Preamble

Orlando—figment of the imagination, ideal and idol and fallible in every way conceivable but flawless in the eye of the beholder—is given to the world perfectly formed by the gods, themselves constructs of the human endeavour to conquer the unknowable and unknown.

Timeless, ageless, and deriving immense powers mostly from an indomitable spirit paired with an enquiring mind, Orlando is all human, all humanity, all humility and all pride: an articulation of the embodied consciousness we may call the experience of being alive. 

Not good or bad, nor beyond the pale is Orlando, Orlando is wonder and discovery and surprise; and strife for self and self-knowledge and hunger for connections that mean something; and need for identity, desire for the loss of self and urge for survival; and yearning for the tender release that is death and fear of the violent crash into the absence of life that is dying. And aching for a place in history and undoing that history bit by bit. And invention, creation, as much as destruction. And cruelty and kindness and the duality of all things polar and their fusion. And the idea of being itself. 

(Never even mind religion and statehood and status and tribe and the blood ties that bind and sin and redemption or even forgiveness.)  

Orlando is all made up which is why Orlando is real, and Orlando, of course, is ancient as much as Orlando is new. 

Orlando is charged by the gods—subject as they are to their own whims and fancies and with wisdom endowed no more and no less than we can conceive—to embark on a quest to The City. 

And so, as we go to The City, our protagonist shall be Orlando...

Prologue

Alexandria

320 BCE 

Grant, Muse, that these verses may in simple truth

bear witness to the man (then woman, then

hermaphrodite) whom since the dawn of time

the gods, and mortals too, have called Orlando: 

through the ages, yet un-ageing, bold, adventurous,

cast of an ilk of ceaseless curiosity,

journeys Orlando in the Cities –

let this be his (then her, then their) tale, told

or sung: begin upon the seas off Egypt...

Behold how through the haze on the horizon 

shimmer turrets white, gold and pale ochre;

Lighthouse, Fortress, Temple and Museum:

new-built Alexandria, Great Alexander’s

monument to his own glory, yes, but more 

the lasting glory of mankind: trade, commerce,

the exchange of stuffs and wares; and above all

pursuit of knowledge, learning and ideas.

But a slither in the distance is the coast 

as on a steady breeze the wide-hulled ship

sails south-south-east; a friendly school of dolphins 

playing escort, clicking joyful greetings 

to her precious passenger: Orlando.

Never has his heart yet beaten faster, 

have his eyes gazed harder at the glorious sight,

his nostrils smelt the scent of sea salt keener, 

his hands, fine-fingered, tighter clasped a rope,

nor have his curls danced lighter, has his skin

more giddy felt the air’s caress than now

with the approaching prospect of the city:

planned, built and peopled surely to perfection,

jewel of Greek provenance on Egypt’s soil,

in Hellas’ crown its youngest, finest pearl.

The ship glides into harbour with the sun

low in the orange-purple sky, Orlando

poised to jump ashore, eager to gather 

what he may: symbols, writings, artefacts, 

medallions, coins; anything portable, 

anything proof, if such exists, of what, 

if anything, makes cities good, for thus 

the mighty gods themselves have set his task.

No task, no challenge, such as this could be 

accepted lightly, and nor could it fail 

to fuel zeal in someone like Orlando: 

he is to travel Greece in search of proof 

to settle a dispute which, days ago,

broke out between the gods. (That he should now 

be just about to land in Egypt is, in turn,

their doing, but of that twist more anon: 

we mortals are but playthings of the gods!)

On that day, Mount Olympos was aflare

with fury: Hera, in a huff over some

minor matter had admonished fair Athena;

she quipped back, and before long an argument, 

involving several other gods, ensued,

which rapidly grew loud and would, no doubt, 

have turned tumultuous too if thunderous Zeus

had deigned to get involved; but he did not.

(At least not while he tried to have a nap...)

The quarrel soon abated and the gods,

four of them left, Apollo and sweet Eros

besides Hera and Athena, now discussed,

rather than argued, which of the great cities

each patroned merited the epithet

of ‘perfect’ or ‘complete’ or, by deduction,

‘unimprovable’; what Thomas More, much later,

failed to call ‘Eutopia’: a good place, where

naught is amiss; to Mount Olymp itself

for mortals an equivalent. Each god

extolled their city’s virtues: queen Hera

spoke of Argos, Perseus’ birthplace, and its 

gentle, peaceful people whose pristine and

modest dwellings cluster at the foot of the

magnificent acropolis, harmonious, 

exquisitely arranged and amply furnished

with necessities from mountains, fields and sea:

what more could from a city mortal souls desire?

