Free The Persian Boy by Mary Renault Page B

quarters for the women; being shoved aside by soldiers who wanted strong houses for the treasure and billets for the garrison; preparing a house for the King while he should need it (the governor had to turn out for that). There was hardly time to think we were on the eve of battle.
    Just as we were settling down, there was crying and wailing in the streets, and a rush of women to the temple. I felt a strangeness, even before I saw the omen. The moon had been eaten by darkness. I saw her last curve vanish, somber and red.
    I grew cold. The people were wailing. Then I heard the brisk soldier’s voice of Nabarzanes, telling his men that the moon is a wanderer, so was the Macedonian, and the omen was for him. All those around were heartened. But from the old grey temple, where the women had served Ishtar a thousand years, I could still hear wailing, like a high wind in trees.
    The King had sent a great troop of slaves to the battlefield, to level out broken ground for the chariots and the horse. His spies had told him the Macedonian horse were much fewer, and they had no chariots at all, let alone scythed ones.
    The next news came not from spies but by envoy. He was Tyriotes, one of the eunuchs attendant on the Queen. Alexander had sent him, to bring word that she was dead.
    We wailed as was proper, then the King sent us out. We could hear him shouting aloud, and Tyriotes crying out in fear. At length he came outside, shaking all over, disheveled from tearing his hair and clothes.
    He had been captured before my time in the Household, but the older ones knew him well. They gave him cushions, and wine which he badly needed. We listened in case the King should summon us, but heard no sound. He put his hand to his throat; it looked bruised and red.
    Boubakes the Egyptian, the Chief Eunuch of the Household, said, “It is never good to bring bad news to the great.”
    Tyriotes rubbed his throat. “Why are you not wailing? Mourn, mourn, for the love of God.”
    For some time we made the sounds of grief. The King did not call us. We took Tyriotes to a quiet corner. A house is safer for talking than a tent.
    “Tell me,” he asked, “has the King been distempered lately?”
    We said, only a little out of spirits.
    “He shouted at me that Alexander had killed the Queen trying to rape her. I embraced his feet, I repeated that she had died of sickness in the arms of the Queen Mother. I vowed Alexander had not set eyes on her, from that first day till she was on her bier. When she died, he held up his march for a day and mourned her fasting; that was my message, that she had had all her proper rites. What have the spies been doing? Is the King not informed of anything? Surely he knows Alexander does not care for women?”
    We said that he had certainly heard as much.
    “He should be thankful Alexander did not give the ladies to his generals, as most vic?tors would. He has burdened himself with a royal harem, from which he is getting nothing. The Queen Mother … I don’t know what ailed the King; he should be glad she is well cared for, at her age, by so young a man. It was only when I spoke of it, that he broke out. He said all this grief for the Queen was what a man shows his bedfellow. He took me by the throat. You know what huge hands he has; I am still hoarse from it, you can hear. He threatened me with torture unless I told the truth. To quiet him, I said I would submit to it if he wished.” His teeth were chattering; I held the wine-cup for him, lest he spill it. “At last he believed me; God knows every word was true. But from the first, it seemed to me, he was not himself.”
    Still silence from the King. Well, I thought, the bad omen of the moon had been fulfilled. It would calm the people.
    The Prince Oxathres had been sent for; now he came, and they lamented together. The Queen had been his full sister by the same mother; he was some twenty years younger than the King. After this, the King’s grief having been released