One Great Year (21 page)

Upon meeting Socrates, Aristocles was compelled to join him, and his daemonion grew clearer and stronger as he matured. As the years passed under Socrates' tutelage, Aristocles's Marcus-voice fused with his every thought and they became symbiotic. As a youth, Aristocles had been relieved to learn that Socrates too claimed to have an internal voice.

Aristocles had not been in Socrates's school long before, without ceremony, in the teasing manner of adolescent boys, he was nicknamed Plato. It was an epithet given in reference to his stout girth meaning “broad or abundant.”
¹⁴
The moniker was thoroughly embraced, and few people ever knew his proper name at all.

Aristocles became known to one and all as Plato, and he was a driven and focused student. Despite the close relationship that was forming with his schoolmaster, he was often forlorn and lonely. Late at night, when his studying was set aside, he would feel nostalgic for an ancient homeland he had never visited.

In his late teens, he was tortured by remembrances of Theron and craved the energy of her spirit. He searched for her colors in every new place and person. Marcus felt perpetually incomplete and saw her in flashes: at the sight of a beautiful sunrise, in the petals of a flower, in a tender moment between loved ones nearby. He knew that if she was near, it would quench his unbearable feelings of emptiness. Plato was unfairly burdened by the fatigue of lifetimes of longing and endured a constant ache. Marcus had become aloof to insulate himself from the emotional peaks and valleys of his lifetimes, and it affected his daily interactions.

Socrates educated by asking questions, not preaching answers, and he taught his students to question everything, including him. Plato demonstrated great aptitude, often challenging Socrates. As a result, he quickly became a favored student.

Plato's admiration and respect for Socrates grew and, despite warnings from his inner voice to be cautious, a deep connection formed. Marcus had lived and grieved many times, and the weight of his losses made him wary, but his friendship with Socrates came to be one of the greatest he would ever know. Plato often mused to himself that though Socrates was merely a man, he seemed to have all of the purpose and virtue of an Emissary.

In his bed at night, alone and able to consider his Marcus-memories, Plato was highly critical of himself and his nature. Had it been only in pursuit of Theron that he had left Atitala? If not for her would he have become an Emissary at all? Was he an Emissary by mistake? He was ashamed, and he was determined to prove himself worthy and to better the world if he could.

Plato matured and his pudgy frame grew solid and wide as he developed into a plain-looking man. He was a head taller than his gargoyle mentor but never matched him for swagger and confidence. The nickname Plato always suited him, and the name Aristocles was forever left behind.

When together in discussion, hours passed unnoticed, and the duo found no topic too trivial or too complex to divert them. Plato was unusually astute, and Socrates admired his ability to memorize and recall entire conversations and dialogues verbatim, even weeks later.

“It is a gift and a curse to have a parrot with such an indelible memory always at my shoulder! I rebuff him like a gadfly but still he natters on,” Socrates would jibe affectionately. Plato did not mind the good-natured ribbing; he looked upon his teacher with awe. Socrates had come from nothing, a poor humble family, yet he was highly respected and was a wonder to listen to and learn from.

The men agreed that there was a higher world, a world of true knowledge, more real than the oft-misinterpreted subjective world of the senses. However, their analogous thinking and respect for one another did not prevent them disagreeing on many occasions. Marcus admired Socrates' unequivocal acceptance of the soul's existence. He understood the order of the Universe without past-life memory or instruction. He developed his own elaborate, brilliant theories, and his intuition and brainpower astounded his pupil.

Plato learned continually from his companion: how to question, how to orate, how to inspire others without becoming sanctimonious and self-important. At times he felt like an imposter, a cheat in Socrates's midst. The advantage of his Marcus-memories, his first-hand understanding, felt faintly deceitful. It was difficult to entertain ideas that countered what he knew to be true without growing frustrated and overbearing.

