There Is No Greece: A Story of Socrates

THERE IS NO GREECE:

A Story of Socrates

Though we can sometimes know the time and place, nothing may bear witness the act that conceives it. So, we must take it on faith that the rightness which brought us here, and that which we live by, may diverge, yet, somewhere meet again. I’m no believer in fate, but no one has convinced me that the world does not foretell the future in some fashion, a way that can be discerned by some impossible philosophy mankind has yet to ken.

I think of fate, today, because I have come to learn of the death of a man named Socrates. Many have conjectured that his execution was unmerited. I say this is not so. He was far from blameless, as far as the charges against him are concerned. He was a corruptor of young minds. And I was one of many. After meeting him, I was never the fool I had been before. I became one that saw his own foolishness as clearly as one sees it in another. Now I, myself, must remain a fool until the day I go forth unto perfection.

Already, the streets of my city are breezy from that distinct waggle of tongues that follows the death of the great. Many are busy recounting their own personal tales of the man. So, for my part, having known and revered him, I will recount a day most clearly remembered.
 

***

Like any good peddler, my teacher could always be found selling his ideas to the people of the Agora. What better place for a philosopher than a market? There is no surer time and place to solicit honest answers, excepting those first few groggy moments after waking. If Socrates could have been crouched eagerly over our beds, we'd surely have all awoken to find his finger poking at our face, his voice crying “Do you know everything there is to know of your profession? If so, why keep doing it?”.

One can find all sorts of companions in the marketplace, but rare is a man so old and destitute as was my teacher. This quality aside, he was never hard to find, surrounded by students and admirers.

On this day, however, no such spectacle was apparent. I did not turn back, though there were things I could have been doing. This was because absolutely nothing compared to the exhilaration of one of his discourses, and it was worth most any effort to attend one. As I wandered around, I encountered a friend called Telemachus, who had already been here scouring the Agora for some time. He was also seeking out my teacher, and had no better luck than I. Telemachus, always handsome and confident, immediately took control of our expedition.

“Come,” he said to me. “Let us look for him at that gymnasium he frequents, the one dedicated to Herakles.”

“No, Telemachus,” I replied. “I have just come from there, and teacher was not there.”

Telemachus shrugged, wondering where next to turn. “Perhaps he has taken ill?” he said.

“Hmm. Perhaps you are right. Let us go, forthwith, to his home.”

It has always been seen as quaint, or merely the eccentricity of a mad man, that Socrates, the wisest of all teachers, taught for no fee while his numerous lessers demanded coin-in-hand. This fact was famous. One had merely to look upon his clothes, his children, his home, to understand. In serving us for no payment, he and his family lived as paupers, and any offers of charity were rebuked, by him, with hostility. Though we would never discuss the subject in his presence, that he lived so deplorably was a shame to us all.

If one was worried about his health and wanted to feed the man, one had to culminate a proper Symposium. If one met his criteria, one could give the man anything he wished to. To his hungry family, however, his tempestuous wife Xanthippe, and his sons, one had to bring them gifts in secret. Xanthippe would always accept them, but her face, usually, was countenanced with a look of contempt when an offering was not generous enough. And most were deemed not.

His small home in Alopeke was the house of a typical stonemason, with walls of shattered mud-brick and a cluttered roof of crumbling tiles and bird droppings. The front door opened into a large room where he had, as a younger man, worked on commissions, but it had since become a small shrine to Peitho. At the door of the house we called for him, but only his family was there, not he. Xanthippe, his wife, who was in no mood for an interruption, gruffly told us that her husband was in a fit and shut the door in our faces. Telemachus and I walked away, little better off than when we had arrived.

A ‘fit’, in reference to the great man, left two distinct possibilities. The first kind was when the gods would speak to him so that only he could hear, their voices reverberating in his belly, the passion they invoked thrumming like the string of a lyre. If he could only have shared with us their wisdom, as relayed to him in their very words! As if from their very throats! Regretfully, this was not how it worked. We would know their ideas, in time, when he'd returned to his worldly state and could tell us what he'd learned.

