Temporal Agora

Stepping out of the black, swirling portal, I removed immediately my coat and tie, unzipped my trousers and kicked aside my shoes, tossing them in a pile in the darkest corner of my chosen secret stone alley, one somehow secluded from all view downward the wooded hill on the far side of the temple of Hephaestus. I then further shielded the pile with nearby bits of chalky stone scattered along the floor of the alley. I couldn’t lose the clothes—I knew that—I would need them when I traveled back to New Orleans. If I were to fall out onto Decatur Street naked and battered from the bruises of time travel, the snooty folk sipping chicory at Café Du Monde wouldn’t have it. I’d be dragged across Jackson Square and thrown into the encircled crowd outside of St. Louis Cathedral to be made both an example of and a midmorning entertainment.

That wouldn’t be the case in classical Athens, though.

I stumbled out of my secret alley bare-assed naked, looking intentionally as childish and inebriated as possible. I had trained my eyes to look in two different directions simultaneously like an aloof drunkard. Onlookers, as they always did, either looked away or laughed openly at my stumbling figure. I only needed to make it half a block or so, to the other corner, to Doreios’s house where I kept my Athenian garb. I didn’t like keeping my Greek clothing hidden in the same place as my portal; I wasn’t sure exactly why, it just seemed like the safe thing to do. Perhaps it was a practice remnant of a time in which I was yet to fully trust Doreios.

Doreios was the one person in Athens I had informed of my time traveling nature, even going so far as to on one occasion take him to my hometown—New Orleans, Louisiana, 1863. Doreios, afraid but amazed at the wonder of the future, resolved not to return until he was ready. He wasn’t yet ready, but he was still useful to me—my pragmatic classical friend. He kept my clothing; he helped me look as ancient Greek as possible; he formalized my broken dialect. I had studied the ancient Greek language for years, but the muscles in my mouth were nowhere ready for the rapidity of the dialect. I needed to be culturally trained, and Doreios had helped; everything leading up this moment—this day in 399 BC. He had even covered for me when Athenian residents questioned my broken accent, claiming me as his house-slave of Aramaic linguistic heritage, my family having been adopted by his nearly a century ago following the Battle of Marathon. This story had yet to fail us.

Everything had to go perfectly today. Had I planned well enough? I would soon find out.

I gathered my clothing from their place folded atop the circular wooden table.

“Bourbon,” said Doreios.

“Good pronunciation,” I responded, unsure of whether he was saying it in English or French.

“Bourbon come from New Orleans. Good time we have, drunk in the street.”

“Bourbon doesn’t come from New Orleans, it comes from Kentucky, a place north of Louisiana, up the Mississippi River. The street in New Orleans and the drink are named for the same family—French royalty that will come to power over a thousand years from now. Their Sun King expanded their empire in America, that yet unknown land I showed you on the future maps I sketched for you. The Sun King had a big cultural effect on many of the places bordering the Mississippi River, like New Orleans and Kentucky.”

“I’d like see this Sun King. He sound like tyrant. Maybe Sun King be Tyrant of Athens.”

“I guess he was a tyrant by your standards. We can’t see him though, I haven’t yet learned how to travel to the seventeenth century; I’ve had no reason to go there.”

“Right. We go back New Orleans soon, then. Maybe travel up Kentucky, too.”

“Kentucky is too close to the frontline of the war, at least if we go back to my present. We would want to stay away from there.”

“Then maybe we go Kentucky in past. Or just back to Bourbon Street.”

“That might be an option. Haven’t tried traveling backward only a few years, though. Not sure how well it would work. Could be possible. Now let’s get on with it,” I said, putting on my tunic and cloak, “We don’t want to be late.”

Doreios slipped on his sandals and, dunking a dry chunk of barley bread into a cup of wine, shoved it into his mouth and prepared himself to leave. “Don’t know why you so crazy about Socrates,” he said, “He just noisy drunk hobo. No one care if he live or die.”

Doreios had resolved to always practice his English and French when talking with me, even when he was aggravated. It was a good strategy—he was improving.

“Maybe you don’t,” I said, “but the current rippling futureward from this day has destabilized, causing some concern in the community of travelers.”

