On the Sunny Banks of the Cydnus - Ch. 2
Fandom: Alexander the Great
Rating: FRT/PG/K+
Genre: Drama/Humor
Summary: Retelling of the anecdote about Alexander's trust in his doctor Philip. Diades, Critodemus, and the usual Companions also appear, but it's an Alexander-and-Hephaestion story at heart.
Chapter 2: Philip (and Hephaestion) find out Alexander's sick...
© Copyright Joyeee 2007
* * * * *
Chapter 2: A Healer's Worst Nightmare
Philip smiled as he urged his horse into an easy trot toward the front of the column. The mood among the men was relaxed and light, a far cry from their dismay back in Tarsus upon receiving orders for the mission before they even unshouldered their packs. Except for those who usually served with Hephaestion, they had been understandably disgruntled. Taking over Cilicia might have been easy, but Alexander's lightning marches were no joke, and besides, this additional assignment was a diplomatic operation, one that, if everything went well, would require days of tedious travel with no action at all, nothing to boast of afterward.
But now, life was looking much better. Having executed a highly successful mission, they were returning to the capital sooner than expected, laden with gold and silks and other tokens of goodwill for Alexander - and best of all, anticipating their own rewards to come.
"Remember how they watched us from those pitiful little battlements when we first approached?"
"Gates shut up tight."
"Not that that would've been a problem for us, of course!"
"Of course! But an hour later out we were again, with the personal compliments of the governor - and all those gifts! As if we didn't have wagonfuls already from our previous stops."
"Gods, three townships in one day - can you believe it? But all the better to get back to the capital for a real rest."
"We'll be back four or five days in advance, at this rate!"
"Ha! And loaded down with presents!"
"Told you you wouldn't come back without something to show off for it."
"Never mind the trinkets - we'll be back early! Won't Alexander be pleased?"
"Ah . . ." The soldiers laughed quietly amongst themselves; Alexander was generous to a fault with those who excelled. "Of course he will!"
But a few of them understood another factor in their favor, and glanced with knowing smiles toward their commander, a tall, distant figure at the head of the column.
"Alexander will be delighted, for sure!"
"And we all know what that means . . ."
"Rewards all 'round! We'll be living the high life, lads!"
Philip chuckled, noting as ever how easily the soldiers adapted. They had passed through plenty of greater cities - and more temperate climates - since they first started out, all the way back in Pella. But he was no stranger himself to battle, and understood that the soldiers were happy with their victories, not to mention the prizes and celebrations that always followed.
Today, he shared quite wholeheartedly in their contentment. On this trip, no one was keeling over from sunstroke or dehydration; no one was burning up from wound infection. No one had caught any of the unfamiliar illnesses that insisted on cropping up in his sickrooms every time Alexander advanced into new territory.
Yet this journey had not been a waste of time, either - far from it. Sometimes rural areas were the best places to find cures for regional ailments, and in the past few days Philip had learned of several valuable treatments.
In fact, that was why he was approaching the front of the column. He kept his eyes open and his staff alert, but what with envoys and scouting parties and advance set-up crews, the rest of the army covered a lot of ground that the medical staff never got to see. He had managed to obtain a small collection of local herbs, but only enough for a few doses, and there was always the chance, if he showed them to Hephaestion, that one of these days a page or a scout might come knocking at his door with a surprise stock in hand.
As Philip advanced, he noticed that the column, though marching in orderly fashion, was dotted throughout with eclectic clusters of fellow travelers, their good spirits brimming over into random conversations with people they would usually never give a second look. He was passing a diverse little knot right now, in fact - cavalry and foot soldiers mingled with interpreters and scribes.
"Come on, you must know!" insisted one of the younger cavalrymen. "What d'you call someone to really get 'em hopping mad?"
"Well . . ." The interpreters chuckled, shrugging. "There isn't an exact translation for what you're thinking of -"
"But you must know something! Like yesterday, what was it Hephaestion said in that meeting in the second town?"
"Hey, that's right," a guard chimed in. "It was to that one official, the one who did all the talking at first. I had a mind to wipe that smirk off his face with my fist, especially since Hephaestion was being so civil and all - and us the winning party!"
"Exactly!" the first soldier enthusiastically agreed. "But then Hephaestion said something - 'twas the only foreign phrase he said, and he said it with a smile, polite as you please - but it must've been awful, to make that official blow up all red in the face!"
"Oh, that . . ." The interpreters exchanged quick glances, some haplessly amused - but a few with mischievous smirks. "He just - he just restated the facts, the situation. In truth he doesn't even know that many basic words, never mind any colorful oaths."
One of the interpreters grinned widely. "He gets on surprisingly well without them, actually - "
"What? How? Don't you try to pull one over on us, that's a crock of -"
"Haha! Don't mind 'im!" another rider broke in, clapping the first on the back. "He's just working up the nerve to ask for a schmaltzy endearment or two, for his sweetheart when he gets back to the capital!"
A chorus of encouraging cheers and mocking whistles arose from the surrounding soldiers, and even the interpreters laughed along. The young cavalryman flushed red to the tips of his ears, but a grin slowly crept back onto his face, and he soon proved that he already commanded quite an impressive arsenal of oaths in his own language.
