by Shan Sa
During the audiences her eyes smiled and radiated light. But I, Ania, her faithful servant, could read through her veil. Her body was there with us, but her soul had flown to those distant lands where Alexander fought. Her body was here, mute and cold, imprisoned by the men and women who needed a queen, while her soul was over there, close to him, where she found her joy, her spontaneity, and her words once more.
Our ancestors were right to forbid love, which turns a woman into the living dead!
Alestria, my queen, had become a stone statue.
ALL THE JEWELS he offered me were pebbles.
All that embroidered cloth accumulating in my tent was shrouds.
Nothing was worth as much as his eyes, more precious than emeralds.
Nothing was worth as much as his skin, the most beautiful cloth in the world.
When Alexander realized that these gifts did not dazzle me or comfort me, when he realized that these inanimate things could not replace him, he sent me a parrot, a frog, a girl child covered in hair found on the battlefield.
These creatures that I cared for could not speak for him. In the little girl’s eyes I read the terror of someone who has survived a massacre. I gave her the name Alestries, like the heroine of my unfinished novel.
Alestries was starting to walk and could already babble the language of the Amazons. Her accent only heightened my melancholy. Outside it was eternally summer, but in my heart it was winter, endless frost. Alexander was my only springtime, coming round and leaving again.
I did not want to learn Macedonian or Greek; I was not Roxana, Queen of Asia. I belonged to the grasshoppers, the wind, and the pollen, all things that fly away and never come to rest. I was Alestria, who had halted her gallop for a man.
For a man, Alestria had become Roxana. She had renounced the steppe and turned into a flower planted in a silver pot and transported on a golden chariot.
All the tents covered in gold leaf, the warriors bowing at my feet, the beautiful women submitting to me, all the swift horses and the birds with a thousand shimmering feathers—they were all shadows. I wanted only him, his feet, his hands, his breath.
My life was waiting.
My life was worrying.
My life was joy and wrenching pain, endless dozing and awakening.
Was he injured?
Could he find his way?
Had he been struck by a poisoned arrow? Seen the savage leaping at him from the trees?
While I waited, I grew weaker.
I no longer had any appetite for food, games, or pleasure.
I no longer dreamed. I no longer spoke. I was silent.
I did not know what I was waiting for—for him to come back, for him to leave, for his wounded flesh, for his dead body on the top of the pyre.
I forced myself to eat, to get dressed, to arrange my hair. Before Alexander’s men and women I hid my despair and forced myself to stand upright, to command and be radiant. I granted each of them a silent blessing, a prayer. Soldiers, wives, courtesans, whores, tradesmen, workmen, slaves, horses, dogs…I loved them all because I loved their king.
When alone with Ania, I could not look her in the eye. I was afraid she would discover my secret: I had agreed to be Roxana, Queen of Asia, for the beauty of my beloved. Behind my facade of dignity I had been defeated by suffering, I had grown weak and was no longer worthy of her loyalty. She and the other girls should leave this queen who could not fight her own sorrow. But how could I survive without them?
It was my punishment for relinquishing my freedom.
I MISSED THE steppe. I missed the calls of migrating birds. I thought of the girl children, the foals, the goats. I missed the smell of our cooking. I missed the song of the steppes. I was no longer Tania, the melancholy girl who liked to savor the pleasures of life in secret. I, Ania, was overrun by the impurities of the world of men, disgusted by their massacres, intriguing, and denunciations. I was tired of living among women who did not know how to enjoy life and who argued all day long over a scrap of fabric, a child’s pout, the cost of a ring.
Men and women hovered around me, the queen’s serving woman. They threw me compliments, brought me their regional dishes, gave me gifts, and tried to find me a husband. I turned them away with a scowl.
It was so easy to read their thoughts: they wanted to bribe me in order to win the queen’s favor. They wanted to know the secret of where we came from, our past, our customs. They wanted to know the queen’s moods, what she said, and what she worried about so that they could take great pride in telling the entire city.
