The Last of the Wine (47 page)

A dark flush rose from Xenophon’s beard to his brow; from a child he had been made to control his features, but this he had never overcome. “Are you telling us, Sokrates, that Kritias sent for you to threaten you?”—“Not everyone is privileged to have a law expounded to him by the lawgiver himself. It gave me the opportunity to ask him whether the art of words was being banned in so far as it produced false statements, or true. For if the latter, we must all refrain from speaking correctly, that is clear.”

His little bulging eyes laughed at us. Often he would recount to us blow by blow a set-to he had had in the palaestra or the shops with some opinionated passerby. Now he described to us this colloquy, in which ten to one he had talked his life away, in just the same style. “By the way, how old are you, Xenophon? And you, Alexias?”—“Twenty-six,” we both said.—“By the Dog, what has become of my memory? I must be getting old. For I have only just now been forbidden to converse with anyone under the age of thirty.” This was too much; we burst into wild and angry laughter. “That, at the end of our conversation, was how Kritias interpreted his new law to me. I am the subject of a special amendment; a singular honour.”

Afterwards, going back through the Agora, we heard one householder say to another, “One thing we can say for the Government, it has taken some abuses in hand. It is time someone put down these Sophists, who trip a man up and twist him round till he can’t tell right from wrong, and give young fellows a back answer to anything you say.” When we had passed, Xenophon said to me, “Those, Alexias, are the people you want to be governed by.”—“The many rub off one another’s extremes,” I said, “like pebbles on a beach. Would you rather have Kritias?” But we parted friends. Even today, when we meet, it is much the same with us.

From that time, Sokrates’ friends were bound in a conspiracy. Someone would arrive at his house very early each morning, bringing some question for advice. While he talked, and put off going out, others would turn up, and get a full discussion going. We kept an eye on the street; there was a back way out, at need, over the roof-tops. Usually we managed to keep him in at least while the Agora was full.

I remember the little whitewashed room full of people; the first-comer sitting on the foot of Sokrates’ bed; the next perched on the window-sill; most of us on the floor; and Xanthippe grumbling loudly inside that she had no chance to sweep house. Plato would come in, silently, and sit down in the darkest corner. For he came now every day; no more was heard of his legal studies. His absent fits were over; you could see him following every word and running ahead; but he seldom spoke. His soul was in strife, and we all pitied him, as far as men can pity a mind much stronger than their own. I except Xenophon: for he knew, I think, that Plato was wrestling with matters he himself did not wish to question; and it made him uneasy.

Those of us who were going used to gather at the shop of Euphronios the Perfumer. It was not so fashionable that everyone went there, so not full of strangers who might be informers for all one knew. We would arrive and go through the civilities a scentmaker expects, sniffing the latest oil he was compounding, pronouncing it too heavy or too light or too musky, or sometimes, to keep him sweet, praising and buying. Sokrates when we got to his house used to wrinkle his snub nose, and tell us a good reputation smelt better.

But one morning, the man who had gone early met us in the doorway (it was Kriton’s son, Kritobulos) and said, “He’s not at home.”

In the silence, Euphronios was heard saying, “Just try this, sir. Real Persian rose attar. The flask’s Egyptian glasswork. For a special gift …”—“I’ve been everywhere,” Kritobulos said, “about the City. Yes, send me two, Euphronios.”—“Two, sir? That comes to …” Kritobulos came over and dropped his voice. “Someone said he went to the Painted Porch.”

Young people who go now to see the picture gallery will scarcely imagine it as a place where men walked in by daylight and came out at night feet first. The Thirty questioned suspects there. They used it, of course, for other business too; but the graceful columns, the painted capitals and the goldwork, stank of death like the warren of the Minotaur.

“Someone always says that,” said Lysis presently. “People who would sooner run about with bad news than none. He may have got up early to sacrifice.”—“Father is trying to find out. If we learn anything, I’ll come back.”

