The Self-Indulgence Of Sybaris (Η Αυτοϊκανοποίηση του ΣΥΒΑΡΙΣ)

-From The Meletic Tales

In the radiant coastal city of Sybaris, where the perfume of roses hung in the air and fountains flowed not merely with water but with wine, a young man named Lydos wandered amid splendour and silence. He was of quiet temperament, a contemplative soul whose gaze seldom rose to meet the grandeur around him. Others found solace in their silken garments and golden sandals, yet Lydos sought awareness, pondering things unseen.

Sybaris was famed across Hellas for its opulence, its citizens devoted more to leisure than to labour. Dancers adorned in garlands performed beneath marble colonnades, and feasts stretched on from dusk until dawn. It was said that the Sybarites taught their horses to dance to flutes and punished any cook whose dish offended their tender palates.

Lydos did not partake in such pleasures. He sat by the riverbanks alone, where he often meditated upon the flow of life, contemplating what the elders called to aei on.

One night, as the city lay silent in a dream of incense and wine, Lydos awoke with a start. His body was trembling, his hands damp with sweat. He had seen a vision—not a dream borne of idle indulgence, but something deeper, more raw. In his vision, a great crack tore through the marble of Sybaris. The fountains stopped, the music ceased. An army marched beneath blackened banners. The people fled, but there was nowhere to hide. The gods turned their faces away, and no incense reached their nostrils.

Lydos fell to his knees and uttered to himself. 'If this vision is true, show me what must be done'.

There was no voice in return, no fire from the heavens, but in his soul he sensed what Meletic thinkers called the nous—an intellect behind all things. From it flowed a single truth: speak, even if no one listens. Thus, he did.

At the public square, he stood barefoot upon the steps of the bathhouse where men discussed matters of trade and seduction. He raised his voice, and it carried volume.

'People of Sybaris! The path we tread is wrapped in silk but leads to ruin! I have seen what awaits—not from fear nor madness, but from the inner eye that does not blink. Invasion approaches and with it, destruction. You must change your ways. Return to virtue. Reconnect with reason. Honour not the gods in statues, but the unity of all that is!'

A silence fell. Then, laughter.

A merchant with rings on each finger scoffed. 'You speak as if you are Pythagoras himself! Go back to your studies, young man. Leave prophecy to the mad and joy to the wise'.

Another, draped in purple linen, sneered. 'He speaks of ruin whilst barefoot! Perhaps poverty has unhinged his mind'.

Lydos continued. 'I do not speak to gain applause, nor to stir your fear, but consciousness is not silent, and neither is the future. The city is blind, and the blind fall easily'.

His words were pearls cast into a well of wine. Each day, Lydos returned. He spoke before the temples, at the gymnasium, even during festivals. He had discovered To Ena, through his conscious contemplation. He spoke of To Ena—the One that underlay all things—and warned that disconnection from its natural flow would bring collapse and chaos. He urged temperance, humility and deep contemplation.

The people grew tired of his presence. Some spat at him. Others mocked his speech in jesting plays. He was called ‘the crow of Sybaris’, his warnings likened to the caws of a hungry bird.

Even his old tutor, Hermokrates, now grey and swollen with indulgence, pulled him aside one morning.

'Lydos, you shame your father’s name. Sybaris is not a place for grim foretellings. Here, beauty and celebration are life itself. Must we not enjoy the gifts given to us?'

'Not at the cost of forgetting ourselves. Even celebration must be measured. It is not enjoyment I condemn, but its enslavement', Lydos replied.

Hermokrates sighed and turned away, the scent of myrrh thick in the air.

The seasons passed. The vision returned often, growing clearer with each visit. He began to see faces, sounds and details. The banners bore the sigil of the city of Kroton. He saw the face of a commander, fierce-eyed, led the march. The cries of women, the burning of scrolls and the collapse of the statues—all danced through his nights.

