School of Athens

by Archer McCormick

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  ATHENS

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  Socrates awakes in the early afternoon to find himself laying in a large bed in a strange room, his head swimming in a delirious haze that make his already foreign surroundings nearly impossible to recognize. He coughs, wheezes and struggles violently with the phlegm that had accumulated in his throat over the course of his slumber. The mason rolls onto his side and heaves over the edge of the bed, every muscle in his body constricting simultaneously to purge a suspected poison, but nothing is expelled. He tried to take in a breath of air and begins to convulse uncontrollably.

  “Ease yourself, old friend,” a soothing voice councils from across the room. “You’ll feel better in no time.”

  Socrates does as he’s told. He turns onto his back and stops fighting his own body’s natural tendencies for just long enough for his body to quit seizing and resume functioning normally. The mason opens his eyes only to discover his vision is blurry and unfocused. He sits and leans over the edge of the bed, drooling onto the floor waiting for his sight to return. After a few more spasms and contractions Socrates begins to see the faint glow of a lantern, illuminating the figure of a man seated at a desk across the room. He squints, but it does him no good. “I know that voice,” Socrates says. “Where am I?”

  “You’re at the Inn of Artemis,” the voice answers. “Here, drink this.” The figure rises from the desk and approaches the bed with a cup of water held out in its hand. The man takes Socrates’ hand and wraps his fingers around the cup. The mason immediately swallows the entire contents of the cup in just a single pull.

  “Thank you, sir,” Socrates says as he wipes his chin with his elbow, his vision slowly returning to him. “To whom do I owe such kind hospitality?”

  “Your old friend Melissus, Socrates,” the voice replies.

  Socrates drops the cup to the floor and turns his head in the direction of the voice. Suddenly the room fills with a soft light seeping in through the cracks of shuttered windows. Shadows recede from the figure and fleshy details slowly emerge until, finally, Socrates discerns the face of his old friend Melissus. “By the gods, Melissus!” he says, lunging forward to embrace his old friend, only to avoid falling off the bed by Melissus’ quick reflexes. “You’re alive!”

  “I am,” Melissus replies, heaving Socrates’ body back onto the bed. “You, on the other hand—you look like you’ve been dragged through the underworld only to have Hades himself shit you out the other end.”

  “My fortunes have been better,” Socrates concedes.

  “Even a blind man can see that, old friend!” Melissus says. He sighs and takes a seat next to Socrates on the edge of the bed, taking stock of the damage life has inflicted on the man sitting next to him. “What happened, Socrates? You were Zeno's most promising student—he was heart-broken when you decided not to study with him in Elea.”

  “A rather prescient decision in light of the current circumstances,” Socrates notes, a rebuttal Melissus finds hard to dispute. “Besides, I belong here in Athens.”

  “And what have you done with yourself here in Athens? Drink, carve stone, brawl in the streets and stick your cock in anything moves?”

  “Well, not anything—I do have my standards, though they’re admittedly far more negotiable these days than they were in the past.”

  Melissus shakes his head. “We had as much back in Elea, but Zeno and I always dismissed those reports as rumor-mongering or maybe even some kind of jest, given your sense of humor.”

  “I know what you’re trying to do, Melissus,” Socrates says, motioning for more water, “and it’s not going to work. I am not the accomplished man Zeno once thought I would be. Zeno was well aware of this and knew better than to expect much from me.”

  Melissus sighs, picks up the cup from the ground and walks across the room to fill it. He returns it to Socrates with a devastating look of despair on his face.

  “Then I’ve come here for nothing,” he says with a sigh.

  Again, Socrates finishes the contents of the cup in a single swig. “What are you doing here, Melissus?” he asks. “I can’t imagine Pericles would be too happy to find you traipsing around the agora of his city. What happened to Zeno? How did you escape Elea? I’ve heard bits and pieces, but nothing that sounded like the whole story.”

  “I came here to find you, Socrates.” Melissus says. “I need you to help me.”

  “Me?” Socrates repeats, pointing to his chest. “What could you possibly need me for?”

  “I need you to help me find the man who killed Zeno,” Melissus says.

  Socrates laughs. “Have you come all the way to Athens just to have a go at me? Zeno’s killer is back in Elea.”

  “Demylus might have swung the sword that killed Zeno, Socrates, but he didn’t give the order. Someone was using Demylus just to get to Zeno and me.”

  Socrates laughs again, but now with a hint of nervousness. “Listen to yourself, Melissus! Are you telling me that someone gave this Demylus character a small army of mercenaries to invade and occupy Elea just so kill Zeno? I’ll defer to your considerably more vast experience with killing men, but there have to be more effective, less complicated and less expensive ways of assassinating someone! Demylus wanted to rule Elea and Zeno got in his way—why assign alternative motives where there are none? It’s not like Demylus is scouring Greece, hunting down an old philosopher like you now, is he?”

  “I should imagine not,” Melissus replies. “Demylus is dead.”

  “What?”