“How you know it not stable?”

“I can’t explain that right now. I’ll tell it all later assuming we survive today.”

“Okay. We need get to Piraeus Street.”

I nodded in agreement. The two of us pushed open the wooden door out into the alley. Wading through the winding, narrow passages which became crowded with only two individuals abreast, we made it eventually out into the open-air of the bustling agora.

“We walk to prison,” said Doreios, pushing through the crowd of incessantly chattering hawkers, “It not too far. Need to be close to agora so the Rod-Bearers can easy move drunkards and thieves from agora to prison.”

“Makes sense,” I said, continuing through the crowds.

The Rod-Bearers were the police force of Ancient Athens—publicly-owned slaves who prevented crime and made arrests.

“When you think the drunkard Socrates will drain his last cup?” said Doreios.

“Today, at dusk. We have to make sure he does it.”

“Why you want this man die? I admit—he only noisy drunkard, but I see no reason for him die.”

“He’s not just a noisy drunkard, regardless of what you think—he’s one of the most important people in history. He has to die today, though. If he doesn’t, he won’t be remembered in the same way. It will disrupt the flow of history and throw spacetime into a state of chaos, which could damage the structural integrity of our dimension.”

“What happen if that happen?”

“No idea—that’s still above my pay grade. It doesn’t sound good, though, does it? But if he doesn’t die it will derail the development of Christianity. It’s a religion, not around yet, but it’s founded on sacrifice, and part of the development of that belief system started today, and hereafter in the writings of Plato and Aristotle, who were influenced by Socrates.”

“You religious man, you are? Me personally, I don’t think the gods care for us. Athena guides this city, does she? I don’t think so. Athena no help me. Athena no help hungry people in street.”

“No, I’m not a religious man—I suppose I appreciate the deistic worldview of Thomas Jefferson, if anything—but ironically enough, the structural integrity of our dimension, in this particular situation, requires religion in order to keep from imploding.”

“I don’t know Thomas Jefferson. Plato, Socrates student; I know him—the one who not so drunk and noisy but like reading and writing. Who Aristotle?”
“You may hear of him in several years.”

“I pay attention. Hopefully he not noisy drunkard like Socrates.”

“You might be pleasantly surprised.”

We continued walking. The hot Grecian sun beat against my skin, which though hardened from my years living on the bayou in Louisiana was somehow still pink and stinging.

“Is this the prison?” I said, pointing up a rocky hillside to a stone building overlooking the agora.

“Yes, that prison.”

“You sure they’ll let us in to speak with Socrates?”

“Yes, I sure. Prison not strict; Socrates likely no going anywhere—and no one much care if he do—so it not matter who speak with him. Rod-Bearers no care, either. They will say nothing to us, I expect.”

“Good. If they do happen to say something, you do the talking. I get anxious when I have to pretend to be your house slave.”

“You choke?”

“No, I get anxious. Uncomfortable; very nervous.”

“Ah. Ankho. In Greek it mean choke.”

“That’s kind of what it means in English, too.”

“Good. I learn new word. Learning new language is easy when you already know Greek.”

“I’ll bet. You do the talking, though; I’ve never been a good actor. And my Greek still isn’t strong enough.”

“Yes, you’re Greek so bad. Lucky you pretend to be foreigner. What is actor?”

“An actor. Someone who performs at the theater.”

“Ah. Ithopios. Like at Dionysia festival. You dance for the gods. You sing for Dionysus. You not good at that? Neither am I—I not care for the gods.”

“That’s… close to what I mean.”

We approached the prison. The Rod-Bearers, who were standing watch outside the front door in their burnt yellow tunics and leather armor, watched us approach, apathetically eyeing us as we passed. We then headed into the relative shade of the prison interior.

“See, they say nothing for us. They no care.”

“I can always trust you, Doreios.”

Most of the jail cells were empty, though the ones that were occupied were inhabited by lone individuals lying on the bed, squatting on the floor, or grasping the bars of the cell to get a look at any goings-on in the hallway. One cell, however, was encircled by a crowd—a group of loudly talking men.

“There, that man Plato,” said Doreios, pointing—his cracked hands wrinkled and dirty from years of work as a potter—to single out a young man staring pensively at the ground.

