Lord of the Two Lands (9 page)

Hardly. He was laughing behind those limpid eyes. Light wild boy-laughter, daring the lion in his pride; dancing with the whirlwind.

The Persians would not stay to suffer the madman’s courtesy. They asked only that they be assured of the royal ladies’ safety. When they had seen it, though night was coming winter-swift, they took their horses and the small company of the king’s embassy, and went back the way they had come.

“Pity,” said Alexander. “They missed some good apples.”

And some very painful humiliation; but Meriamon did not say that. She was too richly pleased to have seen their faces as they learned what Alexander was. Mad, yes, but as a god is, or a king whom the gods have made.

From Marathos to Sidon was a triumphal procession. Sidon, that ancient city, opened its arms to Alexander and called him King of Asia.

It had a king of its own, who sailed in Sidon’s fleet under the Persian king. His son and heir was nowhere in evidence when Alexander sent for him; he had wisely made himself scarce. If he had any sense, he would have put to sea where Alexander could not get at him.

Alexander was not inclined to go after him. He went hunting instead. They were a small party, as a king’s following went: a company of the Bodyguard, some of the older pages, a friend or two, even a few of the more intrepid nobles from Sidon. It was a glorious, yelling, blood-and-sweat chase, and a lion at the end of it for the king to kill.

“Better than battle,” one of the Sidonians said in traders’ Greek, grinning through his tangled beard.

Hephaistion looked down at the man whose head came just to his shoulder, and returned the grin with one somewhat less broad. He had got a clawing when the lion turned at bay, going in too close; but it had laid the beast’s heart open to Alexander’s spear. Alexander would have something to say about that, come evening. Now he was in the lead with the lion’s skin for a cloak and its cleaned skull for a helmet, leading the hunt back to the city.

Hephaistion lengthened his stride a fraction. The wounds were nothing to fret over—spectacular but shallow, and bound tight. The bandages across the ribs were a nuisance: they made it harder to breathe.

“He is... impressive,” the Sidonian said.

Hephaistion glanced at him again. His grin had faded. Another had come up beside him, younger and neater-bearded but obviously his brother: little red-brown curly-bearded man, hawk-faced and quick-eyed. Artas the elder and Tennes the younger were his guest-hosts in Sidon, and apt for almost anything.

“Your Alexander,” Tennes said, “is somewhat more than tales make him.”

“The boy king,” Artas explained. “The young fool who’s mad enough to take on Persia. One doesn’t expect him to be so...”

“Brilliant,” said Tennes. “Striking.”

“Capable,” said Artas.

Hephaistion wondered if he should be offended, or should pretend to it. He shrugged to himself. Sidonians chattered. It was their nature. Alexander never minded if people talked about him, as long as they gave him due respect. As these did, after their fashion.

They were already talking about something else, and doing it in Greek which was their courtesy, or maybe their cleverness. “Sidon’s king is no Alexander,” Tennes said.

“Straton?” Anas snorted. “Straton is the Persian king’s toady. His son hasn’t seen fit to linger, now that Alexander’s in the city.”

“Sidon needs a king,” said Tennes.

“It has Alexander,” Hephaistion said.

That should have quelled them. But they were Sidonians. “Alexander is a king of kings,” Artas said. “And what king can he be king of here, if the one who wears the crown is out commanding a fleet in Darius’ name?”

Hephaistion felt his eyes narrow, his smile go hard. “Why? Does one of you want it?”

Their jaws dropped. It was something for the ages, to see a Sidonian struck dumb.

Artas found his voice. It came out strangled, but that passed. “One of us?”

Hephaistion halted. They were last in the procession, and had got behind as they talked. Now the rest were round a bend in the track. They might have been alone in this steep and stony place, with a tree crouching over them and a dry streambed marking the way down to Sidon.

“That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it? For me to talk to Alexander, and for him to name you king.”

Artas drew himself up. He did not have much height, but he had dignity enough when he needed it. “I cannot be king. Nor can my brother. Our blood is ancient, and noble beyond question. But it is not royal.”

Now Hephaistion was speechless.

“Isn’t that so in Macedon?” Tennes asked. “Mustn’t a king be of the royal line?”

“Yes,” Hephaistion said. He was tempted, perilously, to laugh. They had him neatly in their ambush. He could fight his way out of it, he supposed. Or stay and see what they were getting at.

“There, you see,” Tennes said. “Neither of us can be king.”

“That wouldn’t stop most people.” said Hephaistion.

