Chapter 4 "Legion, the Collegium of Rogues"

Chapterr 4 from my novel "Legion, the Collegium of Rogues"  

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4

The braziers seemed to burn brighter than they had an hour ago, and beyond the glimmering dance of their flames, the sun’s fiery yellow orb darkened as it slipped towards the cape like a crucible of molten bronze spilling across the horizon, glowing white hot through a forest of masts rising from Agrippa’s mighty fleet.

Octavian stared at the sunset, but he did not seem to see it, as his thoughts returned to Rome and the senate. That feeling of uncertainty had returned and the cold chill of fear. ‘When they see those grain ships sailing into Ostia, and the people can eat until their bellies pop, then all Rome and beyond will know that I am no tyrant.’ He looked a Calvinus standing next to him. ‘I think,’ he added after a moment of pause, ‘that I have a greater destiny than just this.’

Calvinus nodded. ‘Then why are you asking for reassurance from me? Have you been wrong thus far? The last great enemy and his whore are dead,’ he said. ‘Rome now waits for you as her saviour.’

Marcus Antonius hadn’t simply committed sacrilege by declaring himself a god – he had plunged the Empire into another bloody war and insulted Octavian’s family by divorcing his sister Octavia for Cleopatra Ptolemy. And when Octavian revealed the treasonous contents of Antonius’ will to the senate, which he had obtained through dubious means from the Temple of the Vesta, its content had unleashed such a furor against Marcus Antonius in Rome, the Senate had no choice but to declare him an enemy of the state, making it the duty of every Roman to kill him on sight.

The will had been a gift from the Goddess herself as far as Octavian was concerned. A shocking document that enraged decent Romans everywhere, even many of Marcus Antonius’ most loyal friends and allies turned against him after the contents the will had been revealed by the praecones, the town criers in every town in Italy. Their beloved rogue and Triumvir had willed his provinces to his and Cleopatra’s bastards in the form of kingdoms, as though they were his own realms to dispose of as he pleased. It was treason, plain and simple, and it had been the excuse Octavian had been waiting for to eliminate his nemesis.

Octavian and Antonius had always known it would come down to the two of them in the end, like some great Homeric tragedy played out to the whim of the gods, the gravest threat is always encountered last in an epic war – Pompeius, Cicero, Cassius, Brutus and all the others were but preludes to the final conflict between Octavian and Marcus Antonius, and as is always the case in these matters, only one of them would be living afterwards, and in this instance, it was Caesar Octavian.

He turned his attention to the more pressing problems of securing Rome’s European frontiers against the Germanic and Celtic barbarians. Rome’s defences were quite simply put: inadequate, often undefended and undefined. His father, Julius Caesar had warned of the dangers, but his assassination and the civil wars that followed got in the way of resolution, now it was for him to finish what his father had begun – it would make a useful distraction too, a good old fashioned war of conquest to keep those dangerously idle minds back in the Eternal City too busy thinking of faraway places to concern themselves with conspiracies and plots at home. Rome will never be at peace, he will make certain of that, but there will be peace at Rome – he was determined to make certain of that too.

But there was conspiracy against him at home, Calvinus knew that, even if, at this moment, it was unthinkable to the victorious dux. There was a seed of secretive dissenters in the Senate. They were inert and powerless for now, but Calvinus knew they were a simmering threat beneath the political ether, plotting and biding their time. He slipped his hands behind his back and folded his fingers together and pondered the dangers still ahead of them.

Back inside, Octavian and Calvinus were quickly joined by the legates and administrators, gathering around like sheep around their shepherd, standing aside as Octavian and his officers moved through Cleopatra’s immense palace, sprawling over Antirhodos Island like a city within a city; everywhere glittering with gold and marble, the alabaster walls bathed in the setting sun’s golden hue spilling through numerous windows and colonnaded porticoes.

The sweet fragrant smoke of frankincense rolled weightlessly like wispy mist between the forest of columns in the great hall, where Octavian’s commanders were gathered, as well as a number of Egyptian nobles and high priests and priestesses, and Greek aristocrats, their fates now entirely in Octavian’s hands. Blind fear in their faces as they watched the precocious young dux stride through the fragrant mist, followed by Agrippa, Calvinus and Faustus, magnificent in their armour, their plumed helmets tucked under their arms, their cloaks draping their backs.

