by Tom Holt
Eudaemon said, with a dreadful scowl, ‘my life stopped being a slow but steady progress towards self-improvement and became a steaming lake of shit. Thanks to you,’ he added, with a nod.
‘Me?’
‘You.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course, you’d buggered off by then, off to Olbia with your happy band of idealists. And of course you’d left behind this amazing impression in the mind of young King Alexander. Gods know what it was you said to him when you had that long, inspirational chat under the fig-tree at Mieza—’
‘I swear to you,’ I interrupted, ‘I can’t remember anything like that. He mentioned it in his letter, but it was news to me, really. I think he was mixing me up with someone else.’
‘Balls,’ Eudaemon replied. ‘You’ve just forgotten, obviously. I know it happened, because King Alexander told me so himself, and a man like me always believes what his commanding officer tells him; so you’re wrong and he’s right.
In any case,’ he went on, ‘I refuse to believe that anybody could ever get you confused with a brilliant thinker or a silver-tongued orator. It’d be like confusing a duck with an ox. So if it wasn’t somebody else, it must have been you. That’s what we call logic,’ he concluded cheerfully, ‘in the army.’
I shrugged. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘maybe I did say something that took root in Alexander’s mind, I don’t know. Anything’s possible. But that doesn’t explain how being my brother ruined your life.’
Eudaemon yawned and stretched, until the movement jarred something and he winced. ‘Isn’t there anything to drink in this rat-hole?’ he said querulously.
‘My throat’s dry as shield-leather.’
‘I can’t see anything,’ I replied.
‘Well, in that case,’ Eudaemon said, ‘one of us is going to have to trot down to the mess and get a jar of service-issue red. Which one of us is best suited to the task, I ask myself?’
*
Basically (Eudaemon told me, after I’d come back with the jar and two cups) it was gratitude, or respect; that’s what screwed up my life. If you’d never been born, or you’d died before you were weaned, or if you’d managed to find yourself a proper job when you were a kid instead of preying off the gullibility of the feeble-minded and foreigners, everything would have been just fine. When Alexander became King, he’d have launched his expedition and I’d have gone along as Captain of Auxiliaries, done my bit for the cause, earned my pay and got my share of the plunder, probably by now I’d be a Colonel of Auxiliaries, maybe even sub-prefect of a province, with a bunch of secretaries to do my work for me and nothing to do all day but lie on my back boozing and making myself obnoxious to the local women. All by my own unaided efforts, please note; not bad for a man who walked into Macedon in a pair of raggety sandals and a third-hand tunic.
Instead, I had to be your brother. It wasn’t my fault, it was something I had absolutely no say in, but I got dumped on all the same. I hate things like that.
I was sitting outside the mess hall playing draughts, I remember, when they came looking for me. Staff bastards, they were, gilded belt-buckles and cream-white tunics, sprigs of your full-blood Macedonian nobility; anyway, they told me Alexander wanted to see me immediately, so off I went, wondering what the hell it was I was supposed to have done, and whether I was going to make it back to my tent alive.
Needless to say, I’d never actually met him before. Oh, seen him, yes;
everybody’s seen him, at a parade or a march-past or a public occasion. Goes without saying, of course, that the Alexander you see from a distance over some other bloke’s head is quite different from the man you sit and talk to. Your public Alexander; well, you’d have to be a pretty bloody cold fish not to be in love with him. The looks, the poise, the style, the speaking voice, the instinctive air of command —you’d follow him to the ends of the earth, and a hell of a lot of men have done. Fair play to them. That Alexander’s a man who merits following. That’s as close as nine hundred and ninety-nine men in a thousand ever get, and that’s as close as you want to get, because when a man’s as well-nigh perfect as your public Alexander is, anything further you find out about him can only be a disappointment, a smudge across the illusion, and who wants to serve a man he knows is less than perfect? I tell you, Euxenus, if you hadn’t made me meet Alexander I’d be as happy as a mule in the bean-helm believing he was perfect; you know, like worth fighting and dying for, worth spending your whole life dragging up dusty mountain roads with a gut full of dysentery for. But no; I have to meet the real Alexander, I have to get to know what he’s really like. Lucky me.
