The Golden Mean - Annabel Lyon [65]
“They say he is not Philip’s child at all,” she tells me.
“Women’s gossip.”
“Men’s, too.”
“All right, then. Who does slander make the father?”
Pythias wrinkles her brow earnestly. “Zeus, or else Dionysus. Olympias herself says so.”
I laugh. “Spoken like a true Macedonian.”
Late that night comes a tapping at my gate. Tycho gets me from my study, where I’m just finishing up. The rest of the household is already in bed. A messenger in palace livery informs me I am required by Antipater.
“Now?”
“A medical matter.”
The palace has doctors, the army has medics. The messenger has a horse for me, for speed and discretion, so I won’t raise the household saddling Tar. Antipater himself, then, or the prince, and it’s something shameful. I scour my memory for what my father taught me about diseases of the cock, and annoy the messenger by making him wait while I run back to my study for one of my father’s old books.
“Finally,” Antipater says. “Though I think the danger has passed. He looked worse an hour ago, when I sent for you.”
I ask if there’s blood in the urine or a burning sensation.
“What?” Antipater says. “I’m not worried about his piss, I’m worried about his arm. Alexander slashed him with a meat knife. Thought he was back in Maedi.”
He leads me to a room where Hephaestion is sitting with a cloth held tight to his arm.
“Bind a bleeder,” he says, seeing me, grinning weakly. He starts to cry.
“All right, child. Let me look.”
Antipater, that good soldier, has already washed him; there’s not much more I can do. The bleeding’s down to a trickle. It’s a long, vicious slash, deep enough. I advise him to keep it bound and prescribe poppy seed for the pain.
“Stop crying,” Antipater tells him.
“I don’t need poppy seed,” Hephaestion says. “Will he be all right?”
“Where is he?” I put bandages and scissors back in my father’s old bag. “I’d better see him, too.”
We walk Hephaestion back to his room, next door to the prince’s. Antipater rests his hand briefly on the pretty boy’s head.
“Go, sleep. And for fuck’s sake, stop crying. The prince will be fine.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hephaestion says.
“What happened?” I ask once Antipater has dismissed the sentry.
“Soldier’s heart, we call it.” He shakes his head. “They think they’re back in battle. I wondered if it was coming. He’s been odd, since they got back. Flinching at sounds, anything metallic. Dead-eyed, drinking too much.”
“I’m surprised you let him go alone.”
Antipater gives me a look. “Alexander didn’t ask me. I wanted to give him hell, but Philip’s letters couldn’t have been prouder. What can I do? I’m not his father.”
“So you’ve seen this before.”
“Usually on long campaigns, when we’re losing. It shouldn’t have happened this time. Maedi was an easy victory. His first real battle, sure, but he’s Philip’s son. He’s trained for this.”
“Do you think something happened there, something unusual? Something he hasn’t told you?”
“I can hear everything you’re saying, you know,” Alexander says through the door.
We go in. The room is neat, bed made, books tidy. The remains of a meal are on the table, with two chairs pulled up: a late supper for two. Poor, sweet, loyal Hephaestion. The cutlery is gone.
“Is he all right?” Alexander is pale but seems composed.
“Are you?”
He makes a noise, tick of the tongue, annoyance. “I’m tired. I suppose I’m allowed to be tired. I got confused for a minute. It was just a scratch, wasn’t it? He knows I wouldn’t hurt him for real. What’s the book?”
I’ve put my father’s book down on the table with my bag, next to his supper. I show him.
“That’s what you thought this was about?” Antipater says.
“Drag me out in the middle of the night, what do I know?”
“That’s disgusting.” Alexander scrolls on. “That too.”
“Any bumps on the head while you were away?”
“No.” He lets me examine him briefly. A few bruises and scratches, and pressure on one knee makes him wince. “This doesn’t have to go in dispatches, does it?” he asks Antipater.
“That Hephaestion took a wound in battle?”
They look at each other a moment. Alexander nods