I looked at Thettalos, as if I had just made up my mind to something, as indeed I had. “Do you know,” I said, “what I think?”
“No?” he answered, on cue.
“We’ve had a pleasant party. What harm have these lads ever done us, that we should go off without telling them the truth?”
“You’re right,” said Thettalos. “Just what I was thinking myself. You tell them, Niko.”
They all leaned forward. “In my calling,” I said, “one hears things. But if it ever gets known that I was the man you had it from …” I shuddered. They vowed discretion, slicing their hands across their throats. “Very well, then,” I said, playing up the suspense, “I’ll take the risk. I don’t like to see brave men made cat’s-paws of by those they’ve spilled their blood for.”
I now had a breathless audience. All this last week, the army must have been seething with rumor. I went on, “I’ve had it from someone whose name, by the gods, I dare not tell you, that Plato’s lodged where he is to tempt you men into doing just what you plan to do. I was even told, though I don’t know the rights of it, that he never advised the pay cut; it was put about to set you on. From what I heard, they want him out of the way on account of Herakleides, but no one wants to answer for the deed. So, if it’s done for them, to prove how clean their own hands are they’ll make an example of the killers, beside which Phyton’s end will look like a pleasure party. I don’t know; I’m a stranger here. But when you men struck out for your rights the other day, you seemed to think the wrong man was put up then to be shot at. Well, that’s all I heard. We’ve drunk together; so I give it you for what it’s worth.”
There followed a gabble of which I understood about one word in three. They discussed it in the idiom of Ortygia, the mixed argot of the foreign troops, thick with the terms of their trade. It seemed I had made sense to them. Indeed, when I thought about it, it made sense even to me. It would be just Dionysios’ style.
I had spoken vaguely of Herakleides, not knowing if they favored him. It seemed they did; so I said it was known all over the inner citadel that Plato had quarreled with the Archon on his behalf. I did not say I had witnessed it, which would have made them sure I must be lying.
Presently the Greeks named some friends they thought should hear of this, and got up, followed by the Roman. The Gaul, however, had rolled into the shelter of the wall, with his cloak about him. When called, to my dismay he stayed where he was; he must have decided to watch alone. I could have cried with vexation, after all that work. Then the Roman went and pulled his arm. He turned on his back, and gave a great snore like a boar’s grunting. He was dead drunk. The others shrugged, and went off.
We walked the other way till they had turned the corner. We could still hear them going off down the alleys. “And now,” said Thettalos, “how are we going to get in?”
“I shall be surprised, with things as they are, if no one is watching this gate inside.”
I tapped. There was no answer, but I could hear breathing. I announced my name, adding that we were friends of Speusippos, sent to bring him news of Plato. A stealthy voice was heard, asking me to repeat my name. I did so. It said, “Can you prove who you are, sir?”
“By the dog!” I answered. “Didn’t you hear me outside just now? I made noise enough.” Thettalos started laughing. I said with what restraint I could, “Fetch your master Archidemos, and I will recite him some Euripides if he insists. But hurry, in the name of Zeus. There may be more soldiers coming soon.”
There was an iron-barred squint in the gate; a different eye appeared in it. The fire still gave some light. I heard the bolts being drawn. Archidemos was there beside his porter. He was an elderly man, tall, rather severe (perhaps just from hiding his fear), with the plain good dress of these rich Pythagoreans, and a family look of Dion. He apologized for our being kept outside; the gate was double-barred again. We declined refreshment, pleading our haste, and paused only for a slave to wash our feet, which were filthy, before going in to Plato.
He was sitting at a table, with a writing stand in front of him, working on the wax. I remember noticing he had just rubbed out about half a frame; but the fact that he was trying to work at all showed the man was a professional.
He knew me at once; so I wondered, while I was presenting Thettalos, why his face showed so much dread, till he asked after Speusippos. Then it came to me that when he had failed to pay his daily visit, they had all supposed him murdered. I said he was well, and warned Plato of the danger he was in himself.
He heard me without much change of countenance, his face just setting a little more into its lines. “Thank you,” he said when I had done, “for confirming a warning I had yesterday. Some seamen came here, for no reason but that they were fellow Athenians, and, like sailors everywhere, democrats to whom an autarchy is odious. They had heard some tavern talk among the mercenaries, and advised me not to go out. But this guard, I believe, is new. It seems I have God to thank that Speusippos was turned away.”
“Sir,” I said, “we’ve rid you of the men out there, or so I hope, at least till midnight. I’ve been thinking that since actors move about more easily than most men, and with luck one can always appeal to the Delphic Edict, it might be worth your while to take the risk of coming with us now, before things get worse. I don’t suppose any of the gatehouse guards would know you by sight.” I added, with apology, “I’m afraid, sir, we are supposed to have been to a party, and we would all have to go back as if that were true.”
Before the words were even out of my mouth I knew it was no use; but I had never thought he would be amused. I could see his courtesy holding it in. “My dear Nikeratos, you speak like a true friend and fellow citizen; also a brave man. I am not less grateful to you both than if I had taken your offer, and owed you my life; pray believe this. But as you see, I am an old man, set in my ways, and without the skill for which you are so widely honored. I don’t think I could sustain the role of an old Pappasilenos, reeling home in a vine-wreath, before so shrewd an audience. I should be unmasked before long, and either end my life in a way not much to the credit of philosophy, or survive to delight the comic poets, and make my friends, both here and in Athens, ashamed to go out of doors. That would be a certain gain for tyranny; my death here, perhaps not.”
He had been looking at me; now his glance was caught by Thettalos, who all this while had been sitting, perfectly still, on a cross-legged stool with a woolen cushion, himself forgotten, all ears and eyes.
As I’ve said, he had never been a pretty boy; nor was he now what people today call handsome. He had the northern face, with strong cheekbones; his nose and chin were too boldly carved to please a modern sculptor. Yet if I could tolerate the notion of any actor playing without a mask, it would be Thettalos. I suppose by now I was in danger of getting used to him. Now, seeing through another’s eyes, I thought, That is beauty.
You could not say Plato’s face softened; it was more like a lamp touched by the taper, as he turned that way. I felt power flow out, and that charm which, as Dion said, had made and undone his cause.
“Does my choice surprise you? No, I see that you have understood. I must have been about your age, or a little more, when an old friend of mine in Athens was accused of changing the gods’ worship, and corrupting the minds of us young men. He was put on trial for his life, the best man, I may say, whom I ever knew. We—all his friends—were present, in the hope of doing something for him.”
Thettalos listened with deep attention; I who knew him could see him taking part of the sense from the voice, and storing it away.