A fly hovered over Alexander’s sweat-glazed forehead. The Persian chased it off, then put down the fan to dip a towel in a basin of mint-scented water, and wipe the unmoving face.
At first Ptolemy had disliked this exotic presence haunting Alexander’s living-quarters, encouraging him to assume the trappings of Persian royalty and the manners of a Persian court, having his ear day and night. But he was a fixture one had grown used to. Through Ptolemy’s own grief and sense of looming crisis, he felt a stir of pity. Walking over, he touched him on the shoulder.
“Get some rest, Bagoas. Let one of the other chamberlains do all this.” A knot of court eunuchs, ageing relicts of Darius and even of Ochos, advanced officiously. Ptolemy said, “He won’t know now, you know.”
Bagoas looked round. It was as if he had been told he was condemned to immediate execution, a sentence long expected. “Never mind,” said Ptolemy gently. “It’s your right; stay if you wish.”
Bagoas touched his fingers to his forehead. The interruption was over. With his eyes fixed once more on the closed eyes of Alexander, he waved the fan, shifting the hot Babylonian air. He had staying power, Ptolemy reflected. He had weathered even the brainstorm after Hephaistion’s death.
Against the wall nearest the bed, on a massive table like an altar, Hephaistion was still enshrined. Enshrined and multiplied; here were the votive statuettes and busts presented by condolent friends, assiduous place-seekers, scared men who had once had words with the dead; commissioned by the best artists found at short notice, to comfort Alexander’s grief. Hephaistion stood in bronze, a nude Ares with shield and spear; precious in gold armor with ivory face and limbs; in tinted marble with a gilded laurel crown; as a silver battle-standard for the squadron which was to bear his name; and as a demigod, the first maquette for the cult-statue of his temple in Alexandria. Someone had cleared a space to put down some sickroom object, and a small Hephaistion in gilded bronze had fallen over. With a quick glance at the blind face on the pillows, Ptolemy set it up again. Let them wait till he’s gone.
The small sound drew Eumenes’ eye, which quickly looked away again.
Ptolemy thought, You’ve nothing to fear now, have you? Oh yes, he could be arrogant now and then. Towards the end, he thought he was the only one who understood—and how far was he wrong? Accept it, Eumenes, he was good for Alexander. I knew when they were boys at school. He was somebody in himself and both of them knew it. That pride you didn’t like was Alexander’s salvation; never fawning, never pushing, never envious, never false. He loved Alexander and never used him, kept pace with him at Aristotle’s lessons, never on purpose lost a match to him. To the end of his days he could talk to Alexander man to man, could tell him he was wrong, and never for a moment feared him. He saved him from solitude, and who knows what else? Now he’s gone, and this is what we have. If he were alive, we’d all be feasting today in Susa, whatever the Chaldeans say.
A frightened physician, pushed from behind by Perdikkas, laid a hand on Alexander’s brow, fingered his wrist, muttered gravely and backed away. As long as he could speak, Alexander had refused to have a doctor near him; and even when he was light-headed, none could be found to physic him, lest they should later be accused of having given him poison. It was all one now; he was no longer swallowing. Curse that fool quack, Ptolemy thought, who let Hephaistion die while he went off to the games. I’d hang him again if I could.
It had long seemed that when the harsh breathing changed, it could only be for the death-rattle. But as if the doctor’s touch had stirred a flicker of life, the stridor took a more even rhythm, and the eyelids were seen to move. Ptolemy and Perdikkas each took a step forward. But the self-effacing Persian by the bed, whom everyone had forgotten, put down the fan and, as if no one else were in sight, leaned intimately over the pillowed head, his long light-brown hair falling around it. He whispered softly. Alexander’s grey eyes opened. Something disturbed the silky cloak of hair.
Perdikkas said, “He moved his hand.”
It was still now, the eyes shut again, though Bagoas, as if transfixed, was still gazing down at them. Perdikkas’ mouth tightened; all kinds of people were here. But before he could walk up with a reprimand, the Persian had resumed his station and picked up his fan. But for its movement, he could have been a statue carved from ivory.
