The Persian Boy (15 page)

Quite often, as he sent these delicacies away, I would warn him there would be nothing left for him; but he only smiled, and ate what everyone had. His sunburn had healed. One had to own that he was comely, even in Persia.

He never made me carry anything myself. He remembered last night, and was trying to heal my pride. It seemed that for someone reared in the wilds, he had much natural courtesy. One could not say as much for his Macedonians. His friends followed his lead; Hephaistion kept his eye on him all the time; but some (mostly those who had kept their beards) made it clear enough what they thought of eating with Persians. At any difference of manners, they would laugh or even point. There were lords here, whose forebears had been kings before Kyros’ time; but I was sure these uncouth westerners would have wished to see them carrying in the dishes. More than once, Alexander turned a cold eye on these boors; a few took notice, others pretended not to see.

He has himself to blame, I thought. He lets them go on in his presence like untrained dogs who will not come to heel. He is feared in war, but not at his own table. What must my people think of him?

One or two of the Persians glanced at me. Not all knew who I was; Darius had never dreamed of showing me at his side in public. Yet Alexander, whom I was nothing to, seemed quite pleased to have me seen. Of course, I thought. I am spoils of war, like Darius’ chariot. I am Darius’ boy.

On the third day Chares the chamberlain gave me a written message, and sent me to find the King, saying, “I daresay he is in the ball-court.”

Inquiring for this place, I found a square of canvas walls, and heard shouting within, and the sound of thudding feet. The entry was a doorless overlap, without a guard. I went in; and paused frozen where I stood. Eight or ten young men were running about there, and every one stark naked.

It was beyond belief. The only grown men I had ever seen in such a state were the slaves who had been sold along with me, and criminals at the place of execution, whose offenses had merited such disgrace. What sort of people had I come among? I was about to escape, when a big hairy young man came bounding up and asked me what I wanted. Averting my eyes, I said I had come here by mistake, having been sent by Chares to the King.

“Yes, he’s here,” the young man said, and bounded a few steps off. “Alexander! It’s a message from Chares.” Next moment, there stood the King, as naked as all the rest.

From his lack of shame, you might have supposed he had never worn clothes nor felt the want of them. I cast down my eyes, too shocked even to speak, till he said, “Well, what is this message from Chares?”

I begged his pardon, my confusion now complete. He took the note and read it. While the first young man’s sweat had smelled as strong as a hor?se, the King seemed as fresh as if straight from the bath, though he was flushed with exercise. It was said of him that the ardor of his nature burned up the humors. Just then my only concern was to hide my own flush of shame.

“Tell Chares-” he said, and paused. I felt him look at me. “No, tell him I’ll send for him shortly.” Clearly he did not trust me with the simplest message; I could not wonder. “That’s all then,” he said; and then, “Bagoas.” “Yes, my lord?” I answered, looking at my feet. “Cheer up, boy. You’ll soon get used to it.”

I went off in a daze. Even though the Greeks were a byword for immodesty, I had never thought a king could sink so low. Why, I myself, trained in my calling to strip off in the inner room, would have been ashamed, outside of that, to be less decent than anyone else. It is something, I thought, when a king can put a courtesan to the blush. Has he no sense of his dignity at all?

We moved camp soon after. The speed of it amazed me. When the trumpet sounded, everyone seemed to know his task without orders. I was the last to get my horse, and the Horse-Master cursed me; when I rode back the tent was gone, and my things were sitting in the open. We were on the march, an hour before Darius would have been wakened.

I looked to see where Alexander would take his place; there was no sign of him, and I asked the clerk who rode beside me. He pointed outwards; some way off was a chariot, going at a fair pace; a man was jumping off it, running alongside without its slowing down for him, and jumping on again. I asked, “Why does he make the man do that? Is it a punishment?” He threw back his head and laughed. “But that’s the King.” Seeing me bewildered, he added, “He’s taking exercise. He can’t bear to dawdle at foot-pace. Often he hunts, when the game is good.”

I thought of the shaded litter, the Magi with their altar, the miles-long train of eunuchs and women and baggage. It seemed like another life.

