Aristotle and the Secrets of Life: An Aristotle Detective Novel

By Margaret Doody

The great philosopher and his student face pirates, political intrigue, and more in this dark, suspenseful mystery set in ancient Athens.
 
Tensions between the Athenians and the Makedonians—whose leader, Alexander the Great, is one of Aristotle’s former students—draw the philosopher across the Aegean Sea, accompanied by the devoted Stephanos. Both will have much to learn about survival as they find themselves beset by pirates, uncovering conspiracy, and facing the horrors of war. It will be up to Aristotle to try to shed light on the darkness they are about to encounter—in this novel in the historical series praised as “unusually authentic” (Kirkus Reviews) and “eminently enjoyable” (Colin Dexter, author of the Inspector Morse Mysteries).
 
Also published as Aristotle and the Mystery of Life

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Mar 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9780226132204

Book preview

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637

© 2003 by Margaret Doody

All rights reserved

Originally published in 2003

University of Chicago Press edition 2014

Printed in the United States of America

18 17 16 15 14      1 2 3 4 5

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-13217-4 (paper)

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-13220-4 (e-book)

DOI: 0.728/chicago/9780226132204.001.0001

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Doody, Margaret Anne, author.

Aristotle and the secrets of life : an Aristotle detective novel / Margaret Doody.

pages ; cm

ISBN 978-0-226-13217-4 (pbk. : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-226-13220-4 (e-book)   1. Aristotle—Fiction.   2. Greece—History—Macedonian Expansion, 359-323 B.C.—Fiction.   I. Title.

PR9199.3.D556A88 2014

823’.914-dc23

2013042066

This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

PRAISE FOR THE ARISTOTLE DETECTIVE SERIES

Doody weaves the tapestry of the background beautifully and unobtrusively. And she knows how to sustain suspense.

—Book World

The best detective to come along since we said good-bye to Nero Wolfe and Hercule Poirot.

—Lewiston Journal

[Margaret Doody] not only makes Greece live but turns Aristotle into a passionate, quirky seeker of truth.

—Detroit News

This clever and original detective story set in ancient Athens should suit classicists to a T and enchant all sleuthwatchers . . . Doody brings the Athens of 322 B.C. to life with skill and verve . . .

—Publishers Weekly

. . . well-paced and memorable not only for its marvelous evocation of what it must have been like to sail the Aegean 2,300 years ago but for a lurking sense of menace beneath the surface detail of daily courtesies, comical misadventures, and breathtakingly beautiful descriptions.

—Roderick Beaton

The Aristotle Detective series by Margaret Doody is historically correct without being pedantic, learned but not tedious, equally ironic and attentive to details.

—Mariarosa Mancuso, Corriere delta Sera

This work offers satisfactory detection, a well-proportioned story, nostalgia for lovers of Greece, and special fun for classicists. It is a bonus that it is so well written.

—Barbara Levick, TLS

Why did no one think of this before?

—The Times

THE ARISTOTLE DETECTIVE SERIES

Aristotle Detective

Aristotle and Poetic Justice

Aristotle and the Secrets of Life

Poison in Athens

Mysteries of Eleusis

This novel is gratefully dedicated to BEPPE BENVENUTO, the resurrection man, and to ROSALIA COCI, la tradutrice incomparable

CONTENTS

Map

List of Characters

PART I: PARTS OF ANIMALS

I. The Sanctuary of Asklepios

II. Murdering an Ox

III. Meeting a Monkey

IV. Sweetness and Bees

V. Odour of Blood

VI. Parts of Animals

VII. The Monument

PART II: MOVEMENT OF ANIMALS

VIII. Preparing for Flight

IX. Taking Ship for the Islands

X. Delos

XI. Blood at Delos, Flesh at Mykonos

XII. Naxos

XIII. Storm at Sea

XIV. The Healing Island

PART III: BODY AND SOUL

XV. The Doctors

XVI. Facing Asia

XVII. The Letter

XVIII. Harpalos the Treasurer

XIX. Carrying Treasure

XX. The Killing Island

XXI. Escape

XXII. Healing and Light

Epilogue

LIST OF CHARACTERS

FAMILY CIRCLES AND CONNECTIONS OF ARISTOTLE AND STEPHANOS

Aristotle son of Nikomakhos: philosopher of Athens, age 54

Pythias daughter of Hermias of Atarneos: Aristotle’s wife

Pythias the younger: daughter of Aristotle, a child nearly 6 years old

Herpyllis: slavewoman who takes care of young Pythias

Phokon: Aristotle’s senior male slave, efficient and responsible

Olympos: Aristotle’s second male slave

Kallisthenes: Aristotle’s nephew, Alexander’s historian

Stephanos son of Nikiarkhos: Athenian citizen of good will, nearly 26 years old; trying to better his prospects and get married

