The Mask of Apollo (48 page)

I resolved at once that I would take care of him, get him to Athens, and find him something; but that must come later, for he was a man with self-respect. So we talked of the past, and so on, while at the long table the young soldiers muttered together, or laughed sharply like boys up to something bad which frightens them, but not enough to make them cry off.

Once I heard something, some phrase I can’t bring back, which caught at my mind, so that for a moment I tried to listen. I think it was, “He’ll have gone to his house,” which might have meant anyone in the city. I don’t know why I noticed it. Yet I did, and my attention wandered from Ariston, just long enough for him to feel it, and for me to know he did. This I could not bear. I was too well dressed to afford it. I would not have hurt him for the world. It is true, too, that I would not think of myself as such a man. To each his own shape of pride.

So I turned my mind to him, and talked, and listened, and got him to take a good meal with me; and before we had finished, the young Greeks left all together.

We parted, arranging to meet again (I knew better than to ask where he was living), and I walked towards my inn in the dying sunset. In the south night falls quickly; red turns to purple as you look. Whether it was this brooding light, or words heard and not heeded stirring in my head, or whether some new note reached me through the city’s noise, I cannot tell, but of a sudden my heart jumped, and I understood. I had heard the truth from Kallippos. It was to Dion he had lied.

I began to run through the streets towards Ortygia. People stared at me; I ran as a child does from some bugbear he knows that only he can see. As the fading day sank to a murk in the west like blood, I knew I was running from the knowledge in my soul that it was too late.

Already shouts came from Ortygia, passed along from gatehouse to gatehouse. On the palace roof stood a man with two torches, signaling his news against the darkening sky.

I did not run on, in the hope that my fears were folly, that the tumult had some other cause. I knew; and now fear was over, I did not even grieve. It was all that was left him, to die like a king in tragedy, treading upon purple to the axe behind the door. He was freed from his prison in Ortygia, in the only way he could be freed, before it closed on him forever. I had no need to be told he had died with courage, fighting like a soldier against them all. I hoped, for as long as it was possible to hope in vain, that he had not fought alone.

I had no wish to stay on in Syracuse and speak his epitaph. There was no one here to write it; that was for the old man in Athens, who had written it, I suppose, already in his heart. As for me, Kallippos would not take time to look for me, a vain actor with a head for nothing but his roles. I would sail with Ariston, who had been kind when kindness or cruelty had power to shape my soul, and see he did not die hungry, or alone. That, I thought, is as much as most men can hope to bring away from the march of history, when all is said.

A
DOZEN YEARS HAVE PASSED SINCE THEN. I HAVE
never been back to Syracuse. They say grass grows in the streets there, and it has fewer people now than a country town in Attica. Tyranny has followed tyranny (that of Kallippos was so hateful that it only lasted a year) and for a time even Dionysios himself came back to rule over the desolation. At last Corinth, the mother city, taking pity on her wretched child, sent them a general, a good man it seems. He has driven Dionysios out again; whether he can get rid of the Carthaginians, only God knows. Meantime, he has had faith enough in men to disarm Ortygia; the walls of that lair are rubble now.

Dionysios got off just with his life. He is no one any more; he keeps a boys’ school in Corinth, and goes shopping in the market for his own dinner. Last time I played there, he came behind to commend me. The gods did him a backhand favor, for he can’t afford to drink himself into the grave, and is merely getting fat. He still thinks himself a good judge of the drama, and held forth for some time, till some more important citizen interrupted him.

Except in Corinth, which has an interest of its own, no one thinks much about Syracuse. It is a place where things happened once. Too much is going on now in Greece, with Philip of Macedon pushing south and meddling everywhere. No one has time for a backward island, full of squabbling bandits, with all its glories in the past. I suppose now and then there are a few hundred folk in that great theater. All the good actors left years ago.

Greece has plenty of work for us. It is said that technique has never been so advanced, though it’s long since I read a good new play. The great successes are all revivals, which we try to shed some new light on, or at least to present with a splendor worthy of the mighty dead.

