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argurotoxosThis is something I've been meaning to post for a while, but never got around to.
Mary Renault's been my favourite author ever since I read Fire From Heaven for a high school project about four years ago. While flipping through it again, paying special attention to the dog-eared pages, I came across a passage that struck me. It was significant the first time I read it, but even more so now; I could see hints of how I've chosen to interpret Gon and Killua in the text.
I don't really expect any comments on this, but I wanted to share.
"I know now who it will be. Father's had a letter, he sent for me this morning. I hope this man will be bearable. If not, we must make a plan."
"You can count on me," said Hephaistion, "even if you want to drown him. You've put up with more than enough. Is he a real philosopher?"
They were sitting in the trough between two of the Palace gables; a private spot, since only Alexander had climbed there till he showed Hephaistion the route.
"Oh, yes, from the Academy. He was taught by Plato. You'll come to the lessons? Father says you can."
"I'd only hold you back."
"Sophists teach by disputation, he wants my friends. We can think later who else to have. It won't just be logic-chopping, he'll have to teach things I can use, Father told him that. He wrote back that a man's education should be suited to his station and his duties. That doesn't tell us much."
"At least this one can't beat you. He's an Athenian?"
"No, a Stagirite. He's the son of Nikomachos, who was my grandfather Amyntas' doctor. My father's too I suppose, when he was a child. You know how Amyntas lived, like a wolf in hunting-country, trowing out his enemies or trying to get back himself. Nikomachos must have been loyal. I don't know how good a doctor he was. Amyntas died in bed; that's very rare in our family."
"So this son--what's he called--?"
"Aristotle."
"He knows the country, that's something. Is he very old?"
"About fourty. Not old for a philosopher. They live forever. Isokrates, who wants Father to lead the Greeks, is ninety-odd, and he applied for the job! Plato lived to over eighty. Father says Aristotle had hoped to be head of the School, but Plato had chosen a nephew of his. That's why Aristotle left Athens."
"So then he asked to come here?"
"No, he left when we were nine. I know the year, because of the Chalkidian war. And he couldn't go home to Stagira, Father had just burned it and enslaved the people. What is it pulling my hair?"
"It's a stick from the tree we came up." Hephaistion, who was not very neat-handed, unwound with anxious care the walnut twig from its shining tangle, which smelled of some expensive wash used on it by Olympias, and of summer grass. This done, he slid his arm down to Alexander's waist. He had done it the first time almost by accident; though not rebuffed, he had waited two days before daring to try again. Now he watched his chance whenever they were alone; it had become a thing he thought about. He could not tell what Alexander thought, if he thought at all. He accepted it contentedly, and talked, with ever more ease and freedome, about other things.
"The Stagirites," he said, "were confederates of Olynthos; he made examples of those who wouldn't treat with him. Did your father tell you about the war?"
"What? . . . Oh yes. Yes, he did."
"Listen, this is important. Aristotle went off to Assos, as Hermeias' guest-friend; they'd met at the Academy. He's tyrannos there. You know where Assos is; it's opposite Mytilene, it controls the straits. So, as soon as I thought, I saw why Father chose this man. This is only between us two."
He looked deeply into Hephaistion's eyes, as always before a confidence. As always, Hephaistion felt as if his midriff were melting. As always, it was some moments before he could follow what he was being told.
". . . who were in other cities and escaped the siege, have been begging Father to have Stagira restored and the citizens enfranchised. That's what this Aristotle wants. What Father wants, is an alliance with Hermeias. It's a piece of horse-trading. Leonidas came for politics, too. Old Phoinix is the only one who came for me."
Hephaistion tightened his arm. His feelings were confused; he wanted to grasp till Alexander's very bones were somehow engulfed within himself, but knew this to be wicked and mad; he would kill anyone who harmed a hair of his head.
"They don't know I've seen this. I just say Yes, Father. I've not even told my mother. I want to make my own mind up when I've seen the man, and do what I think good without anyone knowing why. This is only between us two. My mother is entirely against philosophy."
Hephaistion was thinking how fragile his rib cage seemed, how terrible were the warring desires to cherish and to crush it. He continued silent.
"She says it makes men reason away the gods. She ought to know I would never deny the gods, whatever anyone told me. I know the gods exist, as surely as I know that you do . . . I can't breathe."