On one occasion, he felt the passion of Poseidon reach inside him and take hold. My master could not contain his excitement and for days he was overcome with dizzying thoughts of water. He heard it crashing all around him! Between his ears, the power of the sea! Thunderous waves striking cliff sides! And as the waves crashed, teacher would be sent tumbling to the earth, his body thrashing about, until the conflagration ended, nothing left of the storm but the sizzling of the bubbles in his head and he rubbing his temples.

At that time, he could be found bothering the potters of the Karamekeis almost day and night, begging them to tell him everything they could about the clay pipes that lay beneath Athens and carry the water to the homes of the great houses. He asked all sorts of questions. Once, for an hour or so, they stared on in amazement as he pounded the side of his skull with the butt of his palm, endeavoring to drain the sewage he believed had "clogged his melon" into an empty bucket. It was a sight to see, to be sure! But when it was over, he had no wish to speak of it with anyone, and we abided by this wish.

On the day of this particular story, no such rumors of our master pervaded the streets of the city. If any such thing were occurring, it would be the talk of the town. The sun had moved about a finger’s width in the sky by the time Telemachus and I had returned to the Agora. Again, our teacher was not there, and we talked it over.

“I think we should try the theater, next,” suggested my friend.

“I have to disagree,” said I. “He would have no reason to go, for I know there is nothing that would interest him happening there today.”

Telemachus scowled. “Then what are we to do? Shall we walk around until, inevitably, we’ve searched every corner of Athens?”

I dismissed his jibe. It was not helpful. “Perhaps we can reason this out? If teacher felt a fit coming on, what is the likely place he'd go?”

“That is hard to say. He would go wherever his thoughts drew him.”

“I do, in fact.” I told him, then, of a talk I'd had with another student, a boy named Hyginos. He'd spoken of our master being passionate, to great distraction, about the trial of a man named Cratippus.

“I see, and what was this passion based on?” asked Telemachus.

“Teacher felt that there was enough reason to doubt the man’s guilt.”

“He is innocent?”

“Enough that he felt it better for the man to spared enslavement.”

“Enslavement? Of a citizen? What did the man do?"

"I'm not certain. But the boy said teacher was upset over it."

"And what, then, did he propose to do with the man? Exile, I suppose.”

“Just so. I don't know much. He also spoke of some particulars that arose in his defense. Unfortunately...”

“Tell me no more of it,” Telemachus interjected. “The particulars are not important. I think it is to the place of trial that we should go next. Do you know where the case was heard?”

"The Areopagus, I believe."

"There? Really? Did this Cratippus commit murder?"

"Like I've said, I don't know."

"Then we shall go there. Where else would he go but the very place where this perturbing thing had occurred?"

“Agreed, Telemachus,” I replied. So, we made our way to the Areopagus and, thusly, found that he was not there. We sulked for a few moments, then I had an idea.

“Perhaps he is at The Pnyx?” I said to my depressed friend. He immediately recovered from his funk. "Perhaps, wishing to speak his mind, his oncoming fit would draw him there to be heard. It may be that..."

“Why, that is a good idea!” Telemachus interjected. He was already walking away from me.

To continue from before, the other kind of fit my master experienced were the times when he was taken in by illusions of the mind, yet, mindful of nothing that got on about him. Somewhere, in our great city, our teacher was standing alone, locked in an inexorable gaze with what would seem to be a phantom off in the distance to a passerby. Really, though, he was staring at nothing, but transfixed by it. If one were to violently shake him they would have no luck getting his attention. If we found him in this state, it would be just as if we pestered a statue of Hermes and expected a reply for our efforts.

He could be in this state for an hour, or the entire length of a day and half of the next. He has been found this way numerous times over the years. In one instance, he’d stood under the shade of a tree, one hot morning, and did not move from there until after the sun was setting. His sons, just boys, sat around him, serving as watchers until he regained his sense.

It was at the Pnyx that we at last found out teacher. He was standing at the far end, near bottom of the bema, crouched over and staring intently at something that he must have just picked up off the ground. We walked up to him, forthwith. The assembly was not meeting for another week and the Pnyx was almost entirely empty. It was a slow day in the city.

“Master, are you unwell?” Telemachus asked, gently. Inwardly, I balked. What a foolish question!

“Let him be, Telemachus,” I said. “I have seen him like this before. All we can do is wait.” However, his curiosity often got the better of his sense. He reached out and tried to take from Socrates whatever it was that the man was holding, but the man held it tightly.

