by Mary Renault
The sixth city was Kyropolis, the strongest; not built by the river, of mud-brick, but on a hill-flank, of stone. It had been founded by Kyros, no less; so Alexander had sent the siege-train on with Krateros, and ordered the assault saved up for him. He pitched his tent quite near the siege-lines, to save a walk, so I saw some of the battle. A great splinter of bone had just worked up through the scab on his shin. He made me tug it out, saying the doctor talked too much, and I was neater-handed. The blood was clean. “I’ve good-healing flesh,” he said.
The engines were set up; two siege-towers, clad with hide; a row of catapults, like huge bows laid on their sides, shooting bolts of bronze; and the battering-rams under their housings. In honor of Kyros, he put on his best armor; his silver-burnished helmet with white wings, and his famous belt from Rhodes. Because of the heat, he refused his jeweled gorget. I heard the men cheering, as he rode up to the lines. The assault started soon after.
I felt the rams’ thumping through the ground. Great clouds of dust flew up, but no breach appeared. For some time I saw the silver helmet, till it passed round a turn of the wall. Not so long after, yells and shouts rose up to heaven. The great gates of the fort were open; our men poured in. The walls were covered with soldiers fighting hand to hand; I could not think why, if the Sogdians had opened the gates. They had not; Alexander had done it.
The fort had its water from a river led under the walls. It was low in summer; its channel would let in a stooping man. He led his party in himself, wounded leg and all. The Sogdians, concerned about the rams, had not watched the gates well. He fought his way through, and pulled back the bolts.
Next day he came back to camp. A knot of officers was with him, asking how he felt. He shook his head fretfully, beckoned me up, and whispered, “Bring me a tablet and stylos.”
That came of leaving off his gorget. In the street-fighting, a stone had hit his throat and bruised his voice-box. Only a little harder, it would have broken the bone and choked him. But he had stayed there in command, whispering his orders, till the citadel surrendered.
He could bear pain like no one I ever saw; but not being able to talk drove him nearly mad. He would not rest quiet alone with me, who at a finger-sign would have known just what he wanted; when his voice improved he strained it and it went again. He could not endure to hear the talk at supper and stay mute; he ate in his tent, with a clerk to read to him from one of the books he sent to Greece for. They had started building his new city, so he was soon riding out there, finding of course a hundred things to say. Even so, his voice was strengthening. He had a wonderful body for healing, in spite of all he did to it.
A new sight now appeared across the river; the house-wagons of Scythians, their horse-herds and black felt tents. They had heard of the Sogdian rising, and swept down like ravens to share the spoil. When they saw us, they withdrew and we thought them gone. Next day they were back; the men alone. They rode their small hairy mounts in whirling circles, waving their tufted spears and yelling. They tried to shoot across, but their arrows would not carry. Alexander, curious to know what they were saying with so much noise, sent for Pharneuches, the chief interpreter. The gist, it seemed, was, if Alexander wanted to know the difference between Baktrians and Scythians, let him cross the river.
We had this several days running, louder each time, and with gestures that needed no interpreter. Alexander was getting angry.
He had the generals in his tent, huddled around him so that he need not raise his voice. A whisper is catching; they all sounded like conspirators. I heard nothing till he said aloud, “Of course I’m fit! I can do anything but shout.” “Stop trying, then,” said Hephaistion, “or you’ll be dumb as a fish again.” As they argued their voices rose. Alexander said that if the Scythians got off now without a lesson, they would be sacking his new city the moment we had marched on. Since he meant to give the lesson himself, the others were much against it.
He supped in his tent, as sulky as Achilles. Hephaistion sat with him awhile, but left because he would keep talking. So I went back again; shook my head at all but sign language, and in due course put him to bed. When he caught my hand to keep me, I must own it was not without my contrivance. The bow had been strung too long. We did very well without words; and, after, I told him old tales till he went to sleep.
I knew, however, he would not change his mind about the Scythians. He thought that if he did not go himself, they would suppose he was scared.
