We reached an oasis and camped for another week, getting our bearings and letting the shock wear off. I’d been a wreck since the flood, clutching Chiron to my breast, thanking the gods over and over that we’d camped on the rise.
We felt better after a few days in the oasis, but our troubles were just beginning. Instead of following the setting sun, Alexander decided to turn south, towards the sea. He was worried that Nearchus wouldn’t be able to replenish supplies for his navy, so he wanted to rendezvous with him at the coast.
For nearly two days, we trekked through parched land to the sea, but there we found no sign of Nearchus.
Getting increasingly anxious, Alexander hugged the coast as we walked further and further into the desert. By now, it was too late to turn back. We had no more water; our only choice was to continue and hope that the guides could find the wells they promised us.
We walked in single file. The chariots and wagons bogged down in the deep sand, and the horses struggled and floundered. Little by little the army shed its extra weight. Wagons were left behind. Anything that couldn’t be carried was dropped into the burning sand and forgotten. The army didn’t suffer, but the families that followed us were sorely tried. Those who survived the flood lost their remaining belongings to the sand.
Alexander walked at the head of his army. His skin became burnt and his hair was bleached white-blond by the sun. He wrapped his cloak around him and struggled onwards. After three days of roasting in the hot oven of the desert, he knew that he had to change tactics or we would never make it through. We set the tents up during the day and stayed in their shade, waiting for evening. Everyone slept if they could or just sat and sweltered if they couldn’t.
Then the guides told him that they were lost, which was the cruellest blow of all.
Actually we weren’t lost, the springs and wells were. We arrived at one only to find it full of shifting sand. It took a whole day for the Arabs who were with us to dig it out and find a pittance of water for the parched army. The landmarks were scarce. The guides were not sure where the next oasis was.
For the traveller lost in the desert the best advice is to hide in the shade during the day, moving as little as possible and then march at night, so that’s what we did for nearly a month. The whole army moved at night, following the torches planted in the deep sand by the scouts. We moved in single file because the sand got heavier and harder and harder to walk in. I walked; leading my mare with Chiron tied to her back. Brazza walked behind me, and Axiom walked just behind Brazza. I think Alexander was afraid I’d fall asleep as I walked. I never did though. I walked through the quiet dark, keeping my eyes on the flickering orange light of the torches, with one hand on Chiron’s leg to make sure he was still there. No one spoke. The air was parched and we saved what little moisture we had in our throats and mouths. Everyone wrapped linen scarves over their faces. Silently we walked through the night. The only noise was the soft swish, swish of dry sand under our feet. The worst thing about the night marches was the fact that you could fall asleep while walking. Some men did, and woke up when the burning sun was too hot to bear. Then they would try to follow the army’s trail under the inferno of the desert sky. Hardly anyone ever caught up.
The deep sand and the desiccated landscape claimed the horses. Plexis was nearly hysterical with grief. He lost over half of his hipparchie. Only the strongest animals survived. The camels did much better than the horses. Luckily, all the elephants had been sent with Craterus. Poor Plexis, the desert journey was a nightmare from start to finish for him.
After one particularly harrowing march over salt flats where the hard crust supported a man’s weight but broke under the horses’ hooves causing the poor beasts to flounder and thrash for miles, some dying of exhaustion, some from the heat, Plexis came to the tent. He’d been up all night with the horses. He was covered with salt and sand. Tears made silver trails down his dusty cheeks. He staggered and fell to his knees.
‘I can’t go on,’ he said hoarsely. ‘They’re all dying, all of them. There’s just enough water for my men; the horses are dying of thirst out there …’ he broke off and sobbed.
Alexander moved across the tent and crouched by his friend. He had just been speaking to a guide, and there was reported to be a desert spring not far ahead, if we could just hang on one more day.
‘Plexis, tomorrow night we’ll have water, I promise.’ Alexander’s voice was harsh; the salt and sand irritated our throats.
