The Land of Perfect Justice
Short Story
Solon stood before the people of Athens, their murmurs rising and falling like the waves crashing against the harbor behind him. When he spoke, his voice carried conviction enough to command them all.
“Fellow Athenians! I am tasked to give just laws to this polity, but I do not know the meaning of that word. Send forth the wisest among you, that I may task him to go out in search of it.”
His speech lingered; the ebb and flow of the Aegean Sea filling the space again. Murmurs resumed, first quiet, rising like boiling water until spilling over again to silence. A man stepped forward, his dark beard matching the color of his piercing eyes. A faint film of dirt played over his chiton. With reserved steps and head bowed, he peered up at Solon.
“What is your name?” Solon asked.
“Antipatros,” said the man, voice soft.
“Why were you chosen?” Solon asked, louder.
“I am fair,” he answered.
“Is fairness justice?” Solon asked.
“I will find out,” he said, matching Solon’s conviction.
Solon laughed and shook his head, motioning Antipatros toward a cart set behind two large oxen. The midday sun cast its silhouette in sharp relief against the ground.
“I leave you with gold, this cart, and five armed men for protection. Go to each polity, observe their justice, and return with the strongest laws.”
Antipatros shook his head, and five men stepped from the crowd, xiphos sheathed at the hip, taking position along one side of the cart.
“I will do my best,” Antipatros said.
Setting out that afternoon, his first foray from Athens, Antipatros was spellbound by the beauty of nature. Certainly, this was in balance, and any justice he found would mirror that great harmony. But as months passed on his quest, he found only confusion and discord among the states.
In Corinth, men spoke of balance, but beggars filled the streets, their ashen skin burnt dry from the midday sun. In Thebes, the wise preached temperance, but drunken men shouted from taverns, crass words echoing through the stone walkway. And all throughout the land, not one claimed perfect justice. Antipatros was met with pragmatic reasons. Order. Rule. Ease.
Still, in hushed corners of their agoras, philosophers whispered of a land committed to justice. Deep inland, so they said, lay a place where each coin of the purse, every wise man, and the whole of human energy was driven toward its pursuit. All who spoke had only glimpsed its pristine walls, guarded by soldiers in gleaming brass. Entry was barred to all, so delicate was the balance in that righteous state.
“How will I know when I find it?” Antipatros asked a preacher in Thessaly.
The man tapped his chin under his heavy beard and pursed his lips.
“You will need to shield your eyes from the glare of the wall’s polished white stones. No other can compare.”
“What is its name?”
“We have never been told.”
When he’d heard enough rumors to pass beyond doubt, Antipatros forsook all others and set out to find it. Passing city after city, he and his men camped beside the cart, trusting the gods to lead them to their destination. The evening sky burst forth with stars, and Antipatros imagined they watched him, blessing his journey. No other endeavor could be so important, and he knew the gods loved justice.
One afternoon, he saw a man hobbling along the open road, one leg dragging behind as his shoulder draped around his wife, their young daughter in her other arm. It was not uncommon to see merchants, but these figures had no cart and no goods to speak of. As they approached, Antipatros smelled the foul stench of rot and sweat. Their skin was scraped, bruised, and scarred. Looking around at the open groves of olive trees and rolling hills, he wondered where they could be headed.
“Hello!” He yelled when within shouting distance.
His five men followed at his side, the sound of the oxen clopping behind him.
The three figures stopped as Antipatros moved forward.
“Where are you headed in this state, so far from city and plot?”
The trio stared in silence.
“Perhaps I can help you,” Antipatros said.
The man hopped forward slightly, still supported by his wife.
“We seek justice,” the man said. “We have been abused and mistreated.”
Antipatros' eyes gleamed.
“Then come with me! I seek the land of perfect justice,” he said.
“There is no justice that way,” the man said, voice stern, “now please step aside.”
Antipatros shook his head.
“You of little faith, please, ride in my cart. I trust we can find your salvation,” Antipatros said.
