But as things are, that is not what I say; no, I
climbed the acropolis, I put myself in peril, I accomplished untold labours before I slew the young
man. For you must not suppose that the affair was
so easy and simple—to pass a guard, to overpower
men-at-arms, to rout so many by myself; no, this
is quite the mightiest obstacle in the slaying of a
tyrant, and the principal of its achievements. For of
course it is not the tyrant himself that is mighty and
impregnable and indomitable, but what guards and
maintains his tyranny; if anyone conquers all this,
he has attained complete success, and what remains
is trivial. Of course the approach to the tyrants
would not have been open to me if I had not overpowered all the guards and henchmen about them,
conquering all these to begin with. I add nothing
further, but once more confine myself to this point:
I overpowered the outposts, conquered the bodyguards, rendered the tyrant unprotected, unarmed,
defenceless. Does it seem to you that I deserve
honour for that, or do you further demand of me the
shedding of his blood?

 
 
But even if you require bloodshed, that is not
wanting either, and I am not unstained with blood;
on the contrary, I have done a great and valiant
deed in that I slew a young man in the fullness of
his strength, terrible to all, through whom that
other was unassailed by plots, on whom alone he
relied, who sufficed him instead of many guardsmen.
Then am I not deserving of a reward, man? Am I
to be devoid of honours for such deeds? What if I
had killed a bodyguard, or some henchman of the
tyrant, or a valued slave? Would not even this
have seemed a great thing, to go up and slay one of
the tyrant’s friends in the midst of the citadel, in
the midst of arms? But as it is, look at the slain
man himself! He was a tyrant’s son, nay more, a
harsher tyrant, an inexorable despot, a more cruel
chastiser, a more violent oppressor; what is most
important, he was heir and successor to everything,
and capable of prolonging vastly the duration of our
misery.
 
Suppose, if you will, that this was my sole achievement—that the tyrant has made his escape and is
still alive. Well and good, I demand a guerdon for
this. What do you all say? Will you not vouchsafe it? Did you not view the son, too, with
concern? Was he notadespot? Was he not cruel,
unendurable? 
As it is, however, think of the crowning feat itself.
What this man requires of me I accomplished in the
best possible way. I killed the tyrant by killing
someone else, not directly nor at a single blow, which
would have been his fondest prayer after misdeeds
so monstrous. No, first I tortured him with profound
grief, displayed full in his view. all that was dearest


 

to him lying exposed in pitiable case, a son in his
youth, wicked, to be sure, but in the fullness of his
strength and the image of his sire, befouled with
blocd and gore. Those are the wounds of fathers,
those the swords of tyrannicides who deal justly,
that is the death deserved by savage tyrants, that
the requital befitting misdeeds so great. To die
forthwith, to know nothing, to see no such spectacle
has in it nothing worthy of a tyrant’s punishment.
 
For I was not unaware, man—I was not unaware, nor was anyone else, how much love he had for
his son, and that he would not have wanted to outlive
him even a little while. To be sure, all fathers no
doubt have such feelings toward their children;
‘but in his case there was something more than in the
case of others; naturally, for he discerned that it
was his son who alone cherished and guarded the
tyranny, who alone faced danger in his father’s
stead, and gave security to his rule. Consequently
I knew that he would lay down his life at once, if
not through his love, then at all events through his
despair, considering that there was no profit in life
now that the security derived from his son had been
abolished. I encompassed him, therefore, with all
manner of toils at once—his nature, his grief, his
despair, his misgivings about the future; I used
these allies against him, and forced him to that final
decision. He has gone to his death childless, griefstricken, in sorrow and in tears, after mourning but
a little while, it is true, yet long enough for a
father; gone (and that is most horrible) by his own


 

hand, the most pitiable of deaths, far more bitter
than as if it should come about at the hand of
another.
 
Where is my sword? Does anyone else recognise
this? Was this any other man’s weapon? Who
carried it up to the citadel? Who preceded the
tyrant in its use? Who commissioned it against
him? Good sword, partner and promoter of my
successes, after so many perils, after so many slayings,
we are disregarded and thought unworthy of a reward! If it were for the sword alone that I sought
the meed of honour trom you—if I were pleading:
“Gentlemen, when the tyrant wished to die and
at the moment found himself unarmed, this sword of
mine served him and did its part in every way
towards the attainment of liberty—account it worthy
of honour and reward,” would you not have requited
the owner of a possession so valuable to the state?
Would you not have recorded him among your benefactors? Would you not have enshrined the sword
among your hallowed treasures? Would you not
have worshipped it along with the gods?