Madman

by Tracy Groot

  He began to read the corresponding lines on the right-hand plate.

  Sheatfish. I’ll say no more.

  Should have paid attention to Zagreus. Lost no money this time.

  Two gold staters—I should have my own head drilled. No infection, thank the gods. No change, either.

  Blank space for the corresponding left-plate line of Temple of Asclepius.

  He ate them. Tallis glanced for the corresponding line, found the word leeches, and groaned.

  For Delphi was Cost of trip prohibitive. Will speak with Jarek.

  For Reversal at Scythopolis, the bottom portion of the right plate was blank.

  It was a long while before Tallis closed the tablet. He pushed it back into place and leaned on his elbows, rubbing a hand over his fist. Where was Polonus now? Off to Scythopolis, trying to fulfill the last line of the list? Didn’t Kardus have to be with him to . . . disinvite the paredros?

  He noticed a bit of parchment sticking out from beneath a small lamp, near the trio of ink pots. He picked up the lamp and carefully peeled away the parchment stuck to the bottom. It was stained with lamp oil.

  If there is no hope for him, there is no hope for anyone.

  He folded the scrap and tucked it into his pocket. He fell again to rubbing his hand over his fist.

  What course to lay out? What was it now about? For Polonus, according to the tablet, it was all about Kardus. What did Polonus know about the murder of Theseus, he who had been found, as Lysias had said, in large chunks outside a disreputable bathhouse in Hippos? What of the suicide of Bion? The Greeks had long considered suicide an acceptable method to end matters on earth. (Aristarchus called it melodramatic petulance; Callimachus called it a shame—their thinking was fashionably un-Greek. Any kind of un-Greek thinking was fashionable—that’s what made it Greek.) Did Polonus know why Bion did it?

  There were new shackles on the hook, old shackles on the stone bench. And here was the tablet, with the list. The disintegration of the academy came down to Kardus for Polonus. Is this where Tallis’s own path lay? Should he truly forsake any ideas of pursuing the mysteries of the Decaphiloi, not the least of which was who had penned the progress reports and stolen the money from Cal? Should he take his hand out of the adder’s nest and simply try and help Polonus find a cure for Kardus? Wasn’t there good in that? Callimachus, he sensed, would find it a worthy occupation. Maybe even Aristarchus would agree.

  Callimachus, how I miss you. I miss you both. How I need your wise counsel.

  His idle gaze fastened upon the opened scroll he had pushed aside. He tilted his head. What did Polonus read in his spare time? There was a circular tag attached to an end of the dowel. Tallis turned the tag over: XV. He took the handles and unwound the scroll with his right hand, rolling up loosely with his left until a portion was spread upon the desk.

  He tilted the left portion of the scroll to see—it was tight. Puzzled, he unrolled more of that portion—it was blank. He unwound the right portion and looked closely. It was Polonus’s handwriting, from what he’d read on the parchment notes. Tallis sat back in surprise. Polonus was writing his own text.

  He hesitated. He had no right to read this. A text was a private thing until made public by the originator. He pushed it away. He studied it a moment more, then got up and went to the shelf where the large stack of scrolls was. He read the dangling circular tag on one of the scrolls in the middle. Number 8. Beneath it, in the bottom of the stack, number 4. They started at the right and moved left, 1 through 5. Next level, 6–9. Next level, 10–12. On top, 13 and 14. What was all this?

  He debated, and before the debate was done, he had tugged out roll number 1. He unrolled the end to see what the name of the text was. Papyrus rolls were always titled at the end, the part least likely to be damaged.

  No title. How odd. He brought the scroll to the table and unwound it to start at the beginning.

  I, Polonus of Hippos, undertake to seek the restoration of Kardus of Kursi.

  Two months I have dwelled in his habitation of the tombs, and have now set up a habitation of my own. It is preferable to a moldy tent.

  A steady pounding began in Tallis’s gut. He looked up at the other scrolls. These were Polonus’s private journals, and this was only roll number 1. He had no right to read them, not without permission. It was like stealing.

  Kardus will not come in here.

  “Thank the gods,” Tallis murmured.

