“That would be very fine, indeed,” said Aglaonice, “but what means is there of getting there?”
“My lady, I flatter myself on succeeding in that; I will take you there, if you are curious to make the voyage, and if it pleases the twelve great gods, we shall marry up there.”
The conversation was interrupted at that moment by the attention that each of them felt obliged to pay to a rather disagreeable sound that made itself heard, and was somewhat reminiscent of that of the friction to which the axle of a pulley that has not been greased for a long time is subject.
One could pause without error upon that conjecture; Cornelius, without anyone suspecting it, was present at the conversation, and even seated in a very comfortable armchair. A counterweight kept him suspended above floor level, in the middle of a thick section of stone wall once contrived or that purpose; a small opening made at the height of a man and masked by a light cedar-wood panel gave the listener the facility of hearing everything.
That balance, or whatever machine it might be, was not Cornelius’ invention; it is easily believable that it had been used more than once when one considers that the house he occupied was the same one that had once been the residence of the tyrants. Cornelius was not one of them, but he had given some thought to Lord Aristos’ proposition and, either by virtue of suspicion or pure curiosity, had made the effort to listen in.
Our three individuals were looking in all directions, anxiously, when a cat, which emerged from a neighboring room and appeared to their eyes, made them believe that the sound they had heard was merely that of the door, which the anima had caused to grate on its hinges by pushing it.
Aristos pretended to doubt that, however, and took advantage of the circumstance to explain the true objective of his visit.
“Do you feel completely secure, my ladies,” he said, “in this part of the city where it is now not permitted for any Syracusan to live?”28
That reflection of a soldier, prompted by a cat, appeared to them to have a comical seriousness. They laughed at it wholeheartedly.
“Security is a fine thing,” Aristos continued, undisconcerted. “Laugh as much as you please; for myself, I cannot accustom myself to the idea that this quarter of Syracuse is absolutely forbidden to us. It’s a tyranny. For, after all, of what are they afraid? Supposing, in any case, that some good Syracusan wanted to shake off the yoke of Roman domination, would that be such a bad thing? Don’t you think that an oligarchical government, composed of a few nobles, who would act in the interests of the people, would be infinitely more agreeable? You’re Syracusan, my ladies: it must cost your hearts a great deal to see all Sicily thus become a Roman province.”
“I don’t see anyone complaining about it,” replied Bazilide.
“Neither do I,” said Aglaonice, “And furthermore, from what I’ve heard said of Cornelius in several conversations he has had with the wisest of men, I conclude that Syracuse is infinitely more fortunate in being governed in accordance with the principles of the Roman constitution that when it was necessary to obey the absolute will of the nobles. Cyaxare, the sage to whom I’m referring, doesn’t think differently today.”
“In that case,” said Aristos, “I bear in my heart for your Cyaxare all the amity that I have vowed to the Demagogues. What a citizen!”
“But Monsieur,” said Bazilide, “If it were the case that the Syracusans wanted to change situation now, it would be necessary for rivers of blood to flow; the walls of the city would be stained by it; let us try to forget it...”
“The conversation has certainly changed direction,” said Aglaonice, looking at Aristos. That is not, I think, the motive that brought you here, my lord?”
“No other than that of uniting himself with you could animate anyone who has the good fortune to know you, and although you live here in the Praetor’s house, people think too well of you to presume the good fortune of that aged foreigner.”
“He serves me as a father,” said Aglaonice. “I beg you to speak better of him.”
“Good—but the advantage is all on his side. You would have had no lack of men as hospitable.”
“Let us talk,” said Aglaonice, “about what your talent for the mechanical arts has led you to undertake, or break off the conversation...”
Aristos thought that the young woman, whatever she said, was not sufficiently grateful not to allow herself to be caught by the charms of vanity.
“Well, my lady,” he said, “on the subject of the machine about which you are questioning me, I will confide a secret to you that you will doubtless keep for me, when you know that it was constructed by design to favor the passion that I have for you. Beautiful as you are, you are born to reign; and I shall think about that from now on. If one could do at a stroke everything that one would like to do...
“But before anything else, it is necessary for this city to shrug off the yoke.29 What you have to do in that circumstance cannot be treated as rebellion. Rome has stolen our liberty; nothing is more natural than that we should recover it.”
“It was to liberate us, and not to dominate us,” said Bazilide, “that the Romans battled our tyrants, and with them the Carthaginians who served them as supporters. The majority of us, animated by a long resentment, hoped to be defeated in order not to remain forever enslaved...”
Aristos had said too much for the ladies not to be tempted to denounce him to Cornelius. Aglaonice thought that it would be as well to know everything. Pallor, however, had spread over her face...
“One could listen to you for a long time,” she said, “if it were possible to have the slightest hope, but I foresee that too many citizens would be the futile victims of it.”
“Don’t be afraid,” said Aristos. “It’s not a matter of killing them all; a certain number would suffice. I can answer for a good third who are not as obdurate as your Cyaxare. Then again, we have a few intelligent men, especially the leaders. But the essential thing would be for me to be able to get in here under cover of darkness.”
“And what would you do here?” asked Aglaonice.
