The Orpheus Descent

by Tom Harper

  ‘Will a good man do a bad thing in a good cause?’ Euphemus nodded grimly. Leon jabbed a finger at me, in case I had any doubt which good man they had in mind.

  ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ I said to Euphemus. It was easier than answering the question. ‘I thought you admired … him.’ I didn’t dare say the name aloud.

  ‘Let’s say I changed my mind.’

  ‘And you?’ I turned to Leon. ‘What’s your part in this?’

  Euphemus answered for him. ‘Dionysius has had a long reign. Do you think Agathon was the only one to suffer?’

  I looked at Leon more closely. Suddenly, his constant motion, the awkward laughs and sudden twitches, seemed less like a clown and more like a man trying desperately hard to shift a weight he couldn’t bear.

  I pitied him, whatever he’d endured. But it wasn’t my business.

  ‘If you want to do this thing, go ahead and good luck. But without me.’

  ‘We need you.’

  ‘Why?’

  Leon pointed back to the scroll, still open in my hands. I read it again.

  … the stranger whom he had sent as the child’s guardian had turned out to be the murderer.

  A line of sweat trickled down my spine. A pain started spreading through my chest.

  ‘It has to be done,’ Leon said. ‘No point killing the lion and leaving the cub.’

  ‘We need someone with access to the boy,’ Euphemus added.

  I looked from one to the other. I looked at Herodotus and thought about Gyges’ ring. What would I do with it? Would I creep, invisible, into the tyrant’s bedroom and stab him in his sleep, safe in the knowledge no one would ever know?

  Diotima: In their hearts, all men think that behaving badly will get them further than doing the right thing. Good men are just too frightened of getting caught.

  The day before he died, I went to visit Socrates. He sat on a stone bench in the prison, his feet shackled to the floor, his head slumped over in sleep. Summer heat made the place stink like a toilet. Outside, the Scythian guards were unusually quiet. I’d been there so often that month I’d got to know them well.

  He looked so peaceful that, even with the urgency of the moment, I couldn’t bear to wake him. I sat by his feet, toying with the key the warden had thoughtfully left on a hook outside. I wondered what he was dreaming.

  ‘I can’t believe you can sleep at a time like this,’ I murmured.

  ‘At my age, there’s no point resenting the fact that I have to die.’

  I’d spoken so softly I’d barely heard myself. But Socrates was sitting up, wide awake. His face – his bulbous, florid, beautiful face – looked down on me like a child in a crib. Even there, at the end, no malice or hurt clouded his eyes.

  ‘Have you been here long?’

  I shook my head. ‘Everything’s prepared. The warden’s gone out to the agora and won’t be back for half an hour. The guards have been called to a fire in the Kerameikos. Simmias and Crito are waiting outside with a fast horse, and we’ve paid off the informers so that even if someone sees you go, they won’t remember it.’ I knelt to unlock his shackles – but Socrates stopped my hand.

  ‘Do you think I should change the principles I’ve taught just because the circumstances have changed? Or was that all just for the sake of argument?’

  ‘But you can’t die like this,’ I raged. ‘It’s … It’s … absurd.’

  For once, he didn’t say a word: just twitched a bushy eyebrow. Do you think absurdity ever stopped anything?

  I begged him to come with me. I told him he was betraying his children, though I really meant he was betraying me. I told him he was participating in an injustice. The charges were false, the trial was a sham, the sentence was barbaric.

  ‘Didn’t we agree that you should never intentionally do something you know is wrong? Isn’t wrong always wrong? Or have recent events changed your definition, so it’s acceptable to do wrong sometimes, or in some ways, but not others?’

  He went on for a bit, developing his theme. He made a lot of the fact that he’d lived all his life by the laws of Athens, so it would be hypocritical to break them now just because they’d been turned against him. He said that virtue was everything to him: more than reputation, more than family, more than the shifting opinions of men. ‘Whatever happens to us, whether things get worse or better, a wrong is never justified. And wrongdoing always discredits the wrongdoer.’

  I didn’t listen. I couldn’t. When he’d finished his lecture, he asked if I had anything to say that might make him change his mind.

