by Mary Renault
The audience did not go well. There had been petitioners out from Macedon to plead causes against the regent. Kassandros was too hasty, in saying they had come to be well away from all the evidence; I think one, at least, had been sent by Queen Olympias. Only one man had ever been allowed to speak against her to Alexander, and he was dead. Alexander broke the audience off, and asked Kassandros to wait while he saw some Persians.
Barbarians before him! I could see his fury. He stepped back, and the Persians, who were below the rank of Royal Kin, made the prostration.
Kassandros sneered. It is not true, as some say, that he laughed aloud. He was an envoy with work to do. Nor is it true that Alexander knocked his head on the wall. He had no need.
It is true the sneer was open; I suppose anger made him reckless. He turned to some companion he’d brought with him, pointing a finger. Alexander let the Persians rise, spoke to them, dismissed them; then stepped down from the throne, grasped Kassandros in one hand by the hair, and stared into his face.
I thought, He is going to kill him. So did Kassandros I daresay. But it was more than that. It was more than the kingly power, more even than the word of Ammon’s oracle. He had been through fire and darkness. All he needed was to lay it bare. Kassandros stared as the bird does at the serpent, white with pure naked terror of man for man.
“You have leave to go,” said Alexander.
It was a good way to the doors. He must have known his fear had marked him like a brand, and all we creatures of his scorn had seen it.
Later on, when I had Alexander alone, I said to him, “Hate like that is dangerous. Why don’t you pack him off home?” He answered, “Oh, no. He’d go back and tell Antipatros I’m his enemy; urge him to revolt, kill Krateros when he gets there, and seize Macedon. Antipatros might do it, if he was put in fear of his life. Let alone, he has more sense. If I meant him harm, I’d hardly have his other son as cupbearer. He’s been where he is too long, that’s all. No, till Krateros is in Macedon and Antipatros leaves it, Kassandros stays here under my eye … Hephaistion could never stand him, either.”
In earlier days, I’d have begged him to have the man put quietly out of the way. I knew that what he would not own to, he would not do. It is my life’s regret I did not take it on myself in secret. It torments me, to think that with one little phial I might have quenched that murderous hate that has pursued my lord even beyond the tomb; his mother, his wife, the son I never saw, who would have given us something more of him than memory.
Summer came on. All Persian kings would have been at Ekbatana. I knew he would never ride through those gates again; I was only glad he had the fleet and harbor to keep him busy. It was four months since the Chaldeans’ prophecy. Except when I saw the new Bel temple going up, I could almost forget them.
Soon we left the city for a while. Down river, there were floods every year when the snows at its source were melting, and the people there, who were of old Assyrian stock, lived poor because of it. Alexander wanted to plan dams and canals against it, and make new farmlands. It was only a river cruise, but it cheered me to have him outside the walls.
He always loved rivers. The ships wound among man-tall reed-beds, the Assyrian pilots conning the channels. Sometimes great shade-trees met above, and we glided through green caves; sometimes we pushed through lily-pads in open pools; the river has many branches there. Alexander would stand in the prow, and sometimes take the helm. He had on the same old sun-hat he used to wear in Gedrosia.
The stream broadened between drooping willows which tossed in a flaw of wind. Among them stood blockish ancient stonework; with figures, worn by time and flooding, of winged lions and bulls, man-headed. When Alexander asked about them, the Babylonian shipmaster said, “Great King, those are the tombs of the old-time kings, when the Assyrians ruled here. This was their burial ground.”
On the words, a gust plucked off Alexander’s sun-hat, and whirled it overboard. Its purple ribbon, the symbol of royalty, was loosened and carried away. It whipped itself round the rushes beside a tomb.
The ship glided on by its own way; the rowers had shipped their oars. All along the craft passed a murmur of awe and dread.
A rower, a young quick swarthy man, dived off, struck for the bank, and unwound the ribbon. He paused with it in his hand, thought of the muddy water, and wound it round his head to keep it dry. Alexander took it with a word of thanks. He was quiet. I had all I could do not to cry aloud. The diadem had gone to a tomb, and passed to another head.