These men and women with eyes like an owl’s and ears like a dog’s started speaking ill of us the moment they were back in their own quarters. The queen’s name and the names of her strange servants were on everyone’s lips, all these thankless people growing bored while they waited for the king’s victory. Rumors circulated from one tent to another: a slave girl, a workman, or a soldier would secretly come to inform me of the latest snippet livening their conversations. I, Ania, listened to this gossip as if suffering a thousand bee stings. In a fury, I stormed into my queen’s tent and blurted out the slander I had heard.
People said our queen was an evil witch who had killed Oxyartes’ daughter Roxana and had stolen her skin and her identity. They said that the satrap had agreed to play the role of her father in return for command of the army. They said we came from a dark, shady land where women conversed with spirits, that the queen used black magic to ensnare Alexander’s heart. They said that I, Ania, was cold and cruel, and that I manipulated the queen. I was the one controlling her and reigning over Alexander through her.
Tears sprang from my eyes and down my cheeks. I threw myself at my queen’s feet.
“Let’s go home! These people are mad! They are cursed! The warriors of the steppes kill with their weapons, but Alexander’s men and women exterminate with their tongues!”
Alestria stroked my hair and told me it was not important. She told me white cranes should be able to fly above the flames.
“Alexander has cast a spell over you! He’s hiding behind you to manipulate his people, who need a queen. They want to venerate her, to malign her, to exhaust her!”
“Surely you know I am not Roxana,” she said in reply. “What they say about Roxana is of no concern to me.”
“You who galloped across the steppe, you who fought the fiercest of men, how can you let these simpletons sully your name? They call you a witch as soon as they have had what they want from you: your goodness and purity. Alestria, let’s leave! Leave this evil wasps’ nest! Leave Alexander, master of these disloyal men and women!”
“They are disloyal because they are weak. We should pity them. Do not weep.”
I could not believe what I had just heard. I was angry with her. “Do not weep, is that all you can say to me? I weep every day over my queen’s fate! Alexander does not love you—he married you to have a child. He wants an heir to guarantee the continuation of his dynasty. Just like Darius, just like the men before him, he wants a son from the queen of the Amazons. That is why he comes back, sleeps with you, then leaves!”
Alestria trembled. My well-aimed words had reached her, cut into her. After a brief silence she said:
“You understand nothing of love, Ania. Love is loved by love.”
A dark glow of happiness appeared in my queen’s eye. There in the candlelight I saw it overflow, waft past me, and fill the entire tent.
My queen had gone mad.
ANIA HAD NEVER loved a man. She knew nothing of love or the happiness of reunited lovers: their limbs intertwined, they fell asleep to meet again in their dreams. She did not know the wrenching pain when lovers part, when their bodies feel amputated. She did not know the strength that made me impervious to slander, betrayal, accusations, and intrigues. She did not know this madness: Alexander could take everything from me, I gave myself to him so fully I could tolerate even his absence.
Love lodges itself inside the body, somewhere in the che
st. Love does not get lost and cannot be stolen. Love tortured me and made me beautiful. Love made me despair and filled me with hope. I loved Alexander! Those words steeped me in ice-cold water and in flames, brought me joy and pain. They made blue skies and storms. I felt a hundred years old, and I felt defenseless as a child again.
How could rumors have done me harm? How could malicious gossip hurt me? I who stood in the hanging garden of my suffering and my happiness, what did I care for their comments!
I hated the waiting, I loved the waiting! Not being able to touch him, not hearing his voice, made me weep. When I touched him, when I heard his voice, I already thought of how he would tear himself away from me, depriving me of that touch and those words. So I preferred his absence. I went to bed so that I could join him inside my head, on my inner steppes: he kissed me and whispered to me, making me laugh as we rode across the green waves.
Love is tenderness. Love is terror. Love is a soft cushion and a sword against my throat. No longer seeing the one I loved, no longer having to wait for him, never touching him again—that would have severed my very life.