The Jaxartes is much smaller than the Oxos. He had the rafts started next day, and sent for the seer Aristander, who always took the omens for him. Aristander came back to say the entrails of the sacrifice were unlucky. (We Persians have cleanlier ways of consulting heaven.) I heard it said the generals had been at him; but I would not have cared for going to that old blue-eyed Magus, and asking him to bend a prophecy. Besides, he was right.
Next day more Scythians than ever came. They were now an army. Alexander had the sacrifice done again; got another No; and asked if the danger was to his men, or him. To him, Aristander said; which to my mind proves his honesty. Of course Alexander prepared at once to cross.
It was with anguish of heart that I watched him being armed. Before two squires, I could not shame him with unseemly grief. I returned his parting smile; smiles are well-omened.
The Scythians were waiting to cut up the troops as they struggled ashore. They had reckoned without the catapults. Their bolts did not fall short like Scythian arrows. After one rider was shot clean through his shield and armor, they kept their distance. Alexander sent the archers and slingers on ahead, to hold them while the phalanx and the cavalry got over. Not that he waited for that himself; he was on the first raft to cross.
From across the river, the battle looked neat as a dance: the Scythians wheeling around the Macedonian square; then the smashing charge of the cavalry, left and right, closing till they ran off inland. In a great cloud of dust (it was a very hot day) they went streaming over the plain, Alexander’s horse after them. Then there was no more to be seen, but the rafts paddling over to bring in our dead and wounded, not many; and the kites screaming over Scythian corpses.
For three days we waited their returning dust. Then they came. Messengers paddled ahead. Once more the doctor was waiting, and so was I.
When the squires set down the litter, I took one look and thought, He is dead, he is dead. A great wail rose up in me, and I had almost uttered it, when I saw his eyelids move.
He was pale as a corpse; his fair skin had no color when the bright blood had left it. His eyes were sunk as if into a skull. He stank, he who liked to be as clean as a bride’s linen. I saw that though too weak to speak he had his senses, and that it shamed him. I took a step to his side.
“It’s a flux, sir,” said a squire to the doctor. “I was to tell you, he drank bad water. It was very hot, and he drank from a standing pool. He’s been purging blood. He’s very weak.”
“I can see that for myself,” the doctor said. Alexander’s lids fluttered. They were speaking across him as if he were half gone; which he was, but it made him angry. No one noticed but I.
The doctor gave him the draught he had prepared when the message reached him, and said to the squires, “He must be put to bed.” They approached the litter. His eyes opened, and turned to me. I guessed what it was. He was lying in his dirt, he had been too weak to help himself. He did not want them uncovering him; it hurt his pride.
I said to the doctor, “The King wants me to see to him. I can do everything.” Faint as a breath he said, “Yes.” So they left him to me.
I sent the slaves for bowls and hot water and piles of linen. I got rid of the bloodstained muck, and washed him clean while he still lay on the litter, and had the mess carried away. His backside was raw; he had pressed on after the enemy long after he got sick, getting off his horse to purge, and back again, till he fainted. I rubbed him with oil, and lifted him into the clean bed—he’d lost so much weight, it was easy—and put a pad of cle
an linen under him, though he had emptied himself by now. As I laid my hand on his brow, feeling the fever, he whispered, “Ah, that’s good.”
Soon after, Hephaistion, having got his men across the river, came in to see him. I went, of course. It was like tearing my own flesh. I said to myself, If he dies, with that man and not with me, then truly I will kill him. Let him stay now, I will not grudge my lord his wish in his last hour. Yet he was glad of me.
However, he slept on right through the night on the doctor’s opiate; wanted to get up next day, and did so the day after. Two days from that, he received an embassy from the Scythians.
Their King sent to say he was sorry Alexander had been vexed. The men who’d vexed him were lawless robbers, in whom the King had no part at all. Alexander sent back a civil answer. The Scythians, it seemed, had had their lesson, even though an unfinished one.
