for it seemed that they were unaware of it themselves. And both had a voracious, and complementary, appetite, as anything that one rejected was furiously devoured by the other, or sometimes the man picked up a bone from the floor that the dog hadn't finished gnawing and completed the task in a few quick bites.
And both man and dog smelt the same.
Reclining on one of the couches in the cenacle and holding a bunch of black grapes captive in his huge hands, the man was talking. His voice was thick, deep, with a strong foreign accent.
'What can I tell you, Heracles? What can I recount of the wonders that I've seen, the marvels that my Athenian eyes have witnessed and that my Athenian reasoning would never have accepted? You ask many questions, but I have no answers. I'm not a book, though I'm full of strange tales. I've travelled across India and Persia, Egypt and the kingdoms of the south, beyond the Nile. I've been to caves where lion-men dwell, and I've learned the violent language of serpents that think. I've walked barefoot over the sands of oceans that opened before me and closed behind me, like doors. I've watched black scorpions scratch their secret symbols in the dust. And I've seen magic bring death, and the many forms daemons take to manifest themselves to sorcerers, and I've heard the spirits of the dead speak through their loved ones. I swear, Heracles, there is a world outside Athens. And it is infinite.'
The man seemed to create silence with his words, like a spider weaves a web with thread from its belly. When he stopped talking, nobody spoke immediately. A moment later, the spell broke and the lips and eyelids of his listeners sprang to life.
'I'm delighted to see, Crantor,' said Heracles, 'that you have managed to fulfil your original aim. When I embraced you in Piraeus all those years ago, not knowing when I would see you again, I asked for the umpteenth time why you were choosing to go into exile. And I remember that you answered, also for the umpteenth time: "I want to be surprised every day." It would seem that you have succeeded.' Crantor grunted, no doubt signifying agreement. Heracles turned to Diagoras, who had remained silent and obedient on his couch, finishing his wine. 'Crantor and I are from the same deme and have known each other since childhood. We were educated together, and although I became an ephebe before him, we took part in identical missions during the war. Later, when I married, Crantor, who was extremely jealous, decided to travel the world. We bade each other farewell and so . . . until today. In those days we were separated only by our desires.' He paused and his eyes glinted with happiness. 'Do you know, Diagoras? In my youth, I wanted to be a philosopher, like you.'
Diagoras expressed sincere surprise.
'And I, a poet,' said Crantor in his powerful voice, also addressing Diagoras.
'But he ended up becoming a philosopher—' 'And he a Decipherer of Enigmas!'
They laughed. Crantor's was a dirty, awkward laugh. Diagoras thought it sounded like a collection of other people's laughs, acquired on his travels. He himself simply smiled politely, while Ponsica, shrouded in silence, removed the empty platters from the table and poured more wine. It was now dark inside the cenacle, save for the light of the oil lamps picking out the faces of the three men, creating the illusion that they were floating in the darkness of a cave. Cerberus crunched ceaselessly and, occasionally, the violent cries of the crowds running through the streets shot, like lightning, through the windows.
Crantor refused Heracles' offer of a bed for the night. He explained that he was only passing through the City on his life of constant travel; he was heading north, beyond Thrace, to the barbarian kingdoms, in search of the Hyperboreans, and didn't intend to remain in Athens more than a few days; he wished to amuse himself at the Lenaea and go to the theatre -'To the only good theatre in Athens: the
And both man and dog smelt the same.
Reclining on one of the couches in the cenacle and holding a bunch of black grapes captive in his huge hands, the man was talking. His voice was thick, deep, with a strong foreign accent.
'What can I tell you, Heracles? What can I recount of the wonders that I've seen, the marvels that my Athenian eyes have witnessed and that my Athenian reasoning would never have accepted? You ask many questions, but I have no answers. I'm not a book, though I'm full of strange tales. I've travelled across India and Persia, Egypt and the kingdoms of the south, beyond the Nile. I've been to caves where lion-men dwell, and I've learned the violent language of serpents that think. I've walked barefoot over the sands of oceans that opened before me and closed behind me, like doors. I've watched black scorpions scratch their secret symbols in the dust. And I've seen magic bring death, and the many forms daemons take to manifest themselves to sorcerers, and I've heard the spirits of the dead speak through their loved ones. I swear, Heracles, there is a world outside Athens. And it is infinite.'
The man seemed to create silence with his words, like a spider weaves a web with thread from its belly. When he stopped talking, nobody spoke immediately. A moment later, the spell broke and the lips and eyelids of his listeners sprang to life.
'I'm delighted to see, Crantor,' said Heracles, 'that you have managed to fulfil your original aim. When I embraced you in Piraeus all those years ago, not knowing when I would see you again, I asked for the umpteenth time why you were choosing to go into exile. And I remember that you answered, also for the umpteenth time: "I want to be surprised every day." It would seem that you have succeeded.' Crantor grunted, no doubt signifying agreement. Heracles turned to Diagoras, who had remained silent and obedient on his couch, finishing his wine. 'Crantor and I are from the same deme and have known each other since childhood. We were educated together, and although I became an ephebe before him, we took part in identical missions during the war. Later, when I married, Crantor, who was extremely jealous, decided to travel the world. We bade each other farewell and so . . . until today. In those days we were separated only by our desires.' He paused and his eyes glinted with happiness. 'Do you know, Diagoras? In my youth, I wanted to be a philosopher, like you.'
Diagoras expressed sincere surprise.
'And I, a poet,' said Crantor in his powerful voice, also addressing Diagoras.
'But he ended up becoming a philosopher—' 'And he a Decipherer of Enigmas!'
They laughed. Crantor's was a dirty, awkward laugh. Diagoras thought it sounded like a collection of other people's laughs, acquired on his travels. He himself simply smiled politely, while Ponsica, shrouded in silence, removed the empty platters from the table and poured more wine. It was now dark inside the cenacle, save for the light of the oil lamps picking out the faces of the three men, creating the illusion that they were floating in the darkness of a cave. Cerberus crunched ceaselessly and, occasionally, the violent cries of the crowds running through the streets shot, like lightning, through the windows.
Crantor refused Heracles' offer of a bed for the night. He explained that he was only passing through the City on his life of constant travel; he was heading north, beyond Thrace, to the barbarian kingdoms, in search of the Hyperboreans, and didn't intend to remain in Athens more than a few days; he wished to amuse himself at the Lenaea and go to the theatre -'To the only good theatre in Athens: the
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