between my neck and collar, the comforting dampness of a leaky boot, the
spiritual solace of a lungful of phlegm — at which point I solemnly upended the
jug of water over my head, closed my eyes and relaxed my face into a beatific
vision of contentment.
And Aristotle believed it. He fell for it, this dedicated man of science, this
pre-eminent logician, like a stranger off an Egyptian grain-freighter who meets
a man in the market square offering to sell him the Acropolis for five hundred
drachmas. He took the whole thing so seriously that it frightened me; but I
didn’t dare tell him, the joke had gone too far. So he thanked me profusely,
folded his tablets carefully away, and scuttled off like a startled crab to
write up his notes and incorporate them into his work in progress.
So taken was he by the world-view of the good people of Escoracaschia Ap’
Eschatois (‘Pissoffsville At The End Of The World’, to give it its official
designation) that he wrote up a monograph on the subject and announced that he
would deliver it as a public lecture, admission one obol. Then he sent to
discover whether by any lucky chance Oumeleresas son of Oudemiapolis
(‘Comeoff-it, son of No-such-city’; subtlety our speciality) was still in
Athens and might possibly be prepared to attend the lecture and answer questions
from the audience.
At this point I told Diogenes that the joke had gone far enough and I wanted
nothing more to do with it. No power on earth, I told him, would induce me to
get up on a platform in front of people who probably knew me and make a public
exhibition of myself. Absolutely not. No point even considering the idea.
So there I was, on the platform, doing my best to shade my face under the brim
of an impossibly broad, floppy hat that Diogenes had dug up somewhere for me;
and there was Aristotle, declaiming his monograph to a painfully large audience
with all the passion of one who has long sought and finally found.
It was a long time before somebody laughed, and even then it was just one
snigger; a soft, muffled snort, the sound made by a man who’s got a gathered
handful of cloak stuffed in his mouth and still can’t stop himself from
laughing. But once that noise had broken the silence, others followed in a
torrent, like water coming through a compromised dam, until the whole crowd were
roaring their heads off — and there was Aristotle, his nose buried in his
manuscript, not looking up, still carefully reading. When the noise was so loud
he could no longer hear his own voice he looked up, with an expression of
bewilderment and sorrow on his face that would have melted a heart of stone.
‘What’s the in-matter?’ he said. ‘Why are you laughing?’
Not the best thing to say, under the circumstances. I tell you, if my celebrated
grandfather Eupolis the comic poet had ever managed to get a laugh like that,
he’d have prayed to Apollo to shoot him dead on the spot, since life could hold
nothing better for him if he lived to be a thousand. Aristotle, meanwhile, was
on his feet, waving his hands in my direction and yelling that if they didn’t
believe him, here was a citizen of the city, in person, who’d confirm that every
word he’d said was absolutely true.
Whereupon I stood up and took off my hat, and the whole crowd went quiet. I
looked at them, and then at Aristotle; and some evil god put words into my mouth
that I’ve repented ever since.
‘All right, boss,’ I said. ‘Now can I have my three drachmas?’
That was when they started throwing things — fruit, mostly, some chunks of
sausage, a few stones and shards of pottery. About the only life-threatening
thing that got thrown was the leg off a small bronze tripod, and I entirely
agree that it was right and proper that it hit me a glancing blow on the side of
the head and sent me down like a sacrificial bull when the priest whacks its
neck with a big axe. The next thing I knew, therefore, was opening my eyes to
Diogenes’ malevolent grin and the worse headache, bar two, I’ve ever had in a
long and headache-prone life.
And that, Phryzeutzis, is why I was afraid Aristotle might have arranged an
obscure and bloody death for me, out in the wilds of the Macedonian countryside,
where it could be blamed on renegade Illyrians or bears. It was, you’ll agree, a
singularly obnoxious thing to do (quite apart from the humiliation and shame,
he’d spent a sizeable portion of his ready cash on having a hundred copies of
the monograph made for immediate sale, all of which ended up as fish-wrap and
shield-grip padding), and if I’d been Aristotle I wouldn’t have rested until the
man responsible for such an outrage was paying his three obols to Charon the
Ferryman for his one-way ride across the River of Death.
Anyway; dawn broke, and there I was, still awake, still largely unmurdered, and
wishing very hard that I was safely back in Attica, where if someone wants to
kill you they falsely accuse you of treason in the Law-Courts and the whole
thing is done in a calm, civilised manner. I sneaked out into the courtyard, hid
in a doorway until I saw the landlord’s son going by with a bucket of oats for
the mules, jumped out on him and grabbed him by both arms.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘What’s going on? Why won’t anybody talk to me?’
But the poor lad just stared at me and made a soft whimpering noise, so I let
him go and sat down on the mounting block, feeling very confused; at which
point, someone behind me cleared his throat.
‘Morning,’ said Leonidas. ‘You’re up early. Trouble sleeping?’
I nodded. ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘what is it with you people, or with me? Why won’t
anybody talk to me?’