Philip rode on, musing. Based on his own experience with Hephaestion, Philip considered him a sensible young officer, easy to get along with - and something of a boon to the medical staff. He tended to be rather cavalier in regards to his own health - but then, which healthy young man wasn't? Anyway, no one could beat Alexander in disregarding doctors' orders. (For besides being a King, and all that that entailed, Alexander was also the most stubborn, ill-tempered, flagrantly disobedient patient imaginable - making it all the more difficult for any healer to ensure the King's recovery, not to mention his own neck. Injuries and illnesses were enough to deal with, without having to worry about a patient's rank or the ranks of his friends, and especially without the patient recklessly waving aside medical advice and jeopardizing his own recovery. Philip was very fond of Alexander, but concurred unreservedly with the unanimous opinion of all the medical staff: treating Alexander was a healer's worst nightmare.)
When Alexander was the patient, Hephaestion did listen to the healers, with incredible attention to detail that they could only wish for in all their patients. The rest of the time, he was willing to listen also - if Philip went to Hephaestion with a novel suggestion or a request for a peculiar, rare herb, he could always be certain of sincere consideration, at least, on Hephaestion's part. Philip thought it quite natural for Alexander to send him on so many diplomatic missions - he had patience, a certain slowness to anger, a relative calm that seemed, somehow, to balance Alexander's impulsive, headstrong brilliance.
Like humours in the body, almost. Philip smiled.
So it was understandable that even Hephaestion's fellow officers were wondering what had set the foreign official's temper ablaze. Drawing near the head of the column, Philip could already catch snatches of their conversation.
"- don't usually see the opposing party get so riled in your talks, Hephaestion," one of the veteran captains was saying. "But yesterday, that was hugely satisfying - I wouldn't mind ruffling feathers more often! I didn't catch everything the interpreters said, but he was a mean, stuck-up little bastard."
"He was," Hephaestion agreed mildly.
"He had no call to be strutting around, bragging about arranging his town's defenses!" another captain grumbled. "We're just a couple of squadrons, here, but we could've taken them, easy! He had it all wrong - soldiers posted at the most useless locations; too many strategic errors to count!"
"What I'm wondering," remarked another, "is how we left the city an hour later with wagonloads of presents - and the governor beaming at us as if we were long-lost kin!"
Hephaestion smiled easily, and shrugged. "I just . . . presented the facts."
The other officers chuckled, disbelieving. "Come now, Hephaestion, what exactly was it you said? Some terrifically offensive insult, perhaps?"
"No." But Hephaestion's smile broadened, suggesting something rather undiplomatic. "I only pointed out those errors you just mentioned -"
It was then that the call reached their ears. The guards posted out on the right flank were racing back, guiding in a pair of messengers.
They all had to squint in the bright sunlight, but the colors worn by the riders left no doubt: these were royal messengers. Even before they drew near, their hunched riding stances and the sweat glistening on their laboring steeds made their urgency clear. They galloped straight to the head of the column.
"Alexander took fever," they gasped, their voices low more from exhaustion than discretion. "And now he's bedridden, and the army's practically mourning him, and the commanders can't convince them otherwise and the doctors there don't know what to do and they want Philip to treat him!"
A stunned silence fell over those who had heard. Hephaestion's easy smile disappeared.
He turned his stallion smartly; his gaze swept across the column - and alighted on Philip, but only for a moment. Once he saw that Philip was within hearing range, he instantly turned back to the messengers.
Overall, there was no change in the marching train, only a watchful hush at the front as aides and other officers urged their horses near; instead of heading out again, the flank guards held back, alert and ready for a change in orders.
"How long since he took sick?" asked Hephaestion.
"It happened yesterday, early afternoon. We set out within the hour."
"And his symptoms?"
Philip listened with growing alarm as the messengers rattled off a list. He had noticed telltale signs of weariness in Alexander as far back as the Cilician Gates, which they had captured in a whirlwind before hastening down the arid hills to Tarsus. Several scores of soldiers had been laid up, held back in Tarsus for exhaustion alone. Though he and his best colleagues were sent out with various forward contingents, Philip had advised Alexander to take advantage of the time in the capital to rest up as well.
Of course, he could not expect Alexander to follow such instructions. Anything that did not outright cripple him, Alexander was wont to blaze right through, and woe to the poor wretch, be he page, guard, or healer, whose duty it was to see to his rest. And now he had got himself a fever - something as dangerous, in Philip's opinion, as an enemy spear.
"Do you know what might have brought it on?" Philip interjected urgently.
The messengers glanced at each other.
"He wanted a bath."
"He jumped in the Cydnus."
At this Hephaestion's expression twisted incredulously. It rapidly settled back into a stern frown, however, and his gaze withdrew, grew distant as he looked ahead along their path. Absently he ran his fingers through his steed's wind-tangled mane.
Philip was aghast. Never mind that Alexander had been a pupil of Aristotle; any man with a jot of common sense should have guessed, at least instinctively, that jumping straight into ice-cold water after months in sweltering temperatures was not a good idea. Not just a bad idea; it must have been painful.
Hephaestion's fingers finished winding through the mane, and he looked up. Quietly he listed what he needed from his men: the two most knowledgeable scouts in the party, the fastest way back, and a timeframe for the journey.
