Adventure in Athens

by Caroline Lawrence

  ‘Where’s Dinu, again?’ asked Crina as we followed him back out into the furnace of the Agora.

  ‘Hopefully at the house of Simon the Shoemaker,’ I whispered. ‘Where we’re headed now. We’ll find you some food, spend a bit of time with Socrates and then get the midnight portal home. Simples.’

  But when you go back to the past, nothing is simples.

  32

  Pelican Walk

  When Dinu and I were doing the intensive Greek course in the villa outside Rome, one of our instructors had told us that Socrates was famous for walking like a pelican.

  I have never seen a pelican walk, but there are plenty of geese in Wandsworth, especially down by the river, and that’s exactly what he looked like. He strutted along, his walking stick in his right hand and his left arm held away from his body and pointing backwards, the way some men walk but no woman ever seems to. The soles of his bare feet were almost black and I could see the tanned bald patch on top of his head. His head swung right and left as he greeted people or heard them call out to him.

  Shoppers and stall-keepers called out greetings with cheerful smiles, although a few men glared and shook their heads. One thing was clear: everybody knew him.

  Here in the marketplace of Athens he was as much a celebrity as Alcibiades.

  A garlic-seller parted his display-curtain of onions and stuck his head through. ‘Hey, Socrates!’ he cried. ‘They say you punctured Hippias’s pomposity just now like a spear pops a bladder ball!’

  ‘Sent him back to Elis, I hope!’ added the bean-seller in the stall next door.

  ‘Socrates is just as bad as those sophists!’ growled a melon farmer from the other side of the path.

  ‘No, he’s not!’ cried the garlic seller. ‘Hippias charges a fortune to teach the skills of rhetoric, but Socrates never accepts as much as an obol.’

  Suddenly Socrates said, ‘I see the bread-seller!’ He lifted his staff and waved it. ‘Over here!’ he cried, and a moment later we saw a man with a big platter coming towards us.

  Socrates reached into his mouth. I was no longer astonished to see that it held a coin. But Crina was.

  ‘He keeps coins in his mouth?’ she gasped.

  ‘Yup. Sometimes in their belt, but mostly in their mouths. Especially small change.’

  ‘But that’s so unhygienic!’

  ‘They don’t know about germs, remember?’

  ‘But still … in your mouth? What if you swallowed it?’

  ‘I guess there’s nowhere else to put it.’ I gestured around us. ‘Look at them all! It’s so hot here that most men are wearing the equivalent of a thin T-shirt or light tablecloth.’

  ‘If that!’ She averted her eyes from a naked juggler.

  But before the bread-seller could reach us, a sweaty man with a bushy black beard and a brick-red himation loomed up.

  ‘Children are not allowed in the Agora!’ the man shouted at Socrates.

  ‘I know, I know!’ said Socrates, holding up his free hand, palm outwards. ‘I’m taking them out.’

  The man opened his mouth to say something more but the sound of galloping hoofs made us all turn.

  ‘By Zeus!’ cried the man. ‘A chariot! That’s even worse than children.’

  Sure enough, a chariot had entered the Agora and was thundering straight for us.

  That blood-chilling image is forever frozen in my memory. Two horses – one white and one black – galloping straight at us.

  And the most terrifying thing of all?

  Dinu was driving.

  33

  Garlands of Praise

  The chariot showed no sign of stopping.

  The angry man in the brick-red himation dived into a nearby basket display but Socrates barked a command: ‘Don’t move!’

  The bearded philosopher stood still as a statue, gripping his walking stick in one hand and Kid Plato’s shoulder in the other. Crina and I cowered behind him.

  At the last possible moment, the two horses were pulled up so hard that they actually skidded on their rears. A great cloud of dust rose up around us and the entire Agora went quiet, waiting to see the carnage that would be revealed when it settled.

  When the air around us cleared we saw the two snorting horses standing an arm’s length away from Socrates, who had not budged.

  Dinu’s face was as white as Parian marble.

  But behind him Alcibiades was laughing. ‘I knew you could do it!’ He jumped down then helped Dinu down too.