Men in a common trouble draw naturally together; yet for a moment, each sat stricken in a grief that seemed all his own. Xenophon, hands upon knees, stared at the wall. He always looked out of place at Euphronios’. If he was offered a free sample, he would say, “Not for me. Have you something for a girl?” Apollodoros was twisting his big red hands till the knuckles cracked. He had joined us lately, and was something of a trial to us, being so simple that his company had the inconvenience of a child’s without its charm; he was ugly too, with a bald brow and wide ears. Some of us had amused ourselves at his expense at first, till Sokrates had taken us aside and made us ashamed. It was true, indeed, that the young man had no false conceit of knowledge, but came with modesty seeking the good he knew not how, as cattle go seeking salt. However, having no self-command, he had now got Euphronios uneasy. Serious gatherings were unwelcome at that time in any shop. Lysis and I, who had had our training in Samos, managed to cover him, pretending he was distraught with some love affair.

Euphronios cheered up, and began setting out his new stock. Presently he looked round. “Why, Aristokles, sir, you came in so quietly I never heard you. And I’ve good news for you. That oil of rosemary you used to order last year, at last it’s in again. The very same pressing, sweet and dry, I’m sure you recall it.” He smeared a bit of linen and held it out. Plato after a moment’s silence said, “Thank you, Euphronios, but not today.”—“I assure you, sir, you’ll find it equal to last year’s in every way.”—“No, thank you, Euphronios.” He strode to the door and said, “Shall we go?” Phaedo came over to him and said quietly, “Not yet, Plato. Sokrates isn’t in.”—“Not in?” said Plato slowly. He drew his brows together, as a man does whose head is aching, if you ask him to think.

Phaedo was beginning, “Kritobulos says …” when he himself appeared in the doorway, coming in from the colonnade. He was a handsome young man, dressed to make the most of it. His mantle had embroidered borders, his sandals were studded with coral and turquoise, and his face was the colour of bleached hemp. “They did send for Sokrates. They were making up a posse for an arrest. For Leon of Salamis, people say. They sent for Sokrates to join it.”

We turned towards the door, to hide our faces from Euphronios and his slaves. I saw Xenophon’s lips move silently, cursing or praying. This was the Thirty’s newest method, with anyone known to be critical: to force him into sharing one of their crimes, so that shame might silence him. Those who refused did not live very long.

Kritobulos said, “Sokrates went to the Porch, when he was summoned, and asked what the charge was. When they wouldn’t tell him, he said, ‘No,’ and went home.”

The silence was broken by Apollodoros, who gave a loud sob. Xenophon took him by the shoulders, and marched him outside. I turned to Plato. He stood still in the shop doorway, staring straight before him at a hetaira who had come buying scent. She pulled her silk dress tight across her buttocks and smiled over her shoulder; then, as his eyes did not move, went shrugging off. I had been going to speak to him; but there are doors at which one does not knock.

At last he turned, and touched Phaedo’s arm, and said, “Don’t wait for me.” Phaedo paused, and looked at his face, and said, “Go with God.” I was surprised, but too disturbed to feel it much. Just then Apollodoros running forward cried out, “Oh, Plato, if you are going to Sokrates, do let me come with you.” At this moment his clumsiness was too much; two or three of us exclaimed in anger. But Plato took hold of him and said, gently and clearly, “Don’t go to Sokrates now, Apollodoros. He will be settling his affairs, perhaps, and speaking to his wife and children. I am not going to Sokrates; I am going to Kritias.”

He walked off along the colonnade. Watching him go, I recalled how the old Attic dynasty had ended; when King Kodros rode out alone to challenge the Dorians, because the omens had promised victory if the king were slain. They thought it impious to give him a successor; they set a priest on his throne, and dedicated it to the gods. I thought, “A man may leave sons behind him, and yet not live long enough to see his heir.”

What passed that day between Plato and his kinsman, none of us ever knew. If you ask how a man of twenty-four could put shame into one of five-and-forty, when Sokrates himself could not, I have nothing to say, except that Sokrates defied the Thirty, and lived. It was a saying of his, which all his young men knew by heart, that when you assume the show of any virtue, you open a credit account, which one day you will have to meet or go broke. It may be that what Kritias had seemed to his nephew was worth something to him. No man is all of a piece. If I had myself to choose someone who should find me out in a lie, Plato would come very low upon my list.

Nowadays, as in my boyhood, I went much to Piraeus, but for a different cause. One breathed the air of the sea there; and the quiet was not the quiet of the City above. They were quiet like seamen who have got a bad captain, and are all of one mind. One day the yard will fall from the block, or a hawser be stretched ankle-high on a dirty night.

