On the Sunny Banks of the Cydnus - Ch. 3
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 3: Everyone has ideas about how to deal with Alexander's illness, especially Alexander...
© Copyright Joyeee 2007
* * * * *
A/N: I'm not sure if ancient Greeks knew about pulses, but considering what they did know, I thought it wouldn't be too out of place.
Again, something readers might know already: Aristophanes was a contemporary of Euripides (whom Alexander and co. supposedly quoted a lot), but mostly wrote comedies (while Euripides was one of the best-known classical tragedians).
* * * * *
Chapter 3: If
The aching, the nausea, the stifling heat - it was all nothing to him; he should be able to overcome all of it. What really alarmed him - absurd, of course, but damnably true at the moment - was how his own limbs were defying his commands, refusing to pull off anything more than a few pathetic flutters. He should be up and about! There were things he needed to do, things that should have been done already, and instead all this time was passing him by, time that was important, key, crucial, for his campaigns, for his army, for everything.
In a last-ditch attempt to assert some control, he tried to flex his fingers. Just his fingers.
A distant, needle-like tingle was the only response. He swallowed, despite the pain in his throat.
Worse yet, he could not see his surroundings. The light was bright, too bright, too hot, fueling the throbbing pressure in his head, and even shutting his eyes could not keep the awful red glare out entirely.
The silence only drove the last stake home. No movement, no sight, no sound. Suddenly, even breathing became difficult -
Then, he thought he heard a voice he knew.
He tried calling out to it.
Had that pitiful little noise come from his throat? Especially considering how he could address entire battalions of troops at once?
Whatever the case, a few seconds later a shadow happened to block some of that wretched light, and he could finally force his eyes half-open for a blurry glimpse.
". . . 'phaestion?"
Suddenly there was a grip on his hand, so strong it broke through the numbness in his fingers, so fierce it almost hurt. Then, more breath than voice, "Yes, Alexander."
"How - you should be - I thought you were . . ." Alexander thought, hard. Things he needed to do, things that should be done already . . .
The effort brought lucidity back, but details remained beyond his grasp. Restlessly he forced his eyes open again, searching for some clue in Hephaestion's face.
Hephaestion looked . . . worn. As if by long travel, or lack of sleep.
Fair enough. It was not so very unusual that it should be taken as a sign of alarm.
But when he let go of Alexander's hand to brush limp, sweaty curls from Alexander's brow, his touch betrayed a slight tremor. And Alexander could tally on one hand the number of times he remembered Hephaestion looking that worried.
". . . 're you all right?" he asked.
He expected a retort of some sort - lighthearted, tongue in cheek, the sort that always reassured him Hephaestion was fine, or would be. No, Alexander, I'm hungry and tired, and terribly ill and badly injured too, too exhausted to say so much as a single word to you!
But Hephaestion gave him a strange look. It could almost have been a hint of his usual smile - if not for that look in his eyes.
"Perfectly," he answered.
Alexander was not reassured, frowned, and thought harder, persisting even as the pounding in his head redoubled. Hephaestion turned and gestured as if beckoning someone, but Alexander barely noticed. Something was wrong; there was something he needed to do, right away -
"Darius! There was a - a report, his advance. Is he . . . ?"
At that, Hephaestion's expression changed, almost hardened. "He's far away. Very, very far; forget him. Listen to me; your doctor's here, your very best, and he needs to have a thorough look at you -"
"No. Don't go."
A pause.
"I'm right here." And then, that grip on Alexander's hand again - not quite so fierce this time, but firm and reassuring.
Alexander blinked rapidly, trying to see better as footsteps approached. He heard Hephaestion's voice, directed elsewhere - "The curtains." And the light became bearable after that, so Alexander finally opened his eyes, and saw Hephaestion, and Philip the doctor. Critodemus the surgeon was hovering at the foot of the bed, and more people were beyond - other physicians, he realized. Some of them were scurrying about, letting the window drapery down. Philip was peering at him, and asking Critodemus questions.
Philip.
The pillows were stacked just as Alexander liked them, so thick and high that he was practically sitting up. It was easy to glance down without noticeably turning his head.
Parmenion's letter was still there, only a corner peeking from under one pillow. Good.
Philip started asking Alexander questions, too. At first, Alexander was slightly grateful that they only required a nod or a shake of his head to answer, but indignation rapidly won out. He might not be able to speak very loudly, or very clearly, or for very long, for now - but he could speak.
A jumble of voices arose outside. Alexander recognized them all before they entered the room - Craterus, Leonnatus and Perdiccas, Eumenes and Ptolemy and many others besides. But he was still getting his bearings, still gathering up what he could of his strength, and before he could greet them they were all talking at once - but not to him.
"You're here!"
"He's awake!"
"What's the diagnosis?"
"Does he look any better?"
Craterus, as usual, got straight to the point. "You can cure him, right?"
Alexander scowled. Yet before he could formulate a brilliant speech to tell them all off for making him the subject of the conversation, with him right there in front of them, wide awake and perfectly able to speak to them aching and queasiness and sore throat be damned, Philip said, "As I thought, it's a local illness. There is something I can give him . . ."
Never mind the brilliant speech. Exasperated, Alexander broke the silence that followed before it became too ominous. "But?"
It came out, decidedly, as a croak; his lips were dry and hot and cracked and he had only thought his throat was not that sore because the rest of him ached even more.
Still, he achieved his aim. The way their gazes all swiveled toward him was proof.
"As I said, there is a treatment I can give." Philip did address Alexander this time - a small satisfaction, though the fact that Philip thought he had to repeat himself made Alexander's teeth grind. "I only have enough of the main herb for one dose, so you'll have to send out scouts. But it's not hard to find," he added quickly.
Craterus grimaced, but shrugged. "The men need something to do anyway."
"Also - " Philip hurried to continue; that had only been the first of many stipulations - "it will take a full day to prepare. I just learned of it the last few days -"
"A full day?" Alexander repeated, but again everyone's attention had got away from him.
"Wait," Ptolemy interrupted. "You mean you haven't tried this before?"
"Who was it you learned it from?" Leonnatus demanded. "Craterus said we could trust you, but -"
"But we, uh, would rather not, you understand, be - experimenting!" Craterus cut in suddenly; Perdiccas elbowed Leonnatus with a surreptitious glance toward Alexander. "Not, in any case, at such a - at a time like this, with, the Gods only know, what the local populace might be capable of, or not -!"
"Oh, leave off!" Alexander groaned and clutched his throbbing head in utter despair; even if he had a little (just a little) trouble speaking, he had no trouble understanding what they were trying so badly not to say; this was why he had not shown anyone the letter! But if Parmenion had notified them of his suspicions also, then Alexander had basically lost his best physician for several weeks, at least - and that was if the imprisonment and subsequent investigation ended well!