“What more?” incensed, cried Ares, god of war,

and entered straight a plea for Sparta, home 

of warriors. “No gardens, no fine buildings,

no temple of great note: these are peripherals!

Sparta, more than any place, has discipline,

valour and strength: the art of the Agoge!”

Apollo was appalled: “What Spartans do

in their Laconic ways is the antithesis 

of art and culture: how can you begin to think

of ‘city’ and not think its streets, its courts,

its alleyways, its amphitheatre, its games;

not think its dramas and its comedies,

its music, poetry; and to protect it all

a sturdy wall with seven gates: think ‘city’ then, 

think Thebes: that is a place fit for the gods.” 

Athena sat in silence for a while.

Then she stood, calm, gracefully and in a 

quiet, gentle voice declared: “You make me laugh.”

A pleasant titter rippled from her lips

and down towards the earth as a soft whiff

of fragrant mountain air that freshens the stale heat

of noon; but this was followed by a frown – 

a measured mien of mild concern betokening 

a worry for her fellow gods: “But please

be serious: a city perfect in both shape

and population; ideally positioned, 

with monuments that will be celebrated 

for as long as humans live and far beyond;

in art, in sculpture, in democracy 

and in philosophy, in military strength

and in the soft delights of love, be they

in passion felt or quietly in friendship kept; 

a city where the merchants and the warriors,

the scholars and the politicians and the poets

and the athletes and the women and the slaves

all thrive, each in their rightful way, in harmony:

that is a city worthy of a goddess’ name;

a name which I, Athena, lend with pride and joy

most willingly to Athens, in this noble world

of cities, queen.” With that she sat and silence 

settled over Mount Olympos once again. 

But for a short while, to be sure: for a

hiatus barely long enough for all the gods 

to catch their breath, before, aroused from blissful 

midday slumber, thundered Zeus: “What is it 

with you children, wife, wherefore this waffle?”

The gods explained. Upon which Hermes, drawn

into the hall by all the noise and Zeus’s roar

offered a way to solve the matter, once,

if not perhaps for all... – “Why not,” swift-witted

and wing-footed Hermes made propose, “dispatch

into the world in search of evidence

a mortal who has never been to any city

and has never seen its sights or heard its sounds

nor yet inhaled its fragrances nor met 

its people, who has lived in plain simplicity

upon a hill, and yet whose spirit, mind and soul

are lively, quick and eager; who may learn and then

impart to you such wisdom as he finds;

whose unencumbered, fresh and hungry heart,

in short, will, without prejudice, present

to you the perfect city on a plate.”

There was another stillness in the hall, until:

“Whom do you have in mind?” Athena asked,

and not without some slight suspicion, knowing

the wily ways of her half-brother well, who

with a winsome smile replied: “Orlando.”

“He in Crete?” There was, in all of Greece, but one 

Orlando: Hera’s question was superfluous;

Orlando (he in Crete) was well known to the gods

for was he not—no god or mortal could be sure—

the offspring of Dionysus and a young 

shepherdess? What could be known for certain

was that he’d been found, and taken in and

cared for by the man he called his father

and his buxom wife, and that of all the boys 

(six brothers and three sisters in their brood)

Orlando was by far the fairest and most gentle, 

most refined, most clever and most curious, 

though also, if here truth be told and so it be,

when tending sheep the laziest. So prone

to getting lost in thought and in the process

losing some, or—as on one occasion—all,  

his father’s sheep was young Orlando that

his father (and his brothers, though less kindly, too)

indulged the boy, allowing him to mainly lie

among the olive groves or vineyards and compose

sweet songs and poems that he would perform

at early even time for their diversion. 

All the gods, including Thunderthrower Zeus,

were smitten with Orlando and would make

small gestures of affection secretly devised

to favour him among his village clan, and

none therefore were doubtful now that Hermes too

had plucked the youth from his obscurity

to feed (and still) a lingering desire, 

but the gods, as is their wont, will make allowance

for such feeblenesses as among them 

they are only too familiar with, and so

none hesitated nor did anyone object,

but readily did they endorse the stratagem

wing-sandalled Hermes had devised, and swiftly now

at once did Hermes swoop to Crete to find

Orlando on the hillside underneath

his favourite olive tree, as usual, sound asleep.

