2009 ~ The Sad Heights- Kay.H

It is a mythical reading of Socrates trial.

Kay Hassan

When I landed on the shores of Greece, the city of Athens was already alive with restless murmurs and discord. For the first time since exile’s iron mouth unclenched its teeth, I entered the winding heart of my beloved city. The air buzzed with the clamour of voices—some angry, some fearful, and others brimming with anticipation. Rumours raced like wildfire through the narrow streets, carried on the breath of every passerby. I could feel the city’s turmoil pulsing beneath my feet, as if even the very stones whispered of the trials to come.

The streets of Athens stretched before me like a living mosaic—winding paths flanked by columns and modest shops. Dust curled beneath each hurried step, mingling with the scent of fresh olives and simmering herbs. Citizens flowed like currents through the bustling agora, their voices rising in heated argument and idle gossip alike. I was swept along with them, unthinking, pulled toward the Court of the City. The press of bodies bore me through tight alleys, past flickering oil lamps and low murmurs. Stone steps rose ahead, worn smooth by generations, and I climbed them with the others—heart pounding, breath quickening, the city's expectation thrumming in my bones.

At last, I reached the threshold. The Court loomed above—an ancient beast of marble and silence, exhaling cold against my spine. Its columns stood like ribs around a hollow heart, and as I crossed beneath their shadows, I felt the weight of judgment settle over me. Even before dawn had scattered the dark, the people had gathered, drawn by the gravity of the day. In the hush before sunrise, I waited—one among many, yet utterly alone beneath the gaze of stone and the silence of a city.

The trial, I thought, would now begin.

But then came a disturbance—a low rustle swelling into a ripple, and from the heart of the crowd, a voice rose like thunder:
“Socrates... Socrates...”
The name fell like a spear from Olympus.

Even the accusers froze—Anytus, Melletus, Lycon—their mockery curdling on their tongues.
Meletus, the poet, had led the prosecution, accusing Socrates of impiety and of corrupting Athens’ youth. Anytus, the politician, and Lycon, the rhetorician, stood beside him, each bound by their grievances. Anytus hated Socrates for criticizing democracy and for consorting with traitors like Alcibiades and Critias. Lycon feared the philosopher’s challenge to the shallow brilliance of the orators. Together, they painted Socrates not as a thinker, but a threat—an infection within the body of the city.

As the case unfolded, I stood among the five hundred jurors—Dikasts, citizens entrusted with judgment. The air was heavy, dense with history and expectation. Socrates, defiant, met the charges with calm wit, unraveling them thread by thread. His words stirred something deep within me—a flicker of admiration, of doubt, of fear.

Then my turn came.

I rose. My voice rang clear, shaped by long exile and crafted for this moment.
“I am Hector,” I declared,
“Son of Zeus and Pericles—the thunder and the mind—the blood of Olympus and the architect of mortal glory. Peer to kings, flame among the crowned elite of Greece.”

These words were not spoken; they descended—solemn, inevitable—drawn from some deeper place, as if carried on the breath of vanished Titans. The pillars held their breath. I had summoned each syllable from the vaults of my ancestry, where fire slumbers beneath the skin of gods.

For this moment, I adorned myself in the arrogance of legend. I had shaped my rhetoric until it curled like polished bronze around my tongue. I had stood beneath shattered statues of Pallas Athena, staring into her eyeless sockets, daring her to judge me. I had sculpted myself into a figure worthy of divine scrutiny.

In this city—this theatre of illusions—one must not simply speak; one must appear eternal. Here, where gossip drips like nectar from perfumed tongues, and sculptors chisel gods from men and men from marble, truth must wear a mask. A naked truth would rot like fruit unblessed. So I gave them what they wanted—an echo of Pericles, wrapped in gold and fire.

I was not prepared.
I was forged.

Hammered by expectation, tempered by oath, crowned by the heat of that final summer—Athens’ sacred pageant. This tribunal was no trial. It was a rite, a performance, an unveiling of heaven’s will.

Above us, the noblemen hovered like constellations in judgment—men who wove their daily affairs with the whims of Olympus. Their ambition soared beyond mortal bounds, gilded with myth and the belief that they themselves were caretakers of divinity. Athens was their altar. We, its sons, were the offering and the flame.

And yet, even as I stood among them—lion-masked, haloed in illusion—I felt the truth clawing at my bones: I was being consumed. All I was—all Pericles had been—was now currency. My voice, my image, my name: diluted in their wine, offered to feed their fantasy.

I remember the scent of that morning. Cold air, stripped of bloom. The jasmine, narcissus, asphodel—flowers of Elysium—were gone, out of season. In their place: withered stems, barbed herbs, yellowed grass clinging to cracked earth beside the marble gates. Even the gods, it seemed, had held their breath.

I watched from behind my mask of marble. There they sat: the Titans of Athens.
Anytus, son of Anthemion.
Melletus, serpent-tongued.
Lycon, the smiling wolf.
They sat as fates might sit—drinking wine and setting their empty glasses down as though sacrificing silence itself.

Farther down, the guards danced through drills, swords flashing like extensions of will. Boys in white tunics perched on the fences, angelic, wide-eyed, watching with the awe of unborn philosophers.

