The Persian Boy (32 page)

Once or twice she had offered Alexander luck for nothing. He’d laughed, made her a gift, and not stopped to listen. You were pretty safe in prophesying him victory; but later, when he’d stayed for a word or two, he found small things she foretold fell pat, and would hear her out. With his gold, she bought herself a new gaudy dress; but as she slept in it, it soon looked much like the old one.

Of a morning, I used to enter the King’s tent by the back way, that went straight into the sleeping-place. (It had been made for Darius, to bring in his women quietly.) One day I found her there, squatting cross-legged outside. The squires had not turned her off, because Alexander had told them not to. “Why, mother,” I said, “have you been here all night? You look like it.”

She roused herself, and shook the coins in her ears, two that Alexander had given her. “Yes, little son.” (I was a full head taller.) “Master sent me. But now he says it’s not yet.”

“Never mind, mother. When the luck-day comes, you know the King will listen. Go along and sleep.”

About a month after the boar-hunt, Perdikkas gave a party for Alexander.

It was a big one; all his best friends; also their mistresses, if they were suitable; meaning as a rule Greek hetairas of good standing. There were of course no Persians. A Persian gentleman would rather die than show in public the very least of his concubines; even Macedonians who had ladies taken in conquered cities, did not put them to this disgrace, Alexander would not have allowed it.

Through the open tent-flap I saw Ptolemy’s Thais, crowned with roses, sitting on his supper couch near Alexander. She was an old friend, almost of his boyhood, having been Ptolemy’s mistress before he crossed to Asia; being then quite young, she was in full beauty still. Ptolemy kept her almost like a wife, though not so strictly, which, after her fame in Corinth, she would not have endured. Alexander had always got on well with her. She was the girl who’d called to him, at Persepolis, to burn the Palace.

He was dressed all Greek tonight, in a blue robe trimmed with gold, and a wreath of gold leaves, into which I had stuck fresh flowers for him. I thought, He has never been ashamed of me. I might be sharing his couch, if it weren’t that he knows it would gri?eve Hephaistion. Already it was growing easier to forget Roxane. Hephaistion I never forgot.

Alexander had told me not to wait up. Yet in his tent I dragged out my little tasks. I felt an odd guilt at the thought of leaving, though, as I’d first watched the feast, it was already late.

Round the tent the night guard was on duty, the usual watch of six; Hermolaos, Sostratos, Antikles, Epimenes, and a couple more. Antikles had changed over from another watch just lately. I stood in the back entry, smelling the night, hearing the hum of the camp, a dog baying-not Peritas, whom I’d left fast asleep inside-and the laughter from the feast. Light from the open tent slanted between the cedars.

The women were leaving. They squealed and giggled as the soft cedar-mast tripped their tipsy feet. Their torchbearers led them off among the trees. In the tent, someone plucked a lyre, and they started singing.

Held by the beauty of the night, the flitting lights and the music, I lingered, I don’t know how long. Suddenly Hermolaos was by me. I’d not heard him, on the soft ground. “Are you waiting up, Bagoas? The King said he’d be very late.” In the past, he’d have put a sneer in it; now he spoke very pleasantly. I thought again how his manners had improved.

I was saying I was off to bed, when I saw a torch approaching. I must have dreamed a good while. It was lighting Alexander. Perdikkas and Ptolemy and Hephaistion were seeing him home. They looked steady enough on their feet, and were all laughing together.

Glad to have waited, I was about to go inside, when I saw in the jumping torchlight the Syrian woman. She came flitting along, like a night-owl, to Alexander; tugged at his robe, and reached up to straighten his chaplet. “What now, mother?” he said smiling. “I’ve had my luck for tonight.”

“Oh, no, my King!” She grabbed him again with her little nut of a fist. “No, child of fire! My Master sees you, he sees your best luck to come. Go back to the feast, rejoice till sunup, your life’s best luck is there for you. There’s none for you here, my darling, none here at all.”

“You see?” said Perdikkas. “Come back and bring luck to us.”

Alexander looked at them laughing. “The gods give good advice. Who’s for a dip in the river, before we start again?”

“Not you,” Hephaistion said. “It’s snow-water, like the Kydnos, and you know that nearly killed you. Let’s go and sing.”

