“You’re right, Hephaestion,” I whispered. “I will continue scheming. And I’ll find a way to join Alexander, if it’s the last thing I do.”
CHAPTER 7
331 BCE
Gaugamela, Persia
Drypetis
The ground outside our pavilion trembled as if it were being pummeled by Mithra’s mace. I shielded my eyes in a vain attempt to make out my father’s war elephants stomping their mighty feet across the plain choked with Greek and Persian soldiers, the beasts tossing their tusks and trumpeting louder than any herald’s horn. The wooden siege towers balanced on their backs could hold three Persians armed with pikes, the perfect vantage point from which to strike down these invading Greeks. So great was Alexander’s fear of the massive elephants that last night beneath a sweep of watchful stars he’d made a blood sacrifice to the gods, cutting the throat of a young bull and pouring its lifeblood into the ground. Alexander’s distress lightened my heart as the sound of Persian hammer blows reverberated into the dark sky, the sweet sound of sharpened wooden stakes being beaten into the ground to reinforce my father’s front lines.
The sound had almost been drowned out by Hephaestion’s shouts. Freshly returned from the peace he’d brokered with Athens, the dark-haired beast was now the commander of Alexander’s personal guard, who fought at his side. With the blessing of full sails, Hephaestion’s oared trireme had reached the Euphrates well ahead of the plodding infantry and baggage train, giving him time to build a bridge across the entire river. I wished that Hephaestion’s bridge might crack with a mighty roar and pour Greeks into the waters to drown in their heavy armor, sweeping away Alexander’s army until the surface of the Euphrates was blighted with bloated bodies. Yet even Anahita, our fickle maiden goddess of the river, seemed smitten with Alexander’s warrior-lover and allowed Hephaestion to stride from one bank to the other unmolested. I should have known better, for Anahita had forsaken my family since the day my brother drowned.
But there was still hope even without the goddess, for Alexander’s contingent of Greeks was vastly outnumbered by the full might of the Persian army.
The site chosen for the battle was Gaugamela, a village situated at the base of a hill shaped like a camel’s hump. The men on both sides stared at one another across the open plain, and the autumn sun glowered down at us from a sky marbled with clouds, yet Alexander remained abed.
My family and I stood outside our pavilion shaded by a silken awning, across from Alexander’s campaign tent and flanked by guards as we awaited the Macedonian to show his face. So sure was my grandmother of Alexander’s impending defeat that she’d ordered us dressed in our finest silks, embroidered with golden thread and studded with jewels. Inside our pavilion sat ready three cedar palanquins for our victorious procession out of Gaugamela. The great Dowager Queen Sisygambis had also commanded our servingwomen to sew scented sachets of dried rose petals to hold to our noses after the battle, to keep the smell of the rotting Macedonian corpses at bay.
I knew from Barsine that Alexander’s generals had urged him to make a surprise night attack to hide his inferior numbers, but he’d refused, claiming that he wouldn’t steal his victories. Now the sun climbed higher and higher.
I shifted closer to Stateira. “Maybe he’s plotting the best way to surrender in the face of his impending defeat,” I whispered, but she ignored me.
“No amount of prayers to Zeus should take this long,” Hephaestion finally said to the gathered generals, rubbing a hand over his freshly shaved jaw. “I’ll see what’s keeping him.”
I smiled to myself, sure that the mighty Macedonian was trembling with fear in the dark of his tent while beseeching his many divine fathers for a painless death.
We waited in silence and I marveled at how straight my grandmother and sister could stand, gazing ahead with their hands clasped before them. It required all my willpower not to fidget, until I occupied myself with thinking of the scale model of Tyre I’d been working on in our tent, planning the wood pieces and plaster needed to construct Alexander’s causeway and siege towers. With any luck, by the end of the day I might be showing it to my father.
It was another quarter hour before Alexander finally emerged, still buckling the shoulder guards on his cuirass, lines from his pillows plain on his cheeks as he rubbed his eyes. “You might have let me sleep until noon,” Alexander grumbled to his generals, running a hand through his uncombed hair. “For the battle is already won in our favor.”