Ptolemy became aware of Eumenes speaking to him. “What?” he said harshly. He was near to tears.
“Peukestes is coming.”
The huddled functionaries parted to admit a tall well-built Macedonian dressed as a Persian, even—to most of his countrymen’s shocked disapproval—down to the trousers. When given the satrapy of Persis he had adopted the native dress to please Alexander, not unaware that it suited him. He strode forward, his eyes on the bed. Perdikkas advanced to meet him.
There was a low buzz of talk. The eyes of the two men exchanged their message. Perdikkas said formally, for the benefit of the company, “Did you receive an oracle from Sarapis?”
Peukestes bowed his head. “We kept the night-watch. The god said at dawn, ‘Do not bring the King to the temple. It will be better for him where he is.’”
No, thought Eumenes, there will be no more miracles. For a moment, when the hand had moved, he had almost believed in another.
He turned round looking for Ptolemy; but he had gone off somewhere to put his face in order. It was Peukestes who, coming away from the bedside, said to him, “Does Roxane know?”
The palace harem was a spacious cloister built around a lily-pond. Here too were hushed voices, but differently pitched; the few men in this female world were eunuchs.
None of the women whose home the harem was had set eyes on the dying King. They had heard well of him; they had been kept by him in comfort and unmolested; they had awaited a visit that never came. And that was all, except that they knew of no male heir who would inherit them; in a little while there would even, it seemed, be no Great King. The voices were muted with secretive fear.
Here were all the women Darius had left behind him when he marched to his fate at Gaugamela. His favorites, of course, he had taken with him; these who remained were something of a mixture. His older concubines, from his days as a nobleman unplaced in line for the throne, had long been installed at Susa; here were girls found for him after his accession, who had failed to retain his interest, or had come too late to be noticed by him at all. As well as all these, there were the survivors of King Ochos’ harem, who could not in decency be put out of doors when he died. An unwelcome legacy, they formed with one or two old eunuchs a little clique of their own, hating the women of Darius, that usurper they suspected of complicity in their master’s death.
For Darius’ concubines it was another matter. When brought there they had been fourteen, fifteen, eighteen at most. They had known the real drama of the harem; the rumors and intrigues; the bribery to get first news of a royal visit; the long intricacies of the toilet, the inspired placing of a jewel; the envious despair when the menstrual days enforced retirement; the triumph when a summons was received in a rival’s presence; the gift of honor after a successful night.
From a few such nights had come one or two little girls of eight or so, who were dabbling in the pool and telling each other solemnly that the King was dying. There had been boys too. When Darius fell, they had been spirited away with every kind of stratagem, their mothers taking it for granted that the new, barbarian King would have them strangled. Nobody, however, had come looking for them; they had returned in time and now, being of an age to be brought out from among women, were being reared as men by distant kindred.
With the long absence of any King from Babylon, the harem had grown slack. At Susa, where Sisygambis the Queen Mother lived, everything was impeccable. But here they had seen little even of Darius, nothing of Alexander. One or two of the women had managed to intrigue with men from outside and run away with them; the eunuchs, whom Ochos would have impaled for negligence, had kept it quiet. Some girls in the long idle
days had had affairs with one another; the resulting jealousies and scenes had enlivened many hot Assyrian nights. One girl had been poisoned by a rival; but that too had been hushed up. The Chief Warden had taken to smoking hemp, and disliked being disturbed.
Then, after years in the unknown east, after legendary victories, wounds, perils in deserts, the King sent word of his return. The harem had aroused itself as if from sleep. The eunuchs had fussed. All through the winter, the Babylonian season of gentle warmth, when feasts were held, he was expected but did not come. Rumor reached the palace that a boyhood friend had died—some said a lover—and it had sent him mad. Then he had come to himself, but was at war with the mountain Kossaians. The harem slipped back into its lethargy. At last he was on his way, but had broken his march at Susa. Setting out again, he had been met by embassies from all the peoples of the earth, bringing him golden crowns and asking him for counsel. Then, when late spring was heating up for summer, the earth had shaken under the horses and the chariots, the elephants and the marching men; and the palace had seethed with the long-forgotten hustle of a king’s arrival.
