The classroom was much brighter than the hall, and it still looked the same as it was many years ago. There was a desk in front of a large blackboard – that's right, interactive boards weren't yet widespread in 2008 – and four rows of desks stood on elevated steps. Walking from the blackboard to the end of the class seemed like climbing half a flight of stairs. That design was similar to college classrooms, but there was no need for doing so in this room, which could hold at most 40 students.
Now, the teacher's desk was close to the door, with another one standing next to it. Four adults were sharing the two desks, one of them the woman who just entered before Michael.
"You're here. Come in, let's start already" hurried him one of the teachers, with a patchy beard and uncombed hair.
Michael tried to sneak in without alerting too much attention to himself. Even though he somehow appeared in his own body, he had no memories of what his younger self was doing before he went to the washroom. Maybe his report was already over and done with.
"Welcome. You all have passed the first stage of the exam and had a week to write a report on a topic from a set we prepared for you. Let's begin without further interruptions. When we call your name, come down here and deliver a speech that you've prepared with your report. Let's do our best not to interrupt the speaker. After you finish, we'll ask you some questions, and the other students are free to do so as well. I don't think I need to explain that we will also evaluate your participation and questions" said Mr. Jones, a middle-aged man with black skin, soft facial features and an elegant jawline.
Michael didn't pay much attention to Mr. Jones and glanced at his three colleagues instead. The shabby-looking younger man with unkempt appearance was checking something out on his phone, uninterested in the process. Sitting next to him, an older balding gentleman was hiding his face in his hands. The plump woman, on the other hand, was gingerly looking at the children with a kind smile.
Michael remembered how on the day of his report, he thought that Mr. Jones was speaking because he had the least authority among them. He had to act when others were left to their own devices. The person who looked the most impressive was the older gentleman, and Michael tried his hardest to impress him, but the man didn't even look at him. Desperate, he delivered the rest of his speech to the kind-looking woman, who received his attention eagerly.
Ironically, it was Mr. Jones who was the head of the History department, and two other men were his subordinates. As for the woman, she had no say in any of this – she was the head librarian, for God's sake!
The youngest children began to deliver their rather simple speeches – they were 12, 13 years at most, who would expect anything from them? But now, Michael's face was getting red with shame as he was staring at the report in front of him. It was titled "My favorite historical person – Alexander the Great". It described Alexander's achievements and his military exploits in length, ending with a banal idea that Alexander excelled in diplomacy as well as war.
'There is just no comparison between a child's and an adult's intelligence' Michael thought.
Of course, he was just a child himself back then, but this topic – 'My favorite historical person' really caught his attention. It was the simplest one, with no analytical skills needed for preparing it. Just search the name on the Internet – and there you go, so much information, so many ideas.
Meanwhile, as Michael read through his own paper as if for the first time, the 9th-graders' turn to report came up. The whole affair barely took 5-7 minutes per person. The teachers were unenergetic, and though the kids did their best, they just couldn't draw their attention.
And for some reason, this angered Michael. As a grown man put through the same ordeal as these boys and girls aged 12-14, he couldn't stand the disregard these men had for the kids. The librarian, Ms. Helen was doing her best supporting the students delivering their reports. She was asking questions and displaying her care, while the old gentlemanly bastard was checking his nails, not speaking a word since the start.
Don't they know most of these kids never had to do this kind of task before? What normal 8th-grader has to do research and report on it in class after? And while the school certainly wasn't normal, many of these children were!
And then it happened.
"Severniy, Mikhail!" Mr. Jones announced. He had long noticed this boy, dressed way too formally for a child, not a wrinkle on his pants. This showed great parental care, but Jones saw way too many children like that. Most of the time they were useless lazy little shits, who would never amount to anything in their lives other than becoming heirs to their parents' fortunes. And voila, the kid didn't move a muscle since the exam started, not participating, not even attempting to ask a single question.
Mr. Jones called again, "Severniy, Mikhail!"
