The Novels of Alexander the Great

by Mary Renault

  “What name?” He looked up; he was always very serious about dreams.

  “The name he told me, when they dragged him away to kill him. ‘Orxines,’ that was what he said. ‘Remember the name. Orxines.’”

  “Lie down, and be quiet a little. You know, I told you today Orxines was a villain. I expect that gave you the dream.”

  “No. I remember how he said it. His voice was different, because his nose was gone.” I shivered. He covered me up and warmed me.

  Presently he said, “It’s not such a common name, but there may be others. Would you know this man again?”

  “There was one lord from Persepolis. If that was he, I’ll know him.”

  “Listen. Be near when I give him audience. I’ll say to you, ‘Bagoas, have you written that letter?’ If it’s not the man, say no, and go out. If it is, say yes, and stay; and I promise you, he shall know you before he dies. We owe it to your father’s spirit.”

  “That was his last wish, that I’d avenge him.”

  “You loved him. In that, at least, you were fortunate … Come, sleep. He knows you have heard him now, he will not trouble you.”

  Next day the satrap came in state, as if confirmed in the rank already. He advanced to the throne, where Alexander sat in his Persian robes, and made the prostration gracefully. He had always had polished manners. His beard was grey now, and he’d grown a paunch. He made a tasteful speech about his seizure of the satrapy, all for the sake of good order and the King.

  Alexander listened calmly, then beckoned me. “Bagoas, did you write that letter I spoke of?”

  I answered, “Yes, lord King. You may be sure of it.”

  So I was there to hear him charged with his many murders. Strange that I only remembered him as my father’s friend whom everyone trusted. He seemed the same man still, so amazed to hear such things about himself that I almost doubted them, till Alexander took him by surprise with something proven. Then his face grew horrible; I would not have known him.

  He was tried soon after. The kin of his victims testified; many in rags, their fathers having been killed for their estates. Then came the guardians of the royal tombs of Persepolis, those who had not resisted; the rest were dead. Darius the Great had given him the most loot, but he’d done well with Xerxes, and had robbed my own dead master of his modest grave-goods; he seemed surprised at Alexander’s minding that. Of stripping Kyros’ bones he could not be convicted, since there were no witnesses; but it made no difference.

  Alexander said at the end, “You chose yourself to be shepherd of your people. If you had been a good one, you would have left here with honor. You have been a beast of prey, and you shall die like one. Take him away … Bagoas, speak to him if you wish.”

  As they were leading him off, I touched his arm. Even then, he had contempt to spare for a eunuch. I said, “Do you remember Artembares son of Araxis, your friend and host, whom you betrayed when King Arses died? I am his son.”

  I’d doubted it would mean much to him, after all the rest. But he had enough pride of birth to feel it. He flung off my hand; if he could, he would have stamped me underfoot. “Do I owe all this to you, then? I should have thought to buy your favor. Well, old times come round again. A eunuch rules.”

  Alexander said, “A eunuch shall hang you, since he is the better man. Bagoas, I leave it in your charge. See it done tomorrow.”

  I had nothing, really, to do; the captain whose usual work it was saw to it all, and only turned to me for the order to hoist him up. He kicked and writhed, on the high gallows against the wide sky of Pasargadai. I was ashamed to find it distasteful and take so little pleasure in it; it was disloyal to my father, and ungrateful to Alexander. I prayed in my heart, “Dear Father, forgive me that I am not a warrior, and have embraced my destiny. Accept this man through whom you died, and who robbed you of your son’s sons. Give me your blessing.” He must have given it; for he never again returned to me in dreams.

  Ptolemy has only put in his book that Orxines was hanged “by certain persons, under Alexander’s orders.” I expect he thinks it showed some loss of dignity, to have brought me forward. Never mind. He does not know of the night, while I was still a boy, when my lord drew the story out of me. He was very true to his promises, as Ptolemy himself has written.

