by Mary Renault
Alexander slung and strapped on the big instrument sideways to his breast, the bass strings nearest; he tested them softly with his left-hand fingers, the trebles with the plectrum in his other hand. His head inclined a little, his eyes rather than his ears seemed to be listening. Epikrates watched him with exasperation mingled with love, asking himself as usual whether, if he had refused to understand the boy, he could have taught him better. No; more likely he would simply have given it up. Before he was ten, he had already known enough to strum a lyre at supper like a gentleman. No one would have insisted on his learning more.
He struck three sonorous chords, played a long rippling cadenza, and began to sing.
At an age when the voices of Macedonian boys were starting to roughen, he kept a pure alto which had simply gained more power. As it went soaring up with the high grace notes flicked by the plectrum, Epikrates wondered that this never seemed to trouble him. Nor did he hesitate to look bored when other lads were exchanging the obsessive smut of their years. A boy never seen afraid can dictate his terms.
God brings all things to pass as he would have them be;
God overtakes the flying eagle, the dolphin in the sea.
He masters mortal men, though their pride be bold;
But to some he gives glory that will never grow old.
His voice floated and ceased; the strings echoed and re-echoed it, like wild voices in a glen.
Epikrates, sighing, thought, He’s off.
As the dramatic, headlong, passionate impromptu swept from climax to climax, Epikrates gazed at leisure; he would not be noticed. He felt bewildered by the misuse to which, with open eyes, he was dedicating his aesthetic life. He was not even in love; his tastes were otherwise. Why did he stay? This performance, at the Odeon of Athens or of Ephesos, would have enraptured the upper tiers and had them booing the judges. Yet nothing here was for show; it was redeemed not indeed by ignorance, Epikrates had seen to that, but by a perfect innocence.
And this, he thought, is why I stay. I feel here a necessity, whose depth and force I cannot measure; and to deny it makes me afraid.
There was a tradesman’s son in Pella, whom he had overheard playing once, a real musician; he had offered to teach him for nothing, to redeem his peace of mind. The lad would make a professional, worked hard, was grateful; yet those fruitful lessons engaged Epikrates’ mind less than these, when all that was sacred to the god he served was flung like wasteful incense on an unknown altar.
Garland the prow with flowers, my song is for the brave…
The music climbed to a rapt crescendo. The boy’s lips were parted in the fierce and solitary smile of an act of love performed in darkness; the instrument could not sustain his onslaught, and was going out of tune; he must have heard it, but went on as if his will could compel the strings. He is using it, thought Epikrates, as one day he will use himself.
I must go, it is more than time; I have given him all he will ever take from me. All this he could do alone. In Ephesos, all round the year one can hear good music, and once in a while the best. And I should like to work in Corinth. I could take young Peithon; he ought to be hearing the masters. This one here, I am not teaching him, he is corrupting me. He comes to me for a listener who knows the language, and I listen, though he murders my native tongue. He must play to what gods will hear him, and let me go.
“You have learned your begetting; live as what you are!”
He swept the plectrum across the strings. One snapped, and whipped around the others; there was discord, and silence. He stared at it unbelievingly.
“Well?” said Epikrates. “What did you expect? Did you think it was immortal?”
“I thought it would last till I’d finished.”
“You would not treat a horse so. Come, give it me.”
He took a new string from his box, and began to put the instrument in order. The boy walked restlessly to the window; what had been about to be revealed would not return. Epikrates worked on the tuning, taking his time. I wish I could make him show what he really does know, before I leave.
“You have never yet played to your father and his guests, except on the lyre.”
“The lyre is what people want at supper.”
“It is what they get for want of better. Do me a kindness. Work on one piece for me and play it properly. I am sure he would like to see how you have got on.”
“I don’t think he knows I have a kithara. I bought it myself, you know.”
