Amber and Clay

by Laura Amy Schlitz

from one clay bowl to another.

  Now is the trial of Sokrates: philosopher,

  seeker of wisdom.

  Twenty-four-hundred-odd years have gone by:

  the jury’s still out.

  Was the man guilty?

  or was it a blunder, a crime against justice?

  I, Athena, the guardian of Athens, bore witness that day.

  First was the sacrifice,

  brought to the table: a ram without blemish,

  healthy, immaculate,

  worthy to offer the unfading gods.

  Here comes the magistrate, hiding the knife:

  a slice to the windpipe:

  Blood on the table. The magistrate washes his hands in the blood.

  Raising his fingers, he calls on the gods of divine law and custom.

  Five hundred jurors are sworn to uphold the law of the land.

  “There’s something I have to tell you — ”

  I stared at Phaistus —

  I was making the ram’s head

  — that’s a way of wedging clay.

  You rock the clay, lifting and folding;

  it coils into spirals, like a ram’s horn.

  Something I have to tell you.

  Who says that to a slave?

  When someone says, I have to tell you,

  it means there’s bad news,

  and they don’t want to tell it.

  Who minds if a slave hears bad news?

  I knew old Markos was dead and Phaistus was afraid.

  Without a protector, he could be hauled off to court

  and stripped of his goods.

  He and Zosima spoke of leaving Athens,

  selling Phoibe and her foal,

  the tools and the stock —

  They hadn’t talked of selling me. Yet.

  That didn’t mean they wouldn’t do it.

  “It’s about your friend Sokrates.”

  My heart jerked

  like the leap of a toad:

  Sokrates was old, but he couldn’t be dead.

  “He’s in the Agora.

  He’s been accused of crimes against the city.

  He’ll stand trial this afternoon.

  I thought you ought to know.”

  “What crimes?” Who could accuse Sokrates?

  He’d fought for Athens in the war.

  He was poor, but he was a citizen —

  He wasn’t a slave, that can be punished for nothing.

  Spectators gather. The water clock trickles.

  Court is in session.

  The plaintiffs speak first, accusing Sokrates . . .

  Three hours pass.

  The men on the benches shift uneasily, weighing the evidence.

  The slave boy fills the klepsydra again: Sokrates may speak.

  Gentlemen of Athens, these men who have accused me — I don’t know what they’ve made you think. They were so persuasive, I almost forgot who I was. There’s just one problem. Scarcely a word they said was true.

  One of their worst lies was this: they said I was a terribly clever speaker, so I might be able to trick you. It’s a shameless lie, because the minute I open my mouth, you’ll find me out. I’m not clever with words at all, unless you call it clever when a man is able to speak the truth.

  I will tell you the whole truth. But by Zeus, it won’t be in flowery words. I’m seventy years old, and I’ve never appeared in a court of law. So pay no attention to how I speak. Pay attention to what I say: whether or not it’s the truth.

  Phaistus glowered at the doorway.

  He was always on the lookout for a customer,

  but not this time. He went and shut the door.

  “They say he doesn’t believe in the gods —

  not the city’s gods: not the Twelve.

  It’s a serious charge.”

  “That’s not true! He believes in the gods.

  He just likes to ask questions about them.”

  “That’s bad enough.

  It’s a citizen’s duty to honor the gods,

  not gossip about them.

  And that’s not the only charge.

  They say he corrupts the young men of Athens.”

  “Corrupts?” I didn’t know the word.

  It hung in the air,

  a spider dangling from a hidden thread.

  “That he makes them worse, with his teaching.

  He leads his pupils into evil ways.”

  “That’s not true! He teaches me, and I’m not corrupted!

  He talks to me about ἀρετή, about my soul.

  He taught me, just because I’m a slave,

  I don’t have to be slavish!

  He makes me ashamed to tell lies. How can that be corrupt?

  He has ἀρετή! And he’s the wisest man in Athens!”

  Now, hear me out! I have a reputation for being wise. What kind of wisdom? Human wisdom, I suppose. And here is my witness: the god Apollo and his Oracle at Delphi. But what the priestess at Delphi said was not that I am wise, but that there was no one wiser.

  When I heard about this, I thought, Why does the Oracle speak in riddles? How can there be no man wiser than Sokrates? Because I am truly aware that I don’t know anything, great or small.

  — I was almost yelling at Phaistus.

  Menon would have slapped my face.

  “Listen to me, Pyrrhos. I’ve nothing against Sokrates.

  I know he’s been a friend to you; you love him like a father —

  but he’s made fools of powerful men,

  and they hate him.”

  “What powerful men? Who are they?”

  “A man named Meletus, a second-rate poet —

  I’ve seen him; he’s got a nose like a beak.

  And Lycon, he’s a skilled speaker. But they’re only tools.

  It’s Anytus who hates Sokrates most.

  Sokrates taught his son,

  and the boy rebelled against his father.

