Chapter Twelve

Eighth Step

BY THE DOG
INTO THE LIGHT AGAIN

"By the dog is one of Socrates' characteristic oaths. No one knows
exactly what it means."
Hayden Pelliccia, SELECTED DIALOGUES OF PLATO

SOCRATES FROWNED. ASKED TO DO SOMETHING, HE,
like many people, did not want to do it. There was a part of him that stood apart, that resisted invitations, that did not want to do what someone else thought was "good" for him, even if that person was Diotima, with her resolute and tender face. Yes, admittedly he had been swept away by his first experience. He had felt a presence with a goodness and beauty that was almost overwhelming, but that was the point, at this moment he did not want to be overwhelmed. He also feared he would not experience the presence a second time, which would cast doubt on his first experience and diminish it.

No doubt I'll be accused of carrying a stone, he thought defiantly, and he knew exactly which one or possibly two stones he had in his hands. In any case he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. What were his instructions? His first experience had seemed to come out of nowhere, conjured by her voice and the notes of the lyre, but both she and the lyre were silent. She was gazing at him with a look both dauntless and melting. What on earth did she want him to do?

He shook his head. She had asked him to contemplate the divine, and then added another word to her instructions. The word contemplate came from the word that meant to gaze with wonder. Homer had used it to describe the response of the assembly of Ithaca when Telemachus arrived. Holding in his hand a spear of bronze, followed by two swift dogs, wonderful with the grace Athena had shed upon him, Telemachus arrived looking like a god, and "they gazed at him with wonder." The same word contemplate was used to describe spectators watching the plays put on during religious festivals. Theatron, they called the place where they gazed.

Gaze at the divine, Socrates thought skeptically, and shook his head. Men and women gazed at the golden images of the gods placed in temples, but there was no such image here. Nor was he inclined to gaze at statues. There had been no mention of this by Homer. His heroes spoke to the gods face to face. They met them in the forest, on the beach, and in the mountains, questioned them – for what self-respecting Hellene did not raise questions – and listened to them. Their encounters were mysterious, sometimes seductive, sometimes frightening, almost always one to one. It was in these latter days, when encounters by heroes with gods seemed distinctly rare that temples had been built.

Furthermore, he knew that contemplation was different from gazing. Diotima had told him that to contemplate was to love, and that a man tutored in love and contemplation would suddenly have revealed to him a vision. When his eyes wordlessly told her he had no idea what she meant by love, she smilingly urged him to consider the dog.

Well, he was not a dog.

His eyes widened. Nestor had joined them with a low growl. Socrates had the impression Nestor had followed his thoughts, and was not well pleased. In response he gripped his stones harder in his hands.

"I am too old to beat around the bush," Nestor said without preface. He nodded at Diotima. He was gripping his long staff, and he lifted it, and struck it on the floor so hard it vibrated in his hands, and the floor gave a thundering cry.

The dog jumped, ready for action, but seeing that Telemachus remained seated, settled uneasily back down, and watched Nestor carefully from under his eyebrows. Peisistratus, playing a board game at the far end of the hall with the keeper of the lodge, looked up with a vigilant stare, but he did not join them. Diotima looked at Nestor. "Amen," she said, and laughed, a lilting, lovely laugh.

"You of course, are familiar with the story of Marathon," Nestor said, looking piercingly Socrates. "But perhaps you will do me the honour of listening."

Socrates nodded silently.

Before his eyes Nestor became one of the old rhapsodes, literally, "stitchers of songs," who recited poetry while beating time with a staff. Nestor recited the story which had first been set down by Herodotus. His powerful voice and rhythmically pounding staff rushed Socrates back to that terrible year. As he listened, the hackles rose on the back of his head.

"The envoys of the most powerful Empire on earth arrived in Hellas. They went to each polis, threatening devastation and death and demanding the earth and water that signalled submission. Many of the Hellenic city-states submitted, and gave the envoys the symbolic water and earth they demanded, but Athens, Lacedaemon, Eretria, and tiny Plataea did not. The Athenians met in assembly 'and voted to defend their liberty or die. If you knew how sweet freedom is,' they told the envoys of Empire, 'you would defend it with your lives.'

At this mention of the Athenians, Telemachus grinned at Socrates, and pumped his fist in the air. His father glared. His staff struck the floor with the crack of a thunderbolt. "The Empire's fleet reached Eretria. They beached their ships, put soldiers and cavalry ashore, and proceeded to mount an assault. Their attack was ferocious. The Eretrians resisted bravely, inflicting losses on the Empire, but many Eretrians died. On the seventh day of fighting, two Eretrians betrayed their city by throwing open the gates. The armies of the Empire poured in, killed all those who resisted, plundered the temples, set them on fire, and made those who survived their slaves. A few days later the Empire's armies set sail in the confident expectation they would handle Athenians in the same way.

