I was just one of these random sequences of cause and effect; Aristotle was
another, so was Leonidas, so was Philip — gods alone know how many of them there
were, whether they were all equally important, or some more so than others.
Don’t know, don’t care. The only possible conclusion is that nothing was
anybody’s fault, simply because the fault must go right back, from the frayed
ends of the vein back into the stem, from the stem to the branch, from the
branch to the tree, from the tree to the root, from the root to the seed, from
the seed to the tree.
So why do I feel bad about it, Phryzeutzis?
Consider, if you will, the difference between men and gods. Oh, I’m not talking
about your gods, I’m talking about proper gods, the ones I grew up with; Zeus
and Hera and Athena and Apollo and Ares. Now a god is much, much stronger than a
man, and he lives for ever, and nothing can harm him — he’s like a city, if you
like, or a way of governing cities; and the point about a god is, he doesn’t
care. Doesn’t give a damn. Nobody can call him to account, punish him, threaten
him or frighten him, and because he lives for ever he’s got no purpose or
meaning to his existence. A god lives for his pleasure, his entertainment, for
himself. Like a city, a god exists to exist; simply continuing to be there is
all that’s expected of him, all he can really achieve. Now take a man; weak,
fragile and mortal. He can be called to account, punished, threatened,
frightened; to him, right and wrong and good and evil are very meaningful
things; and because his life is so short and lacking in value, he needs to
believe it has a meaning. So there we have it. Virtuous, honourable,
conscientious mortals and amoral, careless gods. Zeus doesn’t give a damn, and I
do.
And guess which one of us decides what happens.
This is the way things happen, Phryzeutzis. This is the way things are.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I remember my last day as an Athenian ambassador, the day before I became a
Macedonian teacher.
Demosthenes the Athenian, in his own opinion and that of several others the
greatest orator of his time, had been working on his speech ever since we left
Athens . He was going to make just one speech — one honey of a speech, one
sledgehammer, battering-ram, warship-beak, grandmother and -father of all
speeches speech. After hearing it, Philip would immediately curl up like an
overturned woodlouse and die. If by some astounding miracle or divine
intervention Philip managed to live on an hour or so after Demosthenes had made
his speech, he was going to spend his last agonising minutes in this life
apologising to the Athenian people and forswearing every last inch of Athenian
territory, every last stool and jar and bowl and blacksmith’s apron he’d stolen
from them. Once the Macedonians had heard Demosthenes’ speech, they’d all form
up in column and march off a cliff into the sea. Compared with being on the
wrong end of Demosthenes’ speech, being hit by Zeus’ thunderbolt was a tickle
under the chin with the very tip of a long, soft feather. It was going to be, we
got the impression, some speech.
Naturally, we begged Demosthenes for previews, but he wouldn’t let us hear so
much as a word. We implored. We cajoled. We threatened. We tried guessing —
‘Hey, Demosthenes, my friend here reckons you’ll say “and” at some point in your
speech. Is that right?’ All in vain. As soon as we started on at him, he’d
withdraw to a corner of the deck or the inn, cover his head with his gown and
ignore us until we went away. Now there aren’t many places to hide on a ship, so
he even took to climbing up into the rigging or burrowing down between the jars
in the cargo hold, like a mouse. Obviously, we couldn’t wait to hear this
speech.
Well, the days went by; no speech. We reached Pella ; no speech. Day followed
day, negotiating session merged into negotiating session; we conceded everything
that Philip wanted and got nothing in return; no speech. It was like the hot,
thundery weather of late summer, when you look up at the sky every morning and
you know it’ll rain today, but it doesn’t; it’s hot and tense and even the goats
in the pen and the mules in the stable get restless and quarrelsome, but still
no rain and no thunder. No speech.
Then we worked it out; he was waiting for the final day of the talks, to ensure
that he got maximum effect. There Philip’d be, nicely relaxed and off guard
after his diplomatic triumphs, imagining that it was all over and he could tick
Athens off his list of Things To Do Today; then, at the last minute, Demosthenes
would pop up like the god at the end of a tragic play and blow Philip into
wind-strewn chaff, right when he imagined he was safe. We couldn’t help admiring
the audacity of the plan, to say nothing of the firm grasp of tactics and the
insights into Philip’s personality — after all, it was broadly based on Philip’s
celebrated battlefield manoeuvre of letting his enemy breach his line and pass
through the middle of his forces, the better to cut them off and surround them
at the very last moment. Fitting, we thought. Brilliant, even. Not to mention
inspirational and a tremendous morale-booster.
And the moment came. It was after we’d officially concluded the embassy’s
business and made our last concession — we’d been quite open-handed about it,
giving away big raw cutlets of our national endowment, since we knew for certain
that once Demosthenes had made his speech, we’d get ‘em all back again — and we
were just about to plunge into yet another drab, long-winded Macedonian court
ceremonial when Demosthenes reared up on his hind legs, cleared his throat and
began to speak.
