by Mary Renault
Days passed. The fever did not leave him. He meant, when the fleet sailed, himself to lead a supporting coast march, looking out for harbor sites; so he had to delay the sailing. Each morning he declared that he was better; each day he was carried to the household altar, to offer the morning prayer; each time he was weaker; each evening the fever began to mount.
The Bedchamber was full of people coming and going; the Palace, of officers awaiting orders. Though its thick walls kept out the sun, he craved for green shade and the sight of water, and had himself ferried across the river to the royal gardens. There he would lie under the trees, his eyes half closed, near a fountain that splashed into a basin of porphyry. Sometimes he sent for Niarchos and Perdikkas, to plan the voyage and the march, sometimes for Medios to gossip and play at knucklebones. Medios tired him, too proud of being chosen, staying too long.
Other times he chose the bathhouse, and had his bed set by the edge where he could step down easily; he liked to cool himself in the tepid water, to be dried sitting on the blue-tiled verge, and get back into clean sheets. He slept there too, for the cool, and the sound of the river lapping outside.
I did not leave him, for Medios, or the generals, or anyone else. I had put off easily my Palace dignities; the old man I had displaced gladly resumed them. I changed my court dress for serviceable linens. As Chief Eunuch of the Bedchamber, I would have had my daily offices, my occasions to withdraw. Now those who came saw only the Persian boy, holding a fan or drinking-cup, bringing blankets when an ague took him, sponging him and putting on dry sheets after a sweat, or sitting quiet on a cushion against the wall. I was safe, my place aroused no envy. Only one man would have taken it from me, and he was white ash on the winds of heaven.
When my lord sent the great men away, it was to me that he turned his eyes. I had one or two quiet slaves to fetch and carry; all the needs of his person I saw to myself. Thus people ceased to see me, more than the pillows or the water-ewer. They still sent to the Palace, by old custom, the pure spring water which had always been the drink of the Persian kings. It refreshed him; I kept it by him on the bed-table, in an earthen cooler.
At night I had my pallet set beside him. He could reach the water; if he wanted anything more, I always knew. Sometimes if the fever kept him restless he liked to talk to me, recalling old hardships and old wounds, to prove he would soon be victor of his sickness. He never spoke of the death-omens, any more than in the midst of battle he would have spoken of surrender. When he’d been ill a week, he still talked of marching in three days. “I can begin by litter, as soon as the fever’s down. This is nothing, to things I’ve thrown off before.”
They had given up asking him to have a doctor. “I don’t need the same lesson twice. Bagoas looks after me better than any doctor.”
“I would if you let me,” I said when they had gone. “A doctor would make you rest. But you think it’s only Bagoas, and do just what you like.” He had been carried out that day to sacrifice for the army. For the first time, he had poured the libation lying down.
“To honor the gods is necessary. You should be praising my obedience, gentle tyrant. I should like some wine, but I know better than to ask.”
“Not yet. You’ve the best water in Asia, here.” One reason I never went out when Medios came, was for fear the fool would give him wine.
“Yes, it’s good.” He emptied his cup; he’d only been teasing. When he grew lively, I knew the fever was coming up. But that evening it seemed less. I renewed my vows to the gods of what I’d give them for his recovery. When he rode out against the Scythians, the omens had been bad, but had been fulfilled by sickness only. I slept with my hopes reviving.
His voice woke me. It was still dark, the watch after midnight.
“Why have you not reported sooner? We have wasted half the night march. It will be noon, before we come to water. Why have you let me sleep?”
“Al’skander,” I said, “you were dreaming. This is not the desert.”
“Put a guard on the horses. Never mind the mules. Is Oxhead safe?”
His eyes wandered past me. I wrung out a sponge in mint-water and wiped his face. “See, it’s Bagoas. Is that better?” He pushed at my hand, saying, “Water? Are you mad? There’s not enough for the men to drink.”
