The Persian Boy (30 page)

As the day approached, it was clear the Sogdians were happy, but no one else was. Macedonians of rank took it very ill. If he had traded the girl for her brother’s life, and had her dragged to his tent, it would have been a trifle; a scream or two would have been worth some bawdy jokes. But marriage, that affronted their victors’ status. If he’d first taken a Macedonian Queen, and added this girl as a minor wife (his father, so they said, had had many such), they would not have grumbled. As it was, many had a daughter at home, whom they thought should have been preferred. They were only kept quiet by his not conferring the rank of Queen on her. I was pleased to see he was not so far gone as that.

As for the men, all soldiers like oddities in a leader they admire; they like him to be a legend. They were used to the Persian dancing-boy; if he’d had no one for his bed, they’d have wondered what was wrong with him. But this was another thing. They had fought to subdue Sogdiana, because he said it was necessary; now it was rumored he thought of India. They started wondering if he meant to go home at all. He had spread his wings; the whole earth was his home. But they thought of their villages, the hills where they’d herded goats in boyhood, and Macedonian children by Macedonian wives.

Whatever we all thought, the day arrived, true to its time as death. While I dressed him for the feast, he smiled to himself, as if now it was come he hardly believed it could be happening. A crowd of his friends came in, to wish him joy in the usual way. It pleased them when he did not put on the Mitra-he was taking a wife, not a Queen-and the jokes grew lively. Nobody noticed me; except that once Hephaistion glanced my way when he thought I did not see; in curiosity, or triumph, or pity, there was not time to guess.

The feast began; a blaze of light and heat and gold and color, reeking with roast meats; the great barbaric heaps of the bride-goods on their stands; bridegroom and bride enthroned. It was a fine still night; all the flames burned upright. There was deafening music, everyone shouting over it. The bride looked about with her glowing eyes, as if no one had ever taught her to cast them down; till Alexander spoke to her through the interpreter, when she turned them upon him.

They brought in the ritual loaf, for him to divide with his sword. He broke off a piece from her half, gave it her to eat, and tasted his own. They were now man and wife. We all rose to our feet to cheer them.

My throat closed; I could not utter a sound. The torches stifled me and burned my eyes. Yet I kept my place, ashamed to be seen, going. If I stayed much longer, they would be bedding the bride.

In the shoving crowd, a hand slid under my arm. Without turning, I knew it was Ismenios.

“She is beautiful,” I said. “Are you envying the bridegroo?m?”

“No,” he said in my ear. “But I did before.”

I leaned a little nearer. It seemed to happen of itself, like blinking against dust. He eased me out from the press. We found coat and cloak in the heap outside, and went out under the cold Sogdian stars.

It was nearly as bright outside as in; great cressets flaring everywhere, and a horde of tribesmen gorging on whole carcasses, spitted over the fires; singing, roaring, bragging, setting their dogs to fight each other, dancing in rings. However, they were all where the food and drink was; we soon got free of them.

No snow had fallen since before the siege; the ground had dried. We found a round hidden place among the boulders, and he spread his cloak. The grass had been well pressed down; I expect the whole village went there. I did not say so to Ismenios, who thought it a paradise created for us alone,

It surprised him, how quickly I divined his wishes. I don’t know why; they were nothing out of the way. I’d have thought myself lucky, any afternoon in Susa, to get such an easy client. He was eager to please, and I to be pleased by almost anything. Oromedon would have warned me what to expect: I had almost forgotten those early days. “It comes of anger, and the soul’s resistance.” When I caught my breath, Ismenios thought it was from rapture, and was happy. He had been a good friend, when other squires were plaguing me. I had learned young how to give thanks to those who did not ill-use me.

I don’t know how long we were there; it felt like half the night. He had wanted me for a year, and seemed a stranger to fatigue. At last, after we had lain awhile under my coat, we agreed the night grew too cold to stay.

A late waning moon was up. Ismenios gazed at it floating beside the Rock; I leaned upon his shoulder. Making sure he got all he wanted had given me something to think about, which was worth as much to me as any of it to him. I said, “We have dreamed, dear friend. Another time, we might awaken. Let it be a dream forgotten at morning.” That seemed a better way of saying it than, “Never remind me of this, for fear I should stick a knife in you.”

