“He insulted us—” began one of the youths, but Brownbeard ignored him. He said:
“I am sorry you have had so rude an introduction to our royal house. This mass of youthful insolence” (he indicated Pimples) “is the Alexandros Philippou, heir to the throne of Makedonia.” He introduced the others: Hephaistion, who had knocked my hat off and was now holding the others’ horses: Nearchos, who had lost his horse; Ptolemaios, who had gone for weapons; and Harpalos and Philotas. He continued:
“When the Ptolemaios dashed into the house, I inquired the reason for his haste, learned of their quarrel with you, and came out forthwith. They have misapplied their master’s teachings. They should not behave thus even to a barbarian like yourself, for in so doing they lower themselves to the barbarian’s level. I am returning to the house of Aristoteles. You may follow.”
The man turned his horse and started walking it back towards Mieza. The six boys busied themselves with catching Nearchos’ horse.
I walked after him, though I had to dog-trot now and then to keep up. As it was uphill, I was soon breathing hard. I panted:
“Who—my lord—are you?”
The man’s beard came round and he raised an eyebrow. “I thought you would know. I am Antipatros, regent of Makedonia.”
Before we reached the village proper, Antipatros turned off through a kind of park, with statues and benches. This, I supposed, was the Precinct of the Nymphs, which Aristotle used as a school ground. We went through the park and stopped at a mansion on the other side. Antipatros tossed the reins to a groom and slid off his horse.
“Aristoteles!” roared Antipatros. “A man wishes to see you.”
A man of about my own age—the early forties—came out. He was of medium height and slender build, with a thin-lipped, severe-looking face and a pepper-and-salt beard cut short. He was wrapped in a billowing himation or large cloak, with a colorful scroll-patterned border. He wore golden rings on several fingers.
Antipatros made a fumbling introduction: “Old fellow, this is—ah—what’s-his-name from—ah—some place in India.” He told of rescuing me from Alexander and his fellow delinquents, adding: “If you do not beat some manners into your pack of cubs soon, it will be too late.”
Aristotle looked at me sharply and lisped: “It ith always a pleasure to meet men from afar. What brings you here, my friend?”
I gave my name and said: “Being accounted something of a philosopher in my own land, I thought my visit to the West would be incomplete without speaking to the greatest Western philosopoher. And when I asked who he was, everyone told me to seek out Aristoteles Nikomachou.”
Aristotle purred. “It is good of them to thay tho. Ahem. Come in and join me in a drop of wine. Can you tell me of the wonders of India?”
“Yes indeed, but you must tell me in turn of your discoveries, which to me are much more wonderful.”
“Come, come, then. Perhaps you could stay over a few days. I shall have many, many things to athk you.”
That is how I met Aristotle. He and I hit it off, as we said in my world, from the start. We had much in common. Some people would not like Aristotle’s lisp, or his fussy, pedantic ways, or his fondness for worrying any topic of conversation to death. But he and I got along fine.
That afternoon, in the house that King Philip had built for Aristotle to use as the royal school, he handed me a cup of wine flavored with turpentine and asked:
“Tell me about the elephant, that great beast we have heard of with a tail at both ends. Does it truly exist?”
“Indeed it does,” I said, and went on to tell what I knew of elephants, while Aristotle scribbled notes on a piece of papyrus.
“What do they call the elephant in India?” he asked.
The question caught me by surprise, for it had never occurred to me to learn ancient Hindustani along with all the other things I had to know for this expedition. I sipped the wine to give me time to think. I have never cared for alcoholic liquors, and this stuff tasted awful to me. But, for the sake of my objective, I had to pretend to like it. No doubt I should have to make up some kind of gibberish—but then a mental broad-jump carried me back to the stories of Kipling I had read as a boy.
“We call it a hathi” I said. “Though of course there are many languages in India.”
“How about that Indian wild ath of which Ktesias thpeakth, with a horn in the middle of its forehead?”
“You had better call it a nose-horn (rhinokeros) for that is where its horn really is, and it is more like a gigantic pig than an ass…”
As dinner-time neared, I made some artful remarks about going out to find accommodations in Mieza, but Aristotle (to my joy) would have none of it. I should stay right there at the school; my polite protestations of unworthiness he waved aside.
“You mutht plan to stop here for months,” he said. “I shall never, never have such a chance to collect data on India again. Do not worry about expense; the king pays all. You are—ahem—the first barbarian I have known with a decent intellect, and I get lonethome for good tholid talk. Theophrastos has gone to Athens, and my other friends come to these back-lands but seldom.”
“How about the Macedonians?”
“Aiboi! Thome like my friend Antipatros are good fellows, but most are as lackwitted as a Persian grandee. And now tell me of Patal—what is your city’s name?”
Presently Alexander and his friends came in. They seemed taken aback at seeing me closeted with their master. I put on a brisk smile and said: “Rejoice, my friends!” as if nothing untoward had happened. The boys glowered and whispered among themselves, but did not attempt any more disturbance at that time.
When they gathered for their lecture next morning, Aristotle told them: “I am too busy with the gentleman from India to waste time pounding unwanted wisdom into your miserable little thouls. Go shoot some rabbits or catch some fish for dinner, but in any case begone!”
The boys grinned. Alexander said: “It seems the barbarian has his uses after all. I hope you stay with us forever, good barbarian!”
After they had gone, Antipatros came in to say good-bye to Aristotle. He asked me with gruff good will how I was doing and went out to ride back to Pella.
The weeks passed unnoticed and the flowers of spring came out while I visited Aristotle. Day after day we strolled about the Precinct of the Nymphs, talking, or sat indoors when it rained. Sometimes the boys followed us, listening; at other times we talked alone. They played a couple of practical jokes on me, but, by pretending to be amused when I was really furious, I avoided serious trouble with them.
I learned that Aristotle had a wife and a little daughter in another part of the big house, but he never let me meet the lady. I only caught glimpses of them from a distance.
I carefully shifted the subject of our daily discourse from the marvels of India to the more basic questions of science. We argued over the nature of matter and the shape of the solar system. I gave out that the Indians were well on the road to the modern concepts—modern in my world, that is—of astronomy, physics, and so forth. I told of the discoveries of those eminent Pataliputran philosophers: Kopernikos in astronomy, Neuton in physics, Darben in evolution, and Mendeles in genetics. (I forgot; these names mean nothing to you, though an educated man of my world would recognize them at once through their Greek disguise.)
Always I stressed method: the need for experiment and invention and for checking each theory back against the facts. Though an opinionated and argumentative man, Aristotle had a mind like a sponge, eagerly absorbing any new fact, surmise, or opinion, whether he agreed with it or not.