The Orpheus Descent (10 page)

Lily made it six of them on the dig: her, Richard and Julian, Charis, Adam and Jonah. Jonah hadn’t realised how much the others had been waiting for her until she arrived. Those first three days, they looked like a closed circle, sufficient with each other, not much interested in him. It was only when she got there that he saw the change. As if they’d all been holding something back. Lily was the one who made sense of the group, the hub at the centre. Much later, he wondered if they even liked each other much without her.

Because picking broken pots out of the ground didn’t tax his concentration, he had plenty of time to think about the others. Even the way they dressed was totally different, to each other or anyone else he knew back home. Richard wore long-sleeved shirts and a ridiculous Panama hat to keep the sun off; Charis exposed every inch of her golden body that she could get away with. Julian, twenty going on forty, dressed like a banker on casual Friday. Adam wore nothing but black, even shovelling soil in the Greek midday heat. Jonah would have said good riddance to all of them – if Lily hadn’t shown up.

It was hard to prise them apart at first. Always in and out of each other’s rooms, rubbing sunscreen on each other’s backs, clambering over each other in the sea. The first day, he thought Lily and Adam were an item; the next, perhaps Lily and Julian. Richard, he assumed, was gay. Through all of it, Jonah sat apart with his headphones on, watching and wondering.

Sunday was a day off: they’d hired a car to go and visit Delphi. They’d spoken about it all week and never included Jonah, but after breakfast that morning, Lily found him in the lobby.

‘Are you coming?’

‘Is there space?’

‘They can squeeze up.’ She grinned. ‘You might have to get out on the hills and push.’

Lily drove. Jonah, being the oldest and tallest, got the passenger seat. The other four crammed into the back; Charis sat on Julian’s lap. They wound down the windows and turned up the radio, a Greek station that seemed to have fallen through a
1970
s timewarp. ‘Don’t Bring Me Down’, sang the Electric Light Orchestra. Richard fretted about pollen. Adam hunched over the guidebook.

‘The oracle at Delphi issued its prophecies for over eight hundred years. Incredible, when you think about it.’

‘Mystic Meg,’ said Julian. ‘She was high as a kite.’

‘The temple’s built on a geological fault.’ Richard fiddled with his hat. ‘Ethylene fumes seeped out and the oracle breathed them in.’

‘Richard’s got an explanation for everything,’ Lily told Jonah. ‘No romance.’

‘Archaeology’s the search for fact …’ Richard began.

‘If it’s truth you’re looking for, Doctor Tyree’s philosophy class is right down the hall,’ they all chorused.

In ancient times, the Delphic oracle had been big business – a cross between Mecca and the United Nations, according to the guidebook, a huge complex spilling down the slopes of Mount Parnassus. They started off together, but gradually the sheer size of the site separated them. Julian and Charis drifted ahead, Richard and Adam wanted to pore over every scrap of marble. By the time they reached the temple of Apollo, Jonah and Lily were alone. It was just past noon, and the sun was brutal. Most of the tourists had gone back to their buses, or down to the café to get a Slush Puppie. It felt as though they had the whole site to themselves.

Lily sat on a fallen piece of masonry and considered the temple. Half a dozen ribbed columns stood at one end; otherwise, all that had survived was the base. Even that was big enough: as long as a cathedral, built of stones as big as cars. A hole at the far end showed where the oracle had once sat in her cave and given the answers that defined her civilisation.

‘If you only had one question, what would you ask her?’

Jonah looked into Lily’s eyes, shaded under the brim of her hat.

‘You’d have to be careful, though,’ Lily warned. ‘Sometimes her answers were trickier than the questions.’

‘I’d ask if she had a date.’

Lily laughed. ‘I think she was supposed to be celibate. Otherwise, the whole vision thing didn’t work.’

She stood and pirouetted away, heading further up the mountain. Jonah stood in the dust, wondering if he’d blown his chance, offended her, if she’d even noticed?

Three steps later, she looked back.

‘She doesn’t, by the way.’

He sat by the river with his laptop. His finger trembled as he tapped out the words on the screen.

MISSING PERSONS

Why
persons
? It was a phrase that somehow arrived fully formed in his consciousness, a cultural shorthand. Was it so common that society needed a shorthand?

