Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt

by Alexander at the World's End (lit)

  I was just one of these random sequences of cause and effect; Aristotle was

  another, so was Leonidas, so was Philip — gods alone know how many of them there

  were, whether they were all equally important, or some more so than others.

  Don’t know, don’t care. The only possible conclusion is that nothing was

  anybody’s fault, simply because the fault must go right back, from the frayed

  ends of the vein back into the stem, from the stem to the branch, from the

  branch to the tree, from the tree to the root, from the root to the seed, from

  the seed to the tree.

  So why do I feel bad about it, Phryzeutzis?

  Consider, if you will, the difference between men and gods. Oh, I’m not talking

  about your gods, I’m talking about proper gods, the ones I grew up with; Zeus

  and Hera and Athena and Apollo and Ares. Now a god is much, much stronger than a

  man, and he lives for ever, and nothing can harm him — he’s like a city, if you

  like, or a way of governing cities; and the point about a god is, he doesn’t

  care. Doesn’t give a damn. Nobody can call him to account, punish him, threaten

  him or frighten him, and because he lives for ever he’s got no purpose or

  meaning to his existence. A god lives for his pleasure, his entertainment, for

  himself. Like a city, a god exists to exist; simply continuing to be there is

  all that’s expected of him, all he can really achieve. Now take a man; weak,

  fragile and mortal. He can be called to account, punished, threatened,

  frightened; to him, right and wrong and good and evil are very meaningful

  things; and because his life is so short and lacking in value, he needs to

  believe it has a meaning. So there we have it. Virtuous, honourable,

  conscientious mortals and amoral, careless gods. Zeus doesn’t give a damn, and I

  do.

  And guess which one of us decides what happens.

  This is the way things happen, Phryzeutzis. This is the way things are.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I remember my last day as an Athenian ambassador, the day before I became a

  Macedonian teacher.

  Demosthenes the Athenian, in his own opinion and that of several others the

  greatest orator of his time, had been working on his speech ever since we left

  Athens . He was going to make just one speech — one honey of a speech, one

  sledgehammer, battering-ram, warship-beak, grandmother and -father of all

  speeches speech. After hearing it, Philip would immediately curl up like an

  overturned woodlouse and die. If by some astounding miracle or divine

  intervention Philip managed to live on an hour or so after Demosthenes had made

  his speech, he was going to spend his last agonising minutes in this life

  apologising to the Athenian people and forswearing every last inch of Athenian

  territory, every last stool and jar and bowl and blacksmith’s apron he’d stolen

  from them. Once the Macedonians had heard Demosthenes’ speech, they’d all form

  up in column and march off a cliff into the sea. Compared with being on the

  wrong end of Demosthenes’ speech, being hit by Zeus’ thunderbolt was a tickle

  under the chin with the very tip of a long, soft feather. It was going to be, we

  got the impression, some speech.

  Naturally, we begged Demosthenes for previews, but he wouldn’t let us hear so

  much as a word. We implored. We cajoled. We threatened. We tried guessing —

  ‘Hey, Demosthenes, my friend here reckons you’ll say “and” at some point in your

  speech. Is that right?’ All in vain. As soon as we started on at him, he’d

  withdraw to a corner of the deck or the inn, cover his head with his gown and

  ignore us until we went away. Now there aren’t many places to hide on a ship, so

  he even took to climbing up into the rigging or burrowing down between the jars

  in the cargo hold, like a mouse. Obviously, we couldn’t wait to hear this

  speech.

  Well, the days went by; no speech. We reached Pella ; no speech. Day followed

  day, negotiating session merged into negotiating session; we conceded everything

  that Philip wanted and got nothing in return; no speech. It was like the hot,

  thundery weather of late summer, when you look up at the sky every morning and

  you know it’ll rain today, but it doesn’t; it’s hot and tense and even the goats

  in the pen and the mules in the stable get restless and quarrelsome, but still

  no rain and no thunder. No speech.

  Then we worked it out; he was waiting for the final day of the talks, to ensure

  that he got maximum effect. There Philip’d be, nicely relaxed and off guard

  after his diplomatic triumphs, imagining that it was all over and he could tick

  Athens off his list of Things To Do Today; then, at the last minute, Demosthenes

  would pop up like the god at the end of a tragic play and blow Philip into

  wind-strewn chaff, right when he imagined he was safe. We couldn’t help admiring

  the audacity of the plan, to say nothing of the firm grasp of tactics and the

  insights into Philip’s personality — after all, it was broadly based on Philip’s

  celebrated battlefield manoeuvre of letting his enemy breach his line and pass

  through the middle of his forces, the better to cut them off and surround them

  at the very last moment. Fitting, we thought. Brilliant, even. Not to mention

  inspirational and a tremen­dous morale-booster.