Thettalos and I still share the house by the river, and tour as partners every few years. We have our own ways and our disagreements, but neither of us can conceive of being without the other. It is lucky I am the elder. There is a life in him which will demand its own span to work in, when I am gone, whether he likes or not.

We were together through most of this year’s spring. He was crowned at the Dionysia, and gave a party which, like all his others, will be talked of through the year. Then he went touring north, to Pella. Nobody nowadays who wishes to be considered at all in theater can leave Pella out for long. Actors are so esteemed there, we even send them on embassies.

Thettalos enjoyed his tour, and came back with some handsome presents as well as his fee. He told me he felt startled when, being presented to Queen Olympias, he found her wreathed with tame snakes, which stood up and hissed at him; she seemed to have stepped straight out of
The Bacchae
, but then Pella was never dull. “Besides,” he said, sighing and shaking his head, “I am in love. I have lost my heart forever. I shall never be the same again.”

I was used to this declaration, and to pulling him out of whatever scrape it meant, and said I hoped this time she was not the wife of a general. I was quite relieved when he told me it was a boy, and asked if he had brought the fair one to Athens. He laughed immoderately, and said when he could get it out, “No, I was afraid of his father.”

Macedon being as full as it is of powerful brigands, I praised his wisdom. He added, “And still more of his mother, and more than all of him.” I raised my brows and waited. “No,” he said. “You’ll be at Pella next month, and can see him for yourself.”

“Excellent. Tell me his name.”

“You will know when you see him. He will be there. He never misses a play.”

He would tell me no more, but said a little later, “When you go up to Pella, why don’t you put on
The Myrmidons?
”

“My dear,” I said, “I think it is time I hung up the mask of Achilles. I’ve left fifty behind, though it is kind of you to forget.”

“Nonsense. You wear a young mask as well as ever. You know if you were making a fool of yourself I’d be the first to tell you. Do it while you can; you are a beautiful Achilles. Give them something to remember.”

I was touched, and pleased, for it was true he could not have lied about it. Then I said, “But why
The Myrmidons?
”

“Well, it has not been done there for something like ten years; the young generation has never seen it.”

“Thettalos!” I said. “I believe you are asking me to put on this whole production simply to oblige your boy friend.”

“My …?” He stared, laughed, then said, “Alas, you flatter my hopes. But it is true he is anxious to see it. I would have done it myself, if I could have raised a script in Pella.”

“Couldn’t he lend you his?”

“He’s never had one. It is only that he has heard it follows the
Iliad
, most of which he knows by heart.”

“Well,” I said, “that’s something. Your last flame could not read. I might really do it, if it’s so long since they had it there; I should enjoy it myself.”

“Good. I promise you won’t regret it. But let your third man fly on as Apollo. I can’t spare you, dearest Niko. The crane-man drinks.”

“I’ve never done it, except that once in Delphi as an offering to the god.” I fell silent, thinking of the war there, the very sanctuary plundered of its gold. Nothing is sacred to our age.

In due course I took my company to Pella, which gave us its usual eager welcome. By now, however, they are used to actors going to bed early before the play instead of drinking till dawn. The noise downstairs is something one must put up with.

King Philip has adorned King Archelaos’ theater; everything of the best. The crane-man was sober. Just before I went on, I touched, as I always do, the antique mask of Apollo. I no longer wear it; no one would understand it now; but I take it everywhere, thinking, like Lamprias’ old friend, that it brings me luck. The god looked stern but serene. I thought he said to me, “You must be good today; there are reasons. But don’t fret; I will look after you.” I had been doubting myself before, but it left me as I went on, and I don’t think I was ever better. At the end I thought, I must never do it again, for fear of tempting the gods.

There was a crowd in the dressing room. I was still in costume, with the dresser combing my mask, when there was a stir about the door, and the people parted, just like extras for a big upstage entrance.

A boy was standing there, about fourteen or so, with fire-gold hair lying loose on his brow and down his neck. All Macedonians have blue eyes, but not of a blue like that. Half a dozen other lads, about his age or somewhat older, were standing behind him. When I saw that none of them pushed in front, I guessed who he was.

