‘What did you call me?’ he said.
‘A chicken,’ I repeated.
‘You think I look like a chicken?’
I nodded. ‘A featherless biped. Sorry we disturbed you.’
Now that, of course, was the most outrageous flattery, but I’d guessed
(correctly) that Diogenes craved flattery almost as much as money. To explain:
once, when Diogenes was going through one of his periodic picking-on-great-men
phases — ‘monstering’, he used to call it — he took to showing up at the public
lectures staged by the celebrated Plato (student of Socrates, Founder of the
Academy, greatest living philosopher; a nasty bastard who picked his nose while
eating dinner). Once, when Plato was lecturing on ‘What Is Man?’ and got to the
bit where he contrasted/compared Man with other animals, he used this phrase
‘featherless biped’, and Diogenes took a fancy to the expression. At the next
lecture, therefore, Diogenes sat in the front row, waited till Plato used The
Phrase, stood up and threw a plucked chicken onto the middle of the stage.
‘There you go,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘Plato’s Man. ’
I know; it loses a lot in the telling. Probably you had to be there. But that
was the end of Plato’s public lectures for several months, and the poor fellow
found it hard to get about during daylight for the crowds of small boys who’d
materialise out of nowhere and follow him about going ‘Ter-wuck-wuck-wuck!’ and
waggling their arms up and down. If it had been anybody else, I’d have felt
sorry for him.
Anyway, the flattery did the job. ‘I’ll talk to you,’ he said to me. ‘You’re
obviously the brains of the family. What do you want?’
My father cleared his throat. ‘Diogenes, I want you to consider taking my boy
here as your apprentice. Of course, I’m willing—’
‘What did he just say?’ Diogenes interrupted.
‘He wants you to consider taking me as your apprentice,’ I said.
‘Ah. Right.’ Diogenes smiled, and scratched himself ostentatiously. That was
another thing about him; all his disgusting habits were so obviously
affectations that I, for one, was never offended by them. ‘He should have said
so himself. All right, how much?’
My father mentioned a sum of money. Diogenes looked at me pointedly. I repeated
what Father had said. Diogenes spat.
‘Try again,’ he said. ‘Dammit, I wouldn’t even teach you philosophy for that.’
My father, who was controlling his temper so ferociously that I was afraid his
neck would snap, pointed out pleasantly enough that that was in fact what he
wanted me to learn.
‘Huh?’ Diogenes grunted.
I repeated what Father had said, word for word. ‘The hell with that,’ Diogenes
replied. ‘Any bloody fool can teach philosophy. In fact, only a bloody fool can
teach philosophy. What I teach is how to be human, for which my rates are rather
more than your man there is willing to pay. Sorry, kid.’
To be honest, I was starting to get a little bit tired of Diogenes’ cabaret act.
Either Father was going to stand there and take it, which wasn’t right since
he’d done nothing to deserve it, or else pretty soon he was going to kick
Diogenes halfway to Boeotia , and I didn’t want that to happen, either. ‘Suit
yourself, then,’ I replied. ‘You’d have made a lousy pupil anyway.’
Diogenes looked at me, and I recognised the look; recognition, together with a
warning: This is my pitch, keep off’ He ignored the feed line, and yawned.
‘But,’ he said, ‘I do occasionally do charity work. All right, then.’ He stood
up, three quarters upright so as to be shorter than my father. ‘You gods,’ he
droned, in best hiring-fair fashion, with one hand uplifted, ‘witness that I
take this boy as my apprentice and in return for his service and the woefully
inadequate sum agreed upon by the parties hereto I undertake to teach him how to
be a featherless biped and a good dog, amen.’ Then he looked my father straight
in the eye and held out his hand for the money.
‘Good,’ he said, after he’d counted it (twice). ‘We start tomorrow, first light,
sharp. Bring your own lunch.’
On the way home, Father was unusually silent. Normally he’d think aloud as we
walked together.
‘Euxenus,’ he said at last, ‘there’s a lot you can learn from that man.’
I was surprised. In fact, I was surprised that he’d made the deal at all. ‘Yes,
Father,’ I said.
‘That man,’ (and Diogenes was always that man in our household from that day
forth), ‘is very good at what he does. In fact, that’s probably the best
investment I’ll ever make on behalf of you boys.’
The remarkable thing about my father — that stolid, misguided man — was that
from time to time he was entirely right.
CHAPTER TWO
Curiously enough, the first day I spent as an apprentice human being under the
tuition of the celebrated Diogenes was also the day on which a minor tribal
chieftain in the far north of Greece was killed in a battle with some
neighbouring bunch of savages. The man’s name was Perdiccas, and he had been the
ruler of a district called Macedonia .
Perdiccas was the second of the three sons of King Amyntas. He’d achieved the
throne by murdering his elder brother Alexander in the normal course of
business, and would undoubtedly have been a highly satisfactory ruler by
Macedonian standards if only he’d had the chance. He was survived by a son and a
younger brother, who was appointed regent until Perdiccas’ son came of age.