"I know the rumor!" he growled, and kicked ineffectually at the bedcovers; Gods, his whole body felt like it was being smothered or baked or both. "Too hot!" he cried in frustration, but plunged on to his point before anyone could react. "The rumor is just that: a rumor. And the lot of you can stop fussing over it. Do you really believe it, anyway? Well I'll tell you right now, I don't; I'll decide what to believe and I've decided not to believe it."
His officers stared at him, bewildered. Not surprising, when half of what he said was punctuated by coughing. He definitely needed to recover, soon - right this moment would be good. Especially now that Hephaestion was frowning at him, as severely as any of his older generals ever had.
"You know someone's trying to poison you?" Leonnatus finally blurted out. "But how? - we just heard of it ourselves last night -"
"Look I said I don't believe it, and you all had better stop hedging around it, or else I'll be here forever! And with Darius getting closer every hour! I can tell you he's not lying around in some oven of a sickroom sweating his life away; I know that last report said he was on the move, I remember quite clearl - !"
Alexander stopped short, but this time, praise Zeus, it was not because he had to cough. He stared at Leonnatus. "Someone?" he repeated. "Someone's trying to . . . ?"
"We scoured the city," Leonnatus reassured him hastily. "But all the suspects' alibis are checking out."
Alexander squinted at them all, studying their faces. Slowly, he exhaled.
No one else knew. This could still happen quickly, easily.
"Philip, please." He attempted valiantly to cover up the wheezing. "Continue."
Craterus heaved a sigh. "Philip, do you really trust a remedy you've only just heard of?"
"I learned of it from peasants," Philip explained, understanding the officers' apprehension. "If I'm not mistaken - " he glanced toward Hephaestion for confirmation - "they don't even know a Great King exists. They deal with local overseers, and that only once or twice a year."
Eumenes' brows lowered. "But do we really need to try something so . . . untested?"
"Each region's diseases, and their treatments, vary. Alexander, you know this," Philip appealed. "There's a reason the others weren't sure what to do for you. This is the best treatment - the only one I can offer with any confidence. The preparation makes sense, from all that I know of the ingredients, and I've seen it in action. The first dose acts as a purge; you'll start feeling better soon after. Still - " He braced himself; if Alexander could not accept this last condition, everything else was moot. "It won't rid your body of the disease for some time. It takes several doses to start working as an actual cure -"
"I don't need a cure," Alexander cut in, again attracting a roomful of incredulous stares. "Not right away," he clarified, but this time he spoke with care, taking a breath when he needed it. Things had to start happening, now.
He met Philip's troubled gaze evenly. "Only make me able to ride to war. You said one dose can relieve my symptoms. The rest can wait."
Philip started to glance toward the others again, but Alexander pushed himself off the pillows. Hephaestion was now frowning as severely as ten Craterus's put together, but his arm immediately came around Alexander's back to support him.
Alexander had already grabbed Philip's forearm. "Do it. Give me the purge, first, and we'll worry about curing me later."
Finally, Philip nodded. Alexander released his hold.
It was as if the tension had been sustaining him. Having won Philip's agreement, he relaxed just a little - and his body sank down, deep into the pillows. A wave of nausea engulfed him; he closed his eyes unconsciously against it. The voices around him faded to a vague muddle, and then silence.
* * * * *
"Alexander!" the officers cried, surging forward; Hephaestion had a hand on Alexander's shoulder and was shaking it a little. Philip rushed to listen, to feel, for Alexander's breath.
It was labored, but stable, merely slower. "He's all right!" Philip announced. "He needs sleep, anyway."
It took a while for everyone to calm down.
Philip braced himself, even as the others regained their composure. There was a question that had been plaguing him, and it was plaguing everyone else, too - he was sure of it. Otherwise they would not have reacted just now with such alarm.
If they asked, and if he answered truthfully, it might just cost him his life.
But though it was a difficult question to answer, it was perhaps even more difficult to ask. Craterus took a deep breath, said, "So the medicine takes a day to prepare? Let's get on with it then!" - and Philip relaxed a little.
Without looking up, Hephaestion said, "What can be done for him in the meantime?"
Philip sighed, relieved. That was a very easy question. "Keep applying warm poultices. That one of olive leaves Critodemus made - it's as good as any."
Hephaestion dropped his hand from Alexander's shoulder - an unremarkable gesture, in itself. But Philip was in just the right place to see that his fingers pressed briefly against Alexander's wrist. Still not turning around, Hephaestion asked, "Anything else?"
Another easy question. Yet, Philip felt a prick of something, and had to suppress a shiver despite the heat.
It was not fear, he knew that much. He had seen Hephaestion with a bedridden Alexander before, and recognized this pattern - easygoing good humor gone, supplanted by a relentless, almost eerie dedication, until Alexander's recovery was assured. But Philip could not identify the feeling; neither could he shake it as he replied, "Well, there are many little things that can help. Mild treatments that won't interfere with the purge - tonic of germander to help him sweat out the bad humours, drinks infused with herbs to lessen the nausea . . ."
Craterus shot a glare at the rest of the physicians. "Sounds simple enough. You all can concoct a few things, surely, to give the King a little relief while Philip is preparing the purge?"
"Craterus," Eumenes muttered, "just yesterday you were threatening to have them stoned if they did anything."
"Anything wrong," Craterus corrected. "This should be basic, even for them!"
"I wouldn't be too sure of it," grumbled Leonnatus. "They don't handle pressure well at all."
"But Craterus is right to put them to work. Philip has more than enough to do." Hephaestion turned around, oblivious to several bemused looks shot his way, and cast the physicians a decidedly cool glance. "Critodemus, you know of these treatments?"
Critodemus immediately understood. "Of course."
"He can oversee them," Hephaestion said to the other officers.
"Are you sure?" Eumenes scowled doubtfully. "He's relatively new with us."
"He sewed up this gash I got at the Gates pretty well," Leonnatus remarked, lifting his arm to showcase a long, narrow scab as proof. "Barely two weeks, and the bandage is off and it's healing nicely, no infection, nothing. Except now it itches something terrible, of course."
"He's fixed me up before, too," Craterus said. "And he did a good job of it."
He looked pointedly at Hephaestion. "Besides, if you trust him with the King's life . . ."
Hephaestion returned his gaze evenly. After a moment, he gave a slight nod.
It was like blades meeting - but with restraint, even with courtesy. No clash, no sparks; the edges there, definite and sharp - but not in opposition.
"Anyway," Craterus gruffly added, "if he were up to something, he'd already have done it."
There was an off-kilter pause. But Alexander started shifting uneasily again. Hephaestion reached out, guided his weakly flailing hand away from the steaming basin on the bedside table. Craterus heaved a conclusive sigh and looked around the room. "Anything else?"
"You'll need people who can recognize the herb to go with the scouts," Philip said. "Some of our staff can go, as soon as I show them the plant."
"I'll set up the scouting parties," Leonnatus volunteered. "Just send your fellows over."
"I'll let the rest of the men know what's going on," Ptolemy spoke up. "Quiet them down a bit, hopefully."
