The Golden Mean - Annabel Lyon [58]
Dessert is brought in on more trays: cheeses, cakes, dried figs and dates, melons and almonds, as well as tiny dishes of spiced salt are placed within everyone’s reach. It’s all been mounded into neat pyramids, even the salt, and I can’t help but look for the shape of my wife’s fingers in the slopes of these dainties. I hate to bring down such painstaking architecture with the yen for a spicy nut. I’m reaching for the more stable brickwork of a pile of dates instead, preparing my opening words, when Callisthenes calls, “Uncle?”
“Nephew?” I say.
“Do you love me, Uncle?”
“Why, what have you done?”
Laughter. “Only you have to excuse me, tonight,” he says. “Everyone has to excuse me. I just can’t do it.”
“Do what?” Antipater asks.
“The talk,” Callisthenes says. “The talk, the speech. I’ve drunk too much and I just don’t think I can put the words together. Forgive me? I’ll just retreat, maybe—” He waves a vague hand toward the door.
He’s performed his little part very well. This way, anyone else who doesn’t want to speak—Leonidas I was thinking of, primarily—can opt out with Callisthenes, save face, and eat sweets in the next room. I’ve thought of everything.
“Speeches?” Antipater says. “I thought that was a joke.”
“I didn’t understand that part at all,” Artabazus says. “I thought it was because I’m an ignorant foreigner.”
“But it was in the invitations.” Antipater, Artabazus, and Leonidas are already on their feet, going after Callisthenes. “ ‘Tragedy,’ ” I say, raising my voice over the noise of their leaving, repeating the words in the invitation. “ ‘The good life. What it means to live a good life, and the ways in which that goodness can be lost.’ ”
“Shut up,” Carolus says. Only he and Philes are left. “They don’t know how to do that here. You’re embarrassing them.”
I look at Philes, who looks desperately at Carolus.
“The boy’s going to pee himself if you try to make him talk,” Carolus says. “You have to let it go.”
It occurs to me that the only person I can think of who would have enjoyed the evening just as I planned it, who genuinely would have tried to do his part, is Alexander.
“How’s the book coming?” Carolus says. “Your tragedy for beginners.”
“Comedy too. I’ve decided I need to treat both.”
There’s noise from an outer room, a raised voice, laughter, and then Tycho murmuring in my ear: “Lysimachus, Master—”
“Lysimachus,” I say, because never mind announcements, he’s in the doorway, showing himself in.
My other guests trail back in behind him, retake their places, assuming—correctly—that the formal part of the dinner is well and truly buried. Well, I was the one who wanted a student dinner. Who am I to stand on ceremony?
“Here you are,” he says. “Who lives next door? I sort of went there first. Scared the women, I think. They said you were all over here. Got the houses mixed up. Sorry, sorry. Flowers for the women. I’ll send them in the morning. Like flowers, yes? Any special colour? Oh, that’s kind.” Callisthenes has slid over on his couch, making room. Lysimachus sits heavily and looks around. “Very nice, very nice.” He’s laughing at me again; he’s drunk.
“Will you eat? I’ll have them get you a plate from the kitchen.”
“I’ll drink, if you’re offering. Got to keep the levels constant. A sudden dip in the levels and then who knows. Already scared the women. No women here.”
“No,” I say.
“That’s what I thought. Boys? He likes boys.”
Everyone looks at me.
“One