The Persian Boy (10 page)

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 hims?elf.

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 tha?t 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 Pers?ians 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 te?ll 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.”