The Novels of Alexander the Great

by Mary Renault

  There was a feast at every halt, and plenty of wine; he had sent ahead to have it ready. Someone, Ptolemy or Hephaistion, devised a plan for getting him to take a rest himself. Craftily, they didn’t tell him he looked to need it, but said that after his conquests and ordeals, he should make the same progress Dionysos had done before him. They had two chariots lashed together, with a platform across, and couches, green wreaths and a handsome awning. With good horses from the city, it looked very fine, and he did not disdain it. There was room for him and a friend or two; and the troops cheered him along. A great deal has been made of this, with much nonsense about Bacchic revels; but that is what it comes down to. A good device; it gave him a ride on cushions.

  In fresh meadows, by sweet waters, under shady trees, we made our camp. He said to me, “It’s too long since I saw you dance.”

  Shockingly out of training as I was, I was young; the sap flowed back into me as into a watered vine; each day my practice moved from labor towards pleasure. Also it kept me from overeating; everyone’s temptation then, and a dangerous one for eunuchs. Fat once put on is not shed so easily. Even since youth is past, I have managed to avoid it. I have him to think of. I’ve no wish to hear people saying, “Is that what the great Alexander chose to love?”

  A racecourse was leveled, a square for trick-riding and such shows; and the carpenters ran up a very good theater. Singers and actors, dancers and acrobats were posting from everywhere in reach. All was gaiety, except for Alexander, who was getting news of what some of his satraps and governors had been up to, when they thought he was dying of his wound in India. In Gedrosia itself the satrap had been corrupt and slack. He was a Macedonian; Alexander put a Persian in his place. Meantime, the men must have rest and revelry; also he was awaiting Krateros and his army. Offenders elsewhere must wait.

  His greatest trouble was getting no news of the fleet. Along that dreadful coast, he’d been able to leave them nothing. They were long overdue; if they perished, he would take it on himself forever.

  Krateros and his throng arrived; our camp was once more a city. Roxane was in good health. Alexander paid his respects without delay, though he left again without much delay either.

  I fell in with Ismenios, asking about for news of me. We took wine under a tavern awning, and exchanged our tales. “I always knew,” he said, “that your bones were beautiful, but you must put a little more on them. But, Bagoas, the King! He looks—not older, I suppose—worn out.”

  “Oh, he’s building up,” I answered quickly. “You should have seen him a month ago.” And I spoke of other things.

  Just after, the governor of the district up the coast came posting by chariot, to say the fleet was safe, and Niarchos would be here directly.

  Alexander lit up as if he’d slept for a week, and gave the governor presents. Nobody knew that this man, being as stupid as greedy, had offered them no help to lay up their ships, nor given them transport; just rushed off with his news lest anyone should get the reward before him. Days passed; Alexander sent out an escort but it found no seamen. The governor, still at court, was suspect and put under open arrest; Alexander looked more careworn than before, but sent out another escort. On the second day, it brought back two gnarled wizened men, their bodies like rawhide thongs, tanned almost black: Niarchos and his first officer. The escort had not known them, even when they asked for Alexander.

  He came forward to embrace his boyhood friend, and wept. Seeing their state, he supposed them the sole survivors. When Niarchos told him the whole fleet was safe, he cried again for joy.

  They’d had many hardships and adventures, which are all in Niarchos’ book. Kretans are tough; he lived to campaign for years and write his memoirs. If you want to hear of huge whales who flee from the sound of trumpets, or the beastly lives of the Fish-Eaters, you can go to him.

  He and his men were feted; Alexander began to look something like himself again. He entertained his friends and honored the gods with festivals; and the revels followed. A whole crowd of entertainers had come in Krateros’ convoy; things could be done in style.

  There were games, of course. The riding-events were mostly won by Persians; the foot-races by Greeks, who are fonder of using their legs. (Alexander had given me two fine Karmanian horses.) Thracians won the archery. All the allies got a chance to shine. But we were almost in Persis now; when I saw him look with liking on my people’s graces, I knew he was one of us.