I then saw the man look up and gaze into Socrates’ cell, a lugubrious weight apparent on the bags of his eyes, which were slouching not from age but from worry and lack of sleep. This man, Plato, was the only individual in the group not talking.

“That must be Crito, there,” I said.

“I not know who is Crito.”

“It’s not important. Let’s go.”

Approaching the cell, the group surrounding the exterior of the bars turned and acknowledged us. I reached over to shake Crito’s hand, and then, trying to avoid appearing starstruck, reached my hand outward to greet Plato.

“You will translate for me,” I said to Doreios in the Louisiana Creole French I had been teaching him. I had decided against using English around these men, as I assumed many of the sounds of the language—such as the numerous alveolar consonant-vowel pairs succeeding the letter ‘r’—would appear suspiciously foreign.

“Okay,” said Doerios.

“But I don’t think I should pretend to be your slave this time. We’ll just say that I paid you handsomely to be my translator, okay?”

“Fine with me; I no shit to give about this situation.”

I muffled a laugh and stepped forward: “Good afternoon,” I said to Plato.

After hearing Doerios’ translation, Plato, thinking I was speaking Latin, responded in Greek to Doreios: “This man is from Rome?”

“No,” said Doreios, “He’s from the Levant. He was displaced by the Persians. Someone taught him Latin. I don’t know who—I don’t know his history; I only know that he requested an audience with Socrates. I’m merely a translator—he paid me well; the man is filled with beautiful, jingling drachma.”

“Why does he want to speak with Socrates? Socrates has a lot on his mind at the moment; he is unlikely to wish to speak with strangers.”

“Let me talk with him!” came a booming, passionate voice from within the cell, “It is never too late a moment in one’s life to conversationally uncover a new perspective.”

Plato, suppressing a somehow hopeful grin, gestured for me to step forward to the bars of the cell. Socrates sat smiling atop a wobbly wooden stool. His small bed, unmade and disheveled, sat lonesome in the corner. A large, opened urn stood against the side of the wall opposite the bed. Socrates, using a ladle, scooped a cup of water and took a healthy swig. Beaded moisture dripped from his unkempt beard and moustache.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

His curly white hair hung over his forehead as if to purposefully mask a receding hairline. His beard, peppered white, dark grey, and blonde, hung curling from his chin. The toga he was wearing had fallen off his shoulders, now only tied around his waist.

“You are from the Levant, but you speak Latin; that is uncommon. Are you some sort of traveler?”

Doreios listened to me and then afterward translated.

“You could say that,” I responded, “though it’s not important. That is not why I am here. I am here to give you counsel. I understand your companions are imploring you to go into exile in the mountains—perhaps northward, at Delphi, where you formerly uncovered your life’s affirmation in discussion with the Oracle.”

“That they are,” said Socrates. “You don’t agree with them? You would see me die? One can easily hide in the mountains, and one can also seek truth at the Oracle. It would be a good place for me.”

“I would see you make the decision for yourself. I would see you stand by your principles. Perhaps it would be wise to exile to the mountains near Delphi—that could be true—but before you do that, you must first know what you would do once you arrived there. How would your presence in that place benefit the world further than what you have created in Athens? What could you do once you left your city? How would it influence your legacy?”

At this point, Crito stepped toward me, grabbing each of my arms as if to pull me forcefully away from Socrates’ cell. Plato, then clutching Crito’s forearm, stopped him and gave him a look which communicated non-linguistically that Socrates could participate in debate and arrive at a conclusion himself. Crito, respecting this truth, backed off.

“What should you care for my legacy?” said Socrates, “What does Athens care for my legacy? I am merely one who corrupts the minds of the youth; that is what the people have decided of me.”

“That is what some have decided, yes.”

“So why are we considering my legacy when we already know how the people feel?”

“Opinions change with history. Think of how opinions of Homer have changed in the centuries following his death. Think of how regard for Poseidon alters with a flood; of how the perception of Athena shifts when Spartan soldiers batter the city walls.”

“Homer was too much of a stoic, and the gods are crazy.”

“Some would call you a stoic.”

