The Golden Wind

EXPLANATORY LETTER Epistolê Exegetikê

Eudoxos son of Theon, of Kyzikos, wishes his son Theon well. The gods willing, this letter and the manuscript with it will reach you by a trustworthy captain of my host in Gades, Eldagon ben-Balatar the shipmaster.

You may have heard hard things about me from your mother's kinsmen. Before you do anything rash—like throwing away these papers unread—I pray you to hear my side of the tale. Although we have not seen each other in nearly a decade, I hope the love that is proper between father and son be not wholly quenched. Furthermore, aside from such considerations, I want you to perform certain tasks for me, and you will be more likely to do so if I justify my course.

Not to make two bites of a cherry, the principal task is to edit the inclosed manuscript, taking out parts that would discredit me or reveal things better kept quiet. In writing it, I have let myself go. But age is upon me, and my judgment as to what should be said may not be so keen as once it was. Then, arrange for publication, that the fame due my deeds shall not be lost in the river of time. There used to be at least two good bookmakers in Kyzikos.

The source of the trouble between your mother and me was, basically, the difference in our ages. If young men be any more wont to take their elders' advice than in my youth— which I doubt—you may profit from my example.

Now, in my own youth, I could pleasure women with the best of them. In fact, I was known to the whores, and hetairai of Kyzikos as a three-ball man. I speak in strict confidence of intimate family matters, and may a father's curse be upon you if you ever reveal what I am about to tell you.

I was well past forty when I began to tire of the sterile pursuit of pleasure women. My contemporaries were settled married men, some even grandfathers. To me, a peaceful domestic life took on a new attraction.

Discreet inquiries after a bride brought forth the daughter of my friend Zoilos the shipbuilder—your maternal grandfather. Your mother Astra was then twenty-two; she had been betrothed a few years before to a youth who had sickened and died.

At that time, my age—over twice your mother's—seemed a small matter. Moreover, at the start of our married life, I fell head-over-heels in love with her, like the hero of one of those sentimental novels that come out of Alexandria. I have never known a woman whom I desired so passionately, or whose company I so much enjoyed. I never expected to become an uxorious man, but there it is.

Nor did the feeling soon wane, as I have seen it do with other couples. I still feel that way about her, although she has been dead for years. While I do not really believe in the theologians' theories of a future life, the remote chance of being reunited with my darling Astra makes death seem almost attractive.

I am sure that your mother loved me, too, in spite of my broken nose and scars and pockmarks. When you were born, I thought my happiness complete. So, one would have said, what has Eudoxos to complain of? He is rich, respected, and famous, with a lovely girl for a wife and a lusty man-child. If he is no beauty, that does not matter, since he is not angling for lovers male, for whom he never cared. (My nickname as a boy was "ape," and a quarter-century of rough, adventurous life had done nought to better my looks.)

I need not tell you about the other sides of my career: the voyages I captained, the public offices I held, the missions and journeys I undertook for our city, the strokes of business that brought me the wealth you now enjoy, my adventures among the wild Scythians, and my scholarly researches in geography and exploration. All these things are well known in Kyzikos. But you must admit that, in my day, I was somebody. One would have said, some god must have cast his mantle over Eudoxos.

I fear, however, that the gods—if indeed there be gods— have an unpleasant sense of humor. Having been well taught by knowledgeable women, I introduced Astra with care to the arts of wedded love. Six years after our marriage, when you were three and I was just past fifty, she was as passionate a bedmate as one would wish.

But then, to my horror, I found my own lectual powers waning. My spear sagged like an overheated taper; my Egyptian obelisk began to turn from granite to putty at critical moments.

Slowly but inexorably this weakness grew. At first I thought little of it. Then, when I had to leave your mother unsatisfied several times in a row, I sought the help of physicians. Some said to drink more wine; some said to drink none at all. Some sold me powdered unicorn's horn and other rare medicines at fabulous prices. But nothing did any good. Once in a while I could still perform my husbandly duties; more often it was like trying to fight a battle with a length of rope for a spear.

Your mother became nervous and cranky, and I more and more frustrated. I loved her as much as ever. Moreover, I found that my decline as a lover was not matched by any wane in my interest in the act of love. I wanted her more than ever. My mind became preoccupied with memories of the last time we had enjoyed a good gallop and my hopes for the next one.

The most infuriating thing was that, in other respects, I was not prematurely aged. My hair was still black and thick, with only a little gray. I had all but two of my teeth. My belly bulged hardly at all, since I kept myself fit in the gymnasium. Few things so embitter a strong, vigorous, successful man as to find his masculinity failing him.

At last I poured out my distress to old Glaukos, the dean of Kyzikene physicians. He told me:

"Forsooth, best one, this weakness befalls most men sooner or later. In your case, the onset is a little earlier than usual, that is all. Some men are impotent all their lives; some become so in their thirties or forties. And, no matter what my colleagues say, no real cure is known. If you were a flabby, dissipated idler, I could tell you to drink less, keep regular hours, and get more exercise; but you already lead a healthy life."

Observing my hangdog expression, he continued: "Do not look so despondent, Eudoxos. A man feels about his loss of phallic vigor as a woman feels about the loss of her beauty. But these things overtake all of us if we are fortunate enough to live so long. The life of an oldster is still better than its only alternative—death."

"Then what shall I do?" I cried. "By the Heavenly Twins, Tin not old enough to submit tamely to this fate! I have been as happily married as a man can be, but this is no longer the case. Things go from bad to worse."

He shrugged. "When I studied in Alexandria, I met an Indian, who assured me that Indian medical science was far ahead of ours. He claimed that the wise men of India could prolong life, revive the dead, and do all kinds of wonderful things. If these tales be true, they could doubtless stiffen your yard for you."

"Ah, but are they truer

"Perhaps, perhaps not. I have never been to India and, save for this one man, I have never known anyone else who had, either."

"Nor I. It is said to be a fearful journey, the more so since the realm of the barbarous Parthians now lies athwart the land route to India."

"So they say," replied Glaukos, and we dropped the subject.

A few months later, Kyzikos made up an embassy to the court of King Ptolemaios Evergetes—Evergetes the Second, otherwise known—but not to his face—as ho Physkon, "the Sausage." Physkon staged a big spring festival in honor of Persephonê, and—she being our patron goddess—we sent a delegation of priests to take part in the rites and athletes to compete in the games. Since I had just finished my term as polemarch, and in view of my experience in such matters, I was appointed sacred ambassador and peace herald. I made the arrangements for the journey, governed the rest of the delegation, and represented the delegation in its dealings with the Egyptian court.

We traveled in the state galley. I took my slave, a Scythian named Gnouros. This was a quiet little man, who did as he was told and kept his thoughts—if any—to himself. This left Astra with only one servant in the house, our hired maid-of-all-work Dirka. But your mother preferred it that way. She felt secure, with daily visits to and from our many relatives, and she did not wish to have to break in a new slave or a hired servant in my absence.

As we headed out into the windy Propontis, I stood on the poop deck, waving to your mother, and she waved to me from the quay. I suppose you were too young at the time to remember that parting now. We waved until each was out of the other's sight. When Mount Dindymos sank below the blue curve of the Propontis, I wept tears as salty as the sea. Some of my fellow passengers spoke of this, and I made an excuse about the pain of leaving one's beloved city. It would not have done to admit that a mere woman had brought my feelings so visibly to the surface.

And so the tale of my later voyages, which has taken me months to dictate, begins. I hope you will find it beguiling for its own sake as well as an effective self-justification by your sire. Rejoice!