by Jo Graham
“You're going to hijack the hearse,” Ptolemy said.
I opened my eyes and nodded slowly. “Where the road comes out of the hills and comes down toward the sea.” I picked up my cup again and took a drink. “A few problems. That's not Egyptian territory, or anywhere close. If we seize any controlling position or garrison anything nearby, Perdiccas will know exactly what we're doing, and either won't send the hearse at all or will send it with an enormous escort.”
Ptolemy shook his head. “We can't garrison. It's got to be fast. I'm going to send you with an all-cavalry force. Enough to overwhelm the escort, but not enough to take and hold towns. You've got to do it quickly.”
“And turn south for Egypt,” I said. The road turned north, but it also ran south, to Tyre and the cities of the coast, to Ashkelon and Gaza and finally Pelousion. That was the way I had come when I had left Babylon with Thais. I knew that road.
“For Egypt,” Ptolemy said.
“It won't be fast,” I said. “Not after I have the hearse. Then I'll be stuck moving at a slow walk. It's a long way. And as soon as Perdiccas hears he'll pursue.”
Ptolemy nodded seriously. “And there is no knowing exactly where he'll be when he hears, or how fast he'll come. He could be in Susa or Babylon, or he could be much closer. If I were Perdiccas…”
“You'd come after us with only cavalry, hell for leather,” I said. “Figuring that we'd be all cavalry too, because we couldn't have gotten any heavy infantry there in time.” I took another deep drink, my brow furrowed. “It's too far. He'll catch us before we make Egypt. If we get a good lead, we may make Ashkelon or Gaza, but Gaza's fortifications don't amount to shit since we knocked holes in the walls ten years ago. There's a gap in the curtain wall you could drive a herd of cattle through. I can't hold Gaza with cavalry.”
“I know,” Ptolemy said. “If you make Pelousion it's different.”
I shrugged. “Oh, Perdiccas could try to take Pelousion with cavalry until the moon turns green! The problem is that I can't make Pelousion. It's too far. Once I'm stuck with the speed of the hearse, it will take me weeks down the coast instead of days. He'll catch us well short of Pelousion.” I looked at him. “How many men were you planning to give me?”
“How many do you need?” he asked. “You'll have to hold him off.”
“Depends on the size of the initial escort too,” I said. I thought about the cavalry that had stayed with Perdiccas in Babylon, the men who had once fought beside me. “I shouldn't think he'd have more than fifteen hundred or two thousand to send, not right away. He'd have to pull some in from Susa and points east to find more than that, all cavalry. And he won't want to do that. Speed is more important.”
“We have nine hundred and fifty-six,” Ptolemy said. “Counting every man. The survivors of Hephaistion's Ile and my own. Krateros’ Ile stayed with him. That total includes some Persian horse archers who came over for dynastic reasons, and a few men out of this unit or that who didn't like Perdiccas. I could give you something like eight hundred, one full-strength Ile.”
“And Perdiccas can't do better than twice that,” I said thoughtfully. “Not if he wants to move immediately. And it's realistically more like a thousand he'll actually send, or twelve hundred.”
“I can't tell you how to do this, Lydias,” Ptolemy said, pouring more wine. “I can't tell you where you'll meet him, or how many men he'll have. You're going to have to work it out as you go.” His eyes met mine firmly. “That's why this needs to be you.”
I took a deep breath.
“You can work independently. You can think for yourself. And you'll have to. There are too many ways this could go.”
I steepled my hands before my face, rested my chin on my fingers. “To get the most time it will have to be a complete surprise. If they send a messenger to Perdiccas before we actually have the hearse, it will cut days off his response. It has to be completely clean. Just how good are these embalmers of yours?” I frowned. “And are they likely to know the schedule and the guard strength? Anything about the camp or the marching order?”
Ptolemy shook his head. “They won't even be with the procession. They asked permission to return home to Egypt, and Perdiccas gave them leave to go. They have to go now, and they'll be back before the hearse leaves Babylon. He's not stupid. He knows they're Egyptian, and that having them accompany the body is asking for trouble.”
