Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt

by Alexander at the World's End (lit)

  So the Carthaginians would have more to lose, and they’d fight harder.’

  I nodded again. ‘That’s a good answer,’ I said. ‘But it contradicts what your

  friend here just said about the Carthaginians hiring mercenaries. Don’t you

  agree with that?’

  Alexander looked up, and then down again. ‘I agree with it,’ he said. ‘But the

  men running the war would still be Carthaginians, even if the soldiers were

  mercenaries. Put together determined generals and trained, competent men and

  you’re likely to win.’

  I sat up. ‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘Clearly you all know a lot of the basics

  already. But what you don’t know, I’ll wager, is the great secret of military

  history; and you don’t know it because although every successful general who

  ever lived knows this secret, none of them ever mention it. Not even to their

  brothers or their lovers or their sons. Would you like to know what this secret

  is?’

  Intrigued silence this time. Eventually Hephaestion said, ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘All right, listen carefully.’ I waited till they were all gazing earnestly at

  me. ‘The secret is this. Out of every hundred battles, ninety-nine of them are

  lost by the loser, not won by the winner. Ninety-nine battles out of a hundred

  go the way they do because one of the commanders makes a bloody awful mistake,

  which costs him the day and thousands of his men their lives. Now then; name me

  some battles and I’ll prove that I’m right.’

  ‘ Plataea ,’ someone called out.

  ‘Delium,’ said Philotas.

  ‘ Marathon .’

  ‘That one where Brasidas was surrounded in Thessaly .’

  By good fortune — and because the rule, which is not my own observation, happens

  to be true — I was able to carry my point in each case.This impressed my

  students a whole lot. Impressed me, too; I’d never really given it any thought

  before. Also, quite by chance, I’d been reading about the Brasidas-in-Thessaly

  battle the night before in that copy of Thucydides’ History I told you about. It

  was the first time I’d ever come across it, and it was probably that which put

  the idea in my mind in the first place.

  After we’d pushed the idea around for a while, Alexander counter-attacked. ‘It’s

  a good point,’ he said. ‘But what if you’ve got a general who’s so worried about

  making a big mistake that he’s all timid and over-cautious about handling his

  troops? He’s not going to win many battles.’

  ‘I agree,’ I replied. ‘And that’d be a big mistake on his part. There’s a

  difference between knowing not to jump off the side of a boat with a rock tied

  to your leg, and never going on a boat in your life just in case someone ties a

  rock to your leg and shoves you over the rail.’

  Alexander frowned a little. ‘But what if it’s the hundredth battle and the

  general you’re fighting doesn’t make any stupid mistakes? Then what happens?’

  ‘You lose, probably,’ I said.

  ‘But if I don’t make any mistakes either, what happens then?’

  I shrugged. ‘You keep on fighting each other till nightfall or it starts

  raining,’ I replied. ‘Or until your men or his men have had enough and run for

  it. That’s what happens in nine out of ten of the one battles in a hundred.’

  ‘I see,’ Alexander said dubiously. ‘So you’re basically saying, just trust to

  luck?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not a bit of it. Luck in war is very like the gods. Never,

  ever trust your luck; just be aware that it exists, that’s all.’

  In other words I was floundering like hell and in grave danger of being shown up

  as a windbag and a fraud. Fortunately, before any of those highly intelligent

  and perceptive young people had a chance to start picking my logic to bits,

  Leonidas arrived with a big fat scroll under his arm to teach them Homer, and I

  was able to withdraw in good order, leaving behind me the mistaken impression

  that I’d taught them something they didn’t know already.

  I tried to put it off for as long as possible, but I knew it had to happen

  sooner or later. I’d have preferred later, but I didn’t have any choice in the

  matter.

  It was my seventh day as a teacher, and I wasn’t doing terribly well. My

  greatest fault as a teacher was a deplorable and pointless urge to show off, to

  try to impress the students with my knowledge and insight; disastrous mistake.

  Being the sons of gentlemen, they were too well brought-up to object loudly

  enough for me to hear, but the embarrassed look on their faces should have been

  enough to stop me doing it. The wretched part of it was that I knew I was doing

  it and knew it wasn’t the right thing to do, but somehow I couldn’t stop myself.

  Besides which, after seven days it was too late to start again at the beginning.

  I’d forfeited too much respect, and without respect a teacher can’t teach an

  olive to fall off a tree. I was losing control of the situation and losing it

  fast; and that’s why Aristotle came to see me.

  When I heard him scratch at the door and glanced through the crack between door

  and frame to see who it was, my first instinct was to hide under something until

  he went away again; but if I’d done that he’d only have come in anyway and

  started poking about, and the embarrassment of being found by him cowering under

  an upturned basket was something I didn’t want to risk.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  He looked at me as if I’d just crawled out of something he was eating, but all

  he said was, ‘I’d like a word with you, if it’s convenient.’