So; they keep me hanging about in this dismal little courtyard for most of the evening, and I’m just nodding off and trying to find some way to get comfortable on a hard stone bench when some assistant deputy to the deputy assistant secretary comes out and says, ‘The King will see you now.’ So I go in, and there he is, sitting on the step in front of the throne, yapping away while some old bugger scribbles down everything he says. And part of me’s saying, What’s wrong with you, you fool? You haven’t done anything wrong, so what’s there to be afraid of? And the other part’s saying, Well, actually, if you care to consult the records you’ll find I’ve done any one of a dozen things that’ll get me dismissed from the service according to regulations, and one or two that just don’t bear thinking about.. . I am not, in short, the happiest of men at that particular moment. Looking back, of course, I realise it’s my soldier’s highly developed sense of the presence of mortal danger; and what the fuck’s the use of a hair-trigger instinct if you don’t listen to it?
So I stand there, to attention — I’m telling you, wild dogs could have eaten my feet and I wouldn’t have shifted without being told At ease — until he’s done with the letter he’s dictating and notices me, like as if a six-foot man in armour’s difficult to spot in a room that size.
‘Captain Eudaemon,’ he says, ‘at ease, please. Sit down.Thank you for coming.’
You know another thing I hate? It’s when a superior officer talks to you like you’re the lord mayor or the Persian ambassador or something. You don’t know what to do. If you carry on being all regulation and by-the-drill-manual, it looks like you’re being rude. But if you say, ‘Thanks, don’t mind if I do,’ and flop down in a couch with your feet up on the table, you can bet the next thing you’ll be hearing is the adjutant reading out the charges. Anyhow, I sit down, as if on a big row of six-inch spikes, and wait for him to say something.
Which he proceeds to do. He says that of all the remarkable men he’s been privileged to meet (or some such crap) Euxenus of Athens had done more to shape his thinking on the critical issues that really count than anyone else alive or dead, and that he owes said Euxenus more than he can possibly ever repay. I’m sitting there thinking, Well, that’d be fine if I knew who this Euxenus is, when it hits me like the roof caving in, he’s talking about my brother Euxenus. Not to put too fine a point on it, you. But this is so far-fetched, I have to interrupt and check it out.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ I say, ‘but may I just ask; you mean Euxenus son of Eutychides? My brother?’
‘Of course,’ he says, frowning a little as if he doesn’t like my tone of voice.
‘I’m not ashamed to say it, Captain, that man’s been more than just a mentor to me, he’s been . . .‘ And he stops, because mentor’s exactly the word he wants to use, but he can’t because he’s used it already. ‘When the history of these times is written down,’ Alexander says, ‘people will begin to realise just how important a man he was, the kind of extraordinary things he achieved.’
‘Sir,’ I say.
‘Which is why,’ he goes on, ‘I want to honour what he’s done for me by doing something for you. You see,’ he says, ‘I know the sort of man he is, he doesn’t care for money or position or rubbish like that—’
(‘He said that?’ I interrupted.
‘His exact words,’ my brother replied.
‘Hellfire,’ I said. ‘All right,
carry on.’)
‘Rubbish like that,’ he says. ‘How can you insult with money the sort of man who thinks nothing of abandoning all his worldly wealth and ties just to accept the position of a lowly tutor, and then rejects all suggestions of reward from his patron in order to lead a colony to the ends of the earth? I’d be ashamed, my friend, to offer money to such a man. It’d be a betrayal.’
Wisely, I didn’t say anything to that; just carried on sitting there like I had a twelve-foot lance up my arse. Actually I was thinking, maybe Euxenus was this bloke’s tutor, that’s how come he learned to be so incredibly goddamned pompous.
I mean to say, I could see him sitting there listening to himself. Not a pretty sight, brother, I assure you.
