The Conqueror's Wife

by Stephanie Thornton

  “My son,” he said.

  The babe beneath fluttered and I laughed, pressing Alexander’s hand more firmly so he might feel the magic within my womb. “Did you feel that?” I asked. “He’s eager to meet his father.”

  “And I him,” Alexander answered. “I’ve ordered the finest sword smith in Babylon to forge a golden half blade with a half-sized helmet. My son’s shield will be emblazoned with the sun of Macedon and the winged griffin of Persia.”

  Macedon and Persia united, just as Alexander and I had been only moments before in this very bed. The thought made me grow wet and eager for him again. The last time my husband had visited my bed had been on the night I’d conceived our son, a hurried groping after Alexander had guzzled a tub of wine to drive away the lingering pain from his many war injuries. He’d fumbled at me between belched wine fumes, but I’d moaned and let him take me from behind like a temple whore, feigning pleasure even as I clenched my thighs tight to claim the ultimate prize.

  His spent seed had been sown deep in my womb, planting the babe that grew there now.

  Tonight Alexander had come to me out of duty. I missed the pleasures of the early days of our marriage, when he had devoured me each night and left me quivering for more. While I’d guarded my battered heart from him, his lust for me had been more intoxicating than the sweetest of wines. How could it not be, coming from so godlike a man?

  Hoping to recapture that passion, this evening I’d dressed in anticipation of his visit in a diaphanous robe pinned at my navel to reveal the swell of his child and the dark triangle of hair beneath. He’d protested that he didn’t wish to harm the baby until I’d guided his hand from my belly to the warm wetness between my legs, moaning and parting my lips as I brought his other hand to my swollen breasts. He’d squeezed the tender mounds, pain mixed with pleasure as his tongue flicked a darkened nipple. Soon he’d been buried deep inside me, crying out his release as I clung to him.

  “What shall you name him?” I asked, fairly purring with pleasure as Alexander’s fingers painted transparent circles around my navel.

  “My son by Barsine is called Heracles,” he said, his hand stopping as he stared up at the drab painted ceiling depicting the flowers of Babylon’s famed gardens, a ceiling that might have been studded with pearls and rubies had I commissioned it. My lips curled in distaste at the mention of Alexander’s whore and her bastard son.

  “But this child shall be your heir,” I reminded him, keeping my voice as sweet as peach syrup as I sat up, baring my naked breasts, which Alexander had moaned into only moments earlier, worshipping their new ripeness. “Thus, he must have an even more magnificent name.”

  Alexander threaded his fingers through my hair, fanning out the strands. “And what would you name him?”

  “There’s only one name I’d allow,” I said, looking at him through my sweep of lashes. “Alexander.”

  The grin that spread across his face almost banished his sallow skin and the shadows around his eyes. “Alexander it is, then,” he said. I tried to curl into him, but he rose in one fluid motion, the muscles of his back and legs bulging as he slipped into the purple robe I’d so recently tugged over his head.

  “Where are you going?” I tried to make my tone alluring, but it shrilled with desperation even to my own ears.

  “I must visit Stateira this night,” he said.

  Stateira with her royal blood, her perfect graces, and the title she’d stolen from me.

  “Surely Stateira and her sour stomach can wait until tomorrow,” I said, rising and running a perfectly manicured finger up his arm in a way that should have induced gooseflesh. Yet my husband had already returned to a man chiseled from stone. “Stay with me tonight.”

  He clasped my wrist so hard that I gasped, but then released it to kiss my hand. “I cannot neglect Darius’ daughter,” he murmured, pressing my open palm to his lips.

  “Yet you can neglect me, your first wife? Is that because I’m only the daughter of a satrap?”

  And not even that, although Alexander would never learn the truth of my sire from my lips or Oxyartes of Balkh’s. My marriage had brought Oxyartes sniffing for an appointment, blackmailing me with the truth of my parentage. It had been an easy thing in those early days to persuade Alexander to appoint him as the satrap of faraway Paropamisadae. It was a situation that benefited us both: Oxyartes received a lucrative position that allowed him to gamble away a kingdom’s worth of gold, and I never had to hear from him again.

