sent me all this way to fetch you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
He raised a shaggy eyebrow. ‘He wants you to lead his new colony,’ he said. ‘In
Sogdiana. It’s to thank you for how you inspired him, when he was just a kid,
gave him the burning ambition to create the perfect society.’
‘Me,’ I said.
‘Yes, you.’ He grinned. ‘You look surprised.’
‘I am surprised,’ I replied. ‘I don’t remember ever mentioning it. And if he
thinks I’m going to get involved in that bloody game again—’ I shook my head.
‘I’m sorry,’ I went on, ‘really, it isn’t your problem. But I think you’ve
probably had a wasted journey.’
He looked at me for a long time before he spoke again. ‘If he says you’re going
to lead a colony in Sogdiana,’ he said, ‘you’re going to lead a colony in
Sogdiana. Bet on it.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but no.’ ‘Bet on it,’ he repeated.
I thought for a moment. ‘A drachma,’ I said. ‘Athenian.’
‘Done.’
I owe Colonel Timoleon a drachma, Phryzeutzis. When I die and you clear out my
things, you’ll find it in the little cedarwood box beside my bed, along with
Theano’s comb. It’s the only genuine Athenian drachma I’ve got left. I’m sure I
can rely on you to travel all the way to Macedon, track down Timoleon or his
next of kin and hand it over. Be sure to get a receipt.
We made landfall at Ephesus , where I found a letter waiting for me. It was
written on best-quality Egyptian paper and was presented to me by the Macedonian
prefect’s first adjutant in person, as I staggered down the plank feeling like
death. I read it in a quiet corner of the public baths the next day, and I’ve
still got the wretched thing somewhere, still in its dinky little bronze tube
embossed with prancing lions; but I know it by heart, so I won’t bother looking
for it now. It went:
Alexander son of Philip to Euxenus son of Eutychides; greetings.
This message is twenty years overdue, my dear Euxenus; please forgive me, I’ve
been busy. You left before I could say goodbye, and what with one thing and
another I’ve never got around to writing.
Do you remember those bees? There are times when I’m ready to believe the gods
sent them,just to mahe sure our paths crossed that day. The debt I owe you is
incalculable, and hardly a day goes by when I don’t think about the things you
taught me. I can’t believe it’s been so long since we sat together under the
trees at Mieza; it only seems like a week or so ago that you were handing out
our study assignments, or explaining to us about the battles of the Great War.
In a very real sense, anything I might have achieved so far in my life is
largely due to you. Without your teaching and, to an even greater extent, your
example, I don’t suppose I’d be where I am today. You opened my eyes, my dearest
friend and mentor; you showed me that life can have a purpose, that it can mean
something. What greater treasure could anybody possibly give, or receive?
Above all, it was the example of what you set out to do in Olbia that fired my
imagination all those years ago, Now, I expect you’ve long since despaired of
me; you think that all I’m interested in is fame and glory, and extending my
kingdom from one end of the earth to the other. I can picture you shaking your
head sadly. ‘You’re missing the point,’ I can hear you say. And if it were true,
if all I was interested in was making a name for myself, you’d be right.
Everything I’ve done would pale into insignificance compared with what you
nearly achieved atAntolbia. But it’s all right, I promise you. I hadn’t
forgotten, though I’ll admit I’ve been dreadfully slow off the mark. But it’s
time now.
I have to tell you, I can’t spare the men or the time to come with you back to
Antolbia, avenge the terrible loss you suffered, and rebuild the city. I’m
sorry; it’d be a far nobler deed than what I’m doing here, but please
understand, I have to finish here before I can do anything else, otherwise
there’s a terrible risk that everything here will just fall to pieces, with
nothing to show for all the lives it’s cost for me to get here.
So I’m going to do what I hope is the next best thing; in fact, in some ways I
hope it might even be better, because this time it’s going to be that much
closer to your original dream. I’m asking you to lead my new colony in Sogdiana.
This one isn’t going to be anything like any of the other cities I’ve founded,
or which have been founded in my name. This time, Euxenus, we’re going to put
into practice everything we talked about all those years ago, that day when I
sat spellbound at your feet listening to you telling us about your wonderful
ideas for the ideal society. That’s why I’ve waited so long; I had to find the
right place, the right people. And Sogdiana, Euxenus — I knew at once when I
first came here, this is the place we’ve been dreaming of, this is the perfect
mixture of people to make it work.
How did you put it? The perfect fusion of opposites; that’s what we’ve got here.
These people here, they’re so different from us and so alike at the same time.
Here’s where we’re going to find that perfect fusion; Greek and Scythian,
settled and nomadic, urban and rural, pure intelligence and raw energy, all the
elements you said we’d need. You know, I really wish it could be me undertaking
this wonderful experiment. I’ve said this so often over the years, Euxenus, but
never to you, the one person it matters that I say it to; if I couldn’t have
been Alexander, I’d have wanted to be Euxenus. Well, here’s another perfect
fusion, my friend; you and me, fused together in a joint act of creation.