‘So,’ he goes on, ‘since I can’t reward him in person, the least I can do is extend my favour to his brother, don’t you think?’ And I’m keeping very still and not saying that if he thought like that, then maybe it’d have been a nice gesture not to have wiped out most of our bloody family at Ghaeronea — yes, I heard about that; these things happen, you know? And he sort of smiles and says, ‘You know, Eudaemon, you and I are very much alike, I think.’
Well, this one really gets past me. ‘Sir,’ I say, and I think I was putting it mildly.
‘Both of us,’ he goes on, ‘have seen our path in life; our way is service, my friend, service to something that goes beyond what’s here and now. We aren’t men of the moment, but of all time. Would you agree?’
‘Sir,’ I say.
He nods, as if I’ve just said something really clever. ‘So I know,’ he goes on, ‘that the best reward I can give you is a chance to serve in the noblest, most productive way you can; and that, of course, is where your brother’s teaching comes in yet again. I’m sure you’re familiar with his theoretical work on the art of war, with particular references to siegecraft.’
‘Sir,’ I say.
‘Brilliantly innovative,’ he goes on. ‘Quite wonderful, how a man without a conventional military background can have such insights.’
(You’ll remember, by the way, that all this stuff’s being spouted at me by this kid; he’s what, just turned twenty years old? And your most deadly boring old farts in Assembly were never as turgid as this. Credit where it’s due, brother, clearly you taught him everything he knows about the effective use of words.)
‘When we march into Asia,’ he goes on, ‘I intend to take with me a siege train organised and equipped in line with Euxenus’ principles of static warfare, incorporating all the advances he’s developed in this aspect of military science. And I want you, Eudaemon, to be part of this. After all, you must be more familiar with his approach than anybody else in the service — he’s your brother, after all, it’d be the next best thing to having him there in person.
So I’d like to make you a formal offer of the position of Colonel of Engineers, with direct command of counter-insurgency operations.
Well now I thought, as I was marched out of there by some secretary; not so bad after all, as the man said when he shot an arrow at a wolf, missed and hit his wife’s mother. Obviously young King Alexander is a very strange man indeed, but Colonel of Engineers, at my age, and a job that’s practically staff, whatever way you slice it, that can’t be anything but a piece of the good stuff. Of course, I was really puzzled by all this talk of Euxenus of Athens and his amazing contributions to the art of war —(‘Me too,’ I pointed out.)
— but being a practical sort (Eudaemon went on) I put all that out of my mind and went on a colossal piss-up to celebrate, the way any rational man would.
Next morning, feeling a bit fragile and frayed round the edges, I handed over my company to my replacement in the auxiliaries and reported to the Chief Engineer’s office.
I knew as soon as I walked in the door that he wasn’t pleased to see me. He had that face on that shows you here’s a bloke who’s getting on with his job, doing his best, when the bloody brass reach down from on high and dump some irrelevant shit on him that he’s got to pretend he likes while he works out how to stop it getting in the way of the smooth running of his department.
‘So you’re Eudaemon.’ he said.
‘Sir,’ I replied.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘The bee man.’
This time, I really did feel like I’d been woken up in the middle of a particularly crazy dream. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said, ‘but what did you just say?’
‘You’re the man who’s going to be in charge of the bees,’ he said, and then he grinned at me. I didn’t like that. ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘all I can say is, the very best of luck. Just try to keep the horrible things from stinging anybody.’
Well now, brother, I hope you’re feeling really ashamed of yourself, because your sins have finally bloody well found you out; and if you hadn’t broken my leg, I’d be breaking your bastard neck right now, so maybe you weren’t such a fool after all. When I reported to my duty assignment a few minutes later, I realised exactly what you’d done. You’d taken that stuff about the bees out of Aeneas the Tactician, and you’d passed it off as your own damn idea; and it had so impressed that clown Alexander— (‘Bees?’
‘Chucking hives of bees down mineshafts to chase out enemy sappers. And to think; it was me first told you about it—’
‘I swear to you,’ I broke in, ‘on my son’s grave, I never did anything of the sort.’
