The Conqueror's Wife

by Stephanie Thornton

  “Does anyone know his name?” I asked, but no one answered. “What is his name?” I asked again, almost hysterical.

  “He is Adurnarseh,” Hephaestion said quietly. “He sang for me once or twice.”

  Adurnarseh. His name meant the word of a fiery man.

  I closed my eyes against the irony. Adurnarseh had sought glory through fire, but it had lasted a single bittersweet moment. Now he would have to live with its aftermath for the remainder of his life, provided he survived his wounds.

  “We ride for Babylon at dawn,” Alexander said, looking everywhere except at the singer as the boy was levered onto a shield and carried from the tent. “There I shall expect the family of Darius to make public oaths of obedience and lend me their full support as I greet the Persian populace.”

  So Alexander required us to betray my father and persuade our people to accept him, after we’d just watched him immolate one of his own. Then again, perhaps this had been a warning to me, and to my family. The weight of everyone’s stares fell upon my grandmother and me, as if daring us to defy Alexander. For once I held my tongue, even as I gritted my teeth until they threatened to crack.

  I’d swear Alexander’s petty oath if I had to. And then I’d destroy him and cackle with glee to witness his fiery destruction, just like Adurnarseh’s.

  • • •

  Babylon was a decaying old queen, her gaily painted temples bent-backed and surrounded by moldering brick walls like a frayed robe trailed too long in the dust. The city of Hammurabi the Lawgiver and Nebuchadnezzar the Builder was decrepit now, her glory squandered by heavy taxation and the incessant wars of the past decades. Yet even still, her seven-story ziggurat gleamed like a copper crown from its pinnacle in her skyline and she stood tall, waiting to greet this latest force assembled at her gates.

  My father had brought Stateira and me here many times to marvel at the colossal Etemenanki ziggurat dedicated to Marduk, the blue and gold tiles of the Gate of Ishtar with its procession of aurochs and dragons, and Nebuchadnezzar’s lush Hanging Gardens. Stateira had fidgeted as my father explained the process of baking and glazing the bricks of the Ishtar Gate, of arranging them into place like a giant puzzle, and building its cedar roof, but I had hung on his every word, enthralled by the vision he created.

  It was the Ishtar Gate that swung open to receive Alexander exactly seven days after Gaugamela, the conqueror still smelling of the seawater and hyssop used to purify him after the singer’s death. Even before the smudge of city had become visible on the horizon, the satrap Mazaeus rode out with his sons to pledge loyalty to the Macedonian marauder. The swarthy man with a beard of perfectly coiled ringlets had led my father’s right wing at Gaugamela, but now he bowed and scraped to Alexander, hoping to save his derelict city and return it to its former glory.

  Alexander drew up his army as if to advance, but the move was unnecessary. Officials poured out to greet their conqueror as priests lined the cobbled path with silver-plated altars burning so much frankincense that even Ahura Mazda must have cringed at the excess. The Processional Way was strewn with pink and white rose petals, and crowds cheered as Alexander rode forth in my father’s golden chariot, pulled by Bucephalus and surrounded by his Companions. One word was chanted over and over, taken up by the crowd and echoed by grandparents and grandchildren, husbands and wives.

  “Liberator!”

  My eyes watered, but I blinked hard, praying that my father wouldn’t receive word of this treachery. Alexander and his men passed beneath the watchful eyes of Ishtar and her stone lions, winged Marduk and his painted dragons, into the heart of the traitorous city. The streets that fanned out from the Processional Way were crammed with cages of pacing leopards and roaring lions, whirling acrobats and chanting priests. The music of stringed lyres, silver pipes, and skin drums drowned out the joyous shouts of freedom.

  “People of Babylon!” Alexander yelled, and the crowd stilled. “I come here not as a conqueror but as your liberator, freeing you from the yoke of Darius’ heavy taxation. Babylon shall once again assume her place among the grand cities of the world.” Alexander flung one arm toward a pile of rubble and the other toward the copper-topped ziggurat. “The famed temple of Esagila shall be rebuilt with its gold and jewels to once again blind all who look upon it. And the gold statue of Bel-Marduk shall be recast and returned to its rightful place in the ziggurat of Etemenanki.”