Common enough that the government had a whole section of their website devoted to it. It told him to report the case to the Foreign Office. He went in and dialled the number they gave, hovering over the last digit so long the phone gave up. Like being a teenager, calling the girl who’d broken your heart. He tried again.

He told the switchboard what he wanted and they put him through to a young voice called Martin. Martin offered scripted sympathy and took Lily’s name, description, last known location.

‘Do you know her passport number?’

‘She had it with her.’

‘A mobile phone number? An e-mail?’

He gave both. ‘But she’s not been answering her phone. I think someone’s using it to send fake text messages.’

Did that sound crazy? Martin acted as if he hadn’t said it. ‘You need to make a full statement to the police. They’ll pass it to Interpol, who’ll contact the Italians. The local police in Sibari will lead any investigation.’

It was all too slow. Did they think they’d find her by filling in forms and passing them from desk to desk. ‘Can’t I go back and report it directly?’ Not that he had a lot of faith in the Italian police.

‘You can go out, of course. But you ought to think about what you might achieve. Do you speak Italian? We wouldn’t be able to help you out there, or provide any resources. It’s entirely in the Italians’ hands.’

‘Are you saying there’s nothing I can do?’

‘We can arrange a statement to the media. We can also arrange for flyers or posters to be distributed in the area.’

Flyers and posters
. Was that the best they could do? Bedraggled sheets of A
4
taped to a lamppost, as if he was looking for a lost kitten.

‘Whatever you decide,’ Martin continued. ‘Contact your local police first. That’ll get the ball rolling.’

‘Right.’

But Martin still had more of the script to get through. The fine print. ‘Of course, one has to remember that sometimes people go missing because they choose to. That they may not want you to know where they are. If that’s the case, we can’t tell you their whereabouts even if we do find them.’

‘
Choose to go missing?
’ Jonah echoed.

‘Though we would certainly tell you if we discovered they were alive and well.’ He turned the page of his script and his voice brightened. ‘Tens of thousands of people are reported missing every year, you know. For most, there’s a harmless explanation and the cases are quickly resolved.’

Anyone
with an ounce of common sense will do his utmost to steer clear of any crime involving foreigners.

Plato,
Laws

I stared into the broken-mouthed tomb. The poplars shivered in the wind; the long grass whispered its secrets. I half convinced myself I could hear some dreadful creature slithering down the tunnel, drawn to the light.

‘You think Agathon did this?’ I mumbled.

‘It happened the night he left.’

A piece of the clay slab that had closed the tomb lay by my feet. I picked it up. A hooded woman sat on a throne: I guessed it was Persephone, though the broken tablet had torn off her face.

‘That doesn’t prove—’

‘A mourner had come here to light a grave lamp. She saw him.’

I didn’t know what to say. ‘Who’s buried here?’ We were a long way from the public necropolis I’d seen on the approach to Taras, or the grand monuments that lined the road. A private place.

‘Someone who died a long time ago.’

‘Then what did Agathon think he’d find?’ The tomb yawned black, an open question. ‘Were these Pythagoreans?’

‘They belong to a religion which is older than Pythagoras.’ Archytas picked a pair of asphodels and laid them across the tomb’s entrance. An apology. ‘Pythagoras wasn’t enough. Agathon wanted to go further, to find what came before. The source of Pythagoras’ ideas.’

‘What was that?’

A firm stare. ‘I couldn’t tell him.’

We walked back in silence, except for the buzz of flies and the croak of crows from a split cypress tree. It didn’t surprise me that when we got to the road, Archytas turned towards Taras. He’d shown me what I needed to see.

‘Did Agathon find what he wanted in that tomb?’ I said quickly. Euphemus was fussing with the saddlebags. For a last, brief moment, I had Archytas to myself.

‘No.’

‘So where will he look next?’

‘Are you going to follow him?’

‘That’s what I came for.’ And everything I’d heard since I got there suggested he was in some awful kind of trouble.

Archytas rubbed a smudge of dust from the neck of his tunic.

