The Orpheus Descent

by Tom Harper

  ‘What’s in the bag?’

  Adam ignored the question. ‘Do you know what a symposium is?’

  ‘Some kind of party?’

  ‘In ancient Greece, it was a drinking party. Plato and Xenophon both wrote famous descriptions of them. Cultured men would get together in their homes and discuss the great questions of philosophy.’

  ‘Sounds like a hoot.’

  ‘I’m going to have one. On Thursday.’ He pushed down the sides of the bag. Inside stood a strange instrument: a rounded wooden bowl that tapered up to two arms, with seven strings stretched across the opening.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘A sort of mandolin?’ Jonah guessed.

  ‘It’s an ancient Greek lyre.’

  ‘Did you dig it up under the college lawn?’

  ‘It’s a replica. I borrowed it from the Classics faculty.’

  He passed it across. Jonah felt the weight of it, the sturdy construction, and guessed it had been built as a science project rather than an instrument. But when he plucked the first string, the note sounded clear and in tune. Less resonant than a guitar, less depth than a harp, it had a flat, cold quality.

  ‘Can you play it?’

  Jonah rummaged in his guitar case for a plectrum. He picked a few of the strings, then strummed them together, damping the notes with his fingers. Even cradled against his chest, the music sounded strangely removed.

  ‘Do you know any tunes?’

  Adam took a sheaf of papers from his satchel. ‘I photocopied some things for you. A few articles on classical musicology. According to Plato, the Dorian mode is the most Greek.’

  Jonah flicked through the papers. A lot of words like hypolidian and diazeuxis, but nothing that looked like chords or notes.

  ‘This isn’t going to work. You can’t analyse music like … like some Greek play. You just have to feel it.’

  ‘You’re assuming you can’t feel the play,’ Adam countered. ‘Euripedes didn’t write the Bacchae so that undergraduates could pore over its grammar. He wrote it to make you howl with fear at how cruel the gods can be.’

  He often said those sorts of things, and Jonah had learned to ignore them. ‘I’ll see if I can improvise something.’

  Adam rocked forward, his hands clasped around the water glass. ‘Pythagoreans thought that music was the underlying order of the universe. They thought through music you could reach a transcendent state, a sort of oneness with creation. Have you ever experienced that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jonah, truthfully. He felt a spark of connection with Adam, a barrier removed. But when he looked at him, the face behind the long hair looked sad.

  ‘On drugs?’

  Jonah wasn’t sure whether to be offended, or if it was just another part of the teasing he got for being a musician. Adam brushed the hair back from his face and met his gaze. ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I read a book.’ Adam’s tone was clipped, matter-of-fact. ‘The Greeks had a goddess called Demeter. Goddess of grain and harvests – probably a manifestation of some kind of primitive, great-mother-earth fertility goddess. They worshipped her with mystery rituals that apparently produced a kind of frenzied divine ecstasy.’

  ‘And you think they were dropping Es?’

  ‘The ritual to Demeter involved drinking a mix of wine and barley. She was a goddess of grain. There’s a fungus that grows on wheat called ergot, which apparently has psychotropic effects.’

  ‘A fungus? Are we talking about magic mushrooms now?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Adam stood, his face set. ‘I thought you might understand better than the others.’

  Jonah crumpled his beer can and tossed it in the bin. ‘It’s like the music. You can’t just read about this stuff in books.’

  A thin smile. It was the only smile Adam had: the bleak, resigned look of someone who’d looked at the world from every angle, and come away irretrievably disappointed. Someone who knew it was all absurd, but had resolved to make the best of it.

  ‘That’s why I’m having my symposium.’

  He paused at the door, as if he’d just remembered something. ‘How are things with you and Lily?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘It can’t be easy, trying to make a go of it here.’

  ‘We’re fine.’

  London

  Julian had come from work. Pinstripe suit, lavender shirt, silk tie and shiny brogues. Standard-issue city uniform, complete with gold cufflinks and a belly sagging over his belt. Yet above the collar, nothing had really changed from ten years ago. He still looked like a plus-size schoolboy, a mop of black curls that he never combed, wide eyes and a face that reminded Jonah of a cream bun.

