Watson, Ian - Novel 16 (40 page)

 
          
‘Gupta’s
due tomorrow. Maybe bringing ergot.’

 
          
Thessany
looked not so much annoyed as puzzled. ‘Why did he tell you?’

 
          
‘Because
I told him something. Do you remember what I said while we were waiting in the
chariot for Gupta?’

 
          
She
looked blank.

 
          
‘About
the Akademia.’

 
          
‘Oh,
that.’

 
          
‘Gupta
and I talked about it. If a real intrigue’s to your taste, ask him whether he
thinks
Babylon
genuinely
exists
.’

 
          
She
wagged her pastries at him. ‘These are to my taste.’ She stuck out her inflated
tummy. ‘Here’s my intrigue, occupying all the space there is. For the moment.’

 
          
‘Ah,
but the maids will care for our baby after it’s been born - ’

 
          
‘Shhh!’

 
          
‘If
you aren’t to get depressed, you’ll need an intrigue that’s worthy of you.’

 
          
She
grinned. ‘Oh Alex, you’re inventing an intrigue for me, so that I shan’t risk
poisoning myself! That’s what this is all about.’

           
‘No, it isn’t. No, I’m not.’

 
          
‘I
must make a choice: between Cassander’s knife and his stitching needles - and
you-know-what. You- know-what seems a lot safer. You wouldn’t do me a service
by dissuading me. You’d only avert the crisis by a fortnight or so.’ She cocked
her head - ‘Someone’s coming’ - and waddled past; in time to meet Muzi
returning by the front door, while Alex slipped quickly back into the kitchen.

 
          
‘Dr
Cassander said you oughta rest up in the afternoons.’

 
          
‘I
got hungry.’

 
          
‘You’ll
give yourself bellyache.’

 
          
‘I’ll
have worse bellyache soon.’ Noise of munching. ‘I don’t think that Gupta guy
ought to visit till all this is over. When Anshar gets back here I’ll send him
wherever Gupta hangs out to say that - ’

           
‘No! Gupta guru teaches exercises to
relax me.’

 
          
‘You
ain’t gonna need exercises, Thess.’

 
          
‘I
know. But indulge me, Muzi my love, my lion; and I will love you.’

 
          
‘Well,
okay.’

 
          
Only
at this point did Alex realize that Muzi had never actually accused him of
being the baby’s father. On the night of Hephaestion’s funeral he had charged
him only with screwing his wife, not with bastardizing his heir.

 
          
Did
Muzi naively assume that his first coupling with Thessany must instantly have
made her pregnant? Surely not. Lady Gibil had touched on the facts of life at
that dinner party a while before the wedding.

 
          
It
would have been pointless, in this city of
Ishtar
and sacred love, for Thessany to simulate
virginity on her wedding night, say with a sachet of beast blood, leading Muzi
to assume that he was the first one to bite the peach.

           
Surely the plain truth was that Muzi
himself couldn't conceive ... of the baby not being his. His wife might behave
like a whore, but at least her womb had to be faithful; honour demanded this.
Muzi imagined erroneously that Lord Gibil winked at Thessany’s adultery
because it kept her content; obviously Gibil couldn’t countenance his own
grandson being the product of a slave’s loins. But probably Muzi’s reasoning
never proceeded as far as this. Emotionally, in his soul of honour, he knew
that he must be the sire. Otherwise the whole world came unstrung.

 
          
He
was willing to study and accept devious chicanery - even unto his wife in bed
with a slave - but at this one central hurdle of paternity he must have
baulked, without even letting himself perceive it.

 
          
It
was even possible that Muzi
was
the
father. What price the few nights’ advantage Alex had enjoyed? Maybe those had
made no difference. Upon what magical intuition, what transparency of her own womb,
was Thessany’s certainty based? Why, upon wishful thinking.

 
          
Not
until now had the possibility occurred to Alex that he himself
mightn't
be the father. He refused to
consider this. Any more than Muzi would believe the opposite.

 
          
Following
Gupta’s next session, Alex managed to catch him in the street again.

           
‘Did you bring ergot?’

 
          
‘I
shan’t tell you. Let’s talk of the other matter.’