"We should send people to check that report about Darius," suggested Perdiccas.
"Good idea; I doubt Darius could ever march so quickly with the hundreds of thousands he supposedly has, 'Immortals' or no." Craterus nodded. "Fine, everything's settled then. Well, we've all got something to do, so how's about we pack out of here and leave the King in peace?"
"Yes, best for him to sleep," Philip agreed.
With a plan finally determined, there was a collective sigh of relief.
"But someone can - should - stay," Philip added, and thought of Hephaestion's fingers on Alexander's pulse.
Again, he happened to be in just the right position to see a tiny thing. Alexander's eyes were still closed, but his brows had drawn together as Craterus spoke. Philip could have sworn that Alexander's hand twitched, as if tightening on Hephaestion's.
Hephaestion had no outward reaction that Philip could see. He only pulled the poultice basin closer with his free hand. Philip blinked, wondering if it had all been a trick of his sleep-deprived eyes as everyone bundled quickly out the door.
Standing furthest from the entrance, Philip was the last to go. It was fortunate, since, having leaned surreptitiously against a table all this time, both his legs had fallen asleep. His aching backside was no help either.
But perhaps it was just as well, because before he got halfway to the door, Hephaestion called him back.
Everyone else was gone. Philip was accustomed to sickrooms, but here, in Alexander's chamber, the hush was almost unnatural.
Hephaestion was still turned away from him, toward Alexander. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but level.
"Will he live?"
There it was. The question.
Philip tried to keep his voice steady. "Yes, he will. If . . . " It struck him just how desperate the officers must be, to trust in his plan when there were so many complications to it - so many things that could go wrong, fatally. "If everything goes as we hope."
Hephaestion's voice lowered even more. "That's a terrible 'if.'"
Philip nodded mutely. Healers could only do so much. If the Gods willed it, if the Fates wanted it - the life of a man, even a King, was theirs.
He was just about to head back out, when Hephaestion turned and gripped his arm.
Suddenly, Hephaestion looked very, very young. He drew in a breath, sharp and ragged. "Whatever you need, Philip, just name it."
It was a promise, a solemn oath. But - most of all - it was an entreaty.
Philip caught his breath, had to fumble for a reply. Yet he meant it, every word. "I know exactly whom to ask."
Now he knew what that prickly feeling had been.
An odd thing, pity. For it was Philip whose hair had already grayed, whose bones creaked, whose legs felt like water even now - while Alexander was King, and Hephaestion a friend of his since childhood, and the both of them young and gifted, accomplished - and with so much yet before them.
In fact, the fortune of the entire army was soaring under Alexander's leadership. And they might rise to even greater heights, glory and riches beyond their wildest dreams -
If Alexander could pull through this first.
Hephaestion just looked at Philip for a moment. Then he nodded, almost sheepish.
"Go on." Something dark flashed in his eyes, a remorse that Philip could not comprehend. "I've kept you too long already."
* * * * *
Now that he was alone, now that he had put in the last ingredient and there was nothing to do but wait, the immensity of the situation finally hit him full-force. A terrible 'if,' indeed - a great many terrible 'if's.' Philip could imagine many, many ways for this to end badly, and only one way for it to end well.
So, like any green apprentice, he was standing over the concoction, staring at it, as if that could make it boil faster.
A knock came on the open door. It was Critodemus.
"The others are done," he said by way of greeting. Philip only looked at him blankly, so he elaborated, "The other physicians. With the 'little things.'"
"Oh. Good," Philip said, and vaguely waved Critodemus to a seat.
"So . . . " Critodemus peered at the liquid. Its surface was, of course, still perfectly smooth. Philip gave it an impatient stir.
Critodemus eyed him warily. "So, everything's all right, then."
"I suppose." Philip frowned as the ripples quickly faded. "If I've done everything right. If Alexander can just give himself a chance to recover. If, if -" Philip threw the stirring rod down. "If only Alexander hadn't jumped in a river in the first place!"
Critodemus gave him a shrewd look. "After all this, in addition to honoring Apollo and Asclepius, we're going to pay a long, hearty tribute to Dionysus."
Philip raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't drink much?"
Critodemus looked levelly at him. "After treating Alexander I do. Every time."
Philip blinked.
"Entire amphorae," Critodemus said matter-of-factly.
They both cracked a smile.
"So Alexander's up to his ears in medicines, now?" Philip asked, finally letting himself collapse - but not too hard - in a chair.
Critodemus nodded. "He's still sleeping, though. Hasn't taken anything."
"Sleep is good. Alexander doesn't give Hypnos his due!" Philip sighed. "After this, I'm going to sleep for an entire day. Or a week. And," he added with sudden vehemence, "I'm not going to mount another horse for at least a month."
"If Alexander has his way," Critodemus said dryly, "we'll all be galloping off as soon as he can sit up." Abruptly he frowned. "And we just might; did you know Diades is designing special wagons for recovering patients?"
"Really? But that's more in your line; they won't do sick people that much good." Philip grimaced. "Alexander needs to just . . . rest. For a couple of months."
"You can convince him, right? Seems to me he prefers your care, at least."
"Perhaps. I've been his doctor for a long time. Then again, I think he favors you among the surgeons, and you joined us not too long ago."
"I've been wondering about that," Critodemus remarked. "I mean - I don't mince around with patients. I make it clear what they need to do - or not do. You tolerate their . . . characters, more - but you don't take any nonsense from them either. I wonder if it isn't why Alexander prefers the likes of you and me."
Philip chuckled. "I'm not sure, sometimes, if his preference is an honor or a curse. If I had a drachma for every time I've had to point out he was ruining his own recovery, only to be rewarded with self-righteous outrage, I could've retired already. Might've, even so, if it weren't for Hephaestion being there to mediate a bit."
Critodemus snorted. "Not that Hephaestion's exactly a model patient, himself."
"Yes, but he's not overtly belligerent about it." Philip sighed. "At least neither of them get sick often. But you've not been with us long, and considering only Alexander, you've had to treat him what, three or four times?"
"Five." Critodemus shrugged. "Still, give me a battlefield any day rather than a sickroom. Surgery's messy, but compared to your work it's straightforward as a spear thrust!"
"Nothing mysterious about it this time," grumbled Philip. "Alexander was tired already - everybody was, coming here. I told him to take it easy; I quartered scores of soldiers for exhaustion - young men, too, strong as bulls."
"Then he goes and jumps in a freezing river," Critodemus said with a flicker of a smile.
"Well, Alexander has always liked his baths. I approve of baths."
"Oh, I do too. Washing helps wound-healing."
"It's conducive to the balance of the humours, overall."
"Well, bathing's not nearly as effective in balancing humours as, say, bloodletting," Critodemus said with a gleam in his eye.
"But it's also much more pleasant," Philip replied with a crooked grin. "Besides, in an army of this size the bathing habits of the men make all the difference between a pleasant day and a downright putrid one."
