by Mary Renault
“Why?”
“Well, one must, that’s all.”
There was no answer. Ptolemy saw with dismay that the boy was bitterly wounded. It was something he had not thought of.
“Come,” he said awkwardly, “a big growing boy like you, if you don’t know why…Of course I’d gladly be your brother, that’s nothing to do with it, that’s not it. But my mother’s married to Father. It would mean I was a bastard. You know what that is.”
“Yes,” said Alexander, who knew it was a deadly insult.
Sensing confusion if not ignorance, Ptolemy did a brother’s duty. His blunt questions got blunt answers; the boy had used his ears among his guardroom friends. It seemed, though, that he thought the birth of offspring called for some further magic. The young man, having dealt sensibly with the matter, was surprised by the long intent silence at the end.
“What is it? It’s the way we are all born, nothing wrong with it, the gods made us so. But women must only do it with their husbands, or the child’s a bastard. That’s why the man wanted to drown your dog: for fear he’d not run true to strain.”
“Yes,” said the boy, and returned to his thoughts.
Ptolemy felt distressed. In his childhood, when Philip had been only a younger son and a hostage too, he had been made to suffer; later he had ceased to be ashamed. If his mother had been unmarried he could have been acknowledged, and would not have been sorry. It was a matter of the decencies; he felt he had treated the boy meanly, not to have made this clear.
Alexander was looking straight ahead. His dirty childish hands kept a managing grip on the reins, minding their own business, making no demand on his thought. Their capacity, so far beyond their growth, approached the freakish; it gave an uneasy feeling. Through his face’s puppy roundness, a gem-clear profile already began to show. Ptolemy thought, The image of his mother, nothing of Philip at all.
A thought struck him like a thunderflash. Ever since he had been eating with the men, he had been hearing tales about Queen Olympias. Strange, turbulent, uncanny, wild as a Thracian maenad, able if she was crossed to put the Eye on you: fittingly the King had met her in a cave by torchlight, at the Mysteries of Samothrace; had been mad for her at first sight, even before he knew what house she came of; and had brought her, with a useful treaty of alliance, in triumph home. In Epiros, it was said, until quite lately women had ruled without men. Sometimes the drums and cymbals sounded all night in her pine grove, and strange piping came from her room. It was said she coupled with serpents; old women’s tales, but what happened in the grove? Did the boy, so long her shadow, know more than he should? Had it only now come home to him?
As if he had turned a stone from a cave-mouth of the Underworld, letting loose a swarm of bat-squeaking shades, there passed through Ptolemy’s mind a score of bloody tales going back for centuries, of struggles for the throne of Macedon: tribes fighting for High Kingship, kindred killing kindred to be High King; wars, massacres, poisonings; treacherous spears in the hunting-field, knives in the back, in the dark, in the bed of love. He was not without ambition; but the thought of plunging in that stream made his marrow cold. Dangerous guesswork, and what proof could there ever be? Here was the boy in trouble. Forget the rest.
“Listen,” he said. “Can you keep a secret?”
Alexander lifted his hand and pronounced with care an oath enforced with deadly curses. “It’s the strongest,” he finished. “Silanos taught it me.”
“That’s too strong. I absolve you of it. You must be careful of oaths like that. Now the truth is, your father did get me on my mother; but he was no more than a boy, fifteen. It was before he went to Thebes.”
“Oh, Thebes.” His voice echoed another.
“He was old for his age that way, well known for it. Well, never mind that, a man can’t wait till he’s wedded, nor have I done if you want the truth. But my mother was married to Father already, so it dishonors them to talk of it. It’s one of the things a man must have blood for. Never mind if you see why or not; that’s how it is.”
“I won’t talk.” His eyes, already deeper set than other children’s, were fixed upon the distance.
Ptolemy fiddled with the horse’s cheekstrap, thinking unhappily, Well, what could I say? Someone else would have told him. The boy still in him rescued the defeated man. He halted the horse.
“Now, if we were sworn blood-brothers, we could tell everyone that.” He added, cunningly, “But you know what we have to do?”