One evening, as I combed his hair, trying to ease out the tangles without hurting, I said, “You were nearly dead. Did you know it?”
“Oh, yes. I thought the god had more left for me to do; but one must be ready.” He touched my hand; his thanks had been wordless, but none the worse for that. “One must live as if it would be forever, and as if one might die each moment. Always both at once.”
I answered, “That is the life of the gods, who only seem to die, like the sun at his setting. But do not ride too fast across the sky, and leave us all in darkness.”
“One thing,” he said, “I’ve taken to heart from this. The water in the plains is poison. Do as I mean to do, and stick to wine.”
16
SPITAMENES, ONE OF BESSOS’ two traitor lords, was besieging Marakanda. When the first force Alexander sent had been cut up, he went himself. At the news of his approach, Spitamenes decamped, and escaped into the northern deserts. By the time the country was in order, winter was coming on. Alexander, to keep an eye upon the Scythians, wintered at Zariaspa-upon-Oxos.
It’s a fair-sized town, north of the ferry; the river flows very wide there. They have channeled its waters round about, and made green things grow; beyond is the desert. In summer it must be a furnace. They’ve more cockroaches there than anywhere else I’ve known; most houses keep tame snakes to eat them.
Alexander had the governor’s house, of real fired brick; a grandeur where mud-brick was the rule. He had good hangings and fine furniture to make it kingly. It pleased me to see him grow less careless of his state. He’d had a beautiful new robe made, purple bordered with white, the Great King’s colors, for state occasions. For the first time, here, he put on the Mitra.
I took it on myself to say all Persians would expect it when he tried Bessos. To try pretenders, a king must look like a king.
“You are right,” he said. “It’s a Persian matter, and must be done the Persian way. I am taking advice upon the precedents.”
He was pacing about the room, and frowning to himself. “It will mean a Persian sentence. The nose and ears, beforehand. Oxathres will be content with nothing less.”
“Of course, my lord. He is Darius’ brother.” I did not say, “Why else should he accept a foreign king?” He could see that for himself.
“It is not our custom,” he said, still pacing. “But I shall do it.” He never said anything uncertain. Yet I feared he might change his mind, which would do him great harm among the Persians. My father had suffered only for keeping faith; why should this traitor escape? Besides, I owed another debt.
“Did I ever tell you, Al’skander, what Darius said before they dragged him away? ‘I no longer have power to punish traitors, but I know who will.’ Bessos thought he was speaking of our gods; but he said it was you he meant.”
He paused in his stride. “Darius said that of me?”
“I myself heard it.” I thought of the horse and the silver mirror and the necklaces. Even I had my obligations.
He paced a while longer; then said, “Yes, it must be by your custom.”
I said to myself, Be at peace, poor King, whatever the River of Ordeal has left of you to attain Paradise. Forgive me that I love your enemy. I have made what amends I can.
From the street I saw Bessos led to his trial. He had shrunk, since that night I had recalled; his face was heavy as clay. He knew his fate. When first they took him, he had seen Oxathres riding by Alexander.
If he had surrendered along with Nabarzanes, he would have been spared. Oxathres came in later, and would never have got Alexander to break his given word. He kept it to Nabarzanes, whatever Oxathres wished. I often wondered why Bessos ever put on the Mitra. For love of his people? If he had led them well, they would not have forsaken him. I suppose Nabarzanes first tempted him to kingship; but he had not Nabarzanes’ suppleness. He could not wield it, yet could not let it go.
He was tried in Greek and Persian. The council agreed. He would lose his nose and ear-tips; then be sent to Ekbatana, where he had betrayed his lord; and be crucified, before an assembly of Medes and Persians. It was all in order, and according to custom.
I did not join the crowd that saw him go. His wounds would be fresh; I was afraid he’d look like my father.
In due time, word came from Ekbatana that he was dead. He had been nearly three days dying. Oxathres had ridden all the way there, to watch. When the body was taken down, he had it cut up small, and strewn on the mountain for the wolves.