But beneath the polished calm, chaos reigned. The soul of Athens trembled. Beauty cloaked a fracture. And I, its supposed saviour, felt the tremble in my own hands. My charge was order. My burden: impossible. I was not a man—I was myth. A ghost of Pericles forged in the fires of war, trailed by a thousand lies.

They called me incorruptible.

“Finally,” whispered Anytus, his voice like smoke, “the city shall come to rest.”

“We owe Zeus a heavy sacrifice,” said Melletus, his eyes gleaming with borrowed righteousness.

“A tale must be told...” Lycon murmured, his glance like a blade slicing through me.
“This young general... he does not know the game.”

“He wounds none but himself,” added Melletus, cold and certain.

Lycon smirked. “Better still—he does not know how to enjoy his wounds.”

And in that laughter, I saw my future: not as flame, not as saviour—but as pawn. Their knives were already in place.

And I had not yet spoken.

Right—I thought—because I was not meant for the indulgences of common joy. From the cradle, I had been bound by the old oaths of my bloodline. The family’s law was like a braided curse: sacred, ancestral, unbroken. The pleasures of lesser men—laughter, wine, the thrill of vulgar sport—were forbidden to me. I could mimic their joys, wear their masks, but I could never feel what they felt. Even now, in this trial of an old man, with the city roaring like a beast around me, I remained untouched. I had never breached the ban. Not once.

And yet—I was not alone.

A whisper unfurled against the edge of my ear, warmer than breath, older than language.
"Rumors and gossips may devour you, son."

The voice was sweet, but not of this world—it was the echo of a woman who should have faded into dust long ago. My spine turned to frost. My breath halted.

“Aspasia,” I muttered, as though naming her might dissolve the apparition. “It is not the right time.”

No reply. Just the silence of a memory too vivid to die.

“Aspasia,” I said again, louder. “Aspasia!”

Then I saw her—half-formed at first, rising like smoke made flesh. She stood at the far edge of the court, haloed in the shimmer of unreality, her form flickering as if between this world and the next. Her face contorted with rage, not at me—but at something charging toward her.

Xanthippe’s carriage.

It cut through the crowd like a storm, and Aspasia—struck, but not broken—reeled back with the fury of a goddess denied.

“Zeus Almighty!” she cried, voice like thunder tearing through silk. “Xanthippe still walks the earth, does she?”

Her voice crackled through me like lightning over a parched field.

“The old man will cast you out, Xanthippe,” she snarled.

There was fire in her eyes, not of the hearth, but of Olympus—of vengeance old as creation.

I had never known why Aspasia hated Xanthippe, nor why she loved life so fiercely. But the air between them now bristled with myth—two legacies clashing like empires at the end of time. Nervously, I stepped back.

“Leave this place,” I whispered, barely audible. “You don’t belong here.”

But she ignored me. Her gaze had locked onto something eternal.

Aspasia had mocked duty while alive, danced through the salons of Athens like a tempest, but never lost the scent of truth. Her jealousy, her wit—they had scorched many. I threw a barb without thinking.

“You were always jealous,” I snapped, “and intolerant of anyone who dared challenge you.”

But I recalled, too late, the saying whispered in Athenian wine halls and temples alike:

Only Socrates and Pericles could endure the twin fires of Xanthippe and Aspasia.

She pierced my thought like a spear of light.
“He is a man of faith, son,” she said with sudden clarity, her voice brittle with warning.

“Who?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

“I speak. You listen,” she cut in sharply. “Hector! Who else could I mean?”

Her words rang not just in my ears, but in the marrow of my bones. The air shimmered with invisible hands turning fate like a scroll.

“Alas,” I whispered bitterly, “since when have the dead governed the living?”

And then, like a flame uncoiling from its wick, she replied with chilling grace:

“Son, we do not die like commoners.” Aspasia said.

Aspasia was me mother.

I was—however—suddenly seized, not by thought, but by vision.

“Xantippe.”

Her name left my lips like a warning, a prayer, or a curse. The air itself tensed. She had been banned by her husband from the court, and yet—there she stood. Not walking. Not arriving. Appearing. As if conjured from storm-clouds and memory, as if a rift had opened in the marble columns and spilled forth the very spirit of domestic fury.

Xantippe—thunder-voiced and rain-veined—stood at the edge of the crowd, draped in shadow and the rustle of invisible winds. Her face bore no malice, no wrath, only the hollow grace of a woman who had given everything—mind, body, reputation—for a man carved from paradox. Her eyes were not eyes; they were empty rooms where once burned the fire of love. Her lips did not tremble; they mourned without moving.

I saw between us a narrow alley, yet it seemed a chasm between worlds. Through it, the citizens passed like revenants—ghosts of Athens, cloaked in chanting rage:
“Kill Socrates. Banish Socrates.”
Their mouths moved, but the sound seemed to come from beneath the earth, as though the Furies themselves had begun to sing.

And without plan or will, I moved—drawn like a comet toward the sun, pulled by something older than obedience. The sun above had grown cold, like the eye of an indifferent god. I stepped into its rays, and felt none of its warmth.

“A miracle,” whispered someone near me.
“A curse,” breathed another.
But neither dared look directly at what approached.

Socrates.

The man walked like he was not walking. The court—the very marble—trembled beneath each step, not from weight, but from meaning. Earthquakes would envy such reverence. A hush fell so sharp it could cut bronze. Even the gods, if they watched, fell still.