  The plays came next; all very Greek. Masks still came strange to me. When I confessed to Alexander that I’d sooner see the faces, he said he would agree if the face was mine. In this last month, I’d been teaching him once more to embrace delight, instead of pain. His very body felt different, strained into a habit of endurance. A little tending was what he needed; he looked years younger, when I’d loosened him up.

  After the drama, the music contests. The day after that, the dancing.

  There were nine or ten of us, from everywhere between Greece and India; some very good. This won’t be my day, I thought; I’ll just dance for him. If he likes it, that’s prize enough.

  I had just come from where water stood for joy. I wore white striped with green, and started with little tinkling finger-bells for the mountain stream. Then the river flashed and twisted, and took great leaps for the rapids; flowed in slow bends; and sank down, stretching out its arms for the sea’s embrace.

  Well, it was as he liked it. But it seemed all the army had liked it too. Considering how good some of the rest had been, I was amazed at the noise.

  The Indian, who came last, I thought a serious rival; he did Krishna with a flute; and the boy from Susa was very polished indeed. To tell the truth, I have never been too sure about that contest. If I was no better than the runners-up, I daresay I was no worse; and, as always, Alexander did not direct the judges. But the army did.

  It was for him, of course. I don’t think I was badly liked; I did not flaunt myself, nor intrigue, nor sell my influence. I’d been with him a long time now; I expect it touched them to see how his love endured. He had suffered; they wanted to see him happy; they had watched his face as I danced. They did it for him.

  The crown was of gold olive-sprays with sheet-gold ribbons. He put it on me, and stroked the ribbons to fall into my hair, and said softly, “Beautiful. Don’t go, sit here by me.” I sat on the edge of the dais by his chair; we smiled at one another. The army clapped and stamped; and someone with a voice of Stentor yelled, “Go on! Give him a kiss!”

  I looked down, confused. This was going too far, I wasn’t sure how he’d take it. They were shouting it all round the theater now. I felt him touch my shoulder. They had been with him a long time, too; he could tell affection from insolence. He drew me up into his arms, and gave me two firm kisses. To judge from the applause, they liked it better than the dancing.

  It is as well that Persian ladies do not attend public spectacles, as Greek ones do. I have always thought it a most immodest custom.

  That night he said to me, “You’ve won back all your beauty from the desert, or even more.” Well, that’s not so hard, at twenty-two, when you have never had a wound. He meant that it was good at last to feel a little life left to spare in him, at the end of the day.

  I made him happy, without putting too much tax on it; how, was my secret, he never knew the difference. He was content, which was all that mattered to me just then, and fell asleep straight after.

  When I rose, the cover slipped away, but he did not stir. I lifted the lamp and looked at him. He lay on his side. His back was smooth as a boy’s, his wounds were all in front. There was no weapon devised to cut, or pierce, or fling, that had not left its mark on him. His body was white against his sun-scorched limbs; it was long since he’d run in the ball-court naked with his friends, which had once so shocked me. In his side, the knotted scar dragged on his ribs; even now in his first sleep, his brow was not quite smooth. His eyelids were wrinkled, old in the face of a boy at rest. His hair shone paler than it used whe
n lamplight fell on it; the threads of silver had turned to streaks, since we marched into Gedrosia. He was thirty-one.

  I reached to pull up the cover. But I had to draw back, lest my tears should fall and wake him.

  25

  TO REST THE DESERT troops, he sent them under Hephaistion by the coast roads to Persia; it would be mild there when winter came. He himself, as always, had work to do. With a small force, mostly cavalry, he went straight up country, to Pasargadai and Persepolis.

  Had I been with Darius in time of peace, I should have known these places, the royal heartland of my country. It was Alexander who knew them. When we were up in the hills, he took me for an early ride, to taste, as he said, the clean air of Persia once again. I breathed it and said, “Al’skander, we are home.”

  “Truly. I too.” He looked towards the folded ranges, whose peaks had had the first snowfalls. “I’d say this only to you; shut it in your heart. Macedon was my father’s country. This is mine.”

