Alexander and Alestria

Chapter 9

Slaves protected by warriors went ahead of us. Day and night they felled trees and carved out a road on which the Queen's City-a vast nomadic town-could travel through the forest of the Indies in Alexander's footsteps.

At each stopping point the soldiers planted stakes in the ground and built a wall. Ptolemy ruled as master in the men's quarter: he received provisions and gave supplies to the king; he took in the injured sent back from the front, and greeted reinforcements from Greece and conquered lands. Troops were constantly on the move. Over and above the whinnying of horses and the sounding of horns, we could hear the bustle of breeders mating horses from different lands, armorers experimenting with metal alloys, weavers pushing their creaking looms, and cooks noisily slaying calves.

In the women's quarter Alestria rose before the sun to receive her subjects' salutation: men and women formed a long line outside her tent, and one after the other prostrated themselves at her feet-all except for the Macedonian warriors, to whom the king had granted the privilege of greeting her with a bow.

In order to marry her, Alexander had asked Alestria to recognize the satrap Oxyartes as her father and to take the Persian name Roxana. Being extremely jealous, he required her to wear a veil in male company. I, Ania, standing beside my queen for the morning audience, ruminated on my loathing for this man who had robbed her of her dignity while offering her this daily spectacle of veneration.

Alestria cast her black eyes over each of her visitors. Military chiefs brought her news from the front; doctors came to ask for remedies to heal the injured; sages wanted to show her their inventions; soldiers and their wives told her of conspiracies against the king; madmen, outcasts, and criminals groveled at her feet; tradesmen, courtesans, and prostitutes lined up to sing her praises; all of them hoped to reach Alexander through Alestria, all of them wanted to please the king by flattering the queen.

The sun followed its course across the sky. The thud of felled trees, the whicker of foals, and the chanting of slaves wringing out wet sheets reached the tent. On top of this constant racket, men came in and argued, women fought and pulled each other's hair while the babies clinging round their necks screamed. Alestria heard their whispering and sobbing, their shrieked accusations and despairing lamentations, with patience and indifference. People spoke to her in every language: Macedonian, Greek, Persian, and tribal idiom. She did not understand everything, but they thought she did, confiding in her their concerns and corrosive anger. They came to her so that she could bear their pain, jealousy, and hatred. Alestria accepted these bouquets of venomous flowers without complaining about their vicious thorns, listening to them without uttering a word. Her silence was soothing, her attentive expression a balm on their open wounds, her luminous presence purifying.

Men and women alike left feeling appeased. Alestria was the deep, limpid lake before which Alexander's servants prostrated themselves prior to throwing their waste into it. She said nothing and never spoke to me of it, accepting this earthly waste in silence and transforming it into brilliant red fish, twinkling lights, wafting weeds, and water lilies.

When the sun reached its zenith, the audience came to an end. Once released from her duty, the queen called for her horse, galloped to the entrance to the city, and waited for the king's return, sheltering under a parasol erected for her by the soldiers. She remained motionless, her eyes fixed on the horizon, her body taut as a bow trained toward Alexander, toward the target that did not appear.

If horsemen came into view, her body quivered, preparing to launch into a gallop. But Alexander was not with them; they were bringing her gifts from the king. Sad and disappointed, she went back to her tent. She took a little gold knife he had given her and carefully undid the string, the banana leaves, the leaves of gold and silver, and the petals. A gem, an insect, a box, or a feather would emerge, and she would stroke it and spend the next few days looking at this precious object.

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 Oxy-artes' 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 chest. 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 free.

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:

"Alestria, I love you! All of these are proof of that. Wherever Alexander's army goes, the most wonderful gems, the most beautiful animals, the most fragrant flowers, and the most dazzling jewels are all for you, the queen of my heart. On the eve of battle, I shut myself in my tent to sort through your gifts, arrange them, choose them, and wrap them myself! In this warrior's life you are an oasis of peace. I only have to think of you for the tumult of battle to stop haunting me and for happiness and peace to return.

"Alestria, I put my thoughts, my dreams, your smiles, and your happiness into each of these things. Here are a pair of crickets I asked to sing for you. At night their song reaches into your dreams, spreading the words of love I taught them. Here is a feather for you to write your poems and send them to me. I want to go to sleep with your voice telling me that, in spite of the distance, you will always love me. Here is a star of crystal that promises us eternal life. Here is a heart-shaped ruby, it is my own heart, which needs to beat close to yours. However ridiculous they may seem to you, these gifts are me! I am all over this tent, and even when I am away I watch over your well-being. You are not alone, Alestria. When you wear these jewels, when you wrap yourself in these tunics, it is me kissing you and holding you in my arms.

