The Novels of Alexander the Great

by Mary Renault

  He was now busy recruiting. Perdikkas had only allowed him two thousand men when he took over the satrapy. He had found, when he got there, its garrison almost mutinous, the men’s pay in arrears while the interest was being skimmed off it. Things were different now. Ptolemy had not been the most brilliant of Alexander’s commanders; but he was reliable, resourceful, brave and loyal, all things Alexander valued; and, above all, he was good at looking after his men. He had fought under Philip before Alexander had his first command; the pupil of two great masters, he had learned from both. Trusted, sufficiently feared, and liked, he was apt with small touches of personal concern. Before his first year was out, thousands of active veterans settled in Alexandria were begging to re-enlist; by now, volunteers were arriving by land and sea.

  He had not allowed this to inflate ambition. He knew his limits, and had no wish for the stresses of boundless power. He had what he had wanted, was content with it and meant to keep it; with luck, to add a little more. His men were well paid and fed; they were also well trained.

  “Why, Menandros!” he said warmly as the last applicant came in. “I thought you were in Syria. Well, this is an easier climb than the Birdless Rock. You got here without a rope.”

  The veteran, recognized at sight as a hero of that renowned assault, grinned with delight, feeling that after an uncertain year he had arrived where he belonged. The interview was happy. Ptolemy decided to take a break in his inner sanctum. His chamberlain, an Egyptian of great discretion, scratched at the door.

  “My lord,” he murmured, “the eunuch of whom you spoke has come from Babylon.”

  The broken nose in Ptolemy’s craggy face pointed like a hound’s at a breast-high scent. “I’ll see him here,” he said.

  He waited in the pleasant, cool, Greek-furnished room. Bagoas was shown in.

  Ptolemy saw a Persian gentleman, soberly suited in grey, equipped for travel with a businesslike sword-belt, its slots well stretched by the weapons left outside. He had grown his hair; a modest length of it fringed his round felt hat. He looked handsome, lean, distinguished and of no particular age. Ptolemy supposed he must be twenty-four.

  He made the graceful genuflection due to a satrap, was invited to sit, and offered the wine which had awaited the morning’s leisure. Ptolemy made the proper inquiries about his health and journey; he knew better than to be precipitate with a Persian. It was clear that the midnight encounter in the paradise was to be remembered in substance only; etiquette was to be preserved. He remembered from old days Bagoas’ infinite resources of tact.

  The courtesies fully observed, he asked, “What news?”

  Bagoas set aside his wine-cup. “They will be bringing him out from Babylon two months from now.”

  “And the convoy? Who’s in command?”

  “Arybbas. No one has questioned it.”

  Ptolemy sighed audibly with relief. Before marching south, he had proposed this officer to design and supervise the bier, citing his expertise; he had devised several important shrines for Alexander, and could handle craftsmen. Not cited was that he had served in India under Ptolemy’s command, and been on excellent terms with his commander.

  “I waited,” said Bagoas, “till I was sure of it. They would need him, in case of mishap, to see the bier repaired.”

  “You have made good time, then.”

  “I came up the Euphrates, and then by camel to Tyre. The rest by sea. Forty days in all.”

  “You will be able to rest awhile, and still be in Babylon before they start.”

  “If God permits. As for the bier, in a hundred days it could hardly reach the coast. The roadmakers are out already, smoothing the way. Arybbas reckons it will travel ten miles a day on level ground, or five over hills, if sixty-four mules pull it. To bring it from Asia into Thrace, they plan to bridge the Hellespont.”

  The quiet madness of the house in the park was gone. He spoke with the concentration of a man going about his chosen calling. He looked lean and fit after his long journey.

  “You have seen it then?” Ptolemy asked. “Is it worthy of Alexander?”

  Bagoas considered. “Yes, they have done all that men can.”

  Arybbas must have excelled himself, Ptolemy thought. “Come to the window. There is something you must see.”

  He pointed to the temple rising on the waterfront, the sea, pale blue under the mild sky, shining between the unfinished columns.

