The Novels of Alexander the Great

by Mary Renault

  The wound, though terribly torn and bruised, never went putrid. But as it healed, his sinews stuck to his ribs. Every breath caught him like a knife, then and long after. At first, a cough was such agony he had to press both hands to his side to hold it still. To the very end of his life, if his breath labored hard he was in pain. He hid it, but I always knew.

  On the third day he could speak a little; they gave him a taste of wine. So the generals came then, to scold him for his recklessness.

  Of course they were right. It was a wonder he’d lived till the arrow hit him. He had fought on with it in, till he fell lifeless. In his tent was the old shield from Troy, with which Peukestas had covered him; often I saw him look at it. He took the rebukes with patience; he had to, because of the men whom the ladder’s breaking had trapped along with him. One had died, he owed his life to the others. But he had done as he’d meant, and forced the men to follow him. The lover was still true to the beloved; it was their eager rush that broke the ladder. He couldn’t have foreseen that.

  Leonnatos told him all about the massacre, to show him their devotion. He said, “The women and all the children?” and took a sharp breath and coughed up blood. Leonnatos was brave, but never quick in the head.

  On the fourth day, when I was propping his pillows high to help him breathe, Perdikkas came in. He had been fighting on the far side of the town when Alexander was wounded. Having the highest rank, he was now in command; a tall man, dark-browed, both alert and steady. Alexander trusted him.

  “Alexander, you’re not fit to dictate a letter yet, so I’ve written one for you, with permission. It’s for Hephaistion to give out to the army. Do you think you can just sign it?”

  “Of course I can,” said Alexander. “But I won’t. Why disturb them? They’ll start to say I’m dead. We’ve had enough of that.”

  “It’s unfortunate; but that’s what they’re saying now. It seems someone carried the rumor. They believe we’re keeping it dark.”

  Alexander pushed with his good arm (the left one dragged at his wound) and nearly sat up. I saw a stain of red on his clean bandage. “Does Hephaistion himself think this?”

  “It may well be. I’ve sent a dispatch; but something from you would clinch it.”

  “Read me the letter.” He heard it through, then said, “Add to that, before I sign, that I’ll be coming in three days’ time.”

  Perdikkas brought down his brows. “Better not. When you don’t, it will make things worse.”

  Alexander’s hand gripped the blanket. The red on the bandage spread. “Write down what I told you. If I say I’ll go, I’ll go.”

  He went, seven days from when he took his wound.

  Once more I was with him on the river. He had a little tent in the stern. Though it was not far to the water, the litter’s jogging had worn him out. He lay like the dead. I remembered him standing in the prow, with the wreath on his hair.

  It took two nights and three days. For all I could do, a galley is short of comforts; and he felt the pull of the oars. He never complained. I sat by him, fanning off the water-flies, changing the dressings on his great half-scabbed wound, and thinking, It’s for Hephaistion you are doing this.

  Now, I can see he would have gone for the men alone. He had never named any deputy, in case he should be past choosing one, nor any successor if he fell. It was not that he would not think of death; he lived with it; but that he would not give one man such a place of power, or expose him to so much envy. He knew well enough how it would be at the camp, while they thought him dead. Three great generals were based there, Krateros, Ptolemy and Hephaistion, each with equal claim to the high command; the troops well knowing it; knowing too that if he were dead, the Indians would rise up behind them and before. Had I asked him why he was going, he would have answered, “It is necessary.” But I remembered his voice saying, “Does Hephaistion think that?” and I nursed my grief.

  It was late afternoon when the camp was sighted. He had dozed off. As he had ordered beforehand, the awning was furled up, to let him be seen. He was already among the army; the whole riverbank was thick with men awaiting the ship. When they saw him lie unmoving, a great wail broke out, spreading all along to the camp. It could not have been more if a Great King had died at Susa. But it was not custom that drew it from the Macedonians. Sheer grief wrung it out.

  He woke. I saw him open his eyes. He knew what it meant; they had felt what it was to be without him. I don’t blame him, if he let them feel it a little longer. The galley was almost at the quay, before he lifted his arm and waved.