A lieutenant rode off promptly to fetch the scouts, while the aides consulted quickly with their maps and each other. "You can make it back in a day if you take just half a squadron as an escort!" they cried, quite pleased to be able to cut down the original travel time by several days.
Hephaestion listened silently, attentively, while they marked out the fastest return route for him on a map and explained sundry details about the terrain. After that, he spoke apart to his second-in-command. The discussion ended in under a minute. Apparently there was not much to discuss; no surprise, for this mission had been a success - until this moment.
Then Hephaestion dispensed with all but two members of the handpicked half-squadron escort, commandeered the fastest horses in the party, and set off with the two scouts, the two guards, and Philip, at a dead gallop.
* * * * *
He covered the distance in three quarters of a day - arriving at the gates of Tarsus in the first light of morning with Philip, one guard, and one scout.
The other guard's horse had tripped up in a gully, so he and the second scout were left to wait for the rest of the contingent and return at a slower pace. As Philip drew rein, he almost wished his own steed had also suffered a minor accident. Every joint was stiff, every muscle ached, and it did not help that a mob of distressed soldiers immediately swarmed up, bawling about how Alexander was going to waste away in a sickbed, snatched from them in the flower of his youth and brilliance and glory.
For a moment, Philip seriously considered staying on the horse forever. When he moved one leg the tiniest bit to dismount, his whole body protested, and the idea became ten times more appealing. He winced, wondering if after getting off this horse he would ever be able to sit down again.
Alexander's illness was the reason they were here now, but for Philip the challenge of the moment was to dismount without falling apart. Could not treat Alexander if his own bones disintegrated first.
A rider swept past him.
It was Hephaestion, who pulled up and dismounted in one smooth, efficient move, swiftly and lightly as if fresh from a short afternoon exercise. He plunged right into the sobbing horde and started asking questions. Philip stared.
But he did not feel too bad about it, for the scout and even the guardsman were also slow to dismount.
As he finally managed to get both his feet on the ground, he was careful not to let go his hold on the horse. It was exhausted, too, but at least it was able to stand upright, which was more than he could say for himself.
When he finally thought that his legs might just be able to bear his weight, he straightened, groaning - and almost collapsed anyway in astonishment.
Hephaestion was standing right in front of him, holding out a flask.
Philip stared at it in appreciative surprise. But he had barely got a steady grip on it when Hephaestion was already turning, heading off toward a large building on the banks of the Cydnus (which, even at this early hour, was glittering bright enough to blind).
His tone, though quiet, made it obvious that not only was he expecting no delay on Philip's part, it did not even occur to him that Philip might be too tired for anything less than alacrity. "This way."
* * * * *
Philip finally staggered into Alexander's antechamber, only to see his colleagues scattered in uneasy slumber all over the couches. Glaucias was the only one awake, huddled in a far corner, but oddly, he shrank back when they walked in and tried to scrunch himself into an even smaller ball. Philip wondered, but continued on; he saw no harm in his colleagues taking shifts.
But contrary to his expectations, inside the room with Alexander there were no physicians - only Critodemus.
The surgeon blinked blearily at them for a few seconds. Then he violently sprang from his chair.
"Philip - thank the Gods you're here! And Hephaestion! How did you return so quickly - it's not been two days!"
"Couldn't get back fast enough," Philip replied dryly, grimacing as his leg muscles, finally allowed a long-awaited pause, seized the opportunity to start cramping. He glanced anxiously toward the bed, but noted, too, the haggard appearance of his usually imperturbable colleague. "Hephaestion finished the talks quickly, so we were already on our way back. How is he?"
"He's still feverish, drifting in and out - doesn't seem to be worsening, but he's not improving, either. Though, as usual he seems to think he can will himself better. A few hours ago he even insisted to have his letters brought, but he only looked at one before he stopped. Crumpled the letter in his hand and turned away, and hasn't roused since."
"Who's been in charge of -"
Philip broke off. Critodemus was suddenly staring past him, and there was something astoundingly close to wonder in his eyes - a most uncharacteristic look, for him. Curiously, Philip followed his gaze.
Hephaestion had seated himself on the bed - cautious not to disturb Alexander's rest, but near enough to look at him closely.
Alexander shifted. Critodemus tensed, ready to explain about Alexander's restless muttering spells. But Alexander only murmured a few words this time.
Hephaestion had fallen still when Alexander stirred. He held still until Alexander subsided, did not even seem to breathe until Alexander's breathing returned to a certain rhythm, rasping but even. His features were set, stern and grave, still as a marble statue - had been, as Philip recalled, ever since they got the news.
But his hands moved carefully - gently - as they smoothed back Alexander's hair, lingered over the faint shadow along Alexander's jaw, took up the poultice-steeped cloth from the basin and wiped the sweat from Alexander's brow.
Critodemus seemed about to say something - and if Philip knew his colleague at all, it was no doubt a warning of some sort, that fevers tended to be contagious, that it was dangerous to lean in so closely. But the surgeon stopped short.
Shoved nearly all the way under the pillow, folded and crumpled under Alexander's palm, was the letter Critodemus had spoken of. Hephaestion drew it out cautiously, and Philip could not help but recall what he had heard of another letter, one Alexander had chosen to share, the intimate confidence repaid with a kiss upon Alexander's seal.
