An Immortal Dance

by Alastair Fontaine

  “Great! Let’s meet after school. My place around 5?”

  “Deal.” Ambrose made no effort to conceal his annoyance.

  “Alright, see you then. Have fun in history!” Finn’s plump figure walked away contentedly. For his part, Ambrose trudged towards Mr. Josephs’ classroom. Maybe the party wouldn’t be the worst part of his day after all.

  红豆生南国，

  春来发几枝。

  愿君多采撷，

  此物最相思。

  -Wang Wei, China. “Love Seeds”.

  2

  The Chiliarch of Macedon lounged on a golden divan, dressed in fine, white linens. Jewels of every shape and colour protruded from the marble walls around him. Fine furs from strange beasts decorated the ground beneath him. Slaves waited to cater to his every desire. A few of them played music from the East, skilfully soothing him with the sweet sounds of lyres and flutes. His pet lounged in a corner of the room that all who entered were careful to avoid. Even in chains, it was stunningly graceful. Black stripes decorated a luxurious, tawny coat that gave way to white when the great cat turned to show its belly. It had been occupying itself gnawing on the remains of a recently delivered morsel when it spotted a tall, muscular figure approaching, his blonde locks crowned by the golden laurels of Macedon. The mighty brute bared its ivory fangs, emitting a low growl in scornful challenge.

  “My brother,” the figure spoke, ignoring the beast.

  Alexandros. Hephaestion had not expected to see the Basileus today.

  “Will you not greet me, old friend?” Alexandros laughed. It was a rich, sincere sound. The Chiliarch stood to meet him. As they embraced, their eyes met. Hephaestion saw a searing curiosity in those electric blue orbs. The powerful desire that lay behind them scared Hephaestion, but it also enthralled him. It intoxicated him to be the sole object of such longing.

  They sat, reclining on their divans. The Chiliarch called for refreshments. Instantly, a pair of young Persian boys came forward with platters of exotic foods, so different from the black gruel of Macedon. He and Alexandros had once mocked the Persians for the fine tastes that they enjoyed. Yet Hephaestion could not imagine going back to the way things had been. Knowing Alexandros, he suspected that the Basileus did not relish the thought either. Indeed, they devoured the sweet grapes, fresh peaches and crimson apples. He waved the boys away and they were replaced by cupbearers, once slaves in the Greek city-states, now freed by Alexandros. They tasted the wine, willing to die so that their liberator might live. Then, they set it down in front of their masters and nervously backed away, clearly entranced by the great monarch.

  “Do you remember those days at the feet of wise Aristoteles? When I was but a Prince in the hills of Macedon and you the son of a mere chieftain?” he asked.

  “Of course I remember those days. We were foolish then, were we not? We mocked Aristoteles for sitting on his arse all day instead of fighting under your father’s banner. Yet I see now that your father had reason to admire him as he did.”

  “Yes, my father was wise in many things,” Alexandros muttered. Hephaestion saw some resentment in his eyes. It was natural, of course. Phílippos had not intended for his first son to take the throne. Nearby, the tiger began to roar. It strained against its bonds, terrifying servant and soldier alike. Amber eyes glared at the Basileus with savage intent, but were ignored.

  “Do you remember back then we were wild, a thorn in your father’s side?”

  Alexandros smiled at that. “Yes, I remember when we unleashed my mother’s snakes into the royal bedchamber. That was brilliant! Was it your idea, or mine?” he laughed.

  “Yours of course, it was always your idea and you know it very well. It was I who always got the blame though!”

  “My dear Hephaestion, you shouldn’t have followed me if you feared the consequences,” the Basileus reminded him. Now it was Hephaestion who laughed. Alexandros knew that his Chiliarch would follow him to the ends of the world if he asked him to.

  “You win again, my friend. However, I seem to recall it was not always the case,” Hephaestion said. He clapped for more wine, patiently waiting for an olive-skinned servant to fill his cup. “While we’re reminiscing about our younger years, did I not beat you bloody that first day in the training grounds and every day since? Unless you were holding back in an attempt to spare my delicate ego, am I wrong to believe that I left you stumped many a time in Aristoteles’ debates?” he continued, flashing a triumphant grin as Alexandros’ smile faded.