  I do not know what he fears. I have made it a pleasant place—as pleasant as one can make a former tomb—but he is beginning to abhor all things pleasant. It is neat, and it is orderly. This is the first observation I record, that Kardus no longer tolerates order. Not even the simple order of a line of stones to my doorway. I did it for decoration, and to remind myself that I am part of a society far away, a society that will line their pathways with stone.

  It was a clean line. Kardus came and kicked it out of order, made chaos of it, my simple clean line. Such a small thing, compared to the other things he’s done. A small thing to make me sit on the ground and weep. I can’t say why I did it—he’s done much worse.

  He destroyed many books of the academy, when I was still living in the tent, the books he loved so much. He destroyed histories and plays. I have desolation in my heart from it. What he did to a scroll of Jewish sacred writings still has me perplexed: He laid out the Hebrew text and urinated on it. Then he trampled the scroll with a glee I cannot comprehend. The scroll was a gift from a Jewish friend. What perplexes me most is this: I cannot read Hebrew, therefore Kardus cannot. Everything he learned, he learned from me. Why, then, would he destroy that which he could not possibly understand? Gods, he even chose the scroll quite carefully from the barrel. Unrolled and read parts of it out loud. He cannot read Hebrew.

  This, the first observation, that he will no longer tolerate order. Not the order of the written word, not even the order of words he cannot understand. Not the order of cleanliness, of relieving himself in a private place like a normal human being.

  My clean line of stones is my first observation.

  From habit, Tallis reached for his cup of watered wine, surprised to find it wasn’t there. He felt like he was poring over a text on his own desk at home. He gazed at the roll in his hands, at all the rolls on the shelf, at roll 15 in front of him. He eyed the leather scroll carriers dangling from the hooks. Did he dare take the rolls back to the inn? When would Polonus be back? He didn’t want to read in this place, maybe from guilt, maybe from fear that a madman lurked around the corner. He had a sudden flash of his own blood spattered on these scrolls.

  He loosely unrolled the journal, skimming through the columns of words. There was nothing in the margins, not on the sides, and not on the top or bottom. Every column of the text was margin—everything was Polonus.

  Poseidonius attacked Chrysippus for denying the existence of an irrational element in the soul—moral Evil—though whether he was ready to concede a matching irrationality of moral Good is not at all clear.

  He came to a drawing of three circles. The circles on the ends overlapped the one in the middle. The middle circle was labeled Human. The overlapping circle on the left, Good. The overlapping circle on the right, Evil. Tallis read the lines beneath the drawing:

  I have formed a basis from what I’ve observed in Kardus: that perhaps the universe is made of three forces. What would Chrysippus think of me?

  Tallis skimmed the rest of the scroll, set it aside, and went to get scroll number 2. He started for the table, then turned and took an armful of scrolls. He dumped them on the floor next to the table, went back quickly for the rest. There were only a few hours of afternoon light left, and no banked coals to light a lamp. He would have to read quickly. He was thirsty and would have to ignore it. Hungry, and would go without.

  Some lines were neatly printed, some scrawled in haste.

  Scroll number 3.

  Good day today. Not sure why. He is quiet and docile. He even ate bread toda
y, real bread! Such hope in my heart for that. I thought he may have even recognized me. He glanced my way, I am sure of it. Most of the time he does not know I exist. It is strange, because he is aware of anyone else who comes by. He is aware of the herdsmen. He is aware if Kes`Elurah comes. He is aware of Samir, the slave—gods, he is aware of him. I told Kes`Elurah to keep him away: the slave vexes Kardus terribly.

  But he is not aware of me. Never is. I lay out food; I replace his clothing. It is strange to be tolerated. It is strange—I do not exist to him. His old teacher is no more to him than a rock on the ground. I wonder if I am being used to . . . keep him alive. To keep him. Perhaps that’s all I am to Them. A keeper. Maybe that’s why he tolerates me.

  Scroll number 5.

  Not so much a releasing of inner madness, but inviting madness to the innerness. A granting of access to the depths. Invitation.

  Soma sema. The body is a tomb. Prison of the divine spark.

  Bled him today. Covered him with fifteen leeches. Poured on the salt when I realized he enjoyed it. He took a swollen leech and ate it; the blood ran down his chin. And I simply wiped the blood away. Before, I would have vomited. Nothing surprises me anymore.

