by Mary Renault
“Sir,” he said, “you’ve called us here in free council, we all know that. But I’m not speaking for us commanders; I don’t feel I’ve the right. With all we’ve had from you, we’d be overpaid already for going on. If you want to advance, it’s for us to see it done; it’s our duty, it’s what we were promoted for. So, with permission, I’d like to speak for the men. Not that they come first with me, sir. You do. That’s why I’m speaking.”
Alexander said nothing. I could see his back taut as a bowstring.
“I’m the eldest here, I think. If I can claim a good name, I have you to thank, for giving me my chances. Well, sir. The men, as you said yourself, have done more than any army did before them. Thanks to you, again. But I put it to you, sir, that when they say it’s enough, they deserve a hearing. Think how many of us Macedonians came out with you. How many of us are left?”
A good old man. A fine soldier. A Macedonian, speaking out to his King in his forthright way. What were my people to him, the Persian horsemen with their proud faces and slender strength? What were the strong Baktrians, the hawk-nosed Sogdians, the red-haired Thracians, the tall Indians in their jeweled turbans, the sharers in his victories? Chances along the way which led to home.
“We’ve died in the field; we’ve died of fever and the flux. There are the cripples who’ll never fight again; and the men in your new cities; not all of them happy there, but there they are. And look at the rest of us, fit to scare the crows, dressed in Indian rags. When a soldier gets neither pride nor comfort from his turnout, it pulls down his spirits. The cavalry too, the horses’ hooves are worn nearly down to the frogs. And, sir, we’ve wives and children at home. Already our children will be strangers; soon it will be our wives. Sir, the men want to get home with their loot, while they can still be somebody in their villages, looked up to. If they do that, you’ll soon have a new army sprung up from the ground, asking to follow you. Go back, King. Your mother must be longing for a sight of you. Call up the young men who’ll come out fresh. It’s best, sir. Believe me, sir, it’s best.”
His voice cracked, and he dragged his fingers across his eyes. A raucous sound came from him, as if he were going to spit; but it was a sob.
As if it had released the others, cries broke out everywhere; not of anger or defiance, but sheer pleading. They almost moaned. They stretched out their arms. If well-picked officers felt like this, what about the men?
Alexander stood unmoving. The sounds faded; they waited his reply.
“Council dismissed.” He turned his back, and went straight into his tent.
One or two senior generals, his friends, made a move to follow. He faced them in the entry and said again, “Council dismissed.”
At Susa, I had learned how to be invisible. One picked that up quickly. While he paced about, I vanished in a corner. When he tugged at his helmet-strap, I came silently and disarmed him, and once more made myself nothing. It gave me time to think.
Did the soldiers share his faith in the Stream of Ocean? I wondered. I thought of the teeming camp with its wandering traders; the interpreters, waiting to earn their small hire when the language of signs broke down. Interpreters called to a king will translate what they are told to. Market interpreters, once paid, will gossip. Their work being all with travelers, they will talk of far places and the road ahead. Did the soldiers know more than we?
The great Aristotle, wisest of all the Greeks, had told Alexander how the world was made. But one thing was sure; he had never been to look.
Alexander was pacing the great tent, back and forth, back and forth. He must have covered a mile. I remained a nothing; to his need, I was nothing more. He needed faith in his dream, and my faith was gone.
Suddenly he fetched up before me, and cried aloud, “I will go on!”
I rose, being now visible. “My lord, you have surpassed Kyros. Herakles too, and Dionysos, and the Heavenly Twins. All the world knows it.”
He searched my face. I concealed my faithlessness from him.
“I must see World’s End. It is not to possess it. It is not even for the fame. It is to see it, to be there … and it is so near!”
I said, “They do not understand.”
Later he called back Ptolemy and Perdikkas and the other generals, and said he was sorry he’d been short with them. He would speak to the commanders again next day; meantime they could be planning the new campaign, for when he had talked them round. The generals sat down at the table, busily making notes on the river-crossing and the march beyond. They were no better than I.