I shook my head.
“Fortunately, they're not my only contact,” Ptolemy said. “There is someone more highly placed who will be accompanying the body. He'll know the details of the march. If you can reach him it will simplify matters a great deal.”
“Who's that?” I asked, knowing I asked Ptolemy to give me the man's life. Perdiccas would not hesitate to execute a traitor immediately.
He did not hesitate, only dropped his voice a tone involuntarily. “Bagoas the eunuch, who was Alexander's.”
Of course I knew who Bagoas was, though I had never actually talked to him. He had been Alexander's favorite, and as such had possessed considerable influence at court. He had come to Alexander with the rest of Darius’ trappings when we had conquered Persia, and though he had been a favorite of the Great King, that was before, he had lost nothing by it. He was beautiful, of course, but more than that he was discreet and calm, able to smooth over small troubles and set the touchy Persian nobility at ease with just the right level of deference and respect, just the right gestures from the King. Like a Greek hetaira, he could be counted upon to make certain that all the proper things were done.
Alexander had used him well. The Persian nobility had expected to find Alexander a boorish conqueror eager to sate himself on luxury, ruining half of what he touched like a pig in the house. Instead, they were greeted by Bagoas with precisely the shade of formality their status required, ushered into the presence of Alexander, the new Great King, who took their prostrations as his due and behaved in all ways as one would expect the King to. And instead of going home to foment armed rebellions over insults paid, they were pleasantly surprised. Much of this was due to Bagoas, who had the King's ear.
Of course this was the very reason why others hated him. A beautiful Persian gelding at the King's side? What could be more indicative of the depths Alexander had sunk to? First he wore trousers sometimes, and then he held audience for Persians in the Persian style. But having a eunuch about, like some sort of Eastern king, was really too much.
Myself, I saw little harm in it. It was, like the palaces and the food, something that came with Persia. And like the palaces and the food, Bagoas was certainly nice to look at. I could admire beauty, even if I had not been of a rank to be running to royal audiences.
Now I raised an eyebrow to Ptolemy. “You trust him? What does he have to gain with you that he doesn't gain from Perdiccas? After all, Perdiccas is from the pro-Persian party too.”
“It's not just Perdiccas’ side. It's Roxane's,” Ptolemy said. “She tried to kill him more than once when the King was alive.” He shrugged. “Jealousy.”
“You know this?” I asked. We were taking a huge risk on the word of someone I did not know.
Ptolemy's eyes were grave. “I know this. I was there when it happened, once, and when the King found out. She hated him because Alexander trusted him more.”
If Hephaistion had been jealous of Bagoas, I had not seen it. But then no one was trusted more than Hephaistion.
“If you're sure he can be relied upon,” I said.
Ptolemy nodded. “Bagoas needs to get out of Babylon and away from Roxane. Like Olympias, she has a long memory and she's proven that she's capable of poison. His days are numbered if he stays near her, and he'd be a fool to actually accompany the hearse to Macedon, where he would spend his days as a figure of fun or as a toy for Cassander. He's better off here by a long shot.”
“What did you promise him?” I asked.
“That he would be a funerary priest of Alexander, and that he would have a pension here in Egypt, to
stay by the King and tend him.” Ptolemy shrugged. “Little enough. But it was what he asked for.”
“Then I suppose we're settled,” I said.
AND SO IT was that I passed the winter in Alexandria, watching the city grow around me and drilling relentlessly the men who would ride with me.
The embalmers arrived at midwinter, with further details about the hearse if not about the escort. It was the size of a small ship, with the same breadth, made in the form of an Ionic temple. The entrance was at the rear, so the draft animals would not foul the stoop, between two golden lions. Inside, the roof was barrel-vaulted like a tomb rather than flat like a wagon, and the sides were painted in magnificent jewel colors, one side showing Alexander on his horse leading the Companions, another a fleet of galleys under sail. A third showed war elephants preparing to charge, and another showed Alexander in the guise of Great King, in his magnificent chariot. Lord of Greece, lord of Persia, lord of India, and lord of the Middle Sea—all that he had been. Except Pharaoh of Egypt. That was not lost on me. Perdiccas might extol glories which he intended to claim, but he did not hold Egypt and did not think he would.