  They roared and cheered and yelled. The noise was deafening. As for me, I was watching the three generals waiting at the landing-quay. I saw whose eyes he met first.

  A shaded litter was waiting. They put down his stretcher by it. He said something I could not hear, being still on board. It seemed he disliked the litter. Something always goes wrong, I thought, when I have to leave him to other people; what is it now?

  When I came down the gangplank, a horse was being led up. “That’s better,” he said. “They can see now whether I’m dead.”

  Someone gave him a leg-up. He sat as straight as if on parade. The soldiers yelled. The generals walked beside him; I hoped they were watching in case he fell. He’d not even been on his feet till the day before, and then for just long enough to make water.

  Then the men came up.

  They came in a great shouting wave, steaming with rank sweat in the Indian sun. The generals were shoved like nobodies. It was lucky they’d found him a quiet horse. The soldiers grasped at his feet, kissed the hem of his chiton, blessed him, or just got near and gazed. At last some of the squires fought through to him, knowing, as no one did on shore, the state he was really in. They led his horse towards the tent prepared for him.

  I squeezed through the crush like a cat under a gate. They were so carried away, they never even noticed it was a Persian pushing them. I’d heard enough by now from those who’d seen chest wounds in the field, of how a man would live till he tried to rise, then spew up a pool of blood and die in moments. About twenty paces from the tent, when I’d almost caught up, he drew rein. He knows he’s going to fall, I thought, and I struggled nearer.

  “The rest I’ll walk,” he said. “Just to let them know I’m alive.”

  He did it. They doubled the time for him, grasping his hands, wishing him health and joy. They tore flowers from the bushes, those waxen heavy-scented flowers of India, and flung them; some snatched wreaths from the shrines of Indian gods. He kept his feet, smiling. He never turned away love.

  He went in. Kritodemos the doctor, who’d come by ship with him, hurried after. Coming out and seeing me outside—he knew me well by now—he said, “He’s bleeding, but not much. What kind of stuff is he made of?”

  “I’ll see to him, as soon as the generals go.” I’d brought along a bag with the things I needed. Ptolemy and Krateros came out fairly soon. So now, I thought, the real wait begins.

  A crowd was milling before the tent. They seemed to think he would be giving audiences. The bodyguard turned them off. I waited.

  The palm trees were black against the sunset, when Hephaistion came out. “Is Bagoas there?” he asked the guard. I came forward. “The King’s getting tired, he’d like to be settled down.”

  Getting tired! I thought. He should have been settled an hour ago.

  It was hot inside. He’d been propped up, after a fashion. I did it again properly. A wine-cup was standing by him. “Oh, Al’skander!” I said. “You know the doctor said not, if you were bleeding.”

  “That’s stopped, it was nothing.” It was rest he’d needed to pick him up, not wine.

  I’d already sent for water, to sponge him down. “Whatever have you been doing with this bandage?” I asked. “The dressing’s slipped half off.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “Hephaistion wanted to see it.”

  I just said, “Lie over. It’s stuck.” I soaked it off, bathed him, put on
the salve, bandaged him, sent for his supper. He could barely eat. He was tired almost beyond rest. When I’d settled him, I sat quiet in a corner; he’d grown used to having me there when he went to sleep.

  A little later, as he was dropping off, he gave a great sigh. I came up softly. His lips moved. I thought, He wants me to fetch Hephaistion back to sit with him. But what he said was, “So much to do.”

  24

  SLOWLY HE MENDED. THE Mallians all sent envoys to surrender. He asked a thousand hostages, but, when they came, took that as proof of good faith and set them free.

  Processions of honor came from his Indian lands, laden with gifts; gold bowls full of pearls, chests of rare wood filled with spices, embroidered awnings, gold necklaces thick with rubies, more elephants. Grandest of all were the tame tigers, hand-reared from cubs, pacing on silver chains. Alexander thought them more kingly even than lions, and said he’d have liked to hand-rear one himself, if he’d had time to care for it properly.

  For each embassy he’d get out of bed, and be found enthroned as if he had nothing wrong with him. They always made long speeches, which had to be interpreted; he would reply, and be interpreted too. Then he would admire the gifts. I was afraid the tigers would smell his blood.

