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

8

IT WAS A DAY of late spring rain, with brown torrents in the gullies, when the King ordered the women to be sent north. They were to go through the pass of the Kaspian Gates, to safekeeping in Kadousia.

I helped load them into the wagons. You could see at a glance the favorites; they looked worn out, with blue streaks under their eyes. Even after these farewells, there were figures lingering on the Palace roof, gazing after them.

To the common soldiers it meant nothing, unless it shortened their lords’ tempers. Their own women would trudge behind them, with the sacks that were their households, as soldiers’ women have done since wars began. Being more used than the ladies to shifting for themselves, not a few had scrambled off from Gaugamela.

Alexander had set out for Media. He seemed in no great haste, attending to this and that on his way. We would soon be on the north road, where the Kadousian and Scythian troops would march to meet us. With them, we would await him, and contest his passage to Hyrkania. So it was said. It was said also, though not so loudly, that if he were heard of within a hundred miles, we would be off through the passes ourselves, to Hyrkania and east to Baktria. “When we serve the great, they are our destiny.” I tried to live each day as it came.

On a clear day in early summer we started out. Where the road turned into the hills, I turned as I rode, to see the light of sunrise gleam on the golden battlements. Beautiful city, I thought, I shall never see you again. Had I only known!

As we passed mountain hamlets, I noticed how lean the peasants were, and how sullenly they watched us. It was a poor countryside, for an army to have lived off. Yet, when the King passed by, they all did reverence. He was godlike to them, set above his servants’ deeds. It has been in the blood of us Persians a thousand years. It was even still in mine, who knew what the god was made of.

We rode through bare open hills, under blue skies. The birds were singing. The cavalry sang as they rode; Baktrians mostly, on their stocky rough-coated mounts. Up here, it was hard to think one would not live forever.

But as we advanced, the singing fell silent. We were nearing the meeting-place appointed with the Scythians. They had sent no forerunners; nor had the Kadousians. Our own scouts had seen no signs of them.

The King retired early. Though the women were gone, he did not send for me. Perhaps what happened at Ekbatana had killed desire; or perhaps it had only happened because desire was waning. If so, I must prepare to be just a Household eunuch, with my little daily duties. Had we been at court, I might already have been allotted them.

If that happens, I thought, I will take a lover. I remembered Oromedon; he had had the sheen on him that, when I looked back, told its tale. I myself had had plenty of offers; discreet, of course, for fear of the King, but I had been let know where I was wanted.

With such follies the young, to whom each joy or trouble seems eternal, will concern themselves while the sky is about to fall.

Two days took us off the north road onto a country track. It led to the plain where the Scythians should be awaiting us.

We reached it about noon, a great space of upland grass and brush. Our camp had been pitched where a few starved trees leaned to the wind. There was a whining of curlews; conies bobbed off among the stones. For the rest, in all my life I had seen nothing look so empty.

The night came down. One grew used to the sounds of the camp; singing, the hum of talk, laughter or quarreling, an order, the rattle of cookpots. Tonight there was just a low muttering, like the sound of a torrent grinding its stones. It went on late. I fell asleep at last to the sound.

At daybreak, I woke to bad-news voices. Five hundred cavalry had slipped off in the night; and nearly a thousand foot, taking all their gear but their shields.

There was a voice outside speaking Greek to the interpreter. It was Patron, the Greek commander. He had come to report his men all present.

Long since, they could have deserted to Alexander, and helped him sack Persepolis. Here they had just their wages, while the treasury held out. Patron was a thickset grizzled man, with the square face not seen among Persians. He came from some part of Greece that had been beaten in war by Alexander’s father, and had brought his men along with him; they had served in Asia since King Ochos’ day. I was glad to see the King show him more warmth than usual. However, when at sunup he called a war council, Patron was not invited. He was a hired soldier and an outlander. He did not count.

The throne was set on its dais; the royal tent was cleared and ready. The lords came straggling up, their coat-skirts flapping in the sharp wind, wearing the best clothes they had left; crowding outside, awaiting leave to enter. To one side, Bessos and Nabarzanes were talking eagerly. Some shock, which felt long expected, came to me from their faces.

I went in, and said softly to Boubakes, “Something dreadful is going to happen.”

“What do you mean?” He grasped my arm till it hurt.

“I don’t know. Something against the King.”

“Why say such things, if you do not know?” He was cross because I had stirred his smothered fears.

The lords came in, did reverence, and took their stand in order of rank. We eunuchs, inside in the King’s sleeping-place, listened through the leather curtains. This was mere custom; it was not a private audience. Though, if we could, we would listen to those as well.

The King spoke from the throne. It was soon too clear that he had composed the speech himself.

