So he hobbles the rest of the way, staggering like a drunkard. He feels the eyes of the crowd burning into him—for they have fallen silent now, and it’s a silence of horror and pity. Don’t think about it, he tells himself. Just take another step and then another after that.
It goes on forever. He is hunched over, staring down at his legs, so ungainly, so very weak. And then he steps across the chalk line, smeared now by the eleven pairs of feet that have run across it. And there he stops.
Alexos watches his father with something akin to awe. How does the king maintain such incredible control? He sets the laurel crown on the oily, sweaty brow of a peasant lad who has just defeated a host of young aristocrats—and does not look amazed. His son and heir, the future savior of Arcos, has publicly shamed and disappointed him—and he shows no anger or despair. Teo is weeping and making a scene. Ektor ignores him. He goes through the ceremony of praise to the goddess in a calm and dignified manner. He acknowledges the cheering crowd of commoners, delirious with pride that one of their own has won the laurel crown, and guides young Peles of Attaros to his proper place for the procession back to the palace.
Never once does he show any feeling at all.
Never once does he look at his son.
Alexos sends a message saying he’s unwell and cannot attend the banquet. The king does not reply. The next morning he is gone, back to the borderlands. Father and son have not exchanged a single word.
7
DAYS FLOW SEAMLESSLY INTO nights, and days, and nights: fever dreams broken by fitful wakefulness, both soon forgotten, all of it much the same. It is always dark. Lamplit faces hover over him; the servants speak in whispers. He is bathed, arranged, changed, massaged, examined. Drops are administered, damp cloths, sharp-smelling unguents, powders. Someone combs his hair.
On the fourth day, Alexos wakes, truly aware for the first time. He can’t tell if it is night or day; the shutters are closed, so the room is dark. But a lamp is burning on the table by his bed. His skin feels dry; it itches. And his back aches from lying so long in one position. The room is too warm and smells of sickness: sweat, medicines, urine, too many people. His first conscious thought is, Will someone please open a window? Then he sees Suliman, the court physician, standing over him.
“What happened?” he says. His voice sounds strange to him. It’s breathy and the words are slurred.
“You’ve been very ill, my prince.”
“How long . . . ?”
“Four days. But the fever is down. You’re on the mend now.”
Alexos doesn’t feel like he’s on the mend. He feels like he’s been trod upon by horses, then left to rot all night in a bog.
Extra servants have been brought in, among them Teo’s nursemaid Carissa. They all seem to be wearing sad faces, as though someone has died, or is dying.
“Where’s Teo?” he asks, suddenly alarmed.
“He’s perfectly well, my lord.”
This isn’t an answer to the question Alexos asked, but it’s a relief. The sad faces must be for him, then, not Teo.
“I’m sorry, Alexos, but I can’t allow your brother into the sickroom. There are some physicians who maintain that disease travels from one person to another through the patient’s polluted breath. And I have observed often enough how sickness spreads through families. Better not to take the chance with Teo.”
Alexos nods. Please, yes, keep him away.
“I have sent a message to your father informing him of your illness. I expect he’ll return as soon as he gets the news. But it could take a week, perhaps longer. There is considerable distance to travel, first for the messenger and then for the king.”
Alexos closes his eyes. His father. Only now does he remember. “He won’t come.”
“Why do you say that? Do you think he will stay away because of what happened—?”
“Yes.” It comes out rather more sharply than he intended.
“But, Alexos—you were severely compromised, already burning with fever! Most people would have collapsed on the track. Truly, your conduct was greatly to your credit. The king will understand that once he learns of your illness. So will everyone else.”
This seems too good to be true: his shameful failure instantly erased, his father’s anger assuaged, and his reputation magically restored. Life, in his experience, is never like that, at least not for him. When things go bad they generally tend to get worse instead of better.
“He’ll come,” Suliman says. His fingers play idly with his long, black beard; he rolls the hairs together as a spinner winds wool. It’s an old, familiar habit of his, something he does when he’s thinking. And Alexos can guess what’s on Suliman’s mind: he’s starting to have doubts as to whether Ektor will come after all, and wondering how the prince will bear it if he does not.
“But for now,” Suliman says, “we must try to build you up again. You’ve had nothing but water these past four days and not very much of that. It would be a terrible shame if you survived the illness only to die of starvation.” He raises his dark brows, clearly hoping for some response, perhaps even a smile at his little joke. But when none is forthcoming—Alexos really doesn’t have the energy—he pats the boy’s arm and goes on in his soft, deep voice. “I’ve ordered you some nourishing broth. I know you won’t be hungry, but you must take some if you can.”
“All right,” Alexos murmurs, though the thought of food is mildly repulsive. His gut feels as though it’s been turned to stone, or has died, or withered away. He can’t imagine putting anything in there.
“Then let me prop you up so you can eat more comfortably. Hesta, bring me the bolster, if you will.” A young servant Alexos has not seen before quickly produces the bolster. “Slip it behind his back. That’s right; just so.”
Alexos allows himself to be arranged like a rag doll. He lies passively as Hesta drapes a cloth over his chest, then sits on a stool beside the bed and begins to feed him, rewarding him with a smile for every mouthful.
