"Xenophon of Athens: The Pythian Apollo knows what passeth in thy heart."
At this, Xenophon blinked, and seemed to recoil slightly in silent confusion. He quickly recovered, and again stood at immobile attention while the scribe continued.
"Attempt not to deceive the god with thy mortal lips. Peer deep within thyself, and ask not questions to which thou already knowest the answer, seek not advice which thou dost not intend to obey. Though thy sacrifice has been found worthy, Apollo has rejected thy question and refuses to answer. Ask only that which is of significance to thee."
At this, Xenophon's confidence appeared to flag for an instant. His shoulders slumped, and he gazed over at me again in bewilderment, until I gave a slight shrug, and looked away. He stared down at the floor for what seemed like an eternity. Everyone present in the room, the priests, the scribe, and most especially the Pythia herself, had fixed their unblinking faces on him, again maintaining the utmost silence. Finally he looked up, straightened his shoulders, and stepped forward a pace to stand once more directly in front of the ancient, leathery creature.
"Mighty lord Apollo, I entreat thee, hear my question," he began again using the stock formula. He paused slightly, then continued, his voice hoarse and croaking. "To which god should I sacrifice to make my intended journey to Sardis successful, to fare well upon it, and to return in safety?" This time the Pythia remained calm, her wrinkled face as expressionless as a dried apple. After a moment, what appeared to be a smile crept across her lips, revealing the black, rotten stubs of her two front teeth. Apollo the double-tongued was filling her being, surely weaving a web of words on her lips that would leave us wondering in our confusion, words that would coil and uncoil and meander tangentially to their meaning like a water snake through a bed of reeds. Suddenly, she flung open her dead, frozen eye-lids, revealing behind them not eyes, nor even the watery whites of the blank eyeballs as the blind often show, but what was worse, pure nothingness-black, empty sockets where eyes should have been, like those of a plaster mask worn by an actor, but without the actor's living eyes peering from behind to humanize the eerie, dead quality of the blank surface. Her vacant, cavernous holes penetrated deeply into Xenophon's face, and in reply to his query, she uttered merely one word, in a croak imitating, or mocking, his own voice:
"Zeus."
She continued staring at him as the curtains were drawn back together by the slaves, hiding the leering Pythia from our sight, her empty sockets remaining focused on him until she finally disappeared behind the folds. The attendants stepped forward and took our arms, leading us out from the cool, silent dankness of the temple to the blinding sunlight and raucous shouts of the street vendors setting up their stalls for the festival.
CHAPTER FOUR
SEATED ON A low stool in the semidarkness of Socrates' single room, Xenophon seemed scarcely aware of his surroundings in his agitation. "I wasted my chance," he groaned, his shoulders slumped, his back curved like that of a whipped dog. I had not seen Xenophon this wretched in twenty years. "My one chance to ask the god to guide me in the most important decision of my life, and I asked the wrong question. I can't even tell my father what the oracle said, much less what I am now to do with my life."
Socrates was silent for a moment, puttering about the room, arranging papers and scrolls here and there. As always, there was nothing of reproach in his silence; only thoughtfulness and comfort, like the presence of a beloved grandfather. Xenophon did not stir, nor did I from the corner to which I had retreated, trying to remain as unobtrusive as my large frame would allow.
"You attempted to deceive the god," Socrates said finally, his old satyr's face expressionless. "You asked the question that most closely suited your desires."
"But Socrates," he interrupted, standing up and pacing, "I tried to ask the question you told me to ask. The Pythia stopped me and wouldn't let me proceed! As the gods are my witness, I tried!" He glanced at me, and I nodded slowly, but Socrates did not even bother to look up from his chores.
"Do you know what true wisdom is?" Socrates finally asked, and this time he stood squarely in front of Xenophon, demanding with his posture that the younger man pay complete attention to his words. "Do you truly understand what it is to obey the dictum carved on the temple wall at Delphi, Know Thyself. Listen to me now, and do not interrupt. For once this is not a dialogue. Men call me wise, and you apparently believe I am, or you would not be here now, before even speaking to your father. I will give you advice, as far as I can, and you may do with it what you will.
