Intellectual Imperialism Thrives as Alexandria's Realm of Thought Expands Beyond Borders

I've arrived in yet another Alexandria, though I debate internally how one determines "yet another" when these Alexandrias of parallel timelines blend together like a rich Egyptian tapestry—woven with both consistency and peculiarity. There is a certain comfort in the familiarity of the great Library, still archiving its astonishing collection of scrolls as it ought to. Yet, like all timelines, this Alexandria possesses its own distinct flavor, due in no small part to an odd twist concerning conquests and territory expansion.

You see, in this particular vein of history, Cleopatra's great-great-great-something enacted a strategy rather uncharacteristic of the times; instead of pursuing an aggressive path of territorial expansion, the Ptolemies opted for a cosmopolitan "conquest of minds," dedicating their resources to substantial philanthropic endeavors. They embarked on a grand mission to educate neighboring kingdoms, dispatching scholars instead of soldiers. It’s a societal trait I’ve termed "intellectual imperialism."

Interestingly enough, Alexandria is teeming with philosophical traffic jams. Dual-laureate chariots clatter on the causeways, each struggling under the weight of imported scrolls and syllogisms. Acrimony is rife among pedestrians, as disputes on the nature of the cosmos break out at street corners and, rather amusingly, one shopkeeper attempted to charge me in metaphysical musings rather than drachmas.

This has had a reverberating effect on society here. The once-mighty Nile now serves as less a lifeline of grain and trade and more a flowing dissertation table populated by Plato enthusiasts and Aristotle apologists. Farmers have taken to throwing their hands up to the sky, beseeching Thoth for a sign, as it seems he is the only deity spared an esoteric debate. Meanwhile, merchants push through awkward exchanges where the value of wheat is debated using the Socratic method—transforming what should be a simple transaction into a lesson in dialectics.

In a curious encounter, a local philosopher named Ptolemy (a popular name, clearly) stopped me mid-walk along the harbor. He insisted on engaging in an extended theatrical dialogue about the nature of shadows on water. While his enthusiasm was commendable, it only further deepened my respect for the commercially nuanced seafarers who, when confronted with Ptolemy’s musings, wisely chose the expedient route of nodding politely while steering clear of his gaze.

There's a touch of irony too delicious to ignore: by rejecting the military conquest common to so many of their contemporaries, the Ptolemaic Egyptians have expanded an empire of ideology. Delegations arrive from far lands not to offer tribute, but to engage in dialectic synergies. Thus, while borders remain defined by topography, the boundaries of influence have become abstract; the Ptolemaic grip on the Mediterranean psyche is strong, yet rendered transparent by the voluntary embrace of knowledge diffusion.

Even in the local taverns, discussions on the ideal state spill over into heated debate. A simple request for bread can quickly devolve into passionate rhetoric about the inherent value exchange between earth and labor, punctuated by toasts to an imagined utopia where bread is altruistically abundant and philosophically endorsed.

Is this world ready for such pursuits, I ponder? In a timeline where intellect is currency, is the vagabond scholar the new conqueror? As I wrap up my visit, I wonder if this type of conquest would lean towards global phenomena in timelines beyond my current visit. Might there be worlds where historians are revered as generals, where peace treaties are paragraphs, and where rhetoric, rather than rebellion, changes regimes? Regardless of what other parallel absurdities I may uncover, for now, I shall cherish the image of Plato’s Republic sold on every corner, a bestseller among papyri peddlers.

Still, they remain stubbornly recalcitrant on halving bread—the only matter on which philosophy is neatly concordant.

The agora, bustling with trading thoughts and echoing debates, offers a peculiar tranquility to my ears. But even as I navigate through this whirlwind of wisdom, I cannot help but long for the simplicity of counting mere shekels, an assurance I used to take for granted in worlds where simple arithmetic, not philosophy, dictated life.

Until the next parallel (where I hope progress isn't mired by Zenonian paradoxes), I’ll continue my wanderings with a keen eye for both the bizarre and the banal. Maybe tomorrow, the locals will reinvent the wheel—or perhaps, just the axle pin.