The Hemlock Cup - Bettany Hughes [131]
The argot of Golden Age Athens was money and food. In Attic comedy men often joked about the honesty of an empty belly, and poets fantasised about the wealth – and feasts – in store, should the Persian Empire ever be conquered,
While trees on the hill will shed at our will, not leaves but giblets of kid
And deciduous bushes drop fricasseed thrushes and succulent gobbets of squid.2
In preparation for the symposium (literally, the ‘drinking together’), slaves would cook relatively wholesome food throughout the day (none of the excesses of Roman banquets here, although the Athenians did have a soft spot for pastries – in fact, fried fish, lentil soup, sausages and raisins were more likely to be on the menu than flambéed peacock). Male guests, eleven or so, were typically wreathed for the occasion: myrtle, rose, wild celery could all be worn. A hymn was sung, usually to Zeus Soter, Zeus the Saviour, and the symposiarch – the colleague elected by his fellow diners to be in charge – would decide how many units of watered-down wine (often three parts water to one part wine) should be drunk that night.
At Socrates’ symposium – reports Plato – the agreement was that the guests themselves should decide how much to drink, a hint that even within closed aristocratic circles democracy was in action. But although this detail does copper-plate Socrates’ democratic credentials, Plato’s point was not heavy-handed. The symposia were far more than just a chance to imbibe and consume; they were the unofficial gatherings that kept the world turning. These were evenings (sometimes longer: a symposium could run for thirty-six hours) that enabled small groups of men to get together behind closed doors. Since the Late Bronze Age these drinking events had been the way in which the elite of society shared experience and advice, where the young bloods were properly educated. At a symposium in democratic Athens, things might now be done a little differently, but just by being there aristocrats could relive those days when they called the shots; and they could talk about Demokratia behind her back. Years later, in the Archon’s courtroom, there is no doubt that Socrates’ ready association with these exclusive groups would be held against him.
Symposia were claustrophobic affairs. To appreciate their scale it is best to leave Athens and drive five hours north to the magical little hill of Olynthos, back in fact to the district where Socrates had been fighting around 424 BC. Olynthos, 20 miles north of Potidaea, 120 miles south-west of Amphipolis, was laid out on a Hippodamian-style grid (Hippodamus being the Milesian architect who had also designed Athens’ Piraeus district so neatly) – part of the region’s redevelopment programme after the fierce fighting of 432 BC. Olynthos’ appearance resembled Athenian mores, if not its constitution; this was a town led by an oligarchy, one that resisted Athens’ offer of democracy, but it still looked to the future: to a time when urban planning would make life better.
Because vast sections of fifth-century Athens lie smothered and inaccessible under the modern city, Olynthos – recently re-excavated – offers us a more complete glimpse of the built environment that Socrates would have enjoyed. There is a down-the-rabbit-hole feel to the architectural remains at Olynthos today, as if you are marching through some giant golden board game. The footprint of the town’s layout has been raised,