Dekaearkhus had been a great help in the updating of the Geographika, Aristotle’s own pet project for this year. He would now give this work over to his students for completion as he receded into the background as guiding hand and advising voice. The implications of Pytheus’ work and Dekaearkhus’ calculations would be of much value to Alexander, who had sworn to him that he was not just intent on conquest but also expansion of the world’s boundaries.

Perhaps this will be my legacy, the mapping of the Expanded World?

To bequeath this along with the Constitutions of Hellas—now nearly complete thank Truth—would at the least lay a basis for Man’s management of the world and his affairs within its bounds. The Akademy would bequeath only the means to quantify the dimensions and composition of this inheritance, and Isokrates would leave behind him nothing but the means to argue over its ownership.

Based on the testimony of Pytheus, who had travelled so far to the north that the sea itself congealed and heaved like a lung, and Skylax’s examination of the mountain-top dwelling white leopard brought back by the Agrianians, one could expect life, and certain forms of adapted human communities, to thrive farther north than had previously been expected.

Perhaps making this known to your autocrat shall turn his hand more toward exploration than war. Dread War, though a necessity, works in such terrible ways on men. Recall the maimed Agrianian, and Demosthenes maimed of mind over his thirst for the returned war-glory of Athens.

And so the great-minded Stagirite proceeded to the Athenian agora to meet with Tekhe, his connection with Tie-up and the ships’ captains. He brought a hasty copy of his draft of the Geographika with annotations across the top and bottom of the scroll. He brought also the Royal Seal of Alexander, and a modest gift for Tekhe. Tekhe was a book-lover though he dealt mostly in olive oil. He was also a metik, a resident alien like Aristotle. The old philosopher thought his young friend would be pleased to have a copy of his own community’s constitution, for the first time recorded from the oral onto papyrus.

This is to The Good on all levels, like the cultivation of honey bees. Hurry before some lout interrupts you with a trifling question.

He proceeded beneath the shadow of the High-city, where now only the shades of the gods and their attendants dwelt, toward the bustling agora. As a man of importance under the protection of the autocrat who ruled this tempestuous community that yet savored the taste of its great youth, he did not dare go alone. He was accompanied by Xenophile his old scribe, Polos his messenger, and Doryklus the boxer, whose son Aristotle tutored in return for the protection of the brawny father.

As they neared the stalls Doryklus brazenly shouldered his way through the press of listeners who had gathered to hear some rant by a rhetorician of the laboring class. Polos was elated to be nearly in the agora as much as Xenophile was terrified of the throng. The two trailed him as he hunched his gaunt shoulders over his goods and continued in the wake of his brawny escort, measuring his own bony legs against the trunk-like legs of the aging prize-seeker

And yet we are of the same nation if not the same community.

Stop your musing old fool, the stalls are before you.

They made their way to the stall of Tekhe, and Aristotle presented his friend with the Constitution of Temesa. After much commiserating and asking after the banal affairs of one-another’s families, Tekhe placed the Geographika scroll in a cylindrical shipping vase, and made a wax impression of Alexander’s seal upon it. Tekhe made a gift of oil to Doryklus as he asked about his training and the upcoming contests, both sacred and civic. Polos however, had stepped away, and now came rushing back to them with an urgent voice, “Master, come, come, to the center. A man from Tie-up has arrived with news of Alexander! Come!”

There was no need to shoulder their way through this crowd as everyone was heading to the same destination, the central auction floor of the agora, where choice slaves and livestock would be put up for bidding. This was a marketing gambit to develop interest in a shipper’s stock newly arrived and available for fixed and wholesale prices down at Tie-up. For this reason, the use of this auction space for high profile self-promotion by flesh-mongers, the auction floor had become the nexus for various spontaneous announcements. Just now the people were gathering around a sumptuously clothed trireme commander.

It was many moments before the speaker managed to hush the crowd. He then spoke with an ominous tone to his voice, “Alexander is dead. The Hegemon said goodbye to his companions, shield-bearers and file-men, thirteen days ago.”

A loud acidic voice carped, “Why I do not believe it. If he were indeed dead no corner of the world would be free from the stench put off by his corpse!”

The crowd began to converse, surge, shout, murmur, like many waves colliding in an estuary to form an eddy. The messenger though raised his voice above that of the crowd, “I am Timon of Halikarnassus and I bring this news as heard by my ears at the Port of Issus, from the lips of Alexander’s own companion, Astyanax of Pella. Make of this news what you will, but please, avert war!”

The murmur of the crowd began to rise to a threatening timbre and Aristotle was splashed across the cheek by spittle from an Athenian patriot, who bawled, “Down with the tyrant’s puppets and to death with the Macedonian occupiers!”

With that insult the tall middle-aged aristocrat spoke his last words through a mouth possessing teeth, for his face literally exploded as Doryklus’ mallet-like fist smashed into it like a stone into a cushion. Doryklus was not a man of words, and simply stood flexing his great hands as he glared at the friends of the now mewing man at his feet.

Their portion of the crowd quieted and stared in amazement.

The boxer then looked over his shoulder behind them and those people who crowded there suddenly parted as if the man were a mantis with the powers to part the brambles of a thicket with a gaze. Now, as the crowd murmured all about, those nearest stayed quiet as Doryklus grabbed Aristotle by his arm and pushed him ahead, with Polos and Xenophile hastening in their wake, eager to quit the place.

A life’s work gone like that!

Perhaps it can be left in Theophrastus’ capable hands sooner rather than later, to avoid any damage to the school itself?

Yes, a hasty departure seems to be in order.

What shall become of the Geographika?

Lost most like. Don’t fret man, nearly all of your kind labor without hope of immortality. You at least have students to bear your brand into the long night of tomorrow.

What am I dead already?

You might-as-well be.

On they walked, through the deserted stalls, beneath the high-city where freshly lit fires to Athena were beginning to sprout like beacons of malcontent and civic triumph.

So another conqueror meets his end without achieving his goal.

They all overreach according to their ability, insuring failure. Hubris I think is the greatest political constant of all.

You, being his teacher, should at least have thought to inculcate that one salient fact into his mind.

Indeed, his failure to survive is your failure as well. His father lasted longer with less ability and fewer assets. You taught him everything and nothing.

Perhaps I should follow in his wake.

Old fool, you will find much agreement with that sentiment in this pesthole!

So noted my teacher within, so noted.

He followed crestfallen now behind the broad back of his swaggering savior, listening back on a life of learning. The cacophony of ghostly voices, mostly of wise men now dead, echoed in the chambers of his mind, seated as it was within his beating heart. One eloquent voice raised itself above and beyond the others.

How I like to hear your echo within dear Plato. I shall sacrifice to your ghost again before my time is out.