Mazaeus by Kizzykat
This was originally inspired by Michael Wood's documentary last year on the site of Guagamela, in which he showed the place where Hephaestion bridged the Euphrates. This story is for Susan and Pauline, with apologies for taking so long to finish it. And for Ria too, and Jun, with thanks for your support.
While I'm at it, I should also say a big thank you to everyone who keeps reading my stories even though I haven't posted anything in ages. You might not think it's important, but it does mean a lot to me, so thank you.
Mazaeus, the Persian satrap of Babylon, sat on his horse, immobile in the glowing light reflecting off the sand-coloured rocks in the late afternoon. He was staring across the rippling water of the river Euphrates at the rise of land beyond which the Macedonians were making their camp. The distant sounds of three or four thousand unseen men carried across the water, their voices raised as they unloaded rumbling wagons, pitched tents, hammered tent pegs, maybe dug ditches.
Macedonian guards were standing on the crest of the rise, immobile as statues, their spears and crested helmets tall and dark against the western sky, watching the Persians as they were watching them.
Yet this was just an advance party from Alexander's main army, obviously come north to secure a bridgehead. Mazaeus wondered who was commanding them. The great Parmenion, perhaps, although probably not. They were an expendable force that could find themselves in deep trouble if Mazaeus decided to cross the river, but he had no orders to do so. The Great King had sent him north from Babylon with three thousand cavalry to watch and block the Macedonians if they attempted to cross the river. Cavalry were useful for that and for chasing men down, but weren't much use for a surprise river crossing.
The commander was more likely to be one of the Macedonian brigade commanders such as Coenus or Meleager, or just possibly Philotas, the Macedonian cavalry commander and Parmenion's son. They had horses with them, in numbers, as they had been bringing strings of horses down to the river to water all afternoon.
Two thirds of Mazaeus's force were Greek mercenaries, and down by the water's edge they had been shouting to their compatriots across the river.
"Who's commanding them?" Mazaeus asked.
"Hephaestion Amyntoros," said Mithridates, his second in command.
"Never heard of him."
"Apparently," Mithridates said blithely, "he commands the King's bodyguard."
"King? What king? A king of dust and air, like a whirlwind, here today and gone tomorrow. We will still be here when these Macedonians are nothing but a memory."
"They say," Mithridates said, unperturbed by Mazaeus's sarcasm, "that he is the King's lover."
"Lover?" Mazaeus turned his head to stare at his late wife's urbane brother. A Babylonian to his fingertips, nothing ever surprised or unsettled him.
"Who knows?" Mithridates said with a dismissive shrug.
But for the memory of his wife, Mazaeus could quite happily have throttled him. Mithridates was no soldier, and had no concept of understanding the enemy to try and predict his actions. Nor, it seemed, any healthy curiosity.
Mazaeus turned away to stare across the river again. The idea of a king with a lover of rank bemused him. Was he an older man upon whom Alexander leant for support? A man of Parmenion's – whom everyone knew was the real power behind Alexander's throne – to exert yet more influence over Alexander? Or a foil to Parmenion's influence? Was he a younger man, feeding Alexander's worship, and hoping to follow in the wake of Alexander's glory?
Thoughts wandered through Mazaeus's mind as he stared relentlessly across the river at the rise, willing the Macedonians to appear. The longer they sat here in full view, the greater the challenge became to the Macedonian commander to show himself. He could leave them sitting here until darkness fell to slink away in humiliation, but that would leave a sour taste in his own men's mouths. Soldiers needed spectacle and the anticipation of excitement, even if nothing happened, to keep their blood singing.
Here they come, Mazaeus thought, hearing the dull thunder of horses' hooves on the hard ground as the dust billowed beyond the rise. A forest of speartips appeared beyond the rocky, sand-coloured rise, quickly followed by the dark silhouettes of crested helmets, horses' heads with pricked ears, and finally the dark mass of horses' and men's bodies. Horses' tails flying, a multi-legged beast poured over the rise.
As they came down the slope at a trot, details became clearer. Thirty men on horseback, a blue-cloaked man on a gleaming chestnut in the lead. He led them down to the water's edge and, without appearing to pay any attention to Mazaeus and his aides sitting on the opposite bluff, wheeled fluidly and rode along the river's edge. After a hundred yards or so, they slowed and appeared to be discussing the possibility of crossing the river, judging by the way they were pointing with their spears across the water.
The high-spirited chestnut fidgeted, ears pricked, side-stepping under the blue-cloaked rider. The man moved easily and confidently under the horse's movement, never losing control of his mount. He curbed it with a steady pressure on the bit, the firmness of his seat and the pressure of his thighs. The horse backed and steadied and, after a moment of stillness to ensure the horse understood who was master, the blue-cloaked rider rewarded the stallion by nudging its ribs with his heels and, in a graceful curve, turned him. Together they raced back along the river's edge, the other riders streaming after him at full gallop.
He was a damned good rider, Mazaeus acknowledged, horse and man moving fluidly as one. He had an elegant seat too, his lower back tucked in, his shoulders straight, head up, an effect that caught the eye.
Mazaeus smiled to himself. Some soldier he was, he thought, admiring a man who would probably stab him in the gut if he got a chance. But somehow he didn't think so: that straight back and head held high so that the crest of his helmet streamed after him, spoke of nobility and integrity – someone who wasn't afraid to look you straight and clear in the eye, with nothing to hide.
Mazaeus had nothing to hide either. But he had different priorities to that man over there, and top of that list was not glory. His priority was to achieve victory with as little of his soldier's blood shed as possible. And all he had to do here to achieve victory was to prevent the Macedonians from crossing the river.
Having seen enough of Hephaestion Amyntoros' display, Mazaeus turned his horse's head and urged it into motion. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blue-cloaked rider head his horse into the water. Definitely a young man's action, a challenge for Mazaeus to notice him. Mazaeus resolutely refused to turn his head and look.
Mazaeus was aware of his aides turning to watch as Hephaestion Amyntoros rode his horse chest deep into the bright blue water. The man stopped and raised his spear above his head. Mazaeus instinctively turned his head at the potential threat and saw Hephaestion Amyntoros stretch, whirl his spear point downwards and thrust it into the riverbed. It quivered upright and defiant in the water as the blue-cloaked rider turned his horse, surged out of the water and cantered straight back up the rise. Mazaeus turned away and forced himself to smile.
At dawn the next morning, the Macedonians began work. They dug pits at the river's edge to hold upright posts, wedged in place by boulders and supported by buttressing timbers, notched and lashed tightly in place by great ropes. They set more timbers further out into the water, fitting jointed cross-timbers into slots in the uprights. They worked rapidly, and by sundown had the framework of a jetty in place. All they had to do was nail the crossplanks in place.