His fever had mounted, at the time when it had always sunk. I tilted the cooler over the cup. It was half empty; and the stream was not clear but dark. It was wine. Someone had come while I slept.
Mastering my voice, I said softly, “Al’skander. Who brought the wine?”
“Has Menedas had water? Give it him first, he has fever.”
“We all have water, truly.” I emptied the cooler and filled it from the great jar. He drank thirstily. “Tell me, who gave you wine?”
“Iollas.” He had only named the King’s cupbearer. Disordered as he was, this may have been all he meant. Yet Iollas was Kassandros’ brother.
I went over to ask the night-slave, and found him sleeping. I had asked none of them to serve night and day, as I was doing. I left him as he was, lest being forewarned he should escape his punishment.
Alexander dozed restlessly till morning. The fever had not remitted, as it had at this time before. When they carried him to the household altar and put the libation cup in his hand, it shook so much that half the offering spilled before he could pour it. This change was from when he had the wine. Before, I could have sworn that he was mending.
The night-slave, when I questioned him, had known nothing; he must have slept for hours. I sent orders to the Household, that he should be flogged with the leaded whip. The night-guard squires knew nothing either, or so they said; it was not in my power to have them questioned. The bathhouse was harder than the Bedchamber to guard; someone might have slipped in from the river.
It was a grilling hot day. Alexander asked to be carried over to the shady place by the porphyry fountain. If a breath of breeze was stirring, one caught it there. I had stocked the summerhouse with everything he might need. As I settled him on the bed, I heard his breathing. It had a harshness which was new.
“Bagoas, can you prop me up a little? It catches me here.” He put his hand to his side.
He was naked but for the sheet. He had his hand to the wound from the Mallian arrow. This, I think, was the moment when first I knew.
I fetched pillows and eased him up on them. Despair was treachery while he fought on. He must not feel it in my voice, in my hands’ tenderness.
“I shouldn’t have had the wine. My own fault, I asked you.” He panted even from so few words, and pressed his hand to his side again.
“Al’skander, I never gave it you. Can you remember who did?”
“No. No, it was there. I woke and drank it.”
“Did Iollas bring it?”
“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes. I let him rest, and sat on the grass close by him. But he was resting to speak again. Presently he asked for the Captain of the Bodyguard. I went and beckoned him up.
Alexander said, “General order. All officers from commander up, assemble—in the inner courtyard—to await orders.”
I knew, then, that he began to guess.
There will be no farewell, I thought as I waved the palm-leaf fan to cool him and keep off the flies. He will not surrender. And nor must I.
A ferryload of his friends came over, to see how he was. I met them, to warn them he was short of breath. When they came up, he said, “I had—better—go back.”
The bearers were called. People crowded with him onto the ferry. He looked round and whispered, “Bagoas.” So one got out, and made room for me.
They took him to the Bedchamber, where winged gilded daimons guarded the great bed. Long ago, in another life, I had prepared it for another king.
We propped him on high pillows, but still heard the rasp of his breath. If he wanted anything, he spoke to me without voice, as he used when his wound was fresh. He knew I would understand him.
After a while, Perdik
kas came in, to tell him the officers were still in the courtyard awaiting orders. He signed to bring them in. They crowded into the Bedchamber. He made a gesture of greeting; I saw him draw breath to speak, but he coughed instead and brought up blood. He motioned them to dismiss, and they went away. Not till the last had gone, did he press his hand to his side.
After this, the generals brought the doctors without his leave. Three came. Weak as he was, they feared him because of Glaukias; but he suffered quietly their fingers on his wrist, their ears laid to his chest. He watched them, as they looked at one another. When they brought a draught he took it and slept awhile. One of them stayed with him, so I rested an hour or two. He would need me there at night, with my wits about me.
At night he was in high fever. They would no longer leave him to me alone; three of the Companions watched with him. One of the doctors would have sat by his pillow; but he put out his hand and held my arm, so the doctor went.
