“O Zeus!” he said. “I believe you think I want to steal the scene. Do you think that?”
“No, indeed. I know you. You want to create what your mind has seen. I could do an Achilles to that Thersites—full of nothing but his own importance, indulging his own grief because it’s his, and killing Thersites just for showing him up. It’s not in the lines, but one could put it there. Who knows? The audience might eat it.”
“Well, then, why not?”
“I suppose because men could be more than they are. Why show them only how to be less?”
“One should show them true to life.”
“How not? But whose? Truth is to reckon on Achilles as well as Thersites, and Plato as well as Dionysios. There is truth even in Patroklos, who couldn’t pass by a wounded man, and whom the slave-girls wept for because he never spoke them an unkind word. The world is not Thersites’, unless we give it him.”
“Dear Niko, I didn’t mean to put you out. Don’t think of it again. You are directing, and I promised to be good. I just thought it would freshen the theme a little.”
As we walked on, I wondered how much of what I’d said I had picked up from the men of the Academy, even while rejecting their views.
Menekrates’ house had settled down into a place for men. His wife had never worked, so the steward ran it as well as ever. After a few days, one of the servant-girls looked sleek, and had a new necklace; and Menekrates sang in the bath. His wife, a well-born girl, was inclined to bully him.
We were working hard on the play, but there was something just amiss with it. Thettalos was doing Thersites just as I said; but it was overdone, the character had lost all humanity. I could see he was not doing it on purpose; he was above such pettiness; it was only that the life had gone out of the part for him. I must simply leave him to settle down.
There was a rota for rehearsals in the theater; the rest of the time we hired a room in the usual way. Some days went by before our theater turn. We were still working without masks, so I could see with the tail of my eye; as I did my last exit, someone in front jumped up and made for the parodos. I waited. It was Speusippos.
“My dear friend,” I said, “what is it?” He looked unshaven, even unwashed; his robe was dragged about him, and soiled along the border, as if he had trailed it in the dust.
“Niko. Can I speak to you alone?”
“Of course. Not in the dressing room, everyone comes in there. Let us try the shrine of Dionysos.” I thought how gladly I had assumed that all was well with him, so that my work should not be disturbed. At least, if he could sit in the theater, he could not be on the run.
The sanctuary was empty, but for an old slave sweeping down. We sat on the plinth of a votive statue; it was my gilt panther bearing the god, bought from Philistos’ fee.
“I was here all yesterday,” he said, wiping his brow. “Then I found a man with a list, who told me when you would be coming … The guards won’t let me into Ortygia any longer. I don’t know what to do.”
“Ortygia?” I stared in surprise. “I should have thought that would be the last place where you’d want to go. You’re both well out of it.”
“No. Plato is still there.”
“But,” I said, as shocked as bewildered, “they said when I called that he was staying with a friend.”
“He is the guest of Archidemos, yes. But the house is in Ortygia.”
I remembered the porter’s reticence. Syracuse, as always, was full of spies.
“A few days ago,” Speusippos started to explain, “Plato gave great offense to Dionysios—”
“Yes, yes, I know; never mind how. What happened next?”
“Next day, he sent a message that the ladies of the household needed the guesthouse for retreat and purification, before the Arethusa feast. An open lie, but at least a formal slight, better than a dagger in the dark. Or so we thought. Plato said it showed that the man had not surrendered all his soul to evil. The message said that a mutual friend, Archidemos, would gladly put him up till further notice; owing to the uncertain times, the Archon didn’t wish him to leave Ortygia.”
“Can this host be trusted?”
“Certainly, for anything he can control. He’s kin both to Dion and Dionysios, a Pythagorean, who has never touched politics. He reveres Plato deeply. I’ve been visiting every day, till now. Oh, yes, Archidemos is safe, but he’s been anxious all along. With this feeling among the soldiers, anything can happen. And now they won’t let me in.” He picked up the dusty border of his robe, and tugged it through his fingers.
“On whose authority?”
“I should think their own. Each day I’ve been insulted as soon as I was recognized; yesterday a Gaul took my pass to look at, and wouldn’t give it back. They were all laughing. I think they hoped I’d lose my temper; I saw it just in time to hold back. I appealed to a Roman officer who was passing—they’re a little less barbarous than the Gauls—but he said that in his opinion I was being done a favor. I daren’t think what he meant.”
“Are the troops still mutinous, then?”
“No, their demands have all been met. But the long-service men, who led the riot, have revived that old he about Plato wanting them discharged. They feel sure he advised the pay cut; I am told it’s all over Ortygia.”
“Philistos,” I said. This followed the scene upon the gatehouse as night follows the day. “Well, as we saw, the soldiers can’t get into the palace citadel as they choose.”
“You fool!” In the impatience of his trouble, he looked as if he could have struck me. “Archidemos’ house isn’t in the palace citadel. It’s in outer Ortygia, where all the soldiers are quartered. The barracks are less than a stade away.”
I laid my hand on his knee and cursed Dionysios, neither likely to help much. “At least they can hardly attack the house of the Archon’s kinsman.”
“Unless there’s another mutiny, when anything can be done. Or they can break in after dark, bribe a servant to poison him … Niko. Have you a pass for Ortygia?”
“Yes, so has Thettalos. But you can’t use a borrowed one; they know you. You would just end in the quarries.”
“Of course. It’s a great deal to ask, from you especially. I know your feelings about Plato’s theory of art; but as a man … I’ve no one else. Do you think you could go in, and see how things are with him?”
I thought, It means canceling a rehearsal, and then, I suppose it will be dangerous. “Certainly,” I said. “I’ll go tomorrow, one can’t get in after dark.” Then I said, “Well, I could try.” It would save time; and then we could still rehearse.
When I got back, Thettalos was pacing about in his best clothes. “Wherever did you go? Have you forgotten the party at Xenophila’s?”
“My dear, that well-named lady must do without me. A subsequent engagement. Give her my regrets.”
He had the truth from me within moments, and asked how I had dared think of going alone. I did not withstand him. Though, as I often told him, he had not sense enough to stay out of trouble, when in it he had great resource.
“Anything that happens,” he said, “shall happen to us both. I suppose I must change my clothes … No, you must change yours. Why do people like us walk about at night? Of course, to parties.”
I had a bath and a scented rubdown, and dressed myself to the teeth. Thettalos went out, coming back with a big straw-lined basket from which poked the necks of wine jars. “I don’t think,” he said, “we need be above buying popularity.”
About sundown we reached the first gatehouse, and showed our pass to the Iberians, saying simply, “We are going to the party.” Everyone at once knew which. They added that we should not find the drink run out.