One thought was in all our minds. But no weapon was near him, his shoulders moved with his breath. He lay like the rundown hare, coursed to its limit, awaiting the hounds or spear.
He had not dismissed us. We did not know what to do, but gazed at this painful sight in silence, feeling our own despair. After a while, a thought came to me; I fetched his sword from within, and laid it on the table where he could find it easily. Boubakes saw what I was about, but looked aside.
For my master, I had done this last thing. I could not feel, There lies the one who was my lover. I was in his service, and had served as I was called to do. He was the King.
After a while he moved his head, and gave us leave to go.
Our sleeping-tent had been half put up and left; one end sagging from a loose pole, the other end on the ground. No slaves were to be seen. From all around came a discord of quarreling, arguing, orders shouted in vain. It was no longer an army, only a great confused crowd of tribes and factions. For a while we sat together on the slack tent-hides, whispering. Then I looked up and said, “The Bodyguard has gone.”
I went to make sure. Nothing, not so much as one gold-hafted spear. The Immortals had put off their immortality. We were alone.
After a time of silence, I said, “I think he spoke. I’ll see if he wants anything.”
He was lying as before. I stepped up softly, and knelt by him. I had heard nothing; but old days had come back to me. The very perfume I was wearing had been his gift. When all was said, I was not just like the others.
He lay, his head on one arm, the other flung forward. I dared not take his hand unbidden. He was the King.
He moved, aware of me, and said, “Send me Boubakes.”
“Yes, sire.” I was someone to take a message. He had forgotten.
Boubakes went in. Suddenly he gave a great wail, such as is only heard at a death. All three of us ran inside. The sword still lay on the table, the King upon the ground. Boubakes knelt there, beating his breast, tearing his hair and clothes. We cried, “What is it?” as if the King had not been there. All things we knew were breaking.
Boubakes sobbed, “His Majesty bids us go.”
The King leaned up on one arm. “You have all done your duty well. You can do no more for me. I acquit you of your service. Save yourselves while you can. This is my last command to you; you will all obey it.”
A vast horror overwhelmed us: the doomed King, the forsaken tent, the black strange forest full of wild beasts and enemies. I hope it was for him we wept; it is easy now to think so. We cried aloud in the night, drunk with fear and grief; like mourners at a bier, each threw his voice into the outcry, no longer knowing which of its sounds was his.
As I flung my hair back from my eyes, I saw someone at the entry. Even in my distraction, I remembered there was no guard. I went over just as I was. It was Bessos and Nabarzanes, with men behind them.
Bessos looked at the prone King, struck his fist into his palm, and said to Nabarzanes, “Too late! I warned you.” He ground his teeth together.
Nabarzanes said, “I never thought he could do it.” His face had no anger; only respect, and perhaps relief. He caught my eyes, and gravely nodded.
Bessos seized my shoulder in his huge paw and shook me. It lifted me off my feet. “Did he finish it? Is he gone?”
Boubakes answered for me. “I rejoice, my lord, His Majesty is in good health.”
Nabarzanes’ face set hard as a wall-carving. He said to Bessos, “So, then. Come.”
The King rose to his feet as they came inside. He said only, “Why are you here?”
“I am here,” Bessos said, “as King.”
The King was quite quiet. “What kingdom has God given you?”
“I have obeyed the people’s wishes. You should have done the same.”
The King said, “As you see, I am no longer able to punish traitors. But I know who will.”
Bessos lifted his head. “I am ready to abide the judgment of Mithra.”
“So I suppose, since you do these things. But I was speaking of Alexander.”
Nabarzanes, silent till now before him, said, “Don’t name the enemy to whom you have given our people. We do this to set them free.”
“Come with us,” said Bessos.
I thought, Shall I put his sword in his hand? But he was in reach of it. It was no right of mine, to tell my master when to die.