He came in, sweeping his gaze about the room, and said, “Where is Achilles?”

It is a big theater; even from the front row, one is a good way off when one takes one’s bow. I said, “Here, my lord.”

He stood still, looking. His eyes were big, which made them look even bluer. I was sorry that so beautiful a boy should be disappointed; at his age, they always half expect the face to match the mask. I supposed him at a loss for words, till he came nearer and said quietly, “That is most wonderful. There must be a god in your soul.”

I did not spoil it by telling him I was lucky to have kept my teeth. I said, “I had a good father, sir, to start me off young, and I keep up my practice.”

“Then you’ve been an actor always, all your life?” When I assented he nodded his head as if this answer satisfied him, and said, “And you always knew.” He asked me one or two questions about technique, which were far from foolish; I could see that he had talked with Thettalos. Presently he looked at the people standing round and said, “You have leave to go.”

They bowed out. When the lads behind him started to follow, he reached out and caught one by the arm, saying, “No, you stay, Hephaistion.” The tall boy came back with a lightening of all his face, and stood close beside him. He said to me, “The others are the Companions of the Prince; but we two are just Hephaistion and Alexander.”

“So it was,” I said, smiling at them, “in the tent of Achilles.”

He nodded; it was a thought he was used to. He came up and touched my flimsy stage armor to see how it was made. On his arm, half covered by his big gold bracelet, was a thick scar one would have thought had been done in battle if he had not been so young. His face was a little longer than the sculptors’ canon, just enough to make the canon look insipid. His skin was clear, with a ruddy, even tan; he was fresh, yet warm. A sweetness came from him; not bath oil, but something of himself, like the scent of a summer meadow. I would have liked to draw him nearer, to feel the glow from him; but I would as soon have touched a flame, or a lion.

He noted that we had the place to ourselves, and said, “I have something to tell you. You shall be the first to hear. One day, I shall make a sacrifice at Achilles’ tomb. Hephaistion will do it for Patroklos. It is a vow we have made.”

Good news, I thought, if King Philip means to turn eastward. I said, “That’s in Persia, my lord.”

“Yes.” He looked serene, like Apollo among the Lapiths. “When we are there, you shall come out and play
The Myrmidons
.”

I shook my head, saying, “Even though it is soon, I shall be too old.”

He looked at me with his head a little sideways, as if reckoning the time. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I want to hear your voice on the plain of Troy. No one else will be the same, now. So if I ask you, you will come?”

As if he had bidden me to supper across the street, I answered, “Yes, my lord. I will come.”

“I knew that you would. You understand these things. There is a question I have to ask you.”

Someone coughed in the doorway. A small, dapper, thin-legged man came in, with the beard of a philosopher. He looked at the boy with dissatisfaction, like a hen that has hatched an eagle chick. The boy looked back, and then at me, as if saying, One must take men as they are, no sense in making a fuss. “Nikeratos,” he said, “let me present my tutor, Aristoteles. Or perhaps you have met in Athens?”

It was plain he did not recall it, and plainer still that he didn’t like being presented to an actor. One could hardly blame him. I smoothed it over as best I could. He had left the Academy, so someone had told me, in displeasure when Speusippos became its head. I had not known he was here.

Setting this business briskly aside, the boy said to me, “There is one thing in the
Iliad
I have never understood; I was hoping the play might explain it. Why didn’t Achilles kill Agamemnon in the very beginning? Then Patroklos and the other heroes need not have died. Have
you
heard why it was?”

“Well, Athene counseled prudence. Agamemnon was the greater king. And he was supreme commander.”

“But what a general! He wasted his men’s lives. He never really led them. He robbed his best officer, to cover a debt he owed himself, and had to beg his pardon. He started a rout with a stupid order, and then couldn’t even get them in hand; he had to let Odysseus do it. Can you think of anything more disgraceful? Supreme commander! He couldn’t have stopped a Thracian cattle raid. I can’t think why Achilles didn’t kill him. He owed it to the Greeks. They knew him. They’d all have followed him, and finished off the war. No one but Agamemnon could have made it last ten years. They should have taken Troy between two winters.”