Stealing Fire

by Jo Graham

  “That was well done,” Ptolemy said. “Very well done, both of you. How many sound men do you have?”

  “Twenty-four horse archers,” Artashir said. “And two hundred and sixty-one cavalry.”

  I let out a breath I hadn't been aware I was holding. That meant I had a little over four hundred men left out of six hundred and fifty. Which was not terrible after two battles. Many of our casualties were wounded and would eventually return, and still more were probably sound themselves but dismounted due to injury to the horses. Once again we did not have enough remounts.

  “Tell them to come join their fellows,” Ptolemy said. “And you two come have a drink. You deserve it.”

  “What's next?” Artashir asked.

  “Memphis,” I said. “We ride to Memphis.”

  THE DESCENT

  OF KINGS

  We came to Memphis in evening on the fourth day, having crossed the Saite branch of the Nile at Abusir and then marched down the good road on the western side. Perdiccas was now behind us. He could not get across the Nile yet, as he had no way across the Bubasite branch of the river, and the terrain was much more rugged on the eastern side and the roads less certain. We thought that he would not come up to the eastern side opposite Memphis until afternoon the next day at least, and would not attack so late in the day.

  It was with considerable relief that I saw the walls of Memphis. The greatest city of Egypt, she takes her name from them, and is known in the Egyptian tongue as “The Lady of White Walls.” They were sixty feet high and thirty feet thick, with enormous flanking towers about each gate. The walls loomed over the river and the docks that lay in their shadow. In the dry season when the water was low there were shallow sandy beaches along that side.

  Perdiccas would have to be mad to try to cross directly to them, however. There was not so much as a fingernail's width of beach and docks that was not covered by the towers and walls. Every step that a man could take would be under devastating fire from above.

  Fortunately or unfortunately depending on one's point of view, cavalry has little to do in the siege of a walled city, so once my men had their horses stabled I had no further duties for the evening, and might go and get some dinner while Ptolemy and the infantry officers consulted with the city guard far into the night.

  I went to find Bagoas.

  His room was a haven of light and peace, and his smile when he saw me warmed me to the bone. He did not ply me with a million questions, only said, “Come and rest.” And so I did.

  I WOKE BESIDE him in the early hours of morning from dreams I could not quite remember. There had been a lady with a veil of silver over her long black hair, and I would have thought her Egyptian or Indian except that her eyes were as blue as the heavens. She stood before closed doors marked with ancient words I could not read, and no matter how I tried to go around her and through them she blocked my way, a sad little smile on her face, and shook her head as my mother had when I was a child.

  I woke, and lay on my back staring up at the ceiling above. The first rays of the sun came slanting through the window. It was after dawn.

  I woke Bagoas gently. “Come on, my dear. It's late. We must see what Ptolemy has for us to do.” Ten hours off duty was all I could expect.

  Ptolemy was breakfasting with Artashir in one of the small gardens. He looked groggy still, as though he had not been to bed until well after midnight. The infantry officers were nowhere in sight. I imagined they had already received their orders, and so had no need to turn out so early after a long march.

  To my surprise, Manetho was also there, as well as another priest I did not know and a plump young woman who wore a green gown in the Egyptian style, its broad straps barely concealing her breasts. I was more than a little taken aback to see a woman sitting in council with men and wondered who she might be.

  Artashir stood up as we came in. “That's it, then,” he said. “I'll be about it right away.”

  The young woman nodded. “I will have my servants send the sarcophagus to you. It is the one that was intended for Nectanebo, but he died far away in Upper Egypt and never used it.”

  Bagoas stiffened. “What are you doing with my Lord?”

  Ptolemy looked up. “Come in, Bagoas. We are moving him from the temple that is near the river to the tombs of the Sacred Bulls in the hills at Saqqara. It is too dangerous in the city, and he will lie in the company of Serapis.”

  I had never seen Bagoas challenge anybody about anything, but this was the thing he would do it for. “Surely you do not expect to lose Memphis, that you need to do such a thing and take him from the hearse that was prepared for him and lay him in the coffin of another man?”

