Will you come with me to Polemides, or shall we knock at the archon's gate?”
Approaching the prison, the boy became agitated. “Will they search me, sir?” And he stripped a dagger from beneath his arm and a Spartan xyele from a sheath on his thigh.
In the corridor approaching the celli halted. The boy's face went to chalk. “Ain't you coming in, Cap'n?”
“You've played your part manfully thus far,” I reassured him, and, setting a bolstering hand upon his shoulder, prompted him forward.
From where I stood I could not see Polemides within the cell, but only the boy at the threshold as the turnkey opened and the lad hesitated, peering in as if at a caged brute he feared might rush upon him. I confess that, when the child found courage and vanished within, I discovered my eyes burning and a thickness about my throat.
Father and son remained all morning, or at least beyond the hour I waited, across the way at the refectory of my ancient comrade, the marine archer Bruise. My sons had gifted the boy Nicolaus with a packet of kit articles, including shoes and a new tunic, ostensibly to be passed on to his father but, we hoped, one that his pride would permit him, out of our sight, to retain for himself.
Instead by noon the kit was returned to our gate, intact, with a note thanking us, and no more.
XLVI
Leaving Socrates' cell that night, the party of his companions crossed the Iron Court to the chambers of Lysimachus of Oa, Secretary of the Eleven. The master's execution would be tomorrow. The hemlock, at his request, would be administered at sunset. The secretary showed us the bowl, plain wooden with a cover; apparently the juice altered composition, exposed to the air.
It must be consumed at once, in a single draught if possible.
The executioner, a physician of Brauron, chanced to be within the prison on another errand; he was kind enough to donate an interval with us, myself and Critobulus, Crito, Simmias of Thebes, Cebes, Epigenes, Phaedo of Samos, and the others. The practitioner, whose name was not revealed and who was unknown to us by sight, wore a plain white chiton as we all. He apprised us that tomorrow he would appear in the robe of his office; he wished to forewarn us that the sight might not, by its unexpectedness, evoke dismay.
We would be permitted to remain in the cell with Socrates until the end and to claim his body as soon as death had been pronounced and the certificate recorded. There would be no “final repast,” as the subject's belly must be empty; nor may wine be taken later than noon, as its effect acted in contravention to the poison.
Crito asked what we may do to render our friend's passage more endurable. Hemlock was painless, the doctor declared. Its effect was a progressive loss of sensation, commencing from the feet, the subject remaining alert and lucid up to the final stages.
Nausea might be experienced as the drug reached the midsection; thereafter accelerated numbness, followed by loss of consciousness and, ultimately, cessation of heartbeat. The drug's deficiency was that it took time, often as long as two hours. It was best if the subject remained quiet. Stimulation could impede the poison's effect, necessitating a second dose and even a third. “He will feel cold, gentlemen. You may wish to bring a fleece or woolen mantle for his shoulders.”
Our party exited in silence. I had forgotten entirely about Polemides (who by now had no doubt filed his attestation of guilt) and would have departed without another thought had not the porter hailed me as we crossed the court, asking after the designated claimant for his, the assassin's, body. For a moment I feared sentence had already been carried out; I was seized with grief and anguish. But no, the official informed me, Polemides' execution would be tomorrow, at sunset, as Socrates'.
Death would be on the tympanon. He could not say how long they would drag it out. The assassin-so clever was he, the porter observed-had confessed not to treason, but to “wrongdoing.” By this technicality (as that was indeed the specific charge against him) he had ducked the disgrace of having his body dumped unburied beyond the borders of Attica; the corpse would be transported to the Funerary Depot beside the Northern Wall, where it may be recovered by his kinsmen. “A boy has been round, sir, claiming to be the prisoner's son. Absent another, may the officers release the body to him?”
“What does the prisoner say?”
“He says to ask you.”
It was now well after dark; I had been up for a day and a night and could look forward to the same tomorrow. Yet clearly I could not go home. I hailed a “skylark” and, pressing a coin into the lad's hand, dispatched him with a message for my wife that I would be delayed.
When I entered Polemides' cell, he was writing. He rose at once, in hale spirits, clasping my hand in welcome. Had I been with Socrates? Of course. The prison could speak of nothing else.
I had thought I would chafe at this chore and discover myself in anger at him, for the labor he had put me through for nothing. To my surprise the opposite obtained. Immediately within the cell, I felt the weight of distress lift from my bones. It was bracing, the assassin's acceptance of his fate. It shamed me.
“What are you writing?”
“Letters.”
To whom?
“One to my son. One to you.”
At once tears sprang; a sob wrenched from my throat. I must hide my face.
“Sit,” the prisoner bade. “There's wine brought by my boy, take some.”
I obeyed.
“Just let me finish this. I won't be long.”
He inquired, as he wrote, of Socrates. Would the philosopher exit on shank's highway? Would he “mount the midnight mare”?
Polemides laughed. No secret endured long within these walls, he observed; he had overheard all the getaway schemes, of Simmias and Cebes hiring horses and armed escorts; he knew which officials had accepted bribes, and even how much. Sundry informers had already put their blackmail to Crito and Menexeus and been paid off to come down with lockjaw.
“He won't run,” I said. “He's as stubborn as you.”
“Well, you see, we're both philosophers.”
Polemides reported that he had yarned several times with Socrates, when they chanced to be granted exercise at the same hour. What had they talked about? “Alcibiades, mostly. And a bit of conjecture on life after death.” He laughed. “I'm to be boxed on the Whore, did you hear?”
He had learned he would be executed on the tympanon.
He asked what we prated about, who closeted all day about our master. Customarily I would not speak of this, yet now…”We talked of the law and adherence to it in the face of death.”
Polemides considered this gravely. “I would like to have heard that.”
I watched as the assassin scripted his valedictory. His hand was firm and sure. When he paused periodically, seeking a word, one could not but be struck by the recollection of Alcibiades, possessed of the identical trait, so charming when he spoke, of drawing up until the proper phrase presented itself.
In the lamplight the prisoner looked younger than his seasons.
His trim waist, product of years of campaign, made it no task to envision him as a lad at Lacedaemon, with such hopes, more than thrice nine years gone. I was struck by the irony, the inevitability, of his passage, and Socrates', to this enclosure and this end.
Might I importune him for the conclusion of his tale? Did it matter? Surely no longer to mount a defense. Yet that wish persisted to hear what remained, from his lips, to its period.
“You must tell me first,” he replied. “A horse trade. What Socrates said today about the law…in return for my tale to its end.”
I resisted, for much of our master's matter was commendatory to me.
“Of course it was, Jason! Do you think I muster with any but the noblest?”
