On the Sunny Banks of the Cydnus - Ch. 5
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 5: The army waits while Alexander lingers in sickness. Some scores are due to be settled...
© Copyright Joyeee 2007
A/N: Army estimates are from Wikipedia. Also, as used here "lover" and "beloved" are equal, without implications of roles, dominance, etc.
I did plan five chapters total, but Alexander and Hephaestion demanded more 'screentime,' and (even though I don't like the fact that I can never deal quite rationally with their scenes) who am I to deny them! Do tell me if I fumbled, though - I can take it! Ensemble cast will be back for the next (final) chapter.
* * * * *
Chapter 5: Ready
A day passed. Then, another.
So time crawled by, uncertainty compounding with heavy heat to smother Alexander's army in gloom. Advance contingents returned successfully, only to find the base camp lying low, too anxious to take action on their intelligence updates or to celebrate their small victories and new alliances. The Cydnus kept splashing on its merry way, while the days melded into a week, and then another, and still Alexander lingered in sickness.
Philip was not faring much better than his patient. He managed tolerably while preparing medicine and tending to Alexander, but the army made it bluntly clear that he was not welcome being anywhere else, doing anything else. The shields of his guards were useless against the many gazes that tracked him like prey, like an agent of the enemy.
Usually, Critodemus made it a point not to stick his scalpel where it was not needed. Yet, even he found himself feeling he should do something. Unused to such sentiments, he nevertheless recognized this as a form of solidarity - soldiers were not the only ones drawn together under hostile conditions, after all.
Beyond any stirrings of sympathy, however, he harbored more practical objections. He could easily have snagged a position with the Persians and their bottomless coffers, as so many Hellenes had done. Instead, he had joined Alexander's medical crew, because he expected a marching army to be where his skills would be needed most - and yes, rewarded best, with respect as well as material compensation. Naturally Alexander's fellow Macedonians enjoyed a certain favor, especially in the top commands, but Alexander was said to value skill above all. In his army good men were properly appreciated, especially in the support staff. Yet, although Philip possessed both skill and royal esteem, neither was proving sufficient to safeguard his honor - nor even his life.
Critodemus went about his daily business as conscientiously as ever, patching up routine injuries, the odd fall from a horse, the occasional sparring accident. But he also watched and waited, and thought about packing his bags.
* * * * *
During those first weeks, Alexander woke, and was lucid, only twice. Both times, no one else noticed.
The first time, he awoke to silence. But before he even roused fully, he was aware of a familiar presence by his side. He did not need to see, to know who it was; nor did he need to hear, to sense the steady heartbeat, the slow, even breathing.
So Hephaestion was still asleep. Alexander took a deep, contented breath. Then he stretched - and was disgruntled to find his limbs weak and shaky, even after a very heavy slumber.
But then he admitted wryly to himself that Hephaestion had probably been right; Hypnos had come to claim his dues. Nonetheless, with the King of Kings to defeat, standing still meant falling behind - and of course lying still was even worse - so he was going to get out of bed and do something.
However, as soon as he tried to sit up, a dull, hollow ache lanced through his stomach. He stifled a groan - he was awake, but that did not mean Hephaestion had to be - but the bed ruined his efforts by creaking loudly, and Alexander froze, his gaze flying to Hephaestion -
- who merely slept on.
Alexander stared, suddenly wondering how much Hephaestion owed to Hypnos.
A second stomach pang served only as a distant reminder to uncoil from his awkward position. He eased back down, but not because of the pain; he was thinking of other things.
It seemed a long time, too long, since he had woken like this.
Ever since they began that race of a march toward Tarsus, actually. A march which the army had accomplished with speed exceeding even Alexander's expectations, if not his stated goals.
The work could wait, he supposed. He shifted just enough to get more comfortable, stretching cautiously this time. Finding a fresh, cool spot on the pillows, he turned his head so he could tell immediately if Hephaestion began to wake.
Hephaestion dozed on, untroubled as Alexander settled in.
Alexander dreamed often, and vividly. Hephaestion said he did not, not often - but Alexander always thought he looked as if he did. Anyhow his rest seemed pleasant enough, his features relaxed in a serenity that Alexander found at once familiar - so many times had he gazed on it over the years - and fascinating, so alien it was to his own nature. But it was not the grave perfection of statues and tragic heroes; not usually, at least, for Hephaestion's lips curved upward naturally, ever so slightly. Even when he slept (as now) like a log - Alexander could always find, there in the corners of Hephaestion's mouth, the beginnings of a smile.
So easily he did not realize it, Alexander's breathing evened and slowed, and he did not resist his body's demand for Hypnos' return.
The second time, Hephaestion was not there. But Philip was, and Critodemus too. Alexander stayed still, concentrating to discern their quiet conversation.
"I'm not claiming they were there to cause trouble," Philip was saying blandly. But his tone held resignation rather than indifference.
"It was a horde of cranky soldiers well into their cups, just outside your quarters," Critodemus retorted. "Your guards should've arrested them on the spot."
"And provoked a brawl? No, Heracleides knew better, especially when the guards were so clearly outnumbered. And when the entire army seems to feel the same about . . . my services."
"Bah, what do they know? These are the same knuckleheads who claim we're useless one day and come howling to us the next because they've tripped over their own swords!"
"Or drunk swamp water," Philip added dryly. "Here, haven't you spent enough time trying to fix those instruments?"
Critodemus suddenly sounded glum, even mournful. "It's an old kit, and not the best craftsmanship, but it feels right to my hands." Then he was all indignation again. "Felt right. Now it's all scratched up. A few of those aforementioned knuckleheads flung it into rock piles, because one of their friends got a wee gash on his head, which - as head wounds will - bled quite a lot before I got there and stitched it up. Then they claimed it was an accident," he huffed. "And they're doing worse to you. It isn't fair, for you to be driven out of your own rooms; can't you report it to anyone?"
"Who?" Philip sighed, sympathetic but bleak. "Who could change the entire army's opinion at once? I only know of one man capable of that. And he happens to be my patient."
Critodemus snorted, but his tone grew a bit less gruff. "It's not much, but if you need to . . . move about for a while, you can always take a cot in the surgical rooms. Better than bunking in the sickrooms anyhow; you can't catch a broken bone."
"My thanks." Philip sighed. "I'll probably have to take you up on that offer quite soon."
Slowly Alexander pieced their words together with his own recollections. Considering Philip's shock when he first saw Parmenion's letter, he sounded quite calm now. Still, his situation could obviously use some improvement - but Alexander would not punish his men for a little rowdiness; they had only demonstrated their loyalty after all. However, he must reward Philip well. Something exceptional, to match exceptional service.
Critodemus had served admirably also, and there was the matter of the surgical kit to rectify. As for the rest of the physicians . . .
Blanket pardon, he decided, grinning as he thought of Hephaestion - who (quite infuriatingly) always joined the healers' schemes and argued their side whenever Alexander fell to their tender mercies. Satisfied, Alexander yawned and went back to sleep.
* * * * *
However, as far as those who tended to him knew, Alexander woke on his own only to throw up whatever sustenance they had managed to get into him, or to ramble feverishly about troop movements. His mere lack of activity was demoralizing the men, so of course, details were kept private. Not even all the high command knew.
When confronted by the commanders who did know - commanders with doubts and demands and the power to annihilate entire cities, never mind individuals - Philip maintained his stance with the dogged certainty of a man who had nothing to lose. The medicine was drawing the energy of the body inward to purge the illness, and whatever else happened to get in the way. Alexander's chills, his unconsciousness, his inability to keep anything down, were all to be expected.
For Philip, updating Hephaestion was surprisingly unstressful, in great part because Hephaestion never demanded repeated explanations of side effects or specific timetables for Alexander's recovery. He was no more forgiving than any other commander, listening to Philip in a grim silence that would have been chilling, if Philip had not noticed the faraway worry in his eyes. But he did listen, and that was enough to feel like a reprieve.
Still, even that was not to last. After all, this was an army, and Alexander its leader in every way; military matters came first.
The sun had not yet risen. Shadowed as ever by his guards, Philip shivered as he trudged along the torchlit, sand-dusted path with the latest batch of medicine. Considering the incredible heat of the day, Tarsus could get surprisingly chilly during the dark hours.
Because of another horde of cranky soldiers, Philip had actually slept right in his workroom despite its herbal fumes and unyielding benches. He felt so drained that he did not even muster a greeting when he met Critodemus going the same way, just gave the surgeon a questioning look.
Critodemus shrugged. "I was asked to drop by early today. No idea why."
Stifling a yawn, Philip suggested, "They want a second opinion. Got tired of me always giving them the same tired answers."
"Aren't 'they' always asking the same tired questions?" Critodemus replied, arching one eyebrow. "Anyway, I've got no answers. My part in Alexander's treatment is long over -"
Something in the way he said it, a sort of restless determination, made Philip pause. But then they arrived at Alexander's antechambers, and Philip's attention was captured instead by the small group inside - mostly lieutenants, captains, and sergeants. Hephaestion was leafing rapidly through a stack of papers while a messenger spoke, his voice barely audible beyond the tight little circle.
