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MARY RENAULTS
EPIC NOVEL OF THE LAST
YEARS OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT!
"MARY RENAULT'S IS A SPECIAL BRAND OF HISTORICAL FICTION, at once imaginative, dramatic, seductive, and scrupulous... An interplay of passion and intelligence."
—Saturday Review
"SHE KNOWS THE TIME, AND SHE LOVES IT—IT SHOWS IN EVERY WORD SHE WRITES ... The difficulty in dealing with Alexander in a work of fiction ... is in this book superbly overcome: by using Bagoas, his lover, as the reader's eyes, she gets enough distance from Alexander to make him utterly real, human and superhuman at once, the incarnation of the spirit of the ancient world."
—Cecelia Holland
"A MASTER WRITER . . . RENAULT CREATES SEDUCTION SCENES THAT VIBRATE with sensuousness. She probes into emotional relationships with compassion and insight."
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
THE PERSIAN BOY
"RENAULT KNOWS HOW TO MAKE THE ANCIENT WORLD COME VIVIDLY ALIVE ... An inherently dramatic story, full of the clash of mighty armies, and psychological insight into Alexander's personality . . . Meticulous research and authenticity."
—Publishers Weekly
'THERE IS PLENTY OF JOY AND TERROR IN THIS BOOK, tempered by a gloriously romantic idealism which is uplifting because it reflects a profound sympathy for the infinite variety in the beauty, power, and mystery of
love."
—library Journal
"EXCELLENT, IMAGINATIVELY RE-CREATING ANCIENT HISTORY ... A remarkable chronicle, beautifully written, dramatic, and informative, not only about the past but
about human nature immemorially."
—Wall Street Journal
"THE BATTLES AND SIEGES AND INTRIGUES AND FEUDS in Alexander's career are various and exciting, but the main theme of this book is superior to them. It is the growth of a great man."
—Gilbert Highet, Book-of-the-Month Club News
"HOW COULD MARY RENAULT SURPASS HERSELF? . . . THE PERSIAN BOY is the answer. Miss Renault has written an unforgettable book!"
—Baltimore Sun
"[A] CONVINCING AND GRAPHIC RECONSTRUCTION OF ANCIENT PERSIA and its opulent and corrupt civilization ... In this novel, half documented history, half invention, we see through the .eyes of Alexander's lover, the Persian boy, the conquering god, the brilliant general bent on conquest but concerned for the welfare of the common soldier. It is a tale of war and intrigue but also
of love."
—Choice
Bantam Books by Mary Renault
Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed
THE KING MUST DIE THE MASK OF APOLLO THE PERSIAN BOY THE PRAISE SINGER
The Persian Boy
MARY RENAULT
BANTAM BOOKS TORONTO ? NEW YORK ? LONDON ? SYDNEY
This low-priced Bantam Book
has been completely reset In a type face
designed for easy reading, and was printed
from new plates. It contains the complete
text of the original hard-cover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
KL 6, IL age 14 and up
THE PERSIAN BOY
A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with Pantheon Books, Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY Pantheon edition published 1972 Bantam edition / February 1974
2nd printing-----March 1974 5th printing____March 1979
3rd printing . November 1976 6th printing .... March 1980 4th printing .... March 197S 7th printing ... January 1981
All rights reserved.
Copyright ? 1972 by Mary Renault.
All rights reserved under International
and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
This book may not be reproduced In whole or in part, by
mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: Pantheon Books, Inc.,
201 East 50th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022.
ISBN 0-553-22546-4
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Boots, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, Is Registered In U,S. Patent and Trademark Office and In other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.
FEINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMEB1CA
16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9
If anyone has the right to be measured by the standards of his own time, it is Alexander.
Hermann Bengston,
THE GREEKS AND THE PERSIANS
1
LEST ANYONE should suppose I am a son of nobody, sold off by some peasant father in a drought year, I may say our line is an old one, though it ends with me. My father was Artembares, son of Araxis, of the Pasargadai, Kyros' old royal tribe. Three of our family fought for him, when he set the Persians over the Medes. We held our land eight generations, in the hills west above Susa. I was ten years old, and learning a warrior's skills, when I was taken away.
