The Novels of Alexander the Great: Fire From Heaven, the Persian Boy, and Funeral Games

5

IT IS THREE HUNDRED miles north up the Tigris valley, from Babylon to Arbela.

Alexander had turned northeast from Tyre, to skirt the Arabian deserts. From the north he would come down. The King marched north with the royal army; and the Household went with the King.

I had pictured an endless column of men, miles long. But the army was spread all over the plain, between the river and the hills. It was as if the land grew men instead of corn. They were wherever one looked, horse, foot and camels. The transport wound along in little trains, where the going was best. Apart, given as wide a berth as lepers, were the scythed chariots, with long curved blades standing out from their wheels and cars. One soldier, who was dim of sight and got in their way, had had a leg taken off, and died of it.

The Household had a fair passage; outriders went ahead to find us the smoothest ground.

Alexander had crossed the Euphrates. He had sent engineers ahead to bridge it; the King had sent Mazaios, the satrap of Babylon, with his men to stop them. But they pushed it out from their own side by sinking piles; when Alexander came up with all his forces, Mazaios’ horse retired. The bridge was finished next day.

Soon we heard he was across the Tigris. He couldn’t bridge that; not for nothing is it called The Arrow. He had simply breasted through it, going first himself to feel the way. They had lost some baggage, but no men.

Then we lost him awhile. He had turned from the river plain, to take his men round by the hills, where it was cooler and would keep them fresh.

When his route was known, the King rode out to choose the field of battle.

He had lost at Issos, his generals had told him, because he had been cramped for room and could not use his numbers. There was a fine broad plain, about sixty miles north of Arbela. I never saw it myself; the Household was to be left in town with the gold and stores, when the King took the field.

Arbela is a grey and ancient city, standing on its hill. It is so old, it goes back to the Assyrians. This I believe, for they still worship Ishtar without a consort. She stares at you in the temple, horribly old, with huge eyes, grasping her arrows.

We were all in turmoil, finding quarters for the women; being shoved aside by soldiers who wanted strong houses for the treasure and billets for the garrison; preparing a house for the King while he should need it (the governor had to turn out for that). There was hardly time to think we were on the eve of battle.

Just as we were settling down, there was crying and wailing in the streets, and a rush of women to the temple. I felt a strangeness, even before I saw the omen. The moon had been eaten by darkness. I saw her last curve vanish, somber and red.

I grew cold. The people were wailing. Then I heard the brisk soldier’s voice of Nabarzanes, telling his men that the moon is a wanderer, so was the Macedonian, and the omen was for him. All those around were heartened. But from the old grey temple, where the women had served Ishtar a thousand years, I could still hear wailing, like a high wind in trees.

The King had sent a great troop of slaves to the battlefield, to level out broken ground for the chariots and the horse. His spies had told him the Macedonian horse were much fewer, and they had no chariots at all, let alone scythed ones.

The next news came not from spies but by envoy. He was Tyriotes, one of the eunuchs attendant on the Queen. Alexander had sent him, to bring word that she was dead.

We wailed as was proper, then the King sent us out. We could hear him shouting aloud, and Tyriotes crying out in fear. At length he came outside, shaking all over, disheveled from tearing his hair and clothes.

He had been captured before my time in the Household, but the older ones knew him well. They gave him cushions, and wine which he badly needed. We listened in case the King should summon us, but heard no sound. He put his hand to his throat; it looked bruised and red.

Boubakes the Egyptian, the Chief Eunuch of the Household, said, “It is never good to bring bad news to the great.”

Tyriotes rubbed his throat. “Why are you not wailing? Mourn, mourn, for the love of God.”

For some time we made the sounds of grief. The King did not call us. We took Tyriotes to a quiet corner. A house is safer for talking than a tent.

“Tell me,” he asked, “has the King been distempered lately?”

We said, only a little out of spirits.

“He shouted at me that Alexander had killed the Queen trying to rape her. I embraced his feet, I repeated that she had died of sickness in the arms of the Queen Mother. I vowed Alexander had not set eyes on her, from that first day till she was on her bier. When she died, he held up his march for a day and mourned her fasting; that was my message, that she had had all her proper rites. What have the spies been doing? Is the King not informed of anything? Surely he knows Alexander does not care for women?”

We said that he had certainly heard as much.