He felt that with his skin. All evening he was brooding. I doubt he slept. Next morning when the commanders came, he made no speech to them, just asked if they’d changed their minds.
A confusion of voices followed. I think a few things came out, rumors of distances and so on. Someone had heard such and such, from the interpreter of a caravan. Someone spoke of a half-month march through desert. After a time of this, Alexander called for silence.
“I have heard you. I told you, you had nothing to fear from me. I will order no Macedonian to follow me unwillingly. There are others who will go forward with their King. I shall advance without you. Go, as soon as you wish. Go home. Nothing more is asked of you.”
He went in. I heard the voices outside, growing louder as they went off. Alexander said to the guard outside, “Admit no one at all.”
But I was once more invisible. All day I came and went. Seeing me not dismissed at the outset, the guard let me back in. I would look through from the sleeping-place, lest he might have given way to distress, being alone. But he would be seated at the table, staring at his plans, or walking about. I saw he still clung to hope.
Whatever he had said, he would not go on without the Macedonians. This army, before which he had proved himself in boyhood, was part of his blood. It was like a lover. Why not? It had greatly loved him. He was shut up here, not in grief alone, but to bring the lover to his feet, asking for pardon.
No lover came. Over the great camp lay a heavy, brooding silence.
He did not send me away. I saw his solitude and did not trouble it. I brought him anything he seemed to need, went out if he looked restless, kindled the lamps at night. They brought him supper. He became aware of me, made me sit down and eat with him. Suddenly with the wine, though he did not take much, he began to talk. He said that all his life, now here or now there, some great longing had seized him, a certain deed to do, a certain wonder to reach and look at; longings so great, he knew that they came from a god. Always he had fulfilled them, always until now.
I hoped he would take me to bed. I could have done him good. But he was longing after another love than mine.
Next day, he stayed inside. The camp murmured sullenly. Everything was the same; except that this was the second day, and his hope was leaving him.
At evening I lit the lamp. Strange flying things threw themselves at the flame, shriveled and fell dead. He sat at the table, his fists propping his chin. I had nothing to give him. This time, I could not even bring Hephaistion to him. I would have done it, if I could.
After a while he took a book and opened it. He wants to compose his mind, I thought; and it put a thought in mine. I slipped away in the short Indian dusk, and went to the nearest shade-tree. There he was, his feet folded on his thighs and his hands laid in his lap. He knew enough Greek to converse in now, if one kept it simple.
“Kalanos,” I said, “the King is in great grief.”
“God is good to him,” he answered; and, as I moved towards him, gently motioned me back. Right before me a great snake was coiled, in the dead leaves a yard away from him.
“Sit over there, and he will not be angry. He is the patient kind. He was angry when he was a man; now he is learning.”
I mastered my fear and sat. The snake’s coils stirred gently, and were still.
“Don’t sorrow for the King, my child. He is paying part of his debt; he will return with a lighter burden.”
I sai
d, “To what god can I sacrifice, so that when he is born again, I may be born with him?”
“That is your sacrifice; to that you are bound. You will return, to receive his service.”
“He is my lord and will always be. Can you lift his sorrow?”
“He is grasping his own wheel of fire. He has only to loose his hold. But it is hard for the gods to free themselves from godhead.” He unfolded himself, and in one movement was on his feet. The snake hardly shifted.
Alexander was still at his book. I said, “Al’skander, Kalanos has been missing you. Will you see him, just for a little while?”
“Kalanos?” He gave me one of those looks that went right through one. “Kalanos misses nobody. You brought him.” I cast down my eyes. “Yes, bring him in. Now I think of it, he’s the only one, but you, I could bear to see.”
When I had brought him past the guard, I went away. I did not try to listen. Healing magic is a sacred thing, and I feared to break it.
