Scythian Trilogy Book 3: Funeral in Babylon

by Max Overton

  "Well said, young Nikometros," Ptolemy replied, nodding his approval.

  "The apple falls close to the tree, it seems," commented Perdikkas dryly.

  "Perhaps we should discuss it," Peukestas murmured. "The omens, after all..."

  "Omens," laughed Perdikkas. "Superstitious nonsense. A man makes his own luck. Isn't that what Alexander has always said?"

  "Even so. The Chaldean priests are well respected."

  A chair scraped back, making heads turn toward a far corner of the room. Eumenes, a sulky expression on his face, got up and crossed the room. "Peukestas makes a good point. Many people believe the Chaldeans. Maybe some will act to fulfill the prophecies."

  "What prophecies?" asked Perdikkas. "Nobody knows what the priests foretold, only that they gave a warning." He stared suspiciously at the effeminate looking Greek. "What do you know?"

  Eumenes smiled smugly. "He sent for Peithagoras, the seer, this afternoon. When he returned from the harem. I happened to be nearby."

  "And...?"

  "Peithagoras didn't want to answer but in the end he said only that the omens foretold something very grave."

  "I knew it!" cried Peukestas. "The parallel is there. Tell them, Ptolemy, you know him best. It's the story of Achilles and Patroklos all over again, isn't it?"

  "Alexander has often thought of himself as another Achilles and Hephaestion as a Patroklos. What of it? It doesn't mean Alexander is doomed just because Achilles didn't long survive his friend."

  "It makes you think, though."

  "No, Peukestas, it does not," Ptolemy said firmly. "And you--and all you others..." He looked around the room. "You'd be well advised to cease this subversive talk. I've had enough of this. I bid you good night." He nodded to the assemblage then turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  Perdikkas spoke into the silence after the door closed behind the king's half-brother. "So, we all know where he stands." He looked round at the others. "For myself, I make no plots nor look for any ill to befall the king. However..." he shrugged, "...we should be prepared should the unthinkable happen."

  The meeting broke up a few minutes later and Nikometros left the room with the other young staff officer, Seleukos. They wandered out of the palace into the noisy streets of Babylon.

  Seleukos stretched and ran his fingers through his long black locks. "Fancy sampling some of the night life?"

  Nikometros hesitated then shook his head. "No, my wife is waiting for me. I don't like to leave her alone in a strange city."

  Seleukos stared at his companion, a faint mocking smile on his lips. "You have too much promise to tie yourself down, Nikometros."

  "Meaning?"

  Seleukos shrugged. "General Perdikkas respects you. If you gave him half as much devotion as you give your woman, who knows the heights to which you might rise?"

  Nikometros bristled. "I don't neglect my duties."

  "No, but you don't give your all. Nikometros, there are troubled times ahead. You have a chance of greatness if you remember who has the power."

  "The king has the power, Seleukos. I serve him."

  "Oh, Nikometros," sighed the young staff officer. "You're being deliberately obtuse. Of course Alexander has the power and long may he wield it." He stepped closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. "He won't always be king. And what if his only heir is an unproven child? Think on it, my friend." Seleukos clapped Nikometros on the shoulder and laughed. "Go to your woman then. I'll find myself a jug of wine and a willing wench." He turned and sauntered off down the darkened street towards the warm lights of the city.

  Nikometros watched until the man disappeared in the shadows before turning and walking slowly along the outside of the palace walls to the gates of the Lesser Palace. He identified himself to the guards and wandered through courtyards and corridors toward his quarters.

  Tomyra sat curled in a large cushioned chair, reading a book by the light of a bank of scented candles. A fire, blazing in the huge stone hearth, banished the chill of the spring night. Beside it sat the young nurse Petis, rocking Starissa in an antique wooden crib.

  My daughter too, thought Nikometros.

  He coughed and the girl looked round, startled. She scrambled to her feet and bobbed her head, blushing in the firelight. Nikometros waved her back down and crossed the room.

  Tomyra looked up at him with a smile and, carefully smoothing the stitched pages of the book, placed it on a low table beside her. "I knew it was you. I've been waiting."

