Alexander at the World's End Page 6

  In the end, we fished for pebbles in a hat. There were four black pebbles and three white ones. I have my white pebble still. A clever man I met in Propontis some years later managed to drill a hole through it, using a tiny sliver of sapphire as a drill-bit, so I could wear it on a string round my neck. I’d hate to lose it; after all, it’s the only bit of my father’s land I ever got to keep for my own, so I’ve had to make the most of it. Does that sound bitter, Phryzeutzis or whatever your barbarian name is? Of course it does, because I am bitter. I’m as angry and wretched and full of hate now as I was all those years ago, when I opened my fingers and looked down and saw a white pebble in the palm of my hand. There are still some mornings when I wake up out of a dream about home and realise where I really am, and start crying and crying until my chest hurts and I can scarcely breathe. I’m afraid that’s what it means to be an Athenian, you see. We have this absurd devotion to our rocky, barren, evil-natured, dry, thin-soiled, infertile, poxy little armpit of a country, and that’s what makes us so terribly dangerous when we’re defending it and so utterly dangerous when we’re deprived of it. There’s an old story about the time when Xerxes the Great King of Persia invaded Greece with a million men, the hour of our greatest glory when we silly little Greeks killed his soldiers by the hundred thousand and threw him back across the Hellespont . After the great battle at Plataea , so the story goes, the Spartan king captured the Persian general’s luggage and broke it open. He’d never seen the like; gold and silver tableware, silk and furs and tapestries, precious stones and ivory and sandalwood and all the legendary wealth of Asia , heaped up in obscene confusion on the floor of the general’s tent. According to the story, King Pausanias stood staring at all this stuff for quite some time; then he scratched his head, turned to his second-in-command and said, ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘What doesn’t?’ the other man said.

  ‘These people have all this wealth,’ he said, ‘all this gold and stuff, all these things. Why in the gods’ names should they risk their lives to come all this way and try to take our miserable, poverty-stricken little country away from us?’

  (A good story, that; for all I know, it may even be true. Remember it, please;

  keep in your mind the expression on those thin Greek faces at the sight of all that luxury, that Oriental plunder. It might help you understand a bit of what comes after.)

  On the day my father died, Queen Olympias of Macedon gave birth to a son.

  In fact, it was a busy day all round. On that day, King Philip of Macedon won a battle; the Macedonian general Parmenio won another battle; King Philip’s prize racehorse won its event at the Olympic Games; and in Ephesus , the world-famous temple of Artemis burned to the ground.

  Philip and Olympias named their son Alexander. It wasn’t the best-omened name they could possibly have chosen. The first King Alexander had collaborated shamelessly with the invaders during the Great War against Persia , and the second Alexander had reigned for barely a year. Shortly before she gave birth, Olympias (who came from the barbarous tribes of Illyria and kept live snakes as pets) was struck by lightning during a freak thunderstorm. It was a miracle she wasn’t killed and didn’t lose the baby. For many years, King Philip suspected the boy wasn’t his son at all, and Olympias didn’t help matters much by dropping heavy hints that the father of her child was a god, either Zeus himself or one of those strange and faintly ridiculous Illyrian gods-of-drinking-a-lot-and-falling-over, in whose honour the secret order to which Olympias belonged staged jolly little orgies, at which they drank themselves silly, danced naked round a campfire and tore living things (human 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 content
s 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.’

  Another one of them leaned forward for a closer look. ‘Eutychides the 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 we
ll 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.