“Please move aside, and for your own sake, turn from your quest,” the man said.
Antipatros frowned, but stepped aside, motioning the five men beside him to do the same. He watched as the family moved by, shoulders slumped to the ground, unwilling to look toward the light of the good. He would continue his quest, ensuring no man in Athens suffered such a fate.
After two more days of wandering, food and supplies dwindling, they crested a hill to see a tower of gleaming white stone in the distance below. It punctuated the expanse of the land like an angel spreading light in every direction.
“There it is!” Antipatros said.
The five men could only grunt in awe.
They marched with renewed vigor, now driven by the promise of the city’s walls. Antipatros' mind raced with questions, and he almost salivated with anticipation of their answers. At the same time, his throat grew tight imagining the cunning of these wise men, whose knowledge so far exceeded all other Hellenes’. What would they think of him, the fool that he was? He reminded himself of his purpose, and that there could be nothing to fear from a people so committed to the just and the good.
Upon reaching the plain, the perfect walls towered overhead. Even from a distance, Antipatros saw his own reflection marching forward in the polished bronze of armored guards, stationed in a row along the wall. They stood like rigid statues, spear tips pointing toward the sky from sheaths on their backs, watching the six men draw near. At a hundred paces away, one of them spoke, no muscles moving other than his mouth.
“Why do you approach?” The man asked.
Antipatros stood tall, shoulders back, and bowed his head slightly.
“I have come to learn of justice!” he said proudly.
“Justice is not taught. It is lived.” The man said.
“Then let me live it!” Antipatros said, still confident.
“It is not ours to give.” The man replied.
“Please, I have traveled far. Surely to turn such a one away is not just,” he said.
“I do not know,” the man replied.
“Don’t know? This city is renowned for its commitment to justice!” Antipatros yelled, a mixture of confusion and indignation.
“Correct,” the man said.
“Then how can you not know?” Antipatros asked.
“We don’t know,” the man repeated.
Antipatros stood with blood now storming through his veins. What were these riddles? These, the wisest of all, certainly knew, and yet they kept their knowledge opaque. He looked to the five men behind him, each shuffling uneasily as they peered at the row of guards. Nobody dared take another step toward the wall. Antipatros pleaded several times for their hospitality, but it was like yelling at grass on a still spring morning. Grass tipped with bronze blades.
He hung his head low, unwilling to admit defeat.
“Please! I have been sent by Solon. He believes we can learn from you,” he yelled.
At this the man who’d spoken earlier turned his head to his left, whispering to his comrade. The other man turned around with practiced steps, moving through a small opening in the wall behind him.
“Wait,” said the man.
Antipatros did not risk speaking again, for fear of disrupting the wheels he’d set in motion. Wind caressed his face as he waited, as if telling him all would be well. Tyche was smiling upon him. He hid the racing of his breath, focusing on slowing the inhalation through his nostrils. By the time the other man returned, whispering to the speaker, his pulse was steady.
“Solon has our lord’s respect. You will follow us for an audience.”
A rush of euphoria rang through Antipatros' nerves as a portion of the guards broke away, forming a tight circle around him and his companions.
“Wear these,” he said, holding forth six pieces of cloth, “to cover your eyes.”
Antipatros balked, but did not protest. Justice is blind, he thought to himself. They felt silken, as if woven from clouds. His men received them with a grunt, but their commitment to Solon convinced them to comply. Each tied it tightly around the back of their heads, and Antipatros felt a firm hand grip his shoulder.
“Now walk,” the voice commanded.
Antipatros stepped slowly as he heard the sound of the gate lifting, quieter than those he’d heard anywhere else. Wind stopped moving across his face, and he assumed he had made it inside the city walls.
The smell of rot and sweat stung his nostrils, but he kept walking. Even the city of justice needed a place for waste. Still, he was surprised how strong it was, and for how long it lasted. He was patient, hearing only the breath around him as they strode forward, then the sound of trumpets and horns cut in. They followed him in procession, a harmonious cacophony of bright melody and low, rumbling bass.
