The Bull from the Sea (28 page)

“Want?” I said. “To think well of himself. So he takes trouble and does not make mistakes. He is a useful man, and will make a good envoy, when he can be kept from meddling.”

“You are thinking of Halai,” he said. They had had a land-dispute there, and I had sent Menestheus to see the chiefs.

“Oh,” I answered, “he had planned a great day for the tribes to come together and make speeches before each other and me. Of course they would have dragged up every old grudge for generations back; got to mortal insults by noon, threats before sundown; and first blood would have been spilled on the way home. Then we should have had ten years of it. And so I told him. When I had got the story from him, I just drove down there alone, saw the headmen quietly, and got them to agree. Each gave up something; but it was all gain for the peasants, who would have starved when the crops were burned. Maybe Menestheus hoped for some consequence out of the meeting; but it was the Halaians we were supposed to be concerned with.”

“Was it consequence he missed?” Hippolytos said. “I thought it was the anger. He seemed restless for it, I don’t know why.”

I thought about it, for he never said such things lightly. “It would not have brought him any gain.”

“Oh, no; not gain. He is very upright. Whatever he did, he would need to be pleased with first. Perhaps anger helps him. But have you noticed, Father, when a man has bad luck, no matter how he suffers, Menestheus doesn’t notice it? He only pities him if he is wronged; he must begin with anger.”

“His father beat him,” I said. “Like many another. Why it is only Menestheus who can’t forget it, I cannot tell. Well, he is a lightweight when all is said, not worth making much of either way.”

So it was often, when we talked about affairs. He had learned no more shrewdness than in his childhood; yet he would cut clean through intrigue that would have tangled a shrewder man; he scarcely knew it was there, having nothing it could catch him by, no envy, spite or greed. Yes; but he was like the man who is made weapon-proof, save in that one place where the god who did it grasped him. One sees clearly, after.

A day or so later, word came to me that the Queen was sick.

I broke off my business, feeling concerned; but I was put out, too. She had had my leave to go, as Athens did not suit her; if she had stayed, no doubt it was because she would not leave Akamas with his brother and me. The boy had been too much at her petticoats, and needed men.

When I came to her room, the curtains were all closed; she lay in a dark-red gloom, with cloths upon her brow which the women changed continually, wringing them in cold water. The room smelled of Cretan essences, heavy and sweet.

I asked what the doctor thought of it. “Oh, I can’t bear him near me; he can do nothing for my headaches, yet he won’t leave me in quiet, but talks till my head is splitting.” She tossed about, and smelled at a pomander a girl held out to her, and shut her eyes. I was going away when she opened them and said, “And Akamas drives me mad with his ‘Send for Hippolytos’ all day. Oh, let him come, let him come; I know it can’t help me, but there will be no peace till you all see it for yourselves. Bring him, do, with those great healing hands of his, and let us have it over.”

“He will come,” I said, “if you ask him. But I see no sense in it. It will only vex you more.” My guess was that she wanted to make a fool of him, to vent her fretfulness. She dragged the damp cloth off her brow and reached out for another, and said, “Yes, yes; but I am so on edge with all this talk of it, I shall have no more rest till it is done. Do send him, though it is nonsense; then I can sleep.”

I found the lad. He was in the stables, talking horse-medicine with an old groom, their heads over a thrushy foot, the horse nosing his neck. When I had got him aside and told him, he said, “Well, Father, if you like; but I think I’ll have more luck here. The horse trusts me; and it needs that, to make a path for the god.”

“I know; she is tired and crotchety, and I don’t suppose you will get much thanks. Come all the same; after all, it will not kill you.”

I remember that we smiled.

As we crossed the courtyard, I was thinking how often he spoke with reverence of Apollo now. Once it had been all the Lady. But he would have learned Paian’s worship at Epidauros; they are brother and sister, after all.

Phaedra’s women had opened the curtains just a crack. She had been combed and propped upon fresh pillows, and her eyes touched up with blue. I led up the boy and he stood at the bedside, looking, as I had never seen him, awkward and gawky; his big long hands hung at his sides, uncertain, seeming to think by themselves. He muttered something, to say he was sorry she was in pain.