He wondered if they would learn the contents of this current letter. Disturbing news could, after all, affect a patient's condition.
But Hephaestion did not open the letter. He merely smoothed out the wrinkles and returned it, still folded as it was, under Alexander's hand.
Critodemus swallowed back whatever he had wanted to say and looked away very quietly, as if he had accidentally stumbled across some marvelous secret he had never been meant to know. Despite the circumstances, Philip smiled. He had little respect for surgeons who only knew about hacking and cauterizing; Critodemus, despite all initial impressions, was not one of them.
Clearing his throat, Critodemus straightened himself and regained a little of his usual briskness. He pulled Philip off a ways and asked, softly but urgently, "Do you think you can cure him?"
Philip could not bring himself to express doubt, but he could not lie, either. His answer was grim, pitched low for Critodemus' ears only. "Perhaps, but I need to know more. Who's been treating him?"
The haggardness returned. With a hapless shrug, Critodemus replied, "Me."
Philip waited for another name - a physician's name - but none came.
Critodemus sighed. "That's it. Me. The others couldn't decide what to do. So Craterus gave me the honor."
"Craterus?" Philip repeated, surprised. "Well, how come he's not storming around here now?"
"The officers heard a rumor, yesterday evening, that Darius or his spies might have managed to buy someone off - someone in our camp - to try and poison Alexander." Philip started in alarm, but Critodemus continued, "So, for better or worse, a few hours after laying into all of the physicians for not doing anything, the officers threatened arrest, and more, if any of them lifted a finger the wrong way before your arrival. Craterus said you're the only one to be trusted, now, since you've been with Alexander since his childhood. They let me continue treating him with a poultice of steeped olive leaves, but only because I'd already been doing it and he seemed to be breathing a little easier for it." He shook his head ruefully, ran a hand through his hair in worn-out frustration. "Is it true Glaucias is especially good with fevers?"
Philip blinked. "You could say that, I suppose. He knows them well - by theory."
Critodemus scowled. "Well, he didn't even dare show his face here, not until the officers were scouring the city for enemy agents. Slunk in, in the wee hours of the morning."
Philip frowned. He opened his mouth to ask another question -
- but Hephaestion beat him to it.
"Is that true?"
Hephaestion was still with Alexander, but he had fixed Critodemus with an unnerving stare. His hands remained infinitely gentle as he finished rearranging the pillows under Alexander's shoulders, but then he stood up, and it was suddenly very, very clear that Hephaestion was the tallest person in the room, and a first-class young soldier and a commander to boot.
Even Critodemus, who had now withstood the full-force glare of Craterus as well as Alexander, suddenly felt his skin crawl.
"Uh . . . Hephaestion," he said, darting an uneasy glance at Philip. However upset he was with colleagues shying away from work, his prime objective had not been to get anyone in trouble. "He was probably afraid of administering the wrong thing -"
Hephaestion just kept staring at Critodemus with that frighteningly keen look. At last, he repeated softly, "He didn't . . . dare?"
The next second he was out the door.
* * * * *
They could hear Glaucias babble something about not daring to treat the King considering the officers' latest orders. Wrong answer, Critodemus thought indignantly, any guilt he might have felt vanishing at once upon hearing such a bald-faced lie.
Philip hastened with Critodemus to the antechamber. By the noises they had guessed rightly that Hephaestion had hauled Glaucias out of his corner, but they both froze at the threshold. The rest of the physicians, jolted awake, were trapped in a speechless daze; even Critodemus stared open-mouthed, and Philip distantly sensed he was doing the same. So this was what those interpreters meant by "getting on surprisingly well" without profanity -
"You gutless, spineless, yellow-bellied coward! What do you think the army clothes and feeds you for! Sniveling and cringing, hiding away in some gods-forsaken corner while the men you should be treating are suffering, dying? 'Dare not!' Yet you dare to pull the officers into this, to cover for your own weaknesses! Where was that daring when the rest of your colleagues were called in to see Alexander? You 'dare not' treat the King? How dare you refuse, you rabbit-hearted, chicken-livered, wretched miserable excuse of a -"
Abruptly Hephaestion stopped. In the sudden silence, Critodemus and Philip heard it, too, but only after a few more seconds - a weak moan from Alexander's chamber.
Critodemus wondered how on earth Hephaestion had heard that in the middle of his tirade, but had no time to ponder this as Hephaestion whirled, his features gone in half a heartbeat from blistering wrath to the most ridiculously tender, anxious expression Critodemus ever saw. The next moment he had pushed heedlessly past Critodemus and Philip and dashed back into the other chamber, leaving Glaucias cowering in the middle of the room and the rest of the physicians gawking in stunned silence.
Philip and Critodemus exchanged a hesitant glance.
"Well. I suppose we should -" Philip took in a breath, slowly, "- go in, too."
"I suppose," Critodemus echoed, his mouth dry.
They glanced toward Glaucias. "You stay here," they said simultaneously, and then smiled awkwardly, humorlessly at each other, even as their professionalism - and their newfound apprehension of Hephaestion - impelled them toward the door.
Behind them, the other physicians followed sheepishly one by one, none of them wanting to suffer Glaucias' fate. Treating Alexander would no longer be considered a nightmare - failing Alexander was much, much worse.
