Now then, imagine, I beg you, what the tyrant no doubt did and what he said before his end. When I sought to slay the son and wounded him again and again in those parts of his body which could be seen, that so I might grieve the parent most, that so I might rend his heart through the first sight, he raised a doleful cry, calling his parent to him, not to aid him or share the conflict—for he knew him to be old and weak—but to behold his own calamities. Before I slipped away, I had myself composed the whole plot of the tragedy, but had left to the actor the body, the stage-setting, the sword, and the remainder of the play. When the other made his appearance and saw his only son with but little breath in him, bloodied, covered with gore, his wounds close together, numerous, and vital, he raised this cry: “My child, we are destroyed, assassinated, fallen victims to the tyrant-slayer! Where is the executioner? For what purpose is he keeping me, for what purpose reserving me, now that I am already destroyed through you, my child? Or is it perhaps that he contemns me as an old man, and also by his dilatoriness (since I must be punished) protracts my death and makes my execution longer?”

With these words he sought a sword; for he was unarmed on account of his complete reliance upon his son. But that too was not wanting; long beforehand, that too had been provided by me and left behind for the bold deed that was to come. So, withdrawing the sword from the victim, plucking it from the wound, he said: “A little while ago you gave me death; now give me repose, Osword. Come to console a mourning father; lighten the task of an aged hand beset by adversity; let my blood; be tyrant-slayer to me; quit me of my woe. Had I but encountered you first! had I but inverted the order of deaths! I should have perished; but simply as tyrant—but thinking still that I should have an avenger, while now I die as one who is childless, as one who can hardly so much as find a man to take his life!” Thereupon he hastened his despatch, trembling, incapable, craving it, to be sure, but lacking the strength to serve his bold purpose.

How many punishments were there in all this? How many wounds? How many deaths? How many tyrant-slayings? How many rewards? And at the end you have all seen not only the young man exposed in death (no slight accomplishment or easy to achieve), but the old man prostrate upon him, you have seen the blood of both intermingled (that thank-offering for liberty and for victory), and the havoc of my sword; aye, the sword itself between them both, evincing that it has not been unworthy of its owner and testifying that it served me faithfully. Had this been done by me, it would be less of an achievement ; but now it is more splendid by reason of its novelty. It is I, to be sure, who overthrew the entire tyranny; but the performance has been distributed among many people as in a play; the leading part was played by me, the second by the son, the third by the tyrant himself, and the sword served all.