When at last I saw him leave, I entered. Alexander made me a sign of greeting, but was in thought, so I sat still. When supper came, he had me share it as before. Presently he said, “Have you ever heard of Arjuna? No, nor I till tonight. He was an Indian king of times past and a great warrior. One day before a battle, he stood weeping in his chariot; not out of fear, but because honor bound him to fight his kindred. Then, just as you find in Homer, the shape of his charioteer was taken by a god, and the god addressed him.”
He fell quiet, and I asked what the god had said.
“A good deal. They’d both have missed the battle.” For a moment he grinned, then was grave again. “He told Arjuna he was a warrior born and must fulfill his destiny; but he must do it without regret or desire; he must not want the fruits of it.”
“Could that be?” I asked. His seriousness surprised me.
“Almost, perhaps; by a man obeying orders. I’ve known men almost like that, and good men too, though they all valued a word of praise. But to lead men, to change their hearts, to make them brave—that, before anything can begin!—to see a new thing one must make, and not rest till one has made it—that needs a longing greater than for one’s life.”
“There are so many things, Al’skander, you want more than your life. And your life is all I have.”
“Fire burns, dear Persian, and yet you worship it. I too. I have laid on it fear, and pain, and the body’s needs, and the flames were beautiful.”
“Truly,” I said, “I have worshipped before that fire.”
“But Kalanos, he wants me to lay on the fire all that the fire has given me—honor, fame among men now and men to come, the very breath of the god which says, Go further.”
“Yet he himself left his friends to follow you.”
“To free me, he says. But God gave us hands. If he’d meant them for folding in our laps, we should have no fingers.” I laughed. He said, “Oh, he is a true philosopher. But … I was with him once when we passed a dying dog, kicked almost to death, its ribs staved in, panting with thirst. He rebuked me, because I drew my sword to end its pain. I should have let it complete its chosen path. Yet he himself would do no harm to any creature.”
“A strange man. Yet there is something one must love in him.”
“Yes. I enjoyed his company, I’m glad you brought him … Tomorrow, I shall have the omens taken for the river-crossing. If they’re good, the men will think again.” Even yet, he was grasping his wheel of fire.
“Yes, Al’skander. You will know then for sure what the god means for you.” Something told me I was safe to say it.
It was done next morning. The Macedonians waited in muttering quiet. The victim struggled, itself an unlucky sign. When the liver was taken from the carcass, and laid in the hands of Aristander, the mutter died to a hush, as he turned the dark glossy flesh between his hands. Raising his voice for all to hear, he announced the signs were adverse in all their aspects.
Alexander inclined his head. He returned to his tent, taking the three generals with him. There he told them, quite calmly now, that he would not oppose the gods.
Soon after, he had in his friends and the eldest of the Companions, and told them they could give it out to the army. Nobody said much. They were thankful, but they knew what it was costing him. He sat down with the generals at his table, planning the march back; for a while, there was an everyday working calm. Then the sound began.
At that time, I had never heard a deep sea breaking; but it was like that. Then, as it came near, it was the noise of cheering. With grief I heard them rejoicing in his pain. Then there were voices close at hand, calling to the King. I asked if he would like the tent-flap opened.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, let’s see how they’re looking now.”
They were Macedonians; a full thousand. As he stepped out they cried to him. Their voices were rough and ragged with tears of joy. Many flung up their hands, as Greeks do to the gods. They shouldered each other for a sight of him. One seamed veteran, pushing in front, fell on his knees. “Oh, King! Unconquered Alexander!” He was a man who had had some schooling. “Only by yourself you have been conquered, and that for love of us. The gods reward you! Long life to you, and undying glory!” He clasped and kissed the hand of Alexander, who raised him and gave him a pat on the shoulder. He stood a while longer, acknowledging their praises, and then went in.
The lover had returned, still deep in love. But one thing the first lovers’ quarrel always leaves behind—the knowledge that it could be. In times past, I thought, he would have kissed that veteran.