‘Alexander said you did. Well,’ he amended, ‘you know what I mean. He said it was your idea.’
‘Oh, sure,’ I replied angrily. ‘And he said I was his mentor and the wisest man he ever met. On that basis, you’re going to take his word over mine?’
Eudaemon looked at me for a moment. ‘I’d like to believe you,’ he said, ‘but I know you too well. A man who earns his living with a tame snake in a wine-jar isn’t going to be fussy about attributing his sources. And if we’re going to get along, I suggest you stop lying to me. It makes me angry, being lied to.’)
Anyway (Eudaemon continued) there’s your answer. You asked me what you’d done to screw up my life, and I’ve told you. Because of you I went from being a successful, competent professional soldier and in the twinkling of an eye I became the bee man. And all I can say about that, dear brother, is thank you.
Thank you ever so fucking much.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘All right,’ I said, ‘I can see how you’ve got hold of this idea that your getting this post in the engineers is somehow my responsibility. That’s still quite a way from “screwed up your life”, though.’
He scowled at me. ‘You just don’t know,’ he said. ‘You really haven’t got a clue. The question is, have I got the patience and energy to tell you?’
I shrugged. ‘Please yourself,’ I said. ‘Obviously, I’m dying to hear what you’ve been up to all these years, but if you’re holding some sort of irrational grudge—’
“‘Irrational grudge”,’ he repeated, shifting his weight slightly to ease the pain in his broken leg. ‘You know, it’d be easier if I had a walking-stick. A bit of broken spear-shaft would do. Anything long enough to reach over to where you’re sitting so I could smash your stupid face. Listen, Euxenus, I haven’t got an irrational grudge, as you so charmingly put it. It’s an entirely rational grudge, and the thought that by the time I’m up and about again, you’ll be safely away in Sog-bloody-diana, where I won’t be able to get at you, is enough to make me—’
I sighed. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Tell me all about it. Maybe talking about it’ll calm you down.’
‘Wouldn’t count on it, brother,’ he yawned, and I noticed that he was missing two front teeth. ‘Still, I suppose it’s only right and proper you know what you’ve done. Then, if you’ve got even a tiny shred of decency left in you, you’ll piss off and hang yourself, and save me a job.’
Consider, dear brother (Eudaemon said) the life of the bee. Now, you’re the philosopher, and I wouldn’t presume to teach you your trade, if you can call it that; but haven’t you ever
stopped to think that, apart from minor details like size and flying ability, man and bee are as close as — well, brothers? To judge by that dumb look on your face, obviously you haven’t, so I’ll explain it to you.
Men build. So do bees. Men live in communities. So do bees. Ideally, men work together to accomplish the common goal, the good of the many, the well-being of the commonwealth. So do bees. Men sometimes make the ultimate sacrifice and give their lives for their home and family. So do bees. Men have territories, and like to beat the shit out of invaders and interlopers. So do bees. Human societies have the workers at the bottom, the better sort of people in the middle and the big boss at the top. So do bees. Truth is, for as long as there’s been cities, people have been trying to live as much like bees as they can possibly manage; the order, the dedication, the diligence, the selflessness, not to mention the annihilation of individual liberty and the blind intolerance of every other living thing. So far at least, humans can’t fly and their leaders aren’t females; apart from that, all that separates man and bee is a trivial matter of scale; and like they say, size isn’t everything.
Basically, I don’t like bees; never have, certainly never will. Partly it’s because the buzzing sets my teeth on edge and I don’t like getting stung, but it’s not just that, by any means. What really gets to me, I think, is this depressing resemblance between them and me. It’s like what Dad used to say to us when we were kids and he was dragging us off to be apprentices; work hard, study carefully, observe, learn, one day you could be just like him. Well, I look at Brother Bee, with his smart uniform and his chain of command and his manifest destiny and his regulation spear jammed up his arse, and I see me. Then, if I’m quick enough, I tread on him.