“You should see this,” he said, burying his nose into his shoulder even as the morning breeze carried to me the inexplicable stench of death and decay.
I clambered up the other wheel, my metal breastplate clanking as I peered into the rude cart and promptly swallowed the sour bile that rose in my throat.
Two corpses, one an attendant dressed in a plain yellow robe.
But the other . . .
Flies crawled upon its eyes and inside its gaping maw, bloody tears in its exposed flesh proof that the vultures had already been here. A dark stain of old blood on its robe, striped white and purple as only the King of Kings could wear. Gold manacles on its wrists as befitted a Persian king and yoked to the other corpse.
“Alexander,” I called, my voice rasping with the first words I’d spoken to him since Persepolis. “I believe we’ve found what you’re looking for.”
Darius, the King of Kings, had been stabbed by his own people and left to rot in the sun. The man had been a coward on the battlefield, but even so, this was an ignominious death for a king who had ruled half the world. Further proof that even the greatest men sometimes died inane deaths of blood fevers and old age and petty vengeance.
Such was the humor of the gods.
I should have been joyous that the long-sought prize had been won, but instead, I removed my helmet and bowed my head to the decomposing man in the mud-daubed wagon. I gritted my teeth as Alexander strode past Polystratus, and waited for his whoop of triumph.
“It is Darius,” he said quietly, and I nodded, for we both recognized the man who had fled the battlefield twice before.
Then Alexander—my Alexander, my Achilles, and not the demon who had burned Persepolis—removed his cloak and spread it over the dead Persian king, sighing as he relieved Darius of a ruby signet ring and slipped the treasure onto his own finger. “May his gods keep him,” he said. There was a moment of quiet, surrounded only by the meager desert breeze in our ears and the overwhelming stench of death. “He shall be returned to Persepolis, his body to be interred in the royal tombs with all honors.”
In that moment I was glad that the underground mausoleum of Persia’s kings had survived the fire, protected by the earth.
“And Darius’ family?” I asked. “Shall they be allowed to leave Susa to attend the funeral?”
“Yes, yes,” Alexander said. “I shall send them my condolences.”
Somehow I doubted that would be enough.
But then the yellow-clad corpse alongside Darius stirred.
I almost fell from the cart in shock as Alexander cried out in alarm, but I managed to recover enough to grab Alexander’s waterskin from his belt. The half-dead attendant sputtered as I dribbled the lukewarm liquid into his mouth, but then he clutched at the skin and sucked at it more greedily than a dying carp.
“Easy,” I cautioned in Aramaic, pulling it away from him before he threw it all back up. “It would be a shame to drown yourself so soon after escaping from Hades’ clutches.”
The boy’s face was so badly burned that skin peeled away on his nose, and his hands were scratched as if he’d fought off a flock of vultures. It was suddenly clear why the carrion hadn’t stripped Darius down to bones by now.
“What is your name?” Alexander demanded when I’d allowed the boy enough sips to drain half the skin. He tried to sit, a shock of dark and dusty curls obscuring his eyes.
“Parizad,” the youth said, his voice trembling as he dared look up. Despite the damage the sun had done to his face, he was delicate about the shoulders, with a face that might have graced the finest courtesan, the promise of supple lips, and almond eyes fringed with camel’s lashes. The manacle at his wrist clanged as he reached up to brush his dark hair from his forehead, even that simple movement languorous like a cat’s despite the days of filth that streaked his skin and the golden shackle that bound him to a dead man.
“Our last reports claimed that Bessus had taken Darius hostage,” I said, gesturing to Darius’ cart. “Was this done by his hand?”
The boy nodded. “I saw it with my own eyes. Bessus stabbed Darius, then lifted the golden diadem from the king’s head and placed it on his own. He proclaimed himself the new King of Kings.”
Alexander’s eyes narrowed, and I had no doubt that he would not be so magnanimous toward Bessus as he had been to Darius’ corpse. More self-proclaimed kings would crop up like weeds if Bessus wasn’t quickly rooted out.