"True. But Alexander jumped in a river, a freezing river at the height of summer."
"Exactly," Philip groaned. "Another example of royal behavior - no, Alexander's behavior in particular - telling the likes of us to take up another trade!"
But he quieted, then, thinking back to earlier days. In certain ways Alexander had not changed, and in certain ways that was a good thing, too. "I wouldn't quit, though. At least, not for several more years."
"I wouldn't either. After all," Critodemus grinned, "we have to treat a King and his entire army. But - we get to treat a King, and his entire army!"
The mixture drew their attention with a goopy pop, followed by another, and another. Philip smiled, and took up the stirring rod.
* * * * *
Again and again he tried to struggle back to the waking world. But each time the nausea pushed him down, and the aches. The heat never left, and all he could think was hot, and stifling, and an enemy was approaching, and he was going to fall. And sometimes - this was the worst - it would seem, at first, as if at the other end of his struggle there would only be more stillness, more silence.
But someone else was there, every time.
At first, that someone gave him - forced on him - some extremely horrid things to drink, acrid, bitter, hot enough to make him sweat as soon as he swallowed. But then, during later bouts of half-consciousness, it was not quite so hot, and there were cloths against his fevered skin, permeated with strong scents that took away some of the queasiness.
And he never had to fall back asleep in the midst of silence. He could not understand everything, but it was a voice he knew, and loved well. He caught fragments here and there. Homer, Xenophon, snatches of Aristophanes - and, quite often, updates on how his own army was doing.
Slowly, he calmed.
And then, he could finally bring himself to acknowledge the truth. He was very ill indeed.
When at last he fully woke, dates and details were tangled in an awful mess again, and it was still too muggy for comfort. His head was no longer throbbing, but the rest of him still ached, he still felt like throwing up, and though the bedclothes were clean and fresh he could feel sweat beading up all over his skin by the moment.
He reached blindly. His hand made contact with something, someone's arm, but he could not summon the strength to hold on to it.
"Alexander," a voice called softly, the same one that had been there all this time, and the next moment Alexander felt that arm at his back, helping him sit up. A cup was held to his lips, water laced with honey and fresh menthe; Hephaestion, he thought as the liquid slipped down his throat and sent a refreshing sort of warmth throughout his chest, and with an effort he opened his eyes.
The room was quiet and dim. A subdued light seeped in through the curtains, shimmering faintly through the fine cloth. Hephaestion was sitting next to him, holding him up, his head bent a little as he studied Alexander with wide, dark eyes.
Alexander frowned. Details were trickling back. Philip, and the officers, and the medicine . . . The letter was still there, under his pillow. Tiredly he stuffed it further, all the way underneath.
Hephaestion caught the movement, followed it with a neutral look, but only put the water back on a tray amid a host of other basins, cups, and jars.
"I'm awake," Alexander declared.
Hephaestion looked at him again, critical, somber. Then he smiled, briefly. "Impeccable timing. Philip's medicine should be ready soon."
Medicine. Recovery. Darius, and his marching army. And the many things Alexander had planned, to meet his greatest foe.
"What day is it?"
Hephaestion told him.
Suddenly Darius was no longer such a pressing issue. Alexander blinked a few times. "But you - you should be -"
"The talks are finished."
Alexander stared at him, perplexed. "Already?"
Hephaestion returned his attention to the tray on the table. "They were successful. By the way there are several loads of presents coming in - silks, metalwork."
Alexander hardly listened.
"You - you came back early -" he breathed. "How many days -?"
"Would've been back three days from now anyway," Hephaestion absently replied, wrinkling his nose as he examined one of the jars.
That was still three or four days in advance. A slow, wide smile spread across Alexander's face.
Hephaestion noticed Alexander's shining eyes with some alarm. "They said your eyes would water." He took the lid off of a basin and moved it carefully over Alexander's lap as steam billowed out. "Here, try to lean over this; Critodemus said it would help - "
Alexander had to hold his breath not to laugh; that would set off a long cough, and hurt, and more importantly he would never get his point across. "No, you goose."
He reached for Hephaestion's hand, and though he had to draw it away from the basin it closed over his chilled fingers willingly, bringing warmth and feeling back to them.
"Try to lean over the basin," Hephaestion repeated, even more anxious now.
"Hephaestion!" Alexander said, exasperated.
The thought returned to him - this was not how Hephaestion usually looked. Especially when it was just the two of them. Not so solemn, so worried.
Then he realized - now that he had acknowledged he was ill - that worry was for him.
Hephaestion had seen him wounded before, had seen him ill before. How many times, now, had they gone through these debates, these tugs-of-wars - one the careless patient, and one the over-careful friend?
But he supposed this was a little different. Neither had ever been bedridden, unconscious, for days on end, not during all the years they had known each other - at least, not when they were together, the one easily able to see for himself just how badly off the other was. Alexander could not remember being this sick since before Leonidas first told him to go swimming in Pella's chilly streams as a breakfast appetizer.
"Hephaestion, I -" He stopped, not knowing how to explain, where to start.
But there was a knock at the door just then, and Hephaestion was quick to see who it was.
"Philip! He's just awakened; here, I'll carry that -"
"It's done, thank the Gods!" Philip declared. "Everything went just as it should - right color, right scent, and the scouts have returned, so the next batch is simmering already!"
Alexander suppressed a sigh. He would just have to restart that debate with Hephaestion later. Thank him, later.
At the sight of Philip, weary and red-eyed but appearing satisfied and hopeful, Alexander thought of the letter again. There were many people he needed to thank, starting with his doctor.
He might not be able to march out against Darius right away. But he could still do other things, things that would bolster his army's spirits, and reward the deserving. And what better way to thank Philip - and boost morale into the bargain - than to show everyone first-hand just how much he esteemed the good doctor . . . ?
"Hephaestion? Are the men nearby . . .?"
"Camping outside your rooms, practically." Hephaestion gave him a strange look. "They love you, Alexander. If you'd seen them - "
Alexander frowned. There was something Hephaestion was not saying; he would get to the bottom of that later, too. "Well," he said deliberately, "they can see me now."
Hephaestion understood his thinking immediately; Alexander could see it in the way his expression set. Nevertheless he paused, critical, cautious. Then he glanced at Philip, who shrugged and nodded.
"Get everyone back," Alexander amended. "Soldiers, healers, officers. And while we're waiting - Philip, I think I can handle a little more light now."
Philip chuckled. "If your head starts hurting again, say so," he admonished, but went about, partially drawing up the drapes.
The light made Alexander blink but did not bother him, not too much. "Let the soldiers come in first," he added, to Hephaestion.
Hephaestion shook his head wryly, then, and Alexander knew things were all right, at least for now. "Soldiers first, Alexander, of course."
Alexander watched him go, watched Philip smiling despite his fatigue, watched the room brighten. He reached under the pillow, and got the letter ready in his hand.