Eunike daughter of Diogeiton: Stephanos’ mother, one of the tribe of Erektheus

Theodoros: Stephanos’ younger brother, not yet 10 years old

Philemon: Stephanos’ cousin, age 25; a veteran

Smikrenes: irascible farmer of Eleusis area, Stephanos’ prospective father-in-law

Philomela daughter of Smikrenes: Stephanos’ bride-to-be, age 15

Geta: slave of Smikrenes, Philomela’s old nurse

Philonike: estranged wife of Smikrenes, mother of Philomela; a beekeeper living in Hymettos

Philokleia: mother of Philonike and grandmother of Philomela, managing family farm in Hymettos

Dropides: second husband of Philokleia, step-father of Philonike, a man of invalid habits

Philokles: brother of Philonike and uncle of Philomela; inheritor of estate in Hymettos, but now travelling in the eastern islands

Mika: elderly slavewoman of household at Hymettos

SCHOLARS AND STUDENTS OF THE LYKEION

Theophrastos: scholar, age 40, with a strong interest in plants; Aristotle’s right-hand man

Eudemos of Rhodos: witty and urbane scholar, near Theophrastos’ age

Demetrios of Phaleron: young scholar, extraordinarily handsome

Hipparkhos of Argos: serious scholar in his late 20s, looks like a horse

Arkhandros of Lampsakos: serious scholar in his 30s, very pale

Mikon: student, age 14, who takes an interest in the Lykeion’s research projects

Parmenion son of Arkhebios: grandson (illegitimate line) of Alexander’s great general Parmenion, age 14. A young student whose strange mental state causes concern

CITIZENS OF ATHENS AND THEIR ASSOCIATES

Megakles: important Athenian citizen with a sun-burnt bald spot and an earnest manner

Thrasymakhos: important Athenian with some claim to be an orator; father of Mikon

Apollonios: sturdy and patriotic citizen who resents Makedonian rule

Theosophoroas: middle-aged citizen of sardonic temper, with no great love for Stephanos

Epikrates: rich little citizen, cheated in a deal with an Egyptian perfumer

Hypereides: orator and statesman, age 61; antipathetic to Makedonians; helpful to Epikrates in his law case

Antigone: freedwoman, successful whore of Athens, owner of a brothel; involved in a lawsuit with Epikrates

Euphorbos: young man of good family, a humorist and game-player

Kallias: rich citizen, fond of his pets; owns a monkey

Eurymedon: of the tribe of Eumolpidai, a guardian of the cult of Demeter who takes his religious charge seriously

Gorgias son of Lysippos: dramatic citizen in his early twenties, son of a rich silversmith

PERSONS ENCOUNTERED ON THE JOURNEY AND IN THE EAST

Aiskhines: Athenian captain of small fast ship Eudaimonia

Hermippos of Laurion: traveller; engaged at home in silver business, owner of an ore washery and smelting furnace

Widow: Hermippos’ daughter, mother of child Philokleia

Philokleia: Hermippos’ little asthmatic granddaughter, age 7

Miltiades: cheerful merchant of marble

Philokhoros: traveller of distinction who seems to dote on his slave

Sosios: slave to Philokhoros

Doris: crippled slavewoman with little dog

Kardaka: mistress of Doris

Magistrate of Delos

Lysis: manager of brothel ‘Naumakhia’ in Mykonos

A marble merchant of Paros

Aristodamos: gentleman of Naxos with ties to Delos; an old friend of Aristotle

Nikias: Koan captain of small fast ship the Nike

Koriskos: son of an old acquaintance of Aristotle, on an embassy to Alexander

Iatrokles: surgeon of Kos and descendant of Asklepios; an old acquaintance of Aristotle

Kleumedes: Iatrokles’ partner, a physician of Kos and descendant of Asklepios

Oromedon son of Daliokles: important citizen of Kos, old friend of Aristotle

Peleus: practical army man, used to organising convoys

Diophantos: officer in charge of a platoon in Lykia

Menestor: Theban captive, age nearly 17; a slave working for officers of the army in Asia

Harpalos: Alexander’s treasurer, former student of Aristotle

Pythonike: beautiful Athenian mistress of Harpalos, who accompanies him to Asia

Nanno of Kalymnos: beautiful and rich lady of the islands, formerly mistress to a Makedonian general

Various travellers, sailors and soldiers

Speak to me, O Muse, and open my mouth that true and good things may come from my lips. Let me tell aright this history of plunder and evil, pain and captivity and wandering over the wide sea.

Thanks be to Asklepios that I was healed of my wound. May all the blessings of Hygieia flow through me and mine, now and always. With all honour to Asklepios the divine Physician, to Paieon, ever-hymned in realms above, and to Lord Apollo.

PART ONE

PARTS OF ANIMALS

I

The Sanctuary of Asklepios

It was still dark as we moved cautiously along the narrow way at the side of the steep Akropolis, towards the southern slope. Four men, two of whom were slaves carrying a litter, and one unseen woman, enclosed in the box they bore along.