  He gave the satrapy to Peukestas, who had saved his life in the Mallian city. After Orxines, no one blamed him for not appointing a Persian; but he did the nearest thing. Peukestas had come to love the land; he understood us, and liked our way of living, even our clothes, which he was well made to wear; he had often practiced his Persian on me. He ruled the province well, as much loved as Orxines had been hated.

  We rode on to Persepolis. Alexander would have been there all this while, if there’d been a palace for him. Far off from the Royal Road we saw on the broad terrace the blackened ruins. He pitched his tent in open country outside; and I slipped away, to see what was left of the splendors Boubakes had wept for.

  Already sand was drifted deep on the royal stairway, where the cavalcade of the lords had ridden. The sculpted warriors on the frieze marched up towards the roofless throne room, where only the sun held court between columns carved like flowers. Charred beams littered the harem; in its walled garden, a few tangled roses grew in a bed of cinders. I went back, and said nothing of where I’d been. A long time had gone by, since that feast of young men with torches.

  At night he said, “Well, Bagoas, but for me we’d be better lodged tonight.”

  “Don’t mourn for it now, Al’skander. You will build something better, and hold the feast as Kyros did.”

  He smiled. But he was brooding about Kyros’ tomb; he was a great one for omens. Now these bones of grandeur, black and ragged against an angry sunset, revived his grief.

  “Remember,” I said to him, “how once you told me the blaze was godlike, an upward waterfall? How the tables were set with flame?” And I was going to add, “No fire without ash, Al’skander.” But a shadow brushed me, and I closed my mouth on it.

  We marched on towards Susa, where we were to meet Hephaistion’s army. It grew cold in the passes, but the air was sweet and the great spaces stirred my heart. Alexander was happy too; he had some new plan, which he was not telling me yet. I felt him spark with it, and awaited his good time.

  But one evening he came in looking troubled, and said, “Kalanos is sick.”

  “Kalanos? He’s never ill. He was even well in the desert.”

  “I sent for him this evening; I felt like a talk with him. He sent back asking me to go to him.”

  “He sent for you?” I must admit, it shocked me.

  “As a friend. I went, of course. He was sitting as he always does at his meditations, only propped against a tree. He usually gets up when I come, though he knows he needn’t. But he asked me to sit down by him, because his legs had failed.”

  “I’ve not seen him since Persepolis. How did he march today?”

  “Someone lent him a donkey. Bagoas, he looks his age. When first he came to me, I’d no notion how old he was, or I’d never have taken him from his home. A man of seventy can’t change all his bodily habits without harm. He’d lived for years in peace, every day the same.”

  “He came for love of you. He says your fates were joined in some other life. He says …” I paused, having run on too fast. He looked up, saying, “Come, Bagoas.” At last I answered, “He says you’re a fallen god.”

  He was sitting naked for the bath, on the edge of his bed, with his hands on his sandal. Since first he was my lover, he’d never let me undo his shoes, unless he was wounded or dead tired, when any friend would do it. Now he sat still, his brows creased in thought. In the end he only said, as he took off his sandal, “I tried to get him to bed, but he said he must finish his meditation. I should have ordered it. But I left him there.” I understood that; it was what he’d have wished himself. “I don’t like his look. He’s too old to force his strength. Tomorrow I’ll send a doctor.”

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nbsp; The doctor came back to report that Kalanos had a swelling in his entrails, and should travel in the sick-wagon. He refused, saying it would disturb his meditation, and that the foolish beast his body, if it would not obey, at least should not command him. Alexander gave him a soft-stepping horse to ride, and after each day’s march went to see how he was; which was always thinner and weaker. Others went too; General Lysimachos for one was very fond of him; but sometimes Alexander would stay alone. One evening he came back so distressed that all his friends remarked it. It was not till we were alone together that he said, “He is resolved to die.”

  “Al’skander, I think he is in pain, though he does not say so.”

  “Pain! He wants to die by burning.”

  I exclaimed in horror. It would have shocked me in the execution place at Susa. Besides, it was a pollution of holy fire.

  “I felt the same. He says in his own country women do it, rather than outlive their husbands.”

  “So say the men! I saw it done to a child of ten, and she wished to live. They drowned her screams with music.”

