The Voice Of Perimedes (Η Φωνή Του Περμηδείου)

-From The Meletic Tales.

The autumn winds of Ephesus blew differently that year. They carried not only the scent of withering leaves and distant myrrh, but a feeling—as though the very air awaited something. Whispers stirred in the marble colonnades and under lintels carved with Athena’s wisdom: whispers of a Jewish preacher from Tarsus, of scrolls aflame with promise, of gods whose statues no longer wept.

Perimedes sat beneath the oldest olive tree in the upper courtyard of the stoa. The branches drooped with weight, casting long spears of dappled shade across the scrolls beside him. His fingers moved slowly along the edge of a worn papyrus—a fragment from Demokritos— although his eyes were fixed on the wind.

He had lived in Ephesus for nearly four decades, arriving from Mytilene to study rhetoric and reason, eventually abandoning the lecture halls to walk in thought and contemplation. His name once echoed in symposiums; now, it echoed only in the memory of a few.

The city bustled below him—the clang of bronze, the lowing of oxen, the chants of traders in the agora, but something had shifted. Not in the marble or the merchants, but in the silence beneath the noise.

A stranger approached from the lower gate—tall, lean, shoulders wrapped in a worn wool cloak dyed with poor indigo. His eyes were sharp with conviction. Simeon. He was someone that Perimedes had seen before, but had never shared a conversation with this man.

Perimedes did not move as Simeon crossed the yard, but spoke softly.

‘You come with tidings. Either with joy or unrest.’

Simeon lowered his hood. His hair was matted from sea air.

‘The port is buzzing. Paul the Apostle has come again. He spoke in the synagogue and drew crowds even from the marble theatre. Some are calling him divine.’

Perimedes closed the scroll gently that he was reading.

‘What do you call him?’

Simeon did not answer at once. His gaze drifted to the olive tree.

‘I call him a man of God. He says the kingdom of heaven is at hand, and the present world is passing away. That the Logos has taken flesh. That time is short; for the kingdom of heaven is near'.

Perimedes smiled faintly.

‘Ah. Time again. So few care for it until it runs out.’

Simeon took a step forth. ‘And you? What do you believe in? The world is burning. Rome festers. The gods are silent, and you sit under the trees contemplating.’

‘The gods were always silent. It was we who made the noise. I see the influence of To Ena, the One in the Logos—it is not chaos, but order. It does not consume. It teaches', Perimedes said.

They sat on opposite benches. Between them, the smell of pressed olive and sun-warmed cedar. The city noise filtered in, less urgent at this height.

‘You call it order, but does this Logos—speak? Christ walked amongst us. He bled. He was crucified under Pilate, and rose from death. It is not a theory, but fulfilment. The prophets wrote of it. This world is not a harmony unfolding—it is a veil torn, the beginning of the end', said Simeon.

Perimedes tilted his head slightly.

‘If it were the end, would we still be speaking?’

Simeon stood and paced. ‘Do you mock it? The people are awakening. This is not idle faith. They leave their old ways. The temple of Artemis will fall. The magicians burn their books. Even some of the philosophers listen now.’

Perimedes touched the ground with his fingers, then wiped the dust on his robes.

‘I do not mock, but you speak of endings and fire as though they are the only language the world knows. Meleticism has no fire, only light. No fear, only unfolding’.

Simeon stopped. ‘What of injustice? Of slavery? Of Herod's bloodlust? Will the world unfold the chains away?’

Perimedes looked to the sky. ‘Chains are undone not only by force, but by liberation, but to reach liberation, you must first obtain awareness. To Ena, the One does not enslave us—it reminds us. The Logos does not command—it reveals. And the Nous does not rebel—it forms.’

Simeon sat once more, quieter now. His voice dropped, almost confessional.

‘I have seen men give up everything—their wealth, their blood, their children —for this truth. We have no armies. We speak and we are beaten, but something burns in us, a hope that cannot be undone. How can your philosophy compare to that?’

Perimedes nodded with solemn eyes. ‘I do not question the strength of your fire. Only its direction in life with meaning. People will believe in what they yearn to believe in. Gods come and go. Your Christ was a man of flesh like we are. He bled like we bleed. It is man who made him into a god'.

Simeon furrowed his brow. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning fire must burn through the self before it may enlighten others, but many people would rather set the world alight than endure their own transformation.’