Next day, it was announced that the King’s Chief Eunuch of the Bedchamber would inspect the harem. This formidable person was awaited with dread; but turned out, shockingly, to be little more than a youth, none other than the notorious Bagoas, minion of two kings. Not that he failed to impress. He was wearing silk, stuff never seen within those walls, and shimmered like a peacock’s breast. He was Persian to his fingertips, which always made Babylonians feel provincial; and ten years at courts had polished his manners like old silver. He greeted without embarrassment any eunuchs he had met in Darius’ day, and bowed respectfully to some of the older ladies. Then he came to business.
He could not say when the King’s urgent concerns would give him leisure to visit the harem; no doubt he would find in any case the perfect order which declares respect. One or two shortcomings were obliquely hinted at (“I believe the custom is so-and-so at Susa”) but the past was left unprobed. The wardens were concealing sighs of relief, when he asked to see the rooms of the royal ladies.
They led him through. These rooms of state were secluded from the rest, and had their own courtyard, exquisitely tiled. There had been some dismay at their abandoned state, the dry plants and withered creepers, the clogged fountain with green scum and dead fish. All this had been seen to, but the rooms still had the dank smell of long disuse. Silently, just opening his delicate nostrils, Bagoas indicated this.
The rooms of the Royal Wife, despite neglect, were still luxurious; Darius, though self-indulgent, had been generous too. They led him on to the smaller, but still handsome rooms for the Queen Mother. Sisygambis had stayed here in an early year of her son’s short reign. Bagoas looked them over, his head tilted slightly sideways. Unconsciously, over the years, he had picked up this tic from Alexander.
“Very pleasant,” he said. “At any rate it can be made so. As you know, the lady Roxane is on her way here from Ekbatana. The King is anxious that she should have an easy journey.” The eunuchs pricked up their ears; Roxane’s pregnancy was not yet public news. “She will be here in about seven days. I will order some things, and send in good craftsmen. Please see they do all they should.”
In a speaking pause, the eunuchs’ eyes turned towards the rooms of the Royal Wife. Those of Bagoas followed them, inexpressively.
“Those rooms will be closed at present. Just see they are well aired and kept sweet. You have a key for the outer door? Good.” No one said anything. He added, blandly, “There is no need to show these rooms to the lady Roxane. If she should ask, say they are in disrepair.” He left politely, as he had come.
At the time, they had decided that Bagoas must have some old score to pay. Favorites and wives were traditional antagonists. The rumor ran that early in her marriage Roxane had tried to poison him, but had never again tried anything, so dreadful had been the anger of the King. The furniture and hangings now sent in were costly, and the finished rooms lacked nothing of royal splendor. “Don’t be afraid of extravagance,” Bagoas had said. “That is to her taste.”
Her caravan duly arrived from Ekbatana. Handed down the steps of her traveling-wagon she had proved to be a young woman of striking, high-nosed beauty, with blueblack hair and dark brilliant eyes. Her pregnancy hardly showed except in opulent softness. She spoke fluent Persian, though with a Bactrian accent which her Bactrian suite did nothing to correct; and had gained a fair command of Greek, a tongue unknown to her before her marriage. Babylon was as foreign to her as India; she had settled without demur in the rooms prepared for her, remarking that they were smaller than those at Ekbatana, but much prettier. They had their own small courtyard, elegant and shady. Darius, who had held his mother in awe as well as in esteem, had always been attentive to her comfort.
Next day a chamberlain, this time of venerable age, announced the King.
The eunuchs waited anxiously. What if Bagoas had acted without authority? The King’s anger was said to be rare, but terrible. However, he greeted them courteously in his scanty, formal Persian, and made no comment when shown to Roxane’s rooms.