  Nikometros smiled and stroked his wife's cheek. "What are you reading?"

  "A book of stories written back in the time of a king called Kyros. The kings of Babylon conquered a people called the Jews and brought them here as slaves. Kyros freed them and returned them to their land, even though he was a Persian, not a Jew."

  "Kyros eh? Then I must find you an account of Xenophon and the ten thousand. That is a story of another Kyros, though not a king like the greater Kyros. It's told mainly from the point of view of the Greeks in his employ."

  Tomyra nodded. "I would like that." She patted the wide cushioned chair, moving her legs to one side. "Come and sit with me, Niko. There's something I must ask of you."

  Nikometros sat, easing back in the soft pillows, his arm around his wife. "Ask then, my love," he said with a grin. "I can refuse you nothing."

  Tomyra sat silently for a long time, staring at the fire and the nurse Petis rocking her child. "Niko," she said at last, her voice low and tense. "Niko, you must persuade the king to leave Babylon."

  "What? Leave Babylon? Why?"

  Tomyra shook her head. "Just make him leave, Niko. Please."

  "You think I have the power to turn the king from his course?"

  "Go to him, Niko. Remind him of who you are, tell him you come to him as his kinsman. He must leave or...or..."

  "Or what, Tomyra? What did you see when you cast the sticks for him yesterday?"

  Tomyra shuddered. "Don't ask, Niko."

  His arm tightened around her. "I must if I am to persuade the king. What did you see?"

  Tomyra stared at the fire and beyond it, her eyes unfocused then half closing. Her breath rattled in her throat before issuing forth as a hoarse whisper. "By water, by wine, by hand of man, the cord of life unravels in Babylon. Beyond lies a golden king. Many shall be sacrificed to him."

  Nikometros' breath escaped in a hiss. He rose abruptly and moved away from the figure beside him.

  The motion jostled Tomyra and her eyelids fluttered open. "Niko. Niko, what is it? What is the matter?"

  "You prophesied about the Golden King again. I thought you said Alexander was the golden king."

  Tomyra brought her slim hands up and massaged her temples. "I thought he was. Now I don't know. Perhaps another is, but this I know, Alexander mustn't stay in Babylon. The city is inimical to him."

  Nikometros moved closer to his wife and knelt beside the chair.

  The young girl, Petis, who sat wide-eyed and tense by the fire, relaxed and turned her attentions back to the child.

  Nikometros took Tomyra's hand and stared into her dark eyes. "You said the cord of life unravels. Whose cord? The king's? Do you mean he may die?"

  "The longer he stays in Babylon, the greater the danger."

  Nikometros smiled. "Then don't worry, my love. Alexander plans only to stay a few months. The Arabian expedition will leave by midsummer."

  "I will pray to the Goddess it isn't too long then." Tomyra turned and, gripping Nikometros' hand fiercely, added, "But better he leaves Babylon. Try, Niko, please."

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  Chapter Thirty-One

  Alexander energetically threw himself into work. Consumed as usual with an enthusiasm for the details of any project, he spent whole days and long evenings with architects, planning the great harbour at Babylon. Once the plans were drawn up to his satisfaction, he spent hours down at the site, watching the armies of labourers dredge rich river mud from the Euphrate
s, supervising the digging out of dark silt loam and interfering with the masons and carpenters as they constructed the new docking facilities. On more than one occasion he leapt down into muddy excavations to help some struggling labourer, or pushed aside a tradesman to correct faulty workmanship.

  The finishing touches were put to the great fleet. Alexander consulted with Admiral Niarchos, planning the course of the expedition and the provisioning points. He met with priests, scribes and travellers from the countries along the route of the expedition, quizzing them about the tribes along the way, their methods of fighting, existing springs and wells, and suitable places to construct safe harbours. Everything was written down and copies made to be carried with the fleet and the accompanying armies.

  The days grew warmer and Alexander took to bathing each evening in the great royal bathhouse beside the shaded and reed-strewn river. A series of lapis-lined pools fed cool crystal clear water from upriver, the water plunging over shallow lips and golden fish shoaling around the bathers.

