Most of these distant folk must have looked for a man of towering stature; some of the Kelts were as tall as Poros; yet none left his presence wondering why he was what he was. He was equal even to having the earth laid in his hands.
Indeed, in our time his face has changed the very faces of the gods. Look where you like, at the statues and the paintings. All the world remembers his eyes.
It helped his sickness, to be seen for what he was. After all he'd suffered, the Greeks were muttering that he'd reached a fortune above the human lot, and the gods are envious. To one such I said, "Speak for your own. Ours is Great King and envies no one; he rejoices in light and glory. That's why we offer him fire." No wonder the Greeks have envious gods, being full of envy themselves.
For three days he had no time for grieving. He went on exalted in his mind, remembering Siwah, and thinking of the west, whose peoples he'd now first seen. But sometimes his face would change, as if sorrow touched his shoulder, saying, "Had you forgotten me?"
In the river plains, already the corn pricked the rich earth with green. Babylon's black walls lay along the flat horizon, when to our last camp on the road a man came riding. It was Niarchos, from the city. Though his hardships had left their mark, you could now see he was only forty; yet he looked care-ridden, to me. Oh no, I thought; don't bring new troubles just when he is better. So I stayed to listen.
Alexander welcomed him, asked after his welfare and the fleet's; then said, "And now tell me what's wrong."
"Alexander, it's the Chaldean priests, the astrologers."
"What's amiss with them? I gave them a fortune to rebuild the Zeus-Bel temple. What are they after now?"
"It's not that," Niarchos said.
Though I could not see him from where I was, I felt a sinking. It was not his seaman's way, to beat about.
"Well, what, then?" said Alexander. "What's the matter?"
"Alexander, they read me my stars before we marched to India. It all came true. So just now I went again. They told me something that . . . upset me. Alexander, I knew you when you were so high. I know your birthday, the place, hour, everything they need. I asked them to read the stars for you. They say Babylon's in a bad aspect for you now. They were coming out on their own account, to warn you off. It's a lee shore for you, they say. Unlucky."
There was a little pause. Alexander said, quietly, "How unlucky?"
"Very. That's why I came."
A shorter pause. "Well, I'm glad to see you. Tell me, have they finished building the temple?"
"They're barely past the foundations. I don't know why."
He laughed. "I do. They've been drawing the sacred tax for the temple upkeep, ever since Xerxes pulled it down. For generations. They must be the richest priests on earth. They thought I'd never be back, and it could go on forever. No wonder they don't want me through the gates."
Niarchos cleared his throat. "I didn't know that. But . . . they told me I'd be in ordeal by water, and live to be honored by a king, and marry well with a foreign woman. I told you at the wedding feast."
"They knew you were an admiral and my friend. Wonderful! Come to supper."
He arranged for Niarchos' lodging, and finished his day's work.
At bedtime, he looked up at me leaning over him, and said, "Eavesdropper! Don't look so woebegone. It serves you right."
"Al'skander!" I fell on my knees beside him. "Do as they say. Never mind if they keep the money. They're not seers, they don't need to be pure of heart; it's a learning they have. Everyone says so."
He reached and ran a lock of my hair between his finger and thumb. "So? Kallisthenes had learning, too."
"They'd be afraid to lie. All their honor's in true predictions. I've lived in Babylon, I've talked to all sorts of people in the dancing-houses—"
"Have you indeed?" He tugged at the lock softly. "Tell me more."
"Al'skander, don't go into the city."
"What's to be done with you? Get in, you're not fit to sleep alone."
The Chaldeans met him next day.
They came in their sacred robes of a shape unchanged for centuries. Incense was burned before them; their wands bore the emblems of the stars. Alexander met them in his parade armor, all Macedonian. Somehow they persuaded him to come apart among them, with only the interpreter. Chaldeans have almost their own language, and Babylonians don't speak good Persian either; but I hoped enough would reach him to move his mind.
He came back looking serious. He was not one of those who think God has no name but the one they heard in childhood.
