More Spirit Than Animal

THE FATE OF GODS

Urban myths: Walt Disney's body lies in some deep freeze, cryogenically preserved, despite a well documented cremation and interment in 1966; only 10% of the brain is used despite neurologists knowing for years we use all of it; and Sir Walter Raleigh laying his cloak down for Good Queen Bess just didn't happen, and as for Nero fiddling while Rome burnt, he wasn't even in town at the time; ok so how about the apple tempting Eve to take a bite, Genesis makes no mention of any type of fruit, except that it's forbidden; and the ox and the ass witness to the nativity, no animals are mentioned at all, and as for animals going in 2 by 2...well yes some, but the majority were 7 by 7, and please don't try and spot the Great Wall of China from the moon, you won't see it and 'Ringo the best drummer in the world, he's not even the best drummer in the Beatles' so said an uncharitable John Lennon although in truth a good gag from Jasper Carrot; and as for Elvis Presley spotted on the grassy knoll, completely true.

As a god I knew my responsibilities. Risen from the ashes of the man I was enriched with all the zeal of an evangelist. To this end the sacrifice of my soul in the name of all that is celestial brought me here behind the wheel of a green Mustang north of the city, waiting for the call. Eyes to the western horizon I knew the fight for my soul was nearly over. My citadel had been built on an honest predication that man is more than his hominid ancestor, more than an atomic anomaly and more than a genetic construct designed to run the jungle until the final sunset. My mistake, if there was one, must have been to assume that deep down we all want the same, self fulfilment, self expression, joy and peace. The joy of life should have run like a well spring, sating our unfulfilled thirsts, the answer that had been there all along.

It had come to this, the sacrifice not unlike the sacrifice of one far greater than I all those years ago. With the fortress surrounded and the portcullis splintering before the heft of so many it was my duty to lay waste the battlefield and commit my soul to the dust. All of this I now recall and the path had been a rough one littered with every opportunity to put aside so much malign ambition and the brute need to best our fellow men. The cast was classical and the tale as old as time itself.

My reading habits had ventured further and further back in time and I was now in thrall to the ancients, the orations of Cicero, the works of Caesar and the great historians Tacitus and Plutarch, the Aeneid of Vergil and the social commentary of Josephus. And further back still to Hesiod and the Homeric world where the lives of gods and men were still intertwined.

They say that the Odyssey was the very first novel although Homer is a disputed inventor let alone author. But it is the Iliad from which we learn more. The Trojan War itself is there but the set pieces we are all aware of, are not. These are derived from a variety of sources including the Cypria, the Little Iliad and the Aethiopis. From these we learn of the obligations of the Greek Lords to avenge the kidnap of Helens, of the sacrifice at Aulis, the death of Achilles with the arrow in his heel, and the Trojan horse with its subterfuge and resultant slaughter of the Trojan people and its aristocracy. The Iliad has nothing to say about any of these or of the flight of Aeneas carrying his ancient father on his back destined to set in motion the antecedents of Romulus himself. And the entire unedifying spectacle set in motion by Zeus enraged by the folly of man and engineered through the temptation of Paris the aftermath of the wedding feast of his daughter.

Were there parallels, if so who was I? Zander above us all, Alice caught up in the dreams of madmen, the Pantheon out of heaven to seduce, encourage, entice and bewitch, Hector Di Lauro no less a puppet than I, Thalia the pawn in a tug of love with Stone another hapless chess piece doing the bidding of the great Zander and then there is Rudiger...what of him and where do I know him? I hope to find out before the day is ended.

It was only a few months ago when it seemed there was hope, for me at least. But first there was America. Thalia and I flew out on Stone's private jet with Mac who also had business in the US. There was Parish but no Smith who stayed at home. Having tipped my hat in Stone's direction I made every effort to engage as sincerely as I could, his right wing credentials not withstanding. His entourage and aides embellished his appeal with a mixture of sycophancy and genuine commitment.