Through chinks and crannies known in the harem since the days of Nebuchadrezzar, the younger concubines glimpsed him on his way. They reported him handsome in countenance, for a westerner at least (fair coloring was not admired in Babylon); and he was not tall, a grave defect, but this they had known already. Surely he must be older than thirty-two, for his hair had grey in it; but they owned that he had presence, and awaited his return to see him again. They expected a lengthy vigil; but he was back in barely the time it would take a careful woman to bathe and dress.
This made the younger ladies hopeful. They cleaned their jewels and reviewed their cosmetics. One or two, who from boredom had let themselves get grossly fat, were derided and cried all day. For a week, each morning dawned full of promise. But the King did not come. Instead, Bagoas reappeared, and conferred in private with the Chief Warden. The heavy door of the Royal Wife’s room was opened, and they went inside.
“Yes,” said Bagoas. “Not much is needed here. Just there, and there, fresh hangings. The toilet-vessels will be in the treasury?”
Thankfully (they had tempted him more than once) the Warden sent for them; they were exquisite, silver inlaid with gold. A great clothes-chest of cypress-wood stood against the wall. Bagoas raised the lid; there was a drift of faded fragrance. He lifted out a scarf stitched with seed-pearls and small gold beads.
“These, I suppose, were Queen Stateira’s?”
“Those she did not take with her. Darius thought nothing too good for her.”
Except his life, each thought in the awkward pause. His flight at Issos had left her to end her days under the protection of his enemy. Under the scarf was a veil edged with green scarab-wings from Egypt. Bagoas fingered it gently. “I never saw her. The loveliest woman of mortal birth in Asia—was that true?”
“Who has seen every woman in Asia? Yes, it well may be.”
“At least I have seen her daughter.” He put back the scarf and closed the chest. “Leave all these things. The lady Stateira will like to have them.”
“Has she set out from Susa yet?” A different question trembled on the Warden’s lips.
Bagoas, well aware of it, said deliberately, “She will be coming when the worst of the heat is over. The King is anxious she should have an easy journey.”
The Warden caught a sharp breath. Fat old chamberlain and slender glittering favorite, their eyes exchanged the immemorial communication of their kind. It was the Warden who spoke first.
“So far, everything has gone smoothly there.” He glanced towards the other set of rooms. “But as soon as these apartments are opened, there will be talk. There is no preventing it. You know that as well as I do. Does the King intend to tell the lady Roxane?”
For a moment, Bagoas’ urbane polish cracked, revealing a deep settled grief. He sealed it off again. “I will remind him if I can. It
is not easy just now. He is planning the funeral of his friend Hephaistion, who died at Ekbatana.”
The Warden would have liked to ask if it was true that this death had sent the King out of his mind for a month or more. But Bagoas’ polish had hardened, warningly. Quickly the Warden smoothed away curiosity. They said of Bagoas that, if he chose, he could be the most dangerous man at court.
“In that case,” said the Warden carefully, “we might delay the work for a while? If I am asked questions, without any sanction from the King …?”
Bagoas paused, looking for a moment uncertain and still quite young; but he answered crisply, “No, we have had our orders. He will expect to find them obeyed.”
He left, and did not return. It was reported in the harem that the funeral of the King’s friend surpassed that of Queen Semiramis, renowned in story; that the pyre had been a burning ziggurat two hundred feet high. But, said the Warden to anyone who would listen, that was a little fire to the one he had had to face when the Royal Wife’s rooms were opened, and news reached the lady Roxane.
At her mountain home in Bactria, the harem eunuchs had been family servants and slaves, who knew their place. The ancient dignities of the palace chamberlains seemed to her mere insolence. When she ordered the Warden a flogging, she was enraged to find no one empowered to inflict it. The old Bactrian eunuch she had brought from home, despatched to tell the King, reported that he had taken a flotilla down the Euphrates to explore the swamps. When he got back she tried again; first he was busy, and then he was indisposed.