* * * * *
last tweaked 02 May 2007
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Rating: FRT/PG/K+
Genre: Drama/Humor
Summary: Retelling of the anecdote about Alexander's trust in his doctor Philip. Diades, Critodemus, and the usual Companions also appear, but it's an Alexander-and-Hephaestion story at heart.
Chapter 2: Philip (and Hephaestion) find out Alexander's sick...
© Copyright Joyeee 2007
* * * * *
Chapter 2: A Healer's Worst Nightmare
Philip smiled as he urged his horse into an easy trot toward the front of the column. The mood among the men was relaxed and light, a far cry from their dismay back in Tarsus upon receiving orders for the mission before they even unshouldered their packs. Except for those who usually served with Hephaestion, they had been understandably disgruntled. Taking over Cilicia might have been easy, but Alexander's lightning marches were no joke, and besides, this additional assignment was a diplomatic operation, one that, if everything went well, would require days of tedious travel with no action at all, nothing to boast of afterward.
But now, life was looking much better. Having executed a highly successful mission, they were returning to the capital sooner than expected, laden with gold and silks and other tokens of goodwill for Alexander - and best of all, anticipating their own rewards to come.
"Remember how they watched us from those pitiful little battlements when we first approached?"
"Gates shut up tight."
"Not that that would've been a problem for us, of course!"
"Of course! But an hour later out we were again, with the personal compliments of the governor - and all those gifts! As if we didn't have wagonfuls already from our previous stops."
"Gods, three townships in one day - can you believe it? But all the better to get back to the capital for a real rest."
"We'll be back four or five days in advance, at this rate!"
"Ha! And loaded down with presents!"
"Told you you wouldn't come back without something to show off for it."
"Never mind the trinkets - we'll be back early! Won't Alexander be pleased?"
"Ah . . ." The soldiers laughed quietly amongst themselves; Alexander was generous to a fault with those who excelled. "Of course he will!"
But a few of them understood another factor in their favor, and glanced with knowing smiles toward their commander, a tall, distant figure at the head of the column.
"Alexander will be delighted, for sure!"
"And we all know what that means . . ."
"Rewards all 'round! We'll be living the high life, lads!"
Philip chuckled, noting as ever how easily the soldiers adapted. They had passed through plenty of greater cities - and more temperate climates - since they first started out, all the way back in Pella. But he was no stranger himself to battle, and understood that the soldiers were happy with their victories, not to mention the prizes and celebrations that always followed.
Today, he shared quite wholeheartedly in their contentment. On this trip, no one was keeling over from sunstroke or dehydration; no one was burning up from wound infection. No one had caught any of the unfamiliar illnesses that insisted on cropping up in his sickrooms every time Alexander advanced into new territory.
Yet this journey had not been a waste of time, either - far from it. Sometimes rural areas were the best places to find cures for regional ailments, and in the past few days Philip had learned of several valuable treatments.
In fact, that was why he was approaching the front of the column. He kept his eyes open and his staff alert, but what with envoys and scouting parties and advance set-up crews, the rest of the army covered a lot of ground that the medical staff never got to see. He had managed to obtain a small collection of local herbs, but only enough for a few doses, and there was always the chance, if he showed them to Hephaestion, that one of these days a page or a scout might come knocking at his door with a surprise stock in hand.
As Philip advanced, he noticed that the column, though marching in orderly fashion, was dotted throughout with eclectic clusters of fellow travelers, their good spirits brimming over into random conversations with people they would usually never give a second look. He was passing a diverse little knot right now, in fact - cavalry and foot soldiers mingled with interpreters and scribes.
"Come on, you must know!" insisted one of the younger cavalrymen. "What d'you call someone to really get 'em hopping mad?"
"Well . . ." The interpreters chuckled, shrugging. "There isn't an exact translation for what you're thinking of -"
"But you must know something! Like yesterday, what was it Hephaestion said in that meeting in the second town?"
"Hey, that's right," a guard chimed in. "It was to that one official, the one who did all the talking at first. I had a mind to wipe that smirk off his face with my fist, especially since Hephaestion was being so civil and all - and us the winning party!"
"Exactly!" the first soldier enthusiastically agreed. "But then Hephaestion said something - 'twas the only foreign phrase he said, and he said it with a smile, polite as you please - but it must've been awful, to make that official blow up all red in the face!"
"Oh, that . . ." The interpreters exchanged quick glances, some haplessly amused - but a few with mischievous smirks. "He just - he just restated the facts, the situation. In truth he doesn't even know that many basic words, never mind any colorful oaths."
One of the interpreters grinned widely. "He gets on surprisingly well without them, actually - "
"What? How? Don't you try to pull one over on us, that's a crock of -"
"Haha! Don't mind 'im!" another rider broke in, clapping the first on the back. "He's just working up the nerve to ask for a schmaltzy endearment or two, for his sweetheart when he gets back to the capital!"
A chorus of encouraging cheers and mocking whistles arose from the surrounding soldiers, and even the interpreters laughed along. The young cavalryman flushed red to the tips of his ears, but a grin slowly crept back onto his face, and he soon proved that he already commanded quite an impressive arsenal of oaths in his own language.
