Lord of the Two Lands

by Judith Tarr

  “Babies do that,” said Arrhidaios. “Myrrhine let me feel when the baby kicked. It kicked hard. She said it hurt. Does it hurt, Thaïs?”

  “No,” Thaïs said.

  Meriamon did not ask who Myrrhine was. Someone in Macedon, no doubt. She kept her eyes on Thaïs. The hetaira let her hand fall from her middle, where it had flown when the child moved, and shook herself, and went on with what she had been saying. “So I told him,” she said. “Finally.”

  “Had he guessed?” asked Meriamon.

  “He said not.” Thaïs filled her cup with wine. The bright brittle look was on her as it sometimes was, but rarely now when there was only Meriamon there, and Arrhidaios who had wandered in a little while ago and settled contentedly at Meriamon’s feet. “I am clever,” Thaïs said, “after all. And men never look, once they’re sure one has the proper count of breasts and thighs, in suitable proportions.”

  “Ptolemy is hardly as blind as that.”

  “Maybe he wanted to be.”

  Meriamon narrowed her eyes. “What did he say?”

  “What would you expect him to say?”

  Arrhidaios said suddenly, “‘If it is a boy you may keep it. If it is a girl, see that you expose it, and that all is done duly and properly, before I return.’“

  The women stared at Arrhidaios. He smiled, pleased with himself.

  “Where on earth did you hear that?” Meriamon asked him.

  His smile wavered. He shrugged, with a touch of sullenness. “I don’t remember.”

  “It’s a play,” said Thaïs.

  “Yes!” cried Arrhidaios; “Thettalos was in it. He said the baby had to be a boy. It wasn’t. So they put it out on the hill. But somebody came and found it. Somebody will find your baby, too.”

  “I hope not,” Thaïs said.

  “You won’t keep it, then?” asked Meriamon.

  “I didn’t say that!” Thaïs’ voice was sharp. She drank deep from her cup, and drew a long breath after, as if to summon patience. “I didn’t say that at all. Nor did he. He wants me to keep the child. Even”—her voice wavered a fraction—”if it is a girl.”

  “Do you want to keep it?”

  “Does it matter what I want?”

  “To Ptolemy,” Meriamon said, “I think it does.”

  Thaïs held her stare for a long moment. Then the bold eyes lowered. She sighed. “He would have shouted for a festival, if I hadn’t forced him to be reasonable. As it was, he drank much too much, and told far too many people, and made a perfect fool of himself. You’d think,” she said, “that he’d never sired a cub before.”

  “Hasn’t he?”

  “Not that he’ll admit to.” Thaïs set the cup on the table with a small, definite click. “And when are you going to admit that Nikolaos is in love with you?”

  The shift left Meriamon mute. It was evasion, of course. Thaïs hated to speak of things that came too close to her heart. It was like her to cut to the quick of Meriamon’s.

  Arrhidaios spoke in the pause. “Meri, are you going to have a baby for Niko?”

  Meriamon rose from her chair. What she said, if she said anything, she did not afterward remember. She hoped that she left in something resembling dignity.

  She came to a halt in a passageway that looked only vaguely familiar. Her eyes were burning dry. One learned to do that in Khemet: tears made the kohl run.

  A child for Nikolaos. A child for any man. A child to fill this womb of hers that the gods had made barren, to mark her as their chosen—the price she paid, to be their slave and servant.

  She shut away the thought, with its grief and—yes, its anger. It had never hurt so much before. It had never mattered.

  She looked about. One way seemed as good as another. She went on as she had begun, through the painted corridors.

  People passed her. One was agitated. He was looking for Arrhidaios. She would have told him where the king’s brother was, but he was past before she could speak, looking as distracted as she felt.

  The next runner was looking for her. He was one of the king’s pages, a boy so fair that he looked unreal, like a bleached bone. He had been in the sun again without a hat: his face was crimson, and it had begun to swell. “I have a salve for that,” she said.

  “The king said you did, lady,” said the boy, “and I’m to fetch it later. But first he wants to see you.”

