by Tom Harper
Sunday was a day off: they’d hired a car to go and visit Delphi. They’d spoken about it all week and never included Jonah, but after breakfast that morning, Lily found him in the lobby.
‘Are you coming?’
‘Is there space?’
‘They can squeeze up.’ She grinned. ‘You might have to get out on the hills and push.’
Lily drove. Jonah, being the oldest and tallest, got the passenger seat. The other four crammed into the back; Charis sat on Julian’s lap. They wound down the windows and turned up the radio, a Greek station that seemed to have fallen through a 1970s timewarp. ‘Don’t Bring Me Down’, sang the Electric Light Orchestra. Richard fretted about pollen. Adam hunched over the guidebook.
‘The oracle at Delphi issued its prophecies for over eight hundred years. Incredible, when you think about it.’
‘Mystic Meg,’ said Julian. ‘She was high as a kite.’
‘The temple’s built on a geological fault.’ Richard fiddled with his hat. ‘Ethylene fumes seeped out and the oracle breathed them in.’
‘Richard’s got an explanation for everything,’ Lily told Jonah. ‘No romance.’
‘Archaeology’s the search for fact …’ Richard began.
‘If it’s truth you’re looking for, Doctor Tyree’s philosophy class is right down the hall,’ they all chorused.
In ancient times, the Delphic oracle had been big business – a cross between Mecca and the United Nations, according to the guidebook, a huge complex spilling down the slopes of Mount Parnassus. They started off together, but gradually the sheer size of the site separated them. Julian and Charis drifted ahead, Richard and Adam wanted to pore over every scrap of marble. By the time they reached the temple of Apollo, Jonah and Lily were alone. It was just past noon, and the sun was brutal. Most of the tourists had gone back to their buses, or down to the café to get a Slush Puppie. It felt as though they had the whole site to themselves.
Lily sat on a fallen piece of masonry and considered the temple. Half a dozen ribbed columns stood at one end; otherwise, all that had survived was the base. Even that was big enough: as long as a cathedral, built of stones as big as cars. A hole at the far end showed where the oracle had once sat in her cave and given the answers that defined her civilisation.
‘If you only had one question, what would you ask her?’
Jonah looked into Lily’s eyes, shaded under the brim of her hat.
‘You’d have to be careful, though,’ Lily warned. ‘Sometimes her answers were trickier than the questions.’
‘I’d ask if she had a date.’
Lily laughed. ‘I think she was supposed to be celibate. Otherwise, the whole vision thing didn’t work.’
She stood and pirouetted away, heading further up the mountain. Jonah stood in the dust, wondering if he’d blown his chance, offended her, if she’d even noticed?
Three steps later, she looked back.
‘She doesn’t, by the way.’
London
He sat by the river with his laptop. His finger trembled as he tapped out the words on the screen.
MISSING PERSONS
Why persons? It was a phrase that somehow arrived fully formed in his consciousness, a cultural shorthand. Was it so common that society needed a shorthand?
Common enough that the government had a whole section of their website devoted to it. It told him to report the case to the Foreign Office. He went in and dialled the number they gave, hovering over the last digit so long the phone gave up. Like being a teenager, calling the girl who’d broken your heart. He tried again.
He told the switchboard what he wanted and they put him through to a young voice called Martin. Martin offered scripted sympathy and took Lily’s name, description, last known location.
‘Do you know her passport number?’
‘She had it with her.’
‘A mobile phone number? An e-mail?’
He gave both. ‘But she’s not been answering her phone. I think someone’s using it to send fake text messages.’
Did that sound crazy? Martin acted as if he hadn’t said it. ‘You need to make a full statement to the police. They’ll pass it to Interpol, who’ll contact the Italians. The local police in Sibari will lead any investigation.’
It was all too slow. Did they think they’d find her by filling in forms and passing them from desk to desk. ‘Can’t I go back and report it directly?’ Not that he had a lot of faith in the Italian police.
‘You can go out, of course. But you ought to think about what you might achieve. Do you speak Italian? We wouldn’t be able to help you out there, or provide any resources. It’s entirely in the Italians’ hands.’
‘Are you saying there’s nothing I can do?’
‘We can arrange a statement to the media. We can also arrange for flyers or posters to be distributed in the area.’
Flyers and posters. Was that the best they could do? Bedraggled sheets of A4 taped to a lamppost, as if he was looking for a lost kitten.
‘Whatever you decide,’ Martin continued. ‘Contact your local police first. That’ll get the ball rolling.’
‘Right.’
But Martin still had more of the script to get through. The fine print. ‘Of course, one has to remember that sometimes people go missing because they choose to. That they may not want you to know where they are. If that’s the case, we can’t tell you their whereabouts even if we do find them.’
‘Choose to go missing?’ Jonah echoed.
‘Though we would certainly tell you if we discovered they were alive and well.’ He turned the page of his script and his voice brightened. ‘Tens of thousands of people are reported missing every year, you know. For most, there’s a harmless explanation and the cases are quickly resolved.’
Nine
Anyone with an ounce of common sense will do his utmost to steer clear of any crime involving foreigners.