  He shook hands.

  ‘God, I’m sorry about Lily,’ he said again. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’

  He hustled Jonah into the pub and almost pushed him into the seat. He came back from the bar with four pints crammed between his hands.

  ‘Happy hour.’ He set them down, slopping beer over the table. ‘Ironic, under the circumstances. But might as well take advantage.’

  Even among Lily’s friends, Julian had always been at one remove. When the others did doctorates and climbed the ivory tower, Julian took his degree from Oxford – a gentleman’s 2:2, he called it – and made straight for his father’s law firm in the City. Each time they met up, Julian would be there with a new car and a new girlfriend, buying all the drinks, slapping them on the back and dismissing any attempt to talk about his work. Then they wouldn’t hear from him for months, until the next reunion. But he bought every CD that Jonah’s band put out, and never forgot a birthday.

  Jonah knocked back his beer. ‘Did you find Adam’s number?’

  Julian gave him a compliments slip with a gilded letterhead and a phone number scrawled across it. ‘God knows if it still works.’

  ‘You haven’t spoken to him recently?’

  Julian shook his head through a mouthful of nuts. ‘Not much since he went all Byronic. Why are you after him?’

  ‘He sponsored the dig where Lily worked. She went to see him last week.’

  Julian might play the public-school buffoon, but he wasn’t obtuse. He looked up sharply from his drink.

  ‘Adam’s a bloody monk. And a mate. He’d never.’

  ‘He was in love with Lily ten years ago.’

  ‘Weren’t we all? Broke all our hearts when you showed up. Now yours too. No bloody consolation. Have another drink, it’s the best medicine.’

  He went to the bar. Jonah got out his phone. He entered the number but didn’t dial it.

  Adam had funded the dig. Lily must have known all along, and never told him.

  What else hadn’t she told him?

  He balled up the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. His thoughts were a mess; he didn’t want to talk to Adam now. However much courage the alcohol gave him, it wasn’t enough for that conversation.

  The screen lit up. Adam’s number disappeared as a text message arrived. He didn’t even have to open it: the phone previewed it automatically. Only the first two lines, but that was all there was.

  Stop looking for me. I’m not coming back. {o} L

  He was still staring at the phone when Julian sat down with two large glasses of whisky.

  ‘News?’

  Jonah slid the phone across the table.

  ‘Christ.’ Julian banged down the whiskies so hard they spilled. ‘When did this come in?’

  ‘Just now.’

  Was it real? For the last three days, he’d been convinced someone else had been sending the messages. He’d even suspected Richard. But perhaps there was a simpler explanation.

  Certainly, Julian didn’t doubt it. ‘None of us saw this coming. You and Lily, you seemed so perfect together. Do you know if there’s another …?’

  Jonah gripped his glass as if it was the only thing mooring him to the world. ‘You saw the message. That’s all I know.’

  But th
at wasn’t true. They’d all tried to tell him.

  Ruth, the policewoman: Were there any issues in your relationship? Any problems?

  Sandi: I thought she was one of the good guys.

  Charis: She isn’t missing, darling. She’s left you.

  And he’d ignored them, shutting his ears because he was so certain they were wrong. He loved Lily; she loved him. He hadn’t thought anything else mattered.

  The screen flashed again – the phone was ringing. Hope stopped his heart as he saw the number: Lily’s Mum. He stumbled out of the pub. In the doorway, he jostled two men in suits coming in: they shouted something, but he didn’t notice. He stood in the middle of the pavement in the current of commuters and answered the phone.

  ‘Jonah? It’s Julie.’

  Hope crumbled, but he clung to the pieces. ‘Is Lily there?’

  ‘No.’ She rushed on. ‘I had a message from her just now. She said she’s staying away for a while. She said she wants to be alone.’

  She slid in the last word like the point of a needle, trying not to hurt him while she delivered the poison. It had to be done.

  ‘I had a message too.’

