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Chapter Text

‘Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard,
A serpent stung me...

“No,” said Dr. Valdes, the chair of the Philosophy department.

The King of Denmark was not accustomed to being told no. “Why not? I fought a snake, didn’t I? Surely you’ve heard the news.”

“For several reasons. First and most importantly, because candidates fight snakes in partial fulfillment of the requirements for a doctoral degree. Not in complete fulfillment. Specifically, they are expected to submit their completed thesis first – which, with all due respect, your Majesty has not done.”

“I was not given sufficient time to complete – anything, as it happens. But especially not a thesis. Can’t I just be awarded the doctorate first and finish the thesis afterwards? I mean, I do have all eternity ahead of me.”

“That would be highly irregular and in direct contravention of Wittenberg’s rigorous academic standards. As I was just saying, we do not award doctorates on the basis of a snake fight alone, regardless of what may be the practice at other universities.” Valdes gave a cough that sounded oddly like “Paris.” “And also, we are not in the habit of granting them to people with no prior association with the university.”

“But I do have a prior association with the university! My son is a graduate student in this very department. And, well, I’m the King of Denmark and that ought to count for something!”

“Former King of Denmark,” Valdes corrected. “Your Majesty is, at present, a ghost. Which brings me to my second point, actually. In order to fulfill the requirements for the snake-fight portion of any thesis defense, the candidate has to defeat the snake. Which ... also with all due respect ... does not appear to have happened here.”

“It wasn’t a fair fight,” insisted the King. “I never even saw this snake, you know. It stole upon me while I was asleep and killed me before I woke. But I defeated the king of Norway in hand-to-hand combat, and I would like to submit this as evidence that I could most certainly have defeated a snake that way, had I been given fair warning.”

“Ah. As to that...” Valdes suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “I’m afraid – after reading some of the accounts of the discovery of Your Majesty’s corpse – well, I had better mention that a vile and loathsome crust over the whole body is a very unusual reaction to snakebite.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, I suppose, that here at Wittenberg we all have experience in such matters, and we have questions about the validity of this snake.”

“Are you doubting my word? I died, didn’t I?”

“We are not doubting your word, your Majesty. However – it would be difficult to establish how you died without conducting certain tests. Tests which my colleagues in the alchemy department could have done, by the way, had Your Majesty’s brother not insisted upon a traditional Viking funeral. I understand from the news reports that this was Your Majesty’s frequently-expressed desire, but...”

“It wasn’t. I never said any such thing! I don’t know where Claudius even got the idea.”

Valdes looked even more troubled than before. He drew a deep breath. “That ... seems to corroborate the suspicions that some of our faculty have expressed. Your Majesty – I’m very, very sorry to have to tell you this, but I think there is something you need to know about your snake...”

Chapter Text

... A wretched, ragged man, o’ergrown with hair
Lay sleeping on his back. About his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself,
Who with her head nimble in threats approached
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly,
Seeing Orlando, it unlinked itself,
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush...

“A letter, sir, from the University of Paris.”

Adam, Oliver noticed, still had a great deal of starch in his manner. Everyone else, even his wronged brother Orlando, had forgiven him; the old servant probably never would.

“Oh, dear. Is my brother Jaques in some sort of trouble? Or – I did remember to pay this quarter’s tuition, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” said Celia.

Oliver opened the letter.

Dear Sir Oliver de Boys, it read, we congratulate you on the successful completion of the snake-fight portion of your thesis defense. Accordingly, this letter serves as formal notice that the University of Paris hereby confers upon you the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, with all the rights and privileges pertaining thereunto.

In addition, we welcome you to the Alumni Association of the University of Paris. Should you wish to purchase any memorabilia, an order form is enclosed...

“There has to be some mistake,” said Oliver. “This must be meant for Jaques. But he didn’t mention anything about fighting a snake in his letters home.”

“It’s meant for you,” said Celia, who had been reading over his shoulder. “Jaques is an undergraduate, and they only fight snakes if they’re doing an Honors degree. Besides, it’s got your name on it, and Jaques isn’t a ‘Sir.’ You are.” (Oliver had made a deed of gift of almost his entire inheritance to his younger brothers, but he couldn’t do anything about his title.) “And you fought a snake, sort of.”

“I didn’t,” said Oliver, feeling more and more adrift. “My brother frightened the snake away. My brother-who-I-kept-from-his-birthright-and-tried-to-murder. I didn’t do anything, I don’t deserve anything, and I definitely didn’t earn a doctorate or even try to earn a doctorate! Is there any way I can transfer it to Orlando or Jaques, or at least give it back?”