He stepped back; I think he meant to take it. But he was never swift in act, or certain in mind. As he moved they closed on him. He was a big man; but his muscles had grown slack. When their men came in, he ceased resistance. He stood with dignity; he could suffer like a king, at least. Perhaps Bessos felt it. He said, “Well, if we must bind him, let his fetters match his rank.” He took off his massive gold neck-chain, and, while two Baktrians held the King’s arms behind him, wound it round them like a rope.
They led him out between them, their hands on his shoulders as if he were a felon. From the Baktrians outside came low muttering, confused shouts, and laughter that was half fear.
Near by stood a common transport cart, roofed with hides. The tents had been brought in it. Towards this they led him. We stared after him, unbelieving, helpless, dumb. Boubakes, rousing himself, cried out, “At least let him have some cushions!” We ran back and fetched them. The King was already inside, two camp slaves with him; guards or attendants, I never knew. We threw in the cushions; then the soldiers shoved us away. The horses were hitched up, the driver mounted. We seemed to stand for an eternity while all this was done, and the cavalry mustered. The infantry was more a crowd than a column. Bessos gave an order; the cart began to jolt over the clearing towards the road.
A soldier ran past, carrying something I knew. It was the King’s water-ewer. The tent was overrun with Baktrians, who had stayed to plunder it. Some were fighting outside over the best things. It was like a sack.
Boubakes looked at me with desperate eyes, cried, “Let us go to Artabazos!” and ran off towards the Persian camp. The others followed. The soldiers let them go. They were just eunuchs, empty-handed, of no account.
I stood pressed to a tree. It looked a long way across the clearing. I remembered Susa. I was not like the others; I was loot.
The wagon had vanished. Close by was our sagging, half-set tent. I ran inside, pulled down the unsteady pole, and let the whole mass sink down on me.
The stiff folds let in some air. I should not smother. I lay there in pitch darkness, as if I were in my grave. Indeed, my life was buried here. When my sepulcher yielded me up, it would be to some fate unknown to me as to the child closed in the womb.
9
I LAY IN MY lair. The cured leather was heavy, and stank, but I dared not stir. Sounds of commotion came through muffled, then lessened as the King’s tent was picked clean. Once two men approached and I was in terror; but they thought, as I’d hoped, that if the tent had not been put up it must be empty. After that, there was nothing to do but wait.
I waited long, too muffled to trust my ears. At last, I squirmed till I could put my head out. The glade was empty but for smoldering campfires. After the darkness, even starlight seemed bright; but, beyond, the trees hid everything. There were sounds there of men, going away; loyal troops surely, Artabazos’ men, who had left the rebels, being too few to fight them. I had better catch up.
Burrowing about in the tent, I gathered my belongings. Now for my horse. I had only to think it, to know the answer. All the same, I had to go stumbling over to the picket-lines. Of course nothing on four legs was left.
My poor beautiful little Tiger, the gift of a king; he was not bred to carry weight. I grieved for him, flogged along by some heavy oaf of a Baktrian, in what time I had for it before I felt the truth of my own plight.
The enemy was gone. So were all those who would befriend me. Night must be far spent. I had no notion where they would be making for.
I would need food. In the King’s tent, all that had been in his supper dishes had been tos
sed out on the floor. Poor man, he had eaten nothing. I filled a napkin, and dipped my water-flask in the stream.
The sounds were now distant. I followed them, praying these were not Baktrians who had just deserted. They seemed to go along the mountain flank; they had left a well-beaten track. It crossed streams; I was wet to the knees, and my riding-boots oozed water. I had not gone cross-country since I was a child, with a scolding and dry clothes awaiting me.
There was no sign yet of dawn. I began to hear women’s voices, and hastened on. They were camp-followers with their baggage, Persians. At this rate, I would soon be abreast of the column. A half-moon was giving a little light, I could go faster now.
Soon I saw a man ahead. He had stopped to make water; I turned away till he had done, and then approached him. He was a Greek; it was them I had overtaken. The women had misled me; of course, they would all be Persian. Hired men brought none from home.