He praised his hearers’ loyalty, reminding them—trusting man—how renegades like Mazaios of Babylon had been enriched by Alexander. He talked a good deal of past Persian glories, till I could feel the rising impatience with my skin. The pith came at last; he was for a last stand at the Kaspian Gates, victory or death.

There was a hush so thick, you could have stuck a knife in it upright. The Persian Gates, held by crack troops, had been forced in depth of winter. It was summer now; and as for our troops, could he not feel their temper?

But I, who had once been near him, thought I understood. He had not forgotten the song of my father’s warriors. I felt his craving for lost honor. He had seen himself at the Kaspian Gates, gloriously redeeming Gaugamela. And not one man of all who were here had seen it with him. This was their answer, this dreadful silence.

On the toilet-table was the little knife we trimmed his nails with. I reached for it, jabbed it through the curtain, and put my eye to the slit. Boubakes looked shocked. I handed the knife to him. The King had his back to us; and for the rest of them, if we’d stuck our heads through the curtain, they’d not have noticed.

The King sat stiffly on his throne; I could see the peak of the Mitra, and a purple sleeve. And I saw what he saw—the faces. Though no one had dared a whisper in the Presence, they were all one glitter of moving eyes.

Someone stepped forward; old Artabazos, with his straight shrunk carriage and snow-white beard. When first I’d seen him, I had thought him in good shape for a man running up to eighty. In fact, he was ninety-five. As he approached, the King stepped down, and leaned him his cheek to kiss.

In his firm, high, ancient voice, Artabazos said that he and his sons would stand, to the last man, with all their people, in whatever field His Majesty should see fit to choose. The King embraced him. He withdrew to his place. For long moments, silence returned.

There was a movement, a low murmur. Nabarzanes came forward. I thought, It is now.

He was wearing the grey wool coat with embroidered sleeves, which he’d had on that night at Ekbatana. It was old and frayed. I daresay he had no better, so much had been lost. Power and danger hung about him, from his first words.

“My lord King. In this hour of so grave a choice, it seems to me we can look forward only by looking back. Firstly, our enemy. He has resource, great swiftness, and resolution. He has good troops, attached to his person. It is said, with what truth I cannot tell, that in hardships and in courage he is their example.” He made a tiny pause. “At all events, he can now reward loyalty with Your Majesty’s wealth. All this is said of him; but what else do we hear wherever his name is spoken? That he is fortunate; that he has all the luck.”

A longer pause. They hardly breathed, now. Something was coming; and some of them knew what.

“But is this so? If I find a stray blood-horse on my land, you may call me fortunate. Or you may call its owner unlucky.”

People at the back, who knew nothing, shifted about. The stillness in front was louder. I could see the purple sleeve stir on the chair-arm.

“Let godless men,” said Nabarzanes smoothly, “speak of chance. We, surely, reared in our fathers’ faith, believe all things are disposed by heaven. Why should we think the Wise God favors Alexander, an outland robber following other gods? Should we not rather, as I said, look back, seeking some past impiety for which we suffer punishment?”

The silence was now entire. Even the most ignorant had caught, like dogs, the scent of thunder.

“Lord King, the world knows with what blameless honor Your Majesty assumed the throne, after horrors you had no share in.” His voice had sunk to a deep leopard-purr of irony. “Through your justice, a treacherous villain did not live to boast of them.” (He might just as well have added, “or to accuse you.”) “And yet, what has been our fortune since? We are the bowl Alexander’s luck has emptied. My lord, it is said that curses can outlive the guilty dead. Is it not time to ask if Mithra, Protector of Honor, is yet appeased?”

Stillness. They had begun to see, but did not yet believe.

Nabarzanes’ voice altered. Towering Bessos moved up towards him.

“My lord King, our peasants, when they are lost in their own hills, turn their coats, that the demon leading them astray may no longer know them. There is old wisdom in simple folk. We too, I now believe, must turn the unlucky garment, though it be of purple. Here is Bessos, who shares with yourself the blood of Artaxerxes. Let him wear the Hood, and command till this war is over. When the Macedonians are driven out, Your Majesty can return.”

At last, they believed. In the lifetimes of us all, two kings had died by poison. But it was a thing unknown to man, that a Great King, robed and enthroned, should be told to get up and go.

The silence broke; loud cries of assent, prompt and prepared; shouts of dismay and outrage; mutterings of doubt. Suddenly a great shout of “Traitor!” drowned all the rest. It was the King, striding down from the dais in his purple robe, his scimitar drawn, making for Nabarzanes.

He was terrible in his size and fury. Even to me, in his royal state he was clothed with godhead. I looked to see Nabarzanes blasted at his feet.