When Alexander got up and put on his armor to go back to war, he would promise me nothing and I would ask for nothing. Warriors know that every day may be the last; they know that to promise is to lie. They prefer death to the cowardice of those who avoid combat. Between Alexander and myself there was only love: the word death did not exist. He said nothing to me and I said nothing to him. I helped him dress, fastened his sandals, and arranged his hair with my hands. I touched his curls and breathed in the smell of him. Every time might be the last. Death was there, but we pretended to forget it. We who had come so far, we who had come through seasons, storms, and wars to meet, how could we leave each other?
Oh, the white lily of fear, its dazzling purity and peppery fragrance! That is the offering made by intrepid heroes!
Fear is love’s twin. Fear makes love a two-edged sword.
I was afraid from the moment he left in the morning, as his silhouette grew smaller in the distance and was reduced to a trail of dust. I was afraid during the day: a poisoned arrow would burrow into his shoulder, a snake would slither under his armor. I was afraid at night when the howls of famished animals echoed through the woods. I was afraid of traitors and rebels.
Who could say whether we would meet in another life? My god remained silent, and what human would dare make such a promise when every mortal’s promise is a lie?
I had lost everything: my weapons, my armor, my helmet. Now that we no longer galloped across the steppes, my horse was wasting away. Ania had grown aggressive, flying into rages, taking refuge in silence, always restless, running off in tears only to return with a stream of accusations. Forgive me, my sister, I would say, leave me here and set yourself free.
I had lost my white cranes, and lost my stars. Now I had nothing but love, that feeble flame on a vast plain shrouded in darkness. I had only that fire to talk to me, to warm me and support me as I struggled with the shadows and battled my fear.
The lily burns like fire. White blends into red. Fear is love. That was all that was left to me, all I had, all that kept me waiting, my life of love in which there was no room for regret.
Alexander was back! He threw down his arms, took off his clothes, and without a word, bore me off to his bed. His skin burned, his muscles still smelled of the tensions of a man who had endured many days’ battle. New scars had come to hide the old. He was bleeding. Alexander had changed: I could read pain, determination, and anger in his face. I was riveted by his expression. Bloodied horses leaped from his eyes, hordes of savages with barely any clothes dropped from the trees and threw themselves on me. Alexander crushed my breasts and pummeled my stomach, hurting me. I could not breathe and kept my eyes wide open to tell him that it was me, Alestria, his beloved, whom he was assaulting in this way. Suddenly, as if waking from a nightmare, he froze, studied me attentively, and covered my eyes with his hand. His muscles relaxed, and his free hand stroked me gently, in spite of the calluses and wounds. Our bodies twisted and coiled under the sheets, our sweat mingled. Our breathing no longer told a tale of war but of a long and happy journey in which we would never have to part.
“Don’t reject me, Alestria,” he whispered. “Keep my life in your belly. Give me a child.”
My heart leaped: Had he discovered the secret infusions that made Amazons sterile? Was that why he had looked at me strangely and grown so angry?
“I want you to give birth to a child in whom our two bloods will be mixed, our minds united, our bodies fused.”
His words hammered into my head: Alexander knew nothing of the Great Queen’s curse, or of the terrible death that snatches women in childbirth. He did not know that Alestria could lose this war.
“Are you afraid of the pain?” His voice continued to haunt me. “Are you afraid of dying?”
I shuddered: How could he read my thoughts?
“I will be beside you. I will draw the child from your belly. I will bind your wounds and tend you. And then, when we have won that sublime battle, all three of us will sleep together.”
I did not know how or where to hide myself, how to disguise my secrets. Alexander was inside me, inside my head, giving me orders:
“Be brave. Without armor or weapons you can still be a warrior. By giving me a child you can conquer death, sweep aside conspirators, and destroy every enemy army. You alone in the whole world can grant me this victory. Don’t be afraid! This world is yours. Beauty is you!”
