work in hand; he selected the qualities that made him up like a man packing for
a long journey, taking with him only the things he knew he’d need. In a sense,
Alexander was painfully flat; look at him face on, he was so broad he blocked
out the light; look at him sideways, you’d hardly know he was there.
That’s Alexander, then; a flat shape in history, like a country sawn out of one
of Aristagoras’ sheet-bronze maps; an image representing a substantive thing,
not the thing itself. Now, this flattening effect is something I reckon happens
to all Great Men to a certain extent. What they do starts to replace what they
are, until there’s nothing left except the shape of their achievements in
history. But Alexander, being Philip’s son, was born that way; he was brought up
and trained to be the conqueror of the world, to finish what Philip had started.
More than that; Philip was an enormous man, both in his place in history and in
himself — I’ve said, I think, how he seemed to fill any room he was in, making
anybody else seem incidental and irrelevant. Alexander was both bigger and
smaller than his father. Alexander —well, it’s possible to convince oneself that
he was a god; rather harder to believe that he was ever a human being. You’d
have to crush a dozen Alexanders in an olive-press before you could extract
enough humanity to make up an ordinary person. As a human being, he was tiny.
Most of all, though — well, we’re considering what I thought of him; and when
you look back, as I frequently have, there he always is, in the background of my
life, following me about like a sausage-maker’s dog. He was born on the day my
father died. As soon as he was old enough to be of any account, he sort of
welled up out of the ground and enveloped me, as if I’d put my foot in quicksand
or an enormous cow-pat. Afterwards — well, we’ll come to that. This is going to
sound a little crazy, bearing in mind our respective fortunes and place in
history; but over the years I came to regard Alexander as my shadow — a flat,
dark thing that was always beside me, a step behind or in front depending on
which direction the sun was shining but always there, matching my every move in
another dimension, following or leading me; dammit, a part of me but completely
separate, not like me at all.
Shall I tell you something I’ve never told anyone before, Phryzeutzis? I plan on
being better than Alexander some day, greater than Alexander, better remembered,
ever so much more loved. Because I am better than him — I cast him, my shadow,
in a sense I made him in my image, but I am a whole man, he was only ever flat
and dark, made unnaturally long and wide by the angle of the sun behind me. I
shall beat him yet, Phryzeutzis, by virtue of leaving behind me something of
value, by improving the lives of countless thousands of people who haven’t even
been born yet. Gods, I’ve beaten him already, haven’t I?You doubt that, ask
yourself this: which one of us is still alive?
Sorry. Got a bit carried away there. Yapping Dog philosophy; we creep up on the
statues of great men at dead of night and chop off their balls with a cold
chisel. Serves you right for asking.
First on the agenda: to tell Philocrates, the leader of the embassy, that I
wouldn’t be going back to Athens with him.
I didn’t get the response I’d expected. Unrealistically, I’d hoped for something
like You can’t do that, Athens needs you, your insight, your clarity of vision.
Didn’t get that. I’d been afraid of You bastard, you’re betraying your city for
a fistful of dirty Macedonian silver. Didn’t get that either. I’d have happily
settled for It’s probably for the best, it means there’ll be at least one
pro-Athenian voice at Philip’s court or It’s your life, mate, and if you think
this is where your work lies, then go to it and the best of luck. Huh.
In fact, the conversation went something like this:
‘Philocrates,’ I said, ‘I won’t be going back with you. Philip’s asked me to
tutor his son, and I’ve accepted.’
Philocrates, who looked as if he hadn’t really been listening, blinked a couple
of times. ‘What? Oh, all right,’ he said. ‘Thanks for letting me know. I’ll see
if we can get a refund on your fare.’
I’d scribbled a note to my brother Eudemus, the banker, entrusting my property
in Athens to his care and hinting at what would happen to him if it wasn’t all
present and correct when I returned. Philocrates looked at it as if I’d just
handed him a live rat, then promised faithfully to deliver it and tucked it away
in a fold of his gown. As it turned out, Eudemus did well by me; he let my house
to a foreign merchant and invested my money in a grain-ship making the run
between Athens and the Black Sea , which brought in a reasonable return and
managed not to hit any rocks, an unusual state of affairs for a ship as heavily
insured as a grain-freighter.
Next, I went to see Leonidas. Remember him? He was the ancient, bald cousin of
King Philip who’d ambushed me with a trick question when I was being auditioned.
On my way to see him I ran into a Macedonian guard officer I’d somehow managed
to strike up some sort of proto-friendship with (we both liked dogs and the
poetry of Semonides of Amorgos, and we’d sat next to each other for an evening
at some damned banquet or other). I asked him if he could tell me anything about
the man.
‘Leonidas?’ my friend said. ‘Sure.’ Then he hesitated for a moment. ‘Leonidas
the Prince’s tutor?’ he asked.