  And the moment came. It was after we’d officially concluded the embassy’s

  business and made our last concession — we’d been quite open-handed about it,

  giving away big raw cutlets of our national endowment, since we knew for certain

  that once Demosthenes had made his speech, we’d get ‘em all back again — and we

  were just about to plunge into yet another drab, long-winded Macedonian court

  ceremonial when Demosthenes reared up on his hind legs, cleared his throat and

  began to speak.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Were it not for the fact that—’

  —And he froze. Either he’d forgotten the words or he’d been seized with a

  near-fatal dose of stage fright. Whichever it was, he couldn’t move, not even

  enough to open his mouth. He was like one of the many statues of Demosthenes

  about to make a speech, the ones that at one time were put up all over the place

  as a symbol of anti-Macedonian feeling, except that a lot of those statues were

  pretty lifelike and at that precise moment Demosthenes, frankly, wasn’t. I

  couldn’t help but be reminded of that old story about Perseus and the head of

  Medusa the Gorgon, which was so incredibly ugly that it turned whoever looked at

  it to stone — interesting parallel, that, given the way Philip looked.

  For a long while, nobody moved, and there’s a fair chance we’d all be there

  still, all turned to stone, if it hadn’t been for Philip. As soon as he’d got

  over his initial bewilderment and he’d worked Out what had happened, he leaned

  forward a little in his chair and tapped Demosthenes on the arm, just above the

  elbow.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It happens to all of us now and again. Now, try

  taking a deep breath, and start again.

  Demosthenes looked at him, breathed in and began to shake.

  ‘Try just telling us your name,’ Philip said. ‘Just say something, to break the
/>   ice. Come on, you can do it.’

  ‘D-d,’ Demosthenes mumbled. ‘D-d-d.’

  ‘All right,’ Philip said. ‘Now try looking straight past me at the back of the

  room. Pick a point, something you can fix your eyes on; lamp-sconce, ornament, a

  particular pattern in a tapestry, doesn’t matter what. Just look straight at it,

  and tell it your name. Out loud. Go on.’

  Demosthenes’ eyes locked onto something, and he gasped for a moment like a

  stranded fish.

  ‘D-d-d-demos,’ he said. ‘D-d-d-d-mosthnes.’

  Philip clapped his hands together. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘All right, this is

  good, we’re making progress. Again — and this time, a bit more slowly and

  fluently.’

  Demosthenes, of course, never made his speech. Philip coaxed and coached him to

  the point where he could say his name, his father’s name and his city and deme,

  then let him off the hook.

  ‘I’m disappointed, though,’ Philip said, as Demosthenes sat down, staring at the

  ground between his feet. ‘I’ve been looking forward to hearing a Demosthenes

  speech ever since the conference began. You’ll have to come back another time,

  when you’re feeling a bit better.’

  The embassy left for home. I stayed.

  I hadn’t planned it, gods know. I’d never before shown any inclination to want

  to leave Attica — quite the opposite, in fact. It wasn’t as if I was unhappy

  there, or that the job at Macedon was anything wonderful. On the other hand, I

  didn’t have any cause not to stay; no family worth speaking of (at least, none

  who’d talk to me), no debts, no obligations. It was like dying, and being

  reborn, though as what remained to be seen.

  Later the same day I found myself in a cart headed for the village of Mieza . It

  was a big, heavy farm-cart, and the rear offside wheel squeaked. In the cart

  with me were Leonidas and Alexander, who I’d already met; Parmenio’s sons

  Philotas and Nicanor; another boy called Menippus, about whom I remember nothing

  at all; and the principal of the school, Lysimachus. We went for the rest of

  that day in stony silence, nobody daring to say a thing in front of the stranger

  (me), and put up for the night in a small, comfortable inn about halfway between

  Pella and Mieza. When the innkeeper saw us, and the two Thracian cavalrymen we

  had as outriders, he went white as a sheet and dashed back inside; a few seconds

  later, his wife and son emerged, looking equally panic-stricken, and started

  unloading our kit without a word.

  It was unnerving, that silence. I was beginning to wonder what on earth I’d

  walked into. Was it some really ancient, bizarre custom, that the young hope of

  Macedon went everywhere in complete silence, broken only during lessons? As an

  Athenian, I wasn’t sure I could stand that. Athenians talk. All the time. The

  surest way to drive an Athenian mad is to shut him up in a confined space on his

  own and deprive him of conversation; and even then he’ll talk to himself,

  disagree, shout, lose patience, start a fight... But that theory, mercifully,

  proved false; I could hear them whispering to each other when they thought I

  couldn’t hear, though I couldn’t make out anything of what they were saying. I

  wanted to break the silence myself by talking to one of them, asking a simple

  question and defying them to break all the rules of polite conduct by not

  answering; but I had an attack of Demosthenes’ fever and couldn’t bring myself

  to say a word. Dinner, consisting of bread, cheese, cold sausage and a

  pleasantly sweet, strong, neat wine, went down in silence except for wordless

  demolition noises, and we were shown our sleeping quarters in dumb show and left

  alone for the night.

