God brings all things to pass as he would have them be;
God overtakes the flying eagle, the dolphin in the sea.
He masters mortal men, though their pride be bold;
But to some he gives glory that will never grow old.
His voice floated and ceased; the strings echoed and re-echoed it, like wild voices in a glen.
Epikrates, sighing, thought, He’s off.
As the dramatic, headlong, passionate impromptu swept from climax to climax, Epikrates gazed at leisure; he would not be noticed. He felt bewildered by the misuse to which, with open eyes, he was dedicating his aesthetic life. He was not even in love; his tastes were otherwise. Why did he stay? This performance, at the Odeon of Athens or of Ephesos, would have enraptured the upper tiers and had them booing the judges. Yet nothing here was for show; it was redeemed not indeed by ignorance, Epikrates had seen to that, but by a perfect innocence.
And this, he thought, is why I stay. I feel here a necessity, whose depth and force I cannot measure; and to deny it makes me afraid.
There was a tradesman’s son in Pella, whom he had overheard playing once, a real musician; he had offered to teach him for nothing, to redeem his peace of mind. The lad would make a professional, worked hard, was grateful; yet those fruitful lessons engaged Epikrates’ mind less than these, when all that was sacred to the god he served was flung like wasteful incense on an unknown altar.
Garland the prow with flowers, my song is for the brave…
The music climbed to a rapt crescendo. The boy’s lips were parted in the fierce and solitary smile of an act of love performed in darkness; the instrument could not sustain his onslaught, and was going out of tune; he must have heard it, but went on as if his will could compel the strings. He is using it, thought Epikrates, as one day he will use himself.
I must go, it is more than time; I have given him all he will ever take from me. All this he could do alone. In Ephesos, all round the year one can hear good music, and once in a while the best. And I should like to work in Corinth. I could take young Peithon; he ought to be hearing the masters. This one here, I am not teaching him, he is corrupting me. He comes to me for a listener who knows the language, and I listen, though he murders my native tongue. He must play to what gods will hear him, and let me go.
“You have learned your begetting; live as what you are!”
He swept the plectrum across the strings. One snapped, and whipped around the others; there was discord, and silence. He stared at it unbelievingly.
“Well?” said Epikrates. “What did you expect? Did you think it was immortal?”
“I thought it would last till I’d finished.”
“You would not treat a horse so. Come, give it me.”
He took a new string from his box, and began to put the instrument in order. The boy walked restlessly to the window; what had been about to be revealed would not return. Epikrates worked on the tuning, taking his time. I wish I could make him show what he really does know, before I leave.
“You have never yet played to your father and his guests, except on the lyre.”
“The lyre is what people want at supper.”
“It is what they get for want of better. Do me a kindness. Work on one piece for me and play it properly. I am sure he would like to see how you have got on.”
“I don’t think he knows I have a kithara. I bought it myself, you know.”
“So much the better, you will show him something new.” Like everyone else at Pella, Epikrates knew there was trouble in the women’s quarters. The boy was on edge with it, and had been for some time. It was not only his practice he had missed, but a lesson too. As soon as he had walked in, Epikrates had seen how it would be.
Why, in the name of all gods of reason, could the King not be content with paid hetairas? He could afford the best. He had his young men as well; was it too much to ask? Why must he always do his rutting so ceremoniously? He must have gone through at least three such weddings before this last one. It might be an old royal custom in this backward land, but if he wanted to be thought a Hellene, he should remember “Nothing too much.” One could not make over barbarians in a generation; it came out in the boy as well; and yet…
He was still gazing from the window as if he had forgotten where he was. His mother must have been at him. One could have pitied the woman, if she had not begged for half her troubles, and her son’s as well. He must be hers, hers only, and only the gods could say what else, for the King was civilized when set beside his Queen. Could she not see she might cry stinking fish once too often? From any one of these other brides might come a boy glad enough to be his father’s son. Why could she not show some policy? Why could she never spare the boy?
There was no hope, thought Epikrates, of his learning anything today. As well put away the kithara…Well, but if I myself have learned, what have I learned for? Epikrates put on the instrument, stood up and began to play.
After a while Alexander turned back from the window, and came to sit on the table, fidgeting at first, then quiet, then still, his head tilted a little, his eyes finding a distance for themselves. Presently tears filled their lashes. Epikrates saw it with relief; it had always happened when music moved him, and embarrassed neither of them. When it was over, he wiped his eyes on his palms and smiled. “If you want me to, I’ll learn a piece to play in Hall.”
Epikrates said to himself as he went away, I shall have to go soon; the turbulence here is too much for any man who wants harmony and balance in his soul.
A few lessons later, Alexander said, “There will be guests at supper; if I’m asked to play, shall I try it?”
“Certainly. Play it just as you did this morning. Will there be a place for me?”
“Oh yes; it will be all men we know, no foreigners. I’ll tell the steward.”
Supper was late; it had to wait for the King. He greeted his guests with civility, but was rather short with the servants. Though his cheeks were flushed and his eyes injected, he was clearly sober, and anxious to forget whatever had put him out. Slaves passed along the news that he had just come from the Queen.
The guests were old campaigning friends from the Companion Cavalry. Philip looked down the couches with relief; no state envoys to put on a show for, or to complain if they got along early to the wine. Good full-bodied Akanthian, and no water with it; he needed it, after what he had had to endure.
Alexander sat on the end of Phoinix’ supper couch and shared his table. He never sat with his father unless invited. Phoinix, who had no ear to speak of but knew all the literary references to music, was pleased to hear of the boy’s new piece and cited Achilles’ lyre. “And I shall not be like Patroklos, who Homer says was sitting waiting for his friend to leave off.”
“Oh, unfair. It only means Patroklos wanted to talk.”
“Now, now, boy, what are you up to? That’s my cup you’re drinking from, not yours.”
“Well, I pledge you in it. Try mine. If they rinsed wine round it before they put in the water, that was all.”
“It’s the proper mixture for boys, one in four. You can pour some in my cup, we can’t all take it neat as your father can, but it looks bad to call for the water pitcher.”
“I’ll drink some to make room, before I pour.”
“No, no, boy, stop, that’s enough. You’ll be too drunk to play.”
“Of course not, I only had a mouthful.” And indeed he showed no sign beyond a little heightened color. He came of well-seasoned stock.