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?”
I told him then. It had gone like this: Our circle had gathered in Socrates' cell. A number continued to urge escape. I added my voice. With an escort at arms our master need fear nothing on the highway. He could travel to any sanctuary we, or his friends of other nations, could provide him.
I had been foolish enough to look to a direct answer. Of course the philosopher accorded none. Rather he addressed himself to Crito's son, youngest among us, who sat at his knee along the wall.
“Advise me, Critobulus, may one make distinction between justice and the law?”
A groan escaped my lips of such violence as to evoke mirth from all, not least Socrates. Again I put my case. The time for philosophical debate was over! This was life-and-death. One must act!
It was not Socrates who admonished me, but Crito, his oldest and most devoted friend. “Is that what philosophy is to you, my dear Jason? A pastime for the parlor, with which we divert ourselves while fate clasps us in clemency, but in the hour of extremity cast aside?”
I told them to chastise me all they wished, only heed that course I exhorted. Socrates regarded me with patience, which infuriated me the more. “Do you remember, Crito,” he continued, still not addressing me, “the oration our friend Jason put to the people during the trial of the generals?”
“Indeed I do. And a fire-breather it was!”
Please, I urged our master, do not mock me. For the issue of that day proved my point precisely.
“And how is that, my friend?”
By miscarrying justice! By putting good men to death in madness.
“The demos may summon you back from Elis or Thebes, Socrates, but not from hell.”
“Yes, there's the fire, Jason! The flame you showed that day and the brightest you have burned in all your life. I was proud of you then as of few others before or since.”
This abashed me. I fell silent.
“You spoke of law and charged the people not to despoil it, following Euryptolemus, who had made such an intrepid speech in defense. This was the crime you charged the people with, if memory serves: you declared that jealousy drove the meaner man to destroy the better. Is this correct? I only wish to reiterate precisely, that we may examine the matter and perhaps gain illumination.”
I acknowledged that it was, desiring, however, to return to the matter of escape.
“I believe what distresses you now,” our master resumed, “is that you feel such miscarriage recurring. My own conviction, you warrant, has arisen not from merit of the case, but from hatred felt by men toward one who styles himself their better. Is this correct, Jason?”
“Is this not exactly what has happened?”
“Do you believe the people capable of ruling themselves?”
I replied in the negative, emphatically.
“And who would govern best, in your view?”