The Orpheus Descent

by Tom Harper

  The woman had hunched into a foetal ball on the ground. Through the smoke, he saw a strand of hair curled across her cheek, and for a moment he wasn’t looking at a stranger, but at Lily, curled up in bed.

  He remembered himself. He stepped over, planting his feet either side of the woman and shielding her with his body. The crowds beat against him; for a second, he thought he’d fall and die with her. But he held. The herd felt the obstruction and shifted its flow, just a fraction, following the course of least resistance. Jonah hauled the woman to her feet. She looked dazed. She started to drift away, towards the mouth of the cave, but Jonah grabbed her arm and pulled her after him. One hand holding her, one hand pressing his T-shirt over his nose and mouth, he shouldered his way through the crowd. The bodies thinned out, the way got easier. Even the air seemed clearer, though the chemicals still burned his face.

  But escape wasn’t that easy. After the crowd came the police, snapping at their heels with batons and shields, driving them on like demons. One saw Jonah coming and stepped back, inviting him through. Half blind, Jonah didn’t have time to think. The hit came as a complete surprise. The demon swung his stick and connected with Jonah’s hip: pain exploded inside him. He screamed and let go the woman’s arm; he tried to breathe, but the scream had filled his mouth with gas and nothing would come in.

  He fell to his knees. A steel-capped boot prodded his side. Straining his eyes open, he saw the demon raise his stick over his head. He tried to protect himself, but his body wouldn’t respond.

  A firebolt sailed through the air and hit the policeman in the face. Glass shattered; suddenly, his head burst into flames.

  The scream of a man strapped into a burning rubber mask isn’t something you ever forget. Jonah watched him reel away, clawing at the mask. The riot helmet kept it on. Four youths in black T-shirts and gas masks raced up to him, knocked him to the ground and started kicking him. Other police waded in to help their colleague, who vanished in a cloud of fists and batons and gas.

  Jonah ran.

  Twenty-seven

  No one would argue that the only thing lovers want from each other is sex. Clearly, there’s something else which the lover’s soul needs but can’t put into words, dancing around it in obscure riddles.

  Plato, Symposium

  I lay in my bed. Every muscle ached as if I’d fought a wrestling match. I had bruises on my shoulders, and swelling at the back of my head where I must have banged it on the floor. I reached to check for blood.

  The moment I touched myself, the dream rushed back at me. Diotima. Her body wrapped around me and mine in hers. I blushed. For the first time in ten years, I couldn’t help a smile spreading across my face.

  Then I remembered the rest of the dream. I looked around, though I should have realised much sooner. I was in the bed where Agathon had lain – and I was alone. The body had vanished.

  I threw back the cover and jumped out of bed. I was naked. I rubbed my finger and thumb together and smelled figs. In the corner, my belt and balled-up tunic lay where I’d thrown them.

  It couldn’t have been a dream. But it couldn’t have been real. I remembered Diotima appearing suddenly in my room, the high gates flying open and the slave pulling the cart. In reality, we’d never have got out of Ortygia, let alone back in.

  So where did Agathon go? And why did my bruised skin glow all over, as if I’d gone ten rounds in the ring and won them all?

  The creak of the door made me jump. Whatever had happened in the night had cleaned me out. My ears heard, my eyes saw, my skin touched with freshly minted senses. The world felt brighter, louder, more real. As if I’d just arrived.

  Euphemus peered around the door. As new as I felt, he looked older: his skin had sagged, his eyes had receded, as if some spirit within had punctured and deflated. Even his silver mane of hair seemed flat. He started to say something, then broke off as he saw the empty bed.

  ‘What happened to Agathon?’

  I wish I knew. ‘I buried him.’

  Euphemus glanced at the open window, calculating whether you could force a body through. ‘How are you feeling?’

  I couldn’t possibly explain. ‘I’m fine.’

  He didn’t believe me. ‘What they did to Agathon—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I repeated, so loudly that Euphemus backed away.