  A bus roared by. Jonah felt the weight of it in the wind that blew by. He imagined it colliding with him, the release of oblivion. He took a step back from the pavement. He didn’t trust himself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Julie said.

  But she was Lily’s sister, and that limited her sympathy. If something had happened, there had to be sides; if there were sides, she wasn’t on his.

  ‘Keep in touch.’

  He went back in the pub. At least he didn’t have to explain anything to Julian. Time slipped by. Julian talked, Jonah drank, until at last Julian looked at his watch.

  ‘Time to get you home, old friend. I’m afraid I’m booked at a party.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  Julian’s face squirmed. ‘Bit embarrassing, really. You’ve heard of Sugar Daddy parties?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘For chaps like me. Cash-rich, time-poor, not enough hours in the day to go a-wooing. Chance to meet girls who are willing to come to an arrangement.’

  ‘Hookers?’

  Julian looked appalled. ‘God, no. Just girls who want a bit of security, to know they’re not wasting their time. Nothing unsavoury.’

  ‘But you pay them?’

  ‘Christ you’re rude when you’re drunk, you know that? You don’t pay them. You make them feel appreciated. We’re all grown-ups.’ He shot out his arm and waved his credit card at the barman. ‘We weren’t all as lucky as you and Lily.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘You had ten good years. God knows what you did to upset her, but she adored you to the end. No one else could get a look in. Come on, I’ll drop you off.’

  All he remembered of the trip back was Julian ushering him into a taxi and giving the driver Jonah’s address. A short ride and slamming the door. Staggering down the steps to his apartment, juggling the key. Collapsing on the sofa. He found the bottle of vodka still on the table where he’d left it. He splashed some more into the meltwater from the old ice cubes, then looked at his watch. Only half past nine. How did he get so drunk so soon?

  He knew he had to keep it going as long as possible. He looked at his phone, wondering who he could call. Was Alex back yet? Shadow?

  The phone was like a needle, defying him to use it. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew it would hurt. He did it anyway. He opened up Lily’s last message and read through it again. Just to keep the pain fresh.

  He was still staring at it when, for the second time that evening, it started to ring. Withheld number. Suddenly, he was deathly sober again. It was Lily, calling to tell him it was all a mistake, to apologise. Even to explain would be a start. If he could just talk to her.

  His clumsy fingers fumbled with the phone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that Jonah Barnes?’

  A woman – not Lily. He almost hung up right there. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘A friend you haven’t met yet.’

  ‘How did you get my number?’

  ‘I want to help you. Can you come to Athens?’

  Now he didn’t know if he was sober, or drunker than he’d ever been. He held the glowing phone away from his face and studied it like a specimen from another planet.

  ‘Why?’ he said to the empty air.

  ‘To meet me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I know who took your wife.’

  Nineteen

  Anyone who lets himself to be taken prisoner may as well be abandoned to his enemies; he’s their lawful property, and they can do what they like with him.

  Plato, Republic

  Imagine our situation something like this.

  There’s a cave. There are men inside it, collared and chained so that they can’t move, can’t even turn their heads. There’s a fire behind them – which they can’t see – and puppets dancing in front of the fire. All the prisoners see is the shadows thrown on the cave wall.

  It’s not that bad. I’m collared and chained, but at least I can turn my head. I’m in a long, high cave that curves to a point like a conch shell. The entrance is wide and open to the day, so a little sunlight creeps in. There are no fires and no puppets.

  Puppets would be good, actually. I could use the entertainment.

  There are forty-three of us chained up in the cave this morning. Last night, there were forty-seven. The morning before, only forty-one. I count them obsessively. Perhaps Archytas could extract some sort of meaning from the numbers: I just play games. I make little rules for myself and test the predictions. If there are forty-five when the guards bring supper, I’ll get extra bread; if it’s an even number when the sun touches the opposite wall, they’ll free me. None of it comes true – but it gives the waiting some kind of purpose.