I was pleased that she spoke pleasantly. “Oh, it comes and goes. But it is bad today, and I have tried everything now but you; so do your best for me.”

He drew into himself, as I have seen healers do before, looking and thinking; men laid his hand across her brow and stood as if he listened. She shut her eyes. Presently he put both hands on her temples, pressing a little, with a half-frown and this listening look. After a while, he would have taken his hands away, but she pulled at his wrist, so he kept them there a little longer. At last he stood back and shook his head, saying, I am sorry. Elixir of willow-bark might help it.”

She opened her eyes and said, “Why, it has gone!”

“Gone?” he said, and leaned over to study her. “What a strange thing; I never felt it. I am glad you are better. You will sleep now, I hope. Good-by.”

As we left I said to him, I will thank you for her, since she forgot.” He said smiling, “The god did it by himself. I wish I knew how. Well, back to the horse; that’s a simple case.”

In the next few days, she sent for him once or twice. The first time, I brought him to her, the next I was busy and sent him with her woman. The next day after, she sent for him again; but he had gone driving, taking his young brother with him. After all, as I told her, it was to help the boy he had stayed on, and they would not have much more time together.

I had business still in Halai, sorting out the boundaries, which were in a muddle centuries old. Most days I went out there. I had let too much go, in the years of roving. The evening after, I found Phaedra had sent for Hippolytos again and, though he was in, he had not gone. When I asked him why, he said quite shortly, “I sent her some physic. It will do her more good than I can.”

“Maybe,” I answered. “But go as a courtesy. It makes for a pleasant house.”

“Let us both go, then,” he said, “and see how she is.”

“I have no time.” I daresay I was curt; it was not for him to tell me my duty. “Go before it is too late.”

He went off with the maid. We had just eaten; he was dressed for the Hall, with his great gold necklace. It comes back to me clearly now, though then I did not heed it much: his belt of coral and lapis studs, his hair just washed, all bland and shining, and how he smelled of sweet herbs from the bath.

I went up early, with the girl from Sicily, and next morning was in council. It was not till noon I looked for him; when I learned from his page that he had been gone all night, and not returned.

It seemed nothing much, considering his ways; but I went to ask Phaedra if, before he left, he had obeyed me. She was still in bed. One of her girls ran by me weeping, with the marks of the rod upon her; she herself was haggard, as if she had not slept, and the whole place seemed by the ears. She looked at me as if she hated me—but it was plain no one could please her—and said, “How should I know where your son is, or care? He might be anywhere, he was so strange and rude last night.”

“Rude?” I said. “That is unlike him. What did he say to you?”

She scolded on, without amounting to any sense. He had no heart for suffering; healing was nothing to him, but to serve his pride; he had had some strange teaching, that was sure; he had left her worse, not better, she would be fit for nothing all day. He had better not come near her; yet he should come at least to beg her pardon. And so on. I thought of the beaten maid, and felt sure she was making much of little, but said I would speak to the lad, when he could be found. At that she started up, and asked where he had gone. This showed me her face more clearly. She seemed feverish, and had lost flesh; but did not look older with it, as women mostly do. With her constant calm all gone, so wild and frail, she brought back to me for the first time since our marriage the willful girl-child in the Labyrinth, with wet hair tousled on the pillow and tear-swollen eyes.

“He will come home,” I said, “when he is tired, or hungry. You know what he is. When he does I will rebuke him. Now see a proper doctor who knows the tricks of his trade, and get something to make you sleep.”

Suddenly she clutched my arm, and clung to it weeping. I did not know what to say; but I stroked her hair. “Oh, Theseus, Theseus!” she sobbed. “Why did you bring me here from Crete?”

“Only for your own honor. But if it will ease you, you shall go back to Crete again.”

She shook all over, and clung to my arm till I felt her nails. “No, no! Not now! I cannot leave you, Theseus, don’t send me away or I shall die.” She gasped and swallowed and said, “I am too sick, the sea would kill me.”

“Come, hush,” I said. “Nothing shall be done that you do not wish. We will talk when you are better.” It was unseemly, with the women there. I went out, and sent for the doctor. But I was told he was with Prince Akamas, who was very ill. They had been looking for me to tell me.

