I listened behind the tent-flap. This play had no part for me.
He said he grieved to hear the men had lost so much spirit; he had called them in council, to decide along with him whether to go on. He meant, of course, that he would persuade and not compel them. I don't think the notion of really turning back had entered his head.
He had a splendid style, eloquent without rhetoric, though he'd not written down a word. He spoke of their unbroken victories; why need they fear the men beyond the river? The end of their task was near. They were coming to the Encircling Ocean; the very same that washed Hyrkania in the north, and Persia southward; earth's utmost boundary. He could not believe— I could hear it in his voice—that they felt no touch of his burning eagerness. Had he not shared their dangers, he said, and had they not shared the spoils? Would they give up so near fulfillment? "Keep steadfastness!" he cried to them. "It is a lovely thing, to live with courage, and die leaving an everlasting fame."
His clear voice ceased. He waited. It was so quiet, you could hear a shrill-voiced bird, and the pi-dogs bickering.
After a while he said, "Come! I've said my say; I sent for you to hear yours." At this, there was a shifting and shuffling about. Suddenly I remembered the silence before Darius, at that last audience; and I felt the difference. He had been despised. Alexander had awed and shamed them; the words they'd come with had died before him. And yet, like Darius, he had not moved their minds.
"Someone speak out," he said. "You've nothing to fear from me. Isn't my word enough, do you want my oath on it?"
Someone muttered, "Yes, Koinos, go on."
A grizzled square man was shoved forward through the crowd. I'd known him well by sight, even before his great part in the river battle. He'd fought under Philip, but, a soldier first and last, never joined a faction. Where good sense and stubborn fortitude were called for, the King chose Koines. They looked at each other. Koinos' face, the only one I could see, said, You'll not like this; but I trust you.
"Sir," he said, "you've called us here in free council, we all know that. But I'm not speaking for us commanders; I don't feel I've the right. With all we've had from you, we'd be overpaid already for going on. If you want to advance, it's for us to see it done; it's our duty, it's what we were promoted for. So, with permission, I'd like to speak for the men. Not that they come first with me, sir. You do. That's why I'm speaking."
Alexander said nothing. I could see his back taut as a bowstring.
"I'm the eldest here, I think. If I can claim a good name, I have you to thank, for giving me my chances. Well, sir. The men, as you said yourself, have done more than any army did before them. Thanks to you, again. But I put it to you, sir, that when they say it's enough, they deserve a hearing. Think how many of us Macedonians came out with you. How many of us are left?"
A good old man. A fine soldier. A Macedonian, speaking out to his King is his forthright way. What were my people to him, the Persian horsemen with their proud faces and slender strength? What were the strong Baktrians, the hawk-nosed Sogdians, the red-haired Thracians, the tall Indians in their jeweled turbans, the sharers in his victories? Chances along the way which led to home.
"We've died in the field; we've died of fever and the flux. There are the cripples who'll never fight again; and the men in your new cities; not all of them happy there, but there they are. And look at the rest of us, fit to scare the crows, dressed in Indian rags. When a soldier gets neither pride nor comfort from his turnout, it pulls down his spirits. The cavalry too, the horses' hooves are worn nearly down to the frogs. And, sir, we've wives and children at home. Already our children will be strangers; soon it will be our wives. Sir, the men want to get home with their loot, while they can still be somebody in their villages, looked up to. If they do that, you'll soon have a new army sprung up from the ground, asking to follow you. Go back, King. Your mother must be longing for a sight of you. Call up the young men who'll come out fresh. It's best, sir. Believe me, sir, it's best."
His voice cracked, and he dragged his fingers across his eyes. A raucous sound came from him, as if he were going to spit; but it was a sob.
As if it had released the others, cries broke out everywhere; not of anger or defiance, but sheer pleading. They almost moaned. They stretched out their arms. If well-picked officers felt like this, what about the men?
Alexander stood unmoving. The sounds faded; they waited his reply.
"Council dismissed." He turned his back, and went straight into his tent.