  I answered, “You never gave me a greater gift than that.”

  A fresh wind blew from the heights; the breath of our horses steamed in it. He said “In Pasargadai, we shall lie in Kyros’ own house. Strange that you’re of his tribe, yet it will be I who’ll show you his tomb. I’ve trouble to deal with thereabouts; but that’s one thing I look forward to. Lucky we’re both slim; the doorway’s so narrow, even you will have to go sideways. They must have walled it half up against robbers, since they brought in that great gold coffin; it wouldn’t go through now. His grave-offerings are still on the dais around it; you shall see his swords, the very clothes he wore, and his jeweled necklaces. They gifted him well, they must have loved him. I added something too; he taught me what it means to be a king.” His horse fidgeted, tired of walking. “Behave,” he said, “or Kyros shall have you … I left orders to sacrifice one horse a month to him; they said that was the ancient custom.”

  Then we gave them their heads and galloped. His face was glowing, his hair flicked in the wind, his eyes lit up. When he told me, after, that he’d felt no more than a stitch in his ribs, I half believed him. Persis had done him good. I thought, Happiness begins again.

  Kyros’ palace was fine and spacious in its old simple way; solid, of black and white stone. The white columns stood out a landmark. Next morning early, Alexander set out to revisit the hero’s tomb.

  It was a short ride, through the royal park. A few friends came too (many had gone on with Hephaistion) but he kept me by him. The park had run wild, but was lovely in the gold of autumn; the game, so long unhunted, hardly heeded our passing. The tomb stood in a grove of shade-trees. Alexander had had water channeled there last time he came, and the grass was green.

  Kyros’ little house stood on a stepped plinth, a simple colonnade around it. Persian words were engraved over the door, which I could not read. Alexander said “I asked about that last time. It says, MAN, I AM KYROS SON OF KAMBYSES, WHO FOUNDED THE EMPIRE OF PERSIA AND RULED OVER ASIA. DO NOT GRUDGE ME MY MEMORIAL.” His voice shook a moment. “Well, let’s go in.” He beckoned the guardian Magi of the precinct. When first they came to prostrate themselves, I had thought they looked unhappy; the place was ill-kept and overgrown. He motioned them to unlock the door. It was narrow, very old, and made of some dark wood clasped with bronze. One Magus brought on his shoulder the great wooden key. It moved the bolt quite easily. He opened the door, and withdrew into the distance.

  “Come, Bagoas,” said Alexander smiling. “You first; he was your King.” He took my hand; we edged into the shadows. The only light was from the door; I stood by him, my eyes dulled from the sun outside, smelling ancient spices and mold. Suddenly he snatched away his hand and strode forward. “Who has done this?” Moving to follow him, I struck my foot on something. It was the thigh-bone of a man.

  I could see now. There stood the dais, stripped bare. The gold coffin lay lidless on the floor, hacked with axes to break off pieces that would go through the doorway. Scattered beside it were the bones of Kyros the Great.

  The entry darkened and lightened, as Peukestas, a biggish man, tried to get in and withdrew before he stuck. Alexander clambered fiercely into the sunshine. He was white with rage; the peak of his hair had risen. His eyes had looked less deadly when he struck down Kleitos. “Call the wardens,” he said.

  They were fetched from their house near by, while anyone who could squeeze inside the tomb described the desecration to those without. Alexander stood with clenched hands. The wardens were flung at his feet, and groveled.

  I interpreted, being the only other Persian there. Though of the priestly race, they seemed ignorant men, and terror made them foolish. They knew nothing, they had never entered the tomb, they had seen no one approach it, the thieves must have come by night (when their axes would have made a noise to wake the dead). They knew nothing, nothing at all.

  “Take them to the prison,” Alexander said. “I will have the truth.”

  He took me, to interpret their confessions. But neither fire nor pincers could change their story; nor could the rack; Alexander had it stopped before they were disjointed. “What do you think?” he said to me. “Are they lying or not?”

  “I think, Alexander, they have just been negligent, and are afraid to tell you. Perhaps they got drunk, or left the precinct. Maybe someone planned it.”