A silence passed between them. Simeon broke it with a whisper. ‘We believe the world will be judged. All will be made new in the kindgom of the Lord.’

Perimedes looked out towards the hills beyond Ephesus.

‘Meleticism holds no apocalypse. It teaches that the world renews not by force but by awareness. Judgement is not imposed—it arises naturally, when the mind sees clearly. Each soul carries its reckoning’.

Simeon tapped his chest. ‘Christ came to fulfil what was written. To save what was lost. Is there no salvation in your Triad?’

‘There is no need for salvation, only remembrance. We are not lost—only veiled. To Ena never departed from us. It is the veil that thickened. Through reason, through contemplation, we remember the wholeness we forgot. That is the beauty of Meleticism'. Perimedes replied.

The next day, Simeon returned with a worn parchment.

‘He wrote this to the Corinthians,’ he said, unfolding the scroll. ‘Paul speaks of a wisdom not of this age—a hidden wisdom, revealed by the Spirit. He says the natural man does not receive the things of the Spirit of God’.

Perimedes listened intently. ‘Your Paul is a man of vision, but is it not also possible that the hidden wisdom he names is akin to the Nous? That your Spirit and the intellect are not enemies, but layers of the same reality that ends in To Ena, which is the ultimate reality?’

Simeon shook his head. ‘The Spirit does not arise from the mind. It descends from heaven.’

‘Where does this heaven dwell, if not within?’ Perimedes asked.

Simeon blinked, uncertain. 'The Heaven that is revealed by Paul is not of this earth'.

'If that was the case, then what becomes of this world?'

'It will end sooner than later'.

'There is a place not Elysium, but another place where we neglect and forget, and that is the cosmos. This world is a part of the neverending cycle of life and death'.

‘He says the body is a temple. That the Spirit lives in us’.

Perimedes smiled. ‘Then perhaps we are not so different after all. In Meleticism, the body is our temple. What you call the Spirit, we call the Ousia'.

That same week, tensions rose in the city. Word spread that Paul’s teachings threatened the worship of Artemis. The silversmiths, who sold idols in the temple’s shadow, stirred up the crowd. A riot flared like dry wood, and Paul was rushed from the theatre.

Simeon found Perimedes again on the hill, as smoke from overturned market stalls still drifted over Ephesus.

‘They tried to kill him,’ he said. ‘The city teeters between the old gods and the new kingdom. Is this the harmony you spoke of?’

Perimedes’ expression was grave. ‘Every turning brings friction. Even the stars wrestle with shadows, but the answer is not to replace one idol with another, or one god with another'.

‘What would you say to the crowd?’ Simeon asked.

‘I would say: see more deeply. Look not to what reflects, but to what endures'.

They returned to the olive tree once more as the city cooled into evening. Children chased the shadows between pillars, unaware of the debates that shook empires.

‘You said the Logos reveals,’ Simeon began. ‘Yet ours speaks through prophets and signs. Yours speaks through stillness and awareness. Can both be true?’

Perimedes nodded. ‘Truth is not diminished by differing reflections. Some people see it as fire, others as form, others as light in the mind. What matters is whether it awakens the soul, not how loud it is.’

Simeon hesitated, then said, ‘There are some people who call the Gospel a stumbling block to Greeks, and foolishness to Gentiles, yet to those people being saved, it is power.’

‘To those people who listen without fear, all wisdom—even foolishness—has meaningful value. I do not stumble over your Christ. I see in him a symbol of return—the soul reuniting with its source through surrender. That is not far from Meletic rebirth', Perimedes added.

‘Christ was no symbol. He lived, he suffered. He died for our sins on the cross. He loved with blood'. Simeon said firmly.

‘Then let that love be your path, but know that others may see the same pattern in different stars. My logos teaches that suffering is not erased by belief, but understood by reason. Not comforted with reward, but illumined with clarity. I need no saviour, for I am a saviour to own my self and soul', said Perimedes.

Simeon’s hands curled slightly.

'Do you not fear that your soul will be condemned to an eternal hell, if you are not saved'.

'No. I have learnt in life that to fear is to succumb to my unwise thoughts. I do not believe in an eternal hell. For man does not need a hell to be condemned, when he is already condemned by his fellow man through wrath or envy'.

‘Still, you offer no judgement. No resurrection. Only ideas.’