  “Yes, well, that was years ago. Now, we have more important things to think about, old friend. Do you remember what Aristoteles taught us? That we, the men of Macedon and Greece, are the only civilised peoples? That the Persians here, the Egyptians to the South and the Hill-Peoples to the East are barbarians? I set out thinking that we were going to expand the shining light of Macedon to the ignorant masses of these lands. Yet I cannot help but think that perhaps we were the ignorant ones. Look at how we live now. Could you have imagined such luxury back home?” Alexandros mused. The Chiliarch’s mind was again cast back to the unpleasant slime that passed for a meal in the barracks of Pella.

  “Oh Alexandros, I told you then what you have found out now. You may rule over these people, but you must be satisfied with their money and obedience. Their culture is far too ancient to ever fully conquer. Try and you will be consumed by it. Look at us, dressed in Egyptian linens, seated on soft cushions, enjoying foods we did not even know existed,” he observed.

  “Perhaps you are right. These people can never be wholly like us. However, I do not see the problem. They bow to me and pay my taxes. They fight in my armies. They will accompany me on a glorious campaign to the East.”

  “India? You are certain?” Hephaestion looked at him in disbelief. He feared for his friend. He knew that India would be a formidable target. Even for Alexandros. Yet he also knew that there would be no stopping him if the shining cities of that land were in his heart.

  “Yes, my brother. At last, that faraway continent will bow to Alexandros.”

  Alexandros talked excitedly about India. All that he had heard, all that he wished to achieve. With every word and gesture, he radiated such hope, such fierce ambition. It almost seemed possible to Hephaestion, though in his heart he knew that it was not. Even for Alexandros. There was no point in trying to convince him of that simple fact. No matter what, Alexandros would push on and he would follow.

  He noticed how those around him looked at Alexandros. The Persian slaves that filled the air with beautiful melodies looked at their conqueror with such incredible devotion. Where they had expected barbarism, they had only found tolerance and kindness. They had likely heard that he was a God. He must have seemed like one to so easily topple their Emperor. Yet he lay before them, laughing freely with an old friend. The servants who brought forward the roasted lamb were clearly nervous around their monarch. Not daring to look him in the eyes, they snuck peeks at him while he turned to face his friend, the Chiliarch. Hephaestion smiled at their fear, sensing their intense adoration for their conqueror. The two friends devoured the new delicacy that had appeared in front of them, enjoying every succulent bite. It was the best dish that Hephaestion had tasted during his time in Babylon. It was clearly a labour of love. The Persian cooks had worked well to please their new lord. At last, he looked at the soldiers. Large men of Macedon, with blonde hair and blue eyes like Alexandros. They looked at the Persians with disdain and mistrust. They were men bred for war. They could not appreciate such finery. Yet even they looked at Alexandros with nothing less than awe. His mere presence seemed to fill them with pride. It was for him that they tolerated the obscene display. Like them, the Chiliarch could not help but to believe in Alexandros. How could a man full of such fire fail?

  The great warrior would live on for eternity in glorious memory. Their victory at Gaugamela had ensured that. Yet the real Alexandros would be forgotten. The beautiful essence of the man was impossible to truly captu
re without experiencing it. There was a burning life in him that was so incredibly rare. In his eyes Hephaestion saw an indomitable will. It was greater than his body, greater than the glittering ranks of his mighty armies. Yet Hephaestion knew that it was what only he would remember.

  A slender figure walking through the glittering halls tore the Chiliarch’s thoughts away from his beloved friend. She saw him. He knew her. He could never forget those sapphire eyes. He was no longer listening to Alexandros. His gaze had been torn from his beloved Basileus. He merely nodded as the monarch spoke, his mind on the other side of the room.

  “My friend, I see that I cannot compete with our new company. Perhaps I should spend some time with my own wife, lest she grow jealous of you,” Alexandros laughed. Hephaestion was too entranced to notice the pain on his friend’s face as he turned away. He began to walk towards that enchanting figure.

  “Ambrose?” a distant voice called. That was not his name, yet he knew that it was he who was being addressed.

  He got closer. She beckoned to him with those savage eyes, wild and free, a maddening enigma.

  “Ambrose d’Artois?” it called again. It was distracting. He wanted it to go away.

  Closer. He could almost touch her now.

  “Ambrose d’Artois!” he was whipped back into reality. Mr Josephs was looking at him expectantly through his square spectacles.