Still, Sybaris indulged. They held a festival in honour of Dionysos. Wine flowed like rivers, and dancers spun beneath golden torches. The people laughed, adorned in garlands and beads. Even the dogs wore wreaths.

Lydos stood apart. 'They sing on the edge of a cliff', he muttered.

That night, in the hills beyond the city, torches moved like a serpent. They belonged to the army of Kroton. By dawn, they had surrounded the city.

The Sybarites, untrained in war, scrambled in panic. There were no walls — they had been removed to make way for more gardens. There was no militia —only musicians and priests. The temples, rich with gold and statues, were left unguarded.

When the first spears were thrown, the silence broke. Screams filled the air.

Lydos watched from the hilltop where he had once meditated. He did not rejoice in being proven right. Instead, sadness fell—not only for the death of his people, but for the death of what they might have become.

The army stormed through the streets. Some Sybarites resisted and were slain. Others hid and were dragged out. Temples were sacked. Artworks shattered. Those of value were taken in chains. Those too proud were left to die. The once-opulent city became a grave of echoing silence.

Lydos descended after the invasion. He passed broken fountains, the petals of crushed garlands, and the crumbled statue of Apollo. In the agora, blood stained the marble.

From the shadows, a voice called to him. 'Lydos?'

It was Daphne, a young woman who had once laughed at his speeches, yet now looked at him as one looks upon a mirror cracked but true.

'You… you knew. You saw this. Why did no one listen?'

'Because self-indulgence dulls the ear, and the truth has never dressed in gold', he answered.

She wept. 'What do we do now?'

He placed a hand upon her shoulder. 'We begin again—with thought, not spectacle. With humility, not splendour. What is destroyed is destroyed, but our will must never be forgotten. Its remembrance must be our seed to rebuild'.

Together, they gathered others who had survived and were not prisoners or exiled. Not many—a few dozen, mostly those who had lived on the outskirts or fled at the first signs of invasion. Amongst them were craftsmen, thinkers and even a few former critics who now spoke little, their eyes shadowed with grief. They had become Meletics.

Lydos guided them to the hills, where they built simple homes from stone and timber. They called their small village Nea Sybaris, not in honour of what had been, but in acknowledgement of what should never again be.

Each morning, they sat in contemplation. They recited not prayers to statues, but reflections of virtue: temperance, reason and humility. They meditated on To Ena—the One that had no name, no shrine, but lived in silence, in unity, in the very breath of life.

One evening, a young boy named Timaios approached Lydos by the fire.

'Is it true you saw the fall before it came?'

'I did.'

'Did you try to stop it?'

'I did with all my effort, but I failed to convince all the people'.

'And they laughed?'

'They did.'

Timaios looked into the flames. 'Then it must be hard being right.'

Lydos smiled, not with pride, but with quiet knowing. 'Harder still is realising that being right is never enough. One must also be heard, but even if none listen, truth must still be spoken. It is the seed of awakening'.

The boy nodded. 'Will Sybaris ever return?'

'Not as it was. Nor should it. Let its fall be the stone upon which wisdom is carved'.

Thus, from the indelible ashes of a city that had worshipped excess, arose a quiet community that honoured thought. They grew their own food. They shared what they had. Music still played—but now it was the music of reason, not revelry. They carved no statues, but they engraved words: reflections, teachings and fragments of Meletic thought.

The years passed. Lydos grew older. His beard silvered, and his voice grew soft, yet he remained a teacher, a guide and above all, a reminder.

On his final day, as he lay beneath the olive tree where he once meditated in youth, Daphne, now aged and gentle, came to his side.

'Do you regret not living as they did? The comfort, the pleasure, the praise?'

He looked at the leaves above. 'No. They lived as if life were a feast that never ended. I lived knowing every feast must end. They praised the gods who did not speak. I listened to To Ena, the One that is always silent, yet always present'.

Daphne took his hand. 'And now?'