“And you remained behind?” I asked the young man, sniffing out any possible subterfuge before I ordered his shackles broken. “What sort of soldier refuses to follow the newly proclaimed king?”
A loyal one, or a stupid one.
“I’m no soldier, although I wished to be,” he said. “Bessus didn’t take kindly to my questioning whether the remaining satraps would follow Bessus after his murder of a chained king.”
“And he left you here to rot in the sun,” I said.
Alexander clasped my forearm, his thumb brushing my wrist in a way I’d missed, as Polystratus used his sword to break the manacles’ chain. “We’ll take this boy with us and hunt down Bessus,” he murmured, his lips warm against my ear. “Together, we shall kill the traitor in such a way that no other Persian shall dare challenge me.”
So Bessus would be the next Persepolis, a warning to the world of all that Alexander was capable of. But Bessus was a vile turncoat, one man, not a city already ancient when the Olympians were still being born.
“If you wish,” I said, but Alexander was already walking away, the new ruby ring on his finger glinting under the climbing desert sun.
Parizad had overheard and tagged behind me, rubbing his wrists and stumbling so I had to steady him. “My sister, Roxana, travels with the satrap,” he said.
“As his wife?”
“His concubine. You won’t harm her, will you?”
I swung my leg over my gelding and gestured for a soldier to help Parizad mount behind me. “Is she as pretty as you?”
Parizad didn’t stutter or look abashed, only stared up at me with hazel eyes flecked with green that would have been charming on any woman but were stunning on a man, especially with his long lashes. “She’s my twin.”
I grunted as he settled into the saddle behind me. “Then she’ll be safe from harm. I only kill ugly people.”
But as I flicked our reins and headed toward the rising sun, I realized that it might do me good to take a new mistress, perhaps this Roxana or another passably pretty Persian. Perhaps even Parizad.
I was weary of death and destruction, of chasing dead men into the desert.
Yet I could begin to see that so long as I followed Alexander, that was to be my lot in life.
• • •
Weeks later, I woke drenched in enough sweat to drown a man. My heart thudded like the pounding fist of some furious god, while next to me, Parizad snored softly, his bare chest rising and falling in the feeble lamplight. I focused on the scattering of dark hair on his otherwise smooth chest while willing the nightmare to fade from my mind.
But when I closed my eyes, the bloated, ghoulish face still gaped like a gray fish freshly dredged from the Oxus River, bloody gashes where his nose and ears should have been. And the eyes stared at me: glassy and accusing.
Yesterday, I’d listened as a court of Macedonian soldiers condemned Bessus to death, then watched at Alexander’s side as Companions held down the impostor king and another came forward with a pair of heated iron tongs. To his credit, Bessus stared straight ahead, at least until the instrument touched his pockmarked face with a hiss of searing heat. Not even Zeus could have withstood such pain without screaming into the horse rag tied against his mouth.
One quick motion of the tongs and Bessus’ nose fell to the earth, a knobby lump of blood and pink flesh. The ears followed in quick succession.
Alexander grinned li
ke a feral cat at the first bit of justice done to the Persian usurper, then turned on his heel and marched down the wooden platform, the golden eagle tiara that Bessus had stolen from Darius now gleaming at his brow. “See that the remainder of his sentence is carried out,” he ordered me. “Make an example of him in the Persian manner we discussed.”
“Are you still intent on leaving?” I asked, low enough so only he could hear me.
“I am needed in the east to subjugate the mountain rebels.”
“Send someone else,” I said, but he only narrowed his eyes at me.
“Finish this task and travel to Persepolis to oversee Darius’ funeral,” he commanded, flint in his voice. “All shall be as we discussed.”
And thus, Alexander the Great turned his back on this grisly execution, unwilling to linger lest it be said he enjoyed it as he had lighting poor, bumbling Adurnarseh on fire.
Bessus deserved to die, and painfully too, but listening to his defenseless screams and the smell of his shit as he lost control of his bowels was less enjoyable than razing a town of rebellious Persians.