Socrates's influence in Athens continued to grow. He spoke publicly, encouraging people to question everything, for nothing was taboo, particularly religion, human nature, and politics. His unrestrained criticisms of the government and current democratic system made him an enemy to the regime and a target of their displeasure.

Plato grew desperately concerned for his friend and warned that he was drawing too much attention to himself, but Socrates was characteristically irreverent and would not be silenced or intimidated. The practical genius was undaunted and grew only more critical of the so-called democracy that he asserted defied its own definition and dragged the greater society into a pit of commonness and ignorance.

Socrates came under direct fire when government officials charged him with corrupting the youth of Athens, for encouraging them to question the social structure and the distribution of wealth in their society. Socrates railed against the establishment to his students.

“The educated aristoi of society need to stand out! Stand up and lead! Democracy will be the ruin of mankind; wise men of wisdom and reason should govern our cities! You!” he said pointing at his students. “You! You! YOU! Men of thought and intellect need to be the decision makers and take care! Not the masses. The unphilosophical man is at the mercy of his senses, believing them real and mistakenly trusting them. The way a prisoner in a cave, his back to the entrance, might believe the shadows cast before him represent truth, so do the ignorant and easily led believe their eyes and ears. They look no further for enlightenment and a greater understanding of truth and reality!”

Charges were brought against the malcontent, and fortunately there was a law protecting freedom of speech that worked in Socrates's favor. The politicians, however, did not relent, and they continued their persecution. They exploited an obscure edict prohibiting the disbelief of the ancestral gods and charged Socrates with impiety
¹⁵
to silence him.

Socrates entrusted Plato with continuing his school during the trial. Though Plato wanted to attend court, Socrates was adamant. “It is more important that debate go on, especially now. This trial is a ruse, a stratagem by Meletus and the other politicians to silence me,” he said. “I'll not be thwarted, and these phonies will bear the humiliation of their ridiculous mendacity. It is their intent that I am intimidated and stifled, but I will not be controlled. There is no strength in words without action! Worry not, Plato,” he assured. “The law is on my side and justice will be the victor.”

“I have less confidence in the law than in you. I have many times been witness to the darkness in men, and those shadows burgeon in the courts as they currently exist. I have no faith that justice will prevail,” Plato answered. “Laws are fashioned and perverted by those in power for selfish gain.”

“And that, my friend, is why we speak out. Why we orate and question and challenge. It is the very reason I will not act contrite in the face of these self-serving reprobates.”

Socrates clapped his gnarly hands together and, patting his stout belly, suggested they eat. He was famished and longing for a strong cup of ale to lull the commotion in his ever-active mind. Together the men adjourned to a long wooden table in the back courtyard. Bread, meat, olives, and a strong beer were brought, and the fellows spoke of greater things than the trial.

They philosophized about the role of man in the world, the role of God in creation, the role of mathematics in everything. They discussed mankind's connection to the cosmos and to one another. Plato was inspired as always. The men lit a fire within one another and never grew tired of their conversation or of each other's company. They did not always agree, and those times were the best, the most heated, the most challenging, and brought the greatest epiphanies and revelations. The bliss that they knew as they delved deep into the workings of the world and the Universe fed their friendship and bonded them in heart and mind.

The trial continued, and as it progressed Plato was finally able to attend. He worried for Socrates and urged him to take the charges more seriously.

“It will be as it should. What lessons there are to be learned by this process will come despite my smirk. I will show this jury the audacity of their allegations. I will continue to emphasize the ludicrous nature of these claims indicting a poor man of words,” Socrates answered.

The unperturbed accused spoke at great length on his own behalf, and, to the annoyance of the jury, he surmised that he must be the most knowledgeable of all the men in Athens “for I alone know that I know nothing.”
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Constantly surveying the displeasure of the jurors, Plato continued to caution him. “Socrates, it is clear to all who observe that your irreverence and lack of concern serve only to enrage Meletus and the other jurors. They are determined to silence you and to punish your apathy and disregard for them. I can feel their energy; a bad turn is coming.”

