by Max Overton
Alexander laughed. "Not for you, Ptolemy. You'll march the army downriver. I'll watch you from the fleet until we reach the coast." He absentmindedly scratched a reddened mark on his arm.
"Hurt yourself, Alexander?" enquired Eumenes solicitously. "Shall I send for a doctor?"
Alexander glared at the effete Greek until he dropped his gaze. "No doctors." He shrugged. "It's only an insect bite."
The feast started at sunset. As the sun dipped below the western horizon, Alexander offered up the sacrifice to Herakles, dedicating the feast to the hero-god, and to Hephaestion. He washed the blood from his arms and, donning a clean robe, led the guests into the dining area.
The night was fine, the stars blazing in the skies above the open courtyard and the great open cooking fires only added to the sweltering heat of the summer evening. Servants pried whole ox carcasses off the cooking slabs, the well-cooked flesh sizzling and crackling in the juices and gravies. With a flourish they sliced them open before the assembled feasters, eliciting cries of wonder and praise as roasted hogs were drawn out of the oxen. These in turn were cut open to reveal sheep, then poultry and fish, packed one within the other.
The smoking meats were carved and laid in great platters before the guests, together with mountains of vegetables and steaming hills of cooked grains - the new water-grains from the east. Bread was brought in huge baskets, hot and fresh from the ovens, and plenty of drink. Wine, beers, citron and spring water from the king's own stores flowed like minor rivers.
Nikometros reclined on a couch near Seleukos and prince Mardesopryaxes. Timon was absent, his wounds causing him sufficient trouble to warrant an early night. Women were excluded from these feasts by custom. It was not deemed seemly that they attend festivities when men drank, often to excess.
Everyone ate their fill, though the heat of the Babylonian night depressed appetite and fostered thirst. Initially, the wine was well watered but after the food had been cleared, people started drinking the wine neat. Voices grew louder, more argumentative, more discordant.
The young men, officers new to their station and eager to be noticed, began to pledge toasts to the king. He answered each one with a smile and drank the toast. As the night progressed, Alexander grew flushed, his eyes bright, his greying blond hair plastered with sweat.
Nikometros sipped his wine and looked around at the other guests. His gaze slipped over a small knot of men standing in the shadows behind the king, hesitated, then returned. He frowned when he recognised Caius, the Roman praefect and Kassandros, son of the Macedonian Regent.
"Who is that with Kassandros? Do you know them?"
Mardes stared then nodded. "That young man with the fair hair is the man my spies told me about. I don't know who he is."
Seleukos turned his attention from the officer reclining on the other side of him. "That is Iollas, the king's cupbearer. The other young men are squires. Why?"
"I was wondering why Kassandros sought him out."
Seleukos shrugged. "Iollas is brother to Kassandros. No doubt he bears messages from home."
"Brother?" Nikometros half raised himself and stared at the group of men, talking quietly but animatedly behind the king. He glanced at Mardes, catching his troubled look.
"You think there's something significant in that?" asked Seleukos. "Iollas is trusted, has been for years. You may be sure the king knows already if there's even the slightest suspicion."
Nikometros sank back down onto his couch and picked up his wine cup again. "You're probably right."
The noise grew in volume, cut off raggedly while several dancers and musicians ran in and lined up in front of the king. When silence fell at last, a young man, almost feminine in beauty stepped forward and, in a high, clear voice, dedicated their dance to Alexander.
Mardes nudged Nikometros. "By all the gods," he murmured. "We're in for a rare treat. That's Bagoas, the king's boy."
"Bagoas? Who is he?" Nikometros peered over the couches toward the open space where the dancers were arranging themselves.
The musicians started, flutes and tinkling cymbals in a martial beat.
"Come now, Nikometros. All this time in Alexander's court and you don't know about Bagoas?" He laughed quietly. "You must truly only have eyes for women, not boys."
"Only one woman, my friend."
Mardes shook his head. "My preference lies with women too, but I can appreciate the extraordinary beauty of Bagoas. He was the Great King Darius' before, you know. Now he's Alexander's shadow."