He stopped mid-stride—alone, unshielded, unspeaking—and raised his face not to the jurors, but to the sky. To Zeus. To fate. To the void.

And then—he smiled.

It was not a mortal smile. It was the quiet smile of a man who had already walked through the underworld and returned with laughter in his lungs. His eyes, two ancient torches, flickered not with defiance, but with understanding so vast it mocked Olympus itself.

“Hector... look at the height of the truth,” Aspasia’s voice quivered like a reed in fire behind me.

“Get out of my sight, woman,” I gasped, heart slamming against my ribs like a bird in a burning cage.

“I speak. You shut up.”
And then she added, her voice soaring like the Sibyl's on the Pythian wind:
“See how his divine eyes glow—an Ode to Zeus.”

"But, it is my last chance to integrate into the noblemen's blood."

But I would not bend. I had trained my soul to silence wonder. I had cauterized awe from my veins. Arrogantly—blindly—I scanned Socrates’ face, hunting for the serpent’s tongue, for the forked light in his gaze, anything to cast him down before the mob. I wanted to cry out:

“Zeus—strike the blasphemer down!”

But my tongue, traitorous, froze.

“No,” Aspasia howled like prophecy given flesh. “None of you see the real man of Athens!”

Her voice climbed into the heavens, where it scratched against the stars.

“This man has stolen your peace, unraveled your sleep, shattered the chain of your comfort! Yes! He has stolen your gods and left you only questions! You curse him—because he gave you your own minds!”

Then she turned to me.

“Hector... Hector, you were named after the great breaker of men.”
And now you tremble before one who breaks nothing but illusion.”

I could hear Athena’s whisper rippling through the air like wind through a war-banner:
“My word has been spoken.”

But the crowd—hungry, hollow—roared still.

And Aspasia, with the weight of thunder behind her bones, gave her final cry:
“No! This is not justice! This is a myth devouring its prophet! A handful of hypocrites are murdering the finest mind Athens has ever birthed!”

And then there was silence.
Not the silence of absence—but the silence before gods decide.

The trial of Socrates was not merely a legal proceeding; it was a cosmic event, a collision of the divine and the mortal, a moment where the very fabric of Athens trembled under the weight of fate. As I stood there, Hector—son of Pericles and Zeus, a man forged in the crucible of war and rhetoric—I was not merely a spectator. I was a vessel, a conduit through which the will of the gods was to be enacted.The city of Athens, that marble jewel of the ancient world, was alive with whispers and murmurs. The streets, usually bustling with the mundane affairs of daily life, now thrummed with a palpable tension. The air was thick with anticipation, as if the very heavens held their breath. The people, those fickle and often misguided masses, had gathered in the Agora, their eyes fixed upon the grand tribunal where the fate of Socrates would be decided.

I had been chosen, perhaps, to test my loyalty to my claim to restore my honour, by presiding over this trial. In the letter , I received in my exile the magistrates had entrusted me with the responsibility, urging me to lead with fairness and wisdom. But how could I, a mere mortal, bear such a burden? How could I, a son of gods and men and Aspasia, stand in judgment over a soul as luminous as Socrates?As I approached the tribunal, my heart heavy with the weight of destiny, I saw him again in a full scope—Socrates. He stood before me, not as a criminal, but as a beacon of truth and defiance. His appearance was as legendary as his mind. His eyes, wide and unblinking, seemed to pierce through the veils of illusion, seeing the world as it truly was. His face, though not handsome by the standards of mortal men, radiated an inner beauty that transcended physical form. He was a man who had transcended the limitations of the flesh, a philosopher who had touched the divine secret. The gods loomed around me, their eternal gazes fixed on this hour—burdened by the shame of corruption that had defiled the sanctity of their hallowed laws. . Athena, the goddess of wisdom, stood beside me, her silent approval a comforting presence. Zeus, my father, watched from the heavens, his thunderous silence a reminder of the gravity of this trial. Even the spirits of the great men of Athens—Pericles, Alcibiades, and the like—hovered in the periphery, their expectations pressing down upon me.

The accusers—Anytus, Meletus, and Lycon—stood opposite, their faces twisted with malice and fear. They were but puppets, their strings pulled by forces beyond their comprehension. They spoke of impiety and corruption, of a man who questioned the gods and led the youth astray. But their words were hollow, empty echoes in the face of the truth that stood before me.

Socrates spoke, his voice calm and unwavering. He did not plead for mercy; he did not seek to escape his fate. Instead, he spoke of knowledge, of virtue, of the soul's journey toward enlightenment. His words were like arrows, striking at the heart of ignorance and fear. He did not defend himself; he illuminated the darkness around him.

And then, as if the very heavens had opened, a voice boomed from above. It was not the voice of a man, but of a god. "Hector," it called, "you are the son of Zeus and Pericles. You are the bridge between the divine and the mortal. Judge not with the eyes of man, but with the wisdom of the gods."

I looked up, and there, suspended in the air, was a figure of immense stature and majesty. It was Zeus himself, his form radiant and awe-inspiring. His eyes, like twin bolts of lightning, fixed upon me with an intensity that pierced my soul.

"Hector," he intoned, "this trial is not of Socrates, but of Athens. It is a test of your heart and your mind. Will you uphold the truth, or will you succumb to the pressures of the many? Will you stand as a beacon of justice, or will you falter in the face of fear?"

