It’s easy to get people to do as I like here. I threaten to turn them into frogs or owls. They are absolutely terrified of being turned into frogs, and owls run a close second in the nightmare race. With my reputation as a divinity, I am usually left alone. This suits me fine; I grew up alone. It’s people that worry me.
I usually trailed after the second section of the army. The army was on foot. Even the cavalry walked because the horses were used to pull the multitude of wagons full of tents, weapons, food, and all the paraphernalia soldiers couldn’t do without. I followed the wagons, at a distance, on foot or riding my little grey mare when I was tired of walking. I had a donkey, too, whose name was Sibyl. She was expecting a foal and I left her with the herd of livestock that preceded the army by about a day’s march.
The army was divided into three sections. The first section marched a half a day ahead of the next and so on. Alexander marched at the head of the second section, which was the main fighting force. The first section was livestock and food wagons protected by the archers. Then came the foot soldiers, the weapons, the tents, and the last section was the rest of the army including the war machines, the engineers, the diplomats, and the phalanx.
There were even families voyaging in the general direction we were heading, who joined us for company and protection. They formed the tail-end of the army, a noisy, squabbling gaggle of tinkers’ wagons and gypsy caravans. They were usually two days behind us. We could hear and smell them before we saw them – dogs barking, men cursing, children shrieking and women scolding. It was a cacophony of bright sound closing the march.
When we camped, the last section arrived two days later and would leave two days after we left. It was like a huge inchworm that hitched itself forward and then pulled its rear end in before inching forward again.
I’d mimed that for Alexander one night in our tent. He’d nearly died laughing. If he had died I would have been erased, and time set back on track again. It would have taken an inordinate amount of energy and was used only in dire need by the time-sender historians. As long as I was careful not to affect history, I was all right. I couldn’t change time an iota.
At night in the tent we played charades, checkers, dice, chess, backgammon, knucklebones, and guessing games. Our games were often contests with prizes. Most nights there were stories and songs.
In Alexander’s tent were Alexander and myself – in the big bed, near the rear of the tent, Brazza and Axiom, Alexander’s servants – not slaves, he had freed them, Usse, Alexander’s army doctor and friend, and Plexis, better known in the history books as Hephaestion, Alexander’s childhood friend.
However, anyone could come into his tent. Callisthenes, Aristotle’s nephew and my tutor, was there nearly every evening. Lysimachus, the captain of the guards, would sometimes sleep inside the tent. And if one of Alexander’s soldiers were dying, and we weren’t in the middle of a battle, he nearly always ended up in the tent at the foot of Usse’s pallet, with Usse and Alexander caring for him.
I don’t know how he did it, but Alexander could give comfort to dying men. He’d hold their hands, and they looked into his eyes and found the solace they needed. Usse said it was a gift from the gods. I don’t know how Alexander felt about this. He was drained and exhausted afterwards, refusing to talk or eat.
This snowy, grey morning was one of those days. A man had died the night before of a simple cut gone septic, and Alexander had been there to comfort him. Now he walked at the head of his army and his mood was despondent. He was wrapped in a grey woollen cloak, and his parti-coloured eyes were full of grief. Plexis and I knew enough to stay out of his way.
Plexis walked with me. He was one of the few people who had no fear of me. We had been lovers and we still loved each other, though now it was a deep friendship.
The sky was still dark and I thought it might be cold enough to snow. However, all we got for the rest of the day was slushy rain. It was a relief to reach the campgrounds where our tents were being set up, and where the cooks had prepared a warm meal for us. Plexis and I joined the long line of soldiers waiting for their bowls of hot lentil soup. It was invariably lentil soup with onions and garlic, and the smell of garlic would always remind me of the army. There was warm bread, which I chewed carefully, because the flour was stone-ground and sometimes had little pebbles in it. We drank water, hot water tonight as it was so chilly.
Each soldier had his own bowl, cup, spoon, and knife. They carried these in a large pouch they wore hooked over their belts. In addition, the pouch held a comb, a bag of medicinal herbs that they collected while marching, some linen bandages, and whatever amulets they thought necessary to protect themselves. The soldiers were unused to wearing any clothes, although they had new woollen capes for the mountains. Usually they went barefoot or wore sandals – now they had new boots.