  “Sir?”

  “Where’s your essay?” his teacher asked.

  “I e-mailed it to you, sir,” he replied, careful not to let the vexation in his voice show. Mr. Josephs checked his laptop. Within a few moments, he was nodding his bald head, content.

  “Ah, there it is. I must have missed it this morning. Thank you Ambrose.”

  Ambrose was beyond annoyed at having been shaken from his fantasy. It was gone, escaped to the same, inaccessible corner of his mind where his dreams hid. All that he remembered was a pair of sapphire eyes, seared into his soul.

  It's a lonely lane, full of mist and dust;

  Journey getting strange with each day passing by.

  It's full of distraction, don't know whether it's love or lust.

  -Kins, United States of America

  3

  School was over. Ambrose had two hours before he would have to meet Finn. Everyone he’d seen that day had one of those stupid masks. He didn’t even know how Courtney Rossborough was going to fit that many people in one place. Who even threw a ball anymore? He thought parties were all about a bunch of people getting drunk out of their minds in a big house, optimally with no parental supervision. It didn’t really matter. Honestly, he just wanted to stay home and do something productive. He had recently discovered a talent for the guitar. He could play it pretty well. He enjoyed the feel of the wooden instrument in his hands. At first, pressing the strings would cut into his fingertips. As his skill grew though, he had stopped feeling the pain. His favourite style was flamenco. He loved the fast, fiery rhythm of the music. It really suited him and when he played, he was consumed by his art. He could’ve been honing his skill further today, but it would have to wait. A pity.

  Beginning the short walk home, he plugged in his earphones. Ron Pope’s ‘Fireflies’ began to fill his ears. The man’s voice was a divine gift if such a thing existed. In that voice, there was a range of tiny nuances that conveyed such an incredible range of emotions. In the song, there was despair, sadness, yearning and even the hint of a happiness long gone. That voice, and the words it sang, filled Ambrose with an intense desire. A longing for someone worthy of his adoration, a wish to be that person’s world. He felt a loss, as if he had once possessed such a thing. He knew that he hadn’t. He could never have forgotten something so valuable. He would never have let it go. Besides, he knew of no girls in his life before the accident and his parents had never mentioned any. Since, he had seen plenty of beauties, and Finn did his very best to point them out to him in case he hadn’t. However, Ambrose d’Artois could not see himself with any of them. When he talked to them, he could not see candlelight dinners under the stars, nor could he fathom meaningful conversations during long walks by the sea.

  It had perplexed Finn so much that one day, he had pulled Ambrose aside. His usually jolly, childish expression had turned grave. He had looked Ambrose in the eyes and asked, “Man, are you gay?”

  Ambrose had stared at him for a second in shocked silence. Then, he had started laughing. Ripples of laughter passed through him and shook his muscular figure before he collected himself. “And what if I am? Are you a homophobe or something?”

  “No man, it’s fine, just, I don’t know, are you?” Finn asked, flustered. Ambrose didn’t answer. He just stared at Finn, curving his lips into an annoyingly innocent smile.

  “Seriously. Can. You. Just. Give. Me. An. Answer.”

  “In theory, if I were gay, I probably wouldn’t go for you. Don't worry.”

  “Bro... that’s just harsh. Anyways, that isn’t an answer.”

  “If you’re trying to ask me out, I’m sorry but this just isn’t the way...” Ambrose had continued to prod him. Eventually, Finn had thrown his hands in the air and given up. Ambrose still taunted him about it from time to time. He wasn’t sure if Finn really thought that he was gay. He didn’t care much anyways. He had never met a guy that he was attracted to, but who knew? Maybe he was destined to have his candlelight dinners and sea-side walks with a man, if not with a woman.