The weight of his words crushed me. I was torn between my duty to the city and my loyalty to the divine. But in that moment, I understood. This was not just a trial of Socrates; it was a trial of me, of my very essence.

With newfound clarity, I turned to Socrates. "Your accusers speak of impiety," I said, my voice steady, "but it is they who are blind to the divine. They see only the surface, not the depths. They fear what they do not understand."

I paused, letting my words sink in. "Socrates," I continued, "you are not guilty of the charges laid against you. You are guilty only of seeking truth in a world that prefers illusion. You are guilty only of loving wisdom in a city that worships power."

The crowd murmured, their disbelief palpable. But I stood firm, my resolve unshaken. I was the son of Zeus and Pericles, and I would not let the light of truth be extinguished.

And so, I rendered my judgment. "Socrates," I declared, "you are acquitted of all charges. You are free to continue your quest for knowledge and virtue."

The heavens themselves seemed to rejoice. A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the city in a blaze of divine light. The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices a chorus of triumph.

But as I looked upon Socrates, I saw not a man, but a god. He stood there, unmoved, his expression serene. He had not sought this victory; he had sought only the truth. And in that, he had already won.

As the trial concluded and the crowd dispersed, I stood alone, contemplating the events that had transpired. I had been a mere instrument in the hands of the gods, a vessel through which their will had been enacted. But in that moment, I understood the true meaning of justice and wisdom.

The gods had spoken, and I had listened. The trial of Socrates had been a test, not of his character, but of mine. And in that test, I had found my true self

Strange—beneath the philosopher's feet, flickering lights danced like spirits caught between heaven and earth.

"Keep him from the jurors," the Chief Magistrate commanded, his voice terse, his eyes averting. He motioned for Socrates to step back, farther from the semicircle of seated men. Perhaps, I thought, he feared the old man’s presence—feared that the mere gravity of his soul might tilt the verdict.

Socrates looked up, and through those divine eyes, I sensed his quiet scorn. I doubted the Chief Magistrate had ever held a moment’s mercy for any prey that crossed his path.

Everyone trembled. I trembled too. Guilt gripped me like a vise. The ground beneath us groaned.

"Earthquake!" someone shouted.

The cry split the crowd like a blade. Panic surged through the air.

"Nonsense!" barked a vulgar priest, his voice thick with bile. "He’s an ungrateful, impious beast!"

“Speak, Hector! Speak, son of a whore—half-holy, half-cursed!” others screamed, their voices a chorus of chaos and hate.

But then—stillness. I was stunned, not by the noise, but by the old man’s composure, by his courage. In that moment, I felt hollowed out—unworthy of any virtue I had claimed.

Socrates spoke, not with force, but with unwavering calm:
“Fellow Athenians, will you not let me speak in defense of the truth?”

Like a coward, cloaked in my authority, I snapped:
“Hold your tongue, sophist!”
Then, turning to the magistrates, I said coldly:
“Shall we open the court, sir?”

"You should have asked earlier, little Pericles," the Chief Magistrate muttered, his voice drenched in disdain.

"I was... distracted, sir," I answered carefully.

“Distracted? By whom, for Zeus' sake?” he barked.

“We have ample time—”

“No,” he growled, cutting me off. “We have no time for theatrics.”

He leaned toward me, voice lowered, venomous:
“We shall not let the sophist speak.”

"It’s a matter of free speech, sir," I said, my voice tightening.

“Not today, Hector,” he replied. “You’d best step down.”

“I won’t. Not unless you force me,” I said, defiant—but burning inside.

I knew the eyes were on me—every pair, from gods to ghosts to gossips. And somewhere in their gaze, I heard again the ruin of Aspasia echoing down the years.

For a timeless eternity, I stood alone—an island cast adrift in the merciless sea of men. Yet, fate, in its unfathomable will, granted me this invitation to witness a reckoning of souls. Friends were but shadows in this city’s labyrinth, and so I confessed without shame, “Aspasia distracts me, sir.”

The Chief Magistrate inhaled sharply, his gaze like thunderclouds ready to strike. His voice was cold steel: “She destroyed Prickles, seduced Zeus himself. Now, it is your turn, Hector.”

“I honor your counsel, master,” I replied, “but she is my sacred mother—her voice burns in my veins.”

He sneered, “No doubt she seeks to save the old man through you.”

The air thickened as the divine whispered, clear and resonant as the strike of lightning, “I am no priest, but a man passing Zeus’s word.” His voice cracked the silence like a spear through the heavens—every ear caught the divine truth.

“One among you must guard Zeus’s words,” he declared, breath jubilant as the roaring sky, and nodded sharply for me to rise.

“Zeus’s word,” I breathed—an ember ignited in my soul. To the magistrate I dared, “He believes in Him.”

“Zeus has heard him. Speak, Hector. Speak!” the crowd hissed like serpents.

“Zeus hears all,” I proclaimed, voice unwavering.

“Blasphemer!” came the rabble’s venom.

“It is Aspasia’s doing!” the magistrate spat.

“Aspasia! Holy Moly!” some cried in panic.

The crowd surged, hands slicing the air in frenzied dismay.

The vilest of men called to sacrifice me—Hector—to Zeus.

My spirit faltered. My face froze like marble in a storm. The accusers, savage beasts, lunged and flung me from my place like a discarded relic.