Lysis and I were walking there, to a certain tavern where one could talk freely. As we passed through Spice Street, where some of the women have their houses, we saw one of them come out in a mourning veil, and lock up her door, and walk away with her head bowed, on which two others, who were gossiping in the street, turned and laughed at her. Lysis stopped when he saw it, and said to them. “Come, girls, don’t mock at grief. The gods don’t like it. Tomorrow it might be our turn.” One of them tossed her head at him. “May they send me nothing worse than what she suffers! A man who, if he had ever seen her again, wouldn’t have known her from a Hyperborean, you may be sure. Such airs and graces. She to mourn for Alkibiades!”

We stared, and stopped in our tracks, and said, “For whom?”—“Oh, hasn’t the news reached the Upper City? The Chian trader brought it. Dead in Phrygia, so they say; but like as not it’s another of his tricks. Never mind him; come in, tall darling, and take some wine with us. My sister will look after your friend.”

We hurried to the tavern, and found pilots and captains vowing and swearing Alkibiades was not dead. He was at Artaxerxes’ court, making alliance with him; or raising an army of Thracians to free the City. There was even a rumour that he was in hiding in Piraeus. But in the City, Xenophon said to me, “Sokrates believes it, and has gone away to meditate. If it were false, his daimon would have told him.”

Next day we met some Chians from the ship, and questioned them. One said, “He was killed over a woman. How else would Alkibiades die?” And another, “He had her in his house, and the men of her family came after him. Six to one they were, but it seems no one cared to be first. They threw torches at the thatch while he was sleeping. He woke up, and choked down the fire with the bedding, while he got out with the girl; then he ran at them naked, with only his sword, and his cloak round his arm for a shield. None of them would stand up to him; so they shot him full of arrows at twenty paces, by the light of the fire. And that was the end of him.”

Often, on campaign, he would come and sit at our watch-fire, to scrape and oil. He was vain of his body, fair-haired and glossy brown, clean as good food; the only marks he had were an old white spear-wound, and, sometimes, a love-bite from a woman. I saw his eyes, drowsy and blue, in the light of the crumbling embers. “Who’ll give us a song, before we turn in? You sing, Alexias. ‘I loved you, Atthis, I loved you long ago.’ Sing us that.”

Lysis said to the Chian, “What girl was this?”—“I don’t know her City. A girl called Timandra.”—“But he had her in Samos. She was a hetaira.”—“She buried him,” said the Chian, “whoever she was. Wrapped him in her own dress, and sold her bracelets to put him down in style. Well, fortune’s a wheel, sure enough. Brought up by Perikles; raced seven chariots at Olympia; and buried by a whore.”

Afterwards Lysis said to me, “If that girl had father and brothers, it’s long since they went seeking her. And men revenging their honour show a little more spirit, or they stay at home. But hired killers aren’t paid to shed their own blood. In Phrygia … yes, he must have been going to Artaxerxes. I wonder if King Agis ordered it, or someone nearer home.”

All over Piraeus, and up in the City, you could hear people declaring in the street that Alkibiades was not dead. In some of the poor quarters, more than a year after they were saying it still. But the Thirty went about cheerfully, like men who have shed a fear.

One day I came home from the farm, where we were getting our first small harvest in. The olives had put out strong shoots again; one, which had been only half scorched, was even bearing. I had brought home the crop, and came in calling, “Father, look here!” His voice from within said, “What is it?” At the sound, I put down the panier, and came in quietly. He was at his desk, his papers before him. “Sit down, Alexias. I have things to say to you.” I came and sat down by him, looking at his face.

“These,” he said, “are the deeds of the farm. Here are the deeds of the Euboean land; waste paper today, but the future no man knows. I have no debts. Hermokrates still owes us a quarter’s rent, and can now afford to pay it.”

I looked at the paper on the desk, and saw what it was. “Father,” I said.—“Don’t interrupt, Alexias. Kydilla, after her long service, ought to have been bequeathed her freedom. I have put nothing in writing, but express to you as my wish that when the estate can run to it, you will find her if you can, and buy her out. The time I leave to your honour and common-sense. Don’t give your sister Charis in marriage before she is fifteen years old. Alkiphron of Acharnai has a likely son, and the lands march; but times are uncertain, so that too I must leave in your hands.”