  She thought of not wanting to see him. But the boy would be upset, and she had nowhere to go that was not painful. She shrugged. “Why not?” she said.

  She had shocked the poor child. His back was rigid with disapproval as he led her through the corridors. He bowed her through every door, so scrupulously, exaggeratedly correct that she almost laughed.

  A man caught them as they turned to go to the king’s chambers. He was one of the Old Macedonians as the younger ones had taken to calling them, a man who kept his beard and dressed in the rough wool of the uplands, even in Egypt. He looked at the page with no pleasure at all, and at Meriamon with barely restrained disgust. “My commander wants to see you,” he said to Meriamon.

  She could understand his accent. Just. She would not have stopped, but he was barring her way. “And who is your commander?” she asked.

  She had offended him. But then her simple presence did that; this merely added to it. “Parmenion,” he said, “will see you now.”

  “I am going to see the king,” she said.

  “You can see the king after you see Parmenion.”

  Alexander’s page was no help at all. He shifted from foot to foot, but he said nothing. For once Meriamon would have been glad of one of the older boys, one who could be as arrogant as this great bristling scowling man.

  So could she be. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll spare your general a moment. Tell him he may find me in the chamber of the birds.”

  She was gone before the man could muster wits to speak. The room she had spoken of was close, and small as rooms went in this palace, with a wall that was open on one of the gardens. The others were painted with birds of every kind that was in Khemet, from the fowl of reed and sedge to the falcon of the desert, swimming and feeding and flying in a long band above the painted ranks of pillars. There was a couch to sit on, painted and gilded, and a stool, and a table, and little else but light and air.

  Meriamon settled herself on the couch. Alexander’s page, finding his courage at last, said, “Lady, the king—”

  “The king will wait a little longer,” she said.

  “But—”

  “He will wait,” she said. There was iron in her tone. A flush could not show on his face, as scarlet as the sun had seared it, but he looked down quickly and was silent. He had taken a guard’s place, she noticed, beside and behind her.

  She thought of sending him back to his master. But there was comfort in his presence, and he was a witness, if Parmenion ventured to harm her.

  They waited in silence. Meriamon began to wonder if there was any use in it: if Parmenion would come at all.

  As she considered rising, stretching the knots out of back and arms, going to find the king, she heard the sound of feet. Soldier’s boots; the clanking of armor. She willed herself to remain as she was, half-reclining on the couch.

  It was only one man, pausing at the door, then opening it. Meriamon hoped that she was not gaping like an idiot.

  Niko looked ready to stand guard on the king. His armor was polished till it shone, his cloak hung in impeccable folds. He had his best sword, and his helmet had a new plume.

  He hardly looked at her at all, which was as well: it gave her time to recover herself. “Go on, Leukippos,” he said. “Tell the king we’ll be along as soon as we’re done here. I’ll look after the lady.”

  Leukippos grinned, sudden and startling, and set off at a run. Niko took his place.

  Meriamon found her tongue at last. “What in the gods’ name—”

  “Some people need to remember that you’re a king’s daughter,” Niko said.

 
; She could hardly argue with that. “But,” she said, “where did you come from?”

  “Thaïs told me you’d run off. I ran into Marsyas in the hall; he told me where you were.”

  “How hard did you hit him?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” said Niko. Then, before she could hit him herself: “I didn’t need to. I’m a King’s Companion, and I outrank him. Maybe I rattled my sword a bit. For appearances. After all.”

  “After all,” said Meriamon, dry as sand in a tomb. She had not expected to find him comforting. His solidity was an anchor. His levity tightened her heart, even now. There was no nursing ancient grievances under that bright pale stare.

  But they did matter. He did not know, could not.

  He would learn.

  o0o

  Parmenion came at long last, with a pair of guards who established themselves at the door, and a glare for Niko. Niko stood at parade rest, wearing no expression at all: the perfect guardsman. Parmenion’s glare slid from him to Meriamon.

  “Well,” the commander said. “Have you something to say?”

  His insolence was breathtaking. Niko stiffened perceptibly.