“Bessus of Bactria,” I proclaimed, his pig eyes bulging as a Companion removed his gag. “A Macedonian court found you guilty of regicide and a shouting vote proclaimed that your nose and ears be removed in accordance with Persian law for your treason. To complete your sentence, you shall be executed. Do you have any final words?”
He licked his flaking lips with a pale tongue, the gaping red holes where his nose should have been making wet rasping noises with each bloody inhalation.
“I am not a marauding Macedonian,” he breathed, eyes rolling from the pain. “I am a Persian king and thus, I am not subject to your backward laws.”
I sighed. “I’ve read your code of law; a Macedonian execution seems far kinder than what Darius would have given you for your treason.”
“You know nothing of Persian law,” Bessus said, blood from his lost nostrils oozing into his mouth.
And just like that, he stumbled into Alexander’s waiting trap.
“Fine,” I said. “Who am I to refuse a dying king’s command?” I turned to the Companions. “Bessus of Bactria finds himself in need of the boats.”
Bessus’ eyes bulged in terror. “You wouldn’t,” he said, this time with less bravado.
“Alexander is a just and benevolent ruler.” Even if he didn’t care to witness the full measure of his justice. “He is happy to observe your request of a Persian punishment.”
Bessus began to blubber, so I ordered him gagged again. A parade of slaves brought two boats—not watercraft at all but a massive tree trunk hollowed out and hewn in long halves at Alexander’s command for this very occasion—and hefted them onto the dais. Holes had been carved into the trunk for Bessus’ head, arms, and legs, in order to lock the impostor king inside. But the cramped and awkward space was only the beginning of the agony to come.
“Ready a paste of milk and honey,” I ordered, then turned to Bessus. “That is the prescribed recipe, is it not? And you’ll sit and partake of the regimen, lest the singers and poets remember you as Bessus the Spineless.” I lowered my voice. “Demonstrate the bravery you lacked when you stabbed Darius through the stomach and I might find a way to speed this farce to its natural conclusion.”
He looked scarcely human without his nose or ears, but there was a flash of very human terror in his eyes followed by resignation as almost a dozen guards ripped away his clothes, then smeared the paste of milk and honey on his hairy gut and what remained of his ruined face. The Companions watched spellbound, but my stomach crawled into my throat as moments passed and the first fat flies landed on Bessus’ face, drawn to the sweet scent of milk and honey even more than they were to that of rotting flesh. Before long the air seemed to hum with their beating wings and the black devils landed on the gashes left from his nose and ears. They filled his eye sockets, their iridescent wings and bodies creating a new pair of eyes already glazed like death. Bessus flinched at first, then writhed in silence. Several times he gave such a sudden lurch that the flies disassembled in a shimmering black cloud, then resettled again, their buzzing the music of Hades.
Alexander had ordered a Persian punishment and I’d carried out as much of it as I planned to. I raised my hands to quell the men’s muttering, although a few banged their swords against their shields as Bessus continued to writhe. “Bessus, the impostor King of Kings, requested a Persian punishment, a gift which he has now enjoyed.” This was followed by a few more cheers and several thumps on shields. My men hadn’t read the Persian annals of kings long since dead to know how this scenario was meant to conclude: with Bessus trapped between the boats for countless days, filling the basin with his own excrement until his face erupted with maggots and he finally expired. One Persian chronicler had even outlined the necessity of continuing to feed the victim in order to prolong the torture.
I had seen more than my fill.
My dagger flashed silver, and had it not been for the flies, I like to think that Bessus would have looked at me with gratitude as the blade sliced across his neck. As it was, the insects scarcely shifted as Bessus’ blood poured from the artery in his throat.
I turned my back and marched down the dais with my cape flapping. “Remove the head,” I commanded to no one in particular. “Pack it in salt and I shall present it to Sisygambis.”
The mother of Darius would appreciate the sentiment, knowing that her son’s murderer had been duly punished.