When his work was done, he went back to Babylon. I could have beaten my breast, at the sight of those black walls.
When he told the seers about the omen, they all said that the head which had worn the diadem ought to be struck off. “No,” he said. “He meant well and did what anyone might. You can give him a beating, if the gods demand some expiation. Don’t lay on too hard, and send him to me after.” When the man came he gave him a talent of silver.
We returned to nothing but prosperity. Peukestas proudly paraded a well-trained army of twenty thousand Persians. His province was in first-class order; he was better liked than ever. Alexander gave public commendations; and began a scheme for a new Persian-Macedonian force. No one mutinied; even Macedonians had started to think that Persians might be men. Some of our words were passing into their speech.
The day came, long waited for, when the embassy returned from Siwah.
Alexander received it in the Throne Room, his Companions round him on the silver couches. Ceremoniously, the chief envoy unrolled Ammon’s papyrus. He had refused to share his godhead; but Hephaistion still had his place with the immortals. He had been proclaimed a divine hero.
Alexander was content. After his first madness, he must have guessed it was as far as the god would go. Hephaistion could still be worshipped.
Commands went out to all the cities, to build him a temple or a shrine. (Here in Alexandria, I often pass the empty site near the Pharos. I expect Kleomenes, who was satrap then, took all the money.) Prayers and sacrifices were to be offered him, as an averter of evil. All solemn contracts must be sworn in his name, beside the names of the gods.
(The temple he should have had in Babylon was in the Greek style, with a frieze of lapiths and centaurs. That place is empty too. I don’t suppose one stone of all those sacred places was ever set on another. Well, he should still be satisfied. He had his sacrifice.)
Alexander feasted the envoys, in honor of Hephaistion’s immortality. The other guests were friends who would understand. He was lighthearted, almost radiant. One would have thought the omens all forgotten.
He was some days happy and busy, having drawings done for the shrines. He called on Roxane, whom he found healthy and strong; Sogdian women don’t make much of pregnancy. Then he pressed on with plans for the new mixed army.
It meant changes in all the forces. When he was ready to reassign commands, he sent for the officers, to appoint them. He was in the Throne Room; he knew well by now what proper ceremony means to Persians. The Household was assembled behind the throne.
It was now full summer and very hot. He broke off halfway through, to take his friends to the inner room for a drink of cold citron-water mixed with wine. They would not be long; it was not worth going away; we waited behind the empty throne and the couches, and talked of trifles.
We never saw the man, till he was among us. A man in shabby clothes, a common man among thousands, but for his face. To his crazed intentness, all of us were invisible. Before we had time to move, he had sat down on the throne.
We stared appalled, hardly believing. It is the most dreadful of all omens; that is why, through all our people’s history, it has been a capital crime. Some of us leaped forward to drag him off, but the old ones cried out in warning. It would unman the kingdom, for eunuchs to free the throne. They began to wail and to beat their breasts, and we joined their lamentation. For a while it lulls the mind, and one need not think.
The officers down in the hall, arouse
d by the noise, ran up in horror, seized the man and had him down from the dais. He stared about, as if bewildered by this concern. Alexander came out from the inner room, his friends behind him, and asked what was going on.
One of the officers told him, and showed the man. He was a common soldier, unarmed, an Uxian if I remember. Of us the King asked nothing. I suppose our outcry had told enough.
He walked over and said, “Why did you do this?” The man stood and blinked, without mark of respect, as if at any stranger. Alexander said, “If he was sent for this, then I must know who sent him. Don’t question him till I am there.”
To us he said, “Quiet. That is enough. The audience is open.” He finished the assignments, without carelessness, without haste.
At sundown, he came up to change his clothes. Now we were at Babylon, we had the whole ceremonial. It was I who handled the Mitra. Reading my eyes, as soon as was proper he sent out the rest. Before I could ask, he said, “Yes, we questioned him. I had it stopped. He knew nothing, not even what brought him there. He could only say he saw a fine chair and sat in it. He was due for court-martial, for repeated disobedience; of course he had not understood his orders. I am satisfied he was out of his mind.”