“I ... don’t think it works that way,” said Celia. “Getting a doctorate is more like ... like having read the Bible cover to cover, or something. Once you’ve done it, you can’t really undo it, but you also can’t make anybody-else-other-than-you have done it – I mean, I suppose you can in a way, if they’re your student, but they have to fight their own snake for themselves.”

“Which. I. Did. Not. Do.”

“Oliver. You’re being too hard on yourself, again. You set a chain of events in motion ... by which a snake was defeated. The university seems to think that’s good enough.”

“I don’t think it is. Anyway, none of this makes sense. Why do people have to fight a snake to earn a doctorate, anyway?”

Celia shrugged. “The same reason they have to wear an impractical hat, I suppose. Tradition. Speaking of ... don’t you think it would be a good idea to find out what these rights and privileges pertaining thereunto are before you renounce them?”

Oliver had no idea. Neither, as it turned out, did Orlando and Rosalind, or even Rosalind’s father, the Duke. But the Duke recalled that Jaques (the melancholy courtier, not Oliver’s brother) had once been a scholar at Paris. Currently, he said, Jaques was staying with the hermit of the Forest of Arden, who might – the Duke was not sure – also have been a university man prior to taking up the religious life.

Oliver and Celia set out to visit the hermit.

* * *

“It gives you the right,” said Jaques, “to call yourself Doctor Oliver de Boys, although I don’t recommend it. Too many people wanting you to cure their gallstones or their gout, and when you try to explain to them you’re not that sort of doctor, they say ‘Oh. What good are you, then?’ Which I am sure they would be saying to you even if you didn’t go around calling yourself ‘Doctor.’ So you may as well not bother.”

“It does say rights, plural,” Oliver pointed out. “What are the others?”

“Oh, yes, you get to wear the gown, of course. And you are exempted from the use of thumbscrews, should you ever find yourself in a situation involving interrogation.”

“Oh,” said Oliver, hoping he wouldn’t have occasion to use that last one.

“What about the privileges?” asked Celia hopefully.

“You have the privilege of seeking a teaching position at any college or university. Which does not, mind you, come with any guarantee of obtaining said position.”

“That one might be useful, Oliver,” said Celia. “If you go on renouncing your inheritance, we’re going to need something to live on, because I don’t really have any expectations either.”

“We’ve still got a bit of income from the sheep-cote.”

“Not very much. Not if I go on paying Corin fairly.”

“But what would I teach?” Oliver cast his mind over the possibilities. Any attempt at herpetology or a similar discipline, he thought, would immediately expose him as a fraud. First aid? He had managed to bind up Orlando’s wounds, and to resuscitate Rosalind after she fainted, but he was hardly an expert –

The hermit spoke for the first time. “Wisdom.”

“They don’t teach that in universities,” said Jaques, at the same time as Oliver said, “But I don’t have any.”

“It begins,” said the hermit, “with a recognition of one’s wrongdoings, and a sincere desire to amend them. And it also includes choosing the right person to marry; one better and cleverer than you are. Any questions?”

“Is that the kind of thing that can be taught? Will they pay me to teach it?”

Jaques snorted.

“Well,” said Celia, “there’s only one way to find out, and if it doesn’t work out, we’re no worse off than before, are we?”

On the following morning, they left for Paris.

Chapter Text

... Here, on her breast,
There is a vent of blood and something blown.
The like is on her arm.

Charmian opened her eyes and closed them again at once. She felt horribly ill: dizzy and nauseated, with one breast terribly painful and swollen.

Someone was touching her. A man, though it seemed to matter little; she cared nothing for her modesty now.

A physician, she realized. He was applying – ugh, leeches – and a cold compress.

A Roman physician. They weren’t going to let her die. They were going to lead her in triumph.

She forced her eyes open again and registered that there was a woman assisting the physician, and that it was her friend and fellow lady-in-waiting, Iras.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” she said, and then, because things were beginning to make sense. “Is this it? The Hall of the Two Truths? Is my heart being weighed against the feather of Ma’at?” That would explain the pain, she decided; removing a heart from one’s breast had to be an uncomfortable business. She found that the idea was not so very frightening. She hadn’t lived long enough to commit all that many sins, even if she’d wanted to. She tried to recite as much of the declaration as she could remember. “I have not committed robbery with violence, I have not stolen, I have not slain man or woman, I have not destroyed grain, I have not...”