He put an arm round my waist. A handsome youth; it had not always been my lot to pick and choose. Speaking quite sensibly-indeed he had never been stupid-he said, “I promise. Never a word, not even if we’re alone. I’m lucky having it to remember. Of course, he’ll want you back. Anyone would.”

Up the Rock, a great fire leaped in the cave-mouth. Even on his wedding night, Alexander was not so besotted as to leave the place ungarrisoned; but had sent them plenty of good cheer to keep the feast.

In the hall there was lazy broken singing, from those guests who always linger till morning, to see the bride-sheet displayed. For the first time, I started wondering how he’d fared. He must be very much out of practice, if indeed he’d ever been in it, and a virgin of sixteen would not be much help. For a moment my demons, returning, made me wish him to fail, and seek me for consolation. Then I thought what it would do to him, who had never known defeat; so I caught back my evil wish and killed it. When Ismenios had left me with speaking eyes, and gone to bed, I stayed, lost in the crowd, till daylight came with music, and some wellborn old crone appeared to flap the sheet at us. It bore the red badge of victory. Alexander was still unconquered.

Next day, there was so much ceremony that I scarcely saw him, except when he came to his tent to change his clothes. He seemed pleased with himself (from bliss or from achievement who could say?) and looked brisk and fresh. Ismenios was on duty with blue lines under his eyes, and a soft secret smile he took care not to turn on me.

The bride was being visited by a hundred women; you could hear the chatter in the bride-room from out of doors. Not having traveled deaf in Darius’ harem wagons, I knew the questions, and wondered how she replied.

I never went near the door, but would send a servant to leave his morning clothes with the eunuch there, or tak?e away his supper robe. One must start as one means to go on.

When he came for his bath at evening, I felt as I sluiced him down that I washed her off him; to such follies will jealousy bring the heart. Suddenly he said, “I shall have to have her taught Greek.”

“Yes, Alexander.” How had he managed without speech? I had cured his old sadness-perhaps for good, perhaps not-by coaxing, gossiping, confiding, telling secrets or old tales. He loved a spell of this, before he was ready again. Sometimes he would just fall asleep to the sound of my voice; it was all one to me, so long as he kept me by him. Now there was this girl, without a word to say to him, just lying waiting for more.

“Your teacher, Philostratos, do you think he’d do?”

“None better,” I said, delighted to enrich him after all his kindness. “And he has picked up a little Persian, from teaching me.”

“She doesn’t understand mine.” Sogdian is to pure Persian as Macedonian is to Greek. He went on quickly, “Yes, he seems just the man.”

“Not Kallisthenes?” I said, recalling an old joke; but he said unsmiling, “When iron floats. He is taking more on himself than will do him good.”

I should have thought. Anyone could guess what Kallisthenes would say of barbarian weddings, and half-Sogdian heirs being bred to rule over Greeks.

“He must have written by now to Aristotle. Well, I have written too. The old man must try to understand what I am doing.”

“Yes, Alexander.” There was a purple bruise on his neck. She must have bitten him. How did that go, I wondered; it was not in his style at all.

However it went, a week had not gone by before, hearing of a tribe that had refused submission, he was off upon campaign. Since the rebels lived no great way off, he said it was not worth while to move the court, nor tire the Lady Roxane with rough travel over snowy passes; he would soon be back.

At this news, I sat down to think.

If I just packed and assumed that I was going, he would quite likely take me along. I would be there, she not; what could be better? Well, perhaps one thing. What if we see who is missed the most? A big stake, upon one throw of the dice. All the same, I’ll throw.

So I assumed I was to be left, as often before, and he marched away. As his long train vanished over the passes, I would have taken back my stake again. But it was down.

If I’d gone, he would not have had much time for me. The rebels lived in a rock-fort, with a great ravine before it, supposed to make it impregnable. Alexander spent about three parts of a month, in terrible weather, getting the ravine filled up, till he could bridge the gorge. Since no one inside had ever thought of such a thing being possible, they were much put out when arrows began to hit them, while their own, aimed at the working-parties, fell on thick bullhide screens. They sent down a herald, asking for Oxyartes to act as envoy.