Instead, there was a crowd about him, Nabarzanes and Bessos and the chief Baktrian lords, clinging in supplication. As they clung, begging mercy, they pulled down his sword-arm. His sword hung, uncertainly. They all prostrated themselves, bewailing their offense, saying they would withdraw from his displeasure, till he gave them leave to see his face.

They backed out. And all the lords of Baktria followed them.

Someone was panting beside me. Boubakes had made a slit in the curtain, about twice the size of mine. He was trembling from head to foot.

The tent now milled like a kicked anthill. Old Artabazos, his sons, and loyal Persian lords crowded round the King, protesting their sacred faith. He thanked them, and dismissed the council. We had hardly time to put ourselves in order, before he was inside.

In silence, he let Boubakes disrobe him and put on his leisure gown. He lay down on the bed. His face looked sunken, as if from a month-long sickbed. I slipped outside, without obeisance, without leave. It was an unheard-of thing to do. I simply knew that just now, there was no one he would not sooner see about him. Boubakes never reproved me.

I went out into the camp. My clothes were well-worn, and smelled of the stables now I had no servant. No one noticed me.

The Baktrians were busy about their quarters. They were starting to strike camp.

Quick work indeed! Had Bessos’ fear of the King been real? Yet I could not see Nabarzanes giving up so easily. I pushed in among a crowd of Baktrians on their way; they were so full of their own concerns, I felt invisible. Mostly they were saying their lord ought to have his rights, it was time for a man to lead. But one said, “Well, no one can say, now, that the King didn’t have his chance.”

Separate and neat, as always, stood the Greek encampment. No one was striking tents there. They were just crowded together talking. Greeks are great talkers, but have often something to say. I walked over.

They were so engaged, I was in among them before anyone even spoke to me. Then one broke away and strode over. As he came, I’d taken him for forty, but now saw he was ten years younger; war and weather had done the rest.

“Beautiful stranger, do I see you here at last? Why do you never visit us?”

He still had real Greek clothes, though the stuff was threadbare. He was tanned as brown as cedarwood, and the sun had faded his short beard much lighter than his hair. His smile looked honest.

“My friend,” I said, “this is no day for beauty. Bessos wants to be King. He’s just told the King so.” I did not see why I should keep from loyal men what every traitor knew.

“Yes,” he said. “They wanted us to come over. They offered double pay.”

“Some of us Persians keep faith too, though by now you must be doubting it. Tell me, what are the Baktrians up to? Why are they striking camp?”

“They won’t go far.” He was eating me with his eyes, quite frankly, yet without offense. “I doubt they’ll even go out of sight. From what they told Patron, on the face of it they’re withdrawing from the King’s presence on account of having offended him. Of course, it’s really to show their strength. We’ll be thin on the ground without them. That’s what they want us to see. Well, I’ve not served as long in Asia as Patron and his Phokians; but I know what good Persians feel about the King. It’s not our way in Athens; but our way’s come to grief too, that’s why I left. So I serve where I sign on, and where I serve I keep my bargain. A man must have something to put his pride in.”

“You may well do that. All of us know it.”

He looked at me wistfully with his bright-blue eyes, like a child asking for something it knows quite well it won’t get. “Well, our camp will still be here at nightfall. What do you say to slipping out for a drink with me? I could tell you about Greece, since you speak the language so well.”

I nearly laughed, and said I needed no telling. But I liked him; so I just said smiling, “You know I serve the King. And just now he needs his friends.”

“Well, no harm in trying. My name’s Doriskos. I found out yours.”

“Goodbye, Doriskos. I daresay we’ll meet again.” I had no such expectation, but wanted to show goodwill. I gave him my hand, which I thought he’d never let go of, and returned to the King’s tent.

He was shut up alone. Boubakes said he would see no one, or even eat. Nabarzanes had taken all his cavalry, and had made camp alongside Bessos. Thus far Boubakes got, and broke down in tears. It was dreadful to see him stuff his sash-end into his mouth, not to hide it from a young nobody like me (that was all I was, now) but lest the King should hear.

“The Greeks are loyal,” I said. Once he would have scolded me for going anywhere near them. Now he just asked what were two thousand men, against more than thirty thousand Baktrians, and Nabarzanes’ horsemen?

“There are the loyal Persians too. Who’s commanding them now?”

He wiped his eyes on the other end of his sash and said, “Artabazos.”

“What? I don’t believe it.”

It was true. The ancient was doing a general’s round of the Persian camp, seeing the lords and captains, heartening them before their men. Such fidelity must have moved a stone. It was strange to think that when already old by most men’s reckoning, he had been a rebel. But that was against Ochos, who I daresay gave him little choice between that and death.

Returning from his task, he came to the King, and got him to take food, which they ate together. We were told to withdraw, but overheard their talk. Since it was now unthinkable to lead the troops to battle, they would be marched tomorrow through the Kaspian Gates, starting at dawn.

