“Listen,” he said. “Can you keep a secret?”
Alexander lifted his hand and pronounced with care an oath enforced with deadly curses. “It’s the strongest,” he finished. “Silanos taught it me.”
“That’s too strong. I absolve you of it. You must be careful of oaths like that. Now the truth is, your father did get me on my mother; but he was no more than a boy, fifteen. It was before he went to Thebes.”
“Oh, Thebes.” His voice echoed another.
“He was old for his age that way, well known for it. Well, never mind that, a man can’t wait till he’s wedded, nor have I done if you want the truth. But my mother was married to Father already, so it dishonors them to talk of it. It’s one of the things a man must have blood for. Never mind if you see why or not; that’s how it is.”
“I won’t talk.” His eyes, already deeper set than other children’s, were fixed upon the distance.
Ptolemy fiddled with the horse’s cheekstrap, thinking unhappily, Well, what could I say? Someone else would have told him. The boy still in him rescued the defeated man. He halted the horse.
“Now, if we were sworn blood-brothers, we could tell everyone that.” He added, cunningly, “But you know what we have to do?”
“Of course I know!” He gathered the reins in his left hand, and held out the right, clenched fist turned upward, a blue vein showing at the wrist. “Come on; here, do it now.”
Ptolemy drew from his red belt the new sharp dagger, seeing the boy focused by pride and resolution to a single gleam. “Now wait, Alexander. It’s a solemn thing we’re doing. Your enemies will be mine and mine yours, until we die. We will never take up arms against each other, even if our own kin are at war. If I die in a strange land you will give me my rites, and so I will do for you. It means all that.”
“I promise. You can do it here.”
“We don’t need so much blood.” He avoided the offered vein, lightly nicking the white skin. The boy looked down smiling. Having pricked his own wrist, Ptolemy pressed the cuts together. “It’s done,” he said. And well done, he thought; some good daimon prompted me. Now they can’t come to me saying, “He is only the Queen’s bastard and you’re the King’s, so claim your rights.”
“Come on, brother,” said the boy. “Get up, he’s got his wind now. Let’s really go.”
The royal stables were built in a broad square of stuccoed brick, with stone pilasters. They were half empty; the King was holding maneuvers, as he did whenever a new thought about tactics came to him.
Alexander, on his way to watch, had stopped to see a mare which had just foaled. As he had hoped, no one was about to say she was dangerous at such a time. He slipped in with her, coaxed her, and stroked the foal while her warm nostrils stirred his hair. Presently she nudged him, to say that was enough, and he let them be.
In the trodden yard, with its smells of horse-piss and straw, leather and wax and liniment, three strange horses had just come in. They were being rubbed down by foreign grooms in trousers. Their headstalls, which a stable slave was cleaning, were oddly bedizened; glittering with gold plates, topped with red plumes, and with winged bulls worked on the bit-pieces. They were fine tall horses, powerfully built, not overridden; a spare string was being led through.
The household officer on duty remarked to the horse-master that the barbarians would have a good wait ahead of them, before the King came back.
“Brison’s phalanx,” said the boy, “are all ways still with their sarissas. It takes a long time to learn.” He was able, so far, to lift up one end of these giant spears. “Where are those horses from?”
“All the way from Persia. Envoys from the Great King, to fetch back Artabazos and Menapis.”
These satraps, after an ill-judged revolt, had fled to Macedon for refuge. King Philip had found them useful; the boy had found them interesting. “But they’re guest-friends,” he said. “Father won’t let the Great King have them back to kill them. Tell the men not to wait.”
“No, it’s a pardon, I understand. They can go home free. In any case, envoys are entertained whatever message they carry. It’s the proper thing.”
“Father won’t be back before noon. I think later, because of the Foot Companions. They can’t do close-and-open order yet. Shall I fetch Menapis and Artabazos?”
“No, no, the envoys must have an audience first. Let these barbarians see we know how to do things. Attos, stable all those horses by themselves, it’s always the foreigners bring sickness in.”
The boy had a good look at the horses and their harness, then stood in thought. Presently he washed his feet at the conduit, looked at his chiton, went in and put on a clean one. He had listened often when people questioned the satraps about the splendors of Persepolis: the throne room with its gold vine and tree, the stairway up which a cavalcade could ride, the curious rites of homage. Persians, it was clear, were ceremonious. As far as he was able without help, and at the cost of some pain, he combed his hair.
In the Perseus Room, one of Zeuxis’ showpieces where guests of rank were received, a chamberlain was watching two blue-tattooed Thracian slaves set small tables with cakes and wine. The envoys had been seated in chairs of honor. On the wall above them, Perseus was rescuing Andromeda from the sea-dragon. He was one of the ancestors, and was said to have founded Persia too. It seemed that his breed had changed. He was naked, except for his winged sandals; the envoys wore the full Median dress which the exiles during their stay had laid aside. Every inch of these men but their hands and faces was covered up with clothes; every inch of the clothes with embroidery. Their round black hats were stitched with spangles; even their beards, trimmed into little round curls like snail shells, seemed embroidered too. Their fringed tunics had sleeves; their legs were cased in trousers, notorious sign of a barbarian.
Three chairs had been placed; only two bearded men were sitting. The youth with them, an aide, stood behind the senior envoy’s chair. He had long silky blue-black hair, a skin of ivory, a face both haughty and delicate, and dark brilliant eyes. His elders being in talk, he was the first to see the boy standing in the doorway, and flashed at him a charming smile.
“May you live,” he said walking in. “I am Alexander son of Philip.”
Both bearded heads came round. After a moment both men rose, and invoked the sun to shine on him. The chamberlain, retaining his self-command, pronounced their names.
“Please sit down. Refresh yourselves, you must be tired after your journey.” He had often heard this stock phrase. He became aware they were waiting for him to sit first, the first time this had happened to him. He clambered into a chair which had been put ready for the King. His sandal-tips did not reach the floor; the chamberlain beckoned a slave to get a footstool.
“I have come to entertain you, because my father is out reviewing the army. We expect him back about noon. It depends on the Foot Companions, whether they get close-and-open order right. They may be better today. They have been working very hard at it.”
The envoys, chosen for their fluent Greek, leaned forward. Both were somewhat unsure with the broad patois of Macedon, its Doric vowels and blunt consonants; but the child’s voice was very clear. “Is this your son?” he asked.
The senior envoy answered, demurely, that he was the son of a friend, and presented him. The youth, with a deep bow, declined again to sit, but smiled. For a moment they lit up at one another. The envoys exchanged delighted glances. It was all charming; the pretty grey-eyed prince, the little kingdom, the provincial naivety. The King drilled the troops himself! It was as if the child had boasted that the King cooked his own dinner.
“You don’t eat your cakes. I will have one too.” He took a small bite; he did not want his mouth full. What he knew of etiquette did not stretch to small talk during meals. He came straight to business.