Predictably enough, the boy died not long after, and Amyntas’ youngest son,
Philip, became king. He was twenty-three years old.
Eight years earlier, the brilliant and successful Theban general Pelopidas,
finding himself at something of a loose end between massacres, amused himself
for a while by persecuting the northern primitives. Anxious to get rid of him
without parting with anything of value, King Perdiccas offered him his younger
brother as a hostage, and so off young Philip went to Thebes for three years as
a guest of Pelopidas and his even more brilliant and successful colleague, the
Theban commander-in-chief Epaminondas, a man regarded by his contemporaries as
the most innovative and clear-sighted military thinker of his day. It was
Epaminondas who virtually reinvented the art of war by changing the criteria of
victory. Previously, you won a battle by taking possession of the battlefield,
piling up a great heap of the enemy’s discarded arms and armour, and dedicating
the spoils to your regional patron god; it was Epaminondas who demonstrated to
the world that the best way to win a battle is to kill as many of the enemy as
you can, and the hell with piles of shiny helmets and breastplates. The novelty
of this approach wasn’t lost on impressionable young Philip, and since he wasn’t
a proper Greek anyway and accordingly lacked the true Hellenic feel for a truly
beautiful and satisfying heap of verdigrised armour, he set himself to
contemplating the new Theban approach to war with a view to mastering it and if
possible improving it further.
Well,
Philip served his apprenticeship, I served mine. That first morning, I
showed up for work bright and early, with my wax tablets for making notes and my
lunch in a goatskin bag on my shoulder, to find that Diogenes wasn’t there. For
some reason, this didn’t come as a total surprise to me. As I think I mentioned
earlier, I’d observed at our first encounter that although Diogenes was beyond
doubt very dirty and scruffy, it was a comfortable, really rather cosy sort of
dirtiness and scruffiness that looked as if it was designed to give a firm feel
of authenticity without causing distress or inconvenience to the man who had to
live in it. It certainly wasn’t the sort of miserable, demoralising squalor
you’d expect from, say, sleeping rough in a broken old storage jar.
(Very perceptive of me. Diogenes’ appearance was quite the work of art, and when
I got to know him better I found that he took longer over his face, clothes and
hair every morning than the most fastidious society hostess.)
I sat down in the shade and waited, and in due course Diogenes showed up,
rolling his damned jar like Sisyphus in the stories. You could hear him coming
from quite a distance, because the jar made a sort of grumbling, grinding noise
like the distant sound of an olive-press. It was a hot day, and when he finally
came into view Diogenes was sweating freely.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ he panted, catching sight of me, ‘come and help me
with this bloody thing.’
I carefully put down my satchel and ran over. He’d managed to get the thing
stuck in a rut in the road, and it took both of us a fair deal of cursing and
shoving to work it loose. When at last we’d managed to stow it where he wanted
it to go, he flopped down on the ground and told me to go and fetch some water,
which I did.
‘That’s better,’ he said, wiping his beard and handing me the cup.
‘All right then, let’s get a few things straight before we start on this
apprenticeship thing.’ He looked at me for a moment, and shook his head. ‘You’re
a smart kid, I can tell you that by looking at you, so I won’t waste my time or
energy trying to impress you. Actually, I’ve been giving this business a bit of
thought and I do believe there are a few things I can teach you, beyond all the
meaningless bullshit I do for money. That’s assuming you want to learn,’ he
added. ‘Because if you don’t, you can bugger off and amuse yourself all day,
I’ll keep your father’s money and we’ll both be happy.’
I thought for a moment. ‘I don’t mind learning,’ I replied, ‘so long as it’s
interesting and useful. My father thinks I should be a philosopher.’
Diogenes nodded. ‘Very worthy aspiration. Haven’t a clue what it means. Have
you?’
‘A lover of wisdom,’ I replied. ‘At least, that’s what the word means
literally.’
Diogenes rested the back of his head against the wall of the jar, which was
comfortably warm, and closed his eyes. ‘A lover of wisdom,’ he repeated. ‘Which
begs a nice pair of questions: what’s wisdom, and is it something you can love?’
‘Excuse me?’ I said.
‘Oh, come on,’ Diogenes replied. ‘Fairly basic stuff, this. All right, let’s
take the second bit first; only because the first one’s too hard for me, mind.
Lover of wisdom; well, I assume you know what love is.
‘More or less,’ I said.
‘All right. So, there are things you can love — beautiful people, the city you
live in, your parents and children — and there’s other things you can’t, like a
mattock-handle or cutting your toenails or cleaning caked mud off a ploughshare.
You can appreciate a well-made mattock-handle, if it’s a nice straight-grained
piece of ash that’s been properly shaped and smoothed so it won’t blister your
hands, but I defy anybody who isn’t crazy or very, very sad to be in love with a
mattock-handle. Now then, can you spot the difference?’