Does she take him for an infant, he wonders? He scowls at her and she blinks, surprised. She hadn’t meant to offend him. “Just give me the soup,” he says softly.
Then he flinches suddenly as a sharp spasm grips his calf. He tries to shake it off, to raise the leg and pull up the foot to stretch against the cramping muscle, but he can’t. The pain is terrible. He lets out a moan, clutches at the sheets, arches his back.
In an instant Hesta and her bowl are gone and Suliman is there, throwing back the covers, massaging the muscle. Alexos stares, panting, desperate for the cramping to stop. He tries to slide over the other leg to get it out of Suliman’s way, but it might be made of wood and not attached to him at all, just a thing someone left in the bed.
“What’s wrong with me?” he wails. “My legs won’t move!”
“It’s a feature of the illness,” the physician says, not looking up, continuing to work the muscle.
“What illness? You never said!”
But Suliman doesn’t respond; it’s as if he hadn’t even heard the question. He just goes on pressing his thumbs into the belly of the muscle, moving down the length of it, kneading it like dough. As the cramping begins to ease, he rubs with a brisk, quivering motion. The skin and muscle are soft now, loose; they flutter under Suliman’s hand.
When he is satisfied that the event is over, Suliman lifts Alexos, pulls out the bolster, and settles his head back on the pillow again. He tugs at the sheets to smooth out any wrinkles, then arranges the covers over the prince’s legs and chest.
“There,” he says.
The whispering servants all seem to have disappeared; it’s as if they had melted into the walls. Alexos doesn’t remember Suliman telling them to leave, but then Suliman has very expressive gestures. He could send them away with a subtle jerk of the head, a roll of his eyes.
But why clear the room at all? So they could be alone, of course. So they could talk privately. So Suliman could answer the question he’d ignored before, because the time
wasn’t right. And the answer will be hard for Alexos to hear.
Suliman is sitting beside him now. It’s strangely quiet all of a sudden, as if they weren’t simply alone in this room, but the last two people in the world.
“I asked you a question, Suliman, and you didn’t answer.”
“I was attending you, my prince. I couldn’t give you my full attention. But you have it now.”
“You told me I had a fever, but I know it’s worse than that. Tell me the truth. It’s the summer sickness, isn’t it?”
“I never lie to you, Alexos. I said your fever is down, which it is. Fever is one of the symptoms of the summer sickness. I’m so sorry.”
It’s not as if Alexos didn’t suspect this, especially after he couldn’t move his legs. But to have it confirmed is a blow, a boulder pressing on his chest. Now he will have to rethink everything. He has been transformed into a different person, a broken, ruined person.
“Will I be like those children you see in the streets with their braces and crutches? Will I have to be carried around in a chair?”
Suliman lays a gentle hand on the prince’s shoulder, another old habit of his: the consoling touch. Alexos has noticed that it often does more good than all the medicines combined.
“I would say no to the chair, Alexos. But it’s too early to tell how much damage has been done. The illness must run its course. That said, you were remarkably strong and healthy to begin with, and that is a great advantage. You have survived the crisis. And the cramping you experienced just now was actually a positive sign; it means the muscle has not been entirely destroyed.”
Entirely destroyed?
“There will be some impairment. I’m afraid you must be prepared for that, because there always is with the summer sickness. . . .”
I will never run again, never feel the thrill of speed and grace anymore. I may not even be able to walk. I’ll have to be helped in everything I do. My legs will be ugly. People will pity me. They will find me repulsive. I will forever be separate from everyone else, more even than I was before.
“. . . but I expect you will be one of the lucky ones. You’ll work hard at your recovery, because it’s your nature to do so. And whatever the outcome, I know you will face it with courage and dignity . . .”
I can’t possibly be king now. It would be laughable. And the champion of Athene—more laughable still. I will be useless, nothing but a sickly prince rattling around in his private rooms, being waited on by servants.
“. . . because you are a remarkable boy, Alexos—so serious, always striving to excel, willing to do whatever . . .”
Please, will you help me out of bed? Please will you wash me? Please, will you carry me to the privy? Please, will you help me put my tunic on?
“. . . is asked of you. You have always done this in the spirit of service, for someone or something else: your father, the kingdom, Athene. Now you must use that strength to heal yourself. You will rise above this, Alexos, as you have so many other things.”
Suliman seems to have finished. He seems to be waiting, and of course he is waiting, because that’s what he does—he gives Alexos time to absorb and respond. And it’s a good thing he’s such a patient man, because Alexos just stares up at those large, dark eyes, so full of expression, and says nothing at all.
But he is thinking. His mind is awake now, though not in a good way; it’s agitated, anxious, confused. All these random thoughts are running around in circles, shouting, each trying to drown out the others. And the loudest thought keeps screaming over and over, Why? Why did this happen?
So finally Alexos asks, “Why did Athene allow this to happen to me?”
Suliman sucks in breath. Alexos is impressed; it’s hard to startle Suliman.
“Are you sure you want to have this conversation now, my prince?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I want to know. She could have protected me; she’s a goddess with enormous powers and I am her chosen champion. But she didn’t lift a hand to do it. So, why? Did I fail her in some way? Am I not needed anymore? Because I’m useless to her as I am now.”