  The crowd cheered wildly and Alexander waved and nodded, even daring to take off his helmet with its double egret plumes so all of Babylon might see him better. I prayed for a Persian arrow to find its mark in his eye or temple, but the herd of dumb sheep continued their incessant bleating, ecstatic in the presence of their conqueror.

  Then Alexander turned toward us and the Babylonians calmed. “Darius, the supposed King of Kings, has fled from us twice on the battlefield, yet the gods have seen fit to trust me with the protection of his cities, his mother and daughters. It is my honor and privilege to enter Babylon on this historic day, to assume his place as your rightful basileus.”

  My grandmother and Stateira lowered their heads in unison, but I waited a moment longer, making sure that Alexander and those near enough could witness the hate burning in my eyes. Only then did I dare bend my head to the yona takabara, although I kept my back stiff and refused to kiss my hand to him in the sacred proskynesis as so many in the crowd now did.

  Alexander of Macedon was not a god. He was only a man who had climbed too high and would soon discover how far he had to fall.

  • • •

  Alexander remained five sumptuous weeks in Babylon, minting new coins from my father’s gold bullion—stamped with his own haughty profile—visiting Nebuchadnezzar’s vast treasury, and gorging on pike liver, lamprey roe, and pig kidneys at countless banquets and poetry recitals. I wondered if Alexander ever thought of the poor singer left behind with a hill of gold in Korkura, if Adurnarseh still breathed or if his corpse now fed the worms. But if Alexander did wonder, he never asked. Instead, he charged blithely forward.

  Forbidden from leaving the palace, I spent most of my days and even several nights in the famed Hanging Gardens. I climbed the open-air terraces that Nebuchadnezzar had built for his homesick Median queen, sitting beneath the canopies of almond and fig trees, spruce and cedars, cypresses and rosewood, juniper and tamarisk. A squirrel leapt from branch to branch over my head and a brown sparrow hawk soared into the clouds. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine that I was in the mountains of that queen’s homeland, the whitewashed pillars of the terraces transforming to the snowy peaks above the forest. When Stateira had first visited the gardens, she’d feigned interest in the assorted trees, but I’d pressed a hundred questions to the eunuch who’d been commandeered as our guide, ceasing my queries only after I’d learned that the terraced roofs were made of reeds reinforced with bitumen and laid across cedar beams, then layered with baked brick and lead so the moisture from the top levels wouldn’t compromise the stability of the whole. In addition, there were aqueducts to force water upward from the Euphrates via an ingenious screw mechanism, while rainwater could gather in cisterns on the roof.

  Some were inspired to write poetry about the curve of their lover’s cheek or the first burst of sunlight after the darkest day of the year. It was fortunate that I was no poet, for I’d have composed verses to the might of a lowly winch or the glory of an aqueduct.

  It wasn’t poetry I wrote today, but something much more vital.

  There had been no word from my father since we’d reached Babylon, although whispers claimed that more satraps like Mazaeus were abandoning him, casting their lots with Alexander to avoid utter destruction.

  I still prayed that my father would best Alexander on the battlefield, but that seemed less likely with each passing day. Fortunately, there was more than one way to win a war.

  My hand had mostly healed—although a few of the fingers would
likely always be stiff—and the Script of Nails flowed from my pen in a letter to Mazaeus, the turncoat satrap of Babylon.

  Greeting to Mazaeus from Darius the Third,

  The King of Kings wishes you to know that the combined treasuries of Persepolis and Babylon would throw open their doors for you if you should assist the chosen one of Ahura Mazda in fomenting a rebellion against Alexander of Macedon. Such a show of support for the one true king would be a demonstration of the utmost loyalty, for which the only fitting reward would be the eternal union of our families. The King of Kings would offer you the hand of his youngest daughter—

  “She’s a woman who must be constantly occupied,” a familiar voice interrupted, “lest she wreak havoc on the affairs of men.”

  My pen scratched across the page, a black scar of ink across my carefully chosen words.

  Words for which I could expect to be impaled, or worse, should they be discovered.