While we were eating supper in our tent, I said what I could no longer contain in silence. “Why didn’t the King go round the camp himself? He could be Artabazos’ grandson; he’s only fifty. He should make them want to fight for him.”

They turned on me outraged, all together. Was I out of my mind? The King to bare his countenance to common soldiers, like a mere captain? Where would his royalty be, what reverence would they have for him? Far better he should bear adversity, as now, with the dignity of his sacred rank.

“But,” I said, “Kyros the Great was a general in the field. I know, I come from his tribe. His men must have seen him every day.”

“Those were ruder times,” said Boubakes. “They cannot return.”

“So we hope,” I said. I put on my coat again.

By now it was full dark, but for the watch-fires, the torches spiked here and there into the ground, and the chinks of some lamplit tent. Passing a dead torch, I smeared some of its soot across my face, made my way to the nearest watch-fire, where I had heard a Baktrian accent, and squatted down with the crowd.

“You can tell God’s curse is on him,” the Baktrian captain was saying. “It’s sent him mad. Marching us through the Gates, to be trapped like rats between the mountains and the Hyrkanian Sea. When Baktria could hold out forever.” He went on about its countless strongpoints, each one impregnable except to the birds of heaven. “All we need, to finish the Macedonians there, is a king who knows the country. And how to fight.”

“Baktria,” said a Persian, “I know nothing of. But don’t talk of God’s curses, if you turn against the King. That’s god-cursed, if anything ever was.”

There were murmurs of agreement. I wiped my nose on my fingers in a vulgar way, looked stupid, and slid off out of the firelight.

Hearing talk in a tent ahead of me, I was about to slip round it, away from the bright torch outside, when a man came out, so briskly that we collided. He took me by the shoulder, not roughly, and turned me round to the light.

“My poor Bagoas. We seem always to meet like this. Your face is quite black. Has he taken to beating you every night?”

His teeth grinned white in the torchlight. I knew he was as dangerous as a hunting leopard, yet could not fear him, nor even hate him as I knew I ought.

“No, my lord Nabarzanes.” By rights I should have bent my knee; I decided not to. “But if he did, the King is the King.”

“Well, so. It would have disappointed me, if your loyalty had not matched your beauty. Do wipe that dirt off your face. I shan’t harm you, my dear boy.”

I found myself rubbing it with my sleeve, as if I owed him obedience. He means, I thought, that it is too late.

“That is better.” He took off with one finger a smudge I had passed over. Then he laid his hands on my shoulders. His face was no longer mocking. “Your father died for the King, I’ve heard. But Arses was the trueborn heir, and fit to lead us. Yes, in Arses we would have had a warrior. Why do you think Alexander has not overtaken us? He could have done it long ago. I will tell you the reason; it is contempt. Your father died for our Persian honor. Remember that.”

“I don’t forget it, my lord. And I know where my honor lies.”

“Yes, you are right.” He pressed my shoulders and let them go. “Go back to him. You might lend him some of your manhood.”

It was like the pat of a leopard, claws pricking through the soft paw. As he left, I found that, without thinking, I had bent my knee.

At the royal tent, I met Artabazos leaving. I made reverence and would have passed, but he put out his blue-veined hand. “You have come from the camp, my boy. What did you find?” I told him it was full of Baktrians, trying to subvert the loyal Persians. He clicked his tongue tetchily. “I shall have to see these men.”

“Sir!” I said, careless of the impertinence, “you must sleep. You have had no rest all day and half the night.”

“What I must do, my son, is see Bessos and Nabarzanes. At my age, we don’t sleep as you young folk do.” He did not even take a staff to lean on.

He was right. As soon as I’d told Boubakes the news, I lay down, and fell asleep like the dead.

The horns aroused me, with the call “Prepare to march.” I opened my eyes, and found all the others gone. Something was happening. I scrambled my clothes on, and went out. The King, dressed for the march, was standing before his tent, his chariot already waiting. At his feet knelt Bessos and Nabarzanes. Old Artabazos stood by.

The King was saying how their disloyalty had grieved him. Both hung their heads, and beat their breasts. Bessos’ voice, one could have sworn, had tears in it. His only wish, he cried, had been to ward off from the King a curse called down by others, as he would have lifted his shield in battle; he would have taken the curse on himself, and borne the wounds. Nabarzanes, touching the King’s robe, said that they had withdrawn in awe of his displeasure; it would be their life’s joy to be received in his grace again.

I looked with respect and wonder at Artabazos, whose work was thus rewarded; a soul beloved of Mithra, one to go straight to Paradise, whom the River of Ordeal would never scald. All was well again. Loyalty had returned. Light had conquered the dark Lie. I was still quite young.