  “There is his shrine.”

  For a moment, the reticent face beside him lit and glowed. Just so, Ptolemy remembered from another life, the boy had looked when Alexander rode past in a victory parade.

  “It should be ready in another year. The priests of Amnion would like him to go to Siwah; they say it would have been his wish. I have considered it, but I think this is his place.”

  “When you have seen the bier, sir, you will know it could never go to Siwah. If once its wheels sank into sand, a team of elephants could not drag it free … That is a fine temple. They have worked quickly to get so far.”

  Ptolemy had known that this must sometime be met. He said gently, “It was begun before I came. Alexander approved the plan himself. It is the temple he ordered for Hephaistion … He did not know how soon he himself would need it.”

  Bagoas’ face returned to agelessness. He gazed in silence at the sunlit shafts of stone. Presently he said calmly, “Hephaistion would give it him. He would have given him anything.”

  Except his pride, thought Ptolemy; that was his secret, it was why Alexander felt him as a second self. But it was only possible because they were boys together. Aloud he said, “Most men would welcome Alexander as a guest, even in death. Well, let us come to ways and means.”

  At the table he unlocked a silver-clasped document-box. “This letter I shall give you when you leave, along with funds for your journey. Do not deliver it in Babylon. When the bier sets out, no one will wonder that you wish to follow it. Do nothing till it reaches Thapsakos—the Syrian border will be soon enough—and give it to Arybbas then. It commits him to nothing. It says I shall meet him at Issos, to do honor to Alexander. He will hardly suppose, I think, that I shall come alone.”

  “I will see,” said Bagoas coolly, “that he is prepared.”

  “Don’t lose the letter in Babylon. Perdikkas would send an army corps for escort.” Wasting no words, Bagoas smiled.

  “You have done well. Tell me, have you heard anything of Roxane’s child? He must be walking now. Does he favor Alexander?”

  One of Bagoas’ fine brows moved upward a very little. “I myself have not seen him. But the harem people say he takes after his mother.”

  “I see. And King Philip, how is he?”

  “Very well in health. He has been allowed a ride on an elephant, which made him happy.”

  “So. Well, Bagoas, you have earned my gratitude; trust in it from now on. When you are rested, see the city; it will be your home.”

  Bagoas made the elegant half-prostration of the gentleman to the satrap, learned at Darius’ court, and took his leave.

  Later, as the sun declined towards the western desert, he walked down to the temple. This was the evening promenade of the Alexandrians, who would pause to notice the progress of the work; off-duty soldiers of Macedon and Egypt, merchants and craftsmen from Greece and Lydia and Tyre and Cyprus and Judaea; wives and children, and hetairas looking for trade. The crowd was not yet oppressive; the city was still young.

  The workmen on the site were packing their tools in their straw bags; the nightwatchmen were coming with their cloaks and food-baskets. From the ships tied to the waterfront men were going ashore; the ship-guards on board kindled torches whose tarry smell hung over the water. As dusk fell, on the temple terrace a burning cresset was hoisted on a tall pole. It was not unlike the one Alexander used to have by his tent in central Asia, to show where his headquarters was.

  The strollers drifted towards home; soon no one was about but the watchmen and the silent traveler from Babylon. Bago
as looked at Hephaistion’s house, where Alexander would be his guest forever. It was fitting, it was what he would have wished, and after all it made no difference. What was, was, as it had always been. When Alexander breathed his last, Bagoas had known who would be awaiting him beyond the River. That was why he had not killed himself; the thought was not to be borne of intruding on that reunion. But Alexander had never been ungrateful, he had never turned love away. One day, after faithful service done, there would be, as there had always been, a welcome.

  He turned back towards the palace guest-house, where they were lighting the lamps. Alexander would be served worthily here. Nothing else had ever mattered.

  In the manor-house of the late Prince Amyntas, Kynna and Eurydike were trimming each other’s hair. They were preparing for their journey. Till they were out of Macedon, they planned to travel as men.