  Lost in his thoughts, he strolled through the forest path that would eventually take him home. Often, Ambrose would use the time to notice the natural beauty around him. Somehow, it always made him feel at peace. The trail was surrounded by towering pine trees, their leaves forming a green wall in the sky that would give way to a beautiful gold in the autumn. From inside their fortresses, little songsters played their tunes. Then, as winter came, the wall of leaves would collapse, leaving only a hardy palisade of branches and empty nests. Around the trees there were streams, with water quickly flowing from one to the other in a quest to reach the river. There were boulders large and small, scarred by the ages. Pretty flowers grew where their ancestors had grown year after year. They grew tall to reach those few, vital rays of sunlight that passed through the great canopy above them. Then, they withered and died, leaving behind only seeds to take their place. So it had been from time immemorial. They had populated the land long before any human, and Ambrose felt a kinship with them that he could not explain. He almost felt at home. Almost. There were no iPhones in the forest. No cotton sheets or feather mattresses to hide from the cold. There were no golden Swiss watches or fine silk suits like the one he planned on wearing that night.

  Suddenly, Ron Pope was gone. He had been replaced by a discordant mix made up of the cries of primeval beasts. The trail had disappeared and the cold had been replaced by an intense tropical warmth. He looked up. Instead of pines, he saw a variety of towering wooden behemoths all around him. Monsters from another age swarmed the tree tops, in a state of constant war. Below, he saw exotic flowers of every shape and colour. He was Ambrose, but the name felt foreign to his ears. He stared down at himself. He was naked, but oddly, he felt no shame. His feet were rough, accustomed to running and jumping through that vast wilderness. His skin was an unfamiliar brown. Strangely, it all seemed natural to him. He kept walking. He had no fear of the creatures that surrounded him. They dared not touch him. Even those hulking, muscle-bound cats with daggers for teeth fled at the sight of him. He decimated the vegetation that obstructed him, crushing it underfoot and leaving a trail of broken flowers in his wake.

  He heard laughter in the distance. Powerful, arrogant voices, loud in their defiance of the primal savagery around them, familiar to him. As he moved towards the source of the sounds, he noticed that it had begun to darken. He had no fear in the light, but now he felt a burning poison grip his soul as terror seized him. He started walking faster and faster, breaking into a run as the sun continued to fall. He felt cold, pitiless eyes on him from the surrounding thi
ckets. He knew that they were following him, waiting for those last rays of fair sunlight to disappear. Once they came out of the thickets, there would be no quarter. The darkness would envelop him and he would be lost forever amidst gnashing fangs and savage cries. The voices were closer now. There was still hope. He dashed through the jungle, ignoring those terrible gazes, suppressing all doubts and thoughts of surrender. As he moved, he tried to remember his name. Am? Amb? No, As? It was gone. However, he had no time to dwell on it.

  The sun was gone. Darkness ruled again in those feral lands. He kept running, hearing the thickets begin to stir with vicious life behind him. He heard the sounds of hooves and paws thundering behind him. Above him, he heard creaks as shadows swung from branch to branch. Around him, the gloom celebrated its deadly triumph. Cruel snarls and grotesque howls stalked him. Their message was clear. There would be no escape for him. He had finally strayed too far. The blackness would claim him now, extinguishing his light forever. Even as he moved nearer to the friendly voices, he despaired. The monstrous brigade was upon him.

  He felt sharp talons rip into his back as he was brutally pushed into the dark ground beneath. He waited for cloven hooves to smash his skull, or jagged teeth to rip the life from his breast, or worse, for fangs to sink into his flesh, slowly tearing him apart while he still breathed. At the thought, panic gripped him. He flailed and thrashed against his attackers, but they had the advantage in the dark. He tried desperately to remember his name. He did not want to die nameless. Their odious cries of victory intensified, drowning out his own hideous screams. He closed his eyes and hoped that it would be quick.

  Then it stopped. They were off him as quickly as they had grabbed him. Those dreadful shouts of predatory joy turned into bellows of pure terror and obscene laments quickly retreating into the thickets. Slowly, he opened his eyes, wondering if it was some fiendish trick by his captors, meant to prolong his torment. To his amazement, he saw light. It emanated from a branch held by a sapphire-eyed beauty with sun-darkened skin like his. He knew her somehow. They looked into each other’s eyes. He was captivated by her deep blue pupils, quickly forgetting the horror that he had just experienced. He sensed an indomitable savagery, similar to that of the beasts that had assailed him, radiating from those eyes. Yet they did not frighten him, for he saw no hatred there, only playful curiosity. She offered him her hand. He took it, standing to look around him, and allowed himself to smile, showing off his brilliant, white teeth to the shapeless, black masses that waited at the edges of the circle of torchlight. His wounded back hurt, but the beasts could not touch him.