Not that its walls were near; it was their height that let us see them. When at last we passed between the wheatfields yellowing for the second harvest, which fringed the moat, and stood below, it was like being under mountain cliffs. One could see the bricks and bitumen; yet it seemed impossible this could be the work of human hands. Seventy-five feet stand the walls of Babylon; more than thirty thick; and each side of the square they form measures fifteen miles. We saw no sign of the royal army; there was room for it all to encamp within, some twenty thousand foot and fifty thousand horse.
The walls have a hundred gates of solid bronze. We went in by the Royal Way, lined with banners and standards, with Magi holding fire-altars, with trumpeters and praise-singers, with satraps and commanders. Further on was the army; the walls of Babylon enclose a whole countryside. All its parks can grow grain in case of siege; it is watered from the Euphrates. An impregnable city.
The King entered in his chariot. He made a fine figure, overtopping by half a head his charioteer, shining in white and purple. The Babylonians roared their acclamation, as he drove off with a train of lords and satraps to show himself to the army.
We of the Household were led through back ways along the straight high streets, to enter the Palace through doorways suited to our station, and make ready for the master.
Knowledge can alter memory. I see in my mind those glories; the fine-clay brick, polished, sculpted, enameled, glazed or gilded; the furniture of Nubian ebony inlaid with ivory; hangings of scarlet and purple, woven with gold and stitched with Indian pearls. I remember the cool, after the baking heat outside. And it seems that the coolness fell on me like the shadow of blinding grief; that the very walls oppressed me like a tomb. Yet I suppose I went in like any lad after a journey, wide-eyed for all the sights.
When they had laid out the King’s own vessels for his food and wine, they made the bed, which was plated all over with gold, a winged deity at each bedpost. Then, for he would surely come back tired and dusty from his ride, they prepared the bath.
Because it is hot in Babylon, the bath is a pleasure-house, where one could spend all day; floored with marble from the west, with glazed walls, white flowers on blue. The bath is a spacious pool, whose lapis-blue tiles have gold fish impressed in them. There are pots with sweet shrubs and trees, changed at each season, jasmine and citron; the fretted screens give onto a bathing-place, let in from the Euphrates.
Everything had been prepared, everything shone; the water was clear as crystal, tepid, just right, the tank warmed with filtered sun. There was a couch with cushions of fine linen, to rest on after the bath.
Not a tile, not a golden fish, not a thread of linen there will ever leave my memory while I live. When I saw it that first time, I just thought it very pretty.
Soon we had settled in, the days turning as smoothly as the water-wheels below the Hanging Gardens; though our lot was lighter than the oxen’s there. That beautiful man-made hill, with its shady trees and the cool groves within its terraces, needs a deal of watering, and it’s a high haul to the top. Often amid its bird-song you can hear, if you listen, the cracking of whips below.
Fresh troops were still coming in from the distant satrapies, after months upon the march. All the city turned out to see the Baktrians. It was cooling down for autumn, but still they sweated, having put on their best for show; felt coats, quilted trousers, and fur-lined hats, all fine and warm for the Baktrian winters. You could tell their land was rich, by the lords’ adornments, and the sturdy build of the men after so long a march. Each lord brought from his own stronghold his own warriors, as my father would have done if he’d been alive. But the Baktrian lords numbered hundreds. Their baggage was borne by a long train of their two-humped camels, long-bodied and thick-legged, shaggy, built for endurance.
At the head rode their satrap, Bessos, Darius’ cousin. The King greeted him standing, in the Hall of Audience, and offered his cheek to kiss. He was the taller, but not much. Bessos was thickset like his camels, war-scarred, burnt almost black with sun and wind. They had not met since the defeat at Issos. Now I saw in Bessos’ eyes, pale under black brows, a show of respect over a shadow of scorn; and in the King’s, a shadow of mistrust. Baktria was the most powerful satrapy in the empire.
Meantime, news came that Egypt had opened its arms to Alexander, hailed him as liberator, and proclaimed him Pharaoh.