“Steps approaching,” the man said.
The music stopped. He paused, and felt the blindfold loosen from behind. Dropping, it revealed a grand staircase beneath a massive lintel supported by the intricate, scroll-like ornament of rising ionic columns.
“You may all go have an audience with our king,” the man said.
Antipatros said a silent thanks to Zeus, and took cautious steps ahead of his companions. Each one echoed behind him. At the top he reached a grand hall, closed doors hiding rooms that lay on either side. At the end of the hall sat the king, resting in an ornamented chair atop a dais, flanked by two guards. His voice boomed and bounced through the palace when he spoke.
“Approach, and tell me how I can assist the messenger of Solon,” the king said.
Bowing his head slightly, Antipatros looked up to the king.
“Solon sent me to discover justice. I’ve heard your kingdom is the most committed. Will you teach me, so that I can gift your wisdom to him?”
The king nodded, and turned to the guard on his right.
“Call on Themocles,” he said.
The guard turned, the clacking of his bronze armor reverberating with every step as he moved toward the nearest door, next to the dais. The king spoke as they waited.
“Themocles is our most learned scholar, and will show you the state of our efforts,” he said, turning as Themocles appeared clad in a glistening white robe, his white beard and long, scraggly hair blending to form one solid mass below his cheeks.
“Themocles, show this man the Chamber of Reason,” the king said.
Themocles nodded, motioning for Antipatros to follow.
“You must be regarded highly to have been granted an audience here,” Themocles said, leading him through the door he’d come from.
Stepping over the threshold, Antipatros released an audible gasp at the sight of scrolls hanging on every inch of the walls, lengths of papyrus unfurling from ceiling to floor. Scholars filled the room, some on ladders towering overhead, scribbling along the highest part of a scroll. Others stood in the middle, still others at the bottom. Some sat at a large circular table in the middle, poring over lengthy treatises. Antipatros counted one hundred bodies in all.
“This is incredible,” Antipatros said, voice distant as his eyes scanned the script.
“Please, look around,” Themocles said.
Antipatros toured the room, studying the text. Syllogism folded inside of syllogisms, the totality of one acting as the premise for the next. Middle terms formed arguments unto themselves. Symbolic representations spread across scrolls, complex algebras of unknown symbols dancing through each line. At the back of the room one scholar dropped marbles into an enormous, mechanical computation device. Themocles pointed to it.
“Each rule is encoded in a valve, the derivation before it opening or closing the path below. These systems show us the way,” he said.
Antipatros turned to face him. “And what have you discovered? What is just law?” he asked.
Before Themocles could answer, Antipatros heard a commotion in the grand hall, where he’d had his audience with the king. Through the open door he saw guards dragging a man before the dais. A thud filled the room as he was tossed to the floor. Antipatros stepped into the doorway to watch.
“We heard he was stealing,” one of the guards said.
The man looked up to speak, only to be struck on the back of the head with the hilt of a spear.
“To the pit,” the king said, voice full of contempt.
The man cried as he was dragged into another room, opposite The Chamber of Reason on the other side of the dais. Screeching pain and cries of agony filled the palace, and then sudden silence.
Antipatros turned to Themocles, “What kind of justice is this? No trial, no hearing, and a sentence of death for theft? Surely this cannot be what you’ve found!”
Themocles laughed, then spoke. “I assure you it is not. We are still well on our way to discovering the meaning of justice. It is not a simple task. Each definition requires an explanation of the words composing it. Complex, interweaving considerations must go into every moral hypothetical. Most cities settle for an imperfect justice, a mere shadow.”
Antipatros glowered, “But what I just saw can’t be the best you can do!”
“I assure you it is not,” Themocles said, “our best is yet to come. But we, being the committed seekers of justice we are, cannot settle for a shadow.”
“Then what is the point of all this?” Antipatros said.