‘Not ideas. Reflections. Meleticism is a mirror. It shows you what is already there. The judgement is not to come—it is already present, whenever one sees themselves truly. A man does not need to be resurrected to be whole, for he is already whole, when he becomes one with To Ena', Perimedes responded.

The festival of Artemis came days later. Smoke from burnt offerings rolled across the rooftops of Ephesus. The temple stood gleaming—one of the greatest wonders of the world—flanked by dancers, priests and sceptics alike.

‘Do you see that?’ Simeon asked as they watched from afar. ‘That temple will fall. And none shall mourn it’.

Perimedes turned his gaze towards it.

‘All things made by hands may fall, but not all things that fall deserve hatred. Even beauty passes. Even gods fade, but the truth—that is another matter entirely different'.

‘Isn’t it idolatry?’ Simeon pressed.

‘Only if you forget what it reflects. I have respect even for the Pagans. They are free to worship their gods'.

'Do you not feel threatened by their gods?' Simeon asked.

'Why should I? When one is strengthened in To Ena, one does not need to falter to fear or threats. To Ena has no image, but people do. They need form before they can perceive the formless. Meleticism does not bow to statues—but it does not wage war on them either', said Perimedes.

Simeon frowned. ‘Paul tore down temples in the hearts of men who were disbelieves. Why do you tolerate them?’

‘Because I do not have the need to play God or impose my will like a Demigod. Why should I corrupt my soul with anger or poison my veins with wrath? If you shatter a mirror too quickly, the light it reflects is lost. Thus, its essence would be forgotten', said Perimedes.

As the weeks passed, their conversations deepened.

They walked together along the banks of the Cayster River, past fields of figs and crumbling shrines. They watched fishermen mend nets and children press olives. Perimedes often pointed out how nature revealed truths beyond words.

‘The Logos is in the curve of the vine, the rhythm of the tide. The Nous is in the reflection of the sun, and To Ena is in the harmony that binds them all’.

'Look up at the sun. What you see is that reflection. Feel its warmth and light reach your body. This is a sign of life'.

Simeon, listening, sometimes saw his world shaken—not destroyed, but stirred.

‘If what you say is true, then the kingdom of God is not only coming—it is already here’, he said one morning.

'It is not a kindgom with a throne and a king like that which you have heard mentioned. Instead, it is a world of the Logos and the Nous that is already present. This is the realisation of To Ena. For this, no kingdom, throne or king is neeeded', Perimedes expressed.

'And what of faith then?' Simeon enquired.

'Faith is a blind devotion that leads men astray. Once we accept our fate, then we can build a lasting temple that will strengthen the pillars of life'.

'Are you implying that people that have faith in Christ are misguided?'

'It is not I who deems judgement unto others, but guidance must first begin from within than from the outside'.

Simeon paused. ‘Then why did Paul speak of judgement? Of wrath, of separation?’

‘Because, what he believed to be the truth was veiled in secrecy, when it was not. You see, it is easy to cast judgement, speak of wrath or evoke separation, when we succumb to emotions than reason'.

'Are you saying that Paul did not have reason?'

'Some people need a storm to open their eyes. Others, a whisper. The Logos speaks all languages. The reason that I speak of is not bound by our words alone, but by our actions'.

Days grew shorter and the silver moon traced arcs over the harbour. The city’s restless heart beat on.

Simeon sat by the steps of the agora, holding a new scroll from Paul’s letters. His fingers trembled slightly.

‘Paul writes, 'That faith is the victory that overcomes the world, yet reason, your logos, must surely have its place? Can faith and reason coexist?’

Perimedes smiled softly, the wrinkles near his eyes deepening.

‘In Meleticism, we believe more in fate than faith, and reason than devotion. For without fate the other is like a ship without a rudder or a sail. Fate is the wind, but reason is the course. Together, they steer the soul’.

Simeon looked up, searching the sky. ‘What of those people who suffer, who see no justice? Faith can seem cruel, reason cold’.

‘Then they must be balanced, with temperance and wisdom. Faith that blinds is zealotry. Reason without compassion is mere calculation. Suffering is part of the human journey in life, but it does not need to define us. When we suffer it is not because it is a divine punishment, but because it is part of who we are in life. Just as we experience bliss, so too, we must experience suffering', Perimedes explained.

A silence fell between them, profound and unforced.

‘You speak as one who has seen much in the world,’ Simeon said quietly.

