When we came back through the portal to the twenty-first-century Parthenon, Mr Posh was there to meet us. The Athens police had summoned him from London after Solomon Daisy claimed to be working for MI5.
Decorum prevents me telling you what happened to me and Crina and Dinu after we came through the portal. Both Dinu’s wounds were bleeding again but because we had disobeyed rule number two – drink, don’t eat – that wasn’t the worst of it. Needless to say, there was a lot of mess to clean up.
The three of us have taken a solemn vow never to speak of it again.
Mr Posh told Gran and Dinu’s mum that a terrorist had shot Dinu in the arm with a crossbow at the very moment the three of us had gone outside for some fresh air. And that some torture had been involved. That would explain Dinu’s arrow wound and the missing tip of his finger.
He explained that the Greek government had hushed it up so as not to credit the group claiming to have done it.
He said that a large amount of money would be paid to both our families as compensation.
The three of us, he said, were being kept in police custody for our own safety.
In actual fact we spent several hours in various showers and decontamination rooms.
All of us had to be debugged.
Literally.
In only twenty-four hours we had all picked up ticks, lice and fleas. The unholy trinity.
After they’d cleaned us up and tended to Dinu’s wounds and given us fresh clothes – oh, the joy of jeans and trainers! – Mr Posh took us to a debriefing at the British School in Athens.
Our debriefing room was an old-fashioned library with wooden shelves divided by pilasters painted the deep red of an Athenian pot. It had a wooden floor, high windows and a lofty white ceiling and door.
Eight of us sat on straight-backed chairs around one of the long wooden tables: me, Dinu, Crina, Mr Posh and Solomon Daisy. There was a woman from MI5 who doubled as a security guard and a child protector. I’m not even allowed to make up a name for her. And there were two experts on Socrates: a pretty Greek lady archaeologist called Dr Fotini Charis and an Oxford professor called Armand D’Angour.
Athens-born Dr Charis had done her PhD at Cambridge and now taught philosophy at the University of Athens. Professor D’Angour had written a book called Socrates in Love and happened to be in Athens for a conference.
‘See the books on that wall behind you?’ Dr Charis pointed with a pearly-tipped forefinger. ‘They are all by Plato or about Socrates or both.’
My jaw dropped. ‘There must be over a thousand.’
‘Over two thousand, though not all are on display. And keep in mind, this is a small institution specialising in archaeology.’
Professor D’Angour leaned forward. ‘Every university of any repute offers courses on Platonic philosophy. And for over two thousand years scholars have devoted their lives to studying Socrates and Plato.’
‘Like me,’ said Dr Charis. ‘I’ve been obsessed with him since my father took me to the Agora museum when I was eight.’
‘I was taught ancient Greek at school from when I was ten,’ said Professor D’Angour. ‘And I fell in love with the language immediately.’
‘You will have quite some job convincing us you really went back in time.’ Dr Charis raised both eyebrows, which were very black and straight.
So we told them everything we could think of.
About ten minutes in they were both smiling and nodding and taking lots of notes.
After about two hours we had exhausted the subject of Socrates, Alcibiades and Kid Plato. Professor D’Angour was disappointed that we hadn’t met Aspasia, the quick-witted widow of Pericles whom Socrates had known in earlier days and might even have fallen in love with. But he was delighted to hear about how ancient Greek music sounded, since that was his particular field of research. Dr Charis made us describe the clothing they wore and the artefacts they used.
Finally, after three hours of intensive questioning we convinced them that we really had gone back.
Someone brought in Greek coffee and Orangina, along with a big platter of baklava.
As he sipped his coffee, Professor D’Angour told us that although Socrates was considered ugly when he was older, he was probably not bad-looking as a younger man, when he was admired for his physique and courage on the battlefield.
‘Jolie-laid,’ he said. ‘It’s French for “ugly in a pretty way”. If they make a movie of my book, I’d like Adrian Grenier to play the part.’
‘Why not a Greek actor?’ asked Dr Charis, sucking baklava honey from her long-nailed fingers. ‘Omiros Poulakis has a snub nose, and the way he looks up at you from under his eyebrows would be perfect.’
Crina put down her Orangina. ‘Rami Malek,’ she said. ‘He’d make a good Socrates.’
‘Somehow I can’t imagine Socrates singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen,’ I quipped. That got everyone laughing.
Solomon Daisy had been quiet all this time, but suddenly his head was in his hands and his massive shoulders were shaking.
We all stopped laughing and stared at him.
Was he laughing or crying?
‘Mr Daisy?’ asked Mr Posh.
He raised his face. It was wet and smiling.
‘That’s all I wanted to know,’ he said, looking at me and Dinu and Crina in turn. ‘That’s why I sent you back. To see if Socrates was really true. True in the deepest sense. You have satisfied my dearest wish.’ To Mr Posh he said, ‘I’ll make myself completely transparent and show you all my offshore accounts. You can lock me away if you like. I’ve learned my lesson.’
Mr Posh raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Very touching. But I think there are better places for you than prison. The Prime Minister would like to see you and your two technicians as soon as we return to the UK,’ he said. ‘I think we can come to a mutually agreeable arrangement.’