The Conqueror's Wife

by Stephanie Thornton

  “We can give you our answer now, you addled nanny goat,” Ariamazes said. “You’d need men with wings to capture this fort. Seeing as you have none, we leave you to either fashion some or continue on your way.”

  With that, Ariamazes turned his back on Alexander and stalked away from the wall, but the deafening cheers mixed with laughter tumbled like boulders down to Alexander and his men.

  Yet while our Persian soldiers clapped one another on their backs and women bent their heads to twitter like dumb sparrows over Ariamazes’ daring, I stared down at Alexander.

  And he stared back, his hands clasped behind him as he studied our ramparts that touched the clouds.

  His was not the stance of a man who had given up. I should know; I saw it daily in my own mirror.

  • • •

  Winter’s teeth dug deep that night despite the approaching spring, and the plains to the west were dotted with thousands of Macedonian campfires like tiny orange stars. Ariamazes had held a celebration for the soldiers of Sogdian Rock to honor their bloodless victory over Alexander and my services had been required for three separate soldiers, each of whom had drunk at least his weight in wine and taken an eternity to squirt his seed into me. I peered into the darkness on my way to my room, wondering whether wily Alexander had ordered his men to light several fires each to trick us into believing that their numbers were larger than they were.

  “Drink this,” Bagoas said as I entered, setting a steaming cup of boiled herbs before me. Having spent time among Darius’ concubines, he knew how to prevent unwanted pregnancies, and he’d managed to procure a tincture of dried wild carrot, rue, and pennyroyal before the trickle of traveling merchants had shriveled up. It was something my brother, Parizad, would have done for me, although I’d never used such herbs with Bessus. Growing fat and birthing some unknown man’s child here on this godforsaken rock was the last thing I wanted.

  “That’s the end of the almond oil,” Bagoas scolded me as I massaged a bit into my hands and brushed it through the ends of my hair. He organized the black and white pawns on an enameled board of Twenty Squares, the same game I’d played with Parizad when we were children; the game was a recent payment from a soldier with the first fuzz of manhood on his upper lip.

  “This siege might yet kill me,” I said, choosing one of the scorpion pieces and moving it from the center of the board. “I dreamed last night of bathing in a vat of almond oil while slaves fed me lamb stew with limes and fresh cherries. And then I woke and choked down a bowl of barley gruel.”

  “There won’t be any of that once Alexander departs,” Bagoas said in his girlish voice, countering my move. “Unless you can persuade one of these soldiers to claim you as his own. Preferably Ariamazes himself.”

  I shuddered at the thought.

  The throwing sticks were against me that night, but we played until Bagoas captured the last of my scorpions with his carved bird-of-prey pawns. We abandoned the board and Bagoas lifted the ragged blanket on our mattress and I settled in next to him. We rarely pleasured each other now that we both whored for the soldiers, those parts of our bodies too abused by others to be used for our own enjoyment, but we often curled together like two nestling cats.

  The sound of his steady breathing lured me to sleep. I awoke to a brazier long grown cold and the haze of spring sunshine creeping under the door.

  And a storm of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of marching boots. It was the sound of an entire army.

  I stumbled in the semidarkness, knocking the game of Twenty Squares to the floor with a clatter of pieces.

  “Don’t, Roxana,” Bagoas warned me, but I cracked open the door and gasped to see hundreds of Macedonian soldiers standing and marching alongside many of our own captured men in the small square.

  Alexander had breached the walls.

  But there was no slaughter, no screams, no blood running in the streets.

  There were even a few women about and one in particular caught my eye with her dyed black hair beneath an askew veil and her pale pink silk robe that strained around the bodice and hips.

  I grabbed Bessus’ widow by the arm and yanked her into my room, slamming the weathered door behind us.

  “What’s happening?” I demanded even as she tried to pull away.

  “By Mithra, unhand me!” she shrieked, prompting me to squeeze her arm harder. “Let me out of here, before I end up with nits or Astarte’s whore-pox!”

