by Jo Graham
“He's gone to the walls then.” I sat up, though the world tilted around me. “What's wrong with me?”
“To hold a daimon within you requires a great deal of energy,” Manetho said. “For an unprepared man with no training at all to do so is frankly unusual. Generally oracles and the like are trained from childhood, in Egypt anyway. I've never seen it happen in a grown man and a soldier. You are exhausted. But it is nothing that normal rest will not mend. You should eat a meal including meat, and you should go to bed.”
“I need to go to the walls,” I said, still clutching the boards of the wagon. I felt as though I had lost blood, though there was no wound on me.
“You will not,” Bagoas said, appearing on the other side of the wagon. “Ptolemy said you were to rest and not to try to report to him until tomorrow, that you had done enough in his service for one night.”
“Bagoas.” I did not know what to say to him. Certainly I had never intended to cause him pain.
“Sit still and don't fall over,” he said. “We will get you a meal and a good night's sleep, and tomorrow you can see Ptolemy.”
His tone of voice left me nothing to say that would not start a very personal scene in front of Manetho and all the junior priests, so I subsided. Wordlessly I rode in the cart as we approached the walls of Memphis, shining whitely in the light of the waning moon. How many days had it been? Eight? Morning would bring the ninth day. And then what?
The movement of the cart was soothing, and I nearly went to sleep before we got to Bagoas’ rooms. He asked one of the priests to fetch some food, and helped me in and settled me on the couch as though I were an invalid.
I looked at him, ready to say I knew not what, but the priest came back with two bowls of hearty fish stew, goat cheese, bread, and beer. The smell of the food was almost overwhelming. I could have come off a two-day march from the way I tucked into it. The fish stew was thick and rich, redolent of dill and other herbs. I thought I had never had something so good. The bread was the perfect texture, and the beer was cool and good even to the dregs in the bottom. Food is life, I thought. And I am hungry.
At last I put the bowl down. “Bagoas,” I began. “I had no idea that would happen. Please believe that.”
He looked at me clear-eyed, an earring dangling in one ear despite the white Egyptian shenti he had worn for the rite. It looked well on him, showing off the fine muscles of his arms and chest. Persians were more modest. I had never seen him out and around without a shirt before. “It wasn't your fault, Lydias.”
“He wanted to speak,” I said. “And I would not refuse him. How could I?”
“Of course you should not have refused him,” Bagoas said.
“I would not have hurt you for all the world,” I said.
Bagoas shook his head. “Lydias, I already know he's dead. He's been dead three years. Believe me, I already know that.” He stood up, pacing over to the door and back. “He is gone, and I must find something else to do with the rest of my life, or else die. And I have little taste for death. I do not want it, not now.”
“Bagoas,” I said, and did not know how to continue.
“There was a time I wished to die,” he said, his back still to me. “When I was young and thought that death was my only release. I was not born a slave, you see, nor gelded as a child too young to remember. I knew, and I mourned the life I should have had, the man I should have been, even more than I detested my lot. But time passed, and if I did not die then I must live. And living I must find some pride and some hope.” His shoulders moved in what might have been a shrug. “All that was long ago, before I came to Alexander with the rest of Darius’ trappings. Like you, I invented myself, created someone entirely different from the man I was born to be, the man my father would have called his son, a man more like Artashir.” Bagoas raised his head, and there were no tears in his eyes. “I am not a man, and I am not that man. I am Bagoas who was Alexander's. But now I must be something else again, something more besides, and I do not know how to go on.”
“Let me speak to Ptolemy about coming to Alexandria. He needs a chamberlain, a master of the palace. Come to Alexandria, Bagoas.” I had not thought that he might consider death. But that arrow had passed before I even knew it was there. “You are needed. And it is not your beauty or your grace that are needed, but your wits and your diplomacy. Ptolemy needs such as you, the one you are now, not some dream of who you might have been, or who you were to Alexander.”
He hesitated, and I thought I knew why. “I am not doing favors for you, Bagoas. You are truly needed.”
I saw him weighing it. He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving my face. “I will come to Alexandria if…” He held up a hand. “If you win and there is still Ptolemy to serve. If you win, I will come if Ptolemy wants me. But he must ask me, not you, Lydias. I do not want that between us, that I owe you my livelihood.”
“If we lose we'll probably all be dead,” I said.
“Well, yes.” Perdiccas would not be happy with him either, since Bagoas had betrayed the hearse into Ptolemy's hands. He came and brought a blanket, which he tucked around me. “Then you will have to win.”
IN THE MORNING we faced Perdiccas.
At Memphis the Nile is a formidable river, even shrunken in the dry season as it was. Even now, just before the Inundation, the river remained perfectly navigable to all except the largest and heaviest of craft. We had borne Alexander's hearse to Memphis during the flood because the barge was exceptionally big and unwieldy, but normal river traffic did not cease in the dry season. Directly opposite the walls the river was still wider than the best archer might shoot, and the water was easily over a man's head.
However, just upriver of Memphis there was an island anchored by palm trees that cut the Nile in half. The westward side was shallower, and in the dry season boats stayed to the eastward side where even then the water came to a man's neck. Also, the westward bank was broad and flat, divided into rich fields that surrounded the city. In a few months those fields would be green with grain, but now they lay fallow waiting for the flood.