“Of course I know!” He gathered the reins in his left hand, and held out the right, clenched fist turned upward, a blue vein showing at the wrist. “Come on; here, do it now.”
Ptolemy drew from his red belt the new sharp dagger, seeing the boy focused by pride and resolution to a single gleam. “Now wait, Alexander. It’s a solemn thing we’re doing. Your enemies will be mine and mine yours, until we die. We will never take up arms against each other, even if our own kin are at war. If I die in a strange land you will give me my rites, and so I will do for you. It means all that.”
“I promise. You can do it here.”
“We don’t need so much blood.” He avoided the offered vein, lightly nicking the white skin. The boy looked down smiling. Having pricked his own wrist, Ptolemy pressed the cuts together. “It’s done,” he said. And well done, he thought; some good daimon prompted me. Now they can’t come to me saying, “He is only the Queen’s bastard and you’re the King’s, so claim your rights.”
“Come on, brother,” said the boy. “Get up, he’s got his wind now. Let’s really go.”
The royal stables were built in a broad square of stuccoed brick, with stone pilasters. They were half empty; the King was holding maneuvers, as he did whenever a new thought about tactics came to him.
Alexander, on his way to watch, had stopped to see a mare which had just foaled. As he had hoped, no one was about to say she was dangerous at such a time. He slipped in with her, coaxed her, and stroked the foal while her warm nostrils stirred his hair. Presently she nudged him, to say that was enough, and he let them be.
In the trodden yard, with its smells of horse-piss and straw, leather and wax and liniment, three strange horses had just come in. They were being rubbed down by foreign grooms in trousers. Their headstalls, which a stable slave was cleaning, were oddly bedizened; glittering with gold plates, topped with red plumes, and with winged bulls worked on the bit-pieces. They were fine tall horses, powerfully built, not overridden; a spare string was being led through.
The household officer on duty remarked to the horse-master that the barbarians would have a good wait ahead of them, before the King came back.
“Brison’s phalanx,” said the boy, “are all ways still with their sarissas. It takes a long time to learn.” He was able, so far, to lift up one end of these giant spears. “Where are those horses from?”
“All the way from Persia. Envoys from the Great King, to fetch back Artabazos and Menapis.”
These satraps, after an ill-judged revolt, had fled to Macedon for refuge. King Philip had found them useful; the boy had found them interesting. “But they’re guest-friends,” he said. “Father won’t let the Great King have them back to kill them. Tell the men not to wait.”
“No, it’s a pardon, I understand. They can go home free. In any case, envoys are entertained whatever message they carry. It’s the proper thing.”
“Father won’t be back before noon. I think later, because of the Foot Companions. They can’t do close-and-open order yet. Shall I fetch Menapis and Artabazos?”
“No, no, the envoys must have an audience first. Let these barbarians see we know how to do things. Attos, stable all those horses by themselves, it’s always the foreigners bring sickness in.”
The boy had a good look at the horses and their harness, then stood in thought. Presently he washed his feet at the conduit, looked at his chiton, went in and put on a clean one. He had listened often when people questioned the satraps about the splendors of Persepo
lis: the throne room with its gold vine and tree, the stairway up which a cavalcade could ride, the curious rites of homage. Persians, it was clear, were ceremonious. As far as he was able without help, and at the cost of some pain, he combed his hair.
In the Perseus Room, one of Zeuxis’ showpieces where guests of rank were received, a chamberlain was watching two blue-tattooed Thracian slaves set small tables with cakes and wine. The envoys had been seated in chairs of honor. On the wall above them, Perseus was rescuing Andromeda from the sea-dragon. He was one of the ancestors, and was said to have founded Persia too. It seemed that his breed had changed. He was naked, except for his winged sandals; the envoys wore the full Median dress which the exiles during their stay had laid aside. Every inch of these men but their hands and faces was covered up with clothes; every inch of the clothes with embroidery. Their round black hats were stitched with spangles; even their beards, trimmed into little round curls like snail shells, seemed embroidered too. Their fringed tunics had sleeves; their legs were cased in trousers, notorious sign of a barbarian.