"Wisdom is far more," Socrates continued, "and what is most important, far less, than you might think, and to that extent men are right-I am indeed wise. But you need not take my word for it. You could, if you wished, look to your friend the god at Delphi as witness to my wisdom, such as it is."
Xenophon looked up in interest, for none of us who had accompanied Socrates in the agora were aware that he had ever consulted the Pythia.
"It was not I who consulted her," he said, as if reading our thoughts, "but rather my boyhood friend, Chaerophon, who many years ago asked the oracle if there was anyone wiser than Socrates. To this the Pythia had replied that there was no one."
I could see in Xenophon's eyes that the same thought had flashed into his mind as into mine: He of wisdom unsurpassed…. What was the rest?…. whose words with venom must compete… That had nothing to do with Socrates; the Pythia's words remained obscure. The old man continued, instructing his fools:
"When Chaerophon told me the oracle's answer, I asked myself, 'Why does the god not use plain language? I realize I have no claim to wisdom, great or small; so what might he mean by saying no one is wiser than I? He cannot be telling a lie; that would not be proper for a god.' After turning this about in my head for some time, I finally resolved to check the truth of it in the following way: I went to speak with a man famous for being wise, because I felt I would then succeed in disproving the oracle and demonstrating to the deity that here was a man wiser than I. Well, I gave this man a thorough examination-I will not tell you his name, but he was one of our politicians at the time-and in speaking with him I concluded that even though in the view of many people, and especially in his own, he appeared to be wise, in fact he was not.
"Xenophon, real wisdom is the property of the gods alone, and the oracle tells us that human wisdom has little or no value. I finally decided that the oracle was not referring literally to me, to this man Socrates, but had rather taken my name as an example, as if to say 'the wisest man is he who, like Socrates, realizes that he truly knows nothing.'
"You know, I once attempted to study the writings of Heraditus the Obscure. What I did understand of them was excellent. I believe also to be excellent that which I did not understand." Socrates smiled at his little joke. "Heraclitus," he went on, "once said that you cannot step into the same river of time twice, and in this he was correct. You cannot have a decision both ways.
"The god saw inside your heart, Xenophon, and the wisdom you thought you had, by trying to second-guess him, was worthless. You had already made up your mind what to do, regardless of the oracle's answer to your intended question. Do not be ignorant of yourself, nor make the same mistakes as other men, who are so busy looking into the affairs of their rivals that they never turn to examine themselves. Go now. You received your answer from the oracle, and you have talked it over with me. The die is cast, and there is nothing I can advise you to do, except the god's bidding, now and always."
At this Xenophon, who had been staring morosely at the floor, looked up at Socrates and saw the old man gently smiling at him, without a hint of sadness or reproach. There were no tears, not a trace of hesitation on his face, and he clasped Xenophon to him for an instant like a son, and then released him, swatting him on the arm as if to shoo him out the door. He then fixed his gaze upon me-the first time I believe he had ever even noticed me-and clasped me as well, but upon releasing me looked me straight in the eye with a twinkle and said softly, "
You, Theo, I perceive as being among the wisest of men. May the Fates be on your side." Given Socrates' definition of wisdom I wasn't sure whether to take this as a compliment or an insult, but I gladly accepted his blessing and followed Xenophon out the low door.