We were moving northeast into Hyrkania. At the next camp, Artabazos came in to surrender.

He had been resting awhile after his long march, and getting his sons together. Besides the elder ones, he brought in nine handsome young men I had never seen before. He must have begotten them all between seventy and eighty.

Alexander met him outside the tent; came forward, took both his hands, and offered his cheek to kiss. These courtesies done, he embraced him as a son might do a father.

He of course spoke Greek, from his years of exile. Alexander put him at his right hand at supper. Standing by his chair, I heard him laughing with the old man over his childish scrapes, and recalling the tales of Persia he had heard upon his knee. “Ah,” said Artabazos, “but even then, my lord, you used to ask me what weapons King Ochos used.” Alexander smiled, and helped him to meat himself from his own dish. Even the rudest of the Macedonians held their peace.

Just after, an envoy came in from the Greek troops, asking for terms of surrender.

I was thankful for Artabazos, who I knew would speak for them, as indeed he did. But, taking it ill that Greek should fight against Greek, Alexander sent word they could come in to learn his terms, or stay away.

They came in two days later, the greater part of them. Some had gone off through the pass to try their fortunes; one Athenian had killed himself, being well known in Greece as an enemy of Macedon. The rest were in good discipline, though rather lean. I could not get near, but thought I could glimpse Doriskos, and wondered how I could rescue him, if he was condemned to die.

But Alexander’s only vengeance was the fright he gave them by refusing terms. Patron and his veterans, who had been serving before he declared war, he sent back to Greece with safe-conduct. Those like Doriskos, who had joined up after that, he reprimanded, said they did not deserve release, and simply hired them, at the wage they had had before (his own men were paid higher). They were marched straight off to their camp, and I had no chance to bid Doriskos farewe?ll.

It was shortly after this, that Alexander went off to fight the Mardians.

They lived in thick mountain forest, west in the range, and had sent no envoys. They were known for their fierceness; but as they had nothing worth taxing, Persian kings for generations had let them be. They were also famous robbers; Alexander did not mean to leave them in arms behind him, nor to have it said they were more than he could handle.

He went traveling light, for rough campaigning. Left in the base-camp, I tried to find my feet; helped in this by his having taken his squires along. These boys, who seemed to think I had chosen my own condition, felt for me contempt, mingled with envy they did not own to. They could do their duties, in a rude and simple way, but knew nothing of such manners as I’d been trained in. It irked them that Alexander did not mock what they called my fawning barbarian ways, but chose me to compliment his guests of honor. They were forever plaguing me behind his back.

Chares, who had always treated me well, used to consult me about fine points of Persian etiquette, there being no one else from the court. I had time for riding, though the plain was humid and close. My having a good horse of my own was a great grievance with the squires, who thought it should have been taken from me. They themselves had army mounts, issued them by the Horse-Master.

The King was back in a half-month. He had chased the Mardians up the mountains, where they’d thought to sit him out; but finding him clamber after them, they gave up, and acknowledged him King.

That night at dinner, I heard him say to Ptolemy, his bastard half-brother, “He’ll be back tomorrow!” So joyful did he sound, I thought he must mean Hephaistion; but the man was there at table.

Next morning there was a stir of expectation in the camp. I joined the crowd near the royal tent, though I had wakened with a headache. Seeing that the old Macedonian near me had a kindly face, I asked who was arriving. He said smiling, “Boukephalos. The Mardians are bringing him back.”

“Boukephalos?” Surely this meant Oxhead; an odd name. “Who is he, please?”

“You have never heard of Oxhead? Why, Alexander’s horse.”

Remembering how satrap after satrap had brought him steeds matchless in their kinds, I asked why the Mardians were bringing this one. He answered, “Because they stole him.”

“In that horse-thief country,” I said, “the King was lucky to get him back so soon.”

“It had to be soon,” said the old man calmly. “Alexander sent word that if he were not returned, he would fire the forests and put them all to the sword.”

“For a horse?” I cried, remembering his kindness to Artabazos, his mercy to the Greeks. “But he would never really have done it?”