The King, weeping, reached out his hands to them. They prostrated themselves and kissed the ground before him, declaring themselves the happiest of men and the most devoted. The King mounted his chariot. Artabazos’ sons tried to get their father into a wagon, where he could rest. He scolded them soundly, and called for his horse. They withdrew abashed. The eldest was over seventy.

I went off towards the horse-lines. The soldiers, who had been milling and mixing and disputing through the night, were being shoved into marching order. The Persians were shaping best; but then, they were fewer. Fewer than last night, by far. So were the Baktrians; even with their numbers, it showed.

That came of the long night’s trafficking. The Persians, knowing themselves outnumbered, had made off by hundreds; but they had put some Baktrians, too, in dread of vengeful Mithra. Between fear of him and Bessos, they had chosen the long walk home.

Riding back towards the Household wagons, I saw the Greeks lined up in column of march. They were all still there. Also, all armed.

On long marches when no action threatened, they had always piled their armor, helmets and weapons in their carts, keeping only their swords; wearing their short tunics (made from all kinds of stuff, they had been so long from home) and the wide straw hats Greeks travel in, their skins being tender to sun. Now they had on corselets or cuirasses, helmets, even greaves if they owned them, and their round shields hung at their backs.

Just then one fell out, and waved to me. It was Doriskos. What does he take me for, I thought; I will show him if he can make a fool of me in public. I was just going to kick my horse to a canter, when I saw his face. It did not look like dalliance. I rode up.

He grabbed my boot, and motioned me to lean over. No dalliance in that either. “Can you get word to the King?”

“I doubt it. He’s on the road, I’m late. What is it?”

“Tell him not to be fooled. He’s not seen the end of it.”

“Oh,” I said cheerfully, “that’s over, they’ve sued for pardon.”

“We know that. That’s the thing; that’s why Patron made us arm.”

My belly closed on itself. I said, “What does it mean?”

“No one kept camp last night. It’s common talk. They hoped to bring in the Persians; if they had, they’d have acted today. But the Persians said it was god-cursed; that’s why so many made off. It’ll be later now, when we’re through the Gates; then they’ll do it.”

I remembered my life, and despised my faith in men. “Do what?”

“Take the King, and trade him to Alexander.”

I had thought that I knew treachery. I had been an unborn child.

“Steady up, don’t look so green.” He reached up to keep me in the saddle. “Listen now; they’re snakes, but they’re not fools. The King’s the King, but he’s not the world’s best general, let’s admit. This one stroke would get him out of their way, and let them buy peace with Alexander. Then they’d go to Baktria, and make it ready for war.”

“Don’t hold me on, people are looking.” I had quickly come to myself. “Alexander would never trust them, men who had done that.”

“They say he’s overtrusting, when faith’s been pledged to him. On the other hand, God help you if you break it. I saw what he left of Thebes … No matter; just tell the King.”

“But I haven’t the rank to go up to him in public.” This would have been true even when I was in favor. “It must be your general; no one less.”

“Patron? The King hardly knows his face.” He spoke not without bitterness.

“I know. But he must.” None too soon, I had started thinking. “The King can speak Greek. Some of us do in the Household. But Bessos always asks for the interpreter; so does Nabarzanes. If they’re listening, Patron can still warn the King.”

“That’s worth knowing. I’ll tell him that. We’re a handful to the Baktrians; but if the King trusts us, we might still get him away.”

I soon overtook the Household; it had not gone a quarter-mile. The Sun Chariot had been lost at Gaugamela; but two Magi with the altar still walked in front. Behind that, all order was falling apart, all precedence shattered. Men of both kinds were edging each other to get near the King. Boubakes was riding just behind his chariot, a thing unheard of. At his side, on a great Nisaian charger as heavy-boned as a bull, rode Bessos himself.

I fell in by Boubakes. He looked at me with dull sleepless eyes, as if to say, “After all, what matter?” We were too near the King to talk.

The shaded litter was left behind at Arbela; those days were gone. He would be tired, after all day in a chariot. Something I felt for him still, beyond mere duty. I remembered him playful, kindly, amused, and in the follies of pleasure. He knew himself despised. Perhaps he had known it when he struck me.

The King was the King; he could not have believed this sacred state could be altered, except by death. Disaster after disaster, failure on failure, shame on shame; friend after friend turned traitor; his troops, to whom he should have been as a god, creeping off like thieves every night; Alexander approaching, the dreaded enemy; and, still unknown, the real peril at his elbow. And to trust in, whom? We few, who for the use of kings had been made into less than men; and two thousand soldiers serving for hire, still loyal not for love of him, but to keep their pride.