“So much the better, you will show him something new.” Like everyone else at Pella, Epikrates knew there was trouble in the women’s quarters. The boy was on edge with it, and had been for some time. It was not only his practice he had missed, but a lesson too. As soon as he had walked in, Epikrates had seen how it would be.
Why, in the name of all gods of reason, could the King not be content with paid hetairas? He could afford the best. He had his young men as well; was it too much to ask? Why must he always do his rutting so ceremoniously? He must have gone through at least three such weddings before this last one. It might be an old royal custom in this backward land, but if he wanted to be thought a Hellene, he should remember “Nothing too much.” One could not make over barbarians in a generation; it came out in the boy as well; and yet…
He was still gazing from the window as if he had forgotten where he was. His mother must have been at him. One could have pitied the woman, if she had not begged for half her troubles, and her son’s as well. He must be hers, hers only, and only the gods could say what else, for the King was civilized when set beside his Queen. Could she not see she might cry stinking fish once too often? From any one of these other brides might come a boy glad enough to be his father’s son. Why could she not show some policy? Why could she never spare the boy?
There was no hope, thought Epikrates, of his learning anything today. As well put away the kithara…Well, but if I myself have learned, what have I learned for? Epikrates put on the instrument, stood up and began to play.
After a while Alexander turned back from the window, and came to sit on the table, fidgeting at first, then quiet, then still, his head tilted a little, his eyes finding a distance for themselves. Presently tears filled their lashes. Epikrates saw it with relief; it had always happened when music moved him, and embarrassed neither of them. When it was over, he wiped his eyes on his palms and smiled. “If you want me to, I’ll learn a piece to play in Hall.”
Epikrates said to himself as he went away, I shall have to go soon; the turbulence here is too much for any man who wants harmony and balance in his soul.
A few lessons later, Alexander said, “There will be guests at supper; if I’m asked to play, shall I try it?”
“Certainly. Play it just as you did this morning. Will there be a place for me?”
“Oh yes; it will be all men we know, no foreigners. I’ll tell the steward.”
Supper was late; it had to wait for the King. He greeted his guests with civility, but was rather short with the servants. Though his cheeks were flushed and his eyes injected, he was clearly sober, and anxious to forget whatever had put him out. Slaves passed along the news that he had just come from the Queen.
The guests were old campaigning friends from the Companion Cavalry. Philip looked down the couches with relief; no state envoys to put on a show for, or to complain if they got along early to the wine. Good full-bodied Akanthian, and no water with it; he needed it, after what he had had to endure.
Alexander sat on the end of Phoinix’ supper couch and shared his table. He never sat with his father unless invited. Phoinix, who had no ear to speak of but knew all the literary references to music, was pleased to hear of the boy’s new piece and cited Achilles’ lyre. “And I shall not be like Patroklos, who Homer says was sitting waiting for his friend to leave off.”
“Oh, unfair. It only means Patroklos wanted to talk.”
“Now, now, boy, what are you up to? That’s my cup you’re drinking from, not yours.”
“Well, I pledge you in it. Try mine. If they rinsed wine round it before they put in the water, that was all.”
“It’s the proper mixture for boys, one in four. You can pour some in my cup, we can’t all take it neat as your father can, but it looks bad to call for the water pitcher.”
“I’ll drink some to make room, before I pour.”
“No, no, boy, stop, that’s enough. You’ll be too drunk to play.”
“Of course not, I only had a mouthful.” And indeed he showed no sign beyond a little heightened color. He came of well-seasoned stock.
The noise was rising as the cups were topped up. Philip, shouting above it, invited anyone to give them a tune or a song.
“Here’s your son, sir,” called Phoinix, “who has learned a new tune for this very feast.”
Two or three cups of strong neat wine had made Philip feel much better. It was a known cure for snakebite, he thought with a grim smile. “Come up, then, boy. Bring your lyre and sit up here.”
Alexander signed to the servant with whom he had left the kithara. He put it on with care, and went over to stand by his father’s couch.