  “No,” Ptolemy said, “I do not expect to lose Memphis.” He and Manetho exchanged a look.

  “I'll be going, then,” Artashir said, and fled.

  I hesitated, torn between a decision I should have no part in and Bagoas. I stayed.

  Ptolemy took a breath, his eyes flicking once to me, and then back to Bagoas. “It's more than that. Much more. I am not sure how to begin to explain.”

  It all added up to me suddenly, Manetho and the other priest, and the woman I didn't know who must also be one of the Egyptian clergy, and the need for Alexander's body. “You are accepting the gods’ bargain,” I said.

  Bagoas turned and looked at me.

  “Yes,” Ptolemy said. “You already know Manetho. This is the Hierophant of Osiris from Abydos and the Adoratrice of Bastet from Bubastis. They are here to assist with what needs to be done.”

  “What has this to do with my Lord's body,” Bagoas demanded, “that you should take him out of his coffin and carry him around?”

  Ptolemy looked at me, one eyebrow quirked.

  “It is partly for the King that this must be done,” I said. “Bagoas, he was crowned in Memphis by the old rites, the ones designed to call the godhead of Horus down upon the Pharaoh and commingle their spirits. When Pharaoh dies, there is supposed to be a rite to transfer Horus into the new king. Until this is done, the old pharaoh is not released from the body he has inhabited.”

  His eyes searched my face. This was not at all what Persians are taught about life and death. “You believe this?”

  “I do,” I said, “and I believe it must be done, both for the King and for Egypt.”

  “To release his spirit.”

  “And to give Ptolemy the power to defeat Perdiccas and rule Egypt.”

  “We intend your king no disrespect,” the Adoratrice said in halting Greek. “He was our pharaoh too. He gave us our freedom. I bring the coffin that was for our last pharaoh, who died in exile. It is no shame but our greatest gift to offer it to Alexander.”

  “And that he lie for a while among the gods, among the sacred avatars of Osiris,” Manetho said. “Until Ptolemy has built his tomb, as is proper.”

  Bagoas nodded then, dropping his eyes.

  “We must do it tonight,” Ptolemy said. “We have no more time.”

  “It shall be tonight,” Manetho said. “We have prepared already, and as you say you do not want the rite of coronation…”

  “No.” Ptolemy shook his head. “I will stand as proxy for Alexander's son. No more than that.”

  “I understand,” Manetho said. “You shall be the sem-priest, but we will not call Horus to dwell within you. That shall be as you say. Is there any other you would like to walk with you as your companion? It is traditional that there be two such to walk through the Gates of Amenti with you and to come forth by day.”

  “I would have Lydias,” Ptolemy said.

  I gulped. I had never imagined such. “Surely that is the office of a kinsman,” I sputtered.

  “I have no kinsmen here,” Ptolemy said. “And besides, did you not stand with me once before, when we came to Memphis?”

  “Yes,” I said. We had stood together in that strange place both of Egypt and not, in the desert when Cleomenes tried to kill him.

  “Will you stand with me now?” P
tolemy asked, extending his hand.

  I took it wrist to wrist, and his flesh was warm in my hand. “I will, and I am honored.”

  Manetho nodded. “That is well done. Artashir has been sent to get the coffin that the Adoratrice brought. When evening comes we will go out to Saqqara as funeral processions do, just a few of us so as not to attract attention, looking like a family of mourners and a priest, carrying the body with us on a funeral wagon. That is what people do when they go to the tombs and it will not signal to Perdiccas that there is anything unusual going on.”

  “You are not taking my Lord anywhere without me,” Bagoas said.

  “Bagoas,” I began.

  Bagoas looked straight at Manetho. “Am I not a funerary priest of Alexander? Is that not what you have named me these many months? Then how should I be barred from his funeral, and from the office you have already acknowledged?”

  “He is Persian,” the Adoratrice said. “His presence would be offensive to the Sacred Bulls.”

