned a life-sized bronze of the god, with a gold vine-crown, riding a gilded leopard. Of course, his own name was on the plinth as well as mine; he had the right, as choregos. I don’t know if he did it for that, or because with all his vices he was too pious to rob a god. At all events, there it stood, in the sanctuary by the theater; the citizens now supposed I was the richest actor in Greece.
Our informant was Menekrates, who met the ship, sumptuously dressed and looking just what he was, a successful actor-manager who played all the big Sicilian cities, visiting Italy once a year. Last time he stayed with me in Athens, I had seen he was doing well; he must have been rising ever since. He carried us off, not to the lodging in the lower town, but to a great new house above the theater, with a fountain court paved in black and white mosaics, and a carved marble balcony facing the sea. Two pretty gold-skinned children came running out to meet him, from which I guessed, before I saw her, that he had married one of those blond wives so much prized in Sicily.