Flood Tide

by Alexander Geiger

  I alighted from my seat and picked her up. The two soldiers, who evidently recognized me as well, hesitated. I spun the woman toward me, taking a good look at her face. “I’ll take this one.”

  The taller of the two tensed, ready to spring at me. He cocked his right fist. Then he thought better of it. “I guess that’s fair.” His voice lacked conviction or enthusiasm.

  Still, I was a commander and armed to boot while he was wearing nothing but an undergarment. I wished I could remember their names; unfortunately, it wasn’t my usual command and, unlike Alexandros, I didn’t know the name of every Macedonian in the army. The soldier shrugged. “C’mon, Doberos, let’s let the commander have her. Besides, there’s two more in there anyway.”

  Doberos seemed dubious. “But they’re not as pretty as this one.”

  The tall one laughed. “Since when did you start looking at their faces?”

  “I appreciate it, fellas.” I prepared to mount up again. The woman leaned in toward me. “My children are in there,” she whispered. I looked at her again. Under the grime and blood and anguish I saw intelligence and determination. “I have four small children in there,” she repeated. “Please don’t let them die.”

  I recalled the last time I had decided to save a youngster, a lifetime ago. If I had managed to resist that impulsive act, I would have been back at the Academy at the end of my three-day excursion, none the worse for wear, instead of being stuck in this alien time and place. “I changed my mind, fellas.” I pushed the woman away. “Do as you see fit.”

  She reared at me like a cobra. “You surprise me, sir. You looked like a decent man.” And without a further word, she grabbed the dagger hanging at my belt and whirled against the two soldiers who were standing there, beginning to shiver. Given her speed and vehemence, she might well have killed one or both of them. They certainly seemed too startled to put up much of a fight.

  I lunged after the woman, grabbing her by the arms and immobilizing her. Doberos, taking advantage of the opening, seized her wrist and forced her to drop the dagger. His compatriot, in the meantime, punched her in the face, knocking her to the ground.

  “Alright, lads, that’s enough. She’s just a woman, you know.”

  “Yeah, she was gonna kill us, woman or not.”

  “I know, but still. Anyway, let her be. And besides, why are you two naked and unarmed? Get dressed, get your armor on, gather up whatever loot you have managed to collect, and move on.”

  They grumbled but proceeded into the tent to retrieve their gear. They seemed safe enough to me; their passions had apparently subsided during our extended interlude. The woman on the ground, however, clearly thought otherwise. She pulled herself to her feet and ran after them. Reluctantly, I followed as well, tying Pandaros up at the entrance.

  The tent was dark and very warm. Upon ducking in through the flap, I almost tripped over the trussed-up body of the woman. The two soldiers were evidently not going to take any further chances with her. Dominating the middle of the tent was a huge bale of booty. I couldn’t make out exactly what was in the jumbled pile but there was a lot of it. “You’ve been busy fellas, haven’t you?” I laughed. “I’m amazed you found time for women.”

  Doberos’s drew back his shoulders. “We always have time for the women, sir.”

  As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I picked out two young girls behind the bundle of booty, huddled in the corners, shaking. And behind them, not uttering a peep, were four small children.

  “Tell you what, lads. You’ll need a horse to carry all that stuff back to our camp. You can use mine. I’ll stay here, in the meantime, and look after these women.”

  The taller one smirked. “Who would’ve thought a milquetoast cavalry commander could be a three-wench guy? I guess the deepest rivers flow with least sound, as they say.”

  “Yeah,” Doberos agreed, “and the guys with the shortest pricks are the horniest.”

  I smiled. “Now, now. Don’t make me yank mine out. You might get hurt by the whiplash.”

  They seemed pretty well sated, libidinally and materially. With a modicum of discontent, displayed more for the sake of form than out of conviction, they dressed, loaded poor Pandaros down, and set out for our camp, leaving me in the dark, warm tent.

  The woman on the floor rolled to her back. “Let’s get it over with.”

  “I’m not going to rape you,” I assured her, as I loosened her bindings. “It’s not my custom to interfere in other people’s affairs.”

