The Orpheus Descent (45 page)

Plato
, Sophist

I’m in a low grey room filled with people. Diotima is there, and I have to talk to her, but the people around me keep getting in the way.

All the other people are me: prior versions of myself, hanging over my shoulder. A great crowd of us. They look slightly shamefaced – they know I don’t want them there – but they won’t leave. Every time I move towards Diotima, they fall in behind like a flock of sheep.

I woke up.

‘Were you dreaming?’

Dion’s hand reached out and touched my bare arm. On the far side of the tent, young Dionysius snored and snuffled like a pig.

‘Diotima says that Etna is a good place for dreams. She says souls creep out of Hades through the vents, and whisper truths in our ears.’

‘It wasn’t a good dream.’

‘Then let’s hope it isn’t true.’

I rolled over, trying to shake off the image of my other selves. ‘How well do you know Diotima?’

He thought about that. ‘I don’t think anyone knows her well. She comes and goes without reason. She pops up where you least expect her, and then she’s never there when you want her.’

‘Want’ has various meanings. ‘She’s afraid of your brother-in-law,’ I said.

‘I think he’s more afraid of her.’

‘Why?’

‘She’s got power. Dionysius can sense it – he’s good at that – but he doesn’t understand it. So he feels threatened.’

I didn’t disagree – I’d felt it too. But I wanted to hear Dion’s opinion.

‘What sort of power?’

‘She can read dreams.’ The mattress rustled as Dion turned onto his back. ‘She’s a Sicel, did you know that? One of the prehistoric tribes of Sicily. The village she comes from is a sacred place. They say the temple there is to Demeter, but really it’s to Hybla, an old Sicel goddess. She gives dream oracles. If you go there, the priests interpret them for you.’

‘Are they accurate?’

‘I’ve never been. It’s not far from here, actually.’

‘Here’ was Etna, our camp in the forest on its middle slopes. We’d reached it yesterday at sunset after a hard day’s riding. From mid-morning, ever since we came down from the hills north of Syracuse, it had dominated our horizon: its snow-capped summit puffing smoke into the blue sky. I’d barely spoken a word. Dion rode at the front with Dionysius and his son; I picked up the rear with the spear-carriers and grooms. I’d spotted Leon in the party ahead of me, but we pretended not to know each other.

It had been a good day to be alone. The night before had ended, at last, but I hadn’t slept. I felt like sand in the ring: bruised from the impact of heavy men falling, unable to move. Everywhere I looked I saw Euphemus’ corpse, except that each time his lolling head grew more inflated, until the bulging eyes were bigger than his hands. I couldn’t escape the accusation in those eyes.

I don’t dress up what I’m saying as some sort of absolute truth. I’m honest.

Outside the tent, an owl hooted; another replied. I imagined the bird like the ones they mint on our silver drachmas – short and stout and round-eyed, sitting on a branch and listening for mice or toads. How close was it to our tent? Was it sitting on the silver birch opposite the door – the one with the hollow in its trunk? If it looked carefully with its big round eyes, could it see the gleam of steel deep in the tree where I’d hidden the knife?

I rolled over again and tried to sleep.

Tyrants love trumpets. Dionysius’ woke us at dawn – so loud, they must have scared off every animal on the mountain. Perhaps he wanted to give them a sporting chance.

In a glade nearby, we sacrificed at an altar to Artemis. The stone looked ancient, worn smooth in the middle where so much blood and wine had poured down its sinkhole. The ends of the altar curved upwards, like horns or the tips of a bow.

Dionysius disembowelled a hare his men had trapped and laid the innards on the altar. ‘Mistress maiden, ruler of the stormy mountains, let us cross the threshold of your realm and return with success.’

I looked at the tiny organs oozing onto the altar, the blood like red gloves on his hands, and thought of the knife in the tree. Could I really do that?

I can’t believe we’re here talking about …
this
… and you want to turn it into a philosophy exercise.

We milled around when the ritual was done, while slaves sharpened the spears and folded the nets. Hounds smelled the blood in the air and strained their leashes. Across the glade, I saw Leon drinking from a wineskin. He caught my eye and gave a small nod. Wine dribbled out of the side of the bag and splashed his tunic red.