“Leave the court, Hector!” the magistrate thundered.

I heard, yet I stood firm. I am as noble as any god or mortal dared to claim.

Athenians,” Socrates’s voice rose, a tempest contained within a whisper, “hear me. I speak only truth.”

The roar of the crowd surged to silence him like a tidal wave.

“I forbid you any further involvement, Hector,” the jurors growled—feral and unyielding.

“You err,” I thundered, “unless you forge your evidence from lies.” Their awkward faces spoke of guilt, though none dared admit it.

“Begone, Hector!”

“His words are a curse!” the crowd bellowed in fury.

“You know nothing!” I roared, shaking the very foundations of their scorn. Their furious eyes burned with hatred, but I bellowed again, a divine war cry that shattered the darkness—

“You know nothing.”

..............................................................***

With tongues sharpened like divine daggers, they unleashed a storm of venom upon Socrates, their roars fracturing the very air, their fury shaking the heavens themselves. The chief magistrate’s voice shattered the chaos like thunder, “Order! Order!” Yet I felt as if Aspasia herself had woven a curse around my lips—my tongue bound in chains forged by fate and fury. I refused to obey. Socrates stood unmoved, his eyes alight with an unearthly glow, and when they met mine, a strange smile curved his lips—knowing, ancient, eternal. In that moment, time itself held its breath. Silence fell like a sacred veil upon the court, thick and unyielding.

Around us, the world whispered its own hymn: crickets sang their delicate chorale, frogs croaked ancient riddles, birds murmured prophecies, and goats bleated atop jagged rocks, spectators of the unfolding destiny. Then a voice broke the stillness, ragged and urgent—Socrates stepped forward, his robes threadbare but his presence monumental, as jeering laughter erupted like a poisoned storm. The court fell silent again, as all eyes fixed on the wandering sage.

Across the floor, a serpent, yellow as the sun’s dying light, slithered unseen among the jurors—an omen writ in scales. “A miracle shook the three sacred islands!” cried a peasant from the fringe, his voice raw with disbelief. “Zeus—our Redeemer!” he cried, breathless. “I have run without rest to bring word to Athens.”

“Return to the city!” a voice commanded.

“But I found no soul left in the city,” the peasant whispered, haunted.

“Begone, barbarian!” the magistrates bellowed, venom dripping.

“I am no barbarian,” the peasant replied, fire in his voice. “I am Greek, child of this land.”

“What do you seek? Money? We will give you coin,” sneered the cynical mob.

“Keep your gold,” said the peasant. “Keep Socrates for your city.”

“Begone, peasant! The old man needs schooling himself!” jeered a harsher voice.

“You are mistaken, Master,” the peasant said boldly.

“Why say such madness?” one asked.

“Because my eyes behold truth,” came the reply.

“I dwell in the far East, upon caravan roads where merchants trade gold for Socrates’ aphorisms,” he declared.

Laughter thundered like crashing waves. The nastiest voice in the crowd spat, “We give you Socrates himself, for a piece of silver, peasant!” and shoved him from the court like a discarded shadow.

“I have never seen Athens unravel into such chaos,” the peasant muttered, retreating into the dust.

As his words echoed, I summoned a guard. “Watch over him—take him home. Help him if you can,” I commanded. But before the divine gaze locked on me, my mind spun blank—torn between reverence and doubt. “Am I, Hector, surrendering to a true man… or to a Goddamn sophist?” I whispered, trembling.

He moves with the grace of defeat and the power of the eternal. Athens’ sons will forever hear the reverberation of his voice—authoritative, vibrating through the ages.

“Speak...” his voice commanded.

“So that I may see you,” he said.

And I yielded—more deeply, more wholly—until passion consumed me, and I longed to kneel, to bow before the infinite, to serve the cause that transcended gods and men alike.

.........................................................................***

No one dared claim certainty that day—uncertainty hung thick as incense in the air, a dense fog cloaking the court. Yet, I sensed the philosopher’s gaze was a tempest, a force so potent it shattered the magistrates’ fragile focus. The chief magistrate, like a cornered beast, prepared to retreat from the unbearable truth poised to erupt.

“We are all Athenians—grown men,” he spat, voice laced with forced bravado, “and he stands alone.”

“He is not alone,” I replied steadily, “for the truth walks beside him.”

The magistrate’s lips curled in a venomous sneer. “The truth? Ha! The sophist’s poison truth!” His contempt sliced through the chamber, his gaze settling on me with calculated malice. A murmur rippled through the court—“Is Hector with him, or against us?”

“Find your place, son of Aspasia,” the magistrate growled, a serpent coiled and ready to strike.

“I will have my place, sir,” I said, unwavering.

Disappointment flickered in his eyes; he had expected supplication, not defiance. “You are Aspasia’s son, indeed.”

“Oh yes, I am,” I affirmed, pride like a burning torch in my chest.

“Are you even aware,” he shrieked, voice ragged with venom, “of the weight this court heaps upon Socrates’ head?”

“Yes,” I said, voice steady as the Athenian sun, “and I bear witness.”

“We have unleashed upon him the city’s fury and our own failures,” the magistrate whispered like a dark incantation.

“Hector, it’s not too late. Hear me.”

“I hear only the truth,” I shot back.

Socrates smiled then—an ironic, eternal smile that echoed beyond mortal sound. His voice, calm yet sharp, pierced the tension: “If you had labored truly, magistrate, your juries would have rendered their verdict ere the day’s end.”

