One Great Year (24 page)

“I am sent by Red Elder. I come with the knowledge of many past lives,” Plato said boldly.

There was a gasp and the group stirred excitedly. Red Elder was known to them. A path to the door opened up.

Plato walked in silence, led by a priest. They passed through the main sanctuary and, instead of turning toward a hallway that led to the secondary chapel, they proceeded through the building. The ceilings were high and arched, vaulted by enormous rows of stone pillars. Torches and candles burned throughout, and Plato breathed in the sweet, fragrant incense as he walked. He felt the positive energy of his surroundings. He felt the history and the universal connectivity. He knew that this place, like the Great Pyramid of Giza and the earth of Stone-at-Center, was sacred and holy.

The priest guided Plato through a heavily carved wooden door. The walls were hung with woven, colorful tapestries, and the image of the seed of life and other sacred symbols welcomed him. In the center of the round room there was a massive copper scale the size of a large elephant. On the right stood an ancient-looking priest in red and orange robes. Plato felt an overwhelming enigmatic force in the chamber and bowed his head respectfully, consciously filling himself with white light and humility as best he could.

“I come seeking the grace and wisdom of the Oracle,” Plato said. After a moment the wrinkled priest nodded.

“Follow me,” he said, and Plato was ushered through a stone panel that was indistinguishable from the wall around it. The wall shifted easily under the slightest pressure. Plato had been granted audience with the Oracle, and his Marcus-brain was relieved and excited.

Plato entered another chamber, much smaller, barely large enough for him and the tiny woman who sat cross-legged on a small platform draped in a finely woven blanket. The Oracle of Amun wore the skull and horns of a ram on her head, though she looked hardly strong enough to lift the expansive headdress. Her dark ebony skin was mapped with wrinkles and shone with fragrant oils. She was rocking forward and back in a slow rhythm, and she spoke as he took a seat on a well-worn silk pillow directly in front of her.

“Good Emissary, why do you censure yourself so?” the Oracle asked in a strangely deep and masculine voice. She did not look at him directly. Her eyes were rolled up in their sockets with almost none of the pupil and iris visible. He could see only whites that had turned pale yellow and were lined with veins of deep red. Her eyelids fluttered but did not blink, and Plato was unnerved by the demonstration.

“Is it not a wise man who knows his own failing?” Plato answered in the typical Socratic response of a question for a question.

“You have the ancient memory, which I have rarely seen in a seeker. I wonder why you come to me, when you know that the answer is within you?” the low voice rasped.

“Where is Theron?” Plato asked in a rush, the urgency of countless lifetimes plain in his voice. “Will I meet her in this life?”

“Is your question not of your purpose?” the Oracle asked.

“It is—I am lost and feel drowned by my own uselessness, despite my best attempts to live better. If I just know, if I can be sure she will come or will not, I can rest and shed this constant state of vigil.”

“You are one of three in this destiny. Your fates are woven together like the strands of a whip. Your wisdom will be summoned by another and will be instrumental in the initiation of a great boy king.”

“Is it Theron? How? When?” Plato asked.

“Patience,” the Oracle reprimanded sharply. “It is only time … you will find her soon enough. You must return to the place you have loved the most in this lifetime. You must honor a promise forgotten. All will unfold as it should. Situate yourself where you can be found … where you are in service and tutelage of others.”

“I need more. I don't understand,” Plato said.

“You will find your way. You have said that ‘perfection should be life's goal'.”

Plato nodded.

“Do not expect it of yourself. Strive for it but do not berate yourself so. God is within you. Your memories and experiences allow you to grow. Do not look darkly upon them.”

“How can I do more? I am failing.”

“You ask too much,” the Oracle answered abruptly. She stopped her rocking and her eyes stood still. In the whispered, high-pitched croak of an old woman, she sent him away.

Plato was upset with himself, disappointed that he had somehow offended the Oracle and had squandered his final questions. What the Oracle had actually meant was that Plato was asking too much of himself; after all, he was only human.