He closed his eyes. 'Now, I return—not to gods, not to myths, but to the source from which all things come, which is To Ena. May those people who live after us remember not the fall of Sybaris, but the lesson it left'.

With that, Lydos passed into the stillness, his final breath like a whisper in the wind that blew.

His story was not sung in amphitheatres, nor carved into temples, but it lived —in thought, in reflection and in the quiet conscience of those persons who sought something deeper than indulgence.

For the greatest cities fall, but the quiet mind endures.

One day, a traveller asked Daphne, ‘What law governs you?’

Daphne answered, ‘Reason, and the quiet flow of To Ena, the One’.

‘What gods do you pray to?’

She replied, ‘None that ask for sacrifice, none that barter for favour. We honour what is, and what flows through all things. We reflect, and in that reflection, we find peace’.

The traveller stayed for many days. He sat in the morning meditations, shared food in the common gathering and listened to the discussions that took place beneath cypress trees—not debates of dominance, but of meaning. When he left, he carried no trophies, but his mind, once restless, now held a strange calm.

Word began to spread quietly, as a stream carves stone—slow, persistent, gentle. From distant poleis, others came. Not in waves, but in pairs, in small families. Some were disillusioned philosophers, others refugees from tyranny, a few simply weary of opulence. All brought stories, and all found something familiar in Nea Sybaris—not because it mirrored their pasts, but because it acknowledged what the past had ignored.

A small stone hall was raised—not for worship, but for dialogue. Upon its walls were etched sayings attributed to Lydos and the early Meletics: ‘To be aware is the beginning of wisdom. To Ena, the One is not a god—it is the breath of being itself. Silence is the teacher of the soul’.

In time, they no longer called themselves a village. They were a koinonia, a community of Meletics who shared thought and reflection. Their lives were simple, but rich in insight. They worked with their hands, cultivated their fields, and allowed no surplus to inflate pride. Their wealth was in their clarity, not in coin.

Daphne grew old and took to walking the grove each morning, tracing the steps once walked by Lydos. One morning, she stopped at the stream and looked into the water, where her reflection shimmered with the light of dawn. A young girl named Melia stood beside her, holding a bundle of herbs.

‘Why do you always come here?’ The girl asked.

Daphne smiled faintly. ‘Because this is where he once saw what we could not’.

‘Lydos?’

‘Yes. He looked into the world as one looks into deep water—not for what floats on the surface, but for what stirs beneath.’

Melia crouched by the bank. ‘Do you think he was sad?’

‘Sad? Perhaps. He was more at peace. He carried a burden, but he carried it without anger. He knew the city must fall for wisdom to rise. Some truths only grow in silence’.

Melia looked into the stream. ‘Will the world listen now?’

‘Some will. Some must fall first, but if one mind awakens, even for a moment, it is enough’.

The words of Daphne became the new soil for younger minds. She encouraged not imitation, but realisation. ‘Do not quote Lydos. Understand what moved him. Thought is not worship—it is awakening’.

The community grew slowly, not in numbers alone but in depth. They welcomed conversation with other cities, but declined grandeur. An invitation once arrived from the leaders of Kroton—a formal letter, offering protection and alliance.

The elders gathered. One said, ‘Shall we accept? We would be safe’.

Another said, ‘And in debt. Their protection is a leash dressed in gold’.

Dapne remained quiet until all had spoken. Then she said, ‘Let us reply not with refusal, nor submission, but with clarity’.

They wrote: ‘We thank you for your offer, but our only protector is our awareness. If you wish to understand us, come and see. If you seek to control us, you will find nothing here to possess’.

Kroton sent no army. The commander who once led the invasion of old Sybaris had long since died. His sons, raised in tales of conquest, saw no value in a village without riches. Thus, Nea Sybaris endured.