"Their plan was to beach at Marathon, and drive south and west until they reached the city. They chose Marathon because its sheltered bay would protect their ships and its flat terrain made it hospitable to cavalry. They had learned about the place from an Athenian who hoped to gain power in Athens by betraying her."

"Word reached Athens that Eretria had fallen and the armies of Empire were advancing. The Athenians sent a runner west in the desperate hope the Lacedaemonians would help them, but there was no time to wait. They said goodbye to their families, and marched on foot north and east to Marathon, to face the invaders alone."

In the beating of Nestor's staff Socrates heard the footsteps of the Athenians, marching north and east to face the invaders, and then the solitary, desperate feet of the courier running west toward Lacedaemon.

Nestor's hand lifted his staff, and in the silence said, "Near Mount Parthenium, Philippides heard the god Pan call his name. He stopped, just long enough to hear the god's message to the Athenians. The god's message was this: 'Why do you ignore me, when I am your friend? I have often been of service to you in the past, and I will be again.'"

Socrates frowned, and wondered if the encounter with Pan was the reason Nestor had decided to recount the story of Marathon. But though Nestor's voice had softened when he quoted Pan, a god of Arcadia whose name meant all, he said nothing more about him, but continued to accompany himself on his staff, reciting the story in his deep voice.

"Philippides arrived in Lacedaemon with his urgent request, and begged the Lacedaemonians to help, entreating them not to stand by and watch Athens be enslaved. After some discussion, the Lacedaemonians agreed to help, but they were unwilling to break a longstanding tradition, and refused to send an army into the field until there was a full moon.

"The cities to the north had surrendered to the Empire. The cities to the west stood aloof. Unaware of the Lacedaemonian decision, the Athenians marched on. Just before they reached Marathon, they were met by one thousand men who had marched south from the small city of Plataea. They were all of Plataea's able-bodied men, and some who were old, but filled with thumos. They were the only Hellenes willing to stand side by side with the Athenians."

Nestor's voice had grown husky with passion, and he paused in his recitation. In the silence Socrates imagined how it must have been when the small army of men from Athens and Plataea reached the head of the valley that slopes down to Marathon, a sunny, treeless plain named after the tall, bronze-leaved fennel that grows there, and looked out at what faced them.

And as if answering his thought, Nestor said, "In the shimmering heat of that summer day they stood together and looked with dismay at the vast hosts of Persians, Scythians, Parthians, Phrygians, Bactrians, Assyrians, Egyptians, and Africans stretching across the plain, and behind them, darkening the bay and shore, their ships.

"Below them, the forces of Empire noted the arrival of the small army of Hellenes. They were amused. They planned to bury them under a barrage of arrows.

"Up in the hills overlooking the plain, the Athenians and Plataeans stalled. The Athenians had ten commanders and a War Archon. Not surprisingly, perhaps, they could not agree on a plan of action. Some of their commanders were in favour of attacking, but still hoped the Lacedaemonians would arrive, and wanted to wait. Other commanders wanted to retreat because they were hopelessly outnumbered. Inaction was giving all the men time to think about dying, and their nerves were on edge. Those in favour of retreat were gaining support when one of the commanders, Miltiades, went to the War Archon who would cast the deciding vote.

In the dark beating of Nestor's staff Socrates saw the dark plain lit with the camp fires of the invaders, the indecisive War Archon, ready to run, and the firm commander who gripped him by the arm, stared him the face, and told him, "'If we fail to take on the Empire here, we will be enslaved, and Athens will be destroyed. Before that happens, we will face civil war, as Athenians who want to resist slavery fight with collaborators. Your alternative is to become a slave or to fight for freedom.'"

His logic was impeccable, but no man wants to die. "Miltiades gripped the Archon harder, and said, "If we engage the enemy before despair infects our minds, we can win. I have a plan.'"

Socrates swallowed thickly, and nodded. The story had many suggestive points for him.

"The Archon was won over, and the Hellenes decide to attack using the strategy devised by Miltiades. It is a rational plan of attack, a unique plan never tried before. But still they wait, hoping the Lacedaemonians will arrive in time to join them.

"Unknown to them the Empire has decided to move. Leaving one large force to destroy the small army of Hellenes, they embark a second force under cover of darkness, and sail toward Athens, ten hours away, to conquer the defenseless city.

