That suited me. When I broached the matter to Damoteles, he shrugged. "We can always find room for so distinguished a passenger as Apelles, though the gods only know when we shall sail. It might not be for months."
Four days later, after the funeral games for Antigonos' son Philippos (who had died of a sickness), I found myself in an otherwise almost empty tent with Apelles, awaiting our subject. At one side of the tent stood Apelles' easel and, on a table, his other painting gear. At the other side stood a curious object: a length of log, carven in the shape of a horse's back, with four short wooden legs to support it and a saddle pad strapped upon it. Beside it stood a folding camp chair.
While Kavaros set up my equipment, I asked: "May I see the portrait?"
"Surely." Apelles pulled the cover off the painting. It was a breath-taking piece of work, showing Antigonos marching beside his horse, in the attitude of one commanding his troops. The most striking thing about it was that the satrap was shown partly from the side, instead of from the front as in all the other portraits I had ever seen. Apelles explained:
"That's to hide his blind eye. The old fellow is sensitive about it. We argued for days about his pose before we hit upon this one."
Kavaros said: "And how will you be getting a horse in here, sir, for a model of the horse in the picture?"
"That is his charger," said Apelles, pointing to the wooden thing. "My original plan was to paint him mounted, using that wooden horse. But hoisting the old man on and off his oaken steed proved such a difficult business that we gave the idea up."
Kavaros gave an unslavelike roar of laughter. "Master darling, we need some of those for the Rhodian cavalry, I am thinking. Even they could sit on them without falling off on their heads."
"Hush!" said Apelles. "He comes."
The aged giant tottered in on his stick, wearing gilded parade armor and accompanied by two of his bodyguards. He settled with a grunt into the camp chair.
"Never grow old, Apelles," he said. "Would that Demetrios were a decade older, so I could die knowing our realm was in responsible hands. Well, go ahead, go ahead. You, too, young what's-your-name. And think not to get me to change my policies towards Rhodes by erecting statues to me. Antigonos is too old a fox to be caught by such dog-faced flatteries."
Apelles and I got to work. People kept coming in with messages to deliver or papers for the satrap to sign, but between these interruptions he held still long enough for our purposes. After sketching the restless and active Demetrios, this task was not difficult.
Now that I had a closer look at Antigonos, I saw that Apelles had lopped at least twenty years from his age in the portrait. This, however, did not seem a tactful thing to mention in the satrap's presence.
During the next month I came to know Apelles better. He had a quality that struck me because it is so rare. That was the ability to criticize his own work and compare it, in a perfectly detached and cold-blooded way, with that of his rivals, as if he were another man altogether.
"Certainly I am a good painter," he said. "Possibly one of the best. But others surpass me in this or that respect. Melanthios is better than I at grouping, while I have never attained the nicety of measurement of Asklepiodotos. From what I remember of the work of Protogenes, he is as good as or better than I in most respects, but in one virtue I am his master. I know when to stop work on a picture, while he will go on fussing with it long after it's really finished. I am keen to see his work, to determine whether he has overcome this fault."
As I had never known any artist who could take such an objective view of his own achievements, I was vastly impressed. I even sought to imitate Apelles in this regard, though I fear without immediate success; for I have always been something of a passionate, hot-blooded partisan by nature, not at all objective.
The wind and rain abated, the atmosphere warmed, and our lady Persephonê painted the hillsides with the scarlet of anemones, the gold of serpents' milk, the blue of hyacinths, and the purple of rhododendron. My task went slowly, for one thing because Antigonos flatly refused to have a life mask made.
I had much idle time when the satrap was not available for posing. This I spent in playing hockey, in pursuit of intrigues with the camp-following women, and in fending off amorous advances from soldiers. Truth to tell, the real Macedonians bothered me less in this matter than the motley horde of southern Greek mercenaries who had enlisted in the Antigonian forces.
The satrap grunted and snorted at our work and, when in a good mood, cracked jokes of an earthy humor. He was an engaging old tyrant, with a rough natural majesty about him. I began to see why, though his rivals dreaded his craft and ferocity, his subjects liked and admired him.
Apelles was cleaning up his gear after finishing the portrait, and our model had stumped off with his guards. Apelles asked:
"How soon will your embassy have its interview? There's nothing to keep me here now, and I should like to get back to Kôs."
"I don't know. The word is stilclass="underline" no appointments. These Macedonians seem to be waiting for something they won't tell us about."
Said Apelles: "Probably for news of Demetrios' fate on Cyprus. If the boy wonder beats the Ptolemaians, I should expect Antigonos to take a tougher line with Rhodes."
"Why?"
"Because he'll be able to afford to. At the same time, there is something more than that coming up. There's whispering in corners and sly half-finished sentences. My slave tells me they are preparing a festival of some sort."
I still had a little work to do on the clay head I was making of Antigonos, and the satrap had promised to give me one more sitting the next day. We had agreed to cope with the problem of his empty eye socket by letting a lock of his hair fall down over the missing eye, as if it had escaped from under his helmet. I found him sitting in his camp chair.
"I had that polluted wooden horse taken to the cavalry tents," he said, "to teach the recruits how to vault into the saddle. It reminds me of one time when I was campaigning against Ariarathes of Kappadokia—the father of the present Ariarathes—what is it?"
A messenger came in, breathing hard. "My lord!" he cried. "A ship has arrived from Cyprus bearing news."
"What news?" asked the satrap.
"I do not know, my lord. Your son's friend, Aristodemos of Miletos, came ashore alone. He is now on his way up the river to Antigoneia."
"Did anybody question him?"
"Yes, sir, but he refused to give his news to anybody but you."
"Get out, fool!" roared Antigonos, heaving himself out of his chair. "Go back to meet this Aristodemos. Tell him I demand to know at once the fate of my son. Then return to me forthwith."
"Aye, my lord." The messenger scuttled out, and Antigonos started to follow him with his bodyguards.
I said: "But, sir, if you will only stay a little while, I shall have finished—"
"To the crows with you and your clay! I have more important matters."
Off he stumped. Kavaros said: "Ah, well, if himself does not care if the statue looks like him, why should we be fretting over it either?"
As there was nothing more to do until I recaptured my model, we cleaned up and waited. After lunch Antigonos appeared in front of his tent. I hovered nearby, hoping for a chance to speak to the satrap and make another appointment.
Down the tributary almost to its confluence with the Orontes, small in the distance, a man on a mule came in sight. Several others clustered about him. As he drew near, I could see that they were hurling questions at him while he rode in silence.