Animals Without Borders 

Nearly all governments employ a splendid technique for announcing success as far as drug seizures are concerned: if a truckload is intercepted, that proves how well its approach is working; if the interception rate goes down, that proves it too. This doesn't automatically make authorities look ridiculous, but it certainly gives them a commanding lead in the preliminary qualifying round. Meanwhile, the piped Thai Rak Thai mood music has wafted over the cabinet's dinner table and drowned out the more awkward questions.
This pretence also results in a lot of official activity; and, as we have come to expect, official activity has the opposite effect to that intended. With the evolution of intoxicants from religious sacrament to party-down fuel, the "drug problem" has never been handled well because it's too big, too profitable, and too overwhelming for mere human agencies. Any effective approach must include empathy for the sufferers and self-knowledge as it pertains to human susceptibility. Don't hold your breath.

The Nation recently ran a story with the headline "Semi-stray Dogs". I know plenty of semi-stray humans, but surely a dog is either a stray or it isn't. They don't exactly leave the house on Monday with a backward glance and yap, "See you at the weekend. If I'm late, just leave a bowl of Chum on the porch. Ciao guys."
In 1890, it was estimated that there were some 750,000 stray dogs in London. Back in the 12th century they were even tough on pet dogs. A royal edict declared that 'if a greedy and ravenous dog shall bight a 'Royal beast' (deer), then the dog's owner shall forfeit his own life.' So we may imagine the inhabitants of early mediaval London nervously taking their huge mastiff's out for a pee on a lead made out of heavy duty triple link chain. In 1850, a Home for Lost and Starving Dogs was established in London, the first instance of canine welfare. It flourishies still, as the Battersea Dogs Home. Can we not do the same here? How about the Hopewell Home For Homeless Muts? Strays make excellent companions, once you get to know them:
I'm a stray with a taste for low humour.
I'm gay in the old-fashioned sense.
I'm riddles with fleas and I'm prone to disease,
But my instinct for fun is immense.

Altering the shade of our skin is an enduring paradox. For Caucasians, the darker the tone, the cooler they feel; plus, there's the essential bonus of the envy it creates among their palid countrymen. In Bangkok, working expats have even been spotted leaning out of the office window, their faces turned up to the simmering welkin, trying to catch some rays.
Thais seem both amused and perplexed as to why visitors come here to absorb the utra-violet at every pore (if that's how it gets in) to achieve a tan, while their own sisters are forever slapping on a cream to create a nordic ghostbuster look.
But why is sunshine deemed superior to all the other stuff which falls out of the sky on to people? Few citizens have even gone down with rainstroke or fogburn, and the numbers of those who have dehydrated to death in sleet is hardly legion.
I remember being 18 and conducting a wobbly young girl to Brighton for an afternoon beneath the sun (and hopefully the stars) and remember the sinking of the heart as she stripped to a minimal bikini that left exposed 95 per cent of her alabaster skin. By sundown, her own mother couldn't have touched her. This heat finds me behind drawn blinds, before a whirring fan, and outside an icy spirit.

The British prime minister has just turned 50. Before 30, your life is spent shouting "Turn it up." From then on its, "For God's sake, turn it down!" It's a birthday for looking back rather than squinting forwards. It's the year when you finally realise that your tennis, eyesight, memory, personal waste disposal management and sex are only going to get inexorably worse. On the other hand, you have accrued a sizeable volume of experience… if only you could remember where you put it.

The Thai science student on my soi is an absolute nutter with fantastically antisocial hair and thus, one of my favourite people. He told me yesterday that he's about to begin final testing of a nasal spray that may cure arthritis and baldness, while doubling your capacity to remember dates.
"Do you know where I can get a baboon?" he asked. "If I can inject several pinhead-sized 6V batteries into its rump it will enable the baboon to wash, rinse, spin and tumble-dry up to six rai of rape-seed without tangling, eliminate cold-starting problems on your DVD and play chess with itself until 2012, charging the whole operation to your credit card in less than a pico-second." Way to go Thailand.