‘Gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Were it not for the fact that—’
—And he froze. Either he’d forgotten the words or he’d been seized with a
near-fatal dose of stage fright. Whichever it was, he couldn’t move, not even
enough to open his mouth. He was like one of the many statues of Demosthenes
about to make a speech, the ones that at one time were put up all over the place
as a symbol of anti-Macedonian feeling, except that a lot of those statues were
pretty lifelike and at that precise moment Demosthenes, frankly, wasn’t. I
couldn’t help but be reminded of that old story about Perseus and the head of
Medusa the Gorgon, which was so incredibly ugly that it turned whoever looked at
it to stone — interesting parallel, that, given the way Philip looked.
For a long while, nobody moved, and there’s a fair chance we’d all be there
still, all turned to stone, if it hadn’t been for Philip. As soon as he’d got
over his initial bewilderment and he’d worked Out what had happened, he leaned
forward a little in his chair and tapped Demosthenes on the arm, just above the
elbow.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It happens to all of us now and again. Now, try
taking a deep breath, and start again.
Demosthenes looked at him, breathed in and began to shake.
‘Try just telling us your name,’ Philip said. ‘Just say something, to break the
‘D-d,’ Demosthenes mumbled. ‘D-d-d.’
‘All right,’ Philip said. ‘Now try looking straight past me at the back of the
room. Pick a point, something you can fix your eyes on; lamp-sconce, ornament, a
particular pattern in a tapestry, doesn’t matter what. Just look straight at it,
and tell it your name. Out loud. Go on.’
Demosthenes’ eyes locked onto something, and he gasped for a moment like a
stranded fish.
‘D-d-d-demos,’ he said. ‘D-d-d-d-mosthnes.’
Philip clapped his hands together. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘All right, this is
good, we’re making progress. Again — and this time, a bit more slowly and
fluently.’
Demosthenes, of course, never made his speech. Philip coaxed and coached him to
the point where he could say his name, his father’s name and his city and deme,
then let him off the hook.
‘I’m disappointed, though,’ Philip said, as Demosthenes sat down, staring at the
ground between his feet. ‘I’ve been looking forward to hearing a Demosthenes
speech ever since the conference began. You’ll have to come back another time,
when you’re feeling a bit better.’
The embassy left for home. I stayed.
I hadn’t planned it, gods know. I’d never before shown any inclination to want
to leave Attica — quite the opposite, in fact. It wasn’t as if I was unhappy
there, or that the job at Macedon was anything wonderful. On the other hand, I
didn’t have any cause not to stay; no family worth speaking of (at least, none
who’d talk to me), no debts, no obligations. It was like dying, and being
reborn, though as what remained to be seen.
Later the same day I found myself in a cart headed for the village of Mieza . It
was a big, heavy farm-cart, and the rear offside wheel squeaked. In the cart
with me were Leonidas and Alexander, who I’d already met; Parmenio’s sons
Philotas and Nicanor; another boy called Menippus, about whom I remember nothing
at all; and the principal of the school, Lysimachus. We went for the rest of
that day in stony silence, nobody daring to say a thing in front of the stranger
(me), and put up for the night in a small, comfortable inn about halfway between
Pella and Mieza. When the innkeeper saw us, and the two Thracian cavalrymen we
had as outriders, he went white as a sheet and dashed back inside; a few seconds
later, his wife and son emerged, looking equally panic-stricken, and started
unloading our kit without a word.
It was unnerving, that silence. I was beginning to wonder what on earth I’d
walked into. Was it some really ancient, bizarre custom, that the young hope of
Macedon went everywhere in complete silence, broken only during lessons? As an
Athenian, I wasn’t sure I could stand that. Athenians talk. All the time. The
surest way to drive an Athenian mad is to shut him up in a confined space on his
own and deprive him of conversation; and even then he’ll talk to himself,
disagree, shout, lose patience, start a fight... But that theory, mercifully,
proved false; I could hear them whispering to each other when they thought I
couldn’t hear, though I couldn’t make out anything of what they were saying. I
wanted to break the silence myself by talking to one of them, asking a simple
question and defying them to break all the rules of polite conduct by not
answering; but I had an attack of Demosthenes’ fever and couldn’t bring myself
to say a word. Dinner, consisting of bread, cheese, cold sausage and a
pleasantly sweet, strong, neat wine, went down in silence except for wordless
demolition noises, and we were shown our sleeping quarters in dumb show and left
alone for the night.
I tried to put it all out of my mind; instead, I asked myself why Aristotle
wasn’t with the party. That thought, however, wasn’t conducive to sweet dreams.
