The faun nodded and again bared horselike teeth.
'I'd give them what they want, if only this once! Those poor innocent ephebes! Don't you think . . .' He turned towards Heracles, but found empty space.
The Decipherer was walking away, clumsily avoiding the people who stood chatting in the square. He felt dazed, almost dizzy, as if he'd been asleep for a long time and had awoken in a city he didn't know. But as his thoughts raced on, the charioteer in his brain kept a tight grip on the reins. What was going on? He was beginning to see something illogical in all this. Or maybe it had never been logical, and only now was the mistake becoming apparent...
He thought of Menaechmus. He saw him in the forest, beating Tramachus until he was dead or unconscious, leaving him to be devoured by wild beasts. He saw him
murdering Euneos and, out of fear or prudence, mutilating and disguising the corpse to hide his crime. He saw him savagely stabbing Antisus and the slave Eumarchus, whom he'd no doubt caught spying on them. He saw him at the trial, smiling, admitting to all the murders. Here I am, Menaechmus of Carisio. I did everything I could to avoid being caught, but now ... what does it matter? I am guilty. I killed Tramachus, Euneos, Antisus, and Eumarchus. I fled but then I handed myself in. Sentence me. I am guilty.
Antisus and Yasintra had accused Menaechmus ... But now Menaechmus was delivering himself into the hands of death! He must have lost his mind ... But if so, it had happened only recently. He hadn't behaved like a madman when he arranged to meet Tramachus in the forest, far from the City. Or when he contrived Euneos' 'suicide'. He'd shown great cunning in both cases and been an opponent worthy of a Decipherer. But now . . . now it seemed as if nothing mattered to him! Why?
There was something wrong with his meticulously constructed theory. And that something was . . . everything. The great edifice of reasoning, the structure of inferences, the harmonious framework of causes and effects ... He was wrong, he had been from the start. But what tormented him was the certainty that he had reasoned it out correctly, that he hadn't overlooked any important details, that he had followed every single clue . . . And this was the cause of the anxiety that was devouring him! If his reasoning was correct, why was he wrong? Could it be, as his client Diagoras claimed, that irrational truths really did exist?
This last thought interested him much more than the previous ones. He stopped and looked up at the symmetrical summit of the Acropolis, gleaming white in the afternoon sun. He observed the wonder of the Parthenon, the slender, precise, marble structure, the beautiful purity of its lines - the tribute of an entire people to the rules of logic. Might there be truths that opposed its concise, definitive beauty? Erratic, deformed, absurd truths that shone from within? Truths as dark as caves, as sudden as lightning, as unyielding as wild horses? Truths that eyes could not see, that were neither written words nor images, truths that could not be understood, expressed, translated, or even sensed, other than through dreams or madness? A cold feeling of vertigo seized him and he staggered, bewildered, like a man who suddenly finds that he no longer understands his native language. For one terrible moment he felt exiled from himself. But then he grasped the reins of his mind, the sweat on his skin dried, the beating of his heart slowed, and his Greek integrity returned to his person. He was Heracles Pontor, Decipherer of Enigmas, once more.
A commotion in the square drew his attention. Several men were shouting in unison, but they restrained their cries when one of them, mounting a pile of stones, declared that enough was enough, they could bear it no longer. 'The archon will help the peasants even if the Assembly won't!' declared the man.
'What's going on?' Heracles asked the person nearest to him, an old man wearing a combination of rags and skins and smelling of horses, his slovenly appearance finished off with a cloudy eye and several missing teeth.
'What's going on?' the old man spat back at him. 'If the archon won't protect the peasants of Attica, no one will!'
'The Athenian people definitely won't!' put in another, similar-looking but slightly younger man.
'Peasants killed by wolves!' added the first man, fixing his healthy eye on Heracles. 'That's already four this moon! And the soldiers won't do a thing! We've come to the City to speak to the archon and request his protection!'