  Anytus has hated him for years. It’s not just Anytus —

  The city remembers Alkibiades.”

  Anytus was Menon’s friend.

  I remembered the day I drew the square —

  he was there that day. He spoke to Sokrates —

  there was a threat in his voice.

  He didn’t like Sokrates, even then.

  There was another name, one I hadn’t heard.

  “Who was Alkibiades?”

  “A rich man, and a general. He’s dead now,

  but Sokrates loved him. That’s nothing;

  all Athens fawned over Alkibiades.

  Myself, I favor women,

  but I never saw a man so beautiful

  or so false. Alkibiades betrayed this city,

  joined forces with the Spartans,

  fought with our enemies,

  yes, and dishonored the gods!

  He and Sokrates were as different as fire and water,

  but they were thick as thieves.

  He was corrupt. I believe Sokrates

  tried to teach him self-control,

  but no one could teach wisdom to that man.

  Some people still blame Sokrates.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “I never said it was.

  But over the years he’s become a nuisance.

  Sokrates asks too many questions,

  and he asks them of powerful men.

  Only a fool pokes a hornet’s nest.”

  I’ve spent my whole life in search of wisdom. At first, I sought out statesmen and sages so that I could learn from them, but when I questioned them closely, I found that they didn’t know what they were talking about. They seemed wise to other people — and they seemed wise to themselves! But they weren’t. I came away from them thinking that in one way at least, I was better off than they were: I knew I knew nothing.

  I realized with alarm that my questions were making me unpopular. But I had to persist in my search for truth. The lover must follow the beloved.

&n
bsp; My hunt for wisdom next led me to question the poets: great poets such as Homer are known to be wise. But when I questioned the poets, I discovered that their poems were given to them by the gods. They were like seers: when they were chanting and composing their verses, they were inspired. But once they stopped singing, the god left them, and they couldn’t explain their own work. They didn’t know anything. But they thought they did!

  Then I went to the craftsmen. I don’t know how to make a shoe, or glaze a pot, and these men did — and they understood the things they knew. When I pressed them, they could answer my questions! But when it came to larger matters — the most important things in life — they were as ignorant as I am, and they didn’t know it. Because they understood shoes, or pots, or armor, they believed themselves wise, and in this they were mistaken.

  So it seems to me that only the god is wise. And what the Oracle was saying is: The wisest of you human beings is the one who, like Sokrates, has recognized that he is worthless when it comes to wisdom.

  “He’s not a fool. He’s interesting. He makes me laugh.

  He doesn’t brag about the things he knows —

  he’s always saying what he doesn’t know!

  Even though he has a daimon — ”

  “That’s another thing. A daimon.

  Other men don’t have daimons.

  You pray to the gods, and you sacrifice;

  you go to the festivals;

  you bury your dead with honor;

  you obey the law;

  you believe what other men believe.

  That’s enough. If a man has a daimon,

  he ought to keep it to himself.”

  I also stand accused of not recognizing the gods of the city, but of believing in my own daimon instead. It is true I have a daimon, a spirit that guides me. But such spirits are born of the gods. To say I believe in my daimon, but don’t believe in the gods, is like saying that a man believes in mules, but not in donkeys or horses.

  Over the years, I’ve become the target of hostility, and hostility of a bitter and lasting kind. Even so, I try to find wisdom and to seek out ἀρετή. I believe the god commands me to seek these things — so I go all over the city, trying to find someone who is wise. If I find someone who thinks he knows something when he doesn’t, I point it out.

  Now, young men — especially rich young men, because they have time on their hands — like to follow me about and listen to me ask questions. They are delighted when I point out that someone is not as wise as he thinks he is, and they try to imitate me. This leads other people to say I corrupt the young.

  “What will happen if the jury finds him guilty?”

  “They may not find him guilty.”

  “But what — ”

  “I won’t lie to you. The charges are serious.

  They could put him to death.

  More likely, he’ll have to pay a fine. They might exile him,

  strip him of his citizen’s rights and make him leave the city.”

  I sank my fist into the clay. Pounded it.

  It was shameful for a man to lose his rights,

  and Sokrates had no money to pay a fine —

  he’d shared his bread with me, but he was poor.

  As for his death —

  I shoved the table away from me.

  Made for the door —

  Phaistus snatched me back.

  “I thought it might come to this —

  you wanting to rush off to the Agora

  and upset the trial! Forget it.

  You have to be called to testify in court,

  and nobody’s called for you. Nobody wants your opinion,

  and you’re lucky they don’t.

  No court accepts the word of a slave

  unless he’s been tortured first;

  that guarantees he’ll tell the truth.

  You don’t want that, do you?”

  My heart was in my mouth. I had meant to run outside,

  push my way through the crowd until I found him.

  I wanted to shout out his innocence,

  to deafen the jury, awaken the gods!

  Now I was afraid. Sometimes, near the prison,

  they lashed men to planks, cruelly tight.