I went to his room, and nearly choked in the doorway; it was full of drug-smelling steam the doctor’s servant was making in a cauldron. The firewood smoked, and the slaves coughed as they knelt trying to clear it. I could hardly see the boy, who sat up in bed wheezing and blue, with the doctor blistering his chest. I shouted to them all to get out with their messes, before they stifled him. When I asked him how long he had been sick, he said since last night, barely getting out the words. “Well,” I said, “by the look of you, these fools with their stinks haven’t helped you much. I don’t know what everyone is about today.” The house seemed full of sickness and megrims; it made me feel old. My mind went back to the years of the Amazon, the swift chariot-ride when I had known what I was for. “I will find your brother. He can’t be far, and he can surely do better than this.”

He shook his head, and tried to say something, but choked upon it. I knew when the fit was on him, he did not like to be seen. As I got up to go, he reached to catch me back again; I called his old Cretan nurse to him, who had more sense than the rest, and went to seek Hippolytos. When there is sickness, I thought, the doctor should not go missing.

Only his page was in his room, staring at the window; a stocky, simple-looking youth of about fifteen. As soon as he saw me he said, “I know where he is now, my lord. He went down the Rock.” And then, seeing my face, “Oh, sir, he is quite safe; I have seen him sitting there.”

“Where?” I said. I was near the end of my patience.

“You can’t see from above, my lord, but you can if you climb round under. I thought I would just look. I know most of his places.”

He was not a man of mine, so I said quite quietly, “Then why not have fetched him?” He looked amazed. “Oh, I never go after him, sir, unless he tells me first.”

I could see, as one knows when a dog will bite, that if I ordered him he would disobey me. So I asked where was this place. “In that old cave-mouth, sir, on the western scarp, where the Lady’s shrine is.”

It had been built there after the Scythian War, as a thanks for victory. I remembered the dedication, the blood and flowers, the raw stone where the boulders had been closed up again. I had not been there since. It was the last door she had passed through living. But by now I was so sick of people, that I went myself.

The way had grown over, and was nearly as rough as when the cave was opened. I was not quite so supple now as then; once or twice my foot slipped, and gave me a start. But I got down without much trouble.

He was sitting with his back against a rock, staring out to sea. By the look of him, he had not moved for hours. He did not turn till I was almost beside him. I knew his moodiness, from his first years. But I had never seen it work such a change as this. It seemed to have taken even his youth away, all the bloom and the charm. Here was a man, well made; a face you would call handsome, if the joy of life had been in it, all drawn and sullen with care like a peasant’s whose ox had died. I saw that first: a loss, and not knowing, after, which way to turn.

He got to his feet, not even looking surprised to see me. There were deep red prints upon his back, scored by the rock in his long stillness.

I said to him, “I thought you stayed to look after your brother. He is half dead, and I have been searching for you all day.”

He started. With a shocked face, striking his hand upon his thigh, he said, “Holy Mother! I should have known.”

“It would have saved my shoes upon this goat-track. But I suppose you are your own master. Well, if you want to help the boy, you had better hurry. Go on ahead.”

He walked to the path, then stopped. I thought he was put out at being tracked to the shrine, and was making too much of it, whatever had taken him there. He paused, with drawn brows and harried eyes. I expect my impatience showed.

“I doubt,” he said at last, “if I can help him any longer. Are you sure he asked for me?”

“He is past asking. Nearly past breathing, too. Will you go, or not?”

He stood still, with this shut-in, heavy look, not meeting my eyes. Then he said, “Very well. I will try, then. But if he doesn’t want me, I shall have to leave him be.”

He went straight upward, light as a cat for all his height, taking short cuts on the cliff where his long arm-reach helped him. I followed in my own time, and waited in my room.

He was gone so long, I wondered if he had strayed off again. At last came his voice at the door. But when it opened, Akamas walked in first. He was washed, combed and dressed; he looked worn to a thread, with dark-ringed eyes, but his breathing was quiet again. Hippolytos stood behind, with an arm about his shoulders. He did not look much better than his patient, to my eye. Neither might have slept for nights.