  The Regent, Antipatros, was besieging stubborn forts in the mountains of Aitolia, where the last of the Greek revolt still smoldered on. He had taken most of his troops. This was their chance.

  “There,” said Kynna, standing back with the shears. “Many young men wear it as long as that, since Alexander set the fashion.”

  Neither of them had had to sacrifice much hair; it was strong and wavy, not long. A maid was called to sweep up the clippings. Eurydike, who had already prepared her mule-packs, went to the stack of spears in the corner, and chose out her favorite javelins.

  “We shan’t have much chance to practice on the road.”

  “Let us hope,” said Kynna, “that we may not need them in earnest.”

  “Oh, robbers won’t attack ten men.” They were taking an escort of eight retainers. She glanced at her mother’s face, and added, “You’re not afraid of Olympias?”

  “No, she is too far away, we shall be in Asia before she hears.”

  Eurydike looked again. “Mother, what is it?”

  Kynna was pacing the room. On stands and tables and shelves were the family treasures, her dead husband’s heritage from his royal father, and pieces from her dowry; her own father, King Philip, had given her a handsome wedding. She was wondering how much she dared entrust to such a journey. Her daughter could not go empty-handed, but …

  “Mother, there is something … Is it because we’ve heard nothing from Perdikkas?”

  “Yes. I don’t like it.”

  “How long since you wrote to him?”

  “I did not. It was proper for him to write.” She turned to a shelf and picked up a silver cup.

  “There is something else you’ve not told me. I know there is. Why is Antipatros against our going? Have they betrothed the King to someone else? … Mother, don’t pretend you don’t hear me. I’m not a child. If you don’t tell me, I won’t go.”

  Kynna turned round, with a face that would have meant a whipping a few years back. The tall girl, implacable, stood her ground.

  Kynna put down the cup with its boar-hunt chasing. She bit her lip.

  “Very well, since you will have it; I daresay it’s better. Alexander said frankly it was an empty marriage. He offered you wealth and rank; I daresay you could have gone home after, for all he cared.”

  “You never told me so!”

  “No, because you were not meant to grow old in a village. Be quiet and listen. He never looked further than the reconcilement of our houses. That was because he believed what his mother told him. He believed that his brother was born a fool.”

  “So are all fools. I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you remember Straton the mason?”

  “But that was because a stone fell on his head.”

  “Yes. He was not born stumbling in his speech, or asking for a tree when he wanted bread. That was done by the stone.”

  “But all my life, I’ve heard Arridaios was a fool.”

  “All your life he has been one. You are fifteen, and he is thirty. When your father was hoping to be King, he told me a good deal about Philip’s house. He said that when Arridaios was born, he was a fine strong child, and forward. It is true your father was still a child himself, and it was servants’ talk; but he listened, because it concerned another child. They said that Philip was pleased with the boy, and Olympias knew it. She swore Philinna’s bastard should not disinherit her son. The child was born in the palace. Maybe she gave him something, maybe she saw to it that something should hit his head. So your father heard them say.”

  “What a wicked woman! Poor baby, I would not do it to a dog. But it’s done; where is the difference now?”

  “Only born fools beget fools. Straton’s children are all sound.”

  Eurydike drew a sharp, shocked breath. Her hands gripped defensively the javelin she was holding. “No! They said I need not. Even Alexander said so. You promised me!”

  “Hush, hush. No one is asking it. That is what I’m telling you. That is why Antipatros is against it and Perdikkas doesn’t write. It is not what they want. It is what they fear.”

  Eurydike stood still, absently passing her hand up and down the shaft of the javelin; it was a good one, of smooth hard cornel-wood. “You mean, they are afraid I could found a royal line, to displace Alexander’s?”

  “So I think.”

  The girl’s hand tightened on the shaft so that the knuckles paled. “If that is what I must do to avenge my father, then I will. Because he left no son.”

  Kynna was appalled. She had only wanted to explain their dangers. Quickly she said that it had been only slaves’ talk; there had always been gossip about Olympias, that she coupled with serpents, and had conceived Alexander by the fire from heaven. It might well be true that Philinna had borne a fool, and it had not shown till the child was growing.