“I am but a seed to their dirt. By my unwillingness to be silenced, others will be encouraged and will take root,” he replied. Socrates appreciated Plato's concern but altered nothing in his behavior.

The gifted philosopher delivered a brilliant oratory to the court, easily debunking the weak charges against him. It was with sincere shock and disbelief that he heard the guilty verdict. The jury of five hundred and one had only narrowly found him guilty, and the expected penalty was a fine.

“Perhaps I should dine at the table of the winning Olympians?” Socrates suggested, further aggravating and insulting the jurors by mocking what his consequence might be.

Despite his popularity and fame, Socrates, his wife, and his three sons lived in relative poverty. He offered a paltry one hundred drachma to the court and it was rejected. Plato had appealed to Socrates' students and raised three thousand drachma to appease the court. But to their mortification, as requested by his accuser Meletus, the jury ruled that Socrates be put to death for his crimes.

“Arrangements have been made to get you out of Athens tonight. The three thousand drachma are yours. You can be gone in a few hours,” Plato informed him.

“I shall not flee,” Socrates answered calmly. “I am old; I will not scurry like a rat in a deluge. I have never run from debate, confrontation, or challenge. I will not now become less than the man I have always been. I have earned the esteem of many and intend to maintain my self-respect at the end of my life. I will be steadfast and fearless as the consequences are brought.”

“The consequences are unjust! A travesty and a symptom of the illness that plagues this foul city! This jury, these men, exact a most heinous wrong upon you in seeking to silence your galling voice. You are a light to this time and these people. You cannot slip silently into death. I have been told that they will not pursue you. I have been given a promise. They want you out of Athens, and you can live out your days peacefully in the country somewhere.”

“Cowardice! Would you wish to remember me as such a man, Plato? Should I leave this world a eunuch, a flower stripped of every leaf and petal and trampled underfoot?” he fumed. “Would you choose to end this life a spark instead of a flame? I would not! I will leave this world happily, willingly, into the extraordinary life that awaits me on the other side, finally privy to all of the answers that we so desperately seek. Only at my death will I leave Athens. She is my blood, my bones. I am nothing without her walls, her people. I will go out a flame, my friend, a light intense and glaring upon the wrongs I have tried to expose.”

“Athens does not deserve you. They will not remember you in two generations. We are all as insignificant as a skin shed by a snake,” Plato replied miserably. His heart burned in his chest as if he had just run an Olympic sprint.

“I do not seek to be remembered. I desire only that the philosophy and knowledge are not lost. Continue to teach the students to question everything; they will pass on the wisdom. Record what we have learned for future generations.”

The realization that he was about to lose his beloved companion and mentor in such an unjust and preposterous circumstance devoured Plato's patience and regard for mankind. Time after time they extinguished the brightest lights. Fear, doubt, and the quest for individual interests above the greater good consistently desecrated and destroyed the most perfect selfless beings. Plato's Marcus-brain was flush with overwhelming anger and sadness and then … nothing. Numbness spread through him like a poison—like the hemlock that Socrates would be forced to drink in one day's time.

Socrates did not fear death. He was more concerned about the burden of grief that he was leaving behind for his loved ones. On the eve of his demise, Socrates was surrounded by distraught friends; only Plato was not present. The condemned sought to console those in attendance but grew impatient with their emotional outbursts. He optimistically anticipated great clarity and knowledge after death and spoke with eagerness about his journey into the next realm.

Plato was too heartbroken, too angry, too tired of it all, and he wondered what sort of grand lesson he was supposed to be learning. How did this cycle of continual life, death, joy, and grief evolve? How was he supposed to make a difference in this ruined world, where men execute the likes of Socrates and raise up the idiotic, cruel, and self-serving? He had first-hand knowledge of the afterlife, heaven, hell, and the waiting place that he later called the “Meadow” when he wrote about it in the
Republic
, but none of his awareness soothed his disappointment at the waste and brutality of mankind.