‘Be careful!’ exclaimed the older man sharply, as one of the slaves nearly missed his footing on the invisible path. A few belated owls still hooted around the temple above us. Straining our eyes against darkness we searched for the shrine. Wings flapped. One of the cocks I held was struggling to fly, as if to escape his death or else to hasten towards his appointed end. It was hard holding on to the birds with their wiry feet and claws and writhing necks, especially as I could not see them. I could feel one of them digging into my hand, even though we had bound their beaks for the journey.

The shrine at last was before us, a dark shape mysteriously solid in the no-dimension of night. We waited, at the head of a little line of suppliants, in the summer morning, the strange time just before dawn. The sky grew less dark. Birds chirped. Then along the eastern horizon as along the edges of a cut a redness bled along the eastern sky. The first rays struck the temple door, and the door opened. We pilgrims and suppliants joined the priests and their attendants in singing the morning hymn:

‘Awaken Paieon Asklepios

Awaken and hear thy hymn!’

Aristotle and the slave assisted the woman out of her cramped container. She stood there, leaning against her husband, a thin woman, but evidently pregnant, and heavily veiled. We moved together towards the altar-place. Somewhere near us were the snakes in the sacred pits, but I could not see them. I unbound the cocks; Aristotle and the slaves assisted the attendants in taking them to the altar. They flapped and crowed, announcing the dawn just as the attendant advanced upon them with a thin sharp knife. Their ‘coco-ricoo!’ was cut short. A splash of blood dabbled the marble stone and the bright confident feathers. The light moved in a rosy ray streaming over the altar, making a glimmer in the blood and in the sightless eyes of the severed heads, floppy under their red combs.

We stood in prayer and supplication in an enclosure lit by a little altar fire and by the fresh dawn light. A sweet summer morning breeze came through the open door.

The priest-physician asked ‘What is troubling you?’ and Aristotle answered.

‘My wife has been troubled by mild fever and want of appetite. Often she cannot keep food down when she does eat.’

‘Is she pregnant?’ the priest asked quickly. ‘Lady, I insist that you must answer for yourself. Who are you? What is your name?’

‘Pythias, wife of Aristotle of Athens.’

‘Are you pregnant?’

‘I am.’

‘You know,’ the priest said addressing both of them, ‘that Asklepios has no remedy for pregnancy, as it is a natural matter, and we do not treat it. And you should know that no child is to be born within the precincts consecrated to Asklepios.’

‘But,’ Aristotle argued, ‘my wife’s troubles are other than just those of pregnancy itself. I am a physician’s son and I know. She has feverishness, she trembles. Describe your symptoms,’ he added, turning to Pythias, who answered in a voice low and pleasant, with more than a little touch of foreign inflection:

‘Hot and then cold. Trembling in the limbs. Some weakness in the eyes that comes and goes. And trouble with my stomach and some soreness in the side. It is not like my former childbearing.’

‘You have borne children before?’

‘Two stillborn, one who lived a year and died of a disease, and one a little girl who lives now.’

‘And you, sir.’ The priest turned to Aristotle. ‘Describe your own afflictions.’

‘Pain in the leg—sciatic trouble. Stiffness and pain in the thigh and leg.’

‘Any others?’ He looked at me, I shook my head. I was there as a supporter of Aristotle, literally. I stood at his left side ready for him to lean on if need be. Aristotle was supporting Pythias. On her other side stood Aristotle’s kinsman Theophrastos.

The priest-physician and our party went on into the proper prayers. I gazed around the inner precincts with eyes increasingly cleansed by the growing light. There were many good images. Asklepios the little child, the newborn babe—surrounded by soft flames or light rays. Asklepios the Beloved, the Great Healer. This is a really good statue of the healer seated on a throne with snakes like wheels standing out in relief along the sides of the chair. Asklepios holds his staff with the snake entwined around it. His long curly hair and luxuriant curling beard make him look slightly foreign, like a Phoenician. His face is noble, the eyes wonderfully carved and deeply set. They look off into the distance with a suggestion of suffering and hope—yet these eyes seem also to look at you, with a look of great compassion. Behind the healer there is a large votive relief showing Asklepios with his sons, the two physicians, one Machaon the surgeon and the other Podaleirios, a treater of internal ills. And a good tall image of his daughter Hygieia. One may hope not to need Asklepios’ sons, but everyone wants his daughter, who is Health itself.

At that moment we were all together there in that tight little sanctuary, close to the healer—Aristotle and Pythias, myself, Theophrastos. Together, alive and safe. The light glided in and struck the wall, so that I could now see clearly the thank-offering images hung upon it. Some of these were crudely carved sticks, others elaborately polished wood with fine carving. Not a few were in silver that made a pleasant glitter in the sunbeams. One bronze image of a full-sized big toe glistened with polish, and was adorned with a miniature garland. A leg, a hand, an eye, a penis. Here, a shield showed gratitude for delivery from war. There, part of a ship carved in marble—a sign of someone saved from shipwreck, or recovered from physical damage wrought by a shipwreck. Garlands of real hair fluffed out on pictured wooded heads, images of children made well. All gave assurance of the power of the divine Physician, and the strength of healing of the dark earth, the sacred springs, and the serpent who comes from the depths.