  “What do you want?” I asked Hephaestion, crumpling up the paper even as I fought the urge to flee with the evidence of my treachery. Today he was dressed in a long Persian-style robe, sumptuous and made of embroidered brown silk, mimicking Alexander’s newly adopted style. I hadn’t seen so much as the tip of Hephaestion’s infuriating nose in the weeks we’d been sequestered in the palace, and had rather hoped that I’d be spared the honor for the remainder of my natural life, or at least until Alexander’s pet was speared by a Persian charioteer. I was fairly certain I could rouse myself to attend his funeral.

  Yet he came now, interrupting me while I was engaged in high treason. I willed my hands not to shake, but they refused to obey, so I crossed my arms before me, finding it suddenly impossible to breathe normally.

  “I’m pleased the gardens are proving a pleasant distraction for you.” He plucked a handful of figs from a tree and popped one of the fruits into his mouth. “Lest we find you fanning the flames of rebellion in the street.”

  “Are there flames?” I asked hopefully, even as I clutched my ruined letter tighter in my hand.

  “None that I can tell,” he said. “Babylon seems quite content with her new master.”

  “I asked you what you want,” I said irritably, shoving the letter to Mazaeus into my sleeve. “Or does Alexander simply prefer to torture his captives? Perhaps you have a pail of naphtha you’d like to douse me with?”

  Hephaestion sobered at that, and tossed the remainder of the figs into the bushes as if he’d lost his appetite. “I received word that Adurnarseh died from his wounds.”

  “May he pass easily into paradise,” I said, and meant it. “Another example that no good can come from serving Alexander.”

  “Alexander is blessed by the gods,” Hephaestion said, and I could see his hackles rising. “He’s ruled by his passions and his ambitions.”

  “That’s not a man you’ve described, but a demon flown from the very depths of Duzakh.”

  Hephaestion clenched his fists. “I bear a message for you from that very demon.”

  I waved a hand. “Then deliver it and begone. There must be a kitchen slave or a courtesan, or a perhaps even a goat, that you’d rather be buggering than wasting my precious time.”

  Hephaestion gazed at the cedar beams overhead, but a vein in his jaw throbbed in frustration. “Actually, there was a fine-looking ewe I saw on my way here. I think it’s due in the kitchens for slaughter, but I’m sure no one would mind if I availed myself of it first.”

  I gaped for a moment, then flinched when his snide laughter mocked me. “You play that you’re a woman of the world, Drypetis of Persia, but you’re only a blustering girl.”

  “I wasn’t aware that a Macedonian man-whore could insult the daughter of the King of Kings,” I said, scrambling to my feet. “You have less than two breaths to deliver that message—without insulting me—or you’ll find yourself facedown in the Euphrates.”

  It was an idle threat and we both knew it. Although I was sure Hephaestion had memorized the contents, still he made a great show of removing the scroll from his belt, sweeping an obsequious bow, and beginning to read.

  “‘Upon sunrise, the entourage of Alexander of Macedon shall travel to the end of the Royal Road to the Kara Su River, the source of the King of Kings’ drinking water, and thereby rendezvous with the satrap of Susa, who offers a herd of camels and twelve warriors as proof of his friendship. The family of Darius, King of Kings, including his grandmother and daughters, Stateira and Drypetis, shall remain in Susa henceforth,’” he announced. “‘So it is decreed and so it shall be.’”

  The letter certainly sounded like Alexander—pompous and overbearing. “Susa?” I stood, folding my arms before me. “At sunrise?”

  No time to send my letter to Mazaeus, much less start a revolt. Hope withered in my chest, leaving my heart hollow. “How long shall we be in Susa?”

  Hephaestion pretended to scan the missive again, then rolled it with a shrug. “Alexander doesn’t say. Preferably until you die of old age.”

  I waved away his meager attempt at an insult as my hopelessness was swamped by a newly smoldering anger. “And what shall we do there?” I asked. “Weave and sew and compose songs of Alexander’s glories in battle?”

  “I’ve seen your sewing and heard your singing. You’d be better suited to scrubbing wine cups and polishing chariots.”

  I stomped my foot. “And you’d be better suited painted as a girl and serving in a brothel than on a battlefield.”

