by Jo Graham
The twentieth day after I came to Memphis I found myself in one of the courtyards of the Temple of Thoth. It was one of the smaller ones, with worn carvings on the walls that surrounded it, their colors faded and in need of repainting. How long did it take to fade like that in the stark sun of the Black Land? A hundred years? Two hundred? And surely the carvings were older still. A rectangular pool stood in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by tall date palms and other things, while a weeping peach tree dipped its leaves almost in the water. There was a bench under it in the shade, and I sat there and closed my eyes.
I listened to the buzzing of the bees and wasps drawn to the almost ripe peaches, to the very faint lapping of the water against the sides of the pool. The sounds of the city seemed far away. I could hear the pulsing of my heart, smell the peaches and the water, feel the cool stone against my legs. This is what eternity feels like, I thought. For a moment the world stood still.
Beneath the beat of my heart, I could hear it, could feel it—the pulse of the Black Land, the ancient tide of energy and strength in this place, like the tugging of a current far out to sea.
This was what I had touched in those moments when I stood before the hearse on the road, when the power seemed to fill me and flow through me like a mighty river. Then, it had poured into me, dashing me in its path like a leaf in the stream. Now it seemed instead that I floated on the breast of it, safe as a child in the embrace of the sea.
How had I drawn on it, I wondered. I was no priest who had learned how, no prince with the blood right. How had I done it?
Tentatively, like a man floating on a pool may lazily move one hand to propel himself in the water, I reached out. It was not difficult. This was not command or mastery. It was simply moving in a familiar element, gentle as floating on a stream. I did not need to control the current, only follow it. The answers were so close, so easy.
“Lydias of Miletus?”
I opened my eyes.
Bagoas stood in the shade on the other side of the pool, the shadows of their leaves making dappled patterns of light across his hair.
“Hello, Bagoas,” I said. It did not seem odd for him to be here, almost as though we had promised to meet.
“Why are you here?” he asked, his head to the side like a young hunting bird, his green eyes curious.
“I am on leave until my hand is well,” I said, lifting my bandaged arm. “And I like these gardens. I came here to remember.”
Bagoas smiled, and he came and sat in the shade by me, the width of two men between us, wary as the hunting bird I had named him. I did not move, only waited while the reflection of light from the surface of the pool played across his face. “I remember too,” he said. “I will not forget my Lord while any breath of mine endures.”
“That too,” I said. And how could one not think of Alexander, when the world still echoed with his footsteps, like a ruin scoured by the wind?
Bagoas crossed his legs, and though the movement was swift it was not as limber as a boy. It came to me then that he was not nearly as young as he looked. He must be my age, or nearly so. He had been a handsome youth when he entered the King's service, but that was ten years ago. He glanced at me, and his voice was low. “What is it you remember?”
The light flickered on the surface of the pool, flashes of fire from water, the memory of fire. I could see the shapes stirring just beneath the surface, as easy to reach as opening a door to the distant past.
“I remember a boy who played the harp,” I said, and could see him in my mind's eye, a pretty boy of fifteen or so with curling dark hair and eyes to drown in. “A boy who played the harp before the king, while the prince stood by, watching as if he had seen the other half of his soul. The gods meant him to be king, and so he was, even if it were over the bodies of his kindred, of his wife's father, of his beloved.” I saw the hall around them, the courtiers in their old-fashioned robes struck silent by the beauty of the music, the tall prince and his sister watching with the same expressions on their faces while I stood, a leashed cheetah at my side, her soft fur against my leg.
The ripples on the surface of the water shifted, reflecting the sky of the Black Land, walls trim and neat with new paint and sharp carvings, a pair of benches beneath four trees. Here, in this place, only removed in time, only trembling just below the surface. So very close.
“And I remember this place, and a prince I loved and served when Troy was no more, when across the wide seas we sought a new home. I wanted to return here, to the Black Land, and I have.” Like leaves falling silently on the wind, a piece fell into place. “I knew, when Hephaistion came to Miletus, that I must go. My prince had need of me again. It was Hephaistion I followed then, you see, though he wore a different face and a different name.”
“Kalanos…” Bagoas began, and I started. I had almost forgotten he was there.
I tore my eyes from the water with difficulty. “Yes, Kalanos,” I said. “The Indian sage who came back with us from the lands of Raja Puru. He said things like this. My wife said things like this. Perhaps I listened too closely. Or perhaps I lost my mind in Gedrosia.”
Bagoas was silent, but I saw the thought on his face. Many men had. Many men had lost their minds for far less reason than I had. And my mind was not so valuable after all. Who did it harm, if I were god-touched?
I had not spoken of it before, and now it seemed I could not stop. “Do you know what I dreamed in Gedrosia, Bagoas? After Sati and Sikander were dead, when all we could do was stagger onward in the heat while the wind tore the flesh from our bones?”
Bagoas shook his head, his face drawn.