Alighting by Orlando’s feet, the messenger

did pause and gaze, enchanted, at this face

that, carefree in repose, and, with the speckled

sunshine through the leaves playing an undulating

patterned game of light and shadow on his cheeks,

seemed made of nacre, marvellous and fragile

and mysteriously soft yet to the touch,

and on Orlando’s forehead Hermes laid his wand 

to gently waken him. This did not work:

too deep in slumber had Orlando sunk;

lost, dreaming of a lover’s warm embrace,

in tender fantasies, which partly now came true

as Hermes cupped his hand around his neck

and drew him near to kiss him on his lips,

which brought Orlando back from dreamland in a flash.

“I have,” spoke Hermes, as they both reclined

(following a short, impassioned tussle

that was certainly no dream, Orlando thought, 

and yet too dreamlike to be taken quite as real)

“a task for you, which we, the gods, are certain you,

Orlando, are ideally placed to make your own.”

Orlando, still aglow, glanced as if through 

the messenger god’s face and, mesmerised,

replied, “I will.” – “You have not heard yet what it is.”

“I will do anything you, in the name of gods

or mortals or such creatures as you may invoke, 

command me to.” – “But I do not command,”

protested Hermes, “I invite you, if you choose,

to acquiesce.” – “I acquiesce wholeheartedly!”

exclaimed Orlando, flung his arms around 

the god once more and kissed him many dozen times:

“What is it you would have me do?” – Hermes demurred:

“It is not me that you will please, nor shall I be

recipient of your service: but the gods

on whose behalf I speak, bid you set forth

and journey to the cities of our lands

to find what makes the fairest fair, the strongest strong,

the most agreeable and pleasant so,

and bring back evidence that may, at last,

settle the question vexing them: who holds

as patron the epitome of cities.”

At this he rose and, looking deep into

Orlando’s eyes, gave him one more kiss on the lips

and, “you will have guidance, counsel and good speed,”

he said, before he took his air-bound leave.

Orlando, in a daze, sighed, “well, I may,

if all this is to come to pass, make my way

down from this hill now to Heraklion, where

cousin Lefteris’ friend’s father owns a ship

that sets off frequently from Crete to Athens:

the only other place of which I know

they call it ‘polis’; thence, I have no doubt

I shall find other ‘poleis’ that serve to prove

or disprove any argument the gods dispute

and if it pleases Hermes that I please them so,

it pleases me to be their eyes and ears

and gatherer of evidence (if such exists).”

And without bye or leave or much ado

thus did Orlando; which is how it came to pass

that within days he found himself at sea,

embarked upon a voyage of discovery

to Athens. Athens. – Not Alexandria.

Earth-shaker and god of the seas Poseidon,

reeling from his loss of Athens to Athena

(though many centuries by now had passed),

acquainted by Nerites of Athena’s boast, 

and young Orlando’s quest and voyage thither,

threw his trident in a rage down to the ground

and caused the sea off Milos to rebel and swell

three fathoms high, letting the skipper of

Orlando’s ship fear for his and his cargo’s life

and sail as safely as he could around the isle,

then between Milos and Sifnos bear due east,

where gusts inflated by Poseidon’s ire

propelled them further down and further still:

no end in sight there seemed, for day and night

and day again, and night, until, at last,

with the sun rising for the third time since

they’d spotted land, some calmer waters gave

the fragile vessel a long longed-for welcome

to plain sailing and respite. Orlando,

who had never been at sea, had turned in hue

as pale as the thin hazy clouds that lingered

in the distance between sea and sky, and

with supplies of food and wine now far too low 

to risk returning to their erstwhile course

the skipper offered an alternative

as thrilling, he assured his fare, as Athens:

throbbing, thrusting, thriving Alexandria.

Orlando did not mind. Out on the deck again

and gently rocking on the soothing waves

he reasoned that a detour of this kind

was, like as not, the gods’ intent, and who,

he thought, was he to ponder on their will.

“The gods,” Orlando mused, though to himself,

“in Alexandria will make it known to me

what in their name I might be doing there,”

and off he dozed. – The gods were not so sure. 

