The Eternal Banquet

by Jennifer Macaire

  ‘That’s good.’ I frowned. ‘After the news you heard, are you still planning to visit Carthage?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘You better keep your opinions to yourself. I don’t think they’ll appreciate someone coming to their city and complaining about Tartessos.’

  ‘I never complain’, he said loftily. ‘Do you see that gull? I bet I could bring him down with one arrow.’

  I followed his pointing arm up towards a white speck, wheeling in the cerulean sky. Small cirrus clouds were wisps of cotton high above us. It was a perfect day. And Yovanix would never see it. He would never see anything ever again.

  ‘Stop thinking sad thoughts,’ ordered Alexander, taking my chin in his hand and turning my face to his.

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Yovanix has ceased to lament his misfortune. You will do well to do the same. He needs your cheerfulness, not your crying. He wants to feel part of our family. He doesn’t want pity like a beggar on the street would get.’

  ‘You’re right, absolutely right. I’ll try to remember.’ I smiled suddenly. I couldn’t help it. The sun was picking out all the metallic lights in Alexander’s hair and making his parti-coloured eyes blaze. He had his jaguar stare again. He wore the supremely confident look of a man in the prime of his life.

  ‘You’re doing it again,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tempting the gods. Stop looking at me like that. They are jealous. Temper your gaze and calm your heart. We will sacrifice a lamb tonight to Zeus and Athena; they will appease the others on our behalf.’

  I heaved a sigh. ‘You are being silly.’ I turned away and stared out to sea. I didn’t believe in the gods. Alexander didn’t want to. Everyone else around us believed. They would appreciate the sacrifice; a tasty grilled lamb would make a nice change from fish, fish, and more fish. ‘Ashley, Ashley of the Sacred Sandals turn and look at me. Cast your frosty eyes in my direction and quench the thirst in my heart. Let me touch your marble-smooth skin and run my hands through your pale, silken hair.’ His voice was low and teasing, his breath hot on the back of my neck. I tried not to grin, but his eyes, tiger sharp, saw my mouth twitch. ‘O Queen of Ice and Darkness, come here, I have something to show you. Shall we take a little walk? I know of a quiet stream to bathe in. Will you come with me, Ashley of the Arrow Miracle?’

  ‘Now that you’ve used all my titles, how can I resist?’ I said, good humour restored. ‘Shall I use all of yours?’

  ‘No, we’ll be here until sunset if you do. Just say Alexander of Alexandria, that should cover a few places.’

  ‘A few? That makes ten I know of. And that’s only here and now. In three thousand years there will be at least three times that number, scattered all over the world.’

  ‘How flattering,’ he said, trying for modesty. But modesty was not one of his expressions. Although he had all the others, and then some, modesty would forever elude him.

  I followed him to a shady brook where we bathed in sweet, cool water. The stream was clear amber, flowing over slippery round pebbles the size of my fist. Small trout darted in and out of the dappled light. Overhead were the huge, spreading branches of sacred oak trees. A sandy beach dipped into the water. Around it bloomed profusions of late summer wildflowers: yellow buttercups, purple digitalis, white nettles, and blue larkspur.

  ‘How did you know this was here?’ I asked, wading into the hip-deep water, stepping carefully on the slick stones.

  ‘I asked.’ He grinned. ‘Do you like it?’

  I watched as he lifted his tunic over his head, baring a muscular torso. ‘Mmm, I like it very much,’ I said with a wink.

  He lifted an elegant eyebrow. ‘I hope so, it’s been …’ he paused, ‘… a while.’

  The longing in his voice found an answering throb in the my body. We met midstream. A willow tree cast sweeping branches over a deep pool in the bend. Alexander held me around the waist with one hand and parted the lacy, leafy curtain with the other, and we ducked through. Inside the cover of green, I felt as if we were in an enchanted place far away from the rest of the world. Under the tree, in the green, dappled light, the only sounds we heard were the willow leaves whispering softly.

  Alexander splayed his hands against my ribcage, then cupped my breasts. His breath came fast. When he touched them, a tiny moan escaped him. His eyes were hooded with longing. We didn’t speak. Our bodies spoke for us. Our arms and legs recited poetry to each other; each touch was a promise, each caress a fulfilment.