“What do you think it is?” he asked me. I shrugged in response.

“It looks worthless. A pottery shard.”

 So, we stood there, in dumbfounded silence. We did not want to leave the great man alone in this state. But then, only moments later, our master stirred and stood straight up. It made us jump. He slowly began to regain his reason. He looked us both over, quickly sizing us up as his animus returned to him.

“How long?” he asked us.

“Fear not,” said Telemachus. “For it is still the same day, as it was.”

“Oh, good then. Good.” Teacher then stretched his back. He groaned pitiably. He was an old man, and we knew it. “Come, lads,” said Socrates. “I have had enough of this place. It is at its most severe when it is empty.”

“Of course, teacher,” said Telemachus.

“Yes, let’s go,” I agreed, but I had to know what it was he was holding. “Do you need that thing, master?”

He looked at the pottery shard and seemed, once again, to be overtaken by some dour notion. I did not wish it to go any further, so I interrupted. “Give it here,” I said. “Or just toss it away.”

“Yes,” he answered. “Yes. Here, take it.” And I did. Readily, his hand squeezed my shoulder. “Read to me the name written on it.”

I examined the pottery shard. Drawn on it was a type of eccentric bordering that looked, strangely, like it could be someone's name. I could make out nothing of the larger image, however, but the corner of a foot. It didn't look like one of our local vases to me, but a cheaper variety from Corinth that flooded the market. They made good chamber pots. “It is nothing,” I said.

“Can you read it, well enough, to say it is not my name?”

“There is no name, here, teacher,” I answered. “It is not even lettering. Why did you think it could be your name?”

Socrates frowned, then, walked hurriedly away from us. We caught him up and walked alongside. “When I looked at it, I saw my very name written on its face," said teacher. "I walked around with it all morning, then I returned here.” That he had misread the word or, more accurately, that he mistook what was there for a word, was all too understandable. Our teacher had great difficulties with his letters. He'd described to us how they were always dancing around, changing places, even as he looked upon them. It left the man shunning the written word.

“Are you sure you are well?” asked Telemachus.

“And what troubles you, so much, teacher?” I asked.

His rebuking laughter faded away. “I am troubled because I am sensible, lad. Any sensible man should be, in these times. But it is not enough, to be sensible, for when men gather together, thinking as one mind, madness becomes like sound thinking and sound thinking becomes like madness."

"Is this what so vexes you, teacher?" asked Telemachus, concerned.

"I'm not certain what vexes me, anymore," answered the great man.

"Surely, though, you do not think this decision concerning Cratippus to be madness?" 

Socrates shook his head, dismissing this line of thought. "The decision has, indeed, upset me. It is not a simple thing. But it is not that alone."

"Pray, tell us more, Teacher," I said. My heart began to thump all the more rapidly, for I hoped he was on the verge of telling us something wondrous.

Socrates did not answer directly but kept on walking with his head bowed down and face grim. "This trial stirs up much from the past that I do not wish to remember."

I took a chance and pressed him for more, so eager was I. So unthinking. "Please, explain, teacher."

Socrates sat down on a filthy step, sweeping away, first, what dirt he could. "Cratippus was not a citizen. Did you know that?"

"No, I did not."

"He was born in Potidaea, and he lived through our siege on his city. How much do you know about this?"

"I know that it went on for several years, and that you were present for most of that time."

Teacher nodded, but not with enthusiasm. "There are parts of the story that are not often mentioned. I do not believe they are forgotten, however." Socrates took a long breath and rubbed his temples. "I am accused, quite often, of teaching young men that there are things better in life than becoming rich men. In turn, that is called being unpatriotic, because they seem to think a man who thinks this way will not want to march to war and win wealth for his polis. People forget that I did that very thing, more than once."

Telemachus' countenance darkened, and he turned away from us. Though he was a good debater, he could never abide criticism of Athens. It was evident to me that my friend possessed none of his usual patience that morning. He'd, perhaps, used up much of it searching out our master.

"Yet, you are a patriot, teacher," I added, hoping to mitigate Telemachus' discomfiture. "And I know that you love our city, as we all do."