  “I can neglect neither you nor Stateira,” Alexander said with a sigh. “Especially as both your wombs carry my children.”

  A winter wind wrapped around my heart. “How is that possible?” I gasped before I could stop myself. I’d bribed Stateira’s slaves to grind Parizad’s steady stream of mustard seeds, rue, and devil’s snare into her food, keeping her stomach in knots. I’d presumed the never-ending, painful gas and stink of vomit would have kept Alexander from her bed, but it appeared that he was more determined to hammer her gates than I’d anticipated.

  “Stateira has a weak constitution, but rallies to do her duty,” he said.

  “And what about Parysatis?” I asked. “Have you filled her womb as well?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “But soon.”

  I grimaced. “I’m not sure how you can bear to look at that mangled face of hers.”

  “I am an able farmer, sowing all my fields equally,” he said, letting his fingers brush my belly. “Rest well, Roxana, and take care of my son.”

  I watched him go in silence until the door closed, then grabbed a discarded slipper and hurled it after him. It hit the wall and fell harmlessly to the floor.

  “Piss and shit!” I yelled.

  Parizad’s herbs had failed to keep Alexander from Stateira’s bed and now my husband plowed Parysatis, the traitor Bagoas, and the gods only knew whom else. Not for the first time, I thanked the dark god Ahriman for Hephaestion’s death, which had removed at least one bed from Alexander’s rotation.

  There was no doubt that I’d resume my position as Queen of Queens if I bore Alexander’s only son. I’d be wife to one king and mother to the next, my future secure.

  But if I bore a girl or if this child died, or if Stateira bore a son, or even Parysatis . . .

  Parysatis was easier to intimidate than a whipped puppy. And as for Stateira, surely I was more than a match for that dumb, obedient cow.

  I would be queen. And I’d allow no one to stand in my way.

  • • •

  Parizad blanched when I told him what I wished, but wordlessly he ground a tea of milkweed root, crocus stamens, and balsam pear seeds for Stateira. So stricken had been my brother upon first hearing of Hephaestion’s passing that he’d dared to accuse me of poisoning the great oaf. It had taken all my restraint not to lash out and instead convince him of the disappointing truth. For while I’d loathed Hephaestion, there were several others I’d have poisoned first, namely Darius’ condescending daughters. I’d forgiven my brother’s cruel words and wiped his tears all that night, stroking his hair as he alternated between apologizing to me and cursing the gods for stealing away his former bedmate.

  Since then, my brother had become a shade of his former self, but I coddled him, secure in the knowledge that he loved only me now.

  Once I was queen, I would swathe my twin in furs, send a steady stream of girl slaves to pleasure him, and build him an herb garden to rival Nebuchadnezzar’s famed terraces.

  But first I had to deal with Stateira and the sprat she now carried in her womb.

  I bribed her attendants with a small fortune to brew the mixture for her each night, yet even that failed to cleanse her womb and instead her belly grew like a tumor before all our eyes. I railed against the unfairness of it all, and prayed that she’d catch the same mysterious fever that had felled Hephaestion so we might celebrate a double funer
al here in Babylon.

  All to no avail.

  Instead, the entire population of Babylon had been subjected to weeks of funereal chariot competitions and footraces, including the ridiculous hoplite race where grown men ran around in the circles of a stadium dressed in greaves and helmets, carrying their heavy battle shields and often tripping over one another. Now the entire city waited dour-faced under ominous clouds that threatened a sudden spring downpour so we could pay homage to a dead man and the obscene monument erected in his honor, a pyra that would never be burned so that future generations would never be able to forget Alexander’s faithful he-bitch. Would that I could have found a motley dog to devour Hephaestion’s bones and save us all the expense.

  I might have used the twelve thousand talents spent on Hephaestion’s funeral to build a new palace for myself and my son, or at least a fine estate complete with vineyards and plenty of shepherds I might tax. Even a fraction of its cost could have kept me in a new wardrobe for the coming summer, a more fitting expense considering that Hephaestion couldn’t witness Alexander mooning over him through the maggots in his moldering eyes.