Tennes laughed. Artas smiled. “We’re not philosophers,” he said, “or altruists. We’re merchants. Why should I want to be king, and live mewed up in the city, and never go out trading? I’d run screaming into the hills.”

Hephaistion’s eyes flickered to the hill on which they stood, and the mountain behind. “So would I,” he said. He shifted his feet. There; better. Less ache under the bandages.

“Still,” said Tennes, “somebody has to be king. A city needs a head; someone to look to when there’s trouble, and to talk to the king over him as king to king.”

“And what do you think I can do?” Hephaistion asked. He put an edge in it, to warn them.

They caught it. Artas let the lightness drain out of his face. He looked older for it, and solider. More like a spokesman for his people—which, no doubt, he was. “We know that Alexander listens to you. We think—”

“We?” asked Hephaistion.

“Tennes and I.” Level, that, inviting no argument.

Hephaistion chose to let it pass. Artas went on. “We think that you have a good eye for people, and a clear head for judging them. We’ve seen how you keep the army fed and provisioned, and things running smoothly. You’re good at what you do.”

Hephaistion raised a brow. “So? What does that have to do with choosing a king for Sidon?”

“Everything,” said Tennes. “We know who might do. But we need someone to convince Alexander.”

“Just Alexander? Not your own people?”

“That’s our side of it,” Artas said.

“I can’t help feeling,” said Hephaistion, “that I’m being taken for a fool. Why don’t you simply send an embassy to Alexander and ask him to approve your choice?”

“We’re doing it,” said Tennes with an air of perfect innocence. “We’re asking you to be our embassy.”

Hephaistion began to walk again. The rest of the hunt was long gone. He did not hurry for that, but he did not drag his feet, either. The others had to trot to keep pace.

They picked their way down the last sleep slope, out upon the open road. Sidon’s fields stretched in front of them, and the city up against the sea. The hunt was well ahead, almost to the walls. Even at that distance Hephaistion knew Alexander: there was no mistaking that quick gait or that angle of the head in its exotic new finery.

After a while the brothers stopped trying to coax him to say anything. They dropped out of Greek then and into their own language. He took no notice. It was almost peaceful, like the chatter of birds.

o0o

He got his talking-to, over wine, very late. By then there was no one near to listen, except one or two of the Companions who had fallen asleep on the couches. Pages would carry them to bed in a little while.

Alexander had drunk less heavily than some; even at that, he could hold his wine as well as anyone Hephaistion knew. His humours burned it up. He moved more slowly, that was all, and fidgeted less. His words were clear, precise, and cutting, on the theme of idiots who walked up to lions as if they were the Egyptian woman’s cat, and risked their necks for nothing but to set up a kill for a friend who was perfectly capable of setting up his own, and if that was not enough, came ambling back hours late—

“Not hours,” Hephaistion said. “I was talking to Artas and Tennes.”

Alexander’s teeth clicked together. He hated to be interrupted in the middle of a speech.

Hephaistion had been nursing the same cup of wine for most of the evening. It had stopped being shameful long ago, that he had a poor head for it. He met Alexander’s glare over the rim of the cup and sipped, savoring the taste. “You weren’t beside yourself with fear for me, either. You were telling the tanners exactly how you wanted your lionskin cured and fitted. Are you really going to wear it?”

“Why? Do you think I’ll look silly in it?”

That was real worry, and real vanity, but it had a dangerous edge. “You’ll look magnificent, of course,” Hephaistion said. “You always do,”

“You looked magnificent in front of the lion,” said Alexander. “Magnificent, and bloody reckless. Whatever possessed you to go in that close?”

Hephaistion shrugged. It hurt. “It wasn’t supposed to be quite so dramatic. Damned thing lunged before I expected. I learned my lesson, believe that. I’ll be walking stiff for a week.”

“At least,” Alexander growled. But the worst of his temper was gone. He left his couch, staggering only a little, and sat down on Hephaistion’s. “So what were you talking about with your two magpies?”

Hephaistion grinned. “They do go on, don’t they?”

“They all do in Phoenicia. They’re almost as bad as Celts.” Alexander lowered his brows. “Well?”

Hephaistion told him.

“Clever,” Alexander said when he was done. “Using you to get at me. Do they think I’ll do whatever you say?”

“I doubt it,” said Hephaistion a little wryly.

“It can’t be someone popular,” Alexander said, “if they cornered you on a mountainside instead of tempting you with ease and comfort and good wine under a roof like a properly civilized being.”

“And servants listening, and people coming in and out, and rumors all through the city before the hour was out. No,” said Hephaistion, “they didn’t want that. I wonder why?”