"When I die someday, when my god decides to take me from my queen, you will realize that all these things contain a little part of me. And you will have a treasure from me: my eyes, my mouth, my hair, my tears. You will see that I am still there living beside you, all around you, protecting you, loving you even more than in life. For when I am dead, I shall no longer be a warrior. Freed from my earthly duties, I shall devote my days and nights to loving you, to breathing your presence and you breathing mine, to sleeping inside you, waking beside you, living in your eyes, your mouth, your body, and your soul."

In spite of my hatred of Alexander, I, Ania, was moved by his words. Standing by the door to the royal tent, listening in secret, I shed a few tears.

But Alestria, impassive, remained silent. Alexander fell at her feet, bathing his wife's tunic with his bitter tears.

"You no longer love me, then! You want to leave me for this young man who has not fought! Alestria, forgive me for being away. Don't abandon me!"

My queen's body made a small movement. She took Alexander's face in her hands and stared him right in the eye.

"I want to go into battle! I want to make war by your side. I do not want to be Queen of Asia. I want to defend you and to die for you!"

Alestria's words made me quiver with joy: my queen no longer wanted to live confined to the city. She had deliberately made Alexander jealous of an anonymous soldier-it was her strategy to force her husband to take her into battle.

The king leaped to his feet.

"Never," he cried, "never!"

Alestria pushed him away violently.

"Why not me?" she cried, even more loudly than him. "Why not Alestria, who can fight better than your men?"

"Because you are my queen. A queen is the heart of the empire; she should bear the king's heir," bellowed Alexander. "A queen is someone people venerate. Like a goddess, people whisper her name but do not know her face. You should be an Eastern Athena, inspiring strength, courage, and the union of our peoples."

"I am not some divinity!" Alestria shouted again, trying to be heard by a husband who was deaf to her desires. "I am a warrior who rides faster than any man. Take me with you, Alexander! Disguise me as a man. Ania will agree to take my place and wear my veil. No one will know it is not me. I am leaving with you; I want to stay with you day and night. I want to protect you from arrows drawn to the front, to the left, and to the right. I want to fight with you. Together we can force back the shadows and reach the sun."

My heart leaped: I, Ania, would not wear her royal veil either. I was a warrior, and I had my pride as an Amazon. I would not bury myself alive in this city that supported hordes of eunuchs and women with no muscles, bland dishonest creatures constantly discussing petty intrigues. I too had aspirations to blood, purity, and a glorious death. I would follow Alestria and fight the ape-men, snakes, and crocodiles. I would never be a veiled queen!

But Alexander understood nothing about women. Alexander was so full of his masculine power that he wanted no woman by his side. He did not want his queen to triumph where he had been defeated. He did not want to give Alestria an opportunity to conquer the world with him, for him. He did not love my queen. He looked down on women and thought of us as domestic animals. He threw himself at Alestria and took her in his arms, telling her to stop making these childish requests. He called her his little girl and said he would come back to her more often. He tried to undress her, smiling and telling her that if she loved him she should not die for him but give him a child.

I, Ania, was incensed. Was this love: hiding away a woman as capable of fighting monsters as himself? Was this love: making an Amazon die of boredom and wealth and powerless power? Was this Alexander's love: putting a bird of the glacier in a cage and leaving it there to wither and fade?

Alestria, always so calm and well behaved, was suddenly furious. Interpreting her fury as hysteria, Alexander initially spoke like a patient, indulgent father. But, rather than consoling her, his words only humiliated her further. An Amazon's anger is a fearful thing: she screamed and wept and threw his gifts on the ground. She wanted to go back to the steppes. Having no more clever lies up his sleeve, Alexander too became angry. He blocked the queen's way and roared at her. She took him by the wrists and elbowed him in the stomach, launching him to the ground. He clutched hold of her ankle, tripping her up, then threw himself at her, shouting angrily. She grabbed his throat, but he knocked her out with a powerful clout from his head.

I, Ania, thought with delight that they no longer loved each other and would now part. But their anger was already eroding, the storm was passing, and after the turmoil came the cool, silent night. Alexander took Alestria in his arms and whispered poems of love in her ear.

I wandered through the forest, my heart laden with sorrow as the undergrowth was weighed down by rain. Up in the sky the moon was in its zenith, and the stars had disappeared in its bright light. My queen was like that pure detached moon, forgiving, still shining, still radiant for Alexander, offering him the last of her light.

I kicked out at a tree, and a shower of dew fell from it. Thousands of moons slithered from its leaves and fell, flattened, on the ground.