Well, that’s enough of that. I’m sure you remember howl always used to get
carried away — brevity, Alexander, brevity; isn’t that what you used to tell me
when it was my turn to say something in class? There’s nothing worth saying in
twenty words,you said, that can’t be said better in ten. Come and join me,
Euxenus. Together, we can make your dream a reality at last. Anyway, there you
have it; better late than never, as we say back home.
If all goes well, you should arrive in Ephesus just as Eudaemon’s getting there.
Be warned; he’s changed a lot since you used to know him. He’ll explain the
background.
Goodbye, Euxenus. Here’s one last promise: as soon as the foundations are laid,
I’ll come and say hello properly, and we can sit together under a tree in the
sun and talk over old times and new dreams. Keep well, my friend, and may the
gods favour you.
And what all that’s about, I confess I have no idea. I’ve ransacked my memory
scores of times over the years, but however hard I try I simply can’t recall any
of those cosy chats in the shade back in dear old Mieza that the letter refers
to. I don’t know; maybe he was getting me confused with somebody else, or maybe
he’d recreated me in his mind as the wise old mentor he felt he should have had.
And the tone of the thing; I’ve asked around, at the time he was dictating that
lot (it was f
ar too neat to be his own handwriting), he was issuing edicts to
his loyal fellow Macedonians requiring them to fall on their faces in his
presence and worship him as a god. Of course, there’s a perfectly good
explanation for the god business; the Persians expect to be required to worship
their kings as gods, and if they saw the Macedonians treating him as an equal, a
mere mortal, he’d lose their respect. Perfectly valid argument, by which I’m not
in the least convinced.
I was tempted — ye gods, I was tempted — to write back telling him where he
could shove his colony and his perfect society and all the rest of it, but
fortunately I had more sense. I told myself that I’d never have dared say
anything like that to Alexander even when he was just a kid; disobeying his
orders now that he was effectively the ruler of the world simply wasn’t an
option. Now I’m not so sure. There was always a side to Alexander that
positively invited the apparently humiliating rebuff from people who were
entirely in his mercy; as witness, for example, the way he allowed himself to be
insulted by Diogenes. On one level, it was shrewd public relations,
demonstrating his humanity and self-assurance; after all, Alexander is always
the hero of these stories, which make great play of his humility and sense of
humour (and Alexander had just enough of both of these qualities to fill a small
nutshell, provided the nut was left in place). Maybe if I’d written back a
churlish, ill-mannered refusal he’d have smiled indulgently, handed the letter
to a nearby hanger-on and let it go at that. On the other hand, maybe the last
thing I’d ever have seen was the inside of the sack they put over my head as
they rowed me out to sea and tipped me over the side. Someone capable of writing
a letter like that would be capable of anything.
Well, then; I was going to Sogdiana, wherever the hell Sogdiana was — and by
rights, Phryzeutzis, that’s the end of the story, because here I am still. It
turned out, quite by chance, that Sogdiana is probably the nearest thing to a
home I’ve ever had since my father died. At the time, though, I wasn’t to know
that. I assumed I was being sent off to some crack in the mountains to live
among monosyllabic Macedonian veterans and cannibal natives. You can guess, I
wasn’t very happy about it.
I left the baths, where I’d gone to read the letter, and started to walk back to
the garrison barracks, where I was staying. It was a warmer than average
evening, and I had a hill to climb, so I was taking it slowly, my mind still
full of Alexander and his letter. Consequently I wasn’t paying much attention to
the people around me and didn’t notice the man in a military cloak and helmet
who came bustling up behind me until he’d rammed me in the back like a warship
and sent me sprawling on the ground.
He went down too, and I distinctly heard a crack, the unmistakable
dry-branch-snapping noise of a human bone breaking. At once he started to curse
and groan. I untangled my feet from the hem of his cloak and got up.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked, rather foolishly.
‘No, I’m bloody well not,’ he replied. ‘You clown, you’ve broken my leg.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I replied. It wasn’t the most intelligent thing I could have said,
I grant you, but I meant it for the best. He wasn’t impressed, though.
‘Sorry’s not damn well good enough,’ he gasped, and then let out another roar of
pain. ‘Well, you’re going to regret this, I promise you, because I’m a colonel
in the King’s army, and nobody...’
‘Eudaemon?’ I asked.
He jerked his head round and glowered at me. ‘Do I know you?’ he said.
‘Eudaemon, it’s me. Euxenus.’
‘What?’
‘Euxenus,’ I repeated. ‘Your brother.’
‘Oh, for gods’ sakes.’
Just then a couple of soldiers happened to pass by; they helped Eudaemon up off
the ground, prompting yet another leonine roar of agony, then told me I was
under arrest.
‘Don’t be so damn stupid,’ Eudaemon wheezed. ‘This idiot’s my brother,
apparently.’
