“He ought to go now. You asked me to help him, Father, and this is the only way.” The boy drew closer to his side; remembering however not to lean, lest I should think it weakly.
“What is all this haste?” Everyone seemed bewitched; I could make no sense of it. “You had no such great business yesterday, and there has been no message since. You can wait, I should think, to get off decently, and give your brother some rest.”
“Father, I have to go.” I saw again the driven look he had had upon the rock. “I must … I have had an omen.”
I thought of that night-bird’s roost, unsleeping, upon the crag. It made me feel the prickle of the uncanny; I did not like it. I asked him, “From the Goddess?”
He paused, his mouth set and a deep furrow between his brows. Then he nodded.
I was dog-tired, what with the day’s work, the climb and all this turmoil. “Very well,” I said. “It is no worse, I daresay, than choking the boy with smoke. And which of you will tell his mother?” They both gazed at me like sick deaf-mutes. “Neither, of course; it will fall on me.”
I went at once, to have it over. Phaedra was still in bed; the doctor had given her poppy-syrup; but she was awake, looking dully at the door. I began with news which should please her, that Hippolytos was leaving, coming later to the boy. Though I saw that she had stiffened and clenched her hands, she was quiet when I had done, and I slipped away.
My sons sailed next morning. It was raining, and I sent Akamas under cover. Hippolytos said good-by to me on the poop, a black cloak wrapped round him, his fair hair plastered to his cheek by the wind and rain. Sometimes, at the hunt, I had seen his mother’s lie so. She had kept no secrets from me, deeper than a leaf’s shadow on a stream. I had known where I was, with her.
At the last he looked at me, as if he would have spoken. This sudden haste had been strange; I had not harmed him, that he should be so close with me. It seemed to me that something strained in his eyes; but he had never been a man for words. The pilot called, “Cast off!” and the rowers’ wet backs leaned over. I did not wait to watch them out into open sea.
IV
AUTUMN SET IN. I had less to do than in other years, having been at home all summer. The rooms seemed empty; I would come in with something to say which was not stuff for servants; but only servants were there. Amyntor was long dead, in some family bickering not worth his sword. I had learned to keep my own counsel, till these last weeks.
A ship from Troizen brought me a letter from Hippolytos. He said that Akamas was much better, going to the sanctuary only one night in three, to take his physic and sleep. “So, Father, will you forgive me now for going? It was no wish of mine. No other man can teach me what I was learning from you. And I was happy.”
This letter was carved in wax, on a pair of tablets much worked over, as if it had cost him thought. I put it away, in the chest with his mother’s things.
The house was so quiet, one might have hoped for peace. But as soon as her son had gone, Phaedra began to fret over him: first that he would have a seizure, and die without her near; and then, when the news was good, that he would forget her. She seemed always sick, yet the doctors could put no name to it, except this grieving for the boy. I tried to reason with her; was it love, I said, to want him back uncured? These fits could cripple his life, and the kingdom’s with it. In a word, it could not be. I feared an outcry; but she said quite meekly, “You are right, Theseus. Yet I can’t rest night or day, for fear he is in some danger and a god is warning me. Do only this for me: let me go myself to Troizen, to your mother, and stay awhile. I could see the doctors at Epidauros, too. Do let me go; surely it is not much to ask.”
“It is a good deal,” I said. “Crete would be well enough; but Troizen will make people think you are being sent out of the way. We can do without such talk.” It was too late now for Crete, the gales had started. I looked about her room: the mess of clothes and jewels hung up or thrown down when she would not choose; the phials and jars and mirrors, the pots of physic everywhere; the warm frowst of women in a closed-up place; and I remembered it long ago, curtains flung wide to the sun, clean polished wood smelling of beeswax and lemon thyme; a bow and a silk cap on the unused bed; a lyre propped against the window-column, and crumbs on the sill for birds.
The place looked hateful to me, spoiled and profaned. I wanted only to be gone; but the sailing months were over. So I said, “Very well; we will both visit Troizen, and see the boy. Then no one can make mischief of it.”
She offered again to go alone, saying she would not be a burden. “You will be none,” I answered, “so long as you keep peace with Hippolytos. He is master of the house already, in all but name, and you will be his guest. Any complaint you have, you must bring to me.”
I sent a courier on over the Isthmus, to announce our coming. But the ways were foul; he fell down a gully, was nursed by ignorant folk, and did not get his message on till we ourselves had started.
After Akamas’ sickness, the priests at Athens had taken omens, and said it was a blood-curse for the Pallantids, killed all those years ago in my father’s war. My guess was that the doctors were jealous of Epidauros. But to please everyone, and appease the Gentle Ones if they were really angry, I made it known I was taking my blood-guilt out of Athens, and would come back purified.
It was an autumn journey, tedious and slow. The road was slippery, or blocked with stone-slides from the hills; the leather curtains of the women’s Utters barely kept out the driving rain. It made me feel stiff, and I feared Phaedra might catch her death crossing the Isthmus; but she bore it cheerfully, ate well, and looked better, though all her women had colds.
We turned off the coast road, to stop at Epidauros. The sheltered valley was like a dish to catch the pelting rain. As the servant towelled me down in the guest-house smelling of pine and resin, I looked out at the winding glade with its autumn-turning leaves and wet green bay. The sleeping-houses for the sick had their doors shut-to against the weather, the thatch streaming, damp stains on the wooden walls. The yellow beeches dripped and shed their leaves into the stream, whose stones chattered and ground in the whirl from the opened sluices. Pools lay in the grass, with tall seed-heads bending out of them. You will say, a dismal scene. And yet, there was a calm, an ease of soul, a feel of living in time with the seasons and the gods… I would have liked to send off all my people, only to sit in one of those thatched huts watching the showers drive by, hearing the stream, waiting in no haste for a late sun to dapple the water through the boughs, for the sweet moist earth-scents of evening, the blackbird’s whistle, and a wagtail stepping on the grass. We had come with short warning; but doctors are used to haste. All was prompt and in order. If I had cried, “Help! I am dying!” I could see it would be much the same. Soon came the Priest-King of the Asklepiads, kindly and brisk, yet with something withdrawn about him, from keeping the secrets of the sick, as the god’s vow binds them to do, even from kings. He was younger than I, dressed simply, more priest than king, ready to work with his hands among the sick in the god’s service. His kingdom has no need of war, being holy; nor of wealth, for the offerings keep it. When I asked for Akamas, he said the boy was there that day, and well; but it would not be good to wake him after his physic, and bring him through the rain. He spoke very courteously; but he spoke as king. I did not argue; there was too much calm in the place.
Since Phaedra had come so far to see the boy, I feared she would make a fuss; but she said impatiently that since there was nothing to stay for, we had better make haste, and get the journey over.