by Jodi Taylor
We joined the crowd pushing their way up the ceremonial staircase with its reliefs of conquered peoples bringing tribute. In fact, tribute-bringing and homage-paying were recurring themes throughout all the public buildings, presumably in case anyone forgot why they were there. I recorded what I could. Clerk navigated us through the crowds and Markham watched our backs.
Reaching the top, we passed through the massively impressive Gate of All Nations, past a couple of giant bulls I thought would look rather nifty outside the Boss’s office, through the Unfinished Gate and into the Throne Hall courtyard where, despite all our careful training, we stopped and gawped like tourists.
Yes, I know, but it was impossible not to be distracted by the magnificence around us. The entire complex was mind-boggling. Gaudy and tasteless and opulent and over-decorated, of course, but just … mind-blowing in a gloriously overstated way. Ahead of us was the massive Throne Hall of Xerxes, standing so high I had to tilt my head back to see the top. The front was porticoed and the pillars decorated with beautifully drawn lions, eagles and those ever-recurring twin-headed bulls.
Ahead and diagonally to our right stood the Audience Hall of Darius – even more massive and twice as magnificent. Behind the Throne Hall and invisible from this position stood the Treasury and behind the Audience Hall were the palaces of Darius and Xerxes and the Harem. I was gratified to see that everything was exactly where it should be – which is not always something you can rely on in our line of business. I knew where I was. I knew where everyone else was. Time to get stuck in.
We started with the Throne Hall, walking slowly but with great confidence to the portico and staring inside.
I hardly knew where to start. The floor beneath my feet was white marble, gleaming in the hundreds of torches and braziers that slaves were lighting all around us. The flames flickered noisily in the desert wind. An eerie foretaste of what was to come.
I saw towering walls decorated with gold and winking glass. The wooden roof was supported by huge, fat, also wooden pillars, decorated with complicated designs painted in every colour. Bulls still appeared to be very popular – if a touch inappropriate for indoor design. A lot of them were depicted back to back – like bookends – along with lily flowers and lotus blossoms.
Looking up, I could just make out the enormous beams supporting the roof. Had they been cut from the legendary Cedars of Lebanon?
Such doors as I could see were more in the nature of gates – huge, wooden, intricately carved and, judging by the size of the hinges, massively heavy. I wondered how many men it took to open them. Not that a shortage of manpower would ever have been a problem for the Great King.
There was no consistent style anywhere. Nor any consistent theme. Everything was over-painted, over-decorated and over-dressed. These walls, too, depicted their favourite scenes of conquered nations bringing tribute to the King of Kings – just to remind subjugated peoples why they were here.
Once, there would have been rows of guards – the Immortals – those same Immortals who had fought at Thermopylae. Now this vast building was empty and echoing. This was a conquered city. Broken furniture lay shattered or piled up in heaps. Everything had been stripped of its gold and inlaid jewels. Dark fluid – oil or blood – lay pooled on the palely gleaming floor. People had walked – or run – through it and footprints tracked everywhere. We didn’t push our luck by going in. The giant Hall was deserted and somehow sad. As if it knew these were its last hours on earth. It occurred to me much later that we were among the very last people ever to see it. We backed out slowly and drew into the shade of a fat pillar. A giant ram frowned down at me. I turned my back on it and called up Bashford.
‘Mr Bashford, report.’
‘We’re at the back of the Tripylon, Max. We’ve a good view of the northern side of the Treasury. I have good news and bad news.’
‘Give me the good news.’
‘Not many people around.’
‘And the bad news?’
‘Not many people around.’
I sighed. That meant the Treasury was empty. There was no point in guarding an empty building.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Check it out by all means, but be aware that just because you can’t see the guards doesn’t mean there aren’t any.’
‘Understood.’
‘Stay safe.’
‘You too.’
He closed the link.
We crossed the wide courtyard to the other massive building – the Audience Hall of Darius. In contrast to the deserted Throne Hall, there were plenty of people here, all passing through the pillars and disappearing inside. I wondered if all those we’d encountered on the stairs were heading for the feast as well. We’d been unsure whether we’d find a small intimate dinner consisting solely of Alexander and his close friends, or a large public affair, open to all. We’d hoped for the latter, obviously. The more people around the better.
Everyone we could see was streaming through the Hall. And every single one of them was male.
‘Shit,’ I said, drawing back, although I’d expected this. A treacherous voice said the idiot Halcombe might have had a point about inappropriate women. All was not lost, however. The universe might have a habit of ignoring women in general and women of a certain age in particular, but this isn’t always the drawback it might appear.
‘Slight change of plan,’ I said to Clerk. ‘You lot carry on through and I’ll nip round the side.’
‘We’ll all nip round the side,’ he said, because we’re not supposed to split up.
‘No,’ I said, firmly. ‘Because if there’s no access to be had there, then only I’ll be shut out. Markham can escort me if he likes.’
‘Markham will certainly escort you,’ said Markham, grimly.