Socrates twisted his head up so that his eyes could meet my own. "Yes. Love her. Love her, lad, just as I have, but do not worship her. For if you worship a woman, or a city, like a god, then she will never stand for your correcting her. Do not let her be led astray, or in the end you will find yourself an enemy of the very thing that you love."

"I understand. You are right, of course. But what of Cratippus? What's he to you?"

Teacher's face grew sullen, once again. It made me feel guilty. "I lived through that siege for more than two years," he said. "Perhaps I was too old for such an ordeal. I realized that all I had been preaching, so much of it, anyway, meant less after that conflict. I had waited all my life to, finally, grow into the man I should be. Athens never looked the same after Potidaea."

"But what was it that brought this change about, teacher? War was not new to you."

Socrates nodded, conceding this point. "You are right. It was not my first war. In those last months, our blockade of the city started to show progress. We'd learned that the people were utterly starving. So much so, that they'd begun to consume the flesh of the dead. Some, even, to murder the living so to make a meal of them. Children's corpses, I was told, were hung up on hooks for bidding on in the market, like swine, before the very eyes of their crying mothers. People fought with each other to get a portion of them, their city's own children."

I was shocked by his words, even made wordless, myself. So, I did nothing to interrupt him, so captivated was I.

"People can be pigs. I knew that, for certain, when I heard these stories. I do believe there is a certain nobility to nature. Surely, though, we are meant for a better sort of life. We must be meant for higher things!

"It occurred to me that the suffering we'd caused, the horror we'd wrought on that city, had debased us. It was not the kind of war our elders had waged.

"Nevertheless, I started to see that we are not truly human unless we strive to be more than humans are. To widen that divide between us and swine. Just as we build cities, so we must build our souls. It is our duty! I knew, deep in my heart, that the gods would make us pay for this thing we'd done. And I was right. Upon returning to Athens, I saw, with my own eyes, just how the gods had felt about Potidaea."

I knew, or had an idea, what my teacher was talking about. But, again, I did not wish to interrupt, even as he took a moment to right himself.

"Somehow, word had not gotten ahead of us," he said. "So, we were not prepared for what we witnessed when we entered Athens. Our city was in chaos. This is the first we'd heard of the plague. People were at the end of their tethers; madness ruled their souls. Screaming, looting, and murder in the streets. Homes were ablaze! Corpses floated in the fountains, clogging cisterns, fouling the drinking water! I heard the words in my head, the voice of Poseidon: 'You have done this to yourselves. I will not let you forget, Socrates. Never will you forget."

Suddenly, an idea struck me. Poseidon! I scolded myself for my stupidity. It was only then that I remembered my Doric. Potidaea! Poseidon! One in the same! Potidaea was the god's own settlement, and he had truly been angry with us Athenians. What other explanation was necessary?

"Has this city ever recovered? Ever since, there has been this war with Sparta. Never had any city of Greece risen so high as the Athens I was born to, but that Athens is gone."

Socrates became quiet, for such was the turn this conversation had taken. I felt sorry for him, and for myself, as well, for it seemed I was responsible for this turn. Mainly, Telemachus and I having the teacher all to ourselves for the afternoon, which was increasingly hard to accomplish. Yet, there were times in the past that I wished I knew.

"It is a complicated thing, being born," my teacher continued. "For when a man is born, he takes on his shoulders the responsibilities that come with his name, his gene, and his polis. The farmers and the helots, I think, do not know what a burden a legacy can be. Cratippus was born and raised there in the ill-fated Potidaea.

"Gazed he out, as a child, on the Athenian army camped beneath the walls of his city. He heard tales of the famous friends: the beautiful Alcibiades, who commanded men and earned their fanatical devotion; that eccentric Socrates, who talked too much and walked barefoot in the snow while men lost their toes. Yet, he grew up not damning our names, but hankering to seek us out and know us. Like many, he fell under the spell of the darling Alcibiades and, after that, only had eyes for him."

"But I do not see you being damned for your association with Alcibiades," I added.

Socrates' head flicked at me liked a lizard's, his grim eyes finding mine and fixing on them. "Oh? Don't you? And what is that, lad? What does that mean? The most dangerous words are the ones we do not speak out loud. People communicate in all sorts of ways that don't require words. They speak, most succinctly, with their actions."

"I see that, now. Yes, you are correct."

