beings, if they could catch any) into small pieces before stewing them in a
cauldron and eating them.
I don’t remember hearing about the birth of an heir to the Macedonian throne at
the time; reasonably enough, I think. True, even that early in his career,
Philip was starting to show signs of being a strong, innovative king with an
apparently endless appetite for war and conquest, but it was still easily
possible to ignore him. If you’d have asked me or my brothers to say who the
King of Macedon was on that tiresomely eventful day, it’s quite likely that we
wouldn’t have known.
‘No more money,’ Diogenes said with a sigh, ‘no more lessons. Sorry.’ I was
shocked. We’d spent so much time together, had so many long-winded debates about
abstruse philosophical issues, that I honestly believed we shared some kind of
bond of friendship. Besides, what had he actually taught me that anybody would
possibly want to know? Nothing. And there had been a great deal of money, over
the years.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ I replied stiffly. ‘I was under the impression
that we’d gone past that stage.’
Diogenes raised one eyebrow. ‘Really? How strange. Anyway, not much I can do
about it now, not if there’s no more money. Pity. I don’t like leaving a job
almost but not quite finished.’
That was a bit too much for me to let pass without comment. ‘Come on, now,’ I
said. ‘Admit it, you’ve taken me and my family for suckers. You haven’t taught
me anything.’
Diogenes scowled at me so ferociously I thought he was going to burst into
flames. ‘You little bastard,’ he said. ‘You ungrateful little snot. I’ve taught
you everything you know about being human, and this is the thanks I get.’
‘Not quite,’ I said icily. ‘You’ve had enough thanks from my family to buy a
warship.’
He stood up. ‘I don’t think there’s anything more to be said,’ he replied. ‘I
forgive you for your disgusting behaviour; after all, your father’s just died,
so I suppose I have to make allowances. I’m just rather sad to see how little of
what I’ve taught you had actually managed to penetrate that thick layer of
bricks you call your skull. I’m disappointed, Euxenus, bitterly disappointed.’
And with that he walked away, a perfect study in sorrowful contempt.
Fortunately, there weren’t any stones or bits of broken pot lying about, or I’d
have committed a crime against philosophy.
So there I was, a young man in his twentieth year, with no land, no skill or
profession, no apparent means of earning a living; in precisely the situation my
father had spent his life trying to avoid. If I’d had in my hand the money he’d
spent on my education, I’d have been comfortably set up for life.
Having nothing better to do, I wandered through the streets towards the
market-place, just as any Athenian in my position would do. There was once a
Scythian, one of your countrymen, who lived in Athens for a while and then went
home. When his neighbours asked him what was the most remarkable thing he’d seen
in the Great City , he replied, ‘The market-place.’
‘Oh,’ they said. ‘What’s that?’
‘Well,’ answered this Scythian — Anacharsis, his name was — ‘it’s a large open
space in the middle of town set aside for respectable people to swindle each
other in.’
A bit harsh, but there’s an element of truth in it. Certainly, the market-place
is one of the places in the City where Athenians go to get the better of each
other, along with the Law-Courts and Assembly. Come to think of it, quite a few
of the landmarks of Athens are dedicated to the Athenian passion for doing down
one’s fellow citizens.
I sat down under the shade of an awning and tried to think of a way of earning
some money. The prospects weren’t encouraging. I had no goods to sell and no
trade or profession to offer. Until the next census I was theoretically a member
of the highest class of Athenian society, the pentacosiomedimni or
Five-hundred-measure-men, eligible for the supreme offices of state; but my
total wealth came to just under seven drachmas plus whatever somebody might be
persuaded to pay me for my shoes...
True enough. But, outside our family, who knew about it? No reason why anybody
should. In the eyes of my fellow citizens I was still a man of wealth and
leisure. Once I’d grasped that, I didn’t need to ask myself, What would Diogenes
do if he were in my place? I already knew.
For an obol I bought one of those little jars of cheap, disgusting wine, and
drank the contents to bolster my nerve. Then I looked around for a group of
people, any group of people. As it happened, there were ten or so likely-looking
types standing about reading the latest three-days-rations list; so I picked up
my empty jar, wandered over and sat down under the list.
‘Hey, you,’ someone said. ‘Get out of the way!’
I ignored him. He said it again. I looked up with a frown.
‘Do you mind?’ I said. ‘I’m trying to concentrate here.’
The man who’d yelled at me looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘You’re
just sitting there.’
I deepened my frown into a scowl. ‘Are you blind as well as stupid?’ I replied.
‘What do you think this is?’ And I pointed to the jar.
‘It’s a jar.’
I sneered at him. ‘It’s a jar,’ I repeated. ‘For gods’ sakes. If I was as
unobservant as you, I’d climb the old tower in the Potters’ Quarter and jump
off, just to save myself further humiliation. Assuming I could find it, that
is.’