Mazaeus, inspecting their work from the opposite bluff, recognised the forethought and preparation that had gone into the Macedonians' work, and briefly considered an excursion across the river after dark to dismantle the woodwork. He dismissed the idea though as the Macedonians lit great bonfires on the riverside towards dusk: it would be a waste of time as there was no cover.
They had tried firing a few arrows across the river, but the range was too long for the archers they had with them. Yet Mazaeus decided to try sending a boat out to mid-stream after dark with a fire pot, but as soon as the archer stood up in the boat, the light from his pitch-soaked arrowhead made him a target and two great arrows took him in the chest. He toppled silently into the water, his arrow dying and drowning beside him, the rowers bolting back to the safety of the shore. In the light from the bonfires, the Macedonians could be seen dampening their woodwork with buckets of water drawn from the river.
The following day, the Macedonians did not continue with their jetty, although they left a strong guard, and at mid-morning Mazaeus was brought a message to say that they were working on another one, half a mile upstream. Mazaeus hurried to see what they were up to. The blue-cloaked man stood there on the shore, supervising operations, hands on hips. He turned to look across the river at Mazaeus and his aides, and despite the bright helmet with cheekpieces that he wore, Mazaeus could have sworn he was grinning at them. Mazaeus set a guard to watch.
The following day they worked on both jetties, nailing in place the planks that they brought down to the foreshore in wagons. Yet the wagons kept coming, bringing far more planks than they needed. Soon it became apparent that they were assembling boats from the planks, deep but flat-bottomed boats and Mazaeus hurriedly sent Mithridates back to camp to prepare his men to repel a crossing.
Yet after a while, Mazaeus realised that they were not planning a crossing as he watched them drop an anchor upstream from the first boat and begin securing it side-on to the jetty. Then they brought leather buckets full of stones and dusty dirt and began emptying them into the bottom of the boat as ballast, and Mazaeus knew they were building a bridge of boats for Alexander's main army to cross.
The blue-cloaked man was standing at the end of the jetty, his cloak billowing in the breeze off the water, supervising the level of ballast until the sides of the boat were brought down level with the jetty. Then they began nailing planks across the bows of the boat to complete the first section of their bridge.
Mazaeus rode down to the shore to get a better look and even by the time he got there, they had secured a second boat and were emptying ballast into it.
The blue-cloaked man looked up from his position on the first boat as Mazaeus and his aides arrived at the river's edge, the cheekpieces and peak of his helmet shadowing his face, and he raised his hand in greeting.
Almost instinctively, Mazaeus went to raise his own hand in reply, then stopped himself. He glared furiously across the water at the Macedonian standing wide-legged and for the moment in splendid isolation against the water, and he wished for a long-range archer, even as they were bringing a third boat into place.
The Macedonians worked rapidly and efficiently, several hundred men swarming like ants as they assembled boats on the shore, ferrying them out to the builders to lash in place as the bucket bearers bore their ballast out, followed by the plank-nailers. Mithridates arrived to report that they were doing the same at the other jetty.
As Mazaeus watched, a mule-cart arrived and the Macedonians began unloading a massive iron chain. The blue-cloaked man directed them where to secured this on the shore and they drove a great stake attached to the end of the chain into the foreshore. A rope was tied to the other end of the chain and this they carried out to the end of the boat bridge. Under the blue-cloaked man's supervision, the men hauled on the rope, dragging the chain out to the boat where they secured it to prevent the force of the river from tearing their bridge apart.
Mazaeus watched their relentless progress across the water, focusing on the blue-cloaked commander driving the operation, and knew the Macedonian would be across the river before dark.
"Tell him I want to talk to him," Mazaeus growled at Mithridates, unease that was not quite fear beginning to gnaw at him.
Mithridates sent a messenger out in a boat to request a meeting with the Macedonians. Hephaestion Amyntoros sent back a one word reply: Why?
"Tell him 'options'," Mazaeus said curtly, watching intently and waiting.
When the Macedonian agreed to a meeting, Mazaeus took his time organising three boats to ferry him and his aides out, including the Greek commander of his cavalry to translate. He left Mithridates behind – just in case.
As they were rowed out, Mazaeus was satisfied to see that he had at least achieved the suspension of the Macedonians' bridge building, but the boats were queuing up, waiting to be fixed in position.
He stepped up onto the Macedonians' bridge and walked forward to confront the Macedonian commander. Aides, mostly seasoned men, some with grey in their beards, stood beside the slender blue-cloaked man, and guards with tall spears stood behind him.
Mazaeus looked into the helmeted face of his opponent with vague shock.
This is a joke, he thought, they were playing a huge joke on him. This was a boy, a good-looking boy standing straight and tall as an arrow, who could not be more than twenty years of age. This could not be Hephaestion Amyntoros, a beardless boy could not be the commander of the Macedonian advance guard. They must have given the blue cloak to some junior officer.
The Macedonian young man stepped forward, a small smile on his lips, yet his eyes were light and wary. Amazing eyes, Mazaeus thought distractedly; blue as the summer sky and with a silver light in them. Mazaeus, used to the dark eyes of Persians, had never seen eyes like them before, even among his Greek soldiers.
Yet despite the caution in his eyes, the young man's voice was soft and warm. "Welcome," he said, in Persian, causing Mazaeus to blink in surprise. Then he repeated it in Greek. "Welcome to our bridge." Mazaeus's Greek commander translated.
Mazaeus looked at the young Macedonian dubiously, and realised he was not as young as he seemed. It was the shaven jaw that made him look younger. He was probably nearer five and twenty, about the same age as Mazaeus's own sons. Alexander reputedly went clean-shaven, Mazaeus recalled. It set a man off guard to face a disingenuous boy as a potential foe.
"What is to stop me destroying your bridge?" he demanded, waiting for his Greek to translate. He could speak Greek well enough having been a satrap in Cilicia, but he wasn't going to let the Macedonian know that.
The young man's smile broadened slightly. "You will not overcome us. We are Alexander's emissaries."
"Wrong answer, boy," Mazaeus said, not waiting for the translator, and denying the shiver of fear running up his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The Macedonian army had come down from the northern mountains like ravening wolves in winter, the savage stuff of nightmares, and as unstoppable as the descent of night.
"How so, old man?" the young man said smoothly, his voice and demeanour remaining friendly. He went up a notch in Mazaeus' estimation for not reacting to either the insult or to Mazaeus speaking in Greek.
"Alexander is not here."
There was a bright-edged glint to Hephaestion Amyntoros' broad smile. "We are the forefinger of Alexander's army. Bite us and the fist will smite you."
Mazaeus let his Greek commander translate, giving him time to think.
"Alexander is not near enough to save you," he said, knowing that he lied. Even if he were able to destroy these bridge builders, he had no doubt that Alexander would arrive with the speed of lightening to pursue him and to avenge them. There would be no stopping him, nor his vengeance for his men. It was known that he regarded each and every one of his soldiers as his personal friend.