Politics, I thought. All is politics. And what am I becoming that I see politics in the funeral murals? More than a simple soldier, for all that's what I thought I was. Now I must become a general. Upon this raid on the funeral procession the fate of the kingdom might rest.
While the fields of Egypt greened before the harvest, we drilled and practiced, making one Ile of the men of different units who must come together. We may face some rebel claimant, I said. No man there knew what we planned. Perdiccas must not hear the faintest whisper in advance.
Not even Artashir, whom I trusted, was told. He had manifested an unexpected talent for overseeing the building of the city, for getting cargoes of stone to the places where they belonged, and for making certain that the city walls and the breakwaters rose according to the drawings. He read three languages, and had studied mathematics. The angles of walls and weights of fortifications were no more than columns of numbers to me, but each day he had his head stuck between those of builders and carpenters and masons, consulting over whether this load of stone would be better there or there.
Born and bred in the uplands of Media, Artashir had been a gentleman long before Alexander came to Persia, the second son of a minor nobleman with mountain estates. He had been one of the Thousand, and stood against us at Gaugamela in command of horse archers, those lethally quick soldiers who wore silk instead of steel and could deliver a blistering barrage of arrows from a distance, then gallop away before the infantry could close.
But after Gaugamela things had changed. When Bessos had overthrown Darius as Great King and usurped his throne, the kin of Darius had made peace with Alexander to punish his murderer. Artashir had come over then, with Oxathres and others who had ties of blood to Darius. He'd become a Companion sometime in India, though I wasn't certain when as I had been with Hephaistion's corps, not with the King. As to why he'd come with Ptolemy, I suspected it was over Roxane. She'd had Queen Stateira murdered in Babylon, right after Alexander's death. If Artashir was kin in some way to Darius, he was certainly kin to his daughter Stateira too, making her murder a matter of family honor. He could not serve her murderer, once Perdiccas and Roxane had made common cause.
Thus he had come with Ptolemy, bringing all his household with him. It was, I thought, rather extensive.
Not long after I returned to Alexandria, Artashir invited me to dinner at his house. I was expecting something rude and in keeping with the life of the camp. After all, the city was new and still more than half unbuilt.
To my surprise, his house was more than a tent pitched on a lot with half-finished walls. A streetside gate opened into a courtyard where a fountain played. Around it some short bushes were arranged in imitation of the grand gardens I had seen in Persia. Inside, his dining room was cool and comfortable, walls whitewashed but with decoration begun only on one side near the ceiling, three couches arranged in Greek fashion with little tables. Two lamps burning fragrant oil hung from the ceiling.
His wives would not eat with us, a custom shared by the Greeks and Persians alike. Only hetairae eat with men, except in the privacy of the home, though that custom had gone somewhat by the wayside in camp. The Egyptians, like the Indians, consider such restrictions foolish, which unfortunately had led to many respectable women being taken for prostitutes.
Instead, well-watered wine was served by Artashir's oldest son, Mardonias, a dark-haired boy of nine or so who looked scrubbed within an inch of his life and poured carefully, a grave and serious expression on his face.
“Well done,” his father said quietly when he was done, and he gave Artashir a quicksilver grin before he tripped back off to the kitchen.
I leaned back on my couch and took a sip. It was very well watered indeed, but it is not really a Persian custom to bring the wine in before the meal at all. The wine, like the couches, was a compromise.
“He's a well-grown boy,” I said. “Mardonias? Is that a family name?”
Artashir nodded, stretching his legs out on the couch. He wore linen trousers and tunic rather than a chiton, which I could see the point of on horseback, though I could never get used to not having my legs free. “It is. Mardunaya, actually. Though it's Mardonias in Greek. We are descended from that Mardunaya who was a general of Xerxes, and who married the Great King's sister. Hence we descend from Darius the Great.”