"And in this thing we call democracy, this creature that we, Athenians, brought into this world, what law may protect a man from the hatred of others? That which they do not speak of?"

"None."

"None! It is not possible  And is it right or wrong that one should be protected from hate, if one could be? In actuality, hate arises out of love, just as we know all things must come into being, begat in the soil of their natural opposition. Do you agree?"

"I do."

"Then a man can do wrong and achieve virtuous ends by it. It is a wave-like motion that governs nature, just as it does man. The rise and fall of our city's fortunes is as natural as the cycle of seasons. Prosperity rises out of poverty, poverty out of prosperity. It is exasperating, this toil of opposites in nature, is it not? For what begins right ends wrong, and what starts as virtue ends in an ignoble adjacency."

"Teacher," spoke Telemachus, finally taking an interest in our conversation. He stepped up to the edge of the top stair, looking down on us both. "I really must intercede. Do you really believe what you are saying? You would exonerate your old friend Alcibiades' actions as mere consequences of his alleged virtue? You believe he was virtuous, that heinous traitor?"

My teacher did not flinch at Telemachus' judgmental tone. He has dealt, his whole life long, with detractors. "Telemachus, whether a man is, or is not, a traitor, depends on who is telling his story."

Telemachus' face took on the look of a man pleading for mercy. "But, surely, teacher, not in this instance. Alcibiades brought about our ruin in Sicily. These facts are known, by all."

Socrates shook his head. "Facts, like traitors, my boy, have a way of changing their allegiance. Sicily is the perfect example. You were just a child, but I remember it all most clearly. Traitors crowded the streets those days."

"But none was greater than he, teacher. That is not in dispute."

Socrates scratched his beard. “I think that you are not mistaken, Telemachus. There was never a better traitor than Alcibiades. No man has ever done it so well as he did."

Telemachus was perplexed, yet, no less angry. "I may not remember it like you do, sir, but I know what happened."

Teacher was not enthusiastic about having this argument, again. On the street or in symposium, it was far too familiar a topic of discourse. "Not a comedy, boy, but most definitely a story. I'm not sure how one can call a man a traitor to democracy and liberty who had to flee from democrats to keep his liberty."

"A man with a clear conscience has no need to flee or fear the loss of his liberty."

Socrates' head sunk on his chin, disappointed. "No fear? None at all? You think that the rule of the mob is affected without error. Do you really think that is so?"

"Not without error, no."

"And if Alcibiades had returned to our city to face trial on those accusations, do you think he would have been acquitted?"

"Certainly not."

"And why is that?"

"I believe he was guilty."

"So, a man acting on behalf of his own self-preservation, who flees rather than be judged without impartiality is, by that act, proving himself guilty of that which he is accused of?"

"To assume guilt is far from unreasonable."

"Telemachus, a man can be motivated into flight from justice for reasons other than guilt."

"I agree, that is possible, teacher. But not in this case."

"But would you deny him trial based on such reasoning?"

"In the case of Alcibiades? Definitely."

Socrates gave the boy a faint smile. "That's why he fled, Telemachus. That certainty of yours. His fear of men as certain as you are sent him running to the Spartans. No doubt, you would have sat his trial through, snored through his defense, and struck him dead with your vote in the end. That indefatigable certainty is as deadly as an arrow. This is why democracy shall fail."

Telemachus wanted to shout but reigned in his ire to keep his composure in front of the great man. More and more, I could see, he spoke through his teeth. "How people like you can say such things and not fear losing their heads, sir, I'll never understand! How can you stand in public and preach such nonsense?"

"Nonsense? Yet, you admit, you do not know the whole tale of Sicily?"

"I know as much as anyone needs to know. That you would put the blame on Athens, teacher, and exonerate a man who is a defector to Sparta, who now advises their military and riles their troops to victory, against us, surely, it's...it's..."

"It could mean that I remember it with accuracy."

"In all of the time I have known you, sir, I have deferred to your intellect, always, but today...If Alcibiades were not your friend, I cannot imagine you would harbor such seditious views."

Socrates raised an eyebrow. "Sedition? Sedition, is it? Does that make me a traitor, as well?"

"I do not want to use that word, teacher."

"But this is a democracy, isn't it, Telemachus? Any man may make his case to the public, isn't that so? And here we stand, just a strong piss from the Pnyx, the most ideal place."