  ‘I have nothing to say, Socrates.’ My last words to him, the end of our conversation. And even though he only had hours to live, I could see he was disappointed.

  Euphemus and Leon waited for my answer. I stared down the corridor, at the dark shadows lengthening between the arches. I imagined Socrates’ ghost waiting behind one of the columns, listening.

  ‘I have nothing to say.’

  Leon tutted and shook his head; Euphemus looked furious.

  ‘What about the things you said to Dionysius? What you said to me? Was that just rhetoric?’

  ‘You should know. At the time, you were selling me the glories of Dionysius’ enlightened rule and explaining how there’s no such thing as good and bad.’

  ‘What about Agathon?’

  He was trying to provoke me – and he nearly succeeded. I remembered Agathon’s dead weight in my arms and the wounds on his body. I thought of Dionysius watching him in the dungeon, egging his torturers on. Using him to bait me.

  But then I thought of Dionysius the son, my pupil. He might be dull and lazy, but should he die for that? I tried to imagine myself wielding the knife, his piggy eyes staring at me in terrified surprise. The picture went red and I shuddered.

  ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right.’ Words might be empty, but they’re a good place to hide.

  ‘Is anything ever right for you? You think you’re above all this, too good for the real world. Did Socrates teach you that cowardice is a virtue?’

  I stepped back, as if physically distancing myself from them would get me out of their plot. ‘Say it happened. Who would replace him?’

  They shared a glance. ‘Someone you admire, I think,’ said Leon.

  The answer was so obvious I was surprised I hadn’t seen it at once. ‘Is he in on this, too?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Dion’s like you. Too good to get his hands dirty,’ Euphemus said. ‘At least he’s loyal to his brother-in-law. What are you loyal to?’

  ‘Truth.’

  I thought he’d spit in my face. ‘I can’t believe we’re here talking about … this … and you want to turn it into a philosophy exercise.’

  ‘Philosophy is about life.’

  ‘You accuse me of twisting arguments, making black white and good bad. But you’re worse. I don’t dress up what I’m saying as some sort of absolute truth. I’m honest.’

  I’ve never been good in debate. Rather than argue, I turned and fled down the long corridor. I kept waiting for them to call me back. But you can’t shout about trying to overthrow a tyrant in his own house – not if you want to live.

  Is cowardice a virtue? Socrates could have spent a whole day discussing the question, teasing out my position, trapping my inconsistencies, hammering my opinions into something firm and true-to-purpose. But in the end, they were just words.

  Language is a weak tool: it describes things, but it doesn’t get to the being of the thing.

  Was Socrates really better than the sophists? Or just more consistent in his arguments? I tried to remember a single conversation that had reached a decisive conclusion, and found I couldn’t. Endless debate, endless questions – and never any answers.

  Euphemus’ taunts rang after me out of the past.

  While you’re sitting on your mountaintop drawing triangles, we’re down in the law courts and the Assembly wrestling with the problems of real life.

  No metaphors,
I reminded myself.

  Thirty

  Jonah – Spetses

  Socratis Maroussis pointed to a staircase. Jonah didn’t move.

  ‘Do you want to find out what happened to your wife?’

  Jonah climbed the steps and came out on a wide balcony. A wicker table and three chairs had been arranged on the checkerboard marble tiles, with three glasses and a jug of wine on the tablecloth. As if he’d been expecting them. Jonah peered at the French windows, wondering what was behind the drawn curtains. One of the curtains swayed, as if in a gust of wind. Except the night was still, and the windows were shut, and Jonah could see a pair of black shoes sticking out below the hem.

  Maroussis pulled out a chair and offered it to Ren. He took a second chair for himself and pointed to the third for Jonah. ‘Please.’

  Jonah sat. The gravity had gone out of his world; up and down had no meaning any more. He couldn’t even summon the anger he ought to feel.

  Maroussis poured three glasses of wine – simple tumblers, like you might find in any taverna. He slid them across the table. ‘Na zisiste. Your health.’