Night came. He had a few friends to supper. On his working-table, the plans for the river-crossing still lay, the wax not yet smoothed out, just scored with great strokes of the stylos. He was quiet at bedtime; I could picture him tossing all night. I set the night-lamp in its place, and knelt down by him. “I would follow you to the last shores of the world, if it were a thousand miles.”
He said, “Stay with me here instead.”
He was readier for love than he had known; but I had known it. I used up some of the fire within him, that would have stayed sealed in its furnace, scorching his heart. Yes, though I could not bring him Hephaistion, that night he was glad of me. I saw him fast asleep, before I went away.
23
HE BUILT TWELVE ALTARS, so tall they were like broad towers, for the twelve gods of the Greeks, to mark the end of his journey. Wide stairs wound round them for the priests and victims; the celebrants did their rites against the sky. If he had to turn back, at least he would do it with grandeur.
He rested the men as he had planned, with games and shows; they were festive now, having what they wanted. After that, we marched back across the rivers, to Hephaistion’s province that he had settled for Poros. He had built a new city there, and was in it, waiting for Alexander.
They were alone a long time together. Having nothing much else to do, I sought out Kalanos, and asked him about the gods of India. He told me a little, then smiled and said I was advancing on the Way. Yet I had told him nothing.
Hephaistion was a worker, no doubt of that. The province was in good order, appointments made; he was on the best of terms with Poros. He had a gift for such things. Once before my time, Alexander having just conquered Sidon had even left him to choose its King. Asking here and there, he learned that the last of the old royal line, long since dispossessed by the Persians, still lived in the city, poor as a rat, a day-laborer in the gardens. But he had the name of a good honest man, so Hephaistion enthroned him. The rich nobles had nothing to fight each other for; and the King ruled very well. He is only quite lately dead, lamented by all. Oh, yes, Hephaistion had good sense.
Another boyhood friend of Alexander’s had been busy too; Niarchos, a lean-waisted, small wiry man, of Kretan stock. He’d stuck firmly by Alexander in all his quarrels with his father, and shared his exile. He never forgot such things. Admiral of his fleet till he left the Middle Sea, Niarchos had come all the way east as a soldier, but now had again the wat
er his race loves best. He had been making a fleet on the Hydaspes. Alexander meant to go down to the Indus, and on down the Indus to the sea. If he had been kept from going east to the Stream of Ocean, at least he would strike it westward.
The men, who’d hoped to go straight back through Khyber into Baktria, now learned they were to march beside the fleet along the rivers. Tribes there had not yet surrendered, and were reported fierce. The troops were not delighted; Alexander told them he hoped they would allow him to leave India, not run away from it. His temper had shortened, since they had turned him back. They looked at him and kept quiet. At least they were headed homeward.
Alexander had supposed, till lately, that the Indus, if followed far enough, would flow into the Nile. They both had lotuses, and crocodiles too. He had lately learned otherwise from some native rivermen; but, as he said, there would still be things to see.
Old Koinos died here, of fever; he never saw Macedon after all. Alexander had kept his word, and never held his plain speech against him; now he gave him a fine funeral. Yet, within, something had altered. The many-headed lover had flawed its faith. They had patched things up, from need of one another; they still loved, but did not quite forget.
The fleet, beached on the sandy banks broadened with early summer, was a fine sight; long war galleys, of thirty or twenty oars; light skiffs; round-sided tubs of all shapes and sizes; and the big flat horse-transports.
I kept my eyes on Alexander’s galley, reckoning its space. Would he take me with him? It was a warship; would he think he should take only squires? On the land march, there was no knowing when I’d get back to him. And I would be under Hephaistion’s command. He was to lead on the left bank the greater part of the army, the followers, the elephants and the harem. Not that he would deign to show me spite; but I felt I could not bear it. There was another small matter, too; I had never traveled before where Roxane was, and Alexander was not. From Hephaistion, I had nothing to fear but what was in myself. I felt no such assurance about her.