  I closed my eyes and traced the line of his body with my right hand. I felt each sinew and muscle, each tendon and scar. I knew the shape and feel of his bones, and they were precious to me. My left hand was no longer part of me, but the inside of my wrist and arm were sensitive. I felt his heart pounding.

  There was a mossy bank behind us. I don’t remember how we got there. I think Alexander lifted me onto it. One minute we were in the water, then next I was lying on soft moss. All I knew was that I needed him, in me, that minute. The weeks at sea with no privacy had kept us apart. No longer. I wrapped my arms and legs around him and guided him into me.

  We held each other tightly, coming together with limbs that trembled and a chorus of soft moans. I abandoned myself to the rise and fall of his body. It hadbeen a while. Excitement submerged us, we were helpless in its grip. It was over far too quickly. Afterwards, he leaned his forehead against my shoulder. Our skin was damp with sweat and heat. The sunlight filtering through the branches of the willow coloured our bodies green. I felt like Alexander was the river god and I was his nymph locked in his embrace.

  Alexander lifted his head from my shoulder and said, ‘You have ruined me for anyone else.’

  ‘Is that bad?’ I asked him, my voice shaky.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ He stepped back into the water and helped me down off the bank. He smiled crookedly. ‘It’s not a bad thing. But it makes me want to live a life of peace and quiet with you and our children.’

  ‘Near the banks of a river,’ I said blandly.

  ‘In a tent with a beautiful rug and with a glass lamp swinging gently in the breeze.’

  ‘With a gold and ivory writing set, an ebony table, and a jade bowl.’ My voice was suddenly very soft. A keen melancholy washed through me and I recognized it for what it was for. ‘Is it possible to be homesick for a tent?’ I asked.

  ‘We spent ten years in that tent. It was our home. But we’ll never be able to live that way again. Perhaps that is why I need you so. You anchor me to my past; you make my memories come alive. With you, I can imagine myself in Persia again under the tall date palm trees, watching the white, curly-haired goats grazing in the shade. When my arms go around you, I feel my youth return. You are everything that’s sweet and good in my life. With you, there was nothing but victory and joy.’

  ‘And loss and terrible sadness.’ I whispered.

  ‘I even love remembering our loss. Because my memory of Mary is part of you. It is something we share and binds us together. Like our children are proof we both exist.’ Tears were running down his face. He wore his emotions on the outside, like most people of that time. He cried easily and laughed easily. After more than ten years, I was starting to show my emotions also.

  I brushed the tears off his cheeks. ‘You exist. Never fear. And you will continue to exist long after the dust of your bones has been dispersed by the wind. Three thousand years, through the ages, be they dark or golden, your legend will still shine. It will be a beacon for some, a mystery for others, a tantalizing myth for many. And it will stir the heart of a girl born into a cold world of indifference and pretence. It will save my life.’

  ‘I kidnapped you from Hades.’

  ‘That’s exactly what you did,’ I said, kissing his mouth, taking his bottom lip in my teeth and biting it gently. ‘Hold me, Alex, hold me. Sometimes I think of the things that could have gone wrong and I can hardly breathe. Then I thank all the gods I’ve ever heard of that you were stro
ng enough to tear me free of the tractor-beam.’

  ‘Oh, that was nothing. The hard part was getting used to your accent afterwards, when you lost the gift of tongues.’

  ‘It’s called a tradi-scope, and it was disconnected after twenty hours.’

  ‘Your accent is much better now. You don’t sound like a bad actor playing a Mesopotamian whore speaking Greek.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘And your Celt is coming along nicely.’

  ‘We’ve been here for a year. Oh, Alex, I miss Chiron and Cleopatra so much. When will we arrive back home?’

  ‘Soon, Ashley, soon.’

  ‘The problem with you is that soon can mean three months, while for me soon means five minutes.’

  ‘Your world had no notion of time?’ His eyes twinkled.

  After we left, we headed out to sea intending to stay away from the coast of Iberia where fierce tribes lived in the swamps and river land. We would trade with the Celtiberians in the south after we passed the Pillars of Hercules – the strait of Gibraltar.