Alexander sent for him, I think he was some kin to the chief. He went up, reported his daughter’s marriage, declared Alexander both invincible and merciful. The chief surrendered, invited Alexander into his stronghold, provisioned the army from his stores laid up for the siege; was confirmed in his rank and given his fortress back. Thus the war ended.

Meantime, still at my Greek with Philostratos, I could not keep from asking him how he got on in the harem. He said he had to teach in the presence of two old women, the girl’s three sisters, and a eunuch armed to the teeth. “You don’t know when you’re well off,” I said. “Oxyartes wanted to have you cut, before you were let inside.” I laughed aloud at his courteous efforts to control his face. “Don’t worry, Alexander was very firm. And how are the lessons going?”

He said the lady was eager to learn, even to impatience. On this he looked uneasy, and quickly opened our book.

Soon after, the chief eunuch of Oxyartes’ harem came seeking me. His condescension surprised me; though unpolished, he was very pompous; but his errand surprised me more. It was a summons to see the Lady Roxane.

So, then, she knew. Never mind whether through spiteful tattle, or from sending out spies herself; she knew.

Of course I was not going near her, now more than ever. I said I was in despair that I could not rejoice my eyes with her gracious presence; but I dared not attend the harem without the King’s command. He nodded gravely. It is not usual, anywhere, to bring people of my looks into a harem, even when cut; Darius had never sent me once without him. I could see the eunuch uneasy with his errand. Perhaps, I asked, he could tell me why his lady had wished to see me?

“As I understand,” he said, looking me up and down, “she wished to ask why, since you are a dancer, you would not dance at her wedding, to bring good fortune to her and to your master.”

“Dance at her wedding?” I must have stared like a fool. “It is the custom of our country,” he said, “for a eunuch to do so in woman’s dress.”

“You may tell your lady that I did not refuse to dance; the King did not command me. It is not a custom of his people.” Someone must have performed after I left the hall. So he had crossed her will on his wedding eve, rather than give me pain. Had she known then, already?

He came back soon after.

His forerunners came at noon, he himself at sunset. No doubt he excused himself to Oxyartes on account of his late return; he dined in camp, with a few friends, and the officers he’d had with him.

They did not sit long over the wine. They fought the campaign over, debating how long it would have taken if the garrison had held out; then he said he was going to bed. Nobody asked him where.

He came inside. I had everything ready as he liked it. He greeted me with a kiss, and it was a little more than a greeting; but I did not presume on that. What if he goes over there, I thought, as soon as he has bathed? I will not invite the cruelties of hope.

I bathed him; I rubbed him dry. Would he ask for fresh clothes? No. I turned back the bed for him.

Going about the sleeping-place, folding his things, kindling the night-lamp and putting out the great one, I felt his eyes; At last I ceased to rebuke my heart for singing. All the same, he would have to ask.

I stood the night-lamp by the bed, and said, “Is there anything else, my lord?” He answered, “You know well.”

As his arm received me, he gave a little sigh; just as when he came back from a fight and a long ride, dusty and bruised, and found his bath just right for him. A hundred verses of tenderest love, sung to the lute, could not have given me half the joy.

Next day, he set about the great pile of business that had come in while he was gone; envoys from cities of western Asia, men who’d ridden for leagues with grievances against satraps; letters from Greece, from Macedon, from his new cities. He was at it all day and on into the night. I don’t know if he got in a courtesy call at the harem. At night he just dropped into bed and slept.

The day after, I heard that someone was asking for me at my tent. Here a young boy, whom I’d never seen, put in my hands an inlaid silver dish. Lifting the lid, he showed it was full of sweetmeats; with a slip of parchment in a fine Greek script. It read, A GIFT FROM ALEXANDER.

I gazed in surprise. When I looked again for the boy, he’d gone.

I took the dish inside. Though I knew all his things, it was new to me. It was costly, but unrefined in style; it would have been thrown out of doors at Susa. It looked to me like Sogdian work.

The note was odd. He used no ceremony with me. Anything like this, he’d just send by a servant, whom I would know, with a message by mouth that he hoped I would enjoy it. The writing was delicate, nothing like his impatient hand. Recognition came to me. I thought that I understood.