Agrippa eyed the cowed Egyptians with a victorious general’s contempt.

Octavian spoke – he told them of greatness and wisdom, of free men and peace, of brotherhood and new beginnings. He said, now is the time for Roman to embrace Roman, and though yesterday they were enemies, today they are brothers again.

His voice carried through the great hall like the voice of God to every attendant ear, and nobody spoke.

He told them the Republic is safe, and he promised them it would remain so. He would make Rome great again, and every Roman, highborn or low, will control his own destiny. A country can only prosper in peace, he told them.

He pointed to the floor, stained with Marcus Antonius’s blood at the foot of the pharaonic thrones, where he and Cleopatra sat as gods over all in their realm… ‘There lies the shadow of tyranny!’ he declared. ‘Behold the mark of a traitor, and the blemish of his arrogance! Egypt! You are liberated from tyranny! I have not come to put chains on you.’

A heady silence followed his short speech, and then Agrippa cheered: ‘Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!’

The great hall suddenly echoed to the chants of: ‘Caesar! Caesar! Caesar…’

It had been a master stroke, after the Battle of Actium, when he decided not to pursue Antonius across the sea or attack Alexandria directly as everyone had expected him to, but instead had decided to inflict a slow and lingering death on the pharaonic order, bringing his legions by land and by sea in a pincer round Alexandria from the east and west through Asia, cutting Antonius’ forces in half, and through Agrippa’s superb admiralship, had sent Antonius’ fleet scurrying in disarray.

As Octavian’s land forces advanced, he secured Antonius’ provinces and client kingdoms in Asia, isolating Egypt, and so sealing Cleopatra and Antonius’ doom.

Antonius’ legions disintegrated into panic and chaos, retreating wherever they met Octavian’s legions. Many defected to Octavian, who, it was clear by then, was going to win the war, and like a wind carrying the breath of plague, he advanced irresistibly on Alexandria, leaving a wake of death behind him, annihilating the Egyptian armies wherever he met them.

Antonius was like a cornered fox, running in every direction for support, but found chaos and treachery on too vast a scale to consolidate an effective defence. Octavian was on his way and everyone was shitting themselves. Even Antonius’ loyal general Lucius Pinarius deserted him at Cyrenaica.

Octavian was now the most powerful man on earth; and as if to punctuate the fact, four Egyptian high priests with painted faces, and gowned in their ceremonial fineries, prostrated themselves on their bellies in front of him and declared him Pharaoh…

Agrippa and Calvinus exchanged glances.

Octavian’s servant, Demosthenes, fearing his dominus might forget he had blood and not fire running in his veins, stepped forwards and quietly reminded him: ‘Dominus. Respice post te! Hominem te esse memento! Memento mori! – Master. Look behind thee! Remember that thou arte but a man! Remember that you will die!’

Octavian looked at him. ‘You encompass all the virtues of the cynic, like your namesake did before you, Demosthenes.’

‘Thank you, dominus.’

‘And one day,’ said Octavian as he swept across the court, ‘your sarcasm will get you in a lot of trouble.’

‘Yes, dominus,’ he said as he skittered after him, followed by the legates and administrators, and a sundry of other pinch faced officers liveried in their dusty armour…

‘It is fortunate for you that I am in a good mood today.’

‘I am as devoted to the gods of good moods, as I am devoted to you, my dominus.’

‘Hmm…’

The priests scattered on all fours like terrified rats as Octavian and his entourage passed.

‘What shall we do with the arrested courtesans, Caesar?’

‘What do you think we should do with them, Faustus?’ Octavian responded. He stopped and turned to his friend.

‘Execute those who pose a threat, and enslave the rest.’

‘Then that is what we shall do. But not the Romans. I’ve a mind for leniency.’ He looked at Calvinus, reading his thoughts, he said: ‘Sometimes, in politics, it is a necessity to take a risk. Many of these men are from the noblest families in Rome, to kill them will simply sire another generation of hatred. My father knew this, and he took that risk for the greater good of Rome. The pay and privileges of Antonius’ legions will be honoured.’ He looked at Agrippa. ‘Only the Romans on the lists are to be put to death.’ He looked at Calvinus.

‘Dominus! Dominus!’ cried a priest, grovelling on his knees at Octavian’s feet.

Octavian stopped and looked down at the priest, who represented Horus the sky god.