The court stayed at Zariaspa most of that winter.
From all over the empire, people made the journey, and Alexander entertained them with splendor, as he had learned to do. One evening before supper, he had put on his Persian robe, and I was draping the folds for him.
“Bagoas,” he said, “before now I’ve heard from you what the Persian lords daren’t tell me. How much do they feel it, that they make the prostration, and the Macedonians not?”
I’d known he would ask me in the end.
“My lord, they do feel it. That I know.”
“How?” He turned round to look at me. “Is it spoken of?”
“Not before me, Al-ex-ander.” I still had to go slowly, to get it right. “No one would do that. But you in your courtesy keep your eyes on the man you are greeting, while I can look where I choose.”
“You mean they look angry, to see a Persian do it?”
This was less easy than I’d hoped. “Not quite that, Al’skander. We’re brought up to do it before the King.”
“You have said enough. It’s when a Macedonian doesn’t?”
I settled the pleats of his sash, and did not answer.
He moved restlessly, before I had it right. “I know. Why put you to the pain of telling me? But from you I always get the truth.”
Well, sometimes he got what I knew would make him happy. But one thing he never got from me, was a lie that could do him harm.
That night at supper he kept his eyes well open. I think he saw a good deal, while they were fresh. This did not last all through supper, at Zariaspa.
He had said truly, that Oxos water is poison to those not bred to it. I suppose that among the natives, those whom it kills die young, before they have time to beget offspring.
No vines grow there; the wine comes in from Baktria. Baktrian wine is strong; but they reckon three parts of it to one of water, to kill the Oxos flux.
It was winter, and almost cool; no Persian host would have dreamed of offering wine before the sweets. But the Macedonians drank from the start, as always. Persian guests would sip for manners; the Macedonians drank deep as ever.
To be drunk now and then, what harm does it do a man? But give him strong wine night after night, and it takes a hold. If only my lord had wintered in the hills by a pure spring, he would have been spared much grief.
Not that he was really drunk every night. It would depend on how long he sat at table. He did not toss it down like the others, not at first. He would sit with the cup before him, and talk, and drink, and talk again. Cup for cup, he drank no more than before. But Baktrian wine should be mixed with two-thirds of water. Each cup
he drank was twice the strength he was used to.
Sometimes after a late night he would sleep as late as noon; but for serious business he was always up, brisk and ready. He remembered even my birthday. At supper he called for a toast to me; commended my faithful service; gave me the gold cup he had drunk from, and then a kiss. The veteran Macedonians looked much scandalized; whether because I was a Persian, or a eunuch, or because he was not ashamed of me, I can’t say. I suppose all three.
He did not forget the prostration. It was on his mind. “It will have to be changed,” he said to me. “And not with the Persians, it’s far too old. If Kyros began it as they say, he must have had a good reason.”
“I think, Al’skander, to reconcile the peoples. It was the Median custom, before.”
“You see! Fealty from both, but neither people to lord it over the other. I tell you, Bagoas, when I see some Persian whose title goes back before Kyros’ time, and who has it written all over him, bowing to the ground; and a Macedonian my father made out of nothing, whose own father wore sheepskins, looking down as if at a dog, I could knock his head off his shoulders.”
“Don’t do that, Al’skander,” I said, only half laughing.
The hall downstairs was quite big, but the upstairs rooms were cramped; he turned about like a leopard in a cage. “In Macedon, the lords have learned so lately to obey the King at all, they think that’s doing a favor. At home, in my father’s day, he would put on fine manners for foreign guests; but when I was a boy, supper was like a feast of peasants … I know how your people feel. I draw my blood from Achilles and from Hektor, and before that from Herakles; we won’t speak of anything else.” He was on his way to bed; not very late, but still the wine had exalted him. I was afraid his bath would get cold.
“It’s simple with the soldiers. They may think I have my fancies when off the field; but on it, we know each other. No, it’s the men of rank, those I must entertain with Persians … You see, Bagoas, at home they think prostration is for gods.”