Chapter 11 286 BC

King Ptolemy's study was on the upper floor of the palace, overlooking the port of Alexandria.The sea breeze enters through the window, and the air is cool and comfortable.The king sat before his writing-desk, the great smooth ebony tabletop which had once been heaped with memorials, when he was an industrious planner and lawgiver.There are only a few objects on the table now, only some scrolls, some writing instruments, and a sleeping cat.The affairs of Egypt have been transferred to his son, who governs very competently.He gradually delegated power and became more and more satisfied.He is eighty-three years old.

He examines the writing on the wax tablet.The handwriting trembles a bit, but the wax engraving is legible.In any case, he presumably lived to see the completion of the Duren's transcription. Despite his stiff bones, fatigue and other discomforts of old age, he still enjoys retirement.In the past, he had no time to read the books, but now he just makes up for it.Besides, he had set aside a piece of work that he had been looking forward to doing for a long time.There were frequent changes in the early years, and there was no time to take care of it.He was forced to banished his tyrannical eldest son (the mother was Cassandros's sister, the marriage was hastily contracted out of cunning), and it took years to raise the much younger son to be king.The evil done by the eldest son was a pain in his heart in his later years; he often blamed himself for not executing him at that time.But today his mind is at peace.

His peaceful mood was interrupted by the arrival of the crown prince.Ptolemy was twenty-six years old and a pure Macedonian; Ptolemy's third wife was his step-sister.He was as big as Nai's father, and walked in lightly - the old man in the chair was so quiet, maybe he had dozed off.But as soon as his weight hit the floor, two volumes toppled from the crowded shelves against the wall.Ptolemy turned around with a smile. "Father, another box of books has arrived from Athens. Where are they placed?" "Athens? Ah, yes. Send them up here." "Where do you put it? You've got some books on the floor. They'll be eaten by mice."

Ptolemy reached out his wrinkled and freckled hand and scratched above the jeweled collar the cat was wearing.The long, lean cat arched its smooth copper-colored back, stretched itself comfortably, and let out a deep, sonorous purr from its throat. "But," said his son, "you do need a bigger study. In fact, a house is enough." "You can build one after I'm gone. I'll give you another book to hide in it." The young man saw that his father was as complacent as the cat, as if he were purring too. "What? Father! You mean your book is finished?"

"Just a moment ago." He showed the wax board, on which it was written in cursive script: The history of Alexander ends here.His naturally tender son leaned over and embraced him. "We must hold a reading meeting." He said, "Naturally in the small theater. This book has almost been copied. I will arrange the reading meeting next month, so that I can have time to spread the news." In the eyes of this late-born son, his father has always been an old man, but he has always acted wonderfully.He knew that the work had begun long before he was born.He was anxious to see his father enjoy its fruits; after all, he was dying.He searched his mind for the names of actors and debaters known for their beautiful voices.Ptolemy continued to ponder.

"This book," he said suddenly, "is enough to put Kassandros' slander to naught. I've been through it all from beginning to end, and everyone knows...if only I had finished it sooner. Too many battles were fought." "Cassandros?" The young man vaguely recalled that the Macedonian king had died in his childhood, and that his two successor sons were also dead because of their fate.This man belonged to the distant past, and Alexander, though dead in his birth, was to him a living man who seemed ready to walk through the door at any moment.He didn't have to read his father's books, the stories he had heard from childhood. "Cassandros..."

"If the gods are just, he will be thrown into the abyss of Tartarus, and I hope he will hear the news there." The loose folds of the old face tightened for a moment, and there was a terrible look." He killed Alexander's son - I know so, although no one can prove it - Cassandros hid him all the years he was growing up, so that the common people would not know him, and no one in the future would know He. Alexander's mother, his wife, his son. So he still didn't get over his hatred, and bought the Lyceum College--it will never be restored--and used it as a tool to discredit Alexander. Ah, he It stinks before it's dead, and the sons conspired to kill the mother... Yes, a reading will be arranged. Then the book can be sent to the scribe. I want to send it to Lyceum, to Plato's The Academy, the Academy on Kos. Of course, one must be sent to Rhodes too."

"Of course," said his son, "it's not unusual for a Rhode Islander to receive a book written by God." They looked at each other brightly.Ptolemy helped them out of a famous siege, and thereafter enjoyed a priesthood there.He rubbed the cat, and it revealed its milky white belly for tickling. Young Ptolemy looked out the window.A blinding glare made him close his eyes.The sun just hits the golden laurel ring above the Alexander Mausoleum.He retreated into the room. "Such great men. When Alexander lived they rode abreast like a chariot. In death he kicked and thrashed like a horse after the fall of its charioteer, and bruised himself like a horse."

Ptolemy nodded slowly, stroking the cat, "Ah. Alexander is like this." "But," said the young man in amazement, "you often say—" "Yes, yes. That's all true. That's how Alexander is. That's why." He picked up the wax plate, looked at it with respect, and put it down again. "It is right that we offer him a priest," he said. "He has an enigma. What he himself believes, he makes it seem possible. And we do. His admiration is precious , we risked our lives for his trust; we did the impossible. He was a man infected by a god; we were mere mortals infected by him, but we didn't know it then. See, we did it too A miracle."

"Yes," said his son, "but they were miserable, and you were prosperous. Is it because you buried him here?" "Maybe. He likes to make things beautiful. I kept him out of the hands of Kassandros, and he never forgets a good deed. Yes, maybe...but on the other hand, when he died, I knew He also took his enigma with him. Henceforth we are like others, subject to the limits set by nature. Know yourself, so said the gods at Delphi. Do not overdo anything." The cat hated his absent-mindedness, jumped onto his lap, and started pawing and tugging, making itself a bed.He pulled the cat's claws from his robe and put the cat back on the desk. "Not now, Perseus, I have a job. Summon Philistos for me, boy, he knows my handwriting. I want to see the book copied on scroll. Only in Rhode Island can I There is an immortal body."

After his son left, he gathered the new wax panels with trembling but firm hands and arranged them neatly in order.Then wait at the window, looking out at the golden ring of bay leaves, coming to life as it flutters gently in the Mediterranean breeze.