* * * * *
last tweaked 02 July 2007
Feedback treasured!
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 3: Everyone has ideas about how to deal with Alexander's illness, especially Alexander...
© Copyright Joyeee 2007
* * * * *
A/N: I'm not sure if ancient Greeks knew about pulses, but considering what they did know, I thought it wouldn't be too out of place.
Again, something readers might know already: Aristophanes was a contemporary of Euripides (whom Alexander and co. supposedly quoted a lot), but mostly wrote comedies (while Euripides was one of the best-known classical tragedians).
* * * * *
Chapter 3: If
The aching, the nausea, the stifling heat - it was all nothing to him; he should be able to overcome all of it. What really alarmed him - absurd, of course, but damnably true at the moment - was how his own limbs were defying his commands, refusing to pull off anything more than a few pathetic flutters. He should be up and about! There were things he needed to do, things that should have been done already, and instead all this time was passing him by, time that was important, key, crucial, for his campaigns, for his army, for everything.
In a last-ditch attempt to assert some control, he tried to flex his fingers. Just his fingers.
A distant, needle-like tingle was the only response. He swallowed, despite the pain in his throat.
Worse yet, he could not see his surroundings. The light was bright, too bright, too hot, fueling the throbbing pressure in his head, and even shutting his eyes could not keep the awful red glare out entirely.
The silence only drove the last stake home. No movement, no sight, no sound. Suddenly, even breathing became difficult -
Then, he thought he heard a voice he knew.
He tried calling out to it.
Had that pitiful little noise come from his throat? Especially considering how he could address entire battalions of troops at once?
Whatever the case, a few seconds later a shadow happened to block some of that wretched light, and he could finally force his eyes half-open for a blurry glimpse.
". . . 'phaestion?"
Suddenly there was a grip on his hand, so strong it broke through the numbness in his fingers, so fierce it almost hurt. Then, more breath than voice, "Yes, Alexander."
"How - you should be - I thought you were . . ." Alexander thought, hard. Things he needed to do, things that should be done already . . .
The effort brought lucidity back, but details remained beyond his grasp. Restlessly he forced his eyes open again, searching for some clue in Hephaestion's face.
Hephaestion looked . . . worn. As if by long travel, or lack of sleep.
Fair enough. It was not so very unusual that it should be taken as a sign of alarm.
But when he let go of Alexander's hand to brush limp, sweaty curls from Alexander's brow, his touch betrayed a slight tremor. And Alexander could tally on one hand the number of times he remembered Hephaestion looking that worried.
". . . 're you all right?" he asked.
He expected a retort of some sort - lighthearted, tongue in cheek, the sort that always reassured him Hephaestion was fine, or would be. No, Alexander, I'm hungry and tired, and terribly ill and badly injured too, too exhausted to say so much as a single word to you!
But Hephaestion gave him a strange look. It could almost have been a hint of his usual smile - if not for that look in his eyes.
"Perfectly," he answered.
Alexander was not reassured, frowned, and thought harder, persisting even as the pounding in his head redoubled. Hephaestion turned and gestured as if beckoning someone, but Alexander barely noticed. Something was wrong; there was something he needed to do, right away -
"Darius! There was a - a report, his advance. Is he . . . ?"
At that, Hephaestion's expression changed, almost hardened. "He's far away. Very, very far; forget him. Listen to me; your doctor's here, your very best, and he needs to have a thorough look at you -"
"No. Don't go."
A pause.
"I'm right here." And then, that grip on Alexander's hand again - not quite so fierce this time, but firm and reassuring.
Alexander blinked rapidly, trying to see better as footsteps approached. He heard Hephaestion's voice, directed elsewhere - "The curtains." And the light became bearable after that, so Alexander finally opened his eyes, and saw Hephaestion, and Philip the doctor. Critodemus the surgeon was hovering at the foot of the bed, and more people were beyond - other physicians, he realized. Some of them were scurrying about, letting the window drapery down. Philip was peering at him, and asking Critodemus questions.
Philip.
The pillows were stacked just as Alexander liked them, so thick and high that he was practically sitting up. It was easy to glance down without noticeably turning his head.
Parmenion's letter was still there, only a corner peeking from under one pillow. Good.
Philip started asking Alexander questions, too. At first, Alexander was slightly grateful that they only required a nod or a shake of his head to answer, but indignation rapidly won out. He might not be able to speak very loudly, or very clearly, or for very long, for now - but he could speak.
A jumble of voices arose outside. Alexander recognized them all before they entered the room - Craterus, Leonnatus and Perdiccas, Eumenes and Ptolemy and many others besides. But he was still getting his bearings, still gathering up what he could of his strength, and before he could greet them they were all talking at once - but not to him.
"You're here!"
"He's awake!"
"What's the diagnosis?"
"Does he look any better?"
Craterus, as usual, got straight to the point. "You can cure him, right?"
Alexander scowled. Yet before he could formulate a brilliant speech to tell them all off for making him the subject of the conversation, with him right there in front of them, wide awake and perfectly able to speak to them aching and queasiness and sore throat be damned, Philip said, "As I thought, it's a local illness. There is something I can give him . . ."
Never mind the brilliant speech. Exasperated, Alexander broke the silence that followed before it became too ominous. "But?"
It came out, decidedly, as a croak; his lips were dry and hot and cracked and he had only thought his throat was not that sore because the rest of him ached even more.
Still, he achieved his aim. The way their gazes all swiveled toward him was proof.
"As I said, there is a treatment I can give." Philip did address Alexander this time - a small satisfaction, though the fact that Philip thought he had to repeat himself made Alexander's teeth grind. "I only have enough of the main herb for one dose, so you'll have to send out scouts. But it's not hard to find," he added quickly.
Craterus grimaced, but shrugged. "The men need something to do anyway."
"Also - " Philip hurried to continue; that had only been the first of many stipulations - "it will take a full day to prepare. I just learned of it the last few days -"
"A full day?" Alexander repeated, but again everyone's attention had got away from him.
"Wait," Ptolemy interrupted. "You mean you haven't tried this before?"
"Who was it you learned it from?" Leonnatus demanded. "Craterus said we could trust you, but -"
"But we, uh, would rather not, you understand, be - experimenting!" Craterus cut in suddenly; Perdiccas elbowed Leonnatus with a surreptitious glance toward Alexander. "Not, in any case, at such a - at a time like this, with, the Gods only know, what the local populace might be capable of, or not -!"
"Oh, leave off!" Alexander groaned and clutched his throbbing head in utter despair; even if he had a little (just a little) trouble speaking, he had no trouble understanding what they were trying so badly not to say; this was why he had not shown anyone the letter! But if Parmenion had notified them of his suspicions also, then Alexander had basically lost his best physician for several weeks, at least - and that was if the imprisonment and subsequent investigation ended well!
