The Golden Mean - Annabel Lyon [37]
“Master.” The boys salute me, one after another.
When it’s Alexander’s turn I touch the corner of my mouth. He hesitates, then wipes off the dried blood with the heel of his hand. I nod and he leaves.
Leonidas steps forward from his corner. He’s a tall old man with a craggy face, a warrior who has lived too long. He looks tired. “They liked the lizard.”
Together we pack up my materials and scoop the guts into a bowl.
“You left them behind,” Leonidas says. “I suppose you know that. All this metaphysics goes over their heads. I’m not sure it would be useful to them even if they did understand it.”
“Nor am I.”
“They’ve had trouble keeping tutors for him. He—”
“Yes,” I say.
“He frightens people.”
Yes.
Leonidas invites me to eat with him. It’s a simple meal, austere even—bread and a small cheese, some wizened fruit, and water.
“I like soldier’s rations,” he says. “That’s what I’m used to. Quite the feast, eh?”
I hear in the sarcasm a gruff note of apology.
“Plato would have approved. He ate fruits and vegetables only, no meat, and believed in Spartan habits: cold water, a hard bed, simple clothing. I was his disciple for a long time.”
“No longer?”
“His nickname for me was the Brain. When I began to confront him, he said it was in the nature of the colt to kick at its father.”
“Ha,” Leonidas says.
After a moment, I realize this is an expression of genuine amusement.
As I’m leaving the palace for the day I look into the theatre, hoping for a drink and a debriefing with Carolus. Fortunately I’ve made no noise. Alexander is alone on the stage, mouthing words I can’t hear. Abruptly he raises a fist to eye level, then lowers it. He performs this gesture again and again, each time with a different face: smiling, threatening, sarcastic, quizzical. He can’t seem to decide which he likes best, which makes the most sense. My palms are sparkling like the night I stood backstage: for pleasure, excitement, shame at my own amateur theatrics?
Silently, I back out of the theatre.
I AM NOT HIS only master. There are the men like Leonidas who teach him the arts of war: weaponry and riding, combat, the choreography of battle. These are soldiers, athletes, and don’t interest me much. But there are others, too: a musician, for gods help us but the boy is talented on the flute; a grey-faced geometer; and an all-around wit and wag named Lysimachus, younger than me and more charming.
At the end of our next lesson, as the boys leave, Lysimachus steps forward and introduces himself. I hadn’t noticed him, and feel my face harden. He flatters me prettily: my books, my reputation, my oratory, my way with the boys, right down to the leather of my sandals, obvious quality, obvious taste. He perches his bum on the edge of the table where I’m sitting so he can look down on me. He has one toe on the ground and one foot in the air waggling languorously, letting his own loose sandal slip a little back and forth. It looks new. I wonder if I’m meant to return the compliment.
“The arts,” he says, to the question I ask instead.
It’s an answer he seems immensely satisfied to give. And a surprise: he’s big and young and hearty, muscle-bound, and I’ve seen him from a distance, mounted, at war games with the prince and pages. He’s no flower.
“Some theatre, poetry, history. I’m glad you bring it up. I’m glad you have the same concern I do. You’ve no idea how much that eases my mind. I had been afraid this conversation would be difficult.”
“What concern is that?” I ask.
It emerges that he’s worried about overlap: about us treading on each other’s toes, pedagogically speaking, and the prince getting caught in the middle. A brilliant but challenging student, didn’t I agree? Needing a little extra guidance, deserving a little something extra behind the scenes?
“I’m not aware of holding anything back,” I say. “Ethics, politics, and metaphysics are my primary subjects. And whatever else I see fit. The king did not restrict me.”
“Excellent!” he