'One of them was my friend,' said a third man. This one was thin and devoured by mange. 'His name was Mopsus. I found his body! Wolves had eaten his heart!'
The three men continued shouting at Heracles, as if he were responsible for their misfortunes, but he was no longer listening. Something - an idea - was beginning to take shape in his mind.
And suddenly the Truth seemed to reveal itself to him at last. And he was overcome with horror.93
93 The Truth? What is the Truth? Oh, Heracles Pontor, Decipherer of Enigmas, tell it to me! I'm going blind from deciphering your thoughts, trying to find some truth, however small, but I find nothing but eidetic images, horses that eat human flesh, oxen with a shambling gait, a poor young girl with a lily who disappeared pages ago, and a translator who comes and goes, who's as inscrutable and enigmatic as the madman who's locked me in here. You, at least, Heracles, have discovered something, but I . . . What have I found out? What was the cause of Montalo's death? Why have I been kidnapped? What is the secret hidden inside this book? I haven't worked any of it out! All I do, apart from translate, is cry, hanker after my freedom, think about food . . . and defecate. At least I'm having good bowel movements now. That keeps my spirits up. (T.'sN.)
Just before dusk, Diagoras decided to go to the Academy, even though classes had been cancelled. He needed to soothe his spirits, to take refuge in the precise calm of his beloved school. He knew, too, that if he remained in the City he would become the target of questions and idle remarks, and it was what he least wanted just then. As soon as he set off, he was glad of his decision - simply getting out of Athens made him feel better. It was a beautiful evening, the air was cooling as the winter sun set, and the birds offered him their song without even requiring that he stop to listen. As he entered the forest, he filled his lungs with air and managed to smile ... in spite of everything.
His thoughts returned again and again to the harsh test he'd just endured. The crowd had been lenient with his testimony, but what had Plato and his colleagues thought? Diagoras hadn't asked. In fact, he'd hardly spoken to them after the trial. He'd left hurriedly, not even daring to look questioningly into their eyes. He didn't need to. Deep down, he already knew what they thought. He'd failed in his duty as a teacher. He'd allowed three colts to get away. What's more, he'd privately engaged a Decipherer and kept his findings to himself. He'd actually lied! He'd risked gravely damaging a family's reputation in order to protect the Academy. Oh, by Zeus! How could it have happened? What had driven him to declare so shamelessly that poor Euneos mutilated himself? The burning memory of his calumny devoured his peace of mind.
He stopped upon reaching the white portico with the two niches and unknown busts. 'May no one enter without knowledge of Geometry,' ran the legend carved in stone. 'May no one enter lest he loves the Truth,' thought Diagoras in torment. May no one enter who is capable of vile lies that harm others. Would he dare enter or would he turn back? Was he worthy of crossing that threshold? A warm trail ran slowly down his flushed cheek. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth furiously, like a horse taking the bit in its teeth to wrest control from the charioteer. No, I'm not worthy, he thought.
Suddenly he heard someone call him: 'Diagoras, wait!'
It was Plato, approaching the portico. It would seem he had followed him the entire way. The director of the school strode up to Diagoras and put a sturdy arm around his shoulders. They went through the portico together and into the garden. Among the olive trees a jet-black mare and two dozen emerald green flies were fighting over some rotting pieces of meat.94
94 The absurd image - a mare eating rotting flesh, and in the garden of the Academy! - is there to emphasise the eidesis. It made me laugh so hard that I sca
red myself, but then that made me laugh too. I threw the papers on the floor, gripped my belly with both hands and laughed louder and louder. Meanwhile, the mirror in my mind showed me the reflection of a middle-aged man with thinning black hair laughing his head off, alone in a locked and darkened room. By now I was crying, not laughing, but then there is a strange point at which the distinction blurs. A carnivorous mare in Plato's Academy! Isn't that funny? And, of course, neither Plato nor Diagoras can sec it! There is something perversely irreverent about the eidesis . . . Montalo says: 'The presence of the animal is disconcerting. Historical sources make no mention of carnivorous mares in the gardens of the Academy. An error, like many committed by Herodotus?' Herodotus! Please! I must stop laughing - uncontrollable laughter is said to be a sign of incipient madness. (T.'s N.)