They had begged him to march east; which would have taken him to Susa. But all his dearest concerns were fixed in Babylon; the new harbor, the Arabian voyage, Hephaistion's funeral rites. He was still in doubt of their good faith. Old Aristander was dead, whom he could have asked to take the omens.
At all events, he said that since the west was unpropitious, he would go round the city on the eastward side, and reach the South Gate that way.
There is no Eastern Gate, and we soon knew why. That side, we came to a great stretch of marsh, treacherous and full of pools. The Euphrates seeped round into it. He could still have made a greater circuit, even if it crossed and recrossed the Tigris, and come back up the Euphrates. But he said impatiently, "That settles it. I'm not squatting like a frog in a swamp to please the Chaldeans." Since the embassies, he knew the world's eyes were on him. Perhaps that really settled it. At all events he turned back, by north and west.
Still he did not enter the gates, but camped up river. Then he heard more embassies were coming, this time from Greece. Anaxarchos, ever officious, reminded him that Greek thinkers no longer believe in omens. It touched his pride.
The Palace had been long prepared for him. As he drove through the gates in Darius' chariot, ravens fought overhead, and one fell dead before his horses.
However, as if to confound the auguries, the first news that met him was of life and fortune. Roxane had traveled straight down from Ekbatana to the Palace Harem. When he visited her there, it was to hear that she was with child.
She had known already, at Ekbatana; she told him she had waited to make quite sure. The truth, as I have no doubt, was that it was at the time of his madness, and she'd been afraid to give him news that would bring him near her.
He made her all the accustomed gifts of honor, and sent her father the news. He himself took it quietly. Perhaps he'd given up the thought that she would conceive by him, and had meant, in due time, to breed an heir from Stateira. Perhaps his mind was on other things.
When he gave me the news, I cried, "Oh, Al'skander! May you live to see him victorious at your side!"
I grasped him in both hands, as if I had power to defy the heavens. We stood in silence, understanding each other. At last he said, "If I'd married in Macedon, as my mother wanted, before I crossed to Asia, the boy would have been twelve by now. But there was never time. There is never time enough." He kissed me and went away.
It was torment to me to have him out of my sight. I watched him move among the half-forgotten splendors known to my boyhood. Then, I had come here light of heart. Now fear and grief hung on me like a sickness. Why had he listened to the Chaldeans, obeyed their warning and then defied it? It is Hephaistion, I thought, reaching out to him from the dead.
One must live, he'd said to me long ago, as if it would be forever, and as if each moment might be the last. He began at once to have the great harbor dug, and the fleet built for Arabia, which Niarchos would command. It was spring now, as warm as a Susa summer. He would ride back from the new harbor, and make for the royal bath. Nothing in the Palace gave him so much pleasure. He loved the cool walls, the fretted screens glimpsing the river, the great bath with its lapis-blue tiles and their golden fish. He would float there with the water lifting his hair.
But there was always Hephaistion. He was due now for his rite of burning.
The fleet and the new harbor were both in hand. Alexander had time; and soon he had time only for this. He returned a little into his madness. If one woke him, he was sensible; but he would drift back into dreams. Alexander's dreams were daimons. He conjured them, and they obeyed him.
He had ten furlongs of the city wall knocked half down, and leveled out to a square. Within this he had a platform made of fine tiles, each side a furlong. That was the base of the pyre. From that it tapered up, story upon story; each tier with carved sculptures, as fine in wood as if they'd been meant to last forever. At the bottom, ships' prows with archers and warriors, larger than life; then torches twenty feet long, adorned with eagles and serpents; then a scene of wild beasts and hunters, gilded. Next above, trophies of arms, both Macedonian and Persian, to show both races had held the dead in honor. Above that I don't know what, elephants, lions, garlands. Near the top were figures of winged sirens, hollow behind, in which singers would lament before the pyre was kindled. Great crimson flags hung down between the stages. There was room inside for a stairway, to bring him up with dignity.
I thought, No king has gone like this since the world began. He has dreamed it as if it were for himself. I watched his face, his eyes lifted to the pyre in his quiet madness, and dared do nothing, not even touch him.