  The wound dried up, though it still looked dreadful. One morning he said to me, pleased as a child who’s pulled a loose milk-tooth, “Look what I got out,” and showed a great splinter of rib. After that the pain was less sharp; but skin was still stuck to sinews, sinews to bone; and, so the doctor said, the lung inside to that. It hurt him to breathe deep, or use his arm; his strength was slow returning. This did not stop him from doing all the business which had heaped up while he was on campaign.

  Soon after we arrived, Roxane came to his tent in her curtained litter, to greet her lord and ask how he did. She’d learned a little more Greek, as he told me after; it seemed she’d been gentle and meek and full of concern. I’d heard already that when the rumor came of his death, her screams had deafened the camp. Maybe it was true grief; on the other hand, she was still childless, and would have been no one at all, once he was gone.

  After a month or so, he was on his feet; and we took to the river again, towards where it joins the Indus. It was a royal progress. The stream was broad and smooth; he took with him by water ten thousand foot alone, besides cavalry and their horses. The ships had colored sails and painted eyes on their prows, and high stern-ornaments carved and gilded; half Greece, half India. It was good to see him stand again at his galley’s prow, looking ahead.

  Where the rivers join, he saw a fine site for a city, and set up camp. He still needed rest. We were there most of the winter; pleasant enough, though I missed the hills.

  Now he was settled somewhere, people were coming from as far as Greece. But one guest was unexpected; Oxyartes, Roxane’s father, arrived with his eldest son, in a good deal of state, Oxyartes claiming he was concerned about some revolt in Baktria. My own belief is, he’d come to see if his grandson, the next Great King, was on the way.

  There’d been little of Alexander’s Indian campaigning on which he could have taken Roxane if he’d wished; but I suppose Oxyartes had thought that where there’s a will, there’s a way. Alexander now claimed to be quite well, and was even riding (“It’s only a stitch, it just needs to be loosened up”), so could not blame his wound for slack attendance in the harem. For some weeks, in fact, he’d been well enough to make love—with someone who knew how to look after him. Therefore, I saw nothing of this state visit, having joined a pleasure-cruise up river, to view the crocodiles. One should always know when to vanish.

  As a parting gift, Alexander gave his father-in-law a satrapy. It was under Parapamisos, about as far east as one could go and still be in Baktria; and a very long way from the royal cities of Persia. He was to have joint rule with a Macedonian general, who, I suspect, was asked to keep him busy there.

  With spring, Alexander was ready to go west to Ocean. But between was all country of the ruler-priests, who gave him hard bloody wars. All peoples that acknowledged him, he welcomed in friendship; but if afterwards they rose up behind his back, he did not pardon easily. He could never bear with treachery.

  At first, he left to his generals the strenuous sieges. But it ate at him like a sickness; he was short even with me. It was not for long. He was off into battle, coming back ready to drop; whether he used his left arm for shield or bridle, it dragged at the stiffened wound. The doctor gave me some tinctured oil to soften it; the nearest to pleasure my hands could give him then, he was too tired for anything more.

  He now disposed his forces. Krateros was to go back to Persia through Khyber, and settle Baktria on his way; taking along the old and crippled soldiers, the elephants and the harem. I don’t know how Roxane took it; better, I should think, when she learned where Alexander was going next. Over winter, he had not quite neglected her; but there was no sign of the next Great King.

  Once on a time, I too would have been packed off by the easy way. Now it was never thought of. And even if I had foreseen what lay ahead, I would not have chosen it.

  It was summer, before the frontier was settled, the new cities and ports were founded, and we were ready for the Ocean.

  He did not embark an army; he went only to see the wonder; but we were still nearly a fleet. By now he’d rested from battle, to found a river-port, and was full of eagerness.

  The Indus near its mouth makes even the Oxos look a rivulet. It seemed itself a sea, till we first felt the wind of Ocean. It nearly blew us under. The fleet just got to land with no one drowned. I thought that, all in all, Ocean might have treated Alexander more kindly.

  The shipwrights made good; we set out with Indian pilots. Just as they said we’d almost reached the Ocean, it blew again; we ran for shore and moored the ships. And then the water went away.

