Fire From Heaven (17 page)

He looked at the white face, already growing livid, the gaping mouth, and thought again, This is a battlefield, a soldier must learn to know it. He had taken his man, and must show a trophy. There was no dagger, not even a belt; the goatskin corselet had gone. The women had been quickly over the field. The boy was angry in himself, but knew that complaint would bring no redress and would lose him face. He must have a trophy. Nothing was left, now, exceptÉ

‘Here, little warrior.’ A Skopian youth with black tangled hair stood over him, showing broken teeth in a friendly smile. In his hand was a cleaver with half-dry blood all over it. ‘Let me take off the head for you. I know the knack.’

Between the grinning and the gaping face, the boy paused silent. The cleaver, light in the youth’s big hand, looked heavy for his own. Gyras said quickly, ‘They only do that in the back-country now, Alexander.’

‘I had better have it,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing else.’ The youth came forward eagerly. Gyras might be citified, but for the King’s son old customs were good enough; that was the way of quality. He tried the edge on his thumb. But the boy had found himself too glad to have this work done for him. ‘No. I must cut it off myself.’ While the Skopians laughed and swore admiringly, the cleaver, warm, sticky, slimy, raw-smelling, was put in his hand. He knelt by the corpse, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, doggedly chopping at the neckbone, spattering himself with bloody shreds, till the head rolled free. Grasping a handful of dead hair - for there must be nothing he could know after in his most secret soul that he had feared to do - he stood upright. ‘Fetch me my game-bag, Gyras.’

Gyras unstrapped it from the saddle-cloth. The boy dropped the head in, and rubbed his palms on the bag. There was still blood between his fingers, sticking them together. The stream was a hundred feet down, he would wash them going home. He turned to bid his hosts farewell.

‘Wait!’ shouted someone. Two or three men, carrying something, were running and waving. ‘Don’t let the little lord go. Here, we have his other trophy for him. Two, yes, look, he killed two.’

The boy frowned. He wanted to go home now. He had only fought one combat. What did they mean?

The foremost man ran up panting. ‘It’s true. This one here’ -he pointed to the raw-necked trunk - ‘that was his second man. He took the first with a javelin-throw, before ever we closed with them. I saw it myself; he pitched straight down stuck like a pig. He was creeping about awhile, but he was finished before the women got to him. Here you are, little lord. Something to show your father.’

The second man displayed the head, holding it up by its black hair. The strong bushy beard hid the shorn neck. It Was the head of the man he had thrown his first javelin at, before he fought hand to hand. There had been an eye-blink moment, when he had seen this was the man to have it. He had forgotten, his mind had shut on it as if it had never been. Held by the forelock, it had an arrogant upward tilt; rigor had set a gap-toothed grin on it; the skin was swarthy, one of the eyes was half closed, showing only the white.

The boy looked at the face confronting his. A coldness spread in his belly; he felt a great heave of nausea, a clammy sweat in his palms. He swallowed, and fought to keep from vomiting.

‘I didn’t kill him,’ he said. ‘I never killed that man.’

They began all three at once to reassure him, describin?g the body, swearing it had no other wound, offering to take him there, thrusting the head towards him. Two men at his first blooding! He could tell his grandsons. They appealed to Gyras; the little lord was overdone, and no wonder; if he left his prize behind, when he was himself again he would be sorry; Gyras must keep it for him.

‘No!’ The boy’s voice had risen. ‘I don’t want it. I didn’t see him die. You can’t bring him to me if the women killed him. You can’t tell what happened. Take it away.’

They clicked their tongues, sorry to obey him to his later loss. Gyras took aside the headman, and whispered in his ear. His face changed; he took the boy kindly round the shoulders, and said he must be warmed with a drop of wine before the long ride home. The boy walked with him quietly, his face with its clear pallor remote and gentle, a faint blueness under his eyes. Presently with the wine the colour came back into his skin; he began to smile, and before long joined in the laughter.

Outside there was a buzz of praise. What a fine boy! Such pluck, such a head on his shoulders; and now such proper feeling. Not much of a likeness, yet it had moved his heart. What father would not be proud of such a son?