He spoke coolly and firmly. All my blood stood still. I had longed to know that the man had confessed to deceit and a human plot, though one look at his face had told me. It is the true omens, that come without intent.
“Al’skander,” I said, “this one you will have to kill.”
“That has been done. It is the law; and the seers said it was necessary.” He walked to the flagon-stand, filled a wine-cup and made me drink. “Come, make a better face for me. The gods will do what they will. Meantime we live, and they will that too.”
I swallowed the wine like medicine, and tried to smile. He was wearing a thin white robe of Indian stuff, for the summer heat, which showed his body like the robes the sculptors carve. I set down the cup and threw my arms round him. He seemed to glow from within, as always. He felt unquenchable as the sun.
When he was gone, I looked about at the images of gold and bronze and ivory, watching gravely from their stands. “Leave hold of him!” I said. “Are you not yet content? You died through your own fault, through disobedience, impatience, greed. Could you not love him enough to spare him that? Then leave him to me, who love him more.” They all looked back at me and answered, “Ah, but I knew him.”
More embassies came from the Greeks, garlanded as they come before their gods. Once more they crowned him; with gold fruiting olive, gold barley-ears, gold laurel, gold summer flowers. I can see him still, wearing each crown.
A few days later, his friends said that with all these triumphs, he himself had not yet celebrated his victory over the Kossaians. (They were now so much won over, he had taken some thousands into the army.) It was long, they said, since he’d held a komos; and the feast of Herakles was coming.
They meant no harm. Even the worst sought only favor; the best wanted in kindness to give him a carefree evening, make him remember his glory and forget his grief. The gods can do with anything what they will.
He proclaimed the feast, ordered sacrifices to Herakles, and gave the troops a free wine-issue all round. The komos began at sundown.
It was a sweltering Babylon night. They had soon done with the food. I had planned, with his friends, a small surprise for him; a dance of Macedonians and Persians, four a side, mock-war first and then friendship. We were bare, but for helmets and kilts or trousers. Alexander was very pleased with it, called me to sit by him on his supper couch, and shared his gold cup with me.
His face was flushed; no wonder, with the heat and wine, but there was a brightness about his eyes I didn’t like. I had had a quick rubdown to take off the sweat, but was of course still warm. When he put his arm round me, I felt that he was hotter.
“Al’skander,” I said under the noise, “you feel like fever.”
“No more than a touch. It’s nothing. I’ll turn in after the torch-song.”
Soon they took up the torches, and walked singing into the gardens, to get the night’s first cool. I slipped off to the Bedchamber, to see everything was ready. I was glad to hear the chant returning and tailing off. He came in. If we’d been alone, I’d have said, “To bed with you now, and quick about it.” But before the Household I always observed the forms. I stepped forward to take the diadem. His robe came off damp with sweat, and I saw him shiver. He said, “Just rub me down, and find me something a little warmer.”
“My lord,” I said, “you are not going out again?”
“Yes, Medios has a little party, just old friends. I promised to look in.”
I gazed at him in entreaty. He smiled and shook his head. He was Great King, not to be disputed with before the Household. It is in our blood, that such things must not be done; therefore we cannot do them, without the air of insolence. As I rubbed him down, my eye caught the stands of images. Why are you not here, I thought, now when you could be useful, to say, “Don’t be a fool; you are going to bed if I have to push you in. Bagoas, go and tell Medios the King can’t come”?
But the images held their hero poses; and Alexander in a Greek robe of fine wool went with his torchbearers down the great corridor with its lion frieze.
I said to the rest, “You may all retire. I will wait up for the King. I will have you called, if he needs attendance.”
There was a divan I slept on, if he was going to be late; his coming always woke me. The moon climbed the sky before my open eyes. When he came, the cocks were crowing.
He looked flushed and tired, and walked unsteadily; he’d been drinking, on and off, from sunset till dawn; but he was very sweet-tempered, and praised my war-dance. “Al’skander,” I said, “I could be angry with you. You know wine’s bad for a fever.”