Instead of getting angry, the man just looked more curious; likewise the others
with him. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘what’s so special about the damn jar?’
I grinned. ‘It’s not the jar, you fool,’ I replied. ‘It’s what’s in it.’ I
paused and furrowed my brows. ‘Why am I telling you this, anyway? It’s none of
your business, go away.’
‘Like hell I will,’ the man said. ‘This is the Market Square and I’m an Athenian
citizen. Tell me what you’ve got in the jar.’
I shook my head. ‘Certainly not,’ I told him. ‘You want one, go find your own.
This one’s mine.’ I made a show of standing up and getting ready to leave; at
once, the crowd (which had grown already) clustered round to stop me.
‘Tell us what’s in the jar,’ the man said urgently. ‘Go on, we aren’t going to
take it off you or anything. We just want to know what it is.’
‘I’ll bet you do,’ I said angrily. ‘But if you think I’m sharing my birthright
with the likes of you, you’re badly mistaken. Go to hell.’
The word ‘birthright’ caught their attention. Someone at the back called out, ‘I
know him, that’s Eutychides’ boy.You know, Eutychides from Pallene, the one who
just died.’
‘Thank you so much for reminding me,’ I said bitterly. ‘As you correctly pointed
out, my father died a few days ago, and yes, this jar’s my portion of his
estate. Now go away and leave me in peace with my property, before I take you to
law.’
Five-hundred-measure-man? And all you got was that little jar?’
I nodded. ‘And what’s in the jar. I won’t warn you again, whoever you are.
Bugger off, before I do you an injury.’
There were about thirty people in the crowd by now; I judged that to be a
sufficient number.
‘Go on,’ someone called out. ‘Tell us what you’ve got in the jar, you rich
bastard.’
I couldn’t have asked for anything better if I’d written his lines myself. ‘Who
are you calling a bastard?’ I answered angrily, taking care not to contradict
the word ‘rich’. The point wasn’t wasted.
‘You going to tell us what’s in the jar, or what?’
‘All right.’ I sighed, and sat down again. ‘All right. If you all promise to
clear off and leave me in peace, I’ll tell you. Satisfied?’
There was a general murmur of agreement, and they started sitting down too, with
a certain degree of elbowing and shoving from those who wanted a better view.
Thank the gods, I muttered to myself, for the abiding curiosity of the
Athenians.
‘My grandfather Eupolis,’ I said, ‘was a great friend of the celebrated
philosopher Socrates — probably the wisest man the world has ever known.’ I
paused for a moment. ‘I take it you people have at least heard of Socrates?’
‘Of course we have,’ someone said impatiently. ‘Get on with it, will you?’
‘And if you’ve heard of Socrates,’ I went on, ‘you’ll know about his tame demon,
the one he talked about at his trial?’
(Tame demon is the best translation I can manage into this brutal, crack-jaw
language of yours, Phryzeutzis; the Greek is daimonion ti, and it also means
something like ‘tiny piece of the essence of divinity’. But tame demon was what
I wanted these people to think about.)
‘Sure we have,’ someone said.
‘Right,’ I went on with a nod. ‘Well, after Socrates had been tried and
sentenced to death, my grandfather went to visit him in prison, and took him a
basket of figs and a little jug of wine.They talked for a while, and then
Socrates asked my grandfather if he’d like to take the tame demon. Now, my
grandfather was incredibly excited at this, because of course it was the demon
who lived inside Socrates’ ear and whispered to him all the incredible bits of
wisdom that made him so famous.
“‘Hang on, though,” my grandfather said. “Will he stay with me? Or will he try
and run away?”
‘Socrates nodded. “Oh, he’s utterly devoted to me,” he replied. “He won’t want
to live with anyone else after I’m gone. If you want to take him, you’ll have to
find something to shut him up in, to stop him escaping.” My grandfather looked
round and saw the empty wine-jar. “Will this do?” he asked; and between them
they managed to coax the demon out of Socrates’ ear and into the jar. This jar,’
I added, holding it up, ‘where it remains to this day. Of course,’ I went on,
‘the demon hated being cooped up in a jar, so it always refused to say a single
word to my grandfather, or my father after him. But when I was a little kid of
about seven, I was playing in the house one day and I thought I heard a voice
from inside this funny little jar.
‘“Hello,” I said. “Who’s there?”
‘Well, to cut a long story short, the demon and I became friends; I didn’t know
anything about Socrates or any of that stuff, and the demon was fed up with
sulking in a jar for years on end, not to mention as lonely as hell. So he was
prepared to talk to me, though not to anybody else. And now that my father’s
dead and we’ve shared out his property, I’ve taken the demon as my portion.
After all,’ I added, ‘it’s worth a damn sight more than all the rest put
together.’
There was a long, impressed silence; then someone said, ‘I can see why that
jar’s a wonderful thing, but how come it’s valuable? I mean, what use is a tame
demon?’