Ê

‘Look well at the horn of the hoof. A thick horn makes for much sounder feet than a thin one. Take care, too, to see the hoofs are high front and back, not flattened; a high hoof keeps the frog clear of the ground.’

‘Is there any of that book,’ asked Philotas, Parmenion’s son, ‘that you don’t know by heart?’

‘One can’t know too much of Xenophon,’ Alexander said, ‘when it comes to horses. I want to read his books about Persia, too. Are you buying anything today?’

‘Not this year. My brother’s buying one.’

‘Xenophon says a good hoof ought to make a ringing noise like a cymbal. That one there looks splay to me. My father wants a new battle-charger. He had one killed under him, fighting the Illyrians last year.’ He looked at the dais beside them, run up as usual for the spring horse-fair; the King had not yet arrived.

It was a sharp brilliant day; the lake and the lagoon were ruffled and darkly gleaming; the white clouds that skimmed across to the distant mountains had edges honed blue, like swords. The bruised turf of the meadow was green from the winter rains. All morning the soldiers had been buying; officers for themselves, tribal chiefs for the vassals who made up their squadrons (in Macedon, the feudal and the regimental always overlapped) tough stocky thick-maned beasts, lively and sleek from the winter grazing. By noon, this common business was done; now the bloodstock was coming out, racers and parade show-horses and chargers, curried and dressed up to the eyes.

The horse-fair at Pella was a rite not less honoured than the sacred feasts. Dealers came from the horse-lands of Thessaly, from Thrace, from Epiros, even across Hellespont; these would always claim their stock was crossed with the fabled Nisaian strain of the Persian kings.

Important buyers were only now arriving. Alexander had been there most of the day. Following him about, not yet at ease with him or with one another, were half a dozen boys whom Philip had lately collected from fathers he wished to honour.

It was long since a Prince’s Guard had been formed in Macedon for an heir just come of age. The King himself had never been heir-apparent. In the wars of succession before that, no heir for generations had had time to come of age before he was murdered or dispossessed. Records revealed that the last Prince of Macedon to have his Companions chosen for him in proper form had been Perdikkas the First, some fifty years before. One ancient man survived of them; he had tales as long as Nestor’s about border wars and cattle raids, and could name the grandchildren of Perdikkas’ bastards; but he had forgotten everything about procedure.

The Companions should have been youths of about the Prince’s age, who had also passed the test of manhood. No such boy was now to be found in the royal lands. Fathers put forwa?rd eagerly the claims of sons sixteen or seventeen years old, who already looked and talked like men. They argued that most of Alexander’s current friends were even older. It was natural, they added tactfully, with so brave and forward a boy.

Philip endured the compliments with a good grace, while he lived with the remembered eyes which had met his when the head, already stinking from its journey, was laid before him. During the days of waiting and seeking news, it had been clear to him that if the boy never came back, he would have to have Olympias killed before she could kill him. All this was tough meat to feast on. Epikrates, too, had left, telling him the Prince had decided to give up music, and not meeting his eyes. Philip bestowed lavish guest-gifts, but could see an unpleasant tale going round the odeons of Hellas; these men went everywhere.

In the upshot, no real attempt had been made to muster a formal Prince’s Guard. Alexander took no interest in this dead institution; he had picked up for himself the group of youths and grown men who were already known everywhere as Alexander’s Friends. They themselves were apt to forget that he was only thirteen last summer.

The morning, however, of the Horse Fair, he had been spending with the boys attached to him by the King. He had been pleased to have their company; if he treated them all as his juniors, it was not to assert himself or put them down, but because he never felt it otherwise. He had talked horses untiringly and they had done their best to keep up. His sword-belt, his fame, and the fact that with all this he was the smallest of them, bewildered them and made them awkward. They were relieved that now, for the showing of the blood-stock, his friends were gathering, Ptolemy and Harpalos and Philotas and the rest. Left on one side, they clumped together and, with their pack-leader gone, started edging for precedence like a chance-met group of dogs.

‘My father couldn’t come in today. It’s not worth it; he imports his horses straight from Thessaly. All the breeders know him.’

‘I shall need a bigger horse soon; but my father’s leaving it till next year, when I’ve grown taller.’

‘Alexander’s a hand shorter than you, and he rides men’s horses.’