  “Two hundred and forty ships with golden prows adorn the base,” Drypetis was droning on to her sister like the dullest of bees. I didn’t think it fair that she should share the royal dais, but Alexander had refused to listen to my concerns, claiming that he didn’t wish to upset Stateira in her delicate state.

  “And on the topmost level?” Stateira asked, squinting at the pinnacle and sounding as if she actually cared.

  “It’s the sirens,” Drypetis said quietly, sniffing and rubbing the bridge of her bent nose. “Singing their lament.”

  I rolled my eyes and feigned slitting my wrists to Parizad, who humored me with a weak smile. He hadn’t wished to attend the funeral, but I’d begged him, hoping that seeing Hephaestion’s pyra might allow my brother to forget the man who had turned him into a catamite.

  The crowd quieted as Alexander stood and walked solemnly to the funeral pyra. My heart stopped for a moment and I almost cried out when he removed his dagger from its sheath and lifted it. I imagined him plunging the blade into his own heart in a fit of mourning, and I sagged with relief when he raised it and cropped off a lock of his already shorn hair. He laid the meager curl reverently on the pyra before beginning his address, some inane drivel about this being a monument fit for a hero to equal Patroclus.

  “When I die, I want Alexander to spend twice this much on my funeral,” I said to Parizad once Alexander finished and the Macedonians began filing past Hephaestion’s bier. “My pyra will touch the sky and drip with gold from top to bottom.”

  Parizad’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll outlive all of us, railing against Ahura Mazda for your white hair and hunched back.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the revolting idea even as I laid my head on Parizad’s shoulder. “Better to die an early death than grow into a wrinkled old crone.” Hephaestion’s one redeeming quality was that he’d possessed the good sense to die before he accumulated a belly like a sow and lost all his hair.

  I tapped my foot in impatience until the last Companion made his obeisance and the entire assemblage bent one knee in Hephaestion’s honor. The soldiers scooped handfuls of earth and rubbed it into the golden suns on their swords and shields, dedicating their arms to the memory of this so-called hero. Then Alexander did the unthinkable. He ordered in a booming voice that the Royal Fire in every temple of the empire be quenched, a sacred act that occurred only when the King of Kings had died. In fact, each fire should remain lit until Alexander’s own death. But what did I care for heroes and eternal fires? My stomach itched and I longed for the jar of goose fat and the army of silent attendants who would slather it over my belly when all this was over.

  “Your knee appears stiff, Roxana,” Drypetis said to me, her voice loud enough to carry to Alexander. He turned in our direction. “Do you require assistance so you might honor Alexander’s favored companion?”

  I gave her a honeyed smile, although my eyes surely sparked with something less pleasant. “Of course not,” I murmured. “I’m simply overcome with emotion at Hephaestion’s passing.”

  I bowed then, deeper than was necessary beneath the weight of Alexander’s gaze. I closed my eyes as if in prayer, then almost jumped out of my skin as the entire Greek army let out a bloodcurdling war cry, pounding on their shields like a violent thundercloud fallen to earth.

  “Hephaestion’s final farewell,” Parizad assured me, squeezing my hand. “They’ll spend the rest of the day and night drinking in his honor.”

  “Another banquet?”

  It seemed all Alexander did these days and nights was plan out his next campaign and then drink himself into oblivion. I frowned, forcing myself not to furrow my brow and etch lines there. I’d thought myself fortunate with Hephaestion’s death in that I now had fewer competitors for my husband’s attentions, but here I was, still fighting for the stale crumbs of his time.

  “Fine,” I said. “Then I’ll join them.”

  “Women aren’t invited,” my brother said slowly. “Certainly not any wives.”

  But I was more than just a wife. I was the Whore of Sogdian Rock, the Bitch of Balkh.

  I smiled, tracing the sweep of my neckline. “Remember who I was before I became a wife, dear brother. I still have a few tricks tucked away somewhere.”

  In the meantime, I hoped Stateira spent the night retching into a chamber pot with only her bore of a sister to hold her hair back.