  I tried to put it all out of my mind; instead, I asked myself why Aristotle

  wasn’t with the party. That thought, however, wasn’t conducive to sweet dreams.

  I kept remembering episodes from mythology where the victim is sent on a mission

  by the wicked king to a distant town or province bearing a sealed letter which

  contains instructions for his own execution. The big mystery, why I’d been

  offered the job in the first place, didn’t seem such a mystery after all.

  Aristotle had been here — what, two years? Five? I couldn’t remember offhand,

  but long enough, surely, to have wormed his way into the King’s confidence and

  affection. I could picture the scene; the throne-room, dark except for the

  ambivalent light of one smoking lamp. Aristotle approaches the royal presence

  and whispers for a moment in Philip’s ear. The Athenian herald, Euxenus. What of

  it, my friend? Do you know him? Know him! Why, your majesty, I hate him above

  all mortals, as would you if only you knew.. . Tell me more, Aristotle, tell me

  more . . . Philip nods; his one eye burns fiercely in the gloom. I see, he says

  quietly, I see. Well, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we? Leave it

  to me, my friend. Aristotle bows deeply; thank you, your majesty, you can’t know

  how long I’ve dreamt of vengeance... Think nothing of it, my good and faithful

  servant. The man’s as good as dead.

  Well, you know how it is when you’re lying awake in the middle of the night,

  fretting. You can imagine anything, any kind of horror, and convince yourself

  that it’s true. And guilty conscience had something to do with it, of course—

  What, I never told you, Phryzeutzis? Well, I’d better tell you now, otherwise

  this whole business of Aristotle and me isn’t going to make a whole lot of

  sense. Yes, the wretched man had every reason to hold a grudge against me, after

  what I’d done to him. It’s not a story I like telling, mainly because it puts me

  in a bad light; but what the hell, this is History.

  Actually, it was all Diogenes’ fault; at least, he put me up to it. Aristotle

  collected cities; that is, he was compiling a huge database of the constitutions

  of Greek city-states, with the aim of reducing all this data down and using it

  to compile the authoritative, all-time Number One best model constitution for a

  Greek city. He was quite serious about the project; he’d been to all manner of

  out-of-the-way places, asking questions and getting under the feet of the city

  fathers, and whenever a stranger from a city he hadn’t distilled and bottled yet

  arrived in Athens he’d scamper off with his tablets and stylus and be asking

  detailed questions about procedures for the co-option of council members to

  replace a deceased Superintendent of Drains before the unfortunate traveller had

  had a chance to shake the dust out of his cloak.

  For some reason Diogenes and I found this noble project unbear­ably amusing; so

  we decided to sabotage it. Aristotle had never met me or heard of me; so

  Diogenes saw to it that a rumour went round concerning the arrival in Athens of

  a citizen of Escoracaschia (mean­ing, loosely translated, ‘Pissoffsville’;

  there’s advanced Athenian wit for you), the furthest-flung Greek colony in the

  world.

  That citizen, of course, was me. We hired a room in a cheap inn, bought some

  raggedy old travelling clothes in the market, and waited. Sure enough, along

  came Aristotle, tablets in hand, imploring
me to spare him just an hour or so of

  my time...

  ‘Sho’ nuff,’ I replied, in the corniest stage-Doric accent I could muster.

  ‘Mighty civil of you to take an interest in us plain folks from Hyperborea, you

  bein’ a book-learned gennelmun an’ all.’

  Then I told him all about my native city; how it lies on the southern tip of an

  island that lies opposite the north-eastern coast of Europe, an island so

  distant and remote that for half the year it rains nearly every day, and great

  banks of fog sweep down from the hills and cover everything, so that between the

  driving rain and the impenetrable mist day was as obscure as night, and instead

  of using our eyes to find our way about we used our noses, planting aromatic

  herbs at strategic points as beacons to guide us to our fields and villages; how

  the said rain and fog makes it impossible for us to tell each other apart except

  at very close quarters, with the result that we long ago ceased trying, and now

  no longer differentiate between other men’s families and wives and our own; how,

  in consequence, we don’t recognise such concepts as ownership and property but

  hold everything in common, so that a man who blunders in out of the rain sits

  down in front of the hearth and makes that house his home, until such time as

  the wind and the rain stave in the roof and send him on his travels again; how

  there is no crime or wickedness in our city because, when you’re soaked to the

  skin and coughing your lungs up all the time, you simply don’t have the energy

  to start fights or plot against your neighbour (and since you haven’t the

  faintest idea who your neighbour’s going to be from one day to the next, there

  really isn’t much point); how, in short, thanks to the unremitting violence of

  nature and the utter savagery of our environment, we live in a sort of earthly

  paradise with neither poverty nor excessive wealth, without crime or discord,

  freed from the snares and delusions of the flesh and the petty aspirations and

  ambitions of the natives of happier climes. In fact (I added, picking up a jug

  of water), being this far south, in this unwholesome and decadent land of

  sunshine and warm earth, my heart ached for the feel of cold rain dripping down