“The salvation of Syracuse depends on the death of all the soldiers there are around this palace. Deliver them to my vengeance; immediately afterwards, I’ll take you away. As for the Praetor, I consent to show him mercy if you still deign to take an interest in him...”
Aglaonice shivered.
“Then,” he continued, “instead of only being the wife of an obscure citizen, you would command them all in the quality of the wife of one of the foremost in the State. Look…this machine that I’ve constructed can transport me to unknown regions. I’ve said more to you; I’ve spoken about the Moon, and I really don’t despair of going as far as that...”
At this point, Aristos’ eyes, and his entire physiognomy, no longer depicted anything but a man gone astray; his mind became unhinged at that moment.
“Now,” he went on, “since the populace, whom we’ve tried in vain to seduce, is too stupid to listen to pour propositions; since even our soldiers refuse to obey us, it’s not mountains of gold that I’ll go to search for up there; we have no lack of them. It’s men that we need: a hundred machines like mine will bring down an entire army. The reservations of kinship won’t hold them back like imbeciles in the presence of others. Thus, my lady, your individual happiness, mine and that of our partisans will be assured forever. As for the Romans, Carthage will stand up to them again...”
The ladies scarcely heard the end of his speech. The madness of which he had just given proof in talking about his lunar army had given them time to recover their wits, and they ended up uttering a new burst of laughter, which did not finish. Politeness demanded, however, that they justify that species of incivility. They gave him to understand that he ought not to interpret it as anything but the effect of a doubt, very pardonable in women whose knowledge was not as extensive as his. As it seemed necessary, at the same time, that they get rid of him, they flattered his hopes, pressing him to attempt the aerial voyage whos
e success was the only means of convincing them that it was his destiny to make his party dominant and drive the Romans out of Sicily.
The double temerity of Aristos blinded him too much for him to doubt the sincerity of Aglaonice’s final words. He took his leave of her and went straight into the garden to rejoin his dear Cantabrian, whom he took to one side in order to tell him what had happened. Then he went to the machine, to give the order to make it ready to take off.
VI. The Tragic end of Aristos and the Cantabrian lord.
Aristos had not reached the bottom of the staircase when the Praetor appeared in the apartment with an expression as cheerful as usual, still gallant, and asked Aglaonice whether that equivalent of a private conversation had produced a good effect. The ladies did not know whether to laugh or adopt a serious attitude.
“You aren’t saying anything!” said Cornelius. “Is that because your heart is already captured?”
“It’s necessary to tell you,” she replied, “and I can’t hide it from you, that that lover, if he is one, is nothing but a monster that it’s necessary to stifle immediately.”
Cornelius secretly enjoying that sentiment of indignation, pretended to interpret it to Aglaonice’s advantage.
“You’re so charming,” he said, “that it would be necessary to forgive a man who lost his head in your presence a good deal.”
“It’s not a matter of that,” said Bazilide, excitedly. “Rather make sure of Aristos; he has formed a project to murder everyone in Ortygia, and your person is not safe from him.”
“What! Is that all?” said Cornelius, smiling. “Oh, my ladies, you’re accomplices. Why, Aglaonice is hiding it from me that she might have become Queen? However, she has every interest in my making her fortune; I even like her enough to assure her that a crown of flowers placed on her head by an honest citizen would honor her more than a diadem that she would receive from the hands of a new Agathocles.”30
You can imagine the surprise of the two ladies at that observation by the Praetor; they looked at one another without saying a word.
Cornelius extracted them from their embarrassment by revealing the manner in which he had learned everything.
“Have no fear,” he said to them. “There’s more extravagance than reason in your Aristos’ project. However, prudence requires that he presume that you have kept his confidence secret from me; otherwise, I shall be forced to take action, which would assuredly be futile. You’ll see that within two hours, Aristos will have rid us of his presence.
Cornelius then went into the garden, as if he knew nothing about Aristos’ perfidy, in order to see the preparations of the machine. It was a light chariot, to which to large wings had been fitted made of a fine linen fabric, supported by long struts of whalebone gathered together at the point where each wing was attached, and divergent that the opposite extremity. Those two wings took the place of wheels. They were deployed with the aid of hidden springs that were activated by means of a handle; then extended above the chariot, which they covered with their vast span, offering to the curious eye a motto that was not Aristos’: As the wind transports.31
Time was pressing; they hastened to smear it, while waiting to be able to kill the author.
An awkwardness on Aristos’ part had doubled the means. To the swingle-bar of the vehicle were hitched two large swans, which he had received as a present from a descendant of Cycnus, King of Liguria, and a relative of Phaeton.32
Aristos mounted his chariot. The springs continuing to move, the vast wings beat the air with so much force and speed that the vehicle and its conductor rose up more than six hundred feet, always diminishing in volume, to the extent of soon seeming to be nothing but an owl. It was remarked at the machine’s departure that the swans would have sufficed,33 or that they were surplus to requirements, because the machine carried them away vertically, while they were making an effort to fly straight ahead. A worse augury was, however, that one of them was singing; that was the trumpet of death.