Our hill-fort was as old as our family, weathered-in with the rocks, its watchtower built up against a crag. From there my father used to show me the river winding through the green plain to Susa, city of lilies. He pointed out the Palace, shining on its broad terrace, and promised I should be presented, when I was sixteen.
That was in King Ochos' day. We survived his reign, though he was a great killer. It was through keeping faith with his young son Arses, against Bagoas the Vizier, that my father died.
At my age, I might have overheard less of the business, if the Vizier had not borne my name. It is common enough in Persia; but being the only son and much beloved, I found it so strange to hear it pronounced with loathing, that each time my ears pricked up.
Court and country lords whom, as a rule, we hardly saw twice a year, were riding up the mountain track every few days. Our fort was well out of the way, a good place to meet. I enjoyed seeing these fine men on their tall horses, and felt an expectation of events, but not of danger, since none of them owned to fear. More than once they sacrificed at the fire-altar; the Magus would come, a strong old man who could scramble the rocks like a goatherd, killing snakes and scorpions. I loved the bright flames, and their light on the polished sword-hilts, gold buttons and jeweled hats. So it would all go on, I thought, till I could join them as a man.
After the prayer they would take the sacred drink together, and talk about honor.
In honor I had been instructed. Since I was five and had been brought out from among the women, I had been reared to ride and shoot and abhor the Lie. Fire was the soul of the Wise God. The dark Lie was faithlessness.
King Ochos was lately dead. If his sickness had killed him, few would have cried; but it was said that had been nothing much, it was his medicine he had died of. Bagoas had been highest in the kingdom, next the King, for many years; but young Arses had lately come of age and married. Ochos, with a grown heir and grandsons, had begun to trim Bagoas down. He died soon after this was seen.
"So now," said one of my father's guests, "the throne comes down by treachery, even though to the lawful heir. Myself, I acquit Arses; I never heard anything against the boy's honor. But his youth will double Bagoas' power; from now on, he might as well be King. No eunuch before has climbed so high."
"Not often," my father said. "But sometimes this lust for power will rule them. It is because they will see no sons." Finding me near him, he took me in his arm. Someone uttered a blessing.
The guest of highest rank, whose land was near Persepolis but who had followed the court to Susa, said, "We are all agreed that Bagoas shall never rule. But let us see how Arses deals with him. Young though he is, I think the Vizier has reckoned without his host."
I don't know what Arses would have done, if his brothers had not been poisoned. It was then he set out to count his friends.
The three princes had been much of an age. All three had been very close. Kings mostly change to their kin; Arses did not. The Vizier distrusted their private councils. Both the younger, without much time wasted between, got cramps in their bellies and died.
Soon after, a messenger came to our house; his letter bore the royal seal. I was the first person my father met, when the man had gone.
"My son," he said, "I shall soon have to go away; the King has called for me. A time may come—remember it—when one must stand for the Light against the Lie." He set his hand on my shoulder. "It's hard for you to be sharing your name just now with an evil man; you will not for long, God willing. And that monster can't hand it on. It is you who will carry it down in honor; you, and the sons of your sons." He lifted me up and kissed me.
He had the fort strengthened. It had a sheer cliff one side, and a gatehouse over the mountain track; but he had the walls raised a course or two, with better slits for the archers.
On the day before he was due to leave, a party of warriors rode up. Their letter carried the royal seal. We were not to know it came from a dead man's hand. Arses had gone his brothers' way; his infant sons were smothered; the male line of Ochos was wiped out. My father looked at the seal, and ordered the gates to be opened. The men rode in.
Having watched all this, I went back to some boy's business in the orchard below the tower. There was some shouting; I came to see. Five or six men dragged through the door a man with a dreadful face. Its center was red and empty; blood streamed from it into his mouth and beard. He had been stripped of his coat; both shoulders dripped blood, for his ears had gone. I knew him by his boots; they were my father's.