I turned to look for Dion. Instead, as if he’d been stalking me, I found Dionysius right behind me.

Every man has his natural habitat, the context where he makes sense. Take Achilles out of battle, or Socrates out of the agora, and they look ridiculous. Here, in the wild, was where Dionysius belonged. His shaggy mane of red hair, his dangerous energy and wary eyes fitted the mountain forest perfectly. It didn’t make him any more pleasant.

He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘You look nervous. Are you ready for the kill?’

Animals watch us with dumb eyes, but we never know what they see. Did Dionysius know what was going to happen? Was I as doomed as Euphemus?

‘Make sure you keep an eye on my boy. I don’t want him getting hurt.’ He hung on, twisting my shoulder like a promise of things to come. Then he let go.

‘It should be a good day’s hunting.’

Socrates had a routine he sometimes used, comparing hunting pigeons to the hunt for knowledge. I’ve no idea how he came up with it: he must have got chatting with some trapper in the market one day. The idea of Socrates crawling through the forest with lures and snares beggars belief.

The metaphor never really worked for me. I love knowledge, but I hate hunting. That day, I hated it more than ever. The sun beat down through the forest; branches tore at me; my head ached from the hounds baying. The knife I’d strapped to my thigh chafed my legs and made me sweat horribly. In the end, I untied it and tucked it into my boot, hoping no one would notice.

Quickly, our line stretched out across the mountain. Around mid-morning, we heard shouts from the distance.

‘They’ve picked up the boar’s scent,’ said Dion. ‘Let’s see if we can corner it.’

In fact, there was little danger of that. Young Dionysius would have struggled to overtake a tortoise. His face burned, his nose ran, his lungs wheezed and coughed. As long as we stayed with him – me, Dion and two guards – we’d be lucky to see the boar before it was on the spit.

But we had to show willing, and so we went on. The trees thinned; the air grew cooler. The sweat we’d built up in the climb now chilled us. Dionysius looked miserable, though I don’t suppose I looked any happier. I knew what was coming.

We paused in a glade ringed by pale green trees. Back below, we’d sought out the shade; now, we chased the sunlight. It shone brightly, but somehow weaker than before. I stood in the middle of the clearing and tipped my face upwards, turning this way and that as I tried to catch the warmth.

As I did, I found myself looking straight up the mountain through a gap between the trees. It framed the ridge above, where two hills erupted out of the slope like boils pushed up by the heat of the fires below. Perfectly symmetrical and perfectly conical. Silhouetted against the sky, they made a pair of triangles, with the dip between them like an inscribed circle.

Cold sweat iced my skin as I remembered the picture I’d found on the manuscript in the temple.

‘What are those hills?’ I asked Dion.

He laughed. ‘The locals call them Hybla’s breasts. It’s actually the place I told you about, where they found Empedocles’ bronze sandal.’

I took out the gold tablet and unrolled it.

‘What’s that?’ Dion asked.

The tiny words swam before my sweaty eyes.

I looked back at the hills, shading my eyes. ‘Is there a temple there?’

‘An old Sicel shrine: it’s mostly ruined. Only—’

A trumpet interrupted him, blaring through the forest from further around the mountain. Not a fanfare or a rallying cry, but short, panicked blasts.

‘Something’s happened!’ Dion grabbed his spear and started running towards the sound. The guards followed. On the edge of the clearing, Dion glanced back and shouted to me, ‘Stay with the boy. Make sure nothing happens.’

Their footsteps died into the forest. Behind me, young Dionysius sat on a boulder in the shade and picked apart a twig. Even the sudden rush of danger didn’t seem to have excited him. I could hardly bring myself to look at him.

I pulled the knife out of my boot. Sunlight bounced off the blade onto the boy’s face, and he looked up. We both stared at the knife, equally surprised, as if an unreal object had suddenly appeared between us. Even with my fingers curled around the handle, the weight in my hand, I didn’t really understand that it was real. That it would cut real flesh, and a real life would end.

I took three steps towards the boy and faltered. He stared at me, eyes wide.

Can a good man do a bad thing in a good cause?