The sky was darkening early and the wind blew bitingly cold. Athens was still recovering from the poverty into which the recent war, and the subsequent peace with Sparta, had thrown it, and there was little activity in the streets after dark. Few boarding houses were open, and the noises of any activity issuing from the windows of the inns were rare. Xenophon stood in the street a long time, watching the dry dust blow cold along the gutters, seeing the windows of the houses grow dark and turn black, as few people in Socrates' quarter could even afford oil for lamps. The squalor and filth that are part of any large city had never been readily apparent in Athens, perhaps disguised by the beauty of the buildings and monuments on every street corner, masked by the natural vivacity of its citizens bustling about their daily activities. On that evening, however, the stench and the rot gathering in the gutters and against the sides of once-pristine public buildings were overwhelming. It was the dominant sensation in a city that was otherwise practically abandoned to its ghosts until the dawn's light returned to rid it of its specters. Xenophon stood and watched the darkness descend, and saw his future in this city to be as black as the shadows that were relentlessly invading it. Several weeks before, he had ordered me to mark with red ink on his chest the position of his heart, in case, he said, he had to take recourse to it with his dagger to avoid falling into his enemies' hands. I had laughed it off at the time, though somewhat uneasily I admit, dismissing it as nothing more than excessive dramatics on the part of an overwrought young man. Nevertheless, I had resolved to keep a close eye on him, and his mood tonight made me wish I had misapplied my red brush.
That evening Xenophon sacrificed an ox to Zeus in the main temple, and early the next morning we boarded a merchant ship carrying heavy-fleeced Attic sheep, bound for Ephesus. As we pulled away in the tender, we looked back and saw that old one-eyed Gryllus had appeared on the rain-soaked beach, pushing his way through the fishmongers and loincloth-clad porters in a belated effort to intercept his son before departure. We sat in the boat, frozen at the sight of Gryllus standing knee-deep in the receding surf, shaking his fists in rage and howling curses that were mercifully dissolved in the wind by the gods before reaching our ears. In one final, futile gesture of fury at Xenophon's betrayal, Gryllus hurled stone after stone at us, which splashed harmlessly into the water far short of our vessel. It was for no man's sake, least of all Proxenus' or Cyrus', that Xenophon had embarked on his journey toward the Persians, but rather in search of a road that led to Zeus. In seeking out one immortal, however, he left others behind, for he never saw Socrates, or his father, again.
BOOK THREE
THE WARRIORS
Hoards of wealth have I, left behind when I departed
On this ill-starred journey, and yet more shall I bear home from hence,
Gold and ruddy bronze, and lovely, fair-sashed women,
And gleaming gray iron, all that fell to me as spoils…
– HOMER
CHAPTER ONE
TO THE ACCOMPANIMENT of the groans and rattling chains of the sweat-drenched slaves wielding the oars, the ship bumped to the wharf at Ephesus, the closest port to Sardis though still more than fifty miles distant. I seized our gear, and Xenophon and I leaped onto the quay, not even bothering to take leave of the ship's brutish captain. We quickly wolfed down a few hunks of steaming flat bread slathered with a spicy lentil sauce that I purchased from a nearby vendor, and after a bit of haggling, I bought two healthy Cappadocian asses to carry ourselves and our baggage. In the echo of our journey to Delphi, we spent three days traveling the "King's Highway," the road that ultimately led to the royal city of Susa, on which Sardis was the most important way station. Climbing up from the coastal route, the road passed over bleak, desiccated hills as barren as Aphrodite's marriage to lame Hephaestus. It descended finally into the Cryon valley before taking up the left bank of the Hermus River, which led us directly into the city. Our original plans had been to inquire immediately into the whereabouts of Cyrus' army, but the sights and sounds of this oriental metropolis, the largest city we had ever seen, were so beguiling that we decided to find an appropriate inn and spend a day or two touring before leaving to visit Proxenus.
Sardis did not disappoint. Surrounded by the fertile vineyards and farms through which Xenophon and I had passed while riding into town, the ancient city rose towering from the flat plain, a massive, rock-walled fortress with battered turrets soaring into the sky. Its clamorous markets, the overwhelming odors of the spices and herbal potions sold on every street corner, and the exuberant, thronging citizens from every nation of the world reminded me of Athens in my childhood, before its devastation and impoverishment. It was so long since I had enjoyed the pleasures of a prosperous, optimistic city that even when alone in our rooms, listening to the muffled street sounds outside, I was exhilarated at the prospects waiting just outside my door.