‘What will become of Egypt?’

Yes, thought the Octavian, what will become of Egypt?

Chapter 20 Rise of the Wolf, the Athenian War

Chapter 20 from my novel, "Rise of the Wolf" WARNING, THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS BAD LANGUAGE AND SEXUAL REFERENCES, NOT SUITABLE OR READERS UNDER 16 YEARS.

20

Piraeus, Athens

‘Have you heard about Pericles?’

‘Is he dead?’

‘No, you fool. He wants to get his own back on the Megarians for sending their ships to Sybota. So he’s dug up some sacrilege about Megarian settlers who cultivated some sacred Demetian field or other, and has accused the Megarians of sacrilege … Sacrilege I ask you!’ The older man puckered his lips and shook his head disapprovingly as Epaphroditos went on... ‘He’s decreed … decreed I say,’ he repeated incredulously, ‘a punitive and ill measured punishment,’ Epaphroditos continued after sipping his beer… ‘forbidding them to trade or have access to any of the ports or markets of the Empire. What’s he up to, I ask you, eh? … A lot of us do good trade with the Megarians.’ 

‘It’ll be war with the Spartans then,’ said Kytheion, sipping his beer, thanking the gods he was too old and too lame to be of any use in a war… ‘You watch if I’m not right…’ He looked across the agora and hissed contemptuously under his breath with a scowl, ‘Here comes Delomenos the tallyman, sniffing about like a dog looking for turds to eat.’  The old man smiled with self-satisfaction at his quip, showing off his only tooth, a single upper incisor that was as yellow as a piss stain on linen. ‘He took a whore as his woman … just like Pericles did. Only he lives with his wife and the whore. No standards, these tallymen.’

‘It does seem to be the fashion these days,’ Epaphroditos replied as he gave Delomenos a despising look over the brim of his wine goblet.

‘Tits like Aphrodite’s arse cheeks, and fucked by half the men in Munychia by all accounts…’ He paused to punctuate. ‘She’s working her way through the other half.’

They laughed.

They watched Delomenos in his nice cotton chiton and rich blue himation, with his little entourage of minions, and civil slaves; feeling all powerful like a great statesman as he strutted about the agora among the lowborn fishermen, merchants, sailors, artisans and masons … the backbone of Athens as Kytheion liked to think of his brother Piraeans. He despised the tallyman, everyone did, and yet they all crawled to him like whimpering children on their bellies. It was revolting!

‘It’s going to hurt trade,’ Epaphroditos commented, referring to the Megarian Decree. ‘He brings in these mad laws to cause them a problem without giving a second thought to how it affects honest merchants like your son.’

The old man nodded. ‘Aye. Them all high up on the Hill, drinking fine wine from gold cups, shitting on us down here working ourselves to death to keep them in comfort.

‘I knew something like this would happen. Did I not say so, Kytheion? When I said that an alliance with Corcyra would bring ill fortune to Athens…’

‘You did, Epaphroditos … you did indeed.’ He took another swallow from his cup and took another sweeping look across the busy market. ‘I thought you were too busy up at the strategoi to be rubbing shoulders with the likes of us.’

‘I still have my interests here. I won’t be in office forever, Kytheion.’

Kytheion snorted. ‘What are they saying up there, anyway? … All these decrees and revenues, when’s it going to stop, Epaphroditos, eh? … Don’t they know they’re cutting our limbs off. You straddle our world and theirs. Can you not make them see how things are down here?’

Epaphroditos shook his head with feigned sympathy. ‘I know your troubles, old friend, and I have told them, but they will not hear me. I have no influence, old friend, my family name means nothing anymore, not for a hundred years. I’m just as worried as everyone else, Kytheion. I too do trade with the Megarians. The Lakedaemonians too. And when the Spartans get to hear about the decree, what then, eh? Will they decide to close their ports to us in retaliation? I do good commerce with them. My ship puts in twice a year at Gytheion. Their ironware and bronze is second to none. Everyone wants Lakonian pots and pans, and weapons. A Lakonian made sword cost’s twice as much as a slave. All the aristocrats want them. I earn very well out of the goods I get from there. Quality, Kytheion…’

Kytheion huffed and watched Delomenos for a moment, waylaid by angry merchants who had heard about the embargo against Megarian merchants. ‘They’re upset about it,’ he mused.