Philip rode on, musing. Based on his own experience with Hephaestion, Philip considered him a sensible young officer, easy to get along with - and something of a boon to the medical staff. He tended to be rather cavalier in regards to his own health - but then, which healthy young man wasn't? Anyway, no one could beat Alexander in disregarding doctors' orders. (For besides being a King, and all that that entailed, Alexander was also the most stubborn, ill-tempered, flagrantly disobedient patient imaginable - making it all the more difficult for any healer to ensure the King's recovery, not to mention his own neck. Injuries and illnesses were enough to deal with, without having to worry about a patient's rank or the ranks of his friends, and especially without the patient recklessly waving aside medical advice and jeopardizing his own recovery. Philip was very fond of Alexander, but concurred unreservedly with the unanimous opinion of all the medical staff: treating Alexander was a healer's worst nightmare.)
When Alexander was the patient, Hephaestion did listen to the healers, with incredible attention to detail that they could only wish for in all their patients. The rest of the time, he was willing to listen also - if Philip went to Hephaestion with a novel suggestion or a request for a peculiar, rare herb, he could always be certain of sincere consideration, at least, on Hephaestion's part. Philip thought it quite natural for Alexander to send him on so many diplomatic missions - he had patience, a certain slowness to anger, a relative calm that seemed, somehow, to balance Alexander's impulsive, headstrong brilliance.
Like humours in the body, almost. Philip smiled.
So it was understandable that even Hephaestion's fellow officers were wondering what had set the foreign official's temper ablaze. Drawing near the head of the column, Philip could already catch snatches of their conversation.
"- don't usually see the opposing party get so riled in your talks, Hephaestion," one of the veteran captains was saying. "But yesterday, that was hugely satisfying - I wouldn't mind ruffling feathers more often! I didn't catch everything the interpreters said, but he was a mean, stuck-up little bastard."
"He was," Hephaestion agreed mildly.
"He had no call to be strutting around, bragging about arranging his town's defenses!" another captain grumbled. "We're just a couple of squadrons, here, but we could've taken them, easy! He had it all wrong - soldiers posted at the most useless locations; too many strategic errors to count!"
"What I'm wondering," remarked another, "is how we left the city an hour later with wagonloads of presents - and the governor beaming at us as if we were long-lost kin!"
Hephaestion smiled easily, and shrugged. "I just . . . presented the facts."
The other officers chuckled, disbelieving. "Come now, Hephaestion, what exactly was it you said? Some terrifically offensive insult, perhaps?"
"No." But Hephaestion's smile broadened, suggesting something rather undiplomatic. "I only pointed out those errors you just mentioned -"
It was then that the call reached their ears. The guards posted out on the right flank were racing back, guiding in a pair of messengers.
They all had to squint in the bright sunlight, but the colors worn by the riders left no doubt: these were royal messengers. Even before they drew near, their hunched riding stances and the sweat glistening on their laboring steeds made their urgency clear. They galloped straight to the head of the column.
"Alexander took fever," they gasped, their voices low more from exhaustion than discretion. "And now he's bedridden, and the army's practically mourning him, and the commanders can't convince them otherwise and the doctors there don't know what to do and they want Philip to treat him!"
A stunned silence fell over those who had heard. Hephaestion's easy smile disappeared.
He turned his stallion smartly; his gaze swept across the column - and alighted on Philip, but only for a moment. Once he saw that Philip was within hearing range, he instantly turned back to the messengers.
Overall, there was no change in the marching train, only a watchful hush at the front as aides and other officers urged their horses near; instead of heading out again, the flank guards held back, alert and ready for a change in orders.
"How long since he took sick?" asked Hephaestion.
"It happened yesterday, early afternoon. We set out within the hour."
"And his symptoms?"
Philip listened with growing alarm as the messengers rattled off a list. He had noticed telltale signs of weariness in Alexander as far back as the Cilician Gates, which they had captured in a whirlwind before hastening down the arid hills to Tarsus. Several scores of soldiers had been laid up, held back in Tarsus for exhaustion alone. Though he and his best colleagues were sent out with various forward contingents, Philip had advised Alexander to take advantage of the time in the capital to rest up as well.
Of course, he could not expect Alexander to follow such instructions. Anything that did not outright cripple him, Alexander was wont to blaze right through, and woe to the poor wretch, be he page, guard, or healer, whose duty it was to see to his rest. And now he had got himself a fever - something as dangerous, in Philip's opinion, as an enemy spear.
"Do you know what might have brought it on?" Philip interjected urgently.
The messengers glanced at each other.
"He wanted a bath."
"He jumped in the Cydnus."
At this Hephaestion's expression twisted incredulously. It rapidly settled back into a stern frown, however, and his gaze withdrew, grew distant as he looked ahead along their path. Absently he ran his fingers through his steed's wind-tangled mane.
Philip was aghast. Never mind that Alexander had been a pupil of Aristotle; any man with a jot of common sense should have guessed, at least instinctively, that jumping straight into ice-cold water after months in sweltering temperatures was not a good idea. Not just a bad idea; it must have been painful.
Hephaestion's fingers finished winding through the mane, and he looked up. Quietly he listed what he needed from his men: the two most knowledgeable scouts in the party, the fastest way back, and a timeframe for the journey.