  But then we’d hit a patch of glassy sea, and we’d been becalmed ever since.

  I fanned myself and lifted a lock of hair from my neck. Sweat ran down my chest and forehead and beaded on my upper lip.

  Sweat shone on the bodies of the men lying near me, making their skin gleam like gladiators. Phaleria’s face was almost as red as her hair, and her green eyes looked like bright emeralds in her flushed face. She leaned on her elbow and peered out the lattice window. ‘I think we lost a chicken,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll have him for dinner,’ said Erati, the boat’s chef.

  ‘We won’t have to cook him,’ said Plexis, without moving. ‘It’s so hot, he’ll be well roasted.’

  ‘We can fry the eggs on the deck, no need to light your oven tonight,’ said Vix.

  ‘Who said anything about lighting my oven? Just the thought makes me ill.’ Erati got up and groaned. ‘I’m going to take a swim.’

  ‘Erati?’ Phaleria said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Watch out for the sharks.’

  ‘If one bites me he’ll burn his mouth,’ said Erati. He ducked through the low door and trotted quickly across the deck and tossed the rope over the side while he danced on the hot wood and hauled up a bucket of seawater. In truth, no one had any intention of swimming in the sea where black fins surged out of the deep water, and flat, round eyes stared at us above mouths full of jagged teeth. I’d rarely seen so many sharks. Instead, Erati took the bucket and tipped it over his head, letting the water cascade over his body. With an audible ‘hiss’ it hit the deck and I saw steam rising off the wood. The chickens ruffled their feathers when Erati splashed water over them and the goats shook like dogs. He took more water and sluiced it over the deck, cooling it off the best he could. Then he dumped another bucket of water over his head.

  By the time he came back to his place he was practically dry. The heat was intense. Phaleria raised her eyebrow at me, and I nodded. Going from the shade into the sun was like entering an oven. I gasped and winced as my feet hit the wooden deck. It was so hot it felt cold at first, then it burned.

  We took turns pouring water over one another, then sluiced the deck again because it was already dry. I checked the chickens, but they seemed to be alive. Hot, but alive. I reached through the slats of their pen and poked at an egg.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked Phaleria.

  She sprinkled water over the goats. ‘Soft boiled,’ she said, ‘I’m sure.’

  We ran back to our shelter. It was quiet. Alexander was sitting, trying to capture some breeze. Nearchus seemed to suffer the least. He was reading, a scroll on his lap, a serious expression – as always – on his noble face.

  Yovanix was playing a game of chess with Axiom. His deft hands picked over the pieces he’d carved, deciding which move to make. To distinguish the black pieces from the white ones he’d carved tiny scales on them. Now, with just a light touch, he could tell which were which. He often beat Axiom, no small feat.

  Plexis and Paul had both fallen asleep. Paul was snoring lightly. He had his father’s proud nose – and soft snores. Plexis lay on his back, arms outspread. His dark hair was damp and curled with sweat, his mouth slightly open. I saw Alexander’s gaze linger on his friend and lover, his eyes softening. But the heat kept us all well away from each other. To touch was to burn. We fanned ourselves with folded papyrus and sweltered.

  In the shade near the doorway, Oppi, one of Phaleria’s crewmembers repaired a torn net. After watching him tying the knots, I asked him when he’d started sailing.

  ‘Not long ago. I was a barbarian from the Black Forest, but the tall trees gave me claustrophobia,’ he told me, in his rough voice. ‘I always wanted to see the ocean. It invigorates me. I also wanted to travel,’ he said, putting the net down and spreading his hands. ‘Why spend all your life in one place when the whole world exists? Why does it exist, except to be seen?’

  ‘Or to be conquered,’ I said, tweaking a curl on my husband’s head.

  Alexander turned his head towards me and smiled. ‘To see, to conquer. Why not?’

  I laughed. ‘Someone will say something close to that. He’s going to say, ‘Veni, vidi, vici; I came, I saw, I conquered.’ He’ll be Roman.’

  ‘A Roman would say that,’ said Plexis, waking up and yawning. ‘Or maybe Iskander here.’ He grinned, dodged a kick, then sneezed. ‘This hay is nice, but dusty,’ he said.