Epaphroditos sipped his beer.

‘Thalysios lost two of his ships in a storm,’ Kytheion said changing the subject. ‘Two ships too many,’ he added. ‘He owes money everywhere…’ He sipped. ‘The poor man’s ruined. Utterly ruined. He came to me to borrow money. Alas, I am not a money lender, and were I, I would not take such a bad risk. The poor man practically begged me. It was all very unpleasant. Very embarrassing. He has a ship for sale. A shrewd man could buy it cheap before word got out. Desperate men always sell cheap for fast money to keep the collectors from their door.’

Epaphroditos smelled an opportunity.

‘News isn’t out yet. He wants to keep things quiet for as long as possible, hoping to get a good price and raise enough to pay his debts before they find out about the loss of his ships. It’s crewed by good men. Thalysios is always careful who he hires.’

‘How much does he owe?’

‘A quarter talent is what he told me.’

Epaphroditos nodded. ‘He’ll never raise a quarter talent from one ship.’

Kytheion drained his cup and stood up. ‘I need to make water … then, my friend, I need to go home and enter a beautiful slave girl I brought back from Delos, my prick won’t wait a moment longer, so until tomorrow.’

‘Until tomorrow,’ returned Epaphroditos.

Kytheion smiled and staggered away, practically dragging his lame right leg.

The serving slave came with a full jug of beer and left it on the table. He watched the progress of the tallyman. More distressed merchants and shopkeepers were haranguing him.

‘I sense the Athenians are not happy,’ came a voice from behind him.

‘They’re complaining because all goods from Megara are now contraband,’ Epaphroditos said as Pheidon sat at the table beside him. ‘Pericles has issued an edict that all Megarian goods are to be seized and destroyed, and the sale of Megarian goods is now illegal anywhere in the Empire.’ He cocked his head to the complaining merchants swamping the tallyman and said: ‘They probably have warehouses filled with Megarian textiles and wine. ‘That prick-stroking Pericles will make whores and beggars of honest men, and nobles of whores and cutthroats,’ Epaphroditos concluded bitterly.

Pheidon poured beer into Epaphroditos’ cup, then filled the cup Kytheion had drunk from. ‘Do the worries of these lowborn fisherman and pot-makers concern you so much as you seem to make out?’ Pheidon said quietly, pushing the cup in front of Epaphroditos. ‘It’s always been like that. You know that. That’s why you went to Delphi to see my brother.’

They watched as the angry shopkeepers demanded recompense for Megarian goods they had been ordered to surrender for destruction, all speaking at once, their angry voices carried across the agora, attracting attention from the citizens going about their business. The tallyman tried to reassure them, promising to take their grievances to the highest authorities. One of the shopkeepers demanded all the levies he had paid on Megarian goods to be refunded to him, since he was no longer allowed to sell them, and then they all demanded their levies to be refunded. For a moment, Epaphroditos thought the shopkeepers might kill Delomenos … for a moment, so did Delomenos.

‘Pericles has sent more money to the One Eye,’ Epaphroditos told him.

‘How much money?’

‘I don’t know. A lot. Enough to pay mercenaries or buy weapons, or maybe both. He’s preparing for war. Making plans for the citizens of Attica to be brought into the city if Sparta invades. And he has warships located in strategic positions, and the fortified outposts along the Attican coast have been reinforced with men.’

‘What’s the plan with the One Eye?’

Epaphroditos casually scanned the agora again. ‘I do not know. Pericles is keeping everything to do with him to himself. The money he sent came from the private funds of merchants and aristocrats, and there is nothing official concerning Amyklos.’ He sipped his drink. ‘Pericles usually sends him just enough money to keep his belly full, keeping him in need like a tamed dog until he has use of him. Well, now he must have use for him, because he sent him more than money for wine and whores.’

Pheidon stood up. ‘I’ve left your money in the usual place.’ He walked away without saying another word.

Epaphroditos sipped his beer and continued watching the near riot around the tallyman.

‘Tell me, my young friend,’ Socrates began as they sat in the warm sunshine on the Kolias Promontory, looking out across the gulf, enjoying the fresh sea wind blowing in their faces, and through Socrates’ thick mop of soft unkempt hair. ‘Does the slave who loves his master, serve his master better because he loves his master, or because he is simply a conscientious and loyal slave, who knows his place?’