"I really don't know why you Persians feel you must cut your boys," interjected Seleukos. "Oh, I know emasculation preserves the beauty but from what I heard, eunuchs close to the throne are nothing but trouble."
"It's true that the predecessor of Darius met his end at the hands of a eunuch," Mardes replied. "Oddly enough, that eunuch's name was Bagoas too. However, it's an old custom and I daresay won't be changed anytime soon." He smiled at the earnest young officer. "What of yourself, Seleukos? Are you a lover of boys?"
Seleukos shook his head. "No, not particularly. Though like you, I can appreciate male beauty." He craned his neck to watch the dancers. "I say, look at that!"
The dancers, eight in all, were dressed in helmets and short kilts or trousers. Four, obviously meant to represent the Greek army, stood at attention with mock swords and shields. The other four, led by Bagoas, stood in for the Persians, armed with scimitars.
With a wail, flutes erupted into a frenzied skirl, rising and falling. The dancers flowed, moving forward, offering graceful blows at the others, the cymbals crashing as mock swords met mock shields. They swirled, advancing and retreating, every eye caught by the beauty and grace. The music changed, becoming slower, more languid. The dancers laid aside their weapons and moved closer, offering friendship and love. As the dance ended, the dancers paired off, Greek and Persian, sinking to the floor in a loving embrace.
Applause erupted from the onlookers, with cheers and not a few invitations from the guests on the nearer couches.
Alexander rose to his feet, a trifle unsteadily and beckoned to Bagoas, a great grin on his face. He embraced the young man and, amid further cheering, kissed him tenderly. Turning, his arm around the youth, Alexander led him back to his couch and pledged a toast to Bagoas. Together, they drank from the king's gold cup.
The drinking resumed, followed by bawdy humour. Music started up again, falling into the rhythm of old Macedonian drinking songs.
Alexander listened for a while, his foot tapping out the beat, and one hand holding his wine cup, the other stroking Bagoas' hair. At last he put down his cup and got to his feet. "A komos!"
Bagoas discreetly slipped away, disappearing back into the palace.
A cheer went up and a rough line formed behind the king. The music rose, men stamped and bawled out the words of songs, any they could remember, while the line lurched and weaved about the courtyard. Guests snapped off branches from the vines growing along the walls and fashioned them into wreaths. The line of dancing men wound itself between the remains of the cooking fires, threading between couches and empty amphorae of wine. Unwatered wine worked its way on the heads and feet of men and the komos ground to a halt, the dancers breaking up into swaying groups or collapsing onto couches. The festivities broke up shortly after and the guests dispersed.
Alexander went into the palace but returned some minutes later. He wore a fresh wool robe and his hair was tied back and plastered down with orange-water. He called to his friends. "Medios is having a small supper party. Come and join me."
Ptolemy walked over unsteadily and put his hand on Alexander's arm. "Do you think you should? You look a bit feverish."
"It's nothing. Just a touch of the sun. I'm not going for long--come on, it'll be fun."
He walked off, leaving Ptolemy shaking his head. Several other friends gathered round, persuading Ptolemy and at last he gave up with a laugh, following Alexander.
Nikometros plucked at Seleukos' arm. "Who is this Medi
os? I haven't seen him around court."
"A nobody. A junior officer under Admiral Niarchos."
Medios welcomed his guests, expected and unexpected, into a modest house. About twenty men lay on couches around the walls of the largest room, leaving an open space in the middle so everyone could see everyone else. Talk was subdued at first but as men continued to drink thirstily in the oppressive Babylonian night, the conversation grew livelier.
Talk turned to Alexander's boyhood and the early years of his reign. He praised his friends for their loyalty and steadfastness. "What better friends could a man have?" he cried. "Even those of you who came later have proven themselves true friends." He threw out his arms as if to embrace everyone present. "A toast. I will drink a toast to you all!"
Servants brought in the wine in a great beaker, cooled in snow and beaded with condensation in the hot, humid air.
"By the gods," chuckled Seleukos. "That's truly a huge cup. A cup of Herakles at the feast of Herakles."