  She sneered. “I guess you don’t consider killing people interference.”

  “I try not to kill people,” I told her quietly, “although it’s sometimes unavoidable in my line of work. But in any event, I’m not going to rape you.”

  “What are you going to do with us?”

  “That I haven’t figured out yet.” We sat quietly for a moment. “Bring your children closer, so I can have a look.”

  She nodded to the two frightened girls in the back and they brought the youngsters toward me. There were three girls and a boy. The oldest, a girl, couldn’t have been much older than seven or eight. The youngest, the boy, was just learning to walk. All four seemed to be preternaturally self-possessed, not appearing nearly as frightened as the two girls, who, at sixteen or eighteen years of age, perhaps understood their peril more clearly.

  I patted one of the little girls on the head. “They’re brave little kids.”

  “They’ve seen a lot. You’re less scary than some.” She stood up and rubbed the welts on her arms. “Let me see whether I can find you some food. There might still be some hidden outside.”

  I rose to my feet and blocked her way. “We’re fine as we are. I don’t want you to go anywhere.”

  “You can come with me, if you’d like.”

  “We can send one of the girls,” I finally said.

  The girl returned with a pitcher of water and handed it to me. “This is all I could find.”

  I gave the pitcher to the woman. She poured some on her face and washed the blood off. Wherever her wound was, it had stopped bleeding. For the first time, I was struck by her beauty. “Your Greek is perfect,” I said, “better than mine.”

  “It ought to be. I’m Greek, at least on my mother’s side, and you’re obviously not.”

  “So, what’s a Greek woman doing in Dareios’s camp?”

  The woman shrugged. “We were kept as hostages.”

  “Does that mean you’re somebody important?”

  “Well, I used to be, ... when my husband was still alive.”

  “Who was your husband?”

  “He was a mercenary commander in Dareios’s army. Dareios kept us hostage to make sure my husband did his job.”

  “Did your husband have a name?”

  “Yes. His name was Memnon of Rhodos. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

  I nodded, too stunned to speak. No wonder people believe in gods. After all the times her husband had slipped through my fingers, what were the odds his widow and children would land in my lap by random chance?

  “What are you laughing at?” she asked, her suspicion tinged with hope.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Perhaps I could keep her as my share of the booty. In all my travels, I’d never met anyone like her. I couldn’t begin to imagine what she’d endured and yet, here she was, full of life, spunk, and courage. And she was beautiful, too, I had to admit.

  It was an alluring prospect but then the Prime Directive reasserted its hold on my conscience. Despite my chafing under its yoke for the past ten years and despite my inadvertent violations, some minor but at least one resulting in a demonstrable deflection in the river of time, I was more determined than ever to adhere to its dictates. Perhaps it was precisely because of all the sacrifices I’d made and the heavy price I’d paid that adherence to the Prime Directive had become a deeply ingrained article of faith.

  She and her family needed a guardian but it wouldn’t be me. It couldn’t be me. Acqu
iring an instant family and perhaps siring a few additional children into the bargain was one guaranteed way to alter the future. My objective was not to settle down in this world; it was to make my way back to my own. Even if I had to kill somebody to get there.

  After a long moment of silence, I looked into her eyes. “Let me take you to the imperial precinct. It hasn’t been looted. The soldiers are saving it for King Alexandros, as his personal booty. You and your children will be safer there.”

  Her face lit up in a wistful smile. “I used to play with Alexandros once upon a time.” I must have looked surprised. “It was a long time ago, when we were both little children.”

  It was getting close to dawn by the time she finished recounting her entire story. “Don’t tell anybody that those are Memnon’s children,” I advised her as I walked the entire group toward the imperial precinct. “Tell them they’re your servant girls’ kids. That way, they’ll have a better chance of growing up. And, as long as you keep the same girls in your service, you’ll get to see your children without jeopardizing their future.” I realized my suggestion sounded fairly impractical. “Do you think you can convince your children not to betray your secret?”