As we marched, the road rising through bare uplands, I suppose there was no one in the Household who was not thinking, And what will become of me? We were only human. Boubakes thought, perhaps, of want, or a dreary life in some low-rank harem. But I had only one skill, I had only known one employment. I remembered slavery in Susa. I was no longer too young to find the means of dying. But I wished to live.

The road climbed higher. We were coming to the pass. Here was the barrier range of the Tapourians, great peaks, barren and harsh, so high that in summer they were still tipped with snow. Up the foothills wriggled our worm of road, and vanished in a cleft. In spite of all, my heart quickened. Beyond must be the sea, which I had never seen.

At each higher turn, rose a new wall of stark stone, weather-scoured, no living thing but a few cypresses bent like cripples. Here and there by a stream were poor fields and huts, whose wild people fled like rock-rabbits. But the air was like crystal. Ahead, plunging in shadow, was the steep gorge of the Gates.

Alexandria is a splendid city, with everything a sensible man can need. I daresay I shall end my life here, without ever again going far away. But when I remember the high hills, and a pass mounting to its unknown revelation, I will not think so. Even then, knowing the evil and the danger, knowing all I had known before, even then I felt it; ecstasy, prophecy, light.

A sheer cliff close above, a sheer drop below, far down the roar of water; we were in the Gates. Even so high, the rock-wall flung back the heat and the column labored. Surely, this pass could have been held. Just ahead, Bessos on his great horse still rode beside the King. No sign of Patron. Why should he heed my message, second-hand, and from the King’s minion at that?

The road flattened and opened. We were at the pass-head; Hyrkania lay below us. It was another country. The mountains were clothed with forests, green fold after green fold. Then a narrow plain; and beyond, the sea.

From this height, the horizon stretched immense round its sheet of silver. I caught my breath with delight. The black shores puzzled me; I did not know they were covered with flocks of cormorants, millions and millions, fed by its endless shoals of fish.

The Tapourian range is a great parting of the waters. Truly, it was to be so for me.

Soon we were winding down among the trees. Streams plashed and trickled over red-stained boulders; the water was delicious, very cold with a tang of iron. We made halt in a pine grove, setting cushions for the King, and seeing to his retiring-tent.

When we set off again, the air grew closer and moister, tall trees held off the breezes that had tingled on the pass. We had halted late, because of its bleakness; now in the deep groves already the shadows darkened. Looking about, I was aware of someone new, riding just behind me. It was Patron.

He was a veteran. He had not labored his horse uphill when the going would soon be easier. I caught his eye, and fell back to give him my place. He dismounted, and led his horse; in sign of respect, or to be noticed. His eyes never left the King.

It was Bessos who saw first. His back stiffened; he came nearer the King, and started some kind of talk with him. Patron plodded along behind.

The road bent sharply. As the chariot turned, the King saw him, and showed surprise. No one should stare at the Great King’s face, but Patron fixed his eyes on it. He made no gesture; just looked.

The King spoke to Boubakes, who fell back, and said to Patron, “His Majesty asks if there is anything you want of him.”

“Yes. Tell His Majesty I would like a word, without interpreters. Say it is not for myself, but in his service. Without interpreters.”

Boubakes, his face changed, repeated the message. The chariot had its drags on for the slope, and was moving slowly. The King beckoned Patron up. I took his bridle, and led his horse for him.

He stepped up to the chariot, the other side from Bessos. His voice was low, I did not hear what he said; but Bessos could have heard it. Patron had taken the risk, on my bare word.

Soon he must have seen, from Bessos’ look of baffled anger, that I’d not misled him. His voice grew louder. “My lord King, pitch your tent in our camp tonight. We have served you a long time. If you ever trusted us, believe me, you need to now.”

The King was quite quiet. His countenance hardly altered. I was the better for his fortitude; one needs some pride in one’s master. “Why do you say this?” He spoke haltingly; his Greek was no better than mine. “What do you fear for me?”

“Sire—it is your cavalry commander, and that one there beside you. You see why I can’t speak names.”

“Yes,” said the King. “Go on.”

“Sire, they lied this morning. It will be tonight.”

The King said, “If it is ordained, so it will be.”

I understood his quiet. My heart sank like a stone. He had despaired.

Patron came nearer, leaning to the chariot. He was an old soldier, he knew what he had heard. He put out his strength, as if to hearten a flagging battle-line. “You come over to us, sire. What men can do, every one of us will do it. Look at all this woodland. When night comes, we’ll get you away.”

“To what, my friend?” With despair, he had recovered dignity. “I live too long already, if my own people wish me dead.” I don’t know what he read in Patron’s face, which I could not see. “Be assured, I trust you. But if what you say is true, you are outnumbered ten to one, you and the faithful Persians. I will not buy a few hours more of breath, at the cost of all your lives; that would be poor thanks to you. Go back to your men; and tell them that I value them.”