  As the harbour and the fleet neared completion, Alexander's mind turned to other things, closer to his heart. Hephaestion, prepared and preserved by the skill of Egyptian embalmers, lay in state in the palace. Alexander visited the body often, sometimes staying beside it for an hour or more. He neglected himself once more and, for a while, the madness that consumed him at Ekbatana returned. Alexander threw himself into preparations for the funeral.

  For two thousand paces the city wall came down and the rubble was used to construct a vast stone square. Within this, he had the pyre constructed, an enormous edifice over two hundred paces on a side. Wood and other flammables-- pitch and oils-- were collected and placed within the construction. Carvings, as fine as ever graced a palace, adorned each tier as it rose from the stony base, tapering as it went. Great carved friezes, depicting ships and warriors, hunting scenes and wild beasts, trophies of wars, garlands and rich cloths draped the sides. The great wooden construction contained a staircase so that the funeral bier could be taken to the top with dignity, rather than being hauled up the sides.

  Nothing like this pyre existed in history or in imagination. Crowds came each day to gawk and crane their necks while it grew in size and magnificence. Among the crowds on these warm spring days, strolled Caius Valerius Gracchus, praefect of Rome, together with his uncle Marcus Gracchus, tribune and envoy of the Roman Republic to the court of Alexander.

  Caius stared up at the swarms of workmen who hauled carved timbers up the sides of the vast funeral pyramid. "Incredible!" he breathed. "Such an ostentatious display of wealth."

  Marcus Gracchus grunted. "Look well, praefect. You see before you an object lesson on the evils of a tyrant. Such wealth belongs to the people, to be disposed of for the common weal, not at the whims of a profligate panderer."

  Caius looked around nervously. "Sir, it may not be wise to talk of such things out here." He caught the eye of a bearded Mede who scowled and made some unintelligible remark before turning away.

  "Do you think any of this common rabble speaks or understands our pure Latin tongue?" The tribune shrugged. "Still, if it concerns you..." He walked off toward the stone columns of a nearby temple.

  The two Romans stood beside a column several paces from the passersby on the street. They stood casually as if still engrossed in the spectacle of the construction, but continued to converse quietly.

  "As I was saying," went on Marcus Gracchus, "Such criminal waste is just what I would expect of the man. This Alexander is no more than a despot, wielding almost unlimited power."

  "I'm told he wasn't always so, sir. The evidence speaks of great military genius and a willingness to share the lot of common soldiers."

  "Oh, I'm sure that was so, Caius. I, too, have read the reports. Yet you can see evidence that power and wealth have corrupted Alexander and his court." The tribune shook his head in disgust. "He lost what nobility he once had as a soldier. Now he's infinitely more dangerous."

  "Dangerous, sir? In what way?"

  Marcus Gracchus turned to his nephew with an expression of disbelief. "Are you blind, praefect? Deaf? You heard it from the despot's own mouth. He plans to invade Italy and subjugate our people."

  "Er...well, yes sir...but, well, he plans an expedition to Arabia and North Africa. I talked with Nicomatrus. He assures me the des...Alexander seeks to have the Romans as allies."

  "And you believe him? I'm sure this Nicomatrus is well connected--a relative of Alexander himself, I'm told, but he's still a relatively junior officer. Perhaps he even believes this tale. But do you really think he's privy to the king's Inner Council?" Marcus Gracchus straightened his toga, brushing dust from its folds. "No, Alexander will invade Italy and when he finds Rome opposing him, he'll try to destroy us."

  Caius stood silently, digesting this thought. "Could he?" he said at last. "The Roman army is second to none."

  "Face the facts, praefect. When Alexander crossed into Asia with a small Macedonian army, he would have been troublesome but no real threat had he faced Rome. Now, with the resources of an empire at his disposal, he could probably destroy us without a thought."

  Caius thought then nodded slowly. "All right, sir. I bow to your knowledge. But, even if he could defeat us, would he choose to do so?"

  A tearing noise and a chorus of shouting erupted from the construction site. The Romans looked up to see a cloud of dust where a huge ornate carving of an elephant lay in splintered ruins on the stone base. Already, teams of slaves rushed to clear away the destruction. Other teams ran forward with tackle to sway another great carving into the air.