I could see the reflections of light in his eyes, just as in the water. “I dreamed of snow,” I said softly. “I dreamed of snow in my veins, snow crusting my eyelashes and the mane of the horse beneath me. I followed my king through endless plains of snow, a curved sword of steel and ice at my side, the horse picking his way around the dead, through whispering powdered winds until my woman's body seemed to fray into nothing but wind, into silence and cold. An endless retreat into nothing, into the heart of winter, a procession of shadows under a black sky. As though I stood on that plain of ice and reached back for me, drawing heat from Gedrosia.” I looked away and shook my head, knowing how I must sound. “Men think strange things when they've been out in the sun too long.”
“They do,” he said, and his breath caught. “Perhaps you should have been a priest instead of a soldier.”
“If my wife, Sati, was right, and we are born many times, should we not all play all parts?” I asked. “I should play priest and soldier both, eunuch and prince, wife and camp follower and servant of the gods.”
“To what end?” he said, and his face was shadowed. “And have it be more than ceaseless suffering.”
I thought for a moment, but I was raised in Persian lands, and perhaps I understood a little. “You abhor the Lie and revere Truth,” I said. “Does not that sacred fire demand service, no matter what its form, should it be garbed as an Apis bull, or as the sole god of Judah or as Magi's flame? Are we not servants of the light together, working toward the good?”
Bagoas’ mouth quirked. “I am my Lord's servant. Nothing more.”
I lifted my eyes, seeing in the wind stirring the tree branches above the crux of the matter, the question that I had never dared to think. Here, surrounded by the stillness of the ancient Black Land, it was possible to put into words. “And who does Alexander serve?”
Bagoas shook his head. “You are above yourself to ask such questions.”
“I am above myself,” I said. “I have been above myself since I left Miletus. And so there is nothing to stop me from daring all.”
“You do not wish to live?” Bagoas smiled grimly, though his eyes did not leave my face. “That is what stops most men from reaching above themselves.”
“Not particularly,” I said, and in that moment I realized it was true. I had given myself up for dead in the sands of Gedrosia, with my fami
ly. The man who had walked the earth since then was a revenant, an unburied corpse who awaited only the fatal thrust. With nothing to lose, why should I fear anything? Why should I stint at any throw?
I thought it was pity I saw in his face. “Then you will die, or you will return to life.”
“You know this?” I said.
“Oh, yes.” Bagoas spoke lightly, but the tension in his slender shoulders said otherwise, and in that moment I saw him as if for the first time as someone like me, not a beautiful and impenetrable riddle.
“You were very kind to me in Pelousion, and I had hoped,” I said, and I stumbled over the words, “that we might be friends.”
His eyebrows rose, and he seemed to recede without actually moving. “Friends?”
“You misunderstand me,” I said quickly. “Friends. Nothing more.”
“Oh,” he said, and I thought that he colored. “It is only…”
I shrugged. “It is only that you are beautiful and everyone wants to see what you are made of. But it was only friendship I offered, not patronage. I should think I would know better than that.”
His mouth twisted. “But you are a man,” Bagoas said. “Men do not call themselves friends to Persian catamites.”
“Thais the Athenian is a woman, which is worse,” I said. “And I do not disdain her friendship. Nor does Ptolemy begrudge it, knowing I am no rival.”
“You would be a fool indeed to be your own general's rival,” he said, but I thought I saw his shoulders relax.
“I would be,” I said, stretching out my legs before me. “And while I was not bred to courts or kings, I think I have that much sense.” I looked at him. “I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you.”
“You didn't,” he said, and for a moment I thought Bagoas looked awkward, his usual grace deserting him. “Nor did I mean to insult your friendship. I would be pleased if you would dine with me tomorrow night.”
“I would be glad of the company,” I said, and was surprised to find that I meant it.
HETAIROS
Bagoas had a room in the Temple of Apis, in the quarters along the back courtyard that were reserved for priests who served full-time, as though he were a votive priest of the god Alexander. Which I supposed was what the Egyptians had made of his status. After all, dead pharaohs usually had votive priests, whose job was to manage their funerary chapel and conduct the rites for them. Doubtless they could not figure out what else to call Bagoas. He was not a royal widow or former concubine. No doubt in Persia they had a word for the eunuch favorite of the former king, but they did not in Egypt.
In Egypt priests outrank soldiers by quite a lot. His room was much nicer than mine, with two or three little carved tables, a beautiful wooden screen in the Persian style with flowers and birds, four or five hanging lanterns with panes of colored glass, and a large dining couch with embroidered pillows that must also serve as his bed.
I had hardly walked in the door before he was serving out cool watered wine as a host should, apologizing for the humbleness of the meal to follow.
“I have been eating in the barracks,” I said, “so no doubt I will think it wonderful, no matter what has happened to it.”
Bagoas blinked as though he had not expected me to take his protests seriously. Perhaps they were meant for form, not an actual warning that something was wrong with the dinner.
“The last time I dined with Artashir,” I said, “a seagull stole our dinner. And then the cat got it back and…”
Bagoas blinked again.
“It's not very important,” I ended awkwardly.
“Come and sit,” he said, and showed me to the best place.
I do not like to think that I said anything else absurd. I should like to think that I was witty and knowledgeable, the perfect combination of diplomat and soldier. In truth, I do not know. The wine was stronger and better than I expected, and the beautiful dishes of perfect almonds closed together again around bits of lemon and goat cheese, the trimmed lamb with coriander, and all the rest had precious little oil and bread to them, the things that keep the wine from going to one's head. It's an old trick, to eat oil and bread before drinking if one wants to stay sober.