We departed from the sanctuary, Pythias leaning on her husband, after the priest-physician gave some instructions, which seemed to involve chiefly change of diet and sitting in a warm place in the sunlight. Pythias had to be helped carefully into the litter. We set off again, Aristotle limping a little from the sciatic trouble. It was especially irritating to someone as active and restless as he—his group have been called ‘the Peripatetics’ because he liked lecturing while walking about. He preferred in general to be in motion. I wasn’t worried that Aristotle would be permanently crippled. The philosopher was still surprisingly active for a man of his age, even if he suffered intermittently from sciatic complaint, especially after he was careless or forgetful enough to sit very long on a damp marble bench. As for Pythias, she would soon be delivered of her trouble and Aristotle would have the son he long had wished for. The priest-physician had been right, perhaps, to be a little alarmed about the risk of a birth within the shrine, as is forbidden absolutely in the holy place, for Pythias was evidently near her time.

Aristotle himself seemed relieved and expansive.

‘I have so seldom been here,’ he said, ‘but Pythias wished to come. I would have liked us to go to the Asklepion in Peiraieus, which is in some ways finer than this one, and I think has better priests. And many associations too—you remember it in Aristophanes’ Ploutos? But that is too far for her to travel, while it was quite practicable for us to come here. She will be easier in her mind.’

‘What did they prescribe?’ I asked, more from a sort of politeness than real curiosity.

‘The usual sort of thing, you know. Hydromel when she can keep nothing else down, for the honey-and-water mixture will quench thirst and supply food for the baby. Liquids are good. Eggs, too. Sitting in the sunshine—fortunately we have a courtyard where she can do that. They consider it partly an eye problem. When she recovers she is to offer at the shrine an image of an eye—as for me, I should donate the image of a leg. I shall have them done in silver I think, and we will sacrifice a pig. By the time we have the images made, we shall have our baby—our boy, as I hope and believe.’

‘At least,’ I said, ‘you have already sacrificed a cock. In advance.’

‘A cock for Asklepios. Sokrates’ last words—as I know you will recall. The cock cries at dawn, so this is an offering for day, for light and life itself. When we are born we see daylight, enjoy the gift of our first dawning. In sacrificing a cock we give thanks for the new day.’

‘But Sokrates said that just before he died,’ I objected. ‘He didn’t get a new day. They were putting him to death at the time.’

‘Sokrates must have meant in thanksgiving for the new day, even though it was to be his last. But more truly, I suppose, he meant an offering of thanksgiving for the whole of his life, for the gift of birth. For being permitted to exist and to have a human life in the world. To live is a wonderful thing! When we get back to the Lykeion, let us look up Plato’s account in his wonderful book.’

We had left the Akropolis and skirted the Agora, already beginning to fill with the morning crowds, as we made for the city gate. Although they now had the benefit of daylight, the bearers of Pythia’s litter had a hard time in threading through some of the narrow streets with their burden. Men hammering metal or making chairs seemed determined to carry out their work on the footway, making the path difficult. Children ran up to us to try to sell us things. One of them, a little fellow wrapped in a cloak with a thick hood, was most persistent, poking some shabby herbs at us. At length Aristotle took the faded fennel and tossed him a coin: ‘just to get rid of him,’ as he explained.

‘That child doesn’t look very healthy,’ I said. ‘He probably has some illness if he is so wrapped up and hooded when it is nearly midsummer.’

Indeed, the day was growing warm already, though midsummer was some twenty days away. Outside the city, harvests were ripening, or had already been gathered. Hay had been cut. Sweet roses bloomed briefly and you could smell flowers even in Athens, where you cannot see the gardens that flourish behind house walls.

It would have been a relatively short journey to return to my own house; the way back to Aristotle’s house was slightly further, long enough for slaves with a burden. (Not that Pythia was heavy—far from it—but the litter itself was an awkward object.) Aristotle lived outside the city gates, in the opposite direction from Plato’s Akademeia, which was likewise outside the city gates. Aristotle lived in an eastern region, well watered by the Ilissos river and shaded with plane trees—a lovely area, though at that time quite noisy with the building of the new Stadium. His celebrated school was in the precinct named for Apollo Lykeios, the god of wolves—who, curiously, also keeps wolves away. Aristotle’s school was referred to as ‘the Lykeion’, just like the nearby gymnasium at which the young men did their military service training. He took private students, and had special scholars working with him, but the area was a place of open groves and free discussion; the Lykeion neighbourhood was a gathering-place for philosophers and philosophy-seekers. Most of Aristotle’s celebrated lectures were public in the good old fashion. The area had always been full of young men, so it was a good place to garner those who wanted to engage in intellectual conversation.