Alexander got to his feet and accepted the beaker, holding it aloft in both hands. "To love!" he cried.
"To love!" echoed his friends.
Alexander lifted it to his lips and sipped. He hesitated a moment and Nikometros, seated only two couches away from his king, saw him shiver and break out in goose flesh on his bare arms. Then the king lifted the cup and drank deeply, turning slowly to face all his friends as his throat worked convulsively. The cup continued to tip and several young men burst into cheers and cries of encouragement.
Alexander drained the last of the cold wine and lifted the cup aloft in a salute. "To love!" he cried again. "To you all, my belov...aah!" Alexander dropped the cup and staggered, holding a hand to his side. He swayed while his friends looked on in horror then his eyes rolled up and he started to collapse.
Ptolemy leapt forward, followed closely by Nikometros, catching their king and laying him on his couch. Alexander turned an ashen face to Ptolemy and muttered something. Ptolemy leaned closer, gesturing furiously to the others to keep quiet.
"I...I will be..." Alexander repeated in a hoarse whisper. "Take me back to the palace. I just need to rest."
Ptolemy and Nikometros, together with a handful of other guests, escorted Alexander back to his rooms. Bagoas was waiting, having been alerted by the squires and took charge of his monarch without a word. They left him sleeping beneath a thin coverlet on a bed by the open pool.
"What happened?" asked Nikometros. "Is the king ill?"
"You were there," Ptolemy said. "He drank the wine and collapsed."
"Poisoned?" asked a young man.
"Don't be a fool," replied Perdikkas. "He'd be dead already if he'd been poisoned."
"Then what?"
Ptolemy shrugged. "It's a hot night and that wine was frigid. No wonder it hurt him. He'll be all right tomorrow, you wait and see."
Nikometros excused himself and hurried home in the first light of dawn. As he went he thought back over the omens surrounding the king. How did Tomyra's prophecy go, he thought. "By water, by wine, by hand of man..." He shivered, despite the warmth of the night.
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Chapter Forty
Timon grumbled a good deal before at last consenting to remain in bed under care.
His wounds were inflamed and hot to the touch.
Nikometros used his influence to have his friend installed in one of the many apartments of the main palace, not far from the king's suite. Here, in rooms open to the river, with pools to bathe in and ornamental ponds stocked with fish that swam beneath lily pads in golden shoals, Timon could escape the heat. Within a day or two his wounds started healing, the incipient fever abating. By the third day after the river cruise, he felt well enough to entertain company.
"I'm happy to see you well again," Tomyra said, her body held stiffly formal. "I was worried."
"Thank you," said Timon, with a smile.
An awkward silence followed, until Mardes stepped in and deflected attention away from their strained friendship. "I say, Timon, these rooms are truly magnificent, aren't they? I must look into building some like this back home."
"You have a river palace too?" asked Bithyia. "Tell us about it."
"Oh, nothing much to speak of," said Mardes. "The estate is somewhat rundown and in need of attention. The palace itself is on a hillside but there is a small river close by. I was thinking I could build a modest summerhouse on its banks."
"Well, let us know when you build it," Nikometros grinned. "We'll definitely come and try it out for you."
The conversation faltered again while Timon and Tomyra struggled to maintain a polite façade while the cause of their estrangement still rankled.
"Er...you got permission to use these rooms from the king himself, I understand, Niko," said Mardes.
Nikometros nodded. He looked around at the uncomfortable expressions and hurried to explain. "Yes. The king was most forthcoming. When he heard the problem he suggested these rooms himself."
"And how is the king? Recovered from his party?"
Nikometros frowned. "His fever is worse. He won't stop working and give his body time to heal."
"Worse?" asked Mardes. "But I saw him yesterday coming back from offering the sacrifice. He looked fine then."
"He was. He went to another party that night and came home with a fever again. The next morning...this morning, he had to be carried in a litter to make the sacrifice. Then he spent the whole day in planning with Niarchos." Nikometros shook his head. "The fever is higher this evening. Despite the heat, he lies wrapped in blankets, shivering, or else bathing in cold pools."
