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    Amber and Clay

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      good-looking,

      only twenty years old

      and already a general.

      By the end of the night,

      he was reeling

      with wine and conceit.

      I carried the torch and led him back

      to the house of Anytus, where we were guests.

      I helped him into bed

      and set a water jar beside him.

      In the morning he was still drunk.

      He slept heavily

      one knee up

      one arm over his face. I knew he would sleep till noon.

      I knew him.

      Every slave knows his master.

      3. AKROPOLIS

      It was my chance, and I took it —

      I shoved my feet in my sandals,

      hugged on my cloak. It was early;

      the sky was turning pink.

      The streets were full of shadows:

      veiled women carrying water.

      I rushed for the crown of the city,

      the steep slope, the overhanging glory

      of the temples on the rock.

      The men at the symposium

      had boasted of those temples:

      pure Pentelic marble,

      even the roof tiles.

      Somewhere on that hill

      was a giant statue: the Trojan Horse,

      with life-sized men

      crawling out of its belly!

      That morning, with Menon asleep, was my only chance to see it,

      I ran till my chest ached.

      Around me, up the hill

      through the streets

      distractions: shrines

      festooned with ivy,

      temples, tavern-keepers

      bawling out the price of wine,

      shops and stench and smoke —

      The wind was cold against my teeth.

      I was gasping like a fish

      stumbling, knocking into people,

      but I couldn’t lose my way. In Athens,

      the Akropolis is always up

      halfway to the sky. I kept going up

      until the city was down. There was so much to see —

      the sunrise above

      and the city below.

      There’s a ramp on one side of the mound

      — the mound is steep as a waterfall

      but the ramp zigzags —

      so the heifers and goats

      can walk up the hill,

      to be sacrificed.

      I could see the paint on the temples

      scarlet and blue,

      and the gold leaf

      flashing

      the great gates ahead.

      The marble blushed in the morning sun;

      the light seemed to pierce the stone,

      or glow out of it, I don’t know which.

      Columns and spaces —

      Stripes of white that stung my eyes —

      And the spaces between

      mysterious

      dark and dazzle:

      glaze and glare

      shadow and softness.

      Between the columns:

      guards

      at all five gates. I stopped.

      If anyone was going to be turned away,

      it would be me.

      Foreigner.

      Tattooed.

      Red-haired barbarian.

      They’d know I was a slave.

      Where’s your master, boy?

      He’s home in bed. He’s drunk.

      Why aren’t you tending him, boy?

      They’d treat me like a runaway.

      It was like biting into an olive gone bad,

      only there was nothing I could spit out.

      I took a step back

      away from the crowd.

      I saw my shadow waver across the stone.

      There were still things to see: I could go back,

      look at the shrines, the fountain house,

      a bigger market than any in Thessaly —

      but everything had gone sour.

      I had to get back.

      If Menon woke up —

      and I wasn’t there

      I’d be beaten for sure.

      I made my way downward,

      lost the path

      ended up in a hollow,

      a circle of olive and willow trees

      where an old man was dancing.

      I didn’t know who he was.

      He was naked, I saw that.

      And it wasn’t a gymnasion, and he wasn’t young.

      He was ugly. He was like an old satyr,

      the arms sinewy, but a belly like a full bowl,

      a swaying gut.

      His nose looked smashed,

      as if he’d been a boxer

      and fought too many rounds.

      He wasn’t too clean,

      he was humming,

      raising his ropy arms to the sun,

      the hair in his armpits

      like two birds’ nests;

      his feet striking the ground

      in a strong rhythm.

      Even I

      a slave

      a thickheaded Thracian

      could see how unseemly it was: an old man

      who had no beauty to display:

      dancing

      naked to the sky. He was worse than I was.

      At least I was young

      with no sag in my flesh;

      And I had more sense

      than to dance like that.

      I thought of jeering at him —

      Menon would have mocked him —

      but then: I wasn’t Menon.

      I didn’t want to be like Menon.

      That man was as happy as a child at play;

      he didn’t even seem cold,

      that naked

      ugly man.

      I ducked behind the willow

      so he wouldn’t know I saw.

      I found my way back,

      but I was sore inside. I’d missed my only chance

      to see the sights of Athens;

      that’s what I thought

      that dawn

      when I beheld first the wonder of wonders

      Sokrates.

      Sokrates!

      what can a slave boy,

      a clodhopper with a pitchfork,

      know about Sokrates?

      I’ve nothing against slaves. I owned dozens when I was alive;

      no, I’ve nothing against slaves

      — but a half-breed Thracian

      who sneers at symposia,

      what could he know of Sokrates?

      Sokrates was my friend.

      In fact, he once said

      that he loved two things best of all:

      philosophy

      and Alkibiades. That’s me.