They all went back, except Ptolemy and Leonnatos, who were on bodyguard duty next morning. Returning to the tent, I saw the squires had left their stations and were in a huddle, muttering. Slack discipline, I thought Well, I’m for bed.

Yet still I did not go. After the soothsayer, the night now felt uncanny. I did not like her saying there was no luck for Alexander here. I went in. The squires still had their heads together; anyone could have entered, like me, unseen. I thought, They’ll never make soldiers.

At the bed’s foot, Peritas lay stretched out snoring. He was a dog who dreamed, jerking his paws, and with soft squeaks chasing his dream-quarry. But he was still, and never raised his head for me.

I will watch, I thought, for my lord’s bad luck, since not even the dog is doing it. I rolled in my blanket, in a corner out of the way, in case the King’s friends came in with him. The cedar-mast made the floor soft as a mattress. I closed my eyes.

I awoke to daylight. Alexander was there. The tent seemed full of people. They were the squires of the night guard; why? Their watch ended at dawn. He was speaking to them with great kindness, saying he understood what they’d done, and here was something to mark it. He gave each a gold piece and a smile, and sent them off.

He did not seem much the worse for his long night; the talk must have been good. He never flung down the wine as he used by the Oxos, or at Marakanda.

The last squire out was Sostratos. By chance he looked my way, and gave a violent start. No wonder, I thought, when none of you had your eyes open.

Alexander said, as he dropped his clothes off, tha?t I ought to be in bed. I asked if the promised luck had come to him.

“Yes. But I had it here, after all. You saw who the night guards were; all the bad squad. They were relieved at dawn; but when I got back, they were all still at their stations, standing by. They meant it for a sign to me. I’ve never yet been hard on a man who asked for pardon. If I’d turned in early, they’d have had no chance to do it. I must give the Syrian something. By Herakles, though, I’m tired! Let no one near me all day.”

I washed and changed, took a canter through the forest, and, the camp now growing busy, went back to make sure he was undisturbed. He slept like the dead; so, strangely, did Peritas still. I felt his nose, but it was cool.

There were voices in the outer tent, which I thought too loud. The bodyguards, Ptolemy and Leonnatos, had two men there making a great to-do. In one, to my surprise, I recognized young Epimenes of the night guard, sobbing, his face in his hands. The other said, “Forgive him, sirs, he’s been in such great distress.” At this I came forward, saying to Ptolemy that the King was sleeping, and had asked for quiet.

“I know that,” said Ptolemy shortly. “But I shall have to wake him. He’s lucky to be alive. Leonnatos, can I leave these two with you?”

Whatever was this? It was unheard of, to wake him against orders in his first dead sleep. But Ptolemy was no fool. I went in behind him, without excuse, taking myself for granted.

Alexander had turned on his back and was snoring softly; he had to be very deep to do that. Ptolemy stood over him and called his name. His eyelids creased, but he did not stir. Ptolemy shook him.

He returned as if from death. His eyes looked blind. With a great sigh he forced back sight into them, and said, “What is it?”

“Are you awake, Alexander? Listen. It’s a matter of your life.”

“Yes. I’m awake. Go on.”

“There’s a squire, Epimenes, was on guard last night. He says they’d all planned to kill you in your sleep. If you’d gone to bed, they’d have done it.”

Alexander’s brow creased deeply. Slowly he sat up naked, and rubbed his eyes. I came with a towel wrung in cold water; he took it and wiped his face. Presently he said, “Who’s that weeping?”

“The boy. He says you were good to him this morning, and he was ashamed.”

He had smiled at them. I remembered the first time he’d smiled at me.

“He told his lover,” Ptolemy said, “because he didn’t know what to do; they’d all taken some oath together. The lover’s in the Companions; he soon made up his mind for him, and told his elder brother, to settle it.”

“I see. Get me the man’s name, I owe him something. And the rest of them? What were they going to do?”

“Wait. Wait till their turn came round again. They’ve been a full month, the boy says, working themselves into the same watch together. That’s why they hung about this morning, after they were relieved. They couldn’t make up their minds to having failed, after all their trouble.”

“Yes,” said Alexander slowly. “Yes, I see. Are there any other names?”

“One or two. I’ve taken them down. Do you want them from him or me?”

He paused, wiping the towel across his eyes. “No, arrest them all. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. I can’t come to a treason trial half asleep. But I’ll see Epimenes.” He stood up. I put a fresh chiton on him.