I looked around. A lamp burned nearby, flames flickering. Set slightly apart from the lamp stood a small urn, half full of oil by the look of it. I picked it up. I always try to have something in my hands because it makes it easier to blend in. Markham once served in the army and swears he never did a stroke of work – just walked around all day with a clipboard looking serious. To which Major Guthrie always remarks, ‘If only …’
It took a long time to get myself around the outside of the Audience Hall – it’s not a small building – but it would give the others time to get themselves into place. I couldn’t see anyone around, but that didn’t mean no one was watching me from the shadows.
As with any group of buildings there were the bright, well-frequented public areas, and then there were the dark, silent places where few people venture. Except for historians, of course. Confidence was key. I trod silently but briskly, looking neither to right or left, concentrating on not dropping my urn – just a lowly palace servant on her way to … do something or other. Of Markham, I could see nothing, but I knew he would be there somewhere. My heart was thumping away with what I told myself was the excitement of getting a glimpse of the great Alexander.
Ahead of me was a wall with an archway set into it through which, in the gathering gloom, I could make out another small courtyard. A soldier stood at the entrance, picking his nose. He showed very little interest in me, but I flourished my urn at him, just in case. He took it off me, checked the contents – for alcohol, I suspected, and then nodded me through.
Once inside, I turned left into a small garden which itself was in darkness, but beyond it I could see lights and hear music. This must be the place. I crept up a flight of marble steps and peered cautiously around a pillar. This was the place. I was looking down into an open courtyard set between what I reckoned was the Palace of Darius on my left and the Palace of Xerxes on my right. Lovely buildings but not the most imaginative names ever.
The area was crowded with couches and tables decked out in brilliant colours. A hundred torches made the space as bright as day. Even from this distance I could feel the heat coming off them. The advantage was that they made the shadows in which I was lurking all the darker. There were people here already, gathered
around the courtyard, watching silently. But no women. I eased my way between two slim pillars, clutching my urn with one hand and my recorder in the other.
Clerk spoke in my ear. ‘Max, where are you?’
I kept my voice to a whisper. ‘West side of the courtyard just behind the red couches. I can see you.’
‘I can’t see you.’
‘Good.’
‘Markham?’
His voice startled me. ‘In position, mid-way between both of you.’ I knew better than to turn around to look. I wouldn’t be able to see him anyway.
I took a deep breath. ‘OK, people – let’s get started.’
The whole thing was rather low key. There were no fanfares, no drum rolls, no ringing announcements to indicate Alexander’s approach. I heard male voices approaching. Slaves stopped flying around making last-minute adjustments and melted out of sight
Silence fell and fifteen or twenty young men emerged from the palace. They’d recently bathed, their hair was either still wet or heavily oiled. They were neatly but not splendidly dressed in comfortable robes. I craned my neck. One was dressed in the Persian style. That must be him. That must be Alexander himself. His face was turned away from me. He was talking to someone on his right. They weren’t raucous but they were boisterous. One or two of them already had goblets in their hands and were drinking thirstily.
Becoming aware of the silence, Alexander looked around and made a gesture for everyone to be seated. Perhaps his army life had left him with a distaste for the formal. There was a great deal of milling around but everyone found themselves a place. Four or five women appeared and perched themselves beside their men. Their costumes were gorgeous and their jewellery magnificent. I was interested to see they had painted their faces. They hadn’t bothered covering their heads either, and I could see their intricate hairstyles, interwoven with gold and silver ribbons. They stared boldly around, dark and handsome women, beautifully dressed and presented. Courtesans.
I could see Alexander’s profile. I could see his Greek nose, his curly hair, his high cheekbones. He had a very prominent Adam’s apple. His bare arms were tight with muscle. He looked young and fit. His eyes sparkled. He was lively and energetic and he couldn’t talk fast enough, waving his arms around to make his point. He was laughing, drinking, accessible, on top of his game. It was hard to believe he’d be dead at thirty-two.
With Alexander sorted, we needed to identify his companions. Ptolemy, who would go on to rule Egypt, was easy because he appeared to be wearing the courtesan Thaïs. A rash could not have covered him more closely.
People get the wrong idea about courtesans. They think the word means prostitute, but a courtesan is so much more. Yes, they traded in sex, but they were almost always well-educated and intelligent women, carefully trained in the arts of singing, dancing, conversation, politics and so on. They invariably attached themselves to wealthy and powerful men and, in these times, when marriage was simply a mechanism for acquiring more property or preserving a bloodline, they wielded enormous influence.
There have been some famous names – Aspasia, Theodora, Diane de Poitiers, Nell Gwynn, Madame de Pompadour and many more – all of whom have managed to leave their mark on history. As Thaïs was about to do.
Unseen musicians played. Soft pipe music was almost drowned out under the chatter. There were no dancing girls in diaphanous whatnots flinging themselves around in an unseemly manner. Calvin Cutter would have been bitterly disappointed. But only by the lack of dancing girls. The rest of it was right up his alley. Gaudy and completely over the top.
Servants brought in huge trays of bite-sized food. The long tables were soon smothered in gold and silver dishes. I was interested to see that not only did they recline when eating, but they ate with their fingers, too.