  Jonah didn’t touch his drink. Nor did Ren. Maroussis shrugged, drank, and set his glass back on the table. If he noticed Jonah studying him, he was too well mannered to show it. He seemed to make a fetish of old-fashioned politesse: his perfect posture, the graceful way he moved the glasses across the table like chess pieces, even the angle he left his cigar dangling in the ashtray. How old was he? Seventy? Eighty? Age had tightened the face, not lined it: he reminded Jonah of an African sculpture carved from hardwood.

  ‘You must be Miss Lamelle,’ he said to Ren. ‘My condolences for your sister.’

  Ren stiffened.

  ‘And you, of course, are Jonah Barnes. I was sorry to hear about your wife.’

  He couldn’t sit there and take that from the man who’d stolen her. Suddenly, he’d found his rage and his chair had tipped over and he was standing over Maroussis, holding the glass jug by the neck and shouting, ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened to her?’

  Maroussis didn’t move. ‘If you are violent, my guards will come.’

  Jonah looked around and saw no one. Even the shoes behind the curtains had gone. That didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  ‘They didn’t stop us getting in.’

  ‘That is not their responsibility.’

  ‘What are they for, then?’

  ‘Their job is to keep me safely locked away.’

  ‘You?’ Jonah tightened his grip on the carafe, feeling the certainty drain away. Maroussis sat still, ankles crossed, calm as a man waiting for a train.

  ‘I am as much a prisoner as you.’

  ‘This doesn’t look like a prison.’

  ‘Only because you lack imagination. Please sit down.’

  Jonah leaned back against the balcony rail. Suddenly, he was desperate for his glass of wine.

  ‘I have – forgive me if you know this already – a son. A wayward son, you would say in English.’

  ‘Ari?’

  ‘I had hopes for him, but …’ A wave of his hand consigned the hopes to history. ‘I have taught him to desire the things I desire – but not to disregard the things I abhor. He is confused. He can recognise goodness, but he does not know why. He wants everything, indiscriminately, and he expects it because nothing has ever been denied him. Like a child, he cannot tell right from wrong or dreams from reality.’

  Jonah decided to risk a drink. It didn’t seem like he had a lot to lose.

  ‘I don’t care about your son. I want to know what happened to Lily?’

  The wine was sharp and resinous. He still finished the glass. Maroussis poured him another.

  ‘You know my excavators found a golden Orphic tablet. Your wife stole it.’ He saw Jonah about to object and held up his hand. ‘I am sure you will tell me her motives were honourable. But Ari did not see it that way. He wanted her to tell him where she had hidden the tablet.’

  ‘He kidnapped her.’

  Maroussis shrugged. ‘I told him he had behaved recklessly. He called me a senile old man. He fought me.’ He lifted his arm so that the sleeve rode back to reveal a heavily bandaged wrist. ‘He no longer accepted my authority.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Jonah stepped forward, towering over the old man. ‘You saw him? He came here?’

  ‘He’s still a child. When he has done something wrong, he comes to his father. Even if he cannot stand the punishment.’

  ‘Did he bring Lily here?’

  The old man pointed his bandaged hand down the slope towards the sea. ‘He came on his boat. She was tied up just down there.’

  Jonah’s heart almost shut down. ‘Is she alive? Where is she now?’

  ‘She is in a place you cannot reach her.’

  Ever since the maze, an oily scum had clouded his thoughts. Now, anger boiled it away and he saw clearly. He could taste blood in his mouth and he wanted more. He picked up the wine jug again, and this time he smashed it on the rim of the table. Wine and shattered glass splashed over the terrace, leaving a jagged edge in his hand. Now he had a weapon.

  Maroussis stared up at him from his chair, eyes hard and calm.

  ‘Do you know Euripides’ masterpiece The Bacchae?’

  Jonah didn’t answer.

  ‘The god, Dionysus, presents himself to King Pentheus as a man and pretends to submit to him. He gives the king every opportunity to treat him honourably; he even lets the king make him his prisoner. But it is an illusion. When the king begins to think he is greater than the god, he is destroyed. Dionysus’ followers, the Bacchantes, tear him limb from limb and use his severed head as a football.’

  Jonah wasn’t listening. He had a weapon in his hand and he was going to use it. Music pumped in his ears, a frenzied drumbeat whipped on by stinging cymbals.