Even now, sometimes I think how I let him go to his death without a word, struck dumb with horror. I suppose he understood; when he spoke it was to the purpose. As they led him on, he cried at me in a loud harsh voice, horribly changed by the wound where his nose had been, "Orxines betrayed us! Orxines, remember the name! Orxines!"
With the mouth open and shouting, the face looked more frightful than before. I did not know I heard the words it uttered. I stood like a post, while they pushed him to his knees, and pulled his head forward by the hair. It took them five or six sword-strokes, to cleave through his neck.
While they were about this, they forgot to watch my mother. She must have run straight up the tower; the moment he was dead she leaped from it, so they lost their sport with her. She screamed as she fell; but that, I think, was because she saw too late I was there below her. She struck the ground about a spear-length away, and her skull burst open.
I hope my father's spirit saw her quick death. They could just as well have taken his ears and nose when his head was off. The Vizier, when they brought it him, would never have known the difference.
My sisters were twelve years old and thirteen. There was another of about nine, by a second wife of my father's who had died of fever. I heard all three of them shrieking. I don't know if they were left for dead when the men had done, or taken away alive.
At last, the captain of the troop set me on his horse and rode with me down the hill. Slung to his saddlecloth was the bloody bag with my father's head. I wondered, with what power of thought was left me, why he had had mercy on me alone. I learned the answer that same night.
He did not keep me long, being in need of money. In the dealer's courtyard at Susa, city of lilies, I stood stripped naked, while they drank date wine out of little cups, and haggled over my price. Greek boys are reared without shame and used to nakedness; we have more modesty. In my ignorance, I thought one could fall no lower.
Only a month before, my mother had scolded me for looking in her mirror, saying I was too young to be vain. I had no more than glimpsed my face in it. My new owner had more to tell. "A real thoroughbred, the antique Persian strain, the grace of a roebuck. See those delicate bones, the profile—turn round, boy—the hair shining like bronze, straight and fine as silk from Chin —come here, boy, let him feel it. Brows drawn with the fine brush. Those great eyes, smudged in with bister—aha, pools to drown love in! Those slender hands you won't sell cheap to sweep floors. Don't tell me you've been offered such goods in five years, or ten."
At his every pause, the dealer told him he did not buy at a loss. At last he reached his final offer; the captain said it was robbing an honest man; but the dealer said there was the risk to reckon for. "We lose one in five when we geld them."
Geld them, I thought, while the hand of fear closed the gate of understanding. But I had seen it done to an ox at home. I neither spoke nor moved. I begged for nothing. I had learned better than to hope there was pity in the world.
The dealer's house was strong as a prison, with courtyard walls fifteen feet high. On one side was a shed, where they did the gelding. They had purged and starved me first, which is thought to make it safer; I was led in cold and empty, to see the table with the knives, and the frame with splayed-out legs to which they bind you, with old black blood on it and dirty straps. Then at last I threw myself at the dealer's feet and clasped them crying. But they made no more of it than farmhands of the bawling bull-calf. They did not speak to me, just strapped me down, talking across me of some gossip in the market, till they began and I knew nothing, only the pain and my own screams.
They say women forget the pain of childbirth. Well, they are in nature's hand. No hand took mine. I was a body of pain in an earth and sky of darkness. It will take death to make me forget.
There was an old slave-woman who dressed my wounds. She was skillful and clean, for boys were merchandise, and, as she told me once, they thrashed her if they lost one. My cuts hardly festered; she used to tell me they'd made neat work of me, and later, she said giggling, I would be the gainer. I had no use for her words, and only knew she laughed when I was in pain.
When I was healed, I was sold at auction. Once more I stood stripped, this time before staring crowds. From the block I could see the bright glazes of the Palace, where my father had promised to present me to the King.
I was bought by a gem-stone dealer; though it was his wife who chose me, pointing a red-tipped finger from her curtained litter. The auctioneer had delayed and pleaded; the price had disappointed him. From pain and grief I had lost flesh, and no doubt most of my looks. They had stuffed me with food, but I had brought up most of it as if my body disdained to live; so they got me off their hands. The jeweler's wife wanted a pretty page, to set her above the concubines, and I was pretty enough for that. She had a monkey too, with green fur.
