Diogenes grinned. ‘A featherless biped? I will fetch you a fine man.’
He left. Just left.
The entire audience, including Alexander and Plato, looked confused.
‘Go after him,’ Alexander commanded.
So again, I followed. Diogenes marched through the streets with purpose.
‘My master would like to speak to you,’ I said.
‘I’m coming back,’ he snapped. ‘No need to follow.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting Plato his man.’
‘A featherless biped?’
‘A featherless biped.’
‘What’s a featherless biped?’
‘A two-legged creature with no feathers.’
‘Oh, that’s quite clever. Man is quite unique in that regard –’
Diogenes grunted his disagreement.
He stopped at a chicken stall, where dead creatures hung in varying degrees of featherlessness. Live chickens squawked in a cage, stuffed in so tightly that their wings bulged out in tufts.
‘One of the plucked ones!’ Diogenes commanded.
The man behind the stall smiled at him. ‘I don’t mind giving you scraps but a whole chicken, Diogenes, that is too much.’
‘Send your boy to me. I will counsel him and his friends. The importance of listening to parents.’
‘The last time I sent my boy to you, I found him barking outside your barrel.’
‘A fine lesson in humility.’
The merchant, though still smiling, shook his head. ‘No, Diogenes. I can give you a head or a foot.’
Diogenes turned to me. ‘Do you have money from your master?’
‘No,’ I said.
He sighed. ‘No matter.’
‘What do you need it for?’
‘To make a point.’
To make a point. For some reason, this enchanted me. A feeling of playfulness prickled my skin. I spotted the cage full of chickens. There was a pin in the cage’s door, keeping it bolted shut.
My eyes fluttered between that pin and the crowd. No one seemed to notice me. I grinned and something surged inside me. The pin magically flew from the latch and the door burst open. I gasped, astonished. The chickens spewed out, squawking and flapping as they flooded the streets. The merchant yelled for his son as he tried to grab the chickens nearest the cage. I snatched one of the plucked birds from his chopping block and fled alongside the escaping chickens. I ran through a cloud of feathers with a featherless biped in my hands.
Diogenes didn’t thank me but he grinned, took a feather from my hair and wiggled it in front of my nose. A gaggle of the escaped chickens followed us as we walked back to Plato’s Academy. Diogenes didn’t seem to find this strange.
By the time we reached the amphitheatre, Plato’s lecture had finished. The audience was clustered in groups, debating or gossiping. When Diogenes arrived, a hush descended. The philosopher held up the chicken and proclaimed loudly, ‘This is Plato’s man!’
Some men stifled a laugh, others scowled. Suddenly, the live chickens burst forth, flapping and squawking as if this use of their dead kin offended them so. Diogenes laughed, a delighted throaty roar.
I saw something I’d only seen a handful of times in my entire life: Alexander smiled.
In the following days, Alexander sought out Diogenes on multiple occasions. We witnessed him lift his leg and urinate on men who labelled him dog. We visited as he snoozed in his barrel, his fake snoring getting louder the more we tried to speak to him. Once, when Diogenes lay in the sun, Alexander stood over him and said, ‘I can bestow upon you anything you desire, Diogenes. Tell me. Is there anything I can give you?’
The philosopher squinted at the figure towering over him and then knocked him with his foot. ‘Yes, you can get out of my sun!’
Alexander stepped aside, moving his shadow off Diogenes. The philosopher promptly went back to ignoring him.
Alexander was never fazed by Diogenes’ blatant rudeness. If anything, it amused him.
‘He adds some spice to the tedium of this city,’ he commented once.
And tedium dogged Alexander everywhere. He spent most of his time with Athenian noblemen who were openly gracious but quietly despised him. For me though, Athens was the very antithesis of tedium. It was alive, wicked, mysterious and layered. The graffiti about Alexander seemed to multiply, and yet so few people were shocked by the blasphemy that filled their surrounds. No one noticed things that in other cities would stand out. I didn’t stand out. It was odd not to be seen, as I’d often garnered attention due to the colour of my skin. In Athens, there was too much happening to be noticed as strange.