‘Let me ask you a hypothetical question,’ he said. ‘Imagine the gods gave you mechanical wings, and you flew into the air, past the sun and the planets and the stars, all the way to the very edge of the universe. And as you stood there, you raised your arm and tried to push it beyond the limit. What would happen?’

‘I don’t know.’ I thought about it. ‘If I was at the very edge of the universe, I suppose my arm wouldn’t be able to go any further.’

‘But what could block it? A wall, some sort of barrier beyond?’

I saw the problem. ‘Then that would be part of the universe, too – so I wouldn’t be at the absolute limit.’

‘But if your arm went through, then there would have to be space beyond for it to go into. So, again, you wouldn’t really be at the limit either.’

It sounded suspiciously like sophistry to me. I gave him a hard look. ‘Is there an answer to the riddle?’

‘It’s a paradox. There is no answer.’ He met my gaze, forcing my doubts back on me. ‘As for the meaning …’

Whatever he was going to say, he thought better of it.

‘Something for you to think about on the road.’

‘And Agathon?’ I prompted, reminding him of my original question.

‘Try your stepbrother’s house in Thurii.’

I could see he was eager to go. But just before he went, a final, unexplained question jumped into my mind.

‘Did Agathon ever mention a book he wanted to buy? Something expensive, probably rare?’

A curt shake of his head. ‘He never mentioned a book.’

It seemed like the longest, flattest road in the world. The land merged with the sea, and then the sea with the sky, to make a perfect geometric plane, uncluttered by any solid object. At least I had space to think. Mile after mile through the heat and tedium, I continued the silent conversation I’ve been having for ten years.

Socrates: Are you regretting coming to Italy yet?

Me: I’m worried about Agathon.

Socrates: The business with the tomb?

Me: It makes no sense. Agathon wouldn’t steal. And he’d never desecrate a grave.

Socrates: Because he’s a good man?

Me: Yes.

Socrates: And a good man …

Me: … would never do something he knew was bad. You drilled that into me.

Socrates: But he might do a bad thing that he mistakenly believed was good, wouldn’t you say?

Me: Agathon knows right from wrong. He’s obsessed with doing the right thing.

Socrates: But does it seem to you that when a man does something, he wants the thing he’s doing for its own sake, or for the sake of what he’s trying to achieve? For example, when you sailed to Italy, did you want the hazards of the voyage and the hardships of travel, or did you want to find Agathon?

Me: I assume that’s a rhetorical question.

Socrates: And isn’t that always the case? When a man does something, he wants the end and not the means?

Me: Certainly.

Socrates: And what is the object of every action?

Me: From previous conversations we’ve had, I’d say it has to be something good.

Socrates: So is it possible that Agathon could have committed the act of stealing from the tomb because he believed it was better to do so than not?

Me: I suppose so.

Socrates: Because he aimed at some good.

Me: Yes.

Socrates: And what is the supreme good?

Me: Wisdom.

I trudged on, leading my mule by the bridle to give it a rest. I was sweating, and only partly from the midday heat. Dark images blotted my mind; the faceless goddess lingered at the back of my thoughts. I tried to distract myself by looking at the landscape, but there was nothing in that monotony to get hold of.

Socrates: On the subject of wisdom, what did you think of your first encounter with the Pythagoreans?

Me: I thought Archytas made more sense than Eurytus. And I still only understood about half of what he said.

Socrates: Agathon obviously thought they had something worth knowing.

Me: I suppose you’re going to tell me he’s right.

Socrates: Didn’t Heraclitus say there are no certainties in the world because everything is in flux?

Me: You can’t step in the same river twice.

Socrates: But Pythagoras proves there are certainties. A triangle’s corners always add up to
180
degrees.

Me: A doubled string always sounds the octave.

Socrates: So Heraclitus is refuted. You
can
step in the same river twice – if the river is defined mathematically.

Me: That’s just it. I can see mathematics is all very well applied to triangles. But is there a mathematics of virtue? Laws that will tell you the right thing to do, as certainly as they’ll tell you what note will sound harmonious?

Socrates: Why not? Do you think most people can hear music and tell if it’s in tune or not?

Me: Yes.

Socrates: Everyone?

Me: Not everyone. Some people are tone deaf.