"I know the rumor!" he growled, and kicked ineffectually at the bedcovers; Gods, his whole body felt like it was being smothered or baked or both. "Too hot!" he cried in frustration, but plunged on to his point before anyone could react. "The rumor is just that: a rumor. And the lot of you can stop fussing over it. Do you really believe it, anyway? Well I'll tell you right now, I don't; I'll decide what to believe and I've decided not to believe it."
His officers stared at him, bewildered. Not surprising, when half of what he said was punctuated by coughing. He definitely needed to recover, soon - right this moment would be good. Especially now that Hephaestion was frowning at him, as severely as any of his older generals ever had.
"You know someone's trying to poison you?" Leonnatus finally blurted out. "But how? - we just heard of it ourselves last night -"
"Look I said I don't believe it, and you all had better stop hedging around it, or else I'll be here forever! And with Darius getting closer every hour! I can tell you he's not lying around in some oven of a sickroom sweating his life away; I know that last report said he was on the move, I remember quite clearl - !"
Alexander stopped short, but this time, praise Zeus, it was not because he had to cough. He stared at Leonnatus. "Someone?" he repeated. "Someone's trying to . . . ?"
"We scoured the city," Leonnatus reassured him hastily. "But all the suspects' alibis are checking out."
Alexander squinted at them all, studying their faces. Slowly, he exhaled.
No one else knew. This could still happen quickly, easily.
"Philip, please." He attempted valiantly to cover up the wheezing. "Continue."
Craterus heaved a sigh. "Philip, do you really trust a remedy you've only just heard of?"
"I learned of it from peasants," Philip explained, understanding the officers' apprehension. "If I'm not mistaken - " he glanced toward Hephaestion for confirmation - "they don't even know a Great King exists. They deal with local overseers, and that only once or twice a year."
Eumenes' brows lowered. "But do we really need to try something so . . . untested?"
"Each region's diseases, and their treatments, vary. Alexander, you know this," Philip appealed. "There's a reason the others weren't sure what to do for you. This is the best treatment - the only one I can offer with any confidence. The preparation makes sense, from all that I know of the ingredients, and I've seen it in action. The first dose acts as a purge; you'll start feeling better soon after. Still - " He braced himself; if Alexander could not accept this last condition, everything else was moot. "It won't rid your body of the disease for some time. It takes several doses to start working as an actual cure -"
"I don't need a cure," Alexander cut in, again attracting a roomful of incredulous stares. "Not right away," he clarified, but this time he spoke with care, taking a breath when he needed it. Things had to start happening, now.
He met Philip's troubled gaze evenly. "Only make me able to ride to war. You said one dose can relieve my symptoms. The rest can wait."
Philip started to glance toward the others again, but Alexander pushed himself off the pillows. Hephaestion was now frowning as severely as ten Craterus's put together, but his arm immediately came around Alexander's back to support him.
Alexander had already grabbed Philip's forearm. "Do it. Give me the purge, first, and we'll worry about curing me later."
Finally, Philip nodded. Alexander released his hold.
It was as if the tension had been sustaining him. Having won Philip's agreement, he relaxed just a little - and his body sank down, deep into the pillows. A wave of nausea engulfed him; he closed his eyes unconsciously against it. The voices around him faded to a vague muddle, and then silence.
* * * * *
"Alexander!" the officers cried, surging forward; Hephaestion had a hand on Alexander's shoulder and was shaking it a little. Philip rushed to listen, to feel, for Alexander's breath.
It was labored, but stable, merely slower. "He's all right!" Philip announced. "He needs sleep, anyway."
It took a while for everyone to calm down.
Philip braced himself, even as the others regained their composure. There was a question that had been plaguing him, and it was plaguing everyone else, too - he was sure of it. Otherwise they would not have reacted just now with such alarm.
If they asked, and if he answered truthfully, it might just cost him his life.
But though it was a difficult question to answer, it was perhaps even more difficult to ask. Craterus took a deep breath, said, "So the medicine takes a day to prepare? Let's get on with it then!" - and Philip relaxed a little.
Without looking up, Hephaestion said, "What can be done for him in the meantime?"
Philip sighed, relieved. That was a very easy question. "Keep applying warm poultices. That one of olive leaves Critodemus made - it's as good as any."
Hephaestion dropped his hand from Alexander's shoulder - an unremarkable gesture, in itself. But Philip was in just the right place to see that his fingers pressed briefly against Alexander's wrist. Still not turning around, Hephaestion asked, "Anything else?"
Another easy question. Yet, Philip felt a prick of something, and had to suppress a shiver despite the heat.
It was not fear, he knew that much. He had seen Hephaestion with a bedridden Alexander before, and recognized this pattern - easygoing good humor gone, supplanted by a relentless, almost eerie dedication, until Alexander's recovery was assured. But Philip could not identify the feeling; neither could he shake it as he replied, "Well, there are many little things that can help. Mild treatments that won't interfere with the purge - tonic of germander to help him sweat out the bad humours, drinks infused with herbs to lessen the nausea . . ."
Craterus shot a glare at the rest of the physicians. "Sounds simple enough. You all can concoct a few things, surely, to give the King a little relief while Philip is preparing the purge?"
"Craterus," Eumenes muttered, "just yesterday you were threatening to have them stoned if they did anything."
"Anything wrong," Craterus corrected. "This should be basic, even for them!"
"I wouldn't be too sure of it," grumbled Leonnatus. "They don't handle pressure well at all."
"But Craterus is right to put them to work. Philip has more than enough to do." Hephaestion turned around, oblivious to several bemused looks shot his way, and cast the physicians a decidedly cool glance. "Critodemus, you know of these treatments?"
Critodemus immediately understood. "Of course."
"He can oversee them," Hephaestion said to the other officers.
"Are you sure?" Eumenes scowled doubtfully. "He's relatively new with us."
"He sewed up this gash I got at the Gates pretty well," Leonnatus remarked, lifting his arm to showcase a long, narrow scab as proof. "Barely two weeks, and the bandage is off and it's healing nicely, no infection, nothing. Except now it itches something terrible, of course."
"He's fixed me up before, too," Craterus said. "And he did a good job of it."
He looked pointedly at Hephaestion. "Besides, if you trust him with the King's life . . ."
Hephaestion returned his gaze evenly. After a moment, he gave a slight nod.
It was like blades meeting - but with restraint, even with courtesy. No clash, no sparks; the edges there, definite and sharp - but not in opposition.
"Anyway," Craterus gruffly added, "if he were up to something, he'd already have done it."
There was an off-kilter pause. But Alexander started shifting uneasily again. Hephaestion reached out, guided his weakly flailing hand away from the steaming basin on the bedside table. Craterus heaved a conclusive sigh and looked around the room. "Anything else?"
"You'll need people who can recognize the herb to go with the scouts," Philip said. "Some of our staff can go, as soon as I show them the plant."
"I'll set up the scouting parties," Leonnatus volunteered. "Just send your fellows over."
"I'll let the rest of the men know what's going on," Ptolemy spoke up. "Quiet them down a bit, hopefully."
