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Outskirts Press - Edward Mallon

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155 pages

English

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This historical novel is set in ancient Greece during a crucial two year period from 338 – 336 B.C.E. The young poet Aristides, outside the city of Thebes, narrates his life from age 14 to 16 and near his death at 70 in Egypt as he looks back upon his life’s journey. It is the time of King Philip II of Macedon and his son Alexander, (18-20) soon to be the Great. The intrigue, struggle for love and power in the royal court of kings, is the background as Aristides comes of age.

After a fierce battle on the fields of Chaeronea, King Philip’s military genius defeats the combined armies of Athens, Thebes, and their many allies. He now becomes the master of all the Greek City-States except Sparta. Aristides, the poet and creator of stories, is captured and tasked to write the King’s exploits in verse so that Philip can become immortal like Achilles in Homer’s great poem The Iliad.

In such an environment, Aristides grows from a naive boy into a young man searching for the answers to life’s many challenges. Will he find love, fulfillment, purpose? This is the story of Thebes 338 B.C.E. as the poet searches for the meaning of his life.

Near his life’s end in the city of Alexandra under the rule of Ptolemy, the first Greek Pharaoh of Egypt, Aristides is struck, like a bolt of lightning, with enlightenment in the arms of his most beloved. This divine knowledge is his gift to us as he writes the story of his life. He lived under three great kings, Philip, Alexander, and Ptolemy, when the world was ablaze with wonder and excitement. It was a time when the ancient gods were feared, honored, and appeased. It was a time when the world was young. It is a time of rebirth for us where we all can be young again.

Sujets

Historical

Fiction

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Publié par	Outskirts Press
Date de parution	02 mars 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781977253217
Langue	English