"When the Athenians learn what has happened, they decide to attack immediately, though they have no cavalry or archers, and are so outnumbered that victory appears impossible and death seems certain."

Nestor's staff is like the sound of death, loud, implacable. Drawn against his will, Peisistratus abandoned his game, and approached the hearth, where he leaned, listening. Nestor glanced at him, and continued his account with driving force.

"Athenians and Plataeans pull breastplates over their tunics, fasten greaves over their shins, and helmets on their heads, and buckle short swords to their belts. Each man carries a long spear in his right hand, and slips his left arm through the central thong on his round shield, grasping a handle on the shield's rim with his left hand. They deploy in the locked shield formation of the phalanx. Each man depends on the strength and courage of the man standing at his side and in front of him. To his left stands the man whose shield will cover him, and to his right, and behind him, the man he will cover, and defend with his life. A little sweat, from the anxiety natural before a battle, trickles behind the back of a man's knees, or under an arm.

"Drilling has made their movements precise, but to maintain cohesion, a phalanx usually walks into battle marching in time to flute players. There is no time for that now. If they walk, the enemy archers will decimate them.  They have to cover the ground fast, and win quickly, so they can return over the miles that separate them from Athens, and defend their city. Their hope of victory rests on just two things: Miltiades' new and risky strategy, invented in response to the facts on the ground, and their willingness to die for their freedom.

"It is around six in the morning. The Athenians and Plataeans move out in a line that stretches the length of the Empire's line. It is a very thin line. With Miltiades' strategy in mind, they have deliberately thinned their center and deepened their wings."

This was not the account in Herodotus as Socrates remembered it. Herodotus did not seem to understand the strategy on the ground, but it was very clear to Nestor.

"At a signal the Athenians and Plataeans attack the forces of Empire at a dead run. Seeing the small numbers of Hellenes charging them, the invaders laugh in derision, but the Athenians and Plataeans race under their arrows, hit them hard, and fight with unsurpassed courage. They must not only win, they must win quickly if they are going to save Athens. The thin Athenian center fights bravely shoulder to shoulder, holding the line, while the wings try to break the divisions opposing them. When the Athenian and Plataean wings finally rout the forces of Empire, the Athenian center begins to cave, falling back, and drawing the forces of Empire in. As they do, the Athenian and Plataean wings wheel and swing together to envelop the invaders. They encircle them, and still fighting shoulder to shoulder they drive them back into the sea."

For one breaking moment Nestor is silent. Then, "The battle has taken three hours. There is no time for the Athenians to rest. The invaders has thousands of men in reserve, and their ships are approaching Athens. The Athenians detach one division to recover the bodies of their dead and guard prisoners. They race back to Athens, and line up in phalanx formation shoulder to shoulder on the beaches outside the city, prepared to fight to the end. Approaching by ship, the forces of Empire see them standing before the walls of Athens, shoulder to shoulder, in the sea light. They gaze at them, and sail away."

Shoulder to shoulder. The words were ringing inside Socrates, a slow, deep ringing that spoke to him of the thing he longed to know.

Peisistratus said sneeringly, "And now, Socrates, he will tell you all about the god who stands with you shoulder to shoulder if only you will just contemplate."

Socrates stared at Peisistratus in surprise, and saw an unpleasant reflection of his own resistance.

Neither Diotima nor Nestor spoke, but Telemachus answered the wounding words, saying evenly to his brother, "Have you ever known our father to lie?"

"Not knowingly," Peisistratus said angrily, "but his truth is not mine. I have never experienced the god he talks about."

"Is that his fault or yours?" asked Telemachus.

"And I suppose you have!"

And again Socrates saw himself, for Peisistratus appeared to combine fear with a longing to know the very thing he dismissed. "Even if you never experienced anything, you wouldn't admit it," Peisistratus flung at his brother.

Telemachus was on his feet, his dog standing at his knee. He looked pale with emotion, but he did not respond to Peisistratus' gibe. Their father looked pained. To Socrates' surprise, Diotima gazed at Peisistratus with affection.

"I think we should talk about this outside," Telemachus said. "We are insulting our guest."

"He can handle it," said Peisistratus. "He's interested in discovering the truth, remember?"

"He's not interested in your truth," Telemachus said quietly, "or mine, but in a truth he can test."

"Good luck to him then." Peisistratus said, and glowered from under his brows.

"Good luck to you when I pin you in wrestling," Telemachus said cooly.

"Not a chance."