By Roger Beaumont
  Available at Bookazine

The Death of a General

By David Cocksedge

This month, we go back to ancient times and drop the documentary format of previous cases. Here is the background to this true crime, written up as a short story.
Together with Plato, the wealthy Athenian Alkibiades (450-404BC) studied under Socrates before becoming a great military leader. He led the invasion of Sicily in 415 BC but fell from grace later because of his scornful views on religion. As an atheist, he was perhaps centuries ahead of his time. He was exiled after Athens fell to the Spartan armies under Lysander and ignored by Athenians when he warned them of impending disaster prior to the battle of Goat's Creek - a poorly defended Athenian encampment was overrun and massacred by Spartan troops. Alkibiades became a mercenary general and took refuge in Phrygia (now Turkey). Assassins hired by Lysander knew that he would be at the home of the famous courtesan Timandra one night in October 404 BC, and that he would be guarded by just one man. They plotted to pay him an unwelcome visit. Now read on:
HE HAD AGED since the last time Timandra had slept with him. His fierce blue eyes, although still keen and alert, were sunken deeper. At 46 years of age, he looked lithe and fit as always, but his face was more lined then she remembered. The strain of the past few months was beginning to show.
The general now kept his sword by him at all times. It was common knowledge everywhere than Lysander wanted him dead.
But there was still something of the old humour. He and Arkadius had sat a long while over their wine after dinner, talking of reaching Susa and gaining the ear of the Great King. The general had said, "If Cyrus means to make a bid for the Sun Throne, there's work for all of us. Greek mercenaries are always in demand. If it comes to it, shall we take our swords and head for active service again, Arkadius?"
The grizzled old warrior had responded, "But on which side, my lord?"
The general laughed. "Black King or Golden Prince? Who cares, Arkadius? That's the beauty and glory of it - who cares?"
But the mood grew somber later. Conversation died, and Timandra supervised the preparations for sleep. The slaves cleared the table, and were then excused to go into Melissa for the feast of Attis. The general yawned and stretched, bid Arkadius good night and headed for the bedchamber; Timandra following with a cup of wine.
Now he looked across at her face on the pillow as she feigned sleep, wondering what would become of her. She was still young (27), and very good at her profession, but age is always harder on women, and there is nothing sadder than an ageing concubine who has grown too old to be desirable. He remembered that she had been just fifteen when he had first met her in Delphi. Now she was a famous courtesan, and he had lost count of the women he had slept with in the intervening years. Yet there was a bond of love and loyalty between them. He had few friends around him now and yet she had never deserted him. No woman could ever replace his wife Myrrhine in his deepest soul, but she was dead these five years now, and Timandra was a trusted companion above all else.
What is he thinking? She wondered. I would give my life for him, he realises that, and I know that he trusts me above all other women, but he tells me nothing. He would more readily confide his most secret thoughts to a common foot soldier as they stand guard together on some forlorn outpost in the dead of night, than he would to me.
She had long ago accepted that his battles, his thirst for adventure, for power and influence; all the affairs of men that were so important to him, were not for her to discuss with him.
Timandra remembered the first time they had met in Delphi. She had played the lute for the men, and recalled how disturbing she had found his stern, unflinching gaze.
"Come and sit by me, child", he had commanded, and she had bowed with lowered eyes. That time she had been too tense to be particularly responsive to him afterwards in his chambers. But he had paid her well, and then asked for her again two nights later.
She recalled what the Persian eunuch Tissaphernes had told her in Delphi, over and over again: "Never be importunate. Never, never, never. That is the quickest way to the dusty street outside." Yes, it was good advice. Timandra had not forgotten.
She had always been there for him, as they gradually became friends and then almost lovers; and especially now as he carried two death sentences on his bright Athenian head. But his countrymen had turned him away, in spite of his warnings prior to the massacre at Goat's Creek, and one Spartan general would prefer to extinguish the beacon burning brightly in Phrygia. Alive, he was always a rallying cause for the Athenians that Lysander had so soundly defeated.
