Creation (5 page)

Currently, a mad soothsayer is threatening to charge Aspasia with impiety. If he does, she could be in real danger. But according to Democritus, she laughs at the mention of the soothsayer’s name. Pours the wine. Instructs the musicians. Listens to the talkers. Attends to Pericles; and to their new son.

AT THE BEGINNING THERE WAS FIRE. All creation seemed to be aflame. We had drunk the sacred haoma and the world looked to be as ethereal and as luminous as the fire itself that blazed upon the altar.

This was in Bactra. I was seven years old. I stood next to my grandfather Zoroaster. In one hand I held the ritual bundle of sticks and watched ...

Just as I was beginning to see again that terrible day, there was a banging at the door. Since the servant is never in the house, Democritus unlatched the door and admitted the sophist Archelaus and one of his pupils, a young mason.

“He’s been arrested!” Archelaus has the loudest voice of any Greek that I’ve ever met, which means the loudest voice in the world.

“Anaxagoras,” said the young mason. “He’s been arrested for impiety.”

“And for medism!” thundered Archelaus. “You must do something.”

“But”—I was mild—“since I am
the
Mede at Athens, I don’t think anything that I might say is apt to impress the assembly. Quite the contrary.”

But Archelaus thinks otherwise. He wants me to go before the authorities and say that since the treaty of peace, the Great King has no designs on the Greek world. More to the point, since there is now, demonstrably, a perfect peace between Persia and Athens, Anaxagoras cannot be guilty of medism. I found this argument moderately ingenious, like Archelaus himself.

“Unfortunately,” I said, “it is a condition of the treaty that the terms not be discussed in public.”

“Pericles can discuss it.” The sound reverberated in the courtyard.

“He can,” I said. “But he won’t. The matter is too delicate. Besides, even if the treaty were discussable, the Athenians are still capable of finding Anaxagoras guilty of medism, or of anything else that strikes their fancy.”

“Quite true,” said the pupil. The young mason is called Socrates. Uncommonly ugly, according to Democritus, he is uncommonly intelligent. Last summer, as a favor to Democritus, I hired him to repair the front wall of the house. He made such a botch of it that we now have a dozen new chinks through which the icy wind can whistle. As a result, I have been obliged to abandon the front room entirely. Socrates has offered to re-do the wall but I fear that if he so much as touches the house with his trowel, the whole mud edifice will fall down about our ears. As an artisan, he is most disconcerting. In the midst of plastering a wall he is apt, suddenly, to freeze and stare straight ahead for minutes at a time, listening to some sort of private spirit. When I asked Socrates what sort of things the spirit told him, he simply laughed and said, “My daimon likes to ask me questions.”

This struck me as a highly unsatisfactory sort of spirit. But, I dare say, the lively Socrates is as highly unsatisfactory a sophist as he is a mason.

Archelaus agreed with me that since the conservatives don’t dare to attack Pericles personally, they must satisfy themselves with an indictment of his friend Anaxagoras. But I disagreed with Archelaus when he said that I should tell the assembly that the charge of medism is false.

“Why should they listen to me?” I asked. “Besides, the main charge is bound to be impiety—of which he’s guilty. As are you, Archelaus. As am I, in the eyes of the mob and those who’ve accused him. Who did bring the charge?”

“Lysicles, the sheep dealer.” The name broke upon my ears like some huge wave. Lysicles is a vulgar, hustling sort of man who is bent on making his fortune by serving Thucydides and the conservative interest.

“Then it’s quite clear,” I said. “Thucydides will attack Anaxagoras—and his friend Pericles in the assembly. Pericles will defend Anaxagoras—and his own administration.”

“And you ...?”

“Will do nothing.” I was firm. “My own position here is fragile, to say the least. The moment that the conservatives decide that it is time for another war with Persia, I shall be put to death—if time does not anticipate your politicians.” I made myself cough pathetically; then could not stop coughing. I am indeed ill.

“What,” asked Socrates abruptly, “happens when you die?” I gasped for air: it seemed an eternity before the air filled up my chest. “For one thing,” I said, “I shall have left Athens.”