  “Some do consent. He says he will not outlive his life.”

  “Could he get well?”

  “The doctor won’t answer for him. And he won’t accept a regimen … I didn’t refuse him flat; he might have done it himself at once, as best he could. With every day’s delay, there’s just a chance he might take a better turn. I don’t think so now; I think I can see the death-marks. But one thing I’m resolved on; when he goes, he goes like a king. If it’s true we live many lives, he was that before.” He paced about a little, then said, “I will be there, as his friend. But I cannot watch it.”

  So we reached Susa. Nothing was stranger to me than that. The Palace was just the same; even some old eunuchs, who had not marched with Darius, were still bustling about. When they learned who I was, they thought I must have been very clever.

  Strangest of all was to stand again in the lamp-shadows of the golden vine, and see that head on the pillow. Even the inlaid casket was on the bed-table. I found him looking at me. He held my eyes, and stretched out his hand.

  Afterwards he said, “Was it better?” He couldn’t even wait to be told, supposing he’d needed telling. In some things, he was like a child.

  The fountain court with its birds had been looked after. Alexander said it was just the place for Kalanos. He lay in the little room there; and each time I came to see him, he would ask me to open a cage. I hadn’t the heart to tell him they were foreign birds, and might have trouble to make a living. It was his last pleasure, to watch them fly.

  Hephaistion’s army, with the elephants, had arrived before us. Alexander told his friends what Kalanos wanted, and ordered Ptolemy to prepare a royal pyre.

  It was like a king’s divan, decked with banners and garlands; underneath, it was filled with pitch and terebinth and tinder, and whatever would give the quickest and fiercest flame, mixed with Arabian incense.

  In the square before the Palace, where all great ceremonies had been held since Darius the Great, the Companions stood drawn up, with the heralds and the trumpeters. On the fourth side were the elephants, newly painted, with sequinned draperies and gilded tusks. King Poros could have asked no more.

  Alexander had chosen the cortege; the handsomest Persians and Macedonians on the tallest horses, in all their arms; then the offering-bearers, with grave-goods enough for a royal tomb, cloths sewn with gems and pearls, gold cups, vases of sweet oil and bowls of incense. They were to be laid on the pyre and burned with Kalanos. Alexander came in Darius’ chariot, draped in white for mourning. His face looked drawn and set. I think he had devised all this magnificence, not just to honor Kalanos but to make it a little bearable.

  Last of all came the living dead. Four big Macedonians carried his litter shoulder-high. The splendid Nisaian charger he had been meant to ride on, but was too weak to mount, was led beside him, to be sacrificed by the pyre.

  He wore a thick wreath of flowers on his neck and breast, as the Indians do on their wedding day. As he came near, we heard that he was singing.

  He still sang to his god, as they laid him on the bier. Then, at this funeral of the living, his friends came up to take their leave.

  All kinds of people came; generals and troopers, Indians, musicians, servants. The offering-bearers began to pile their gifts on the pyre. He smiled, and said to Alexander, “How like your kindness, to give me remembrances for my friends.”

  He gave away everything; the horse to Lysimachos, the cloths and the rest to all who’d known him well. To me, when I took his hand, he gave a Persian goblet worked with a lion, saying, “Do not fear, you shall drink to the very end, and no one shall take that from you.”

  Last came Alexander; we moved aside from respect, as he leaned over to embrace him. But Kalanos said quietly—only those nearest heard—“We need not say farewell. I will be with you in Babylon.”

  All now withdrew. The torch-bearers came up, a troop of them to make the kindling quicker. As the flames leaped, Alexander shouted for the battle-paean. The trumpets sounded; the soldiers yelled; the mahouts cried to the elephants, who lifted their trunks, and blared the salute they give to kings.

  He was always tender to the pride of those he cared for. Feeling sure no old sick man could bear that searing pain without a cry, he’d ensured it should not be heard. He bowed his head as the fire rose roaring, and did not look. But I can witness that Kalanos lay with folded hands, while the flowers beneath them shriveled; he neither changed countenance nor opened his mouth. I only watched till he began to be disfigured; but all who watched to the end agreed that he did not stir.

