by Annabel Lyon
“Not by much. You adjust for the weight with a smaller shield.”
I took a few thrusts while he watched.
“You’re rusty,” he said finally. “At least you’ve changed your clothes.”
He introduced me to the soldier, who turned out to be one of his older generals, Antipater. Short hair, short beard, tired eyes. When Philip was off at war, Antipater was regent. The three of us sat under the colonnade, while the first rain of the day speckled the courtyard, and drank wine mixed with water. While we spoke, I thought about Philip as a boy. We had played together, in this very courtyard perhaps. I seemed to remember a wrestling match, smells of sweat and grass; fierce, private, sweet. I couldn’t recall who had won.
“He offers you his loyalty, and asks for your help,” I said now, of Hermias.
Philip reread the treaty I had brought him, slowly, while a page gathered up the assorted lances and took them in out of the drumming rain. I imagined Philip on various battlefields, squinting about for a new piece to add to his collection and promptly killing the bearer when he found one. Wasn’t that, too, a kind of science?
“Drink,” Philip ordered without lifting his eyes, when I shifted in my chair.
I drank. A scholar surrounded by scholars, I had forgotten how slowly some people read. After a long while, Philip began to talk about his ambitions.
“I like your friend here,” he said, waving the treaty. “He’s shrewd, a survivor.”
“I will be pleased to relay that message to him.”
“Someone will. Not you. I’ll be needing you now.”
I watched the page, a dark-skinned boy with tight curls and yellow palms. He had come from far away, Egypt, perhaps, or Ethiopia. He might have changed hands many, many times before landing here with these spears and dummies. Philip was talking about Athens. Athens was old, Athens was decayed, Athens was dying, but Athens was also key. Antipater sat with his feet flat on the ground, his palms flat on his thighs, staring fixedly at the air between his knees. I wondered, though he had parried nimbly enough, if he was in pain. Athens, though—that was all right. For a moment Philip had frightened me, saying he needed me.
“We had hoped,” he said, “after Plato’s death, the Academy would go to you. Then you would have had some influence. I don’t like this Speusippus who’s there now.”
I was confused; Plato, my master, had died five years before. Philip had been watching me five years ago? “Speusippus is his nephew,” I said. “I don’t like him either.” With his little hands and his mild manners and his mild little mind. He wrote dialogues, like his uncle, in which the challenger was always crumbling into confusion before the questioner’s blithe probing. I told him once not to be afraid to enter an argument he couldn’t immediately see his way out of. I had thought to be helpful, but he counted me an enemy, in his mild way, after that.
“He writes me letters,” Philip said. “Counselling me. He compares me to Heracles. Astounding parallels he finds between us.”
Antipater and I smiled identical smiles, small and dry; we caught each other’s eye and looked away. Friends, that quickly.
Philip, a deft enough wit to move swiftly past his own jokes, shook his head. “They’ll consider you again, though, when Speusippus dies. He’s elderly, yes? Because that’s the sort of power I need. You can’t do it all with spears. They look at me and see an animal, but they look at you and see one of their own. Military power they’ll fight and fight like a butting goat, but you could get under their skin. Head of the Academy, that’s the kind of thing they respect. Plato used the office like a diplomat, power-brokering, influencing policy. Kings listened to him.”
“As you listen to Speusippus?”
“You’re not an effeminate clown. Well, you’re not a clown. They’ll listen to you, too, when the time comes. Meanwhile I’ve got a job for you here.”
No. “Here.”
“You can tutor my son.”
The rain paused in the air, then continued to fall.
“That’s beneath you?”
“Of course it’s beneath me,” I said. “I’ve got work to do.”
“But he likes you already. He told me so himself.”
“Arrhidaeus?”
Antipater raised his head.
Philip looked wondering for a moment. Then his face cleared. “No, you dumb shit,” he said. “Alexander.”