  • • •

  I’d never before seen so much wine in one place, great golden goblets full of it, guzzled by Alexander and his men until their voices boomed and the flagstones of Nebuchadnezzar’s massive hall grew slick with crimson pools. Alexander’s Companions lounged on silver-footed sofas, and slaves armed with terra-cotta amphorae and ram-headed drinking horns lined the walls. Alexander’s own griffin-head rhyton was three times as large as the others and was kept full by Cassander, Antipater’s thick-browed son, who had been relegated to the position as wine bearer after his outburst in Alexander’s throne room. Antipater ignored his disgraced son and reclined on a far-flung couch, his chiton pristine and his white beard freshly combed.

  Alexander raised his cup in three traditional Greek toasts, honoring first the gods, then fallen heroes—with a special salute for Hephaestion that made the gorge rise in my throat—and finally Zeus, the king of his gods. I waved away the endless platters of stewed plums and rabbit fetuses, boiled ostrich drizzled with a sweet date sauce, and sea urchins fried in the pungent oil of a tree fungus. Things had gone wrong from the moment I’d entered the hall, so that now I regretted coming.

  Alexander had allowed my sweeping entrance and my impromptu placement near his throne, but I could tell that my unexpected appearance nettled him. He ignored me entirely, too engrossed with his talk of fresh conquests toward Arabia with Admiral Nearchus while Cassander dutifully kept his silver goblet from running dry. I consoled myself with the knowledge that Stateira and Parysatis remained in their chambers, out of Alexander’s sight and therefore out of his bed.

  Alexander’s face tonight tended toward a florid red that matched the wine Cassander poured and his shorn golden curls were in need of a good washing and oiling. He stood and motioned to one of his Companions, leaving his throne vacant with nary a thought for my comfort while they discussed a bout of recent war games. Men scoffed at women for our gossip and pretty gowns, but then they played at war like boys with bruised fruit and wooden swords.

  Bagoas was there and had made one attempt to approach me, but I turned my back on him, refusing to ever speak to the traitor again. When I glanced back in his direction, it was to see that Alexander had flung an arm around my former eunuch’s shoulder and fondled his beautiful curls while still engrossed in conversation with the Companion.

  How dare Alexander favor that half man over me, hi
s first wife and the mother to his heir.

  I fumed in silence until a bent-backed man dressed in an unkempt slave’s tunic emerged from the dining couches with a tray of cups filled with beer and bread. I waved him away—the mere sight of the foul Greek drink was enough to turn my stomach—but the slave continued to mount the dais. Then he did the unthinkable: He dared to sit his unworthy body on my husband’s throne.

  “Alexander!” I shrieked, leaping to my feet and backing away from the vermin. The tray wobbled in the slave’s hand and the cups crashed to the ground, splashing beer and bread everywhere.

  There was a collective gasp and Alexander turned from his conversation, his face contorting in outrage.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, Bagoas and his curls suddenly forgotten in the face of this insult.

  The man only shook his head with a blank stare, his disheveled beard dropping mites with the movement. I gathered my skirts closer to avoid contamination. “This seemed a perfectly good chair,” he said, scratching his head. “So I thought I might rest a while in it.”

  Alexander stared so that I thought he might laugh at the madman. “It is treason to sit upon my throne,” he said. “Remove yourself immediately.”

  But the foul creature didn’t move.

  Antipater cleared his throat from his couch. “There is an ancient festival here in Persia in which a slave would dress as a king and sit upon his throne for a hundred days. Mayhap the man takes his inspiration from there.”

  “That festival is in the autumn,” I snapped, “while this is clearly summer. The imbecile must be dumb and mad to get the two confused. And he’s certainly not dressed like any king I’ve ever known.”

  All eyes turned to Alexander, yet still the filthy man lounged on the throne.

  “Flay the skin from his back,” Alexander ordered. “Let this be a warning to all those who seek to amuse themselves at my expense.”

  The man didn’t make a sound as he was dragged away, leaving a trail of nits and bewilderment in his wake. I squelched one of the tiny insects with my thumb, smearing a trace of blood across the gilded wood of Alexander’s throne.