As I wandered through the agora, I noticed lanterns hanging above stalls, in windows. I smirked, and suddenly they flickered to life. My eyes widened. I walked past another and blinked. A tiny flame sparked out of nothing.
I stopped. I looked for every lantern, candle and torch I could see. I willed them to life. They all burst into existence. With a small wave, but never touching a single one, they went out. I looked around to see if anyone noticed. I heard one woman exclaim from inside a restaurant, but nothing else.
A man shoved me and told me to get out of the way. I willed his hair to ignite like the lanterns. No such luck.
Being an anonymous face in the crowd had many advantages to exploring my newfound abilities. I experimented with moving things with my mind, knocking objects off stalls and opening cages or crates. I learned that I couldn’t be seen to overtly do these things. I witnessed a man beating a child. I yelled at him to stop and thrust my palms towards him, willing him back. Nothing happened. He turned on me. I learnt something new though. As I lay on the ground from his first blow, he came to hit me a second time. I watched him pull his fist back fast and then he just stopped, or seemed to stop. His fist came towards me so slowly it was like he was moving through rock. His features, his words, even his hair, slowed as well, and passers-by were reduced to a snail’s pace. A bird lagged in the sky above, its wings beating the air like one might wade through water. It was as though time itself had lost momentum.
I marvelled at the world’s sudden sluggishness until I realised that the fist was still moving towards me, albeit slowly, and that I was the only one not affected. I rolled out of the way, got to my feet, and walked off. Time returned to normal. The man’s fist hit the ground. He jerked around.
I ran. He took chase. Again time slowed. I sprinted as others crawled. Looking back, I still don’t know if I could slow time, or if I could just run very fast when I needed.
I rounded a corner and climbed onto the roof of a house. By the time the man lumbered around, I was lying on my belly, enjoying the view. Time returned to normal. He stopped suddenly, looking for where I’d gone. With a mere thought and a flick of the wrist, I knocked over a barrel. It banged into the man’s legs, and he toppled backwards.
I don’t know where it came from, or why, but I sank happily into this new … mischief. I say mischief because it seemed, well, mischievous. A feeling of impishness shivered through me when I worked this magic. I could be playful, but couldn’t cause direct or significant harm. The magic itself seemed to choose when and how I could use it. It also didn’t want itself spoken about. If I tried to tell anyone about it, my throat dried up, only squeaks escaping my mouth.
Yet, once, as I was running through frozen time, I swear I saw Diogenes’ eyes track my movement. He smiled and then turned away, as if catching me running at such an impossible speed was a mere passing amusement. It was so fleeting, I’m still not sure if I saw it.
I served as Alexander’s messenger, taking sealed notes between him and various Athenian senators. My speed was noted by both parties. Alexander became so suspicious I started taking breaks between errands, racing to retrieve a message, then sitting with Diogenes or dangling my feet in the river, before racing back to my master. I played with the wind, blowing out lanterns and swirling sand into shapes between my hands.
&nb
sp; As negotiations intensified, Alexander was no longer bothered by my speed. In fact, he demanded it. I didn’t know what the sealed notes contained, but I heard talk of ships, soldiers and Persia. The Athenians, I imagined, would be happy to see Alexander turn his ire towards another foe. But I suspected Alexander asked too much.
Occasionally, when no one else was around, he would engage me in conversation. It always felt like a trap.
‘What do you see when you ferry notes from one end of the city to the next?’
Such an innocent-seeming question asked with such malice. He didn’t look at me as he spoke, his eyes glaring, unblinking, off into space.
‘I see many people, Master. Athens is a busy city.’
‘Do you see graffiti?’
I held my breath. We’d all been so careful, scouting ahead to ensure his path never crossed any of the offending artworks. Behind Alexander’s back, the crude drawings were painted over, only for them to appear in new locations overnight.
‘No, Master. I run very fast when I’m delivering messages. I don’t see much.’
Alexander sneered at my evasive response.
‘Take me to the dog philosopher.’
We left camp and made our way to Diogenes’ barrel. That day, the philosopher sat cross-legged, sifting through a pile of bones. He examined them closely, squinting as he compared them.