At least they kept near the entrance, where they would not disturb Alexander - for, from the looks on their faces, the news was definitely disturbing. As Critodemus stepped unobtrusively to one side to wait and Philip went to administer the medicine, Hephaestion gave them only the briefest of glances; his attention remained on the papers and the messenger.
Philip made short work of things and returned, only to find that he was now the object of attention. Everyone looked toward him, as if they had been waiting for him. "Not much change -" he began, but Hephaestion cut him off there.
"How long, at best, until Alexander can march again?"
Taken aback, Philip frowned as he repeated for what seemed the hundredth time, "As I've said, when he keeps some food down with the medicine, we'll know he's recovering. He'll regain strength gradually after that, but he can't push himself. Not unless he wants the infection flaring up constantly, and getting worse each time."
Hephaestion persisted. "Give me a timeframe."
Philip stared, too tired to mask his surprise - and disapproval. He had come to expect at least some sort of understanding from Hephaestion; but no, he should have known better than to allow himself to grow accustomed to such a luxury. Struggling to curb his irritation and disappointment, he gave a bluntly honest answer. "At least a couple of months without tearing off on another march."
To his astonishment, that was the end of it. Hephaestion merely glanced at Heracleides, who nodded in answer to some unspoken question. Irritation faded; Philip got the distinct impression that they had just spoken, in more detail, for all Hephaestion said to Heracleides was, "Double the guard. You choose the men," before hastening out the door. The officers and messengers followed with alacrity, almost as if in formation, then dispersed in several directions once they got outside.
However, one of the pages did not leave immediately with the rest. "Sir," he said, approaching Critodemus, "you met with Diades the engineer recently."
Critodemus looked uncharacteristically caught off guard. "Yes . . . yes, I did. And you're the one who brought me to his workroom - Tirius, if I remember correctly?"
The boy nodded and deposited a sheaf of parchments into the surgeon's hands; Philip caught sight of neat, close-written designs. Critodemus' eyes widened. "The surgical wagons? By Apollo, I'd forgotten! Seems like another lifetime we designed these . . ."
"Diades is away, some land survey or other," Tirius explained, "but he left those with Hephaestion, who has notified the carpenters of your involvement. You'll have several of Diades' aides to help. Construction can begin at your discretion."
"Well." Critodemus looked up, blinking. "Uh . . . excellent!"
Tirius nodded respectfully. "By your leave, Sir -"
"Right, of course." Still a bit dazed, Critodemus waved a hand and the youth departed, turning the corner neatly on his heel.
"Huh. That's one thing . . . less . . . to worry about," Critodemus muttered incredulously. "When Alexander wakes, we can set off before he get even gets his feet on the floor."
Philip was finally exasperated beyond weariness. "That's exactly the problem! How hard can it be just to rest -!"
The surgeon's expression twisted wryly. "You're a brave man, to ask anyone to make Alexander stay abed for two months if he's regaining a little strength every day."
Philip groaned, dropping his head in his hands. "I wasn't asking. I know it's impossible."
Feeling a heavy hand fall on his shoulder, he looked up in alarm, only to see that Heracleides' expression - usually inscrutable to the point of intimidation - looked almost sympathetic.
* * * * *
Hephaestion returned to Alexander's chambers late that night, footsore and hungry - which was common enough - and in a very black mood, which happened rarely indeed.
Craterus and the others had restricted communications, but rumor of Alexander's illness was bound to spread, and encourage trouble, if countering news of his recovery did not follow soon. However, Hephaestion's current concern was neither the Persian enemy nor the city-states and tribes back home. Vultures might be circling much closer.
Most forward contingents were returning as expected, but a few had sent only vague missives, claiming they needed more time to quell local resistance. Curiously, these were all high-caliber troops under influential commanders. Here, the main body of the army was staying relatively quiet, but that was curious too. Alexander's soldiers were accustomed to having their king in their midst, and should have been clamoring to see him with their own eyes by now.
And there was Parmenion's letter. Hephaestion respected Parmenion, as much for his willingness to disagree with Alexander as for his unmatched military experience. And after all, he had helped Alexander secure the crown - a favor which Alexander had rewarded richly, in power as well as wealth. Considering everything that Parmenion and his sons now possessed, Hephaestion could not imagine why the cautious, wily old general would undermine Alexander's rule - not like this, with chaos so sure to follow.
However, an offhand remark from Craterus (of all people) had set Hephaestion thinking. The officer responsible for capturing Philip's accuser was regarded as an idler, unlikely to ferret out spies. And, as Craterus - quite openly disgusted with the whole thing - had mentioned , this slacker just happened to owe most of his promotions to Philotas.
Ever since Alexander had so firmly established himself as King in the turmoil following his father's death, Hephaestion had put worries about a repeat of Macedon's bloody dynastic struggles behind. A dangerously foolish mistake, as evidence now suggested.
But it was all so circumstantial.
Hephaestion did not like hunches; he liked acting upon solid facts - how many days' worth of grain they had; who exactly commanded enemy troops; whether a foreign dignitary knew Greek or really did need an interpreter. So today he had initiated an investigation of sorts. Yet, because he took pains to veil it all as routine inquiry, now he was confronting an even more tangled, chaotic, unpredictable mess.
Halfheartedly, he thought of Alexander. Alexander was comfortable with the chaotic, good beyond belief with the unpredictable. And as for tangles . . . he had cut right through the Gordion knot.
But Alexander was in no state to act. Even if he were, Hephaestion would not have said anything, not yet. Not until he had solid facts - or at least a more solid hunch. He was tired enough to realize that he might be seeing shadows where there were none, and he refused to upset Alexander over it, especially while Alexander was ill.
Besides, Alexander was no fool. Hephaestion knew, far better than anyone else, that though Alexander certainly took great pride in winning the hearts of his men, he also never forgot that their love alone was nothing to count on. And the more powerful and influential they were, the more they needed tangible motivations to stay loyal.
Hephaestion glanced at the papers in his arms. The heat alone was enough to make one's head spin, never mind reports. With an unwonted surge of anger, he quickened his pace.
This tangle of shadows, which he was not even sure existed, would go away, would fade like smoke once Alexander got back on his feet. Because once Alexander got back on his feet, they were taking on Darius and his hundreds of thousands and whatever else the Persian empire could throw at them; and with Alexander leading them and a little favor from the Gods, they might just do what everyone thought impossible, defeat the King of Kings, and no one who claimed to be Alexander's ally - his friend - could have any motive whatsoever for anything less than complete loyalty -
A sudden noise halted him in his tracks.
Alexander was shouting. Hephaestion drew in a small, sudden breath.
Weariness dropped away like a cumbersome cloak as he hastened toward Alexander's chambers. From what he could hear, at this moment Alexander was quite coherent . . . if rather explosively cross. Still, he was far from well; his voice broke just then into a hoarse rasp, which kept worsening by the second because he kept trying to shout through it -
Just as Hephaestion crossed the threshold, a vase smashed against the wall, mere inches from his head.
The servants and pages noticed him first. But Alexander sensed the qualitative change in their silence, their jittery tension eased by a glimmer of relief, and he turned, following their gazes. Everyone stayed frozen, still as statues, as the shards at Hephaestion's feet subsided from clattering to clinking, and then to silence.
Alexander's eyes were so clear, so different from the dazed, feverish glitter of these torturous days past, that Hephaestion's heart leaped in unbidden joy.
Unconsciously he clenched his hands. Logic dictated that it was much too early to hope. The real test, as Philip said, was to keep food down, and after that Alexander still had a long way to go.
But it felt as if Alexander was himself again.
Hephaestion offered a small, tentative smile, trying not to hope that Alexander would return it - and failing spectacularly. "I thought the . . . pottery we destroyed the other day was rather useless, anyhow," he ventured, "but I suppose vases serve quite well as hand-held missiles."
Suddenly, brilliantly, Alexander grinned. And with that, hope brought logic crashing down.
"You didn't even duck!" he croaked merrily, and with a mighty effort right after that, he finally managed to clear his throat.
"Didn't need to, did I?" Hephaestion answered, striding toward Alexander's bedside with a wide grin of his own. Utterly oblivious to everyone else's incredulous stares, they continued enthusiastically,
"If you had to throw something, I would've preferred this vase, actually."
"Toss them all, for all I care! Why are you carrying a month's worth of papers?"
"It's a terrible thing, Alexander. We are going to suffer a parchment embargo."
"Fine, don't tell me; I'll just have to read those myself. "
"Enough of work; I'm starving! Have you eaten?"
"No; give me those parchments first."
"I'm setting them on your desk, next to the ten other stacks I'm sure you want to read all at once this minute. But look, you have entire trays of food to choose from, and you're letting it all go to waste!"
"From what I managed to pry out of these people," Alexander grumbled, sweeping his arm around the room, "whatever I eat, my stomach rejects, and then I get very ill."
"Here, have a drink, at least." Hephaestion started pouring, honey-sweetened water splashed with wine, kept hot enough to scald. "You are ill; otherwise your stomach wouldn't reject food because the medicine wouldn't have anything more to purge. Speaking of which, Philip should have given you a dose within the last hour . . ."