“But do you think that you yourself will continue in another fashion?” The young man seemed genuinely interested in what I thought or, rather, what Zoroastrians think.

“We believe that all souls were created at the beginning by the Wise Lord. In due course, these souls are born once, and once only. On the other hand, in the east, they believe that a soul is born and dies and is born again, thousands and thousands of times, in different forms.”

“Pythagoras held the same view,” said Socrates. “When Archelaus and I were in Samos, we met one of Pythagoras’ oldest disciples. He said that Pythagoras got this doctrine from the Egyptians.”

“No.” I was firm. I can’t think why. I don’t really know anything about Pythagoras. “He got it from those who live beyond the Indus River, where I have traveled ...”

Archelaus was impatient. “This is most fascinating, Ambassador. But the fact remains that our friend has been arrested.”

“The fact also remains,” said Socrates coolly, “that men die, and what happens or does not happen to the mind that inhabits their flesh is of considerable interest.”

“What shall we do?” Archelaus seemed close to stormy tears. In his youth, he had been a student of Anaxagoras’.

“I’m hardly the person to ask,” I said. “Go to General Pericles.”

“We did. He’s not at his house. He’s not at government house. He’s not at Aspasia’s house. He’s vanished.”

Eventually I got rid of Archelaus. Meanwhile Anaxagoras is in prison, and at the next meeting of the assembly he will be prosecuted by Thucydides. I assume that he will be defended by Pericles.

I say assume because early this morning the Spartan army crossed the border into Attica. General Pericles has taken the field, and the war that everyone has been anticipating for so long has at last begun.

I am fairly certain that Athens will be defeated. Democritus is upset. I tell him that it makes no difference at all who wins. The world goes on. In any case, between Athens and Sparta, there is not much choice. Each is Greek.

I shall finish explaining to you, Democritus, what I was not able to tell your friend who asked me what happens after death. Once free of the body, the soul returns to the Wise Lord. But, first, the soul must cross the bridge of the redeemer. Those who have followed in life the Truth will go to the house of good mind, and happiness. Those who have followed the Lie—that is, the way of the Wise Lord’s twin brother Ahriman, who is evil—will go the house of the Lie, and there suffer every sort of torment. Eventually, when the Wise Lord overwhelms evil, all souls will be as one.

Democritus wants to know why the Wise Lord created Ahriman in the first place. This is a good question, which my grandfather answered once and for all.

At the moment of creation, the Wise Lord said of his twin, “Neither our thoughts, nor our deeds, nor our consciences, nor our souls agree.”

Democritus says that this is not a proper answer. I say it is. You say that it is merely a statement about oppositions. I say that it is deeper than that. You say that the Wise Lord does not explain
why
he created his evil brother. Because each was created simultaneously. By whom? You are very annoying in your Greek way. Let me explain.

At the moment of creation there was only infinite time. But then the Wise Lord decided to devise a trap for Ahriman. He proceeded to create time of the long dominion within infinite time. The human race is now encased in time of the long dominion rather like a fly in a piece of amber. At the end of time of the long dominion, the Wise Lord will defeat his twin, and all darkness will be burned away by light.

Democritus wants to know why the Wise Lord has gone to so much trouble. Why did he consent to the creation of evil? Because, Democritus, he had no choice.
Whose
choice was it? you ask. I have devoted my life to trying to answer that question, a question which I have put to Gosala, the Buddha, Confucius, and many other wise men to the east and to the east of the east.

So make yourself comfortable, Democritus. I have a long memory, and I shall indulge it. As we wait in this drafty house for the Spartan army to come—not a moment too soon as far as I’m concerned—I shall begin at the beginning and tell you what I know of the creation of this world, and of all other worlds too. I shall also explain why evil is—and is not.

AT THE BEGINNING THERE WAS FIRE. All creation seemed to be aflame. We had drunk the sacred haoma and the world looked to be as ethereal and as luminous and as holy as the fire itself that blazed upon the altar.

