Lysis and I spoke little of events. We knew the rawness in one another’s minds, and saw no sense in rubbing salt. We met to talk, or to be quiet, or to hear Sokrates, who was living just as usual, pursuing his enquiries into the nature of man’s soul, justice and truth. As always, he took no part in politics, he only followed logic where it led. If some of the statements lately given the people did not stand up to logic, that was by the way.
Plato came less often than he had. When he entered upon politics, Sokrates’ only advice to him had been to study law. “No man expects to throw a clay water-jar, without first serving an apprenticeship. Do you think the art of governing men is easier?” When he came to Sokrates, he seldom spoke; he listened, or withdrew into himself. He was like a sick man at a feast, who helps himself only to what he can keep down. I had not the folly to measure his grief by mine, the scar of a meteor’s passage, printed on the sky by brightness and the act of flight.
Samos had fallen. Without a fleet they had never had any hope. Lysander had left the democrats their lives, and the clothes on their backs to carry into exile, and given the City to the oligarchs we had overthrown. So his work being done, he sailed home in triumph to Lakonia, with his trophies of war, and a shipload of treasure, of which not a drachma, they say, ever stuck to his fingers. He was a man not greedy of anything but power. But with every Spartan who handled the stuff it was not the same; and there are great changes, I am told, since gold came into Lakonia.
Kallibios’ troops stayed on the High City, and every Athenian who wanted to sacrifice had to ask their leave. And now, the Council of Thirty used to make their arrests with a Spartan guard. They began with the metics. I myself saw Polymarchos the Shieldmaker led through the streets. I knew him, a man of culture who entertained philosophers. I turned to a bystander, and asked what was the charge.
“Ah,” said the man, “they’ve caught him out at last, it seems.” He was a seedy fellow; the whites of his eyes were like the whites of bad eggs. “Sold some poor soldier thin bronze with filling, I suppose, and got him killed. That’s the way these foreigners make their money, underselling honest men.”—“Well, we shall see when he’s tried if he’s guilty or not.”—“Guilty? Of course he is. He’s the brother of Lysias the Speech-maker, who defended these dirty informers and got them off. Their house is full of atheists and anarchists, like that Sokrates, who teaches young men to mock the gods and beat their fathers.” I looked at him. You could as well bring logic to a dog scratching for fleas. “That is a lie,” I said. “Your mind stinks like your body.” Then I went away and was ashamed. “It is a sickness,” I thought, “and I have it like the rest.”
Polymarchos was never tried. It was given out that he had been found guilty of treason, for sufficient reasons, and given hemlock in prison. His brother Lysias slipping out at a back door had got away from Piraeus with his life. Their fortune was confiscated; to the state, the notice said. But the bronzes from their house were seen in the house of one of the Thirty. Afterwards others of them did much the same. Those who had profited already urged on the rest, so that they should all be in it alike. But Theramenes, it was noticed, refrained. He was looking ill, and when he supped at our house dieted himself, saying his stomach troubled him.
Before long, the City got quite used to the sight of people being put away without trial. They were only metics, after all. Then the Thirty began arresting democrats. And from this time on, there began to be two nations in the City. For it was no longer enough that a man, to be safe, should guard his tongue. It was necessary to surrender the soul; and many surrendered it.
One morning my father stopped me as I was going out. After some time beating about the point, at last it came. “… So, all things considered, it might be well, while matters are so delicate, not to be seen in public with Lysis son of Demokrates.”
The sunlight grew dark before my eyes. I felt sick. “Father,” I said, “in the name of my mother, tell me. Is Lysis in danger?” He looked at me with impatience. “Tut, not that I know of. But he has no discretion. He gets himself talked about.” I paused to command myself before I spoke. “For ten years now, sir, when Lysis has been talked about I have had a share of his honour. What shall I sell it for? A bowl of black soup? A kiss from Kritias? How much?”—“You are offensive. I speak of common prudence. There are matters which cannot be opened to loose-tongued young men; but we may hope the present state of things will not last to the end of time. Meanwhile, I expect in this house the manners you learned from me, not those Sokrates teaches.”
I saw deep lines about his eyes; lately he often looked tired. “I was insolent, Father. I am sorry. But would you do yourself what you ask of me?” He said after a moment, “However, remember I only have one son.”
I set out at once to call on Lysis. On the way, I saw ahead of me a back I knew by its breadth. Autolykos was making his way homeward from the palaestra.
As athletes went nowadays, he was considered notable for good looks and grace. He did not fight at much above the weight he had been at the Isthmus; having held his own against far heavier men, he had now the name of a classic fighter, a type of the golden age. Compared with what one saw now at every Games, I myself had come, little by little, to think him beautiful. At the last Games of Athene he had been crowned again.
I was thinking to overtake him for a word, when I saw at the head of the street Kallibios coming the other way, with two Spartan guards behind him. The middle of the road was mucky, but it was dry by the walls. Kallibios and Autolykos met, and stopped, and looked at one another, neither making way. People in the street about them stopped still where they were.
Kallibios said in his harsh Doric, “Out of my way, lout.” He need not have shouted to be heard. I saw Autolykos’ back, steady as an oak; and then Kallibios’ eyes, as his stick flew out.
Autolykos stooped, moving easily, like a grown man playing with boys. As he straightened, above his shoulder appeared the face of Kallibios, rising in the air. His hands beat at Autolykos’ shoulders; then he was tossed backward as lightly as a faggot, to land face down in the wet midden. Autolykos, without a glance to see where he had fallen, hitched his mantle and walked on, keeping the wall.
The whole street cheered, except those who were near enough to see Kallibios scraping muck from his face, and they were laughing. At the corner of the street Autolykos before he turned out of sight made the gesture by which a well-bred victor acknowledges applause on his way back to the dressing-room.
The two guards had been rather slow off the mark, getting no orders; now, when they sprinted after, they found their path full of impediments: laden donkeys, scuffling lads, even a group of women. But they soon overtook their man, since they were running and he was not. I think he considered taking them both on, with Kallibios as makeweight; then he saw the crowd following, and smiled, and went quietly. They did not dare to bind him. With every street we passed the crowd swelled, and grew noisier as people took courage from each other. When we reached the road to the High City we must have been near two hundred.
I had started near the front and managed to stay there. As we neared the Porch, I saw a man standing alone between the great pillars of Perikles. Even in that place, he still looked tall. Since his triumph in Sparta, it was Lysander’s habit to come and go unheralded. He was a law unto himself.
Autolykos mounted the last few steps, between his guards. Lysander waited, in his scarlet tunic, unarmed, three paces ahead of his men. He was hated for many things, but not for cowardice. He and Autolykos were pretty nearly of a height. Their eyes met, measuring one another; and the voice of Kallibios, spluttering out his charge, grew quick and shrill. Neither of them looked at him.