 
          
‘Why
shan’t you tell? Does the guru obey the disciple now?’

 
          
‘In
this case maybe he does! When the disciple is almost a saint.’

           
‘Did Thess ask about the other
matter?’

 
          
Gupta
shook his head. ‘Should she have done?’

 
          
‘I
should have thought a saint might be interested in her own reality.’

 
          
‘Ha
ha, how little you know of saints. Especially very pregnant saints.’

 
          
‘What
about their legendary clarity? Their clear perception of truth and illusion?’

 
          
‘Hmm.
If what you say is true, what would happen if you tried physically to leave
Babylonia
? Would some intelligence take heed? Would
soldiers ride forth and drag you back? Would you reach the edge of the pattern
and evaporate?’

 
          
‘Maybe
the answer isn’t at the
edge.
Maybe
it’s down below
Babel
.’

 
          
‘Waiting
for your Deborah to discover it, in a few months’ time?’

 
          
‘Waiting
for Zarpanit. I’m not interested in any Deborah.’

 
          
‘Whatever
is in the Underworld beneath
Babel
must be part of the pattern of
Babylon
. Surely, Alex? How could it lead
elsewhere?’

 
          
‘Maybe
there’s some kind of
tekhne
interface
between our world . . . and another world.’

 
          
Gupta
frowned. ‘Too mechanistic an approach, my friend! You talk as though you might
find a key in the street which unlocks an actual door to heaven. Key and heaven
are of different orders of existence.’ He hesitated. ‘Maybe my own tricks with
visibility might reveal something. I might become invisible to the pattern of
Babylon
and thus, as it were, independent...

 
          
‘Perhaps
not I! Thessany perhaps; if she becomes what I hope for - a saint. Water, Alex,
cannot be ladled with a spoon made of water. Air can’t be trapped in a box made
of air. Fire will not burn fire. Ice will not melt ice. Clouds do not knock
stony mountains down. If we’re ghosts, we can only grapple with other ghosts.
Yet perhaps a saint may succeed ... I hear that you’re going hunting next
week?’

 
          
‘That’s
right. Will that be when the ergot gets used?’ Gupta’s only answer was:
‘Remember: the ghost of a lion can kill the ghost of a man.’

           
‘Don’t worry about that. Muzi has
guaranteed my safety. I wish you could guarantee Thessany’s.’

 
          
‘I
wish so too. I think we do need a saint - even if her metier is seven veils of
semblance, six sorts of deception. Perhaps especially such a saint!’

In
which a lion hunt goes too far

 
          
The
hunting camp was located a good twenty minutes’ walk (or five minutes’ ride)
from Olympia Spring, which was one reason why campers became - and stayed -
grimy.
Olympia
was the only water source for miles around,
but camping at the spring itself could have deprived shy beasts and provoked
fierce ones.

 
          
Animals
themselves observed a kind of waterhole etiquette: slaughter did not take place
at a spring - and hunters obeyed the law of
Babylon
as to how many trophies might be bagged. To
the eye of the rider the game park seemed boundless - it numbered half a dozen
widely scattered oases - but an orgy of killing could clean out the stock of
lions and tuskers within a year or two. Sometimes hunters, who paid a fat
licence fee to the palace for the privilege, only counted coup rather than
scalping big game; which was why Muzi had been pleased at the gratuitous chance
to spear an elephant which berserked.

 
          
Half
a dozen grand tents - one of these royal purple - were pegged out on the shorn
pate of a low hill amidst a horseshoe of other hills furred frizzily with
mesquite and paloverde and creased by little meandering canyons. Here and
there rocky debris spilled on to the flats below, where creosote scrub soon
yielded to cactus. On this, in the distance, wild goats grazed. A solitary
jackass would utter its high-pitched bray; a quartet of pronghorn antelope
would take fright and bound.

           
Babylon - Babel Tower principally -
was visible on the horizon amidst the double haze: a faint mist of smoke, a
green fuzz of fields spreading from southwest to north-west. Much further west
was Arabia Deserta, uncrossable parched tracts. If you stood on the topmost
ridge of the horseshoe hills and looked east, instead, you would certainly fail
to see even the tips of the distant arid Zagros Mountains of Persia . . .