I kept remembering episodes from mythology where the victim is sent on a mission
by the wicked king to a distant town or province bearing a sealed letter which
contains instructions for his own execution. The big mystery, why I’d been
offered the job in the first place, didn’t seem such a mystery after all.
Aristotle had been here — what, two years? Five? I couldn’t remember offhand,
but long enough, surely, to have wormed his way into the King’s confidence and
affection. I could picture the scene; the throne-room, dark except for the
ambivalent light of one smoking lamp. Aristotle approaches the royal presence
and whispers for a moment in Philip’s ear. The Athenian herald, Euxenus. What of
it, my friend? Do you know him? Know him! Why, your majesty, I hate him above
all mortals, as would you if only you knew.. . Tell me more, Aristotle, tell me
more . . . Philip nods; his one eye burns fiercely in the gloom. I see, he says
quietly, I see. Well, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we? Leave it
to me, my friend. Aristotle bows deeply; thank you, your majesty, you can’t know
how long I’ve dreamt of vengeance... Think nothing of it, my good and faithful
servant. The man’s as good as dead.
Well, you know how it is when you’re lying awake in the middle of the night,
fretting. You can imagine anything, any kind of horror, and convince yourself
that it’s true. And guilty conscience had something to do with it, of course—
What, I never told you, Phryzeutzis? Well, I’d better tell you now, otherwise
this whole business of Aristotle and me isn’t going to make a whole lot of
sense. Yes, the wretched man had every reason to hold a grudge against me, after
what I’d done to him. It’s not a story I like telling, mainly because it puts me
in a bad light; but what the hell, this is History.
Actually, it was all Diogenes’ fault; at least, he put me up to it. Aristotle
collected cities; that is, he was compiling a huge database of the constitutions
of Greek city-states, with the aim of reducing all this data down and using it
to compile the authoritative, all-time Number One best model constitution for a
Greek city. He was quite serious about the project; he’d been to all manner of
out-of-the-way places, asking questions and getting under the feet of the city
fathers, and whenever a stranger from a city he hadn’t distilled and bottled yet
arrived in Athens he’d scamper off with his tablets and stylus and be asking
detailed questions about procedures for the co-option of council members to
replace a deceased Superintendent of Drains before the unfortunate traveller had
had a chance to shake the dust out of his cloak.
For some reason Diogenes and I found this noble project unbearably amusing; so
we decided to sabotage it. Aristotle had never met me or heard of me; so
Diogenes saw to it that a rumour went round concerning the arrival in Athens of
a citizen of Escoracaschia (meaning, loosely translated, ‘Pissoffsville’;
there’s advanced Athenian wit for you), the furthest-flung Greek colony in the
world.
That citizen, of course, was me. We hired a room in a cheap inn, bought some
raggedy old travelling clothes in the market, and waited. Sure enough, along
came Aristotle, tablets in hand, imploring
me to spare him just an hour or so of
my time...
‘Sho’ nuff,’ I replied, in the corniest stage-Doric accent I could muster.
‘Mighty civil of you to take an interest in us plain folks from Hyperborea, you
bein’ a book-learned gennelmun an’ all.’
Then I told him all about my native city; how it lies on the southern tip of an
island that lies opposite the north-eastern coast of Europe, an island so
distant and remote that for half the year it rains nearly every day, and great
banks of fog sweep down from the hills and cover everything, so that between the
driving rain and the impenetrable mist day was as obscure as night, and instead
of using our eyes to find our way about we used our noses, planting aromatic
herbs at strategic points as beacons to guide us to our fields and villages; how
the said rain and fog makes it impossible for us to tell each other apart except
at very close quarters, with the result that we long ago ceased trying, and now
no longer differentiate between other men’s families and wives and our own; how,
in consequence, we don’t recognise such concepts as ownership and property but
hold everything in common, so that a man who blunders in out of the rain sits
down in front of the hearth and makes that house his home, until such time as
the wind and the rain stave in the roof and send him on his travels again; how
there is no crime or wickedness in our city because, when you’re soaked to the
skin and coughing your lungs up all the time, you simply don’t have the energy
to start fights or plot against your neighbour (and since you haven’t the
faintest idea who your neighbour’s going to be from one day to the next, there
really isn’t much point); how, in short, thanks to the unremitting violence of
nature and the utter savagery of our environment, we live in a sort of earthly
paradise with neither poverty nor excessive wealth, without crime or discord,
freed from the snares and delusions of the flesh and the petty aspirations and
ambitions of the natives of happier climes. In fact (I added, picking up a jug
of water), being this far south, in this unwholesome and decadent land of
sunshine and warm earth, my heart ached for the feel of cold rain dripping down
Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt Page 18