“Oh, Alexos! Do you think Athene needs you to run races for her?”
“I don’t know what she wants.”
“Nor do I. But assuming that nothing is accidental where the gods are concerned, I would guess that this is part of her plan.”
Alexos is shocked by this. It flies in the face of everything he’s ever assumed about his role as champion. “Are you saying that I’m supposed to suffer? That’s what the goddess wants from me?”
“That’s a surprisingly simplistic question coming from a clever boy like you.”
Alexos shrugs. It had seemed like a pretty straightforward question to him.
“All the heroes were tested. Think of Heracles cleaning out the Augean stables, washing out thirty years of cow dung in a single day. And poor Odysseus—all he wanted to do was get home to Penelope—but no! First he must wander the seas for ten years, be tempted by the Sirens, attacked by cannibals, imprisoned by a one-eyed monster—and you think the champion of Athene isn’t supposed to suffer?”
Alexos laughs, as Suliman meant him to. It clears the air.
“We cannot see into the minds of gods, Alexos. But we know from experience that hardship, challenges, and great disappointments help to form us as feeling, loving human beings. As I said before, the way you respond to a blow such as this—that is what’s important. To show courage in the face of adversity will impress Zeus far more than being fast and strong.”
Alexos isn’t sure why this helps, but somehow it does. This new understanding won’t give him back his legs, but it gives him back his purpose.
“Have you ever watched a blacksmith at work? Humor me, Alexos; I am making a point.”
“No, Suliman, I have not.”
“The blacksmith takes shapeless lumps of iron and turns them into useful things—a sword, for example. But to change its form, he must soften it over burning coals. Then, when it is red-hot, he shapes it on his anvil with a hammer. The iron must go from the fire to the anvil and back again many times before the process is complete.
“The iron was always strong, Alexos, and a thing of great value. But it was of no use to anyone until the blacksmith transformed it.”
“Is that me you’re talking about?”
“You are the instrument of Athene. She is forming you on her anvil.”
“Well, it hurts.”
“I know.”
8
IN THE HALLWAY OUTSIDE the sickroom, directly across from the door, there is a large ornamental chest. It rests on feet carved to look like lion’s paws. Beside it, wedged into the corner where the chest meets the wall, sits Teo, his legs drawn in close, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He is trying to be invisible and it seems to be working. Servants come and go from the room, yet no one has noticed him yet.
Teo wants to see his brother, but they won’t let him in. Whenever he asks why, they say that Alexos needs his rest, which makes no sense at all. How can he rest with all those people bustling about? And besides, Alexos would much rather be with Teo than with any of them. So why can they go in when he cannot?
It isn’t fair.
But the answer is clearly never going to change, no matter how often he asks. So Teo is doing the next best thing. He waits in secret outside the room, hoping at least to catch the sound of his brother’s voice.
The lady mistress, back in the nursery, doesn’t know where Teo is. She’s sound asleep in her comfortable chair. Of late she’s taken to sending the other nursemaids away in the afternoons and putting Teo down for a nap. She does this not because he’s sleepy at all, but because the lady mistress, no longer as young as she used to be, is completely worn-out from looking after a little boy. So as soon as Teo hears the dragon snores begin, he creeps from his bedchamber, tiptoes past the chair where the lady mistress sits—her arms hanging loose, her head lolling back, her mouth agape—and slips out into the corridor.
> This has been going on for quite some time and Teo is getting very good at it. He can tell by the sound of her snores when it’s safe to leave and has a good sense of how much time he has before he needs to run back.
The sickroom door opens again and this time Carissa comes out, carrying a chamber pot. She stops for no discernible reason, facing in Teo’s direction. He scrunches farther into the crack between the wall and the chest. But he can still see her, so it follows that she can also see him—or she could if she weren’t scanning the walls instead of looking down at the floor where Teo is hiding.
“What was that?” Carissa says, as if talking to herself. “I thought I heard a little mouse. I guess I’d better call the rat catcher.”
“No!” Teo whispers.
“Or maybe not. The mouse is probably just visiting, hoping to hear how Prince Alexos is doing. The palace mice would be eager to know that, I suppose. It’s perfectly reasonable.”
She ignores the stifled giggle from behind the chest.
“Well, I assure you—wherever you are, little mouse—that the prince is growing stronger every day. His fever is gone and he’s eating again. But he does miss his little brother most terribly. He asks about him every single day.”
There is a joyful little gasp, which Carissa also pretends not to hear.
“And,” she goes on (still talking to the wall—which is really very strange, since mice are usually to be found on the floor), “King Ektor is coming all the way back from the war to visit Alexos. Isn’t that exciting? He should be here very soon.”
She turns to go (she has to empty the chamber pot and wash it clean) but pauses again just for a moment. “I should also remind the little mouse that the cat is likely to wake fairly soon, so he might want to scurry back into his hole.”
As soon as Carissa has gone, Teo dashes down the hall, turns the corner, and runs up the stairs to his nursery.
The cat is still asleep.
The Chosen Prince Page 5