The Tomb of Socrates

Aoife stepped away from Socrates, walking towards a small alcove she could see dipping into the distance. She was surrounded by shelves ad shelves of books and parchments, as far as the eye could see. Which wasn’t really that far, because there were walls in the way. Walls which were covered in books and parchments. Scattered along the floor at random intervals between the walls were tables, with what looked to be glass covers. Have they even invented glass yet, pondered Aoife. She paused next to one. Inside it were a number of small pieces of jewellery. She walked to the next, and saw a collection of small urns. Turning around she looked more carefully around the room. She noticed that there were urns and statues interspersed between the parchment and books. Some paintings and tapestries even hung along the few bits of bare wall which poked through the clamour.

It looks more like a museum than a library, Aoife thought to herself. I wonder what else they have through here…She had finally reached the small alcove she had seen earlier. She pushed aside the tapestry which shielded the entrance from prying eyes, and stepped through. She gasped.

It’s a tomb, she thought. An open sarcophagus lay on a raised dais before her. Gold carved states and masks adorned the floors and walls. Hieroglyphs coated the bases of the walls. Aoife looked around slowly. I wonder who’s tomb it is, she thought to herself, which she noticed a small painting lying to one side. She looked at it, then started, and moved in to examine it more closely. She looked from the painting, to the tapestry which led to the rest of the library. It can’t be, she said. She crept to the sarcophagus, peering inside. It was empty. She moved deeper into the alcove, moving aside cups and jars of unguent, searching for another painting. Finally she found one. Again she examined it, taking in the detail with great care. There was no doubting it. This was Socrates’s tomb.

“Ah, I see you’ve find my resting place,” Socrates’ voice came from behind Aoife.

Aoife turned around, startled. “I didn’t mean to— ” she began. “I just…you said…”

Socrates laughed at her confusion. “It’s ok,” he said. “If I wanted this place to be secret, I would have done a slightly better job at hiding it than placing it behind an easily removable tapestry.”

Aoife blushed slightly. “I guess I didn’t really think,” she said.

“It’s ok,” Socrates comforted her. “I guess this is the first time you’ve visited a tomb.”

“Yeah,” said Aoife. “It’s not really that common, back home. Especially tombs that aren’t actually occupied. Why do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Have a tomb when you’re not dead?”

“Do you remember Jesus telling you that I am immortal, though I am not a god?” Socrates asked.

“Yeah,” said Aoife. “Kinda hard to forget something like that.”

“True enough, true enough.” He stopped, and walked towards the sarcophagus, sitting on the edge, irreverently. “Story time!” he announced happily. “Would you like to sit down?”

Aoife looked around her for a chair. Socrates tsked sadly. “One of the most powerful gods of her time, and she can’t even create something to sit on. It’s so sad.” He wiped a mock tear from his cheek. Aoife shot him a dirty look before waving a hand and settling down in an extravagantly lavish chair. “You may begin,” she declared, imperiously.

“How very generous of you,” said Socrates, mock deferentially. “Are you comfy?” Aoife nodded. “Are you sure?” Aoife looked at Socrates. “Really sure?”

"Oh just get on with it, already,” she said.

“Very well,” said Socrates. “In Ancient Egypt—”

“Wait,” interrupted Aoife. “You’re living here now, so why are you calling it Ancient Egypt. Surely it’s just Egypt.”

“One part of being immortal,” explained Socrates, “is that time becomes meaningless. I have seen millennia into the past, and into the future. This time is known by you, and by countless others, as Ancient Egypt, therefore, it is Ancient Egypt.”

“You’ve seen the future,” Aoife asked, astonishment in her tone.

“Indeed I have,” said Socrates.

“Then you could tell me what is going to happen, what all of this means,” said Aoife, beginning to get excited.

“The answer to your question is yes, and no,” replied Socrates. “I could tell you what I have seen, but there are two problems inherent in such an action. The first is that I may inadvertently alter the future by doing so. The second is that the future that I have seen may not be the future which arises. The future which I experience is the one which at the time that I shift forward has the greatest probability of occurring. The closer I am to that moment in time, the greater the probability of the future I see occurring being the one that occurs.”

“Have you ever seen the future come true?” asked Aoife.

"Only once,” answered Socrates, his eyes going distant and dreamy. He mentally shook himself. “But that is a story for another time!” his voice returned to its formerly cheery tone. “To return to my original tale:” he cleared his throat theatrically. “In Ancient Egypt there is a belief that when one dies, one merely ceases to occupy this plane of existence. The spirit of one’s body and one’s possessions moves onto the next plane, and their life continues there. That is why the Pharaohs are buried with so much treasure. I have managed to find a way to manipulate this time continuum such that my life on the next plane is looped through to my life here. But part of that requires this,” he gestured around the tomb. “It is this that generates my next plane life. Without it, I would cease to be, either on this plane, or the next.”

Aoife looked stunned. “And yet, you make no effort to hide it? Or protect it?” she asked.

Socrates laughed. “It’s not as poorly protected as you think,” he said. “There are a number of complex charms which ensure it’s continued protection, the most powerful of which is one which actually locates this tomb in an alternate dimension, so that if something happens in our world, the tomb will remain.”

Aoife’s eyes boggled at such a thought. “That’s…incredible,” she said slowly.

“Indeed it is,” replied Socrates. “Indeed it is. And all of my design, of course.”

“Now, now, Socrates,” came Jesus’s voice from the doorway. “Don’t go putting ideas into Aoife’s head which don’t belong. You and I know full well that it is not you who protects the tomb.” Their eyes met, and Socrates dropped his.

“True enough,” he conceded.

“Come, Aoife,” said Jesus, turning to address her. “It is time for us to return to Mt Olympus. You have seen what you need to see here.”

Aoife jumped up from her chair, and moved towards Jesus.

"Wait,” called Socrates. “Before you go….” He turned and rummaged behind a pile of statues. “I want you to have this. Let’s call it a memento of your trip.” And he handed Aoife a small pottery scarab, its wings covered in complex hieroglyphics, and its eyes two uneven chips of lapis lazuli.

“Thank you,” said Aoife. “I shall treasure it.”

“I know you will,” said Socrates. “I have seen it.”

Aoife clutched the scarab tightly in her hand, and walked through the tapestry behind Jesus.