Plexis raised his head. He seemed to see us for the first time. I was sitting cross-legged, nursing Chiron. With the water shortage, the little boy was nursing more frequently which was good for him, less so for me. I was nearly out of my mind with thirst. His eyes settled on Chiron and he held out his arms.
Chiron was walking now. He toddled happily over to his father, his face the only one of ours with a smile. ‘Papa!’ he cried.
There was a moment’s stunned silence, then Plexis said, ‘What, what did you say?’ He rocked back on his heels, a mixture of pride and fear on his face.
We all gaped. Chiron babbled all the time, but he had yet to say a real word. ‘Papa,’ he said quite clearly, and he tripped on a bump in the rug and fell into Plexis’s arms.
‘He said “Papa”, did you hear that? He said “Papa”!’ Plexis looked around, his face split in a huge grin.
I buried my head in Alexander’s chest.
‘What’s the matter?’ His arms came around me, holding me tight.
‘I don’t know,’ I whispered into Alexander’s ear. ‘I’m so tired, and so happy. I wanted to see Plexis smile for the longest time, he’s been so terribly sad lately.’
He nodded, his chin on my shoulder, and tightened his arms around me.
Plexis watched us, an uncertain smile on his lips. ‘What’s going to happen now?’ he asked softly.
‘I wish I knew,’ I said unhappily.
After marching all night long we reached the spring. We stayed as long as possible, replenishing our water supply and sending scouts to plan the next stage of the journey. The spring was a very large one, nearly an oasis, with date palms and even a meagre pasture for the horses. After everyone had drunk and filled the canteens, I filled a bathtub and soaked in it. I sat in the tub all day long, Chiron slept on my chest, his legs in the water, his head on my shoulder, blissfully cool for the first time in weeks.
The next day we set off again, the heat assailed us once more, and men and horses suffered.
There’s a story about Alexander, marching through the desert in the blistering heat, with everyone practically dying of thirst around him, pouring a helmet full of water out on the sand rather than drinking it all by himself. It is a noble story, and I’m sure Alexander would have done such a thing had a scout ever brought back a helmet full of water as proof that a spring lay ahead. He would never have drunk water if his men could not. He would be the first to die of thirst. He was always the last to drink when we reached a spring. However, the men didn’t die of thirst in that desert, the horses did. The men died because they fell asleep during the night marches and they panicked the next day, rushing under the blazing sun to catch up.
I’ll never know where the tale about the water came from. Especially, as I’ve said, we mostly marched at night. Nevertheless, I always liked that story. It does capture the ‘Spirit of Alexander’, I think.
Chapter Two
One morning we arrived at a very strange place. We found it by the smell. After marching for days through a lunar desert, where strange, free-form rocks reared up from white sand that looked like powdered sugar, we reached the coast once more. Instead of the clean, sharp smell of salt water, there was a strong, almost overpowering odour of dead fish.
There, perched on cliffs, was a scarecrow village. The men and women who lived there were small and frail, and strange to look upon. They had wide mouths, pale, globular eyes, and skin that had been burnt brown by the unrelenting sun. The children were silent as they came to meet us. Chil
dren had always been the first to rush out to see the army, running alongside the soldiers, shouting and laughing. Except these children, who stood without speaking, their fingers in their mouths, their eyes flat and staring. It gave us the shivers. The men and women were not any more talkative. There reigned an unnatural silence in that village.
Alexander inquired after his navy and learned, to his relief, that they had stopped there not six days earlier, and had left after stocking up on fresh water and fish. For the place we had come to was a fishing village. The miserable huts were made of straw and shells. Hundreds of little fishing boats were just arriving in the harbour; they fished all night, coming to land during the day. Huge piles of pure white salt lay around the village, and I soon found out why the huts were made of straw.
All the wood gleaned in the nearby hills and found washed up on the beach went towards making crates. The fish were cleaned, salted, and packed in crates to be trekked by donkey caravan towards the cities.