I knew little of Egypt then. I know it now; I live there. I have seen him carved on a temple wall, worshipping Ammon, made to look just like all the other Pharaohs, even to the little blue strip of ceremonial beard. Perhaps when they put on him the double crown, and set in his hands the crook and flail, he even wore it. He was courteous in such things. But it makes me smile.
He had been to Ammon’s oracle, at green Siwah in the desert, where it seems he was told the god was there before the King his father, when he was conceived. So rumor ran; he went in alone, and said only, after, that he was satisfied.
I asked Neshi about this oracle, while he dressed me and combed my hair. He had been at a school for scribes, till Ochos conquered Egypt, when they had all been taken from their temple and sold. Even now, he still shaved his head.
He said the oracle was very old and revered. Long ago (and from an Egyptian that means at least a thousand years), the god used to speak in Thebes as he does at Siwah. In the days of the terrible Hatshepsut, the only woman Pharaoh, her stepson Tuthmosis was a young boy serving the shrine. The symbol of the god was carried by, as at Siwah now, in a boat enriched with gold and jewels and tinkling vessels. The bearers say that the carrying-poles press on their shoulders, when the god wants to speak; they feel the weight of him telling them where to go. He guided them to this young prince, who then was a nobody in the crowd, and made the boat bow before him; and they set him in the royal seat, knowing his destiny. Neshi had some very good tales like this.
I myself, when I made my pilgrimage (and a hard journey it is, though I have known a worse one), asked a question of the oracle. I was told it was enough for me to offer the proper sacrifice, and not be curious about one who had been received among the gods. Still, I could not be content never to have seen it.
Meantime at Babylon I had time on my hands, the King being always busy, and went about seeing the sights. I climbed the stair round Bel’s temple-tower, though the top was ruinous where his concubine used to lie on his golden bed. I was much beset by bawds, my youth still being enough to explain my beardlessness. And I saw the temple of Mylitta with its famous courtyard.
Every girl in Babylon, once in her life, must offer herself to the goddess. The courtyard is one huge bazaar of women, sitting in rows marked off with scarlet cords. None may refuse the first man to toss in her lap a piece of silver. There were some as fine as princesses, on silk cushions, with slaves to fan them, next to hard-handed peasant girls from the fields. Along the rows strolled the men, as if at a horse fair; I half expected they’d start to look at their teeth. The pretty ladies don’t have to wait long; but if a river bargee gets there before a lord, they must take him. Not a few stretched out their hands to me, hoping to pay their due with someone not too ill-favored. There was a grove near by, where the rite was done.
Seeing some men stand laughing, I went to look. They were mocking the ugly girls, who sat day after day unchosen. That I might share the joke, they pointed one out to me who had been sitting there three years.
She had grown there from girl to woman. One shoulder was hunched; she had a great nose, and a birthmark on her cheek. The girls round her, plain as they were, seemed to look at her and take comfort. She just sat with folded hands, enduring the laughter, as an ox the whip and goad. Suddenly I was filled with anger at man’s cruelty. I thought how the soldiers had cut off my father’s nose alive instead of dead; how the men who gelded me had talked lightly across my pain. I took out a silver siglos from my pouch, and tossed it in her lap, saying the ritual words, “May Mylitta prosper you.”
At first she seemed scarcely t
o take it in. Then the loafers gave a great bawdy cheer. She grasped the coin and looked up bewildered. I smiled and offered her my hand.
She got to her feet. Nothing could have made her anything but hideous; yet even a clay lamp is beautiful, when its light shines at dusk. I led her from her tormentors, saying, “Let them find some other pastime.” She trotted along beside me, shorter by a head, though I was not yet full-grown. Low stature is despised in Babylon as in Persia. Everyone was staring, but I knew I must walk with her as far as the grove.
Inside, it was a disgusting spectacle. No Persian could well conceive it. The trees and bushes were not nearly enough for decency. In my worst days at Susa, I met no one so lost to shame as to do such things except in the inner room.
When we were just within the gate, I said to her, “You may be sure I won’t put you to such disgrace as that. Farewell; live happy.” She looked at me smiling, still too dazed to take in my words; then pointed into the grove, saying, “There is a good place.”