  It went out and out. The ships were left high and dry, some in mud, some tilted on sandbanks. No one knew what to make of it; it seemed a most dreadful portent. Our seamen and rowers from the Middle Sea had none of them seen such a thing in all their days. The storm was just wind; but this …!

  Some men from Egypt said that if this was like the Nile, we might be stranded here half a year. No one could get much sense out of the Indians, who spoke some local dialect; they made signs that the water would come back, but we could not make out when. We made camp to wait.

  It returned with the fall of dark. Wave by wave it came lapping up, lifting the stranded ships, knocking their sides together. We prepared to remove the camp out of its path, not knowing how far to fly. But at the place where we found them first, the waters halted. Next morning they had sunk again. And this, as we learned when we’d found an interpreter for the Indians, Ocean does twice a day.

  Whatever they say in Alexandria, I promise this is no market-tale. Only last year, a Phoenician who’d sailed past the Pillars to Iberia told me that there it is just the same.

  Once more the ships were mended; and there at last stretched Ocean. At the land’s end, Alexander sacrificed to his special gods; then we put to sea.

  The breeze was light, the sky blue; the sea much darker, almost the color of slate. Small waves flung crystal spray. We passed two islands; then there was nothing between us and the very end of the world.

  When Alexander had gazed his fill, he offered two bulls to Poseidon. Ocean had acted strangely on my belly; at the smell of the blood, I had to run to the side. And there I saw a silver fish, slender, about two spans long, rise from the water, fly skimming above, the full length of a spear-cast, and splash back again. No one saw it but I; and no one believed me after, except Alexander. Even he did not quite like to have it put in the Journal. But by Mithra, I swear it’s true.

  The bulls were flung overboard to the god. Alexander was not just thanking him for the sight of Ocean; he was asking favor for his old friend Niarchos, and all the fleet. They were to put out to sea, and go coastwise right from the Indus to the Tigris, looking for coastal towns or s
ites for ports. If a trade route could be founded direct from Persia to India, saving the long perilous caravan trail, Alexander thought it would be a great thing for mankind.

  The coastal parts being reported harsh and barren, he would march the army alongside by land, to leave the fleet food-stores, and dig wells. Of course he chose the hardest part. We Persians all told him it was known for desert country, and Kyros himself had been in some trouble there. “The Indians claim,” I said to him, “that he only came through with seven men left. But that may be their vanity, because he’d meant to invade them.”

  “Well,” he said smiling, “he was a very great man. Still, we have gone a little further.”

  About midsummer, we set out.

  In spite of Krateros’ convoy, we were still a big force of many peoples. There was a crowd of the soldiers’ women and all their children; and the Phoenicians stuck to us. They will bear much hardship in the way of trade; and there was no knowing what we might come upon in unknown land. They found it well worth their trouble; that is, at first.

  Eastern Gedrosia is a land of spices. Spikenard with its furry clusters grew under our feet like grass, its bruised perfume filled the air. The gum on the little myrrh-trunks caught the sun like amber. Groves of tall trees dropped pale sweet petals on us. When the hills and vales of this pleasant land started to fall behind us, so did the Phoenicians. They stayed among the spices. They’d heard what was coming next.

  Spice-bushes turned to scrub, and trees to thorns. For green valleys, we had scoured watercourses carving dry earth, their stony beds bone-dry, or with a trickle you could barely fill a cup from. Mazes of soft rock were sculpted by weather into weird shapes of ruined forts, toothed battlements, or monsters rearing upright. Over plains of boulders and round stones we had to bruise our feet to save our horses’; then there would be cracked mud-flats, white with salt. Nothing grew, but what will grow without rain in stone or dust.

  At first there would be water not far off; by scouting inland the foragers got supplies. Alexander sent a load to the shore for Niarchos, with orders to find him water. The men came back saying they’d set up a seamark, but there was no place for a port. No one lived there, but wretched creatures shy and mute as beasts, wizened and hairy, with nails like claws. Their only food was fish, for the land bore nothing. For water there were little brack pools, not enough for a dog; it must be the wet in the raw fish that kept these people alive.