In the days following, Plato repeatedly contemplated the message from the Oracle. He never doubted the mystic. The perfect parrot-memory that Socrates had lovingly teased him about once again aided him as he replayed the Oracle's responses. He was convinced that he would meet Theron again, and he was determined to do so as soon as possible. He must find the boy king and all would be as it should be. But first he must return to Athens and continue Socrates' legacy.

After his audience with the Oracle, Plato returned to Greece. He carefully recorded the lessons he had learned at the Mystery School while he waited for signs of the boy king. His desire to carry on Socrates' legacy was revived, and in 385 BC he opened a school in the country outside of Athens. The Academy was begun, and Plato took his place as headmaster. He enjoyed leading his students around the grounds in deep discussion, just as Socrates had done.

Despite having successfully moved forward with the Academy, Plato continued to feel that his purpose was incomplete. He asked the Universe for guidance, but the years passed without change or message. The acclaimed Academy flourished and grew. Plato had done as directed by the Oracle. He had returned to the place where he had known love in this lifetime, he had honored his promise to Socrates, and he had placed himself in the service of others. Marcus yearned to be found by Theron.

Plato continued to orate and write, painstakingly recording the philosophical contemplations of his day. He further developed his theories on geometry and contemplated the teachings of the Mystery School.

Many years passed, and Theron's karmic colors did not emerge. Plato progressed through his forties and into his fifties, never marrying. At last, eighteen long years after returning from Egypt, a message finally came. Plato received a letter from his friend Dion of Syracuse in Sicily. The men had met while Plato traveled Italy, prior to going to Egypt. Dion had opened his home to Plato and they had shared wine, conversation, and more than one hearty laugh. Dion was a progressive, spiritual thinker, but it had been his attempts to master the phorminx—a seven-stringed instrument—and his determination to sing along, despite being tone deaf, that most amused Plato and endeared Dion to him.

Dion was the brother-in-law of the Tyrant of Syracuse, and he was soliciting Plato's assistance. He explained that his impressionable young nephew, Dionysius, was poised to assume leadership upon the death of his father. Dion proposed that, with Plato's guidance, Syracuse could someday model the archetype of the ideal state and leadership that Plato had often spoken of. With the proper tutoring and direction, Dionysius could be molded and shaped to become the model philosopher king.

Plato read and reread Dion's letter joyfully. The words of the Oracle, worn out in his head from constant repetition, were new once again. He, Dion, and the boy were three—their destinies could be tied together. The coincidence was too great! The boy might be Theron or could somehow lead him to Theron! It fit … Plato's Marcus-brain was determined to make it fit. Full of hope, Plato left the Academy in capable hands and traveled to Sicily.

Upon arriving in Syracuse, Marcus was downcast to discover that Dionysius was not Theron. Her karmic energy and light continued to elude him, but, determined that the prophecy finally be fulfilled, he ignored his initial disappointment. He would make the scenario fit if he could.

Plato would spend the next ten months schooling the boy. It was during this time that he also further developed his theory of the Platonic solids—the five fundamental, universal elements that he believed made up everything: earth, water, air, fire, and ether. He stated that each one, reduced to its most minute form, would be a single sacred geometric shape.

Dionysius was a quick study and showed great promise in mathematics. Plato taught Dionysius the overwhelming importance of geometry in the order of the world, especially the golden ratio, which he explained was an aesthetically perfect proportion governing everything in the Universe. He showed the boy that the distance from his fingertip to his wrist and his wrist to his elbow was almost exactly the same ratio as the spirals in a nautilus shell are to one another. Plato believed that geometry developed the individual's ability to think abstractly and to go beyond the world of the deceptive and inaccurate senses.

Before long, Dionysius proved to be an overindulged brat who lacked self-control. The student's temper often flared uncontrollably when Plato corrected or challenged him, and he threw papers, pounded his fists, and turned red in the face like a toddler in a rage.

One day, upon having been scolded for an especially destructive outburst during which he tipped over a chair and scattered maps all over the floor, Dionysius verbally attacked Plato.