"Yes, that is so, but such opinions are dangerous. Irresponsible."

"Why?"

"Why? Because it weakens us, harboring such opinions!"

"Does it, now? Have my opinions weakened your beliefs, Telemachus?"

"Of course, not."

"Ah, then it does not happen?

"But it does!"

"Not to you! You've just said so!"

"I am not just any man, teacher! None, not even you, can corrupt me."

"Ah. So, it must be that other men, men with less demonstrably sound character than yourself, are affected in such a way, by my opinions. Is that it, Telemachus?"

"I think, it must be. Yes."

"But not just that, it is seditious. Isn't that so?"

"Yes. I don't enjoy using that word, teacher, but I stand by it."

"But if a man brought his seditious opinions before the public, and won their hearts, would not his sedition become patriotism? Those seditious views would be mandated, would they not?"

"Teacher, please, you twist things about."

"I do not, lad! I do not! If you change people's minds, then wrong becomes right under our system."

"Of course not! Truth is truth."

"Then why is anything right, Telemachus? What you deem to be correct and patriotic views, would they not be seditious views to a man in Sparta?"

"I do not care what is right in Sparta."

"But they are Greeks, are they not?"

"They are the worst kind of Greeks. They are oligarchs and enemies of democracy."

"But we have oligarchs, here, in Athens, do we not?"

"We do, but we are not an oligarchy."

"But they are worse Greeks than you, for being oligarchs, isn't that so?"

"Yes. Somehow, they are."

"What is it, lad, that makes a Greek a good Greek?"

Telemachus was clearly exhausted by this discourse. "A Greek man should be brave and, most of all, dependent on reason over passion. Though, passion plays a part. We have proven time and time over that we wield reason greater than any other people in the world. We defeated the Persians. What greater evidence does a thinking man need, than this, that our ways are superior to all others?"

Socrates nodded. "Without the aid of the Peloponnese we would not have defeated the Persians. Yet, they are not thinking men, like us. How is that?"

"It was Athens that led the way. Our fleet. Our tactics. Our gold."

"True, but we could not have done it alone."

"The enemy was too numerous."

"Is Sparta, now, too numerous? We cannot defeat them, though their hoplites number a few thousand, at the most. When I was a young man, we had tenfold that number."

"We shall prevail over them. That is certain."

"Yet, it is not certain to me."

"I cannot say why."

"I will tell you why, since you cannot say. The Spartans, as you say, are Greeks as much as we are. Why is that?"

"I cannot say. It may not even be true. Not entirely."

"It is true, but it is false what you say makes a good Greek, for there is no good Greek. There is no Greece."

"Socrates! You go too far!"

"And why is that, Telemachus? I say there is no Greece, and I stand by that, just as you would."

"To say that Greece is not a thing that is real, truly, is not sensible."

"So, you contend that Greece is a thing that is real? As real as a stone in your sandal?"

"Of course."

"And Athens? Is it more real than Sparta, Corinth, or Thebes?"

"It is more perfect."

"But no more real?"

Telemachus rolled his eyes, bored with what he was convinced were tactics of obfuscation. "Socrates, please, real are all the kingdoms of Greece! They are real! They are real as all things of this world that can be grasped, tossed, or burned. Now, please, stop."

"Yet, I contend, that these cities, inasmuch, as they are Greek cities, cannot be real, for there is no Greece."

Telemachus' shoulders slumped. "I really tire of this, teacher. Athens is real. Cities are real.”

Teacher was disappointed. When the great man spoke, it was with a tone of impatience. "Speak not of beasts, Telemachus, without a hint of envy. What beast of the field that walks this earth with a body torn asunder? Its legs to the right of the road, its trunk to the left of it, its head up a tree? Such a thing cannot be alive, and that is Greece."

"I don't understand."

"Why do we refer to something as a whole that is in a thousand pieces? What family is there that burns its own fields and murders its own kin? And if countrymen are not brothers, of a type, with obligations and fealty, then why have countries? Why is Greece a thing, at all? Why do we maintain this conceit? Do we merely enjoy the word Greek?"

Telemachus simply shook his head, pitying his better his misguided notions. "Oh, teacher, surely, you are not well."

