Heracles retorted: 'But remember, Itys, I would have been an unwilling victim.'
'You found us out, and we couldn't allow it. The brotherhood must remain secret. Didn't you all do the same to my husband when you thought men like him threatened your wonderful democracy? But we want to give you one last chance. Join us, Heracles.' And she added suddenly, as if pleading: 'Be happy for once in your life!'
The Decipherer breathed deeply. He assumed that everything had been said, and that they now expected an answer. So he began, firmly and quietly: 'I don't want to be dismembered. That's not my way of finding happiness. I'll tell you, Itys, what I intend to do, and you can tell your leader, whoever that might be. I'm going to bring you before the archon. All of you. I'm going to see that justice is done. You're an illegal sect. You've murdered a number of Athenian citizens, and numerous Attican peasants who don't share your ridiculous beliefs . . . You will be sentenced, and tortured to death. That will make me happy.'
Once more he looked around at the stony faces staring at him. He stopped at Itys' dark gaze and added: 'After all, as you said yourself, it's a question of personal responsibility, isn't it?'
After a silence, she said: 'Do you think the prospect of death or torture frightens us? You've understood nothing, Heracles. We've found a kind of happiness that goes beyond reason . . . What do we care about your threats? If necessary, we'll die smiling ... and you'll never understand why.'
Heracles had his back to the door of the cenacle. Suddenly, a new voice - thick and powerful but with a hint of mockery, as if it didn't take itself seriously - came from the doorway. 'We've been found out! The archon has received a papyrus revealing everything about us, and your name is mentioned in it, Itys. Our good friend here took precautions before he came to see you.'
Heracles turned and saw the deformed head of a dog. The dog was in the arms of a huge man.
'You asked a moment ago about our leader, didn't you, Heracles?' said Itys.
Just then, Heracles felt a sharp blow to his head131
131 He's standing in front of me as I write this note. The truth is, I don't care, I've become almost used to his presence.
He came in, as usual, just as I was finishing the chapter and was about to rest. I wondered, when I heard the door, what mask he would be wearing this time. But he wasn't wearing one. I recognised him immediately, of course, because his face is well-known to those in the profession: white hair swept back and falling to his shoulders, deeply lined face, sparse beard ...
'As you see, I want to be honest with you,' said Montalo. 'You were right, up to a point, so I'm not going to keep my identity from you any longer. I did indeed fake my own death and come here to hide, but I followed the trail of my book. I wanted to know who would be translating it. Once I'd found you, I kept an eye on you and then, at last, brought you here. It's also true that I pretended to threaten you so that you wouldn't lose interest in the novel, when I repeated Yasintra's words and gestures, for instance. It's all true. But you're wrong if you think I wrote The Athenian Murders
'Is that what you call being honest?' I asked.
He breathed deeply. 'I swear I'm not lying,' he said. 'Why would I kidnap you and get you to translate my own work?'
'Because you needed a reader,' I answered calmly. 'What is an author without a reader?'
Montalo seemed amused by my theory. He said: 'Am I such a bad writer that I have to kidnap someone before they'll read my work?'
'No. But what is reading?' I replied. 'An unseen activity. My father was a writer and he knew: when you write, you create images that will be illuminated by the eyes of others and take on forms that their creator could never have imagined. But you needed to know what the reader was thinking day by day, because you wanted this novel to prove the existence of Ideas!'
Montalo smiled, nervously affable. 'It's true, for many years I wanted to prove that Plato was right when he claimed that Ideas existed’ he admitted, 'and that the world was therefore good, reasonable and just. And I thought eidetic novels would provide that proof. I never succeeded, but nor was I ever hugely disappointed ... until I found the manuscript of The Athenian Murders, forgotten on the shelves of an old library.' He paused and his gaze became lost in the darkness of my cell. 'I was terribly excited about it at first. Like you, I identified the subtle thread of images running through it - the Labours of Hercules, the girl with the lily. I became more and more convinced that, at last, I'd found the book I'd been searching for all my life!'