'Is the trial over?' Plato asked.
Diagoras thought he was making fun of him. 'You know it is, for you were in the crowd,' he said.
Plato laughed quietly, though with his huge body it came out at normal volume. 'I don't mean Menaechmus' trial, I mean Diagoras'. Is it over yet?'
Diagoras understood, and appreciated Plato's perceptive-ness. Attempting to smile, he replied: 'I think so, Plato, but I fear the judges are inclined to condemn the accused.'
The judges are too harsh. You did what you thought right, which is all a wise man can do.'
'But I kept what I knew secret for far too long ... and Antisus suffered the consequences. And Euneos' family will never forgive me for besmirching their son's arete, his virtue . . .'
Plato narrowed his big grey eyes and said: 'Sometimes, something useful and worthwhile comes of evil, Diagoras. I'm sure that Menaechmus would not have been caught had he not committed his last, horrifying crime. Euneos and his family have recovered all their arete, and have even risen higher in people's eyes, for we now know that our student was not guilty, but only a victim.'
He paused and expanded his chest as if about to shout. Gazing at the clear gold sunset, he added: 'It is right, however, that you should listen to the complaints of your soul, Diagoras. After all, you lied, you concealed the truth. Both have had beneficial consequences in the end, but we mustn't forget that they were bad intrinsically, in themselves.'
'I know, Plato. That is why I no longer consider myself worthy of seeking Virtue in this sacred place.'
'On the contrary. You are now better qualified to seek it than any of us, for you have found new paths to lead you there. Error is a form of wisdom, Diagoras. Wrong decisions are solemn teachers that influence future decisions. Warning against doing wrong is far more important than tersely advising as to what is right. And who better to learn what he should not do than the man who has tasted the bitter consequences of having done so?'
Diagoras stopped and filled his lungs with the fragrant air of the garden. He felt calmer, less guilty, for the words of the founder of the Academy were balm to his wounds. Two paces away, the mare seemed to smile at him as she tore carnivorously into the meat.
He didn't know why, but he suddenly remembered the chilling smile on Menaechmus' lips as he pleaded guilty at the trial.95 And out of curiosity, and a desire to change the subject, he asked: 'What drives men to behave as Menaechmus did, Plato? What reduces us to the level of beasts?'
95 He doesn't know why? This makes me want to laugh again! The eidetic images clearly often seep into Diagoras' mind (though, strangely, never into Heracles'; he sees only what his eyes see). The 'mare's smile' has become the memory of Menaechmus' smile. (T.'sN.)
The mare snorted and attacked the last bloody pieces of meat.
'Our passions leave us bewildered,' said Plato, after a moment's thought. 'Virtue requires an effort, which is pleasant and rewarding over the long term, but passions are immediate desire. They blind us, they stop us thinking clearly . . . Men who, like Menaechmus, allow themselves to be swept along by instant pleasures don't see that virtue provides a much more lasting and useful form of gratification. Evil is nothing but ignorance. Ignorance, pure and simple. If we were all aware of the benefits of virtue and could use our reason in time, we would never voluntarily choose evil.'
The mare snorted again, spraying blood. She appeared to roar with laughter, her thick red lips shaking.
Diagoras said pensively: 'I sometimes think that evil is making fun of us, Plato. I lose hope, and end up believing that wickedness will defeat us, laughing at our efforts. It will be waiting for us at the end and have the last word . . .'
'Huii, huii’ went the mare.
'What was that?' asked Plato.
'There’ pointed Diagoras. 'A blackbird.'
'Huii, huii’ went the blackbird again, and flew away.96
96 The metamorphosis of the eidetic mare into a real blackbird (I mean a blackbird belonging to the reality of the novel) underlines the mysterious message of this scene. Is evil mocking the philosophers? It must be remembered that blackbirds are black . .. (T.'s N.)
