Amidst rejoicing and loud hymns of triumph to the God of War, with which the Athenians celebrated their success, the generals deliberated, according to their wont, to whom the prize of valour should be given. They decided on the favourite Alkibiades, already celebrated for his wealth and beauty and now made famous by his prowess. Alkibiades refused, and with true generosity declared that Sokrates, the saviour of his life, deserved it more than he did. But the generals cared little for the philosopher, so Alkibiades was afterwards crowned with laurel and invested with a splendid suit of armour before the assembled host, as hero of the victorious day.
Meanwhile he was not ungrateful. He had made Sokrates come back with him and share his tent as long as he remained in the besieging camp. His wound, though quickly healing, left behind it a sense of lassitude he had never felt before. He had time to study the strange character, and many an occasion to marvel at the curious man who was living with him in the close confines of a soldier’s tent. He loved to gaze on the grotesque figure, and listen to his words, which had about them a charm unspeakable, and carried all away who listened to them.
Sometimes Sokrates remained lost in thought for hours—all the whole day together—undisturbed by the tumult of the camp, or by the wit and frolic of the younger men who thronged the tent. But Alkibiades cared less than heretofore for the gay society of his companions. He would often rather sit and learn, answering the perpetual questionings by which the sage, humblest of men himself, would show how ignorant men are, how puffed up only by conceit of knowledge, how appearances are taken by them for realities, how even those who pass for the wisest of mankind, when brought to book, give but the poorest explanation of the simplest things, how those only are truly wise who know their utter, necessary ignorance.
CHAPTER IV
‘Alas! unnumbered sorrows do I suffer
A plague is on all our host, nor can thought find any weapon of defence.
One on another mayest thou see urged on like bird on well-plumed wing, swifter than the resistless flame, to the shore of the god of darkness.
By countless deaths the city is perishing; her sons death-bearing lie unpitied upon the ground, with none to make lament for them.’
Sophocles: Oid. Tyran.