"He did. --You needn't look to the servants for confirmation, Hephaestion!"
"What? I just chanced to glance in their general direction. Besides, they nodded in agreement with what you said."
"I. Drank. The medicine."
"Yes, Alexander."
"So give me the reports."
"Where's Philip?"
"Philip! I've seen quite enough of him; I ordered him to get out, get some sleep. If anyone needs rest it's him, not me!" Alexander's voice was cracking again. "I swear he's intent on making me miserable."
"Making you better," Hephaestion mildly amended. He hardly had to wave the attendants out; they swept up the vase's remains and beat a hasty retreat, only too glad to comply, and quite thankful that Alexander hardly took note of their departure.
Alexander stirred restlessly. "Hephaestion, they told me it's been a fortnight since I . . . since the troops last saw me."
Hephaestion nodded. Drawing up a chair, he set the drink, now cooled somewhat, lightly into Alexander's hand.
"So." Alexander paid no attention to the drink. "Darius."
Hephaestion made a face. "No, Darius is not banging on the gates just yet. Perdiccas says the latest reports have him still along the Euphrates, not even at Sochi. Shortest route, he'd still have to cross a mountain range and a gulf before getting anywhere near us."
"Is Perdiccas sure?" asked Alexander, his voice rapidly deteriorating back into a croak.
"It's not like you, to give your men so little credit," Hephaestion remarked. "Come, have some supper."
Alexander shook his head, brows lowered. He was starting to brood.
Hephaestion sighed. "We're as prepared as can be, Alexander, and preparing more every day. You can have your pitched battle whenever you're ready."
He had not said, whenever you like, and that was deliberate. And apparently Alexander picked up on the distinction, for he started frowning in suspicion. But Hephaestion thought that getting Alexander to take in some nourishment was the more urgent matter, even if Alexander threw up afterward and obliterated hope's winning streak, so he added quickly, hoping to lift the mood, "As soon as Darius' lumbering slug of an army gets within range, that is."
Alexander scowled. The cup clanged, spilling a bit, as he set it on the nearby table. "I can't just wait for him to attack. Just like I can't wait for you to give me those reports, so -"
As he started to swing his legs over the bedside, a tremor wracked his whole frame. Instinctively he held up one hand, denying even now that he was in pain, anticipating and rejecting Hephaestion's move to help.
And just like that, Hephaestion's earlier temper returned, blacker than ever, and fierce; logic just did not favor him today. Alexander was sweaty and frighteningly pale, and he was hunching a little - not surprising in one who had not eaten a decent meal for two weeks - and yet, he still wanted a battle now. Well, now he was going to get one - a difficult one.
Hephaestion moved toward the desk as Alexander forced himself to uncurl and strove to clear his throat yet again. "You want to know what I think will happen?"
"Happen?" Alexander gasped, collapsing at last back into the pillows.
"On the day of the battle. Against Darius." Hephaestion returned with a bundle of papers and seated himself on the bed next to Alexander. Leafing through, he extracted a map and, with an innocuous smile, yielded the rest to Alexander's outstretched hand.
Alexander was still wheezing, but he started skimming the parchments immediately, glancing also at the map remaining in Hephaestion's hands. "You were saying?"
"So, we're at Tarsus, and Darius is somewhere here," said Hephaestion, pointing to the places on the map to illustrate. "You'll meet at some point around this gulf, presumably, and then we'll finally be facing Darius and his millions upon millions."
"Five or six hundred thousand," Alexander corrected dourly, brandishing a report with the latest estimates of enemy forces.
Hephaestion shrugged; both figures sounded equally preposterous. "You've already ordered all scouting parties to look for smaller potential battlefields."
Alexander scanned the pages intensely, cross-checking, reconfirming. "He has twice the cavalry I do."
"They're only estimates," Hephaestion said emphatically. "The numbers are likely inflated."
Alexander's frown deepened.
"Or," Hephaestion lightly added, "perhaps his cavalry actually triples yours."
Alexander glared at him, stubbornly refusing to crack a smile. Unperturbed, Hephaestion drew up his legs, clasped an arm loosely about his knees. "In any case you'll push him to a small field somehow, where only so many soldiers can square off at a time. On his side, he'll have his giant, overblown mass of an army. And on your side, you'll have - approximately, of course -"
"Twenty-two thousand infantry and six thousand cavalry," Alexander rattled off, "along with thirteen thousand Thracian light infantry."
Hephaestion raised a brow but did not comment. Instead he carefully kept his tone low, soothing, like a storyteller in contrast to Alexander's no-nonsense barrage of statistics. "So then, the stage is set: your infantry lined up in precise order, ranks upon ranks, and to the far right, the cavalry, under your direct command. Together the army ranges across the entire field - spears bristling, armor gleaming; helmets shining in the rising sun."
He glanced at Alexander. Alexander's eyes were still on the parchments, but his gaze had focused deeper, on an image visible to him alone. Despite himself, Hephaestion felt a twinge in his heart. Softly he asked, "You can almost see it now, can't you?"
"'Buckler to buckler, helm to helm, man to man massed tight,'" Alexander intoned quietly. "'Single-minded fighters facing straight ahead - Achaeans primed for combat.'"
"Macedonians, primed for combat," Hephaestion replied, smiling to hear the Iliad lines. Then he added, "Well, and Thracians too, and Paeonians . . . anyway, there's the general picture." Stopping just short of going on about all the numbers and details as he usually would, he firmly, wryly, reminded himself that he was telling a story.
"So they stand, or sit their horses, in perfect formation, waiting to see you, waiting for your word. At last, you gallop in front of the lines on Bucephalus. They know this image well - you in your armor astride your great black stallion - and they raise a mighty cry just to see you approach. The captains have a hard time ordering them to quiet down, but at a shout from you they do, straining their ears, for they know you are about to speak, to invoke the Gods' favor - and their valor. And then -"
Alexander was quite spellbound now. "Then . . .?" he murmured dreamily.
Hephaestion almost felt guilty for breaking the reverie. Almost.
"Then, your voice breaks," he continued matter-of-factly, remaining quite calm as Alexander violently started. "You fold up in a fit of painful coughing, and the next moment you're balled up on the ground in a cold sweat, clutching your stomach, gasping for air -"
Alexander stared at Hephaestion, horror-struck - and outraged. Hephaestion just carried on blithely, " - and the medics rush up and bear you to the healing tents while your soldiers stare on -"
"Hephaestion," Alexander ground out slowly, low and perilous.
"While your soldiers stare on," continued Hephaestion, "all forty-one thousand men."
Alexander clutched his head. "Stop, stop, that's absolutely horrid - !"
"They'd be terribly aggrieved, I'm sure, to see you fall before the first horn even sounded! And disheartened for good, at such a dreadful omen - right before battle, too!"
"That - that wouldn't be an omen!" Alexander sputtered furiously, throwing up his hands. "That would just be the Zeus-blasted illness recurring -!"
Propping his chin on one hand, Hephaestion allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. "Yes, it would be the illness recurring, wouldn't it?"
With a sharp, sudden hiss, Alexander fell silent.
Chest still heaving, he took hold of the parchments he had examined so painstakingly, as if to review them, but soon they crackled, crumpling up in his balled fists.
"Or -" Hephaestion began.
"Or what?" snapped Alexander.
"Or you can rest up according to Philip's guidance, two months at his current estimate -"
"Two MONTHS!"
"An estimate which can shorten, if you don't push yourself too hard before you're ready," Hephaestion declared, easily raising his voice louder than Alexander could in his current state. "Depends on you really, doesn't it?"
"As if I have a choice in the matter! Darius, and the whole world, will think I've lost my nerve -"
"You do have a choice. You can choose for this illness to be just a throwaway line in Callisthenes' recordings, no more than a footnote in the great histories of the campaigns of Alexander - if it's mentioned at all. And soon after, you would face Darius on the field." Hephaestion was not shouting anymore, since Alexander had stopped trying to, but his tone lost none of its intensity. "In all your strength. All your glory."
Silence notwithstanding, Alexander still looked ready to hurl every last pot and jar across the room. Taking a deep breath, Hephaestion slowly, cautiously reached over, pried Alexander's trembling fists open, and removed the crumpled parchments.
He turned away to put the papers back, then lingered at the desk, appearing to examine the trays of food. Alexander continued pinning his back with an indignant stare; he could feel it, its force so great that he nearly missed a certain goblet amid the dishes and amphorae. Still, its contents caught his eye: tonic of germander, one of Philip's supplementary treatments.
So, Alexander had taken the medicine - but not all the medicine he should have.
Hephaestion muttered a few words under his breath - prayer or oath, they could be either - and poured himself a drink.
"The campaign. Will. Continue," Alexander growled at last.
Hephaestion nodded, coming back toward the bed, keeping his own drink and setting the tonic casually aside. "I'm sure Philip has no problem with your officers going out on missions."
Alexander glowered. "There will be many. You all had better be ready."
Hephaestion placidly raised his cup, as if in a toast. "At your service."