My lip curled into a snarl like a feral dog’s. Today would be a good day, for I would relish watching my father defeat this strutting peacock who could rival Narcissus with his conceit.
The Macedonians saluted Alexander as he passed with his lion helmet held in the crook of his arm, the gleam of its polished iron contrasting with the sunlight on his hair, while his neckpiece glittered with emeralds and rubies. The cloak that Hephaestion fastened around his neck was purple and embroidered in a dizzyingly intricate pattern of gold thread, as if stitched by a flock of haughty hummingbirds.
He offered us no words, only a terse nod as he nudged his new white stallion forward. Bucephalus came behind, led by a groom and dressed in a bronze equine frontlet depicting feline heads and frolicking nymphs. Alexander’s favorite horse would wait until the battle’s end to carry his conqueror to victory or ignominious defeat.
Alexander’s men shouted their praises of him to the skies, begging him to lead them to triumph. And Alexander, the man who already claimed an Egyptian god as his rightful father, lifted his spear and shouted into the wind. “If Zeus truly sired me, then all the gods will strengthen us, and we will have our victory against the Persians!”
To add to the spectacle, one of Alexander’s many seers was toted out, a crooked old man swathed in a white himation like a burial shroud, the hem of the fine cloth stained with red dust. I scoffed and resisted the urge to roll my eyes, for a trained monkey could have recited Alexander’s convenient prophecies that all foretold his impending triumphs.
“There,” the seer said, lifting an aged hand toward the cloud-strewn sky. All heads craned toward a black speck soaring above. “Zeus’ mighty eagle gives his blessing to our cause, and this battle.”
“An eagle, hawk, or more likely . . . a speckled pigeon,” I muttered, earning Stateira’s elbow in my ribs.
“You shouldn’t mock the gods,” she hissed.
“Zeus is god of the Greeks, but he is not ours,” I reminded her. “Nor is he our father’s god.”
“Yet Zeus must be powerful to favor Alexander so.”
I wrinkled my nose at that as the bent old prophet pointed to the sky again. “Zeus’ messenger dives toward the enemy,” he proclaimed. “Just as our spears and swords shall find their home in the hearts and ribs of the foul Persian invaders.”
“We’re not the invaders,” I grumbled, not that anyone save Stateira could hear me. “And the bird is soaring in circles, not swooping toward anyone.”
But the generals marched to take their places before their troops, Alexander at their lead, riding into battle at the front wearing his foolhardy white-plumed helmet, which every Persian archer would surely aim at.
At least he was making it easy for my father to slay him.
As Alexander, Hephaestion, and all the other soldiers marched away in a choking cloud of dust, a woman clad in a sapphire chiton followed us inside our tent. Barsine was a frequent visitor to our pavilion and I found I enjoyed her honest company, despite her position as Alexander’s bed warmer.
“I see you’re prepared for a Persian victory,” Barsine said, glancing at the palanquins laid out for our triumphal procession.
“Of course,” my grandmother said. “Much as I admire Alexander, he cannot possibly defeat my son and his Immortals.”
“Even though he’s done so twice before?” Barsine picked up an alabaster jar shaped like a hippo and filled with perfumed
resin, an Egyptian gift from Alexander to Stateira.
“My father has had time to prepare,” I said, hearing the defensiveness in my voice as I sat before my model of Tyre, frowning as I righted the miniature fireship that had fallen over. I’d snipped tiny bells from the bottom of one of my hems and filled them with black pitch in imitation of the cauldrons of oil before they were lit. “He’s entrenched and reinforced with elephants and scythed chariots.”
“Which Alexander is ready for,” Barsine said. “He was up half the night with his schematics.”
“I suppose that excuses him for sleeping half the day away,” I scoffed, turning away from the model.
But Barsine continued, unperturbed. “He plans to thrust the men onto the right, away from the Persian traps and elephants so he might encircle the Persian left. And there will be almost a thousand sarissa bearers guarding this very tent to keep his favorite Persian trophies safe and sound.”