Socrates grimaced, “I would not call myself that.”

Plato chuckled from behind in the darkness, a flickering candle periodically illuminating his face.

“But wouldn’t you agree,” I continued, “that opinions of the greats change as the times change? That the meaning of their words; the impact of their actions; shifts as perception of those words and actions also changes—as culture evolves?”

Doreios was having a hard time keeping up with the translation, thinking hard about how to say each word and visibly vexed about the purpose of the conversation. Plato was quietly writing everything down.

“That could be true,” said Socrates, “That’s why I avoid writing anything. Written language can be too easily misinterpreted. If one wants to understand my philosophy, they should hear it directly from me. The origin of philosophy is dialogue. Plato disagrees with me. He’s always scribbling down my words; I can’t seem to stop him.”

“If one’s beliefs are so easily misinterpreted,” I responded, “would you not want to do everything you can in life—in both word and deed—to make sure that your beliefs are as clear as possible to those in future generations? Is not the education of those in the future equally as important as those of the present?”

“That is true. If I were to leave Athens, I know some would see it as a man abandoning his principles. I must say, I don’t agree with my sentence, but if I were to leave it would mean that I had lost faith in the legal system, and as a result, government—as a result the whole of human civilization. I am not afraid to die.”

With this, Socrates looked floorward, tracing with his gaze the path of a mouse scurrying across the stone floor. After sniffing at some breadcrumbs on the ground below Socrates’ bed, the mouse then darted across the cell and hopped between the bars. It then shrunk itself to a size nearly invisible and wedged its body between a crack in the stone, out into the outside world.

“To envy a mouse…” said Socrates, “If only I could as carelessly choose freedom. Do you believe that a mouse too has principles?”

“I think so, though its principles likely feature most heavily the procurement of bread and cheese.”

Socrates laughed, slapping the sheet of his dangling toga.

“Perhaps a worshipper of Aristaeus,” I continued.

Socrates cackled further. I even heard Plato muffling a chuckle from behind.

“It’s decided,” concluded Socrates, standing abruptly from his stool, “I will accept my sentence. I will stand by my principles; I will go down loudly enlightening every one of the impossibility of finding real truth, right up until the hemlock prevents my lungs from drawing breath.”

I gave him an affirmative nod, then looking to Doreios—our job was done.

“Thank you for your time,” I said to Socrates, dismissing myself from the area in front of his cell. On the way out of the prison, I turned one last time and gazed at the figure of Plato, who stood contemplatively in front of the bars of Socrates’ cell. I knew it was unlikely that I would ever again see such an intellectual giant of the ancient world; I looked for as long as I could until he eventually glanced back to me, momentarily making eye contact. Startled and intimidated, I turned and left the prison.

******

“So I go back with you?” said Doreios, moving to gather his nineteenth century clothing. We had made it back to his house. I was preparing to leave.

“You owe me,” he continued. I want go back to Bourbon Street.

“America isn’t very safe right now,” I responded, “There’s a Civil War going on. The country is divided.”

“New Orleans in the deep south; it not on front line. I know this; I study American geography. I read the maps you give me.”

I said nothing. I knew he was right.

“Plus, nowhere is safe. You think Athens safe? You think she free from war? She is not. The Persians could come back at any time, with their Immortals and massive army. The Spartans could take the city any day of the week. Their soldiers are stronger than our solders; everyone know that. Plus, I don’t care about safety. Bourdon Street not safe place. I want absinthe cocktails and parties, not safety.”

“I guess I do owe you one,” I concluded begrudgingly.

Doreios smiled.

Steeping out of his house into the still bustling Athenian streets, we made our way to the portal. Doreios was ecstatic to return to Louisiana.

THE END

Bio: Robert Pettus is an English as a Second Language teacher at the University of Cincinnati. Previously, he taught in a combination of rural Thailand and Moscow, Russia. His short stories have been published in numerous magazines, journals, and podcasts, including previously on Aphelion (The Lincoln Homestead and The Good Folks). His first novel, titled Abry, was published this spring by Offbeat Reads. He lives in Kentucky with his wife, Mary, and his pet rabbit, Achilles.

E-mail: Robert Pettus

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