  ‘Dinu!’ Crina ran to her brother and threw her arms around him. Just as well – he might have collapsed without her support. I arrived just in time to give him a hand.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

  He gave me a grin. ‘Wobbly knees,’ he said, and then, ‘Wasn’t that the best thing ever?’

  ‘Best thing ever?’ I echoed in disbelief.

  Crina gave him a thump on the arm. ‘You nearly killed us!’

  ‘He’s so cool!’ said Dinu. ‘He let me drive the chariot and later he’s going to take me to the palaestra and teach me to use a sword!’

  ‘Who is he?’ Crina had turned to look at Alcibiades, who had thrown his arms around Socrates. ‘He looks like a Greek god.’

  But I didn’t need to tell her. Around us men in the marketplace were beginning to chant his name.

  A laughing Socrates pulled away from Alcibiades’ embrace and said, ‘Come with us to Simon’s! My young friend Plato is meeting his brother there.’

  ‘That’s just where we were headed,’ said Alcibiades. He nodded a greeting first at me and then at Kid Plato, who he obviously recognised. Then he spotted Crina and his eyebrows went up.

  ‘I assume this is your sister Crina, dressed as a boy?’

  Crina was gazing back at him, speechless.

  ‘She doesn’t speak much Greek,’ I explained. ‘And she doesn’t know the ways of this city very well.’

  Alcibiades cocked his head. ‘Well, why don’t you children ride? Socrates and I will lead the team.’

  He took the bridle of the black horse and Socrates went to help guide the white. Kid Plato, Dinu, Crina and I dutifully crammed ourselves into the bouncy chariot.

  The men around us were still chanting the name of Alcibiades, and as we rolled forward, some began tossing flower garlands at us. We each caught one and put it on. Cool leaves of ivy tickled my forehead and the heady scent of rose made me dizzy.

  Up ahead, Alcibiades, now wearing three garlands, turned his head and I heard him call out to Socrates, ‘The sweetest of all sounds is praise.’

  I didn’t hear Socrates’ reply, but as we rode out of the Agora to the cheers of the people, I remember thinking: He’s not wrong.

  We could still hear the chanting of adoring crowds as we jumped off the back of the chariot and went through open double doors into the house of Simon the Shoemaker.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ called Alcibiades. ‘I just need to find someone to take my team home.’

  The courtyard was blissfully cool after the baking hot street, and it smelled pleasantly of leather, beeswax and pine resin. The noonday sun shone through a thickly woven grapevine trellis overhead and filled the space with soft green light. For a moment I felt like a fish in an aquarium.

  No wonder people liked hanging out here.

  At the right-hand end of the courtyard was something like a fat ceramic upside-down top hat.

  In the middle of this space was a wooden bench with rush mats rolled up underneath. Two people were sitting on the bench. Glaucon, the older brother of Kid Plato. And a stocky man in an exomis that showed his shoulders, back and chest felted with black hair.

  Away to the left were five children. They sat on rush mats in ‘cobblers’ pose’, which I know from Gran making me do yoga. One was cutting leather, two were tapping in hobnails, and two were stitching. I was surprised to see that two of them were girls.

  Then reality doused me like a bucket of ice water.

  They were child slaves
.

  34

  A Load of Young Cobblers

  ‘Welcome, Socrates! And welcome to your young disciples!’ The stocky guy rose from the bench in the centre of the courtyard and came towards us. Like Socrates he was balding, but his hair and beard were black, not grey. In a city of dark, bearded men, his most noticeable feature was his single black eyebrow. ‘I see you are all wearing garlands. Have you just come from some festival?’

  ‘No, dear Simon,’ replied Socrates. ‘We’ve just been bathing in the reflected glory of Alcibiades.’

  One of the slave cobblers, a black-haired girl about my age, got up and came over to Socrates. Then she bent at the waist to squint down at his feet.

  ‘Alas, Simona!’ Socrates hung his head. ‘I’m not wearing my beautiful sandals! I’m afraid I’m barefoot as usual.’

  She stood upright again and gave him a cross-eyed look from beneath straight black eyebrows that met over her nose. At first I thought she was trying to be funny. Then I realised she really did have a squint.

  ‘Here.’ Socrates removed his garland and gently placed it on her head. ‘You deserve it more than I.’