“When magistrates speak, sophists fall silent,” snarled the chief magistrate.

“Not Socrates,” the old man replied, voice steady as the mountains.

“It has already been prophesied,” the magistrate hissed.

“You spoke unwisely, sir. The shadows will not forget,” I warned.

“He is Athens’ greatest treasure, though unrecognized,” I added, the words like thunder in the silent court.

“Treasure?” he scoffed. “Then justice is but a whisper when coin speaks loudest. Justice will not come.”

He mocked the philosopher’s disciples—those who bore his words like torches through the Agora, unsettling the complacent.

But Socrates would not be silenced.

“If a just man foretells his doom,” he declared, voice ringing like a clarion, “better to imprison himself than let the guilty roam free.”

Fear flickered in his eyes—fear not of death, but of ignorance that blinds even the sharpest minds.

The orators lined up like statues—pompous, imperious—awaiting their moment, but the sun god himself remained silent, witnessing destinies unfold beneath his eternal gaze.

“My ghost will haunt you, Mellitus of Pithus, and exile you from Athens’ very soul,” Socrates intoned, a spectral verdict that sent a shudder through the chamber.

Mellitus, stunned, clutched at verses for defense—a poet wielding words as swords.

“My beloved friends,” Socrates added, “will inscribe my tale upon the scrolls of time. For this, I am grateful.”

I recalled Plato’s scorn: “No poet of Athens may enter philosophy’s sacred city.”

Eager, I wished to interject, “Oh young master, you crown the philosopher king, yet banish the poet’s song. If you despise Mellitus, then he is no poet. And if you scorn Aristophanes, he is not all poetry.”

Socrates, ever the jester of fate, said with a sharp smile, “Mellitus, with his beak-like nose, straight hair, and ragged beard, deserves a fair trial nonetheless.”

“You dared corrupt our youth’s minds—and now send your messages to eternity.”

“I am sentenced before your verdict, as fate decrees,” Socrates declared, jubilant, as if death were a triumph, not a doom.

“Can you not distinguish between Socrates and charlatans?” the chief magistrate thundered, burying his face in his hands, defeated before the storm.

***

We roared our defiance, a thunderous chorus of mortal wills clashing against the immovable tide of fate. Yet, no matter how fierce our cries, no force could alter the relentless path set before us.

“That,” Plato proclaimed, his voice resonant as if echoing from the very heights of Olympus, “is the eternal paradox that binds mankind. Speak, Master, speak — rend the veil of silence that suffocates us.”

“Who is Anytus’s son?” Socrates challenged the assembly, his words slicing through the heavy air. “What is democracy but a fragile, fleeting dream? Tyrannies, gods, corruption — you accuse me of these shadows, yet where was your voice through those long, silent years? Is this but a new act in the ceaseless play of human folly?”

“Can the people of Athens forgive Critias, that specter of tyranny and violence? To forgive — ah, that would be the highest virtue a mortal could embody, a sacrifice greater than any blood spilled on the altar of power.”

“This is my creed, as philosopher and seeker of truth, even if condemned for holding it. The divine fire of philosophy, gifted to me by the gods themselves, I have given freely to you, children of Hellas. By Zeus, I swear I have never concealed even the smallest shard of truth from your eyes.”

“For the sake of truth, I have wrestled with darkness, sacrificed my soul, and battled relentless tides of ignorance for many, many years.”

His solemn oath ignited a radiant beacon within my mind — a revelation kindled by divine fire.

“I am learning, Aspasia,” I whispered, the flame of understanding flickering faintly in the encroaching shadows.

“Facing them here, son, will break many spirits,” Aspasia murmured softly, her voice heavy with foreboding.

“But I am ready,” I replied, feeling the resolve harden within my veins like tempered steel.

“Let the lowliest prophet rise above the throng, shatter their false idols,” I cried with sacred fervor, my voice trembling beneath the crushing weight of destiny.

“It is the end of Socrates the man,” he declared with noble serenity, “but not the end of philosophy’s immortal flame.”

Then, like shadowed leviathans summoned by some dark will, the guards surged forward, separating Socrates from his disciples — driving away those who dared follow the path of wisdom. But though they sought to silence the man, the light of truth, the eternal flame of philosophy, would never be extinguished.

***

The jurors clamored, voices like thunder rolling through the stony court, railing against the blatant attempt of the litigants to shackle Socrates before he even spoke.
“We will not be ensnared by his silver-tongued sophistry!” the chief magistrate thundered, his gavel like a lightning bolt. He nodded sharply to the first litigant, commanding him to read the accusation once more—after they had already torn me apart with venomous words.

“By the sacred trust vested in us to safeguard the city’s soul and the everyday lives of its citizens,” began the first litigant with grim gravity, “we respond to the grievous charges laid by the esteemed Mellitus and others against the citizen Socrates. They allege that this man has undermined the very foundations of our polis, by casting doubt upon our gods, corrupting the youth, and consorting dangerously close to men like Critias and Alcibiades—heralds of chaos and ruin.”

The formal accusations, phrased with cold precision by Socrates himself in past discourses, were flung like fiery arrows across the court. The voices of Mellitus, Anytus, and Lycon rose in a fierce chorus, mingling with the jeers and growls of the jurors—a tumultuous storm of condemnation and reluctant assent sweeping the marble halls.

