The King was back in a half-month. He had chased the Mardians up the mountains, where they'd thought to sit him out; but finding him clamber after them, they gave up, and acknowledged him King.
That night at dinner, I heard him say to Ptolemy, his bastard half-brother, "He'll be back tomorrow!" So joyful did he sound, I thought he must mean Hephaistion; but the man was there at table.
Next morning there was a stir of expectation in the camp. I joined the crowd near the royal tent, though I had wakened with a headache. Seeing that the old Macedonian near me had a kindly face, I asked who was arriving. He said smiling, "Boukephalos. The Mardians are bringing him back."
"Boukephalos?" Surely this meant Oxhead; an odd name. "Who is he, please?"
"You have never heard of Oxhead? Why, Alexander's horse."
Remembering how satrap after satrap had brought him steeds matchless in their kinds, I asked why the Mardians were bringing this one. He answered, "Because they stole him."
"In that horse-thief country," I said, "the King was lucky to get him back so soon."
"It had to be soon," said the old man calmly. "Alexander sent word that if he were not returned, he would fire the forests and put them all to the sword."
"For a horse?" I cried, remembering his kindness to Artabazos, his mercy to the Greeks. "But he would never really have done it?"
The old man considered. "For Oxhead? Oh, yes, I think so. Not all at once. He would have begun, and gone on till they brought him back."
The King had come out, and was standing before his tent, as he'd done to welcome Artabazos. Hephaistion and Ptolemy stood by him. Ptolemy was a bony-faced warrior with a broken nose, some ten years older than Alexander. Most Persian kings would have had such a person put out of the way when they assumed the throne; but these two seemed the best of friends. At the sound of approaching horns, all three were smiling.
A Mardian chief came first, in an ancient robe which looked as if it had been stolen in Artaxerxes' day. Behind was the string of horses. I saw at once there was not a Nisaian among them; but size is not everything.
I craned over all the shoulders, to glimpse this peerless pearl, this arrow of fire, that was worth a province and its people. He must be such, for the King even to have missed him, among so many. Darius had always been superbly mounted, and would soon have noticed a falling off; but it was the Master of the Stables who knew which was which.
The cavalcade approached. The Mardians, in token of repentance, had adorned all the horses with their barbaric finery, plumes on their heads, on their foreheads nets of scarlet wool, glittering with beads and sequins. For some reason, they had made gaudiest of all an old black horse that was plodding along in front, looking dead-beat. The King took a few steps forward.
The old beast threw up its head and whinnied loudly; you could see, then, it had been a good horse once. Suddenly Ptolemy, running like a boy, took its bridle from the Mardian, and loosed it. It broke into a stiff-legged canter, all its foolish fripperies jingling; made straight for the King, and nuzzled against his shoulder.
The King stroked its nose a time or two. He had been standing, it seemed, all this time grasping an apple, and with this he fed it. Then he turned round with his face pressed to its neck. I saw that he was crying.
There seemed nothing, now, with which he could still astonish me. I looked round at the soldiers, to see how they would take it. Beside me, two weathered Macedonians were blinking and wiping their noses.
The horse had been pushing at the King's ear, as if to confide in him. Now it sank creaking on its haunches. This done, it sat like one who has achieved something, and expects reward.
The King, his cheeks still wet, said, "He's too stiff for this. He will keep it up. I'll never get him out of it." He bestrode the saddlecloth. The horse heaved itself up quite briskly. They trotted off towards the stables. The assembled army gave a cheer; the King turned and waved.
The old man by me turned to me with a smile. I said, "I don't understand, sir. Why, that horse looks to be well past twenty."
"Oh, yes. It is twenty-five; a year younger than Alexander. It was meant to be sold to his father, when he was thirteen. It had been mistreated on the way, and would let no one near it. King Philip would have none of it. It was Alexander who cried out that a great horse was being thrown away. His father thought him too forward, and gave him leave to try, thinking it would humble him. But it trusted him, as soon as it felt his hand. Yes, that, was the first time he did what his father could not ... He had his first command at sixteen, and before that he was at war; all that time, he has ridden Oxhead. Even at Gaugamela, he saved him up for the charge, though he changed horses soon after. Well, Oxhead has fought his last battle. But as you see, he is still beloved."