Plato, Laws
I stared into the broken-mouthed tomb. The poplars shivered in the wind; the long grass whispered its secrets. I half convinced myself I could hear some dreadful creature slithering down the tunnel, drawn to the light.
‘You think Agathon did this?’ I mumbled.
‘It happened the night he left.’
A piece of the clay slab that had closed the tomb lay by my feet. I picked it up. A hooded woman sat on a throne: I guessed it was Persephone, though the broken tablet had torn off her face.
‘That doesn’t prove—’
‘A mourner had come here to light a grave lamp. She saw him.’
I didn’t know what to say. ‘Who’s buried here?’ We were a long way from the public necropolis I’d seen on the approach to Taras, or the grand monuments that lined the road. A private place.
‘Someone who died a long time ago.’
‘Then what did Agathon think he’d find?’ The tomb yawned black, an open question. ‘Were these Pythagoreans?’
‘They belong to a religion which is older than Pythagoras.’ Archytas picked a pair of asphodels and laid them across the tomb’s entrance. An apology. ‘Pythagoras wasn’t enough. Agathon wanted to go further, to find what came before. The source of Pythagoras’ ideas.’
‘What was that?’
A firm stare. ‘I couldn’t tell him.’
We walked back in silence, except for the buzz of flies and the croak of crows from a split cypress tree. It didn’t surprise me that when we got to the road, Archytas turned towards Taras. He’d shown me what I needed to see.
‘Did Agathon find what he wanted in that tomb?’ I said quickly. Euphemus was fussing with the saddlebags. For a last, brief moment, I had Archytas to myself.
‘No.’
‘So where will he look next?’
‘Are you going to follow him?’
‘That’s what I came for.’ And everything I’d heard since I got there suggested he was in some awful kind of trouble.
Archytas rubbed a smudge of dust from the neck of his tunic.
>
‘Let me ask you a hypothetical question,’ he said. ‘Imagine the gods gave you mechanical wings, and you flew into the air, past the sun and the planets and the stars, all the way to the very edge of the universe. And as you stood there, you raised your arm and tried to push it beyond the limit. What would happen?’
‘I don’t know.’ I thought about it. ‘If I was at the very edge of the universe, I suppose my arm wouldn’t be able to go any further.’
‘But what could block it? A wall, some sort of barrier beyond?’
I saw the problem. ‘Then that would be part of the universe, too – so I wouldn’t be at the absolute limit.’
‘But if your arm went through, then there would have to be space beyond for it to go into. So, again, you wouldn’t really be at the limit either.’
It sounded suspiciously like sophistry to me. I gave him a hard look. ‘Is there an answer to the riddle?’
‘It’s a paradox. There is no answer.’ He met my gaze, forcing my doubts back on me. ‘As for the meaning …’
Whatever he was going to say, he thought better of it.
‘Something for you to think about on the road.’
‘And Agathon?’ I prompted, reminding him of my original question.
‘Try your stepbrother’s house in Thurii.’
I could see he was eager to go. But just before he went, a final, unexplained question jumped into my mind.
‘Did Agathon ever mention a book he wanted to buy? Something expensive, probably rare?’
A curt shake of his head. ‘He never mentioned a book.’
It seemed like the longest, flattest road in the world. The land merged with the sea, and then the sea with the sky, to make a perfect geometric plane, uncluttered by any solid object. At least I had space to think. Mile after mile through the heat and tedium, I continued the silent conversation I’ve been having for ten years.
Socrates: Are you regretting coming to Italy yet?
Me: I’m worried about Agathon.
Socrates: The business with the tomb?
Me: It makes no sense. Agathon wouldn’t steal. And he’d never desecrate a grave.
Socrates: Because he’s a good man?
Me: Yes.
Socrates: And a good man …
Me: … would never do something he knew was bad. You drilled that into me.
Socrates: But he might do a bad thing that he mistakenly believed was good, wouldn’t you say?
Me: Agathon knows right from wrong. He’s obsessed with doing the right thing.
Socrates: But does it seem to you that when a man does something, he wants the thing he’s doing for its own sake, or for the sake of what he’s trying to achieve? For example, when you sailed to Italy, did you want the hazards of the voyage and the hardships of travel, or did you want to find Agathon?
Me: I assume that’s a rhetorical question.
Socrates: And isn’t that always the case? When a man does something, he wants the end and not the means?
Me: Certainly.
Socrates: And what is the object of every action?
Me: From previous conversations we’ve had, I’d say it has to be something good.
Socrates: So is it possible that Agathon could have committed the act of stealing from the tomb because he believed it was better to do so than not?
Me: I suppose so.
Socrates: Because he aimed at some good.
Me: Yes.
Socrates: And what is the supreme good?
Me: Wisdom.
I trudged on, leading my mule by the bridle to give it a rest. I was sweating, and only partly from the midday heat. Dark images blotted my mind; the faceless goddess lingered at the back of my thoughts. I tried to distract myself by looking at the landscape, but there was nothing in that monotony to get hold of.
Socrates: On the subject of wisdom, what did you think of your first encounter with the Pythagoreans?
Me: I thought Archytas made more sense than Eurytus. And I still only understood about half of what he said.