It was a long night. The Companions dozed in their chairs. He coughed blood and then slept a little. About midnight his lips moved. I bent to hear. He said, “Don’t drive it away.” I looked about but saw nothing. “The snake,” he whispered, pointing to a shadowy corner. “Nobody harm him. He is sent.”
“No one shall harm him,” I said, “upon pain of death.”
He slept again. Then he said, “Hephaistion.”
His eyes were closed. I kissed his forehead and did not speak. He smiled, and was quiet.
In the morning he knew me, and where he was. The generals came in and stood about his bed. All over the room one could hear his labored breathing. He looked from one to the other. He knew well enough what it meant.
Perdikkas came forward and bent towards him. “Alexander. We all pray the gods will spare you for many years. But if their will is otherwise, to whom do you leave your kingdom?”
He forced his voice, so as to speak aloud. He began, this I have always believed, to pronounce the name of Krateros. But his breath caught, and he finished with a gasp. Perdikkas murmured to the others, “He says, To the strongest.”
Krateros, kratistos. The sounds so much alike, the meaning, even, of the name. Krateros, whom he had always trusted, was on his way to Macedon; I am persuaded he meant to leave him regent for the unborn child; King even, if it should be a girl, or die. But Krateros was a long way off; his cause was no one’s here.
Nor was it mine. What was Macedon to me, what did I care who ruled it? I looked only at my lord, to see if he was troubled; but he had not heard. While he was at peace, it was all one to me. If I gave offense to the others, they might take me from him. I held my tongue.
Presently he beckoned Perdikkas back; then drew from his finger the royal signet carved with Zeus enthroned, and gave it him. He had chosen a deputy, while he was too sick to rule. It need have meant no more than that.
Sitting quiet by the bed, only the Persian boy, I saw the faces begin to watch each other, reckoning policy and power, looking sideways at the ring.
He saw them. His eyes had been on the distance; but they moved, and I know he saw. I bent over him with the sponge; I thought he had seen enough. He looked at me as if we shared a secret. I laid my hand on his; there was a white band on his finger, where the ring had kept off the sun.
All was silent, but for his quick rough breath. In the quiet, I heard outside a deep stir, a many-voiced murmur. Ptolemy went out to see. When he did not return, Peukestas followed, then the others. Soon after, they all came in again.
Perdikkas said, “Alexander. It’s the Macedonians outside; all the men. They—they want to see you. I’ve told them it’s impossible, that you’re too ill. Do you think if I let in just a few, a score or so, to represent the others, do you think you could bear with that?”
His eyes opened wide. He began to cough. While I held the towel for the blood, he made a gesture of command, meaning, Wait till I am ready. Then he said, “All. Every man.”
Wherever the ring might be, the King was here. Perdikkas went out.
Alexander pushed himself a little sideways, and looked at me. I moved the pillows, to prop him there. Someone opened the private postern, for the men to leave by when they had passed the bed. Their muttering voices approached. Peukestas looked at me with kindness, and made a little motion with his head. He had always shown me courtesy; so I understood him. I said to Alexander, “I will come back after,” and went out by the postern door.
As soldiers to their general, as Macedonians to their King, they had come to bid him farewell. Now at the last they must find him all their own, not with his Persian boy closer to him than they.
From the alcove where I stood unseen, I watched them leaving, a stream of men I thought would never end, one after one. They wept, or spoke in husky whispers; or just looked dazed, as if they had learned that the sun would not rise tomorrow.
They took hours to go by. The day wore towards noon. I heard one say, “He greeted me with his eyes. He knew me.” Another said, “He recognized me right away. He tried to smile.” A young one said, “He gave me a look, and I thought, The world is breaking.” A veteran answered, “No, lad, the world goes on. But the gods alone know where.”
At last, no more came. I went in. He lay as I’d left him; all that time, he had held himself eyes-front to them, not letting one pass without a look of greeting. Now he lay like the dead, but for his panting breath. I thought, They have drained the last life from him, and left me nothing. May the dogs eat them.