“What’s this?” said the King. “You can’t play that thing, can you?” He had never seen it used by a man not paid to do it; it struck him as unsuitable.
The boy smiled, saying, “You must tell me that when I’ve finished, Father.” He tested the strings and began.
Epikrates, listening down the hall, looked at the boy with deep affection. At this moment he could have posed for a young Apollo. Who knows, this may be the true beginning; he may come to a pure knowledge of the god.
All the Macedonian lords, who had been awaiting the cue to shout a chorus, listened amazed. They had never heard of a gentleman playing like this, or wanting to. What had those schoolmasters been up to with the boy? He had the name of being plucky and game for anything. Were they making a southerner of him? It would be philosophy next.
King Philip had attended many music contests. Though without sustained interest in the art, he could recognize technique. He was aware of it here, together with its lack of fitness. The company, he could see, did not know what to make of it. Why had the teacher not reported this morbid fervor? The truth was plain. She had been bringing him again to those rites of hers, steeping him in their frenzies, making a barbarian of him. Look at him now, thought Philip; look at him now.
Out of civility to foreign guests, who always expected it, he had got into the way of bringing the boy to supper in the Hellene fashion; his friends’ sons would not appear till they came of age. Why had he broken this good custom? If the boy had a girl’s voice still, must he tell the world? That Epirote bitch, that malignant sorceress; he would long since have put her away, had her powerful kin not been like a spear poised at his back when he went to war. Let her not be too sure of herself. He would do it yet.
Phoinix had had no notion the boy could play like this. He was as good as that fellow from Samos a few months back. But he was letting himself get carried away, as he did sometimes with Homer. Before his father, he had always held himself in. He should never have had that wine.
He had reached the cadenzas which led to the finale. The stream of sound cascaded through its gorges, the bright spray glittered above.
Philip gazed, almost unhearing, taken up with what he saw: the brilliant glow of the face, the deep-set eyes unfocused and glittering with unshed tears, the remotely smiling mouth. To him, it mirrored the face he had left upstairs, its cheekbones flushed red, its defiant laughter, its eyes weeping with rage.
Alexander struck the last chord and drew a long deep breath. He had not made one mistake.
The guests broke into uneasy applause. Epikrates joined in eagerly. Phoinix shouted rather too loudly, “Good! Very good!”
Philip banged down his wine cup on the table. His forehead had flushed dark crimson; the lid of his blind eye had dropped a little, showing only the white spot; his good eye started in its socket.
“Good?” he said. “Do you call that music for a man?”
The boy turned slowly, as if waking from sleep. He blinked his eyes clear, and fastened them on his father.
“Never,” said Philip, “let me see you make such a show of yourself again. Leave it to Corinthian whores and Persian eunuchs; you sing well enough for either. You should be ashamed.”
With the kithara still strapped on to him, the boy stood stock-still for a few moments, his face blank, and, as the blood receded, growing sallow. Looking at no one, he walked out between the couches and left the hall.
Epikrates followed. But he had wasted a few moments thinking what to say, and did not find him.
A few days later, Gyras, a tribal Macedonian from the inland hills, set out along ancient tracks, returning home on leave. He had told his commander, formally, that his father was dying and had begged for a last sight of him. The officer, who had expected it since the day before, told him not to waste time at home when he had done his business, if he wanted to draw his pay. Tribal wars were winked at, unless they showed signs of spreading; they were immemorial; to put down blood-feud would have taken the army all its time, even had it not been itself steeped in tribal loyalties. Gyras’ uncle had been killed, the wife raped and left for dead; if Gyras was refused leave he would desert. Some such thing happened once a month or so.