Socrates: Agathon obviously thought they had something worth knowing.
Me: I suppose you’re going to tell me he’s right.
Socrates: Didn’t Heraclitus say there are no certainties in the world because everything is in flux?
Me: You can’t step in the same river twice.
Socrates: But Pythagoras proves there are certainties. A triangle’s corners always add up to 180 degrees.
Me: A doubled string always sounds the octave.
Socrates: So Heraclitus is refuted. You can step in the same river twice – if the river is defined mathematically.
Me: That’s just it. I can see mathematics is all very well applied to triangles. But is there a mathematics of virtue? Laws that will tell you the right thing to do, as certainly as they’ll tell you what note will sound harmonious?
Socrates: Why not? Do you think most people can hear music and tell if it’s in tune or not?
Me: Yes.
Socrates: Everyone?
Me: Not everyone. Some people are tone deaf.
Socrates: And, by and large, can people tell whether an action is good or not?
Me: Some, I suppose.
Socrates: Perhaps people who can’t tell right from wrong have something equivalent to being tone deaf. A sort of moral deafness.
Me: Euphemus certainly suffers from it.
Socrates: He’s making the same mistake as Heraclitus. He makes deductions based on what he sees in the world – and because he sees so much chaos, he deduces there are no rules.
Me: So you’re saying there are moral laws too? Laws which govern the things that people know are right and wrong, even if they don’t understand why?
Socrates: Listen to Parmenides: Use reason to look clearly on things which though they are not there, are there.
Me: I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what these rules are?
Socrates: There’s a long way to go yet.
Socrates loved walking. He loved to walk and talk, and walk and think, up and down and around every street in Athens. Walking is good for thinking, he said, though it never worked for me. My thoughts don’t flow until my body is settled, with a pen in my hand and a fresh tablet on the desk.
But perhaps I understand the attraction now. So often with Socrates, I left feeling that I’d travelled a great distance without ever reaching a destination.
At least walking guarantees you’ll get somewhere.
Further south, the scenery began to change. Mountain peaks broke the monotony of the ridge on the horizon. The road grew empty, the settlements fewer and further apart. At night, I heard wolves howling in the distance – or perhaps it was the wild tribes of the interior. Sadly, it didn’t intimidate Euphemus. He told me early and proudly that one of his best courtroom tricks was to speak without seeming to breathe, so that the opposing advocate couldn’t get a word in. It was a skill he demonstrated ad nauseam.
‘Why do you despise the world so much?’
We were climbing over a spur of a mountain, part of the ridge that guarded the plain of Thurii. I’d blanked him out: it was only when he went quiet that I realised he actually wanted me to say something. He repeated the question.
‘I don’t despise the world.’
‘Then why are you so hostile to the sophists?’
‘I hate to tell you this, but despising sophists isn’t the same as despising the world.’
‘But it’s our worldliness that offends you. While philosophers sit on their mountaintops drawing triangles, we’re down in the law courts and the Assembly wrestling with the problems of real life.’
‘Real life?’ I echoed. ‘There’s nothing real about it. You don’t try to explain the world: you argue it whichever way you’re paid. You’ll happily claim that black is white, bad is good and the weaker argument is actually stronger.’
‘If enough people can be made to believe that, then perhaps the weaker argument isn’t as weak as you suppose.’
‘It’s not a question of being weak or strong. It’s about true and false.’
He smiled indulgently. ‘Do you think that anyone would believe something he knew was untrue?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then if something’s demonstrably untrue, how could I possibly persuade anyone otherwise?’
I backtracked. ‘Socrates said at his trial, “Anyone who really cares about justice, and wants to stay alive for any length of time, needs to keep out of public life.”’
‘“Socrates said … ” You go around quoting him like Homer. Why don’t you just say what you think?’
I rounded on him. ‘What I think? Do you really want to know?’
‘Very much.’
‘I grew up being told that it was the best men who should rule the state because we were the best educated. That we were the only ones wise and clever enough to really understand justice. Then we took charge – as you know – and butchered our opponents like sheep. Anyone who disagreed, anyone who argued – and once those were out of the way, anyone we didn’t like the look of. No trials, just daggers in the night. They even tried to force Socrates to carry out an execution, just so they could discredit him.’
They also came to me. Not for me, to me. They played on my vanity. They made me think that the killings and torture were necessary evils to protect Athens, that soon the cancer would be cut away and then we could heal the city. They flattered me that I could use my learning, if only I would help them, to set up the sort of perfect society we’d always talked about.
And the worst of it, my eternal shame, is that I was tempted. When they offered me the blade, I very nearly took it. I saw the surgeon’s scalpel, not the murderer’s knife. I was blinded. Only Socrates had the wisdom to help me see through the illusion.
‘And then the democracy was restored. The new men said we should let the past lie; they passed an amnesty law. It all seemed very just. But they still needed a scapegoat, a sacrifice to appease the people. They executed Socrates, which even the junta didn’t dare to, because democrats hate having their hypocrisy exposed even more than tyrants. And do you know who did the dirty work? Who brought the charges against Socrates? A poet, a businessman and a sophist.