Alcibiades considered the question. ‘He would serve his master more happily from a position of love, than he would from the other,’ Alcibiades replied cautiously. ‘A slave who loves his master will be a more willing slave than one who despises his master.’

Socrates nodded. ‘Then the slave who despises his master will be less conscientious?’

‘Yes.’

‘So he would do less for his master?’

Alcibiades nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘So the pleasure of love, then, in your view, Alcibiades, is greater than the fear of pain … or even death. If as you say, the slave who loves his master does more, when the other sort does less, an austere master would put that slave to the whip, or sell him, or even kill him.’

Alcibiades scratched his head. ‘I suppose so…’ He was uncertain.

Socrates nodded. ‘Then, is it reasonable to assume, that, a slave who loves his master might receive a reward for his loyalty?’

‘Yes. I reward my slaves for their loyalty.’

Socrates looked at the dark sails on the horizon for a moment. ‘Now, Alcibiades. Let us for a moment suppose that the slave who loves his master is lazy, but the slave who despises his master is dutiful and works hard, but he despises his master none the less. Should his master then reward this slave who hates him, but works hard for him, and punish the slave who is lazy, but loves him?’

Alcibiades looked quizzically at him. This was one of Socrates’ precipices. ‘He should punish the lazy slave and reward the hardworking slave,’ he said properly.

‘I see,’ said Socrates, who had expected such an answer. ‘Now then. Let us suppose that the master also loves this lazy slave, and despises equally the hard working slave. Should he still punish the lazy slave he loves, and reward the hardworking slave he despises?’

‘A man cannot fail to be influenced by his feelings, Socrates. The slave owner is faced with an impossible dilemma.’

‘Why so, Alcibiades? Is it not a simple matter of doing the right thing, and staying to it regardless of feelings or consequences?’

‘It is difficult to bring harm or injury to someone you love. To punish the beloved slave would break that bond.’

‘Yet he is an idle so and so, Alcibiades. Does it not vex you that your beloved slave takes advantage of your affections and good nature, while he burdens another with his duties, while he is simply allowed to laze about in idleness when the mood takes him? His duty as a slave is to serve his master’s commands. Not to do as he pleases, and become contemptuous and disrespectful. This is how it is with overindulgence, Alcibiades.’

Alcibiades looked at him. ‘Are you rebuking me, Socrates?’

Socrates glared at him. ‘Yes I am.’

Alcibiades blinked. ‘It’s only those who are older than I who accuse me of overindulgences.

‘Is pleasure so wrong?’ he went on defensively. ‘Youth and pleasure are brother and sister – husband and wife. Erastes and eromenos…’

‘A man grows tired of an over familiar wife, and an overbearing sister very quickly,’ said Socrates, drawing from his own experience with his own wife, and his two wayward sons. ‘But with moderation, and the diversions of duty to separate them, the reunions are all the more joyous, and beneficial. Overindulgence does your reputation no good. It attracts unwelcome attention and harsh criticisms that can only damage your family name.’

Alcibiades laughed dismissively. ‘They can call me what they like, and think on me as they will, I care not.’

‘Clearly so, and it upsets me to say it,’ Socrates replied evenly. ‘Everything you do is not so much reflected on you, as it is on your guardian Pericles, and your brother, who is a good and solid young fellow who loves you.

‘Pericles has raised you both as his own sons and yet you bring him disgrace. Should he punish you, Alcibiades, by sending you once again out of the city into the countryside, and put you away from the glare of his enemies, who would use any means available to ruin him?

‘Your drunkenness, and your debauchery,’ Socrates went on angrily, ‘can only be described as disgraceful ¼ indiscrete, scandalous, and at times an affront to public decency…’

Alcibiades couldn’t look at him. Even the lash could not sting, or cut so deeply than his beloved teacher’s criticism and anger. He felt utterly ashamed as Socrates went on, with unrelenting harshness:

‘You are no longer a carefree boy, but a young man, and with manhood comes responsibilities. And when you are a member of the highest family at Athens, then it is more than responsibility … It’s duty to behave in a manner as to court admiration instead of scandalous shame…’

‘Duty!?’ Alcibiades retaliated rebelliously. ‘And what if I do not want these responsibilities that come with such heavy burdens as duty? I did not ask for them,’ he ranted, jumping to his feet, he started stomping back and forth like a precocious child throwing a tantrum, his hands flying like spooked birds through the air as he exploded in a fit of self-righteous rebellion, ‘Am I not my own man?! Why should I sacrifice all that I am for duty I did not seek out or ask for?! Why should I do anything I do not wish to do without remonstration from the one I respect above all others!? He who shuns tradition and wealth?’ he gazed red faced at Socrates. ‘Does wealth not bring the privilege of choice? Is my life not my own? Duty!’ he laughed. ‘What reason have I to think of duty?’