He was a thick man, rather squat, black-bearded. It seemed I knew him, though of course this was impossible. He came and peered at me. His sweat stank. “Why, by the dog!” he said. “It’s Darius’ boy.”
“I am Bagoas, from the Household. I am trying to find Artabazos’ Persians. Am I far out of my way?”
He paused, looking me over. Then he said, “No, not too far. Just follow me, I’ll put you on the path.” He led off into the wood. He was without his armor, as their custom was on the march.
No sign of a path appeared. The wood seemed to get thicker. We were not far in, when he faced about. One look was enough. There was no need of words, and he wasted none. He merely fell on me.
As he bore me to the ground, memory returned to me. He was indeed like someone I’d known: Obares, the jeweler at Susa. In an instant I lived it all again. But I was no longer twelve years old.
He was twice my weight; but I never felt a doubt that I would kill him. I struggled rather feebly, to hide what I was doing, till I had my dagger out; then I drove it between his ribs, up to the hilt. There was a dance I’d practiced, a favorite of the King’s at bedtime, which ends with a slow back-somersault off the hands. It is wonderful how strong it makes your arms.
He threshed about, choking blood. I dragged out the knife and thrust it into his heart. I knew where that was; I had heard it often enough, thudding away, along with heavy breathing in my ear. He yawned then, and died; but still I stabbed in the dagger, wherever I thought good. I was back at Susa, killing twenty men in one. It was not a pleasure I wish to know again; but I know it was one. I can feel it to this day.
Above me a voice said, “Stop!” I had been aware of nothing, but the body by which I knelt. Doriskos stood beside me. “I heard your voice,” he said.
I stood up, my knife-hand bloody to the wrist. He did not ask why I had done it; my clothes had been pulled half off me. As if to himself, he said, “I thought you were like a child.”
“Those days are long past,” I answered. We looked at each other in the dim light. He had his sword. If he wanted to avenge his comrade, he could kill me like a newborn pup. It was too dark to see his eyes.
Suddenly he said, “Quick, get him out of sight. He has a kinsman here. Come on, take his feet. There in the thicket, down that gully.”
We parted the bushes. It was a winter watercourse, deep and steep. The body tumbled, the bushes closed again.
“He told me,” I said, “that he would lead me towards the Persians.”
“He was lying, they’re marching ahead of us. Clean your hand, and that dagger. There’s water here.” He showed me a trickle down the rocks. “There are leopards in this forest. We were warned not to straggle. He should have remembered.”
“You are giving me my life,” I said.
“I don’t reckon you owe it. What do you mean to do with it, now?”
“I’ll try Artabazos. For the King’s sake, he might take me in.”
“We must move, we’ll lose the column.” We scrambled through the rocky woods; when we came to anything steep, he helped me over it. I was wondering how Artabazos had really felt about the King’s keeping a boy. And he was so old, a ride like this could kill him. About his sons, I knew next to nothing.
“I daresay,” said Doriskos, “the old man will do what he can. But you know where he’s going now? To surrender to Alexander.”
God knows why I had not thought of it. A friend of the young man’s childhood could count on mercy. Oppression of spirit kept me silent.
“In the end,” said Doriskos, “it will come to that with us. No way out of it. None of us will trust Bessos; at least Alexander has a name for keeping his word.”
“But where is Alexander?”
“He’ll be through the pass by now. Two of the Persian lords went pelting off to meet him. They said the King would be better off with him than with the traitors. They won’t lose by it, of course.”
“Pray God they won’t be too late.”
“When Alexander hurries, he hurries. We’d no wish to be in his way. The Persians are well ahead of us; they want to make terms, not be ridden down. Ah, there’s the column.” They were threading through the trees like shadows, keeping their voices low. He did not lead me across to them, but kept alongside. By now I was bruised and sore from the hard going, and glad of his helping hand. When I stumbled, he took my bag for me. A glimmer in open places proclaimed the first of dawn. He sat down on a fallen tree-bole. I was ready to rest.