The funeral car had been escorted by Perdikkas from Ekbatana. Hephaistion lay in state in the Palace, here as there. Alexander went oftener to see him now; he would soon be gone. Medios of Larissa, who had been his friend, had a little bronze likeness of him made, by a sculptor who'd seen him often, to give Alexander. He received it so gladly, that one friend after another, vying in affection or for favor, had small statues made in gold or ivory or alabaster. Soon the room was full of them; he was there wherever I looked. And I had thought that when the pyre was kindled, that would be the end of him.
One day, being alone, I took the best likeness into my hand, thinking, Who were you, what are you, that you can do this to my lord? He came in behind me, and said, "Put that down!" with such anger that I nearly dropped it. I put it back somehow, shaking with fear of exile. He said more quietly, "What were you doing?" I answered, "He was dear to you. I wanted to understand him."
He took a turn across the room, then said, "He knew me."feifan txt
No more. I was pardoned, he meant no hurt. I had asked, he answered.
They had been born in the same month, in the same hills, of the same race, with the same gods; had lived under one roof from their fourteenth year. Truly, when to me we had seemed like one, to how much I had been a stranger.
Time will pass, I thought. They could bear to be parted on campaign; it will come to seem only like that. If there is time.
The day came. In the dusk before dawn, they lined the square about the platform; generals, princes, satraps, priests; standard-bearers, heralds, musicians; the painted elephants. By the steps were the braziers and the torches.
The bearers took up the coffin by the hidden stairs. As they reached the topmost deck, looking small as toys, and laid it on its stand, the hidden sirens sang, faint in the sky. They came down, still singing. The torches were kindled at the braziers.
The pyre stood on palm-wood columns; the space between was piled up with tinder and dry straw. Alexander came forward with his torch, alone.
He was exalted above his madness, into ecstasy. Peukestas, who'd seen him fight on with the Mallian arrow in him, said later that then he looked just the same. The elephants curled back their trunks and trumpeted.
He flung in his torch; flames leaped from it. The friends followed; the brands pelted in; the fire jumped through the gratings, into the tier of ships. It began to roar.
The pyre was tinder-filled up its center, through all its two hundred feet. The blaze spired upward, past ships and archers and lions and eagles and shields and garlands. At the top it enwrapped the coffin, and burst in a great peak of flame, against the green sky of sunrise.
Once at Persepolis, that feast of fire, they had looked up side by side.
For a while the high tower stood in its fearful beauty; then tier after tier caved in. An eagle crashed to the platform with flaming wings; the sirens toppled inwards; the coffin vanished. The timbers, the heavy carvings, began to hurtle down, throwing up spark-clouds tall as trees. The pyre was a single torch burning to its socket, by whose light I saw his face alone.
The sun came up. The whole parade stood stupefied in the heat. When nothing was left but red embers and white ash, he gave the order to dismiss. He gave it himself. I had thought they would have to wake him.
As he was leaving, a crowd of priests approached him, robed from all kinds of temples. He answered briefly and passed on. They looked unhappy. I overtook one of the squires who had been near, and asked what it had been about.
He said, "They asked if they could rekindle the sacred fires now. He said not till sundown."
I stared at him, unbelieving. "The temple fires? He ordered them put out?"
"Yes, for the mourning. Bagoas, you look bad, it was all that heat. Come in the shade here. Does it mean something In Babylon?"
"They do it when the King is dead."
Silence fell between us. At last he said, "But when he ordered it, they must have told him that."
I hurried to the Palace, hoping to get him alone. Even to light them now might avert the omen. Had there not been enough, that he must make his own?
But already he had summoned a score of people, and was finishing off plans for the funeral contests. Grave Persian faces showed me that others had tried to warn him. Old Palace eunuchs who had lived to see the fires three times doused were whispering, and rolled their eyes my way. I did not join them. The temples were dark till sunset. Alexander worked on the games all day. There had been nothing much left to do, but it seemed that he could not stop.