Leonidas grinned. ‘They’re scared,’ he said. I blinked. ‘Scared?’
‘Terrified.’
‘Of me?’
‘Of the snake.’
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
‘By now,’ Leonidas went on, ‘word’s reached all four corners of Macedon; beware
of the Athenian wizard and his familiar spirit. Superstitious people. Almost as
bad as theThessalians. Mind you,’ he added darkly, ‘Thessalians have good reason
to be superstitious, every third one of ‘em’s a witch.’
For all I knew that was meant to be a joke, but I didn’t feel like laughing (and
besides; from what I gather, it’s true). ‘That’s crazy,’ I said. ‘Look, how many
times do I have to tell you people this, there is no snake, repeat, no snake, in
my goddamned jar. Understood?’
Leonidas shook his head slowly. ‘You say there isn’t,’ he replied. ‘Queen
Olympias says there is. Who do people believe? Need you ask?’
‘Oh, for...’ I’d had enough. ‘Wait there,’ I said, ‘and don’t move. I’ll be
back.’ I stomped off, fetched the jar and stomped back. ‘Now then,’ I said,
‘you’re to be my witness. I’m releasing the neck of the jar, I’m lifting off the
lid. There now, as you can plainly see, there is no...
And that was when I dropped the jar (fortunately it landed in a big pile of
horseshit and didn’t break); about a tenth of a second after, this dinky little
black and g
reen snake popped its head out of the jar and stuck its tongue out at
me.
Excuse me. I have this thing about snakes. Never could be doing with the
horrible creatures.
‘You were saying?’ Leonidas said, without batting an eyelid.
The snake wound itself out of the jar and slithered away among the straw. I
didn’t move a muscle.
‘You’re a brave man,’ Leonidas went on. ‘One tiny nip from that and you’d be
dead before you could blink an eye.’
Just what I wanted to hear. After about a minute I managed to get a grip on
myself, and I was just about to explain that it was either a practical joke, an
attempt on my life by Aristotle, part of some political chicanery involving
Queen Olympias, a really bizarre comcidence or a trick of the light, when I
noticed that Prince Alexander was standing in the doorway looking at me.
Marvellous. The perfect way to start the day.
‘My ancestor Hercules strangled two snakes while he was still in his cot,’
Alexander said.
Leonidas smiled at him. ‘Hercules,’ he said. ‘Fancy. I’d heard that was you.’
Alexander gave him a look that’d have made a Scythian feel homesick. ‘No,’ he
replied, ‘it was Hercules.’
‘Ah, well,’ Leonidas replied. ‘I expect if you’d had snakes in your cot, you’d
have strangled them right enough.’
I managed to get my legs moving and used them, having first picked my jar out of
the horse dung. It was a bad enough day already without eavesdropping on
whatever private feud there was between Leonidas and Alexander. Another time I’d
have lapped it up like a dog slurping up spilt wine — inside information’s
always useful, as my father told me often enough — but right then I wasn’t in
the mood. I stomped back inside, wiped off the jar with a handful of loose straw
and got my kit ready for the next stage of the journey.
And yet, I thought. There are worse fates that can befall a man than unexpected
miracles that prove conclusively that he’s not a charlatan and a rogue,
especially when he is a charlatan and a rogue and he’s just about to start a new
job. The best odds said that Olympias arranged for the snake to be there;
except, since she presumably wanted me there to counterbalance Philip’s
basically non-snake-oriented tutorial corps at the Mieza school, why would she
have given orders for a deadly poisonous snake to be hidden in my jar, just
where it was most likely to give me a nip as I carelessly opened it? I’d be no
good to her dead; so, unless it was some kind of primitive ritual thing — ordeal
by serpent, to judge whether I was worthy of the task, etc. — that effectively
knocked that theory on the head, leaving me with the Aristotle’s Revenge
version. It made sense, after all. By arranging for Euxenus the purported
snake-charmer to die at the fangs of his own stooge, he’d be able to spice his
revenge with ridicule and contempt on a par with what I’d exposed him to all
those years ago.
And Aristotle wasn’t on the cart with the rest of us.
I gave it up as a bad job, picked up my luggage and took my place on the cart.
As before, conversation stopped dead as soon as I appeared — I remember
thinking, you poor fools, what a boring day you’ve got ahead of you and it’s all
your own fault. Then, as the cart started to roll, Alexander got up and came and
sat beside me.
‘Is it true?’ he said. ‘That you’ve got one of the sacred serpents in a jar?’
I sighed. ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Maybe not.’
Alexander didn’t like that answer. ‘I asked you a civil question,’ he said. ‘Is
it true?’
‘All right,’ I replied. ‘If you’d asked me that question an hour ago, I’d have
said no. But just now I happened to open the jar and yes, there was a dirty
great snake in it. Terrified the life out of me. I can only imagine someone put
it there for a joke.’