  “Demylus is dead,” he repeats, as the admiral walks across the room to refill Socrates’ cup with more water. “The lives of tyrants in Greece are very short, Socrates. You Athenians tend to forget this because it’s been so long since you were ruled by one. Demylus was young and stupid and drunk with unearned power—and someone set him loose on the city of Elea knowing what a stubborn, headstrong fool Zeno could be. I heard the news en route to Athens during a stopover at Ithaca. That bastard lasted only a few short weeks as tyrant. The day after he determined I had escaped the city, every last one of his soldiers disappeared into the night and left their weapons and armor behind. The next morning, the Eleans simply picked up the arms and killed Demylus while he still slept.”

  “I don’t understand,” Socrates admits as he takes another cup of water from his friend. “If Demylus is dead, why aren’t you back in Elea?”

  Melissus pulls the desk chair across the floor next to the bed and takes a seat. “Because someone is scouring Greece and hunting down this old philosopher, Socrates.” He says, tapping his sternum. “I was in Syracuse hardly three weeks before my room at the inn was ransacked. It was only two weeks in Corcyra and merely days in Ithaca.”

  “How can you be sure these aren’t men you defeated in battle ages ago?” Socrates asks.

  “Because these men aren’t soldiers. They’re assassins, Socrates. They have no plans to take me alive.”

  Socrates feels a painful throbbing sensation radiate from the core of his skull and massages his temples to soothe himself. “Melissus, this doesn’t make any—”

  The admiral pushes his chair right in front of Socrates. He takes the mason’s head in his hands and tilts it up enough so that he’s looking directly into his friend’s eyes. “Zeno let himself be arrested by Demylus’ soldiers so that I could escape. When I refused to leave him, he whispered something into my ear.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘They’re coming, Melissus. They want me dead because they think I’m the leader, that I’m some kind of king of the philosophers, and they’ll keep coming until they kill every last one us! Warn the others and find them before they find you!’”

  Melissus releases his grasp of Socrates’ head and leans back into his chair. The mason shakes his head in disbelief. “Melissus, do you have any idea how strange this all sounds?”

  “Of course, I do,” he replies calmly.

  “Then, do you have any ide
a whom the ‘they’ Zeno was talking about is?”

  “None at all.”

  “Have you told anyone else about this?”

  “No, you’re the first.”

  “Me? But why me?”

  “Because I need your help, Socrates. I need you to come with me and help me warn the others.”

  “Why don’t you just send them all letters?”

  “Messengers can’t be trusted, Socrates. They’ll hand over a delivery at the first sight of a sharp blade or a shiny coin and then they wrong men will know whom to kill and where to find them. We can’t even trust the written word unless we see the author himself putting reed to scroll.”

  “This is complete madness, Melissus! Why, by the gods, would anyone subject themselves to such unnecessary restrictions?” Socrates asks, bowing his head to scratch the top of his scalp.

  “Because I suspect the killer is one of us.”

  Socrates’ head shoots up immediately and he stares Melissus directly in the eyes. “What?” he asks, his voice peeling with genuine concern for the first time during the conversation.

  “You heard me: I suspect the killer is someone we know well, maybe even a good friend.”

  “Another philosopher?”

  “Another philosopher.” Melissus echoes.

  “What makes you think th—”

  “I’d prefer not to say right now.”

  “But, you don’t think that I’m respon—”

  “I wouldn’t be here right now if I thought you were the killer Socrates,” Melissus says as he rises from his chair and walks over to a closed window. “But I need you to understand the bind I’m in right now.” He opens the shutters just enough to catch a narrow glimpse of the world outside the inn.

  “So you want me to go with you from city to city across Greece, calling on all of our old friends and find Zeno’s killer among them?”

  “You don’t understand what’s going here, do you Socrates?” Melissus asks, removing his finger from the blinds to close the shutter.

  “Evidently not.”

  “The stakes are far greater than—”

  “Then will you please explain the stakes to me without being such a cryptic little cunt!” Socrates orders impetuously.

  Melissus takes a deep breath, then exhales. He runs a hand through his hair, walks across the room to pour himself a cup of water and drinks it. “War is coming, Socrates,” he says, his back still turned to his friend. “War is coming and no one will realize it’s even happened before it’s all over and humanity is sifting through the rumble of what it’s irretrievably lost.”

  Socrates smirks. “Good gods, Melissus! It doesn’t take a retired admiral to know that Athens and Sparta are—”

  “Who said anything about Athens and Sparta?” Melissus snaps. He marches back across the room and retakes his seat in front of Socrates, barely the breadth of a man’s hand separating their noses. “I’m not looking for a detective. I don’t need someone who’s just going to help me solve a mystery. I may not know who killed Zeno yet, but I can tell you that it took more planning, money and resources than any one person can ever organize alone—and for good reason, because Zeno’s death wasn’t just a murder.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “Zeno was the first casualty in the war between philosophers, Socrates. I’m not talking about a battle fought on a field or in ships on the high seas, and I certainly don’t mean a debate over wine on a wealthy host’s portico—I’m talking about an actual war with real casualties, one that will be fought in the shadows of back alleys of every city in Greece until there’s only one side standing over the fallen corpses of the enemy. I came to Athens to find soldiers, Socrates. I came here to raise an army of philosopher-warriors to defend ourselves and this endeavor we’ve been working on these last two hundred years.”