  “Piss on Mithra,” I growled. “Tell me what is going on or I’ll slit your throat. No one will notice the body of a dead hag on a day like today.”

  Her eyes darted from me to Bagoas, but he only shrugged. “Best do as she commands.”

  I worried that I’d have to make good on my threat, but she wrenched her arm away and relented. “Alexander armed three hundred of his men with iron tent pegs and lines of flax. They climbed all through the night after he offered twelve gold talents to the first man to scale the walls.”

  Men with wings.

  Ariamazes had taunted Alexander, but the wily king of Macedon had outmaneuvered him with iron picks and thread. I would later learn that thirty men had perished during the long climb when they lost their footing, but for now I marveled at his daring, and also at his men’s willingness to follow him in such a dangerous escapade. They must love him well, or be touched by the gods.

  “And Ariamazes and his men won’t kill them?”

  “Ariamazes fled,” she said, her lip curled in revulsion. “Lowered himself down in a basket used for supplies. That bag of bile he called a wife ran with him while our worthless men laid down their swords.”

  “May he rot forever and vultures pluck out his miserable eyes. And may his prick shrivel and fall off,” I added for good measure, although Ariamazes’ prick had been laughably short to begin with.

  I’d heard all I needed to and hustled her to the door, surprised when she hesitated. “Where shall you go now, Roxana?” she asked, her voice thorny with spite. “Back to your father?”

  I’d sooner go to Duzakh.

  But I offered her a smile just as honeyed and just as treacherous. “I’m not sure yet,” I said. “I’ll think of something.”

  I pressed my forehead to the door after I closed it behind her, my mind reeling as I felt Bagoas drape a moth-eaten blanket around my shoulders. “I hope your fingers are deft this morning,” I finally said to him.

  “What are you planning?”

  “We can’t scurry like rats in a sinking ship this time,” I said. “For there’s nowhere to scurry to, unless you care to climb down the cliffs using tent poles abandoned by the Macedonians.”

  “I can’t face all of those soldiers,” Bagoas murmured, and I was shocked to see his hands trembling. “I’d rather you slit my throat.”

  I closed my eyes against the possible fate that awaited us, used among countless Macedonian soldiers that would make the Persian regiment pale in comparison. Why was it that women bore the brunt of war’s aftermath, while men escaped via an easy death?

  And poor Bagoas, caught between two worlds, was neither man nor woman.

  “You shall not have to face them.” I wove my fingers through his hair and kissed his eyelids. “Alexander loves beauty and I am beautiful,” I said. “His men won’t dare molest me, the daughter of Oxyartes of Balkh, if I’m dressed like the Queen of Queens.”

  “Oxyartes of Balkh isn’t your father and even if he were, he’s the most minor of nobles,” Bagoas said, for I’d spilled that particular detail after a night of too much wine. “How can you be so sure you’ll catch Alexander’s attention?”

  “I swear to you that I’ll catch at least the eye of one of his generals,” I said. “Or I’ll slit both of our throats.”

  Bagoas looked about to argue, but finally gave a rueful shake of his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Help me
dress,” I said, my heart racing and my palms suddenly damp. “We haven’t much time.” I wondered if this was how soldiers felt before charging into battle, suddenly alive at the very real possibility of victory or destruction.

  I would emerge triumphant, or die trying.

  • • •

  Bagoas sewed my hair into an elaborate set of curls and coils worthy of a queen’s tiara, dressed me in my black silk embroidered with griffins, and belted my waist with a simple silk girdle before clasping my lynx bracelets high on my arms. I peered outside for the second time that morning and slipped into the crowd.

  Every child’s wail and mother’s snivel set my teeth on edge. Still, I supposed mingling with the sweaty masses was preferable to being molested or murdered.

  A hush fell over the dozens of soldiers and captives, but the air hummed with tension. Alexander was easy to recognize from the day before, shorter than almost all his men despite the egret plume and horsetail helmet he wore. A soldier with shoulders like a galley rower and crowned with a fish-spine helmet stood at his side, but it was Alexander who stepped forward and spoke, his voice booming over the huddled crowd.

