Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
Chaerephon enters a flame-lit room filled with smoke. A Pythian priestess sits upon a high tripod.
CHAEREPHON:
O, sacred mistress of sacred fane,
To thee, Apollo’s tongue, I lend mine ear,
Not fate nor fortune I come to ask,
But a riddle lodged deep in my breast.
O, priestess, by Apollo’s unerring breath,
Does Socrates walk the earth as the wisest man?
PRIESTESS:
None wiser than Socrates, questioning soul,
Yet he who questions seeks no ease.
Go forth, disturb the vain, shake the sure;
The stars are aligned, Apollo hath spoken.
Chaerephon scuttles out of the room.
ACT I: The Trial of Socrates
In a courtroom. Five hundred jurors sit around the edges of the room.
MELETUS:
Citizens of Athens, let justice be done!
Here stands Socrates, corrupter of youth,
Blasphemer of gods, denier of truth.
Should we let wisdom stir discord?
No, let the swift hand of our law restore order!
SOCRATES:
Dost thou condemn me as the blasphemer,
When thyself is blind to thought?
Is wisdom a crime when we bid men think?
Nay, it is naught but the essence of virtue.
Thou claimest I corrupt the youth of Athens,
But art thou so uncorrupted as they say?
Shall great Athens, vessel of thought,
Devour her own child in ignorant fear?
O dark city, dost thou not see?
A man who fears truth fears none but himself;
To silence thought is to shackle the soul;
Yet if Athens wouldst rather bind herself,
If she wouldst sooner condemn than listen
Then let my death be my lesson,
And let my last breath be my question unanswered.
Can thou call’st thyself wise,
The one to guide the hand of justice,
Yet know’st not where justice dwells?
Is thy wisdom found in thy bosom or brain,
Or in thy purple stained robes?
Nay, wisdom is the wound that knoweth itself,
The eye that dares to question the sun.
Though the light may burn it blind.
To know that one knoweth naught,
Is the mark of the wiser man,
Than he who’s arrogance knoweth all.
MELETUS:
The serpent speaks in riddles still,
Poisoning the ears of Athenians with his venom.
Athens is not blind, Athens sees,
And what she sees is peril in thy words.
Dost thou not turn son against father?
The naive student to scoff at the master’s teachings?
What honor lies in doubting all?
Nay, thou shouldst be sent to the asylum.
If a captain doth question the sea,
Will the tides cease for his pondering?
If a soldier doth question his blade,
Will the enemy pause its strike?
Socrates, our laws are not to bind, but guard.
Not to stifle minds, but to guide them.
Thou call’st thyself wise, yet wisdom without faith is ruin.
Thou call’st thyself learned, yet knowledge unbridled is madness.
The jurors murmur and slowly shuffle off stage.
ACT II: The Death of Socrates
Socrates lies calmly on a bed, surrounded by his anxious followers. A guard walks in with a cup of hemlock.
GUARD:
Two hundred and twenty bid you life,
Two hundred and eighty bid you death.
Guard hands cup to Socrates. Disciples begin grieving.
GUARD:
By the will of the Assembly, the will of Athens,
This cursed chalice is thy fate.
Drink, and let our law take its course.
(pause)
Athens decrees your death, yet I see no fear in thine eyes.
Guard leaves, Socrates & disciples freeze.
APOLLO (from above):
O Socrates, thou meets fate with unwavering glare,
The stars hath whispered sweet oblivion for you.
Is it thy doom that the Fates have woven,
Or the folly of mortals, whose tongues weave lies,
And proclaim it their law?
Yet I, oracle of Delphi,
In the city of the god of reason,
Sees thy course unfold in vain.
Not by mine hand does Athens fall,
But by her own, blinded, trembling,
Casts her wisest into the afterlife.
O Socrates, thou art the sword, wound and bandage.
Seeking to shake the stone-bound souls,
That now condemn thee to death.
Gadfly or martyr, thy wisdom is no fleeting breath.
It in lingers in the echo of thy words,
A provocative shadow cast upon time itself.
Drink, drink, if thou must;
Empty thy cup of liquid death, and let the poison consume you.
But know this, O Socrates, teacher of Athens.
Hemlock shall not wither thy seeds of knowledge,
Verdict of law shall not condemn the truth to dust.
The hourglass spills on, the city trembles with flair.
And still, the question remains:
Who, then, is truly wise?
Disciples unfreeze and continue grieving.
CRITO:
Drink not, master!
To flee Athens is no easy feat,
But one that can be done nonetheless.
SOCRATES:
Nay, young Crito,
The law hath spoken.
Death is my decree,
Death is my fate.
CRITO:
But our law is shaped by reason,
And reason is shaped by man.
If reason finds law unjust,
Should reason not cast it aside?
Master, pillar of Athens, wisest of all,
Shall you let the ignorant cut you down,
Like an olive in its prime?
This is not the justice you taught us to seek!
SOCRATES:
Should I flee, what reason shall remain?
Should I cower, what truth shall endure?
Dear Crito, thou dost mistake my course.
It is not death I fear,
But a life lived unexamined.
My feet are rooted in the duty of reason,
And this cup I shall empty without remorse.
But, Crito, disciples, I have a favour to ask of you.
When my sons are grown into men,
Should they care about riches,
Or anything more than virtue,
I ask you to trouble them, to punish them,
Should they pretend to be something,
When they are truly naught,
I ask you to reprove them, as I have reproved you.
Pray, do this, for both I and my sons shall receive justice.
Socrates drinks the cup of hemlock.
The hour of departure hath arrived,
I, to die, you, to live.
Which is better, only the gods know.