"I am Alexander," the young man replied.
Mazaeus stared at the quietly smiling young man, his thoughts scattering in confusion. He glanced at his Greek commander for confirmation that he had heard correctly. This could not be Alexander himself. He had heard that Alexander was fair, but this young man was dark. What would Alexander himself be doing here? Yet even as Mazaeus recognised the words as untrue, he noted the reactions of the aides around the young Macedonian. There was not a flicker of uncertainty in their steady gaze at the Persians. They had not reacted to the boy's pronouncement. They stood there with all the watchfulness of guard dogs, ready to pounce at a word of command from him. This young man was not someone's minion, sent to taunt him and hide their true strength: he had their full confidence and loyalty. He could be Alexander as far as they were concerned.
Sensing his confusion, the young Macedonian repeated his statement. "I too am Alexander." He tilted his head slightly to one side as he regarded Mazaeus. "Everything I say or do in Alexander's name, he will honour. Any agreement we reach is in his name, and he will hold it inviolate."
"Are you asking me to betray my King, boy?"
The boy's head lifted slightly. "The Great King is not the King of Babylon. The Great King neglects Babylon's temples and the irrigation ditches are left untended. Alexander is a god-fearing man. He sets men to work and does not leave them sitting in idleness and poverty. Do you not love your city? There would be no dishonour in choosing Alexander as King of Babylon."
Mazaeus listened incredulously as this unravelled from the Greek commander's lips. Did these boys really expect it to be that easy? That he would just hand Babylon over to them?
"We are a long way from Babylon, boy." He waited for his Greek to translate. "The Great King Darius has promised me the hand of his daughter in marriage, his eldest daughter. Why should I walk away from that honour and join your Alexander? What are you offering me?"
A quick smile lifted the lips of the Macedonian. "Your life. Your city untouched. For resist us and Alexander will reduce your city to dust. The Great King promises you something he cannot deliver. His family are in the hands of Alexander. A desperate man makes empty promises, and only a fool believes them."
"The Great King's army is as numerous as the grains of sand in a desert. When we meet in battle, we will engulf you and your baggage train will be ours."
The young man paused, regarding Mazaeus steadily with wide eyes. "So, have you just given me your battle orders, old man?"
"I have no such battle orders!" Mazaeus snapped. He had none, just a promise that if he could rescue Darius's family from the Macedonians, he would have a new wife, a royal wife. How he did it would be up to him, but he had no doubt that the Great King's army would be so numerous, he would easily be able to withdraw and attack the baggage train without endangering victory.
The young Macedonian's smile had faded and he regarded Mazaeus steadily with still eyes. The whole of the blue irises were visible and the stillness of his face was slightly unnerving. It gave no indication of his thoughts, an unreachable living image.
"I will not set foot on your side of the water, and you will not attack me, old man," the Macedonian said, his voice clear and emotionless. "Is that sufficient agreement for you?"
Mazaeus stared back at him, feeling almost rebuffed at the disappearance of warmth from the boy's manner. It was if he had been dismissed.
"Agreed," he said curtly. He stared back at the impassive and beautiful face for a moment, feeling he might have misjudged this boy, that this boy could be dangerous.
Then he turned sharply on his heel, his cloak whirling, and went back to his boat. He stared stonily over the water away from the Macedonians all the way back to shore, and refused to answer Mithridates' questions as he walked back to his camp.
After nightfall, Mazaeus sat in his tent, pondering. He had no intention of making a decision, but he was trying to weigh the pros and cons of somehow saving his city from destruction, and consequently betraying his King. He knew Darius was not a strong king, that Darius should have gone after Alexander long before now, but what sort of king would Alexander be to the Babylonians? An oppressive king, a tyrannous master who would rule with a heavy hand, or a strong and generous leader? And how would Alexander treat him personally? Would he trust a man who would even consider turning away from his rightful ruler? And if Mazaeus were to accept a shift in power as inevitable, how was he to facilitate that change without losing his honour? Was this change in power inevitable, or could it be reversed if Alexander were defeated in the upcoming battle? Could Darius defeat him? That was the ultimate question.
Mazaeus sighed, and raised his head in surprise as a man in a dark cloak ducked his head and entered his tent. It was not a guard, and he had not summoned anyone, nor did he immediately recognise the man. He frowned as the man stopped just inside the tent and raised his head.
"You!" Mazaeus said, rising to his feet in shock and the beginnings of anger.
The young Macedonian commander raised his hand. "Peace. I mean you no harm," he said quietly.
"Where are my guards? How did you get in here?"
"Your camp is an open door, and your guards are safe. One was relieving himself, and the other wasn't paying attention. My men are watching them. We will not be disturbed."
Mazaeus stared at his visitor. The young man's long hair was wet on his shoulders, though his cloak was dry. He and his companions must have swum across the river with their clothes in a bundle. All Mazaeus had to do to end this here and now was to raise his voice and alert his camp to the intruders.
"I wouldn't," the young Macedonian warned, reading his intent. "You will be dead before your men arrive."
It was true. Mazaeus had no weapon within reach, and the young man had opened his cloak to reveal the sword in his hand.
"What do you want?"
"To talk. Just to make certain that we are understood."
"Well. Say your piece and be gone."
Gracefully the young man stepped further into the light. His face looked pale against the darkness of his wet hair, pale and cold with the implacable beauty of one the wondrous works of Greek art. It was impious to try to envisage the true face of the gods, yet here was a work of art made incarnate.
"I would not be here," the young living god said, "if I did not think you would listen to me. Withstand Alexander and he will destroy you. The only way to stop him is to kill him, and if you kill him, you will unleash such a fury from his Macedonians that the world will crumble. He is not to be withstood."
"Why is he doing it?" Mazaeus demanded. "The Great King has offered him all the lands west of the Euphrates. He has the riches of Egypt, we cannot attack Greece from here, he controls the coasts of the middle sea. Why does he not accept what he has won?"
"Because he senses weakness. Would you expect the lion to take a lamb when the ram is limping?" There was great pride in the young man's voice and his eyes were shining. Mazaeus sensed the hunt for glory, the personal allure of the young Alexander, the myth made real.
The young man before him recalled his mission, looking away slightly before refocusing his bright eyes intently upon Mazaeus. "He also knows that as long as a Great King survives, he will never be secure in those lands he holds. Darius will inevitably attack him. Alexander does not wait to be attacked. He does not wait on the will of others. He dictates, as a true king should." The young man paused, his gaze softening slightly.
"Without witnesses," he said quietly, "I can say that should you chose to submit to Alexander, should you deem it politic to withdraw from the battle that is approaching, he will be generous. Deal with him honestly, and he will be trustworthy. He will accept men of sense who see that the way of the world is changing, that a new order is moving through the earth. Behave bravely and not like a craven coward who simply seeks to protect himself by cowering behind the strongest, but face him like a man, accept defeat if it proves inevitable, and he will treat you like a brother."