  “Bagoas was not yet born when Artaxerxes killed the Apis bull,” Ptolemy snapped. “We all need to be a little bit flexible here.”

  Manetho shifted from one foot to another, clearly disliking it but not wanting to naysay Ptolemy, who would be his king. “Then you would allow this?”

  Ptolemy nodded, his eyes on Bagoas not Manetho. “Alexander should have someone by his bier besides me who loved him.”

  Bagoas’ breath caught, though he made no sound.

  Ptolemy stretched out his other hand to Bagoas. “We are a strange company, and I do not say this is not ill considered. But will you walk with me into the darkness for Alexander's sake?”

  “I will,” Bagoas said, grave as a bridegroom.

  “Then we will try the Gates of Amenti, the three of us,” Ptolemy said. “And we will free the King, and hopefully Egypt besides.”

  WE LEFT THE city as the sun sank westward toward the hills above Saqqara. Three priests and Manetho walked in front, while a pair of oxen led a funeral cart draped in white. A pall lay over the mummy case on it, which was well as it seemed to be covered in gold leaf. Ptolemy walked behind it, and Bagoas and I behind him, followed by the Adoratrice, another woman I did not know, and three young priests.

  Dressed in Egyptian clothes, I supposed that from a distance we looked like a family going out to the tombs, a common enough occurrence. It looked like the funeral of an ordinary man.

  Hephaistion had been given a funeral fit for a god.

  ALEXANDER HAD BUILT in Babylon the greatest funeral pyre the world had ever seen. Four months were spent building it, while preserved by the embalmer's art Hephaistion lay in state. It was as large as a temple, seven stories from base to top, each more splendid than the last. There were entire trunks of palm trees supporting it, the prows of ships made of fragrant cedar wood with gilded archers on their decks, banners of crimson felt, eagles and serpents, lions and bulls all carved in wood with the most exquisite lifelike detail. There were Macedonian and Persian arms, and four great statues of sirens cunningly made so that they could seem to sing a lament for the dead, their voices those of four eunuchs known for their beautiful voices who would stand concealed within them for the first part of the funeral, before the pyre was lit. At last, at the top on a bier draped with Tyrian purple bordered in gold, lay Hephaistion.

  His chiton was purple as though he were a king, and his breastplate was worked with precious gems, his sword by his hand. I know, as I saw him there. We paid our respects before the pyre was kindled, and I too had my part to play. I saw him there, gold coins with Alexander's likeness on his eyes, his long red hair combed on his shoulders. I saw him there, and I did not have to pretend to sadness. I looked upon his face and thought that he would smile.

  “Hephaistion,” I whispered. “Sir. If you are there with them, watch over Sati and Sikander for me. Please, sir.” I was blind with tears and could speak no more. If he could, he would. He would do so much for me.

  The man beside me had to nudge me to do my part.

  The sacrifices were being brought to the pyre to pour out their blood, sacrifices for a king. A black bull, his horns gilded. A ram.

  Walking with proud gait, steady as ever on parade, his saddle blanket of purple wool, was Ghost Dancer. I went to him and stood at his head, and he looked me in the eye.

  “There, my darling,” I said. “I knew you were the finest. You were the finest ever. Go now with your master and serve him forever. Here in the world above you will live on in your fleet-footed foals.”

  He bent his head to me, and I could swear I saw understanding in his dark eyes. When the priest came with the knife he did not struggle, only stood with his head high, baring his throat. His blood splashed over me and he died in my arms.

  I died that day too, while the flames enveloped them. I was dead already when Alexander died.

  AND YET I walked under the sun. I followed the funeral cart up the hill to Saqqara, where ancient pyramids of stone were etched against the western sky, along the main processional way. We did not go toward the pyramids, but turned off to the right, going around the lake with its lotus flowers and lilies, toward the Serapeum and the tombs of the Sacred Bulls.