Alexander heaved a sigh, finally showing anxiety as well as anger. "It isn't impossible for Darius to be very close, you know," he muttered. "Man to man, he has more quartermasters, and the wealth of the entire Persian empire at his command, and if he just divvied up his soldiers into more manageable units, he could -"
"But Alexander," Hephaestion cut in quietly, "he can't. He isn't you."
Alexander looked up, surprised. Hephaestion's smile was small, and earnest, and full of care as he murmured, almsot to himself, "There can only be one Alexander, in all the world."
Alexander's expression shifted, transforming into a strange mix of curious probing and earnest, knowing contemplation.
Strange, and definitely Alexander.
Hephaestion suddenly found it his turn to clear his throat. "Besides . . ." he muttered, mustering a fond if tired smile to take any potential sting out of the words. "I don't think the world could handle two of you at once."
Alexander's gaze remained somber, searching. Then it softened, as if he had come to an understanding.
"Let's eat," he said quietly.
Hephaestion blinked. After a few moments, with an unexpected rush of satisfaction, he turned to the selection of food and started ladling two steaming bowls of broth.
Alexander watched him with a small smile. "No gruel?"
Hephaestion wrinkled his nose. "That would make me sick."
Chuckling, Alexander cleared a space on his bedside table for the tray Hephaestion was preparing. "I still want to see the rest of the reports."
Hephaestion unhurriedly finished slicing a loaf of barley bread. "There, feel like having any of that?" he asked, light tone belying how deliberately he set down the tray before retrieving another stack of papers.
Alexander rolled his eyes, but after beginning first with the reports, he took up a chunk of bread as well.
Hephaestion turned to get his own food, but he did not pay much attention to the process, taking a steadying breath instead. After all, if the pattern of these last weeks was anything to judge by, he should be holding Alexander over a basin in a few minutes.
Reaching for the next sheet, Alexander grimaced and rubbed absently at his stomach. But as soon as he settled back, he put the paper down, perplexed. "Hephaestion? You - you didn't read the letter."
Having just seated himself, Hephaestion glanced at the parchment so suddenly laid aside on Alexander's lap. "Letter? Who sent it?"
"I mean Parmenion's letter," Alexander clarified. "About Philip."
Used to Alexander's mental leaps, Hephaestion was nevertheless surprised. For a patient who had spent the last two weeks either unconscious or delirious, Alexander had an excellent memory. He sank back in his chair, tapping skeptically at his own barley loaf, which seemed rather tough, its consistency more like rock than bread. "No," he replied with a small sigh, "I didn't."
"You could have, you know," Alexander murmured. "I didn't want anyone to see it, because it would've complicated things -"
Hephaestion scowled.
"All right, all right, things got complicated anyway," Alexander conceded - yet not admitting, even now, that he had been a major cause of the complication. "Still, everything turned out fine. Anyway, I didn't want anyone to see it. But I wouldn't have minded if you had."
Hephaestion started sawing vehemently at the recalcitrant bread. "Firstly, it hasn't 'turned out' in any way. You're still not cured. And if you ever allow yourself to recover, Philip is due for - well, I don't know, what is the going rate for suffering the shock of one's life, being called a traitor, and then working on under constant threat of a beating from Alexander's entire army?"
"I've been thinking about that too, and don't try to change the subject, which - I'm sure you haven't forgotten - is Parmenion's letter."
Hephaestion hesitated. "I knew you wouldn't mind. And I won't deny I thought of it, more than once."
"So why didn't you?"
Hephaestion furrowed his brow, thinking back. "Critodemus told me you just . . . turned over, went back to sleep. If you were well enough to read, and what you read required any action on your part, you'd never let the matter go unresolved. And . . ." He sighed, trying to crystallize instinct into words. "They're your letters, Alexander. If, Gods forbid, there is anything I would be better off not knowing - I think correspondence between you and your mother, all respect to her august personage, is an excellent case - well, I trust you to judge that." Hephaestion looked up then, determined. "As I wish you to trust me to take care of myself, when we're on the battlefield, or when you send me away on missions."
Alexander guessed Hephaestion's thoughts immediately; it was an old argument, just in a new context. "They said this region is chock-full of plague, and I was sending you into the most densely populated areas. You have to be careful about these things."
"'You have to be careful?'" Hephaestion repeated indignantly. "That's my line! At least I don't set myself up to be injured or ill!" He dealt the bread a final vigorous saw and raised an eyebrow as the knife cut through; the heart of it was surprisingly soft. "I even find myself thinking you shouldn't lead from the front. That you don't need to take such risks. Which, just so we're clear, you don't, not every single charge. But the fact is . . ." His voice softened. "In a way, you do need it. You thrive on it."
"You seem adjusted well enough . . ." Alexander griped. "It's not fair. It's your responsibility, in a way, to see to my safety because I'm King. And because I'm King, I can't do the same for you."
"Yes, well," Hephaestion grinned, "for that I'm thankful, I really am. I get enough ribbing about my standing in the army as it is. And - don't get angry, I'm only fulfilling a responsibility after all -" Hephaestion reached toward the cup he had placed earlier on the table. "Here's a tonic of germander just for you."
Alexander scowled. "Didn't Philip say the germander stores were low?"
"Huh," mused Hephaestion. "Good thing Critodemus ordered extra a few weeks ago."
"If I need to sweat out bad humors," Alexander declared, "I could just go for a run -"
Hephaestion set the cup into Alexander's hands with cheerful, adamant finality. "No."
Alexander wrinkled his nose. "It would be easier just to -" But then he broke off suddenly, eyes widening.
"To stop arguing and just drink it?" Hephaestion suggested. "Yes, it would."
It was proof of his weariness - or just relief - that Hephaestion did not pick up the warning signs until then, but he recognized the look with some alarm. Alexander was staring at him as if spying an innocent quarry on the hunting field. Before Hephaestion could even ask himself what loose ends he could possibly have forgotten about, Alexander swooped for the win with a rush of delight.
"I know how you deal with it, now. And here I am driving myself mad, trying to hold myself back from holding you back all the time! You - you're the reason I have the best-supplied medical crew all the world over!"
For several long seconds, Hephaestion managed to keep his expression neutral. At last, austerely, he replied, "The entire army benefits." But there was a small, roguish smile on his lips.
Alexander beamed, triumphant - even after he drank down the tonic.
Talk of the medical staff, though, reminded Hephaestion of a less pleasant matter. "Your well-supplied medical crew needs to be replaced. Most of them, anyway."
Curiously, Alexander raised his eyebrows. Then he smiled. "Have some pity on those poor wretches -"
"Pity?" Hephaestion echoed. "Fine. They'll all be dismissed immediately and dispatched to border settlements. The hottest, driest, rockiest, most windy, most scorpion-infested -"
Alexander laughed. "No, no. Let them be. Blanket pardon."
"Pardon? After what they did - or rather, didn't do?"
"Who's going to find me all those first-class, top-notch replacements - enough to treat an army of soldiers? You? Come, Hephaestion, you're supposed to be the practical one."
"If only I could," Hephaestion muttered resentfully, "I'd replace each and every one of those dithering quacks."
Alexander looked amused. "Aren't you the one always arguing their side?"
"When they're doing their jobs, yes, but they weren't! Besides, no matter how bullheaded their patients are," Hephaestion persisted with a significant glance at Alexander, "they should stand forward, carry on. It's their duty."
Alexander let the jibe go with a grin. "But Hephaestion," he said, as quiet as Hephaestion had been earlier. "They are not you."
Hephaestion blinked. Alexander's grin widened, expansive, understanding; bright with undiluted joy. "You say there can ony be one Alexander, in all the world. Well, to that I say: for Alexander, in all the world, there can only be one Hephaestion."
Hephaestion's breath caught. That, too, was a look that told him Alexander was himself again, no matter what logic decreed.
Thank the Gods, you're back; you're with me still, he wanted to say, but his voice quite treacherously broke on him as he realized that he was not holding Alexander over a basin, that Alexander had dined, if lightly, and remained just fine. He swallowed against the knot in his throat - strange; was this relief or was he getting ill himself? But if it were the latter, Philip could treat it; he had treated Alexander, and Alexander was really, truly getting better. Seizing Alexander in a fierce embrace, he breathed, "Only the best for you, Alexander" - a prayer winging past his beloved's ear.
He heard Alexander gasp a little, but his arms refused to ease up right away, to let go that which, for a while, he had seemed perilously close to losing - and which would never, could never, be bound.
But then Alexander was holding him just as tightly, just as protectively. "Of course, only the best for me," he whispered - fierce, assured, Alexander.
Hephaestion started laughing, after that - muffled at first against Alexander's neck, but soon ringing clear, and joyous. "Confident as always, aren't you? The troops should see you; they need it, in fact. They don't even know what to do with themselves these days."
"I can see them first thing tomorrow. And then -"
Hephaestion grinned wryly. "And then, as soon as you're ready," he emphasized, "we can set off."
"When I'm ready," Alexander promised, and smiled.
* * * * *
last tweaked 14 June 2008
(Sorry - no matter how many times I revise, after posting I always find little things I have to tweak. The changes aren't really significant; it's more for my own peace of mind than anything else.)