“You didn’t think to ask?”

Hephaistion’s cheeks were warm. “I never do, do I?”

“No,” said Alexander, not too impatiently. “Go on, then. Find out for me what this kinglet of theirs is like.”

“And if he looks like making a king?”

“Make him one,” said Alexander. Lightly, but meaning it. Trusting him as far as that. It was half pain, to know it, and half sweetness; and all honor, as of a king to a lord and friend.

o0o

Artas and Tennes were not unduly cocky, at least to Hephaistion’s face. “After all,” said Tennes, “we can name whomever we please, but Alexander has to approve of him.”

“And Sidon,” said Hephaistion. He did not speak of himself. Some weapons were best kept in the arsenal for when one needed them.

“We’ll see to Sidon,” Artas said.

“So then,” said Hephaistion. “Who is this man who should be king? Do I know him?”

“I doubt it,” Artas said. “He’s not in the city much. If I know him, he doesn’t even know about Alexander.”

Hephaistion’s brow went up.

“He’s not a fool,” Tennes said quickly. “He’s poor, that’s true, but it’s not his fault. His blood is as royal as you could ask. He’s honest, which isn’t a virtue in a merchant. But in a king—if it doesn’t get him assassinated, it should serve him very well.”

“That depends,” said Hephaistion. “There’s honest, and then there’s tactless. How do I know that he can be a king?”

“Come and see for yourself,” said Artas.

o0o

They sent the servants to fetch a necessity or two, and had horses readied: riding horse for Hephaistion, carriage team for the brothers, since they had a fair distance to cross.

“His name is Abdalonymos,” Artas said when they were on their way. “He keeps a garden outside the walls, and lives on what he gets from it.”

Hephaistion’s stallion bucked under him, protesting the slowness of the pace. He sent it into a sidewise prance, keeping more or less level with the carriage, and said, “He sounds like something out of a book.”

He looked like something out of Hesiod: another of these little brown men, but browner than some, and broader, strong with years of heavy labor. His tunic was ragged and his trousers threadbare, and the earth of his garden was thick on him as he knelt in it, clearing away a tangle of weeds.

The brothers picked their way toward him, with Hephaistion following and the servant behind, carrying a bundle wrapped in faded wool. He was aware of them: he glanced over his shoulder, but he went on with what he was doing. His face was pure Phoenician, with a nose like a knifeblade. His eyes were clear but preoccupied; they widened not at all to see the Macedonian looming behind his countrymen. “Wait just a bit,” he said in quite decent Greek. “I’m almost done.”

They waited. The brothers glanced at one another and at Hephaistion, with a glint of mirth. Hephaistion grinned back. “Alexander should see this,” he said, making no effort to keep his voice down. “He’d love it.”

Abdalonymos kept on with his work, methodical but quick. At last he stood straight. The plot was clear, the weeds in a neat pile to the side of it. He dusted his hands on his shirt. It did little but add to the stains that were there already. “Well,” he said, looking from one to the next. “What can I do for you?”

Tennes crooked a finger. The servant came forward. He laid the bundle on the cleared ground and folded back the covering. Gold gleamed within, and the deep splendor of purple. “This is yours,” said Tennes, “as King of Sidon.”

Hephaistion stiffened. This went far beyond any authority he had given. But he kept his tongue between his teeth, and watched Abdalonymos narrowly, and waited.

Abdalonymos looked at the glittering things in their dull wrappings, and then up at the men who offered them to him. His face was flushed, maybe, under its weathering. “Now,” he said. “Now look here. I’m not taking any of your pranks. Not in my garden.”

“Not a prank,” said Artas. He pointed with his chin. “This gentleman is a prince of Macedon, King Alexander’s friend. He’s looking for a king for Sidon. We told him that you would make a good one. Are you going to make liars of us?”

No more, Hephaistion thought, than they were making of themselves.

Abdalonymos yielded not a fraction. “King?” he said. “Alexander? What is this?”

“Sidon has a new overlord,” Artas said patiently. “His name is Alexander. He comes from Macedon. He defeated the Persian king in a battle, and now he is king of Asia.”

“What’s a king to me?” the gardener asked. “The earth is the same, no matter who calls himself lord of it.”

“But if the lord is bad,” said Hephaistion, “the earth suffers.”

Abdalonymos looked at him. His eyes were not quick and glancing-shallow as Phoenician eyes were wont to be. They looked deep; they took careful measure. It was almost a Macedonian look, level and shrewd and suffering no nonsense. “And who might you be?” he wanted to know.