  ‘Dionysius sent me to tell you that it’s past time for your lesson with his son. Otherwise …’

  I didn’t care about Dionysius or his feeble son. I didn’t even care about Agathon. All I could think of was Diotima. My whole soul pulsed like a throbbing artery.

  Euphemus misconstrued my reluctance. ‘I know you’re upset, but … ’

  Upset?

  ‘ … if you want to stay alive, you’d better teach that boy some Homer until the tyrant gets bored and lets you go.’

  Of course I wanted to stay alive. How else could I dream of seeing Diotima again?

  * * *

  Euphemus escorted me through the palace. I resented him for it – I wanted to be left alone to nurse my feelings.

  ‘It must be nice, being so at home in the tyrant’s castle,’ I told him, purely for the sake of being rude.

  I’d expected he’d ignore me. Instead, he dropped level with me and leaned over close to my ear. ‘I’m trying to help you,’ he hissed. ‘Mouthing off to tyrants, grandstanding for your own satisfaction: it may make you feel better than the rest of us. But it doesn’t make anything better in the real world. If you really want to change something, to avenge Agathon …’ He broke off as a knot of officials came around the corner. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

  My pupil was waiting in the library. He looked disappointed to see me – and, presumably, to be denied the entertainment of watching me led back to the quarry in chains. I grabbed the first thing I could find – I think it was Aeschylus’ Niobe – and told him to read it, then asked the librarian to bring me a copy of Empedocles’ On Nature. He looked doubtful – but tyrants’ servants aren’t used to disobeying. I stood at a lectern by the window, scrolling through, pretending I couldn’t see Dionysius doodling a trireme in the margin of his text.

  If you’ve never read Empedocles, he can be hard going. He lived on Sicily about fifty years ago, one generation after Parmenides and two after Pythagoras. Like Parmenides, he wrote his treatise in mock-Homeric poetry, which might make it more artful but does nothing for the clarity of his ideas. Not that they’re all that clear to begin with.

  Several passages had been marked in ink.

  You will bring drought from a storm,

  And then from drought, streams pouring out of the heavens,

  And you will lead forth from Hades the spirit of a dead man.

  And this:

  Behold the sun, warm and bright on every side,

  And whatever is immortal is bathed in its radiance.

  And, near the end, one more:

  Far from the Blest, this is the path I tread:

  Exiled from heaven, a wanderer.

  Next to it, someone had scrawled two words in the margin.

  Stay away.

  I stared. It looked like Agathon’s writing, though I couldn’t be certain. Why did he come back here, risking his life? What did he think he’d find?

  Or did he come to deliver a warning?

  ‘How’s the pupil this morning?’

  The voice made me jump. I turned around guiltily, taking my hand off the scroll so that it rolled up with a snap. Dion had come in and was peering over the boy’s shoulder.

  ‘Making progress.’ From the corner of my eye I could see he’d progressed to carving an obscenity into the bookshelf with his penknife. ‘He’s working on Aeschylus.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘“The gods sow flaws in a great man, when they want to destroy his house”,’ the boy recited, with an innocent smile for his uncle and a spiteful look at me when Dion wasn’t watching.

  I grimaced, wishing I’d chosen something more innocuous. I hadn’t expec
ted the boy to actually read it.

  ‘And you?’ Dion turned his head to read the ribbon on the end of the scroll-staff. ‘Empedocles.’

  ‘I thought I should read something Sicilian.’

  ‘You know Empedocles killed himself in the volcano?’ Dion said.

  I’d heard the story – but I didn’t interrupt. I sensed Dion had come to make peace, after yesterday. And I found I didn’t want to be angry with him any more.

  ‘He told his followers he’d become a god, then marched up Etna and threw himself into the crater.’

  The crater. I thought of the krater that Diotima had held in my dream the night before, scattering black leaves and grain from its bowl. The krater we’d sipped at Dimos’ symposium while a bunch of heartless men argued about love. Then the book that Agathon had tried to buy – The Krater. What was mixed in that Krater?’

  Dion was waiting for me to say something.

  ‘I’ve never seen a volcano close up. I was wondering how much its crater looks like the cup, in reality.’