Hunting knowledge isn’t the same as hunting pigeons or boars. Or men. I looked at the knife again, still trying to comprehend it. Two brown eyes stared back at me out of the polished blade – my own. We examined each other, I and myself, wondering what I was capable of.

Something long and sharp whistled through the air and plucked at my arm. I dropped the knife and spun off-balance, clutching my arm in pain.

One of Dionysius’ guards stood on the edge of the clearing.
How did he get here so fast?
He was dressed for battle, not hunting, with a helmet on his head and a sword at his side. His spear quivered in the earth just beyond me.

I started stammering some kind of excuse, but neither of us believed it. He drew his sword and walked towards me. I searched his face for anger, hatred – any emotion that would add some meaning to the end of my life. He just looked like someone concentrating hard.

A stone the size of a fist sailed out of the trees and struck the soldier’s head. His helmet rang like a gong. His knees buckled; he staggered forward, but recovered his balance and turned to see who had attacked him.

It was all I needed. The stone had rolled past him almost to my feet. I picked it up and crossed the clearing. His head was still ringing from the first blow: he didn’t hear me coming. With my good arm, I brought the stone down on his head again, and again, and once more to be sure. He collapsed in a heap.

Can a good man do a bad thing in a good cause?
Apparently so, if his life depends on it and there’s a good-sized rock handy.

A rustle in the trees. I lunged for the dropped sword, but my hand was shaking so badly I could hardly pick it up. Blood flowed down my arm where the spear had cut it. I was defenceless.

The trees parted. Diotima emerged from the forest, moving softly as a fawn. She hurried over to me, tore a strip off the fallen soldier’s tunic, and bandaged my arm.

I looked at the rock. ‘Did you …?’ Her slim arms, bare to the shoulder, looked too delicate to have thrown it so hard. ‘How—?’

‘Dionysius knows. He sets spies on his spies, and guards to guard his guards.’ Blood had already soaked through the bandage. She tore off another strip and wound it over the first, then picked a few stems from a plant growing under one of the beech trees. ‘Chew on this. It’ll help the bleeding.’

The leaves were bitter and made me dizzy. I sat there, stupefied, while Diotima cocked her head and listened. All I heard was birds.

‘The assassination failed. Dionysius will be here soon.’

I struggled to my feet. ‘I have to get away.’

A cool look that seemed to mock something inside me. ‘It isn’t you Dionysius wants.’

‘Who?’ I searched her face. ‘
You?
’

‘You were the bait.’

‘And you came anyway.’

She kept my gratitude at arm’s length. ‘I didn’t want you to end up like Agathon.’

She turned her head again, and this time I heard it too: the crash and snap of heavy animals breaking their way through the forest.

‘You have to get down off the mountain. Head for Katane. It’s Carthaginian, so Dionysius can’t go there. You’ll find a ship going to Athens, or at least to Thurii.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll find you.’

I hated to leave her – but there was no time to argue. I could hear the hunt coming closer. I turned to go, and saw young Dionysius still cowering behind a tree, too frightened to move.

‘What about him?’

Diotima shrugged. ‘Are you going to kill him?’

The knife lay on the ground where I’d dropped it, the curved blade like a coiled snake in the middle of the glade. I shuddered.

‘No.’

‘Then let’s go.’

We left him. Diotima glided into the forest, while I staggered and stumbled in the opposite direction. My arm burned, my head swam, my mouth ached for water and I had a stitch like a spear through my side. The golden chain bounced and swung around my neck. It snagged on a branch and nearly throttled me.

I stopped, panting hard. My sweating, panicked hands struggled to disentangle the chain. As it came free, I almost hurled it away.

But something stopped me. The golden locket seemed to throb in my hand. I knew I had to keep running, but I couldn’t move. All I could think of were the twin hills I’d seen from the clearing, the valley between them and the picture on Timaeus’ book. I heard its song in my ears: dark, ecstatic music calling me in.

You have to get down off the mountain
, Diotima insisted. I saw the harbour at Katane, and the ship waiting for me, its high-beaked prow turned towards Athens. I saw Glaucon standing on the cape at Sounion like old King Aegeus, shielding his eyes against the glare on the water as he looked for my return.

What are you looking for, in the dark shadows of Hades?
the tablet whispered. Have you come this far to give up? Don’t you want to know?