Aristotle had to rent accommodation for his family and his school. The law of Athens prohibited aliens, even a resident alien, a metoikos like Aristotle, from owning any property. Thus, even though he had been Plato’s best—and probably favourite—student, Plato could not bequeath the Akademeia to him. Aristotle had left Athens for a long time after the death of Plato. When he came back, married to this foreign woman, he rented his own residence in the Lykeion area. He had sunk some of his personal money in the place, adding on and creating outbuildings. His needs included an inordinate amount of space for books. Any major changes had to be approved by the city, and of course his improvements represented a loss, as he could not sell the place to another, nor legally bequeath it to his heirs.

When we arrived at the Lykeion, Aristotle was visibly anxious to see that Pythias was immediately settled in their home. ‘She is tired and needs to rest,’ he said.

‘Herpyllis will look after me,’ said a muffled voice from within the litter.

‘Olympos and Phokon will help us and put the litter away,’ Aristotle planned. ‘So, Theophrastos, why don’t you take Stephanos into our Thinkery and introduce him? Treat him to one of our modest meals? I shall join you later.’

The slaves set the litter down and helped their mistress out of it. Very gently Aristotle took her hand, and then put his arm around her. The two went up the shallow flight of garden steps to the house door. I heard her say ‘I am so glad Herpyllis is here now. You need not come in if you have your visitor.’

‘Of course I shall see you in, my darling,’ said Aristotle in a tone I had never heard him use before.

Theophrastos took charge of me and conveyed me a different way to the school’s main buildings. I knew the Lykeion well—I had studied there myself for all too short a time, attracted by Aristotle’s reputation and then by his intellect, until my father’s business dealing grew so entangled and his means so straitened that I had had to leave. Shortly after that, my father died, and my family was plunged in chaos. I was by no means one of the best students at the Lykeion and the lack of my presence cannot have been any blow to Aristotle. But I turned to my old teacher later. After the death of my father, when my cousin was accused of murder and our family was besieged by difficulties, I came to ask Aristotle for help, though I had no claim upon him. I had turned up at his house, seeking advice, one day in the early autumn, nearly three years before this morning’s visit to the Asklepion. I had reason to be glad I did so, for the philosopher’s generous intellect and practical activity saved our family from disaster. Aristotle and I had recently been involved in another curious crime, when we had pursued an abducted heiress to Delphi in the spring of this same year whose summer warmth we were now enjoying.

Despite my growing friendship with Aristotle, however, I was by no means familiar with the Lykeion in its present state. Changes had been wrought since my time, as Theophrastos pointed out to me.

‘We had to add more space—we extended the book room, simply because we had so many books. That’s not counting the ones that Aristotle keeps in his own house.’ I nodded, for I had seen him at home in his personal room with its surprising quantity of books. ‘We have a special compartment for keeping especially valuable rolls dry and clean,’ Theophrastos went on. ‘Aristotle calls it the book-pantry. And he designed this room.’

We were entering a long room—about twice the length I remembered. The upper half of each wall was now lined with shelves and compartments for book-rolls. The room smelt sweetly of the wood; it struck me that these boards, obviously of very good quality, must have been a costly importation, since wood is extremely scarce in Athens. In the lower middle of the wall below the book compartments and at waist height was a wide shelf running around the whole room, making a sort of universal work space. The light came in from windows high up under the roof, to keep rain out.

‘Aristotle calls this room the book kitchen. We write here as well as read. He designed those windows and had shades of linen made, so the sun doesn’t fall directly on the rolls when they are open, and fade them,’ Theophrastos explained. I could see that on the side of the room which the sun struck the windows were covered with strips of cloth.

‘And now we have so many plants and specimens sent by Kallisthenes we are housing them in a special plant room.’ He turned towards the door. ‘Oh, here’s Demetrios.’

A young man of most striking and unusual beauty came into view. This Demetrios was tall and well-shaped, with an admirable—nay, perfect—nose; his hair, worn rather long, was a sunny colour even in this pleasantly shady room. ‘Demetrios of Phaleron,’ Theophrastos introduced us. ‘Stephanos of Kydathenion.’ I wondered fleetingly why Theophrastos introduced us by naming the deme rather than by father’s name; such a beautiful young man must have an eminent father. Demetrios nodded kindly to me. Although he could not have been much more than twenty years of age, the aristocratic youth seemed possessed of great aplomb.

‘Demetrios has done most of these wonderful drawings,’ Theophrastos explained. ‘Demetrios, do move those shades a moment so Stephanos can see better.’