He turned his eyes to me, and I saw his deep desperation. 'But then ... I started to sense something strange ... I found the image of the "translator" confusing. I wanted to believe that, like any novice, I'd taken the "bait" and was allowing myself be swept along by the text, but as I read on, my mind was brimming with suspicions. No, it wasn't simply "bait", there was something else ... And when I got to the last chapter, I found out what it was.'
He paused. He was terrifyingly pale, as if he had died the day before. He went on: 'I suddenly discovered the key. And I understood that The Athenian Murders wasn't proof of the existence of Plato's good, reasonable and just world, but of the exact opposite.' Suddenly he exploded: 'Yes, though you may not believe me, this novel proves that our universe, this ordered, luminous space full of causes and effects and governed by just, kind laws, doesn't exist!
He was breathless, and his face had become a mask with trembling lips and a faraway look. I thought (and I don't care if Montalo reads this): he's completely insane. He appeared to recover his composure and added gravely: 'Such was my horror at this discovery that I wanted to die. I shut myself away ... I stopped working and refused to see anyone. There were rumours that I'd gone mad. And maybe I had - sometimes the truth can make you lose your mind! I even considered destroying the novel, but what would I gain by that, if I already knew the workl So I opted for something in between. As you suspected, I faked my death, appropriating the idea of the body ripped apart by wolves. I dressed the corpse of a poor old man in my clothes and disfigured him. Then I created my own version of The Athenian Murders, preserving the original text but emphasising the eidesis, while not mentioning it explicitly—' 'Why?' I interrupted.
He stared at me for a moment as if he were about to strike me. 'Because I wanted to see if a future reader would make the same discovery I had, without my helpl Because there is still the hope, however faint, that I might be zurongV His eyes grew moist as he added: 'And if I am, and I pray that I am, the world - our world -will have been saved.'
I tried to smile, remembering that madmen should be treated gently. 'Please, Montalo, that's enough,' I said. 'The novel is a bit strange, admittedly, but it has nothing to do with the existence of the world ... or the universe ... or even us. It's just a book. However eidetic, and however obsessed with it we might both have become, we mustn't get carried away. I've read almost all of it and—'
'You still haven't read the final chapter,' he said.
'No. But I've read almost all of it, and I don't—'
'You still haven't read the final chapter,' he repeated.
I swallowed and looked at the book lying open on the desk, then back at Montalo. 'Fine,' I said, 'this is what we'll do: I'll finish the translation and I'll prove to you that - that it's just a fantasy, not too badly written, but—'
'Translate,' he said.
I didn't want to make him angry, so I obeyed. He's still here, watching me. I'm now starting the final chapter. (T.'s N.)
XII
The cave at first, was a gleam of gold handing somewhere in the darkness. It became pure pain. It turned back into the gleam of gold. It went ceaselessly from one to the other. Then there were shapes - a brazier of hot coals that was, strangely, as pliable as water and contained irons resembling bodies of frightened snakes. And a yellow patch, a man whose outline was stretched at one end and shortened at the other, as if hanging by invisible ropes. And, yes, there were noises, too: a faint metallic ring and, from time to time, the piercing torment of a
dog barking. A wide variety of damp smells. And once again everything closed up like a papyrus scroll and the pain returned. End of story.
He wasn't sure how many more similar stories unfolded before his mind began to understand. Just as a hanging object, when struck, swings violently and irregularly at first, then evenly, then terminally slowly, reverting gradually to its former stillness, the furious spinning stopped. His consciousness planed over a point of repose before managing at last to remain linear and motionless, in harmony with the surrounding reality. Now he could distinguish between what was his - the pain, and what was not - the images, noises, smells. Dismissing these, he focused on the pain, and wondered what was hurting - head, arms? - and why. He could only find out why by resorting to memory, so he tried to remember. Ah yes, I was at Itys' house when she said: 'Pleasure.' But no, afterwards ...