AFTER THE PERFORMANCE, I lie in bed watching my wife remove the long gold pins from her hair and the sharp clasps from her tunic. What a lot of spikes it takes to hold her together. While the men were at the theatre, she spent the evening with Olympias and her women, weaving. She says the queen kept a basket by her foot, and when she saw Pythias looking at it, waved her over to see. Inside was a black snake no bigger than a bracelet. When the meal came Olympias fed it from her own plate, meat sliced fine, like you would give to a baby. The women spoke enthusiastically of the meal, and of different ways of preparing beans and meat. They demonstrated their favourite cuts by slapping themselves on the rump and legs, laughing, until my poor Pythias had to push her own plate away. The only pleasant moment of the evening, as she tells it, came early, when the boy Alexander stopped by to kiss his mother. That must have been before the performance. Introduced to Pythias, he greeted her warmly, with great courtesy and charm, and smelled, she said, most cleanly and pleasantly of spice. I haven’t been able to tell her about the head. Maybe she’ll never have to know.
“We’ll do what we’ll do,” she says again.
“You can’t have no opinion. It can’t be nothing to you. If we stay, it might be for years.”
“You’ve got a choice?”
I say nothing.
“They’re rude,” she says. “All of them. Their bodies stink. The women do slaves’ work. Their wine is bad. The queen”—she glances back over her shoulder at me—“is insane.”
“They will rule the world.”
“I don’t doubt it.” She gets in beside me and lies on her back.
I rest on an elbow to look at her. “I wanted to take you to Athens,” I say. “You’d have been at home there.”
“I was at home in Mytilene.”
Because her tone is petulant I don’t answer, but touch her hip. She spreads her legs. Dry, again. She flinches when I touch her. She says something more about my decision, asks some question. I put my tongue just there, on the pomegranate seed, and the tendons in her groin go taut as bowstrings. Pity and fear, purgation, relief. My tongue, working. A substance like the white of an egg.
THAT NIGHT, I DREAM of Stageira. When I wake, I sit for a long time by the window, wrapped in a blanket, remembering. I was a miserable child, lonely, and frightened when my father was called away at night or travelling, which was often. He was the only doctor for many of the little coastal villages, and as his reputation grew he was called ever farther away, to ever bigger towns. The twins were still allowed to sleep with our mother, but I had no one. I suffered night terrors until my mother taught me the trick of concentrating on whatever was closest to me—the length and texture of the hairs on the fur I slept on, or counting the threads of the pulse in my wrist, or feeling the tide of the breath in my body—and so distracting myself. She said this trick had helped her with the same problem. Soon I was practising it everywhere I went, observing and analyzing and categorizing compulsively, until no one wanted to talk to me because of the questions I asked and the information I spilled. Have you ever noticed? I would ask boys my own age. Can you tell me? I would ask adults. Soon I was spending all my time alone, swimming with my eyes open, trapping insects, reading my father’s books, cutting myself to observe the blood, drawing maps, tracing leaves, charting stars, and all of it helped a little, and none of it helped a lot. On the worst days I stayed in bed, unable to speak or eat, until the blackness lifted.
“He’s a strange boy,” I overheard my father tell my mother, on one of his increasingly rare visits home. “He worries me. Not his health, but his mind. I don’t know if h
e has too much discipline or none at all. He goes places I can’t follow, inside himself.”
“He misses you,” my mother said.
I WATCH ALEXANDER MORE closely now. On the eve of Philip’s departure for Thessaly, one early summer dawn, we ride out to hunt. I arrive in second-best clothes, unarmed, on slow, reliable Tar. Philip and his entourage of pages and purple-cloaked Companions are in full battledress. The ground beneath their mounts roils with dogs. After some insults—it’s suggested I be made to wear a halter around my waist, like a boy who hasn’t had his first kill—I’m handed a spare pike and shield and left to keep up as best I can. We ride to the royal park, where the day’s festivities begin with the sacrifice of a screaming, spurting piglet. It’s a day of pomp and etiquette that I see as a succession of frozen images, like a series of coins struck and over-struck, glinting in the sun. Philip in profile, helmeted. A dog rearing up on hind legs as its owner unclips its lead. A spear balanced on a shoulder. A boar crashing through a clearing. Alexander, unstraddling his horse, knife unsheathed. The boar shaking off a spear sunk too shallow in its side, kicking in the skull of a dog, crashing off again. The dog, one leg spastic. The dog, dead. A wineskin passed from hand to hand. Alexander looking for his mount.