I laughed. ‘Are you kidding?’ I said. ‘A real live demon? Socrates’ demon? The
demon responsible for all the wisdom of the wisest man who ever lived?’
‘Fair enough,’ the man conceded. ‘Actually, I did hear tell once that the demon
used to tell Socrates where treasure was buried.’
I shook my head vigorously; last thing I wanted was a reputation for finding
buried treasure. That way, I’d have people following me and bashing me over the
head every time I dug a hole to shit in. ‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ I said. ‘Tell me,
when did anyone ever see Socrates with any money? No, the sort of treasure the
demon helped him find was a sight more valuable than mere silver. After all,’ I
added, ‘it’s an Athenian demon.’
That got a good laugh. Oh, sure enough, Athenians are as fond of money as the
next man; they’ve sacked enough cities and sold enough children in search of it,
Heaven knows. But ask the average Athenian you meet in the square which he
values more, silver or wisdom, and when he says wisdom, there’s a fair chance he
means it. Or thinks he means it, anyway. Of course, what he calls love of wisdom
is just this same curiosity. You’ve seen a cat sniffing at a pot lying on its
side, tentatively reaching inside with its paw, then kicking at it, trying to
get it to roll. That’s how we Athenians regard the whole world; we can’t let it
alone, we have to keep on prying and poking and sniffing and batting at it to
try to find out what’s really inside. It’s been our greatest strength and our
undoing, this forever-yearning-aftersome-new-thing, as the celebrated
Thucydides put it. You can’t honestly call it wisdom — personally, I’d define
wisdom as knowing when to leave well alone — but you can see how the confusion
arises.
‘That demon,’ somebody said, ‘can you ask it questions?’
‘Of course,’ I replied.
‘All right,’ the man said. ‘I’ll ask you a question and you ask the demon, and
you can tell me what he says.’
I shook my head and tried to look rich and objectionable. ‘Why should I?’ I
said.
‘I’ll pay you.’
I looked offended. ‘Get lost,’ I said.
‘I’ll pay you three obols.’
‘For three obols,’ I answered, ‘I wouldn’t ask my demon what colour the jar is.’
‘All right,’ the man said. ‘Four.’
‘Go to hell.’
‘Five.’
I hesitated, just for a third of a heartbeat. ‘No way.’
‘All right,’ the man said, ‘one drachma. A drachma for just one question.
I looked down at the jar. I bit my lip. I frowned. I looked at the jar again. ‘A
drachma?’ I repeated.
‘A silver drachina.’
I sighed. ‘Oh, all right,’ I said, and held out my hand for the money. ‘All
right, what’s the question?’
The man cleared his throat. ‘Ask the demon,’ he said, ‘whether my new business
venture’s going to be a success.’
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and lay down with my left ear pressed
against the side of the jar. I stayed there without moving for so long
that my
left arm and both my legs went to sleep.
‘Well?’ the man asked eventually.
‘Shut up,’ I snapped.
‘Sorry.’
When I couldn’t stand the discomfort any longer I sat up, groaned (no need to
fake that) and opened my eyes. ‘You ready?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘All right.’ And I recited —
‘Woe to the neck of the dog, to the sharp steel claws of the eagle!
Woe to the land where the pig is preferred to the natural son!
Further repent your grief, as the rays of the sun curl upwards;
Behold as the stone peels back, revealing the olive within.’
There was a long silence.
(Admit it, Phryzeutzis, you’re impressed; it sounds just like the sort of thing
the oracles of the gods come out with, and it doesn’t mean anything. Or rather,
it could mean anything you want it to, which is the secret of a truly great
oracle. Let me confess: I was only able to do this sort of thing because my
brother Euthyphron and I used to spend hours making the stuff up as a game when
we were kids. He was better at it than me, so you can see how good he was.)
‘That’s amazing,’ the man said eventually. ‘How the hell did you know that?’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about,’ I
said. ‘It wasn’t me, remember, it was the demon. Did it make any sense to you?
It sounded like complete rubbish to me.’
‘Oh, no,’ the man said vehemently; and he went on to explain. The dog, he said,
was the Egyptian god Anubis, and that referred to the stake he was thinking of
buying in a partnership trading wine for Egyptian wheat. The steel claws of the
eagle were arrowheads (steel heads; eagle equals feathers equals the fletchings
on the arrow) and arrows mean archers, and archers mean the King of Persia,
because he’s shown as a running archer on the backs of his coins; Egypt was a
possession of the Persian Empire; so beware of Persian intervention against
Greek trading interests in Egypt. The bit about the pig, the man said, was
brilliant; it referred to Judaea , where they don’t eat pork but where the
Persian governor had just had to execute his own son for joining a conspiracy —
hence the pig survives, but the son doesn’t; the pig is preferred. Now, so far
Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt Page 7