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in fetching ringlets, Alexander seized the crowd’s attention with a nicely-judged attack
of rabies, chewing soapwort till the epileptic foam ran down his chin (a mark of class in
ancient Greece). During this stage of his career, our boy had cleverly rebranded himself
as direct descendant of the gods. As Alexander told it, he was son to Podaleirius, and
thus the grandson of Asclepius, great-grandson of Apollo, great-great-grandson of
almighty Zeus himself. Oh, and he was descended from Perseus on his mother’s side as
well. While all the locals must have been aware that Alexander was the offspring of
obscure and humble folk, their faith in oracles convinced them that here in their sight
was: “a scion of Perseus, dear unto Phoebus; this is divine Alexander, who shareth the
blood of the Healer”. Presumably the oracle in question represented one of Cocconas’s
better days. Certainly, along with all the frothing-at-the-mouth, this lurid genealogy
helped to establish Alexander in Abonoteichan gossip-columns and society pages as a
person to watch out for, one way or another.
In the small hours of the night preceding Alexander’s master-stroke, he crept out
and concealed a blown goose-egg containing a small newborn serpent in a puddle at
the temple that had been erected in the fuss that followed the “discovery” of Cocconas’s
tablets back in Chalcedon. It was here on the next day that he performed his finely
choreographed miracle. Naked save a loin-cloth, Alexander ran into the market-place,
thrashing his lengthy locks about like a devotee of Cybele, or perhaps the drummer out
of Motorhead. Working the crowd with glossolalic babble and with mentions of Apollo
and Asclepius, he led them to the temple, whereupon he reached into the water and
retrieved his previously planted egg, to gasps of great amazement from the multitude.
Cracking it with his thumbnail he allowed the concealed snake to wind into his palm,
at which the gathered throng went nuts and cheered and did a Mexican Wave, welcoming
the deity. Pleased with his work our man went home, taking his sacred maggot with
him.
Alexander let the city have a day or two to simmer. From the neighbouring provinces
a horde of theological away-supporters flooded into Abonoteichus, while from the
prophet’s den a trickle of stage-managed leaks revealed the serpent to have grown to a
prodigious size, evolved a semi-human head and mastered Greek. Finally, in darkened
chambers Alexander’s squamous god was ceremoniously revealed: its massive length
was coiled about its self-appointed high priest’s body as he sat upon a couch there in
the gloom, inviting the spectators to lay hands upon its coils and satisfy themselves that
it was real. The snake’s neck seemed to vanish under Alexander’s arm, where next
appeared, hung down over his shoulder, its extraordinary head. This was a masterpiece
of both conception and construction. Made of linen, the false head bore a resemblance
to a dog or sheep, the lengthy muzzle both concealing and facilitating an ingenious
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