Alexander stood over him.
‘I won’t look up to you, boy,’ Diogenes said absently, focusing on his bones.
I assumed he was speaking to me. But Alexander knew it was directed at him and obliged, sitting on the ground in front of Diogenes. He mirrored the philosopher by crossing his legs, like a child seeking the wisdom of an ancient sage.
‘Do you know why I like you?’
Diogenes finally faced Alexander. ‘I don’t care why you like me.’
Alexander smiled. ‘Exactly. You don’t care. You don’t care about anything.’
Diogenes narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t care, do I?’
‘Of course, you don’t,’ Alexander scoffed. ‘You show no reverence to the powerful, you dismiss any wealth or comfort, you parade your body around without shame. People come from all over Greece to seek your counsel, and you bark at them.’
‘Some dogs bite their enemies. I suspect you are like that,’ Diogenes quipped. ‘But I bite my friends as a parent hits a child who plays with fire. Dogs do not bark for no reason.’
Alexander leaned forward. ‘What kind of bite would a dog like you give a man like me?’
Diogenes tilted his head towards the pile of bones and picked up a large, distinctive rib. ‘I was looking for the bones of your father,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t tell them apart from the bones of a slave.’
Alexander’s face suddenly darkened. ‘History remembers kings,’ he sneered, ‘not slaves.’
Diogenes smiled and shrugged. ‘But what does the king have when history is all that remains of him?’ He held a second rib, identical to the first, up to Alexander, but he glanced at me. ‘Probably as much as the slave.’
Alexander stood and stamped on Diogenes’ pile of bones.
Alexander didn’t say a word on the way back to camp. Another note was waiting for him when we returned. He tore it up without reading it. He stewed in silence for hours, brewing over Diogenes’ words. This direct challenge to the status of kings, and the reminder of the rumours about his father’s death, touched a nerve.
‘The dog philosopher should be put to death.’
The first thing he said in hours.
‘The Athenians are quite fond of him, Your Majesty,’ one of his generals said tentatively.
Alexander ranted long into the night. He drank and played with the candles on his desk, running his fingers through the flames just long enough to scorch his skin. He never flinched. I begged for the flames to erupt, to envelope him in fire. But all I felt was sand, swirling between my toes and up my legs, as if the earth was teasing me for the inability of my powers to extend towards this tyrant.
The sand dancing at my feet started to form more shapes, resplendent in the knowledge that no one paid attention to me. Tiny hands climbed up my toes, and laughing heads, no bigger than my palm, bloomed upon my feet. As I ducked to avoid a knife that Alexander threw, the face of his father, King Philip, took shape by my ankle. It winked and a hand held out a tiny sand rib. Then every grain of sand dropped to the ground.
I smiled. I stood up and filled Alexander’s cup.
Alexander went to bed drunk. I waited until the rest of the camp was snoring too, all the while feeling the sand between my toes again, just as I had on my first day in Athens.
There was more sand in the camp, and I beckoned it to follow me. Little whirlwinds tickled my feet as I summoned the extinguished candles from around the tent. We slid like snakes – the sand, the candles and I – as we came upon Alexander. For a moment, I stood over him, watching him sleep. It would have been so easy to plunge a knife into his belly. I was struck, for the first time in my life, with power. He was so vulnerable. It would be easy.
But whoever or whatever gave me the power to command wind and give birth to fire had something else in mind. All the malice in my heart melted into play. I cast the sand into the air and ducked behind Alexander’s bed.
‘Alexander!’
It was a whisper, but the mischief amplified my voice. Alexander’s eyes flew open, and I lit every candle that floated above his bed. I felt him jolt from where I hid, but before he had a chance to sit up, I beckoned the sand to rush down upon him. He gasped and gripped the sides of the bed as it swirled around him. The swirls started to take shape: feet, legs, torso and arms, then finally a head. It was Philip II.
‘Father?’ Alexander gasped.