      Don’t try to pronounce my name unless you’re Greek.

      I am

      I was

      Αλκιβιαδης Κλεινιου Σκαμβωνιδης.

      All my life long, I was famous! Even now,

      twenty-four centuries after my death

      (I was murdered)

      my name is mispronounced

      by scholars all over the world!

      But I’m not here to talk about myself.

      Hermes offered me time off from Hades

      if I told you about Sokrates.

      I leapt at the chance. After twenty-four centuries,

      Hades is tedious. And to tell you the truth,

      my home down there

      is not in the best neighborhood.

      Plus I’m a restless sleeper. Murder — that is, being murdered —

      leads to insomnia.

      Enough about me.

      I’m here to tell you about my friend.

      We’ll start with his name. Σωκρατης. First syllable, So. Not sock.

      He never wore socks.

      We had socks, we Greeks —

      our second-best poet, Hesiod, sings of socks —

      but Sokrates never wore them. He seldom wore sandals:

      the soles of his feet were as thick as hooves,

      a
    nd his cloak . . . We used to tease him,

      that hairy, hoary old cloak

      that stank like a badger’s den,

      same cloak, season in, season out . . .

      Now, I wore silk:

      purple-dyed, fantastic,

      tickling the grass around my feet.

      I wore my hair long

      and crowned myself with violets —

      a cure for drunkenness.

      (It doesn’t work, but it’s becoming.)

      My armor was gold and ivory. If I’d been less a man,

      I might have been mocked,

      but I was a paragon

      of strength and grace,

      and a virtuoso at war.

      It was said: if the hero Akhilleus

      did not resemble me in every way

      he was not handsome. By the gods,

      I was beautiful!

      Not just in youth,

      but in every season of my life . . . !

      Forgive me. We were speaking of Sokrates.

      His name: So, as in so what?

      Kra, as in crop.

      Tes, as in tease. So-KRA-tes. No socks, please.

      His father was a stonemason.

      His mother was a midwife.

      He used to say he was like her,

      only instead of helping women bring forth children,

      he helped men bring forth ideas.

      Unlike me, he was poor —

      Oh, I was wealthy!

      an aristocrat to my fingertips:

      a spendthrift, a playboy,

      charismatic, silver-tongued,

      the offspring of Great Ajax who fought at Troy!

      I blazed and bedazzled!

      Half the men in Athens

      and all the women

      — or the other way around —

      caught fire from me!

      I was Eros with a thunderbolt!

      If Sokrates had been my lover —

      (I tried to attract him) —

      he would have been the only one I ever had

      who was worthy of me,

      the better part of me,

      the man I seldom was.

      We shared a tent at the battle of Potidaea;

      he treated me as if he were my father.

      I was eighteen. He was pushing forty.

      He bore the hardships of fighting better than I did.

      Better than any man there! We were cut off from supplies

      and had nothing to eat,

      and he didn’t seem to care. But when the food came

      he enjoyed it more than anybody. And as for drink,

      he enjoys his drink,

      but no man on earth ever saw Sokrates drunk.

      That winter at Potidaea was shocking,

      a hard frost. We wrapped ourselves up in old sheepskins,

      bits of felt, anything. But there was Sokrates,

      barefoot

      walking on the ice,

      no fuss. One sunrise, he started thinking over some idea —

      it was summer by then — he stood there all day,

      lost in thought. At nightfall he was still there;

      some of us checked during the night.

      still there . . .

      all night

      still there . . .

      When the sun rose, he said his prayers

      and walked away. I never found out what he was thinking.

      He saved my life at Potidaea,

      single-handed.

      I was wounded;

      he wouldn’t leave me,

      stood over me

      and got me out of the fray, armor and all.

      Athens awarded me a suit of armor and a crown —

      — What?

      You think they should have given him the honors?

      I thought so, too. I went to the committee to protest,

      but I was the one

      with the family connections

      (you know how these things go)

      and I was so much more

      the kind of person who wins awards . . .

      Did I mention I was an Olympic champion?

      Chariot racing! Entered three teams.

      Came in first, second, and fourth!

      Now Sokrates —

      Sokrates never cared for the trophies of war.

      He’d stride across the battlefield like a goose,

      his head in the clouds,

      unfrightened;

      his feet naked, and that god-awful cloak.

      He was as brave as any man in Athens,

      and unlike me, he was faithful.

      He was loyal to the city . . .

      To tell you the truth, I changed sides.

      More than once. Oh, I won victories for Athens,

      but also . . . against Athens. Whatever side I was on,

      that was the winning team!

      On the battlefield I was —

      let’s not mince words — a genius.