But everything was good, and the tastes but whetted the appetite for the wine. By the time the honey cakes came out, and the sweet dark wine from Chios unwatered and unspoiled, I doubt I could have safely crossed the room. It did, however, have its advantages.
“My arm is not hurting for the first time in months,” I said to Bagoas. It was wrapped and splinted still, but for the first time in a long time I was not aware of it throbbing and aching. “It actually doesn't hurt.”
Bagoas smiled. “Perhaps it does you good to relax.” His face was flushed, though his speech was perfectly clear.
I leaned back on the cushions. It was so very nice not to hurt.
“What usually hurts?” he asked.
“My arm,” I said. “My hand. And my shoulder. And my back. And I suppose my legs and my neck usually do too.”
“It sounds as though you could use some rest,” he said, and I thought he seemed amused.
“I'm not sure how to do that,” I said. The room seemed to be spinning just a little, so I lay down on the couch, my back to Bagoas, my arm propped on one of the big pillows. “I've tried to sleep late but the sun wakes me up.”
“Maybe you need thicker curtains,” Bagoas said.
“I don't have any curtains,” I said. The stamped linen of the pillows was washed soft, and it begged me to close my eyes.
“Why not?”
“They didn't come with the room,” I said.
“Don't you have a servant to buy some for you?” he asked. His hand brushed against the sleeve of my good arm and rested on my back.
“I have two grooms,” I said. Of course I could not take care of my own horses with my arm like this, nor exercise them properly.
“And who takes care of you?” His hand moved in kneading motions on my shoulder, warming muscles that normally ached.
I shrugged, as that was really an unanswerable question.
“Surely the Hipparch of Ptolemy's Ile could afford a bodyservant.”
“I suppose,” I said doubtfully. “I've never considered it.”
“Someone to wash your clothes and hang your curtains.”
I wondered if he thought my chiton was dirty. I'd washed it myself the day before. It was simply hard to think, what with the wine and the way he was methodically loosening each muscle in my right shoulder. “I don't know,” I said, half asleep. “I was never allowed in the house, so I've no idea what should be done about curtains and things like that. Those are for house slaves.”
His hands paused only half a second. “You are not a slave now,” Bagoas said.
Having said it, I might as well stand on it, I thought. “No, not now. But I haven't any idea how those things are supposed to be done. How should I? I was sold for a horseboy when I was ten because I wasn't pretty enough for the bedroom.”
This time his hands did not stop in their smooth sweep. “I might have liked to have been a horseboy.”
“You could have been me,” I said, “and I you. It is only our fates that separate us, and the choices of others when we were boys.”
“That sent me to be gelded and you to shovel manure,” he said. His voice was calm, though his strong fingers dug into my back.
“But then you should not have had the King, nor known all that you have,” I said. “Would you rather it were that way?”
“Would you rather be me?” Bagoas asked.
“I don't know,” I said carefully. “Maybe.” To have stood at Alexander's side was no mean thing.
Bagoas’ hands swept over my spine, changing to the left shoulder. “You're stubborn. You might have survived.”
I smiled and bowed my neck to his hands. “That is what I would say as well. A cavalry trooper doesn't have a safe life either.”
“I see that,” he said, his fingers hesitating on the knots
below my left shoulder blade. “What have you done to yourself here?”
“Gaugamela,” I said. “I broke my shoulder. It works well enough, but it hurts a lot in damp weather.”
“Little enough of that in Egypt,” Bagoas observed.
“Another good reason to stay here for the rest of my life,” I said.
“Do you like it so much, then?” Under his hands I felt myself relaxing, almost drowsing.
“Oh yes,” I said. How should I explain how I was coming to love it, this place that was not my home and yet filled my dreams?
“Except for the sun,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “You might like it better with curtains.”
“Mmmm,” I said.
“I could go with you to buy some.”
“That would be very nice,” I said, and slept.
DESPITE MY ACUTE embarrassment in the morning at having fallen asleep on Bagoas’ couch, he seemed not to be angry. Indeed, he dragged me out to the markets early, claiming that he must make good on his promise to help me buy curtains.
I stood bemusedly in the marketplace. “I had no idea there were so many kinds of curtains,” I said. “Dozens of fabrics, different kinds of clips…”
“Choose some cloth you like,” Bagoas said, “and we will get them made up for you. And you may as well order some pillows at the same time.”
“Should I? I like pillows.” I did like pillows, and I had none. But I had never given any previous thought as to where they came from.
“Pillows,” Bagoas said with a smile. “And perhaps a carpet too.”
“Carpets are nice,” I said. I had never thought of myself as the kind of man who owned carpets, but admittedly they were nice to walk on.
Bagoas stopped between market stalls and shook his head, his long dark hair caught at the back of his neck in a clasp. “You are a senior officer now, not a plain trooper. You need to give some thought to appearances, for Ptolemy's sake if not for your own. People will take the measure of you, and that will reflect on him.”