The Athenian Murders

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  The small square was empty and the school building appeared deserted, but Diagoras seemed unconcerned. 'They often take a brief walk around the garden before dinner,' he said.

  Heracles suddenly felt his cloak being twisted by a violent tug.

  'Here they come.' The philosopher gestured towards the dark gardens, adding ecstatically: 'And there's Plato!'

  A group of men was approaching along the confusion of paths. They all wore dark himations covering both shoulders, with neither tunics nor chitons underneath. They appeared to have learned the art of walking like ducks in single file, ranging from the tallest to the shortest. They were conversing. It was wonderful to watch them talking and walking in single file at the same time. Heracles suspected they had some mathematical formula that determined whose turn it was to speak and whose to answer. They never interrupted one another: number two stopped talking, and at that precise moment number four answered; number five then seemed to sense exactly when number four would finish and proceed to make a comment. Their laughter sounded choral. And Heracles sensed something else: while number one - Plato - remained silent, all the others seemed to address their remarks to him, though never directly. To that end, the pitch rose gradually and melodically from the deepest voice, number two, to the highest, number six, who was not only the shortest in stature but shrieked his remarks, as if to ensure that number one would hear. The overall impression was of a lyre on the move.

  The group wound its way through the garden, drawing closer with every turn. By a strange coincidence, several youths emerged from the gymnasium, some quite naked, others in short tunics, and they immediately reined in their disorderly chatter on glimpsing the line of philosophers. The two groups came together in the small square. Heracles wondered for a moment what it would look like to a hypothetical observer in the sky: the line of youths and the line of philosophers moving towards each other until they joined at the vertex ... Perhaps, if one included the straight hedge, a perfect letter delta?

  Diagoras waved for the group to approach. 'Master Plato,' he said reverentially, pushing past Heracles to get to the great philosopher, 'Master Plato, this is Heracles, of the deme of Pontor. He wished to see the school, so I took the liberty of inviting him to dinner this evening.'

  'You did right, Diagoras, unless Heracles believes otherwise,' rejoined Plato affably, in a beautiful deep voice. He turned to the Decipherer, raising a hand in greeting. 'Welcome, Heracles Pontor.'

  'I am grateful to you, Plato.'

  Like many others, Heracles had to look up when addressing Plato. He was a huge figure of a man, enclosed between sturdy shoulders, with a powerful torso from which welled the silver torrent of his voice. But there was something in the famous philosopher's bearing that made him resemble a child locked in a fortress. Perhaps it was the rather endearing look of almost constant amazement. When spoken to, or when addressing someone, or when simply reflecting, Plato would either open his enormous curly-lashed grey eyes very wide and raise his eyebrows so high as to be almost comical, or frown like a bristly browed satyr. It made him look like a man who has just, unexpectedly, been bitten on the bottom. Those who knew him claimed that his amazement was not genuine - the more amazed by something he appeared, the less important he considered it.

  As he was introduced to Heracles Pontor, Plato's face expressed utter amazement.

  The philosophers began filing into the school. The students awaited their turn. Diagoras held Heracles back and said: 'I can't see Antisus. He must still be in the gymnasium.' Then suddenly, without transition, he muttered: 'Oh, Zeus…’

  The Decipherer followed the direction of his gaze.

  A man was walking up the path. His appearance was no less imposing than Plato's but, unlike the philosopher, there was a wild quality about him. In his enormous arms he cradled a white dog with a deformed head. 'I decided to accept your invitation after all, Diagoras,' said Crantor smiling good-naturedly. 'We are sure to have an entertaining evening.'56

  'Philotextus offers his greetings, Master Plato, and remains at your disposal,' said Eudoxus. 'He has travelled as widely as you, and I am sure none of his conversation will go to waste.'

  56 I've managed to calm down over the past few hours. This is due, mainly, to the fact that I've had a rest between every paragraph. I stretch my legs and take brief turns about my cell. I now know every inch of the reduced world in which I'm living: a rectangular room four paces by three with a hard old bed in one corner, and a table and chair against the opposite wall. On the table, my translation and Montalo's edition of The Athenian Murders. There is also - oh, wondrous luxury - a small hole dug in the ground for me to relieve myself. A solid wooden door reinforced with iron strips stands between me and freedom. Both the bed and the door, not to mention the hole, are somewhat coarse, but the table and chair look like expensive pieces of furniture. I also have at my disposal a plentiful supply of writing materials. It is all part of the ploy to keep me occupied. The only light my jailer allows me is the miserable, temperamental lamp that I'm gazing at now, on the table. So however much I try to resist I always end up sitting down and carrying on with the translation, just to keep sane, among other things. I know that this is exactly what he wants. Whoever he is. 'Keep translating!' he commanded through the door about... how long ago? Ah, I can hear something. He must be bringing my food. At last. (T.'s N.)

  'Like the meat we ate earlier,' rejoined Policletus.