“Truth. Along these walls you see three-hundred separate systems, each logically coherent, built on unique axioms. We began with over a thousand, when our king’s grandfather’s great-grandfather founded the endeavor. So you can see we are doing quite well.”
“But you commit injustice in your rulings!” Antipatros said.
“Possibly. We can’t be sure. We have no true definition yet. One day one of these systems will prove the axioms of all others, and all theorems that derive from each. From this system we can formulate all sound rules of justice. Until then, it is an open question,” Themocles said.
The scratch of the reed pens dragging ink over papyrus now struck Antipatros as a joke.
“But you must have some idea!” Antipatros yelled.
Themocles laughed again, “An idea! Now you sound like one of the men of shadows, willing to act an imperfect justice.”
“And what of your people? Are they so committed to justice?” Antipatros said.
“Could you doubt it? Look at how great our King is. Observe how much he has invested his sovereign power into the pursuit of justice, and you will know that he is a leader of the highest good.” Themocles said, his voice proud.
“Then show me your city,” Antipatros said.
“Gladly. Follow me, and you will see how much we strive for the best of all possible worlds,” Themocles said, motioning Antipatros to follow.
Antipatros looked back to his five companions, now standing with confusion plastered across their faces. Holding up a hand, he motioned them to stay as he followed Themocles through the hall he had entered so full of hope. He exited bursting with disdain, seeing a land barely recognizable as civilization.
Glancing beyond the staircase, to its left he saw a long, yellowed building of rough stone, barely open windows revealing the vague form of huddled bodies alongside the now familiar stench. He hadn’t even seen it earlier, so lost in excitement to meet the king. Standing outside each small window, scribe etched notes into wax tablets, deep in contemplation.
Walking ahead of Themocles, Antipatros rushed toward one of these windows, almost pausing in fear of what he might find. When he looked through one, he felt his stomach churn. Men, women, and children crouched naked and gaunt beside decaying corpses. Chains jangled around their wrists, still locked to the lifeless bodies. Antipatros backed away, unable to bear the sight for another second.
Continuing at a leisurely pace toward him, Themocles tucked his hands behind the small of his low back, a satisfied grin on his face.
“What are these people guilty of?” Antipatros demanded.
Themocles frowned, tilting his head.
“They are not guilty. We do not yet know what one can be guilty of. Our lord, in his wisdom, has allowed us to place them here, to study the injustice of arbitrary punishment,” Themocles said.
“So you recognize that this is unjust!” Antipatros said, gesturing to the people inside.
“We suspect it is, yes. But we don’t yet know why, or if it is certainly so. Look, however, upon the scribes. See their commitment, noting each agony, every cry, counting each tear shed, so that we may understand,” Themocles voice grew still prouder.
“This can’t be necessary,” Antipatros said.
“Must a surgeon cut a wound into a patient when his goal is to make them whole? We must see the affliction inside so that we may remove it. When we are able to dissect the misery of these souls, afflicted with injustice, we will be able to remove it from future generations,” Themocles said.
“So you are acting unjust now so that you may be just later?” Antipatros said.
“You continue to claim injustice, when justice has not yet been established,” Themocles answered, as if a patient teacher clarifying a student’s question.
Antipatros staggered back, the sound of chains echoing in his mind. He scanned the length of the building, horrified by the indifference of the scribes, carving notes on pain as if cataloguing birds. He moved away from the palace, noting the empty streets and crumbling buildings.
“Why aren’t these apartments, shops, and temples maintained?” he asked.
“How do those help to further our noble cause? The king does not concern us with such triviality,” Themocles replied, walking several paces behind.
Antipatros heard cries of agony ahead. Rushing over the cracked ground, he saw a man stretched upon a wheel of red oak, back arched in brutal contortion, ropes cutting into his wrist and ankles. A man turned a crank below. Each rotation pulled the limbs further, snapping and stretching sinew and bone.
“Level 76,” the man called, as if marking a turn in a queue, and rotated the crank.
More screams.
A circle of scholars surrounded the wheel, jotting notes, hands moving with precision across the wax tablets.