Just then, a moan issued from his mouth and his hands twisted.
'Oh, I was afraid we'd gone too far.'
'Where am I?' asked Heracles, when what he really wanted to ask was: 'Who are you?'
But the man's response answered both questions: 'This is our meeting place.'
And, as he spoke, he motioned expansively with his muscular right arm, displaying a wrist ridged with scars.
Just as children playing at shaking rain-soaked trees are showered with the dense load of droplets hanging from the branches, the icy realisation of what had happened fell upon Heracles.
It was a large cave. The golden gleam was a torch hanging from a hook fixed to the rock. It lit a sinuous central corridor running between two walls; the torch hung on one; and Heracles, arms raised above his head, was bound by thick, serpentine ropes to golden nails hammered into the other. To his left, the corridor formed a bend that appeared to have a light of its own, though dimmer than the golden torchlight. The Decipherer deduced that it led to the cave entrance and that the greater part of the day must have elapsed. To his right, the corridor disappeared between sheer rock walls into complete darkness. In front of him stood a brazier with a poker protruding from its glowing, blood-red embers. In the brazier, a bowl of golden liquid bubbled noisily. Cerberus was circling, barking equally at the brazier and Heracles' motionless body. Wrapped in a shabby grey cloak, his master was stirring the liquid in the bowl with a twig. He looked endearingly proud, like a cook admiring the push of a golden apple pie.132 Other objects that might have been of interest lay beyond the brazier, but Heracles couldn't see what they were.
132'Apples,' I complained. 'How vulgar to mention them!' 'True,' admitted Montalo. 'It is in rather bad taste to specify the subject of the eidesis in a metaphor. The two most frequently repeated words, "hanging" and "golden", should have been enough here.'
'To evoke the Apples of the Hesperides, which were made of gold and hung from trees,' I said, 'I know. That's why I think it's a vulgar metaphor. And I'm not sure that apple pies push.'
'Shut up and carry on translating.' (T.'s N.)
Humming a tune, Crantor stopped stirring for a moment. He took a golden ladle that hung from the brazier, scooped up some of the liquid and held it to his nose. The sinuous column of steam that enveloped his face seemed to issue from his own mouth. 'Hm. A little hot, but... Here. It'll make you feel better.' He held it to Heracles's lips, unleashing Cerberus' fury, for the dog seemed outraged that his master should offer something to the fat man before him. Reflecting that he had little choice and was thirsty anyway, Heracles took a sip. It tasted sickly-sweet, with a hint of spiciness. Crantor tilted the ladle and most of the contents spilled down Heracles' beard and tunic. 'Come on, drink.'
Heracles drank.132
132 'Can I have a drink?' I've just asked Montalo.
'Wait. I'll bring you some water. I'm thirsty, too. I'll be back in the time it takes you to write a note about this interruption, so don't for one second think you can escape.'
The fact is, it hadn't occurred to me. He's kept his word: he's back now with a jug and two glasses. (T.'s N.)
'It's kyon, isn't it?' he said afterwards, gasping.
Crantor nodded and returned to the brazier. 'It'll take effect soon. You'll feel it.'
'My arms are as cold as snakes,' complained Heracles. 'Untie me.'
'Once the kyon is working, you'll be able to free yourself. We possess incredible hidden strength which our reason stops us using.'
'What's happened to me?'
'I'm afraid we beat you and brought you here in a cart. By the way, some of us found it extremely difficult to get out of the City, because the soldiers had already been alerted by the archon.' He raised his black gaze from the bowl and directed it at Heracles. 'You've hurt us quite badly'
'You like being hurt,' retorted the Decipherer contemptuously. 'I take it you've all fled?'
'Oh, yes, all of us. I've stayed behind to treat you to a kyon symposium and to have a little chat. The others have sought pastures new.'
'Have you always been their leader?'