It was his second day out. He was a light cavalryman with his own horse, small and scrubby but tough, qualities Gyras shared; a gingery brown man, with a broken nose set slightly skew and a short bristly beard, dressed mainly in leather, and armed to the teeth, this being required for the journey as well as for his errand. He had been favoring his horse over grass wherever he could find it, to keep its unshod hooves sound for the work ahead. At about noon, he was crossing a rolling heathland between the mountain ribs of Macedon. In the wooded dips, birches and larches swayed in a gentle breeze; it was late summer, but up here the air was fresh. Gyras, who did not want to be killed, but preferred it to the life of disgrace which followed a failure to take vengeance, looked about him at the world he might shortly have to leave. Meantime, however, there was an oak grove ahead; in its hushed and grateful shade a stream burbled over pebbles and black oak-leaves. He watered and tethered his horse; dipping the bronze cup he carried on his belt, he approved the water’s sweetness. From his saddlebag he took goat cheese and black bread, and sat on a rock to eat.
Hoofbeats cantered on the track behind him. At a walk, some stranger entered the wood. Gyras reached for his javelins, already laid at hand.
“Good day to you, Gyras.”
Till the latest moment he had not believed his eyes. They were a good fifty miles out from Pella.
“Alexander!” His bread had stuck in his throat; he dislodged and bolted it, while the boy dismounted and led his horse to the stream. “How did you get here? Is no one with you?”
“You are, now.” He invoked the god of the stream in proper form, restrained his mount from drinking too much, and tethered it to an oak sapling. “We can eat together.” He unpacked food and came over. He wore a man’s long hunting-knife on a shoulder-sling; his clothes were tumbled and dirty, his hair had pine-needles in it. Clearly he had slept out. His horse carried, among other things, two javelins and a bow. “Here, take an apple. I thought I should catch up with you about mealtime.”
Dazedly Gyras complied. The boy drank from cupped hands and splashed his face. Concerned with his own affairs, for him momentous, Gyras had heard nothing of King Philip’s supper party. The thought of this charge on his hands appalled him. By the time he had returned him and set out again, anything might have happened at home. “How did you come so far alone? Are you lost? Were you out hunting?”
“I am hunting what you are hunting,” said Alexander, biting into his apple. “That is why I am coming with you.”
“But…but…what notion…You don’t know what I’m about.”
“Of course I do. Everyone in your squadron knows it. I need a war, and you
rs will do very well. It is quite time, you know, that I got my sword belt. I have come out to take my man.”
Gyras gazed transfixed. The boy must have tracked him all this way, keeping out of sight. He was equipped with care and forethought. Also, something had changed his face. His cheeks had sunk and flattened below the cheekbones; his eyes looked deeper under the shelf of his brows, his high-bridged nose stood out more. There was a line across his forehead. It was scarcely a boy’s face at all. Nonetheless he was twelve years old, and Gyras would have to answer for him.
“It’s not right,” he said desperately, “what you’ve done. You know it’s not right. I was needed at home, you know that. Now I’ll have to leave them in their trouble, and take you back.”
“You can’t, you’ve eaten with me, we’re guest-friends.” He was reproving, not alarmed. “It’s wicked to betray a guest-friend.”
“You should have told me the right of it first, then. I can’t help it now. Come back you must and will. You’re no more than a child. If harm came to you, the King would have me crucified.”
The boy got up without haste, and strolled to his horse. Gyras started up, saw he was not untying it, and sat down again.
“He won’t kill you if I come back. If I die, you’ll have plenty of time to run away. I don’t suppose he’d kill you anyway. Think about me, instead. If you do anything to get me sent home before I’m ready, if you try to ride back or send a message, then I shall kill you. And that you can be sure of.”
He had turned from the horse with lifted arm. Gyras looked along a javelin, balanced and poised. The narrow leaflike blade shone blue with honing, the point looked like a needle.
“Keep still, Gyras. Sit just as you are, don’t move. I’m quick, you know, everyone knows it. I can throw before you can do anything. I don’t want you for my first man. It wouldn’t be enough, I should still have to take another in battle. But you will be, if you try to stop me now.”