"That is rare," I said, "in kings."
"In anyone. Well, I don't doubt he would do as much for me, seeing he has risked his life for me, though I am no more use to him now than that old horse. Once I told him tales of heroes, now he could better them himself. But though he was no more than a child when I stood between him and his tutor's harshness, he never forgets. In the hills behind Tyre, he got himself benighted with me, nearly alone, because I outwalked my strength and he would not leave me on anyone else's arm. My own fault too, I would go along. We were lying up in the rocks; winter, and a bitter wind, and the enemy watch-fires too near. He felt at me and said, "Phoinix, you're freezing. This won't do. Wait here." He was off like a flash; I heard shouts and cries from a watch-fire; back he came like a torch-racer, with a burning brand. Alone, with just his sword, and he put the fear of death in them. We kindled our blaze, and they all went running, they never looked to see what troops he had. So we sat warm for the night."
I would have liked to hear more from this old man, who seemed fond of talking. But just then I felt sick, and had to run away and vomit. My head burned; I shivered. I told Chares I had fever, and he sent me to the hospital tents.
They were pretty well full of wounded from the Mardian war. The doctor put me in a corner, telling me not to walk among the others, in case my fever was catching. One thing it did for me, was break me in to Macedonian privies. My only thought was to get there fast enough.
I lay weak as a babe, keeping nothing down but water, hearing the men brag of the campaign, of women they had raped, or of Alexander. "They were stoning us from up the cliff, rocks that could break your arm through your shield. Up he comes, strolling through it. 'Well, men, what are we waiting for, enough stones to build a sheep-pen? This way up.' And he's up the gully like a cat into a tree. We clawed up after him; they couldn't hit us there, we took them in flank. Some of them jumped off the cliff, but we got the rest."
There were some whom pain kept quiet. One man near me had an arrowhead in his shoulder. They had cut down for it in the field, but could not draw it out; the wound was festering, and was to be searched that day. He had been dead silent a long while, before the surgeon came with his tools and servant. The others called awkward words of cheer, and fell silent too.
He bore it well at first, but soon began to groan, then to cry out; before long he struggled, and the servant had to hold him down. Just then a shadow crossed the doorway; someone came in and knelt beside the bed. At once the man was quiet, but for a hissing of his breath between his teeth. "Hold on, Straton, it'll be quicker then. Hold on." I knew the voice; it was the King's.
He stayed down there, taking the place of the doctor's servant. The man never cried again, though the probe was deep in the wound. The arrowhead came out; he gave a deep sigh, between relief and triumph. The King said, "Look what you had in you. I never saw a man bear it better." The wounded man said, "We've seen one, Alexander." There was a murmur of assent around the tent.
He laid a hand on the good shoulder, and stood up, his fresh white tunic all dirtied with blood and matter which the wound had spurted. I thought he would go to make himself presentable, but he just said to the surgeon, who was dressing the wound, "Don't trouble with me." A tall hunting-dog, which had sat quiet by the entry, got up and padded at his heel. He looked about him, and came towards my corner. I saw great red fingerweals on his upper arm. The wounded man must have been clutching at him— the sacred person of a king!
There was a common, wooden stool, used by the wound-dressers. He picked it up, himself, with his own hand, and came to sit beside me. The dog started to nose me over. "Down, Peritas. Sit," he said. "I hope dogs are not a pollution in your part of the world, as they are among the Jews?"
"No, my lord," I said, trying to believe all this was happening. "We honor them in Persia. They neither break faith, we say, nor do they lie."
"A good saying. You hear that, Peritas? But how are you, boy? You look clapped-out. Have you been drinking bad water?"
"I don't know, my lord."
"Always ask about the water. Mostly, down in the plains, it's better in wine. Worse water, more wine. I've had your trouble. Sicker than a dog, and then a flux. You, too, I can see from the way your eyes are sunken. How many times today?"
