The Golden Mean - Annabel Lyon [73]
“I assume he was speaking of the stage.” I assume he was trying to get the boy on all fours.
“He was speaking of life. We are all truer in the body than we ever can be in speech.”
“I would love to see Carolus express a Pythagorean theorem without speech.”
“I want to fight.” Alexander looks at me bleakly. “Means and ends, you always talk about means and ends, and what a thing is fitted for. That’s your genius, isn’t it, applying a few little concepts across such a wide range of subjects? That’s what Lysimachus says. Such a very few ideas that you apply so very, very broadly.”
“Lysimachus.”
“Why won’t my father go to war? Why won’t he summon me? I’m fitted to fight. War is the greatest means to the greatest end, the glory of Macedon. Why won’t he just fight?”
“Your father is engaged in diplomatic overtures—”
Alexander spits.
“—as the smartest means to the end you both so value, the glory of Macedon. Your father wants Persia. He doesn’t want to cripple the Greeks, to rub their noses in it. He’s going to need them. They’re not an expendable enemy, they’re irreplaceable allies. He needs their resources—You’re having headaches again?”
I don’t know if he hears me or not. “I’m sick of staying home. Look what I did at Maedi, and you know what he said to me?” A moment, a ripple across the clear surface of things. It’s the first time either of us has mentioned Maedi. “He told me if I ever went out on my own again while he was alive he’d sever my hamstring and tell everyone I tripped on my own sword. Then I’d have to stay home for the rest of my life.”
“Your father suffers from what in an ordinary man we would call an excess of the virtue of pride. I’m not sure if such a thing is possible in a king. We are wasting time.” I’m angry suddenly and don’t care if he knows. I’m Macedonian to the Athenians and Athenian to the Macedonians. Maedi was a triumph; the Academy is not a pressing issue. “We are wasting each other’s time. You would like to be with the army and I would like to be in Athens writing books. Alas, we are left to each other’s company. Shall we make the best of an unpleasant situation and get this lesson over with as quickly as possible so we can each return to our own solitary pursuits? Show me your notes from last time.”
I’ve only ever lashed out at him like this once before, in the stables years ago. His response takes me right back there. His eyes widen, and he immediately hands over his notes to placate me, to get me to lower my voice. I’ve found his Achilles’ heel, the one thing he fears: someone abusing him who won’t lower his voice. Her voice?
We review the work we began on ethics and the virtues. That ethics is indeed a science, though it wants the precision of a science like geometry; that, as we learned from our study of metaphysics, everything aims at some end or good; that such ends exist in a hierarchy leading to the ultimate human end, happiness. And what is happiness? Pleasure is superficial, virtue is compatible with unhappiness, great wealth is merely a means to a further end rather than an end in itself, “goodness” is an abstraction, an empty concept. Happiness is an activity of the soul in accordance with virtue, where a virtuous act requires both act and motive. “Name me a virtue.”
“Courage.”
“Yes. What do we call a want of courage?”
“Cowardice.”
“Yes. And an excess?”
“An excess of courage?”
“Yes, yes. Don’t give me some stupid, pompous response to flatter yourself. Think.”
Quickly: “Rashness.”
“Yes. We have the extremes, and in the middle—”
Alexander holds out his hands, palms up, in that gesture he likes to mock me with.
“My few meagre tools with which I try to order the universe. You must look for the mean between extremes, the point of balance. The point will differ from man to man. There is not a universal standard of virtue to cover all