"You don't think so? Prove it," Telemachus said, smiling at his brother.

Peisistratus' anger vanished. He was like a dancer who had leaped through a burning hoop, and now, bounding upright on his feet, was laughing at his horrified audience. His whole manner was transformed. "You're in trouble now," he told Telemachus, and in another moment they were exuberantly exiting the hall, each promising the other defeat, and the dog was trotting at their heels.

"I apologize," Nestor said, after they left.

"No apology is necessary," Socrates answered. "As you saw so clearly, I share your older son's resistance. Ask me to contemplate, and I'd rather pick up stones."

He glanced at Diotima, and met her eyes, and as he gazed felt his hands open, and the stones fall from his hands.

"I don't think I understand the story of Marathon," he said, turning back to Nestor. "Are you saying I need courage to contemplate, or a rational plan, or a friend to stand shoulder to shoulder with me? Why would anyone compare contemplation with going into battle against overwhelming odds?"

"Why, indeed?" murmured Diotima. "It would not be the story Nestor would choose to tell me if he were urging me to contemplate." And Socrates heard her, and laughed.

He asked a different question: "Why contemplate? What good does it do?"

Diotima shook her head, and said, "Contemplation cannot be done in the hope of achieving anything."

"Yet great things may be accomplished," said Nestor, apparently contradicting her. "No man who picks up his sword will necessarily fight or win a battle, but unless he picks up a sword he never will. No man who ploughs his ground has any guarantee of a harvest, but unless he ploughs the ground he has no chance of bringing in a crop. No man will play music unless he first learns to play."

"Your advice seems a bit contradictory, but I'll try to keep your idea and Diotima's in mind," Socrates said dryly.

"It would be better if you forgot all our ideas, and your ideas, too," Nestor said strongly.

"What am I supposed to do then?" Socrates asked in frustration. "Become a dog?"

Diotima laughed, and said gently, "If only we could contemplate the god as a dog contemplates a man, and sees him as marvellous in his eyes. If the men gets up from his seat, the dog immediately gets up to follow him. He protects him. If need be he gives his life for him without regret or hesitation. His only grief is to lose the man. If the man leaves him, he waits faithfully for him to return, never counting the cost, never resentful or sulky, always full of joy at his return, as if to say, 'You found your way home!' If only we could love as Argus loved, watching and listening at the gate all those long, interminable years for the man he loved."

It was one of his favorite stories, and when she stopped speaking, he held her eyes, and said, "One day Argus hears the beloved voice, he smells the man’s dear scent, and dimly sees him enter the gate. He tries to drag himself toward him, wagging his tail and dropping his ears, but nearer to Odysseus he cannot move. And Odysseus looks away, and wipes away a tear. He is concerned his old dog will expose him to his enemies, and walks past him without stopping, and Argus puts down his head, and dies."

"Yes," she said softly.

And Socrates knew what she was saying. He must bring to contemplation a love that gave everything, and expected nothing in return; a love so great even love's absence could not persuade it not to love; a love so empty of self that love filled it as easily and naturally as a spring of water fills a pool.

With a feeling of cold anxiety he doubted he could manage a love like this even if a mere dog could. He saw now that the men at Marathon had loved, but he did not think he could love the unknown god as they had loved each other and their freedom.

And she, reading the thoughts so plainly on his face, stood up, and he followed suit. Melissa approached down the torch-lit hall, carrying a mixing bowl, and joined them as he and Nestor, leaning on his staff, followed Diotima outside.

He stood silently beside Diotima in the dark court under the bright stars, and she said quietly, "You know how a man calls a dog with a word. In the same way, when you become distracted, and your mind runs off, call yourself back with a word."

Then standing by the altar she mixed the wine, and poured the libation. As he watched, Diotima and Nestor and Melissa closed their eyes. Gamely if awkwardly he followed suit.

Behind his closed eyes he thought, she asks me to contemplate, and she says to contemplate is to love the god, but that is the problem: How do I love the god I do not know? If I were to follow the dog's example, I would merely stand, and contemplate, and wait for the god without asking questions and getting my mind worked up. But even the dog knew the man he hoped to see. The dog had been given a reason to love. He had seen and heard the man. He had been with him.

Shifting impatiently he was conscious of the deep silence of those standing shoulder to shoulder with him under the stars. Faintly from the stable came the voices of Nestor's sons wrestling. Unknown to Socrates, the keeper of the lodge had crept stealthily to the door, and was staring at the four of them.

TO NEXT CHAPTER

©2006 CATHERINE GLASS