  Had to chain him today. Jarek wasn’t happy. I got angry and said try living with him. He got me a pair of shackles.

  Gods, I hate the shackles. Half the time he rages at them, the other half he stirs the chains in bewilderment, like a child. Ah, gods, I wish it would end.

  Scroll number 7.

  I made him drink a vial of the bathwater of a holy man. The water was gray. Cost me a silver drachma and did nothing. The holy man is rich, and I am a brokenhearted old fool.

  He suffers as much from my attempts to help him as he does from what afflicts him. I would walk away, were his face not Kardus. You, whom I once knew.

  Do you hate me, Kardus? I would if I were you.

  Scroll number 10.

  I don’t know what I believe anymore. I used to believe in ataraxia, escape from the violence, chaos, and anarchy of the world around. What of the violence, chaos, and anarchy within? Escape from without to find it within. The gods are laughing.

  I wouldn’t believe in good anymore, save for simple things like a basket of food. Today Kes included my favorite pastry. Such kindnesses reduce me to tears. Such kindnesses are a mooring line, thinly lashed to a boat in a maelstrom.

  Samir. He is a mooring line.

  How clearly the smallest good stands out against evil. Samir looked at me today. Just a look, but I felt his strength. I felt a moment of . . . I don’t know what to call it. Relief. Peace, perhaps, but I didn’t recognize it as such. I have forgotten what it is.

  Mooring lines.

  I used to see a mooring line in the sunset. I saw mooring lines in beauty.

  I cannot see them anymore.

  Scroll number 11.

  Saw something today. Not sure what it was. A flickering of light, movement of some kind. It was behind me. I turned to look and it wasn’t there.

  Throughout the texts Tallis found various versions of Polonus’s original diagram. Sometimes the circles overlapped, and sometimes they floated free. There were always three. He found the last version of it in scroll 11. This time the circles did not overlap, but were lined up, the middle circle touching the edges of the outer circles. At the places where they touched, Polonus had drawn a dark mark. He had circled each mark and written doorway. The left outer circle was labeled Good. The right, Evil. The middle was labeled Kardus. Polonus had drawn heavy dark arcs from the Evil circle through the doorway into Kardus. The Kardus circle was scribbled through with black. The Good circle had an X over it.

  Heroes for the good and heroes for the bad. Kardus uncorked the tunnel from the bad and let the bad heroes inside. The good heroes, if they ever were, are no longer.

  Must close the door. Don’t know how. Must drive out bad heroes first. Don’t know how. Told Them to go once—first time in a long time Kardus looked at me, and I was never more afraid. Such a baleful eye. Such dark glowing mirth. He said leave Us alone. Us, he said. I never did it again. No wish for that contact again. The smell came.

  Ah, gods, I want to leave this place, I want to go. I am in hell.

  Is the door already closed? Is there no hope to open it once again and drive Us away? If there is no hope for Kardus, what of the others who may open the door unawares? And why in the name of the gods and the goddesses can we not open the door to the Good?

  Ah, gods, I wish it were over. Ah, gods. I wish it would end.

  Is he still in there? Did They kill him?

  Yellow light on the periphery. Movement. Flickering. Someone spying on me. Watching me! I turn to look; no one is there. I am frightened.

  Tallis rubbed his lips. They were gummy. He was terribly thirsty. He glanced outside, gripping the edges of the scroll. There was a cistern outside. But maybe he would run into Kardus.

  Scroll number 12.

  You gave them a place to hang their cloaks, and now I am beginning to hate you. You brought it on yourself. I hate what you’ve done to the place.

  I hate what she did to you. I’d kill her if I could. Give me the chance—I will kill her, for you and for me, and with relish I will do it! I looked at you today, and my stomach flamed with hatred. Why do you let Them stay?

  She took you with flattery and lies. It’s all you ever wanted anyway, and I despise you for it. I may hate you, Kardus. Let me think about it. I’ll let you know.

  Not a yellow light. A yellow face, I am sure of it. Corner of my eye. Gone whenever I look. But it’s there. I know it’s there. It is patient.

  Scroll number 13.