  ‘Come in,’ I said. ‘Please.’

  Before he was even halfway through the door I remembered that spread out on the

  floor, with bits cut out of it, was the manuscript of Selections From Aristotle,

  or at least all that was left of it after I’d mended a pair of sandals and the

  folding chair.

  ‘You’re busy,’ he said, taking in the mess at a glance — by any normal criteria

  he was too far away to realise it was one of his books I’d been mutilating; but

  maybe he’d just know, the way a mother always knows, regardless of distance,

  when her child is in pain or danger. ‘So I won’t stay long. But I felt, as a

  fellow Athenian—’

  I made the standard sit-down-please gesture that all human beings recognise. He

  nodded in return and sat in the folding chair, right on top of the drying glue

  and excerpts from his Analysis of the Constitution of Corinth .

  ‘Careful,’ I said. ‘Wet glue.’

  Instinctively, he lifted both elbows off the arms of the chair, inspected them

  and put them back. ‘As a fellow Athenian—’ he repeated.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ I asked.

  ‘No, thank you. As a fellow Athenian, I thought you might appre­ciate a few

  words of advice about dealing with the Macedonians. The study of other cultures

  is a special interest of mine, as I believe you already know,’ he added, with a

  deadpan stare, ‘so I believe my in­sights into the Macedonian mind-set are

  likely to have a degree of validity.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I replied. ‘Personally, I like these people. What

  about you
?’

  He gave me a puzzled look, rather as if he’d asked me what four and four make,

  and I’d replied ‘Sideways.’ ‘I try and make sure that my personal

  value-judgements don’t intrude on my scientific evalu­ation of a nation’s

  culture. Also, don’t forget, my native city was destroyed by the Macedonians and

  its people dispersed or enslaved. If I have an emotional response to these

  people, it’s negative rather than positive. But I flatter myself that I can

  retain my objectivity even under these circumstances.’

  I cursed myself for my lousy memory. It was true, Philip had made an example of

  Stagira a while back; recently he’d also given per­mission for it to be rebuilt

  and for the exiles to be allowed home, as a gesture of goodwill to his son’s

  illustrious tutor. ‘That’s all right, then,’ I replied lamely. ‘Please, do go

  on.’

  Well, for half an hour or so he told me pretty much everything I’d so far worked

  out for myself about the Macedonians, together with a few snippets of historical

  trivia that could never under any conceivable circumstances be of any use to

  anybody. I sat still and quiet, nodding from time to time and keeping a fixed

  smile on my face. I was just about to doze off, in fact, when I heard him say,

  ‘But of course, you know all this already.’

  I sat up. ‘Well, actually,’ I said, ‘I do. I mean, I did do a little research

  before the peace mission started, and I’ve been keeping my ears and eyes open

  ever since.’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded his head. ‘What you don’t know is how to convey what you

  do know to somebody else. And that’s what I’ve just been illustrating for you. I

  trust you found it helpful.’

  ‘Actually—’ I began; but a little voice in the back room of my mind whispered

  Why bother? It’s not worth it. After all, it would be far more practical to

  patch up some kind of working relationship with this man

  — I was going to have to work with him for several years, and of the four of us

  on the tutoring staff, he was the only one who might just conceivably turn out

  to be a useful ally. ‘Actually,’ I went on, ‘I was going to ask your advice

  about that. Ever since I started work I’ve had this feeling that I haven’t been

  going about it in the right way. I’m sure you’ve picked up some feedback from

  the kids. What would you suggest?’

  Aristotle didn’t smile, in the same way a tree rarely does somer­saults; but the

  way he dipped his head a little suggested that he acknowledged this small act of

  deference, as from a young ram to the lord of the sheepfold, declining to start

  a fight he couldn’t win. ‘Your attitude is counter-productive,’ he said. ‘You

  seem to be afraid of them, which is why you display your knowledge the way a

  peacock

  shows its tail. For one thing, I suggest, you simply don’t have enough factual

  information. For another, you should never openly display fear to something you

  intend to train. If you want a demonstration of the proper way to go about it,

  may I recommend that you spare the time tomorrow afternoon to go down to the

  stock-yard and watch young Alexander breaking in horses.’

  And on that well-chosen exit line he stood up to leave. Unfortu­nately, the

  chair didn’t seem to want to let go of him. I found it hard not to close my

  eyes; the glue on those confounded parchment patches had soaked through and

  stuck to his gown. He frowned, and tugged; there was a small ripping noise and

  the chair dropped away.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, but he wasn’t paying attention; he’d gathered the torn part of

  his gown in one hand and was staring at a little parchment scrap that was stuck

  to it. Plainly legible were the words ‘In many respects, the Corinthian assembly

  resembles that of the Athenians’; not, perhaps, the most memorable line he’d

  ever penned, but distinctive enough, it seemed.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, and left.

  So, inevitably, there I was, sitting on the rail with my hat on against the sun,

  as the first horse was led into the ring.

  I have nothing against horses. I know how to ride one, more or less; you sit on

  the middle facing the end with the ears, it’s not exactly difficult. But I’ve

  always found it hard to be interested in horses, the way some people are.

  Alexander, on the other hand, was obviously a connoisseur, and an expert. Hardly

  surprising; in Macedon they have both the money and the room for serious

  horse-rearing, and horses have always been part of the aristocratic lifestyle,

  so I imagine he’d been riding since shortly after he was old enough to walk.

  Philip, I knew for a fact, was most definitely a horsey sort of man, and in a

  way it was significant that a new batch of horses brought him out to Mieza,

  something the education of his son never managed to do.

  And a pretty tedious spectacle I found it, I have to admit. A horse was brought

  in, the various trainers and horse people persecuted it until it did what they

  wanted it to, and then they brought in another one. The sight of ten or so men

  bumping and wobbling their way round a ring on the backs of unwilling animals

  didn’t strike me as either inspiring or amusing, and since I didn’t understand

  the process I didn’t feel there was much I could learn from the experience.

  Still, it would have been the height of bad manners to slope off before the King

  left, so I was stuck there. I wedged my heels onto the rail below me and let my

  mind wander.

  I was startled out of my reverie by the sound of someone screaming. I looked up

  and saw one of the trainers, or whatever it is you call them, being dragged

  along the ground behind a ferocious-looking brute of a tall black horse with a

  white splodge on its forehead. Somehow the man’s foot had got tangled in the

  reins; as he bumped along the ground, leaving a dark-brown trail of blood in the

  dust as he went, so with each step he dragged on the left-hand rein, making the

  horse run in a wide circle. The more they tried to catch hold of him, the faster

  the horrible creature ran, and I joined the spectacle just before the wretched

  man’s head hit a stone or something with a very definite cracking noise, and he

  stopped struggling and flopped, like a wooden doll being dragged along behind a

  small child.

  After that there wasn’t quite the same degree of urgency about stopping the

  runaway horse; they stopped trying, and without anybody chasing after it and

  flapping their hands in its face, the animal soon slowed down and came to a halt

  long enough for them to dart out and cut the dead man free from the reins.

  ‘Get the damned thing out of here,’ I heard Philip shouting; charitably, I

  assumed he was talking about the horse. But Alexander, who’d been sitting next

  to him, stood up and raised his hand in a hold-it sort of gesture.

  ‘It’s not the horse’s fault,’ he said.

  ‘Like hell it isn’t,’ Philip replied irritably. ‘Whose is it, anyway?’

  I heard someone say that it belonged to a Thessalian called Philonicus.

  ‘Strange,’ Philip said. ‘I’d have thought he’d have had more sense. It’s

  obviously way past training.’

&
nbsp; ‘I don’t think so,’ Alexander said, in an embarrassingly clear, distinct voice.

  ‘I say they’re just going about it the wrong way, that’s all.’

  I can only assume he was doing it on purpose. If so, he got the result he was

  looking for. ‘Oh, really?’ Philip said. ‘And you know everything there is to

  know about handling horses, and we don’t.’

  ‘I know enough to be able to handle this one,’ Alexander replied, as cool as you

  like. That was a habit of his, or a mannerism or whatever; the more heated and

  excitable the other man got in an argument, the colder and more detached he

  became. ‘Oughtn’t to be too difficult,’ he said. ‘Why, would you like me to show

  you?’

  Philip didn’t know whether to shout or roar with laughter; either would have

  made things worse. It was pretty clear to me as an outside observer that the

  relationship between these two had reached the crisis stage where one of them

  was going to have to do something melodramatic and probably regrettable in order

  to resolve it. It was just a pity that it should have to involve something as

  horribly dangerous as a rogue horse that had just killed a professional

  horse-tamer. But from what I know of Alexander, I wouldn’t be surprised if this

  was how he wanted it; the bigger the risk, the bigger the victory, after all. If

  this crisis had been on the cards for any length of time (and I’m sure it had)

  it’d be just like Alexander to engineer the breaking-point to be something like

  that, a very dangerous situation that he felt confident he could handle.

  Alexander was always a gambler, and he only ever bet on certainties and he never

  wagered less than his life.

  ‘You’re going to break this horse, aren’t you?’ Philip said, lowering his voice

  ominously.

  ‘I think I’d like to try,’ Alexander replied.

  ‘All right,’ Philip said. ‘Suppose you fail, and suppose by some miracle you

  manage not to break your damn neck in the process; what’s the bet?’

  Alexander thought for a moment. ‘I’ll buy the horse,’ he said.

  That took Philip entirely by surprise. ‘You will, will you? Hey, you,’ he

  snapped at the man next to him, ‘how much does Philonicus want for that horse?’

  The man whispered in Philip’s ear. ‘Louder,’ Philip said, ‘so we can all hear.’