One or two senior generals, his friends, made a move to follow. He faced them in the entry and said again, "Council dismissed."
At Susa, I had learned how to be invisible. One picked that up quickly. While he paced about, I vanished in a corner. When he tugged at his helmet-strap, I came silently and disarmed him, and once more made myself nothing. It gave me time to think.
Did the soldiers share his faith in the Stream of Ocean? I wondered. I thought of the teeming camp with its wandering traders; the interpreters, waiting to earn their small hire when the language of signs broke down. Interpreters called to a king will translate what they are told to. Market interpreters, once paid, will gossip. Their work being all with travelers, they will talk of far places and the road ahead. Did the soldiers know more than we?
The great Aristotle, wisest of all the Greeks, had told Alexander how the world was made. But one thing was sure; he had never been to look.
Alexander was pacing the great tent, back and forth, back and forth. He must have covered a mile. I remained a nothing; to his need, I was nothing more. He needed faith in his dream, and my faith was gone.
Suddenly he fetched up before me, and cried aloud, "I will go on!"
I rose, being now visible. "My lord, you have surpassed Kyros. Herakles too, and Dionysos, and the Heavenly Twins. All the world knows it."
He searched my face. I concealed my faithlessness from him.
"I must see World's End. It is not to possess it. It is not even for the fame. It is to see it, to be there ... and it is so near!"
I said, "They do not understand."
Later he called back Ptolemy and Perdikkas and the other generals, and said he was sorry he'd been short with them. He would speak to the commanders again next day; meantime they could be planning the new campaign, for when he had talked them round. The generals sat down at the table, busily making notes on the river-crossing and the march beyond. They were no better than I.
He felt that with his skin. All evening he was brooding. I doubt he slept. Next morning when the commanders came, he made no speech to them, just asked if they'd changed their minds.
A confusion of voices followed. I think a few things came out, rumors of distances and so on. Someone had heard such and such, from the interpreter of a caravan. Someone spoke of a half-month march through desert. After a time of this, Alexander called for silence.
"I have heard you. I told you, you had nothing to fear from me. I will order no Macedonian to follow me unwillingly. There are others who will go forward with their King. I shall advance without you. Go, as soon as you wish. Go home. Nothing more is asked of you." .
He went in. I heard the voices outside, growing louder as they went off. Alexander said to the guard outside, "Admit no one at all."
But I was once more invisible. All day I came and went. Seeing me not dismissed at the outset, the guard let me back in. I would look through from the sleeping-place, lest he might have given way to distress, being alone. But he would be seated at the table, staring at his plans, or walking about. I saw he still clung to hope.
Whatever he had said, he would not go on without the Macedonians. This army, before which he had proved himself in boyhood, was part of his blood. It was like a lover. Why not? It had greatly loved him. He was shut up here, not in grief alone, but to bring the lover to his feet, asking for pardon.
No lover came. Over the great camp lay a heavy, brooding silence.
He did not send me away. I saw his solitude and did not trouble it. I brought him anything he seemed to need, went out if he looked restless, kindled the lamps at night. They brought him supper. He became aware of me, made me sit down and eat with him. Suddenly with the wine, though he did not take much, he began to talk. He said that all his life, now here or now there, some great longing had seized him, a certain deed to do, a certain wonder to reach and look at; longings so great, he knew that they came from a god. Always he had fulfilled them, always until now.
I hoped he would take me to bed. I could have done him good. But he was longing after another love than mine.
Next day, he stayed inside. The camp murmured sullenly. Everything was the same; except that this was the second day, and his hope was leaving him.
At evening I lit the lamp. Strange flying things threw themselves at the flame, shriveled and fell dead. He sat at the table, his fists propping his chin. I had nothing to give him. This time, I could not even bring Hephaistion to him. I would have done it, if I could.
After a while he took a book and opened it. He wants to compose his mind, I thought; and it put a thought in mine. I slipped away in the short Indian dusk, and went to the nearest shade-tree. There he was, his feet folded on his thighs and his hands laid in his lap. He knew enough Greek to converse in now, if one kept it simple.