  “People of Sogdian Rock,” he said, opening his arms. “I have proved that your fortress is not impenetrable, and thus, your soldiers have agreed to join my army. The rest of you may travel in my retinue as my honored guests, until the time when your own families shall swear their allegiance and claim you, or you may remain here under your newly appointed governor.” He turned his palms up to the sky in a gesture of benevolence. “You may rest well in the knowledge that you shall not be harmed.”

  Mothers and wives around me sagged and sobbed in relief, but I fought down a wave of panic as Alexander turned to depart. The fish-spine soldier murmured something to him and Alexander gave a tight nod. I thought I detected a grimace of pain there, perhaps the stiffness of an old wound, but then he turned back to address us once again. “Hephaestion here has reminded me of my manners, for I shall host a banquet in the former house of Ariamazes each night for the duration of our stay here. Sadly, the quarters are cramped and will not accommodate so large a crowd at once, but each of you shall join me one night until I’ve had the pleasure of meeting all the wives and daughters of Persia’s ancient nobility.”

  With that, he turned again, but a red rage threatened to overwhelm my vision even as the bearish soldier he’d spoken to jogged down the citadel’s stairs.

  Hephaestion.

  The man with the fish-spine helmet was no common soldier, but the man who had tortured and executed Bessus.

  My fingernails bit my palms and a wave of pure hatred surged through me. He’d made Bessus suffer, and for my brother’s sake I wasn’t sorry for that, but in killing my protector, Hephaestion had cost me a crown and turned me into the Whore of Sogdian Rock. The order may have come from Alexander, but I’d have to charm the conqueror if I ever hoped to leave this place. It was easier to blame Hephaestion for every soldier that I’d swallowed down, and for that, I’d loathe him until the end of my days.

  Better yet, until the end of his days.

  Yet I rearranged my features and pushed my way forward through the crowd, adopting a smile so sweet that a hive of honeybees might have flocked to it.

  “I shall dine with Alexander tonight,” I said, daring to touch Hephaestion’s wrist as he paused to speak to a portly matron. A flutter of annoyance passed over his face, but he offered both the matron and me the same lazy smile. “Is that so?” he asked. I could see that he appreciated what he saw as his eyes swept over me, but his gaze didn’t linger as I’d expected. “You Persians prefer to try to kill Alexander or run in the opposite direction. You’re the first to demand his presence, but you’ll see him when he decrees it, and not a moment before.”

  With that, Hephaestion turned and ambled back into the crowd, the flock of idiots parting to let him pass as if he were some sort of king.

  I’d deal with him later. First, I had to get to Alexander.

  • • •

  Ariamazes’ quarters were identical to all the rest in Sogdian Rock, cramped, windowless, and built of the same straw-colored stone as the cliffs that held the fortress. Yet the door was flung open, a singer’s voice warbled from inside, and a healthy fire burned on the brazier to ward off the evening’s chill.

  From Ariamazes’ distraught daughter I’d managed to borrow a delicate red head scarf sewn with tiny seed pearls, their knobby surfaces gleaming like tiny misshapen moons. I’d dabbed the last remaining drops of my spikenard perfume behind my ears while the poor girl blubbered about how she might never see her father or mother again now that they’d fled the fortress, leaving her behind to be claimed as Alexander’s captive rather than lose her to violence on a battlefield.

  “There, there,” I said over her caterwauling, dropping a perfunctory pat on her shoulder. “I’m sure Alexander is much too busy to hunt down cowards like your father.”

  Bagoas walked with me to Ariamazes’ former home, where the noisy gathering had already begun. Just days ago these women had been cursing Alexander’s name and now they flocked to him like a gaggle of empty-headed ducks. If I were Alexander, I’d have tossed them all from the top of the citadel just to end their squawking.

  “Alexander’s mistress Barsine carries his child, but he left her behind in Susa and has yet to replace her. The Macedonian conqueror is a lover of all beautiful things,” Bagoas said as he adjusted my veil. “He won’t be able to resist you.”