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 5: The army waits while Alexander lingers in sickness. Some scores are due to be settled...
© Copyright Joyeee 2007
A/N: Army estimates are from Wikipedia. Also, as used here "lover" and "beloved" are equal, without implications of roles, dominance, etc.
I did plan five chapters total, but Alexander and Hephaestion demanded more 'screentime,' and (even though I don't like the fact that I can never deal quite rationally with their scenes) who am I to deny them! Do tell me if I fumbled, though - I can take it! Ensemble cast will be back for the next (final) chapter.
* * * * *
Chapter 5: Ready
A day passed. Then, another.
So time crawled by, uncertainty compounding with heavy heat to smother Alexander's army in gloom. Advance contingents returned successfully, only to find the base camp lying low, too anxious to take action on their intelligence updates or to celebrate their small victories and new alliances. The Cydnus kept splashing on its merry way, while the days melded into a week, and then another, and still Alexander lingered in sickness.
Philip was not faring much better than his patient. He managed tolerably while preparing medicine and tending to Alexander, but the army made it bluntly clear that he was not welcome being anywhere else, doing anything else. The shields of his guards were useless against the many gazes that tracked him like prey, like an agent of the enemy.
Usually, Critodemus made it a point not to stick his scalpel where it was not needed. Yet, even he found himself feeling he should do something. Unused to such sentiments, he nevertheless recognized this as a form of solidarity - soldiers were not the only ones drawn together under hostile conditions, after all.
Beyond any stirrings of sympathy, however, he harbored more practical objections. He could easily have snagged a position with the Persians and their bottomless coffers, as so many Hellenes had done. Instead, he had joined Alexander's medical crew, because he expected a marching army to be where his skills would be needed most - and yes, rewarded best, with respect as well as material compensation. Naturally Alexander's fellow Macedonians enjoyed a certain favor, especially in the top commands, but Alexander was said to value skill above all. In his army good men were properly appreciated, especially in the support staff. Yet, although Philip possessed both skill and royal esteem, neither was proving sufficient to safeguard his honor - nor even his life.
Critodemus went about his daily business as conscientiously as ever, patching up routine injuries, the odd fall from a horse, the occasional sparring accident. But he also watched and waited, and thought about packing his bags.
* * * * *
During those first weeks, Alexander woke, and was lucid, only twice. Both times, no one else noticed.
The first time, he awoke to silence. But before he even roused fully, he was aware of a familiar presence by his side. He did not need to see, to know who it was; nor did he need to hear, to sense the steady heartbeat, the slow, even breathing.
So Hephaestion was still asleep. Alexander took a deep, contented breath. Then he stretched - and was disgruntled to find his limbs weak and shaky, even after a very heavy slumber.
But then he admitted wryly to himself that Hephaestion had probably been right; Hypnos had come to claim his dues. Nonetheless, with the King of Kings to defeat, standing still meant falling behind - and of course lying still was even worse - so he was going to get out of bed and do something.
However, as soon as he tried to sit up, a dull, hollow ache lanced through his stomach. He stifled a groan - he was awake, but that did not mean Hephaestion had to be - but the bed ruined his efforts by creaking loudly, and Alexander froze, his gaze flying to Hephaestion -
- who merely slept on.
Alexander stared, suddenly wondering how much Hephaestion owed to Hypnos.
A second stomach pang served only as a distant reminder to uncoil from his awkward position. He eased back down, but not because of the pain; he was thinking of other things.
It seemed a long time, too long, since he had woken like this.
Ever since they began that race of a march toward Tarsus, actually. A march which the army had accomplished with speed exceeding even Alexander's expectations, if not his stated goals.
The work could wait, he supposed. He shifted just enough to get more comfortable, stretching cautiously this time. Finding a fresh, cool spot on the pillows, he turned his head so he could tell immediately if Hephaestion began to wake.
Hephaestion dozed on, untroubled as Alexander settled in.
Alexander dreamed often, and vividly. Hephaestion said he did not, not often - but Alexander always thought he looked as if he did. Anyhow his rest seemed pleasant enough, his features relaxed in a serenity that Alexander found at once familiar - so many times had he gazed on it over the years - and fascinating, so alien it was to his own nature. But it was not the grave perfection of statues and tragic heroes; not usually, at least, for Hephaestion's lips curved upward naturally, ever so slightly. Even when he slept (as now) like a log - Alexander could always find, there in the corners of Hephaestion's mouth, the beginnings of a smile.
So easily he did not realize it, Alexander's breathing evened and slowed, and he did not resist his body's demand for Hypnos' return.
The second time, Hephaestion was not there. But Philip was, and Critodemus too. Alexander stayed still, concentrating to discern their quiet conversation.
"I'm not claiming they were there to cause trouble," Philip was saying blandly. But his tone held resignation rather than indifference.
"It was a horde of cranky soldiers well into their cups, just outside your quarters," Critodemus retorted. "Your guards should've arrested them on the spot."
"And provoked a brawl? No, Heracleides knew better, especially when the guards were so clearly outnumbered. And when the entire army seems to feel the same about . . . my services."
"Bah, what do they know? These are the same knuckleheads who claim we're useless one day and come howling to us the next because they've tripped over their own swords!"
"Or drunk swamp water," Philip added dryly. "Here, haven't you spent enough time trying to fix those instruments?"
Critodemus suddenly sounded glum, even mournful. "It's an old kit, and not the best craftsmanship, but it feels right to my hands." Then he was all indignation again. "Felt right. Now it's all scratched up. A few of those aforementioned knuckleheads flung it into rock piles, because one of their friends got a wee gash on his head, which - as head wounds will - bled quite a lot before I got there and stitched it up. Then they claimed it was an accident," he huffed. "And they're doing worse to you. It isn't fair, for you to be driven out of your own rooms; can't you report it to anyone?"
"Who?" Philip sighed, sympathetic but bleak. "Who could change the entire army's opinion at once? I only know of one man capable of that. And he happens to be my patient."
Critodemus snorted, but his tone grew a bit less gruff. "It's not much, but if you need to . . . move about for a while, you can always take a cot in the surgical rooms. Better than bunking in the sickrooms anyhow; you can't catch a broken bone."
"My thanks." Philip sighed. "I'll probably have to take you up on that offer quite soon."
Slowly Alexander pieced their words together with his own recollections. Considering Philip's shock when he first saw Parmenion's letter, he sounded quite calm now. Still, his situation could obviously use some improvement - but Alexander would not punish his men for a little rowdiness; they had only demonstrated their loyalty after all. However, he must reward Philip well. Something exceptional, to match exceptional service.
Critodemus had served admirably also, and there was the matter of the surgical kit to rectify. As for the rest of the physicians . . .
Blanket pardon, he decided, grinning as he thought of Hephaestion - who (quite infuriatingly) always joined the healers' schemes and argued their side whenever Alexander fell to their tender mercies. Satisfied, Alexander yawned and went back to sleep.
* * * * *
However, as far as those who tended to him knew, Alexander woke on his own only to throw up whatever sustenance they had managed to get into him, or to ramble feverishly about troop movements. His mere lack of activity was demoralizing the men, so of course, details were kept private. Not even all the high command knew.
When confronted by the commanders who did know - commanders with doubts and demands and the power to annihilate entire cities, never mind individuals - Philip maintained his stance with the dogged certainty of a man who had nothing to lose. The medicine was drawing the energy of the body inward to purge the illness, and whatever else happened to get in the way. Alexander's chills, his unconsciousness, his inability to keep anything down, were all to be expected.
For Philip, updating Hephaestion was surprisingly unstressful, in great part because Hephaestion never demanded repeated explanations of side effects or specific timetables for Alexander's recovery. He was no more forgiving than any other commander, listening to Philip in a grim silence that would have been chilling, if Philip had not noticed the faraway worry in his eyes. But he did listen, and that was enough to feel like a reprieve.
Still, even that was not to last. After all, this was an army, and Alexander its leader in every way; military matters came first.
The sun had not yet risen. Shadowed as ever by his guards, Philip shivered as he trudged along the torchlit, sand-dusted path with the latest batch of medicine. Considering the incredible heat of the day, Tarsus could get surprisingly chilly during the dark hours.
Because of another horde of cranky soldiers, Philip had actually slept right in his workroom despite its herbal fumes and unyielding benches. He felt so drained that he did not even muster a greeting when he met Critodemus going the same way, just gave the surgeon a questioning look.
Critodemus shrugged. "I was asked to drop by early today. No idea why."
Stifling a yawn, Philip suggested, "They want a second opinion. Got tired of me always giving them the same tired answers."
"Aren't 'they' always asking the same tired questions?" Critodemus replied, arching one eyebrow. "Anyway, I've got no answers. My part in Alexander's treatment is long over -"
Something in the way he said it, a sort of restless determination, made Philip pause. But then they arrived at Alexander's antechambers, and Philip's attention was captured instead by the small group inside - mostly lieutenants, captains, and sergeants. Hephaestion was leafing rapidly through a stack of papers while a messenger spoke, his voice barely audible beyond the tight little circle.