  Shadows fall across the cave as two guards come in. Red cloaks, black helmets, a roaring lion on their belt buckles. My heart races as they approach, though I don’t dare look up. Then relief and despair as their boots go past. Chains are unlocked, a man pulled out. When the boots return, there’s a pair of shackled feet dragging between them. I try not to hear the sounds that go with them: gibbering, weeping, pleading. He’s screaming about the light hurting his eyes.

  Nobody knows where they go when they leave. We don’t talk about it. All we know is they’re free, one way or another. But do we want that kind of freedom?

  Now it’s forty-two.

  When I was twelve years old, Athens decided to conquer Syracuse.

  On the face of it, that was an odd decision. We’d been fighting a war against Sparta, on and off, since before I was born. Sparta’s landlocked, a few days’ march from Athens. Syracuse is on the east coast of Sicily, almost the edge of the world. Sparta threatened us every year; Syracuse just wanted to trade. But somehow, aristocratic hubris combined with democratic enthusiasm to launch us into an expedition to Syracuse.

  It was a fiasco and a tragedy. Fifty thousand troops went out, barely two hundred came home. And the hero who dreamed it up? His name was Alcibiades. Before he left, on a drunken dare, he profaned the mysteries of Demeter and ran about Athens smashing all the good-luck herms in the city. When the government found out and recalled him, he jumped ship at Thurii and defected to Sparta. He told them exactly where the Athenian army was weakest. In short order, our fleet was sunk, our siege broken, our army routed and massacred. Seven thousand captives were brought back to Syracuse and shut up in the quarries for seventy days without food or water. The dead lay where they fell, until Dionysius got bored and sold the survivors into slavery. Alcibiades, meanwhile, offended his Spartan hosts and was next seen as special adviser to the Persian king, telling him how to defeat Athens.

  Once upon a time, though I’m too young to remember it, Alcibiades was Socrates’ star pupil.

  Forty-two prisoners. If there’s an odd number at sunset, I’ll be freed. That’s what I told myself. The sun’s creeping back down the
cave. Dust from the quarries outside swirls in the beam, though there’s no actual quarrying going on. They’ve got all the stone out: now they’re just enormous holes in the ground. Useful for dumping things you don’t want.

  I don’t know what happened to Polus and his smugglers: we were split up early on. I don’t think they’re in this cave. The prisoner next to me is mumbling to himself nonstop. When I catch snatches, it sounds like Aeschylus. Perhaps he’s an actor. Opposite is a man who swears he’s a survivor from Alcibiades’ expedition, though I don’t believe him. No one could have survived here that long.

  I’m covered in bruises. Getting me here involved a certain amount of casual violence: being beaten, kicked, punched, hauled and dropped. The advantage of being a big man is that people usually think better of trying to hit you. The disadvantage is that when they do, they feel they have to make it count. The shackles and collar have chafed my skin open; there’s a welt around my neck where they tore off the gold chain; fleas have bitten me raw. At night, I can’t sleep for trying to fend off the rats. Soon, I’ll be too tired to bother.

  Even Socrates can’t reach me in the depths of this cave. I try to speak to him, but he doesn’t reply. I’ve got all the time in the world, but there isn’t a thought in my head.

  Next time, the guards don’t throw shadows. The first I know is the slap of their boots. My heart lurches into panic, the familiar routine, but even as it speeds up it’s already slowing down in anticipation that they’ll go past.

  They stop in front of me. I’m face to face with the roaring lion on an iron buckle. One of them grabs my neck so he can unlock the collar that ties me to the wall. Then they hoist my arms onto their shoulders and drag me away. After a week in the cave, my eyes shriek at the daylight, even at dusk. Dark spots blur my vision – or perhaps they’re bloodstains on the rocks outside.

  In the cave behind me, forty-one prisoners watch me go.

  Forty-one. It’s an odd number.

  The guards don’t say anything and I don’t ask. They bundle me into a cart with a canopy over the top and set off down the hill. It’s a bouncy, stop-start journey. Early on, I can hear traffic and crowds around me; later, there’s just a roar like blood in my ears, punctuated with shouted challenges and answers. The cart wheels ring loud on the stone road.