Run, Melos!
Page 2
As Melos lay with arms and legs flung out on the ground, sleep began to overcome him. But then, suddenly, a murmuring sound reached his ears. Raising his head slightly, he held his breath and listened. The sound came from somewhere nearby. Rising falteringly to his hands and knees, he saw it – water gurgling quietly out of a crevice in the rocks. The stream seemed to whisper to Melos, to beckon to him, and he bent over it and drank, scooping up the water with both hands. He let out a long, deep sigh, and felt as if he were awakening from a dream. He could go on. He would go on. As his body began to revive, a small spark of hope was kindled in his heart. The hope that he could preserve his honor by dying at the executioner’s hands. The red, declining sun shone so brightly that it seemed to set the leaves and branches of the trees afire.
There is still time before sunset. Someone waits for me. Patiently, never doubting me, he waits for my return. I have his trust. My life? It counts for nothing. But this is not time to seek forgiveness with my own death. I must prove worthy of this trust. That, for now, is everything. Run, Melos!
He trusts me. He trusts me. That whispering of demons a moment ago was just a dream. A bad dream. Banish it from your mind. Men will have such dreams when the flesh is weary. There is no shame in that, Melos. You are a man of true valor. Have you not risen, are you not running again? Praise the gods. I can die the death of a righteous man. Ah, the sun sinks. How rapidly it sinks! Wait, O Zeus. I have been an honest man in life. Allow me to be as honest in death.
Pushing aside the people who crowded the road, sending some of them flying, Melos ran like a dark wind. He startled a crowd of revelers gathered for a feast in the grassy meadow by dashing recklessly through their midst. Kicking dogs out of his way and leaping over streams, he ran ten times as fast as the sinking sun. It was as he passed a group of travelers walking the opposite way that he chanced to hear these ominous words: “That man will be on the cross by now.”
“That man.” It is for that man that I run. That man must not die. Faster, Melos. You must not be late. Now is the time to prove the power of love and truth.
Stripping himself nearly naked – for appearances meant nothing to him now – Melos ran on. He was barely able to breathe, and twice or three times he coughed up blood. But look. There, small in the distance, the towers of Syracuse. The towers, shining in the setting sun.
“Ah, it’s Melos, is it not?” A voice like a groan reached his ears along with the sound of the wind.
“Who speaks?” said Melos, without breaking stride.
“My name is Philostratus, sir, apprentice to your friend Selinuntius.” The young man ran behind Melos, shouting his words. “You’re too late, sir. It’s hopeless. You needn’t run now. You can no longer help him.”
“The sun has yet to set.”
“Even now he is being prepared for execution. You’re too late, sir. Alas. If only you had come but moments sooner!”
“The sun has yet to set.” Melos felt as if his heart would burst. His eyes were fixed on the huge, red sun on the western horizon. There was nothing to do but run.
“Enough, sir. Stay, I beg you. It is your life that is important now. My master believed in you. Even when they dragged him onto the execution ground, he remained unconcerned. And when the king mocked and taunted him, all he said was, ‘Melos will come.’ His faith in you was unshaken to the end.”
“That is why I must run. I run because of that faith, that trust. Whether I make it in time is not the question. Nor is it merely a question of one man’s life. I am running because of something immeasurably greater and more fearsome than death. Run with me, Philostratus!”
“Ah, is it madness that drives you, then? Very well, sir, run! Run for all you are worth. Perhaps, just perhaps, there may still be time. Run!”
Nor could anything have made him stop. The sun had yet to set. Summoning up his last desperate reserves of strength, Melos ran on. Not a single thought passed through his head. He ran, propelled by some immense, unnamable force. The sun, meanwhile, sank lazily below the horizon, and just as the last, lingering ray of light was about to vanish, Melos, riding the wings of the wind, burst onto the execution ground. He’d made it.
“Hold, executioner. Spare that man. Melos has returned, as promised.” From the back of the great throng that had gathered, Melos tried to shout these words. All that issued from his parched, constricted throat, however, was a harsh whisper, and no one in the multitude took heed of his arrival. The cross was already in place, looming high above the crowd, and Selinuntius, bound with ropes, was being hoisted slowly upon it. Melos, with one final, courageous burst of strength, pushed his way through the crowd, much as he’d earlier parted the turbulent waves of the river.
“Executioner! It is I! I am the one to be put to death. I am Melos. Melos, who left this man as surety, is standing before you!” Struggling to make his hoarse voice heard, Melos climbed upon the platform that supported the cross and flung his arms around the legs of his friend.
A stir ran through the crowd. From all sides rose cries of “Praise be!” and “Free him!” Selinuntius was lowered to the platform and released from his bonds.
“Selinuntius,” said Melos, his eyes brimming with tears. “Hit me. Strike me as hard as you can. For one moment, on my way here, a bad dream overcame me. If you won’t strike me, I haven’t the right to embrace you. Hit me, Selinuntius!”
Selinuntius seemed to understand. He nodded, and dealt Melos’s right cheek such a blow that the sound of it echoed over the execution ground. Then he smiled gently.
“Melos,” he said. “Hit me. Strike me as hard and as resoundingly as I’ve just struck you. Once during the past three days, I doubted you. Just once, but for the first time in my life. If you won’t strike me, I cannot embrace you.”
Melos’s hand flew through the air and crashed against Selinuntius’s cheek.
“Thank you, my friend!” Melos and Selinuntius spoke the words as one, embraced tightly, and sobbed aloud with joy.
From the crowd, too, came sobs. The tyrant Dionysius, perched on his seat behind the crowd, stared intently at the two friends for some time. Then he walked quietly to where they stood. His face flushed as he spoke.
“Your wish has been fulfilled. You have subdued my heart. Trust between men is not just an empty illusion. I, too, would be your friend. Say you will let the league of love be three.”
Cheers and shouts of “Long live the king!” arose from the crowd. And out of the cheering throng, a young maiden stepped forward bearing a red cloak. When she held the cloak out to Melos, he could only look at it in bewilderment. His friend, true Selinuntius, was quick to explain.
“Look at you, Melos – your clothes are gone. Put on the cloak. This pretty maiden can’t bear to have everyone see you that way.”
A scarlet blush mantled the hero’s cheek.
(from an ancient legend, and a poem by Schiller)