In the outer tent, the brothers fell on their knees, the elder with outstretched hands. Alexander said, “No, Eurylochos, don’t ask your brother’s life from me.” The man went ashen. “No, you mistake me; I meant, don’t deny me the pleasure of giving it you unasked.” He had not meant to torment him; he was still barely awake. “I shall thank you later. You’ll both be needed tomorrow, but set your minds at rest.” He gave his right hand to each, along with a smile. I could see that from now on, either would die for him at a word.

When they’d gone, he said to Ptolemy, “Give out a free pardon for the next of kin, or they’ll be running away all over Baktria. Why put them to that; we know where it all began. Ar?rest him. Keep him apart from the others.”

“You mean Hermolaos?”

“I mean Kallisthenes. It’s time. Will you do all that for me? Then I’ll get back to bed.”

He slept quite soon. He was used to living close to death.

At evening he woke, had a drink of water, ordered a night guard from the Companions, and slept again till sunrise. Then he sent for me.

“You warned me,” he said. “Again and again you warned me. I thought . . .” He laid his hand on mine. He’d thought, of course, that I came from a corrupt court, and it was not my fault if I brought its suspicions with me. “I thought you were overanxious. You’ve heard Kallisthenes putting this in their minds?”

“I think so. Among Persians I’d have known. But I think so, yes.”

“Tell it me all again. These people will be put to the question. I’ve no wish to drag it on. With something to go on, I can make it shorter.”

I felt no such wish. My former pity had changed to sparks of fire. Whatever had to be done, I would gladly have done myself, if I’d had the skill. But I told all I remembered, starting with the Athenian lovers. “Yes,” he said. “I read you a lesson and laughed at you. You asked me, What were the daggers for?”

“He was forever on about some tyrants in Greece. I don’t remember their names. They lived in-in Si- Syracuse? And Tessaly.”

“Thessaly. He was killed in bed. Go on.”

“Then, after Hermolaos was beaten, it stopped. It was only the Good Life, or figuring with numbers. I thought he knew he’d been wrong. Now, I think he’d chosen his men, and wanted to keep it from the others. A few days back, when I was riding in the woods, he was there with all of them, and a couple more. I thought, then, he was teaching them about plants, as Aristotle did you.”

“Why not, after I’d made light of you? Do you know who the others were?”

I did, and told him. I felt no reproach to him for heeding me so late. I loved him for finding it so hard to think the worst, even of a man he’d been at odds with. I did not remind him that I’d wanted to rid him of the fellow long ago. I remembered how he’d spoken gently to the waiting murderers, and made them gifts. It would leave a mark on him, as deep as the catapult bolt at Gaza.

The squires were taken out of the camp for questioning. Ptolemy, who I daresay was there, writes that they all confessed Kallisthenes had inspired them.

Later, Alexander found me in the tent giving milk to Peritas, who was sick from the drug they’d dosed him with, and would not eat. He said, “The other two names were those you gave me. I’m grateful to you for that.” He caressed the dog, who had staggered to his feet to greet him. “I’m glad you were not needed there; you are too gentle for such work.”

“Gentle?” I said. “They would have killed you sleeping, when not all together would have faced you waking, mother-naked with just your sword. No, my lord, you would not have found me gentle.” He ran his hand through my hair, and did not believe me.

They went to their trial able to walk, which I suppose was proper. Not being Macedonian, I was only there to see them stoned. The stones came from the river-bed; clean, round and good to grip. But it would have outraged everyone, for a Persian to stone a Macedonian. There were willing hands enough. The vote for death had been passed by acclamation; even the fathers, if they were there, agreeing. By the old law of Macedon, they should all have died as well; not so much for being suspect, as to protect the King from blood-feud. Alexander was the first to grant free pardon.

When the condemned were brought, Alexander asked if any wished to speak. I understood, after Hermolaos accepted.

I will say he kept a good countenance, though his voice grew shrill. But as he spoke, every word came like an echo. It was the voice of a disciple-a steadfast one, that I concede to the dead-paying his master homage,. To most of the Macedonians it was mere insolence; Alexander had to restrain them till the youth had done; but to those who’d heard the speeches on the prostration, it was? proof. As they were led to the stakes, Sostratos passed me. It was he who had seen me in the tent that morning. He spat towards me. “Yes, and we’d have had you too, filthy painted barbarian whore.”