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Thebes 338 B.C.E. All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2022 Edward Mallon v7.0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com
ISBN: 978-1-9772-5321-7
Cover Photo © 2022 Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli . All rights reserved - used with permission.
Outskirts Press and the "OP" logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
For the bouquet of those Who have given me their love Diana, David, Leah, Kathleen, Elizabeth, and Grandma Rose
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
EPILOGUE
NOTES
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
SOURCES
PROLOGUE
What you are about to read is based on a true story. The events, circumstances, and characters have come to us from an archaeological treasure chest that spans the entire globe. On the first day of spring in 1965, Professor Patrick Mallon of Trinity College, Dublin and Dr. Gina Elizabetta Orsini of Rome’s Musie Vaticani met at an antiquities conference in Cairo, Egypt. During the morning of the meeting, the hotel’s crowded conference room was somewhat uncomfortable, so, hoping for a cool breeze, some of the guests had lunch at a palm-shaded cafe overlooking the Nile.
While at lunch, Patrick took a paper from his backpack that he was scheduled to deliver that afternoon. He had pieced together scroll segments carbon dated to the time of Alexander the Great. The edges were burnt, but the text was still clear. Together, the pieces formed various papyrus segments of a history with the beginning of the author’s name at the end. The glass of iced tea in Gina’s hand fell to the stone floor. She knew where other matching segments lay.
During the second week of spring at the Vatican Museum, the segments were joined, revealing, after more than twenty-three hundred years, the author’s full name. As one discovery often leads to another, this find led to others, a thirty-year search. What you are about to read is that ancient author’s life story. I have made only a slight attempt to capture the beauty of his lines. So much was experimental and composed from diverse cultural elements that it is impossible to recreate it out of the work’s full context or out of its ancient Greek meter. I can only sketch the artist’s work from what we have – the ruins of a Parthenon.
This story might have been a more inclusive account of his life as a writer and poet, if only there were more extant fragments from the original works or secondary sources. Today we have eight medium-sized cartons filled with segments of poems, letters, histories, inscriptions, fables, and part of a drama. So much has been lost to time, ignorance, indifference, and abuse. But rather than mourn for what is lost, I cherish what exists by weaving together the various elements of his work to tell his amazing story. Now, slowly, after long hours of research, translation, conjecture, inspiration, and the exhaustion from years of trying to understand and reconstruct fragments, I have, with much help from my parents and their many friends, utilized the stone blocks of scholarship and ventured to build over the remnants of a life, a pyramid to the immortality of the human spirit. May the ancient gods be pleased.
Although the early Greeks referred to themselves as Hellenes in the lands of Hellas, for clarity I have used the later words of Greek and Greece to describe them. In their creation myth, the first man was Hellen born of the Titan Prometheus’ son Deucalion and his wife Pyrrha. Thus, the ancient Greeks saw themselves as sons of Hellen. This was the age of tribes and clans with three main groups called Aeolians, Ionians, and Dorians. Eventually they evolved into what we know as the Greeks.
I thank the Fates for that chance meeting alongside the Nile. I thank my parents, Patrick and Gina Elizabetta, for spending the next thirty years of their lives in a collaborative effort to find other segments of this man’s story. He traveled the ancient world when it was alive with mystery and wonder. He lived in palaces and huts, fought wars, drank, made love, procreated, and wrote in a time that still touched upon the Classical Greek Age even though Greece had moved on to world conquest. Over two thousand years later, today I wonder if it is still possible to live a life of such profound artistic brilliance. From my mouth to God’s ear.
1
A glowing cinder has been stolen from the altar. A fire has been lit. The night looms about me like a silent hungry beast. "Get away," I shout. I have chanted incantations passed down to us from the gods. I have sworn an oath of dedication. My body is wounded with age and yet I kneel. Olive oil and warm bread have been offered. Spring wine has been poured. It perfumes the air tempting dreams. Yet here, tonight, while there is still a breath stirring, I pray thee, Brilliant Apollo, "Relax my throat that I may sing."
I was born in Greece, but I live in Egypt. Greek Thebes was my city. On nights when I cannot sleep, I prowl the dark corridors of the Pharaoh’s palace poking the snoring guards awake, but to no avail. I cannot escape my thoughts. Across a violent sea, I see my city lying in ruin. She is but a broken skeleton under the blaze of an unforgiving sun.
The King is dead, Alexander. He has been dead for many years. His empire from Pella to Athens to Persia to the ever-flowing Nile has been ripped into four bloody segments. Each remnant, like the corpse of a slaughtered lamb, has its own scavenger king gorging on the remains. I have known them all, the broken dissimilar lands, in their glory and ruination. Today, many years later, I live in Alexandria with Ptolemy, My Lord Ptolemy, Alexander’s boyhood friend, his fierce general. It is he who now sits on the Pharaoh’s throne. Greek Ptolemy is the Egyptian King and I am pleased to be his houseguest or so he reminds me with the sharp edge of a sword. After the evening meal he sends me red haired boys with strong wine and little girls bearing honey cakes. I am afforded every privilege in this strange land where people kneel to stone birds and bow to crocodiles.
Fierce animal gods and the ever-flowing waters of the Nile, this is my Egypt. On cool mornings when I roam the construction-cluttered streets of this new city, Alexandria, dragging my lame foot, I have an escort of soldiers clattering behind me into every single shop and alleyway. I think of their clamor as my music, but the trades-people, when they hear my din, lower their eyes, look away or suddenly become busy beating non-existent dust out of newly woven rugs. I pay them no mind. They are simple people who may not understand my language. I have no need to talk, I mumble, I can write what I know.
Then once again I hear her, the sea, calling to me on the wind in soft tones, "Aristides." I walk out to the sand dunes looking for the vision with glistening eyes, the goddess with the body firm and full, ample breasts, the muse who for a few kind offerings will grant you safe passage, but all I find is my imprint in the sand like a reptile with a heavy tail, like a ghost with a clattering bell.
After the sun falls, long before dawn at darkest night, alone out of the quiet corridors on my balcony, where I consider the brightness of stars, I begin to yearn for my youth, my city, Thebes. Sometimes if the gods are kind, she comes to me on a pillowed dream.

Not far from my village the Asopus River branched off into a stream of clear water. It flowed through a valley filled with morning glories rich in nectar. At the edge of a meadow the water splashed down over boulders into a large pond that reflected the lapis lazuli of a summer sky. On hot afternoons our grandparents sat under the shade of fig trees snacking on the fruit, while we dove and splashed and tried to grab little yellow-orange fish. We would hold our breath, kick our feet, and push our naked bodies deeper towards the bottom until one, not always the hardiest, was able to grab a fish. Rising up with the bubbles, the child would burst back into the air holding the prize high above his head. Sometimes it was the youngest that won, but always the champion was greeted with loud cheers.
On other nights when the air is heavy with moisture from the swamp and it is difficult to breathe in this stone tomb of a palace, I weigh life, my life, and am astounded by the strength and audacity of youth. Thebes, I remember that last day outside your gates when I first set my eyes on Philip and his son Alexander. It is as vibrant as a wall painting. I was a fledgling out of the nest on untried wings. I fluttered above a lion’s cub about to test his paw. When Alexander spotted me, my life changed forever.

A dawn’s light flooded the horizon when Uncle Thamyris rode into our village. He was on a black steed shouting that Philip’s army had changed direction. The Macedonian troops were closing in on the fields of Chaeronea, a day’s march from our village, two from Thebes. Mother rushed into the house and pulled clay jars, wine strainers, and dried mulberries off the shelves. Father