‘I have. And I have learnt that the soul’s journey is neither a march nor a flight, but a veil between certainty and mystery', Perimedes admitted.

The city prepared for winter. Markets thinned, and fires glowed behind shuttered windows.

The following weeks in Ephesus passed in a tension thick enough to slice. The city balanced precariously between old gods and new faiths, tradition and revolution. Markets hummed with commerce and complaint alike; the temple of Artemis remained a proud silhouette against the dusk sky, but beneath its grandeur, whispers of uncertainty rippled.

Perimedes, despite his advancing age and weakening breath, remained a fixture beneath the ancient olive tree. Simeon came often, sometimes with tidings, sometimes simply to listen. Their dialogues continued, drawing a modest circle of listeners—curious, sceptical and fervent alike.

One late afternoon, as the sun hung low and gold over the Aegean, Simeon arrived with a furrowed brow. The city’s rumblings had deepened into roars.

‘The silversmiths grow restless', casting a glance towards the distant temple spires. 'They say that their livelihood is threatened by the Christians that scorns idols and merchants alike. The governor grows uneasy', he said.

'I tried to reason with them, through the words of Christ', Simeon expressed.

Perimedes inclined his head, eyes tracing the twisting patterns of the olive leaves.

‘Change always stirs resistance. The old cannot release without protest, what the young envision.’

Simeon sighed, seating himself beside the philosopher.

‘But the violence is growing. The more Paul preaches, the more the crowds gather—and the more the city divides. Families torn apart. Markets emptying. The temple priests lose influence daily.’

‘Yet within this fracture lies potentiality. The breaking of old forms can reveal what was always beneath—the enduring patterns of harmony', Perimedes replied.

Simeon looked doubtful.

‘Harmony?’ He echoed. ‘I see only chaos. Blood. Fear’.

‘I see resolution. We are reminded that To Ena—the One—persists beyond disturbance. The Logos is the weaving thread. The Nous the eye that discerns order amidst disorder', Perimedes answered.

‘What of the people suffering now?’ Simeon’s voice cracked. ‘The beaten, the hungry, the lost. Will your To Ena fill their bellies? Mend their wounds?’

‘No, but it may help them find peace within, even if peace is denied outside. It offers no rescue, but revelation. Not escape, but acceptance. It is when we forget that we are fellow brethren that we act out of cruelty against each other. To Ena is not a god to pray to. It gives us the abilities to do for ourselves', Perimedes said.

Simeon was silent, the weight of the words pressing down. ‘You speak of acceptance, but can one accept suffering and cruelty without despair?’

‘That is the greatest question, and the beginning of wisdom. To accept is not to surrender, but to see clearly—the root and the branch, the shadow and the light. To accept suffering is a part of the acceptance of life, but when we realise that our fate is beyond suffering, then we understand the despair. Cruelty has an opposite and that is compassion, but until we learn to express the virtue of compassion, cruelty will reign over compassion', Perimedes responded.

One evening, as twilight deepened into indigo, Perimedes shared a vision that had come to him in recent contemplations.

‘Imagine, a tapestry vast beyond sight, woven from threads both visible and unseen. To Ena is the fabric itself—the unity beneath multiplicity. The Logos the pattern, eternal and shifting, the design that orders the weave. The Nous the artisan’s hand, choosing, discerning, crafting.’

Simeon listened. ‘This tapestry is not static, for it grows, changes, folds upon itself like the breath of the cosmos. Every soul is a thread, intertwined with all others. No one is separate, yet each is unique'. Perimedes continued.

‘What happens when a thread breaks?’ Simeon asked.

‘It does not vanish,’ Perimedes said softly. ‘It becomes part of the weave in a new form. Loss and renewal are intertwined. What you call apocalypse—the unveiling—is merely the revelation of this deeper pattern.’

Simeon looked away, towards the faint lights of the city.

‘It sounds beautiful, but it does not stop the fires lit', he said quietly.

‘No, but it teaches us that the fires themselves are manifestations, necessary to the light. To reject the fire is to reject part of the whole. To embrace it is to find meaning even in destruction', Perimedes professed.

Winter approached with cold winds that rattled shutters and hardened the earth. The city’s divisions sharpened. The silversmiths’ protest turned violent. Paul was forced to flee again, his followers harassed and scattered.