I paused a moment once I was out of sight, scratching like a madman against the swarm of imaginary flies crawling on my arms, beneath my greaves, and down my back. I closed my eyes and drew great heaving breaths of dry mountain air.
I’d killed plenty of men before Bessus, but this was the first time I’d tortured a man. Alexander had lit the fire that killed Adurnarseh, but this time I had let him use me.
There are a few things in this life that make a man a man: his ability to drink and screw, his honor, and his loyalty.
I’d given my honor and loyalty to Alexander, but now they were tarnished and slipping away along with my ability to temper the worst of his excesses. I wanted to blame Alexander, but I knew I had no one to blame save myself.
I’d scarcely blinked to discover Parizad waiting in my tent, clay cups of the sour swill that passed for wine in these mountains in each hand as if he’d known precisely what tonic I needed.
I would do as Alexander commanded, travel to Persepolis and bury Darius’ bones. But in that moment I wanted only to forget what I’d done.
And so I didn’t turn Parizad away, but instead kissed him with a ferocity that made him drop the cups, spilling wine over our feet. He was no Alexander, but he was eager and willing, which was all I needed. Together we grappled naked flesh against naked flesh, as if I might devour him.
But not even that was enough to purge my mind of Alexander’s feral smile, the stench of Bessus’ fear, and the drone of the flies.
• • •
I forged on to the stark fortresses of Sogdiana without even bidding Alexander farewell as I departed for my mission of diplomacy to Persepolis. Parizad accompanied me, proving his worth as a dependable bed warmer and silent companion. He answered my new spells of brooding and flares of temper with patience and forbearance; and I had to remind myself afresh each day that it wasn’t fair to compare him with Alexander.
Nor was it lost on me that Parizad absorbed the worst of my moods as I had always done for Alexander. The realization only made me snarl and snap like an ill-tempered dog.
After several long weeks of travel, we finally entered Persepolis. The once stunning capital still reeled from the fire that had ravaged her ancient treasures, her streets empty save those poor souls who were unwilling or unable to leave. The city’s future was made bleaker by her grief for her lost King of Kings.
As I entered Persepolis’ temple to Ahura
Mazda, which remained blessedly unscathed, I realized that the men I’d left behind with Alexander had the easier task, for facing a tortuous mountain pass naked in a blizzard with ferocious tribesmen bearing down on me would have been more pleasant than greeting Darius’ dowager mother and daughters. Transported here from Susa, the three royal women were veiled and swathed in ebony mourning garb that accentuated their paleness, their expressions reminding me of men preparing for a battle in which they were hopelessly outnumbered. Behind them, guarded by a regiment of priests wrapped in white raiment, was a massive copper fire altar ringed by griffin and siren-men protomes, its basin cold and empty. This temple had housed the flame of the King of Kings, lit on the day that Darius had assumed the Eagle Throne and to be extinguished only when he had breathed his last in this life. Now, like so much of Persepolis, it too was barren and abandoned, save for the impassive bird-men and striding sphinxes meant to ward off evil that had been carved into the walls.
I carried before me a ceramic ossuary box depicting the lush gardens of paradise and behind me Parizad held a second unmarked porcelain chest I’d done my best to ignore during our journey here.
“May Mithra be benevolent and may the maiden lead your son to paradise,” I said, offering the box of Darius’ disarticulated bones to Sisygambis. She hugged it to her frail chest for a moment with liver-spotted hands, rare tears filling her haggard eyes.
“I have only one son now,” she said, “Alexander, and he is king of all Persia. I pray that Bessus will be dragged into the depths of hell,” she said, blinking away the tears as if they’d never existed. I wondered whether she would have said the same had it been Alexander who had killed Darius.
“Bessus’ spirit shall never know the pleasure of roaming Ahura Mazda’s gardens,” Parizad said, bowing to the dowager queen before offering her the second ossuary. Distaste flickered over her expression even before Parizad lifted the lid and released a smell of rot so strong that I had to force myself not to breathe.
The former queen pulled the corner of her black veil over her sharp nose and glanced inside. “Throw that to the carrion at once.”
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