‘I think so,’ I said. ‘A mattock-handle is meant to be useful, in a practical
sort of way. The other things you said are more — well, inspirational.’
Diogenes nodded. ‘Sounds good to me,’ he said. ‘And the same goes for my other
two examples, I guess. Gutting your toenails makes walking more comfortable, and
cleaning mud off a ploughshare makes ploughing easier. Beautiful men and women,
the city and your friends and relations, on the other hand, can be useless or
even downright aggravating and you’ll still love them. All right so far?’
‘I think so,’ I said.
‘Mphm.’ His voice was getting lower and slower, and I thought he was about to
fall asleep. ‘So if philosophy’s the love of wisdom, wisdom’s something that’s
capable of being loved, we appreciate and value useful things but we love things
that inspire us without necessarily being useful and quite often aren’t; in
fact, bearing in mind the vast amount of unhappiness and pain caused by love in
this life, it’s a reasonable observation that anything capable of being loved is
also capable of making your life thoroughly miserable, whereas if your
mattock-handle rubs your hands and you’ve got any sense, you mend it or sling it
and get a new one. Conclusion, therefore: wisdom is more likely to be a pain in
the bum than anything useful. Is that a sensible thing for a young man to spend
his time learning?’
I shook my head. ‘I suppose not,’ I said.
Diogenes opened his eyes and sat up. ‘You suppose damn right,’ he said, with an
unexpected degree of animation. ‘Oh, I know a bit about wisdom, you see, and I
could teach you some if you really wanted me to. I could teach you to understand
a little of human nature by studying history, and then you’d begin to see what a
mess we humans make of things whenever we try living in cities and organising
each other’s lives. Now that’s inspirational stuff; you get this sort of heady,
dizzy feeling that comes with moments of great insight. But all it’ll do is
depress you and make you want to pack in trying to be a good citizen and go live
in a jar. Instead, I suggest you take my word for it when I tell you that wisdom
— which is just another way of saying “the truth” — isn’t something you want any
truck with. Keep well clear of it; sell it to other people if it’ll make you a
drachma, by all means, but don’t think of trying it yourself. No, what I imagine
you want to learn is something useful and helpful, the sort of thing that’ll
earn you a living and keep you safe and warm in later life. What do you think?’
‘That sounds eminently reasonable,’ I said.
‘Good, because it so happens that that’s what I’m eminently qualified to teach
you. I can teach you the opposite of wisdom, which is folly, and the opposite of
truth, which is lying. Deal?’
I looked at him gravely. ‘Deal,’ I said.
‘Good lad.’ He looked round to see who was passing by, then looked back at me.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’
‘I’m sorry?’ I replied, puzzled.
‘You heard me,’ Diogenes repeated. ‘What do you want to do for the rest of your
life? Farmer? Speechmaker?
Mercenary soldier? Do you want to be the man who goes
round with a mop and a bit of rag cleaning out the baths when everyone’s gone
home? Or would you rather be the King of Persia, say, or the Dictator of
Syracuse ?’
I smiled. ‘It isn’t as easy as that,’ I said. ‘There’s some things I can’t be,
however much I’d like to.’
Diogenes frowned. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘You’re not thinking clearly. All right,
let’s be scientific about this.What do you, me, the blind man who sells sausages
outside the Theatre of Dionysus and the Persian governor of Ionia all have in
common?’
I scratched my head. ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted.
‘For a start,’ Diogenes replied, ‘they’re all featherless bipeds.’
I assumed that was a joke, but he was serious. ‘Well, of course they are,’ I
replied. ‘They’re all people. Human beings. But then, so’s everybody.’
‘True,’ said Diogenes. ‘So’s everybody.’ He stood up, not bothering to crouch.
I hadn’t realised how tall he was. ‘And if they gave out prizes for meaningless
generalisations like they do for plays, they’d be draping both of us in garlands
right now. The hell with this, let’s go and earn some money. It’s not as worthy
or admirable as sitting in the shade all day talking drivel, but—’ He suddenly
crouched down beside me and lowered his voice. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s more fun.’
I looked at him. ‘I’m not sure I agree,’ I replied.
He sighed, crossed his legs and sat down in the dust. ‘That’s the trouble with
you people, no sense of wonder, no appreciation of magic and the supernatural.
That’s why your vision’s so limited.’
I frowned. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m confused. I thought you were talking about
money, not magic.’
‘I was.’ He lowered his voice again; later I came to recognise that stage
whisper of his as a sign that I was about to be made a fool of. ‘All right, how
about this? Suppose I was to tell you that there’s a special magical talisman,
an artefact with the power to make people give you anything you want, do
whatever you tell them to. Interested?’
‘I would be,’ I replied. ‘If I thought such a thing existed.’
‘Oh, it does,’ Diogenes said. ‘And what’s more, I’ve got one.’
Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt Page 3