“Oh, it’s gone off. I told you it was nothing. I’ll make up my sleep today. Come to the bath with me, you’ve been all night in your clothes.”
The first light shone through the screens, and the birds were singing. The bath left me refreshed and drowsy; when I’d put him to bed, I turned in myself and slept till nearly evening.
I went softly into the Bedchamber. He was just awake, turning restlessly. I went up and felt his brow. “Al’skander, it has come back.”
“Nothing much,” he said. “Cool hands. Don’t take them away.”
“I’ll have supper brought here. The river fish is good. And what about a doctor?”
His face hardened, and he moved his head from my hands. “No doctors. I’ve seen enough of them. No, I’ll get up. I’m having supper with Medios.”
I argued, implored; but he had woken cross and impatient. “I tell you it’s nothing. The swamp-fever, I expect. It’s over in three days.”
“Maybe for the Babylonians; they’re seasoned. It can be bad. Why can’t you take care of yourself? You’re not at war.”
“With you I will be, if you go on like a wet-nurse. I’ve been sicker than this, riding all day over mountains. Give out that I want to dress.”
I wished he’d been going to anyone but Medios, who would take no care of him, or notice anything wrong. He’d been a great supporter of Hephaistion in his quarrel with Eumenes; making it worse, I’d heard, for he had a biting tongue, and some of his gibes had gone abroad in Hephaistion’s name. No doubt his mourning had been sincere; but he’d not been slow to use the favor it brought him. He could speak honey as well as vinegar, knew how to amuse Alexander and make him laugh. Not a bad man; but not a good one either.
I was dozing, when Alexander returned. By the sky, it was not long past midnight. I was glad to get him back so early. “I left them at it,” he said. “The fever’s up a little. I’ll cool down in the bath, and get to bed.”
His breath shuddered as I disrobed him. He felt burning hot. “Let me just sponge you,” I said. “You ought not to bathe like this.”
“It will do me good.” He would hear no sense, but walked through in his bath-robe. He
did not stay in the water long. I dried him, and had just put on his robe, when he said, “I’ll sleep here, I think,” and made for the couch by the pool. I went quickly over. He was shaking with ague in every limb; his teeth were chattering. He said, “Get me a good warm blanket.”
In Babylon, in midsummer, at midnight! I ran off and fetched his winter cloak. “This will do till the cold fit’s over. I’ll keep you warm.”
I covered him with it, and threw my own clothes on top, then got under and held him in my arms. He was shivering worse than ever, yet his skin was scorching. He said, “Closer,” as if we were naked in a snowstorm. As I wrapped myself round him, the prophetic voice was silent, which had said at Ekbatana, “Carve this upon your heart.” It spared me; it did not say, “Never again.”
The shivering stopped, he began to feel hot and to sweat, and I let him be. He said he would sleep here where it was fresher. I dressed and waked the Keeper of the Bedchamber, to send what he would need, and a pallet for me. Before morning the fever lessened, he slept, and I closed my eyes.
I woke to his voice. The bathhouse was full of people tiptoeing about. He had just waked, and was ordering Niarchos to be summoned. Niarchos? I thought; whatever does he want him for? I had forgotten, in my concern, that it was getting near time for the Arabian voyage. Alexander was planning a morning’s work.
He walked to the Bedchamber to be dressed; then, since he could hardly stand, lay on the divan. When Niarchos came, he asked if the propitiation sacrifice for the fleet was ready. Niarchos, who I could see was disturbed by his looks, said yes, and asked who he would like to make the offering-prayer for him. “What?” he said. “I’ll make it myself, of course. I’ll go by litter, I’m a little shaky today; I expect this is the last of it.” He brushed off Niarchos’ protests. “It was the favor of the gods that brought you safe from Ocean. I sacrificed for you then, and they heard me. I shall do it now.”
They bore him off, under an awning against the crushing Babylonian sun, in which he stepped out and stood to pour the libations. When he came back he could scarcely touch the light meal I’d ordered; but he had in Niarchos and all his chief officers, with a clerk to take notes, and was four full hours talking of supply ships, water and stores.