“He should be thankful Alexander did not give the ladies to his generals, as most victors would. He has burdened himself with a royal harem, from which he is getting nothing. The Queen Mother … I don’t know what ailed the King; he should be glad she is well cared for, at her age, by so young a man. It was only when I spoke of it, that he broke out. He said all this grief for the Queen was what a man shows his bedfellow. He took me by the throat. You know what huge hands he has; I am still hoarse from it, you can hear. He threatened me with torture unless I told the truth. To quiet him, I said I would submit to it if he wished.” His teeth were chattering; I held the wine-cup for him, lest he spill it. “At last he believed me; God knows every word was true. But from the first, it seemed to me, he was not himself.”

Still silence from the King. Well, I thought, the bad omen of the moon had been fulfilled. It would calm the people.

The Prince Oxathres had been sent for; now he came, and they lamented together. The Queen had been his full sister by the same mother; he was some twenty years younger than the King. After this, the King’s grief having been released by weeping, we put him to bed; also Tyriotes, who looked ready to faint. His throat had turned black next day; he had to use a scarf to cover it, when the King summoned him again.

He went in terror, but was not kept for long. All the King asked him was, “Did my mother send any word to me?” He answered, “No, my lord; but she was much disordered with grief.” The King then gave him leave to go.

Word came that the battleground was ready, as smooth to drive or ride on as a street. On one flank were the hills, on the other was the river. So the King put off his mourning, as not being proper for leading troops in war. All Persian kings lead the center, as all kings of Macedon lead the right. His chariot was brought up, equipped with all his weapons; he was dressed in his coat of mail.

Two or three eunuchs of the Bedchamber, who always saw to his clothes and toilet, went to attend him in camp. To the last I wondered if he would take me. It scared, yet drew me. I thought I could fight, if put to it, and it would be my father’s wish. I hung about, but the King said nothing. With the rest I stood to see him mount his chariot, and withdrew from his escort’s dust.

Now we were just the Household, women, eunuchs and slaves. The battleground was too far even to ride in sight of. We could only wait.

I went up to the walls, and looked to the north, and thought, I am fifteen years old. I would have my manhood, if it had not been taken away. If my father had lived, he would have brought me with him; he never held me back from anything I dared to do, not even for my mother. I would be with him now among our warriors, laughing together and making ready to die. That I was born to; this I am. I must make the best I can of it.

It came into my head to go round the yards where the women’s wagons were, to make sure the horses were stabled near, the harness mended, the drivers ready and sober. I told them the King had ordered it, and they believed me.

While about this meddling, I ran, to my surprise, into Boubakes of Egypt, the Chief Eunuch; a tall and stately person, who had always been civil to me, but distant; I don’t think he approved that the King should keep a boy. However, he asked me without reproof what I was doing. His own presence was more remarkable.

“I was thinking, sir,” I said, “that the wagons should be ready. Supposing,” I said, looking him in the eye, “the King should pursue the enemy. He would want the Household with him.”

“My own thought also.” He gave me a grave approving nod. It was no lie that our thoughts had been just the same. “The King has a far greater host than he had at Issos. Half as many again.”

“Truly. And the scythed chariots, too.” We looked at each other, and then away.

I hired Tiger, my horse, a private stable, with good strong doors, and took care to keep him exercised.

The King’s Messengers had been set up with their relay-posts, to take dispatches between the King and Arbela. Most days, one came in. In a day or two, we heard the Macedonians had appeared on the hills above the plain of Gaugamela, where the King was awaiting them. Later again, that Alexander had been sighted, shown up by his flashing armor, riding with his scouts to survey the field.

That night there was a great play of summer lightning, which brought no rain. It was as if the north skies were burning. For hours it flickered and danced, without sound of thunder. The air was heavy and still.

Next day I waked in the dawn-dark. All Arbela was astir, the garrison were busy about the horse-lines. At sunup, the walls were full of people gazing north, though there was nothing to see.

I met Boubakes again, visiting the women’s quarters, and guessed he was telling their eunuchs to look alive. Harem duties make such people fat and lazy. Still, these were faithful to their trust, as we were soon to learn.

Taking Tiger for his canter, I felt him on edge; he’d caught it from the other horses, who’d caught it from the men. Coming back I said to Neshi, “Keep a watch on the stable. See no one breaks in.” He asked no questions, but was as twitchy as the horses. In war many chances can happen to a slave, both good and bad.

At noon came a King’s Messenger. The battle had begun soon after sunup. Our army had stood by all night, the King thinking that Alexander, being outnumbered, might try for a surprise; but he had waited till the sky was bright, before engaging. The messenger was the sixth of the relay; he knew no more.

Night came. The soldiers lit watch-fires all along the walls.

Towards midnight, I stood up there near the north gatehouse. It had been hot all day, but the night wind blew cool, and I went back to get my coat. As I returned, suddenly Northgate Street was filled with clamor; men heaving and crushing back from the road, the halting drumbeat of half-foundered horses, the crack of whips. The riders drove on like drunken men who have forgotten where they are going. These were not messengers; they were soldiers.