  Demos stretched, taking up most of the room, and then sat up, picking hay out of his hair. ‘By Helios, it’s hot. Look, the sun’s touching the horizon. Soon the air will be cooler.’

  He had started to grow a beard as well, but it was growing in rather patchy because of the many scars on his face. He scratched his whiskers, tipping his chin up. His broad chest was covered with thick curls, as were his arms and legs.

  Alexander, having been raised Greek, shaved his beard. He also shaved his chest, though I begged him not to.

  ‘But I’ll look like a barbarian,’ he’d exclaimed.

  The men in Gaul had beards or moustaches. They wore their long hair in braids and had hair all over their bodies, which made Alexander reminisce about his first wife, a barbarian named Barsine.

  I had truly liked Barsine, a jolly, red-haired barbarian princess who had borne Alexander a son and had died from complications. It seemed to me impossible that someone as strong and energetic as Barsine could have succumbed to childbirth. It made me sad to think about her. As Alexander often said, there was only one Barsine. He, too, grew quiet when he thought of her. However, I think it was also because he missed their son, Heracles, who lived with his grandparents in the Zagreb Mountains along with the rest of his massive tribe. Alexander had seen him but once, and he’d given the orders to Artabazus, the boy’s grandfather, to hide him if he ever heard of Alexander’s death. He hadn’t wanted the boy to become part of the bloody struggle for his empire, and so Heracles had disappeared into the fog of history.

  We hoped he was living happily with his family, high in their mountain retreat. As far as my history books had taught me, the boy had never been found. He wasn’t on the casualty list that had included: Olympias, Alexander’s mother; Roxanne, Alexander’s fourth wife; and her ten-year old son, named Alexander. Dead also were Craterus and Lysimachus, two of Alexander’s generals; Stateira, Alexander’s second wife; and Iollas, his cupbearer.

  Stateira had perished first when she made the fatal mistake of announcing her pregnancy to Roxanne, who poisoned her. Poor, foolish Stateira, she’d trusted Roxanne and hated me. It was true I was jealous of every second Alexander spent with her – horribly jealous. But I would never have poisoned her.

  Iollas was next. He was a twelve-year old boy, son of Antipatros, one of Alexander’s oldest and most trusted generals. Olympias, in her folly and sorrow, accused Iollas of poisoning Alexander and had the child strangled.

  Sisygambis, Darius’s mother, would starve herself to
death, dying a mere five days after Alexander’s body was found.

  Behind us, in Babylon, nothing was left but ashes. Black robes and ashes, and the civil war, which had been going on for three years. Roxanne’s son was three years old. He had seven more years to live.

  The thought made me cold, even in the sweltering heat of the cabin. I shivered, an icy trickle of sweat running down my back. I hadn’t told anyone about this part of the future. It was too awful. Luckily, Alexander was outside with Plexis, dumping buckets of water over their heads. Plexis would have known my thoughts. He somehow picked emotions out of the air. He was with Alexander and in the blinding sparkle of the sun, their bodies shimmered like mirages. Taking a step forward, Alexander took Plexis by the hand and drew him into a quick embrace.

  No one blinked, except Nearchus, who closed his eyes for a moment. He would always love Alexander, but he knew Alexander only admired him. I lowered my gaze before Nearchus caught me watching him. I knew what it felt like to watch the person you love caress someone else. I was lucky – Alexander had never loved his other wives, he only loved me – and Plexis.

  In those days, physical contact between men was considered as normal as that between men and women, possibly more normal in some societies. Women were mostly equated with the three ‘C’s: childbirth, chores, and chattel. Friendship only existed between men, as did love. Paradoxically, pure homosexuality was frowned upon. Men were expected to marry and raise children, but they were expected to love other men. Go figure. Most of the time, the closest ties existed between men friends, rarely between men and wives.

  Women lived in the gynaeceum, raised their children, wove their wool, and ordered their servants around. A gentle but tedious existence.

  In Gaul, from what I could see, the sexes were equal; the women wore pants like the men, and marriages were monogamous. Only the men could be leaders, soldiers, or druids, but Yovanix told me women were often healers and could attend – though not speak in – council meetings in the villages.