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

7

WITH THE TURN OF winter, we had good news from the north. The Scythians, those in alliance with Bessos, were to send us ten thousand bowmen, as soon as spring cleared the passes. The Kadousians, who live by the Hyrkanian Sea, had answered the King’s summons with a promise of five thousand foot.

The governor of Persis, Ariobarzanes, also got a message through. He had walled, clean across, the great gorge of the Persian Gates, the pass into Persepolis. It could be held forever; any army that went in would be destroyed from the heights above, with rocks and boulders. Alexander would, with any luck, be dead with his men before they reached the wall.

I overheard Bessos saying, as he passed me with a friend, “Ah, it’s there we should be, not here.” Happy for him, had some god fulfilled his wish.

It’s a long hard ride from Persis to Ekbatana, with only one spare horse. Before that news even reached us, if we had known it, Alexander was in Persepolis.

He had tried the Persian Gates; soon found them deadly, and withdrew his men. They had thought him gone. But he’d heard from a shepherd, whom he later made rich for life, of some dizzy goat-track, by which, if he did not break his neck, he could outflank the pass. Over this he led his men, through darkness and deep snow. He fell on the Persians from their rear, while the rest of his people forced the pass, now freed of its defenders. Our men were grain between the millstones. Meantime, we rejoiced at Ekbatana.

Days passed; the snow lay crisp, the sky was clear and windless. From the Palace windows I could see, between the orange battlements and the blue, the town lads throwing snowballs.

Long used to being with men, I had scarcely thought how it would be, to be a boy among others. I had just turned sixteen; now I would never know it. It came to me that I had no friends, as those boys down there would understand it. I had only patrons.

Well, I thought, no use lamenting; it won’t put back what the slave-dealer cut away. There is the Light and the Dark, the Magus used to tell us, and all things that live have the power to choose.

So I rode out alone, to see the sevenfold walls with their colors and their metals, shining in the snow. On the hills a new air touched me, a scent of delight breaking through the whiteness. It was the first breath of spring.

The icicles melted from the waterspouts. Brown rusty grass showed through the snow; everyone went out riding. The King called a war council, to plan for when the roads were open and the new troops came. I took out my bow, and shot a fox in a gully. It had a beautiful pelt, with a silver sheen. When I had taken it to a furrier in the town, to have a hat made out of it, I went back to tell Boubakes. Some servant said he was in his room, he had taken the news hard.

From the passage I heard him weeping. Once, I would not have dared go in, but those days were done. He lay prone on his bed, crying his heart out. I sat down by him and touched his shoulders. He lifted a face all blotched with tears.

“He has burned it. Burned it to the ground. Everything gone, ashes, cinders, dust.” “Burned what?” I asked. He said, “The Palace of Persepolis.”

He sat up and clutched a towel, fresh tears pouring down as soon as he had wiped his face. “Has the King asked for me? I can’t lie here like this.” I said, “Never mind, someone will attend to him.” He went on, gasping and sobbing, about the lotus columns, the beautiful wall-carvings, the hangings, the gilded and coffered ceilings. It all sounded to me pretty much like Susa; but I grieved with him in his loss.

“What a barbarian!” I said. “And a fool, to burn it when it belonged to him.” We had had that news some time.

“He was drunk, they say. You should not ride out so long, just because the King’s in council. He would think it a liberty if he knew; it would do you harm.”

“I am sorry. Here, give me your towel, you need cold water.” I wrung it out for him, then ran down to the guard hall. I wanted to hear the messenger, before he was sick of telling his tale.

Those who had heard were still milling it over; but they had plied him with so much wine that he was now pretty near speechless, and was dozing on a pile of blankets. There was a crowd of Palace people, and some soldiers off duty.

A chamberlain told me, “They were at a feast, all roaring drunk. Some whore from Athens asked him to set the place alight, because Xerxes had burned their temples. Alexander threw the first torch himself.”

“But he was living there!” I said.

“Where else? He sacked the city when first he took it.”

This too I had heard. “But why? He never sacked Babylon. Or Susa.” I had thought, to tell the truth, of some houses there I would gladly have seen in flames.

A grizzled soldier, a captain of a hundred, said, “Ah, there you have it. Babylon surrendered. So did Susa. Now in Persepolis, the garrison made a run for it, or started getting what they could out of the Palace for themselves. So no one surrendered, not in form. Well, now; Alexander gave out prize-money to his men at Babylon, and again at Susa. But it’s not the same. Two great cities fallen, and never a chance to loot. No troops will stand that forever.”

His loud voice had roused the messenger. He had stolen two horses from the stables, while the Palace burned, and had enjoyed his importance here, till the wine had quenched him. “No,” he said thickly, “it was those Greeks. The King’s slaves. They got free, they met him on the way, four thousand of them. Nobody knew there were so many, not till they came together.” His voice droned off. The soldier said, “Never mind, I’ll tell you later.”

“He cried over them.” The messenger gave a belch. “One of them told me so; they’re all free now, free and rich. He said he’d send them all home with enough to live on; but they didn’t want to be seen there, not as they are now. They asked for some land they could farm together, being used to the sight of each other. Well, then he was angry like nobody ever saw him, and marched straight up to the city and let loose his men. Just kept the Palace for himself, till he burned that too.”

I remembered Susa, and the Greek slaves of the royal jeweler; their leg-stumps, their branded and noseless faces. Four thousand! Most must have been there since King Ochos’ day. Four thousand! I recalled Boubakes, bewailing the ravaged beauty. I don’t suppose such people had come much in his way; or not more than two or three of them.

“So,” said the soldier, “there’s an end to the New Year festivals. I was posted there once, it was the sight of a lifetime. Well, it’s war. I was with Ochos’ force in Egypt …” He frowned to himself. Presently he looked up. “I don’t know how drunk he was. He saved his bonfire, till he was ready to be leaving.”

I understood him. Spring was breaking everywhere. But no soldier expects a eunuch to know anything.

“He’s burned his quarters behind him. And you know where he’ll be coming now? He’ll be coming here.”