Watson, Ian - Novel 16 (36 page)

 
          
‘Those,’
interrupted Gibil, ‘are to fan the fire with air from inside. They also act as
expansion joints. As the bricks heat up and expand, those collapse to take the
strain.’

 
          
‘Really?’

 
          
Lord
Gibil sweated. ‘I’m surprised you noticed at all.’

 
          
‘I
can spot a fox skulking half a mile away.’

 
          
‘Yes,
well, very good.’

 
          
Thessany
said, ‘Why doesn’t Muzi see if he can calculate how many more donkey-loads of
bricks are required before we can safely let the heap run down to nothing?
Meanwhile, the rest of us can take a closer look.’

 
          
‘Good
idea. That’s your task, Muzi. And look after the chariots, will you?’

 
          
‘The
slave can hold the reins.’

 
          
‘No,
we need him with us.’

 
          
‘What
for, Dad? I don’t get why Thessany’s dancing master is with us, either. Is he
in charge of some dancing at the funeral?’

 
          
‘Not
exactly. Look, Muzi, I have a lot on my mind.’

 
          
‘I’m
trying to be helpful, Dad, but how can I help if I don’t know what’s going on?’

 
          
‘You’ve
been a great help these past few days. I’m proud of you, Son. It’s important to
know the right number of bricks. We have to clear any excess away. That’s where
the audience’ll be standing.’

 
          
‘Yeah,
but you hire folk to count bricks.’

 
          
‘Son,
if you ain’t willing to take a personal interest in humble bricks now and then,
you can kiss shekels goodbye.’

 
          
‘You’re
a banker, Dad, not a builder.’

 
          
‘A
banker has to know what he’s funding, inside out. Will you stop arguing with
me?’

 
          
Gibil
mopped his brow and climbed down; likewise Gupta and Thessany, who tossed her
reins to Muzi. Fretful but obedient, Muzi steered two chariots side by side
towards the brick dump. The rest of the party headed for the rear of the
construction, with Alex tagging anonymously behind.

 
          
Of
course, the real reason for using a corvee gang was that genuine bricklayers
might have puzzled about certain features of the brick core. As it was, only
the supervising architect needed to be bribed. No officials from the palace
came to inspect a mere brick interior. They would turn up when the expensive
decorations began to be installed: the golden ship-prows, the gold- wreathed
torches, the golden bulls and centaurs. These would be fixed to a thick outer
skin of combustibles: resinous timber and reeds which were destined to be
soaked with oil. When that stage of the work was reached soldiers would set up
camp to guard the valuables, and to control sightseers who trekked out from the
city. By then Lord Gibil might well relax; the conduits for molten gold would
be safely hidden . . .

 
          
Finally
the day and the sunset hour of the funeral arrived. The rays of the dying sun
ruddied the golden tiers which earlier that afternoon had gleamed so brightly
that they seemed to boom like gongs, dazzling the massing crowd which by now
amounted to - what? - a hundred thousand people? The shadow of the festival
temple cut a lengthening black wedge across the fields, a great pointer for
latecomers still pouring from Sin Gate.

 
          
Soldiers
had drawn a cordon round the golden pyre and round the throng of dignitaries
who stood closest to it. Gentry mingled with magi, courtiers, ‘ambassadors’
from
Babel
. Dominating this select though far from
scanty assembly was a lone elephant, staked to the ground by all four legs for
security. In the purple- curtained howdah on its back sat, no doubt, the king
in private mourning.

 
          
Up
near the summit of the pyre the row of golden sirens sang laments, the voices
of the choristers within the hollow statues amplified through trumpet-mouths.
Behind this choir servants were busily pouring stored barrels of flammable oil
down the inside skin, soaking the wood and reeds. Above sirens and servants,
topped only by heaven, stood the catafalque bearing the embalmed body,
presumably of Hephaestion: a remote waxen nakedness, a recumbent athlete.
Earlier, the catafalque had been borne through the crowds and might indeed have
carried a waxwork figure; though everyone must soon see it burn like flesh
rather than melt like a candle.

 
          
Early
stars were pricking through the deep-blue satin which now shrouded
Babylon
, as though those stars were vying to
translate Hephaestion’s soul upward into one of them.

 
          
The
mahout, who had been perched astride the elephant’s shoulder, suddenly
scrambled up and pulled the royal purple drapes aside with his hooked stick,
disclosing . . .

 
          
.
. . Alexander sitting there in the howdah. A lantern hung alongside,
illuminating him for all to see in the growing dusk.

           
Yes, he was the same Alexander: the
same torpid, flabby figure of a man with heavy jowls, rouged cheeks and lips,
hair in ringlets. Silken-gowned, bejewelled. The king wept copiously, tears
pouring down his cheeks, mingling with the rouge so that soon he seemed to be
weeping thin watery blood.

 
          
Yet
as he wept he seemed to grow not weak, but stern and strong - as if it was a
poison which those tears bled from his system. His flab appeared to harden into
muscle, so that soon no soft mortal sat grieving there, but rather a marble
god.

 
          
The
king raised a hand in farewell; and by way of a signal. Hastily the sirens fell
silent. Within a minute torches were touched to the base of the pyre. Flames
raced up the ornamented tiers, licking golden lions and centaurs, leaping out
from amidst serpents and centaurs. All the precious figures seemed to dance.
Quickly the whole edifice was engulfed in fire.