A lieutenant rode off promptly to fetch the scouts, while the aides consulted quickly with their maps and each other. "You can make it back in a day if you take just half a squadron as an escort!" they cried, quite pleased to be able to cut down the original travel time by several days.
Hephaestion listened silently, attentively, while they marked out the fastest return route for him on a map and explained sundry details about the terrain. After that, he spoke apart to his second-in-command. The discussion ended in under a minute. Apparently there was not much to discuss; no surprise, for this mission had been a success - until this moment.
Then Hephaestion dispensed with all but two members of the handpicked half-squadron escort, commandeered the fastest horses in the party, and set off with the two scouts, the two guards, and Philip, at a dead gallop.
* * * * *
He covered the distance in three quarters of a day - arriving at the gates of Tarsus in the first light of morning with Philip, one guard, and one scout.
The other guard's horse had tripped up in a gully, so he and the second scout were left to wait for the rest of the contingent and return at a slower pace. As Philip drew rein, he almost wished his own steed had also suffered a minor accident. Every joint was stiff, every muscle ached, and it did not help that a mob of distressed soldiers immediately swarmed up, bawling about how Alexander was going to waste away in a sickbed, snatched from them in the flower of his youth and brilliance and glory.
For a moment, Philip seriously considered staying on the horse forever. When he moved one leg the tiniest bit to dismount, his whole body protested, and the idea became ten times more appealing. He winced, wondering if after getting off this horse he would ever be able to sit down again.
Alexander's illness was the reason they were here now, but for Philip the challenge of the moment was to dismount without falling apart. Could not treat Alexander if his own bones disintegrated first.
A rider swept past him.
It was Hephaestion, who pulled up and dismounted in one smooth, efficient move, swiftly and lightly as if fresh from a short afternoon exercise. He plunged right into the sobbing horde and started asking questions. Philip stared.
But he did not feel too bad about it, for the scout and even the guardsman were also slow to dismount.
As he finally managed to get both his feet on the ground, he was careful not to let go his hold on the horse. It was exhausted, too, but at least it was able to stand upright, which was more than he could say for himself.
When he finally thought that his legs might just be able to bear his weight, he straightened, groaning - and almost collapsed anyway in astonishment.
Hephaestion was standing right in front of him, holding out a flask.
Philip stared at it in appreciative surprise. But he had barely got a steady grip on it when Hephaestion was already turning, heading off toward a large building on the banks of the Cydnus (which, even at this early hour, was glittering bright enough to blind).
His tone, though quiet, made it obvious that not only was he expecting no delay on Philip's part, it did not even occur to him that Philip might be too tired for anything less than alacrity. "This way."
* * * * *
Philip finally staggered into Alexander's antechamber, only to see his colleagues scattered in uneasy slumber all over the couches. Glaucias was the only one awake, huddled in a far corner, but oddly, he shrank back when they walked in and tried to scrunch himself into an even smaller ball. Philip wondered, but continued on; he saw no harm in his colleagues taking shifts.
But contrary to his expectations, inside the room with Alexander there were no physicians - only Critodemus.
The surgeon blinked blearily at them for a few seconds. Then he violently sprang from his chair.
"Philip - thank the Gods you're here! And Hephaestion! How did you return so quickly - it's not been two days!"
"Couldn't get back fast enough," Philip replied dryly, grimacing as his leg muscles, finally allowed a long-awaited pause, seized the opportunity to start cramping. He glanced anxiously toward the bed, but noted, too, the haggard appearance of his usually imperturbable colleague. "Hephaestion finished the talks quickly, so we were already on our way back. How is he?"
"He's still feverish, drifting in and out - doesn't seem to be worsening, but he's not improving, either. Though, as usual he seems to think he can will himself better. A few hours ago he even insisted to have his letters brought, but he only looked at one before he stopped. Crumpled the letter in his hand and turned away, and hasn't roused since."
"Who's been in charge of -"
Philip broke off. Critodemus was suddenly staring past him, and there was something astoundingly close to wonder in his eyes - a most uncharacteristic look, for him. Curiously, Philip followed his gaze.
Hephaestion had seated himself on the bed - cautious not to disturb Alexander's rest, but near enough to look at him closely.
Alexander shifted. Critodemus tensed, ready to explain about Alexander's restless muttering spells. But Alexander only murmured a few words this time.
Hephaestion had fallen still when Alexander stirred. He held still until Alexander subsided, did not even seem to breathe until Alexander's breathing returned to a certain rhythm, rasping but even. His features were set, stern and grave, still as a marble statue - had been, as Philip recalled, ever since they got the news.
But his hands moved carefully - gently - as they smoothed back Alexander's hair, lingered over the faint shadow along Alexander's jaw, took up the poultice-steeped cloth from the basin and wiped the sweat from Alexander's brow.
Critodemus seemed about to say something - and if Philip knew his colleague at all, it was no doubt a warning of some sort, that fevers tended to be contagious, that it was dangerous to lean in so closely. But the surgeon stopped short.
Shoved nearly all the way under the pillow, folded and crumpled under Alexander's palm, was the letter Critodemus had spoken of. Hephaestion drew it out cautiously, and Philip could not help but recall what he had heard of another letter, one Alexander had chosen to share, the intimate confidence repaid with a kiss upon Alexander's seal.