'I'm no one's leader.' Crantor gently tapped the bowl with the twig, as if it had asked the question. 'I'm an important sect member, that's all. I came forward when we found out that Tramachus' death was being investigated. We were surprised because we didn't expect it to arouse suspicion. The fact that you were the principal investigator made my job trickier, if more pleasant. Actually, I agreed to deal with the matter because J knew you. My task consisted in trying to mislead you. To your credit, you made it very difficult.'
He approached Heracles, holding the twig, like a schoolmaster swinging a cane to inspire respect in his pupils. He went on: 'My problem was how to fool someone who notices everything. How to deceive a Decipherer of Enigmas like you, for whom the complexity of things holds no secrets? I came to the conclusion that your main advantage was also your biggest fault. You reason everything out, my friend. So I thought I would use this peculiarity of yours to distract you. I said to myself: 'If Heracles' mind can solve even the most complex problem, then why not stuff his mind full of them?' If you'll excuse the vulgar expression.'
Apparently amused by his own words, Crantor went back to stirring the liquid. He bent down occasionally to click his tongue at Cerberus, particularly when the shrill barking became more insistent than usual. The light from the bend in the corridor was growing ever dimmer.
'So I set out, quite simply, to make sure that you never stopped reasoning. It's easy to fool the mind by feeding it plenty of reasons - you all do it every day in the courts, at the Assembly, the Academy . . . The fact is, Heracles, I got a great deal of enjoyment out of it.'
'And out of mutilating Euneos and Antisus.'
The echoes of Crantor's noisy laughter seemed to hang from the walls of the cave and glow, golden, in the corners. 'You still don't understand, do you? I set you false puzzles! Euneos and Antisus weren't murdered - they just agreed to be sacrificed before their time. After all, their turn would come sooner or later. All your investigation did was precipitate things.'
'When did you recruit those poor boys?'
Crantor shook his head, smiling. 'We never "recruit" anyone, Heracles. People hear of our cult and want to know more. In this particular case, Tramachus' mother, Itys, found out about us at Eleusis shortly after her husband was executed. She attended secret meetings at the cave and in the forest, and took part in some of the first rituals that my companions held in Attica. Later on, as her children grew up, she made them followers of our faith. But, intelligent woman that she is, she knew she wouldn't want Tramachus to reproach her for not having given him the choice, so she didn't neglect his education. She encouraged him to attend Plato's school of philosophy and learn all that reason can teach, so that once he came of age, he could decide which path to follow. And Tramachus chose us. What's more, he got his friends Antisus and Euneos from the Academy to join in the rituals, too. They both came from ancient Athenian families, and it didn't take much to convince them. And Antisus knew Menaechmus who, by happy coincidence, was also a member of our brotherhood. They found Menaechmus' "teach
ings" much more useful than Plato's. They learned the pleasures of the body, the mystery of art, the enjoyment of ecstasy, the exaltation inspired by the gods.'
Crantor did not look at Heracles as he spoke, keeping his gaze fixed on a vague point in the growing darkness. But now he turned suddenly towards the Decipherer and added, still smiling: 'There was no jealousy between them! That was your idea! We happily used it to mislead you, making you suspect Menaechmus, who wanted to be sacrificed as soon as possible, as did Antisus and Euneos. It didn't take much to contrive a plan involving the three of them ... Euneos stabbed himself in a most beautiful ritual at Menaechmus' workshop. Then we dressed him in a peplos slashed in the wrong places so that you would think exactly as you did - that somebody had murdered him. Antisus did what he had to when his turn came. I did everything possible to make you think they had been murdered, don't you see? And, to that end, nothing better than making it look like suicides, which is what it really was. You would take care, later on, of making up your own version of the crime and catching the perpetrator.' And, opening his arms, Crantor boomed: 'Therein lies the weakness of your all-powerful Reason, Heracles Pontor - it so easily imagines the problems that it believes it is solving!'
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