Alexander nodded. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘only it wasn’t a joke. I put it
there.’
At that moment I came perilously close to changing the course of history. ‘You
put it there,’ I repeated.
‘I just said so, didn’t I?’
‘Fine.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Would you mind telling me why?’
‘To see how you’d react when you found it, of course. I wanted to see if you’re
a fake or a real wizard.’
‘I see. And what conclusion did you reach?’
Alexander smiled. ‘If you’d been a fake, the snake would’ve bitten you. So
obviously you’re a wizard.’
‘You think I’m a wizard?’
‘Isn’t that what I just said?’
‘Right. That’s settled, then, I’m a wizard. Get out of my face before I turn you
into a rat.’
Alexander didn’t like that either. ‘How dare you talk to me like that?’ he said
angrily.
‘Ah, but I can talk how I like to whoever I like. I’m a wizard, remember.
Officially.’
‘Yes, but even wizards only have one neck.’
What a marvellous way, I thought, to begin our relationship of teacher and
pupil. ‘If, on the other hand,’ I replied, ‘I’m not a wizard, then of course I
wouldn’t dare to speak to your majesty in such a disrespectful manner. Well? Am
I still a wizard?’
At that moment I happened to catch sight of old Leonidas. He was smirking. I
didn’t like that much, either. Athenian, go home, seemed to be the message, and
I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was stuck in the middle of a group of
very stupid, primitive people, all of whom were cleverer than me.
‘If you aren’t a wizard,’ Alexander said, ‘the snake would have bitten you.’
I nodded. ‘Maybe it did,’ I answered. ‘Maybe it bit me and I didn’t die, because
I’m a wizard.’
Just then the boy Hephaestion leaned forward and smiled. He had one of those
good-natured I-know-I’m-thick-so-forgive-me smiles that can solve all sorts of
problems, up to and including treason and murder. ‘Maybe he’s a different sort
of wizard,’ he said. ‘Not the sort of wizard the snake’s used to, but still a
wizard. By the way, what is a wizard, exactly?’
I felt as if I’d just been arrested and the arresting officer took another look
at me and said, ‘Sorry, mistaken identity,’ and let me go. I could also feel a
dirty great big cue sitting up and begging me to follow it up.
‘Now there’s a sensible question,’ I said. ‘Anybody? What’s a wizard?’
Nicanor, Parmenio’s younger son, held up his hand. ‘Someone who can do magic,’
he said.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘let’s start from there. So what’s magic?’
His brother Philotas, a stocky, broad-faced kid sitting with his back to the
driver, held up his hand. ‘Magic is what gives you power over people,’ he said.
‘Good answer,’ I said, ‘but enlarge on it a bit. Otherwise King Philip’s a
magician. Not,’ I added, ‘that I’m saying he isn’t. But carry on, please.’
Philotas thought for a moment. ‘You use magic to make people do what you want,’
he said. ‘If you aren’t a king or something. Kings and people like that have
authority
.’
‘I see,’ I replied. ‘In that case, let me show you some magic. Here, hold out
your hand.’
Philotas looked at me with grave suspicion but did as I said.
‘Here you are,’ I said, reaching in my mouth for a single obol and putting it in
his hand. ‘A magic charm for you. Go into a baker’s shop, tell him to give you a
loaf of bread and hand him the magic charm. He’ll do exactly what you tell him
to.’
There was a moment of puzzled silence; then somebody laughed. From memory I
think it was Hephaestion. Everybody laughed then; not so much because it was a
funny joke but because the tension was released. Everybody, that is, except
Alexander. He just looked at me.
‘So you are a wizard,’ he said quietly.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘And I learned wizardry from a very great and powerful wizard
in Athens , by the name of Diogenes. He taught me to cast spells on people so
that they’d believe anything I told them was true; and if people believe
something’s true, then pretty soon it is true.’
Alexander shook his head. ‘That’s nonsense,’ he said.
‘Really?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘All right. Suppose you believed I was the King
of Macedon. Suppose everybody in Macedon believed it. Wouldn’t that make it
true?’
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘It’d make it a lie that everybody
believed.’
‘That’s a first-rate definition of the truth,’ I said.
‘No it isn’t,’ he replied.
I nodded approvingly. ‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘Correct answer. You’ve
successfully mastered the first thing I needed to teach you before you can
become a wizard too.’
‘But I don’t want to become a wizard,’ Alexander said. ‘Wizardry’s all about
lies and deception.’
‘Fine. So what do you want to be when you grow up?’
Alexander shrugged. ‘I want to be a god,’ he said, as if stating the blindingly
obvious. ‘Gods do magic, but the magic they do is real.’
It wasn’t a bad place to be. In fact, it was a wonderful place, in a
self-conscious sort of way. Rolling hills neatly dressed in vineyards and
orchards, like a well-muscled man in well-cut clothes; a well-behaved lowlands
climate, with the mountains behind like a painted backdrop in the theatre; it
Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt Page 19