Diagoras and Plato exchanged a few more words before bidding each other farewell in a most friendly manner. Plato went to his modest dwelling by the gymnasium, while Diagoras headed towards the school building. He felt satisfied yet anxious, as always after a talk with Plato. He was burning with the desire to put into practice all that he felt he had learned. He felt that life would start afresh the following day. The experience would teach him not to neglect any of his students, to speak up when necessary, to act as a confidant, certainly, but also as a teacher and adviser. Tramachus, Euneos and Antisus were three serious mistakes that he would never repeat!
As he entered the cool, dark hallway, he heard a sound in the library and frowned.
The Academy library was a large-windowed room. A short corridor to the right of the main entrance led into it. The door was open, which was surprising, because classes had been cancelled and students didn't usually spend holidays consulting texts. Perhaps some tutor . . .
He approached confidently and put his head around the door.
Scraps of light from the sun's evening banquet came through the windows. The tables by the door were empty, the next ones, too, and at the back . . . one of the tables was covered with scrolls, but the chair was empty. And nothing seemed to have been moved from the shelves where the philosophical texts (among them, several copies of Plato's Dialogues), together with works of poetry and drama, were carefully stored. 'Wait, what about over there, on the left... ?'
There was a man in the corner. He was crouching, searching the lower shelves, which was why Diagoras hadn't noticed him at first. The man stood up suddenly, holding a papyrus, and Diagoras recognised him before he looked round. 'Heracles!'
The Decipherer turned with unusual speed, like a horse lashed by a whip. 'Oh, it's you, Diagoras! When you invited me here for dinner I made the acquaintance of a couple of slaves, and they let me into the library today. Don't be angry with them ... or with me, of course.'
The philosopher thought Heracles must be unwell, such was his extreme pallor. 'But why—'
'By Zeus' sacred aegis,' interrupted Heracles, shaking, 'we face a strange and powerful evil, Diagoras. An evil as unfathomable as the gorges of Pontus that grows darker the deeper into it we fall. We've been deceived!'
And just as charioteers are said to talk to their horses during races, Heracles spoke very fast, busying himself all the while unrolling and rolling up scrolls, putting them back on the shelves. His fat hands and his voice were trembling. He went on angrily: 'We've been used, Diagoras, both of us, to stage a horrifying farce. A Lenaean comedy, but with a tragic ending!'
'What are you talking about?'
'About Menaechmus, and Tramachus' death, and the wolves of Lycabettus . . . That's what I'm talking about!'
'You surely don't mean that Menaechmus is innocent?'
'Oh, no, no, he's guilty, more guilty than destructive desire! But. . . but. . .' He stopped and put his fist to his mouth. He added: 'I'll explain everything in due course. But I have to go somewhere tonight. I'd like you to accompany me,
but I warn you, what we'll see there will not be pleasant!'
'I'll come,' said Diagoras. 'I'd cross the Styx, if it would help to find the source of the deception of which you speak. Just tell me this: it has to do with Menaechmus, has it not? He was smiling as he confessed his guilt. It must mean he intends to escape!'
'No,' retorted Heracles. 'Menaechmus smiled as he confessed because he does not intend to get away.' And at Diagoras' look of amazement, he added: 'That's how we've been deceived!'97
97 He entered wearing a different mask (a smiling, male face, this time). I got up from the desk.
'Have you found the final key yet?' His voice sounded muffled behind the mocking face.
'Who are you?'
'I'm the question,' answered my jailer. And he said again: 'Have you found the final key yet?' 'Let me out of here.'
'When you find the key. Have you found it yet?'
'No!' I shouted, losing my temper, the eidetic reins of my equanimity. 'The eidesis refers to the Labours of Hercules . . . and a girl with a lily, and a translator . . . but I don't know what any of it means! I—'