Theophrastus held the incredibly sharp and slender blade between thumb and index finger and was using it with remarkable precision. He had removed the albumen and had isolated the fetus within the yolk.
‘At ten days it is already possible to make out the chick’s heart and lungs. Can you see them? You’ve still got good eyes, can you see them?’
Theophrastus indicated the small clots of blood his tutor was talking about.
‘I can see them,’ said Alexander.
‘There you are, the same process accounts for the development of a plant from its seed.’
Alexander stared into Aristotle’s small, darting grey eyes. ‘Have you ever done this with a human being?’ he asked.
‘More than once. I have dissected weeks-old fetuses. I used to pay a midwife who carried out abortions for the prostitutes in a brothel in the Kerameikos quarter of Athens.’
The young man went pale.
‘It’s important not to be afraid of nature,’ said Aristotle. ‘Did you know that the closer all living beings are to the moment in which they were conceived then the more alike they are?’
‘Does that mean that all life forms share the same origin?’
‘Perhaps, but not necessarily. The facts are, my boy, that there is an abundance of matter, while life is brief and our means of enquiry are limited. Do you see why it is difficult to give answers? Humility is what’s required. One must study, describe, catalogue, take one step after another, reach ever greater levels of knowledge. Just as when one climbs up a stair – one step at a time.’
‘Certainly,’ confirmed Alexander, but in his expression there was an anxiety that belied his words, as if his desire to know the world could in no way be reconciled with the patient discipline propounded by his tutor.
*
For a long time Lysippus did no more than attend some lessons. And while Aristotle was speaking, or while he was busy with one of his experiments, the sculptor drew sketches of Alexander’s face, both on sheets of papyrus and on wooden boards whitewashed with plaster or with white lead. Then, one day, he approached Alexander and said, ‘I’m ready.’
From then onwards Alexander had to spend at least an hour every day in Lysippus’ studio for the definitive sittings. The artist had arranged a block of clay on a support and modelled a portrait in it. His hands ran fretfully over the damp clay, searching, chasing forms that glimmered in his mind, forms recognized for an instant in the face of his model or evoked in the sudden light of his gaze.
Then the hands suddenly destroyed the thing they had modelled, taking the matter back to its formless state to begin again immediately, vigorously, determinedly in reconstructing an expression, an emotion, the flash of an intuition.
Aristotle looked on fascinated, following the dance of the sculptor’s hands over the clay, the mysterious sensitivity of those enormous blacksmith’s hands as they created, moment by moment, an almost perfect imitation of life.
It’s not him, the philosopher thought in those moments. It’s not Alexander . . . Lysippus is modelling the young god he imagines to be there in front of him, a god with the eyes, lips, nose, the hair of Alexander, yet he is something else, he is more and is less at the same time.
The scientist observed the artist, studied his intent, feverish gaze, the magic mirror that absorbed the real and reflected it transformed, recreated first in his mind and then through his hands.
The clay model was ready after only three sittings during which Lysippus had reworked the boy’s likeness a thousand times. Then he began the model in wax which would confer its ephemeral form to the eternal bronze.
As the sun’s light began to descend towards the crest of Mount Bermion, it spread a golden luminosity through the room just as the artist turned the mobile base of the support, showing Alexander his portrait.
The young man was astounded at the sight of his own effigy, finely reproduced in the light tones of the wax, and he felt a wave of emotion rush to his heart. Aristotle also moved towards the work.
There was much more than a portrait in those proud and yet at the same time graceful forms, in the trembling chaos of the hair that framed, almost besieged the face of superhuman beauty, the majestic, serene forehead, the long eyes, suffused with a mysterious melancholy, the sensual and imperious mouth, the sinuous and neat contours of the lips.
There was a deep silence at that moment, a great peace in the room pervaded by the gentle liquid light of the evening, and in Alexander’s mind there resounded the words of his tutor telling of how form models matter, of the intellect that regulates chaos, of the soul that makes its own mark on the flesh, perishable and ephemeral.
The Prince turned towards Aristotle who was contemplating with his small, grey sparrow-hawk eyes a miracle that failed to fit any of the categories known to his genius and he asked, ‘What do you think?’
The philosopher started and turned to look at the artist who had slumped down on a stool, as though the energy spent in such a wildly prodigious manner over the past few days had completely run out all of a sudden.
‘If God exists,’ said Aristotle, ‘he has Lysippus’ hands.’
15
LYSIPPUS REMAINED AT MIEZA through spring of that year and Alexander became friends with his assistants, who told him wonderful stories about the art and character of their master.
The young man posed for the sculptor again, this time for a full-figure work, and even on horseback, but one day on entering the studio at a moment when Lysippus happened to be out, he noticed among the drawings heaped untidily on the table an extraordinary portrait of Aristotle.
‘Do you like it?’ came the voice of the sculptor who suddenly appeared at his shoulder just then.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Alexander, slightly startled. ‘I didn’t want to nose through your things, but this drawing is magnificent. Did he sit for you?’