NEWS OF REVOLTS reached us from the front. We heard of attempts to assassinate the king and of how the conspirators were executed. According to the rumors, Bagoas tirelessly tracked down traitors and potential murderers. People were saying the king no longer consulted his friends but simply forced his army to keep advancing.
The king returned. Alexander, indefatigable, galloped toward his queen, and his queen ran out to meet him. Alestria could smile once more. She shut herself away in her tent with him, refusing to see anyone. She would not eat or drink because eating and drinking were a waste of time: she wanted to stay by his side, to grow drunk on the nearness of him.
But was Alexander truly in love with the queen?
He came back to inspect his rearguard forces. He spent the morning reading missives from all the Alexandrias, and dictating replies. Once his messengers had galloped off, he called in the commanders responsible for supplies. Huddled over maps of the Indies spread on a table in his tent, he discussed military advances with Ptolemy. During the afternoon he did the rounds of the men’s quarters, checking their armor and trying out lances and arrows. He stopped by the stables and made inquiries about the breeding program. He brought unfamiliar fabric back to the weavers and explained to them how to make more robust clothes. He asked questions of the farmers and dawdled around his scientists, asking them to read some of their writings to him. He brought them gifts of new species of plants, insects, and animals and new kinds of stone, and together they went into raptures about the diversity of nature. He visited the wounded and lavished them with kind words—so many flattering lies, just like the words he spoke to my queen to ensure that she would endure the waiting patiently. But, comforted by his attentions, these men would get back up and set off for the front again with him to die there.
What he really came back for was to give my queen a child. Alexander furiously fertilized her belly in the hopes of spawning a multitude of descendants. He wanted three boys and three girls, and for those three boys and three girls to bring forth sixty princes to govern his empire. What he wanted, as Darius had before him, was to reign over the world of men forever.
Alexander knew I did not like him. He paid me compliments and gave me gifts. He took it into his head to find me a husband and asked me to choose from among his commanders. I was distracted with rage and humiliation, I, Ania, the queen’s intransigent serving woman. I did not like him; I did not even admire him. I loathed him for caging the Amazons who were so wild and fr
ee.
I took my revenge on him in secret, keeping quiet the sense of pride it afforded me. When the king left the queen’s bed to talk to his soldiers I brought Alestria a double portion of the infusion that made her sterile. The queen of the Amazons would bear no child for the king of warriors. Our bodies were not vehicles for masculine domination—our eternity lay in teaching future generations. Our blood had no ambitions to invade the blood of other peoples—our strength converted them.
Alexander came back. He rested in Alestria’s belly, robbing her strength, and then left again. My queen grew thinner: rumors about the obstacles her husband faced had built a nest in her head and laid a clutch of concerns there. She obstinately hid her fears, never complaining about her life of imprisonment. The suffering that burned her and the physical effort she put into silently fighting that fire still managed to make her look radiant. I had never seen my queen more focused or more serene looking. That beauty, sculpted by a combination of pain and dignity, was incomprehensible to Alexander’s courtiers. People whispered that she had a lover; they said a young warrior from Thessaly, recently arrived in camp with Greek reinforcements, had seduced the queen with his fresh face and young body not yet damaged in war. They said this Thessalian nobleman was transfixed by the queen; he wanted to steal her from Alexander and run away with her.
As soon as Alexander caught wind of the rumor, he abandoned his army and came galloping back. Almost before he was inside the encampment, the jealous tyrant asked to meet the queen’s “lover.” His men searched for a long time and reported back that the young man, terrified of Alexander’s anger, had already fled with his soldiers. Furious and consumed with jealousy, Alexander dragged Alestria to his tent and asked her to account for herself.
His flashing eyes, roaring voice, and threatening gestures did nothing to impress Alestria, who had decapitated the most brutal of warriors in her time. She listened to his complaints and accusations without replying, which made Alexander angrier still. With tears in his eyes, he pointed at the gifts he had sent her and cried: