Fable
The two men had been standing guard for about an hour. In the wooded hills a few hundred yards behind them, the army of Athens was settling down for the night. From a distance of a mile or so, on similar high ground, they could see the camp fires of the Spartans. Below and between the opposing forces, there was a flat plain of meadows and fields. Here, soon after dawn, the two armies would slug it out.
One of the guards might have been in his late teens or early twenties. He had the expression, if not quite the face or physique, of a statue, one of those works in which the subject stares longingly into the middle distance - not, you feel, at any physical object but rather at some noble and unattainable idea. His name was Lysias.
The other man was much older. He was short, and pot-bellied in a way that somehow suggested indulgence in many more vices than gluttony. His hands and feet were square and plump, his nose broad and flattish. The straggling, greyish beard gave the impression that you would find bits of food in it. The lips were thick and red; together with the heavy-lidded, slightly bulging eyes, they gave the face a permanent sneer. Most of his acquaintances called him by the nickname of Tubby.
It was the older man who broke the silence. ‘So, Lysias - it is Lysias, isn’t it? - they tell me you’re a bit of a thinker. Philosopher, like’.
The only reply was a noncommittal grunt. Among other things, Tubby was notorious for a tendency to idle chatter, and a fondness for handsome young men. Lysias had no wish to give encouragement on either count.
The stout man was undeterred. ‘Speaking for myself, I got no time for literature, philosophy, all that stuff. I mean, what’s it all based on, eh? Like you’d ask about a building, what’s the foundation? Just words. Nonsense’.
This time he provoked an answer. ‘It’s based, as you put it, on universal truths. How human beings can better themselves, through experience’.
‘Ah, but we can’t. Your precious literature proves that. Let’s go right to the top, let’s take Homer. Because none of these fancy modern playwrights have got the guts to say anything different from him. Didn’t Aeschylus say his plays were just slices from Homer’s backside?’
‘Banquet. Homer’s banquet’.
‘Ah, yeah, slip of the tongue. But anyway, what’s the Iliad about? War, fighting. And here we are, Zeus knows how many hundred years later. And if things have changed, what are we doing in the army?’
Lysias spoke as if addressing a dull child. ‘War may be recurrent, as may any external condition. But we can improve ourselves inwardly. That’s the point of literature’.
‘Oh, yeah? That lot in the Iliad, they’re supposed to be an example to us, are they? Achilles with his sulks and tantrums, and Agamemnon throwing his weight around, and Paris thinking from his crotch. Bloody fine examples they are!’
‘The heroes of the age of bronze had failings and weaknesses like us. Homer understood that; it’s what makes his work great’.
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. I’ll tell you one thing he didn’t understand, and that’s war. Tomorrow your first battle? Thought so. It’s my second. That’s one too many, take my word on that. Because when we get within spear length of that lot over there, you better forget all your Achilles and Hector nonsense’.
Lysias was silent with outrage. Tubby took this as acquiescence, and continued, ‘Oh, yes, we all know how that lot around Troy were supposed to have pegged out if they copped it: in dignified silence, like, or with a neat little speech. Well, whoever wrote all that could never have seen real fighting. I’ll tell you how a man really sounds when he gets a spear through his guts. You ever heard a woman giving birth? Multiply that by about ten, throw in the noise of a couple of heifers being butchered, and then you got some idea. Mind you’ - seeing the flicker of nervousness in the younger man’s face - ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about tomorrow. It’s a long way off’. He patted the other’s shoulder as if in innocent reassurance, but his touch was a trifle too lingering, and Lysias moved a step away.
Tubby accepted the rebuff philosophically (though he might not have used the word). ‘Another thing. I may only be a manual worker’ - he held up his hands to show the thick calloused fingers - ‘but in my line of work you get to have what you might call an eye for detail. And that’s wrong as well. In Homer and that. The details are all wrong’.
Lysias tried to convey scorn in his voice. ‘And just how does your “line of work” make you a literary critic?’
‘It comes down to noticing when things don’t look right. The Iliad’s about war, right? But war’s not just fighting. It’s being bored silly a lot of the time, and petty little annoyances. I’m not talking about battle wounds, but well, like for instance, these sandals of mine are new, and they’re making my feet sore. And, do you know, right now that worries me a lot more than the outcome of the ding-dong tomorrow. Admit it, don’t you find this sentry lark as tedious as hell? This is real soldiering, my son. I’d be more inclined to believe Homer if he said Odysseus got a splinter in his arse from hiding in the wooden horse’.
‘For heaven’s sake! The men who besieged Troy weren’t squalid little creatures like us! Like you especially. They were heroes; they were giants’.
‘Pardon me, but a couple of minutes ago you said they were ordinary blokes with failings and whatever’.
Lysias had the feeling of holding the moral high ground, yet being comprehensively if unfairly outmanoeuvred. Aware of sounding pedantic, he said, ‘For your information, Odysseus himself never hid in the horse’.
‘Oh? You there at the time, were you?’ Tubby pointed into the darkness. ‘There are the Spartans. You look over there and tell me a single thing about any of them; the colour of his eyes, how tall he is, anything. Can’t do it, can you? Now, you telling me you know what really happened all those hundreds of years ago, miles and miles away, when a distance of a few yards at night has you guessing? The most we can say for sure is that our lot and the Trojans had a set-to, and we must have come out on top because you don’t see many Trojans around nowadays. As for the rest, you can make it up as you go along, just like your precious Homer did. That Helen and Paris business, for example; never did ring true to me. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was really one of our side had the hots for a Trojan tart, and thought he might as well have their town along with his bit of naughty’.
Lysias spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Go away’.
‘I can’t do that. I’m on bleeding guard duty, aren’t I? You’re a thinking man; here’s what I think. We can’t make any sense of the past; it’s too far away. And if the people who arrive after we’re gone try to do the same with us, they’ll get it arse about face just the same. So what I say is, accept the time you live in, and take your pleasure where and when’. As he finished speaking, he moved closer to Lysias and aimed a slap at his backside.
The younger man knocked Tubby’s hand away with all his force. ‘Try that again, you fat bastard, and the Spartans won’t have to kill you. I’ll do it for them’.
‘Take it easy. I didn’t know you were one of those boring sods who only like women’.
‘Not women or men if they’re old and repulsive’. Lysias was white with rage. ‘I’ve had enough of your wandering hands, and of hearing you belittle things you’re too gross to understand. But I’ll tell you what makes me angrier still - you’ll survive tomorrow. You’ll live through this war and whatever comes after it, because you’re too vile to do anything else. Heroes make a stand, and are overcome, but people like you, disgusting little -’.
‘What the hell is going on?’ It was the officer of the guard; during the argument, they had not noticed his approach. ‘What’s all this noise? You’re on sentry duty! Keep your eyes and ears open, and your mouths shut. That goes for you especially, Tubby. I’ve had to speak to you before’.
‘If you’re going to reprimand me’ - in a tone of wounded dignity - ‘you might at least use my proper name’.
‘Oh, very sorry’. The officer bowed in mock apology. ‘Very sorry indeed, Socrates’.
Page(s) 70-73
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