Gary Corby: The Ionia Sanction

Slaves hurried in with a kylix, a shallow but very wide drinking cup, shaped almost like a dish on a stand. It was a beautiful thing, painted in the fashionable red figure style of the krater with scenes of Dionysiac revelry among a group of satyrs and nymphs. A slave dipped a ladle into the krater and filled the kylix.

This is the rule of the Loving Cup: each man drinks and passes it on to his neighbor. Sometimes it is accompanied with a game of some sort, sometimes with conversation.

“Nicolaos first,” Callias commanded.

I took the smallest sip I felt I could get away with, and I’m sure Callias and Pericles did the same, because the cup did not stay long with either. The kylix passed on to Hipponax and Telemides, who had no reason for inhibition. Anaxagoras too gave it a healthy nudge, though not so much that he could not resume his argument with Socrates. As the cup emptied, the boys refilled using the dipper. By the time the cup had gone around twice, the wine had well and truly gone to the heads of the other guests.

On the next round, Anaxagoras took the kylix and declared, “I want to buy your slave.”

I needed a moment to understand. Then, “You want to buy Socrates ?” I said, aghast.

“Is that his name? Yes, I want him.”

“Whatever for?”

“Can you imagine any better slave for a philosopher? No, perhaps you can’t, not having the wit yourself to understand. Then let me tell you this boy has more philosophy in him than all the dullards combined that I am compelled to speak with every day.” Then Anaxagoras probably recollected to whom he spoke, because he added hurriedly, “Excepting you, of course, great Pericles. A truer mind never walked the earth, but excepting Pericles, this boy-slave is the only mind in Athens who can put up a decent argument.”

Oh, the temptation! I imagined the conversation. Yes, Father, I sold Socrates, but I got a good price for him!

Socrates gave me an anguished stare. I smiled back, letting the silence linger and enjoying every moment.

I said with some regret, “I’m afraid, Anaxagoras, the boy isn’t for sale.”

“Name your price.”

What if I did? No, don’t do it, Nicolaos.

“He belongs to my father.”

“Your father, eh? I’ll call on him in the morning.”

“Er-”

“The boy is special to the father,” Callias intervened. “ Very special.”

Anaxagoras misunderstood, as I’m sure Callias intended. “Ah, it’s like that, is it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Callias said.

“No hope of him parting with the boy?”

“It would be like losing a son.”

The Loving Cup passed around many more times and, despite my best efforts, it was impossible not to feel the effects. But the same was even more true for the other guests who, as the moon reached its highest point, were close to passing out. The symposium was over.

Anaxagoras departed as he had come, saying, “‘True friendship’s laws are by this rule express’d; Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.’ Thank you, dear Callias.” At which point he fell over backward, and had to be carried away by his slaves.

Early next morning I found my father, Sophroniscus, already in his workshop. He sat on a high stool, hunched, paunched, balding. His hands were a deep, muddy brown. Before him sat a clay model of his next work, a votive statue of Zeus. It was probably destined for someone’s courtyard as their altar to Zeus Herkios; which every proper home must have. He pinched bits here, adding there, and standing back to see how his creation looked.

“Father.”

He looked up. “Nico. What do you think of this piece?”

“It looks fine,” I said without glancing at it. “Father, I need to talk to you. I am required to travel to Ephesus, part of an investigation for Pericles.” I didn’t tell him it would be my last.

By rights I should have asked my father’s permission the day before, straight after Pericles and I had discussed it, but I knew Father would permit my travel since it was in accordance with our agreement, granting me two years to make a success of investigation. Father could not reasonably deny me if I was to receive a fair chance, and for all our differences, he was a fair man.

He grunted. “Ephesus, eh? That’s a long way for a young man who’s never been outside Attica.”

“Yes, Father, it is.”

“You might learn something of the world. It’s not all like Athens, you know.”

“May I ask a favor? If I send you any mail, could you please pass the wrapping cord on to Pericles?”

“The wrapping cord?” He looked at me strangely.

“Don’t cut it, untie the knot and have a slave carry the cord to Pericles. He’ll know what to do with it.”

“This is something to do with your work?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll do as you ask. But I won’t change my mind about that woman you want, Diotima. That’s what you’ve really come to see me about, isn’t it? Whether I’ll change my mind about this girl you’re so besotted with?”

“No. I … well, yes, I did,” I said, though I hadn’t realized it myself until that moment. If Father relented, then when I arrived in Ephesus there’d be something I could say to Diotima without having to flinch. Perhaps I could even bring her home. This was my last chance.

“Father, I admit it, I do want Diotima-”

“No.” He put down his tools and laid a cloth over the model, then sat back on his stool.

“Son, Diotima is the daughter of a prostitute.”

“A hetaera,” I corrected him.

“A high-class prostitute then, but still a prostitute. Granted, the mother’s not a pornê walking the streets-”

“She’s wealthier than we are.”

“That’s not the point. Nicolaos, you’re not listening to me. She’s not a citizen .”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

Father lifted the cloth off the model and resumed his work. He was not good at dealing with conflict at the best of times. I knew this was his way of avoiding any more conversation on the subject. I said, “Thank you, Father, for your permission to travel.”

“It’s my pleasure, son.” He raised his eyes from his work one more time. “A father has to do what’s best for his son. You understand?”

“I do.”

He said, “By the way, I received a note requesting an appointment from a man called Anaxagoras. He says he knows you. Any idea what he wants?”

“Anaxagoras? Er … no, I can’t imagine,” I said, as innocently as possible.

With any luck, by the time Father found out, I would be overseas and well out of reach, but I regretted not being there to hear Father’s reaction when a complete stranger offered to buy Socrates. I looked at the model before him, into which he pressed his fingers with the most delicate care. You could never find two men more different than my single-minded, practical father, and the abstruse philosopher, nor two men less likely to have even a single point of view in common.

“Father, will you listen to my advice on one thing?”

I was bound to accept my father’s decision on Diotima, but …

“Certainly.”

“When Anaxagoras visits, why don’t you ask him what your clay is made of?”

* * *

The house was too quiet. You don’t notice the noise slaves make until they’re gone. Onteles and I might have been sitting in a house of the dead, but in fact it was the andron of his own home, the public room at the front reserved for men. We both nursed a cup of watered wine that he had served himself.

Onteles said, “Do you know how many people came to my father’s funeral?”