by Mary Renault
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, that 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. Arrest 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 m
e, 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.”
It grieved me to stand still while others revenged my lord. Whenever I saw a strong man with a big stone, I prayed to Mithra, Avenger of Loyalty, “Send that for me.” One such broke Hermolaos’ head.
Kallisthenes I never saw again. Only Macedonians had right of trial before Assembly. Ptolemy thinks he was put to the question and then killed, but I doubt he was there, for I have heard a different story.
At the time, Alexander did not speak to me of it, so I did not ask. I felt things which went deep with him, and which he didn’t think I would understand. But a long time after, when he was rather drunk and had forgotten he’d never told me, he said something from which I pieced it out. I think when they went over Kallisthenes’ papers, they found letters from Aristotle. The philosopher had heard, it seemed, from his nephew how the King made barbarians his friends and officers; had required free Greeks to bow down to him along with this servile breed; had first taken to his bed a Persian eunuch, who’d even been in Darius’ bed before; then stooped to marry a Sogdian savage, a mere dancer at a feast. And the philosopher had written (letters no doubt too precious to be destroyed) that such things would bring back the rule of tyranny and corrupt all good Greek ways. No means should be spared to make an end of it.
Old Sokrates and Plato had both been soldiers; Aristotle never. Maybe he’d had no thought that his words would beget more than other words. If so, he did not know men. Alexander, who did, and now knew more, had seen the effect; small wonder if he doubted the intention.
At all events, I heard long after of Kallisthenes alive in bonds, and that Alexander meant to try him in Greece before Aristotle, to show where his words had led, but that in India Kallisthenes died of sickness. One thing is sure, that in Athens, which Alexander had spared only to hate and slander him, Kallisthenes would have been a great man indeed if the King had died. To me he did not speak of it.
To Hephaistion he did. They sat long of an evening, talking quietly with Peritas at their feet. They had studied together with the philosopher as boys in Macedon and shared their thoughts. Hephaistion knew it all; not like a boy from Susa, whose only schooling had been in pleasing a king.
This I know; no more pressed flowers or strange beasts went from Alexander to the school at Athens. And this I understand; that as his power grew, he had often asked himself how his old teacher would advise him; but now it ended. Henceforward he would listen only to his own soul.
20
IN THE END WE did not start that year for India. In Sogdiana, they sent the King a whole new army to train, from provinces all over Asia. Though they’d been drilled by Macedonian officers, it’s one thing to school a colt, another to get him knowing the master’s hand.
For me it was strange indeed, to see the very peoples who’d made up Darius’ army (often the same men) once more in a great host, but one so changed; no longer a formless mass of peasants with home-forged arms, waiting for chiefs in chariots to call them on, with the whip-men behind to urge them; but phalanxes and squadrons, forming or wheeling at a word.
Alexander inspected them in all his parade armor; he knew they would want to see a king. He flamed in the sun like the image of a god. When he threw them into maneuver, they went at it as if for a prize. There he was on a little hill, with his generals and some Persian officers, directing this vast host from his conquered nations, which had only to charge as one to sweep him from the earth. It could not happen, simply because he knew it could not. He was Alexander.
He returned to the Rock, taking his wife to see her kindred; all very properly done. One could tell they were grieved she was not with child; but he made them princely gifts, treated them courteously, and had taken no other wife. What could they say?
One was enough. He had far too much pride to bring the secrets of the marriage chamber, even to me. He knew that I understood. I have heard it said that some men choose wives in whom they see their mothers. From all I could learn of Queen Olympias, her son was one of them. But that he learned too late.
Of Olympias, I’ve heard she was fierce and beautiful, and brawled with her lord till the day he died, which it was whispered she’d had a hand in. She ate Alexander up with love, and made sure he and his father were never friends for long. All of us knew she had never learned the conduct of a lady; for her letters followed him all over Asia, intriguing in the affairs of Macedon, and quarreling with Antipatros, his regent there. Alexander had been heard to say, after reading one of them, that she charged high rent for the nine months’ lodging she’d given him.
All of which goes to show, to my mind, that we Persians could teach the Greeks how to deal with women.
Maybe we’d taught Alexander. But also, gentle as he was with them, he had somewhere a deep core of iron, forged, I expect, when he freed himself from his mother. He had no brawls with Roxane. He never forgot he was Great King. She had her harem tent and her household; there she could rule. He would visit her now and again; if she was troublesome, he would leave, and be slower to return. I knew, as soon as he came back
to me. There were certain signs, of relief from distaste elsewhere. I had been trained to understand such things.
The new squires had come out from Macedon. Even there, they’d learned of the traitors’ fate. A scared huddle of boys, afraid to open their mouths, they were brought before the King. He was charming to them, and knew all their names in no time. In relief they fell over each other, trying to please him; spoke to me with respect, and gratefully took advice from me. They seemed very young. Since the last set came, I was four years older.
It was one of them who fetched me to Alexander, in the dark before dawn. He was sitting in his bath-robe on the side of his bed. Down the middle lay Peritas, taking up all the room. He had never been the same since the squires had drugged him.
Alexander said, “He tried to climb up, and I told him to get down. After a while he tried again, and something warned me.”
“How old was he?”
“Eleven. He should have lived a few years more. He was quiet all yesterday. I had him in Illyria, from King Kotys’ huntsman, when I’d fallen out with my father and gone away. He looked like a bear-cub. I had nothing much to do, and he was good company.”
“You must have his likeness put on his tomb,” I said, “so that he will be remembered by men to come.”
“I’ll do better for him than that. I’ll name my next city after him.”
It has a fine site, approved by the soldiers and the merchants, on a good pass to India. The tomb and the statue are by the gate as you go in. The city is called Perita.
When the passes froze, we wintered in eastern Baktria. Though urgent news came through, it was long before we learned how Kallisthenes was beginning already his long revenge, which he has not ceased from yet.
In Athens, the news of his arrest had been like kicking a wasp-nest. More than ten years had passed, since King Philip had beaten them in a battle not of his seeking, which their speechmaker Demosthenes had talked them into, bringing ruin to Thebes as well. (It was Alexander, at eighteen, who first broke their line.) After, Philip had shown Athens a mercy that astonished Greece. In spite of this, or (for who knows man’s heart?) because of it, they had loathed him, and were suspect of privity to his murder; they loathed his son, who had never set foot there but once on a peaceful mission. While my lord lived, they kept quiet from fear; after, like jackals when the lion dies, they began to tear him.