He stood despondent among the racked scrolls that it now appeared would be his chief legacy to the world, providing the pig-headed Athenians did not commit them to the altar flames upon the high-city. Polos had run off to warn off his students and Xenophile sat shivering next to the fountain. Doryklus guarded the pillared entrance, but had sent off his son. The entire grove of Apollo-as-wolf was deserted, not because of some particularly brutal midday heat, for it was not a bad day to exercise, but so that the community could revel in the death of their conqueror. Other than Skylax and his attendants the walled groves were deserted.

We might fancy that we have built a fortress of thought, a society of good words, but the crude up-swelling of politicians and their massed puppets will choke us as surely as the wise mind is congested by the bile of the corrupt stomach beneath.

His loyal slave Xenophile was actually in tears considering his plight, being a medik like Aristotle, a Makedonian no less.

“Do not worry overmuch old friend. We shall make our leave soon enough. I must first speak with Theophrastus.”

The aged scribe began stammering a protest and was then comforted by the deep grinding voice of the boxer, “You men have done right by my boy. He brings my panoply and I will see you safely to wherever you would go.”

Aristotle smiled at the broad scar-faced man and looked aside to the shivering scribe. “You see old friend we will be safe. Please, see if Skylax has spare sandals and travel cloaks, so that we do not have to risk a visit to my—our—domicile.”

Xenophile was off on shaking legs. Free of the man’s worries, Aristotle picked up the scroll of Pytheas, On The Ocean, and so you did sail my unmet friend. If I should take one thing into exile it should be this.

Aristotle had only read about fifty lines from the text and it would be a comfort to him to have such a companion for his mind in his waning years. He closed his eyes and imagined himself older still than he is now, reclining after dinner, imagining himself Pytheus standing above the prowl of some plunging barbarian ship, looking off across the wrack toward Ultima Thule and oblivion.

He was shaken from his daydream by the snarled challenge of Doryklus.

Do not let him sell his life for you. His boy is good and in need of a strong father.

Aristotle, determined now to meet his end with this gift of the Western Hellenes in his grasp, rolled up the scroll and turned to meet his persecutors. To his astonishment he saw broad Doryklus holding back an unlikely party.

There was a spry waif of an uncouth girl who nagged the boxer with pleas for an audience with Aristotle.

There was a slight even demure barbarian philosopher who interjected the occasional comment with an odd Latin accent. Although he was the only man, he was manifestly not the leader.

There was also a simply dressed common woman with an uncommonly well formed figure holding a staff with the manners of an Amazon. She glared at Doryklus as if she meant to thrash him with her stick, not liking the big palm of his being so definitively thrust out before her face.