That she could really expect such a thing, had never entered my head. I could scarcely credit it. Though I had meant to keep my secret, I said unwillingly, “I can’t go in the grove with you. I am one of the King’s eunuchs. I was angry with them for mocking you, I wanted to set you free.”
For a moment she stared at me, her mouth falling open. Then suddenly she screamed out, “Oh! Oh!” and struck me two great slaps in the face, one with each hand. I stood with singing ears, while she ran off down the street, crying out, “Oh! Oh! Oh!” and beating her breast.
I was astonished, and wounded by her ingratitude. It was no more my fault I was cut, than hers that she was ugly. But as, brooding on it, I walked home, it came to me that ever since I was born, somewhere I had been wanted, whether for good or ill. I tried to think how it would be, to have lived twenty years and never once have known it. It killed my anger; but I went home sad.
Babylon grew mild with winter. I turned fifteen, though no one knew but I. Our family, like all Persians, had always made much of birthdays. Even in five years, I had never quite grown used to waking on the day, knowing it would be just like any other. The King had never asked me when it was. It seemed childish to mind; he had been generous on many other days.
News came in piecemeal from Egypt. Alexander had been restoring the ancient laws; he had held a great feast, with contests for athletes and musicians. At Nile mouth he had laid out the plan for a city, marking the lines with meal, which flocks of birds had swooped down to feed on; this omen was held to mean that the city would come to nothing.
(I wonder how it looked when the birds came down. Flat green land, with papyrus growing; a few palms; some donkeys grazing; a cluster of fisher-huts. It is Alexandria now, a palace among cities. Though he never saw it, he has returned to it forever; and instead of birds it has taken in men from all quarters under heaven, as it has taken me.)
Next after the Baktrians, the Scythians came to Babylon, those who were Bessos’ vassals; wild shaggy fair-haired savages, their faces tattooed blue. They wore pointed lynx-skin bonnets, loose blouses, and trousers tied at the ankle; oxcarts bore their black tents and their women. They are great bowmen. But they stink to heaven; if they are washed in their lives, it is by the midwife in mares’ milk. They were hurried away into camp. No people could afford to be as shameless as the Babylonians, if they did not bathe every day.
News came that Alexander had left Egypt. He was marching north.
The King called a council in the great audience room. I hung about outside, to watch the great men leaving. A boy’s curiosity took me there; but I learned something of use, which has stayed with me ever since. Only keep quiet at such a time and look like nothing, and you will see men reveal themselves. In the Presence, they have had to show respect and keep half their thoughts unspoken; outside, each will turn to whoever he felt to share his mind; and intrigue begins.
Thus I saw Bessos single out Nabarzanes, who had been in Babylon long before the King, for he was Commander in Chief of the cavalry. He had fought at Issos. His men thought well of him.
It was in the pleasure-houses, where I went to watch the dancing, that I heard them talk. They did not know who I was, as people did at Susa. Certainly, I was never tempted to carry their words to the King. They said that at Issos Nabarzanes had fought a great battle, though the King’s choice of ground had been a blunder. The cavalry had charged when the rest were faltering, taken on the Macedonian horse, and hoped to turn the tide; then the King had fled, among the first to leave the battle. With that came rout. No one can fly and fight; but the pursuer can still strike. There had been a great slaughter; they blamed the King.
I had been long with soft-spoken men; I had not thought such words possible. They hurt me; one lives in one’s master’s name, and shares disgrace. The captain I’d overheard at Susa must have been one of Nabarzanes’.
He was tall and lean, Nabarzanes, with the pure-bred Persian face, clear-carved and proud. Yet he was easy-mannered, and could laugh, though not over often. At court he often greeted me very pleasantly, but it never went beyond that. I could not tell if he had a liking for boys, or not.
He and Bessos looked odd together, Nabarzanes sword-slim, in the plain good clothes of Persia; huge Bessos with his black bush of beard and chest as deep as a bear’s, dressed in embroidered leather with chains of barbaric gold. But they were soldiers who had met upon campaign. They walked off quickly out of the press, as if impatient to talk in private.