 
          
Alexander
pulled rings from his fingers and tossed these in the direction of the blaze,
whose heat now smote the spectators. With hands thus bare, the king ripped the
silk gown from himself and rose amidst its tatters. Beneath the silk he was
wearing a bronze cuirass and a kilt of iron-studded leather thongs. In his
right hand, now, he was flourishing a sword. All of a sudden he was valiant
power incarnate.

 
          
Or
was he about to kill himself? No. He stabbed his weapon towards the flames,
then towards the sky . . .

 
          
A
hand closed on Alex’s arm. Before he could even see whose hand, he was being
dragged sideways through the throng in the direction of the tethered elephant.
He had to hop to avoid falling over.

 
          
A
Greek officer was hauling him. It was the ruffian, the make-believe beggar.
Within moments Alex was face to face with Aristander.

           
‘Sir, it's the man who told you
about the scroll - then became a slave of Marduk’s daughter.’

 
          
The
futurologist poked his nose at Alex to sniff him out. ‘So it is!’ On this
occasion his nose wasn’t dripping. ‘You disappointed me, fellow. You missed an
appointment.’

 
          
‘Should
we take him in for interrogation, sir? Nobody noticed me grab him. Everyone’s
gawping at the bonfire. Say the word; we’ll whisk him off.’

 
          
The
inferno roared deafeningly. Above the city the darkening sky stormed with even
blacker smoke as though a whole district was burning down.

 
          
Terrified,
the elephant curled its trunk up and trumpeted. Swaying convulsively, it tried
to tear its feet loose. Drool dangled from its mouth. The mahout beat it over
the skull with his stick to no avail; then ran nimbly out on to its head to
hook at its trunk. King Alexander stood laughing victoriously, still saluting
with his sword the raging blaze which cloaked the melting of hollow bulls and
centaurs.

 
          
‘Hephaestion,
goodbye!’ he screamed. ‘Farewell, best of friends!’

 
          
Alexander
paid no heed whatever to the mahout, who capered like a monkey. But the
elephant paid heed to the jabbing, iron-pronged stick. Twisting its trunk
about, it seized the mahout’s arm and dashed him over its head to the ground.
It wrenched one forefoot free - the chain snapping at a weak link - and stamped
this pile-driver down into the earth within half a cubit of the stunned man’s
head. The elephant lowered its tusks; however, these had been sawn short and
capped. Again it lunged forward. The stakes restraining its other front leg
began to tear loose. The thunder of the foot descending a second time made the mahout,
still half senseless, jerk and hop aside like a frog before collapsing again.

           
Panic spread outwards. Aristander
crashed into Alex as Greeks shoved and fought clear of the immediate circle
around the beast; while elite Macedonian guards thrust inward to take whatever
action they imagined best. Though buffeted this way and that, Alex couldn’t tug
himself from the officer’s grasp.

 
          
‘You
stay put!’

 
          
The
elephant hurled its weight sideways and succeeded in freeing its other front
leg, complete with chains and uprooted stakes. The howdah started to tilt. The
king at last deigned to heed his own safety. Grinning ferociously, sword still
in hand, he scrambled out of the back of the howdah. Before he could lose his
balance he launched himself from the elephant’s buttocks. How reckless to leap
clutching a sharp blade; but his luck was in, his life was blessed. He hit
dirt, sprawled, recovered himself. How his soldiers cheered to witness the old
heroic Alexander once again; though amidst such din of flames, cries of alarm,
and screechy bellowings their cheers were but hollow rounded mouths. Trying not
to look shaken to the marrow by his impact with the earth, the king retreated
in Alex’s direction, hobbling.

 
          
Now
that their king was clear - and before the crazed juggernaut could wrench its
hind legs free to rampage through the crowd - the boldest (or most
bloodthirsty) Macedonians attacked. Their swords either bounced off the beast’s
hide or else cut slashes which were too shallow to do anything except madden it
more. A couple of spear thrusts in the body were mere wasp stings, vicious but
survivable. The howdah slumped further askew. It had been well strapped and did
not upend itself under the elephant’s belly, but the lantern broke, setting
fire to the purple curtains. The air reeked of must and elephant shit.

           
Unexpectedly a blond quarterback
broke through into the centre field. It was Muzi.

 
          
He
snatched a spear. He darted and feinted, dancing before the stamping, lurching
monster. The elephant reared ponderously. Blazing fabric brushed its back. Its
front legs crashed back to earth. At last the rear stakes ripped loose.

 
          
In
that moment, when the animal was grounded solidly with head bowed, Muzi dashed
in. Using all his force, he drove the spear through the elephant's left eye.
Deeply, deeply.

 
          
The
elephant lurched. Muzi bounded clear; and the great beast slumped forward in an
ungainly heap. He had scored true. Despite skull bones, his point was buried in
the brain.

 
          
Panic
subsided. Away from the immediate vicinity, few had noticed.

 
          
Muzi
had ended up close to Alex. Panting, he stared at Alex and at the officer
holding him.

 
          
The
king limped over, flanked by guards. He seemed at once exhausted - and
transfigured.

 
          
‘You're
a true Herakles,' he said to Muzi. ‘What’s your name?'

 
          
‘Muzi,
son of Gibil, Your Majesty.'