On the fortieth anniversary of the fall of old Sybaris, the community gathered by the remains of a crumbled arch, the only fragment that had survived the sacking. Flowers were laid not in mourning, but as reminders. A ceremony of remembrance was held—not of grief, but of reflection.

Daphne spoke softly before the assembly. ‘Let it not be said that Sybaris died for nothing. Its splendour was its blindness. Its silence, its undoing, but from it rose not just us, but a way—a thought, a rhythm, a return to what the soul always knew. Lydos saw what we ignored. May we never again forget that self-indulgence is not peace, and that the greatest light is often born in the absence of applause’.

That night, beneath the stars, the children of Nea Sybaris lit lanterns and placed them in the river, each one carrying a message: short thoughts, lines of Meletic reflection, or simply the name of someone lost.

Melia, now grown and herself a teacher, stood at the river’s edge and whispered: ‘May these lights drift to those persons who still slumber. May they awaken not in fear, but in absolute wonder’.

The lanterns floated gently downstream, the river carrying their glow towards the sea.

The next morning, a fisherman from a neighbouring village found one caught in the reeds. Upon the paper, it read: ‘To indulge the senses without knowing the self is to live in a dream, but to awaken—even once—is to live forever’.

The fisherman took it home and showed it to his son. That son, in time, would ask questions his father could not answer, but he would remember the message.

The thoughts of Nea Sybaris spread—not by conquest, not by decree, but by the quiet ripple of genuine reflection.

It is said that centuries later, a traveller from Asia Minor came upon the ruins of the original Sybaris. There amidst overgrown marble and silent pillars, he found a stone half-buried in earth. On it, barely legible, were the words:

‘Here once stood a city that loved itself more than the truth, and here rose a young man who loved truth more than himself’.

He took the stone, placed it in his satchel, and carried it with him until his death.

It now rests in a museum, mislabelled as a fragment of an unknown shrine.

To those people who know the tale of Lydos, it is no mere fragment—it is a whisper from the past, a reminder that in every age, the self-indulgent shall fall, and the awake shall rise.

In time, poets would speak of Sybaris not as a place of shame, but as a lesson immortalised in silence. Across the generations, those people seeking the truth would trace their steps not to grandeur, but to the quiet hills where Nea Sybaris once stood—and still stands, in those who choose to listen.

Even in distant lands, amongst strangers to Hellas, the tale was retold by wanderers and seekers. Sometimes, a child would sit by the fire and ask, ‘Who was Lydos?’ The reply would be: ‘He was one who spoke when no one listened, and lived what others feared to understand in life'.

For what is forgotten by cities may yet be remembered by souls. The self-indulgence of Sybaris was to serve as a Meletic lesson that in life pleasures are not all that we should seek. There is wisdom in true awareness.

Even though centuries passed, and the name Sybaris faded from the tongues of most, its tale remained—not in the annals of rulers or in the glorification of battles, but in the quiet reflections passed down in communities that valued thought over splendour. In hidden libraries, on scraps of scroll, in whispered teachings of wandering thinkers, the story of Lydos endured—not as myth, but as an allegory of awakening.

In one such village far from where Sybaris once stood, a teacher gathered her students under a fig tree. She spoke not of gods or heroes, but of a youth who once stood against the tide of ignorance with nothing but his voice and his vision.

‘Remember this, he was mocked, ignored, even shamed, but still he spoke. Still he reflected. Because the measure of truth is not who listens, but who dares to live by it', she said.

A boy raised his hand and asked, ‘How do we know when to speak, and when to wait?’

She smiled gently. ‘When the silence around you becomes heavier than the truth inside you—that is when.’

The leaves above stirred, as if in agreement.

For in every age, there are those people who sleep and those who wake—and the tale of Sybaris lives not to condemn, but to remind people that wisdom begins when we are aware of our actions.

Not through splendour, not through power, but through quiet thought, we reclaim what indulgence.

And so, the legacy of Lydos endures—not in marble, but in the minds that dare to listen to its message.

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