"Will he grant me Darius's daughter in marriage?" Mazaeus knew the answer, but he was testing.
"No."
There was an air of vulnerability about the young man and he looked cold after his night-time swim, Mazaeus noted. But, being young and proud, he would not move nearer the brazier burning in the centre of the tent, nor pull his cloak closer about him.
"Is this how you function best, boy?" Mazaeus demanded. "In private, personally? Is this how you serve your king?"
The young man's head came up, his cheeks flaming. "To each his gifts," he said. "Alexander uses his men as they prove fit. And if my gifts lie in persuasion, that is no shame in that if it saves men's lives and stops blood being spilt. Alexander does not wish to be king of the dead. He is not a destructive man."
Mazaeus snorted like a horse. "Go. Take your shining glory elsewhere. I will not bow to some upstart." He waved his hand dismissively.
The young Macedonian regarded him intently, a hard light coming into his eyes. It was a flare of righteous wrath and for a moment Mazaeus stilled in anticipation of violence. The tip of the Macedonian's sword wavered, then stilled. "Do not execute your guards," the young man said quietly, his eyes wide and still.
Mazaeus was dumbfounded. He had not been thinking any such thing: but he probably would kill the fools for failing in their duty.
"Fear does not produce good soldiers," the young Macedonian said. "Pride does."
"Is that how your Alexander does it?" Mazaeus demanded. "Am I to be taught how to command my men by boys young enough to be my sons?"
"Bring your sons to meet Alexander," the young man said, unexpectedly earnest.
"You've had your say, now get out," Mazaeus said, feeling slightly at a loss despite his anger.
The young Macedonian tossed his head slightly. "I have stayed long enough. You will come with us to the riverside."
"What, do you not ask for my word to keep quiet, and trust me to keep it?"
The young man smiled slightly. "No, you are still a man of Babylon. And a Persian, and at present an enemy. Come," he turned away slightly and retrieved a cloak from a nearby chair and tossed it towards Mazaeus. "Cover your clothing."
Mazaeus knew he was too slow to take advantage of the young man's momentary shift of focus. The young man would indeed be a prize, living or dead, but he hadn't really been thinking of that before. Aware that the young man's sword had risen, Mazaeus swept his cloak about him and preceded the Macedonian out of the tent, the sword point pricking against his unprotected lower back.
Half a dozen Macedonians melted out of the darkness, his own two incompetent guards securely amongst them. Hephaestion Amyntoros prodded him with his sword and guided him towards the darker lanes between the tents. The Macedonian came closer and laid the edge of the blade across the small of Mazaeus's back, catching hold of the back of his cloak to guide him in the direction he wanted, halting briefly when any of Mazaeus's men were seen.
Mazaeus briefly considered resisting or calling out, but they were outnumbered and he didn't really want to die. It wouldn't make much difference if he did kill the Macedonian anyway, there would be another commander, and they had not learnt anything here of significance that he needed to prevent their escape. There was nothing of significance to learn.
So Mazaeus went with them, waiting in the darkness of a tent from which the snores of sleeping men sounded for the guards walking the perimeter of his camp to move out of view before they slipped out of the Persian camp. Mazaeus was amazed at how easy it was and realised it was his fault that things were so lax. It was years since he had been on a campaign like this and he'd forgotten so much that these Macedonians probably did without thinking.
Eventually they halted beside the river, a viscous dark shadow in the night. The Macedonians bound the hands of Mazaeus and his guards, ordered them to sit on the ground, bound their ankles and gagged them.
Hephaestion Amyntoros himself tied the gag on Mazaeus's mouth. He leant close and said in a low voice, "It will not take you long to free yourselves. Long enough for us to get across the river. You can say I came to bribe you to let me finish the bridges. Of course you refused." He looked at Mazaeus for a moment as Mazaeus glared back at him over the gag, then he rose, turning away to say something quiet and unintelligible to his Macedonians.
Quickly they stripped, their sculpted bodies gleaming faintly in the dark as Mazaeus and his guards watched. The Macedonians bundled their clothing into leather drawstring bags which they slung across their shoulders. As his men moved towards the water, Hephaestion Amyntoros, naked as the sword in his hand, paused like a hero from the dawn of time and gazed back at Mazaeus. Mazaeus, maintaining his anger as the only thing he was righteous in, stared back at him, wanting to kill him yet knowing the long-legged young man was the open door to a bright new world.
Hephaestion Amyntoros gazed at him for a long moment, the starlight reflected in his bright eyes, as his Macedonians preceded him into the river. Thigh-deep they paused and waited for him as he turned from Mazaeus, pushing his sword into a leather scabbard as he strode waist-deep into the water. He set his sword between his teeth and breasted the iron-grey water to swim. His Macedonians turned like mermen and silently followed him.
The atmosphere over the next few days was tense. The Macedonians pushed on quickly with their bridge-building, halting about four boat-widths short of the shore on Mazaeus's side. Then they encamped on the end of the bridges, maintaining a heavy and aggressive presence there day and night. They strengthened the chains anchoring the bridges as they waited for Alexander's arrival, the final boats waiting ready to be moved into position, and they taunted Mazaeus's men incessantly.
Mazaeus ordered his men back from the shoreline, not wanting them to respond to the Macedonians' taunts. He did not want his men to provoke the Macedonians into charging across. The Macedonians were asking, begging them to give them the excuse to break their official orders and take possession of the farther shore.
Mazaeus considered whether or not to allow the conflict to develop, and decided against it. If the truth were told, he was afraid of the Macedonians, afraid of their eagerness to engage their enemy, afraid of their reputation. He was also dubious of his own men: his Persians might well break. His Greeks would stand, for their pride's sake, but he could not afford to lose them: the Great King would have need of them in the upcoming battle.
No, Mazaeus decided against engaging the Macedonians, and when the dustclouds on the western bank signalled the arrival of Alexander and the main army, he retreated south towards Babylon. As ordered, he burnt the land behind him, so that Alexander would be forced to move northwards towards the battlefield that Darius had prepared for him to meet his doom.
The battle at the hill called the Camel's Hump was an unmitigated disaster. A bloody massacre of the Persians in a dustcloud of confusion, in which Alexander's dominant presence was like a lion charging into a herd of deer. He ripped into their ranks with his spear-headed cavalry, penetrating within reach of Darius, who turned and shame-facedly fled.
Angered and disgusted beyond belief, Mazaeus withdrew his troops. Large numbers of Darius's army had simply abandoned the conflict to go after Alexander's baggage train, lured by promises of rich rewards if Darius's family were rescued, their commanders stupidly overconfident that their numbers alone would suffice to defeat Alexander. Mazaeus, commanding Darius's right wing against Alexander's senior general Parmenion, was furious when he heard that Darius had fled the field, because he knew he was winning. If Darius had just stood and made a fight of it, victory could have been theirs.