 
          
Since
this was the king’s first sportive outing in two whole years or more, the party
was licensed - by Antipater, the king’s Inspector of Game and Superintendent
of the Royal Parks - to kill both a lion and a lioness.

 
          
Tradition
demanded that actual kills, as opposed to coups, should be achieved on foot,
preferably by nearnude champions; so it was possible that no lions at all
might succumb. Given the significance of this occasion, with Alexander newly
vigorous and lively, it seemed a necessary omen that the quota should be at
least partly filled.

 
          
Servants
had scouted out on horseback in the cold lavender half-light of dawn; now an
hour later they returned to camp as shadows drew strength from the climbing
sun. No pride had been spotted anywhere near
Olympia
, but Irra reported sighting, from the far
side of the hills, buzzards circling away across the eastward plain.

 
          
The
hunting party soon rode forth; and Alex remained in camp with other slaves and
servants.

 
          
The
sun ascended, baking that hilltop. All tasks were soon done; on the royal menu
for that evening were salted fish, ox-tongues jellified in jars, celery and
cheeses, beer and wine. The shade of an awning around the royal tent was
sought; an intricate grid was scratched in the ground; knobs of quartz of
various hues were collected; dice and a big bundle of differently dyed threads
appeared - and the Game of Babylon commenced, to while away the day.

 
          
The
rules were thus. Each player became one or other of the gods; Marduk or Ishtar,
Shamash or Sin or whoever. Each god set out from his or her temple, the object
being to touch base at each of the other temples (minus one) - but without
crossing any part of the route traversed by the god whose temple the player had
elected to visit first - and finally to occupy the summit of Babel.

 
          
Each
player tossed the dice, then shifted his knob of quartz a corresponding number
of thumb-widths along the streets and laid a trail of coloured thread behind to
mark his course. As soon as the first target temple was reached - as soon as
Shamash reached the temple of Ishtar, say - Shamash then had to consider the
implications of the route Ishtar had chosen so as to avoid his own route being
blocked by her future moves, moves which she would make with an eye to impeding
him and if possible to boxing him inside a single district; though he could not
impede her.

 
          
She,
however, would have to touch base at another temple - not Shamash’s, now that
he had reached hers first, but Marduk’s, for example - and whilst Ishtar was
trying to impede Shamash she would also be aiming to chart a route which
brought her to all other temples (save Shamash’s) but avoided the route of
Marduk. Marduk, meanwhile, might be attempting to block Ishtar while he himself
avoided the manoeuvres of Sin, whose temple he had visited first of all.

 
          
Meanwhile,
of course, Shamash would need to pay attention to Marduk’s route in so far as
Marduk might assist him by blocking Ishtar - which also involved watching Sin’s
route, since this would constrain Marduk.

           
It was the first time Alex had
played the Game of Babylon, which he had glimpsed people huddled over in games
rooms, squatting around wooden map- boards. Yet, moving his knob of amethyst
quartz which represented Enlil, god of the air, he felt that he had been
playing in reality for the best part of a year. Fiercely intent silence was
punctuated by oaths, chortles, and squeaks of chagrin.

 
          
Quite
often in this game - so the palace servant who spelled out the rules for novice
Alex had explained - no god ever reached
Babel
. Masters in the Game of Babylon - grand
mnemonists - would play without memory-threads to mark the routes, with umpires
recording these out of sight on beeswax boards; and master players disdained
the chance element introduced by the dice, moving one finger’s length on each
occasion.

 
          
The
first game ended in stalemate shortly after
noon
, though Alex had been boxed inside the
Zababa district some while before, reduced to shunting back and forth
aimlessly. Since the spider’s web which he wove inside his box of streets might
yet impede the god who had visited Enlil’s temple first, resigning was
forbidden.

 
          
The
players refreshed themselves from water-skins and ate some fruited
barley-bread. They debated a siesta, but began another game. This also ended -
faster - in stalemate.

 
          
So
did a third game.