We stayed for two days, camped near this austere little village, to the great wonderment of the fisherman. They had already seen the great fleet of Nearchus, and now they witnessed Alexander’s army. It would make for many long conversations while they fished, salted and walked their scrawny donkeys down the trails. At least, I hoped so; of all the places I’d seen, this was the most desolate. Even the water here wasn’t completely free of salt. The wells were lined with shells to keep the sand out, but the salt and smell of rotting fish pervaded everything.
We left, following the narrow path the fish-eaters took on their way to the city of Bampur. At least now, there was a path to follow. We headed along the coast towards the setting sun.
The next two weeks is a blur in my memory. Each day’s march resembled the one before it. We were silent, walking through the hostile landscape along the white path before us. Birds wheeled overhead and gazelles would sometimes be seen from a great distance. Slowly the desert gave away to scrub brush and sand was replaced by rocks, then wiry grass. I saw snakes and lizards, gerbils, and a mongoose. I liked seeing the animals, they broke the monotony of the walk, and it meant we were slowly approaching the Bampur valley.
We had two weeks of marching through arid land before we came to Bampur. The most difficult part of our journey was over.
We’d lost more than five thousand souls in the desert. We arrived exhausted, our clothes in tatters, and deeply shocked by all the men, women, and children who’d perished. We were relieved to be in a place where sweet water flowed in abundance and the grass grew green. It was like a rebirth, like arriving in paradise, and to top everything off, the whole city had turned out to greet Alexander, conquering hero and king of the world.
Alexander, conquering hero! People lined the streets. They were on the rooftops, and they were already hoarse from cheering by the time we were near enough to hear them.
Alexander, king of the world! Flowers fell like rain, wine flowed like rivers, the soldiers were fêted and acclaimed and Alexander’s name was on everyone’s lips. He had returned to his kingdom and the city, like a bride, opened her arms to him.
It was heady stuff for a man suddenly to realize that this was the summit of his glory. He had been fighting for so long that he’d forgotten why. He’d been struggling to reclaim a crown and consolidate a kingdom and now that it was done, suddenly, here it was. Here was his kingdom. It was just the edge, but it was here, and the people were weeping, screaming, and swooning when they saw him.
Even I, who had seen one of the ancient newsreels of the Beatles arriving in America, was very impressed. The Beatles were nothing compared to Alexander. These people had no social media holograms, and they had been waiting for months for a glimpse of the young king.
Here he was! And, by the gods, he was young! He was handsome! He waved and grinned and cried. His hair was bleached pale gold, his body burned deep brown, his eyes glittered blue and brown, and they were huge in his starving face. His purple cape was in tatters, but the mayor of the city gave him a new one. He wore the crown of Darius on his noble head and he carried the spear of a cavalry officer. His men had polished their bronze weapons until they shone in the red setting sun like drops of blood. The horses, wild with the scent of grass and water, whinnied and screamed at the crowds, and the crowds screamed back.
Everyone cried, everyone laughed. It was our first homecoming and we were drunk within seconds with the ecstasy of nostos, the epic return. We drank from the cups held out by every hand towards us. The men all had purple mouths and staggered drunkenly by the time we left the city and headed towards the encampment, but Alexander was drunk on glory. His eyes were exultant and his colour hectic. His face burned with fever and he had no voice left to speak.
We set up the tent and collapsed. The city revelled without us. Everyone in the army slept for the first night. Faintly in the distance I heard the sounds of the fête that was to last nearly a week, the whole time we were there. However, the sounds soon faded as I slid towards sleep wrapped in the arms of my hero, Alexander.
We both awoke early the next morning. Axiom had risen and was making a fire. Alexander and I looked at each other and we both smiled. Then we touched our heads together and my hair slid off my shoulder in a silver shower. ‘Are you happy?’ I asked him.
‘Right now I am.’ He rolled onto his back, pulling me on top of him and nuzzling my neck.
I kept rolling, giggling as I pulled him on top of me.