This was in Bactra. I was seven years old. I stood next to my grandfather Zoroaster. In one hand, I held the ritual bundle of sticks and watched closely as Zoroaster lit the fire on the altar. As the sun set and the fire flared upon the altar, the Magians began to chant one of those hymns that Zoroaster had received directly from Ahura Mazdah the Wise Lord. In my grandfather’s thirtieth year, he had begged the Wise Lord to show him how a man could practice righteousness in order to achieve a pure existence, now and forever. It was then that the miracle happened.

The Wise Lord appeared to Zoroaster. The Wise Lord told Zoroaster exactly what must be done in order that he—and all mankind—might be purified
before
the end of time of the long dominion. As the Wise Lord lit with fire the way of Truth that we must follow if we do not succumb to the Lie, so Zoroaster and those who follow the true religion light the sacred fire in a sunless place.

I can still see the light from the fire altar as it illuminated the row of golden jars that held the sacred haoma. I can still hear the Magians as they chanted the hymn in celebration of the Wise Lord. I can still remember the point at which they had got in the hymn when, suddenly, death came to us out of the north.

We were chanting the verses that describe world’s end “when all men will become of one voice and give praise with a loud voice to the Wise Lord and at this time he will have brought his creation to its consummation, and there will be no further work he need do.”

Since the haoma had done its work, I was not entirely in or out of my body. As a result, I am not exactly certain what happened. I can still recall the characteristic tremor of my grandfather’s hands when, for the last time, he raised to his lips the jar of haoma. To me he was awe-inspiring. But who was not awed by Zoroaster? I thought him immensely tall. But then, I was a child. Later I learned that Zoroaster was of middle height, and inclined to stoutness.

I remember that in the light from the fire the curls of his long white beard seemed to be spun from gold. I remember that in the light from the fire his blood looked like molten gold. Yes, I remember, most vividly, the murder of Zoroaster at the fire altar.

How did this happen?

The province of Bactria is on the northeastern border of the empire. The provincial capital Bactra is a midway point not only between Persia and India but also between the northern marauding tribes and those ancient civilizations that look upon the southern seas.

Although there had been rumors for some weeks that the northern tribes were on the move, no preparations had been made to defend Bactra. I suppose that the people felt safe because our satrap—or governor—was Hystaspes, father of the Great King Darius. The Bactrians thought that no tribe would dare attack the city of Darius’ father. They were wrong. While Hystaspes and most of his army were on the road to Susa, the Turanians swept through the city. What they did not loot, they burned.

At the fire altar we knew nothing until the Turanians were suddenly and silently among us. They are enormous men, with blond hair, red faces, pale eyes. When the entranced Magians finally saw them, they screamed. When the Magians tried to flee, they were butchered. As the haoma jars were smashed the golden haoma mingled with the darker gold of blood.

Democritus wants to know what haoma is. I haven’t the slightest notion. Only the Magians are allowed to mix haoma, and I am not a Magian—that is, hereditary priest. All I know is that the basis for this sacred, inspiring, mystical potion is a plant that grows in the Persian highlands and resembles, I am told, what you people call rhubarb.

Over the years all sorts of stories have been invented about Zoroaster’s death. Since he was so firmly opposed to the old devas, or devil-gods, worshipers of these dark spirits give credit to this devil or that for having killed the prophet of the Wise Lord. This is nonsense. Those blond animals from the north were simply looting and burning a rich city. They had no idea who Zoroaster was.

I did not move from the position to which I had been assigned at the beginning of the ritual. I continued to clutch the bundle of twigs. I suppose that I was still in the haoma trance.

As for Zoroaster, he ignored the killers. He continued with the ritual, never ceasing to stare at the flame on the altar. Although I did not stir from my place, I’m afraid that I no longer looked into the fire, as required by ritual.

I stared with wonder at the slaughter all about me. I was not afraid, again due to the haoma. In fact, I found unexpectedly beautiful the way that nearby houses turned to yellow fire. Meanwhile Zoroaster continued to feed the sacred flame on the altar. As he did, the white bearded lips posed for the last time the famous questions:

“This I ask thee, O Lord, answer me truly:

Who among those to whom I speak is righteous

  
and who is wicked?

Which of the two? Am I evil myself, or is he the

  
evil one who would wickedly keep me far from