  “They’re smart kids. And they’ll forget I’m their mother soon enough.”

  Neither one of us believed that but we had reached the imperial precinct and there was nothing more to say. I turned the group over to the sentries guarding the precinct. “This lady and her attendants are part of the imperial harem,” I told the guards. “They’re reserved for King Alexandros. See to it that no harm comes to them.” The guards nodded in acknowledgement and escorted the ragged little cluster of captives into one of Dareios’s tents.

  I started making my way back to our own camp. I walked fast, feeling strangely pleased with the world. I never did find Aristandros that night.

  *******

  “So, this is what it’s like to be a king.” Alexandros was immersed up to his neck in steaming-hot water. Two eunuchs who had somehow managed to escape the massacre were washing his hair, massaging his shoulder muscles, adding aromatic oils to the water.

  The bronze bathtub was stationed in the middle of a large tent dedicated solely to Dareios’s cleaning and grooming needs. The floor was carpeted with rugs and furs. There were pillows strewn everywhere. Even the tent walls were hung with shimmering tapestries. Tables of inlaid wood held golden goblets and plates. Two braziers in the corners provided heat and some light. On one side of the tub, a small ebony table held the emperor’s perfumes, unguents, and cosmetics. On the other side stood a matching ebony chair, containing a built-in chamber pot. The emperor’s luxurious, purple “harem robe” was laid out across a couch.

  “You know, if Leukonides[21] could see me now, taking a hot bath in Dareios’s bathtub, he’d kill me for sure.”

  Hephaistion laughed. “It’s your bathtub now, Aniketos. And if Leukonides could see you now, he’d congratulate you on that charge you led against Dareios.”

  “That really was something,” Perdikkas agreed. “Turned the tide of battle.”

  Leonnatos, one of Alexandros’s bodyguards and member in good standing of the Mieza clique, who had fought side-by-side with Alexandros during most of the cavalry charge against Dareios, walked into the tent at that moment. “What turned the tide of battle?”

  “We did!” Alexandros roared, rising from his bath. “Now get me some wine.”

  One of the eunuchs rushed to a side table to retrieve a golden goblet, while the other eunuch dried the king with a thick, fluffy towel. “Maybe I should put on Dareios’s robe, what do you think?”

  The king’s aides, reclining on soft furs and pillows and sipping their own cups of wine, said nothing. Alexandros walked over to the couch and slipped into Dareios’s robe. It was way too big for him. “How do I look?”

  “You look ready to sample the wares in the women’s tent next door,” Hephaistion told him.

  “Maybe you should put a little more kohl around your eyes first,” Philotas quietly observed.

  Alexandros ignored his comment but he did take the robe off and put on his own tunic.

  Just then, some soldiers brought Dareios’s abandoned chariot into the imperial precinct, intending to present it to Alexandros as another battle trophy. Although the king didn’t see the fabled vehicle being dragged in, its arrival was noted by the emperor’s family, cowering in a nearby tent. Inferring that the emperor must be dead, the ladies of the court, including the emperor’s mother, wives, and daughters, launched into a loud chorus of lamentation and wailing.

  “What’s that ghastly racket?” Alexandros demand to know.

  Mithrines, the Sardian traitor, spoke up. “It’s the king’s family, your majesty. They think the emperor’s dead.”

  “Go out there and shut them up,” Alexandros ordered.

  Leonnatos, who was the only one in the tent still wearing his armor, walked out, called over a couple of the sentries, and marched into the imperial ladies’ tent. The ladies, assuming the soldiers were there to do them harm, as would certainly have been the case had they been captured by a Persian potentate, increased the volume of their keening. Leonnatos, not understanding a word of what they were saying and unable to stand the noise, drew his sword and threatened the loudest lady, who happened to be Dareios’s first wife Stateira. That only made things worse. Stateira, in her best histrionic form, collapsed to the floor and called upon the gods to save her, making sure her plea was loud enough to be heard by the gods all the way back in Babylon. Leonnatos, at his wits’ end, spun on his heels and walked back out.