Simeon came to Perimedes, face pale but eyes bright.

‘The city burns with anger. The old and new clash like titans. We are caught in the storm.’

'Even storms have their place. They cleanse, they sculpt, they awaken’, Perimedes replied.

‘Do you not fear the storm will break us all?’ Simeon asked.

‘Fear is a veil, Lift it with reason and courage. Remember, Meleticism teaches balance—between acceptance and action, stillness and movement, knowing and believing', Perimedes confessed.

Simeon nodded slowly, absorbing the calm in the older man’s voice. ‘What of your own path, Perimedes?’ He asked after a moment. ‘Do you still believe in your philosophy’s power? When everything you hold dear seems to unravel?’

Perimedes smiled, although his body ached.

‘Philosophy itself has no power over men. It is only its wisdom that men discover. For it is not a shield against chaos, but a lamp in it. It does not promise safety, only guidance. I believe because I have seen the light within darkness. I have seen souls awaken, even when the world falls apart around them. Philosophy is not a hostage to the consequences of my actions'.

Simeon looked out towards the horizon where the last light faded.

‘Then we must keep walking, no matter how dark it gets' he answered.

One cold morning, Perimedes called Simeon close.

‘I must rest. My body weakens, but my soul is steady. Before I go, remember this: To Ena is not distant, nor the Logos foreign. They dwell within you, as they dwell within all', he told Simeon.

He paused then continued. 'Seek not only to change the world, but to understand it. Walk your path with humility, temperance and wisdom. The world will turn, with or without us. How we turn with it defines who we are in this world’.

Simeon knelt beside him, hands trembling. ‘I shall not forget.’

Perimedes smiled faintly. ‘Neither shall I forget you, Simeon. Your fire and your belief may light the way for many people, and in that light, perhaps the Logos will find new breath, new life.’

The wind whispered softly, carrying leaves like secrets through the courtyard.

One evening, Simeon arrived to find Perimedes seated beneath the olive tree, thinner now, his breath quieter.

Perimedes said when Simeon approached. ‘My time in this world draws close.’

Simeon knelt beside him. ‘Will you leave us without answers?’

Perimedes shook his head. ‘Answers are the beginning, not the end. I leave you with this: seek not to conquer the world’s darkness, but to bring light to your own soul. To Ena is within, the Logos is the path, and the Nous the guide. Walk them well’.

Simeon nodded, tears in his eyes.

‘And you, continue your fire. Let it warm, but not burn', Perimedes smiled faintly.

'I shall pray for your soul'.

'There is no need for that Simeon. Rest assure that my soul is whole. It will fade into nature, but my ousia will reintegrate. I shall go not into an afterlife, but to the continuation of my existence'.

'I must ask, have you repented for your sins?' Simeon asked.

'Does the storm blow without the wind?' Perimedes responded.

'No'.

'Then it would be unnatural for me to not be accountable for my actions. I need no saviour for that. I do not fear the eternal flames of your hell. I am at peace. To Ena awaits me'.

'What great miracle has your To Ena performed?'

'The greatest wonder of them all, which is life', Perimedes told Simeon.

As the stars emerged, Simeon stayed with the philosopher until the breath left him—a quiet departure, like the falling of a leaf.

Simeon became a Meletic known far beyond Ephesus. His once sermons transformed into philosophy carried a new depth, which was a blending of flame and stillness. Where once he thundered of endings, now he spoke of awakening.

In quiet moments, he would recall Perimedes’ words—the Meletic Triad that binds existence, To Ena, the One that emanates, the Logos that governs, the Nous that forms'.

Those Christians who listened would ask, ‘Why have you changed your message?’

Simeon would smile, ‘Because, I have heard the truth that is not found in doctrine or faith, but in reason. We cannot live with only faith, for we would die of hunger or thirst. Succumb to madness or worse to the ego. This is why we require reason'.

'Why have you abandoned your faith?'

'Because, I have discovered my fate'.

'What have you learnt, since this discovery?'

'That Christians believe salvation belongs to those people who believe in one man that the Church has anointed. That truth must be received, not discovered. That wisdom cannot be shared unless it comes with miracles. That all things are from divine order than the order of the Logos. These ideas close the soul. Meleticism seeks to open it with realisation, not blind faith.’

'And what of your belief in Christ?'

'I have understood that Christ is not the Logos; instead, he is a part of the Logos'.

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