  They say there is a young Socrates on the other side of the lake. Yes, the place you hate to look. They say he does miracles, a regular son of the gods. I despise him already. He will assemble his pupils on the steps and stand in a colonnade. He will have great hope for one particular pupil, and I hope that one turns out like you. I hope he will learn what comes of sacrificing everything for one arrogant whelp with a dead witch for a mother and a living shrew for a sister and a milksop for a father. I hope the whelp destroys his life, like you have destr—

  Kardus! Kardus, forgive me! I didn’t mean it. I get it mixed up—I destroyed your life. I pushed you to her, because I wanted to be rid of you. That is poor love. And I loved you! You were a good boy. I was the one who knew better, and I was weak.

  Curse my weakness! Curse the day I ever came to the inn! An ignorant you would have been better than this. You were a good boy. Forgive me, my son. Forgive me.

  The ink was smeared in this portion.

  I told it to go away. It was behind me again. Appeared at the corner of my eye. A yellowish face, stretched tight, like a lumpy barley sack. It flickers yellow. There is invitation in it. It wants something.

  Always half a step behind me. It’s slow. Slow and plodding, always there, relentless. I look, and it is gone. I spend more time outside, in the sunlight. Safe in the sunlight.

  I am frightened.

  Scroll number 14.

  Maybe it’s a hero of Good. Maybe one of the long-lost heroes of the Good, come to help me. I knew there was Good!

  Then why am I afraid?

  Barley face says he will guide me. Maybe to the mystery of Kardus, to the mystery of his healing.

  Polonus, you fool! It says nothing, because nothing is there. It’s your fancy, the fancy of an aging man who has long lived with a madman. Go to Hippos and visit the brothels. Get drunk. Wake up, man, and live. Go see a play. Go see Antenor.

  I am attracted to Evil. It fascinates me. I do not know if this makes me a bad man.

  I think you were invaded. Antenor thinks your mind snapped. But I’ve lived with you too long. I know about Them, and there is no explaining that to Antenor. I don’t even try. I let him talk. It was good to see him again, but it amazes me how tiresome he has grown. I don’t remember him that way. Were all the Decaphiloi so blind? Foolish people. So blinded to the Realms.<
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  Barley face came today, and I screamed for him to go away. I saw Kardus, and he was laughing at me. I screamed at him. I don’t like it that he looks at me now. He sees me, all the way through, searching for the secret place, and I hate his searching eyes. He told me it was only a matter of time. Told me I would be his. Gods, he frightens me. Never used to. Never cared about me. Now he has turned his eye upon me, and I am terrified.

  Tallis slowly reached for the last scroll on the desk, the one he found next to the tablet. There were only two short entries in the last journal. The first one puzzled Tallis.

  I don’t like Across the Sea.

  Tallis looked up at the blue waters now touched with waning rays of sun. Did he speak of the Galilee? Or the Mediterranean, the real sea far beyond the Galilee? What didn’t he like across the sea? And why? Tallis’s squint left the lake, and fell on the last line Polonus wrote.

  They are coming for me.

  Tallis stared a moment at the words, then slowly rose. He should roll up the scrolls, put them back neatly, arrange everything so that . . .

  He hurried to the cylindrical container in the corner and gathered the scrolls. He didn’t bother with the scroll carriers on the peg, and when he fled, didn’t even shut the door behind him.

  VIII

  TALLIS CAME INTO THE KITCHEN from the back entrance. Samir had told him Zagreus was still sleeping in the barn, but Kes had gone into the inn.

  He was glad to have had that half-hour walk from Polonus’s home to let the flight-fear settle into something more manageable. He felt calm as he stood in the kitchen, comforted by the sight of dirty dishes on the worktable and the greasy charcoal smell of the brazier.

  Kes hurried in from the common room, paused when she saw him. She went to the worktable and began to quickly slice a loaf of bread.

  “Where did you go?” she asked, not looking at him.

  “To talk with Polonus.”

  “You should have told me you were going. I’d have sent the basket with you.” She arranged the bread on a plate and then took the plate to a large crock on the floor against the wall. She removed the lid and took a handful of olives from the crock, letting the brine drain through her fingers, then put the olives on the plate.