  Eurydike looked carefully at the javelin, and put it aside with the few she meant to take. “Don’t be afraid, Mother. Let’s wait till we are there, and I can see what I ought to do. Then I will do it.”

  What have I made, thought Kynna; what have I done? Next moment she reminded herself that she had made what she had planned, and done what she had long resolved. She sent word to the herdsman to bring an unblemished kid, for a sacrifice to dedicate their enterprise.

  Arybbas, the creator of Alexander’s bier, made his way to the workshop for his daily visit. He was a dandified but not effeminate man, soldier and aesthete, a remote kinsman of the royal house, and of course too aristocratic ever to have worked for hire. Alexander had made him lavish presents whenever he had created a shrine, a royal barge, or a public spectacle, but that had been just between friends. Alexander, who loved to give money away, took offense when it was stolen, and had valued his probity as well as his gifts. Ptolemy, when recommending him to Perdikkas, had stressed this virtue, so necessary in a man handling a great deal of gold.

  He had in fact watched it jealously; not a grain had stuck to his fingers, nor anyone else’s. Weighing was a daily rite. A sumptuous designer, used by Alexander when notable splendor was required, he had used with gusto the whole treasure entrusted to him, for Alexander’s honor and his own. As the magnificent structure he had inspired took shape under the hammers and gouges and graving-tools of his hand-picked craftsmen, exultation mingled with solemnity; he pictured Alexander surveying it with approval. He had appreciated such things. Arybbas had never cared much for Perdikkas.

  Outside the workshop he noticed that Bagoas the eunuch was loitering about again, and, smiling graciously, beckoned him up. Though hardly a person whose company one would seek in public, he had shown impeccable taste, and an eye for the finer points. His devotion to the dead was touching; it was a pleasure to let him view the work.

  “You will find a change,” he said. “Yesterday they mounted it on the wheel-base. So now you can see it whole.”

  He rapped with his staff. Bolts grated; the little postern opened in the great door. They stepped into shadow surrounding a blaze of glory.

  The broad matting on the roof, which kept out bad weather and thieves at night, had been rolled back to open the great working
skylight. The spring sun shafted down dazzlingly on a miniature temple, sheathed all over with gold.

  It was some eighteen feet long; its vaulted roof was of gold scales set with gems, glowing balas rubies, emerald and crystal, sapphire and amethyst. On its ridge like a banner stood a laurel wreath with leaves of shimmering sheet-gold; on its corners victories leaned out, holding triumphant crowns. It was upheld by eight golden columns; around the cornice was festooned a flower-garland in fine enamels. On the frieze were pictured the exploits of Alexander. The floor was of beaten gold; the wheels were sheathed with it, their axles capped with lion-heads. A net of gold wire half hid the inner sanctuary on three sides; on the fourth, two couch-ant gold lions guarded the entry.

  “See, they have hung the bells.”

  Those too were of gold; they hung from the tassels of the garland. He lifted his staff and struck one; a clear musical sound, of surprising resonance, throbbed through the shed. “They will know of his coming.”

  Bagoas swept his hand across his eyes. Now he had entered the world again he was ashamed of tears; but he could hardly bear that Alexander would not see it.

  Arybbas did not notice; he was talking to the overseer about making good the dents and scratches caused by the hoisting. Perfection must be restored.

  In a far corner of the shed gleamed, dimly, the sarcophagos, blazoned with the royal sunburst of Macedon. Six men could scarcely lift it; it was solid gold. Only at last, at the outset of his journey, would Alexander be brought out in his cedar coffin where, hollow and light, he lay in a bed of spices and sweet herbs, to be laid among more spices in his final resting place. Satisfied that it was undamaged, Arybbas left.

  Outside, Bagoas offered unstinted praise, the price of admission, willingly paid. “It will be counted among the wonders of the world.” He added deliberately, “The Egyptians are proud of their funeral arts; but even there I saw nothing to compare with it.”