‘No, I sketch him a little now and then while watching him speak or walk. Would you like to have it?’
‘No. You keep it. Perhaps one day you will be asked to create a statue of him as well. Don’t you think a wise man merits that more than a king or a prince?’
‘I think they both deserve it, if the king or the prince are wise men too,’ replied Lysippus with a smile.
Every now and then Alexander received visits, and for some months he was able to spend more time with his friends because their physical and military activities were increased, especially during those periods when Aristotle was absent due to his research or special missions on Philip’s orders. On other occasions Alexander himself would go to Pella to see his parents and Cleopatra, who became more beautiful by the day.
Back at Mieza he would fall back into his routine studies and exercises which kept him increasingly busy, absorbing all his physical and mental energies. Aristotle’s methodical approach to his own research was also the inspiration behind his way of organizing his pupil’s studies.
He had had a solar clock set up in the courtyard and a hydraulic clock in the library, both of which were constructed to his own design, and with them he measured the duration of the lessons or laboratory sessions so that all the disciplines received the correct amount of time.
In one wing of the building he was nurturing a fine collection of medicinal plants, stuffed animals, insects, butterflies and minerals. There was even some bitumen which some friends from Atarneus had sent from the Orient, and Alexander was amazed when his tutor ignited it and it burned with an extremely hot but smelly flame.
‘I think olive oil is much better,’ he commented. And Aristotle agreed with him.
His tutor collected all sorts of things in his obsession with cataloguing everything that was knowable in nature and he had even traced out a map of the thermal water sources spread throughout the various parts of the country, studying their healing properties. Philip himself had found some relief for his leg in the warm mud baths of a spring in Lyncestis.
In the school at Mieza an entire wall of shelving was dedicated to
a collection of animals found preserved in stone, fish for the most part, but also plants, leaves, insects and even a bird.
‘It seems to me that this is proof that there really was a flood, given that these fish have been found up on the mountains around us here,’ said Alexander, an observation that was anything but stupid.
Aristotle would have liked to provide another explanation, but he had to admit that, for the moment at least, the myth of the flood was the only story that might explain the phenomenon. In any case, this point seemed to be of secondary importance: in his opinion it was necessary to collect those objects, measure them, describe them and draw them so that someone, in years to come, might find a scientific explanation based on incontrovertible data.
His relationship with Alexander was a source of great satisfaction to Aristotle: Philip’s boy was always asking questions and this is precisely what every teacher hopes for from his pupils.
In the political field Aristotle had begun collecting – and continued now with the help of his assistants and of Alexander himself – the constitutions of various states and cities both eastern and western, both Greek and barbarian.
‘Is your aim to collect all the constitutions that exist in the world?’ Alexander asked him.
‘If only that were possible,’ sighed Aristotle, ‘but I fear it is an unrealizable feat.’
‘What is the aim of your research? To discover the best constitution of them all?’
‘Impossible,’ replied the philosopher. ‘Firstly because there are no points of reference to help establish which is the perfect constitution, despite the things my tutor Plato had to say on this subject. My aim is not so much to reach an ideal constitution as to observe how each community is organized according to its own requirements, the environment in which it has developed, the resources it has at its disposal, the friends and enemies it has to deal with.
‘This obviously implies that there cannot be an ideal constitution, but the fact is that the democratic codes of Greek cities are the only ones that can possibly govern the lives of free men.’
Just at that moment Leptine crossed through the courtyard holding an amphora full of water to her hip and for an instant Alexander had a vision of the hell that was Mount Pangaeos.
‘And the slaves?’ he asked. ‘Can there be a world without slaves?’
‘No,’ replied Aristotle. ‘Just as there will never be a loom that weaves cloth on its own. When this is possible, then a world without slaves will be possible, but I don’t believe that will ever happen.’
Then one day the young Prince asked his tutor the question he hadn’t dared ask up to that moment: ‘If the democratic code of the Greek cities is the only one worthy of free men, then why have you accepted the job of educating the son of a king and why are you Philip’s friend?’
‘No human institution is perfect, and the Greek city system has one huge problem – war. Many cities, even though supported by democratic codes, seek to prevail over the others, to win new markets for themselves–more fertile lands, more advantageous alliances. This leads to continuous wars that wear down their best energies and privilege the age-old enemy of the Greeks: the Persian empire.
‘A king like your father has it in him to become the mediator of all this discord and these internecine struggles. He can make sure a sense of unity prevails over the seed of division and can be a superior arbiter and guide who, if necessary, knows how to impose peace, even through the use of force. Far better a Greek king who saves Greek civilization from destruction, than continuous war with everyone against everyone else and, ultimately, domination and slavery under the barbarians.
‘These are my thoughts. For this reason I have accepted the job of educating a king. Otherwise there would be no sum of money sufficient to buy Aristotle.’
