“May I watch, sir?” Sostratos blurted. “What?” Ptolemaios blinked. Whatever sort of answer he'd expected, that wasn't it. He stared more grimly than ever. “Why?” Sostratos wished he'd thought more before speaking. He answered as best he could: “Because I studied at the Lykeion in Athens; and I've talked with men from the Academy, the school Platon founded; and I've read Platon's tale of how Sokrates died. I'd like to see it for myself, if I could.” “I've read the Phaidon, too,” Ptolemaios said, which surprised Sostratos in turn; the ruler of Egypt looked like a warrior, not a man who'd studied philosophy. And Ptolemaios surprised him all over again by continuing, “That man wrote like a god.” “Y-yes,” Sostratos stammered; his amazement came not because he disagreed but because bluff Ptolemaios was voicing such art opinion. Going on in the same vein, the Macedonian marshal sighed and said, “I wish I would have met him. I was nineteen or twenty when he died, but I didn't get down to Athens till. . . later.” Till after the battle of Khaironeia, Sostratos realized he meant: after Philip of Macedon crushed Athens as a power. He eyed the ruler of Egypt. Khaironeia had been fought three years before he himself was born. So much had happened since—Alexander's astonishing career and the wars of his successors—that seeing a man who'd fought there seemed a surprise, too. He's only a few years older than my father, Sostratos reminded himself. But Ptolemaios had been so many places, done so much . . . Ptolemaios' thoughts had traveled down a different road. He shook a forefinger at Sostratos and said, “I warn you, it's not as neat as Platon tells it.” “Sir?” Lost in his own musings, Sostratos had dropped the thread of the conversation. “Hemlock,” Ptolemaios said. “Are you sure you want to see it?” “Oh,” Sostratos said, and then, after some thought, “Yes. Yes, I am. I'd ... like to know what Sokrates went through.” “Ah,” Ptolemaios said. “I can understand that. It may be foolishness, but I can understand it. All right, young fellow. I'm keeping Antigonos' nephew in the house next door to this one. You be here early tomorrow morning and you'll see what you want to see. But don't dawdle; my men won't wait. Bargain?” “Bargain,” Sostratos said at once. “Thank you, sir.” “Don't thank me, not till after you know what you talked yourself into.” Ptolemaios turned to Menedemos. “What about you? Do you want to watch Polemaios die, too?” Menedemos tossed his head. “Not me. What I want is a carpenter.” As if on cue, the man Ptolemaios had sent out came back into the andron. “Well?” the ruler of Egypt barked at him.
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