Disbelieving, Mazaeus withdrew his troops in good order, determined not to waste his men's lives, and Parmenion set about demolishing Darius's centre, while Alexander's reserves went to the rescue of their baggage train. Alexander himself was fighting his way through the Immortals to pursue Darius, but to no avail as the road was choked with fleeing Persians.
By the time Mazaeus got his men to Arbela, Darius had already fled the small city for the highlands to the east and Ecbatana. After a moment of utter fury and indecision, Mazaeus decided to let him go. He knew Alexander's next destination would be Babylon, and he was not going to leave it undefended for Alexander to walk in unopposed to the greatest city in the world. Maybe Mazaeus had enough men to man the mile-square walls, wide enough for two chariots abreast to drive along the top, and those walls, so the saying went, would never fall until a mule gave birth to a foal.
Yet as they hurried south, doubt began to gnaw at Mazaeus. Could Babylon withstand the determination of Alexander? He knew what had happened to Tyre and he did not relish that prospect for his beautiful city. He could hold Alexander up for a few months maybe, but for what purpose? What guarantee was there that Darius would gather an army and come to his rescue? Darius had had two years to prepare and train for this battle, and what had been the outcome?
A week later, Alexander and his army approached Babylon. Mazaeus had consulted with the leading citizens: some declared their willingness to fight, but Mazaeus privately doubted the depth of their intent. When things got ugly, they would give in. With a nervousness he had not felt since he was a young man, Mazaeus elected to go and talk to Alexander before he reached the city. If things turned out badly, the city would then at least be prepared.
He recalled that good-looking young man, that friend of Alexander's who had swum the river, and decided to take his two sons with him as a gesture of faith in Alexander. If Alexander decided to kill them there and then, at least he would know what had happened to his sons. They came with him willingly; they were young enough to be excited by the glamour, the invincibility of Alexander, to want to see if he would accept them into his company, to take the risk that he wouldn't hold them hostage, and they didn't really entertain the possibility that he could put them in chains.
Five miles north of the city, Mazaeus was halted by Alexander's outriders. They waited an age in the heat of the day while word was sent back to Alexander, and more of Alexander's men arrived to keep an eye on them. Mazaeus had time for a good look at Alexander's men, the ordinary men of his army – all superbly fit, well-muscled men, self-belief and discipline written over every line of their faces. This way of life was their reason for existence, and there was nowhere else they cared to be except with the scent of victory, of booty, of dominance, in their nostrils. They were not men you would want to cross alone on a dark night in a deserted alley. Yet they kept their distance, watching, guarding, until a senior officer arrived and escorted Mazaeus, his sons and their deputation to a nearby house.
The Babylonian party were ushered into the main hall of the house, a fair-sized but empty room. Mazaeus was aware that potentially they were walking into a trap, but no attempt was made to take their weapons, and Mazaeus knew he had no option if he was to see this through.
After a while, three or four young lads arrived with a guarded escort, bearing trays of wine and water. Mazaeus, too focused on the imminent arrival of Alexander, refused, but appreciated the gesture. It was conciliatory at least, and half-way civilised.
He stood and stared at the double doors until at last they were thrown open and a tide of armed men spread into the room.
Mazaeus was in no doubt as to who was Alexander. A smallish man, helmetless, his thick fairish hair, sun-bleached at the edges, moved with every step he took into the room, a young man's quick energy radiating off him like the goldshine of the sunburst symbol on the breast of his corselet. The very air in the room changed with the strength of his presence, brightened, and Mazaeus's breathing quickened in response to the unspoken challenge for dominance.
The solid wall of men spread out, a deferential step behind the young man. Watchful, intent, they were like leashed hounds waiting the word of command from their master to bring the quarry down. They were all intimidating men in their prime, from the bright young men to the hale grandfathers, and their presence was a heady mixture of aggression and rivalry, mingled with a deep, intimidating comradeship. At any threat to Alexander they would strain as one at the leash, baying for blood: Mazaeus's blood.
The blue-eyed son of Amyntor was there, Mazaeus saw, standing behind Alexander but half-lost in the crowd. His arm was in a sling, his bright eyes enormous in a drawn, pain-filled face. He looked almost like a frightened child, Mazaeus thought. But he knew that impression was deceptive: that blue-eyed boy wouldn't be here if these men sensed weakness in him. Yet his presence gave Mazaeus hope of breaching Alexander's armour of generals and men of war. He was the deliberate chink in Alexander's armour.
Alexander halted in the centre of the room and surveyed Mazaeus, who met unflinchingly the stare of the young king's large brown eyes set in a sun-tanned face. Mazaeus had expected a hard face, but he found a comely, open and honest face; a young man whose heart shone in his eyes. The jaw was determined, strong, but there was a young man's softness to the cheeks, the lips were generous, sensitive, and the eyes were intelligent, clear and responsive. Mazaeus thought he might yet be able to save Babylon.
Alexander, standing with his hands on hips, lifted his head and smiled slightly. "What can I do for you?" he asked, as pleasantly as if he were just passing the time of day.
Mazaeus held Alexander's eyes for a long moment, holding his breath likewise. Then he looked past Alexander at the blue-eyed young man behind him. "He knows," he said, nodding in Hephaestion Amyntoros' direction.
Alexander turned his shoulder and looked at his friend. Their eyes locked for a couple of heartbeats, but Mazaeus knew it was for an eternity. They were different, two of a kind who understood each other completely, dreams without words as though they were alone.
Amyntor's son moved his eyes to Mazaeus. "Alexander knows," he said, his chin lifting. "He understands. Just ask."
Alexander turned back to Mazaeus. He was still smiling slightly, but his lips had thinned and there was a glint in his eyes. Not good, Mazaeus thought as Alexander tipped his head slightly to one side. Had he misjudged?
"You want to keep Babylon?" Alexander asked.
"Yes." Mazaeus answered. "It's my city."
"I don't think a city belongs to anyone except to the gods who caused it to be built," Alexander said, his voice light. "But I need to be sure of the loyalty of the men in that city before I move on. I do not want to destroy Babylon; but I will if I have to. I cannot leave it behind me."
"I will open the gates of Babylon and leave my sons as hostages to you." The words were bitter in Mazaeus's mouth and he felt his sons stiffen in shock beside him, but they kept their mouths shut. It was for their own sakes: they would never inherit Babylon, whoever was on the throne. With Alexander though they would have a future with wide horizons – if he had read the man correctly.
"And the terms?" Alexander asked, giving nothing away.
"You will take them into your army once the city is yours: you will not enter the houses of our citizens: and you will not plunder the temples. The treasury, the palace, the armoury, all the Great King's property will be yours. The soldiery will be yours to take with you when you leave to ensure the loyalty of the people."
"It strikes me," Alexander said, and he was not smiling now, "that you are doing all the bargaining."
