Alexander (Vol. 2) (33 page)

Evemerus shook his head. ‘If the great Lysippus doesn’t feel up to it then who else would dare undertake the job?’

Lysippus smiled and put a hand on his assistant’s shoulder, ‘Chares perhaps. Who knows . . .?’

Aristotle was struck by the imaginative expression on the young man’s face. ‘Where are you from, lad?’

‘Lindos, on the island of Rhodes.’

‘You’re from Rhodes . . .’ repeated the philosopher, as if the name reminded him of something which had recently become familiar to him. Then he returned to the topic at hand. ‘Down there they call statues “colossi”, isn’t that so?’

A servant began clearing the table and poured some more wine. Lysippus took a sip and then said, ‘Your idea is in any case a fascinating one, Evemerus, even if unrealizable in my opinion. I am anyway very busy now and I will be for some years to come, so I will not have time to study and plan a work of this kind. But you may tell your fellow citizens that from this moment onwards there is an image of Zeus in Lysippus’s mind and it might just take real shape, sooner or later – perhaps in a year, in ten years, perhaps in twenty . . . who knows?’

Evemerus stood up. ‘Farewell then, Lysippus. If you should change your mind then please know that we are ready to welcome you in Tarant.’

‘Farewell, Evemerus. I must return to my studio, where a troop of horsemen in clay await the life-giving qualities of cast bronze – Alexander’s troop.’

A
RISTOTLE ENTERED
his old rooms, lit the lamps and opened his personal chest, taking from it the letter he had been expecting from Callisthenes – a sealed roll of papyrus tied with a leather string. It was written entirely in a secret and unique code, to which only he, his nephew and Theophrastus held the key. The philosopher held the template over the document, isolating the important words from the completely random text surrounding them, and began to read the message.

When he had finished he took the sheet over to the lamp and watched it curl right to the very last corner as the flames consumed it and its secret, leaving only myriad tiny fragments. He then went down to the stables and woke the carriage driver who had brought him to Mieza. He gave him a sealed package together with a letter and explained how important it was that he followed these orders to the letter: ‘Take the best horse and set off immediately for Methone. The captain on whose ship I came from Piraeus should still be there. Tell him to take you to Theophrastus at the location indicated in the letter. Give him the package. If for any reason you do not reach Theophrastus, seek out my nephew Callisthenes and deliver the package to him.’

‘I doubt the captain will want to sail – the bad weather is very nearly on us now.’

Aristotle pulled a bag of money from his cloak. ‘This might help persuade him. Now go, quickly.’

The man chose a charger from the stables, took out his sword and hung it on his belt while the package took the place of the weapon in his bag. He set off immediately at a gallop.

Although it was late at night, Lysippus was still at work and he went over to the window of the studio when he heard a noise, but it was only Aristotle moving quickly along the portico of the internal courtyard. The following morning, while he was shaving in front of the mirror, he saw the philosopher again, fully dressed and with his travelling satchel over his shoulder, walking towards the stables where the mules were being yoked up to a carriage. He dried his face quickly, intending to go down and say goodbye, but a servant knocked at that very moment and handed him a note which read:

When he looked out of the window once more Aristotle was already disappearing atop the small carriage as it moved along the north road. The sky was grey and the day cold, it might even have snowed. The sculptor closed the window and finished shaving before going down to have breakfast.

The philosopher travelled all day, stopping only to eat a light meal in a hostelry at Kition, the half-way point of his journey. When he reached Aegae it was already dark and he went straight to King Philip’s tomb, in front of which two tripod lamps were burning on either side of an altar. He poured a phial of a fine oriental perfume into the tripods and collected himself in meditation before the great stone portal, surmounted by beautiful hunting scenes that decorated the architrave. At that moment it was as if he could see the King once again, dismounting from his horse in the courtyard at Mieza, swearing because of his crippled leg, and shouting, ‘Where is Alexander?’

Aristotle repeated to himself, quietly, ‘Where is Alexander?’

Then he turned his back on the great tomb and moved away. He slept in a small house he still owned at the edge of the city and stayed there through all of the following day, reading and putting some of his notes in order. The weather continued to worsen and dark clouds gathered on the peaks of Mount Bermion which were already dusted with snow. He waited for darkness to fall, put on a cloak, covered his head with its hood and started walking through the almost deserted streets.

He passed in front of the theatre where the King had been assassinated in a cloud of dust and a pool of blood at the height of his glory; then he carried on along a path that led to the fields. He was looking for a solitary tomb.

Before him rose a group of age-old oak trees in the midst of an open space and Aristotle hid among the great rough trunks, blending in with the evening shadows. Not far away a modest tumulus could be made out, with a simple rock placed on top of it as a marker. The philosopher waited, motionless and lost in thought.

Every now and then he raised his eyes to the leaden sky and drew his cloak about his shoulders, to protect himself from the cold wind that had begun to blow down from the mountains with nightfall.

Finally the noise of footsteps along the path and the flickering light of a lantern made him turn to the left and he saw the figure of a small woman advancing briskly. She passed by him and stopped in front of the tumulus, not far away.

He watched her kneel down and deposit something on the burial mound, then she placed her hand and her head on the rock, covering it with her cloak, almost as if seeking to warm it. White crystals of sleet began to streak the darkness as they fell.

Aristotle sought more warmth, wrapping himself even more tightly in his cloak, but just then a gust of freezing wind caused him to cough suddenly. The woman stood up and turned in a flash towards the small oak wood.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked, her voice trembling.