  "What do you mean, would he?"

  "Alexander has a reputation for trusting people." Caius spoke slowly, struggling to find the right words. "He always tries diplomacy first and even when there is no recourse but war, he treats the defeated enemy with honour. Perhaps Rome could live at peace with Macedon."

  Marcus Gracchus shook his head, his eyes steely. "Italy belongs to Rome. Will Alexander give up this westward expansion? I think not. Even if he did, it's Rome's destiny to rule all the lands of the Middle Sea. Inevitably, Rome and Macedon will collide."

  "Then what is to be done, sir?"

  "Alexander thinks himself a god. He forgets that he is mortal, like all other men." Marcus Gracchus stared into his nephew's eyes, holding him with the intensity of it. "He gives no thought to an heir. Instead, he surrounds himself with fierce wolves. Mark my words well. When he dies, his kingdom will be torn to pieces. His western dreams will be forgotten."

  Caius frowned, tearing his gaze away from the tribune. "He...he is young yet, sir, barely past thirty. He may yet beget an heir."

  "Then we must make sure that he never gets the chance to do so."

  Caius licked his lips and looked nervously about him. The milling crowd of onlookers' attention remained fixed on the funeral pyre. A few glanced at the two Romans but evinced no interest in deciphering their strange language.

  "You mean...?" Caius dropped his voice to a whisper. "Kill him?"

  Marcus Gracchus said nothing, just stared at his nephew.

  "It wouldn't be honourable," hissed Caius. "We're envoys, under a flag of truce."

  "I am the envoy. You're merely an officer in my command. The survival of Rome is more important than any personal feelings of honour. That is why I shall return to Rome and present my report to the Senate while you seek to remove this obstacle to the supremacy of Rome."

  "I?" Caius gulped, his face paling. "You want me to...to...?"

  "You object to serving Rome?"

  "I...no, sir." Caius turned away, breathing hard. "I wouldn't survive such an action."

  "That's in the hands of the gods, praefect. However, you have my permission to seek an opportunity to carry out your mission in a way that maximises your chances rather than taking the first opportunity."

  "I wouldn't know where to start."

  "Must I think for you too? You already have an acquaintance with this Nicomatrus. Cultivate hi
m, be seen with him, and befriend him. He already has access to the king. An opportunity will present itself." Marcus Gracchus drew himself up and stared down his hooked patrician nose. "When it does, Caius Valerius Gracchus, strike. Strike the tyrant for Rome and the good name of your family."

  Caius drew himself to attention smartly, attracting a few curious looks from the bystanders. "Yes, tribune Gracchus. When Rome commands, I obey."

  The tribune's craggy features softened and a small smile tried unsuccessfully to look natural on his face. "Good man. Write a letter to your mother this evening. I'll take it with me when I leave tomorrow."

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  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The sound of a flute soared in the warm spring night air, hung as if on beating wings then plunged like a stooping hawk. The notes died away in a trill evocative of cascading water. The old man took the instrument from quivering lips and bowed toward the audience.

  Tomyra clapped her hands gleefully and turned to the others sitting around the small courtyard. "Didn't I say he played like a god? Didn't I, Niko?"

  Nikometros rose to his feet and added his applause. "Indeed you did, my love." He fumbled in the pouch at his belt and took out a coin. He glanced at it, hesitated then flipped it toward the old man. Gold glinted briefly in the torchlight before a bony hand snatched it out of the air.

  "Thank 'ee sir," quavered the old man. He stared at the coin and grinned, exposing blackened stumps of teeth. "Aye, thank 'ee honoured sir." He bobbed his head and withdrew.

  "Gold, Niko?" Timon looked disgusted. "I admit he was good but silver would still be generous."

  Bithyia nudged him in the ribs as she lay on the same broad couch with him. "Hush, husband," she whispered. "Niko's the host. His is the decision."

  Nikometros laughed. "I thought it was silver when I took it out but it would appear mean if I searched for another. No matter. He'll eat well tonight."

  "Drink more like it," commented Tirses. "Speaking of which..." He looked around for a servant, waggling his wine cup.