Then, as if summoned by the gods themselves, the second litigant rose, his voice a thunderclap that silenced the chaos:
“This man transcends their petty lies! He has borne hardship like no other, withstood hunger and cold as a rock endures the sea’s wrath. Never has he turned from a plea for aid, never ceased his relentless pursuit of virtue, nor shied from illuminating every shadow of our lives. He who hears the divine sign within and teaches us to choose wisely in all affairs—that man is no corrupter, but Athens’ own steadfast guide.”

“Is it then Socrates’ duty to defend himself?” the first litigant snarled, suspicion still dripping from his words.

No one opposed. The court held its breath. Socrates stepped forward, calm as the still waters of the Ilissus.
“You have seen me often in the Agora,” he said simply.

“Oh, good man, they will not welcome you there any longer,” I called out, voice thick with warning.

He smiled, a light flickering in his weary eyes. “I miss my Agora, truly.”

“I stand with Plato, whose loyalty to truth surpasses even that of Socrates himself, but I reject utterly those—Mellitus, Anytus, Lycon—who, blinded by their own selfish venom, poison the very essence of justice in Athens,” he continued. “Athenians, addicted to gossip and scandal, claim I commit an injustice by questioning what lies beneath the earth and above the sky—was that not a jest from Aristophanes? By Zeus, we were once comrades.”

The first litigant snarled, “We will not let this sophist twist reality with his honeyed words.”

The second replied firmly, “Every citizen has the right to speak.”

“But not Socrates,” growled the chief magistrate.

“Hector was silenced for less,” I muttered, recalling my own fate.

“What do you expect from this court?” I asked aloud.

“Silence this man!” came the chorus.

“Why?” I pressed.

“Because he will speak until the world ends.”

“Let him speak,” I said, defiance in my voice.

“Only when the time is ripe,” the magistrate snapped.

While Socrates engaged in what seemed a fruitless debate, the jurors calmly found moments to drop their ballots into the amphorae, sealing destinies in the shadows of justice. And yet, the verdict remained unspoken, suspended like a blade above the philosopher’s head.

As Socrates poised to lay bare the failings of Athens, his voice rang out, heavy with sorrow and righteous indignation:
“I would blame you for nothing more than I blame you now—for your ingratitude, your cruel turning away from me, your failure to see the damage wrought by politics upon the bonds of friendship.”

I knew, deep in my soul, the master heard the murmurs, the spiteful laughter, the restless eyes locked on the wooden amphora that held his fate. The breath of the city held still. The gods themselves seemed to lean forward, watching.

***

The trial drew its last breath. The litigants ascended the high stone of the forum like priests climbing an altar, and with trembling hands they reached into the two sacred amphorae—those silent urns of fate—under the fixed, impassive gaze of the jurors.

I knew then.
Socrates had been wrong.
They had carved his doom long before he first refused to trade wisdom for a silver drachma. His death was a scroll already written, its seal pressed with the fingerprints of fear, pride, and the corruption of reason.

I prepared myself for a sacrifice greater than any blood offering upon Apollo's altar.
And I wept—sincerely, helplessly—as though mourning the very spirit of mankind.
At that hour, I believed without shadow or flaw that Socrates was the purest soul ever to tread the dust of this world.

"Stand him up! Let him stand like a lion before Olympus!" I begged Aspasia, my voice cracking beneath the weight of justice miscarried.

But she whispered back with bitter grace,
"He shall sit in the presence of Zeus, child… But the gods, you see, are jealous of men who become more divine than they ever were."

I turned on her, cruel with anguish.
"Then why did you come here, Aspasia? To see this desecration?"

Her voice, no louder than the rustle of a fig leaf:
"I did not come, Hector. Not truly. I have been mourning this moment since before you were born."

Not one god of Athens dared adopt Socrates.
They smiled from the clouds and watched him with envy, not love.
"Fetch a throne for the little god," they sneered among themselves.
Had he reached Olympus, he would have taught them too.

I should have begged Aspasia to betray the heavens,
to speak the secrets of divine politics—
But the verdict had already been etched in eternity.

They sealed the scroll in the archives of the gods and spoke thus:
"If we gave Socrates more time, he would unearth his innocence,
and then—then the Law would stand naked and obsolete."

And beneath their decree, they inscribed a final benediction:
"Lords of Athens, you have composed a verdict fit not for the man Socrates, but for the fear he awakened in you."

........................................................****

“Did you not put Socrates the Sophist to death, my fellow citizens?” said a man called Aeschines. He was not Aeschines of Sphettus, Socrates’ follower, but a man drawn by the scent of power and the theatre of blood.

“Are you seeking death or justice, sir?” said Plato, his voice calm but carved from the bones of reason.

“I make no distinction anymore, son of Ariston,” Aeschines replied.

I lost everything—my name, my honor, my place in the city’s light. They stripped me bare, cast me into the shadows where only ghosts and memories dare to tread. But the word—the sacred, unbreakable word of Socrates—was seared into my blood, etched in silence deeper than any stone, carried like a flame whispered on the wind.

Through fire and exile, through betrayal and blood, through nights when hope seemed crushed beneath the weight of tyranny—I carried it. Passed it hand to hand, breath to breath, soul to soul, across the unyielding march of generations.