 
          
The
fourth, however, spun out longer and longer as the afternoon wore on till
remarkably all but two gods were boxed in, and the two who remained free were
Ishtar, played by Alex’s earlier counsellor - and Enlil, played by Alex
himself.

 
          
By
now Ishtar and Enlil had a veritable maze of overlaid threads to negotiate; and
both were about to start their final circuitous march upon
Babel
, Enlil from the Borsippa Gate, Ishtar from
the Ishtar Gate.

           
With the two dice Alex threw a nine.

 
          
Just
then drumbeats thudded faintly from the flat below.

 
          
‘Single
rider coming,’ observed one of the slaves. ‘Carry on.’

 
          
The
noise of hooves quickly grew louder, and then scrabblingly lost rhythm as the
horse began to ascend the slope. Alex moved his piece of quartz away from the
Borsippa Gate, wishing he could use the sewer tunnel as a secret route to
Babel
.

 
          
Half
a minute later a lathering horse snorted to a halt by the tent. A hot, dusty
Anshar dismounted.

 
          
‘Alex!
Where is Master Muzi?’

 
          
‘What’s
happened, Anshar?’ Alex feared that he already knew.

 
          
‘Mistress
Thessany goes into convulsions! Her body tries to give birth. Mama Zabala says
the contractions come too early. Not normal at all! Mistress is ill. Dr
Cassander is summoned.’

 
          
‘Is
she in pain?’

 
          
‘Her
body is racked. It can’t expel the baby. Horrible!’

 
          
‘Is
Gupta guru there?’

 
          
‘Him?
He visited yesterday. Why today? Where is Master Muzi?’

 
          
‘Over
the hills,’ said the Shamash player.

 
          
‘Bound
to be back by dusk,’ said Ishtar. ‘Stay here or you might miss them.’

 
          
‘I’m
sorry, I can’t play any longer,’ said Alex. ‘I can’t concentrate.’

 
          
‘You’re
almost there,’ protested his opponent. ‘You could be a good player.’

 
          
‘Could
I? It seems life’s just thrown me a double nothing.’

           
‘What
d’you
mean? There’s no nothings on these dice.’

 
          
‘On
mine there are, today.’ Alex stared at the sketched-out grid littered with
threads, wishing he could leap into the reality of the city and be back home in
a trice. Though what use could he be there?

 
          
‘Oh
damn it, damn it,’ he snarled, and swept his palm across the board erasing a
whole district, tangling memory-threads.

 
          
‘Hey,’
growled his opponent.

 
          
Anshar
looked sympathetic but puzzled.

 
          
The
hunting party returned an hour later, lion-less and disgruntled.

           
‘Wine for the king! Wine for us
all!’ bellowed General Perdiccas. Slaves and servants scurried to take charge
of horses, to serve refreshments. Dogs cocked their legs against tent stakes
unbaptized since morning, then flopped with lolling tongues.

 
          
Anshar
had run to black Galla and gripped the saddle, blocking Muzi’s descent.

 
          
‘Master,
you should ride to
Babylon
tonight! Your wife is in labour, sudden and terrible!’

 
          
'What?

           
‘She is convulsed and racked.’

 
          
‘Oh
gods. When?’

 
          
‘Her
pains start at
noon
. Contractions
soon become excessive.’

 
          
‘Who
sent you? The doctor? My father? Who’s there?’

 
          
‘Both
are summoned. I rode of my own accord.’

 
          
The
king had already dismounted and lurched inside the purple tent, followed
closely by Antipater. He looked as dark with anger as with dust. General
Perdiccas, still in the saddle, trotted his steed over.

 
          
‘Some
trouble, Master Muzi?’

 
          
When
Muzi told him, the general frowned. He was a stub-headed man with grey hair
cropped close as could be, but very little forehead. He wore a squared-off
grizzled beard.

 
          
‘That’s
very unfortunate, Master Muzi. And no trophy to show for today. Tomorrow we
must ride harder and farther.’

 
          
‘It
isn’t Irra’s fault that the lions skedaddled.’

 
          
‘He
was
your
scout, sir.’ So Muzi was responsible
by proxy for the lack of a dead lion. Some ridiculous piece of hunters’
etiquette; a matter, thought Alex stupidly, of pride . . .