  “Be that as it may”—he dared to chuck me under the chin with the scroll—“it is you being caged at Susa, and not me.” He saluted and marched off, his step downright jaunty.

  I scarcely managed to hold in my rage until Hephaestion’s footsteps faded, scattering sparrows and squirrels from Nebuchadnezzar’s trees as I screamed and beat a gnarled tamarisk trunk with my palms, tearing open the flesh there until my throbbing hand forced me to stop. I collapsed to the ground, sobbing and breathing in the scent of rich earth.

  Cradled in the roots of the tamarisk tree, I knew then how Nebuchadnezzar’s wife had felt, pining for bygone days and family long since dead.

  Yet there was no one to build me a magnificent garden of memories and ease my heartache. Despite my attempt of escape at Gaugamela and even inciting rebellions here in Babylon, there was only a long stretch of gray days that would lead to Susa and the inevitable word of my father’s death.

  I didn’t mean to drift off, but my grief and rage were heavy burdens to bear, and the murmur of the water in the aqueducts and the chatter of sparrows lulled me toward sleep. I awoke sometime later beneath a darkening sky, a crick in my neck and my robe damp through from the earth. I sat and stretched, feeling for the letter in my sleeve, intent on tearing it into shreds and burying the evidence in at least five different holes scattered throughout the garden.

  But the letter was gone.

  CHAPTER 12

  Susa, Persia

  Hephaestion

  In the height of summer Susa was reputedly a boiling scrap of sand where the air quavered with a choking heat and the city’s streets scorched the bottom of a man’s sandals like an earthen sun. If that weren’t unpleasant enough, spending a winter in the ugly and ignored bastard of Persia’s four capitals was even worse.

  Susa was a bleak and vile smudge of gray, its people hunchbacked against the cold winds that sighed and howled and gnawed deep into their bones. It was a wonder that the city had been sacked so many times in its long history; had I lived here, I’d have begged any would-be conqueror to pull down its bricks to save myself the eyesore.

  Yet it was in the open plain outside Susa that I stood bent over my knees with my chest heaving, having just run oiled, naked, and shivering beneath the city’s sodden sky—admittedly not the best weather to show off a man’s shaft and cods—with Alexander in farewell games dedicated to a whole bevy of Greek, Persian, and even a few Egyptian gods.
Alexander had once boasted that he would run the stadion in the Olympic Games only if all of the other competitors were kings, but I could have beaten him by a good ten paces today. Still, the people of Susa were here to ogle their golden-haired conqueror, not me, before Alexander left them to their petty lives and we marched on Persepolis. So I’d slowed and let him pass, grinning as he embraced me at the finish, while slaves bedecked him in a laurel wreath and a thick purple himation.

  He wrapped a thin red cloak around my shoulders. “I’ll have to train more to beat you in a fair race, fleet-footed Patroclus that you are,” he murmured in my ear, and I smiled at the old nickname from The Song of Ilium.

  “If you think it would help,” I said, chuckling. “But did swift-footed Achilles ever beat Patroclus?”

  The crowd drowned out his response as they took up his name in a never-ending chant. There were only two responses for cities toward Alexander: to fawn over him in fake adulation in the hope that he would spare their lives, or to try to kill him. Much as I loathed Susa, I was glad they’d chosen the former and saved us the trouble of slaughtering their men in the streets.

  I let Alexander bask in their cheers as I scraped the oil from my body with a bronze strigil and then shivered back into my discarded Persian robes, envying a group of old men draped in thick wool himations who were simultaneously throwing down knucklebones and cups of unwatered wine. They’d go home every night this winter to warm beds and even warmer wives, who’d swat their hands away before they decided to ward off the season’s cold together. I, on the other hand, would don armor that weighed more than Atlas’ globe and was so cold that it felt like a million knives to touch, thus to march in ever-frigid weather with only the heat of an impending battle to look forward to.

  A woman dressed in brown sackcloth with a hairier upper lip than even these bearded Persian devils hawked roasted nuts over a portable clay oven in a voice that might have shattered glass, had there been any around. She screeched at the men playing knucklebones, making them all cringe in perfect unison. One shot her a withering look before muttering something to his companions and shuffling over, resuming his place beside her and behind the piles of steaming nuts.