He saluted, and fell back behind the chariot. As he took back his horse, his eye said, “Well done, boy. No fault of yours.” I turned to look at Bessos.

Dark blood engorged his dark face. He looked like a demon. He could not tell what Patron had revealed. For one moment I thought he would draw his sword upon the King, and butcher him out of hand. However, a dead king was spoiled merchandise. He took time to master himself; then he said to Darius, “That man means treachery. No need to know his tongue, it was in his face.” He paused, hoping to draw some answer; but the King was silent. “The scum of the earth. No stake in any country, on sale to the highest bidder. Alexander must have outbid you.”

Even from a kinsman, this was insolence. The King said only, “I trust not. His suit was refused in any case.”

“Sire, I am happy for it. I hope you trust my good faith as you did this morning; may the gods witness it.”

The King said, “May they be my witnesses also.”

“Then I am happier still.”

“But if Patron is the man you think, he will be foolish to count upon Alexander. He rewards surrender; but he is very harsh to treachery.”

Bessos looked sidelong under his black brows, and said no more. We wound downhill through the darkling forests. The high peaks, where we could glimpse them, still glittered golden. Here it would soon be night.

We made camp in a broad open glade. Long fading bars of red sunlight crossed it. It felt close and hot. I daresay at sunrise it would have looked delightful. None of us saw the sun rise on it, so I cannot say.

There was a village somewhere near. The Persian soldiers went off to forage in the usual way. When they were gone into the trees, the place was still full of men. The Baktrians had all remained, and were building watch-fires. They were still all under arms. We knew what it meant. It was like the last turn in a long fever.

Oxathres came to the King, and said that when the loyal Persians came back, they would make a fight of it. The King, embracing him, told him to do nothing without orders. He was a brave soldier, but none of that kin had the makings of a general. Patron could have done more with two thousand men than he with twenty thousand; I daresay the King knew it. When he had gone, he sent for Artabazos.

I found him, a little stiff from his ride but still alert. As I led him to the King, I saw the Greek camp by itself among the trees. They were still all armed, and had set outposts.

Round the royal tent stood the Royal Bodyguard; there were still some Immortals left, armed with their spears of honor. The gold pomegranates caught the firelight; and their eyes, staring somberly before them.

From within, we heard the King give Artabazos Patron’s news. He was some time silent, thinking no doubt of his long night’s labors. Then he besought the King to make camp among the Greeks; the Persians, for whom he himself would answer, would rally in strength to the Greeks, if the King were with them. I was thinking, Poor good old man, you have lived too long for your peace, when he added briskly, “These Greeks are soldiers by trade. The Baktrians are only called out on levy. I saw discipline in Macedon. The difference between a blood-horse and an ox. Trust to the Greeks.”

How often we had listened like this from mere curiosity, or to be abreast of some small intrigue. We listened now for our lives.

“It is finished,” said the King. “All my life I have hoped too willingly. Lately it has cost too much, to too many men. Now I have put hope away, do not wish it back to me.”

There was a smothered sound. It was Artabazos weeping.

“Dear friend,” said the King, “you have lost many years with me. The rest are yours; go with the Wise God’s blessing.”

The weeping went on. The King raised his voice and called to us. Artabazos was clinging to him, small against his height, the old face buried in his robe. He embraced him, saying, “This faithful servant will not lay down his charge; but I have released him. Lead him away.”

He loosed the old man’s hands, which clung like a child’s; it took all of us to ease him out without roughness. The King hid his face from it. We saw Artabazos to his people; when we returned, and looked for the King, at first we did not see him. He lay prone on the ground, his head upon his arms.

One thought was in all our minds. But no weapon was near him, his shoulders moved with his breath. He lay like the rundown hare, coursed to its limit, awaiting the hounds or spear.

He had not dismissed us. We did not know what to do, but gazed at this painful sight in silence, feeling our own despair. After a while, a thought came to me; I fetched his sword from within, and laid it on the table where he could find it easily. Boubakes saw what I was about, but looked aside.

For my master, I had done this last thing. I could not feel, There lies the one who was my lover. I was in his service, and had served as I was called to do. He was the King.

After a while he moved his head, and gave us leave to go.

Our sleeping-tent had been half put up and left; one end sagging from a loose pole, the other end on the ground. No slaves were to be seen. From all around came a discord of quarreling, arguing, orders shouted in vain. It was no longer an army, only a great confused crowd of tribes and factions. For a while we sat together on the slack tent-hides, whispering. Then I looked up and said, “The Bodyguard has gone.”

I went to make sure. Nothing, not so much as one gold-hafted spear. The Immortals had put off their immortality. We were alone.

After a time of silence, I said, “I think he spoke. I’ll see if he wants anything.”