  Simona snatched the garland from her head and sent it spinning towards an altar in the corner of the courtyard behind the cobblers. Then she turned back to Socrates, still wearing her scowl.

  ‘Do you ever wear the shoes I made for you?’ she demanded in a very un-slave-like manner.

  ‘He wore them to Agathon’s party last year,’ said thrice-garlanded Alcibiades as he came striding into the courtyard. ‘But I’ve not seen them on his feet since then.’

  ‘General Alcibiades! What an honour! Come in! Come in!’ Simon the Shoemaker bowed to Alcibiades and then turned to the cross-eyed girl.

  ‘Simona!’ he said. ‘Bring some wine and bread for our guests.’

  Simona gave Alcibiades an even fiercer glare than she’d given Socrates and stomped off towards the nearest doorway.

  ‘You must forgive her,’ Simon the Shoemaker said. ‘She’s as hot-tempered as her mother was.’

  Alcibiades took off two of his three garlands and handed them to Simon. ‘I’ve just sent my chariot back home with a good-looking youth by the name of Xenophon,’ he said. ‘Do any of you know if he is trustworthy?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Socrates. ‘Xenophon, son of Gryllus, is only fifteen but he is already a gifted horseman. Your team is in safe hands.’

  ‘Helena!’ Simon the Shoemaker snapped his fingers at the other young slaves. ‘Put these garlands on our altar. Then go help your sister. Castor! Pollux! Bring some food. Paulos! Draw some water from the well and help our guests wash their dusty feet and hands.’

  As the other girl and twin boys went to help Simona, the youngest boy put down his hammer and ran to the other end of the courtyard. They all had monobrows just like Simon. I realised this must be a family business and that Simon’s workers were his children, rather than his slaves. But was that any better?

  Little Paulos was lowering a leather bucket into the fat upside-down top hat made of clay, which must be a well head.

  Alcibiades went over to him and let the boy pour some water on his feet. Then the handsome general bent to dip his hands in the bucket and splash water on his face. He stood up, face shining and short beard dripping. Wearing his garland and smelling not unpleasantly of sweat mixed with musky perfume, he reminded me of Dionysus, the god of wine.

  The rest of us queued up to follow his example. I was last. When I bent to splash my face, the garland on my head almost fell into the bucket. I placed it on Paulos’s head and he gave a big smile in return. His two front teeth were just coming in, so I guessed he was about seven.

  Simona and Helena came back into the cool courtyard holding something like a ceramic punchbowl between them. I remembered from many museum visits with my gran that this type of vase was a krater, for mixing water and wine.The silent twins followed, carrying a low wooden table with bread, hard-boiled eggs and little saucers of salt crystals. They rolled out the rush mats for us kids to sit on, while Socrates and Alcibiades and Glaucon took the bench. Simon hovered nearby, making sure everyone was being looked after.

  Simona dipped a big skyphos into the krater and handed it to Socrates with a shy smile. The philosopher poured out a dribble as a libation, then drank and passed it to Alcibiades, who passed it to Glaucon, who handed it across the table to his brother. Kid Plato, sitting cross-legged beside us, passed the cup to Dinu, who passed it to me. It was well-watered and surprisingly refreshing.

  Crina stared at me in disbelief as I held the skyphos out to her.

  ‘But it’s wine,’ she hissed. ‘And you’ve all drunk from it!’

  ‘Think of it as Communion at church,’ I whispered. When she still hesitated, I said, ‘It’s diluted. Plus wine kills bacteria. It makes the water safe to drink.’

  She took a tiny sip, then smiled and took a bigger sip.

  Everyone was now tucking into the food so I handed her a wedge of bread.

  ‘Here. Take this bread and dip it in the wine,’ I whispered.

  Crina glanced up questioningly at Simona, who gave a cross-eyed smile and inclined her head.

  Crina dipped the bread in the wine and took her first bite of food in nearly three days. Her eyes closed and she smiled with pleasure.

  ‘Kalos.’ Good. She mopped up the last of the wine and passed the empty skyphos up to Simona. ‘Thank you,’ she said in Greek.