“All of which might be important factors,” I said, “if the Greeks weren’t outnumbered six to one.”
My grandmother held up her hands for quiet. “There’s no need to fill our ears with idle chatter while we wait. My son shall be victorious, but in the meantime we will pray to Ahura Mazda. Starting now.”
We wore veils to cover our lips so as not to pollute the fire, and bent our knees before the ritual flames dedicated to the sacred triad of Ahura Mazda, Mithra, and Anahita, begging for their light and wisdom to shine down upon my father, to push back the Macedonian scourge and finally free us. Slaves brought meat from a freshly slaughtered sheep, although it was apparent the beast had been far from fresh itself, likely an old ewe past bearing age. We placed the meat atop dried myrtle leaves, allowing the smoke to envelop our offering to the gods while at the same time drawing the pure scent of fire deep into our lungs.
I’d performed the ritual at least a hundred times, but today it did little to still my mind.
“You of the thousand eyes and ten thousand ears,” I murmured under my breath to Mithra. “To the friend of the just and honest man, and also the goddess of the waters, we sacrifice to you.”
The air that stole through the floor cracks of the tent carried the cool of the month of Bāgayādiš, the season dedicated to the god Mithra, but my underarms grew damp. Bagoas and the other eunuchs fanned us with peacock-feather fans, which served only to rearrange the air with its stale scents of incense, smoke, and fear.
And then the ground rumbled beneath us and a harried servant burst into our tent. “The cavalry is here!”
I knew not which cavalry she meant, Macedonian or Persian, but fled from the tent to see with my own eyes. Too late, I reared back as a contingent of mounted soldiers surrounded us. A massive Persian barreled toward me on his armored warhorse, a flash of silver armor and yellow silk, just as my grandmother stepped from the tent.
“The Queen Mother,” the man yelled in blessed Aramaic, snapping his fist to his chest and calming his horse. I recognized him then as Bessus, my father’s cousin and satrap of Bactria. I was shocked that he’d found a horse able to carry his impressive girth, but his shield was dented and there was a wound at his temple weeping a scarlet trickle of blood. “Hello, cousins,” he said, his eyes flicking over all of us and lingering on my sister. “I came to escort you out of this Macedonian pit.”
For a single moment, there was a swirl of peace and hope. But only for a moment.
“Where is my son?” my grandmother asked.
“I rode into battle at the left of the King of Kings.” Bessus’ eyes scanned our camp and his horse pranced beneath him. “Just before he was engaged by Alexander.”
“And you abandoned him?” My grandmother’s eyes narrowed into a glare sharper than broken glass, regardless of the Persian soldiers and Indian mercenaries who streamed into our camp, their combined forces meant to halt Alexander’s progress.
“The King of Kings never intended to allow you to remain in enemy hands after this battle,” Bessus said. “I volunteered to lead the rescue while Alexander is engaged in the center.”
And from the way he was surveying the carts and our persons, I could imagine he was already tabulating the reward he’d garner from seeing all of it safely returned to my father’s camp.
He could have the entire treasury at Persepolis, so long as he got us out of here.
“And the sarissas?” I asked, cursing and choking on the growing cloud of dust. Barsine had said that the pike-wielding infantry would surround us, and I doubted that even a rout would cause Alexander to abandon his Persian prizes.
“Encircled by our right wing,” Bessus said. “But Alexander’s reinforcements will be on their way. We haven’t much time.”
So Alexander still lived. Dread unfurled from my belly, spreading its cold to the tips of my toes and fingers.
“Secure the baggage carts,” Bessus yelled, his chins quivering beneath his helmet’s too-tight chin strap. Hundreds of mounted Persians flooded around us, swooping about like dust-coated angels as they readied the carts filled with Alexander’s precious spoils of war. “Ready the queen mother and the royal family for transport!”
Our attendants scurried to follow the barked commands, to secure the carts and harness the horses. I expected my grandmother to issue her own orders, but she only stood as if frozen, silent and pale.
“We’ll ride together,” I yelled to Bessus. “We’d walk on our hands from here if necessary!”
