Alexander at the World's End

by Tom Holt

  Most of all, though — well, we’re considering what I thought of him; and when you look back, as I frequently have, there he always is, in the background of my life, following me about like a sausage-maker’s dog. He was born on the day my father died. As soon as he was old enough to be of any account, he sort of welled up out of the ground and enveloped me, as if I’d put my foot in quicksand or an enormous cow-pat. Afterwards — well, we’ll come to that. This is going to sound a little crazy, bearing in mind our respective fortunes and place in history; but over the years I came to regard Alexander as my shadow — a flat, dark thing that was always beside me, a step behind or in front depending on which direction the sun was shining but always there, matching my every move in another dimension, following or leading me; dammit, a part of me but completely separate, not like me at all.

  Shall I tell you something I’ve never told anyone before, Phryzeutzis? I plan on being better than Alexander some day, greater than Alexander, better remembered, ever so much more loved. Because I am better than him — I cast him, my shadow, in a sense I made him in my image, but I am a whole man, he was only ever flat and dark, made unnaturally long and wide by the angle of the sun behind me. I shall beat him yet, Phryzeutzis, by virtue of leaving behind me something of value, by improving the lives of countless thousands of people who haven’t even been born yet. Gods, I’ve beaten him already, haven’t I?You doubt that, ask yourself this: which one of us is still alive?

  Sorry. Got a bit carried away there. Yapping Dog philosophy; we creep up on the statues of great men at dead of night and chop off their balls with a cold chisel. Serves you right for asking.

  First on the agenda: to tell Philocrates, the leader of the embassy, that I wouldn’t be going back to Athens with him.

  I didn’t get the response I’d expected. Unrealistically, I’d hoped for something like You can’t do that, Athens needs you, your insight, your clarity of vision.

  Didn’t get that. I’d been afraid of You bastard, you’re betraying your city for a fistful of dirty Macedonian silver. Didn’t get that either. I’d have happily settled for It’s probably for the best, it means there’ll be at least one pro-Athenian voice at Philip’s court or It’s your life, mate, and if you think this is where your work lies, then go to it and the best of luck. Huh.

  In fact, the conversation went something like this: ‘Philocrates,’ I said, ‘I won’t be going back with you. Philip’s asked me to tutor his son, and I’ve accepted.’

  Philocrates, who looked as if he hadn’t really been listening, blinked a couple of times. ‘What? Oh, all right,’ he said. ‘Thanks for letting me know. I’ll see if we can get a refund on your fare.’

  I’d scribbled a note to my brother Eudemus, the banker, entrusting my property in Athens to his care and hinting at what would happen to him if it wasn’t all present and correct when I returned. Philocrates looked at it as if I’d just handed him a live rat, then promised faithfully to deliver it and tucked it away in a fold of his gown. As it turned out, Eudemus did well by me; he let my house to a foreign merchant and invested my money in a grain-ship making the run between Athens and the Black Sea , which brought in a reasonable return and managed not to hit any rocks, an unusual state of affairs for a ship as heavily insured as a grain-freighter.

  Next, I went to see Leonidas. Remember him? He was the ancient, bald cousin of King Philip who’d ambushed me with a trick question when I was being auditioned.

  On my way to see him I ran into a Macedonian guard officer I’d somehow managed to strike up some sort of proto-friendship with (we both liked dogs and the poetry of Semonides of Amorgos, and we’d sat next to each other for an evening at some damned banquet or other). I asked him if he could tell me anything about the man.

  ‘Leonidas?’ my friend said. ‘Sure.’ Then he hesitated for a moment. ‘Leonidas the Prince’s tutor?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right. Older man, bald, the King’s cousin—’

  ‘Ah, yes. Him.’ My friend lowered his voice a little. ‘Better known around the court as either the Clayball or the Old Felt Hat; they’re both apt enough, because they’re both things you can mould into any shape that fits.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘So he’s — adaptable? Versatile?’

  My friend smiled. ‘You could say that,’ he replied. ‘Or you could say he’s a devious, slippery old bastard who’s spent a lifetime around the court and hasn’t been killed yet — which, for a Macedonian of royal blood, is a remarkable and somewhat disreputable achievement. Over the years, so they say, he’s changed tack more often than a clipper sailing up and down the forks of Chalcidice .’

  ‘Ah,’ I said.