  ‘She is alive, Mr Barnes. You still have something to lose. Or something to live for, if you prefer.’

  The music stopped. Jonah stepped back.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Maroussis eyed the broken glass in his hand. ‘I cannot talk to you while you are threatening me.’

  The fury drained out of him; he sat down. Across the table, Ren watched him carefully.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Maroussis folded his hands together. ‘You are asking the wrong question. Ari is not interested in your wife. He would like the tablet.’

  ‘OK.’ He didn’t want to talk about the tablet – but he knew he had to calm down. ‘Why is the tablet so important?’

  Maroussis lifted his good hand and made a circular motion with his wrist. From around the corner of the balcony, a butler in a white jacket and black bow tie appeared carrying three more glasses and another jug of wine. He set them out and cleared away the empties, careful not to step on the broken glass at his feet. Jonah wanted to pinch the man to see if he was real, but didn’t dare.

  Maroussis fussed with his cigar. ‘Have you ever read Plato, Mr Barnes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you familiar with this quotation: “All Western philosophy after Plato is simply a footnote”?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘An Englishman said that. Alfred North Whitehead.’ The name rolled out of his mouth, exotic and mysterious in the Greek pronunciation. ‘What he means, I think, is that any question you can think of, Plato thought of first. Perhaps he did not find the definitive answers, as we would like, but he framed the questions, and that is more important.’

  Jonah was getting used to the old man’s way of speaking. He sipped his wine and waited for the point.

  ‘At the age of forty, Plato made a journey to Southern Italy. This we know, because he says so in a letter that survives. He does not say what he learned, but we can make an extrapolation. When he returned to Greece, his writings took a new direction. He is not writing little parables of Socrates any more, mocking the Athenians for their ignorance. His dialogues are complex and profound. He is like a man who has been paddling on a beac
h and suddenly has learned to dive to the depths of the ocean.’

  Down below the house, the sea hissed against the shingle beach.

  ‘Did he go to Sybaris?’

  ‘He does not say. Anyway, this was a hundred years after the destruction of Sybaris – he would have gone to the successor colony, Thurii. And I believe he did go there. He went to Greece to learn about Pythagoras, and Sybaris-Thurii was deeply associated with this man.’

  He breathed out a cloud of smoke. ‘There is no doubt Plato learned many things from the Pythagoreans. The mathematical basis of the universe. Concepts of the soul and metempsychosis. But I believe he found something from a time even more ancient. A source of wisdom that lifted his mind to another plane of reality.’

  ‘The tablet?’

  ‘The tablet is a signpost. It points the way.’

  ‘To what?’

  Maroussis changed tack again. ‘Have you ever pondered the nature of reality, Mr Barnes?’

  ‘It’s Adam you need to speak to about that.’

  ‘Your friend, Adam Shaw. I have spoken to him many times. You know, Plato divided the person into three parts – of Reason, Will and Appetite. I have made myself what I am through will; my son has more than his share of appetite. Adam Shaw operates in the realm of pure reason.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘You think he is cold?’

  ‘I’d rip his heart out, if I thought he had one.’

  ‘We are all prisoners in a world of illusions. We are kept chained in a cave, staring at puppet shadows we mistake for reality. Plato was the man who escaped from the cave and saw reality as it really is. Adam Shaw and I would like to do the same.’

  Jonah thought of Adam’s flat, the glass walls and white surfaces. The emptiness, and the view of the Acropolis so clear it looked fake. He couldn’t think of many places less real – except perhaps where he was right now.

  Suddenly, like an animal taking fright, he banged the table, rattling the glasses. ‘Isn’t this reality?’

  Maroussis picked up one of the glasses and held it next to his ear, listening to the resonance.

  ‘We trust our senses – but we are pathetically ill-equipped to apprehend reality. Our ears hear only a fraction of the sounds the world makes. Our eyes have the resolution of a one-megapixel camera. From these feeble stimuli, we deduce the existence of an entire complex universe around us. But what is this information we call reality? Nothing except electrical impulses and chemicals flickering dimly in our minds.