He took trouble, therefore, describing the desert march, the rescuing rain, the guiding ravens, the serpents pointing as they lay, the sands’ mysterious voices; the great oasis with its pools and palm-glades and wondering white-robed people; the rocky acropolis where the temple was, with its famous courtyard where the sign of the god was given.
“There is a spring in a basin of red rock; we had to wash our gold and silver offerings in it, to cleanse them for the god, and ourselves as well. It was icy cold in the hot dry air. Alexander of course they did not purify. He was Pharaoh. He carried his own divinity. They led him into the sanctuary. Outside, the light was all shimmering white, and everything seemed to ripple in it. The entrance looked black as night, you’d have thought it would have blinded him. But he went in as though his eyes were on distant mountains.”
Bagoas nodded, as if to say, “Of course; go on.”
“Presently we heard singing, and harps and cymbals and sistra, and the oracle came out. There is not room for it inside the sanctuary. He stood there to watch it, somewhere in the dark.
“The priests came out, forty pairs of them, twenty before and twenty behind the god. They carried the oracle like a litter, with long shoulder-poles. The oracle is a boat. I don’t know why the god should speak through a boat on land … Ammon has a very old shrine at Thebes. Alexander used to say it must have come first from the river.”
“Tell me about the boat.” He spoke like a child who prompts an old bedtime story.
“It was long and light, like the bird-hunters’ punts on the Nile. But sheathed all over with gold, and hung with gold and silver votives, all kinds of little precious things swinging and glittering and tinkling. In the middle was the Presence of the god. Just a simple sphere.
“The priest came out into the court with Alexander’s question. He had written it on a strip of gold and folded the gold together. He laid it on the pavement before the god, and prayed in his own tongue. Then the boat began to live. It stayed where it was, but you could see it quicken.”
“You saw it,” said Bagoas suddenly. “Alexander said he was too far.”
“Yes, I saw. The carriers stood with empty faces, waiting; but they were like flotsam on a still river-pool, before the flow of the river lifts it. It does not stir yet; but you know the river is under all.
“The question lay shining in the sun. The cymbals sounded a slow beat and the flutes played louder. Then the carriers began to sway a little where they stood, just as flotsam sways. You know how the god answers: back for no, forward for yes. They moved forward like all one thing, a skein of water-weed, a drift of leaves, till before the question they stopped, and the prow dipped. Then the trumpets sounded, and we waved our hands and cheered.
“We waited, then, for Alexander to come out from the sanctuary. It was hot; or we thought so, not having yet been in Gedrosia.” A shadowy smile replied to him. They were both survivors of that dreadful march.
“At last he came out with the high priest. I think more had happened than he had come to ask. He came out with the awe still in him. Then, I remember, he blinked in the sudden brightness, and shaded his eyes with his hand. He saw us all, and looked across and smiled.”
He had looked across at Hephaistion and smiled; but there was no need to say so.
“Egypt loved him. They welcomed him with hymns as their savior from the Persians. He honored all their temples that Ochos had profaned. I wish you had seen him laying out Alexandria. I don’t know how far it has gone up now, I don’t trust the governor; but I know what he wanted, and when I am there I shall see it done. There is only one thing he left no mark for: the tomb where we shall honor him. But I know the place, by the sea. I remember him standing there.”
Bagoas’ eyes had been fixed upon a light-point on his silver cup. He raised them. “What is it you want done?”
Silently, Ptolemy caught his breath. He had been in time.
“Stay here in Babylon. You refused Peukestes’ offer; no one else will make you his concern. Bear with it if they take your house for some creature of Perdikkas. Stay till the bier is ready and you know when it will set out. Then come to me. You shall have a house in Alexandria near where he lies. You know that in Macedon that could not be.”
In Macedon, he thought, the children would stone you in the street. But you have guessed that; there is no need to be cruel.
“Will you take my hand on it?” he said.
He held out his big-boned right hand, calloused from the spear-shaft and the sword, its seams picked out by the lamp as he held it open. Pale, slender and icy cold, Bagoas’ hand took it in a precise and steady grip. Ptolemy remembered that he had been a dancer.
In a last fierce spasm, Roxane felt her infant’s head thrust out of her. More gently, with swift relief, turned by a skillful midwife, the moist body slid after. She stretched her legs out, dripping with sweat and panting; then heard the child’s thin angry cry.
Shrill with exhaustion, she cried out, “A boy, is it a boy?”
Acclamation and praise and good-luck invocations rose in chorus, She gave a great groan of triumph. The midwife lifted the child to view, still on its blue-white cord. From the half-screened corner where he had vigilantly watched the birth, Perdikkas came forward, confirmed the sex, uttered a conventional phrase of good omen, and left the room.
The cord was tied, the afterbirth delivered; mother and child were washed with warm rose-water, dried, anointed. Alexander the Fourth, joint King of Macedon and Asia, was laid in his mother’s arms.
He nuzzled for warmth, but she held him at arms’ length to look at him. He was dark-haired.
The midwife, touching the fine fluff, said it was birth-hair that would fall away. He was still red and crumpled, his face closed up in the indignation of the newly born; but she could see through the flush an olive, not a rosy coloring. He would be dark, a Bactrian. And why not? Alone in a harsh alien element, missing the womb’s blind comfort, he began to cry.
She lowered him to her body, to take the weight from her arms. He hushed; the slave-girl with the feather fan had come back to the bedside; after the bustle, the women with silence and soft feet were setting to rights the rooms of the Royal Wife. Beyond the door, the courtyard with its fishpool lay under the mild winter sun. Reflected light fell on the dressing-table, and on the gold and silver toilet-set that had been Queen Stateita’s; her jewel-box stood beside it. All was triumph and tranquility.
The nurse came fussing up with the antique royal cradle, plated with gold and time-yellowed ivory. Roxane drew the coverlet over the sleeping child. Under her fingers, almost disguised by the elaborate embroidery, was a smear of blood.
Her stomach heaved. When she had moved into this room it had all been refurbished and redraped. But the bed was a fine one and they had not changed it.
She had stood by while Stateira writhed and tried to clutch at her and moaned “Help me! Help me!” and fumbled blindly with her clothes. Roxane had flung them back to see her beaten enemy, her son’s rival, come naked into the world he would never rule. Could it be true that the thing had opened its mouth and cried? Disturbed by her tightened fingers, the infant wailed.
“Shall I take him, madam?” said the nurse timidly by her side. “Would madam like to sleep?”
“Later.” She softened her grip; the child quieted and curled itself against her. He was a king and she was a king’s mother; no one could take it from her. “Where is Amestrin? Amestrin, who put this filthy cover on my bed? It stinks, it is disgusting, give me something clean. If I see it again, your back will know it.”
After panic scurryings, another cover was found; the state one, a year’s work in Artaxerxes’ day, was whisked out of sight. The baby slept. Roxane, her body loosening into comfort from its labor, sank into drowsiness. In a dream she saw a half-made child with the face of Alexander, lying in blood, its grey eyes staring with anger. Fear woke her. But all was well; he was dead and could do nothing, it was her son who would rule the world. She slept again.