‘That’s right. Older man, bald, the King’s cousin—’
‘Ah, yes. Him.’ My friend lowered his voice a little. ‘Better known around the
court as either the Clayball or the Old Felt Hat; they’re both apt enough,
because they’re both things you can mould into any shape that fits.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘So he’s — adaptable? Versatile?’
My friend smiled. ‘You could say that,’ he replied. ‘Or you could say he’s a
devious, slippery old bastard who’s spent a lifetime around the court and hasn’t
been killed yet — which, for a Macedonian of royal blood, is a remarkable and
somewhat disreputable achievement. Over the years, so they say, he’s changed
tack more often than a clipper sailing up and down the forks of Chalcidice .’
‘Ah,’ I said.
My friend put a massive hand on my shoulder by way of silent commiseration. ‘I
don’t know what your business with Leonidas is,’ he said, ‘but whatever it is,
don’t turn your back on him for a split second. And whatever you do, don’t try
to get between him and the Prince. Those who do tend to have accidents — you
know, falling down flights of steps in the dark, accidentally drowning in
shallow rivers, that sort of thing. I imagine he believes Philip’s on the way
out so he’s making sure of his influence over the Prince, as a form of insurance
for his old age. The gods only know how your friend Aristotle’s managed to last
this long without ending up at the foot of some cliff.’
Precisely what I needed to hear; I almost went dashing off after Philocrates to
beg him n
ot to cancel my berth on the boat home. But (I reasoned) if I were to
run out on them now, King Philip and the Queen wouldn’t be best pleased with me
either; so I had the choice, antagonise someone who was well on his way to being
the most powerful man in Greece, or make a deadly enemy of one of his most
trusted advisers. Broad as it’s long, really, I concluded.
So I went to see Leonidas.
I found him in a corner of a shield-maker’s workshop in the armoury. He was
sitting on a low three-legged stool, scraping little scraps of parchment with a
well-worn block of pumice.
‘Economy,’ he said, before I had a chance to ask him what he was doing. ‘I
scrounge bits and pieces of waste parchment from the shield-menders — they use
it for wrapping the handles — and scrape them down till they’re fit to write on.
Then, when they’re all filled up, I bring them back here, borrow a stone and
clean them off again. Make all the ink, too, and melt the wax for the writing
tablets. Never chuck anything away if I can help it. All the time I’ve been
running the school, haven’t had to ask the King for an obol for equipment.’
I believed him. He had the appearance of a man who bought a really expensive
luxury cloak thirty years ago and still expects to get a further twenty years’
wear out of it. Just the sort of man, in fact, to be obsessive about details.
‘Excuse me,’ I was eventually able to say, after I’d sat through a long sermon
on the divine right of kings. ‘Are you expecting me? I’m Euxenus, the new
tutor.’
He looked up at me and grinned. He still had all his own teeth (and at his age
too).
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I was there, remember? You’re the snake-charmer. You use a
tame snake? Heard tell they’re easier to train than a dog, those snakes, if you
find one big enough. Folks round here have ‘em to keep the rats down.’
I decided not to rise to any of that. ‘Someone said something about a school,’ I
replied. ‘Is this it?’
He laughed. ‘Not even close,’ he said. ‘School’s not in Pella , it’s over to
Mieza, day and a half’s ride south-west of here, in Midas’ Garden. That’s
vineyard and orchard country.’ He was talking to me as if I was a hard-working
but backwards ten-year-old. ‘So you’re going to come and teach, are you? What?’
I hadn’t the faintest idea; my brief from King Philip had been to teach, that
was all. ‘Oh, I can teach anything,’ I replied. ‘I’m an Athenian scientist, to
us the whole world is our—’
‘I do Homer,’ said Leonidas, ‘and music and accounting. Aristotle —‘ he didn’t
actually gob and spit when he said the name, but the contempt in his voice was
unmistakable and communicated with splendid economy ‘— Aristotle, he does
geography and politics and rhetoric, abstract mathematics, natural sciences, all
that. We’ve got a trainer who does athletics and drill. What does that leave
that you can teach?’
‘Logic,’ I replied firmly. ‘And ethics. And land management,’ I added, suddenly
remembering the one thing I did know a little bit about. But Leonidas shook his
head.
‘I do land management,’ he said, ‘under accounting. And Aristotle does it under
geography and politics. What’re you going to do it under?’
I looked him in the eye for a moment. He was beginning to get on my nerves,
something that many people try to do but very few manage to achieve. ‘All
right,’ I said, ‘you tell me. And before you say anything else, I didn’t ask for
this job. Queen Olympias had me sent for, under the mistaken belief that I can
do snake magic. If you want to go to their majesties and tell them I’m surplus
to requirements, you go right ahead.’ He didn’t move or speak, so I went on.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘you’re in charge of this school, you tell me what I can do
to help.’
He rubbed his chin, on which grew the longest, straggliest beard you ever saw m
your life. It seemed to drip off his face like a slow leak in a water-pipe. ‘All
right,’ he said. ‘You can do astronomy, medicine, military history and
literature, except,’ he added sternly, ‘Homer. I do Homer. Sound good to you?’
‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘Especially Homer. I never could be doing with Homer.’
He looked at me as if I’d just boasted of raping his mother. ‘That’s settled,
then,’ he said. ‘Now I guess you want to hear about the school.’
I nodded and sat down, or rather I perched on the edge of a workbench. ‘That’d
probably be a good idea,’ I said.
He sighed, picked out another scrap of parchment and went on with his endless
slow polishing.
‘You being Athenian,’ he said, ‘you don’t know about Macedonian ways. Well?’
‘Not a lot,’ I admitted. ‘So I’d be grateful for any—’
‘In Macedon,’ Leonidas interrupted, ‘we believe in loyalty. Most important thing
of all. So when the heir to the throne’s still just a kid, we choose other kids
his age, noblemen’s sons, to be his life companions — they grow up together,
get educated together, each one of them knows what he’s going to be when he
grows up. Makes sense that way. Always worked, in the past. And that’s who the
school’s for —Prince Alexander and the companions.’
I nodded. ‘It does sound like a good idea,’ I replied. ‘It’s always struck me as
odd that in my country, the most important work of all, running the city, is the
only work nobody’s ever trained for. I mean,’ I went on, not allowing the old
vulture to interrupt me, ‘shoemakers’ sons learn their trade from childhood, and
likewise carpenters, poets and scent-bottle painters. Nobody learns government
until it’s too late, and even then the only people we’ve got who profess to
teach it are men like me, who’ve never held power in their lives.’
Leonidas smirked at me. ‘And that qualifies you to come here and teach it,’ he
said. ‘Don’t follow.’
‘Ah,’ I replied, ‘but you’re forgetting something. We Athenians can teach
ourselves anything. And we do. But it’s in spite of the way we bring up our
children, not because of it. Well, that’s not strictly true either. When we’re
young we’re taught to have enquiring minds. Once you have one of those, you can
learn anything.’
‘Except Homer,’ Leonidas said, studying the parchment scrap in his hand. ‘Homer,
you’ve just got to sit down and learn by heart.’
‘There I agree with you,’ I replied. ‘All right, you’ve told me about the
general idea of the school. Now tell me about the kids.’
He grunted, and settled himself a little more comfortably on his stool. ‘Well,
aside from the Prince, there’s Hephaestion. Good kid, not the quickest but he
tries harder than the rest so he keeps up. Harpalus, he’s a bright kid, too
bright even; mustard for figuring, he’ll be treasurer or chancellor one day.
Ptolemy’s bright but doesn’t try. Callas is a good boy, but thick. Cleitus, he’s
the pick of the bunch for brains and character together, but the Prince doesn’t
like him. He likes Philotas — that’s Parmenio’s son; you came across Parmenio?
<
br /> Thought you might have. Philip wouldn’t be half what he is today without
Parmenio, though nobody understands that except me. Pity his son’s an arsehole,
but that can’t be helped, and maybe he’ll grow out of it. There’s others too,
but you keep an eye on them and the rest won’t matter.’
‘And Alexander?’ I said. ‘What about him?’
Leonidas looked me in the eye. ‘Met him?’ I nodded. ‘Then you’ll already know.
He’s what we’ll all make of him, no more and no less.’ He stood up, and although
he was just a little old man and I was half as tall again and probably twice his
bulk, I felt myself shrinking back. ‘That’s why this job’s important, boy.
That’s why if you don’t do it right, I’ll kill you. Got that?’
I blinked a couple of times. ‘I think so,’ I replied. ‘No pressure or anything;
just do a good job, and I get to stay alive.’
‘That’s it exactly,’ Leonidas confirmed, sitting down again. I could see now
that he was Philip’s cousin. ‘Like you just said, no pressure.’
*
This is the way things happen, Phryzeutzis; this goes some way towards
explaining why things are as they are. Because there had been a time when I was
destitute and desperate enough to make my living pretending to talk to a ghost
in an empty wine-jar, I found myself in Mieza, one of four men charged with
responsibility for building the next king of Macedon, King Philip’s heir.
Because of the empty jar, and the swarm of wild bees choosing to nest in the
foundations of that building, and Queen Olympias’ snake fetish; trivia,
unpredictable scraps of the-way-things-happen, too random and inconsequential to
be dignified with a grand name like destiny or fate, or even luck. Go further
back, and you’ll see the moment when I chose the wrong coloured pebble when my
brothers and I were casting lots for who stayed and who went away. Go further
back and there’s my father, dying an unnecessary death in the steading at Phyle
because a slave had hurt his leg and was afraid of being thought a malingerer.
All these diverging possibilities; hold a dried leaf up to the light so that it
becomes transparent and you can see the veins, how they branch and fork, all
derived from one stem but ending up divided into countless small choices. Well,
Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt Page 17