Oddly enough, the boy didn't react. But Jones remembered clearly that before they had to wait for Helen, when he checked attendance, this Russian boy answered to the name.
"Mikhail! Are you just going to sit there like an idiot? Do you know what your name is? Or maybe you've already forgotten it after half an hour?" That was the kind of man Jones prided himself in being. He was direct, he was honest, and he never had to lower himself to any of the rich kids in the school. If he wanted to call someone an idiot, he felt it was his right. If he wanted to make fun of a child in front of the class, that was his power.
Hearing such rude words, everyone in the classroom seemed to wake up. A small boy snickered, "Those Russians are so slow", and his desk mate added, "I hear there are way too many Russians in this school".
To be fair, Michael hadn't heard his birth name for many years and hadn't introduced himself as Mikhail for the same amount of time. The fact is, ever since he enrolled in this school he changed his name to Michael North so that it would be easier for people to pronounce it – 'Severniy' meant 'northern' in Russian. Then, after he returned to his homeland to attend university, he just kept the name. It stuck.
All his friends already knew him as Michael anyway. Why change a good thing?
That was why at this moment he got a bit lost, but bravely stood up as he recovered.
"I know my name very well, sir. I just wanted to check if anyone would notice if I didn't move. I thought some people would keep staring at the wall blankly until it was time for lunch".
Someone behind Michael gasped, and for good reason. None of the history teachers seemed like easygoing men, and Michael's words were downright insulting.
Jones was struck stupid, his jaw dropping in an inelegant manner, his mouth wide open. Anger barely flashed in his eyes when Michael took back the initiative again.
"Is it my turn? Good! Let me tell you about Alexander the Great! Let me tell you about the man who had the talent and the capability to conquer the world when he was younger than some of the people in this room.
In my paper, I've provided a lot of basic information about Alexander, and his name was already mentioned today by some of my colleagues. Very well, let's not dwell on the dry facts and move on to the real question. Why was he called the Great?
It is a common consensus that his nickname is an ode to his military talent. That cannot be refuted – after all, the man is known as one of history's greatest generals to this day. However, that is not the man I want to speak about today. I have no interest in the general, in the man who slashed a sword at a famous knot or the dubious sexual preferences of the man who went paranoid after losing a male companion.
Today, I call him a tyrant.
Here is a boy who tames a wild stallion at the age of 12, gains experience in ruling his father's kingdom and leads a military campaign all before turning 18.
Here is a man who becomes king at the age of twenty and immediately has to suppress an uprising caused by his father's death. Alexander executes his own family members before their attempts at the throne are not only realized but even conceived. He marches on to Greece, to Egypt, to Central and South Asia, to Persia, to India and only turns back to accommodate his men.
Today, I call him a uniter.
Whichever land he conquers, he doesn't touch its customs, he doesn't change its culture and he only replaces the ruling few. Tutored from a young age by the legendary Aristotle, Alexander grows to love the arts and literature. He enjoys reading books and adopts his teacher's fascination with philosophy. Alexander may be called brash, but he is intelligent and shrewd, proving his mind's excellence primarily in war, never losing a single battle in his short yet eventful life.
Not to say that his men obey him unconditionally, but they love him deeply. He considers himself a god among men, hailed as the son of Zeus, the son of the king of gods, and, what really amazes me, his men support the claim. Alexander takes this belief to his grave, even when dying in agony like an ordinary man.
Here is the man I admire. Not the general, not the scholar, but the one who leads the cavalry charge. The boy who cannot sit still when he sees an untamed wild stallion. The youth who grasps hold over the kingdom he inherits, crushing his opposition. The man who sees the city of Gaza that cannot be sieged and takes it after a few weeks. The king who feels he cannot stop until the world belongs to him.
Because his blood is too hot to sit still. Because by birth or by strength, he believes he deserves it.
I don't know if the world should belong to him, but only a man like that deserves to be called 'the Great'".