  They tossed them in pits and left them to die.

  I kept away from that place,

  but I heard them screaming.

  “Other men will help him, Pyrrhos.

  Rich men. It’s beyond you.

  You’re still a boy.

  You and me, we’re little people.

  If we keep our heads down, and our mouths shut,

  we might make it through hard times.

  The glory days of Athens are over.

  The good times were forty, fifty years ago —

  Sokrates can remember those days.

  People laughed at him,

  but they liked hearing him ask his questions;

  even his enemies thought he was harmless.

  “Since then we’ve suffered nigh on thirty years of war,

  plague,

  defeat.

  We lost our democracy to tyrants. Twice.

  We’ve lost the Long Walls that kept us safe.

  Even the rich have less, and the poor are poorer.

  Everyone’s afraid,

  and worn out,

  and there’s Sokrates, still asking questions.

  It no longer seems harmless. He ought to shut up,

  but he won’t. He can’t be silenced.

  It doesn’t matter whether the charges are true or false.

  If they want to get rid of him, they will.”

  I was back at the table.

  I don’t know whether Phaistus led me there,

  or shoved me, or tugged me,

  but there I was, with my belly against the table’s edge,

  and there was the clay, with the deep hollows

  where my knuckles had punched.

  I slid one hand under the clay

  and flipped it, smothering the air bubbles.

  “Listen to me, Pyrrhos!

  Worse may not come to worst.

  Sokrates has rich men on his side,

  aristocrats like Plato and Krito.

  He’s a good speaker. He’ll defend himself.

  If all else fails, they’ll bring in the family:

  go for pity. A weeping wife to touch the jury’s heart,

  or children, pleading not to be orphaned.

  That kind of thing goes over well.

  The point is, you have to go back to work.

  It’s not your battle to fight.”

  I don’t think a long speech is necessary to point out that I’m innocent of these charges. But it is true that over the years, many men have come to hate me. This kind of hatred has doomed other good men. If I’m convicted, I won’t be the last.

  So now perhaps someone will say, Aren’t you ashamed, Sokrates, to have devoted your life to asking questions that may get you killed? And here’s my answer: When someone takes a stand, he has to hold his ground and face the danger. When I fought in the battles of Potidaea and Amphipolis and Delion, I held my ground and obeyed my commanders. And when the god tells me to live a life in pursuit of wisdom, questioning myself and others, I cannot desert my post.

  And when we fear death, gentlemen, once again we are thinking we know something we don’t know. Death may be the greatest good we can imagine. I must not disobey the god — an act that I know to be disgraceful — in order to escape death, which might be something good.

  Gentlemen of Athens, I salute you, and I am your friend. But as long as I draw breath, I will listen to the god rather than to you. If you release me, I will go on saying the things I say, and asking the questions I ask.

  You are Athenian, and your city is the greatest and most famous in the world. But aren’t you ashamed when you worry about having as much money as possible, and piling up glories and honors, instead of making your soul the best that it can be? This is wha
t I say to anyone I meet: the god commands me to persuade you not to put the care of your bodies above the care for your soul.

  Order please, gentlemen! I am about to say something that will raise a storm of protest! If you kill me, you will harm yourselves more than you harm me. Meletus and Anytus can’t harm me. The law of the god doesn’t permit a better man to be harmed by a worse one. They can kill me, of course, but what they are doing is damaging to their souls: they are trying to kill an innocent man.

  I’m not speaking in my own defense. I’m defending you, so you won’t make a mistake by killing me. Athens is like a large, noble horse — a horse that is lazy and needs to be awakened by a horsefly. I’m the fly. The god placed me in this city to wake you up and land on top of you all day long. But perhaps you find me irritating: you’ll finish me off with a single swat and try to spend the rest of your lives asleep.

  If you don’t know whether I really am a gift to the city, here’s how you can tell. I am always coming up to you, like a father or an older brother, and reminding you to concern yourself with ἀρετή. If I got something out of this — if I took money for it — this would make sense for me. But here is my witness: my poverty.

  Why is it that some people enjoy spending time with me? They enjoy listening when people who think they’re wise are proved to be no such thing. It has its amusing moments. But I’ve been commanded to ask these questions by the god, who has come to me in oracles and dreams.

  Well, then, gentlemen, that’s all I have to say. At this point, most men bring in their family to shed tears and produce as much pity as they can. I won’t do this, even though I am in danger of being put to death. I was not born from oak or stone, as Homer says; I have sons: two young children, and a youth. But I won’t have them come here to plead for me, and I won’t beg you to change your votes.

  Why not? Justice seems to me to demand not that I beg, but that I tell the truth. I leave it to you and to the god to judge my case.

  Five hundred men with ballots in hands arise from the benches.

  Stretching and muttering, aching from sitting and listening so long.

  Forming a line, they pass between two massive urns:

  one wooden, one bronze,

  dropping their ballots and casting their votes

  sealing his fate.