I had never been there so late in summer; the streets were griddle-hot and dusty, the hills parched brown; but his courtyard, piped from a spring above, was fresh and green, and his thick walls were cool. We supped lying on cushions of Persian stuff, with two men and a boy to wait. Nothing was too good for us. It was his way of saying I had turned his luck, that day at Leontini.
We talked theater at first. A big drama festival was coming on the feast of Arethusa, the local river-goddess. I had been met on the dock with a message from the tragic poet Chairemon, on a visit here from Athens, asking me to see him before I made any plans. In Sicily it’s catch-as-catch-can for artists; no draw like ours at home.
It was not till the slaves had cleared and left us with the wine that I mentioned Plato. I had noticed our host had grown more careful in his talk. He had more to lose.
“Plato?” he said. “I’ve enough to keep me busy without running after sophists, especially when they’re as meddlesome as that old man. If we get through to the festival without a riot here, and looting in the streets, we can thank the gods rather than him. I’m thinking of sending Glyke and the children into the country.”
Startled by all this, I said it was inconceivable that a man like Plato would be conspiring against his host. “No doubt,” he answered. “But with the advice he gives, he’ll hardly need to. What the Archon’s just done—and everyone blames Plato for it—is to put his veterans on half-pay. Don’t go near Ortygia. I tell you, there’ll be trouble.”
I could believe him. Old Dionysios had had an excellent name with soldiers of fortune everywhere, if with no one else, because he rewarded long service. The country round was full of paid-off men settled on land he had given them, often enough at the citizens’ expense. They made a useful reserve, and encouraged recruiting. Menekrates said, “He was one to skin a flayed ox, as the saying is. But everyone knew where the money went; on power. Every few years, when the Carthaginians came, we had the good of that whether he cared or not. But the young one, who’s pretty near as greedy, spends on his pleasures. While he’s idling, we get twenty extortioners where we had one before. Believe me, he can’t afford to stint his garrison. Let’s say no more; it’s hearsay only, and least known’s best. But Plato must know too much, or too little, to give such counsel.”
“If he ever gave it. I’d lay a year’s takings against. We heard all this last time, put about by Philistos. It was just a tale.”
Thettalos, who had maintained a modest quiet but could not forbear supporting me, said all Athens knew that Plato had come out about his friend Dion’s property, and to try for his recall.
“Recall?” said Menekrates, staring. “If Dion wants to come home, he’ll have to recall himself, not wait to be invited. Then, who knows … But that’s dangerous talk. We’ve traveled; we’ve seen in other cities what comes of that.” He walked over to the doorway, to make sure the slaves had gone to bed. Coming back, he said, “As for the property, God reward all true friends, but in Plato’s case I don’t know who else will. Dion’s land was all sold up this spring. There was some talk of putting it in trust for his son, young Hipparinos; but where’s the odds? It would go the same way as if Dionysios spent it.”
I remembered Dion’s words at Tarentum. “How old is the boy?”
“I suppose about fourteen. He’s a favorite with his uncle the Archon, who’s fond of saying he won’t grow up a spoilsport like his dad. He comes to all the parties. I was at one myself not long ago, after a Madness of Herakles that took well. Plato was there too. A handsome lad, they say, not unlike Dion when he was that age. But the Academy won’t see him; his education’s well in hand. The liveliest of the girls was sent over to his supper couch, but I couldn’t see he had much to learn. His hand was down her dress all through the first course, and up it all through the second. Old Plato did try, at the start, to get a word with him, but the boy laughed in his face. Even his uncle had to remind him he was speaking to a guest, though he couldn’t keep from smiling.”
Thettalos gave me one of his looks when Menekrates’ back was turned. He had speaking eyes; sometimes one could see it even through a mask.
“Where is Plato staying?” I asked. “His nephew is a friend of mine, and I’d like to see him.”
“Plato himself has that house in the palace garden he had before; it’s the Archon’s chief guesthouse. But I don’t think the nephew’s staying there. Maybe he wasn’t asked very heartily. I heard he was with religious folk, Pythagoreans. I’ll inquire tomorrow. Thettalos, dear boy, your cup—you’re drinking nothing. I’ll show you our theater, while Niko’s hunting sophists. The acoustics are first-class, but you need to know them.”
Next morning I went to the house where Speusippos and Plato had stayed before. For fear of missing him, I was there before sunup; when the slave reported him still in bed, I said I would wait till he woke. This was not long; while I sat on the rim of the courtyard fountain, two smiths came in with a great new bolt for the outer door. They said, as they clattered, that they were sorry to rouse the master, but they were pushed with orders like this. One must blame the times.
The din soon woke Speusippos, who looked out to see what it was. A pretty tousled girl, clutching her dress, appeared behind him; he had not counted on early rising today. Having urged her to go home quickly and not loiter in the streets, he turned and saw me. “Niko!” he said, and laughed shortly as he caught my eye. “I heard you were in Syracuse. Have you been waiting long?”
I said I was sorry his night had been cut short so rudely. “No,” he said, “it’s as well I woke. I must see Plato in Ortygia; it’s better to go early, while the streets are quiet. They seem to be expecting trouble. Come in while I finish dressing.”
His host greeted us going in, a silver-haired old man shrunk with age, but upright and with a skin like a baby’s. In Speusippos’ room, with the tumbled bed still warm with the scent of the girl, he said, “I don’t think he saw her leave. Not that I’ve ever deceived him; he knows I follow the philosophy rather than the regimen, which, let us admit, has picked up much superstition since the founder’s time. He’d say, I suppose, that I’ve set myself back two or three rebirths with last night’s work. ‘The body is the tomb of the soul.’ Well, I was on edge, which my soul was taking no good from; besides which, I’ve learned from her more than she ever set out to teach, as I’ll tell you sometime. I must go; will you walk along with me?”
As we headed for Ortygia, I remembered Menekrates warning me not to go near the place. But I was ashamed to be less bold than a philosopher, not to speak of forsaking a friend. So far, only one thing was to be noticed about the streets—that they were empty.
I asked how Plato was, and if his mission had prospered. He made the gesture of a man so weary of his troubles that he can hardly bear to talk of them. “Plato’s as well,” he said, “as he’s likely to be after wasting a year for nothing, or worse than that. I suppose you’ve heard. All Dion’s property has been sold up, a hundred talents’ worth or more; and Dionysios has ceased even to pretend that he’ll get a drachma.”
I exclaimed suitably. There seemed nothing to say.
“You think Plato should have foreseen it. Of course he did. But with all these protestations, appeals and guarantees, he couldn’t be certain. Short of that, he didn’t think he should hold back.”
“When my bad day comes, God send me such a friend.”
“He’s always been the same. At Sokrates’ trial, neither his kin nor his friends could keep him from getting up to testify. When the court laughed him down because of his youth, which I daresay saved his life, he fell so sick with grief, they doubted he’d outlive Sokrates. May he keep his luck. I tell you, I begin to wonder.”