old capital, in order to offer sacrifices at the tombs of previous kings, Leonidas took Alexander to a tower of the palace from which they had a view of the summit of Mount Olympus covered with storm clouds, being struck by bolts of lightning.
‘You see,’ he tried to explain, ‘the gods are not the statues you admire in the temples: they live up there in an invisible house. They are immortal up there, they sit and dine on nectar and ambrosia. And those lightning bolts are thrown by Zeus himself. He can hit anyone and anything in any part of the ; world.’
Alexander, his mouth gaping, looked long and hard at the awesome mountain top. I
The following day an officer of the palace guard found him outside the city, walking briskly along a path that led towards the mountain.
‘Where are you going, Prince Alexander?’ the officer asked as he dismounted.
‘There,’ replied the child, pointing to Mount Olympus.
The officer picked him up and took him back to Leonidas, who was sick with fright and fretting about the terrible punishment the Queen would inflict on him if anything ever happened to her son, his pupil.
Throughout that year Philip had to contend with serious illness a
result of the hardships he had endured during his military campaigns and the unsettled life he led when he was not in battle.
Alexander was pleased because it meant he saw more of his father and was able to spend more time with him. Nicomachus was responsible for overseeing the King’s treatment and from his clinic in Stagira he had two assistants sent who would help gather the herbs and roots for his medicines from the surrounding woods and mountains.
The King was put on a strict diet, almost completely without wine, to the point where he became unapproachable and indeed when he was in a bad mood only Nicomachus dared come near him.
One of the two assistants was a fifteen-year-old boy and his name too was Philip.
‘Get him out of here,’ the King ordered. ‘Another Philip here gives me no pleasure whatsoever. I know what we’ll do! I’ll appoint him as my son’s physician, under your supervision, of course.’
Nicomachus agreed, being well used by now to the whims of his King.
‘What is your son Aristotle doing?’ Philip asked Nicomachus one day as he was drinking a decoction of dandelion, grimacing as it slithered down his throat.
‘He’s living in Athens and studying with Plato,’ replied the physician. ‘In fact, I am told he is the best of Plato’s students.’
‘Interesting. And what is the topic of his research?’
‘My son is like me. He is attracted by the observation of natural phenomena rather than by the world of pure speculation.’
‘And is he interested in politics?’
‘Yes, of course, but here too he demonstrates a particular inclination towards the various manifestations of political organization rather than political science true and proper. He collects constitutions and makes comparative studies of them.’ ‘And what does he think of monarchial rule?’ ‘I don’t think he has any opinion on the matter. For him the monarchy is simply a form of government typical of certain communities rather than others. You see, Sire, I think that my son is interested in knowing the world for what it is rather than establishing a series of principles that the world should conform to.’
Philip forced down the last sip of the decoction under the vigilant gaze of his physician, which seemed to command, ‘Every last drop.’ Then he wiped his mouth with the edge of his royal cloak and said, ‘Keep me informed about that boy, Nicomachus, because I’m interested in him.’
‘I will. I’m interested in him too he’s
my son.’ During this period Alexander spent as much time as possible with Nicomachus because he was an affable man and full of surprises, while Leonidas was somewhat cantankerous and terribly strict.
One day he entered the physician’s surgery and saw Nicomachus examining his father’s back and measuring his