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?