  He smiled. ‘I’ll take you up some time so you can see for yourself.’

  ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘As long as you don’t plan on trying to immortalise yourself. You know, all they found of Empedocles was one bronze sandal. I’ve seen the place,’ he added, proud to have some first-hand experience to salt the story. ‘It’s not as far up the mountain as you’d think.’

  ‘I heard the mountain belched out the sandal because it couldn’t digest it.’

  His face fell. ‘You knew the story.’

  ‘Only parts,’ I assured him. ‘And I’d love to see where it actually happened, if your brother ever lets me out of his castle.’

  ‘But that’s what I came to tell you. He’s given me permission to take you out this afternoon.’

  ‘To Etna?’

  ‘On a boat trip.’

  We went down by a water gate and rowed across the south harbour, threading our way between the merchantmen and freighters at anchor. Painted eyes peered over the ropes that bound the hulls tight, like monstrous fish that had come up from the depths. Conversations drifted down to us from the decks, sailors joking and singing and telling stories while they waited for the wind. Some of the voices sounded Athenian. For the first time in my life, I missed home.

  ‘I’m surprised Dionysius trusted me outside the palace,’ I said, trailing my hand in the water.

  Dion smiled. ‘I had to guarantee you’ll come back.’

  I took my hand out of the water and wiped it on the hem of my tunic. ‘That was kind.’

  ‘It wasn’t my idea.’

  ‘His?’ But that didn’t make sense. ‘Whose?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  We left the harbour and rowed into the mouth of the river that feeds it. Soon warehouses gave way to farms, then fields to forest. I leaned back in the boat, breathing in the trees and the filthy stink that came off the slow-moving water. I suppose I was glad to be out of the palace, but that day, I hardly noticed. Every silence, every pause, all I could think about was Diotima. Sunlight burned through the overhanging leaves and soaked my clothes with sweat. Wild figs on the riverbank teased me with the scent of memory.

  The boat turned towards the shore. I thought we would crash, but at the last moment I saw a narrow channel almost covered by the undergrowth. I pressed myself flat in the bottom of the boat as willow branches brushed and scratched me. Then we were clear. I looked up.

  The first thing I noticed was the colour. The muddy water had turned a deep, majestic blue: a small lake hemmed in on every side by greenery. It was a beautiful, restful place. Poplars, wild figs and vines tangled the banks. Above them spread a broad and lofty plane tree, and a high chaste tree cast in full blossom. Its purple blooms burst into the sky like splattered paint and filled the air with its fragrance. A mossy altar stood at its foot, knocked crooked by the roots. From the statues and votive offerings around it, I gathered this lake was sacred to some nymph or goddess. Even without the altar, I think I’d have known.

  At the water’s edge, clusters of plants I’d never seen before brushed the water with their spindly fronds. As we rowed closer, I saw they had strange, triangular stems, firm and waxy to the touch. I squeezed one between finger and thumb.

  ‘Gently,’ Dion said. ‘Someday that might make you immortal.’

  He let me ponder his riddle, then answered it for me. ‘It’s a papyrus.’

  I squeezed it again, enchanted by the touch. I’ve spent half my life with papyrus, but only ever in the dry, processed sheets you get from the booksellers. It doesn’t grow in Greece. It was so lushly alive I almost felt guilty for all the pages I’d covered with my scribblings.

  The boat nosed up to the shore and ran gently aground. Dion stayed in his seat.

  ‘This is where you get out.’

  I stared at the wilderness. ‘Are you abandoning me?’

  ‘I’ll wait for you on the river.’

  ‘And if I don’t come back?’

  He smiled – though there was a strain behind his eyes.

  ‘Make sure you do.’

  I splashed through the shallows and clambered onto the muddy bank. Dion rowed away until the boat vanished through the hidden passage in the reeds. I was alone with the birds, and the insects darting across the blue pond. The water freshened the air; a summery hum answered the cicadas’ chorus. I found a grassy bank, just right for resting my head, and lay down.

  She moved so quietly that I didn’t hear her come. Even when I caught her scent, I thought it must be one of the wild figs dropping its fruit. It was only when she stepped on a reed behind me, snapping it, that I rolled over and saw her shaded against the plane tree.