  We did not speak, Ptolemy and Bagoas and I. I wondered what my life would have been if Alexander had never come to Miletus, or if I had not gone with him. No, I thought, I did not regret it, even with all the sorrow that came after. I have seen the peaks of the Hindu Kush mountains in bright morning, and the distant sea at the end of the Indus, where there is no farther shore. I have talked with sages and priests in a dozen lands, and have walked the plains of Scythia toward the rising sun. I have ridden on elephants and sailed on great galleys. I have loved and I have lost and I have come to Egypt with stolen fire in a gilded coffin, walking with gods.

  I looked up, and the hillside loomed over the door to the Serapeum, a black hole into the earth. Not for anything, I thought, would I want to pass that door forever. There is still too much to see. I have not been up the Nile beyond Thebes, nor been to Greece, nor seen my daughter wed in a saffron veil or watched my grandchildren grow. I could not read the Egyptian language, and I did not know where the sun sets beyond the Gates of Hercules.

  I know, Isis whispered. You want to live.

  At that a tear broke loose and ran down my cheek.

  I want to live, Lady of Egypt, I thought. I cannot help it, but I want to live. I took a breath, and it seemed something loosened in my chest.

  Before me, Ptolemy walked gravely, his head down. Beside me, Bagoas lifted his face to the first stars appearing in the sky, his green eyes glittering with tears. I mourned a king who had changed my life. He mourned the one he had loved. I understood that now. Loyalty and pride would have caused him to speak no ill of the King, but this grief came from love.

  And how not, I thought. Was it such a strange thing that any who served him, even come into his service as a spoil of war, should not in the end love him? Whoever had scarred Bagoas had not been Alexander. This grief was real.

  I felt no jealousy, for how should I? It was I who had come after, with my own memories and my own scars. Above the dry cliffs the sky still flared in the west with the fading colors of the sun's passage.

  We came to the doors of the Serapeum, and Manetho stepped forward to face us. The funeral cart passed him and went within, disappearing into the darkness. We watched it go. We would see it again, later in the rite.

  “This is the place of the Sacred Bulls,” Manetho said. “For more than a thousand years, the Apis bulls have been laid in this place when it was their time to go down into the West, to the Halls of Amenti. Will you pass the doors of Amenti, Ptolemy of Egypt?”

  “I will pass,” Ptolemy said. “I am seeking Alexander the son of Phillip.”

  I saw Bagoas’ eyebrow quirk, that even now and here Ptolemy named him in the Macedonian style.

  Manetho looked at me and Bagoas. “And will you accompany him?”

  “I will,” we said t
ogether. I hoped there were not many more lines that could not be easily guessed, as I had not ever seen such a rite before, nor had anyone prepare me as Manetho had Ptolemy.

  Manetho turned and led us in, under the massive lintel carved in the very stone of the hills. This was no entirely manmade place, but a cave wrought by the gods, old as time. We passed into its shadow.

  We went down a long sloping passageway that went straight back into the hill, vaulted and wide enough for four men to walk abreast. It was not entirely dark. At intervals along the passage oil lamps had been set on stands so that they threw their light up onto the walls. I wondered for a moment why they had put them so far apart if they were going to the trouble of bringing in lamps, but then realized that it was so parts of the passage would remain in shadow.

  We had gone only a short distance when a young woman stepped out carrying a golden scale in her hands and exchanged words with Ptolemy. “I am Justice,” she said in Greek, a conciliation to Ptolemy not speaking Egyptian. “Any who seek to rule the Black Land must pledge to uphold Justice for all who dwell within her borders. Will you so swear?”

  “I will,” Ptolemy said, and she stepped back against the wall.

  As we passed, he let me catch up and said to me, “Don't worry so, Lydias. It's not so very different from the Eleusinian Mysteries, is it?”

  “I wouldn't know,” I said. “Nor did I know you were an initiate.”

  Ptolemy dropped his voice. “I became one long ago, when I was a young man in Athens with Alexander. Thais had already become an initiate, and she sponsored me.”

  “Oh,” I said. Truly, there was a great deal I did not know of Ptolemy. But I had never been to Eleusis, or anywhere else in Greece. Nor could I imagine what a mystery should look like that was open to women as well as men.