“Remember who I
am
, tutor. You are
nothing
but a servant here,” Dionysius hissed, his eyes burning with contempt. Plato was startled by the malice in the boy's voice. He understood the spirit of adolescent boys and respected their need to assert themselves, but Dionysius had never addressed him with such disrespect.

“You will never be a wise philosopher king if your theories and rationales have gaping holes in them,” Plato said calmly, his own emotions well-ordered. “Set aside your pride and conceit, and earn the respect you crave.”

“Do not speak to me of
respect
. What respect do
you
deserve? Great men
do
the things they speak of; weak men talk about action in endless dialogues and lectures,” Dionysius snarled. “You are a coward, too afraid to lead after the death of your teacher. You talk to me about his great theories, the great truths, but all of it is talk, talk, talk! You hold yourself up above others with your massive intellect and knowledge, but you
do
nothing! You do not seek office, you do not engage the people, you sit here in my father's court and eat his food and listen to his mania … and you
do
nothing.”

Plato was cut to his core by the remarks, which exposed Marcus's most vulnerable and secret insecurities. Though he had done more in his life as Plato than in any other, he still wondered if he was doing enough.

Plato had seen the malice in Dionysius's deep brown eyes and had recognized the hollow, self-serving cruelty within him. Marcus had seen the same look in Helghul's eyes many years before. As the world continued to descend into the Iron Age, he knew that he would encounter the horrendous Darkness more frequently.

It seemed a simple decision at this point for Plato to return to Athens. However, it was not. On the very night that Plato informed Dionysius's father of his intention to resign, the leader was poisoned. Shockingly, Plato was imprisoned and accused by the son and heir of committing the murder. Plato had been a convenient pawn in the patricide, and he seethed at being so used.

From within his cell, Marcus burned with self-recrimination. How could his judgment have been so flawed? He had time to reflect. The philosopher's initial theory had been proved incorrect. Despite the appearance that his call to Syracuse had been his destiny as described by the Oracle, he now knew it certainly was not. As a result, the venture had been plagued by misfortune and failure, as misguided ambitions always were.

Theron had not been in Sicily, the boy king had been a miserable disappointment, and even though Plato had spent an entire year trying to make an inadequate square fit inside a perfect circle, the boy had never had the potential of becoming a wise philosopher king. Marcus wondered if having past-life memory and his constant searching for Theron had steered him off his path.

Would he do better if he was guided solely by intuition, like the other Emissaries? Did having memory make it possible for Marcus to expedite his path … could it be done? Was anything inevitable besides death? Did his intentions, choices, and consciousness create his world, or was the future set no matter what he did? Plato pondered these questions and more while he waited to be liberated.

With the assistance of his allies in the town, Plato managed to manipulate young Dionysius by spreading rumors and finally arranged his release from prison. Though weary and disillusioned, he boarded a merchant ship, relieved to be returning to Athens.

Plato's sixtieth birthday had come and gone, and his dreams of Theron and the boy king had been dashed. Decades earlier, Red Elder had assured him that he could not force destiny and that the greater plan of the Universe was not his to manipulate or understand. Marcus accepted that advice now. At least for this lifetime, he was prepared to stop searching.

He would continue recording the philosophies, theories, and complex systems that he had spent so many years discussing, debating, and dissecting. What else could he do? He was resigned to letting events unfold as they would. He was tired of wandering blindly. He wondered if the other Emissaries faltered so uncertainly in their lives, feeling such doubt and confusion about what they should be doing, or if it was an agonizing result of having taken the memory potion. Would the works he was laboring over ever matter?

Plato was glad to be returning to his sanctuary. The impressive white stone building stood out from the landscape. It was early in the day, and the morning sun cast beautiful gentle hues over the portico and gardens. His spirits rose, buoyed by the view of it. The steep, wide stairway leading up the hill to the entrance was purposefully designed as an assembly point. He smiled to witness the sea of white togas gathered there, as an enthralled group of students congregated around a central speaker. Above them in the white marble fascia of the building was inscribed “Let no one ignorant of geometry enter.”
¹⁷