“So the upshot is,” he said, “we’re skirting the hills, lying low, making for Hyrkania; and after that who knows? If you press on, I daresay you might overtake the Persians at the noon halt. It’ll be a sweat for you, you’re not used to going on foot.” He paused; the dim light now showed me his blue eyes. “Or you could march with me, and let me give you a hand. However we get along, you won’t need to use your knife on me.”
I remembered his smile from our first meeting. It was less wistful now, and more hopeful. With surprise I thought, I can say yes or no for myself. The first time in my life. I said, “I’ll come with you.”
So we joined the column. Even after daylight, I did not cause much stir. Several of the men had boys who marched beside them. There were many more with women; but they all had to keep behind.
When we halted to rest, I shared the last of my food with him; the only time, he said, he was likely to eat from a king’s table.
He was the kindest of companions. When my feet grew sore, he searched all through the troop for some soldiers’ salve, took off my boots, and dressed my feet himself, saying how slender and beautiful they were, though they were in such a state I was ashamed to have them seen. Once, when no one was looking, he even kissed them. It was lucky that when I fought in the thicket, my bow had fallen free, and the quiver had saved my arrows; so I was able to offer something—besides what would have contented him—by shooting for the pot.
From him I learned something of Athens, where, he said, his father had been well off, till some enemy brought a lawsuit against him unjustly; hiring a famous speechmaker to blacken his name with lies. The jury found against him; he was ruined, and Doriskos, the younger son, had to hire out his sword. He said this same speechmaker used to exhort the people how to vote, on the laws, and even on peace or war. This was called democracy, he told me, and had been a fine thing in the good old days, when speechmakers told the truth.
I said we were all brought up to speak the truth in Persia; it was our greatest proverb. No doubt Bessos and Nabarzanes had been taught it too.
It was sad that, with all this goodwill between us, I found his love-making quite without interest. I always pretended pleasure; he set store by this, and one could do no less for a friend. That was the only art I used with him. The Greeks, as it seems, are artless in these matters.
I remembered how, when I fell from the King’s favor, I had said to myself that I would take a lover. I had pictured stolen meetings by moonlight in the park; the whisper of silk at a window; a jewel tied to a rose. Now here I was with a foreign foot-soldier, in a shel
ter made of brush.
One night he told me of a boy he’d loved in Athens, though his beauty was a pale star to the moon of mine. “He hardly had the first down on his face, when I found he was spending my money on women. I thought it would break my heart.”
“But,” I said, “that is nature, surely, if you take a boy up so young.”
“Beautiful stranger, it would never happen with you.”
I answered, “No. That is why they do it.”
He was some time quiet, then asked if I was very angry. He had been good to me, so I said not. In Greece, he assured me, it was never done. But so long as they sold boys young into the brothels, I did not think the Greeks had so much to boast of.
Living among these was easier, from their having been in Persia so long, and knowing the customs. Though without modesty before each other, they understood it in me. They respected the sanctity of rivers, drawing off water for washing, not defiling the stream. Their own bodies they strangely cleaned by smearing them with oil, which they scraped off with blunt knives, exposing themselves so carelessly that from shame I used to go away. The smell of the oil was disagreeable close to; I never quite got used to it.
At night, the women would make a shelter for their men (some had children too) and cook them supper; they never saw them all day. As for the boys, pretty peasants bought from poor homes for a little silver, led leagues away, and losing all their Persian decencies, I did not like to think what their fate would be. The soldiers who bore the fewest burdens, and laid none on others, were those who had come already lovers from Greece.
In this manner we journeyed, with adventures which then seemed great, for more than half a month, till we came to the eastern hills which end the snow-range, and look down on Hyrkania. Here the Greeks made camp, solid shelters in a wood; they would lie low till they knew where Alexander was. They planned to send him envoys under safe-conduct, not stumble into his hands.
Before long, some hunters told us he was moving along the mountainsides, beating the coverts, since these heights commanded his flank. They could not say if he knew that the Greeks were there.