  He’d made Alexander promise to feast for him, not mourn; good healing wisdom, except that not touching wine himself, he’d never feasted with Macedonians. They were all rather mad that night, from horror or grief or both; someone proposed a drinking-contest by way of funeral games, and Alexander offered a prize. I think the winner downed two gallons. Many lay senseless until morning, on the couches or the floor; not the way to pass a cold winter night in Susa. The winner died of a chill, along with several more; so Kalanos got more than a horse for sacrifice.

  Alexander had judged, not competed; he came to bed on his feet, already sobering and growing sad again.

  “What did he mean,” he said to me, “that he’d be with me in Babylon? Will he be reborn as a Babylonian? How shall I know the child?”

  26

  IT WAS NEXT DAY that he asked me, “You have never seen Queen Sisygambis, have you?”

  I heard the name as if in an ancient tale. She was the Queen Mother of Persia, whom Darius had left behind at Issos. “No,” I said, “she was with you already, before I joined the Household here.”

  “Good. I want you to see her for me.” I had quite forgotten that it was here at Susa he’d installed her and the young princesses, soon after the Queen had died. “If she would remember you at court, it might not quite do, you understand. But since she won’t, I should like to send her someone charming, after so long with only letters and gifts. You remember, you chose me a chain of turquoises for her, at Marakanda? You’ll find her well worth meeting. Give her my loving respects; say I’ve been impatient to see her, but business has held me back. Ask her if she’ll do me the favor of receiving me in about an hour; and give her this.” He showed me in its casket a necklace of Indian rubies.

  I made my way to the Harem. When last I went, I had walked behind Darius, smelling the perfume from his robe.

  At the Queen’s entry, where I had never been, an old stately eunuch was fetched to sanction me. He was gracious, giving no sign of knowing what I had been, though of course such people know everything. I followed him down a corridor with sun-fretted lattices, and through an anteroom where matron ladies sat talking or playing chess. He scratched at a door beyond, announced me and who had sent me, then withdrew.

  She sat straight in a tall straight chair, her arms along the chair-arms; over their ram-head ends, her finger
s showed as fine as ivory spindles. She wore dark blue, with a dark blue veil over thin white hair. Her face was colorless, the face of an old white falcon brooding on its crag. Round her neck was the chain of turquoises from Marakanda.

  I prostrated myself, with as much care as the first time before Darius. As I rose she spoke, in the high cracked voice of age.

  “How is my son the King?”

  It struck me dumb. How long had it been like this with her? She had had his body to deck for burial. Why had no one warned Alexander that her wits had gone? If I told the truth, she might fly into a frenzy, tear me with those long ivory nails, or dash her head on the wall.

  Her old eyes stared at me fierce and bright, from their wrinkled lids. They blinked quickly once or twice, like an un-hooded falcon’s. They looked impatient. My tongue would not move. She struck one hand upon the chair-arm.

  “I am asking you, boy, how is my son Alexander?” Her dark piercing gaze met mine, she had read my thought. She lifted her head against the chair-back. “I have only one son a King. There has never been any other.”

  Somehow I came to myself, remembered my training, gave her my message in proper form, and, kneeling, offered Alexander’s gift. She lifted out the rubies in both hands, and called to two old waiting-ladies by the window. “See what my son has sent me.”

  They admired, were allowed to touch, while I knelt with the casket till someone should think to take it, and remembered the son she had thrown away.

  He must have guessed, after he fled at Issos; who could have known her and not guessed? It had only remained for him to know that his place was filled. In the fountain court I had played my harp softly, to soothe a grief I only now understood. It was this had turned his rage on poor Tyriotes. Did he know she’d refused his rescue at Gaugamela? Perhaps they had kept that from him. Well that they had not met again; poor man, he’d had sorrow enough.

  She noticed me in time, and motioned one of her ladies to take the casket. “Thank my lord the King for his gift, and say I shall receive him gladly.” When I went out, she was still stroking the jewels on her lap.