Most people talked in public; and soon all Babylon knew what had passed in council. The King had proposed that the whole Persian army should retire to Baktria. There he could raise more troops from India and Kaukasos, fortify the eastern empire, or some such thing.
It was Nabarzanes who had stood forward, and quoted the words of Alexander’s first defiance, when he had still been taken for a vaunting boy. “Come out and fight me. If you will not, I shall follow you wherever you may be.”
So the army stayed in Babylon.
To fall back on Baktria! To surrender, without another blow, with all its people, Persis itself, the ancient land of Kyros, the heart and cradle of our race, even that with the rest. I, who had nothing left there but a memory and a roofless ruin, had been shocked to my soul; what Nabarzanes felt, his face had told me. That night, the King kept me with him. I tried to keep my mind on the kindness he had shown me, and forget the rest.
Soon after, I awaited him one morning in his inner room, when a white-haired, straight old man was shown into the anteroom. He was the satrap Artabazos, who had rebelled against Ochos, and lived an exile in Macedon in King Philip’s day. I went in and asked if I could bring him anything while he waited. As I’d hoped, he began to talk to me; and I asked if he had ever seen Alexander.
“Seen him? I have sat him on my knee. A beautiful child. Yes, even in Persia one would call him beautiful.” He sank into himself. He was very old. He could have left it to his many sons, to follow the King to war. I thought he was getting absent, as old men will; when suddenly he opened a bright fierce eye under his thick white brows. “And afraid of nothing. Nothing at all.”
In spring, Alexander returned to Tyre. He sacrificed, and held some more games and contests. It seemed he was asking the gods’ goodwill for a new campaign. When spring turned to summer, the spies reported him on the march for Babylon.
5
IT IS THREE HUNDRED miles north up the Tigris valley, from Babylon to Arbela.
Alexander had turned northeast from Tyre, to skirt the Arabian deserts. From the north he would come down. The King marched north with the royal army; and the Household went with the King.
I had pictured an endless column of men, miles long. But the army was spread all over the plain, between the river and the hills. It was as if the land grew men instead of corn. They were wherever one looked, horse, foot and camels. The transport wound along in little trains, where the going was best. Apart, given as wide a berth as lepers, were the scythed chariots, with long curved
blades standing out from their wheels and cars. One soldier, who was dim of sight and got in their way, had had a leg taken off, and died of it.
The Household had a fair passage; outriders went ahead to find us the smoothest ground.
Alexander had crossed the Euphrates. He had sent engineers ahead to bridge it; the King had sent Mazaios, the satrap of Babylon, with his men to stop them. But they pushed it out from their own side by sinking piles; when Alexander came up with all his forces, Mazaios’ horse retired. The bridge was finished next day.
Soon we heard he was across the Tigris. He couldn’t bridge that; not for nothing is it called The Arrow. He had simply breasted through it, going first himself to feel the way. They had lost some baggage, but no men.
Then we lost him awhile. He had turned from the river plain, to take his men round by the hills, where it was cooler and would keep them fresh.
When his route was known, the King rode out to choose the field of battle.
He had lost at Issos, his generals had told him, because he had been cramped for room and could not use his numbers. There was a fine broad plain, about sixty miles north of Arbela. I never saw it myself; the Household was to be left in town with the gold and stores, when the King took the field.
Arbela is a grey and ancient city, standing on its hill. It is so old, it goes back to the Assyrians. This I believe, for they still worship Ishtar without a consort. She stares at you in the temple, horribly old, with huge eyes, grasping her arrows.
We were all in turmoil, finding quarters for the women; being shoved aside by soldiers who wanted strong houses for the treasure and billets for the garrison; preparing a house for the King while he should need it (the governor had to turn out for that). There was hardly time to think we were on the eve of battle.
Just as we were settling down, there was crying and wailing in the streets, and a rush of women to the temple. I felt a strangeness, even before I saw the omen. The moon had been eaten by darkness. I saw her last curve vanish, somber and red.