Cornelius, then having no more to do than look up, had rejoined the ladies. A crowd of people had come from all directions to see the spectacle. The men, prompt to judge, said of Aristos that he had more genius than all the physicists of previous centuries, and that he would cause Icarus and the sun’s bastard to be forgotten. One enthusiast even sustained that if the great Marcellus had been a witness to that prodigious ascension, he would be bound to agree that even Archimedes, a man so knowledgeable about statics that he called him a Briareus,34 might not have imagined such a vehicle.
At the moment when the ecstasy reached its peak, however, a westerly wind plunged into the wings of the aristocratic machine and made it quit the vertical direction. The chariot, then drawn by the swans and pushed by the wind, followed a route parallel to the horizon, much more rapidly than the conductor would have wished.
It was about to brush, at the entrance to the port of Trogile, the tip of the Timoleon beacon,35 a famous obelisk two hundred feet high erected in memory of the liberty rendered to the city by the Corinthian captain, who defeated Denis and the Carthaginians. They thought that it was the end of Aristos, and that he was about to perish, hooked there. Let us leave him for a moment fluttering around the fatal luminary.
It is not possible, my dear reader, that you do not have some interest in his faithful Cantabrian and that you are not so much sorry as surprised not to see him here in the same cabriolet; I ought to tell you that, if he did not take his leave of the company too, it was because it had been agreed that he would remain behind for the benefit of service. His instructions included putting the world on the alert and also that, as a faithful observer of the voyage, he would be the first to publish an account of it. But it is necessary to show you the degree of elevation to which the zeal of his minister bore him. He dominated all the spectators; he was on the platform of the citadel; he perched higher still...
Imagine twenty vigorous men, lined up in a square, their backs bent, with both hands on their knees, in the guise of flying buttresses. On those strong arches pose twenty standing men, their arms extended, holding very firm. Above those men are placed others, each of whose feet is carried on the shoulders of the robust champions forming the first stage—and so on, always diminishing and varying the attitudes. Suppose, finally, a pyramid whose summit is terminated by four men, arms in the air, sustaining a shield, on which our faithful confidant is standing, his eyes turned toward the beacon where his friend is in great danger. One presumes that his head is spinning at that spectacle, and that he is about to fall backwards on to the parvis.
He does, in fact, fall, but the cause has not been divined. The need or the desire to sneeze grips a good plebeian who is there, a near neighbor in the pyramid, his elbows leaning on the parapet. With the effort that he makes to disengage his head, his body being bent double, his backside bumps into that of one of the curbed Atlases making the angle and base of the pyramid. Instantly, all of them tip over, all of them fall. The Cantabrian and twenty of his caryatids tumble pell-mell to the feet of the walls of the citadel, like the Gauls once precipitated from the Capitol; but misfortune determines that a part of the military band placed there to play a fanfare at the departure of the vehicle perishes with them.
Music-stands, instruments, players and spectators were scattered everywhere. As for the rest of the children of Bel Babel Belphegor, who had only collapsed on one another and the Paros marble paving the platform, the majority were only crippled. But the poor plebeian, on whose body three quarters of the mass had landed, was so maltreated that only one breath remained to him. He was to end like the terrible blind man who was crushed by the satraps, persecutors and tyrants of the Hebrews on whom he had wanted to take revenge. But the character of the dying man was not such as to be worthy of such noble comparisons. He had been cheerful all his life and he said, as he rendered his last sigh, that every cloud has a silver lining.
Let us now return our gaze to the winged machine and its conductor. A cry of dolor made itself
heard on the part of a number of confederates placed here and there on the long chain of fortifications raised on the landward side and all along the coast. But the tragic end of Aristos would not have made enough noise if the Syracusans had been the only witnesses. The Gods wanted the death of that new Bellerophon to serve as an example to a large number of peoples.
A southerly wind, more impetuous than the first, carrying him away from the obelisk, caused him to traverse the Sicilian Sea and drove him in a straight line more than a hundred and twenty miles from Syracuse toward the northern entrance of the strait of Messina, a dangerous passage, where the gulf of Charybdis is located and the dogs of Scylla are heard barking incessantly. As he was completely lost to sight, it was necessary on either side to wait until the next day to discover what might have become of him.
Cavaliers dispatched by the Praetor, well mounted on Arab horses, set off for Messina at full tilt, and toward the evening of the following day, reported that the voyager, drawn down toward the sea, after having bobbed for a long time between the two reefs, had finally fallen on to the pointed rocks of Scylla, where laborers had even shown them the debris of the chariot, still suspended there. As for the individual, as no vestige of him had been found, the cavaliers added that the sea had surely engulfed him, along with all his great names.
That conjecture seemed as probable as it was satisfying to Cornelius and the ladies. However, those Syracusans who, not being fully informed, had only seen in the ascension of the machine a novelty in the success of which they were interested, were genuinely afflicted by the accident. As it was a discovery of which centuries to come would surely not fail to take advantage, however, and the invention would be attributed to them, their chagrin did not last long. On the part of the conspirators, it was mortal. All of them—with the exception of two, who threw the few drachms they had received in the faces of the others—departed for Messina, and engraved the following epitaph on a slab of marble they embedded in the rock:
The Mirror of Present Events Page 4