  Joy flooded into me through openings I thought had hardened shut. Visions of the night before overwhelmed me, and suddenly I was certain they were memories, not dreams. I leaped to my feet, pulled her against me and kissed her hard.

  She pulled away. ‘Not now.’

  I felt like Icarus, stripped of his wings and dropping back to earth. I sat down hard on the grass. Diotima lay beside me and put her head in my lap. This intimacy, she seemed to be saying, but no more.

  ‘Did you ask Dion to do this?’

  ‘He’s a sweet boy.’ She turned her face into the sun and closed her eyes, while I seethed in silence. It was easy to imagine her with Dion – two beautiful bodies, his young curiosity insatiable for her mystery.

  ‘Why did you bring me here?’

  ‘I wanted to see you.’

  I reached down and risked stroking her cheek. She turned her head, nuzzling my fingers.

  ‘Did Dion tell you where we are?’ she asked.

  I shook my head, enjoying the touch of her lips against my hand.

  ‘This is where Hades snatched Persephone.’

  I stared at the deep blue water. It looked too beautiful for such a violent crime.

  ‘A friend was with her, the nymph Cyane. When Cyane tried to grab hold of Persephone, to save her, Hades turned her into this spring.’

  The lake was clear and beautifully pure, just the place for girls to play. I tried to imagine the King of the Underworld creeping through the thicket, his red eyes smouldering with desire. Snatching the maiden while she braided flowers into a crown. The screams of frightened girls, then nothing except water bubbling out of the ground.

  ‘What happened last night?’ I asked.

  She opened her eyes. ‘Was it that forgettable?’

  I blushed. ‘Before that.’

  ‘We sent Agathon’s soul on a journey.’

  ‘Was it real?’

  ‘His soul?’

  ‘What I saw.’

  She smiled her sphinx-smile. ‘Did it seem real?’

  I sat up. The clear lake made a perfect reflection of the sky, but everything around it was thorns, knots and dark places.

  ‘How did you get to Sicily the same day we found Agathon?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve been here a few days. Just after you
left Thurii, I had a dream. Agathon was in trouble: he told me to come to Syracuse. So I did.’

  ‘Do you always act on your dreams like that?’

  ‘I was right.’

  I couldn’t deny that. ‘And the palace? How did you get in and out?’

  ‘The guards know me.’

  I didn’t believe her. I understood that she was trying to help me, offering explanations I could accept. This is not important, her eyes said. But the Voice of Reason wouldn’t let go.

  ‘Are you a nymph?’

  ‘I’m a woman. As you well know.’

  I played with one of the papyrus fronds, wrapping it around my finger. ‘Am I mad?’

  ‘Does it matter? Sometimes madness is a blessing, a divine gift. Haven’t you ever been in love?’

  I took a leap. ‘I am now.’

  Her deep eyes watched me solemnly, but her mouth twitched at the corners. Was she trying to stifle a laugh?

  ‘How does it feel?’

  ‘Agony.’

  She rolled off me and lay on her back on the grass. ‘When we were created, our souls had wings and we soared with the gods in the aether. But when we came down to earth, the wings withered and fell away like leaves in autumn. The stumps scabbed over; hard scars formed, and the veins that had supplied them went cold. When we fall in love, the process reverses. Love warms our souls like spring sunshine. The flesh softens, the scabs melt and blood begins to flow. The feather-roots put out their shoots, and the wings start to grow again.’

  ‘It sounds painful.’

  ‘It is,’ she agreed. ‘The wings have to push through openings that have been closed for a long time, and it hurts. You feel like a child cutting her teeth, aching and itching and tingling all over. But when you’re away from your lover, it hurts even more. The pores dry up again, and the sprouting feathers are trapped halfway. The pain drives you wild. When you see your lover again, your soul opens up and it’s the sweetest release, even though the quills still hurt. And when you’re apart, you can hardly bear it. It drives you mad.’

  I thought about that, even as the spikes tore open the holes in my soul.