I now realised that against one wall, resting on the very furthest reach of the wide shelf, there were a series of drawings and diagrams. This was certainly not like the usual picture gallery! No Daphnes or Andromedas. They were the oddest things. Here was a picture devoted to an animal’s leg, its parts labelled. There was a womb, and a scrotum with the testes—the central figures without any bodies attached. One picture was full of various spiny fish, with crustaceans displayed in a strip at the lower edge.

‘Exceedingly well done,’ I exclaimed politely, looking at these uncouth images of squid and sea-urchins. ‘You have a variety of ingredients in your book-kitchen.’

Demetrios of Phaleron laughed. ‘You must not think,’ he assured me, ‘that Aristotle thinks it denigrating for us to refer to his pantry and his kitchen. He claims the centre of the body is a kind of kitchen or furnace. The stomach is always busy cooking, and the heart too, kindling and sustaining the natural heat, without which the soul cannot function. And the nourishment–’

‘Is transmitted to the rest of the body,’ continued Theophrastos.

‘Where every part continues the work and cooks with its own heat,’ the two chorused, evidently repeating well-known phrases and opinions of the master. A curly-haired youth came into the room, attracted by their amusement.

‘Ah, here’s Mikon. Stephanos, son of Nikiarkhos. Mikon, son of Thrasymakhos.’ The merry little fellow of some fourteen summers came confidently up to us. That he was well-born I could have deduced from the fact that Theophrastos made such a formal introduction of this child. ‘Mikon has made unusual progress. And he has assisted in creating the pictures—he has done much of the shading and coloration.’

‘Impressive,’ I agreed. ‘What are the pictures for?’

‘They’re going to go into books,’ Mikon exclaimed. ‘And be read by everybody!’

‘When they are finished,’ Demetrios explained. ‘That is the idea—they will be copied into the books on animals that Aristotle has been working on.’

‘And then,’ added Mikon, ‘there are all the new plants to examine.’

‘Yes,’ said Demetrios. ‘Let us show you, Stephanos. Aristotle’s nephew Kallisthenes, who travels with Alexander, has sent us new plants from Asia.’

‘I should like to see them,’ I said politely. I knew from Aristotle’s talk of Kallisthenes that he held this nephew in high regard. So did Alexander of Makedon. Kallisthenes, as an outstanding scholar and writer, had been chosen by Alexander to accompany him to Asia. Aristotle’s nephew was now travelling with Alexander and his army in order to write the official history of the Great War with Persia that was taking place. Or had taken place. As Alexander now held Persepolis and Babylon, it only remained to find and kill King Darius of Persia. But I hadn’t quite realised that Kallisthenes was still a kind of partner in Aristotle’s own labours, providing him with a steady supply of Asian materials for his natural studies.

We went from this ‘book kitchen’ to the next room through a short corridor with a door at each end. I presumed efforts had been made to shut off the room of living specimens so that the damp and smell should not pervade the book room. In various places on the wall and hanging from hooks in the ceiling were innumerable (so it seemed) roots and branches. One bush had ruffled rosy bloom upon it—most attractive, with an interesting smell. But many of the plants seemed dull, dry and withered.

‘It is hard to keep them,’ said Demetrios, following my gaze.

‘Kallisthenes packs them cleverly in damp moss and so on, but they do suffer. And Athens’ air is probably saltier than these upland plants are used to.’

Some animal skeletons also hung from the ceiling (I thought I recognised a dog). In tall thick pottery containers pieces of animals floated. On a large work-table were scattered drawings of the plants and a number of writing tablets, some covered with information.

‘This is our back kitchen or slaughterhouse,’ explained Demetrios. ‘Nowadays we tend to call it the plant room. But we are mainly interested in animals.’

‘Who is writing?’ I asked, looking at the tablets.

‘We all do. We design a description on the wax tablet,’ explained Demetrios. ‘Then we discuss it—and if we agree upon it, someone copies it out into the big book that is the draft of our eventual catalogue. Here’s Hipparkhos of Argos. He can explain some things better than I can, especially the animals.’

Hipparkhos was a big eager-looking man with a long face and long sensible nose.

‘And do you work on horses?’ I enquired. As this man’s name means ‘master of horses’–really, Master of Horse, describing a cavalry leader—I thought this pleasantry rather clever. I might not have thought of it had Hipparkhos not looked so like a horse himself. But he frowned at my frivolous question, looking like a horse inperplexity.

‘We have no great variety of horses here. The common horse is a well-known quadruped. Could we obtain a different sort of horse from Asia, of course we should like that. Aristotle is looking for a variety of animal kinds. I’m working with Eudemos here in writingdescriptions.’

‘Stephanos, son of Nikiarkhos of Athens.’ Theophrastos’ tone moved to extreme formality, so I guessed almost before I saw him that this newcomer was very well born. ‘Eudemos of Rhodos.’

Eudemos was tall, with dark curling hair; he was much more handsome than one expects in a scholar, though not as statuesque as young Demetrios. Eudemos acknowledged me with aristocratic ease. Without unnecessary change of facial expression he murmured some conventional expressions of his pleasure. ‘And Arkhandros of Lampsakos.’ Arkhandros was pale, like a root vegetable kept too long in a cellar, and his black hair only emphasised his pallor.

‘These scholars,’ Theophrastos explained, ‘all assist in the great undertaking. They are Aristotle’s chief—er—’

‘You may call us assistants,’ said Eudemos politely. ‘Along with Theophrastos here, the scholar on whom the master most relies. We are Aristotle’s cooks. We cut up animals and plants.’

‘But it is more than that,’ exclaimed young Mikon. ‘We are going to produce a rational plan of all the things that are—so everything that is will be known.’

‘All that is! That is too tall an order.’ Aristotle had come up behind us. ‘But we are trying to explore the universe of Nature, and to create rational categories for living beings.’

‘Without the appropriate categories, thinking cannot happen,’ added Arkhandros, probably quoting or paraphrasing something he had heard from Aristotle himself.

‘You see what great steps we are taking in our journey towards knowledge, Stephanos,’ Aristotle said to me. ‘This is something I have been working on since I was a young man—after I left Plato’s Akademeia—but it was not possible to complete it when I was working on my own. Now I have these able assistants and scholars’–he waved a comprehensive hand–‘to aid me, so we proceed apace. As Herodotos wrote his gigantic enquiry into the whole nature and development of the war between Persians and Greeks, so I am writing a full account of the animals. Here we observe and write down all the differences between them that allow us to set them into different classes. We observe the wonderful order which is everywhere in the cosmos, though sometimes seeming too small—or too large—for us to see.’

I murmured politely, but I felt somewhat repelled by the musty earthy odour of the plant roots, and even more by the meaty contents of the pots.

‘It seems strange for a philosopher to be concerned with animals,’ I remarked.

‘But why? As we are, as Plato suggests, featherless bipeds, we should have respect for the animals. We study Art—why not Nature, so much greater than the arts? We must not pout because flesh or blood or spines or beaks or organs are distasteful—we can leave childish exclamations of disgust to children. The question is, how can we discuss a world which we do not know? We live in ignorance, and our descriptions are partial and irregular. The same with calendars—you know that I have been interested in collecting accounts of the Olympian and Pythian Games, and so on. Not because I am peculiarly concerned with athletic events, but because these lists give us measurements of time—year after year. Eventually—soon—we can construct a regular world calendar, with all events set on a line of time, giving us a uniform picture of temporal reality without which history—the study of mankind—isn’t possible.’

I felt a bit alarmed at this notion. ‘I like Athenian time,’ I said.

‘Well, let us say that in Athenian time and Lykeion time we call it time to eat. Stay to take food with us,’ said Aristotle. ‘I shall eat with the scholars and pupils today, as Pythias is very fatigued and needs to lie down. Fortunately she has Herpyllis with her. A real treasure!–a household slave from my mother’s family in Euboia. She’s an accomplished nurse, and good with children. Pythias thinks the world of her. I encouraged Pythias to lie down as I really don’t like the swelling in her ankles,’ he added. I was embarrassed by being made the recipient of such intimate information. But Aristotle had no close relative of his own nearby (except perhaps for Theophrastos, whose exact degree of kinship remained undefined), and I supposed he needed to share these family details with someone.

‘Mikon, do you call the others into the Refectory,’ Eudemos commanded. ‘Tell them the meal is ready now.’ Mikon departed eagerly.

‘I should add that it is a very humble meal,’ said Aristotle. ‘We don’t drink wine when we are working in the middle of the day. Very Pythagorean, our repast. I promise you, we’ll see to it that you are not served anything in those pots!’

We departed from the room of specimens and went into a long room, an indoor lecture hall, where the slaves had set up plank tables on trestles. Stools were placed along the edge. It was a simple arrangement for a simple meal. The little band of young students filed in, led by Mikon. They were healthy and sun-tanned, laughing and talking, their din only a little repressed by the presence of Aristotle and the senior scholars. Their presence and chatter added a note of cheer. But one among them seemed sad and withdrawn, and stared down at his plate without consuming anything.

‘How do you like our arrangement?’ Aristotle asked me. I was seated in the position of honour, on his right, a post usually, I imagined, reserved for Eudemos or Theophrastos. ‘Very much as it was in your day, I recall. We often eat out of doors now the weather is so fine, but it is easier and quicker for the slaves to set everything up here when there are a number of persons.’

‘And your slaves have had a wearisome slow errand to the Akropolis already. How did your visit to the shrine of Asklepios go, O Aristotle?’ enquired Demetrios.

‘Oh—well, just as those things always do,’ said Aristotle. I thought he wasn’t best pleased that his personal life should be the subject of general conversation in these surroundings. ‘Do you know,’ he added with a more general glance around, ‘I am myself supposedly descended from Asklepios, through his son Machaon?’