For Alexandria was new. And none of them

did know it well, nor had the citizens 

of Alexandria yet cared to call upon 

a deity as their patron; no, their sole intent,

it seemed, was at this point to grow, and grow

their city did: with every day more people

came to stay, eager to build and keen to trade,

prepared to dare, to put at stake

their livelihood, if not their dreamed-of future,

in the new place named after the emperor

who brought the world he made his own to them.

And did it come: from far afield as China,

India and Arabia did wares arrive:

spices, gems, dried herbs and fruits, and ivory,

skins and silks and drapes and rugs and mosaics

and plants and medicines and, prized above all:

knowledge. Knowledge as had not been known before:

not only were new thoughts here thought – new ways

of thinking thoughts, ideas of what ideas might be

and records of such thoughts as had been thought

now found their home in Alexandria:

a hub of trade and commerce that became

a haven for enquiry and reason.

Orlando, who had never been to school,

but whose bright mind was ready soon to burst

with curiosity, had scarce set foot

on firm Egyptian soil before he found himself

in the Mouseion’s hallowed halls where not the gods

but all the muses were revered, and within days

illiterate country boy of yore, Orlando

found a teacher like none other in Euclid

and formed a college with some peers who much like he

had never once before soaked so in knowledge;

Orlando felt his mission was already done. 

Here, surely, was the city of all cities

a place where people relished everything!

What multitudes he witnessed coming, going

sometimes standing in a spot, in conversation,

and what conversations he so overheard

and soon felt bold enough to have himself:

he would, thought young Orlando, simply stay

here for some time and learn and practise what he learnt

and then return and take with him some papyrus

and write down—soon he would be able to!—

everything he’d seen and heard and done.

Beyond that, he was now convinced, need be no search:

perfect, indeed, was Alexandria.

At this point, Chronos entered in the fray.

Chronos has no time for trivial pursuits

such as the games his fellow deities

enjoy to play so frequently on humans;

he has no need for tributes and vain offerings,

for temples or for shrines, or cities given

to his name; Chronos is the god of time,

and time is endless for as long as there is time;

and there is nothing anyone can do to hasten

or to slow time in its pace, and Chronos knows

that every moment present next becomes

a moment past, and that the past is but

a future presently unmade by time, and time

itself is but the way we witness our decay,

to be reshaped as something else or maybe

something similar, in constant cycles,

ever-growing, ever more enlarged, until

time ceases to exist and we are gone.

Love may not be time’s fool, but time is no-one’s fool

and, irked by the bickering of his cousin gods, 

Chronos decided here to intervene.

“Minions,” he cried, mostly to himself, for they,

as usual, cared not and paid no heed to him,

“what is perfection in the now when time

yet writes the histories, yet moves the skies,

yet makes a future certain though it be unknown,

yet turns each fleeting moment to a lasting past,

each monument to rubble, every pantheon

to dust: speak you of the city of all cities

and think not of time and cities yet to come?

Oh vanity, oh unsupportable conceit!

You may be gods and think yourselves beyond

the ravages and promises of time,

but what you speak of is not so: your witness

shall bear witness to this too and travel

far beyond the realms alone of land and sea,”

and for his purpose called upon swift Hermes,

just as the other gods had done before. 

He to Orlando and with Hypnos’ help (the

limitations of his own caduceus known)

sent him to gentle sleep, but not before

reminding him that time was short (the opposite

would prove the case, but this Hermes did not relay)

and coaxing him, with promises of wonders,

wisdoms and of winsome folk more worthy

of his admiration than what he found here,

upon a merchant vessel, large and tall.

And thus Orlando, worldly now, acquainted

with philosophy and algebra, and art

and poetry and history; conversant

in both Greek and Latin, and in Arabic:

a young man now of learning and some wealth

(Tyche, unsurprisingly, had smiled on him)

did sail across the sea of Mid-Terrania

bound, in deepest slumber, for Byzantium.

(This time, none other than Dionysus,

god of ritual and fertility, 

religious ecstasy, the theatre,

harvest, winemaking and indeed of wine

in all its wondrous workings was to blame— 

if ‘blame’ can be a word employed to name

the impact of the gods on our fate—

that the strong ship in which Orlando sailed

did veer off course again and make headway

elsewhere: the seas were calm, the winds 

unfurious but fair; it was the captain

at the helm who savoured all the pleasures

that Orlando’s rumoured father stood for

just too much to keep a steady hand and 

soon landed, haphazardly, in Italy...)