The Golden Mean: A Novel by Annabel Lyon

Author:Annabel Lyon [Lyon, Annabel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-37284-0
Publisher: Random House Canada
Published: 2009-04-02T04:00:00+00:00

“I’VE READ THIS ALREADY,” Alexander says.

We’re in Mieza, in the kitchen, seated beside each other in front of the hearth. Not where I’d prefer to be sharing books, but he’s lately pulled something in his leg in games and has been told to sweat the muscle until he can run on it again. He sits with his heel propped on the bar where the pots hang, my Homer in his lap. I’m anxious for the book—embers, smuts—but so far he’s shielding it nicely, taking care. It’s sweet to see.

“I know you have,” I say. “You are Achilles, your father is Peleus. Hephaestion would be your Patroclus, yes? Who’s your Odysseus?”

“Ptolemy. He’s clever.”

He glances automatically toward the door at the sound of bark-shouts from outside. I have him alone today; his companions are out doing drills as the leaves crisp and drift from the trees in the high fall air. He’s annoyed not to be with them. Hell, he’s annoyed not to be in Thrace with his father, deposing kings, founding cities.

“Do I have to go through it again?” he says.

“You’ve read it with Lysimachus. You haven’t read it with me.”

He starts to say something, then stops. I wonder if Lysimachus has got his ear pressed to the door even now. “Let’s talk about book one, the argument,” I say. “Can you summarize it for me?” We’ll see if the prince considers this an exercise of memory or attention.

“Nine years into the Trojan War.” He’s still staring at the window. “Agamemnon has been allotted a girl, Chryseis, as a battle-prize. Her father, a priest of Apollo, offers a generous ransom for her return, which Agamemnon refuses. Apollo comes down like the nightfall—” Here he hesitates, leaving a little space for me to admire him; exercise of memory, then; I say nothing. “—and besieges the troops until Agamemnon is forced to relent. But since he must give up his own prize, he requires Achilles to hand over his girl Briseis. Achilles, feeling the injustice of this, refuses to fight until she is returned to him.”

“Very good. And the squabbling ensues for the next twenty-three books.”

Now he looks at me.

“‘Briseis of the lovely cheeks.’ Do you suppose Achilles is in love with her? Or is his honour slighted? Or is he petty and pompous and rather full of himself?” I ask.

“Why not all of the above?” He shifts his leg on the bar, winces. “I’ve noticed something about you, Priam. You don’t mind if I call you Priam? You remind me of him, the sad old king who doesn’t fight and has to beg for his own son’s shreds so he can give him a proper burial after he’s been defeated. I’ve noticed you like to say, On the one hand”—he holds out an open hand—“on the other hand”—he holds out the other hand—“and then what we’re looking for is some conflation of the two.” He brings his hands together. “Don’t you ever worry about being too tidy?”

“I don’t worry about it. Isn’t tidiness a virtue?”

“A woman’s virtue.

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