Mazaeus realised he ought to backtrack. Like any king, Alexander did not take kindly to being dictated to. "I want Babylon," he said instead.
Alexander suddenly smiled. "I like bold men," he said, and Mazaeus almost smiled back at him.
Almost, but not quite. Alexander might have been smiling like a boy who had been given a gift, but there was a glint in his eyes that said the lion's claws were not quite sheathed. Mazaeus drew a breath and determined upon keeping his mouth shut.
Alexander cocked his head like a thrush eying a snail whose shell it was about to break against a stone. "Hephaestion says you are not a reckless man," he stated.
"I am a frightened man!" Mazaeus declared, the blood pounding in his head. "I want my sons safe, my city safe! I want my life, my peace, my honour!"
"I cannot trust a frightened man. Once the threat is gone, loyalty is likely to be weak. And I do not buy loyalty."
Mazaeus drew a breath to steady himself, though his heart was labouring. "All kings buy loyalty to some extent. It is the way leadership works, for all men want their services rewarded." He met Alexander's eye. "Even kings want their worth recognised. Darius deserted me on the field of battle, and I want a king it would be an honour to have as a guest in my city. Respect buys true loyalty."
Alexander looked at him for a long moment, his face thoughtful. His lips touched each other softly. "Open the gates of Babylon to me, and we will endeavour to be your most honoured, most respectful guests. Parmenion, take the sons of the satrap of Babylon into your most gentle care. Mazaeus, we will follow you to Babylon. Prepare the way for us."
He turned and withdrew from the room, followed by half of his generals, leaving Mazaeus confronting a grizzled, imposing man, and wondering if he had actually won anything.
Spread out in full battle order, the Macedonian army approached the triple walls of Babylon. Alexander wanted to impress, to intimidate if Mazaeus was not sure of surrender, and to offer a triumph for his soldiers. The trumpets signalled a halt and as the noise of the army's footsteps faded, answering trumpets rang out on the walls of Babylon.
The great gates of Ishtar, whole tree trunks of cedars from Lebanon bound together with bronze, swung open and Mazaeus rode out on a white horse caparisoned with gold, bright against the dazzling blue-tiled walls. White-robed priests, garlanded with flowers and singing and chanting, walked out behind him as he rode alone towards Alexander. The priests rang chiming bells, swinging incense burners in time with their voices as the leading citizens of Babylon followed on horseback. Behind them came an honour guard, their upright spearheads encased in protective leather as a sign of peace.
Alexander dismounted from black Bucephalus, and Darius's captured golden chariot was brought forward for him to ride in triumph down the road to Babylon. The mounted squadron of his Bodyguard, riding matching black horses and wearing scarlet cloaks and scarlet plumes in their helmets, fanned out beside him, while Hephaestion rode Bucephalus behind Alexander's chariot, in the middle of the line of the Seven, Alexander's personal Bodyguards. Behind them came Alexander's generals, his seers and his priests, flanked by marching detachments of the Foot Companions with their burnished shields dazzling in the sun.
On the road, Alexander and Mazaeus met and greeted each other. Mazaeus dismounted and placed a symbolic golden sword in Alexander's hands. Smiling, Alexander invited Mazaeus to ride beside him on his white horse and together they rode under the outer gate of Babylon and into the Processional Way.
Mazaeus dropped back to ride beside Hephaestion, giving him a forbidding stare by way of greeting. Hephaestion scarcely noticed, watching proudly as Alexander's chariot, flanked by a line of Bodyguards, made it's way through the cheering crowds crammed against the brilliant blue tiles on the walls of the Processional Way. The walls were decorated with great coloured reliefs of lions and griffins which stood out against the bright blue background, and beneath them were cages in which live lions and leopards, agitated by the noise of the crowds, paced. The lions roared and the leopards screamed, creating deafening echoes within the confines of the Processional Way.
The Macedonian war horses snorted and stamped, and wanted to charge, thinking they were in battle, but they were urged through the double inner gates. Quieter air met them, and rose petals, pink and white and red, rained down on them from the gatehouses.
Alexander, his burnished helmet tipped back on his head so that the crowds could see his face, held out his hand in delight and caught a handful of petals as they slid off his arms and the gleaming breastplate of his show armour. He brought them to his face to inhale the scent, then he tossed them with a laugh towards the excited crowds lining the wider road to the great temple at the centre of Babylon.
The temple of the foundation of heaven and earth, Etemenanki, was a mountain made by men in the centre of Babylon. A towering monument of sun-baked bricks, painted a midnight blue, rose towards the heavens in seven tiers, superimposed upon which were three massive stairways leading to the gold-tipped temple on the top-most platform. There was a stairway on each of three sides of the monument, while the fourth overlooked the wide river Euphrates. On the terraces, flowerbeds had been built and orange and lemon trees created shade. In the evening, water was allowed to flow down runnels on the terraces and into basins from cisterns on the upper levels down to water the flowerbeds, adding the sound of flowing water to the perfume of the flowers.
Alexander stood in his chariot and gazed in wonder up the steep, wide stairway to the temple at the top, listening to the running water which had been released in the heat of the afternoon in honour of the occasion. Even Egypt had had nothing to compare to this, but Mazaeus and the priests were waiting for him to ascend and honour the god.
He drew a breathful of the scent of roses, and turned to dismount from the chariot. As he did so, he noticed Hephaestion's face, pale in the heat as he stood waiting for him with the others, and Alexander doubted that he had the strength to climb all those stairs with the wound he was carrying.
"Parmenion," Alexander said briskly. "You, me, Aristander and the Bodyguards should be sufficient. Hephaestion, stay here and guard the horses." He turned away and started quickly up the stairs, followed by his designated guard, as Hephaestion began ordering the Foot Companions to cover the other stairways as well. He also ordered the mounted bodyguards to clear a path through the crowds towards the gateway of the temple enclosure, and to keep the gateway clear for Alexander's route to the palace of Nebuchadnezzar.
Alexander sacrificed to Zeus and the Babylonian priests sacrificed to Bel, and Alexander clasped the hands of the god's statue in recognition of his right to rule. Then they all returned northwards through the city to the sumptuous palace built by king Nebuchadnezzar. In the vast coolness of the largest of the audience halls, Alexander and his generals sat and partook of refreshments, including a chilled sweet sherbet made from rosehips, and greeted a procession of dignitaries. Alexander had already ordered more of his soldiers into the city, setting guards about the palace, the treasury, the temples, and setting them to man the city walls and gatehouses. The Macedonians had occupied Babylon.
As the afternoon began to cool towards evening, Alexander retired to Darius's rooms before the banquet which would be held in the Macedonians' honour after dark. Mazaeus conducted him to the high-ceilinged rooms, open to cooling breezes from the river and faintly perfumed with sun-warmed sandalwood.