He wondered if they would learn the contents of this current letter. Disturbing news could, after all, affect a patient's condition.
But Hephaestion did not open the letter. He merely smoothed out the wrinkles and returned it, still folded as it was, under Alexander's hand.
Critodemus swallowed back whatever he had wanted to say and looked away very quietly, as if he had accidentally stumbled across some marvelous secret he had never been meant to know. Despite the circumstances, Philip smiled. He had little respect for surgeons who only knew about hacking and cauterizing; Critodemus, despite all initial impressions, was not one of them.
Clearing his throat, Critodemus straightened himself and regained a little of his usual briskness. He pulled Philip off a ways and asked, softly but urgently, "Do you think you can cure him?"
Philip could not bring himself to express doubt, but he could not lie, either. His answer was grim, pitched low for Critodemus' ears only. "Perhaps, but I need to know more. Who's been treating him?"
The haggardness returned. With a hapless shrug, Critodemus replied, "Me."
Philip waited for another name - a physician's name - but none came.
Critodemus sighed. "That's it. Me. The others couldn't decide what to do. So Craterus gave me the honor."
"Craterus?" Philip repeated, surprised. "Well, how come he's not storming around here now?"
"The officers heard a rumor, yesterday evening, that Darius or his spies might have managed to buy someone off - someone in our camp - to try and poison Alexander." Philip started in alarm, but Critodemus continued, "So, for better or worse, a few hours after laying into all of the physicians for not doing anything, the officers threatened arrest, and more, if any of them lifted a finger the wrong way before your arrival. Craterus said you're the only one to be trusted, now, since you've been with Alexander since his childhood. They let me continue treating him with a poultice of steeped olive leaves, but only because I'd already been doing it and he seemed to be breathing a little easier for it." He shook his head ruefully, ran a hand through his hair in worn-out frustration. "Is it true Glaucias is especially good with fevers?"
Philip blinked. "You could say that, I suppose. He knows them well - by theory."
Critodemus scowled. "Well, he didn't even dare show his face here, not until the officers were scouring the city for enemy agents. Slunk in, in the wee hours of the morning."
Philip frowned. He opened his mouth to ask another question -
- but Hephaestion beat him to it.
"Is that true?"
Hephaestion was still with Alexander, but he had fixed Critodemus with an unnerving stare. His hands remained infinitely gentle as he finished rearranging the pillows under Alexander's shoulders, but then he stood up, and it was suddenly very, very clear that Hephaestion was the tallest person in the room, and a first-class young soldier and a commander to boot.
Even Critodemus, who had now withstood the full-force glare of Craterus as well as Alexander, suddenly felt his skin crawl.
"Uh . . . Hephaestion," he said, darting an uneasy glance at Philip. However upset he was with colleagues shying away from work, his prime objective had not been to get anyone in trouble. "He was probably afraid of administering the wrong thing -"
Hephaestion just kept staring at Critodemus with that frighteningly keen look. At last, he repeated softly, "He didn't . . . dare?"
The next second he was out the door.
* * * * *
They could hear Glaucias babble something about not daring to treat the King considering the officers' latest orders. Wrong answer, Critodemus thought indignantly, any guilt he might have felt vanishing at once upon hearing such a bald-faced lie.
Philip hastened with Critodemus to the antechamber. By the noises they had guessed rightly that Hephaestion had hauled Glaucias out of his corner, but they both froze at the threshold. The rest of the physicians, jolted awake, were trapped in a speechless daze; even Critodemus stared open-mouthed, and Philip distantly sensed he was doing the same. So this was what those interpreters meant by "getting on surprisingly well" without profanity -
"You gutless, spineless, yellow-bellied coward! What do you think the army clothes and feeds you for! Sniveling and cringing, hiding away in some gods-forsaken corner while the men you should be treating are suffering, dying? 'Dare not!' Yet you dare to pull the officers into this, to cover for your own weaknesses! Where was that daring when the rest of your colleagues were called in to see Alexander? You 'dare not' treat the King? How dare you refuse, you rabbit-hearted, chicken-livered, wretched miserable excuse of a -"
Abruptly Hephaestion stopped. In the sudden silence, Critodemus and Philip heard it, too, but only after a few more seconds - a weak moan from Alexander's chamber.
Critodemus wondered how on earth Hephaestion had heard that in the middle of his tirade, but had no time to ponder this as Hephaestion whirled, his features gone in half a heartbeat from blistering wrath to the most ridiculously tender, anxious expression Critodemus ever saw. The next moment he had pushed heedlessly past Critodemus and Philip and dashed back into the other chamber, leaving Glaucias cowering in the middle of the room and the rest of the physicians gawking in stunned silence.
Philip and Critodemus exchanged a hesitant glance.
"Well. I suppose we should -" Philip took in a breath, slowly, "- go in, too."
"I suppose," Critodemus echoed, his mouth dry.
They glanced toward Glaucias. "You stay here," they said simultaneously, and then smiled awkwardly, humorlessly at each other, even as their professionalism - and their newfound apprehension of Hephaestion - impelled them toward the door.
Behind them, the other physicians followed sheepishly one by one, none of them wanting to suffer Glaucias' fate. Treating Alexander would no longer be considered a nightmare - failing Alexander was much, much worse.
* * * * *
last tweaked 02 May 2007
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