Three chairs had been placed; only two bearded men were sitting. The youth with them, an aide, stood behind the senior envoy’s chair. He had long silky blue-black hair, a skin of ivory, a face both haughty and delicate, and dark brilliant eyes. His elders being in talk, he was the first to see the boy standing in the doorway, and flashed at him a charming smile.
“May you live,” he said walking in. “I am Alexander son of Philip.”
Both bearded heads came round. After a moment both men rose, and invoked the sun to shine on him. The chamberlain, retaining his self-command, pronounced their names.
“Please sit down. Refresh yourselves, you must be tired after your journey.” He had often heard this stock phrase. He became aware they were waiting for him to sit first, the first time this had happened to him. He clambered into a chair which had been put ready for the King. His sandal-tips did not reach the floor; the chamberlain beckoned a slave to get a footstool.
“I have come to entertain you, because my father is out reviewing the army. We expect him back about noon. It depends on the Foot Companions, whether they get close-and-open order right. They may be better today. They have been working very hard at it.”
The envoys, chosen for their fluent Greek, leaned forward. Both were somewhat unsure with the broad patois of Macedon, its Doric vowels and blunt consonants; but the child’s voice was very clear. “Is this your son?” he asked.
The senior envoy answered, demurely, that he was the son of a friend, and presented him. The youth, with a deep bow, declined again to sit, but smiled. For a moment they lit up at one another. The envoys exchanged delighted glances. It was all charming; the pretty grey-eyed prince, the little kingdom, the provincial naivety. The King drilled the troops himself! It was as if the child had boasted that the King cooked his own dinner.
“You don’t eat your cakes. I will have one too.” He took a small bite; he did not want his mouth full. What he knew of etiquette did not stretch to small talk during meals. He came straight to business.
“Menapis and Artabazos will be glad they’re pardoned. They often talk about home. I don’t think they’ll ever rebel again. You can tell King Ochos.”
The senior envoy had followed most of this in spite of the uncouth tongue. He smiled into his black mustaches, and said he would not fail to do so.
“And what about General Memnon? Is he pardoned too? We thought he might be, after his brother Mentor won the war in Egypt.”
The envoy’s eyes blinked a moment. Mentor the Rhodian, he said presently, was a worthy mercenary, and no doubt the Great King was grateful.
“He’s married to Artabazos’ sister. Do you know how many children they have now? Twenty-one! All alive! They keep having twins. Eleven boys and ten girls. I only have one sister. But I think that is enough.”
Both envoys bowed. They were informed of the King’s domestic discords.
“Memnon speaks Macedonian. He told me how he lost his battle.”
“My prince,” smiled the elder envoy, “you should study war from victors.”
Alexander looked at him thoughtfully. His father always took trouble to find out where losers had gone wrong. Memnon had cheated a friend of his over a horse-deal; he would not have minded telling how he lost his battle; but he smelled patronage. If the youth had asked, it would have been different.
The chamberlain sent off the slaves, lingering himself for the rescue which would surely soon be needed. The boy bit sparingly at his cake, going over in his mind his most important questions; there might not be time for all. “How many men has the Great King in his army?”
Both envoys heard this aright; both smiled. The truth could do only good; he could be trusted, no doubt, to remember most of it.
“Beyond number,” said the elder. “Like the sands of the sea, or the stars on a moonless night.” They told him of the Median and the Persian bowmen, the cavalry on the great horses of Nisaia; and the troops of the outer empire, Kissians and Hyrkanians, Assyrians with plaited bronze helmets and iron-spiked maces, Parthians with bow and scimitar; Ethiopians in leopard and lion skins who painted their faces red and white for battle and shot arrows tipped with stone; the Arab camel corps; the Bactrians; and so on as far as India. He listened round-eyed, like any child hearing marvels, till the tale was over.
“And they all have to fight when the Great King sends for them?”
“Every one, upon pain of death.”