“You have not died,” said the physician. His Greek was Latin-accented, but he clearly understood enough Egyptian to recognize the words Charmian had been speaking. “The asp that bit you had already spent most of its venom. And your friend certainly hasn’t died, either.”

“I saw her die.”

“Nonsense. Healthy young women don’t drop dead for no reason. She fainted, that’s all, as people sometimes will if they spend the day climbing monuments and hauling other people up monuments in the Egyptian sun without taking any food or drink. A mug of small beer and a plate of fruit, and she was right as rain. You will be, too, with time and proper treatment.”

“I don’t want to live,” said Charmian. The soothsayer’s words came back to her. You shall outlive the lady whom you serve. She had done that; she did not wish any more time on earth. “I don’t want to be conquered, I don’t want to be taken to Rome in chains, I don’t want to be part of Caesar’s triumph.”

“There is another way.” A different Roman voice, not the physician’s. Charmian lifted her head. The man who had just entered the room was Proculeius, the only one of Caesar’s men whom Antony had advised her lady to trust.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know how one becomes a scholar, young lady?”

“Not really,” said Charmian. Such a thought had never crossed her mind.

“One fights – and defeats – a snake. In the case of the Egyptian asp, I think mere survival counts as a defeat. And several of the guards saw you reach into the basket of figs and seize an asp, so there can be little doubt that you fought one.” Proculeius coughed. “Nobody saw precisely what occurred with Queen Cleopatra’s other lady-in-waiting, for she was already lying in seeming death when the guards entered, but as far as I am concerned,” – he held up a hand, warning the physician not to interrupt – “the likeliest explanation is that she did the same. I have already sent letters to that effect to the Mouseion in Alexandria.”

“Wasn’t it burnt?”

“Not all of it. Only the library, and they are building it up again. If you and the other young lady can write, they will put you to work copying texts. If you cannot, they will teach you. Scholars, you understand, make no very impressive addition to a triumph. Most of them – present company excepted – are not much to look at. In any case, Caesar treats philosophers with respect; he will not take captives from the Mouseion.”

Iras spoke for the first time. “It seems ... a respectable life. Better than any of the other prospects before us. I think we ought to go.”

“But we’re not scholars.” Charmian thought of the days she had passed in drinking and jesting, helping the Queen to dress and soothing her moods, flirting with Alexas and teasing Mardian the eunuch. There wasn’t anything remotely scholarly or philosophical in any of that. “We won’t belong there.”

“Perhaps we may come to belong, in time,” said Iras.

“You will,” said Proculeius. “There have been women scholars there before, though not many; and every scholar was a beginner once. Have you any particular subject you might like to study or teach?”

“History,” said Charmian promptly. She had heard it said that history was written by the victors, but she thought, perhaps, the conquered might have something to add. And it was a subject on which she and Iras might have some relevant expertise. Her lady was part of history now, she supposed, and Antony, and Julius Caesar before him. And even Domitius Enobarbus, who had spoken once – Charmian thought she was the only one who had overheard – of how one who keeps faith with a fallen lord earns a place i’th’ story.

“A very good choice,” said Proculeius. “I will write to the Mouseion and tell them to expect you both as soon as you are well enough to travel.”

* * *

Many years later, when Charmian and Iras were stout and grey-haired and, as Proculeius had said of scholars, not much to look at, they wondered whether burying them here had been part of Caesar’s plan from the beginning. Fewer and fewer students came to the Mouseion every year; conquered Alexandria had been eclipsed by other centers of learning.

Still, its institutions clung to life. And still, Charmian and Iras told the story of Cleopatra’s last days to all of those who came and wished to listen.

Chapter Text

Help me, Lysander, help me! Do thy best
To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast!
Ay, me! For pity, what a dream was here!
Lysander, look how I do quake with fear;
Methought a serpent eat my heart away...

“I demand admission to the Lyceum,” said Hermia, “where I intend to set up as a peripatetic philosopher.”

“You? What, exactly, are your qualifications, little girl?”

Hermia elected not to scratch out the Scholarch’s eyes, although it was tempting. She drew herself up, instead, to her full height, although it was difficult to impress anyone that way when you were only four-foot-eleven, and said, “My name is Hermia, daughter of Egeus and wife of Lysander. I fought a snake. Without any help from my betrothed, or from any other man.”

“You dreamed you fought a snake,” said the Scholarch. “You said so in your testimony before the Duke. Dreams don’t qualify.”