Time, wind and space; the world was at my command in that tent. I felt connected to every grain of sand. The ever-swirling form above Alexander came in closer, its nose almost touching his. I projected my voice again, letting it boom in on Alexander from all sides, as if it was Philip speaking.
‘I am your blood,’ the ghostly figure spat. ‘I gave you the eyes that would look upon the world and seek to own it. And you gave me this! Ash and sand.’
‘Everything I’ve done has been in your name!’ Alexander blurted out.
‘Liar!’ I shouted. I made the candles spark. ‘Everything you did was in the name of Alexander. You couldn’t wait for my time to come before taking my empire, before spilling the very blood I gave you.’
‘I swear, Father, I had nothing to do with –’
The ghostly figure spat sand in Alexander’s face. In my mind, I saw its eyes grow wider, never blinking. The sand obeyed.
‘I. Know. Everything,’ I rasped. ‘And I will haunt you, boy. I will haunt you every night until you leave these shores. You will have to flee far across Persia to escape my wrath. Greece was to be my empire. Every soul you take in this land will become a soldier of death in mine.’
Sand from Philip’s head spiralled off, forming hundreds of little faces, all bearing down on Alexander.
‘And we will haunt you.’
I clicked my fingers. The sand ghosts melted into nothing. Sand rushed over Alexander. The candles winked out and dropped to the ground. In the pitch-black tent, I heard him thrashing about, trying to brush the sand off his body.
I slipped away. Time slowed. I left camp before Alexander had a chance to call his guards.
The next day, Alexander left Athens. The whole camp was packed up before midday, the gossipers said. He was going to Persia with five, twenty, thirty ships, others claimed. Hiding between market stalls, I listened to Athens speculate all day. By nightfall, merchants assured others that yes, it really was true, he’d gone just before dusk.
‘Come to the port,’ one said. ‘You can see the ships on the horizon.’
I didn’t need to go to the port. I’d felt him leave Athens. The air changed, as if the city breathed a sigh of relief. But I didn’t move, didn’t dare think that perhaps, trul
y, I was free. It seemed odd that I hadn’t been looked for or, at least, not in earnest. Maybe Alexander was so afraid he didn’t care if a slave or two slipped away. What did it matter? He was gone. They were gone. I was in Athens.
Free. I repeated the word a thousand times that night. What did it mean to be free? Wouldn’t the world know what I was, even without a master calling me as such?
A whole new day dawned without Alexander before I accepted it.
I was free.
Mischief sparked in me again.
I jumped up, surprising a woman unpacking her wares for the day. I shouted an apology as I took off, running towards the Eridanos River. The sun was making its steady climb into the sky. As I approached, I could see the light reflecting off Diogenes’ barrel. It was a beacon to fools like me. I grinned as I saw the philosopher’s withered form leaning against it. He glared out at the sun, his eyes lazily narrowed but unblinking. He had such a knowing smile on his face. I wanted nothing more than to know what caused it.
I opened my mouth to speak but then closed it. Something wasn’t right. He was too still.
‘Diogenes?’
He didn’t blink.
I held my hand towards his mouth to feel for breath. Nothing.
I slumped beside him. Fat tears dropped down my cheeks as I sat with the dead philosopher, looking ever up at the sun.
Another man, middle-aged and scruffy, joined me soon after. For a moment, he just sat there, casually, as if he was enjoying the dead man’s company.
‘He held his breath,’ the man said. ‘He just held his breath.’
‘Why?’ I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
The man never answered. A woman came next, filthy and wearing the same rough cloth as Diogenes. We all sat there in silence. As I stared, I noticed a single piece of crumpled papyrus in the philosopher’s hand. I carefully tugged it from his rigid fingers, watching my two companions nervously. They didn’t seem to mind. I unfurled it and saw Diogenes’ scribbles surrounding a strange symbol. It was like a smile, with a single dot for an eye. Suddenly, the odd little eye winked, and the words around it faded, the ink slipping from the page. The symbol disappeared too. In its place, a single word appeared in the philosopher’s scrawl. I didn’t know how to read, so I had no idea what it said, and I was too afraid to ask Diogenes’ students and have it taken off me.
The History of Mischief Page 3