Because some truths are immortal. Some fires never die.

Until the day comes—when the world itself will tremble, and the silent word will roar:
“The time has come.”

“Then you make no distinction between good and evil, right and wrong, virtue and vice?”

“What are you saying, boy?”

“I’m saying it’s surprising they haven’t yet crowned you Chief Justice of Athens.”

“We have the verdict on its way,” muttered an old juror, one foot already in Hades. “It won’t be long.”

Strange indeed would it be, Socrates said softly, if I, knowing I am to die, held my tongue now. Someday, you will learn to adapt my words for justice—when justice finally has a voice, not just a face.

The verdict fell like a second thunder on a summer day, unexpected even in its certainty. I bowed and touched the ground near Socrates’ sandaled feet, as if seeking warmth from the ashes of the sacred.

“Aspasia’s son?” he asked. He looked into me as if reading something buried under centuries of shame.

“Rise up, sir,” he said. “You are a noble man.” And he blessed me simply, like a father, not a god.

“I will never forget this moment,” I whispered like a sinner in a temple.

“Your devotion to duty is truly blessed.”

“Grateful. I am grateful.”

“Birds of a feather,” he smiled, not without sadness. “Pericles, Pyrilampes, and myself. Now you. Hector. Plato. Xenophon. And the lads who still carry fire in their hearts.”

“I have my last words,” he said aloud.

“Let Socrates speak,” the judges answered, as if the law itself had grown weary of pretending.

“O Athenians,” he said, his voice both naked and divine, “I speak not as a sophist but with the language of the Agora. Chaerephon the brave is dead. His brother still lives, and he can confirm what the Pythia at Delphi once said: no man is wiser than Socrates.”

He paused and gazed over their faces like a shepherd counting sheep in a burning field.

“They accuse me of offending poets, positions, and rhetoric,” he said. “Meletus, do you care for the youth?”

“Yes,” Meletus answered.

“Then who improves them?”

“The laws.”

“Who understands the laws?”

“The judges.”

“And they teach?”

“They do.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“And the audience?”

“Yes.”

“And the senators?”

“Yes.”

“Then all Athenians improve the youth—except me?”

“Exactly.”

“Then I alone corrupt them, and all others save them?”

“Yes.”

“Do I not believe in the sun or the moon?”

“No.”

“They are stone and earth, you say?”

“You deny all gods.”

“You say I believe in none?”

“I am certain you don’t believe even yourself.”

“Let me die now, like Achilles said, if fate commands it,” said Socrates. “I consider only whether what I do is just.”

I thought the votes against me would be more. O men of Athens, clearly, this was always my end. I forgive you—but remember this: a punishment greater than mine will find you, and it will not be delivered by any god.

To those who would have acquitted me—stay. Let me say what remains. The oracle gave no sign. My soul is calm. The accusers have done me no harm.

We go our ways: I to death, and you to life. Which is better, only the gods know.

And with that, he surrendered himself to the guards.

He walked with them. And behind him, his apostles followed as if stepping behind the sun. Xanthippe wept like all of Greece weeping through one throat.

I was not of them—but I followed. Like an orphan chasing a name I never truly earned.

Children threw stones at me. I did not resist.

“Let them wash the sin of the city,” I said.

The guards swore. They pushed the mob away. But I remained. “Make no siege around me,” I said. “I am as hard as you, soldier.”

Then the pain—divine, inexplicable—struck like lightning up my bones.

Socrates turned and saw. He had known. He always knew.

“I forgive you, son of Pericles,” he said.

“Grateful. I am grateful.”

“Have you ever doubted Zeus?” I asked.

“I live under Zeus—magnificent, delightful Zeus,” he said. “But the gods lack virtue. They reflect us. I speak of them only to weigh the Magistrates' Law. Justice must be mended endlessly—even God is incomplete.”

His face turned pink with blood, and then pale like dawn.

“If the gods mocked me—and surely they did—they mocked themselves. Their scandals will echo through all time.”

I stood dumb. He saw my doubt.

“Don’t be surprised,” he said. “They are our reflection.”

People veered away from him, even as he walked silently to his death.

“Everyone fears truth,” he said.

“I don’t,” I said. I was no longer the Hector of Athens. I was just a man. A man with nothing to protect except the truth.

“I fear the gods are jealous,” I said.

“They are.”

Then the guards asked me to leave.

I lingered, watching the sun lower itself over Athens like a god bowing out of shame.

Then I broke. I ran. I stopped him. No one permitted me. I did not ask.

“Have you defeated them, master?” I asked.

He smiled—not as victor or vanquished—but as one who had passed through both.

“That is it. That it is,” he said. “We stole the Prime Logos, Pericles.”

“Prime… Logos?” I stammered.

“Yes. My word. My secret. Keep it. Hide it. Guard it in the only vault that cannot be robbed—your soul.”

“I will. I do. I promise.”

He knew the words would live safer in me than in any scroll.

“Keep the secrecy, sealed in your heart. Wherever you go, whatever you do. Until the time comes.”

Thus, I lost opportunity to restore my name and fortune , however, I passed the sacred word of Socrates the Great to my offspring, descending with them , ever since, generation after generation until he says. 'The time has come.’"

The End

*Hector son of Zeus, Prickles and Aspasia.

* Whore.

*From Apology.

The Sad Heights- Kay.H

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