  Meriamon allowed herself a slow smile. It was sweet; it was puzzled. “I? But, commander, it was you who expressed a desire to speak with me.”

  “I am not accustomed to running at a woman’s bidding,” Parmenion said.

  “No,” said Meriamon. “I can see that you would not be. Except, of course,” she said, “if that woman is a queen.”

  “You are not that,” said Parmenion.

  “True,” said Meriamon. “Will you speak now? The king is waiting.”

  Parmenion paused. She watched his face suffuse with anger; she watched it smooth itself clean. No rough soldier, this one, for all his rudeness. He knew courts and kings. She could hardly blame him, she supposed, for trying to cow her or prick her to temper, and so gain the advantage.

  He gave no signal that she could see, but one of his guards fetched the stool. He lowered himself into it, stiffly, and set his hands on his knees. “Very well,” he said. “You’re no fool; I shouldn’t have treated you like one. Can we be honest with one another?”

  “Have we ever been anything else?”

  “On my side of it,” he said, “no. You have name enough for truthfulness, whether you speak for your gods or yourself. Suppose you tell me, then. If Alexander agreed to it, would you marry him?”

  She opened her mouth, closed it. “He never would.”

  “He well could,” said Parmenion. “He should. You’re a king’s daughter. You know what a king’s first duty is. To give sons to the line.”

  “He knows that,” she said. “There’s Barsine’s Herakles. A fine child, growing well and quickly.”

  “Too quickly,” said Parmenion, “for one as young as he’s supposed to be.” She was silent. His mouth twisted: perhaps a smile, perhaps not. “Don’t take me for an idiot, lady. That’s Memnon’s brat, and you know it as well as I do. So, I’ll wager, does Alexander. He visits them both as seldom as he possibly can, and stays hardly long enough to exchange a word or two. No, Mariamne. That was a weak deception, and it gets weaker the longer it goes on. Alexander has no son alive, and no chance of getting one. Unless,” he said, “you see to it.”

  Meriamon’s lips set tight.

  “You know he has to have a Macedonian queen,” Parmenion said, oblivious to her silence, or not caring to notice it. “But Macedon is on the other side of the earth, and time runs on. While he plays king in Egypt, he can take an Egyptian wife. He’s thought of you, don’t think he hasn’t. He likes the look of you.”

  “Not as a woman,” she said more faintly than she would have liked.

  “That’s for you to teach him, then, isn’t it?”

  Meriamon wanted to close her eyes and breathe deep, but that would be a betrayal. She said as calmly as she could, “Have you considered sending for a properly Macedonian bride? Once she was here, he could hardly pack her off again without insulting her mortally; or more to the point, her family.”

  “Macedonian women do not tramp about with the troops.”

  “Not even briefly, to give your king an heir?”

  “It’s not done.”

  His face was a shut door. Meriamon could find no chink in it. “Why, then? Why choose me?”

  “Who else is there?”

  “Half the nobility of Egypt have daughters of appropriate age,” said Meriamon.

  “Is any of royal blood?”

  “Several,” she said.

  “None is a king’s daughter,” said Parmenion. “Or the king’s friend. Or as likely to win him over.”

  That, unfortunately, was true. Alexander had said it once where Meriamon could hear. He did not like to bed strangers. Friends were the best lovers. Dear friends were best of all. He had been looking at Hephaistion when he said it, and Hephaistion had laughed and made a jest of it, but it was true. She knew it as well as they.

  Her throat was trying to shut tight. She willed it open.

  Parmenion spoke again before she could begin. “You have to marry. Every woman does. Why not marry a king? You can’t be queen in Macedon, but if they call you queen in Egypt, who’s to gainsay them? Isn’t this what you’ve been aiming for since you tracked us down in Issus?”

  “No,” she was going to say. Did say, but no one heard it. Someone was at the door: a high sharp voice raised, the guards’ deeper tones, a sudden flurry.

  The door was open, and Alexander was in it, in a fine hot temper, but smiling. “Parmenion! So that’s where you’ve got to. And Mariamne. Am I interrupting something? Should I come back?”