‘Oh? Like that huh?’ He grinned. His eyes darkened. ‘It has been too long,’ he said then, urgently. ‘By the gods, it’s been too long. I can’t wait.’ He shuddered once, twice, and groaned loudly. His body slumped, his cheek resting on mine.
I ran my hands down his back, wincing at his thinness, at how his hipbones met mine with a knock that could practically be heard. I grinned ruefully. We were like two scarecrows. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I whispered. ‘What we need isn’t love, we have enough of that. What we need are some good meals and rest. We’ll see how you do in a week.’
‘A week?’ He raised his head and lifted an elegant eyebrow. ‘Give me five minutes, I’ll show you something.’
I chuckled. ‘You will huh? I think I’ll take you up on that.’ There was something irresistible about being in bed, under the covers, naked with him.
He was right, in five minutes he showed me.
‘Was that better?’ he gasped, when he’d got his breath back.
‘Mmm, I’ll tell you in a minute,’ I said lazily.
‘A minute? Why not now?’ he asked.
‘Because I want to sleep, like you usually do. Why aren’t you sleeping? Alex? Alex?’
I leaned over. His lashes were absurdly long when his eyes were closed.
That afternoon I spent an hour in the new bathhouse. I felt like a flower that had gone through a drought and was just feeling the spring rain falling. I slid into the hot water and closed my eyes; sheer bliss.
The bathhouse, my favourite place for the obvious reasons, was empty today. Everyone was recuperating or resting and the soldiers had strict orders to see to their equipment and their horses first before looking after themselves.
This was why we didn’t see Plexis for two days. He had suffered terribly from the desert march. Each horse that fell was like a lost child for him and for Pharnabazus, the barbarian chieftain who had given us many of these horses and had accompanied us since the Caspian Sea. Together they’d managed to salvage most of the cavalry though. Now they had to be careful the horses didn’t eat and drink themselves to death. The cavalry officers had to hobble and muzzle their horses around the clock, only letting them eat and drink for minutes at a time, so that they didn’t get sick from drinking too fast or eating too much green grass.
Two days later the horses were turned out into a large pasture and Plexis tottered into the tent and passed out.
I was frightened. While Alexander was often on the verge of collapse because he didn’t know when to stop, Plexis had always been careful to s
ave his strength. Now he lay on the floor of the tent. His eyes were open, staring, his hands were curled on his chest, and his forehead was burning hot.
I touched him and then raced out of the tent, crying for Usse. I was terrified. Plexis hadn’t recognized me when I’d spoken his name. He had a fever that lasted for days. We kept him in bed and sponged his body with cool water, begging him to drink, but he didn’t know us. He didn’t seem to understand what we were saying. He tossed and turned as if he were possessed. Alexander sat by his bed until he was nodding with sleep then I would take his place. We relayed, with Axiom, Usse and Brazza, everyone putting cool cloths on his head, soothing his cries and trying to calm his fever. Finally he opened his eyes and recognized us. He forced a grin then sighed and slept. He slept for another twenty-four hours but his fever was gone. When he woke up he was ravenously hungry and devoured all Axiom’s lentil stew.
We spoiled him all week, catering to him, bathing him, singing to him – except Alexander, thank the gods – and generally cheering him up. He liked it for about three days, then he started feeling a bit silly – no proper Athenian would ever admit to a little weakness – and soon he was up and around, playing with Chiron and back with his beloved horses. Everyone was euphoric; we were almost home and things were getting back to normal.
Well, almost normal.
One thing we’d all forgotten. It hadn’t been so flagrant during the battles and the long journey – the Persians thought their king was a god. As a result, for the major part of Alexander’s new kingdom he was a god. A real god, the one who makes the seasons change, the crops grow, and the sun rise. He was a divinity, in other words a very, very important VIP.
Alexander started to see what I’d been trying to tell him. The people of Persia expected him to be a new Darius, to join the line of rulers before him who had been divine. He was expected to hide behind a curtain, to wear Persian robes, to have people kneel and kiss the ground before him, and to be acclaimed as the representation of their god.
Storms over Babylon Page 3