As they began to come to themselves and slow down a little, people came up with torches. I saw the men white with caked dust, streaked with dark blood; the horses’ nostrils flaring scarlet as they fought for breath, their mouths all bloody foam. The men’s first word was “Water!” Some soldiers dipped their helmets in a nearby fountain and brought them dripping. As if the mere sight had given him strength, one of the riders croaked, “All’s lost … The King is coming.”

I shoved forward and shouted, “When?” One who had had a gulp to drink said, “Now.” Their horses, maddened by the smell of water, were dragging them on, trying to get to the fountain.

The crowd engulfed me. Wailing began, and rose to the night sky. It crawled and surged in my blood like fever. I raised a voice which I hardly knew for mine, a shrill crying like a girl’s; it flowed from me, without my will, without shame. I was a part of lamentation, as a raindrop is part of rain. Yet as I cried, I was fighting to get out through the press. I freed myself, and made for the King’s house.

Boubakes had only just come out upon the threshold, and was calling a slave to go and learn the news. My wailing ceased. I told him.

Our eyes spoke without more words. Mine, I suppose, said, “Again the first to run. But who am I to say so? I shed no blood for him, and he has given me all I have.” And his answered, “Yes, keep your thoughts to yourself. He is our master. That is the beginning and the end.” Then he cried out, “Alas! Alas!” and beat his breast in duty. But next moment he was calling all the servants to make ready for the King.

I said, “Shall I see the women put in the wagons?” The wailing was washing all over the city, like a river risen in flood.

“Ride round to tell the wardens, but do not stay. Our duty is with the King.” He might not approve of his master keeping a boy; but he would look after all his property and have it ready. “Have you your horse?”

“I hope so, if I can get to him fast enough.”

Neshi was watching the stable door, without making a show of it. He had always had good sense.

I said, “The King’s coming. I shall have to go with him. It looks like a hard journey, and worse for foot-followers. I don’t know where he means to go. The Macedonians will soon be here. The gates will all be open; they might kill you, or you might get away, even to Egypt. Will you run with us, or take your freedom? Make your own choice.”

He said he would take his freedom, and if they killed him he would still die blessing my name. He prostrated himself, though he was nearly trampled doing it, before he ran off.

(He did get back to Egypt. I found him quite lately, the letter-writer in a good village not far from Memphis. He almost knew me; I have good bones, and have looked after my figure. But he could not place me, and I kept quiet. I said to myself it would not be proper, now where he was respected, to remind him of his slavery. But the truth is, too, that though the wise man knows all beauty is born to perish, one does not care to be reminded of that either. So I thanked him for pointing me out my road, and went my way.)

As I took Tiger out from his stall, a man ran up, and offered to buy him for twice what he was worth. I had been just in time; soon horses would be fought over. I was glad my dagger was in my sash.

At all the harem houses, there was a great packing and harnessing up; you could hear from outside a cluttering like a bird-seller’s shop, and smell great drifts of scent from the stirred-up clothes. Each eunuch asked me where the King was going. I wished I knew, to set them on their way before their mules were stolen. I knew that some would be caught by the Macedonians, and hated leaving them to their fate; I was less needed where I was going, and my heart was not in it. But Boubakes had been right. Faithfulness in disaster, as my father would have told me, is the only guide.

As I turned back into Northgate Street, my errand done, there was a pause in the wailing, like a storm-wind dropping to silence, and a sound of dead-beat horses. Through the stillness drove the King.

He was still in his chariot, with his armor on. A handful of cavalry came behind him. His face was empty, like a blind man’s whose eyes can open.

There was dust on him, but no wound. I saw his escort, with faces slashed, or a limp arm, or a leg half blackened with clotted blood, gasping with thirst from their bleeding. These men had covered his flight.

On my fresh horse, in my clean clothes, with my whole skin, I had not the face to join this company. I made for the house by side-streets. This was the man who came forward to fight the Kadousian giant, when no other would. How long ago? Ten years—fifteen?

I thought of what he had come from now; the din, the dust-cloud; hurling of man on man and mass on mass; the heaving tide of battle; the sense of some plan reaching out for him, which was the mask for another plan; then the mask whipped off, the trap sprung; finding himself no more than a king of chaos. And then, the presence nearing him that he had seen and fled at Issos, that had haunted him all the way. Should I judge? I thought. On my own face there is not even dust.

It was the last time I could say so for many days. Within an hour, we were off towards the Armenian passes, making for Media.