  Meriamon wondered distantly what he would have done if she had taken him at his word. She did not; and Parmenion seemed to have lost his voice.

  She started to rise. Alexander waved her down again, looked about, found the other stool, pulled it up beside her. His eyes were bright as he looked from one to another of them. Bitter-bright. “Let me guess. You’re talking about marrying me off again.”

  “How can you tell?” asked Meriamon. She did not mean it for coyness. She honestly wanted to know.

  “Parmenion,” said Alexander. “You. In the same room. And there’s a look you both get... Have you settled the contract yet?”

  “We could hardly do that without your knowledge and consent,” Parmenion said.

  “No,” said the king. “But you might get the haggling over before you started on me. It’s logical, I suppose. As long as you’re looking to drag me to my duty. And now we’re here, with all the priests and the princes, and enough Persians to be properly horrified when the new pharaoh marries the old pharaoh’s daughter. It would be a very economical wedding.”

  “Then you’ll assent to it?” Parmenion asked. His voice was as level as ever, no quickening of eagerness in it, but he had eased visibly. He was poised still, for all of that; knowing his king, and wary of this new complaisance and its attendant, unwonted stillness.

  Alexander paused as if in thought. “I made a joke of it once, or a challenge. That didn’t make it less sensible. Not that I need anyone to give me Egypt. That’s done, and well done. But establishing my rule here, giving what I can to a woman of this country... that’s tempting.”

  “This woman will have you,” Parmenion said. “There’s none better suited. She’s not as much for looks as some, but she’ll do. Her family, if she has any— Do you have family, lady?”

  “None alive,” Alexander answered for her. And when Parmenion raised a brow: “I asked. She has cousins, maybe, in Ethiopia. There’s only Amon’s temple and the priests, and they won’t give trouble.”

  “Good,” said Parmenion, still warily, but playing the game, if game it was. Netting his prey. “The sooner you get her bedded and bearing, the happier we’ll be.”

  Meriamon rose very slowly. Neither seemed to see her.

  Niko did. She was aware of him, a shiver on her skin. What he was thinking, she could not begin to gues
s.

  The voice that came out of her was her own. No god wielded it. And yet it seemed hardly to be part of her. “‘We’?” she said. “‘We’, Parmenion?”

  He looked at her then. “Of course, we. The king will take you. You can hardly refuse him.”

  “Oh,” she said. “But I can.”

  He did not seem to understand. Even Alexander looked blank.

  She faced the king. She spoke as gently as she could. “You are my king,” she said. “I would follow you to the ends of the earth. But I do not want to marry you.”

  That was shock, that wide pale stare. Fury. And maybe, under all the rest, relief.

  “I do not want to marry you,” she said again. “Nor you, me. We are not for one another.”

  “That is nonsense,” said Parmenion.

  She paid no heed to him. “Alexander, look at me. Do I look like anything you would want to call wife?”

  The king’s head tilted. He was angry. Dangerously so. “Do I look like anything you would want to call husband?”

  “No,” said Meriamon. “But king, yes. And pharaoh. And friend, if you will still have that.”

  “No one has ever refused me before,” Alexander said. He sounded almost calm about it.

  “As one suffers, so one learns.”

  The old gnomic words made Alexander laugh, but it was fanged laughter. “Why?”

  It was hard, but not as hard as it had been, even a moment before. The worst was knowing that Niko was there and listening, and saying nothing. “It’s not that I have any distaste for you, or any fear of what you are, or, Mother Isis knows, any vow or bond that keeps me unmarried. Nor would it go so ill if I accepted. There have been worse matches made, and they prospered well enough.

  “But,” she said, “what you would want out of this union—what your counselors have been urging you to do—that would fail.”

  “What?” asked Alexander. “Egypt? It’s mine already; I’ve no fear of losing it, unless I lose everything.”

  “No,” said Meriamon. Trying not to shout it. Trying to speak calmly. “Egypt has nothing to do with it. You need—your counselors want—heirs. I cannot give them to you.”