"Kalanos," I said, " the King is in great grief."
"God is good to him," he answered; and, as I moved towards him, gently motioned me back. Right before me a great snake was coiled, in the dead leaves a yard away from him.
"Sit over there, and he will not be angry. He is the patient kind. He was angry when he was a man; now he is learning."
I mastered my fear and sat. The snake's coils stirred gently, and were still.
"Don't sorrow for the King, my child. He is paying part of his debt; he will return with a lighter burden."
I said, "To what god can I sacrifice, so that when he is born again, I may be born with him?"
"That is your sacrifice; to that you are bound. You will return, to receive his service."
"He is my lord and will always be. Can you lift his sorrow?"
"He is grasping his own wheel of fire. He has only to loose his hold. But it is hard for the gods to free themselves from godhead." He unfolded himself, and in one movement was on his feet. The snake hardly shifted.
Alexander was still at his book. I said, "Al'skander, Kalanos has been missing you. Will you see him, just for a little while?"
"Kalanos?" He gave me one of those looks that went right through one. "Kalanos misses nobody. You brought him." I cast down my eyes. "Yes, bring him in. Now I think of it, he's the only one, but you, I could bear to see."
When I had brought him past the guard, I went away. I did not try to listen. Healing magic is a sacred thing, and I feared to break it.
When at last I saw him leave, I entered. Alexander made me a sign of greeting, but was in thought, so I sat still. When supper came, he had me share it as before. Presently he said, "Have you ever heard of Arjuna? No, nor I till tonight. He was an Indian king of times past and a great warrior. One day before a battle, he stood weeping in his chariot; not out of fear, but because honor bound him to fight his kindred. Then, just as you find in Homer, the shape of his charioteer was taken by a god, and the god addressed him,"
He fell quiet, and I asked what the god had said.
"A good deal. They'd both have missed the battle." For a moment he grinned, then was grave again. "He told Arjuna he was a warrior born and must fulfill his destiny; but he must do it without regret or desire; he must not want the fruits of it."
"Could that be?" I asked. His seriousness surprised me.
"Almost, perhaps; by a man obeying orders. I've known men almost like that, and good men too, though they all valued a word of praise. But to lead men, to change their hearts, to make them brave—that, before anything can begin!—to see a new thing one must make, and not rest till one has made it—that needs a longing greater than for one's life."
"There are so many things, Al'skander, you want more than your life. And your life is all I have."
"Fire burns, dear Persian, and yet you worship it. I too. I have laid on it fear, and pain, and the body's needs, and the flames were beautiful."
"Truly," I said, "I have worshipped before that fire."
"But Kalanos, he wants me to lay on the fire all that the fire has given me—honor, fame among men now and men to come, the very breath of the god which says, Go further."
"Yet he himself left his friends to follow you."
"To free me, he says. But God gave us hands. If he'd meant them for folding in our laps, we should have no fingers." I laughed. He said, "Oh, he is a true philosopher. But ... I was with him once when we passed a dying dog, kicked almost to death, its ribs staved in, panting with thirst. He rebuked me, because I drew my sword to end its pain. I should have let it complete its chosen path. Yet he himself would do no harm to any creature."
"A strange man. Yet there is something one must love in him."
"Yes. I enjoyed his company, I’m glad you brought him . . . Tomorrow, I shall have the omens taken for the river-crossing. If they're good, the men will think again." Even yet, he was grasping his wheel of fire.
"Yes, Al'skander. You will know then for sure what the god means for you." Something told me I was safe to say it.
It was done next morning. The Macedonians waited in muttering quiet. The victim struggled, itself an unlucky sign. When the liver was taken from the carcass, and laid in the hands of Aristander, the mutter died to a hush, as he turned the dark glossy flesh between his hands. Raising his voice for all to hear, he announced the signs were adverse in all their aspects.