  “Do I look like a soldier to you, Melissus?”

  “No less so than I resemble a philosopher!” the admiral says. Socrates laughs. “I’ve always known that no one will ever speak my name in the same breath with Xenophanes or Heraclitus or any of the great thinkers. That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Socrates: you never cared that I came to philosophy as an old man burdened by a lifetime of opinions. I’ve always been a better soldier than a philosopher. Perhaps this adventure will show you the same.”

  “Then you’ll have to offer me much more than adventure if you want me to become a martyr for philosophy,” the mason replies.

  “I’m not offering you adventure, Socrates.” Melissus says. “I’m offering you redemption. Whatever caused you to abandon philoso—”

  “That’s not what happened!”

  “I don’t care what happened, Socrates! I have more important things to worry about, right now. Whatever did happen, it happened before we ever met. No one’s ever bothered to explain the situation to me and I’ve never bothered asking, but I do know you let a lot of good people down these last fifteen years and this is your chance to make up for it.”

  Socrates’ shoulders sink down his sides. His head bows as all the air leaves his lungs in an exasperated huff. He takes a deep breath and gazes up at Melissus, his mouth agape, head shaking slowly from side to side. “I just can’t do it, Melissus,” he whispers quietly. “I can hardly keep myself alive, let alone others.”

  Melissus takes the empty cup from Socrates hands and walks back to the pitcher across the room. “I can see that,” he says as he rummages through his knapsack and pours two more cups of water. The admiral walks back across the room and hands Socrates another cup of water.

  “Besides, belong here in Athens,” Socrates says quietly as he sips from the cup. “You’re welcome to stay, of course. There’s no better city in the world better for hiding in plain sight.”

  “I can see that, too,” Melissus responds, glancing at his friend, “but I need to keep moving. It’s only a matter of time before they start looking for me here.”

  “Where will you go?” Socrates asks.

  “Far away from here and I’d suggest you think about doing the same thing, even if it’s not with me,” Melissus says, walking across the room and stuffing a few stray items along the way into his knapsack. Just as he’s about to close the bag, Melissus reaches down and removes Socrates’ maul hammer from the very bottom before closing it with the tug of a thin piece of rope. “Don’t think for an instant they won’t come for you, Socrates, because the moment you do will be your last.”

  “That’s advice that will probably be ignored by a man who’s never left the city of Athens before,” Socrates says, his eyelids suddenly growing heavy.

  Melissus walks back across the room and sit down on the edge of the bed next to his friend. “Then let me put it another way: as I see it, you have three options. First, you can run for your life and live to fight another day. The second is you can stay in Athens and die.”

  “And what’s my third option?”

  “You can stay in Athens and fight,” Melissus answers. “You make look like hell, but that’s just the sign of a man who doesn’t turn down a good fight.” Melissus hands Socrates’ hammer back to him, inspecting the craftsmanship of the tool. “I found this tucked into your belt last night. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it before during my days at sea.”

  “It’s called a maul hammer,” Socrates informs him. “Masons use it split rock and cut stone.”

  “It looks like it could also be helpful in a fight,” Melissus notes, placing the handle of the hammer in Socrates’ open palm. The mason wraps his fingers around it and tries to pull it away, but Melissus still keeps his grip tight. “Never let it leave your side,” he instructs before Melissus relinquishes the tool.

  “If everything you’ve told me tonight is true,” Socrates posits, “then how do I know I can trust you?”

  “You can’t,” Melissus answers.

  “Then how do I know that you didn’t kill Zeno?”

  “You don’t.”

  Socrates nods solemnly.
He takes one final sip of water as he tucks the hammer back into his belt. “There’s just one thing I still don’t understand,” Socrates says, trying to rise to his feet. “Why did you drug me last night?” But before he can push much of his own weight over the side of the bed his legs buckle beneath him and Socrates falls to floor. “My apologies!” he says, crawling on his hands and knees. “I must not have completely recovered yet.” Melissus reaches down and pulls Socrates back on to the bed. The admiral tucks his friend back under the covers as the room begins to spin violently to Socrates’ eyes. “Melissus, what did you do to m—”

  Melissus kisses the mason on each cheek affectionately. “The gods keep you better than they have, Socrates,” he says as he rises from the bed and tosses his bag over his shoulder. “But I can’t risk being followed, even by an old friend. Trust no one: your life depends on it.”

  Socrates struggles to speak, but quickly falls back asleep. Melissus places his palm on Socrates forehead and waits just long enough to convince himself that the soporific he added to Socrates’ last cup of water hasn’t killed his friend. He rises from the bed and splashes a handful of drachmas on the desk, enough to cover another night at the Inn, then walks to the door.

  Melissus reaches for the handle, but stops just short of touching it. He turns his head and takes one last, long look his sleeping friend. He had been wrong about Socrates. He had hoped for a soldier, and would have settled for a brawler, but only found a broken soul hell-bent on pissing away the immense gifts given to the man by the gods themselves. All Melissus can do now is warn the others before it’s too late. He throws the hood of his cloak over his head, opens the door, and disappears into the crowded agora outside.