"Spartans are Greeks, lad! Ask anyone! Yet, they are allied with the Persians! Greeks and Persians! How can such a thing be? If Greeks and Persians are allied against Greeks, then, surely, we must question the alleged existence of this thing called Greece."

"The Spartiates are not real Greeks, then! Maybe all the men of the Peloponnesus are this way."

Socrates' face showed a turn in mood. "Tell me why, then, Spartans are not fit to be Greeks."

Telemachus shrugged, as if this was easily done. "They don't hone their minds. They are not thinking men, as you've remarked. They lack both philosophy and art. That is why they are allied with the great enemy."

"The Persians have employed scores of Athenian men. These are sons of our city."

"But that's different, Socrates."

"How so?"

"I'm not certain. I don't know. But it's not the same. These men are not making war against our city."

"Some have, lad. That is the simple truth."

"Well, that is…"

"Yes?"

"I don't want to discuss this any further! I never wanted to in the first place! Every word you speak against Athens pares away at our strength, and I will not have any more to do with this conversation!"

"Then what will you do, Telemachus, when these walls that protect us crumble? Where will you hide when the Persians, once again, burn down our city, aided by Spartans, Corinthians, and even some Athenians? When the flames consume this city, will you refuse to acknowledge them? They will burn all the same."

Telemachus was abashed. "That is enough! If Athenian men have anything to do with the destruction of their own polis, then, surely, you had something to do with it, Socrates. I think it must be, only in your lifetime, that any Athenian man has fallen so low. Only in the times that you've, perhaps, brought about with your seditious talk!"

Teacher shook his head, defeated by his student's loss of sense. "I am not surprised. I am sorry to say, in all the time I've known you, you've enjoyed the conflict of discourse more than you've ever enjoyed improving yourself."

"Oh? You are? Sorry to say that I am a poor student, Socrates? You are sorry?"

"Yes. I am sorry to have failed so miserably in your education. If you've never learned anything, I blame myself. Perhaps you should find another teacher."

"Are you telling me to go? Telling me to not attend your discourses in the future?"

"I am not doing that. I am only suggesting that little good can come from your attendance."

Telemachus, regretfully, to my heart, seemed near tears. Tears of anger? Tears of sorrow? Whichever, I cannot say. Teacher looked away from my friend, not wanting to encourage further discussion. This was far harsher treatment than he was known for showing his students, and far, far harsher treatment than likes of Telemachus and I were used to receiving. My friend was shivering with a kind of despair that made evident how new it was to him, being drubbed by a man who, however exalted his mind and spirit may be, lived as low as a helot. The boy, for that is how he seemed, right then, shook a fist at my teacher.

"That is enough from you!" said Telemachus. "I won't be spoken to like this by a beggar. Curse you, Socrates. Curse you and your seditious talk that is destroying our city." Telemachus then turned and left, his gait a pitiful stomp, like the wounded digression of a beast to his cave having felt the sting of a hunter's bow. Socrates looked extremely sad, but he did not watch after the boy. He was pushing the pollution from his mind, forgetting it, yet, not wanting to forget what there was to be learned from this whole affair. He stood up and we both wandered away until we found, eventually, a high place to sit that overlooked the sea. Socrates did not speak, at first, busy with his superior thoughts. Eventually, though, I received a prize for my patience. He spoke to me, the great man. Me and me alone.

"I have spent my entire life vagabonding these streets, pestering its citizens. I love it so, this place. I think that I love it differently, than most, though. I love her today. People forget how important today is. They are always fussing over tomorrow, over ways to change her. I've never wanted her to change. Not her spirit, anyway. Whether we are ruled by a king, or ruling ourselves, she has stood firm. With every new rule, every new law that is arbitrarily conceived and passed in an afternoon, she has never lost her character. Her streets, her people, her sounds, her smells - everything I live for. Even the soot between my toes. I love her lad, like I love nothing else."

"I understand, teacher."

"But the big question in my mind is - why here? Why this place? Why did we, of all people, bring this new god of democracy into being? Why did it happen here? In all the world, can there be any other people more foolhardy than we men of Athens? For some unfathomable reason, one that I simply cannot put my finger on, we seem to think in a way other men do not. Underneath it all, separate of one another, we are just like any other people, but when we bring our minds together, we create the most brilliant fiascos.