I recovered my speech and told him; he was fast making me proof against any shock. "That's no joke," he said. "Drink plenty, we've good water here. Nothing to eat but slops. I know a good infusion, but the herbs don't grow here; I must find out what the natives use. Look after yourself, boy, I'm missing you at dinner." He stood up, the dog doing so too. "I'll be here awhile; take no notice if you want to go outside. None of your Persian formality. I know what it is to be kept about, when you're doubled up for a crap."
He strolled on to another bed with his wooden stool. I was so stunned that I had to go out almost at once.
When he had left, I slid my hand-mirror from the purse under my pillow, and peered at it behind the blanket. I look dreadful, I thought, and he said so too. Did he truly mean he was missing me at dinner? No, he had a good word for everyone. You look clapped-out, he said.
I became aware of a youngish veteran, tough and big-boned, growling at me. Had he seen the mirror? "Please speak Greek," I said. "I don't understand Macedonian."
"Now, maybe, you know how he felt about the hospital at Issos."
"Issos?" I must have been thirteen. "I know nothing about a hospital."
"Then I'll tell you now. Your people cut in at Issos when the King had marched beyond it; he turned back there to fight the battle. Meantime, he'd left the sick there, in a tent like this. And your royal whore-master, who ran like a goat before Alexander's spear, was so brave with men too weak to stand on their feet, he had them cut up in bed alive. They . . . well, I suppose you know all about such things. I was there when we found them. If they'd been only barbarians, it would still have made me sick. There were one or two left living; both hands off at the wrists and the stumps seared. I saw Alexander's face. We all thought he'd do the same the first chance he had, and we'd all have helped. But no, he had too much pride. Now my anger's cooled, I'm glad of it. So you can he there safe, snugged up with your bowl of gruel."
I said, "I did not know. I am sorry." Then I lay down, and pulled up the blanket. Your royal whore-master. Each time he had run away, I had thought,
Who am I to judge? But now I judged him. Had it been coward's cruelty, or was he taking his ease, uncaring? Small odds. I was sad already with sickness; now this shame. I, who had given myself consequence because a king had chosen me! He had not done even that; some pander had done it for him. I covered myself like a corpse, and gave myself up to grief.
Through the blanket and my sobs, I heard someone saying, "See there what you've done. The boy's half dead; now you've put him in a convulsion. They're not made like us, you fool. You'll be sorry if he dies of it. The King fancies that boy, I could see it with half an eye."
The next thing I knew, a heavy hand grasped my shoulder, and the first man (who should never have left his bed) told me not to take it so much to heart, it was no fault of mine. He pressed a fig into my hand, which I had sense enough not to eat; but I pretended to. The fever rose and burned in me. It scorched up even my tears.
It was sharp, but short. Even after we had been carted on wagons to the next camp, I mended, though most of the wounded had setbacks. The man with the arrow wound died on the way. His shoulder mortified. In his delirium he called upon the King; the man beside me murmured that even Alexander had not yet conquered death.
The young heal quickly. Next time we moved camp, I was fit to ride.
There had been changes in my short absence. From a group of the Companion Cavalry, the cream of the highborn Macedonians, a voice called to me in Persian, "Here, Bagoas! Say something for me in Greek." I could not credit my senses. It was Prince Oxathres, Darius' brother.
Being one of the fair Persians, he did not look strange among Macedonians, though taller and handsomer than any of them. He was not with the Companions by chance. Alexander had enrolled him.
At Issos, they had fought hand to hand before the royal chariot. They had met too over Darius' embassy, when Tyre had fallen. They had felt each other's quality. And now that Bessos had put on the Hood, rather than see his brother's murderer on his throne, Oxathres preferred Alexander, who would help him with his blood-feud.
Well might he be angry at that wretched death. It was only now that I learned all the story. Nabarzanes had told me only the truth he knew. They had stabbed Darius with their javelins, killed his two slaves, maimed the horses, left him for dead; but with Alexander hot on their heels they had struck clumsily. The cart dragged on, the wounded beasts sought water. The dying King heard them drink, while he lay covered with blood and flies, his mouth cracked dry. At last came a Macedonian soldier, puzzled that the horses should be slashed instead of stolen; pausing, he heard a groan. He was a decent man; so Darius got a drink before he died.