Socrates stood up and pointed to the gleaming jewel of marble, and ornamented stone that is Athens, secure behind her impregnable walls. ‘Look there, Alcibiades,’ he said calmly. ‘Do you need more reason than that?’

Alcibiades looked upon the wonders of Athens, bright and colourful.

‘Behold your mother, Alcibiades … see how wondrous she is. What liberty she gives her sons that they might shame themselves under her very gaze by asking why they should be dutiful to her. Does she not shelter you from the enemies who covet the splendour she casts upon you? Do not ask me why you’re so burdened with the weight of your ancestors. I’m merely a humble man of humble origin,’ he said in an attempt at modesty. But there was nothing modest about Socrates, who was egotistical, argumentative, and an outright genius… ‘I know nothing of such lofty elevations. But I know I would die for my mother before I shamed her as you have shamed her.’

Alcibiades felt his rebuke like a punch to his guts. ‘You’re a cruel man, Socrates. And however lofty my origins, you are much loftier. And I would offend God himself before I offended thee. Will you forgive me the shame I have brought you?’

Socrates laughed. ‘Now you mock me, you insolent boy. I welcome controversy like a fledgling bird welcomes his flying feathers. But you owe nought to me. What you owe, you owe to Athens, and they day shall come when the Athenians look to Alcibiades as they looked to Themistocles.’

Alcibiades noted he ambiguously did not say Pericles. It was well known that Socrates was opposed to the recent escalation of hostilities with the Peloponnesians. He had already stated Pericles had set the Athenian Empire on a course of war with Sparta and her allies. Nothing was worse in Socrates’ eyes, than Hellenes fighting Hellenes.

‘You must consider your guardian, and his many kindnesses to you and your brother.’

They could not have been more different. The aristocratic Alcibiades Kleiniou Skambónidés, son of Kleinias. The young man was a tall elegant Adonis, whose beauty was known and desired throughout the city. Often plagued by men offering fellatio, and women offering to bare his sons. It was all far too much at times. He was flocked by superficial and insincere friends who dined and whored at his expense. The pretty crowd is what Socrates called them, pretty in looks, ugly in their souls.

‘I will try my best not to disappoint him in the future, Socrates.’

‘Disappointment is brief. Ruin is a millstone. So look to preserving yourself, Alcibiades. Find virtue, and charity in yourself. If the people like you, they’ll forgive your many slights. Take it from one who knows.’

They walked along the outside of the mighty Phaleric Wall towards the fortified north gate into the city, following behind some freeborn peasants leading a mule hitched to an empty cart.

Socrates looked at the breath-taking monuments on the hills of Athens behind the city walls. He considered the huge Temple of Athena, which outshone them all, when Alcibiades unexpectedly said:

‘You make a lot of people uncomfortable with your manner and your discourses. Sometimes I fear for your safety…’

Socrates was delighted to hear it. It appealed to the arrogant bombast in him, and his controversial nature. ‘Should I then supplicate myself to them, and ply them with flattery and platitudes until they are intoxicated on them, as you so often are on wine?’

‘Now you’re being flippant. I would never advocate such a thing to you. But as you tend my well-being, it is also my duty to tend yours, and I worry for you … we all do.’

Socrates launched into one of his fast arrogant dialogues, and he vented relentlessly: ‘That’s because they envy me, these men of whom you speak. And envy, my young friend; as I have often told you, is but an ulcer of the soul. And such an ulcer can only make them hate me as much as I am contemptuous of them. Because they will have me tamed like a dog, or obedient and veiled like a woman to their commands, but woe to me should I bark the wrong words, or piss against the wrong tree.

‘I would die before I let them harness me like an ox to their plough.

