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

12

THE ROYAL ROOMS WERE above the banquet hall, looking towards the sea. He was pleased with the sea, being used to it near in boyhood. Here I waited on him, as in his tent before; but, as before, never at nighttime.

In a half-month he would be at war again. It did not give me long.

I had thought myself skilled, at Susa, never having seen what my training lacked. I knew what to do when I was sent for. In all my life, I had never seduced anyone at all.

Not that he was indifferent. First love had not bereft me of all sense; something had been there when his eyes met mine. In his presence I felt more beautiful, a sign that one can’t mistake. It was his pride I feared. I was his dependent; he thought I could not say no. How right he was! Yet if I offered myself, having been what I had been, what would he think? I might lose even what I had. He did not buy at market.

The squires were my unwilling friends. He kept me closer about him; to rebuke their spite, or so he let it seem. For my spoiled coat, he never even counted out the gold, just gave me a handful. I had something becoming made, and, you may be sure, put it on for his approval. He smiled; emboldened, I asked him to feel how fine the cloth was. For a moment, it seemed something might come of that. But no.

He was fond of reading, when he had the time. I knew when to be quiet; we all learned that at Susa. I would sit cross-legged by the wall, looking at the sky with its wheeling gulls that came for the palace offal, stealing a glance at him; one must not stare at a king. He did not read aloud to himself, like other people; one scarcely heard a murmur. But I knew when the murmur stopped.

He was aware of me. I felt it like a touch. I lifted my eyes, but he kept his on the book. I dared not come forward, or say, “My lord, here am I.”

On the third day was the victory sacrifice and procession. He lived so simply, I had never guessed he had a love of spectacle. He rode in the cavalcade, in Darius’ chariot (I found he had had the floor raised up a handspan), his gold hair crowned with gold laurel, his purple cloak clasped with jewels. He loved every moment; but I was nowhere near, and at night there was a feast at which he stayed till dawn. I lost half next day, too, for he did not rise till noon.

Yet Eros, whom I had not yet learned to worship, did not forsake me. The next day he said, “Bagoas, what did you think of the dancer last night at supper?”

“Excellent, my lord, for someone trained at Zadrakarta.”

He laughed. “He claims it was Babylon. But Oxathres says he’s nothing compared with you. Why have you never told me?”

I did not say I’d been racking my brains for a chance. “My lord, I have had no practice since I left Ekbatana. I would be ashamed you should see me now.”

“Why, you could have used the ball-court any day. There must be somewhere here.” He strode out, attended only by me, through the ancient maze of rooms, till we found one with space and a good floor, which he had cleared and scoured before nightfall.

I could have exercised without music, but I hired a piper, in case it should be forgotten where I was. I got out my spangled loincloth, and let my hair hang free.

After a while the piper faltered, and glanced towards the door; but I, of course, was too intent on my dance to see. I finished with my slow back-somersault off the hands. By the time I came right side up, no one was there.

Later that day, I sat again in the King’s room, while he read his book. His soft voice ceased. There was a silence like a note of music. I said, “Your sandal-string is loose, my lord,” and knelt beside him.

I felt him look down; I would have looked up, in another instant. But then the dog Peritas thumped the floor with his tail.

Having undone the string, I had to do it up again; so Hephaistion was in the room before I could get away. I bowed; he greeted me cheerfully, patting the dog which had come to fawn on him.

So ended the fifth day of fifteen.

Next morning, the King went out fowling, in the marshlands beside the sea. I thought he’d be gone all day; but he was back well before sundown. When he came from the bath (where still he had never sent for me) he said, “Bagoas, I shan’t sit late at dinner. I want you to teach me a little Persian. Will you wait up?”

I bathed, and put on my best suit, and tried to eat. He was dining with a few friends, and did not need me there. I went up and waited.

When he came, he paused at the door, making me fear he had forgotten to expect me. Then he smiled and came in. “Good; you are here.” (Where else? As a rule he never said such things.) “Bring up that chair to the table, while I find the book.”

These words dismayed me. “My lord King, could we do without a book?” He raised an eyebrow at me. “I am very sorry, my lord, but I cannot read. Not even Persian.”

“Oh, that’s no matter. I never thought you could. The book’s for me.” He fetched it, and said, “Come, sit here.” There was about a yard between us. The chairs quite put me out. There one is, trapped, and can get no nearer. I looked with regret at the divan.

“We’ll work like this,” he said, setting out tablet and stylos. “I shall read out a Greek word and write it down; you will tell me the Persian, and I shall write the sound as it seems to me. It’s what Xenophon did, the man who wrote this book.”

It was an old book, much used, the split edges patched with glue. He opened it tenderly. “I chose this for your sake; it’s the life of Kyros. Is it true you come from his tribe?”

“Yes, my lord. My father was Artembares son of Araxis. He was killed when King Arses died.”