Hephaistion, who could have said the same, let go quickly. Presently he managed to reply, "Perhaps the Queen will dismiss him."
"Oh, no, I don't want that. That would only make trouble. I've been thinking, too, he may be the kind of man who'll answer questions. Ever since I knew a philosopher was coming, I've been writing them down, things nobody here can tell me. Thirty-five already, I counted yesterday."
He had not withdrawn, but, backed to the sloping gable-roof, sat propped lightly against Hephaistion, trustful and warm. This, thought Hephaistion, was the true perfection of happiness; it ought to be; it must be. He said restlessly, "I should like to kill Leonidas, do you know that?"
"Oh, I thought that once. But now, I think he was sent by Herakles. A man doing one good against his will, that shows the hand of a god. He wanted to keep me down, but he taught me to put up with hardship. I never need a fur cloak, I never eat after I'm full, or lie in bed in the morning. It would have come harder, to start learning now, as I'd have had to do, without him. You can't ask your men to put up with things you can't bear yourself. And they'll all want to see if I'm softer than my father."
His ribs and their muscle layer had knit together; his left side felt like armor. "I wear better clothes, that's all. I like to do that."
"You'll never wear this chiton again, I'm telling you. Look what you did in the tree, I can get my whole hand inside it . . . Alexander. You won't ever go to war without me?"
Alexander sat up staring; Hephaistion was jolted into taking his hand away. "Without you? What do you mean, how could you even think of it? You're my dearest friend."
Hephaistion had known for many ages that if a god should offer him one gift in all his lifetime, he would choose this. Joy hit him like a lightning bolt. "Do you mean it?" he said. "Do you really mean it?"
"Mean it?" said Alexander, in a voice of astonished outrage. "Did you doubt I meant it? Do you think I tell everyone the things I've told to you? Mean it--what a thing to say!"
Only a month ago, Hephaistion thought, I should have been too scared to answer. "Don't fight me. One always doubts great good fortune."
Alexander's eyes relented. Raising his right hand, he said, "I swear by Herakles." He leaned and gave Hephaistion a practiced kiss; that of a child who is affectionate by nature, and fond of grown-up attention. Hephaistion had hardly time to feel the shock of delight before the light touch had gone. By the time he had nerved himself to return the kiss, Alexander's attention had been withdrawn. He seemed to be gazing at heaven.
"Look," he said pointing. "You see that Victory statue, on the top gable of all? I know how to get up there."
From the terrace, the Victory looked as small as a child's clay doll. When the dizzy climb had brought them to its base, it turned out to be five feet tall. Its hands held a gilded laurel wreath, extended over the void.
Hephaistion, who had questioned nothing all the way because he had not dared to think, clasped in his left arm, at Alexander's bidding, the bronze waist of the goddess. "Now hold my wrist," Alexander said.
Thus counterpoised, he leaned out, off balance, into empty space, and broke two leaves from the wreath. One came easily; the second he had to worry at. Hephaistion felt clammy sweat in his palms; the dread that it would make his grip slide off turned his belly to ice, and crept in his hair. Through this terror he was aware of the wrist he held. It had looked delicate, against his own big frame; it was hard, sinewy, the fist clenched on itself in a remote and solitary act of will. After a short eternity, Alexander was ready to be pulled back. He climbed down with the leaves in his teeth; when they were back on the roof, he gave one to Hephaistion, saying, "Now do you know we shall go to war together?"
The leaf sat in Hephaistion's hand, about the size of a real one. Like a real one it was trembling; quickly he shut his fingers on it. He felt now the full horror of the climb, the tiny mosaic of great flagstones far below, his loneliness at the climax. He had gone up in a fierce resolve to face, if it killed him, whatever ordeal Alexander should set to test him. Only now, with the gilt-bronze edges biting his palm, he saw that the test had not been for him. He was the witness. He had been taken up there to hold in his hand the life of Alexander, who had been asked if he meant what he had said. It was his pledge of friendship.
As they climbed down through the tall walnut tree, Hephaistion called to mind the tale of Semele, beloved of Zeus. He had come in a human shape, but that was not enough for her; she had demanded the embrace of his divine epiphany. It had been too much, she had burned to ashes. He would need to prepare himself for the touch of fire.