The soldiers weren’t quite sure what that had to do with anything; brother or
not, I was still a civilian who’d apparently caused grievous bodily harm to a
serving Macedonian officer. Before they could hurl themselves at me and start
tearing up flesh, however, Eudaemon started giving them orders; you could almost
hear the click as they disengaged their brains, allowing their superior
officer’s voice to act directly on the muscles, nerves and tendons of their
bodies. They picked him up and carried him, his arms around their shoulders like
a drunk being taken home, in the direction of the barracks. I followed.
The surgeon wasn’t in his quarters; he was out to dinner. Eudaemon sent someone
to find him, and we were left alone, in a courtyard outside the surgeon’s
office.
‘Hello, Eudaemon,’ I said. ‘I thought you were dead.’
He frowned. ‘Really,’ he said.
I tried to think of something else to say. ‘How are you keeping?’ I asked.
‘Not so hot,’ he replied. ‘Some damn fool just pushed me over and broke my leg.’
I looked at him. He was a little shorter than I remembered, but considerably
more massive; whatever he’d been doing over the last twenty-odd years had
invested him with an enormous amount of muscle and flesh. His shoulders, arms
and chest were huge, and his belly sagged over his belt in a bulging fold. Even
his fingers were enormous; my hand would disappear into his, like a child
holding hands with its father. His cheeks were round, like an apple, and his
beard came up almost to the sockets of his eyes. I’ve never seen such a thick
neck in all my life. Under all that beard it was hard to see anything of his
face, except that he’d developed an exaggerated version of our father’s long,
flat nose. On the inside of his left forearm, almost exactly midway between his
wrist and his elbow there was a suitably large and spectacular scar, the residue
of a severe burn — I saw something similar once on the shin of a blacksmith,
who’d stumbled while holding a billet of white-hot bronze and ended up kneeling
on it for a brief, agonising moment.
‘What happened to your arm?’ I asked.
‘Cave-in,’ he replied, in a detached, almost bored voice. ‘Seige operations at
Tyre . We’d dug a shaft under the wall, and we were burning out the gallery
props to collapse it and bring the wall down. Some fool had skimped on the job
and it came in too bloody early. I got buried, and six foot of burning beam
landed on my arm. Of course, I couldn’t move, just had to lie there till someone
came back and hauled me out. No fun,’ he added, with a small, grim smile.
‘Anyway, how about yourself? I gather you moved back home. How is the old
place?’
His tone of voice as he asked was one of forced interest, such as you’d use when
asking after the health of a distant and rather disreputable relative.
‘Not so bad,’ I replied. ‘It hasn’t changed much since your day. I’ve tidied it
up, put things in some sort of order
.’
‘Mended the hole in the scullery roof?’
I nodded. ‘But the store-room door still sticks,’ I added.
‘Really? I can’t remember.’ He tried to shift a little, but the pain made him
wince. ‘Really, Euxenus, you’re a bloody menace. Haven’t seen you in twenty-six
years and the first thing you do is cripple me. You always were a clumsy
bugger.’
‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ I replied, guilty-irritable.
‘I never said you did,’ he said. ‘But you never did look where you were going. I
remember that time when we were kids and you dropped that ladder—’
‘Eudaemon,’ I interrupted, ‘you’re amazing. We haven’t seen each other in gods
know how long. I really thought you were dead. Dammit, I thought all our family
was dead. And then suddenly, out of the blue, you come to life again and all you
can say is, Euxenus, you always were a clumsy bugger. Really—’
‘Do me a favour,’ he said. ‘Look, if you’re telling me you really didn’t know I
was still alive then I’ll believe you, though I find that hard to credit. So all
right, you’ve lost touch with me. Not the same the other way round. Oh, no. I’ve
been hearing about you so long you’re lucky I don’t break your foul neck.
Dammit, if it wasn’t for you—’
I held up my hand. ‘Hold on,’ I said, ‘you’ve lost me.’
‘The celebrated Euxenus,’ he went on. ‘Euxenus the philosopher. Euxenus, the
wisest man I ever knew. Euxenus, without whom none of this would ever have been
possible. I tell you, brother, there were times when for two pins I’d have
shaved my beard, changed my name and deserted just so I wouldn’t have to hear
any more about wonderful, sun-shines-out-of-his-bum Euxenus. And to cap it all,’
he added angrily, ‘as if you haven’t done enough already, the first thing you do
when finally our paths cross is break my goddamn leg. Figures,’ he concluded
bitterly. ‘On reflection, if the worst I end up with is a bust leg I reckon I’ll
have got off light.’
‘Slow down, will you?’ I said. ‘Just what exactly am I supposed to have done?’
He laughed unpleasantly. ‘That’s bloody rich, that is. Euxenus the Great Sage,
teacher, mentor and living inspiration of the divine Alexander, son of Zeus,
Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt Page 51