When I came onto the walls the next morning, it was already clear what Perdiccas was doing. Sheltered from our side of the river by the island, he was trying to cross his troops over to the island. Twenty or thirty cavalry had already crossed over by swimming the horses, and now several officers were dismounted, examining the banks of the island on either side and poking at the river with the poles of a couple of sarissas.
Ptolemy was on the walls with Artashir, who was shaking his head.
“We would have to be in the water to hit them,” Artashir said. “There are too many trees on the island. If we go out on the western bank we still won't be able to hit them crossing over to the island from the eastern side.”
“On the other hand,” Ptolemy said, “that means they can't hit us. Would you agree?”
Artashir lifted his hand to his eyes to shade them from the rising sun and looked east again. “No, they can't hit us from the island either. If they massed on this side they might get a few arrows in the bank, but it's extreme range. They wouldn't hit anyone. This isn't an archery duel, sir. Our best bet would be to stay on the western bank and cover the water between the island and us. We could hit targets in the water easily.”
“When they try to cross from the island to our side of the river,” Ptolemy said, nodding.
“Good morning,” I said.
Ptolemy looked around. “Good morning, Lydias. Feeling better?”
“Entirely myself, sir,” I said.
Ptolemy laughed. “That's almost a pity. We could have used you the other way!”
Artashir looked from one of us to the other.
“I'm afraid that's not an experiment to be repeated,” I said. “Even for the tactical advantage. All you have is me.”
“Then you'll have to do,” Ptolemy said.
I thought that he looked rested and confident, more so than I had seen the last few weeks. If the ritual had do
ne nothing else, it seemed to have put Ptolemy on his best form.
“Artashir was just saying that he doesn't think he can hit them from the shore while they're crossing over to the island,” he said.
I nodded. “I see that. So what's the plan then?”
“They're looking for a place to cross and they'll probably find one. That's the shallower side and the river is all the way down.”
I looked across again. The river was all the way down, low and relatively slow between its banks. Now was the time. The river was supposed to be rising. But there was no sign of anything happening. It looked just as it had every other day, and not even my most fervent hopes could imagine that the waterline was higher on the opposite shore. I did not see a miracle.
Ptolemy put his hands on the parapet. “We're going to have to resist him on the riverbank. It gives us enough of an advantage. They'll be wading out of the Nile and won't be able to keep in formation. And they'll have to go straight into massed infantry. That's a tough fight.”
“And we can hit them with arrows as soon as they get in the water,” Artashir said. “I can bring some of the Egyptian archers down off the walls and put them behind our infantry.”
“That's a tough crossing for them,” I agreed. “But they've still got most of their elephants.”
“That's a job for you and Artashir, isn't it?” Ptolemy said.
I winced. “I was afraid you'd say that.” Cavalry on elephants was the worst imaginable scenario from my point of view, but heavy cavalry was about the only thing that could deal with elephants. Elephants would tear through a packed phalanx doing an incredible amount of damage.
Artashir nodded grimly. “If we shoot for the handlers and the elephants’ eyes, we can do it. But I've only got about thirty horse archers left.”
“I'll hold you in reserve, then,” Ptolemy said. “And send you after the elephants when they come ashore. Lydias, you do the same. I need you both on the elephants. Artashir hasn't enough men.”
I nodded. “We're ready.”
Of course there would be enemy cavalry too, but if they had to wade out of the river through a formed-up phalanx that was less pressing. If we had cavalry already through the phalanx then we had worse problems than elephants.
“We need to make it hurt,” Ptolemy said. “We can retire on Memphis if we need to, but we can't afford to do that unless we've hurt him too badly for him to make a serious assault on the city.”
“And he doesn't have anywhere to go,” I said. “While we have supplies and walls at our back.”
Artashir nodded. “We can do this.”
“Then let's go. Make sure everyone gets a good meal now. Perdiccas won't be over on the island until noon, and I don't want everyone standing around for seven or eight hours without having eaten. We've got time. Let's take it.”
As I went down the stairs from the wall to brief Glaukos and the troop leaders about the plan, I reflected that this was just like Ptolemy. Younger, less experienced commanders would rush everyone onto the field in harness to stand in the sun from dawn until afternoon growing restive, tired, and hungry. Ptolemy would mosey onto the field at the point where it was necessary, as though he were in no hurry at all.
BY MIDMORNING PERDICCAS had moved all of his men except the rearguard onto the island. We saw when the elephants crossed. Though the water was high enough that horses needed to swim, the backs of the elephants stayed dry. From the walls I saw one with its platform decked with scarlet curtains. I had seen that before, in India.
“Ptolemy,” I said, and pointed.
He nodded. He had seen them too, steeds for great princes or more often queens.
I thought I saw the curtains move, as though a curious child tried to look out. He is there, I thought. Alexander's son. Perdiccas does not dare leave him behind.
“To arms,” Ptolemy said in a conversational tone. “It's time.”