“I heard so,” he said, and looked at me with pity. Only Oxathres, I thought, could have told him that. He must have asked about me.

The big old lamp-cluster, a ring of lamplets, hung over the table, its many flames making double and treble shadows under his hands, the light touching his cheekbones but not his eyes. He was a little flushed, though I could tell he had drunk no more at dinner than they always did. I looked down at the book with its unknown markings, to let him look at me.

What can I do? I thought. Why ever did he get us into these stupid chairs, which is not at all what he wants, and how can I get us out of them? Things told me by Nabarzanes were coming back. I thought, Has he ever seduced anyone, either?

He said, “Since I was a boy, Kyros has seemed to me the pattern for all kings, as Achilles—whom you won’t know—is for all heroes. I have passed through your country, you know, and seen his tomb. When you were a child there, did you hear any tales of him?”

His arm rested quite near me. I wanted to grasp it, and say, “Won’t Kyros keep?” He is in two minds, I thought, or we would not be sitting like this. If I lose him now, perhaps it will be forever.

“My father told me,” I said, “that once upon a time there was a cruel king, called Astyages; and the Magi predicted that the son of his daughter would take his throne. So he gave the baby to a lord called Harpagos, to do away with. But the babe was beautiful and he could not kill it; so he gave it to a herdsman, to leave it on the mountain and be sure it died. The man went home first, and his wife’s own baby was dead, and she was crying, ‘We are growing old, and who will feed us?’ So the herdsman said, ‘Here is a son. But you must keep it secret forever.’ He gave her the child, and put the dead one on the mountain in the royal clothes; and when jackals had gnawed it so that no one could know it again, he brought it to Harpagos. And Kyros grew up the herdsman’s son; but he was brave as a lion and beautiful as morning, and the other boys made him their King. When he was about twelve, King Astyages came to hear of him, and sent to see him. By then he had the family looks; and Astyages made the herdsman tell. The King meant to kill the boy; but the Magi said that his being King in play had discharged the prophecy; so he was sent back to his parents. It was on Harpagos that the King took vengeance.” I dropped my voice to a whisper, just as my father had done. “He took and killed his son, and roasted his flesh, and gave it Harpagos to eat at dinner. When he had eaten, he showed him the boy’s head. It was in a basket.”

I had nothing near finished; but something made me stop. His eyes were on me. I almost swallowed my heart.

I said, I will love you forever, though what my tongue said was, “Is that in your book, my lord?”

“No. But it’s in Herodotos.” He pushed back his chair, and walked towards the window that faced the sea.

Thankfully I got up too. Would he make me sit down again? The clerks who wrote out his letters had to sit while he walked about. But he said nothing. He turned and came back to where I stood under the lamp, with my back against my chair.

Presently he said, “You must tell me when I say the Persian wrongly. Don’t be afraid to correct me, or I shall never learn.” I took a step towards him. My hair had fallen forward over my shoulder. He put up his hand and touched it.

I said softly, “My lord knows well that he only has to ask.”

Eros had gathered his net in the strong grip of a god, and pulled in his catch, no longer to be defied. The hand that had touched my hair slid under it; he said, “You are here under my protection.” At this, without respect for the sacred person of a king, I put both arms round his neck.

That was the end of his pretenses. Now here I stood, in the sole embrace which, out of so many, I had ever worked to get.

I did not speak. I had gone far enough above my place already. All I wished to tell him was, I have only one thing in the world to give you, but that is going to be the best you ever had. Just take it, that is all.

He still seemed hesitant; not from reluctance that was sure; but from something; a kind of awkwardness. The thought broke in on me, Where has he lived, and he a soldier? He knows no more than a boy.

I thought of his famous continence, which I had supposed to mean only that he did not rape his captives. I thought of it when he went to the outer door, to tell the guard he was going to bed and needed no attendance (I expect they had had a bet on whether I would come out). As we went through to the Bedchamber, I thought, Everyone else has always known what he wanted. Shall I have to find it out for him? I do not know his customs, I may offend against what is permitted. He must love me, or I shall die.

Peritas, who had heaved himself up from his corner and strolled in after us, curled up at the bed’s foot where I had been taught to lay my clothes, lest the sight of them offend the King. But the King said, “How does all this come off?” and in the end they were all in a heap with his own upon the clothes-stool.

The bed was ancient but grand, of painted and gilded cedarwood. And now it was time to serve him the royal Persian banquet he must be expecting from Darius’ boy. I had it ready, with all the seasonings. But though in my calling I felt as old as time, my heart, which no one had trained, was young, and suddenly it mastered me. Instead of offering spices, I simply clutched him, like the soldier with the arrow wound; uttering such follies as I blush even now to think of, and, when I remembered I was speaking Persian, repeating them in Greek. I said I had thought he would never love me. I did not beg him to take me with him wherever he was going; I did not think so far. I was like a traveler in the desert, who comes to water.