My beloved blew on my forehead. I stroked his cheek where it was scratched. He looked at me so searchingly.

"Alestria, you who want to fight," he said with a smile, "do you know about war? You know about wielding weapons, about the smell of blood and the squeals of injured horses, but you do not know war. I don't want you to know it. I don't want you to know the madness of men. You who are pure and transparent as tourmaline sown on the ground by the dawn, I have brought you on my journey, but you must not come into my world. You must not know the world I come from."

I said nothing, listening to him.

"War is hundreds, thousands, of men and horses lined up in icy silence. When the horns sound, they throw themselves at each other. Feathers, arrows, lances, shields, everything becomes confused. Arms fly off, thighs are cut open, feet severed. Heads roll and bellies spew out blood. Men in combat are more ferocious than starving animals devouring each other. Striking blows with lances, axes, hammers, and sabers, they mutilate their enemies and send them to their deaths. While some fall, others march over their bodies and fight on. Then silence, the ground strewn with corpses while fresh blood showers over dried blood. Dying horses tremble till their teeth chatter. Survivors wander among the dead, stealing anything of value. Scavengers are drawn from far and wide to enjoy this feast that will ensure their survival. Flies swarm down from the sky, settling on every excrescence of life: white spilling from open heads; green and yellow tumbling from abdomens; red seeping from chests. They cluster on motionless hands still holding weapons, they cloak rigid feet, feet with broken toenails because they have done too much marching. They lick greedily at a hairy ankle, a thigh speared by an arrow, a torso without a head, and wide-eyed heads without torsos.

"Then comes the pain of seeing all those ashen faces. Then comes the dizzying agony of driving your sword into a friend's heart to spare him a slow death. Then comes the regret of ever having been Alexander, just one man alive among the dead…"

It was dark, and I did not move, barely even breathing. Alexander's words tormented me, and my limbs turned to ice in the long silence that followed them.

"War is man's madness!" he went on, his voice mournful. "And I, Alexander, am the flame of that madness. I am the one writing this tragedy that men will still sing about in a thousand years' time. I am a madman suffering this chronic illness and elected by other men like myself. War is an appointment kept by those who thirst for atrocities, an opportunity for them to indulge their longings… When I was twenty I held feasting that went on for days after every battle. I drank to forget death and its fetid smell. I drowned myself in pleasure to rediscover life. At thirty, instead of intoxicating me, these banquets make me sadder still. I would rather shut myself away in my tent alone, far from drunken revelers…"

Without a word, I took my husband to our bed. He undressed and huddled in my arms while I gently stroked his back, scored with so many scars it felt like a tortoise's shell.

"I don't want you to know war," he said hoarsely. "You are the best of me. When I am with you I forget the horror of it, I think only of you. War no longer exists, and I am back to the Alexander I once was, the little boy full of dreams."

I kissed his hair, his forehead, his eyes.

"You must not know the dead. They take the shape of flames, dancing before you and laughing at you. You must close your eyes on the madness of this lowly world. Men make war as women make life. I shall take you to the sun itself without your sullying your hands or feet. And some days I want to be alone, hiding in my tent. No one must see me on those dark days when I am afraid and cold. I shiver and wait for the despair to pass, for hope to bloom again, for courage to return. Alestria, I beg you, let me leave as a conqueror and return as a victor. Let me play the role of a warrior who knows no cowardice or suffering. Let me play the role of a king venerated by every people on earth, a king who lends his fine face and well-proportioned body to sculptors from every land to represent the gods. Courage, honor, greatness, and glory are just empty words. Wars are dirty, conquests merely illusion. Those who back away and flee are just as worthy as those who keep on advancing and embrace death. Despair and hope, fear and temerity, reason and madness, are all twins. Only our love is unique."

My husband's last sentence swept aside all the horrors he had told me about himself. Although still reeling from what he had admitted, I could feel the warmth with which Talaxia and Tan-kiasis had healed my body, battered by the cold and by wounds. I, Alestria, the woman whom my husband had met away from time itself and away from war, I loved him because he was my destiny.

I accepted his madness, his murders, his greatness, and his woes-I accepted them with my eyes open.

"Stop suffering," I told him. "Everything you have just told me will be thrown into the lake that rests deep within my heart. I shall pray for the dead who have finished this life. For them to be born again as birds, free as birds, in the next."

My words soothed Alexander. He pressed his cheek against my breast.

"Sleep, my love. Sleep, my warrior. We are two pilgrims on the road to the glacier. You met me, and I found you. With you in front and me behind, we shall join forces and we will reach the summit."