Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt

by Alexander at the World's End (lit)

house and move in with me; she hadn’t even said whether or not she was coming to

  Olbia with me.When the stage in the divorce proceedings came where she had to

  leave, she moved back to her father’s house, much to his dismay, since he’d

  recently remarried himself, so there wasn’t a vacancy for another female in what

  was anyway a pretty small, hand-to-mouth household. I went to see him and put it

  to him that her attitude wasn’t doing anybody any good; everything was a mess,

  and the baby hadn’t even been born yet. After huffing and puffing for long

  enough to make sure money changed hands, he agreed with me and said he’d see

  what he could do to talk her round — an ambitious undertaking in which he was

  entirely successful, achieving with two short words (‘Get out!’) what I’d failed

  to do with several long and extremely well-phrased letters. In my own defence, I

  should add that she hadn’t actually read my letters, mainly because she didn’t

  know how to read. As an Athenian, of course, I’d just assumed... Well, I learned

  one valuable lesson from the experience though, as you’ll see in due course, a

  whole bunch of others were entirely wasted on me.

  So Theano moved in, and things got very awkward. Now you, my worldly wise young

  friend, will tell me that anybody with the sen­sitivity of a stale bun would

  have realised long before this stage in the game that it wasn’t entirely

  realistic of me to expect her to throw herself into my arms, in a passionate but

  respectful manner (as befitting someone of her inferior social standing) and

  thank me with shining eyes for rescuing her from a life of wretched drudgery and

  lovelessness. And really, I wasn’t expecting that, exactly. Neither, however,

  was I expecting a sharp blow on the side of my head from a hard-thrown pottery

  cup.

  ‘What was that for?’ I asked, dabbing at the point of impact with my forefinger

  to see if it was bleeding. ‘It was just a suggestion, that’s all.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ she replied.

  I frowned. What we had here, I perceived, was a communications problem.

  And no wonder. Bear in mind, please, that I was brought up in a traditional

  Athenian family, and that my mother died when I was quite young. Consequently,

  I’d never had much occasion to talk to women when I was growing up, and then my

  wife died young too so I didn’t learn the language at that stage in my life,

  which is when most men find themselves assimilating this uniquely challenging

  skill. Also worth bearing in mind is the fact that I’d spent a very significant

  part of my adult life talking to men (and on a competitive basis, at that). I

  was, by any standards, a good debater, skilled in the logic-based, fundamentally

  adversarial form which discussion or argument among men generally takes. I

  imagined that you discussed things with women in basically the same way.

  Wrong.

  I suppose it’s a matter of upbringing as much as anything else; if we taught

  little girls how to conduct a structured, logical argument in the same way we

  teach little boys, maybe we wouldn’t run into these ghastly problems we tend to

  come across on those occasions when we find ourselves with no choice but to try

  to have sensible discussions with women. In practice in normal everyday life,

  such a need arises so rarely that it wouldn’t begin to justify the amount of

  effort involved, so we don’t bother. Upper-crust trophy wives need to be able to

  talk intelligently, as do the really high-class prostitutes; otherwise it is

  indeed a prodigious waste of time and resources.

  (I’m aware, Phryzeutzis, that things are rather different here, and that men and

  women share their lives, rather than living parallel lives under the same roof,

  as we tend to do in Athens . I’m sorry to say, it’s an indication of how

  primitive your culture really is. You see, the same symbiotic relationship does

  indeed occur in certain sections of society in Greece ; but only among the very

  poor and backward, where it’s necessary for the women to labour in the fields

  alongside the men, doing the same sorts of work, which means that husband and

  wife are in each other’s company pretty much all the time. Once you get away

  from this basic subsistence level of society, though, you find the regular

  pattern emerging; men go out to work in the morning and come home at dusk,

  having spent the day alone or with other men; women stay in the house and do

  women’s work, visit each other, and so on. That’s why, incidentally, if you look

  at the paintings on Greek pottery and woodwork and the like, the men are painted

  reddish-brown and the women are all white, or a very pale pinky­white; men spend

  all day in the sun, women scarcely ever leave the house. I wouldn’t worry about

  it, though. As your society develops and matures, so you’ll gradually come to

  adopt more enlightened attitudes, patterns of behaviour and, finally, patterns

  of speech.)

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I can see we need to talk about this. So why don’t you

  calm down and get a grip and then we might be able to work out just what it is

  that’s bugging you so much.’

  She made a curious sort of angry squealing noise. ‘I don’t want to calm down,

  thank you,’ she replied. ‘And I know perfectly well what’s “bugging me” without

  any help from you, Mister So-Damned-Clever Athenian.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘You are.’

  I sighed. A less patient man would have given up long since, but I’m not like

  that. ‘You’ll have to try to be a little more specific if we’re going to make

  any progress here,’ I said. ‘See if you can’t narrow it down a bit. Just what is

  it about me that makes you lose control and start throwing things? My face? The

  way I eat soup? The sound of my voice?’

  She glared at me. ‘All of them,’ she said.

  I scratched my ear thoughtfully. ‘Odd,’ I said. ‘I’ve been looking and acting

  and sounding the same all my life, and yet that’s the first time anybody’s ever

  slung the crockery at me. Can you account for that?’

  She shook her head. ‘They do have crockery where you come from?’ she asked.

  ‘My dear girl, we’re the biggest producers of fine-grade tableware in Greece .’

  ‘Then I can’t understand it,’ she replied. ‘I’d have thought an arro­gant,

  interfering, manipulative, self-centred bastard like you’d have been dodging

  flying plates since you were old enough to crawl.’

  I was amazed. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What on earth are you talking

  about?’

  ‘Oh, go to hell,’ she said.

  ‘That’s not an answer,’ I pointed out. ‘You’ll have to do better than that if

  you want me to accept—’

  She banged the wall with her fist. ‘I don’t want you to do anything,’ she said,

  ‘except get out of my life and stay out, before you do any more damage. Can’t

  you understand that? I don’t like you, and you’re a menace. Because of you, I’ve

  been thrown out of my own house and my father’s house, I’ve lost my husband and

  I’m pregnant. If you can suggest a way that things could possibly be worse,

  short of having me lose an arm o
r go blind, it’ll be one hell of a tribute to

  the power of your imagination.’ She scowled at me, then added, ‘Oh, yes, I

  forgot. Just to round it all off to perfection, you propose to make it up to me

  by whisking me miles away from home and stranding me in the middle of nowhere,

  in a log cabin surrounded by savages, to spend my days as your combination

  whore, brood-mare and skivvy. That’s surely an offer no girl in her right mind

  would ever dream of refusing.’

  She put her hand down on the table not far from the little oil-jug, and I

  instinctively jerked my head away. It’s a well-known fact: once they get a taste

  for throwing things, they find it quite difficult to stop. She noticed and gave

  me a look so full of scorn it’d have wilted cress. ‘It’s all right,’ she sighed.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘Oh, but you have,’ I replied immediately (even I can spot an obvious cue when I

  see one). ‘Hurt me, I mean.’ I shook my head sadly, the very model of injured

  benevolence. ‘Just try looking at the situation rationally for a change, instead

  of letting all those rampant female emotions take you for a ride. We start off

  with a convenient, amicable business arrangement — one which you first suggested

  your­self, if you’re capable of remembering back that far. All right, so things

  got a bit out of hand and you found yourself in an awkward position — not

  something you couldn’t have anticipated, unless you had a really weird

  upbringing, but I suppose you decided to ignore the risk, figuring it’d never

  happen to you; some people have the ability to do that, and up to a point I

  almost envy them. I can’t, but I’m a born worrier. Anyway, along comes a

  problem, quite properly you come to me for help—’

  ‘I never—’ she interrupted. I ignored her and raised my voice a little.

  ‘You come to me for help,’ I repeated firmly. ‘I consider the position and come

  up with an eminently practical way of dealing with it, and what do I get in

  return? Obstructiveness and hostility, that’s what, in addition to all the

  expense and embarrassment I’m already being put to on your behalf. But that’s

  all right,’ I went on. ‘I do understand, it’s a really difficult and unsettling

  time for you, you’re frightened and upset and so you lash out — at me,

  naturally, the way a child in that sort of situation would take it out on its

  parents, the people who’re responsible for it and take care of it. It’s a

  perfectly natural reaction, I’ve observed it many times with frightened kids,

  and since I’ve more or less taken over that role in your life—’

  At this point she made a loud, unpleasant noise, somewhere between a scream and

  the squeal of a pig with a burned nose. ‘Shut up, will you?’ she yelped. ‘I

  don’t care how bad a state my life’s in, I don’t have to listen to this. And to

  think, I found you attractive because I liked the sound of your horrible whining

  Athenian voice!’

  ‘Theano,’ I said; she jumped to her feet, but I was a little quicker and caught

  her by the arm. Unfortunately, it was the arm her loath­some husband had chosen

  to practise his pyrography on, and she screamed with genuine, unpremeditated

  pain. I let go at once, of course, but the harm had been done; the association

  had already been formed in her mind.

  ‘Theano,’ I repeated. ‘Look, I’m sorry—’

  Waste of breath, of course. She was out of there like a thrush that’s managed to

  wriggle out from under the paw of an inexperienced fox.

  I sat down, feeling unaccountably upset. Not by the rudeness and ingratitude —

  I’m proud of the fact that I’m the easy-going sort, the kind who doesn’t take

  offence unless it’s really unavoidable, and besides, there were all manner of

  extenuating circumstances in this instance, as I’d been trying to explain to

  her. No, what was bothering me was the fact that she was clearly still

  distressed, even after every­thing I’d said to prove to her that I understood

  exactly what was going on in her mind; which in turn suggested that something

  else was bothering her, something I just couldn’t begin to grasp —

  — And me a philosopher. Me, a scientist, a man who hunts the truth to its lair

  and brings it struggling to the surface, a man who’d been studying his fellow

  men — that, after all, was what my appren­ticeship with Diogenes had been all

  about — effectively since childhood. And here’s me, one of the brightest and the

  best, unable to get inside something as simple as the mind of a Macedonian

  peasant’s daughter.

  I freely admit, it was an uncomfortable moment; like trying to pick up a rock

  you’ve been able to lift since you were sixteen years old, and suddenly finding

  one fine day that it’s too heavy for you. I didn’t like the feeling one bit, and

  for a while I was tempted to let her go to the crows and take the problem with

  her, so that I wouldn’t have to try to deal with it again. For two pins...

  But there wasn’t anybody on hand to give me two pins, and my professional

  conscience wasn’t going to let me turn my back on a problem just because it was

  disagreeably awkward.

  Instead, I went to bed. As it so happened, the book I was reading at that moment

  was the collected works of Semonides, one of my all-time favourite lyric poets;

  and the line which jumped up off the paper at me like a friendly dog as I pulled

  down the scroll was:

  ‘God made women’s minds entirely separate from

  True, I thought, and fell asleep.

  She was back again by the time I woke up, of course; fast asleep on a couch in

  the main room, with her hair still up and her shoes still on. I left her there,

  dressed quickly and hurried out without any breakfast; I’d overslept, and a

  quick glance up at the sky told me that if I didn’t look sharp, I’d be late for

  school.

  ‘Today,’ I announced, ‘we’ll consider what I believe to be one of the most

  significant military actions ever to take place between two Greek armies; and it

  so happens that I’m extremely highly qualified to pontificate about this

  particular slice of military history, because my own grandfather, the great

  comic poet Eupolis of Pallene, took part in it. In fact, he was so deeply

  involved in it that it’s a miracle I’m here at all.

  ‘I’m referring, of course, to the destruction of the mighty Athenian army sent

  under the command of General Nicias to conquer Sicily in Syracuse towards the

  end of the Great War between the Athenians and the Spartans. My unfortunate

  grandfather was a soldier in the second expeditionary force that was sent out to

  break the stalemate that resulted from the Syracusans’ entirely understandable

  reluc­tance to meet an army as huge and ferocious as the first expeditionary

  force — on its own it was one of the largest armies ever to leave Athens, and

  once Grandad’s mob joined it, it was staggeringly big.

  Too big, in fact; they didn’t bother to bring any food with them, and when they

  joined their chums under the beleaguered walls of Syracuse , they found them

  half dead from starvation. The only food to be had, in fact,
was the occasional

  pumice-hard crust or shard of plaster cheese-rind slung over the ramparts by the

  chubby and prudent Syracusans, either from basic compassion or a savage sense of

  humour.

  ‘Well, after a couple of disastrously botched attempts to progress matters — a

  night-attack on the enemy and a sea-battle, in both of which the Athenians

  contrived to turn victory into heartbreaking defeat with that extreme deftness

  and sureness of touch that we manage so well — the generals realised that they

  had no choice but to raise the siege, fall back to friendly territory and get

  something to eat. Now this clearly was no big deal; in spite of their losses,

  the army was still enormous, and apart from the garrison of Syracuse itself, the

  enemy had no field army of any description, let alone one big enough to last

  five minutes against a force comprising half the male citizens of the largest

  city in Greece who were of military age and owned enough property to serve as

  heavy infantry. In other words, the march from Syracuse to Catana was going to

  be nothing more arduous than a walk in the country followed by a slap-up dinner

  at a friend’s house; what better way, in fact, to spend a day or so?’

  I paused there for a moment and looked round. In spite of the family connection,

  it was entirely possible that these born warriors already knew more about the

  affair than I did (actually, most of what I was telling them was reheated

  Thucydides; Grandfather Eupolis scarcely ever talked about the war, so I’m told,

  except very occa­sionally in his sleep); in which case they’d be looking bored

  or smug, and I could skip the rest of the narrative and get straight on to the

  nice chewy conclusions to be drawn at the end. But no, they all looked

  revoltingly fascinated and attentive, so I carried on with the story.

  ‘So off they marched,’ I said, ‘and to begin with they were cheerful and their

  morale was high. But after a while they began to get a rather creepy feeling, as

  if someone was following. So they stopped and the generals sent a few men to

  take a look; and sure enough, trailing along behind them like the village dogs

  following a sausage-maker on his way home from market was a rabble — I’m being

  polite calling them that, even — a rabble of Sicilian scruffs and no-goods,