"We should send people to check that report about Darius," suggested Perdiccas.
"Good idea; I doubt Darius could ever march so quickly with the hundreds of thousands he supposedly has, 'Immortals' or no." Craterus nodded. "Fine, everything's settled then. Well, we've all got something to do, so how's about we pack out of here and leave the King in peace?"
"Yes, best for him to sleep," Philip agreed.
With a plan finally determined, there was a collective sigh of relief.
"But someone can - should - stay," Philip added, and thought of Hephaestion's fingers on Alexander's pulse.
Again, he happened to be in just the right position to see a tiny thing. Alexander's eyes were still closed, but his brows had drawn together as Craterus spoke. Philip could have sworn that Alexander's hand twitched, as if tightening on Hephaestion's.
Hephaestion had no outward reaction that Philip could see. He only pulled the poultice basin closer with his free hand. Philip blinked, wondering if it had all been a trick of his sleep-deprived eyes as everyone bundled quickly out the door.
Standing furthest from the entrance, Philip was the last to go. It was fortunate, since, having leaned surreptitiously against a table all this time, both his legs had fallen asleep. His aching backside was no help either.
But perhaps it was just as well, because before he got halfway to the door, Hephaestion called him back.
Everyone else was gone. Philip was accustomed to sickrooms, but here, in Alexander's chamber, the hush was almost unnatural.
Hephaestion was still turned away from him, toward Alexander. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but level.
"Will he live?"
There it was. The question.
Philip tried to keep his voice steady. "Yes, he will. If . . . " It struck him just how desperate the officers must be, to trust in his plan when there were so many complications to it - so many things that could go wrong, fatally. "If everything goes as we hope."
Hephaestion's voice lowered even more. "That's a terrible 'if.'"
Philip nodded mutely. Healers could only do so much. If the Gods willed it, if the Fates wanted it - the life of a man, even a King, was theirs.
He was just about to head back out, when Hephaestion turned and gripped his arm.
Suddenly, Hephaestion looked very, very young. He drew in a breath, sharp and ragged. "Whatever you need, Philip, just name it."
It was a promise, a solemn oath. But - most of all - it was an entreaty.
Philip caught his breath, had to fumble for a reply. Yet he meant it, every word. "I know exactly whom to ask."
Now he knew what that prickly feeling had been.
An odd thing, pity. For it was Philip whose hair had already grayed, whose bones creaked, whose legs felt like water even now - while Alexander was King, and Hephaestion a friend of his since childhood, and the both of them young and gifted, accomplished - and with so much yet before them.
In fact, the fortune of the entire army was soaring under Alexander's leadership. And they might rise to even greater heights, glory and riches beyond their wildest dreams -
If Alexander could pull through this first.
Hephaestion just looked at Philip for a moment. Then he nodded, almost sheepish.
"Go on." Something dark flashed in his eyes, a remorse that Philip could not comprehend. "I've kept you too long already."
* * * * *
Now that he was alone, now that he had put in the last ingredient and there was nothing to do but wait, the immensity of the situation finally hit him full-force. A terrible 'if,' indeed - a great many terrible 'if's.' Philip could imagine many, many ways for this to end badly, and only one way for it to end well.
So, like any green apprentice, he was standing over the concoction, staring at it, as if that could make it boil faster.
A knock came on the open door. It was Critodemus.
"The others are done," he said by way of greeting. Philip only looked at him blankly, so he elaborated, "The other physicians. With the 'little things.'"
"Oh. Good," Philip said, and vaguely waved Critodemus to a seat.
"So . . . " Critodemus peered at the liquid. Its surface was, of course, still perfectly smooth. Philip gave it an impatient stir.
Critodemus eyed him warily. "So, everything's all right, then."
"I suppose." Philip frowned as the ripples quickly faded. "If I've done everything right. If Alexander can just give himself a chance to recover. If, if -" Philip threw the stirring rod down. "If only Alexander hadn't jumped in a river in the first place!"
Critodemus gave him a shrewd look. "After all this, in addition to honoring Apollo and Asclepius, we're going to pay a long, hearty tribute to Dionysus."
Philip raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't drink much?"
Critodemus looked levelly at him. "After treating Alexander I do. Every time."
Philip blinked.
"Entire amphorae," Critodemus said matter-of-factly.
They both cracked a smile.
"So Alexander's up to his ears in medicines, now?" Philip asked, finally letting himself collapse - but not too hard - in a chair.
Critodemus nodded. "He's still sleeping, though. Hasn't taken anything."
"Sleep is good. Alexander doesn't give Hypnos his due!" Philip sighed. "After this, I'm going to sleep for an entire day. Or a week. And," he added with sudden vehemence, "I'm not going to mount another horse for at least a month."
"If Alexander has his way," Critodemus said dryly, "we'll all be galloping off as soon as he can sit up." Abruptly he frowned. "And we just might; did you know Diades is designing special wagons for recovering patients?"
"Really? But that's more in your line; they won't do sick people that much good." Philip grimaced. "Alexander needs to just . . . rest. For a couple of months."
"You can convince him, right? Seems to me he prefers your care, at least."
"Perhaps. I've been his doctor for a long time. Then again, I think he favors you among the surgeons, and you joined us not too long ago."
"I've been wondering about that," Critodemus remarked. "I mean - I don't mince around with patients. I make it clear what they need to do - or not do. You tolerate their . . . characters, more - but you don't take any nonsense from them either. I wonder if it isn't why Alexander prefers the likes of you and me."
Philip chuckled. "I'm not sure, sometimes, if his preference is an honor or a curse. If I had a drachma for every time I've had to point out he was ruining his own recovery, only to be rewarded with self-righteous outrage, I could've retired already. Might've, even so, if it weren't for Hephaestion being there to mediate a bit."
Critodemus snorted. "Not that Hephaestion's exactly a model patient, himself."
"Yes, but he's not overtly belligerent about it." Philip sighed. "At least neither of them get sick often. But you've not been with us long, and considering only Alexander, you've had to treat him what, three or four times?"
"Five." Critodemus shrugged. "Still, give me a battlefield any day rather than a sickroom. Surgery's messy, but compared to your work it's straightforward as a spear thrust!"
"Nothing mysterious about it this time," grumbled Philip. "Alexander was tired already - everybody was, coming here. I told him to take it easy; I quartered scores of soldiers for exhaustion - young men, too, strong as bulls."
"Then he goes and jumps in a freezing river," Critodemus said with a flicker of a smile.
"Well, Alexander has always liked his baths. I approve of baths."
"Oh, I do too. Washing helps wound-healing."
"It's conducive to the balance of the humours, overall."
"Well, bathing's not nearly as effective in balancing humours as, say, bloodletting," Critodemus said with a gleam in his eye.
"But it's also much more pleasant," Philip replied with a crooked grin. "Besides, in an army of this size the bathing habits of the men make all the difference between a pleasant day and a downright putrid one."