"We've accomplished feats clearly beyond our means, beyond the means of any ten cities, even, yet we cannot manage ourselves. We, the men of Attica, the least sensible men under the stars, for a century now have chosen to rule what cannot be ruled, our own insatiable passions. And I wonder, every day of my life, why? I've talked, I've listened, I've questioned my whole life long, yet I never come any closer to understanding what makes this city so different from any other."

"I agree, teacher. I have had similar thoughts, myself."

Socrates took a long, deep breath, then shifted his weight onto his right arm, leaning to one side. "I think we have the beginnings of a new kind of living. I don't know how far it can go, but its astonishing promise is, every bit, in opposition to its unreliable nature. But this is familiar territory for us Athenians, who modeled this system after ourselves. I wonder, though, can we all share in the spoils of Olympus? Can we loot the gods' larder and not face their wrath? Can a barrel of nectar be watered down, enough, so that everyone can have a taste of it? A polity by which even the meanest could feel the presence of the gods, yet still live as men live, die as men die. And if we can, is it right to do so?"

"Perhaps."

"Philosophy is about being prepared for the day you will cease to be. The day you will ascend unto perfection. Yet far too many people wish only to experience the delights of life, not waste their time learning. Athenians, I believe, with our talent for excess and contradiction, show as much short-sightedness in our own lives as we do in our unequalled far-sightedness in matters of country and politics."
"That is true."
The great man's consciousness then began to wander away from me, lost in drowsy afternoon thoughts and memories. These demanded his attention, and he allowed every one of them their due. I knew just to sit and wait, to be silent and let him have these moments to himself. He deserved them. After what may have been an hour, perhaps two, I saw his hand raise up to block the sun poking in his eyes. He was staring at something far off. I thought the harbor.

"There was a ship built here, once," he said. His voice was distant, speaking from the past. "To this day, I've never seen such a godawful commotion made over the launch of a trireme. Why am I thinking of that now? It is strange. Why is it that we can remember something, yet not remember why we're remembering it?"

I shrugged. "I'm only certain that I don't know, teacher."

Socrates yawned, and when that was done, he leaned forward, now shielding his eyes with both hands to better see the boats rising and falling on the waves. "Oh, yes. I think I remember, now. Yes. It was the name that made that ship so special. The ship was named, of all things, 'Speak Freely'."

***

It was asked of my master, once, to proclaim what was the best thing that men do. He winked and rubbed his palms, delighted at the question. "I imagine," he spoke. "That you think such a question solicits robust debate. You would be wrong, though. It is an easy question to answer. The best thing that men do, is dream."

Surely, it was put to him, dreaming is but a prologue to great deeds, for dreams are nothing but thoughts.

"Exactly!" replied my teacher. "There is no higher order of being than to be imagined, in all perfection, and never manifested into this meaner world in that lesser, corrupted fashion that we know all things take here on earth. When is a man ever more perfect than when he is young? All his potential, all his future deeds, still ahead of him and not subject to the cold reckoning of reality. This is why we aggrandize our youth, for they retain all the vigor and promise of a life, as yet, perfectly unlived."

The master believed that philosophy and death are intertwined, and only the philosopher truly was prepared for his end, however it came to him. I began this story speaking of fate, for that is precisely what it is about, and I am not being extravagant proclaiming that Socrates became a dead man on this very day. Telemachus and I remained, ever after, at a distance from one another, and I have been assured that he, with his influence, was instrumental in securing a vote of condemnation at the master's trial. And it began here, on this day, years before.

Student and teacher. Is there no god who cares to avenge the desecration of such a bond? Is there no pit in Tartarus for the likes of Telemachus? Where are the Furies, I ask you? Who is culpable when murder is done by a show of hands?

At long last, my master, they could not kill you. They but returned you to the perfection from which you arose. The body is a temple of pain, and they have simply freed you from it. In time, I believe, nothing will remain of this affair but tales of the sorrow it has wrought and the martyr that was bathed in scarlet. All names will be forgotten of those men, dust and bone that they are, my teacher, who tried to murder your ideas. They did not succeed in this. You have lost, you who are lost men, while Socrates resides among the great and eternal.

So may it be written in the stars!