  My friend put a massive hand on my shoulder by way of silent commiseration. ‘I don’t know what your business with Leonidas is,’ he said, ‘but whatever it is, don’t turn your back on him for a split second. And whatever you do, don’t try to get between him and the Prince. Those who do tend to have accidents — you know, falling down flights of steps in the dark, accidentally drowning in shallow rivers, that sort of thing. I imagine he believes Philip’s on the way out so he’s making sure of his influence over the Prince, as a form of insurance for his old age. The gods only know how your friend Aristotle’s managed to last this long without ending up at the foot of some cliff.’

  Precisely what I needed to hear; I almost went dashing off after Philocrates to beg him not to cancel my berth on the boat home. But (I reasoned) if I were to run out on them now, King Philip and the Queen wouldn’t be best pleased with me either; so I had the choice, antagonise someone who was well on his way to being the most powerful man in Greece, or make a deadly enemy of one of his most trusted advisers. Broad as it’s long, really, I concluded.

  So I went to see Leonidas.

  I found him in a corner of a shield-maker’s workshop in the armoury. He was sitting on a low three-legged stool, scraping little scraps of parchment with a well-worn block of pumice.

  ‘Economy,’ he said, before I had a chance to ask him what he was doing. ‘I scrounge bits and pieces of waste parchment from the shield-menders — they use it for wrapping the handles — and scrape them down till they’re fit to write on.

  Then, when they’re all filled up, I bring them back here, borrow a stone and clean them off again. Make all the ink, too, and melt the wax for the writing tablets. Never chuck anything away if I can help it. All the time I’ve been running the school, haven’t had to ask the King for an obol for equipment.’

  I believed him. He had the appearance of a man who bought a really expensive luxury cloak thirty years ago and still expects to get a further twenty years’

  wear out of it. Just the sort of man, in fact, to be obsessive about details.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I was eventually able to say, after I’d sat through a long sermon on the divine right of kings. ‘Are you expecting me? I’m Euxenus, the new tutor.’

  He looked up at me and grinned. He still had all his own teeth (and at his age too).

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I was there, remember? You’re the snake-charmer. You use a tame snake? Heard tell they’re easier to train than a dog, those snakes, if you find one big enough. Folks round here have ‘em to keep the rats down.’

  I decided not to rise to any of that. ‘Someone said something about a school,’ I replied. ‘Is this it?’

  He laughed. ‘Not even close,’ he said. ‘School’s not in Pella , it’s over to Mieza, day and a half’s ride south-west of here, in Midas’ Garden. That’s vineyard and orchard country.’ He was talking to me as if I was a hard-working but backwards ten-year-old. ‘So you’re going to come and teach, are you? What?’

  I hadn’t the faintest idea; my brief from King Philip had been to teach, that was all. ‘Oh, I can teach anything,’ I replied. ‘I’m an Athenian scientist, to us the whole world is our—’

  ‘I do Homer,’ said Leonidas, ‘and music and accounting. Aristotle —‘ he didn’t actually gob and spit when he said the name, but
the contempt in his voice was unmistakable and communicated with splendid economy ‘— Aristotle, he does geography and politics and rhetoric, abstract mathematics, natural sciences, all that. We’ve got a trainer who does athletics and drill. What does that leave that you can teach?’

  ‘Logic,’ I replied firmly. ‘And ethics. And land management,’ I added, suddenly remembering the one thing I did know a little bit about. But Leonidas shook his head.

  ‘I do land management,’ he said, ‘under accounting. And Aristotle does it under geography and politics. What’re you going to do it under?’

  I looked him in the eye for a moment. He was beginning to get on my nerves, something that many people try to do but very few manage to achieve. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘you tell me. And before you say anything else, I didn’t ask for this job. Queen Olympias had me sent for, under the mistaken belief that I can do snake magic. If you want to go to their majesties and tell them I’m surplus to requirements, you go right ahead.’ He didn’t move or speak, so I went on.

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘you’re in charge of this school, you tell me what I can do to help.’

  He rubbed his chin, on which grew the longest, straggliest beard you ever saw m your life. It seemed to drip off his face like a slow leak in a water-pipe. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You can do astronomy, medicine, military history and literature, except,’ he added sternly, ‘Homer. I do Homer. Sound good to you?’

  ‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘Especially Homer. I never could be doing with Homer.’

  He looked at me as if I’d just boasted of raping his mother. ‘That’s settled, then,’ he said. ‘Now I guess you want to hear about the school.’

  I nodded and sat down, or rather I perched on the edge of a workbench. ‘That’d probably be a good idea,’ I said.