He was lying as before. I stepped up softly, and knelt by him. I had heard nothing; but old days had come back to me. The very perfume I was wearing had been his gift. When all was said, I was not just like the others.

He lay, his head on one arm, the other flung forward. I dared not take his hand unbidden. He was the King.

He moved, aware of me, and said, “Send me Boubakes.”

“Yes, sire.” I was someone to take a message. He had forgotten.

Boubakes went in. Suddenly he gave a great wail, such as is only heard at a death. All three of us ran inside. The sword still lay on the table, the King upon the ground. Boubakes knelt there, beating his breast, tearing his hair and clothes. We cried, “What is it?” as if the King had not been there. All things we knew were breaking.

Boubakes sobbed, “His Majesty bids us go.”

The King leaned up on one arm. “You have all done your duty well. You can do no more for me. I acquit you of your service. Save yourselves while you can. This is my last command to you; you will all obey it.”

A vast horror overwhelmed us: the doomed King, the forsaken tent, the black strange forest full of wild beasts and enemies. I hope it was for him we wept; it is easy now to think so. We cried aloud in the night, drunk with fear and grief; like mourners at a bier, each threw his voice into the outcry, no longer knowing which of its sounds was his.

As I flung my hair back from my eyes, I saw someone at the entry. Even in my distraction, I remembered there was no guard. I went over just as I was. It was Bessos and Nabarzanes, with men behind them.

Bessos looked at the prone King, struck his fist into his palm, and said to Nabarzanes, “Too late! I warned you.” He ground his teeth together.

Nabarzanes said, “I never thought he could do it.” His face had no anger; only respect, and perhaps relief. He caught my eyes, and gravely nodded.

Bessos seized my shoulder in his huge paw and shook me. It lifted me off my feet. “Did he finish it? Is he gone?”

Boubakes answered for me. “I rejoice, my lord, His Majesty is in good health.”

Nabarzanes’ face set hard as a wall-carving. He said to Bessos, “So, then. Come.”

The King rose to his feet as they came inside. He said only, “Why are you here?”

“I am here,” Bessos said, “as King.”

The King was quite quiet. “What kingdom has God given you?”

“I have obeyed the people’s wishes. You should have done the same.”

The King said, “As you see, I am no longer able to punish traitors. But I know who will.”

Bessos lifted his head. “I am ready to abide the judgment of Mithra.”

“So I suppose, since you do these things. But I was speaking of Alexander.”

Nabarzanes, silent till now before him, said, “Don’t name the enemy to whom you have given our people. We do this to set them free.”

“Come with us,” said Bessos.

I thought, Shall I put his sword in his hand? But he was in reach of it. It was no right of mine, to tell my master when to die.

He stepped back; I think he meant to take it. But he was never swift in act, or certain in mind. As he moved they closed on him. He was a big man; but his muscles had grown slack. When their men came in, he ceased resistance. He stood with dignity; he could suffer like a king, at least. Perhaps Bessos felt it. He said, “Well, if we must bind him, let his fetters match his rank.” He took off his massive gold neck-chain, and, while two Baktrians held the King’s arms behind him, wound it round them like a rope.

They led him out between them, their hands on his shoulders as if he were a felon. From the Baktrians outside came low muttering, confused shouts, and laughter that was half fear.

Near by stood a common transport cart, roofed with hides. The tents had been brought in it. Towards this they led him. We stared after him, unbelieving, helpless, dumb. Boubakes, rousing himself, cried out, “At least let him have some cushions!” We ran back and fetched them. The King was already inside, two camp slaves with him; guards or attendants, I never knew. We threw in the cushions; then the soldiers shoved us away. The horses were hitched up, the driver mounted. We seemed to stand for an eternity while all this was done, and the cavalry mustered. The infantry was more a crowd than a column. Bessos gave an order; the cart began to jolt over the clearing towards the road.

A soldier ran past, carrying something I knew. It was the King’s water-ewer. The tent was overrun with Baktrians, who had stayed to plunder it. Some were fighting outside over the best things. It was like a sack.

Boubakes looked at me with desperate eyes, cried, “Let us go to Artabazos!” and ran off towards the Persian camp. The others followed. The soldiers let them go. They were just eunuchs, empty-handed, of no account.

I stood pressed to a tree. It looked a long way across the clearing. I remembered Susa. I was not like the others; I was loot.

The wagon had vanished. Close by was our sagging, half-set tent. I ran inside, pulled down the unsteady pole, and let the whole mass sink down on me.

The stiff folds let in some air. I should not smother. I lay there in pitch darkness, as if I were in my grave. Indeed, my life was buried here. When my sepulcher yielded me up, it would be to some fate unknown to me as to the child closed in the womb.