At least they kept near the entrance, where they would not disturb Alexander - for, from the looks on their faces, the news was definitely disturbing. As Critodemus stepped unobtrusively to one side to wait and Philip went to administer the medicine, Hephaestion gave them only the briefest of glances; his attention remained on the papers and the messenger.
Philip made short work of things and returned, only to find that he was now the object of attention. Everyone looked toward him, as if they had been waiting for him. "Not much change -" he began, but Hephaestion cut him off there.
"How long, at best, until Alexander can march again?"
Taken aback, Philip frowned as he repeated for what seemed the hundredth time, "As I've said, when he keeps some food down with the medicine, we'll know he's recovering. He'll regain strength gradually after that, but he can't push himself. Not unless he wants the infection flaring up constantly, and getting worse each time."
Hephaestion persisted. "Give me a timeframe."
Philip stared, too tired to mask his surprise - and disapproval. He had come to expect at least some sort of understanding from Hephaestion; but no, he should have known better than to allow himself to grow accustomed to such a luxury. Struggling to curb his irritation and disappointment, he gave a bluntly honest answer. "At least a couple of months without tearing off on another march."
To his astonishment, that was the end of it. Hephaestion merely glanced at Heracleides, who nodded in answer to some unspoken question. Irritation faded; Philip got the distinct impression that they had just spoken, in more detail, for all Hephaestion said to Heracleides was, "Double the guard. You choose the men," before hastening out the door. The officers and messengers followed with alacrity, almost as if in formation, then dispersed in several directions once they got outside.
However, one of the pages did not leave immediately with the rest. "Sir," he said, approaching Critodemus, "you met with Diades the engineer recently."
Critodemus looked uncharacteristically caught off guard. "Yes . . . yes, I did. And you're the one who brought me to his workroom - Tirius, if I remember correctly?"
The boy nodded and deposited a sheaf of parchments into the surgeon's hands; Philip caught sight of neat, close-written designs. Critodemus' eyes widened. "The surgical wagons? By Apollo, I'd forgotten! Seems like another lifetime we designed these . . ."
"Diades is away, some land survey or other," Tirius explained, "but he left those with Hephaestion, who has notified the carpenters of your involvement. You'll have several of Diades' aides to help. Construction can begin at your discretion."
"Well." Critodemus looked up, blinking. "Uh . . . excellent!"
Tirius nodded respectfully. "By your leave, Sir -"
"Right, of course." Still a bit dazed, Critodemus waved a hand and the youth departed, turning the corner neatly on his heel.
"Huh. That's one thing . . . less . . . to worry about," Critodemus muttered incredulously. "When Alexander wakes, we can set off before he get even gets his feet on the floor."
Philip was finally exasperated beyond weariness. "That's exactly the problem! How hard can it be just to rest -!"
The surgeon's expression twisted wryly. "You're a brave man, to ask anyone to make Alexander stay abed for two months if he's regaining a little strength every day."
Philip groaned, dropping his head in his hands. "I wasn't asking. I know it's impossible."
Feeling a heavy hand fall on his shoulder, he looked up in alarm, only to see that Heracleides' expression - usually inscrutable to the point of intimidation - looked almost sympathetic.
* * * * *
Hephaestion returned to Alexander's chambers late that night, footsore and hungry - which was common enough - and in a very black mood, which happened rarely indeed.
Craterus and the others had restricted communications, but rumor of Alexander's illness was bound to spread, and encourage trouble, if countering news of his recovery did not follow soon. However, Hephaestion's current concern was neither the Persian enemy nor the city-states and tribes back home. Vultures might be circling much closer.
Most forward contingents were returning as expected, but a few had sent only vague missives, claiming they needed more time to quell local resistance. Curiously, these were all high-caliber troops under influential commanders. Here, the main body of the army was staying relatively quiet, but that was curious too. Alexander's soldiers were accustomed to having their king in their midst, and should have been clamoring to see him with their own eyes by now.
And there was Parmenion's letter. Hephaestion respected Parmenion, as much for his willingness to disagree with Alexander as for his unmatched military experience. And after all, he had helped Alexander secure the crown - a favor which Alexander had rewarded richly, in power as well as wealth. Considering everything that Parmenion and his sons now possessed, Hephaestion could not imagine why the cautious, wily old general would undermine Alexander's rule - not like this, with chaos so sure to follow.
However, an offhand remark from Craterus (of all people) had set Hephaestion thinking. The officer responsible for capturing Philip's accuser was regarded as an idler, unlikely to ferret out spies. And, as Craterus - quite openly disgusted with the whole thing - had mentioned , this slacker just happened to owe most of his promotions to Philotas.
Ever since Alexander had so firmly established himself as King in the turmoil following his father's death, Hephaestion had put worries about a repeat of Macedon's bloody dynastic struggles behind. A dangerously foolish mistake, as evidence now suggested.
But it was all so circumstantial.
Hephaestion did not like hunches; he liked acting upon solid facts - how many days' worth of grain they had; who exactly commanded enemy troops; whether a foreign dignitary knew Greek or really did need an interpreter. So today he had initiated an investigation of sorts. Yet, because he took pains to veil it all as routine inquiry, now he was confronting an even more tangled, chaotic, unpredictable mess.
Halfheartedly, he thought of Alexander. Alexander was comfortable with the chaotic, good beyond belief with the unpredictable. And as for tangles . . . he had cut right through the Gordion knot.
But Alexander was in no state to act. Even if he were, Hephaestion would not have said anything, not yet. Not until he had solid facts - or at least a more solid hunch. He was tired enough to realize that he might be seeing shadows where there were none, and he refused to upset Alexander over it, especially while Alexander was ill.
Besides, Alexander was no fool. Hephaestion knew, far better than anyone else, that though Alexander certainly took great pride in winning the hearts of his men, he also never forgot that their love alone was nothing to count on. And the more powerful and influential they were, the more they needed tangible motivations to stay loyal.
Hephaestion glanced at the papers in his arms. The heat alone was enough to make one's head spin, never mind reports. With an unwonted surge of anger, he quickened his pace.
This tangle of shadows, which he was not even sure existed, would go away, would fade like smoke once Alexander got back on his feet. Because once Alexander got back on his feet, they were taking on Darius and his hundreds of thousands and whatever else the Persian empire could throw at them; and with Alexander leading them and a little favor from the Gods, they might just do what everyone thought impossible, defeat the King of Kings, and no one who claimed to be Alexander's ally - his friend - could have any motive whatsoever for anything less than complete loyalty -
A sudden noise halted him in his tracks.
Alexander was shouting. Hephaestion drew in a small, sudden breath.
Weariness dropped away like a cumbersome cloak as he hastened toward Alexander's chambers. From what he could hear, at this moment Alexander was quite coherent . . . if rather explosively cross. Still, he was far from well; his voice broke just then into a hoarse rasp, which kept worsening by the second because he kept trying to shout through it -
Just as Hephaestion crossed the threshold, a vase smashed against the wall, mere inches from his head.
The servants and pages noticed him first. But Alexander sensed the qualitative change in their silence, their jittery tension eased by a glimmer of relief, and he turned, following their gazes. Everyone stayed frozen, still as statues, as the shards at Hephaestion's feet subsided from clattering to clinking, and then to silence.
Alexander's eyes were so clear, so different from the dazed, feverish glitter of these torturous days past, that Hephaestion's heart leaped in unbidden joy.
Unconsciously he clenched his hands. Logic dictated that it was much too early to hope. The real test, as Philip said, was to keep food down, and after that Alexander still had a long way to go.
But it felt as if Alexander was himself again.
Hephaestion offered a small, tentative smile, trying not to hope that Alexander would return it - and failing spectacularly. "I thought the . . . pottery we destroyed the other day was rather useless, anyhow," he ventured, "but I suppose vases serve quite well as hand-held missiles."
Suddenly, brilliantly, Alexander grinned. And with that, hope brought logic crashing down.
"You didn't even duck!" he croaked merrily, and with a mighty effort right after that, he finally managed to clear his throat.
"Didn't need to, did I?" Hephaestion answered, striding toward Alexander's bedside with a wide grin of his own. Utterly oblivious to everyone else's incredulous stares, they continued enthusiastically,
"If you had to throw something, I would've preferred this vase, actually."
"Toss them all, for all I care! Why are you carrying a month's worth of papers?"
"It's a terrible thing, Alexander. We are going to suffer a parchment embargo."
"Fine, don't tell me; I'll just have to read those myself. "
"Enough of work; I'm starving! Have you eaten?"
"No; give me those parchments first."
"I'm setting them on your desk, next to the ten other stacks I'm sure you want to read all at once this minute. But look, you have entire trays of food to choose from, and you're letting it all go to waste!"
"From what I managed to pry out of these people," Alexander grumbled, sweeping his arm around the room, "whatever I eat, my stomach rejects, and then I get very ill."
"Here, have a drink, at least." Hephaestion started pouring, honey-sweetened water splashed with wine, kept hot enough to scald. "You are ill; otherwise your stomach wouldn't reject food because the medicine wouldn't have anything more to purge. Speaking of which, Philip should have given you a dose within the last hour . . ."