  I kissed the tip of his nose and ducked inside, glad for the firelight that danced on the sheen of my silk and brought a flush to my cheeks. A table had been set and rugs had been thrown hastily onto the stone floor, but it was still a garrison room filled with the birds of Persia’s finest families, dressed in feathers long past their prime. There was a dance under way dedicated to Mithra, the ancient god of light, a chaste performance by Sogdian Rock’s eligible maidens. I spotted Alexander immediately, seated alone at the longest table and looking as if he might fall asleep despite the drum and lyre music. I knew the steps to the dance, but I wasn’t here to copy the bland movements of these dry virgins. Instead, I clapped my hands overhead as I joined in, twirling so my veil and robe spun around me as I moved to the center of the line. The girls chirped angrily among themselves, but I didn’t care.

  In Persia there are dances for women, but even more dances for men, infused with ritual and the lore of bull sacrifice in Mithra’s honor. But there are other dances that Parizad had taught me, performances meant to demonstrate the virility of the dancer, with moves to simulate riding a horse. These dances were reserved for warriors, but it was those steps that I danced now.

  Alexander sat straighter as I bent forward and rose like a wave, as if I were galloping into battle, my legs spread as if astride a great warhorse. The conqueror’s eyes never left my body as he lifted his wine cup to his lips and took a long draft. I swayed in ways that left little to the imagination, while around me the rest of the girls continued their uninspired movements, out of tempo as the musicians followed my lead.

  When it finally ended, I fell to my knees, my skin damp with perspiration and my chest heaving as I dared glance up. The gaze of every man in the room was fixed on me.

  And Alexander looked ready to devour me.

  I raised my eyes to his and gave a small smile, parting my lips as I maneuvered my way to stand before him.

  “Alexander of Macedon,” I said before he could speak. “I am Roxana of Balkh, daughter of Oxyartes.”

  “It is a pleasure to have you here tonight, Roxana of Balkh,” Alexander said. He was daunting in full Persian dress with a gape-mouthed lion pendant gleaming at his shoulder, but his clean-shaven face in the Greek style jarred against his purple silks and the golden girdle at his waist. His curls were bound with a leather thong across his forehead, embellished with filigreed golden juniper leaves, as if he were a boy playing at b
eing king.

  But the man who stared at me was no boy.

  “You must be weary from your exertions just now,” he said. “I’ve never seen a woman dance like that.”

  “It’s an uncommon dance,” I said, “meant to strengthen the muscles and stimulate the blood flow as if one were riding . . .”

  I let my voice trail off with a sly smile, letting him imagine what sort of riding I meant.

  He flicked a finger to beckon me closer, desire making his blue eyes burn like the hottest flames.

  I ignored barbed glares from the assembled girls and their mothers that might have made tremble even the simurgh, the ancient dog-headed bird that had witnessed the destruction of the world three times over. The women hissed like asps, flicking their forked tongues in my direction with whispers of whore, harlot, and worse.

  Yet I had Alexander’s attention, and they did not.

  “Will you do me the pleasure of dining with me?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I answered. “You do me great honor,” I said breathlessly, marveling at the fact that the King of Kings was standing to move a chair for me so I could assume my place beside him at the banquet table.

  “I would do a woman like you many honors,” Alexander said, setting my head whirling.

  “Is that so?” I settled into my seat and pushed his chair back with my slippered foot, letting my toe brush across his muscled calf.

  “It is indeed,” he said, his smile slow and enigmatic. I felt a heat start deep in my belly and spread still lower. Alexander possessed the power of a small sun in this dark, cramped chamber, a heat from which not even I was immune.

  I tasted none of the simple garrison fare the servants spread before us: bread and dried apricots, dates and roasted pecans; several goats had been butchered and cooked in a gravy with fresh butter and onions and garlic from someone’s winter stores. My thoughts were an eddy of wind as Alexander watched my every movement.