‘Oh, well, I expect they trained them specially.’

The tallest of the boys said, ‘He took his boar. I suppose you think they trained a boar for him.’

‘That was set up, it always is,’ said the boy with the richest father, who could count on having it set up for him.

‘It was not set up!’ said the tall boy angrily. The others exchanged looks; he reddened. His voice, which was breaking, gave a sudden startling growl. ‘My father heard about it. Ptolemy tried to set it up without his knowing, because he was set on doing it, and Ptolemy didn’t want him killed. They cleared the wood except for a small one. Then when they brought him there in the morning, overnight a big one had got in. Ptolemy went as white as a fleece, they said, and tried to make him go home. But he saw through it then; he said this was the boar the god had sent him, and the god knew best. They couldn’t budge him. They were in a sweat with fright, they knew he was too light to hold it, and the net wouldn’t hold it long. But he went straight for the big vein in the neck; no one had to help him. Everyone knows that’s so.’

‘No one would dare spoil the story, you mean. Just look at him now. My father would belt me if I stood in the horse-field letting men make up to me. Which of them does he go with?’

One of the others put in, ‘No one, my brother says.’

‘Oh? Did he try?’

‘His friend did. Alexander seemed to like him, he even kissed him once. But then when he wanted the rest, he seemed surprised and quite put out. He’s young for his age, my brother says.’

‘And how old was your brother when he took his man?’ asked the tallest boy. ‘And his boar?’

‘That’s different. My brother says he’ll come to it all of a sudden, and be mad for girls. His father did.’

‘Oh, but the King likes -’

‘Be quiet, you fool!’ ?They all looked over their shoulders; but the men were watching two race-horses whose dealer had set them to run round the field. The boys ceased squabbling, till the Royal Bodyguard began to form up around the dais, in readiness for the King.

‘Look,’ whispered someone, pointing to the officer in command. That’s Pausanias.’ There were knowing looks, and inquiring ones. ‘He was the King’s favourite before the one who died. He was the rival.’

‘What happened?’

‘Shsh. Everyone knows. The King threw him over and he was madly angry. He stood up at a drinking-party and called the new boy a shameless whore who’d go with anyone for pay. People pulled them apart; but either the boy really cared for the King, or it was the slight to his honour; it gnawed at him, and in the end he asked a friend, I think it was Attalos, to give the King a message when he was dead. Then next time they fought the Illyrians, he rushed straight in front of the King among the enemy, and got hacked to death.’

‘What did the King do?’

‘Buried him.’

‘No, to Pausanias?’

There were confused whispers. ‘No one really knows ifÉ’ ‘Of course he did!’ ‘You could be killed for saying that.’ ‘Well, he can’t have been sorry.’ ‘No, it was Attalos and the boy’s friends, my brother says so.’

‘What did they do?’

‘Attalos got Pausanias dead drunk one night. Then they carried him out to the grooms and said they could enjoy themselves, he’d go with anyone without even being paid. I suppose they beat him up as well. He woke in the stable yard next morning.’

Someone whistled softly. They stared at the officer of the guard. He looked old for his years, and not strikingly handsome. He had grown a beard.

‘He wanted Attalos put to death. Of course the King couldn’t do it, even if he’d wanted; imagine putting that to the Assembly! But he had to do something, Pausanias being an Orestid. He gave him some land, and made him Second Officer of the Royal Guard.’

The tallest boy, who had heard the whole tale in silence, said, ‘Does Alexander get to know of things like this?’

‘His mother tells him everything, to turn him against the King.’

‘Well, but the King insulted him in Hall. That’s why he went out to take his man.’

‘ Is that what he told you?’

‘No, of course he wouldn’t speak of it. My father was there; he often has supper with the King. Our land’s quite near.’

‘So you’ve met Alexander before, then?’

‘Only once when we were children. He didn’t know me again, I’ve grown too much.’

‘Wait till he hears you’re the same age, he won’t like that.’

‘Who said I was?’

‘You told me you were born the same month.’

‘I never said the same year.’

‘You did, the first day you came.’

‘Are you calling me a liar? Well, come on, are you?’

‘Hephaistion, you fool, you can’t fight here.’