‘One who searches for the truth.’

‘Then show yourself,’ replied the woman.

Aristotle came out of his hide and moved towards her. ‘I am Aristotle of Stagira.’

‘The great wise man,’ nodded the woman. ‘What brings you to this sad place?’

‘I told you . . . I am looking for the truth.’

‘Which truth?’

‘The truth of King Philip’s death.’

The woman, young and with large dark eyes, lowered her head and stooped, as though her shoulders bore a weight that was too much for her.

‘I don’t think I can help you in any way.’

‘Why do you come out here in the dark to pay homage to this burial mound? This is the tumulus where Pausanias, the King’s assassin, was buried.’

‘Because he was my man and I loved him. He had already offered me nuptial gifts and we were to be married.’

‘I have heard tale of this. This is why I have come here. Is it true that he was Philip’s lover?’

The woman shook her head. ‘I . . . I don’t know.’

‘They say that when Philip married his last wife, young Eurydice, Pausanias was consumed by jealousy and his behaviour drove the bride’s father, the noble Attalus, wild with rage.’ Aristotle did not miss a single expression on the woman’s face and as he recounted the tale he saw tears running down her colourless cheeks. ‘Rumour also has it that Attalus invited him to his hunting lodge where the huntsmen beat and raped him for a whole night.’

The woman was crying now, disconsolate, no longer able to contain her grief, but the philosopher continued, impervious. ‘Pausanias then asked Philip to avenge this humiliation and because he failed to do so, he killed him. Is this really what happened?’

The woman sought to dry her tears with the hem of her cloak.

‘Is this the truth?’

‘Yes,’ she said, sobbing.

‘The whole truth?’

The woman did not reply.

‘I know that the episode in Attalus’s hunting lodge is true – I have my informers. But what was the cause of it all? Was it simply a dark affair of male love?’

The young woman made to leave, as though wishing to cut the conversation short there and then. The shawl over her head was already white with snowflakes and the ground at their feet was also covered with a thin white layer. Aristotle took her by the arm. ‘Well?’ he insisted, staring into her face with his grey eagle eyes.

She shook her head.

‘Come,’ said the philosopher with a suddenly more conciliatory tone. ‘I have a house nearby and the fire should still be burning.’

The young woman followed him meekly, holding the lamp, and Aristotle led her to his home, had her sit next to the grate and poked the fire.

‘All I can offer you is a warm infusion of herbs. I am only passing through.’

He took a jug from the fireplace and poured its steaming contents into two pottery cups.

‘Well then, what do you know that I do not?’

‘Pausanias never was the King’s lover and he never had any affairs with men. He was a simple boy, of humble origins, and he liked women. As for King Philip, there was much talk about relations with men, but no one ever saw anything.’

‘You seem to be very well informed . . . how?’

‘I work in the palace kitchens.’

‘This does not exclude, however, the possibility of there having been some episode of the kind, even an isolated one.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Pausanias told me that by chance he had surprised Attalus in the midst of a secret, dangerous conversation.’

‘Perhaps Pausanias was eavesdropping?’

‘It is possible.’

‘And did he tell you what the conversation was about?’

‘No, but what they did to him, in my opinion, was designed to terrorize him, to crush him without actually killing him – the assassination of a member of the King’s guard would have raised too many suspicions.’

‘So, let’s hypothesize – Pausanias surprises Attalus while he is engaged in some reckless conversation, let’s say a conspiracy, and he threatens to reveal everything. Attalus invites him to an isolated place pretending to want to negotiate and then, to teach him a lesson, he leaves him to the violence of his huntsmen. But why then should Pausanias kill King Philip? It makes no sense.’

‘And what sense is there in the rumour that Pausanias killed the King because he had refused to avenge the humiliation Attalus inflicted on him? Pausanias was a bodyguard – strong, skilled in weaponry – he could have easily sought revenge on his own.’

‘That is true,’ said Aristotle, thinking of the formidable build of his carriage driver. ‘So how do you explain it all? If Pausanias was the loyal young man you describe, why did he assassinate his King?’

‘I do not know, but if he had wanted to do so, don’t you think there would have been better opportunities for a bodyguard? He could have killed Philip in his sleep, in his bed.’

‘I have always thought so. But at this point it seems to me that neither of us can provide answers to our questions. Do you know of anyone else who might have more information? They say he had accomplices, or some sort of cover in any case – there were men waiting for him with a horse near the oak wood where we met a short time ago.’

‘They also say that one of them has been identified,’ said the young woman, suddenly staring directly into Aristotle’s eyes.

‘And where would he be now?’

‘In a hostelry in Beroea, on the banks of the Haliakmon; he calls himself Nicander, but it’s certainly a false name.’

‘And what is his real name?’

‘I do not know. If I did then perhaps I would be nearer knowing the reason why Pausanias did what he did and why he suffered so.’

Aristotle picked up the jug from the fire once again and was about to pour some more of the infusion into the young woman’s bowl, but she stopped him with a gesture and stood up.

‘I should go now, otherwise someone will come looking for me.’

‘How can I thank you for the things . . .’ began Aristotle, but she interrupted him:

‘Find the real culprit behind all this and let me know.’

She opened the door and walked quickly along the deserted road. Aristotle called out to her, ‘Wait . . . you haven’t even told me your name!’ But the young woman had already disappeared into the swirling cloud of white flakes, along the silent alleyways of the sleeping city.