      A fox for strategy, a whirlwind for speed —

      Wherever I went, I made myself at home.

      Among the Persians, I went mad for luxury;

      With the Thracians, I was always drunk;

      In Thessaly, I lived on horseback;

      In Sparta, I ate pudding made from pig blood,

      cut off my flowing hair,

      and scorned all comforts. Even the Spartans,

      who admire no one,

      honored me! Even the Spartan king —

      till I ran off with his wife.

      Ah. Enough about me.

      When I was alive,

      the potters of Athens

      used to make these toys: clay statues of sileni,

      little figures of beefy old men,

      bald and fat

      with thick lips

      and horse’s ears. If you open them up,

      inside there’s a prize, a grab bag:

      a tiny statue of a god. That’s Sokrates.

      He was ugly all his life,

      impudent as a satyr. When you first hear him, you think

      his ideas are laughable. He talks about pack mules

      and shoemakers and blacksmiths:

      ordinary people,

      ordinary things. His arguments sound like sheer nonsense,

      but if you open them up

      they’re the only ideas in the world that have any sense in them.

      When most men talk,

      nobody gives a damn what they say,

      but when Sokrates talked

      I listened:

      staggered and bewitched. There were times

      when I was filled with holy rage.

      My heart leapt into my mouth,

      and my eyes filled with tears —

      my soul was turned upside down.

      He made me feel

      that there were things inside me

      crying for attention

      — I don’t mean the usual kind of attention;

      I had plenty of that all my life,

      even now, in Hades,

      I can’t get enough of myself! . . . There’s hell for you.

      What I meant was this: I felt with him

      something I never felt with anyone else —

      a sense of shame.

      There were times when I’d have been glad if he had died.

      But he outlived me. A man like me makes enemies:

      the Thirty Tyrants,

      the Spartans.

      They came at night and set fire to the house.

      I leapt through the flames

      sword in hand.

      They shot me full of arrows.

      Enough about me. In my lifetime, I was famous

      and infamous. I am famous still

      largely because I knew him.

      He’s the thing I miss most about being alive —

      By the gods, he was magnificent!

      So beautiful,

      so rich in virtue,

      so golden,

      Σωκρατης . . .

      EXHIBIT 12

      Miniature chariot wheel, circa 525–500 BCE.

      This
    bronze chariot wheel was found near a sanctuary of Apollo. It may have been given to Apollo in thanksgiving for victory during a chariot race. Votive objects—that is, offerings to the gods—were often symbolic in nature. This miniature wheel symbolizes the whole chariot.

      Chariots were luxury items in ancient Greece. The land was rough and mountainous, with few roads, so chariots were not practical for travel or trade. They were status symbols, serving the function of a pampered sports car, and were most often seen in public processions or athletic contests.

      1. THE SQUARE

      Four days later, I saw him again. By then I’d heard of him.

      Sokrates, I mean.

      I’d been to two more symposia

      and heard, “Sokrates says — ”

      which led to raised voices

      argument

      and laughter.

      The Oracle at Delphi

      said Sokrates was the wisest man on earth.

      Menon itched to meet him.

      So Anytus took Menon to the gymnasion. It was called the White Dog,

      not the best place in town. Foreigners and half-breeds,

      metics, human mongrels

      were allowed to work out there.

      And there he was,

      my dancing man, that grizzly old satyr;

      it turned out he was Sokrates.

      I didn’t stare;

      A slave is supposed to keep his head down.

      A glance was enough. It was the same man.

      Once they’d been introduced, Menon began to ask questions.

      His eyes gleamed: a cat who’d spotted a mouse.

      He was courteous. Even bashful.

      He asked Sokrates if excellence could be taught.

      The word he used was ἀρετή,

      which means goodness

      or excellence. If something’s good

      at being the thing it’s meant to be,

      or doing the thing it was made to do,

      that’s ἀρετή.

      Menon spoke modestly,

      a young man consulting a sage.

      It was a trap. He meant to trick Sokrates

      into saying something stupid.

      Which he did. Or so I thought. Because right away

      Sokrates said he didn’t know.

      He didn’t know if ἀρετή could be taught.

      Not only that, he wasn’t sure what it was.

      Not only that, he didn’t know anyone who did.

      Menon started to tell him. He said ἀρετή

      was lots of things: a man ruling a city,

      helping his friends and harming his enemies;

      a woman obeying her husband.

      Sokrates exclaimed, “I’m in luck!”

      and you could see

      he was set to have himself a good time.

      “I asked for one kind of excellence,

      and you give me a whole swarm.

      But if I asked you, What is a bee?

      and you answered me,

      There’s this kind of bee, and that kind of bee . . .

      I’d have to say, You haven’t told me what a bee is.

      All bees have something in common,

     


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