The old man considered. “For Oxhead? Oh, yes, I think so. Not all at once. He would have begun, and gone on till they brought him back.”

The King had come out, and was standing before his tent, as he’d done to welcome Artabazos. Hephaistion and Ptolemy stood by him. Ptolemy was a bony-faced warrior with a broken nose, some ten years older than Alexander. Most Persian kings would have had such a person put out of the way when they assumed the throne; but these two seemed the best of friends. At the sound of approaching horns, all three were smiling.

A Mardian chief came first, in an ancient robe which looked as if it had been stolen in Artaxerxes’ day. Behind was the string of horses. I saw at once there was not a Nisaian among them; but size is not everything.

I craned over all the shoulders, to glimpse this peerless pearl, this arrow of fire, that was worth a province and its people. He must be such, for the King even to have missed him, among so many. Darius had always been superbly mounted, and would soon have noticed a falling off; but it was the Master of the Stables who knew which was which.

The cavalcade approached. The Mardians, in token of repentance, had adorned all the horses with their barbaric finery, plumes on their heads, on their foreheads nets of scarlet w?ool, glittering with beads and sequins. For some reason, they had made gaudiest of all an old black horse that was plodding along in front, looking dead-beat. The King took a few steps forward.

The old beast threw up its head and whinnied loudly; you could see, then, it had been a good horse once. Suddenly Ptolemy, running like a boy, took its bridle from the Mardian, and loosed it. It broke into a stiff-legged canter, all its foolish fripperies jingling; made straight for the King, and nuzzled against his shoulder.

The King stroked its nose a time or two. He had been standing, it seemed, all this time grasping an apple, and with this he fed it. Then he turned round with his face pressed to its neck. I saw that he was crying.

There seemed nothing, now, with which he could still astonish me. I looked round at the soldiers, to see how they would take it. Beside me, two weathered Macedonians were blinking and wiping their noses.

The horse had been pushing at the King’s ear, as if to confide in him. Now it sank creaking on its haunches. This done, it sat like one who has achieved something, and expects reward.

The King, his cheeks still wet, said, “He’s too stiff for this. He will keep it up. I’ll never get him out of it.” He bestrode the saddlecloth. The horse heaved itself up quite briskly. They trotted off towards the stables. The assembled army gave a cheer; the King turned and waved.

The old man by me turned to me with a smile. I said, “I don’t understand, sir. Why, that horse looks to be well past twenty.”

“Oh, yes. It is twenty-five; a year younger than Alexander. It was meant to be sold to his father, when he was thirteen. It had been mistreated on the way, and would let no one near it. King Philip would have none of it. It was Alexander who cried out that a great horse was being thrown away. His father thought him too forward, and gave him leave to try, thinking it would humble him. But it trusted him, as soon as it felt his hand. Yes, that, was the first time he did what his father could not … He had his first command at sixteen, and before that he was at war; all that time, he has ridden Oxhead. Even at Gaugamela, he saved him up for the charge, though he changed horses soon after. Well, Oxhead has fought his last battle. But as you see, he is still beloved.”

“That is rare,” I said, “in kings.”

“In anyone. Well, I don’t doubt he would do as much for me, seeing he has risked his life for me, though I am no more use to him now than that old horse. Once I told him tales of heroes, now he could better them himself. But though he was no more than a child when I stood between him and his tutor’s harshness, he never forgets. In the hills behind Tyre, he got himself benighted with me, nearly alone, because I outwalked my strength and he would not leave me on anyone else’s arm. My own fault too, I would go along. We were lying up in the rocks; winter, and a bitter wind, and the enemy watch-fires too near. He felt at me and said, “Phoinix, you’re freezing. This won’t do. Wait here.” He was off like a flash; I heard shouts and cries from a watch-fire; back he came like a torch-racer, with a burning brand. Alone, with just his sword, and he put the fear of death in them. We kindled our blaze, and they all went running, they never looked to see what troops he had. So we sat warm for the night.”

I would have liked to hear more from this old man, who seemed fond of talking. But just then I felt sick, and had to run away and vomit. My head burned; I shivered. I told Chares I had fever, and he sent me to the hospital tents.