  Simona refilled the cup and then put it in the centre of the low table so anyone could drink or dip. I noticed it had the name SIMON scratched in the black glaze of the base.

  ‘So!’ Alcibiades turned his blue gaze on me. ‘You have come all this way to meet Socrates! Did he tell you the oracle at Delphi proclaimed him the wisest man in the world?’

  I was suddenly a little bit star-struck to find his attention focused on me. Before I could recite our talismantra, Alcibiades slapped Socrates on the back.

  ‘Of course he didn’t! He’s far too modest. But I will. A few years ago a friend of his went to the oracle at Delphi to ask if there was anyone wiser than Socrates. The god Apollo, speaking through the Pythia, said, “No one”.’

  Socrates brushed wine-soaked crumbs from his beard and looked around at us with his bright bug eyes. ‘No one was more astonished than I to hear Apollo call me wise. But when I questioned the citizens here in Athens in order to disprove the oracle I realised that I am wiser than them. But only in one respect. They all think they know something when they don’t. Whereas I know that I know nothing.’

  Everyone laughed, but Alcibiades held up his hand for silence and then brought it down firmly on Socrates’ brown shoulder.

  ‘This man,’ he proclaimed, ‘is much more than the wisest man in the world. He is a sorcerer!’

  35

  The Socratic Method

  Crina frowned. ‘What is a “go-ace”?’ she whispered, repeating the sounds of the word Alcibiades had used to describe Socrates.

  ‘It means a sorcerer, male witch or magician,’ I said. ‘It can also mean a cheat.’

  Being described as a magician didn’t seem to bother Socrates, who was peeling a hard-boiled egg.

  But Kid Plato came to his defence. ‘Do you mean to say Socrates is a trickster?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Alcibiades threw up his hands dramatically. ‘All I know is that whenever I am in the presence of this man something amazing happens to me.’

  He looked around at us with an expression of wonder in his kohl-lined eyes. ‘He makes me feel ashamed! He alone can make me feel that way. He makes me want to seek the good of my soul. But then I am seduced by the cheers of the crowd. So I flee him, like a runaway slave. Like a coward!’

  We all looked at Socrates as he plucked a single long hair from his beard, looped it around the egg and pulled it tight to slice the egg neatly in half.

  ‘This man,’ continued Alcibiades, ‘is unlike any human being of the past or present. He’s like one of those little
figures of Silenus you can buy in the potters’ quarter – the ones that open up to reveal a treasure inside.’

  ‘We have one of those!’ cried Simona. She hurried to the shrine in the corner and came back with a painted wooden figurine. It was as big as my two fists pressed together and showed a squatting figure playing pan pipes. With its bald head, big lips, snub nose and bug eyes, it did bear an almost uncanny resemblance to Socrates. Except for the pointy ears.

  ‘Isn’t that a satyr?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course!’ cried Kid Plato. ‘Silenus is the wise old father of satyrs.’

  Simona cried, ‘Look!’ and she cracked open the figurine to reveal a smaller figure inside. It reminded me of a Kinder Egg.

  ‘Apollo!’ said Crina. Everyone nodded encouragingly at her.

  I added, ‘Playing his lyre.’

  Alcibiades took the wooden figure from Simona, closed it and held it up next to Socrates. ‘See? This Silenus is the perfect metaphor for Socrates. He looks ordinary outside, even ugly. But inside there is something divine.’

  ‘Silenus was also the tutor of Dionysus,’ added Kid Plato.

  Alcibiades turned to Socrates, who was brushing bits of egg from his beard. ‘Go on, then!’ he said. ‘Show them. Do what you do!’

  Socrates nodded slowly, then turned to look down at me and Dinu and Crina and Kid Plato and the mini-cobblers behind us. We all sat on the rush mats, gazing up at him.

  ‘Tell me then, children,’ Socrates hooked his hands around one knee and leaned back, ‘what do you all desire?’

  As I whispered the translation into Crina’s ear, little Paulos and Helena cried out in unison: ‘Eudaimonia!’

  I guessed they had played this game before.

  ‘Eudaimonia,’ I explained to Crina, ‘is often translated as “happiness”, but Gran says it means “contentment”. Like doing what you’re meant to do in your life.’