By the olive trees, near the wrestling arena, across from the local temple, and just beyond the harsh bustle
of the marketplace, stood a tribe composed of youth, arrayed in a semicircle
upon the greenness of the grass. At the focal point, a beardless boy
commanded their attention with wit and aplomb, but certainty not with
striking features, for a nose like a squashed plum and the early
indication of a jowl rounded chin do not garner admirers.
Listening, bound by an affinity of a
childish desire to appear adult, they suffered discourse upon any topic of
mature origin: war, politics, society, or sex. Antiochis, speaker,
sensed, but didn't fully comprehend, the delicacy of this bond, yet
endeavored eagerly to maintain it.
“Let me explain how our brave
soldiers overcome the cowardly foe,” he declaimed, beginning a
new topic, as interest wavered.
But in their intentness, a man had
stolen upon them, and standing at the transition from stone to soil,
he interrupted, “You don't know anything!”
With the opening of the semicircle
facing away from the market into the field, the audience had failed
to perceive the approach of the interlocutor, and in response they
orbited around Antiochis, yearning for a proper trial of retort and
retaliation.
Antiochis replied, “I know a bit for
my age, how to cut a stone, how to speak to an audience, and why the
Archon's wife sneaks out at night.”
The other boys giggled, uplifting Antiochis with pride in his craft. Here stood this solid, stolid,
staid adult, turned to stone by cleverness, crumbling under the
pressure of a public performance. Prepare for the counter attack,
then deliver a second blow. Antiochis observed the man's pale eyes, and the
underlying discomfort of his weakening position. A movement,
conveyed in advance, formed a new scene: a youth sprawled upon the
ground, a scream of pain radiating across the square, and a
shamefaced, but unrepentant man, kneeling in semi-apology over the
prone figure.
“I didn't mean to hit him,” he said
a to congregation of adults, drawn by the scream and concentrating on the spectacle. His head swiveled back and forth, but angled downward to
avoid visual contact. “I didn't mean to hit him,” he petitioned,
twice more, before Antiochis moaned, twisting awkwardly into a
sitting position. With eyes expressing pain, he leaned into the
man's shadow and pulled him close, as the anxious adults murmured.
“I'm sorry,” began the man.
“But it doesn't matter,” replied
Antiochis, jovial in victory, his face hidden from the adult audience,
“for they will remember your aggressive attitude, and you will not
forget your defeat."
With a hesitancy, its source a mixture of respect, disgust, and fear, the man disentangled himself from Antiochis and stood up. The scene concluded, the adults dissipated, left Antiochis surrounded by a cheering crowd like an Olympian champion, and left the man alone, in shame.
….
Another day, another encounter. With
his entourage, Antiochis scampered about the stone streets,
exhilarated with the intent to convey and confound. Resting
momentarily in the shade of an outcropping, but still declaiming with
the intent to delight and enthrall, a silence fell upon his tongue
and he turned. Not a loyal soul remained, and towering over him
stood the man from the marketplace.
“Demetrius,” he said, offering a
hand, the other holding a near empty bag of figs.
“Antiochis,” the boy replied,
casually twisting and turning to view the terrain.
“If you need to flee, you needn't
worry about me, nor thee, for I haven't the energy to chase, nor
remains an audience to disgrace,” he said with a twinkle in his
eye.
“You don't frighten me,” said
Antiochis, shifting from foot to foot. “I only wonder where my
companions went.”
Raising his bag slightly Demetrius said, “It appears
loyalty bought with sweet words, fails against a honeyed fruit.”
“For what reason have you expended
such effort?” Antiochis asked with a mixture of apprehension and
intrigue. Already he was drawn to the success of Demetrius, though
nervous lest he seek revenge. Whenever his visitor approached, he
withdrew an equal distance. Seeing this, Demetrius ceased his efforts to draw near, though occasionally, unconsciously, he shuffled
forward. Demetius had achieved this meeting, perfectly as he'd
planned, but he hesitated, uncertain how to win Antiochis' attention,
rather than his enmity or apathy.
“Antiochis, though one's audience
might be bought with sugar, you are ensnared by a greater drug, the
skill of oratory and its rewards; attention, admiration, and authority.
Already peerless, except for Perikles and his performances, one must
consider whether it is wise to follow his example.” Demetrius
realized he was pontificating, but couldn't determine a better method
to relay his information.
“I speak of that which interests me,
what I understand,” said Antiochis.
“No, you are drawn to speak of the
petty trivialities which interest the mob,” said Demetrius,
realizing he was approaching this problem incorrectly, but unable to
correct course, “when you should set your mind to understanding
things under the earth, and in heaven, as Thales and Pythagoras have begun.”
“Old man,” said Anitochis, for the
wobbling of the man's beard reminded him of his father's, and he said
it to offend, for he could discern Demetrius was only just emerging into
the proper age of adulthood, “I haven't any need for those objects
which are beyond sight, or too distant to impinge upon my sphere. As
you have already explained, I speak like Perikles, and like any
urchin, can aspire to improve one's lot in the political arena, where
the orator can establish a legacy of Solon or earn a reputation as Demosthenes. I needn't draw your attention to my features, which
wise and knowledgeable men will overlook,at, but the mass will scoff at. To earn attention, a follow must be amassed with the tools at hand, my rhetoric, spoken so the mob hears what it wishes. And so, your
offer, intended with generosity, must be ridiculed as the naive
ideal of the youth you appear to be.”
Without a further word, Antiochis
turned and walked away, but he did not return to the square the next
day or the next, and soon he was but a faded memory.
….
But some years
later, as an aged Demetrius walked the streets, he heard a long forgotten
voice, and it said, in reply, to some men gathered together, “What,
Lysimachus, are you going to accept the opinion of the majority?”
Demetrius smiled and walked on.
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