Some three hundred years earlier Sardis, even then a great city, had been overwhelmed by hordes of pale-skinned barbarians who had swept down from the north in endless numbers like packs of ravenous wolves, devouring all its riches and mingling their wild barbarian blood with that of the refined and delicate natives. It was said that so many men and women were killed during the barbarians' brutal sweep through the city that when the carnage was over, thousands of children were left wandering the streets, homeless and wailing. The offspring of royalty mingled with those of the lowest cowherds, and the children's identities were obliterated through the effacement of their outward customs and manners as they scrounged for scraps in the gutters. It was finally decided that no one could determine their origins with certainty, for every child claimed to have been sired by the king, and so they were simply lined up in the market like so much chattel and auctioned to the highest bidder, as slaves of the barbarians or for adoption by surviving Sardesian adults. Since that time, each baby has been imprinted with a tiny, discreet tattoo shortly after birth, usually along the hairline on the nape of the neck, depicting an identifiable family symbol such as an animal or a letter. When walking through the streets, I enjoyed noticing these small signs on young babies riding in slings on their nurses' backs, with their soft, hairless heads slumped forward in sleep.
Under King Croesus, who was said to own as much gold as Midas but who had been cursed by the gods, Sardis was restored and became even more wealthy than in the past. In the last century Sardis, like the rest of Asia Minor, passed over to Persian control, and despite sometimes heavy-handed governance by the king's satraps and descendants, the most recent of whom was the young Cyrus, the city had over the years continued to prosper.
It was from Sardis that Darius and Xerxes had launched their expeditions against the Greeks almost a hundred years earlier, the former's culminating in his defeat at Marathon, the latter's being fatally delayed by the Spartans at Thermopylae. From here, battles famous in Greek history had been commanded and planned, and soldiers in all three Ionian wars had been drawn chiefly from the region of Sardis and had made their last stand here against Athens' retaliatory raids. We wandered the city's libraries and monuments by day, its taverns and theaters by night, and before I realized how fast time was passing, Xenophon noted that we had spent three weeks, and a considerable quantity of our dwindling supply of silver.
We packed the next day, reclaiming our mules from the stockyard where they had been kept, and within two hours of leaving the city saw the first stockades of the army, fencing thousands of pack animals and their forage, and after that mile after mile of neat rows of military tents, most of leather, some of the cheaper yet more durable canvas now becoming more common among armies. The numbers of troops that had assembled on the plain were astonishing. Proxenus had said in his letter that Cyrus was raising a force to be led by Greek merce
naries to put down an uprising of the Pisidians; but the Pisidians were a backward, barbarian race, and surely their defeat did not require the massive army we saw gathered here before us. This was not the ragtag bunch of worn Spartan mercenaries and hangdog Persian slave soldiers we had expected to see. An indefinable feeling, one of tension and unease, sat low and heavy in the pit of my stomach as we rode through the camp, surrounded on all sides by heavily armed, bearded Persian soldiers who did not even bother to disguise the hostile glances they shot our way.
Xenophon asked the first officer he saw where we might find Proxenus of Boeotia. He looked at our dusty garments in frank appraisal of our intentions, and cautiously directed us toward the center of camp, to general staff headquarters. We wound for an hour through the narrow alleys of tents and thronging soldiers, a camp that was no less an independent and wealthy city than Sardis itself, with its own markets, taverns, baths, and residential sections. We were finally stopped by two enormous Ethiopian guards, wearing leopard skin tunics and carrying eight-foot spears, who informed us in camp Greek that we could not pass into Cyrus' compound without his permission.
Xenophon inquired after Proxenus, and they pointed us to a tent alley nearby, which I found later to be the Greek quarters, and the first officer we encountered, in the first tent we passed, was Proxenus.
Had I simply passed him in the streets I would never have recognized him, but when he locked Xenophon in that familiar bear hug and flashed his old grin at me, I knew that he was still, at heart, the Proxenus we had known years before.
"Xenophon!" he shouted heartily, and gestured to some of his captains to come meet us. "Are you shaving yet? By the gods, look at those shoulders! Gentlemen," he said to his gathering mates, "this handsome young devil is the cousin I've been telling you about. I babysat him in Athens years ago when he still needed his nose wiped, and now look at him-he's on the verge of growing up!"
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