I took my steaming bowl of lentils to our tent. Then I removed my boots, and shook the rain off my cloak outside. In the back of the tent there was a clothesline strung up next to a small brazier, and I hung my cloak over it. I stuffed some rags inside my boots to dry them, and then I sat down with a contented sigh on the rug. The tent was large, warm and cozy, being heated by two braziers and lit with an exquisite glass lamp made of delicately moulded glass. It was blue-green, and made everything look as if it were underwater. Whenever we moved, it was carefully lifted down, the oil was poured out, and it was packed in wood chips in a wooden box.
I sat cross-legged on a richly coloured Persian rug and set my bowl on Alexander’s low table. The table was made of carved wood and inlaid with ivory and jet. If he saw my bowl on it he would frown, so I was careful not to spill anything. There was a jade bowl on the table, filled with fresh or dried fruit, depending on the season. Tonight it held walnuts.
Alexander had few belongings, although those he had were very fine: a priceless rug, a precious lamp, a beautiful table, and a bowl carved from apple-green jade. He also had a little earthenware bowl, the same as his soldiers had, to eat from. However, he drank from a solid gold cup that stood on lion’s paws. There was a lion’s head carved on one side, and two wings clasped the cup from either side forming the handle. The Persian king Darius had given it to him.
I was alone in the tent. Plexis had gone to see to his horses, and he’d kindly taken my pony for me. Axiom and Brazza were probably with their friends, gossiping in the mess tent. Usse was in the infirmary, most likely treating blisters from the new boots. Alexander was everywhere at once, seeing his men, talking to the families tagging along, reading the scribes’ daily reports, or conversing with his many generals. He had to see to everything from the Royal Macedonian guard captained by his childhood friend Cleitus, to the cavalry, the navy, the engineers, the infantry, and the different tribes who were represented by different captains including the barbarians led by Pharnabazus, Alexander’s brother in law.
I was Alexander’s third wife. First he’d married Barsine, who was pregnant and expecting his child. Alexander already had a child. I’d borne him a son, Paul. Now we were trekking over the mountains in pursuit of a man named Bessus who’d kidnapped our baby.
Bessus was a satrap from Bactria. He’d betrayed Darius, the Persian king, and then killed him. Now he had our son and was fleeing.
Darius had kidnapped our son first; he’d meant to bargain for his daughter’s life with him. When he knew he’d lost the battle of Persepolis against Alexander, he’d sent our baby to Bactria, at the far reaches of his empire.
Not knowing Darius had kidnapped Paul, Alexander had married Darius’s daughter Stateira; it was his second marriage. Stateira was also pregnant, and Alexander was confident this baby would be a son, because the oracle had spoken to him in Babylon.
He was a great believer in omens and portents, oracles and signs. He was forever glancing at the sky, searching for seagulls, swallows, eagles, or crows, which would mean various things depending on if they were flying, eating, or shitting on you.
I believed in none of thi
s, which drove him crazy.
He would have preferred to be like me, but he couldn’t. Everything he’d ever learned was based on fate, that men had no control over their destiny, and that the gods decided everything. Only by reading omens could men decipher the hints that gods were willing to drop.
I had never believed in fate. I’d always believed that I, and I alone, decided what my life would be. The idea of pre-destiny was ludicrous to me, which was ironic, as I was trapped with a man whose destiny was known to me. A destiny I could not change, no matter how much I wanted. So in a way, our beliefs were the same now, which drove me crazy.
About the author
Jennifer Macaire lives in France with her husband, three children, and two dogs. She grew up in upstate New York, Samoa, and the Virgin Islands. She graduated and moved to NYC where she modelled for five years for Elite. She went to France and met her husband at the polo club. All that is true. But she mostly likes to make up stories.
She has published short stories in such magazines as Polo Magazine, PKA’s Advocate, The Bear Deluxe, Nuketown, The Eclipse, Anotherealm, Linnaean Street, Inkspin, Literary Potpourri, Mind Caviar, 3 am Magazine, and the Vestal Review. One of her short stories Honey on Your Skin, was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. In June 2002 she won the 3am/Harper Collins flash fiction contest for her story There are Geckos Her story Islands appears in the anthology ‘A Dictionary of Failed Relationships’ published by by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of Penguin Putnam.
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Published by Accent Press Ltd 2017
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Copyright © Jennifer Macaire 2017
The right of Jennifer Macaire to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.
eISBN 9781682996072
The Road to Alexander Page 33