"He of wisdom unsurpassed,
Whose words with venom must compete,
Knows that which rules old men and fools,
Though not thyself in thy self-deceit."
"Xenophon of Athens: The Pythian Apollo knows what passeth in thy heart."
At this, Xenophon blinked, and seemed to recoil slightly in silent confusion. He quickly recovered, and again stood at immobile attention while the scribe continued.
"Attempt not to deceive the god with thy mortal lips. Peer deep within thyself, and ask not questions to which thou already knowest the answer, seek not advice which thou dost not intend to obey. Though thy sacrifice has been found worthy, Apollo has rejected thy question and refuses to answer. Ask only that which is of significance to thee."
At this, Xenophon's confidence appeared to flag for an instant. His shoulders slumped, and he gazed over at me again in bewilderment, until I gave a slight shrug, and looked away. He stared down at the floor for what seemed like an eternity. Everyone present in the room, the priests, the scribe, and most especially the Pythia herself, had fixed their unblinking faces on him, again maintaining the utmost silence. Finally he looked up, straightened his shoulders, and stepped forward a pace to stand once more directly in front of the ancient, leathery creature.
"Mighty lord Apollo, I entreat thee, hear my question," he began again using the stock formula. He paused slightly, then continued, his voice hoarse and croaking. "To which god should I sacrifice to make my intended journey to Sardis successful, to fare well upon it, and to return in safety?" This time the Pythia remained calm, her wrinkled face as expressionless as a dried apple. After a moment, what appeared to be a smile crept across her lips, revealing the black, rotten stubs of her two front teeth. Apollo the double-tongued was filling her being, surely weaving a web of words on her lips that would leave us wondering in our confusion, words that would coil and uncoil and meander tangentially to their meaning like a water snake through a bed of reeds. Suddenly, she flung open her dead, frozen eye-lids, revealing behind them not eyes, nor even the watery whites of the blank eyeballs as the blind often show, but what was worse, pure nothingness-black, empty sockets where eyes should have been, like those of a plaster mask worn by an actor, but without the actor's living eyes peering from behind to humanize the eerie, dead quality of the blank surface. Her vacant, cavernous holes penetrated deeply into Xenophon's face, and in reply to his query, she uttered merely one word, in a croak imitating, or mocking, his own voice:
"Zeus."
She continued staring at him as the curtains were drawn back together by the slaves, hiding the leering Pythia from our sight, her empty sockets remaining focused on him until she finally disappeared behind the folds. The attendants stepped forward and took our arms, leading us out from the cool, silent dankness of the temple to the blinding sunlight and raucous shouts of the street vendors setting up their stalls for the festival.
CHAPTER FOUR
SEATED ON A low stool in the semidarkness of Socrates' single room, Xenophon seemed scarcely aware of his surroundings in his agitation. "I wasted my chance," he groaned, his shoulders slumped, his back curved like that of a whipped dog. I had not seen Xenophon this wretched in twenty years. "My one chance to ask the god to guide me in the most important decision of my life, and I asked the wrong question. I can't even tell my father what the oracle said, much less what I am now to do with my life."
Socrates was silent for a moment, puttering about the room, arranging papers and scrolls here and there. As always, there was nothing of reproach in his silence; only thoughtfulness and comfort, like the presence of a beloved grandfather. Xenophon did not stir, nor did I from the corner to which I had retreated, trying to remain as unobtrusive as my large frame would allow.
"You attempted to deceive the god," Socrates said finally, his old satyr's face expressionless. "You asked the question that most closely suited your desires."
"But Socrates," he interrupted, standing up and pacing, "I tried to ask the question you told me to ask. The Pythia stopped me and wouldn't let me proceed! As the gods are my witness, I tried!" He glanced at me, and I nodded slowly, but Socrates did not even bother to look up from his chores.
"Do you know what true wisdom is?" Socrates finally asked, and this time he stood squarely in front of Xenophon, demanding with his posture that the younger man pay complete attention to his words. "Do you truly understand what it is to obey the dictum carved on the temple wall at Delphi, Know Thyself. Listen to me now, and do not interrupt. For once this is not a dialogue. Men call me wise, and you apparently believe I am, or you would not be here now, before even speaking to your father. I will give you advice, as far as I can, and you may do with it what you will.
"Wisdom is far more," Socrates continued, "and what is most important, far less, than you might think, and to that extent men are right-I am indeed wise. But you need not take my word for it. You could, if you wished, look to your friend the god at Delphi as witness to my wisdom, such as it is."
Xenophon looked up in interest, for none of us who had accompanied Socrates in the agora were aware that he had ever consulted the Pythia.
"It was not I who consulted her," he said, as if reading our thoughts, "but rather my boyhood friend, Chaerophon, who many years ago asked the oracle if there was anyone wiser than Socrates. To this the Pythia had replied that there was no one."
I could see in Xenophon's eyes that the same thought had flashed into his mind as into mine: He of wisdom unsurpassed…. What was the rest?…. whose words with venom must compete… That had nothing to do with Socrates; the Pythia's words remained obscure. The old man continued, instructing his fools:
"When Chaerophon told me the oracle's answer, I asked myself, 'Why does the god not use plain language? I realize I have no claim to wisdom, great or small; so what might he mean by saying no one is wiser than I? He cannot be telling a lie; that would not be proper for a god.' After turning this about in my head for some time, I finally resolved to check the truth of it in the following way: I went to speak with a man famous for being wise, because I felt I would then succeed in disproving the oracle and demonstrating to the deity that here was a man wiser than I. Well, I gave this man a thorough examination-I will not tell you his name, but he was one of our politicians at the time-and in speaking with him I concluded that even though in the view of many people, and especially in his own, he appeared to be wise, in fact he was not.
"Xenophon, real wisdom is the property of the gods alone, and the oracle tells us that human wisdom has little or no value. I finally decided that the oracle was not referring literally to me, to this man Socrates, but had rather taken my name as an example, as if to say 'the wisest man is he who, like Socrates, realizes that he truly knows nothing.'
"You know, I once attempted to study the writings of Heraditus the Obscure. What I did understand of them was excellent. I believe also to be excellent that which I did not understand." Socrates smiled at his little joke. "Heraclitus," he went on, "once said that you cannot step into the same river of time twice, and in this he was correct. You cannot have a decision both ways.