The Golden Mean - Annabel Lyon [83]
“Child,” I say. “Has something happened?”
“What are you doing?”
I hold out my tablet for him to see.
“Can I help?”
“I’m just done. Another time. I think we need to go wash.”
“I fought here.”
“Alexander.” Hephaestion steps forward. Alexander draws his knife. Hephaestion steps back.
“Child,” I say again. “Will you show me where to wash?”
He’s looking at the Theban. He kneels down beside him, as I did hours ago.
I walk a wide circle around him, over to Philip and Antipater. They’re arguing in whispers.
“It happens,” Antipater is hissing. “You know it as well as I do.”
“What happens?”
Philip shakes his head. “He stabbed Ox-Head’s groom,” Antipater says. “Thought he was the enemy. The battle was over.”
“Like after Maedi.”
Antipater looks haggard.
“What?” Philip says.
We look over. Alexander is working at the Theban with his knife, up by the hairline.
“This is your fault,” Philip says to me. “You teach him this shit. What kind of animal are you, anyway? Who does this to a body? What happened after Maedi?”
Antipater shakes his head.
“That’s my son.”
“He still is,” I say.
“He’s supposed to be king someday.”
“Look,” Alexander calls. He’s leaning over the body. “It comes off. Come look.”
Hephaestion is backing away.
“Deal with this,” Philip says. “The two of you, since you know so much about it. Get him into a tent, for fuck’s sake, before anyone sees.” He draws his own knife far enough to slam it back into its leather. “Do I have an heir or not?”
Hephaestion is green on the side of his face, the phenomenon Arimneste tried to describe to me so long ago.
“This isn’t happening,” Philip says. “I’m going back to camp.”
I go see what Alexander’s doing. He’s got the face peeled down from the forehead. He’s working it down with his knife, ripping and jiggling. He’s got it peeled to the eyes.
“I tried, at Maedi,” Alexander says. “I tried to bring one back. But I couldn’t get it off.”
“For me?”
“For Carolus. I was thinking it could be dried. He said they couldn’t afford masks.”
“May I help?” I reach for his knife. He lets me have it. I take the flap of forehead and hold it delicately taut, as he did. “May I finish this for you? I think you are required back at camp.”
“I want to stay here, with you.”
“Your father is very proud of you,” I say slowly. “Of the work you did today. He wants to celebrate with you. He wants the world to see you together.” I feel Antipater behind me, closer. “Your father needs you now.”
“Majesty, come,” Antipater says.
Alexander looks at Hephaestion. “Hey.” His face lights with pleasure. “When did you get here?”
Hephaestion looks at me. “Just now.”
I nod at him over Alexander’s head, That’s right. Go on.
“Hey,” Hephaestion says. “So, hey. I’m starving. You want to find something to eat?”
Alexander slings an arm around his shoulders and they walk back toward the tents that way. I try to smooth the Theban’s forehead back down but the fit is ragged now, and the lips of skin won’t meet at the scalp.
“He won’t remember any of this,” Antipater says. “Alexander. He didn’t last time, either.”
The young medic comes running up, panting, three tablets under his arm. “Is this enough? It’s all I could find. Theban, yeah? They’re asking at the pyres. I’ll help you carry him over when you’re done.”
“He’s done,” Antipater says.
We carry him the hundred paces to the Theban pile, already spitting and crackling in the golden late-afternoon light. Gutted, he’s not very heavy. We heave him onto the other bodies while the presiding officer makes a note on his tablet, keeping count. The medic runs off. Antipater and I stare at the fire and the heated air wobbling around it.
“I get nightmares,” Antipater says.
A long silence.
“I work,” I say. “It’s like the ocean. I go in, way down deep, and then I come out.”
He nods, shakes his head. The setting sun gilds our hair. The Theban—smoke—rises to the spheres.
ANTIPATER AND THE PRINCE leave for Athens, escorting the bones of the Athenian dead. A courtesy: defeat has made the Athenians respected allies again. I secured