"True. But Alexander jumped in a river, a freezing river at the height of summer."
"Exactly," Philip groaned. "Another example of royal behavior - no, Alexander's behavior in particular - telling the likes of us to take up another trade!"
But he quieted, then, thinking back to earlier days. In certain ways Alexander had not changed, and in certain ways that was a good thing, too. "I wouldn't quit, though. At least, not for several more years."
"I wouldn't either. After all," Critodemus grinned, "we have to treat a King and his entire army. But - we get to treat a King, and his entire army!"
The mixture drew their attention with a goopy pop, followed by another, and another. Philip smiled, and took up the stirring rod.
* * * * *
Again and again he tried to struggle back to the waking world. But each time the nausea pushed him down, and the aches. The heat never left, and all he could think was hot, and stifling, and an enemy was approaching, and he was going to fall. And sometimes - this was the worst - it would seem, at first, as if at the other end of his struggle there would only be more stillness, more silence.
But someone else was there, every time.
At first, that someone gave him - forced on him - some extremely horrid things to drink, acrid, bitter, hot enough to make him sweat as soon as he swallowed. But then, during later bouts of half-consciousness, it was not quite so hot, and there were cloths against his fevered skin, permeated with strong scents that took away some of the queasiness.
And he never had to fall back asleep in the midst of silence. He could not understand everything, but it was a voice he knew, and loved well. He caught fragments here and there. Homer, Xenophon, snatches of Aristophanes - and, quite often, updates on how his own army was doing.
Slowly, he calmed.
And then, he could finally bring himself to acknowledge the truth. He was very ill indeed.
When at last he fully woke, dates and details were tangled in an awful mess again, and it was still too muggy for comfort. His head was no longer throbbing, but the rest of him still ached, he still felt like throwing up, and though the bedclothes were clean and fresh he could feel sweat beading up all over his skin by the moment.
He reached blindly. His hand made contact with something, someone's arm, but he could not summon the strength to hold on to it.
"Alexander," a voice called softly, the same one that had been there all this time, and the next moment Alexander felt that arm at his back, helping him sit up. A cup was held to his lips, water laced with honey and fresh menthe; Hephaestion, he thought as the liquid slipped down his throat and sent a refreshing sort of warmth throughout his chest, and with an effort he opened his eyes.
The room was quiet and dim. A subdued light seeped in through the curtains, shimmering faintly through the fine cloth. Hephaestion was sitting next to him, holding him up, his head bent a little as he studied Alexander with wide, dark eyes.
Alexander frowned. Details were trickling back. Philip, and the officers, and the medicine . . . The letter was still there, under his pillow. Tiredly he stuffed it further, all the way underneath.
Hephaestion caught the movement, followed it with a neutral look, but only put the water back on a tray amid a host of other basins, cups, and jars.
"I'm awake," Alexander declared.
Hephaestion looked at him again, critical, somber. Then he smiled, briefly. "Impeccable timing. Philip's medicine should be ready soon."
Medicine. Recovery. Darius, and his marching army. And the many things Alexander had planned, to meet his greatest foe.
"What day is it?"
Hephaestion told him.
Suddenly Darius was no longer such a pressing issue. Alexander blinked a few times. "But you - you should be -"
"The talks are finished."
Alexander stared at him, perplexed. "Already?"
Hephaestion returned his attention to the tray on the table. "They were successful. By the way there are several loads of presents coming in - silks, metalwork."
Alexander hardly listened.
"You - you came back early -" he breathed. "How many days -?"
"Would've been back three days from now anyway," Hephaestion absently replied, wrinkling his nose as he examined one of the jars.
That was still three or four days in advance. A slow, wide smile spread across Alexander's face.
Hephaestion noticed Alexander's shining eyes with some alarm. "They said your eyes would water." He took the lid off of a basin and moved it carefully over Alexander's lap as steam billowed out. "Here, try to lean over this; Critodemus said it would help - "
Alexander had to hold his breath not to laugh; that would set off a long cough, and hurt, and more importantly he would never get his point across. "No, you goose."
He reached for Hephaestion's hand, and though he had to draw it away from the basin it closed over his chilled fingers willingly, bringing warmth and feeling back to them.
"Try to lean over the basin," Hephaestion repeated, even more anxious now.
"Hephaestion!" Alexander said, exasperated.
The thought returned to him - this was not how Hephaestion usually looked. Especially when it was just the two of them. Not so solemn, so worried.
Then he realized - now that he had acknowledged he was ill - that worry was for him.
Hephaestion had seen him wounded before, had seen him ill before. How many times, now, had they gone through these debates, these tugs-of-wars - one the careless patient, and one the over-careful friend?
But he supposed this was a little different. Neither had ever been bedridden, unconscious, for days on end, not during all the years they had known each other - at least, not when they were together, the one easily able to see for himself just how badly off the other was. Alexander could not remember being this sick since before Leonidas first told him to go swimming in Pella's chilly streams as a breakfast appetizer.
"Hephaestion, I -" He stopped, not knowing how to explain, where to start.
But there was a knock at the door just then, and Hephaestion was quick to see who it was.
"Philip! He's just awakened; here, I'll carry that -"
"It's done, thank the Gods!" Philip declared. "Everything went just as it should - right color, right scent, and the scouts have returned, so the next batch is simmering already!"
Alexander suppressed a sigh. He would just have to restart that debate with Hephaestion later. Thank him, later.
At the sight of Philip, weary and red-eyed but appearing satisfied and hopeful, Alexander thought of the letter again. There were many people he needed to thank, starting with his doctor.
He might not be able to march out against Darius right away. But he could still do other things, things that would bolster his army's spirits, and reward the deserving. And what better way to thank Philip - and boost morale into the bargain - than to show everyone first-hand just how much he esteemed the good doctor . . . ?
"Hephaestion? Are the men nearby . . .?"
"Camping outside your rooms, practically." Hephaestion gave him a strange look. "They love you, Alexander. If you'd seen them - "
Alexander frowned. There was something Hephaestion was not saying; he would get to the bottom of that later, too. "Well," he said deliberately, "they can see me now."
Hephaestion understood his thinking immediately; Alexander could see it in the way his expression set. Nevertheless he paused, critical, cautious. Then he glanced at Philip, who shrugged and nodded.
"Get everyone back," Alexander amended. "Soldiers, healers, officers. And while we're waiting - Philip, I think I can handle a little more light now."
Philip chuckled. "If your head starts hurting again, say so," he admonished, but went about, partially drawing up the drapes.
The light made Alexander blink but did not bother him, not too much. "Let the soldiers come in first," he added, to Hephaestion.
Hephaestion shook his head wryly, then, and Alexander knew things were all right, at least for now. "Soldiers first, Alexander, of course."
Alexander watched him go, watched Philip smiling despite his fatigue, watched the room brighten. He reached under the pillow, and got the letter ready in his hand.
* * * * *
last tweaked 02 July 2007
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