I HAD MY new horse, Perseus, and together we stood behind the cavalry formation on a little hillock, where a few almond trees marked the edge of the farmer's field. The sun beat down in the hottest part of the year. The Black Land baked under the sun.
Glaukos sat beside me on his horse. When the time came he would take his place at the front. To my right were Artashir and his horse archers, and to my left the Egyptian archers in their linen stood impassive behind our massed infantry.
Ptolemy came along the front of the lines at a walk, his horse perfectly in hand, his helmet off and his forehead reddening with sun.
“Time for the speech,” Glaukos said wearily.
“He'll be short and sweet,” I said.
“Men of Egypt! Companions all! We stand together before Memphis, before Alexander who lies in state. But we stand before more than that. We stand before Alexandria, and our homes, our families.”
Our lines were silent. No one shouted. In that moment I realized the genius of him. Alexander had promised glory. He had promised an adventure the like of which the world had never known. But in the end we were all tired. In the end, the ends of the earth were too far for our mortal feet. Ptolemy did not promise us glory. He promised home at the end of the road. In giving land in Alexandria he had taken the temper of his men exactly. They could see themselves citizens of a proud new city, fathers and men of substance, not forever questing after some far horizon. He gave them a future to fight for.
“We stand before our own. Together.” Ptolemy's voice carried, not beautiful but serviceable, like the rest of him. “Let's do this. And then go home.”
The roar began at the back of the infantry, but it swelled, rising into a loud cheer, the banging of sarissa butts on shields in counterpoint.
Ptolemy rode down the line and passed through, and we cheered him as never before, as though he were Alexander.
As though he were Pharaoh.
Blessed Lady of Egypt, I prayed, keep him safe. Let us win.
Ptolemy came back to where we were, his face flushed.
“That went well,” I said.
He looked surprised and pleased. “Thank you.”
“Ah-ha!” said Artashir, looking out over the river. “They've found something.”
“A shallow place, I think,” I said, raising my hand to my eyes.
They were sending a line of elephants into the water a little way upstream of us, each right behind the other, seven of them, while downstream from the elephants a troop leader waded out. The water was only waist deep.
“They've found a sandbar,” Ptolemy said. “And put the elephants upstream to break the current. I wonder if—” He broke off. “Yes, there.”
Downstream of the place where the troop leader stood, ten or twelve horsemen waded out into the water. To catch anyone swept away, I thought, as they must cross in full armor with sarissas leveled. I did think the river was running faster, the current stronger.
On the opposite bank the first phalanx formed up and began to wade into the water.
“Artashir,” Ptolemy said.
Artashir nodded to his men and began directing them around, getting into position to cover where they would come.
Knee-deep in the water as they waded out, the first of Perdiccas’ phalanxes raised their shields above their heads.
“Ready,” Artashir said.
As one every bow was drawn.
“Fire.” Black arrows swooped across the sky and the battle was joined.
RIVER GODS
The first volleys were not effective. With their shields over their heads the arrows that dropped down upon them largely clanged off the steel. Here and there one slipped through gaps between shields, but did little damage. Still, there was the effect of being under fire, which was not something to underestimate.
Artashir called hold after the third volley. They were coming close to the shore, and the first lines of our infantry stepped forward to meet them, sarissas leveled. Like two enormous crashing behemoths, our infantry and theirs locked together. The noise was tremendous, the clash of steel and the shouts
of men, the grunts and groans as they strained with main force to push the other back, sometimes literally shoving shield to shield.
We had the advantage. Our men stood on solid ground, while the back of their phalanx was knee-deep in water with a sandy bottom. Slowly, a handspan at a time, we began to push them back. Our first ranks splashed into the river.
A second phalanx was crossing, trying to swing into position upstream to the right of the first, and Ptolemy shifted the line to meet it.
They locked shield to shield, struggling at the very edge of the Nile. And our men began to push.
I gentled my restive horse. He smelled blood. “Not our turn yet, boy,” I said. I waited, cool and collected as Ptolemy, watching the battle. Above, people had gathered on the walls of Memphis. I wondered if Bagoas were there. I thought he probably was. He would want to see, would not be able to bear sitting quietly somewhere while everything unfolded.
Step by step, our men were forcing them back, pushing them slowly into the river. Muscles strained, and from where I sat I could hear the groans of men and metal as our men shoved with all their strength. The first two ranks were in the water now, the river running around their ankles, carrying their blood away. The fallen lay trapped by the feet of their comrades. The current could not seize them yet.
“Form up,” I said to Glaukos.
He looked at me questioningly.
“He's got to break through, man,” I said. “That means either cavalry or elephants. And either one is our job.”
Perdiccas chose cavalry. Almost before Glaukos got to the front of the formation, his horsemen were in the water, wading through the river that came up to the horses’ chests.
“Stand to receive!” Glaukos shouted, glancing back over his shoulder at me.
What? I thought. Wait for them to come out of the water and form up before we hit them?
I had my reins in my right hand, and raised my left, catching Glaukos’ eye. “Form to the right!” I ordered. “Get around the right end of our infantry!” I pointed to the troop leader of the farthest left file. “Go down to the other end. Get on the far right.” There was no point in having men who were behind our own phalanx. “Get round the flank.”