He had no army to protect him now, and it was only a matter of time before they came for him. He never spoke of it, but she knew that he valued her loyalty highly. Well, she had chosen her fate. So be it - let the dice fall where they may.
They lay together and alone, thinking distant thoughts, until sleep gradually overcame them.
He awoke to the suffocating aroma of billowing smoke, and threw back the rugs. Shouting urgently to Arkadius on guard outside, he leapt out of the bed, snatched up his sword and bound his cloak around his left arm.
"Don't open the door!" Timandra shouted, but he was already in the outer room, and flinging it back. Someone had unbarred it, but they were obviously afraid to come in and kill him hand to hand. Flames leapt into the room from the brushwood they had stacked against the walls, and for an instant he reeled back. The blast of heat was like a blow.
Timandra had pulled the coverlid from the bed about her, and followed him from the main chamber.
"Wait!" She cried, "They may be a whole pack of them outside!"
He shouted, almost exultantly, "Do you think they'd dare come against Alkibiades except in a pack? Keep close behind me. When we get outside, head off to one side, into the dark. It's me they are after, not you!"
Then he plunged naked through the flaming doorway, his left arm shrouded in his cloak, lifted to shield his eyes, his sword arm ready to strike as he kicked aside the brushwood, throwing up sparks of flame. Timandra blundered through behind, gathering the folds of the coverlid tight about her, coughing as she choked from the smoke gathering fast in the main chamber.
Dark figures scattered at their sudden appearance. She heard him shout again, almost in triumph. He had waited all his life for this night; now they had finally summoned up the courage to come for him, and now the long wait was over.
But they were not prepared to fight. Timandra heard the sharp twang of a bowstring, and then another. The general grunted in pain as the arrows found their target. Silhouetted against the flames, he made their grim task easy, as they had prepared and hoped.
Blindly obeying his final command, she pulled aside and ran off into the darkness. She heard whoops and shouts of triumph as they brought her lover to his knees. Again and again, the bowstrings were stretched and loosed as the assassins aimed at their target at a range of twenty paces or so.
When they had shot him full of arrows, they ran in and finished him off with spears and swords. The general's faithful sword fell out of his right hand as they thrust and stabbed in the moonlight They had brought him down as men bring down a lion they do not dare to close with single handed.
At the last he twisted over and lay with his face to the darkened sky. Uttering a great cry of pain and rage, Timandra ran towards him again, only to fall over something wet and cold that sent her sprawling. What have I done to deserve this nightmare? she thought dully, as she felt beneath her in the darkness - it was the slain body of the faithful Arkadius; his throat cut.
Amid sobs she sensed two men standing over her, and saw the glimmer of steel reflecting red from the raging fire.
She heard someone say, "It's only his whore. Let her be."
They made no move to stop her when she finally stood up and ran to kneel by him, cradling his head in her lap. Only afterwards did she realise that she was naked. It seemed to her that the last flicker of life went out of him as she kissed his head and wept uncontrollably. Her tears mingled with his blood. It was to be the start of a long virgil till daybreak.
The men sheathed their swords, slung their bows and made to leave. The dead general lay staring sightlesssly into the sky. Seven arrows were embedded in his chest and neck, and one shaft had penetrated his left wrist. The sword and spear wounds were all to his front. He had never turned his back on his enemies. They had cowardly denied him a fighting death, and it had been messy, but with no risk to themselves there was no way that it could have been cleanly done.
Each man would receive five gold pieces from the war chest of Lysander for tonight's work. Behind them, sparks rose up into the night sky as the house burned fiercely. Timandra would have to find another home.
As the assassins moved off together, she heard one of them say, "Well, that is the end of him, the great Alkibiades."
"Yes", replied another, but we will have money to spend, and the corn harvest will be good this year."
(Research: 'The Flowers of Adonis', by Rosemary Sutcliffe)

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