Philip begins to tease him, offering him a skittish horse, daring him to ride it. Ox-Head, the animal is called, for the white mark on its forehead. The boy turns it toward the sun, blinding it, and mounts it easily. Philip, drunk, makes a sarcastic remark. From the warhorse’s back, the boy looks down at his father as though he’s coated in filth. That’s the coin I’ll carry longest in my pocket, the image I’ll worry over and over with my thumb.
I could help him, just like his brother. I could fill my plate. I could stay.
TWO
WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN, my father came home to announce we were moving to the capital because he had been named personal physician to the king. Abruptly his travels stopped, and for a final few weeks he stayed in Stageira, treating only local cases, preparing for the move. As my mother and sister and the servants busied themselves packing up the carts, I indulged in precocious fits of nostalgia, wandering from cliff to shore, swimming, and wondering when we would return. I was afraid of Pella, of the lack of solitude, of a landscape I wasn’t intimate with, of being under my parents’ eyes much more than I ever had been in our village. I was afraid of my father. Though as a small boy I had missed him terribly, now I found him strict, remote, and often disappointed in me. His encouragement came in mean doses, and often at random; why was it fine to want to watch the birth of a litter of puppies but idle and wasteful to work out the mathematical relationship between the length of a lyre string and the tone it produced?
He liked me best when I accompanied him in his work and helped him at bedsides, when I spoke little and remembered from one visit to the next which powder was used to treat which illness, and when I correctly recited the aphorisms he made me memorize: use a fluid diet to treat a fever; avoid starchy foods in summer; it is better that a fever follow a convulsion than a convulsion follow a fever; purge at the start of an illness but never at its height; teething can cause fevers and diarrhea; drugs may be administered to pregnant women most safely in the fourth to seventh months of gestation, after which the dosages should be reduced; sandy urine indicates a stone forming in the bladder; eunuchs do not suffer gout; women are never ambidextrous; and on, and on, and on.
My father was a man of causes and effects, impatient with amateurs who tried to pray or magic sicknesses away. He would accept a stone bound to a wrist to ease a fever, say, only if the stone had proven itself on two or three other patients in the past. He believed in the medicinal properties of opposites: cold to cure heat, sweetness to cure bile, and so on. He used herbs, and sacrifices were of course conventional, though he opposed ostentation of any sort and once refused to treat a feverish man whose family had ruined itself to buy and slaughter an ox on his behalf. The hysterical waste of it revolted my father, and (probably more to the point) made him doubt they would follow any less glamorous, more pragmatic instructions of his. The man died. My father disliked, too, the procedure known as incubation, where a patient would be made to spend a night alone in a temple in the expectation that the god would send him a dream of how he was to be cured. My father said this was blasphemous. He taught me to keep case studies, charting the progress of an illness day by day in the modern manner, though he seemed to prefer problems that needed only a single visit. “In and out,” he would say with satisfaction after some spectacular single treatment; I once saw him pop a separated shoulder back into place in the time it took to greet the man. He had a gift for childbirth, though he particularly despised women healers, and tolerated midwives only grudgingly. They practised witchery for the most part, he told me, and were irrational, untrustworthy, and liable to do more damage to a woman than if she were left alone and allowed to follow her own crude animal instincts. He spoke of women in these terms generally—witches, animals. Still, he was at his softest with a labouring woman, speaking gently, cajoling but not babying, and greeting each dripping purple arrival with quiet joy, lifting it to the light in a private ritual only I recognized as such, having seen it again and again.
