“Is there?” he said, instantly alert. “No one outside of here knows anything about me.”
“So you’d think. But people talk, like we’re talking now. Men go on leave. The word goes round that at your age your father had killed his man, and that you’re a likely lad who should be getting to know your people. They want to see you.”
“Tell them I want to see them, too.”
“I’ll tell them that when I want my back tanned. Remember; never a word.”
“Silence or death!” This was their usual catchword. They trotted back to the waiting Peiros.
Roxane’s rooms were furnished from her long travels. The splendors of the Queen’s rooms in Babylon, the fretted lattices and lilied fishpond, were twelve years away; all she had of them were Stateira’s casket and jewels. Lately, she hardly knew why, she had put them away out of sight. But she had plenty of ornaments and comforts; Kassandros had allowed her a wagon-train to carry her things to Amphipolis. He was sending them both there, he had said, only for their protection after all the perils they had undergone; by all means, let her make her stay agreeable.
She had however been very lonely. In the beginning the Commandant’s wife, and some of the officers’ ladies, had made overtures; but she was the Queen Mother, she had not expected a long stay, and she had exacted her proper dignities. As months became years she had regretted this, and put out small signals of condescension; but it was too late, formality was coldly kept.
It distressed her that the King her son should have no company but women and common soldiers. Little as she knew of Greek education, she knew that he should be getting it; or how, when he came to reign, would he hold his own at court? He was losing his tutored Greek, and falling into the uncouth Doric patois of his escorts. What would his guardian think of him when he came?
And he would come today. She had just had word that he had arrived without warning at the castle, and was closeted with the Commandant. At least, the boy’s ignorance should convince the Regent, of his need for schooling and civil company. Besides, she herself should long since have been installed in a proper court with her ladies and attendants, not penned up among provincial nobodies. This time she must insist.
When Alexander came in, dusty and flushed from his ride, she sent him to bathe and change. In her long leisure she had worked beautiful clothes for both of them. Washed, combed, dressed in his blue tunic bordered with gold thread and his embroidered girdle, she thought that he had added to the grace of Persia the classic beauty of Greece. Suddenly the sight of him moved her almost to tears. He had been growing fast, and was already taller than she. His soft dark hair and his fine delicate brows were hers; but his eyes, though they were brown, had something in their deep-set intensity that stirred her memories.
She put on her best gown, and a splendid gold necklace set with sapphires which her husband had given her in India. Then she remembered that among Stateira’s jewels were sapphire earrings. She found the casket in the chest, and put them on.
“Mother,” said Alexander as they waited, “don’t forget, not a word about what Xanthos told me yesterday. I promised. You’ve not told anyone?”
“Of course not, darling. Whom should I find to tell among these people?”
“Silence or death!”
“Hush. He is coming.”
Escorted by the Commandant, whom he dismissed with a nod, Kassandros entered.
He noticed that she had grown stout in the idle years, though she had kept her clear ivory skin and splendid eyes; she, that he looked older and thin to gauntness, and that his cheekbones had a flush of broken veins. He greeted her with formal civility, asked after her health and, without awaiting an answer, turned to her son.
Alexander, who had been sitting when he came in, got up, but only on reflection. He had long ago been told that kings should not rise for anyone. On the other hand, this place was his home, and he had a duty as host.
Kassandros, noting this, did not remark on it. He said without expression, “I see your father in you.”
“Yes,” said Alexander, nodding. “My mother sees it, too.”
“Well, you would have outgrown him. Your father was not tall.”
“He was strong, though. I exercise every day.”
“And how else do you spend your time?”
“He needs a tutor,” Roxane cut in. “He would forget how to write, if I did not make him. His father was taught by a philosopher.”
“These things can be attended to. Well, Alexander?”
The boy considered. He felt he was being tested, to see how soon he would come of age. “I go up to the ramparts and look at the ships and ask where they all come from, and what the places and the people are like, if anyone can tell me. I go riding every day, under guard, for exercise. The rest of the time,” he added carefully, “I think about being King.”
“Indeed?” said Kassandros sharply. “And how do you plan to rule?”
Alexander had given this thought. He said at once, “I shall find all the men I can whom my father trusted. I’ll ask them all about him. And before I decide anything, I shall ask them what he’d do.”
For a moment, to his surprise, he saw his guardian turn quite white, so that the red patches on his cheeks looked almost blue; he wondered if he was ill. But his face grew red again, and he only said, “What if they do not agree?”
“Well, I’m the King. So I must do what I think myself. He had to.”
“Your father was a—” Kassandros checked himself, greatly though he had been tempted. The boy was naive, but the mother had shown cunning in the past. He finished “… man of many aspects. So you would find … Well, we will consider these matters, and do what is expedient. Farewell, Alexander. Roxane, farewell.”
“Did I do well?” Alexander asked when he had gone.
“Very well. You looked truly your father’s son. I saw him in you more than ever before.”
Next day brought the first frost of autumn. He rode out with Xanthos and Peiros along the shore, their hair blowing, tasting the sea-wind. “When I come of age,” he shouted over his shoulder, “I shall sail to Egypt.”
He came back full of this thought. “I must see Ptolemy. He’s my uncle, or partly. He knew my father from when he was born to when he died. Kebes told me so. And my father’s tomb is there, and I ought to offer at it. I’ve never offered him anything. You must come too, Mother.”
Someone tapped at the door. A young girl slave of the Commandant’s wife came in, with a jug that steamed spicily and two deep goblets. She set it down, curtseyed, and said, “Madam brewed it for you, and hopes you will honor her by taking it, to keep out the cold.” She sighed with relief at having remembered it. She was a Thracian and found Greek hard.
“Please thank your mistress,” Roxane said graciously, “and tell her that we shall enjoy it.” When the girl had gone, she said, “She is still hoping to be noticed. After all, we shall not be much longer here. Perhaps tomorrow we will invite her.”
Alexander was thirsty from the salt air, and tossed down his cupful quickly. Roxane, who was at a tricky stage of her embroidery, finished the flower that she was stitching, and drank hers then.
She was telling him a story about her own father’s wars—he must remember, after all, that there were warriors on her side too—when she saw his face tauten and his eyes stare past her. He looked urgently at the door, then rushed to a corner and bent over, retching and straining. She ran to him and took his head in her hands, but he fought her off like a hurt dog, and strained again. A little came up, smelling of vomit and spices; and of something else, that the spices had masked before.