Mary Renault's been my favourite author ever since I read Fire From Heaven for a high school project about four years ago. While flipping through it again, paying special attention to the dog-eared pages, I came across a passage that struck me. It was significant the first time I read it, but even more so now; I could see hints of how I've chosen to interpret Gon and Killua in the text.
I don't really expect any comments on this, but I wanted to share.
"I know now who it will be. Father's had a letter, he sent for me this morning. I hope this man will be bearable. If not, we must make a plan."
"You can count on me," said Hephaistion, "even if you want to drown him. You've put up with more than enough. Is he a real philosopher?"
They were sitting in the trough between two of the Palace gables; a private spot, since only Alexander had climbed there till he showed Hephaistion the route.
"Oh, yes, from the Academy. He was taught by Plato. You'll come to the lessons? Father says you can."
"I'd only hold you back."
"Sophists teach by disputation, he wants my friends. We can think later who else to have. It won't just be logic-chopping, he'll have to teach things I can use, Father told him that. He wrote back that a man's education should be suited to his station and his duties. That doesn't tell us much."
"At least this one can't beat you. He's an Athenian?"
"No, a Stagirite. He's the son of Nikomachos, who was my grandfather Amyntas' doctor. My father's too I suppose, when he was a child. You know how Amyntas lived, like a wolf in hunting-country, trowing out his enemies or trying to get back himself. Nikomachos must have been loyal. I don't know how good a doctor he was. Amyntas died in bed; that's very rare in our family."
"So this son--what's he called--?"
"Aristotle."
"He knows the country, that's something. Is he very old?"
"About fourty. Not old for a philosopher. They live forever. Isokrates, who wants Father to lead the Greeks, is ninety-odd, and he applied for the job! Plato lived to over eighty. Father says Aristotle had hoped to be head of the School, but Plato had chosen a nephew of his. That's why Aristotle left Athens."
"So then he asked to come here?"
"No, he left when we were nine. I know the year, because of the Chalkidian war. And he couldn't go home to Stagira, Father had just burned it and enslaved the people. What is it pulling my hair?"
"It's a stick from the tree we came up." Hephaistion, who was not very neat-handed, unwound with anxious care the walnut twig from its shining tangle, which smelled of some expensive wash used on it by Olympias, and of summer grass. This done, he slid his arm down to Alexander's waist. He had done it the first time almost by accident; though not rebuffed, he had waited two days before daring to try again. Now he watched his chance whenever they were alone; it had become a thing he thought about. He could not tell what Alexander thought, if he thought at all. He accepted it contentedly, and talked, with ever more ease and freedome, about other things.
"The Stagirites," he said, "were confederates of Olynthos; he made examples of those who wouldn't treat with him. Did your father tell you about the war?"
"What? . . . Oh yes. Yes, he did."
"Listen, this is important. Aristotle went off to Assos, as Hermeias' guest-friend; they'd met at the Academy. He's tyrannos there. You know where Assos is; it's opposite Mytilene, it controls the straits. So, as soon as I thought, I saw why Father chose this man. This is only between us two."
He looked deeply into Hephaistion's eyes, as always before a confidence. As always, Hephaistion felt as if his midriff were melting. As always, it was some moments before he could follow what he was being told.
". . . who were in other cities and escaped the siege, have been begging Father to have Stagira restored and the citizens enfranchised. That's what this Aristotle wants. What Father wants, is an alliance with Hermeias. It's a piece of horse-trading. Leonidas came for politics, too. Old Phoinix is the only one who came for me."
Hephaistion tightened his arm. His feelings were confused; he wanted to grasp till Alexander's very bones were somehow engulfed within himself, but knew this to be wicked and mad; he would kill anyone who harmed a hair of his head.
"They don't know I've seen this. I just say Yes, Father. I've not even told my mother. I want to make my own mind up when I've seen the man, and do what I think good without anyone knowing why. This is only between us two. My mother is entirely against philosophy."
Hephaistion was thinking how fragile his rib cage seemed, how terrible were the warring desires to cherish and to crush it. He continued silent.
"She says it makes men reason away the gods. She ought to know I would never deny the gods, whatever anyone told me. I know the gods exist, as surely as I know that you do . . . I can't breathe."