I lifted him on one arm, and changed the pillows so that he lay easier. He opened his eyes, and smiled. I understood that this gift of theirs, whatever it had cost him, was what he would have asked of his guardian god. How could I grudge it him? I put away my anger.
The generals had stood aside while the men passed by. Ptolemy wiped his eyes. Perdikkas stepped over to the bed. “Alexander. When you are received among the gods, at what times shall we offer you worship?”
I don’t think he expected any answer; just wanted, if he could still be heard, to make a gift of honor, as he felt it due. He was heard. Alexander came back to us, as if out of deep water. The smile still hung about him. He whispered, “When you are happy.” Then he closed his eyes, and returned where he had been.
All day he lay on the high pillows, between the gilded daimons with spread wings. All day the great men came and went. Towards evening, they brought Roxane. The child was big in her. She flung herself on him, beating her breast and tearing her hair, wailing as if he were already dead. I saw his eyelids creasing. Her I dared not speak to, for I had seen her look of hate; but I whispered to Peukestas, “He can hear, it troubles him,” and they made her eunuchs lead her out.
Sometimes I could rouse him to take a drink of water; sometimes he seemed already in the death-sleep and would not stir for me; yet I felt his presence, and thought that he felt mine. I thought, I will not ask heaven for any sign from him; let him not be troubled by my love, only know of it if God pleases; for love is life to him, he has never turned it away.
Night fell and the lamps were kindled. Ptolemy stood by the bed, looking down, remembering him, I suppose, in Macedon as a child. Peukestas came up and said that he and a few friends were going to keep vigil for him at the shrine of Serapis. Alexander had brought the god’s cult from Egypt; he is a form of the risen Osiris; they would ask his oracle whether he would heal Alexander, if he were carried to the shrine.
It is man’s nature to hope even in extremity. As the flickering lamplight moved on his quiet face, mocking me with false shadows of life, I awaited some promise from the god. But my body knew. My body weighed with his death, as heavy as clay.
The night passed for me in starts and stretches. It was long since I had slept; sometimes I found myself with my head leaned on his pillow, and looked if he had stirred; but he slept on, with quick shallow breaths, broken with deep sighs. The lamps faded, the first pallor of dawn showed the shapes of the tall windows. His breathing had changed its sound, and something said to me, He is he
re.
I drew close and whispered, “I love you, Alexander,” and kissed him. Never mind, I thought, from whom his heart accepts it. Let it be according to his wish.
My hair had fallen on his breast. His eyes opened; his hand moved, and touched a strand, and ran it between his fingers.
He knew me. To that I will take my oath before the gods. It was to me that he bade farewell.
The others, who had seen him move, rose to their feet. But he had gone away. He was on the threshold of his journey.
Someone was at the door. Peukestas stood there. Ptolemy and Perdikkas went to meet him. He said, “We watched all night, and at dawn we went to the oracle. The god said it would be better for him here.”
When his breath ceased, the eunuchs all bewailed him. I suppose that I did too. Outside the Palace it was heard, and the sound spread through the city; there was no need to give out that the King was dead. As we took the high pillows from behind him, and laid him straight, the squires on guard came in and stood there bewildered, and walked out crying.
He had died with closed eyes and mouth, as seemly as in sleep. His hair was tousled from the tossing of his fever, and I combed it; I could not keep from doing it as if he could still feel. Then I looked for the great men who had half filled the Bedchamber, for someone to order how he was to be cared for. But they had all gone. The world had broken; the pieces lay like shattered gold, spoil for the strongest. They had gone to gather them up.
After a while the Palace eunuchs grew uneasy, not knowing who was King. One after another went off, to see how things stood; the lesser followed the greater. I did not notice at first that I was there alone.
I stayed, for I could not think of anywhere else to be. Someone will come, I thought; he is mine until they claim him. I uncovered his body, and looked at his wounds which I had known by touch in the dark, and covered him again. Then I sat down by the bed, and leaned my head on it, and I think that I fell asleep.