  “They’re very unhappy about something, sire,” he reported to Alexandros, “But I can’t understand them.”

  “Mithrines, go back with him and find out what’s going on,” Alexandros ordered.

  Leonnatos and Mithrines were back in a moment, with the noise level unabated. “They think Dareios is dead and they’re sure you’re going to kill them, your majesty. They don’t seem inclined to shut up. Perhaps killing them might be the best solution.”

  Alexandros laughed. “I think we can do better than that. Let’s go pay the ladies a visit.” And with that, the entire group, wearing only their tunics, made their way over to the imperial ladies’ tent.

  As soon as the men walked in, the ladies ceased their wailing. Stateira, quickly assessing the entire group, threw herself at Hephaistion’s feet, assuming that the tallest and handsomest man present must be Alexandros, and started to beg and cry loudly. Mithrines, instantly apprehending her mistake, kicked her discretely in the ribs, while pointing with his finger toward Alexandros.

  Stateira, without missing a beat, leapt from Hephaistion to Alexandros, displaying remarkable agility for a woman of her age and girth. She slithered forward and clasped Alexandros’s knees to her bosom, importuning him, in Persian, all the while.

  The king looked at her uncomprehendingly. “She thought Hephaistion was Alexandros, sire,” Mithrines explained.

  “Tell her we are all Alexandroi,” the king said, as he struggled to extricate his legs from her clutches. As soon as he succeeded, he turned around and walked out of the tent. “Keep them safe and securely confined,” he called over his shoulder. “They may yet make valuable hostages.”

  *******

  After a relatively short orgy of looting, pillage, rapine, and murder, Alexandros passed word through his commanders that order should be restored and it quickly was. He decided it would be futile to chase after Dareios just then. He let the soldiers keep whatever booty they had managed to seize, including the women.

  It occurred to me that, for the first time since the invasion, our progress was going to be impeded by an extensive baggage train and a large contingent of camp followers, wherever Alexandros decided to go next. Would he decide to pursue Dareios, resume our long trek toward Egypt, or declare our mission accomplished and return to Macedonia? And what exactly would I do?

  In the end, Alexandros kept none of the spoils the soldier
s had reserved for him. He generously gave it all away to his friends, to various commanders, and to common soldiers who had distinguished themselves during the battle, keeping only one trophy for himself – a captured woman named Barsine.

  Author’s Note

  Ptolemaios, known to English-speaking historians as Ptolemy I, was born circa 364 B.C.E. (the date is disputed) and died circa 282 B.C.E. He accompanied Alexander III of Macedonia, also known as Alexander the Great, on his military campaigns, rising through the ranks to become one of Alexander’s leading commanders. Book One of the Ptolemaios Saga covered the period 343 to 334 B.C.E. This volume carries the story forward to the end of 333 B.C.E. It is the author’s hope to recount the history of Ptolemy to his death, and beyond, in subsequent volumes.

  Ptolemy left behind a memoir describing his experiences during Alexander’s campaigns. Unfortunately, Ptolemy’s memoir is now lost. However, a distant echo of Ptolemy’s history continues to reverberate in our collective memory because it was utilized as original source material by ancient historians writing during Roman imperial times, such as Lucius Flavius Arrianus (Arrian), Quintus Curtius Rufus (Curtius), and possibly Lucius Mestrius Plutarchus (Plutarch), whose works are still extant today. Modern histories of the period covered in this book are in turn based largely on these ancient Roman accounts.

  The Ptolemaios Saga is an attempt to reconstruct Ptolemy’s lost memoir. Of necessity, some of the narrative, much of the characterization, and almost all of the dialogue were invented by the author. However, all the principal characters mentioned in this book were actual historical figures; the major events really happened; and the minor characters and events interpolated by the author, it is hoped, do no violence to the historical record.

  The spelling of the characters’ names is an accurate transliteration of their names in Greek. The spelling of place names is inconsistent. Those places that have well-known English names have retained those names. Places less well known in the English-speaking world have been given their Greek names, transliterated into the English alphabet. The author regrets the inconsistency.