  He sighed, picked out another scrap of parchment and went on with his endless slow polishing.

  ‘You being Athenian,’ he said, ‘you don’t know about Macedonian ways. Well?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ I admitted. ‘So I’d be grateful for any—’

  ‘In Macedon,’ Leonidas interrupted, ‘we believe in loyalty. Most important thing of all. So when the heir to the throne’s still just a kid, we choose other kids his age, noblemen’s sons, to be his life companions — they grow up together, get educated together, each one of them knows what he’s going to be when he grows up. Makes sense that way. Always worked, in the past. And that’s who the school’s for —Prince Alexander and the companions.’

  I nodded. ‘It does sound like a good idea,’ I replied. ‘It’s always struck me as odd that in my country, the most important work of all, running the city, is the only work nobody’s ever trained for. I mean,’ I went on, not allowing the old vulture to interrupt me, ‘shoemakers’ sons learn their trade from childhood, and likewise carpenters, poets and scent-bottle painters. Nobody learns government until it’s too late, and even then the only people we’ve got who profess to teach it are men like me, who’ve never held power in their lives.’

  Leonidas smirked at me. ‘And that qualifies you to come here and teach it,’ he said. ‘Don’t follow.’

  ‘Ah,’ I replied, ‘but you’re forgetting something. We Athenians can teach ourselves anything. And we do. But it’s in spite of the way we bring up our children, not because of it. Well, that’s not strictly true either. When we’re young we’re taught to have enquiring minds. Once you have one of those, you can learn anything.’

  ‘Except Homer,’ Leonidas said, studying the parchment scrap in his hand. ‘Homer, you’ve just got to sit down and learn by heart.’

  ‘There I agree with you,’ I replied. ‘All right, you’ve told me about the general idea of the school. Now tell me about the kids.’

  He grunted, and settled himself a little more comfortably on his stool. ‘Well, aside from the Prince, there’s Hephaestion. Good kid, not the quickest but he tries harder than the rest so he keeps up. Harpalus, he’s a bright kid, too bright even; mustard for figuring, he’ll be treasurer or chancellor one day.

  Ptolemy’s bright but doesn’t try. Callas is a good boy, but thick. Cleitus, he’s the pick of the bunch for brains and character together, but the Prince doesn’t like him. He likes Philotas — that’s Parmenio’s son; you came across Parmenio?

  Thought you might have. Philip wouldn’t be half what he is today without Parmenio, though nobody understands that except me. Pity his son’s an arsehole, but that can’t be helped, and maybe he’ll grow out of it. There’s others too, but you keep an eye on them and the rest won’t matter.’

  ‘And Alexander?’ I said. ‘What about him?’

  Leonidas looked me in the eye. ‘Met him?’ I nodded. ‘Then you’ll already know.

  He’s what we’ll all make of him, no more and no less.’ He stood up, and although he was just a little old man and I was half as tall again and probably twice his bulk, I felt myself shrinking back. ‘That’s why this job’s important, boy.

  That’s why if you don’t do it right, I’ll kill you. Got that?’

  I blinked a couple of times. ‘I think so,’ I replied. ‘No pressure or anything;

  just do a good job, and I get to stay alive.’

  ‘That’s it exactly,’ Leonidas confirmed, sitting down again. I could see now that he was Philip’s cousin. ‘Like you just said, no pressure.’

  *

  This is the way things happen, Phryzeutzis; this goes some way towards explaining why things are as they are. Because there had been a time when I was destitute and desperate enough to make my living pretending to talk to a ghost in an empty wine-jar, I found myself in Mieza, one of four men charged with responsibility for building the next king of Macedon, King Philip’s heir.

  Because of the empty jar, and the swarm of wild bees choosing to nest in the foundations of that building, and Queen Olympias’ snake fetish; trivia, unpredictable scraps of the-way-things-happen, too random and inconsequential to be dignified with a grand name like destiny or fate, or even luck. Go further back, and you’ll see the moment when I chose the wrong coloured pebble when my brothers and I were casting lots for who stayed and who went away. Go further back and there’s my father, dying an unnecessary death in the steading at Phyle because a slave had hurt his leg and was afraid of being thought a malingerer.

  All these diverging possibilities; hold a dried leaf up to the light so that it becomes transparent and you can see the veins, how they branch and fork, all derived from one stem but ending up divided into countless small choices. Well, 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 s
hort 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.