The first surgery I ever witnessed he performed on a local village girl who had been labouring for two days. She was only half-conscious by the time we got to her, though we lived only a few minutes’ walk away, and the family had already begun to prepare the house for her death: neighbour women had gathered by the front door, hoping to be hired for the mourning, and we stepped past a tray of anointing oils and white cloths outside the sickroom door, as well as a coin for the ferryman to be put in her mouth once she was dead. My father examined her quickly, palpated her belly, and said the baby had started to come feet first and was stuck. Quickly he stripped the bed and the girl and called for clean sheets. I stared at the great mound of her belly, trying to picture the arrangement inside. I was ten, and had never seen a woman naked before. “Can you see it?” my father said, unexpectedly.
I thought he had forgotten me. I knew he meant could I imagine the position of the baby through the flesh, and I said I wasn’t sure. The wet sheets were replaced with new.
“This is so I can see the progress of the fluids, the colour and quantity and so on,” my father said, just to me, calmly, as though all this—the dying girl, the weeping family, the husband already wordless, motionless in a corner chair, grief-stricken—was for my private instruction. “Did you bring my knives?”
A rhetorical question. It was my job to prepare his kit every morning before we set out and to clean it every evening when we got home, and though we generally had some idea of the patients we would be visiting in the course of a given day—say, a childbirth, a fracture, a couple of fevers in the same house, a baby with spots, an old one bringing up blood—my father told me never to bring only what I thought we would need, because inevitably we would be surprised by something and find ourselves lacking. The resulting kit of everything strapped to my back was too heavy for me to walk upright, but I knew better than to complain. Wraps and bandages, woollen pads, splints, sponges, plaster, bowls and ampoules for collecting fluids and other excretions, metal wands for cautery, a tablet and stylus for note-taking, a selection of herbs and medications for the most common remedies (he kept a larger apothecary at home), tongue depressors, tourniquets, scissors, razors, bronze pipes for blood-letting, and a small amphora of marsh-water and leeches. Also a purse of assorted coins to make change when we were paid.
I unrolled the pack now and produced the leather sleeve of knives I whetted regularly and had yet to see him use. “Third from the left,” he told me over his shoulder. He had called for four men and was showing them how to hold the girl down, one at each limb. I unsheathed a knife not much smaller than a table knife, though not the very smallest blade, and gave it to him. (“Eyes and ears,” he had told me of the first two when I asked him once.)
The girl woke with the cut, a stro
ke the length of my hand from navel to pubic hair. It looked like a scratch at first, and then it started to bleed. My father probed it with his finger, and then ran the knife a second time along the same line, deepening the cut. The girl was screaming now, get it out, get it out.
“Quickly,” my father said, glancing up at me. “If you want to see.”
I did want to see. Through the blood and the yellow fat I saw the head, and then my father reached in and lifted out the baby. It wasn’t moving. The umbilical cord was thick and ropy, an unfleshy grey. My father was holding the baby with one hand and pointing back inside the girl with the other, naming parts I couldn’t properly make out for the gore. A midwife appeared at his elbow with a clean cloth; he gave her the baby so he could cut the cord. Fortunately he had encountered her before—a competent, unemotional woman near his own age. It was she who had persuaded the family to send for him when her own skills had proved insufficient. She didn’t wait for his instruction now, but swiped the baby’s mouth out with her little finger and then put her face over its nose to suck out the blood and mucus. Her own lips now red with blood, like a predator at feed, she slapped its purple bum smartly and it began to choke, then scream.
“Good.” My father, surprised, glanced up from the cord, which he had tied off to stop the bleeding. “There’s a little sewing kit, like your mother uses,” he told me, but I already had it out. He closed the lips of the girl’s belly with small, tight stitches, a painstaking process made worse by her screaming and writhing. In the corner, the husband was vomiting a thin yellow gruel onto the floor. My father had me hold a wadded cloth to the incision to sop up the blood that continued to seep through, and held his hands out for the baby. This had all taken a matter of minutes.
“Boy,” the midwife said, and handed it over.
“A lovely boy.” My father held the swaddled bundle up to the light, and then down to the mother’s head, so she could see. Her glance slid to it and stayed there. My father nodded at one of the slaves, who released her arm so she could reach for it and touch its hair. When we left, she was still bleeding.