Hephaistion, who could have said the same, let go quickly. Presently he managed to reply, "Perhaps the Queen will dismiss him."
"Oh, no, I don't want that. That would only make trouble. I've been thinking, too, he may be the kind of man who'll answer questions. Ever since I knew a philosopher was coming, I've been writing them down, things nobody here can tell me. Thirty-five already, I counted yesterday."
He had not withdrawn, but, backed to the sloping gable-roof, sat propped lightly against Hephaistion, trustful and warm. This, thought Hephaistion, was the true perfection of happiness; it ought to be; it must be. He said restlessly, "I should like to kill Leonidas, do you know that?"
"Oh, I thought that once. But now, I think he was sent by Herakles. A man doing one good against his will, that shows the hand of a god. He wanted to keep me down, but he taught me to put up with hardship. I never need a fur cloak, I never eat after I'm full, or lie in bed in the morning. It would have come harder, to start learning now, as I'd have had to do, without him. You can't ask your men to put up with things you can't bear yourself. And they'll all want to see if I'm softer than my father."
His ribs and their muscle layer had knit together; his left side felt like armor. "I wear better clothes, that's all. I like to do that."
"You'll never wear this chiton again, I'm telling you. Look what you did in the tree, I can get my whole hand inside it . . . Alexander. You won't ever go to war without me?"
Alexander sat up staring; Hephaistion was jolted into taking his hand away. "Without you? What do you mean, how could you even think of it? You're my dearest friend."
Hephaistion had known for many ages that if a god should offer him one gift in all his lifetime, he would choose this. Joy hit him like a lightning bolt. "Do you mean it?" he said. "Do you really mean it?"
"Mean it?" said Alexander, in a voice of astonished outrage. "Did you doubt I meant it? Do you think I tell everyone the things I've told to you? Mean it--what a thing to say!"
Only a month ago, Hephaistion thought, I should have been too scared to answer. "Don't fight me. One always doubts great good fortune."
Alexander's eyes relented. Raising his right hand, he said, "I swear by Herakles." He leaned and gave Hephaistion a practiced kiss; that of a child who is affectionate by nature, and fond of grown-up attention. Hephaistion had hardly time to feel the shock of delight before the light touch had gone. By the time he had nerved himself to return the kiss, Alexander's attention had been withdrawn. He seemed to be gazing at heaven.
"Look," he said pointing. "You see that Victory statue, on the top gable of all? I know how to get up there."
From the terrace, the Victory looked as small as a child's clay doll. When the dizzy climb had brought them to its base, it turned out to be five feet tall. Its hands held a gilded laurel wreath, extended over the void.
Hephaistion, who had questioned nothing all the way because he had not dared to think, clasped in his left arm, at Alexander's bidding, the bronze waist of the goddess. "Now hold my wrist," Alexander said.
Thus counterpoised, he leaned out, off balance, into empty space, and broke two leaves from the wreath. One came easily; the second he had to worry at. Hephaistion felt clammy sweat in his palms; the dread that it would make his grip slide off turned his belly to ice, and crept in his hair. Through this terror he was aware of the wrist he held. It had looked delicate, against his own big frame; it was hard, sinewy, the fist clenched on itself in a remote and solitary act of will. After a short eternity, Alexander was ready to be pulled back. He climbed down with the leaves in his teeth; when they were back on the roof, he gave one to Hephaistion, saying, "Now do you know we shall go to war together?"
The leaf sat in Hephaistion's hand, about the size of a real one. Like a real one it was trembling; quickly he shut his fingers on it. He felt now the full horror of the climb, the tiny mosaic of great flagstones far below, his loneliness at the climax. He had gone up in a fierce resolve to face, if it killed him, whatever ordeal Alexander should set to test him. Only now, with the gilt-bronze edges biting his palm, he saw that the test had not been for him. He was the witness. He had been taken up there to hold in his hand the life of Alexander, who had been asked if he meant what he had said. It was his pledge of friendship.
As they climbed down through the tall walnut tree, Hephaistion called to mind the tale of Semele, beloved of Zeus. He had come in a human shape, but that was not enough for her; she had demanded the embrace of his divine epiphany. It had been too much, she had burned to ashes. He would need to prepare himself for the touch of fire.