"He did. --You needn't look to the servants for confirmation, Hephaestion!"
"What? I just chanced to glance in their general direction. Besides, they nodded in agreement with what you said."
"I. Drank. The medicine."
"Yes, Alexander."
"So give me the reports."
"Where's Philip?"
"Philip! I've seen quite enough of him; I ordered him to get out, get some sleep. If anyone needs rest it's him, not me!" Alexander's voice was cracking again. "I swear he's intent on making me miserable."
"Making you better," Hephaestion mildly amended. He hardly had to wave the attendants out; they swept up the vase's remains and beat a hasty retreat, only too glad to comply, and quite thankful that Alexander hardly took note of their departure.
Alexander stirred restlessly. "Hephaestion, they told me it's been a fortnight since I . . . since the troops last saw me."
Hephaestion nodded. Drawing up a chair, he set the drink, now cooled somewhat, lightly into Alexander's hand.
"So." Alexander paid no attention to the drink. "Darius."
Hephaestion made a face. "No, Darius is not banging on the gates just yet. Perdiccas says the latest reports have him still along the Euphrates, not even at Sochi. Shortest route, he'd still have to cross a mountain range and a gulf before getting anywhere near us."
"Is Perdiccas sure?" asked Alexander, his voice rapidly deteriorating back into a croak.
"It's not like you, to give your men so little credit," Hephaestion remarked. "Come, have some supper."
Alexander shook his head, brows lowered. He was starting to brood.
Hephaestion sighed. "We're as prepared as can be, Alexander, and preparing more every day. You can have your pitched battle whenever you're ready."
He had not said, whenever you like, and that was deliberate. And apparently Alexander picked up on the distinction, for he started frowning in suspicion. But Hephaestion thought that getting Alexander to take in some nourishment was the more urgent matter, even if Alexander threw up afterward and obliterated hope's winning streak, so he added quickly, hoping to lift the mood, "As soon as Darius' lumbering slug of an army gets within range, that is."
Alexander scowled. The cup clanged, spilling a bit, as he set it on the nearby table. "I can't just wait for him to attack. Just like I can't wait for you to give me those reports, so -"
As he started to swing his legs over the bedside, a tremor wracked his whole frame. Instinctively he held up one hand, denying even now that he was in pain, anticipating and rejecting Hephaestion's move to help.
And just like that, Hephaestion's earlier temper returned, blacker than ever, and fierce; logic just did not favor him today. Alexander was sweaty and frighteningly pale, and he was hunching a little - not surprising in one who had not eaten a decent meal for two weeks - and yet, he still wanted a battle now. Well, now he was going to get one - a difficult one.
Hephaestion moved toward the desk as Alexander forced himself to uncurl and strove to clear his throat yet again. "You want to know what I think will happen?"
"Happen?" Alexander gasped, collapsing at last back into the pillows.
"On the day of the battle. Against Darius." Hephaestion returned with a bundle of papers and seated himself on the bed next to Alexander. Leafing through, he extracted a map and, with an innocuous smile, yielded the rest to Alexander's outstretched hand.
Alexander was still wheezing, but he started skimming the parchments immediately, glancing also at the map remaining in Hephaestion's hands. "You were saying?"
"So, we're at Tarsus, and Darius is somewhere here," said Hephaestion, pointing to the places on the map to illustrate. "You'll meet at some point around this gulf, presumably, and then we'll finally be facing Darius and his millions upon millions."
"Five or six hundred thousand," Alexander corrected dourly, brandishing a report with the latest estimates of enemy forces.
Hephaestion shrugged; both figures sounded equally preposterous. "You've already ordered all scouting parties to look for smaller potential battlefields."
Alexander scanned the pages intensely, cross-checking, reconfirming. "He has twice the cavalry I do."
"They're only estimates," Hephaestion said emphatically. "The numbers are likely inflated."
Alexander's frown deepened.
"Or," Hephaestion lightly added, "perhaps his cavalry actually triples yours."
Alexander glared at him, stubbornly refusing to crack a smile. Unperturbed, Hephaestion drew up his legs, clasped an arm loosely about his knees. "In any case you'll push him to a small field somehow, where only so many soldiers can square off at a time. On his side, he'll have his giant, overblown mass of an army. And on your side, you'll have - approximately, of course -"
"Twenty-two thousand infantry and six thousand cavalry," Alexander rattled off, "along with thirteen thousand Thracian light infantry."
Hephaestion raised a brow but did not comment. Instead he carefully kept his tone low, soothing, like a storyteller in contrast to Alexander's no-nonsense barrage of statistics. "So then, the stage is set: your infantry lined up in precise order, ranks upon ranks, and to the far right, the cavalry, under your direct command. Together the army ranges across the entire field - spears bristling, armor gleaming; helmets shining in the rising sun."
He glanced at Alexander. Alexander's eyes were still on the parchments, but his gaze had focused deeper, on an image visible to him alone. Despite himself, Hephaestion felt a twinge in his heart. Softly he asked, "You can almost see it now, can't you?"
"'Buckler to buckler, helm to helm, man to man massed tight,'" Alexander intoned quietly. "'Single-minded fighters facing straight ahead - Achaeans primed for combat.'"
"Macedonians, primed for combat," Hephaestion replied, smiling to hear the Iliad lines. Then he added, "Well, and Thracians too, and Paeonians . . . anyway, there's the general picture." Stopping just short of going on about all the numbers and details as he usually would, he firmly, wryly, reminded himself that he was telling a story.
"So they stand, or sit their horses, in perfect formation, waiting to see you, waiting for your word. At last, you gallop in front of the lines on Bucephalus. They know this image well - you in your armor astride your great black stallion - and they raise a mighty cry just to see you approach. The captains have a hard time ordering them to quiet down, but at a shout from you they do, straining their ears, for they know you are about to speak, to invoke the Gods' favor - and their valor. And then -"
Alexander was quite spellbound now. "Then . . .?" he murmured dreamily.
Hephaestion almost felt guilty for breaking the reverie. Almost.
"Then, your voice breaks," he continued matter-of-factly, remaining quite calm as Alexander violently started. "You fold up in a fit of painful coughing, and the next moment you're balled up on the ground in a cold sweat, clutching your stomach, gasping for air -"
Alexander stared at Hephaestion, horror-struck - and outraged. Hephaestion just carried on blithely, " - and the medics rush up and bear you to the healing tents while your soldiers stare on -"
"Hephaestion," Alexander ground out slowly, low and perilous.
"While your soldiers stare on," continued Hephaestion, "all forty-one thousand men."
Alexander clutched his head. "Stop, stop, that's absolutely horrid - !"
"They'd be terribly aggrieved, I'm sure, to see you fall before the first horn even sounded! And disheartened for good, at such a dreadful omen - right before battle, too!"
"That - that wouldn't be an omen!" Alexander sputtered furiously, throwing up his hands. "That would just be the Zeus-blasted illness recurring -!"
Propping his chin on one hand, Hephaestion allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. "Yes, it would be the illness recurring, wouldn't it?"
With a sharp, sudden hiss, Alexander fell silent.
Chest still heaving, he took hold of the parchments he had examined so painstakingly, as if to review them, but soon they crackled, crumpling up in his balled fists.
"Or -" Hephaestion began.
"Or what?" snapped Alexander.
"Or you can rest up according to Philip's guidance, two months at his current estimate -"
"Two MONTHS!"
"An estimate which can shorten, if you don't push yourself too hard before you're ready," Hephaestion declared, easily raising his voice louder than Alexander could in his current state. "Depends on you really, doesn't it?"
"As if I have a choice in the matter! Darius, and the whole world, will think I've lost my nerve -"
"You do have a choice. You can choose for this illness to be just a throwaway line in Callisthenes' recordings, no more than a footnote in the great histories of the campaigns of Alexander - if it's mentioned at all. And soon after, you would face Darius on the field." Hephaestion was not shouting anymore, since Alexander had stopped trying to, but his tone lost none of its intensity. "In all your strength. All your glory."
Silence notwithstanding, Alexander still looked ready to hurl every last pot and jar across the room. Taking a deep breath, Hephaestion slowly, cautiously reached over, pried Alexander's trembling fists open, and removed the crumpled parchments.
He turned away to put the papers back, then lingered at the desk, appearing to examine the trays of food. Alexander continued pinning his back with an indignant stare; he could feel it, its force so great that he nearly missed a certain goblet amid the dishes and amphorae. Still, its contents caught his eye: tonic of germander, one of Philip's supplementary treatments.
So, Alexander had taken the medicine - but not all the medicine he should have.
Hephaestion muttered a few words under his breath - prayer or oath, they could be either - and poured himself a drink.
"The campaign. Will. Continue," Alexander growled at last.
Hephaestion nodded, coming back toward the bed, keeping his own drink and setting the tonic casually aside. "I'm sure Philip has no problem with your officers going out on missions."
Alexander glowered. "There will be many. You all had better be ready."
Hephaestion placidly raised his cup, as if in a toast. "At your service."