‘Then you should be a surgeon and slice things open,’ said Hipparkhos. ‘By the way, how are we going to deal with all our specimens now that it is so warm? Will they survive the hot weather?’

‘The weather has become most agreeable, hasn’t it?’ remarked Eudemos, who was on Aristotle’s left. ‘The month of Skiraphorion is delightful—especially as it has only antique and unimportant festivals. The Skira itself, for one. Quite charming. The procession of the priestess of Athena, the priest of Poseidon and the priest of the Sun all tramping out on the west road under a white canopy. And the best of it is, nobody knows what it means.’

‘This is also the month of the Dipolieia,’ remarked Theophrastos. ‘The festival of Zeus Polieus, guardian of the city.’

‘And the biggest sacrifice of the Dipolieia is the Buphonia. The time of the ox-slaying has come again! An Athenian custom. We ought to go.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Aristotle, ‘we can make up a party to see the murder of the ox. Would you come, Stephanos? It is probably a long while since you saw the Bouphonia.’

‘Thank you,’ I said politely.

Changing the topic, I asked Aristotle, idly enough, about the pale, unsociable pupil. ‘Who is the young fellow who seems so sad?’

‘He? You may actually have heard of him before, Theophrastos told me about him when you and I were coming back from Delphi in the early spring. Young Parmenion there was in a bad way. He gets very tearful and sad, often for no reason. And sometimes he has outbursts. He seemed better in the late spring, though I know he now has a real cause for concern, as he is worried about where his father is. But his troubles seem to be largely in his own mind, and I fear they now increase again.

‘Perhaps, Theophrastos—to this gentleman, who was seated on my right–‘you can tell us more of the condition of young Parmenion.’

‘Bad and getting worse,’ said Theophrastos. ‘I thought his bad mood was lifting, but now I fear it may be seriously deteriorating. We should really take him home, I fear. He’s too young to send on his own.’

‘He is the grandson of the great general Parmenion, isn’t he? Strange in one of such descent—if on the wrong side of the blanket—to show such weakness of mind,’ said Hipparkhos. ‘But as for taking him home—might be dangerous. Things are still disturbed in the East.’

‘We might have army protection. Certainly his whole family, including his father, is friendly to the royal house. Above all, great Parmenion, once chief Companion of King Philip and now Alexander’s second-in-command,’ said Theophrastos, in his precise manner. Theophrastos always loved to get facts in order. ‘It is true that this boy’s father was not a legitimate son of the great general, but he has always been treated quite as one of the family.’

‘The boy was allowed to be named after his grandfather.’ observed Hipparkhos.

‘Quite so. And Parmenion’s legitimate son Philotas, a brilliant general in his own right and one of the Companions of Alexander, is very fond of this nephew. The lad has reason to hope for favour and assistance—but we still are not quite sure where to find his father, Arkhebios. As a Makedonian soldier, he serves in Alexander’s army. At one time he was in the island of Rhodos, helping with the pacification. There is a possibility he has been moved to Kos.’

‘Well, you or Eudemos might take a trip eastward,’ said Aristotle jovially. ‘Eudemos might like to go—he comes from Rhodos, after all. A pity that we cannot do anything for the boy here. Perhaps a visit to a really good centre of medicine would help. Kos itself might help him.’

Dismissing that subject, he turned back to me.

‘Well what do you think of our Lykeion now?’ he asked. ‘Grown since your time, hasn’t it?’

‘It has,’ I acknowledged. I didn’t quite like thinking of ‘my time’ as a long way off.

‘Our book collection is considerable now. Fortunately, Theophrastos loves the books—taking care of them, I mean. He never lets them get dusty, nor the tabs get out of place. He sees to it that everything goes back to its correct location. As you see, we have attracted many excellent scholars to work with us. Eudemos comes from a very distinguished family in Rhodos, but he has spent his time here working, with his hands as well as his mind, on Asian plants. As he is from that region he has a familiarity that others might not. Though I myself had spent time on the Asian coast at Assos and in Lesbos. I came to know the coastal region of Asia pretty well, years ago. It was there I first seriously began studying animals, looking at the life of the shores, observing the rays and squid and crustaceans.’

‘So, you are going to try to describe everything that lives?’

‘That is what we would like to do—but it is too ambitious! Yet it is possible to work with such a multitude of kinds that what we say will be right. All men—even scholars—have lived hitherto with insufficient categories—even an entirely insufficient idea of what a category is. And truly we need to investigate systematically. We study the particulars.’

‘Aristotle thinks,’ said Demetrios, ‘that there is a kind of art in Nature—even in the small things.’

‘Assuredly, yes. Nothing is unimportant. Consider what Herakleitos said on the privy: Come in; there are gods even here. There

Reviews for Aristotle and the Secrets of Life

[antiquary_1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Much grimmer than the earlier books in the series. Has a horrible and as far as I can see gratuitous rape-murder of a very young girl.