Alexander was satisfied with this answer which he felt to be just and honest. With the passing of time, however, he realized that there was an unresolvable contradiction growing within himself: on the one hand the education he was receiving, and which he supported fully, pushed him towards moderation in his behaviour, in his thinking and his desires, in his attitude towards art and knowledge; on the other hand his nature, in itself bold, pushed him to follow the archaic ideals of the warrior’s values, something akin to the prowess that he found in the Homeric poems and in the words of the tragic dramatists.
Alexander’s ancestry, on his mother’s side, was from Achilles, the hero of the Iliad, the irrepressible enemy of Troy, and this was for him a natural fact. Reading the Iliad, which he even kept under his pillow and to which he always dedicated the last moments of the day, stimulated his spirit and his imagination and roused in him an uncontainable excitement. At that time his intense friendship with Hephaestion found expression in a physical intimacy that had been developing gradually ever since their youth. It had started as a form of curiosity for their own bodies, but grew as they reacted to their harsh upbringing and the severity of the punishments inflicted upon them so that they then sought a more gratifying, more personal relationship.
Only Leptine was able to calm him on these occasions. For some time now he had allowed her to become very close to him and at times he sought and obtained even greater intimacy. It was perhaps being deprived of the affection of his mother and his sister, but it was also the need for contact with hands that knew how to caress, how to dispense light, subtle pleasure that grew sweetly to the point where it put fire in his eyes and in his limbs. Every evening Leptine would prepare a warm bath and let the water flow over his shoulders and his torso, she would stroke his hair and his back until he let himself go altogether.
These moments of abandon were ever more often accompanied by an unsettling desire to act, to leave the peace of the retreat and to follow in the footsteps of the great men of history. This primitive rage, this yearning for physical conflict sometimes began to find expression even in his day-to-day actions. On one occasion he went out hunting with his companions and ended up in a fight with Philotas over a roe-buck they both claimed to have struck first; Alexander got his friend in a stranglehold and would have killed him if the others hadn’t stopped him.
On another occasion he almost slapped Callisthenes because he had cast some doubt on the veracity of Homer’s works.
Aristotle observed him attentively and with some concern; there were two natures in Alexander – the young man of refined culture and insatiable curiosity who asked thousands of questions, who knew how to sing, draw and recite the tragedies of Euripides, and then there was the wild and barbaric warrior, the implacable exterminator who was increasingly coming to the fore during the hunts, the races, the war exercises and the training sessions in which his ardour got the upper hand to the point of bringing the tip of his sword to the throat of the man standing there before him.
At those moments the philosopher believed he understood the mystery of the gaze that would suddenly darken, of the disturbing shadow that thickened deep down in his left eye, like the dark night of the chaos of creation. But the moment was still not right to let the young Argead lion loose.
Aristotle felt that he still had much to teach him, that he had to channel his extraordinary energies, to provide him with a purpose and an aim. He had to equip that body, born for the wild violence of battle, with a political mind capable of conceiving a plan and seeing it through to conclusion. Only in this way would he ever complete his masterpiece, just as Lysippus had.
*
Autumn passed and winter arrived and the messengers brought the news to Mieza that Philip would not be returning to Pella. The Kings of Thrace had found a second wind and were waiting to be taught a lesson.
So the army had to face the terrible rigours of winter in those remote lands scourged by the freezing winds that blow across the limitless snow-covered plains of Scythia and the ice-covered peaks of the Haemon.
It was a frighteningly demanding campaign in which the soldiers had to deal with a difficult enemy fighting on home territory and used to surviving in
even the most arduous conditions. But when spring returned the immense territory extending from the shores of the Aegean to the great Ister river was completely at peace and incorporated into the Macedonian empire.
The King founded a city at the centre of those wild lands and gave it his name, Philippopolis, thus giving free range to Demosthenes’ irony; from Athens he dubbed it ‘city of thieves’ or ‘city of delinquents’.
Spring saw the return of the green pastures of Mieza together with the shepherds and cowherds who moved up from the plain towards the mountain meadows.
One day, after sunset, the peace of Mieza was broken by horses approaching at full gallop, and then by brisk orders given in agitated voices. A horseman of the royal guard knocked at the door of Aristotle’s study.
‘King Philip is here. He wants to see his son and to speak to you.’
Aristotle got to his feet quickly and went to greet the illustrious guest. He almost ran along the corridor, giving rushed orders to all those he met, telling them to prepare a bath and supper for the King and his companions.
When the philosopher arrived in the courtyard, Alexander had already beaten him in the rush to meet Philip.
‘Father!’ he cried as he ran towards the King.
‘My son!’ exclaimed Philip, holding Alexander long and hard in his arms.
16
ALEXANDER PULLED AWAY from his father’s embrace to take a good look at him. The Thracian campaign had certainly left its mark: his skin had been burned by the frost, there was a large scar over his right eyebrow, the eye itself was half closed, and his hair had turned white.
‘Father, what has happened to you?’
‘It was the hardest campaign of my life, my boy, and indeed the winter was an enemy more vicious and ruthless than the Thracian soldier’s, but now our empire extends from the Adriatic to the Black Sea, from the River Ister to the Thermopylae Pass. The Greeks will have to recognize me as their leader.’
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