  There was laughter, but they all knew that the trivial or private remarks that had so far been the essence of the gathering, must now give way, as in any good symposium, to thoughtful discussion and the fruitful exchange of opinions. The guests reclined on comfortable couches arranged in a circle, and students waited on them like perfect slaves. No one took much interest in the silent, though well-known, figure of the Decipherer of Enigmas; his was a renowned profession, but most of them considered it vulgar. Instead, there was a growing flurry around Philotextus of Chersonnese, a mysterious little old man whose face was veiled by shadows, who was a friend of the tutor Eudoxus, and the philosopher Crantor, of the deme of Pontor, a 'friend of the tutor Diagoras', as he himself had put it, recently arrived in Athens after lengthy travels of which all were impatient to hear tales. Now, as the guests tirelessly exercised their tongues, twisting them inside their mouths to remove remnants of meat from their sharp teeth - remnants that would be washed down with aromatic wine that made the palate bristle - the moment had arrived for the curiosity aroused by the two guests to be satisfied.

  'Philotextus is a writer,' continued Eudoxus. 'He has read and admires your Dialogues. In addition, he seems to have been invested by Apollo with the power of the Delphic oracle... He has visions. He claims that he has seen the world of the future and that, in some respects, it is consistent with your theories. Regarding the equality you advocate for the labour of men and women, for instance.'

  'By Cronius Zeus,' put in Policletus once again, feigning anxiety, 'let me have a few more cups of wine, Eudoxus, before women are trained as soldiers.'

  Expecting Crantor to explode at any moment, Diagoras alone took no part in the general cordiality. He wanted to whisper something to Heracles to that effect, but saw that the Decipherer, in his own way, was not joining in either - motionless on his couch, he held a goblet in his podgy hand, neither replacing it on the table nor taking it to his lips. He looked like the reclining statue of an old, fat tyrant. But his grey eyes were alive. What was he looking at?

  Diagoras saw that the Decipherer did not let Antisus out of his sight.

  The youth, dressed in a blue chiton mischievously open at the sides, had been appointed chief cup-bearer. As was the custom, he wore a bristling crown of ivy in his blond curls and a hipothymides, or garland of flowers, around his marble shoulders. At that moment he was serving Eudoxus; he would then move on to Harpocrates, attending to all the guests in strict order of precedence.

  'And what is it that you write, Philotextus?' asked Plato.

  'All so
rts,' replied the old man, from the shadows. 'Poetry, tragedy, comedy, prose, epics and many other things. The Muses have been kind, placing few obstacles in my way. On the other hand, though Eudoxus referred to my having "visions", even comparing me to the oracle of Delphi, I must make it clear, Plato, that I do not "see" the future: I invent it. I write it and that, for me, is equivalent to inventing it. Simply for pleasure, I conceive worlds that differ from this one, voices that speak from other times, past or future. When I have completed my creations, I read them, to judge if they're good. If they're bad, as is sometimes the case, I throw them away and start again.' Following the brief laughter that greeted these last sentences, he added: 'On occasion, Apollo has allowed me to deduce what the future might be like, and I feel that men and women will eventually practise the same professions, as you suggest in your Dialogues. On the other hand, I don't believe there will ever be wonderful governments or 'golden' rulers working for the City.'

  'Why not?' asked Plato, sincerely curious. 'True, it would be difficult for such governments to exist in our times. But, in the distant future, in hundreds or thousands of years' time ... why not?'

  'Because men never change, Plato,' replied Philotextus. 'Though it may pain us to admit it, human beings are guided not by invisible, perfect Ideas, or even logical arguments, but by impulses and irrational desires.'

  This gave rise to a sudden controversy, with guests interrupting one another in their eagerness to be heard. But a voice with a twisted, bristling accent rose above the rest: 'I agree.'

  All faces turned towards Crantor.

  'What do you mean, Crantor?' asked Speusippus. He was one of the most respected tutors, for everyone assumed he would become head of the Academy upon Plato's death.

  'I mean that I agree.'

  'With what? With what Philotextus said?' 'Yes.'

  Diagoras closed his eyes and recited a silent prayer.

  'So you believe that men are not guided by the obvious presence of Ideas but by irrational impulses?'

  Instead of replying, Crantor said: 'Since you are so fond of Socratic questions, Speusippus, I will put one to you. Had you to discuss the art of sculpture, what would you take as an example: a beautiful figure of a youth painted on an amphora, or an ugly, damaged clay figure of a dying beggar?'

  'With your dilemma, Crantor,' Speusippus replied, not even attempting to hide his distaste for the question, 'you leave me no choice but to choose the clay figure, since the other is a painting, not a sculpture.'

  'Then let us speak of clay figures,' smiled Crantor, 'not beautiful paintings.'

  The sturdy philosopher seemed quite oblivious to the sense of expectancy he had caused, occupied as he was with taking large draughts of wine. At the foot of his couch, Cerberus, the deformed white dog, was finishing off the remains of his master's meal, to the sound of tireless gnawing.

  'I don't really understand what you mean,' said Speusippus.

  'I don't mean anything.'

  Diagoras bit his lip so as not to intervene. He knew that if he spoke, the harmony at the symposium would crumble like a honey cake beneath sharp teeth.

  'I think what Crantor means is that we human beings are merely clay figures,' interjected the tutor Harpocrates.