And they drank a lot. The music kicked up a gear, moving smoothly from soft and gentle to something with a much livelier beat. Voices grew louder. Everyone was talking and laughing.
As far as I could see there were about a hundred people attending the banquet, including one or two Persians. They ate silently – not because they were sulking, but because it was their custom. What they thought of these noisy Macedonians did not show in their faces. Another couple of hundred people encircled the courtyard. Whether they were servants or officials or just nosey like me was hard to say. I didn’t think any of them were bodyguards. I couldn’t see that Alexander even had a food taster. Perhaps he felt he was among friends.
Apart from the Macedonian concubines, there were no women. And certainly no Persian women. All the servants were men. I would have to be very careful to remain concealed but I had a prime position here and I was getting some great material.
Wine flowed like a river. Slaves were continually refilling goblets. The Macedonians’ capacity was amazing and they weren’t mixing their wine with water in the traditional Greek manner, either.
The food was constantly replenished. Trays came and went. Alexander’s liking for Persian ways included desserts. Lots of desserts. I couldn’t make out any individual dishes but the smells were enticing.
Everyone was having a great time. No one knew the city was about to burn. That this was its last night on earth. Its last hour, almost. In twenty-four hours’ time, it would be nothing but a bed of cooling ash blowing sadly across the sands. They talk about the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome, but Persepolis deserves a mention as well. And, in a few hours, it would be lost and gone, never to rise again.
My view was quite restricted because I was making sure to stay behind my pillar and slightly apart from the watching crowd, but interestingly, from what I could see, Alexander ate very little. A slave would offer him something sumptuous on a plate, he would look at it, and then someone would say something to him and he’d be off again, talking and drinking in equal measure. There was something almost frenetic about him. His drive and ambition were tangible. Raw energy came off him in waves. It was as if he knew he had to do everything as quickly as possible. Did he somehow know, deep down, that he wasn’t long for this world?
I checked around carefully and then called Clerk. ‘You still OK?’
‘Yes. I’ve got Alexander full face on, but I can’t get a good view of Ptolemy and Thaïs.’ His voice had the slightly distracted note of a dedicated historian on the job.
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘You stay with Alexander. I’ve got those two.’
‘Copy that.’
I wondered how long I’d been recording. I’d be the first to admit time does tend to get away from me occasionally. My ankles and back were beginning to ache. These marble floors don’t do your feet any favours at all. I was just wondering whether to try for a better position when it all began to kick off.
For the previous five minutes, Thaïs had been whispering in Ptolemy’s ear. Judging by the expression on his face, it wasn’t sweet nothings, either. He seemed disinclined to listen to begin with, leaning across her to talk to someone else, but she was insistent, resting against him, pushing her breasts into his arm and tickling the back of his neck. He leaned back against the cushions and she whispered some more.
He shook his head curtly and gestured for more wine, but still she didn’t give up. With one hand, she pulled some sort of jewelled cloth over his lap and her left hand disappeared.
Now he was listening. What a little minx she was to be sure. And a very skilful little minx, too. In seconds, he leaned back, closed his eyes and sighed.
She, too, leaned back – trust me, butter wouldn’t have melted in her mouth – withdrew her hand and reached for more wine. Job done.
She was a very clever woman. She made no attempt to speak to Alexander directly. She worked through Ptolemy who, opening his eyes, took the wine she offered him and, after a significant glance from his girlfriend, began to talk to Alexander. Fast and furious. I had no chance of catching the words, but I could see him gesture around the courtyard. Several times. Those on each side of Alexander stopped talking to li
sten. Silence spread gradually outwards.
Thaïs leaned back on her cushions, regarding Alexander through heavily made-up eyes. Her expression was enigmatic and I wondered again about their relationship. He was, apparently, very fond of her, although whether because she was his best friend’s ‘best friend’, or whether he’d been there himself would be a subject for endless speculation over a margarita or two when we got back.
The reaction to Ptolemy’s words was interesting. Most of Alexander’s companions looked appalled. Alexander himself didn’t look that enthusiastic. If, at this moment, I’d been asked for an honest opinion, I would have said it wasn’t going to happen. Persepolis would remain unburned. Alexander was already turning away and holding out his goblet for a refill.
And now Thaïs spoke. Her voice was harsh, but with an edge of honey. She leaned forwards, her robe tightening around her, highlighting her spectacular charms. I couldn’t make out the words but we’d get that sorted on our return.
I tightened my grip on my sweaty recorder. This was really good stuff. Just what we’d come for. And given the absence of screaming and shouting in my ear, things were going well for Bashford at the Treasury, too.
In my own defence, I should say I did retain a grip on common sense. I stayed in the shadows. I stayed quiet. I did nothing to attract attention to myself. I was being the model historian. Discreet, dedicated, watchful and getting the job done. Just so we’re all clear on that.
Obviously, I wasn’t alone in my little nest between the pillars. There were people everywhere. Slaves, servants, personal attendants, palace officials – it must have taken a small army of people to service even one small banquet, but I was off to one side in the shadows and no one was taking any notice of me at all. I doubted the man on the other side of the pillar was even aware of my presence.