“Yes,” I said, “we know the name in Miletus.” And we did, of course. Miletus had been part of the Persian Empire when Mardonias had staged his fleet there for the invasion of Greece. “How many children have you now? I'm sorry. I think I've lost count.”
“Three sons and two daughters,” he said. “He's the oldest. I was married to Amina before the war, and then I married Rania in India.”
“I can't imagine having more than one wife,” I said. “It seems like it would get very complicated.”
Artashir shrugged, looselimbed. “It's not as complicated as one might think. Amina picked Rania out, actually. They're as affectionate as sisters and even share a bed.” He grinned. “Sometimes I don't think they need me at all, devoted to each other as they are.”
“Oh,” I said. There was a word for that in Greek, but I couldn't imagine how one could say Sapphic in Persian.
“We all get along,” Artashir said. “Though it will be good to get Mardonias in school. He's the only one old enough, and it's more than time he learned how to get along.”
“A Greek school?”
Artashir shrugged and took a very small sip. “It's the school of the city. The men he will command or be commanded by his whole life will be boys there. He must learn his place.” Artashir sat up, his handsome face animated. “We knew what we did when we came here, Amina and Rania and I. We knew we would never return to Persia. But hopefully we have brought the best of Persia with us.” He looked up at the hanging lanterns where they cast shadows on the wall in the evening air. “Some men try to stop change. It's like stopping a wave, keeping the sea from the shore or the snows from the mountain. Better to recognize what must happen, and choose what you would keep with Mitra's blessing.”
I had taken breath to reply when suddenly there was a huge crash from the kitchen, followed by the shouting of women and the screams of children.
Artashir and I both leapt up, and I followed him into the kitchen, where a scene of chaos reigned.
A black-winged seagull, flapping madly, careened around the kitchen with a fish in its talons. Two dark-haired women screamed after it, one trying to swat the gull and the other to grab it, while a small girl about six years old struggled to close the heavy windows. Underfoot, a little boy about two screamed at the top of his voice, “Bad bird! Bad bird! Bad bird!” Mardonias grabbed a heavy pot and swung it about, looking as though he was going to more likely hammer his sister than the bird.
Artashir grabbed the pot. “Don't do that,” he said.
&nb
sp; The darker of the two women pulled the other window closed with a bang while the littlest boy set up a wail.
Hissing and spitting, an enormous black cat made a leap for the bird. He missed, but he did succeed in snagging the fish. The bird let go and dived out the still open window, narrowly missing the little girl's hair. She shrieked.
In the middle of the table full of half-chopped vegetables, the black cat took a delicate sniff of the fish and then licked it deliberately.
Artashir and the two women exchanged comments in voluble Persian, Artashir still clutching the pot.
I reached down and picked up the crying child, who was now screaming and holding on to my leg. “There now,” I said, remembering the Indian words I had learned. “Don't cry, small boy. It's all done now.” He was heavier than Sikander had been, nearly a year older.
At my voice saying familiar words, he stopped crying and looked at me gravely, huge round brown eyes in a plump little face. It made my heart ache.
“I think that about covers dinner,” Artashir said, shaking his head with a smile on his face. He gestured toward the middle of the table. “Alexander triumphs.”
Sitting on the vegetables, the big black cat looked up from the fish scored by the gull's claws and took a bite, his green eyes on us.
“Pardon?”
“The cat is Alexander,” one of the women said, her brown hair escaping from its pins. Her Greek was accented but perfectly fluent. I thought she must be Amina, the senior of the wives. “Mardunaya named him. He showed up right after we moved in, and we suppose he lives here now.”
“Here and ten other houses,” Artashir said. “The Egyptians revere cats and they're used to coming and going in people's houses as they like.”
“He fought the bird really bravely,” the little girl said.
“He did,” Artashir agreed. “And Alexander gets the spoils. I don't suppose any of us want to eat that fish now?”