‘They are kings in their homes, but slaves to their vanity nonetheless. For them truth is a thing to twist and misshape into lies and corruptions to suit their own ambitious ends and vanity. And that above all feeds their hatred of me; for in me they see truth they cannot corrupt, for my truth is based on the most thorough examination of every aspect of it. For truth is a science, Alcibiades. And like the wind, it cannot be harnessed to make a man fly. Truth is an ocean with many depths. It is not simply a perception of the eye, or the ear or the unravelling of rumours. One must carry truth as a warrior carries his shield. One must wield it as he wields his sword, and one must die for it, as he would die for his beloved homeland.

‘For some men, truth is a burden they cannot carry, Alcibiades. So weighty is it upon them, they must shed its corners to make it fit them, and alter it to make it suit them, and like a fine robe they’ll wear it, and men will wonder at its dazzle, but the lies woven into it will fade and fray and soon enough all will see that lies make a poor thread. Such men will never know the purity of truth’s cloth. So they hate me, because I remind them of their own deficits. I show them that even a wealthy man can live a virtuous and pious life.

‘They make themselves important because they have power and wealth enough to surround themselves with flatterers to feed their self-admiration with the necessary compliments and courtesies that gives them sustenance as blood sustains the leech.

‘They are too weak to accept in themselves, what the enlightened such as I already know of them.

‘They believe themselves to be perfect in all the virtues, and authorities in all the vices...’

‘And you are perfect I suppose?’ Alcibiades interjected.

Socrates pointed up to the temple of Athena. ‘Look, Alcibiades. Does your guardian not make the house of Athena the envy of the world?’

‘Yes. Yes he does.’

‘And when you see our marvellous temple to Pericles’s vanity and Athena’s modesty, do you see in it, perfection?’

Alcibiades looked up at the temple in the distance dominating the Athenian skyline, the coloured friezes vivid against the white of the marble, and the powdery blue of the sky. ‘Yes I do,’ he said quietly, with a surge of pride.

‘And what say you of it, Alcibiades?’

‘The aesthetics are without blemish, and beyond compare,’ he replied. ‘It is a true wonder, and it pleases the eye from every aspect,’ he added. 

Socrates smiled like a spider with a fly in its web. ‘Yet it is as crooked as an old hag’s back.’

Alcibiades was shocked, his brows pulled together.

‘Perfection is an illusion, Alcibiades,’ Socrates went on to explain, drawing the metaphysical world into the physical one with his usual eloquence. ‘It is an illusion created by men because what pleases the eye, also pleases the heart, and these powerful men of who we speak, believe in their conceit, that what pleases the mortal hearts of men, must also please the immortal hearts of the gods. Yet the gods are as fickle and argumentative as we mortals. So tell me my friend,’ Socrates went on. ‘How can something be perfect if there is not a straight line upon it?  Perfection is myth,’ he added. ‘Those citizens,’ he went on as they walked, ‘dislike me because when they look upon my imperfect self, they look upon something greater than they are. Did not the Pythia say as much? They dislike me because, unlike them, I do not consider myself unflawed. Yet I am closer to virtue than they are, because I do not consider virtue as some consider a commodity, to be bought and sold. If a man wears a fine robe, and is carried about on a fine litter, it does not say he is virtuous … merely that he is wealthy … I do not say he is not virtuous either. I only say virtue is intangible. And that, Alcibiades is why they fear me … they know I see them for what they really are.’

‘They are dangerous, Socrates. And they are worried that when the war comes, you will cause trouble for them by persuading the Boule not to vote in favour of my guardian, despite you being his friend.’

‘His friend am I?’ Socrates smiled.

‘It is how he would have it. Honest Socrates, he calls you. A man who will give you plain truth, and that’s what they fear. Because everyone knows that Socrates cannot tell a lie.’

Socrates did not respond.

‘When you go to the afterlife, what will you say to him below to account for your life, Socrates? If you oppose my guardian, and the Spartans invade us?’

‘That’s an interesting question. May I consider it?’

‘Of course.’

‘You see it is a difficult question, because one must assume that there is an afterlife to attend, and that the lord of the dead is the final judge as we are told he is. And if we are to consider these things as fact, simply because we are told so, then we must also consider that they do not exist, and that on the final breath eternal darkness descends, with neither thought nor dream to accompany it…’

‘I would sooner you didn’t consider it quite so deeply,’ said Alcibiades, who was feeling the cold hand of mortality more keenly than someone his age should.