“How do we know what is a dream, and what is truth?” asked Hermia. “The whole Lyceum has been debating the question, hasn’t it, ever since my companions and I returned from the wood? And several of your own scholars have argued that what seemed to us, on the following morning, to be a dream must have happened in truth, else our stories could not have agreed so perfectly.”

“Duke Theseus thinks not.”

“Hippolyta, the Duchess, thinks so. And she also says that in her own country, the country of the Amazons, women are not only warriors and hunters, but founders of cities and temples. Why not philosophers, also?”

“It’s a question of nature,” said the Scholarch. “Of intellectual capacity.”

“How do you know where nature leaves off and human choices begin?” Hermia demanded. “And how can you tell what someone’s intellectual capacity is if you don’t let them try it out? For example, by allowing them to engage in debate in the Lyceum?”

“Maybe you are a philosopher, at that,” admitted the Scholarch. “You’ve certainly mastered the asking-irritating-questions part. Whether your answers will be at all interesting is another matter.”

“I may enter?”

“You may enter. Your place will be at the far end of the peristyle. The farthest away from me, that is.”

“But doesn’t ‘peripatetic’ mean –”

The Scholarch sighed.

Chapter Text

The serpent that did sting thy father’s life
Now wears his crown...

“You again,” said Dr. Valdes.

“I’m here with my son, this time.” The late King of Denmark gestured toward a second ghost, younger and slighter of form. “You know him. And you know as well as I do that he deserves his doctorate.”

“His thesis,” Valdes acknowledged, “is an excellent work of scholarship, even in its unfinished state. We could have justified awarding his degree posthumously, had that been the only requirement. But he hasn’t defeated a snake.”

“He has. My brother’s dead, isn’t he? And it was by Prince Hamlet’s hand. I call that defeating a snake.”

“Your brother wasn’t literally a snake. Metaphorical ones don’t count.”

“Claudius claimed to be a snake,” insisted the old King. “That is to say, he took oaths before God and man that I had been killed by a snake, and since it has subsequently been proved that he himself was my killer – it seems clear that he ought to be taken at his word. That’s disputation, that is. My son taught me how.” (Prince Hamlet did not directly contradict this, but he looked as if he wished to disclaim any credit for this particular argument.)

“You can’t claim to be a snake,” said Valdes. “That is – you can, but not truthfully. Snakes can’t talk.”

“Yes, they can,” said the King. “Citation, third chapter of the Book of Genesis. Are you going to argue with Moses?”

Young Hamlet looked increasingly embarrassed. “Father, please –”

“Oh, I forgot, this is Wittenberg, isn’t it? Your faculty argue with God, don’t they, and occasionally get dragged down to hell by devils. Tell me again about your rigorous academic standards, and how granting my son the doctorate that he earned is going to damage them any further?”

“I think,” said Valdes, now equally embarrassed, “that it might be ... reasonable to regard the prince as having defeated a snake.”

“Very well,” said the king. “Now – how about a faculty position for him? And a personal assistant. He’s going to need an amanuensis to do any writing, you understand, and, as I understand your university regulations, incorporeality is considered a bona fide disability that entitles him to accommodations...”

* * *

“You didn’t have to do that, Father.”

“I did. You gave your life for me. And you gave up your chance to be king. I can at least give you this.” King Hamlet gestured toward the quadrangle. “It’s what you want, isn’t it? What you’ve always wanted.”

“Yes.”

“Then say no more. Also, you are going to make an excellent philosophy professor, and Wittenberg is lucky to have you.”

“I hope so.” Young Hamlet looked doubtful, although, since that was his usual expression, his father wasn’t sure how much to read into it. “It’s not a tenure-track position, you know. They don’t hire people who are already dead for those; they don’t want you hovering about forever-and-forever.”

“Can you make them change their minds about that?”

“Perhaps. I’ve certainly got enough time, haven’t I?” His son was starting to sound a bit like his old self, King Hamlet noted with relief. “I expect they’ll also see some advantages when they realize ghosts don’t have any particular need for money. The day may come when they stop hiring the living, instead ... by the way, did we ever talk about academic labor practices when you were king?”

“Not that I can remember. Tell me.”

Hamlet started to tell him and then stopped, the way he always did when his mind got sidetracked by an unexpected twist of thought. “But whatever did you want with a doctorate, Father? That’s the part I still don’t understand.”

“Why did you work so hard to become an expert fencer?”

“I wanted you to be proud of me,” said Prince Hamlet, and then did a double take. “Oh. Really?”

“Really.”

The two ghosts walked hand in hand across the quad.