  'Do you really believe that?' asked Speusippus.

  Crantor shrugged.

  'Strange,' said Speusippus. 'So many years travelling through distant lands ... and you're still locked in your cave. I assume you know our legend about the cave? A prisoner who has spent all his life in a cave, watching the shadows of real objects and beings, is suddenly freed and emerges into the light of day. He realises that he has seen nothing but shapes until then, and that reality is much more beautiful and complex than he had ever imagined. Oh, Crantor, I feel sorry for you! You are still a prisoner, blind to the luminous world of Ideas.'57

  Without warning, Crantor rose from his couch, as if he had suddenly grown weary of the other guests, perhaps, or the conversation, or simply of having to maintain the same position. He moved so abruptly that Hypsipylus - with his round, fat body, the tutor who most resembled Heracles Pontor -awoke from the deep sleep that he had been struggling against since the start of the libations, and almost spilled his wine over the immaculate Speusippus. And where is Heracles Pontor? wondered Diagoras fleetingly. His couch was empty, but he hadn't noticed him leave.

  'You're all very good at talking,' said Crantor, a twisted smile tensing his bristly black beard. He started pacing around the circle of guests, occasionally shaking his head and giving a short little laugh, as if the whole situation were terribly amusing. He said: 'Unlike the tasty meat you have served us this evening, your words are inexhaustible ... I have forgotten the art of oratory, because I have lived in places where it was not needed. I have known many philosophers who found emotion

  57 I too see shadows in my cell-cave: Greek words dance before my eyes. How long is it since I've seen the light of the sun - the light of the Good, from which everything comes? Two days? Three? But behind the letters' frenetic dance, I perceive the 'twisted teeth' and 'bristly', 'rough' coat of the Idea of a Boar, relating to the third Labour of Hercules, the capture of the Erymanthian Boar. And if, though the word 'boar' is never mentioned, I can still see one - I think I can even hear it: its snorting, its stamping in the dust, and the unsettling cracking of branches beneath its hoofs - then the Idea of a Boar exists, is as real as I am. Was Montalo interested in this book because he thought it provided definite proof of Plato's Theory of Ideas? And what about Whoever He Is? Why did he first play games with me, inserting bogus pages into the original, then kidnap me? I want to shout, but I think the Idea of a Shout would provide more relief. (T'sN.)

  far more persuasive than speeches . . . and others who could not be persuaded, because their opinions could not be expressed, understood, demonstrated or refuted with words -they simply pointed to the night sky, indicating that they had not become mute, but were engaged in a dialogue, like the stars above our heads.'

  He continued walking slowly round the table, his tone becoming gloomier. 'Words . . . You talk ... I talk . . . We read . . . We decipher the alphabet . . . And we chew at the same time . . . We're hungry . . . aren't we?58 Our stomachs receive food. We grunt and snort... We sink our teeth into twisted lumps of meat.'

  He stopped suddenly and said, stressing every word: 'Note that I said "teeth" and "twisted"!'59

  Nobody was sure quite whom Crantor had addressed. After a pause, he resumed his pacing and his speech: I repeat, we sink our teeth into twisted lumps of meat; and our hands raise the wine to our lips; and the hair on our skin bristles when the wind blows; and our members stand erect when they sense beauty; and sometimes our intestines are lazy . . . which is a problem, isn't it? Admit it.'60

  'You're telling me!' Hypsipylus felt this was addressed to him. 'I haven't had a good bowel movement since the last Thesmopho—'

  58Yes, Crantor, very hungry. As I translate your words I'm eating the filth with which Whoever He Is has seen fit to fill my bowl today. Would you like to try some? (T.'s N.)

  59This chapter's eidetic words, yes, I had noticed. Thanks anyway, Crantor. (T.'s N.)

  60Yes, that's true. You've guessed everything, Crantor. Since I've been locked in here, one of my biggest problems has been constipation. (T.'sN.)

  Indignantly, some of the other tutors told him to be quiet. Crantor went on: 'We have sensations . . . sometimes impossible to define. But how many words we bury them beneath! How we change them for images, ideas, emotions, facts! This world is a torrent of words and we flow along it! Your precious legend of the cave . . . Mere words. I will tell you something, and I will tell it in words, but then I will resume my silence: everything we have thought, and will think, everything we already know and will know in the future, absolutely everything, makes up a beautiful book that we are all writing and reading together! But what of our body while we attempt to decipher and compose the text? It makes demands, grows tired, dries up ... and eventually c
rumbles to dust.' He paused. He smiled, his large face an Aristophanic mask. 'But, oh, what an interesting book! How entertaining, and containing so many words! Isn't that so?'

  There was a deep silence when Crantor finished.61 Cerberus, who had been following his master, now stood at his feet, barking furiously, his stump of a tail bristling, baring his sharp teeth, as if inquiring what Crantor intended to do next. Like a parent in conversation with other adults patiently dealing with a child's interruption, Crantor bent down affectionately and gathered up the dog in his huge arms. He then carried it like a little white knapsack, full at one end and almost empty at the other, to the couch. After that, he began playing with the dog, appearing to take no interest in what was going on around him.