Alexander wandered through the many cool stone-floored rooms with the wooden walls and ceilings gilded and carved, his gaze drawn to unfamiliar designs, elaborate lattice-work, the gilt on chairs and chests, and the brocade cushions of purple and gold, dark with majesty and heavy with masculinity. Trailed by guards, Mazaeus and palace functionaries, Alexander found himself in the Great King's bedroom where his own Pages were already installed and were setting out his personal belongings. They looked worn and homely among such magnificent surroundings.
The bedroom had ceiling-high windows opening to the north and west, and the shutters had been opened so that the draperies moved in the evening breeze, lifting the heat of the day, and beyond the windows balconies overlooked the wide river to the west where the sun was setting in the dust haze over the city.
"I will take my bath," Alexander announced, turning with a smile to dismiss the crowd of followers. Pages moved rapidly and the Persian functionaries hurriedly passed forward tablets to Mazaeus, who handed them over to Alexander, informing him that they were an inventory of the treasures of the city.
Alexander thanked him and, as everyone withdrew, he moved to a large table topped with a polished slab of grey marble. He set the tablets down and sat to inspect the riches he was now master of.
He saw the staggering amounts of gold and silver ingots and began a rough mental calculation of how much bonus he could afford to give each of his soldiers. They deserved as much as he could give them so that they could rest and thoroughly enjoy themselves in this mother of all cities with its fabled pleasures.
He was just realising that he was going to have to get someone to check how accurate this inventory was, when the door opened and, as the footsteps drew closer, Alexander looked up to greet his visitor.
He took one look at Hephaestion's white face and jumped from his seat. Coming around the table quickly, he caught hold of a chair by its high back and set it behind Hephaestion's knees.
"Sit," he ordered.
Hephaestion obeyed, and fell rather than sat on to the chair. Alexander held out a hand to steady him in case he should topple over, but he refrained from touching Hephaestion's wounded arm and causing him more pain. Hephaestion steadied, resting his head against the back of the chair and Alexander moved to get a better look at him.
Squatting beside the chair, Alexander looked up anxiously into Hephaestion's deadly white face, clammy as he fought the dizzy faintness of a cold sweat. Carefully Alexander closed his hand over Hephaestion's good hand as it lay inert on his thigh, and Hephaestion rolled his head slightly against the chairback, his half-closed eyes latching onto the worry in Alexander's.
"Sorry," he murmured. "Bit tired."
"Of course you are," Alexander said quickly. "You've been on your feet too long."
A great spear had ripped into Hephaestion's upper arm as they had battled to reach the fleeing Darius. It had opened the artery and chipped the bone, and Hephaestion was still weak from loss of blood as well as pain. By rights he should have been in bed, but Alexander could not deny him the triumph into Babylon which owed so much to his personal efforts.
With his fingertips, Alexander reached and with brief, reassuring tenderness, touched the hair framing Hephaestion's face, his cheek, his jawline. Hephaestion closed his eyes in submissive trust.
A Page who was in the room drew nearer, anxious to be of help. "Fetch some wine," Alexander told him.
"I'd rather water," Hephaestion murmured.
Alexander nodded to the boy, who retired to the sideboard to fetch the water, chilled in underground stone vats. Alexander laid the backs of his fingers lightly against Hephaestion's forehead and cheek to check for fever. Thankfully there was none.
"I thought you were resting," he said gently. "What have you been doing?"
Hephaestion's eyelids fluttered as he focused on Alexander. "Setting the pay clerks to make an inventory of the treasury. And the armoury, and the horses. And the palace."
Alexander smiled at him, stroking his cheek gently with his forefinger. "I swear," he said, "that you and I share the same soul. I was just thinking of the very same thing, but you anticipated me."
Something like a smile passed over Hephaestion's face. He looked less like a ghost now, and just very tired. "I forgot the horses at pasture. And the grain stores."
Alexander's smile broadened into a grin. "They can wait. I forgot about the palace."
Hephaestion's lips curved as Alexander rose to take the cup of water from the Page. He held it carefully, one hand underneath to avoid spilling any drops onto Hephaestion, and Hephaestion roused himself to take the handle in his good hand.
Alexander watched as Hephaestion took a sip. "Are you hungry?" he asked anxiously. "Could you manage to eat something? Some soup?"
Hephaestion looked up at him over the rim of the cup. "I'm not an invalid. But something warm would be good." With a slight shiver he handed the cold cup back to Alexander, who placed it back in the Page's hands. "Soup," he ordered.
But for holding the cup of water, the young Page would have run from the room in his desire to obey.
Alexander turned back with a fond smile to Hephaestion. He tilted his head a little to one side, looking at him measuringly, but Hephaestion spoke before he could.
"I met Mazaeus on the stairs," he said tiredly. "He just glared at me." He looked up at Alexander with all his defenceless beauty. "When are you going to give him his sons back?"
"Tomorrow," Alexander said. "The eldest one anyhow. The younger one I think we should keep until we leave. He can be your guest while we're here."
"Mine? Parmenion won't be pleased."
"Bother Parmenion," Alexander said dismissively. "He will treat the boy like he was nothing, but I know you will treat him with respect, and probably learn much from him." He moved closer and held out his hand to help Hephaestion up. "Come and lie down," he said beguilingly. "Rest before the banquet tonight."
Hephaestion ignored his hand, pushing himself upright with his good arm against the seat of the chair. He straightened with an effort. "I really should go and get someone to run an inventory on the temples. I forgot the temples. And the boats."
With a smile, Alexander said, "I have set guards on everything. Let's trust Mazaeus for tonight and rest."
"I can guarantee," Hephaestion said, looking at Alexander soberly, refusing to be beguiled by Alexander, "that even if Parmenion is sitting with his feet up, he is seeing people and issuing orders."
A brief frown passed over Alexander's face. "Stop worrying about Parmenion. The men know who their king is. And who does the work. They will certainly know who thinks of and rewards them," he added, brightening, "when they see the size of their bonus. And all their back pay."
A brief smile lightened Hephaestion's face as he swayed slightly on his feet. "And as usual, they, and you, will have spent it all by the time we leave here."
"That doesn't matter," Alexander said cheerfully. "There will be plenty more at Susa and Persepolis. A king cannot afford to be niggardly. Now, will you please," he said, gently taking Hephaestion's good arm, "come and lie down before you fall down." Too exhausted to protest, Hephaestion let Alexander draw him towards the enormous bed.
He sat carefully on the blood-red covering embroidered with swirls of silver and gold sequins surrounding a giant phoenix. Drawing his feet up slowly, he lay back against the mountain of pillows and cushions Alexander had stuffed hastily behind him. As he settled, Alexander sat down lightly on the bed beside him.
"You will get to sleep in Darius's bed before I do," Alexander said with a playful smile.
Hephaestion's eyes were transparent with worry. "Let me go back to my rooms."