The last thing he could ever have looked for was to be eaten alive like this. I doubt he understood a word of it, smothered upon his shoulder. “What is the trouble?” he asked. “What is it, then, tell me, don’t be afraid.” I lifted my face and said, “Oh, I am sorry, my lord. It is nothing. It is love.” He said, “Is that all?” and laid his hand on my head.

How foolish my plans had been! I should have learned better from seeing him at table, giving away the best though he was left with none. He distrusted taking pleasures for himself, from pride, and jealousy of his freedom; and I, who had seen what I had seen, was not one to blame him. Yet he did have something from those empty dishes. He was in love with giving, almost to folly.

“Only love?” he said. “Don’t fret, then; we have enough to go round, between us.”

I should have seen at table too that he never snatched. Except for Oromedon, which did not count, he was the youngest man I had ever been to bed with; yet his embrace had changed to comfort, as soon as he’d thought I was in trouble; he would have heard out the whole tale, if there had been one. Indeed, one learned soon enough, and some learned to his cost, that he would do anything in return for love.

He really wanted love from me. I could not credit such fortune; nobody ever had before. In the past, I had taken pride in giving pleasure, since it was my skill; never had I known what it was to take delight in it. He was not quite so ignorant as I had supposed; it was just that what he knew had been very simple. He was a quick learner, though. All I taught him that night, he thought that by some happy harmony of our souls, we were discovering together. So, indeed, it seemed at last even to me.

Afterwards, he lay a long time stretched out as if he were dead. I knew he was not asleep, and began to wonder if I was meant to go. But he drew me back, though he did not speak. I lay quiet. My body echoed like a harp-string after the note. The pleasure had been as piercing as the pain used to be before.

At last he turned, and speaking gently, as if he had been a long time alone, said, “So they did not take that from you.” I murmured something, I don’t know what. “And after,” he said, “does it bring you grief?”

I whispered, “No, my lord. It never happened to me till now.”

“Truly?” He took my face in his hand to look at by the night-lamp, then kissed me, saying, “May the omen be happy.”

“And my lord?” I said, gathering courage. “Does my lord feel grief?”

“Always for a time. Take no account of it. All good things must be paid for, either before or after.”

“You will see, my lord, I shall learn how to keep grief from you.”

He half laughed under his breath. “Your wine is too strong, my dear, to drink it often.”

I was amazed; all other men I’d known had pretended to more than they had. I said, “My lord is as strong as a young lion. This is not the body’s weariness.”

He raised his brows, and I feared he was displeased; but he only said, “Well, learned physician, then tell me what it is.”

“It is like the bow, my lord; it is the strongest that wearies, if it is not unstrung. The bow must rest. So too the warrior’s spirit.”

“Ah, so they say.” He ran a strand of my hair slowly between his fingers. “How soft it is. I never felt hair so fine. Do you worship fire?”

“We did, my lord, at home.”

“You are right,” he said, “for it is divine.”

He paused, seeking words; but there was no need. I had understood him. I laid down my head in submission, saying, “For me let my lord never turn aside out of his way; let me be like a cup of water drunk down in haste at noon, and I am content.”

He reached out to my closed eyes, and touched my lashes. “Ah, no. Is this how I repay you? No more, or we shall both be weeping. Who is talking about noon? The moon is only rising. There is no need of haste tonight.”

Later, when the moon stood high, and he lay sleeping, I leaned to look at him. Exaltation of spirit had kept me wakeful. His face was smoothed and beautiful; he was satisfied, and in sleep he was at peace with it. Though the wine is strong, I thought, you will come back for more.

What had Nabarzanes said? “Something he has wanted a long time, without being aware of it.” That subtle serpent; how had he known?

His arm, darkened by sun, lay bare, and his shoulder, milk-white, but for the deep pitted wound from the catapult bolt at Gaza. The stain was fading; it was the color of watered wine. Softly I touched my lips to it. He slept soundly, and did not stir.

My art would not have been worth much, if I could not lead him, once I had understood. A light cloud crossed the moon. I remembered that first night in his tent; and how Hephaistion came and went just as he chose, pleasant with me as with the dog. Was he too secure to spare a thought for me? Too secure even to care? “You can’t guess what I did last night.” “Of course I can. You slept with Darius’ boy. I knew you would before long. And was he good?”

He was seemly in sleep, his mouth closed, his breathing silent, his body fresh and sweet. The room smelled of sex and cedarwood, with a tang of salt from the sea. Autumn drew on, the night wind blew from the north. I drew the blanket over him: without waking, he moved to me in the great bed, seeking warmth.

As I slid into his arm, I thought, We shall see who wins, tall Macedonian. All these years you have made a boy of him. But with me, he shall be a man.