Bessus grinned, revealing teeth that gleamed a painful white against the grime of his face and helm. “I hope it won’t come to that, daughter of Darius.”
I scrambled into a scythed chariot commanded by a lithe Indian driver with a pointed beard, pulling my trembling sister and grandmother into the basket with me, choking on the hope of the tantalizing taste of freedom denied us these past two years. Barsine was nowhere to be seen, lost in the shining sea of silver helmets and wild-eyed horses trying to break loose.
And then came the cry that tore the air from my lungs.
“Darius has fled! The Greeks are coming!”
Bessus glanced at us, and I knew he was tabulating again: the price of his own skin over the reward he’d reap if he managed to free us.
The odds were against us. He knew it, and I knew it.
“Retreat!” he commanded, but his men weren’t fast enough and a contingent of Greeks fell upon us like a swarm of armored locusts, their terrible battle cries ripping apart the very heavens. The last I saw of Bessus was the saffron flash of his robe as he galloped away.
And blood. Everywhere blood.
Following first my father and then Alexander from battle to battle meant that we’d seen blood and death before, but this was fresh blood from our attendants and soldiers alike, pouring in torrents from stab wounds wrought by sarissas and spears, spraying into the dust-choked air as swords slashed and clanged in hand-to-hand combat. There was a thud to my left and I turned in time to see our driver hit the floor of the chariot basket, impaled through his chest and out his back.
Stateira’s scream clawed the air and I grabbed the dangling reins, wrapping them tight around my hand while searching for an escape. A corridor opened between the men and horses to our left, as if Ahura Mazda parted them with his own two hands.
“Hold on!” I screamed to Stateira and our grandmother. I whipped the horses as the chariot lurched over bodies of the dead and dying. Wind whistled in my ears, blocking out the sounds of battle, and we might have made it had it not been for the black-haired Macedonian rushing toward us on horseback, one arm bloodied from a gaping wound while the other raised his sword, ready to fell us where we stood.
Our wretched horses reared, jerking us forward so fast that I lost my grip. The platform lurched beneath my feet and the world slowed as I careened over the basket into the maelstrom. But I’d wrapped the reins too tightly around my hand, anchored to the chariot tighter than the t
hickest chains. A catastrophe of white light cracked from my shoulder, a streaking pain with more red-hot heat than a thousand forges, and my body snapped back with a shriek of agony. I dangled loose, my feet precariously near the churning wheels, whirling scythes, and pounding horse hooves.
The pain ebbed and my vision faded, but the din of battle followed me into the dark.
The Greek battle cry, the clang of kissing swords, and the screams of the dying. The darkness folded around me until I could no longer fight its smothering embrace.
Everything went silent.
CHAPTER 8
Gaugamela, Persia
Hephaestion
I loathed the bloody Persian Immortals more than the yellow dust that their thousands of feet churned up, clouding my eyes and choking me like an invisible hand around my throat. I cursed the bastards to Hades and back, yet still they came at us, a never-ending hive of wasps that bit and stung and buzzed until I roared in fury and slashed at them from atop my horse while around me Alexander’s Companions took sword and spear wounds to their arms and legs. So close I could spit in his eye, some lucky Persian slashed at a Companion’s neck and was rewarded with a spurt of Macedonian blood.
I cleaved off his sword arm, then dispatched him to his gods.
Before us, thousands of Persian javelin throwers clashed with our lines, some of them pulled from their chariots and hacked to pieces by Macedonian swords.
Beyond the wasps would be Darius, a prize greater even than Homer’s Priam. But we couldn’t get to the Persian coward as one wave of fresh Immortals after another replaced their fallen comrades.
“Die, you filthy bastards,” I cried, feeling no small satisfaction as my sword found its home through a Persian soldier’s ribs. They might be called Immortals, but they died the same as any other men.
“Pests, they are,” Alexander yelled to me, his voice muffled by the metal of my helm and the crush of battle. I could just make out his demonic grin as he plunged his sword into another Persian from atop his warhorse. My sword arm grew weary as more Immortals met a similar fate, but I sensed the opening at precisely the same moment Alexander did.
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