"No," Alexander said, amusement twinkling in his eyes. "And Parmenion," he said, laying a forefinger on Hephaestion's chest to make sure he knew he was to stay put, "is probably cursing you for doing his job before he's had time to set his cronies to work."
Hephaestion managed a smile. "He is probably going to burst in here and say, 'Who does he think he is? That Hephaestion is always poking his nose in where it doesn't belong.' " His smile faded as he looked at Alexander. "You don't mind me doing it, do you? It was just that no one else seemed to have thought of doing it yet."
"Parmenion has too much power," Alexander said flatly. "And he's getting old. He won't always be around and he needs to start delegating to younger men so that they can learn how to do the job. My men."
He said no more as the Page returned bearing a tray and a covered dish of soup. He set it down on a table near the bed and filled a smaller bowl which Alexander took from him and passed to Hephaestion. The Page asked if Alexander wanted a bowl for himself. Alexander declined and dismissed him.
He turned back to Hephaestion whose skin had taken on a pink tinge from the heat of the soup he was drinking. Alexander smiled at him and watched as he drank some more. A moment later and Hephaestion had obviously become too warm and was suffering some discomfort. Alexander hastily took the bowl from him and set it aside as Hephaestion laid his head back against the nausea he was feeling.
Alexander watched with concern until, swallowing, Hephaestion got his rebellious stomach to accept the soup. "Lie down," Alexander said quietly, and Hephaestion closed his eyes briefly in acquiescence, leaning forward slightly as Alexander got up and quickly discarded most of the mountain of cushions onto the floor. He laid his hand flat against Hephaestion's back, bracing him as he lay down.
He watched Hephaestion for a moment as he lay there with closed eyes and grey, pinched lips, then he moved to the end of the bed and began removing Hephaestion's sandals. Hephaestion raised his head to look at him. "You don't have to do that," he said quietly.
Alexander looked at him as he raised Hephaestion's foot to remove his sandal. He smiled. "I want to," he said simply. When he had dropped both sandals onto the floor, he tugged and pulled at the coverlet to loosen it, drawing it over Hephaestion's feet and knees, knowing Hephaestion suffered from cold feet when he was tired.
He moved to look down at Hephaestion, whose eyes moved a little fearfully to look up at him. Alexander sat down beside him. "Is it more comfortable with the sling on or off?" he asked practically, trying to dismiss the ghosts of worry that were gathering in Hephaestion's eyes.
"Off, please."
Hephaestion raised his head slightly as Alexander slid his hands under his hair and untied the knot at the back of his neck. "Sorry I'm being so feeble," Hephaestion muttered as Alexander leant over him.
Overcome, Alexander dropped his head against Hephaestion's. "Do you think I would love you so much if you didn't need me occasionally?" he whispered. He pressed his cheek against Hephaestion's hair before moving self-consciously to draw the untied sling away.
Hephaestion clenched his teeth against the pain as he tried to straighten his swollen elbow and lay his arm down flat. Alexander quickly placed his hands under Hephaestion's elbow and forearm to take the weight and ease the strain on his injured bicep. Together they got the dead weight of thick bandages and splits settled.
Looking down at the bundle, slightly stained with seepage from the wound, Alexander asked in a low voice, "Will it heal?"
"I may not regain full strength," Hephaestion said, his voice brighter than it should be.
Alexander looked up at him quickly. "Take it slowly," he said at last. "Do not rush it, or you will do more harm." He couldn't find his voice for a moment. "I would forget who I was if I didn't have you to treasure."
"Forget who you are?" Hephaestion asked as he stared up at Alexander with eyes drawn from the brightness of the Aegean sea. "You're the king of Babylon."
Alexander gave a wry smile. "That feels weird."
Hephaestion raised his good hand and caressed Alexander's cheek lightly. Overcome by physical weakness, his eyes flooded with bright tears. "I'm so proud of you," he said quietly. "King of Babylon, the oldest city in the world, and not a drop of blood spilt. I feared it would be another Tyre."
"We have learnt since then. Thanks to you, thanks to your diplomacy." Alexander used his forefinger to lift a stray strand of Hephaestion's hair back from his forehead. "You gave me Egypt and now Babylonia, the two greatest prizes in the world." He smiled wistfully.
Hephaestion breathed in deeply. "Might it not be fear of bloodshed that gave them to you?"
Alexander tilted his head regretfully. "There is no need for men to take the hand of friendship unless the other hand is holding the whip." They stared at each other for a long moment, pondering decisions taken, lives lost and futures changed irrecoverably.
Hephaestion saw self-belief take hold in Alexander's eyes. There were no regrets, despite the casualties, and Hephaestion knew he was right if they were to establish a firm government in this land.
Alexander leant forward and kissed Hephaestion's forehead. "Go to sleep," he said quietly, "and regain your strength. For me."
He drew back with a wan smile and Hephaestion grabbed hold of Alexander's hand awkwardly and carried it to his lips. "The gods will give us the grace to outweigh the bad with the good. I know they will," he said fervently.
"They will," Alexander said. He smiled suddenly, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Now sleep, or you will be fit for nothing tonight."
Hephaestion pressed his lips together in acknowledgement, but he could not speak. He rubbed at his tired eyes with the heel of his good hand and felt weariness flood through him as he let go. He felt rather than knew Alexander's weight leave the bed, heard the scrape of a stool as Alexander sat beside the bed, watching over him while he drifted into sleep. Alexander was his strength and his purpose, his rock of certainty when he faltered, and he drew peace from his presence.
Alexander sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, watching as Hephaestion slept. A wave of homesickness welled up within him, so that even Hephaestion's marble face, remote in sleep, appeared exotic and strange. He longed momentarily for a simpler time, when there were less changes, fewer strange places to lay his head. That had been his choice three years ago when they had crossed into Asia, yet he had never felt this alone before.
Perhaps it was that he was in Darius's very rooms, at his bedside. The Great King was gone, and he had moved into his shoes, and he was alone. For the first time in his life he felt he had moved beyond Hephaestion, left him behind, hampered by his wound so that he wasn't here in spirit, wasn't able to share this experience with him.
Hephaestion always made him question himself, but Hephaestion hadn't kept up with him, and he was alone and scared. The thought of what he would do without Hephaestion to share his doubts made him lonely. It frightened him.
He raised his head and laid a hand over his mouth, drawing it down his chin. Being king was a lonely place. Being Alexander meant Hephaestion was his friend. He was Alexander, not just the king. Hephaestion would always remind him that he possessed the heart of a man.
He placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. He gazed down at Hephaestion, who looked insubstantial stretched out on Darius's bed. He fetched his cloak from a stand nearby and carefully spread it over the sleeping Hephaestion. He touched the hair falling back from Hephaestion's temple gently with a knuckle.
"Sleep. Take your rest," he whispered. "And hurry back to me. I need you. The king needs you."