The Ten Thousand

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.