Alexander heaved a sigh, finally showing anxiety as well as anger. "It isn't impossible for Darius to be very close, you know," he muttered. "Man to man, he has more quartermasters, and the wealth of the entire Persian empire at his command, and if he just divvied up his soldiers into more manageable units, he could -"
"But Alexander," Hephaestion cut in quietly, "he can't. He isn't you."
Alexander looked up, surprised. Hephaestion's smile was small, and earnest, and full of care as he murmured, almsot to himself, "There can only be one Alexander, in all the world."
Alexander's expression shifted, transforming into a strange mix of curious probing and earnest, knowing contemplation.
Strange, and definitely Alexander.
Hephaestion suddenly found it his turn to clear his throat. "Besides . . ." he muttered, mustering a fond if tired smile to take any potential sting out of the words. "I don't think the world could handle two of you at once."
Alexander's gaze remained somber, searching. Then it softened, as if he had come to an understanding.
"Let's eat," he said quietly.
Hephaestion blinked. After a few moments, with an unexpected rush of satisfaction, he turned to the selection of food and started ladling two steaming bowls of broth.
Alexander watched him with a small smile. "No gruel?"
Hephaestion wrinkled his nose. "That would make me sick."
Chuckling, Alexander cleared a space on his bedside table for the tray Hephaestion was preparing. "I still want to see the rest of the reports."
Hephaestion unhurriedly finished slicing a loaf of barley bread. "There, feel like having any of that?" he asked, light tone belying how deliberately he set down the tray before retrieving another stack of papers.
Alexander rolled his eyes, but after beginning first with the reports, he took up a chunk of bread as well.
Hephaestion turned to get his own food, but he did not pay much attention to the process, taking a steadying breath instead. After all, if the pattern of these last weeks was anything to judge by, he should be holding Alexander over a basin in a few minutes.
Reaching for the next sheet, Alexander grimaced and rubbed absently at his stomach. But as soon as he settled back, he put the paper down, perplexed. "Hephaestion? You - you didn't read the letter."
Having just seated himself, Hephaestion glanced at the parchment so suddenly laid aside on Alexander's lap. "Letter? Who sent it?"
"I mean Parmenion's letter," Alexander clarified. "About Philip."
Used to Alexander's mental leaps, Hephaestion was nevertheless surprised. For a patient who had spent the last two weeks either unconscious or delirious, Alexander had an excellent memory. He sank back in his chair, tapping skeptically at his own barley loaf, which seemed rather tough, its consistency more like rock than bread. "No," he replied with a small sigh, "I didn't."
"You could have, you know," Alexander murmured. "I didn't want anyone to see it, because it would've complicated things -"
Hephaestion scowled.
"All right, all right, things got complicated anyway," Alexander conceded - yet not admitting, even now, that he had been a major cause of the complication. "Still, everything turned out fine. Anyway, I didn't want anyone to see it. But I wouldn't have minded if you had."
Hephaestion started sawing vehemently at the recalcitrant bread. "Firstly, it hasn't 'turned out' in any way. You're still not cured. And if you ever allow yourself to recover, Philip is due for - well, I don't know, what is the going rate for suffering the shock of one's life, being called a traitor, and then working on under constant threat of a beating from Alexander's entire army?"
"I've been thinking about that too, and don't try to change the subject, which - I'm sure you haven't forgotten - is Parmenion's letter."
Hephaestion hesitated. "I knew you wouldn't mind. And I won't deny I thought of it, more than once."
"So why didn't you?"
Hephaestion furrowed his brow, thinking back. "Critodemus told me you just . . . turned over, went back to sleep. If you were well enough to read, and what you read required any action on your part, you'd never let the matter go unresolved. And . . ." He sighed, trying to crystallize instinct into words. "They're your letters, Alexander. If, Gods forbid, there is anything I would be better off not knowing - I think correspondence between you and your mother, all respect to her august personage, is an excellent case - well, I trust you to judge that." Hephaestion looked up then, determined. "As I wish you to trust me to take care of myself, when we're on the battlefield, or when you send me away on missions."
Alexander guessed Hephaestion's thoughts immediately; it was an old argument, just in a new context. "They said this region is chock-full of plague, and I was sending you into the most densely populated areas. You have to be careful about these things."
"'You have to be careful?'" Hephaestion repeated indignantly. "That's my line! At least I don't set myself up to be injured or ill!" He dealt the bread a final vigorous saw and raised an eyebrow as the knife cut through; the heart of it was surprisingly soft. "I even find myself thinking you shouldn't lead from the front. That you don't need to take such risks. Which, just so we're clear, you don't, not every single charge. But the fact is . . ." His voice softened. "In a way, you do need it. You thrive on it."
"You seem adjusted well enough . . ." Alexander griped. "It's not fair. It's your responsibility, in a way, to see to my safety because I'm King. And because I'm King, I can't do the same for you."
"Yes, well," Hephaestion grinned, "for that I'm thankful, I really am. I get enough ribbing about my standing in the army as it is. And - don't get angry, I'm only fulfilling a responsibility after all -" Hephaestion reached toward the cup he had placed earlier on the table. "Here's a tonic of germander just for you."
Alexander scowled. "Didn't Philip say the germander stores were low?"
"Huh," mused Hephaestion. "Good thing Critodemus ordered extra a few weeks ago."
"If I need to sweat out bad humors," Alexander declared, "I could just go for a run -"
Hephaestion set the cup into Alexander's hands with cheerful, adamant finality. "No."
Alexander wrinkled his nose. "It would be easier just to -" But then he broke off suddenly, eyes widening.
"To stop arguing and just drink it?" Hephaestion suggested. "Yes, it would."
It was proof of his weariness - or just relief - that Hephaestion did not pick up the warning signs until then, but he recognized the look with some alarm. Alexander was staring at him as if spying an innocent quarry on the hunting field. Before Hephaestion could even ask himself what loose ends he could possibly have forgotten about, Alexander swooped for the win with a rush of delight.
"I know how you deal with it, now. And here I am driving myself mad, trying to hold myself back from holding you back all the time! You - you're the reason I have the best-supplied medical crew all the world over!"
For several long seconds, Hephaestion managed to keep his expression neutral. At last, austerely, he replied, "The entire army benefits." But there was a small, roguish smile on his lips.
Alexander beamed, triumphant - even after he drank down the tonic.
Talk of the medical staff, though, reminded Hephaestion of a less pleasant matter. "Your well-supplied medical crew needs to be replaced. Most of them, anyway."
Curiously, Alexander raised his eyebrows. Then he smiled. "Have some pity on those poor wretches -"
"Pity?" Hephaestion echoed. "Fine. They'll all be dismissed immediately and dispatched to border settlements. The hottest, driest, rockiest, most windy, most scorpion-infested -"
Alexander laughed. "No, no. Let them be. Blanket pardon."
"Pardon? After what they did - or rather, didn't do?"
"Who's going to find me all those first-class, top-notch replacements - enough to treat an army of soldiers? You? Come, Hephaestion, you're supposed to be the practical one."
"If only I could," Hephaestion muttered resentfully, "I'd replace each and every one of those dithering quacks."
Alexander looked amused. "Aren't you the one always arguing their side?"
"When they're doing their jobs, yes, but they weren't! Besides, no matter how bullheaded their patients are," Hephaestion persisted with a significant glance at Alexander, "they should stand forward, carry on. It's their duty."
Alexander let the jibe go with a grin. "But Hephaestion," he said, as quiet as Hephaestion had been earlier. "They are not you."
Hephaestion blinked. Alexander's grin widened, expansive, understanding; bright with undiluted joy. "You say there can ony be one Alexander, in all the world. Well, to that I say: for Alexander, in all the world, there can only be one Hephaestion."
Hephaestion's breath caught. That, too, was a look that told him Alexander was himself again, no matter what logic decreed.
Thank the Gods, you're back; you're with me still, he wanted to say, but his voice quite treacherously broke on him as he realized that he was not holding Alexander over a basin, that Alexander had dined, if lightly, and remained just fine. He swallowed against the knot in his throat - strange; was this relief or was he getting ill himself? But if it were the latter, Philip could treat it; he had treated Alexander, and Alexander was really, truly getting better. Seizing Alexander in a fierce embrace, he breathed, "Only the best for you, Alexander" - a prayer winging past his beloved's ear.
He heard Alexander gasp a little, but his arms refused to ease up right away, to let go that which, for a while, he had seemed perilously close to losing - and which would never, could never, be bound.
But then Alexander was holding him just as tightly, just as protectively. "Of course, only the best for me," he whispered - fierce, assured, Alexander.
Hephaestion started laughing, after that - muffled at first against Alexander's neck, but soon ringing clear, and joyous. "Confident as always, aren't you? The troops should see you; they need it, in fact. They don't even know what to do with themselves these days."
"I can see them first thing tomorrow. And then -"
Hephaestion grinned wryly. "And then, as soon as you're ready," he emphasized, "we can set off."
"When I'm ready," Alexander promised, and smiled.
* * * * *
last tweaked 14 June 2008
(Sorry - no matter how many times I revise, after posting I always find little things I have to tweak. The changes aren't really significant; it's more for my own peace of mind than anything else.)