“This can’t be right!” Antipatros screamed.
“I am inclined to agree,” Themocles said, taking a position at his side. “I predict that will be the conclusion of the scholars as well. One more thing to rule out.”
“Surely you don’t need to see this to know!” Antipatros said.
“Ah, but that is precisely why we need to see. Most assume they know things, but this is what maintains their ignorance. How do we know a fish if not by the fact that it cannot walk on land? Should we assume it will slither up a tree only because we observe the snake to do this without legs? No, we must observe,” Themocles said, adding a final note. “And so, we observe.”
“Level seventy-seven!”
The crank turned again, stretching the man further.
“Our lord maintains the best engineers, so that they may create these devices,” Themocles said, waving his arm toward the writhing man.
Antipatros stormed off, searching in desperation for some glimmer of hope. Along the road ahead he saw a banquet, accompanied by handsome men and beautiful women, naked and tanned. A row of guards surrounded a lone man, separating him from the sensual delights. More scribes sat in the apartments above, observing the scene below.
Moving forward, Antipatros positioned himself behind the guards, watching as the shaking man stared at a coin in his hand.
“Flip!” one of the guards yelled.
When the coin landed, the man let out a sigh of relief as the guards opened toward the feast. Another man was dragged into the circle from behind Antipatros.
“Flip!” the same guard said.
The man trembled.
“Flip!” he repeated, prodding the man with his spear.
When the coin landed, this man tried to rush toward the feast, but was dragged and stuck with spears in his back, urging him to a small cage on the other side. Opening the latch, the guards threw him in. Three others followed behind, pushing chained wolves at arm’s length, prodded by a stiff rod locked into their collar. Each guard released the prod from the collar once the wolves were within the cage, locking it behind them.
“That is not fair!” Antipatros said, not sure why he still protested.
“You are beginning to understand,” Themocles said.
Antipatros wandered the town, witnessing horrors each more ghastly than the last. Themocles calmly explained each wound, indignity, and squeal as the cost of ruling out the bad. Speaking with reverence, he smiled upon each contradiction as a revelation for the future. Antipatros stormed back to the palace, breath heavy and pulse pounding in his skull. The pristine white of the steps masked the bloodstained streets behind him. The king smiled as Antipatros approached.
“You are a beast!” he yelled toward the dais.
“Does a beast reason? Seek justice?” The king asked.
Antipatros stood silent, fist clenched.
“No. I am no beast. I am the highest among men. Committed to the most human pursuits,” his voice boomed again.
“The worst of men,” Antipatros said.
“So that there can be a best,” The king replied.
“Show Antipatros and his men the way out,” The king said, turning to his guards, then back, “I believe you have your message to Solon.”
A group of guards ushered the five companions from the Chamber of Reason, another group marching from behind to escort them back to the wall. Antipatros' heart raged in its chest, but he knew he could only follow. They were not offered blindfolds this time. They were forced to watch the suffering they could not end for the entire walk.
The six men journeyed back in silence, scarred from what they’d seen in the land of perfect justice. They moved quickly, eager to be as far away as possible. By the time they were back in Athens, the stench was just a twisted memory.
The town bustled with life. Flowing in and out of shops and taverns, the people lived with little pleasures and small indignities. Music filled the streets. Children ran through the agora, knocking into things and kicking up dust. A sense of warmth filled Antipatros as he heard laughter and arguments, saw smiles and frowns, but nowhere did he see perfection.
Antipatros was summoned before Solon, who sat in his modest home before a small meal of soup and bread.
“I’m glad you have returned,” Solon said. “I have had to do the best I could to listen to my heart. Tell me, what have you learned about justice?”
Antipatros paused, letting out a slow breath before answering.
“I know this. Its pursuit cannot be in the mind alone.” he answered.
“But I still don’t know what it is,” Solon added, resting his spoon in his bowl.
“And knowing that is why you’ve already succeeded.” Antipatros said.
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Alex Goldberg on Daily Philosophy:
