The Golden Mean - Annabel Lyon [76]
“She’s a witch, by the way,” I tell the slaver, to wipe the grin off and, I hope, make him think twice about how he treats her. I don’t let myself look back.
ARRHIDAEUS IS TALLER THAN ALEXANDER. For the rest of my life I will be able to close my eyes and see them walking down the dusty beach road between the long dry grasses, the ocean roaring just out of sight, just over the next rise. Somewhere they are alone in the universe on this sunny road, still walking, Alexander asking questions slowly and waiting for the answers, Arrhidaeus inclining his head to his brother’s level. We of their retinue follow behind in an ever-thickening tail: royals first, myself, Philes, then maids and guards and porters and horses and carts to carry the stuff of a royal day at the beach. They’ll set up pavilions on the sand, with furniture and carpets, tables of bread and fruit, couches so no one need know the feel of a sleep in hot sand, rising after to leave the form of himself behind. Only Alexander’s companions are missing, though whether he left them behind out of embarrassment or consideration I can’t guess. While the beach is transformed into a village behind him, Alexander walks his brother up to the top of a nearby dune to continue their conversation. He is putting himself on show. I flatter myself, believe he’s doing it for me, to show he can keep his word and keep it nobly, even in circumstances I know he finds revolting, horrifying even: proximity to his shit-headed brother. I wonder what they’re talking about. The failure of Philip’s embassies, perhaps, and Alexander’s imminent departure, finally, to join his father’s army?
“Princes, come.” I drop my bag in the sand. Philes hangs back, as I’ve asked him to. Relax for an hour, read a book, I told him; I’ve got this one. I strip and walk toward the waves. Little nothings today, little lickings at the blond shore. All along the beach heads turn to watch the three of us. The princes strip as I’ve done, Alexander easily, Arrhidaeus excitedly, tangling his head in his tunic and needing rescue from his brother. They drop their clothes in the sand as I’ve done. Later we’ll find everything we’ve discarded neatly arranged in one of the pavilions, as though by reproving mothers.
Now they’re in front of me, looking fine in the sunlight, waiting for what I have to offer next.
“It’s like a big bath,” I say, mainly for Arrhidaeus.
“I was telling him how we used to have our lessons together,” Alexander says.
“No,” Arrhidaeus says.
I take his hand and walk him into the water to his ankles, where he stops and squats.
“No.” The water licks at him, wets his bum.
Alexander walks out ahead of us until he’s in to his waist. He holds his arms out of the water like a girl afraid to wet her hands. I stride past him to piss him off, dive in, and swim a few strokes. When I look back they’re in the same positions, watching me.
“Come on,” I say.
Alexander holds his hand out to his brother to lead him in.
After our swim, Arrhidaeus heads doggedly for the tents and his nurse. His skin has gone grey in the way that I know, his eyes dull. He wants his nap. Alexander is happy to let him go, and throws himself down on the hot sand. I sit beside him. “Nice to get an outing.”
He laughs, eyes closed to the sun.
“I used to come down here all the time, when I was your age,” I say. “I should do it more often. Some days I hardly leave my library. I can’t remember the last time I came swimming. I’ll feel it tomorrow,” I add, rubbing my legs. Truthfully, I feel it a little already.
“You sound like you’re a thousand years old,” Alexander says. “You want an outing? A real outing?”
I don’t answer. I’m thinking about a masseur, hoping my aching muscles won’t distract me, tomorrow, from my work. Annoying prospect.
“Aeschylus fought at Marathon,” Alexander says. “Even Socrates was a foot soldier. What’s your excuse?”
“Respect.” I rummage in my bag for a towel. My legs could cramp if I leave them wet. I think perhaps they