“How long does it take them to come?”
There was a sudden pause. It was over a century since Xerxes’ expedition; they themselves did not know the answer. They said the King ruled over vast dominions and men of many tongues. From India, say, to the coast it might be a year’s journey. But there were troops wherever he might need them.
“Do have some more wine. Is there a road all the way to India?”
It took time to dispose of this. In the doorway people were elbowing to listen, the news having spread.
“What’s King Ochos like in battle? Is he brave?”
“Like a lion,” said the envoys both together.
“Which wing of the cavalry does he lead?”
The mere awe of him…The envoys became evasive. The boy took a larger bite of cake. He knew one must not be rude to guests, so he changed the subject. “If the soldiers come from Arabia and India and Hyrkania, and can’t speak Persian, how does he talk to them?”
“Talk to them? The King?” It was touching, the little strategist a child again. “Why, the satraps of their provinces choose officers who speak their tongues.”
Alexander tilted his head a little, and creased his brows. “Soldiers like to be talked to before a battle. They like you to know their names.”
“I am sure,” said the second envoy charmingly, “they like you to know them.” The Great King, he added, conversed only with his friends.
“My father converses with those at supper.”
The envoys murmured something, not daring to catch each other’s eyes. The barbarity of the Macedonian court was famous. The royal symposiums, it was said, were more like the feasts of mountain bandits snowed up with their spoils, than the banquets of a ruler. A Milesian Greek, who swore to having witnessed it, had told them King Philip thought nothing of stepping down from his couch to lead the line of dancers. Once, during an argument carried on in shouts across the room, he had shied a pomegranate at a general’s head. The Greek, with the effrontery of that race of liars, had gone on to claim that the general had replied with a hunk of bread, and was still alive, in fact still a general. But if one believed no more than half, the least said the best.
Alexander for his part had been wrestling with a problem. A tale he disbelieved, and wished to check, had been told by Menapis. An exile might want to make the Great King look foolish. But these people would inform on him, and he would be crucified when he got home. It was wicked to betray a guest-friend.
“A boy here told me,” he t
herefore said, “that when people greet the Great King they have to lie flat down on the ground. But I told him he was silly.”
“The exiles could have told you, my prince, the wisdom of that homage. Our master rules not only many peoples, but many kings. Though we call them satraps, some are kings by blood, whose forebears once ruled for themselves, till they were brought into the empire. So he must be raised as far above other kings as they above their subjects. Under-kings must feel no more shame to fall down before him than before the gods. If he seemed less than this, his rule would soon pass away.”
The boy had listened and understood. He answered courteously, “Well, here we don’t fall down before the gods. So you need not do it to my father. He’s not used to it; he won’t mind.”
The envoys clutched at their gravity. The thought of prostrating themselves before this barbaric chief, whose ancestor had been Xerxes’ vassal (and a treacherous one at that) was too grotesque to offend.
The chamberlain, seeing it was high time, came forward; bowed to the child, who he thought deserved it, and invented a summons which could be explained away outside. Sliding down from the throne, Alexander bade goodbye to each, remembering all their names. “I am sorry I can’t come back here. I have to go to the maneuvers. Some of the Foot Companions are friends of mine. The sarissa is a very good weapon in a solid front, my father says; the thing is to make it mobile. So he’ll go on till they get it right. I hope you won’t have long to wait. Please ask for anything you want.”
Turning beyond the doorway, he saw the beautiful eyes of the youth still fixed on him, and paused to wave goodbye. The envoys, chattering together in excited Persian, were too busy to see their exchange of smiles.
Later that day, he was in the Palace garden teaching his dog to fetch things, among the carved urns from Ephesos whose rare flowers died in the bitter winters of Macedon unless they were brought indoors. From the painted stoa above, his father walked down towards him.
He called the dog to heel. Side by side they waited, prick-eared and wary. His father sat down on a marble bench, and beckoned towards the side of his seeing eye. The blind eye had healed now; only a white patch on the iris showed where the arrow had gone in. It had been a spent one, to which he owed his life.