  “Yes, perhaps. If so they have had their punishment. Let them go.”

  They hobbled off, glad to get away so lightly. Any Persian king would have had them impaled.

  Alexander sent for the architect, Aristoboulos, who’d been with him at his first visit and inventoried Kyros’ grave-goods. He was to repair the coffin, and rehouse the poor bones in proper state. So Kyros lies in gold again, and owns precious swords, though not those he fought with, and rich necklaces, though not the ones he wore. Alexander gave him a golden crown; then ordered the door walled up with a single slab, so that he should not be disturbed again. He was in there alone, before the masons started, saying farewell to his teacher.

  A harsh welcome back to Persis. But harsher followed. Now he learned what had been done by men he’d left in trust, who had hoped he would never call them to account.

  Some had been faithful; but some had set up like tyrants in the lands left to their charge; had plundered the rich, taxed the peasants to skin and bone, worked off old grudges on men who’d broken no law; enrolled themselves private armies. One Median lord had proclaimed himself Great King. One satrap had dragged from a lesser lord his maiden daughter, raped her, and passed her on to a slave.

  I have heard it said that Alexander treated these people harshly. Tell that to someone who never saw what I did, when I was ten, and the soldiers came to my home.

  True, he grew hard, as proof after proof came in. True; after some time of this he punished beginnings. He said he’d learned the look of a budding tyrant, and what came after; and would depose them for showing the early signs. Whoever complained, it was not the peasants, nor the small lords of my father’s kind. That he would not let even his own race oppress our people, was a wonder everywhere. He had been gone so long, they’d forgotten what he was like.

  While he was away, one of the dearest friends of his childhood, a certain Harpalos, whom he’d left as treasurer at Babylon, had lived on the gold like a prince of India, set up his courtesans like queens, and fled with a load of money at the news of Alexander’s return. This hurt him far more than the revolt of former enemies. “We all trusted him; Hephaistion too, who never trusted Philotas. In exile he could always make us laugh. Of course, I had nothing then for him to steal. Perhaps he didn’t know himself what he really was.”

  All in all, he had enough to make him angry, before the new satrap of Persis obeyed his summons.

  He was new because he had seized the satrapy. The Persian Alexander gave it to had died half a year before; of sickness it was said, though maybe of something he ate. Now envoys came with gifts, and a long letter, declaring the usurper had sent messages to Alexander
, but getting no answer, had been looking after the province meanwhile, knowing of no one more fit to do it.

  I was in his upper room with him when he read this letter, and threw it down. “Fit to do murder, robbery and worse. He has ruled this province like a wolf in winter; I’ve heard it everywhere. Any man who crossed him, put to death without trial. He’s looted even the royal sepulchers.” His brows came together; he was remembering Kyros. Perhaps indeed the Magi had kept silent because of someone they feared more than the King. “Well, I’ve witnesses enough already. Let him come; I shall like to see this Orxines … Bagoas, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, Al’skander. I don’t know. I don’t know where I’ve heard that name.” It had been like some echo from a nightmare forgotten on waking.

  “Was he cruel to you when you were with Darius? Let me know, if you remember anything.”

  “No,” I said. “No one was cruel there.” Of my life before, I’d only told him that I had been bought by a jeweler who ill-used me. The rest, he would only have pitied; but I’d wished to bury it, to forget forever. Now I asked myself if this Orxines could have been some hated client; but his rank was too high; and the horror was even deeper. Perhaps I just dreamed it, I thought; I had bad dreams when I was a slave.

  That night, Alexander said to me, “Did they build this bed for elephants? Stay and keep me company.” It was years since he’d slept in a Persian royal bedchamber. We fell asleep quite soon. Dreams flung me into a terror long forgotten. My own scream woke me. It was the dead of night. Alexander was holding me to him. “See, you’re with me, all’s well. Whatever did you dream of?”

  I clung to him wildly, like the child I had just been. “My father. My father without his nose.” Suddenly I sat straight up in bed. “The name! I remember the name!”