‘But it is an interesting question, Alcibiades. Because it poses the idea of preparing a statement to deliver to Hades and the judges in the hope that they will hear it and judge me favourably. But it also poses the question of whether there is an afterlife. I for one cannot say with any certainty one way or the other beyond what my heart tells me, and the heart is a poor judge of these things.’ He paused. ‘It is true, I have worshipped at the temple of Hades, and even then I told him I had doubts to his existence, but asked his pardon of me nonetheless for having such doubts. But mine is a questioning mind, and I am afraid where the gods are concerned, I have seen little that convinces me of their reality. Some say that when lightning strikes, it is Zeus. I say when lightning strikes, it is the weather, and the weather is a natural thing. From whence it comes, and by what mechanisms it is created, I cannot say. But as our ancestors once lived in caves like animals, without tools or laws, I know that one day these mysteries will be conquered, if we do not allow religion to keep us backwards.’

Alcibiades had never heard Socrates speak so frankly about his religious beliefs before. It was no secret he was a doubter, but he rarely said why.

‘Then I must consider that I am wrong, and lightning really is from Zeus, and I must beg his pardon too, for my doubts. But I do not think I am wrong.’

‘Still, I would like to hear what you would say.’

‘I would stand before the great judges in their cold and misty caverns,’ Socrates began, ‘and when Hades puts the question to me to account for my life, I can at least be prepared in my answers as far as this: “I tried to be a virtuous man, I lived the life of a pious man, and I passed on my thoughts to those who would hear them without making a charge of money or gift to them. I gave bread to the poor, and did not consider a slave less than a freeborn aristocrat, and was always mindful of my own humanity towards others, both human and animal, taking naught but what I needed for my survival.” I’ll say as well, “although I tried to be pious, and I tried to be virtuous, and I tried to be humane at every point of my life, I was none of these things. Because I had the weakness of being a man and not a worm, who is both pious and virtuous in his lowly station beneath the earth, never aspiring beyond the sum of his purpose.”’ He looked at the Acropolis. ‘So let my imperfect virtues hang like vapour through time, as Pericles’s imperfections will remain in stone.’

‘But to the eye, the temple will for all time appear perfect, Socrates.’

‘As shall I, Alcibiades.’

It was busy under the Stoa of Peisianax at the northern end of the agora. A number of citizens were shading beneath it, strolling up and down and standing about in small cliques, deep in discussion about the worsening crisis. Socrates spotted Euripides, lost in debate with three men wearing senatorial robes, his hands speaking as much for him as his words as he put his passion into his heated discourse.

Socrates noticed two men sporting long hair spliced into distinctive plats; one had his massed together behind his head like a nest of snakes hanging down his back passed his shoulder blades. They were wearing white tunics, over which crimson himations were draped.

The Spartans were studying one of the huge frescoes that adorned the walls beneath the colonnaded passage, depicting the Battle of Marathon, vivid, and violent, Miltiades larger than life, clasping his bloody sword, and hoplon, leading the Athenian charge against the Persian invaders.

Aenesias was lost in the imagery, transfixed on this moment of Athenian glory, picking out the hideously twisted jaws of Athenian hoplites behind their mighty Corinthian helmets; before them a sea of bloody and mangled Persian corpses. It was a poignant reminder of the character of the Athenians in war … a worthy enemy not to be underestimated, he thought.

He felt as much an exhibit for curious eyes as the beautiful frescoes, and he did not much care for the attention they were getting. The prying stares, the whispered comments, the disdain and mistrust, the insincere smiles of the senators and city magistrates made his skin crawl.

The Athenians talked a great deal about nothing, committing to nothing, and making no assurances, except they were willing to go to arbitration with the Corinthians, reasserting their desires for peace, especially with the Lakedaemonians, who they considered their friend and ally. Aenesias thought they should simply go back to Sparta and declare war on the arrogant Athenians, as they clearly had no desire for peace as demonstrated in their intractability, and refusal for unilateral talks between them.

He turned and looked across the busy agora. The white robed senators and aristocrats cliqued together in their political groups were discussing Sparta’s protestations. ‘Fools,’ he said to his companion. ‘Their arrogance will be their ruin.’

‘There will be much blood spilt then,’ said Aribias. 

‘Oh yes. Too many scores to settle on both sides,’ Aenesias replied.