"This sounds more than just a reaction to an excess of cold wine," rumbled Timon. "Has he seen a doctor?"
"He refuses to see one. He remembers Glaukios in Ekbatana."
"The king must leave Babylon," Tomyra said in a low voice. "He must heed the warnings of the gods."
"No doubt, my love, but try to convince him of that."
"Willingly, Niko. You just get me in to see him and I'll convince him."
"I can try, I suppose, but I don't hold out much hope."
"What of the other matter, Niko," put in Mardes. "Have you told the king?"
"What? About Kassandros? Yes, I mentioned it to Perdikkas."
"What did he say?"
"Not much," Nikometros said with a grimace. "He didn't think it was important. He knows Kassandros from his youth and thinks he's a blow-hard, rather than a real danger."
"Even with the Roman?"
"He says the Roman is one man, far from home with no real friends. What can he do?"
"Come Niko," remonstrated Mardes. "You don't believe that."
"No, I don't," agreed Nikometros. "I'm only telling you what Perdikkas said." He walked over to a small table and poured iced citron into several small cups. "I'll wait a day or two. If nothing happens to Kassandros or Caius, I'll try to speak directly to the king." He passed the cups out to his friends, then lifted his and drank.
"From what you've told me, my love," Tomyra said. "It may be too late."
"Too late?" Timon stared at her. "What do you mean?"
"Only that Iollas, the king's cupbearer is brother to Kassandros and by chance, the king falls ill after drinking wine no doubt served by Iollas."
"Iollas is trusted," said Nikometros uneasily. "Anyway, he could have poisoned the king's wine any time. Why now?"
"The Regency." Mardes nodded, a troubled smile on his face. "Their father Antipatros is Regent of Macedon. Alexander has just sent his trusted general Krateros back to Macedon to become Regent in his place. If Alexander dies, Antipatros will defy Krateros and hang on to power, maybe even increase it. That's enough of a motive."
"And the Roman?" Bithyia asked. "Where does he fit in?"
"When Alexander pushes west he'll meet and subjugate the Romans," said Timon. "He has no love for Alexander either."
"So what can we do?" asked Nikometros.
Mardes considered
the problem. "Probably very little at the moment. You've voiced your concerns to Perdikkas. Hopefully he'll pass them on to Alexander. If not, I'd wait a couple of days and talk to Ptolemy."
"It could just be a fever. Babylon was never a healthy place for foreigners."
Mardes laughed. "Don't let the king hear you say that. He's trying very hard to become a native."
The others joined in the laughter and Bithyia took advantage of the moment to lead the others in to a light supper. The conversation turned to lighter matters for a while, Tomyra entertaining them with stories of Starissa. After the supper, the ladies excused themselves to go and see the child, while the men talked over wine.
"Have you told Tomyra about the attack the other night?" asked Timon.
Nikometros looked startled. "Of course! How could I not...I mean, your wounds...oh, you mean about Parates?"
"Exactly. Have you told her about Parates' complicity?"
"Possible complicity. We cannot prove it."
Timon made a rude noise. "Who else knew we were going to be there?"
"Could you have been followed?" Mardes asked.
"Possibly," replied Nikometros, "but it would have been a great coincidence. I was in the palace before crossing to the lesser palace to find Timon. The guards would not have admitted any unauthorized people, so unless these thugs happened upon us in the street, no, I would say we weren't followed."
"You're sure the motive wasn't robbery?"
"They were Persians..."
"Even Persians can be robbers," interposed Mardes with a grin.
"...and their equipment was good. The man I killed had money in his purse. I wouldn't say his motive was robbery."
"Then I'd say Parates must stand high in your suspicions," said Mardes. "Have you confronted him?"
Nikometros shook his head. "No, he's disappeared and no one can tell me where he is."
"The actions of a man with something to hide," growled Timon.
"So what will you do now?" asked Mardes.
"Not much we can do," replied Nikometros. "Stay on guard. Keep looking for him."
