Watson, Ian - Novel 16 (41 page)

 
          
‘I.
. . um . . . oughta ride back to the city.’

 
          
‘Back?’
barked the general. ‘You can’t abandon the king’s company.’

 
          
‘I
can crave his permission.’

 
          
‘Pah!
He’s in a mood, till he drains a few cups. And then he may be in a different
sort of mood. You listen to me: your being invited along was a great honour.’

 
          
‘I
appreciate that, General.’

 
          
‘Riding
off would ruin all that. D’you hear, young fellow? It might have been a
different case if you’d speared us a lion. You didn’t. No one did. We need to
have at least one lion in the bag. Till we do, you may
not
resign your part in the chase - and weaken us. I advise you for
your own good, as a father would.’

 
          
‘But
my wife - ’

 
          
‘Has
likely given birth already. She started hours ago. It’d take you another double
hour at least to canter back. You couldn’t force that hoss unless you wanted to
burst its heart. Don’t be an idiot. Come to the king’s tent. Wine will ease
your worries.’

 
          
‘What
would she think of me? What would anyone -?’

 
          
‘Your
wife’s too busy to think. What would the king think? That’s more to the point.
If she’s any sort of wife I’ll tell you what she’ll think if you quit here.
She’ll think you’re an almighty fool.’

 
          
‘She
could
die
.’

 
          
‘Then
she won’t think a thing.’

 
          
‘She’s
Marduk’s daughter!’

 
          
‘And
this is the
king’s
camp.’ The general
slid down from his saddle. ‘Don’t disappoint us, Master Muzi. Once before you
slapped the king in the face, in a manner of speaking.’

 
          
‘I
didn’t.’

 
          
‘Matter
of opinion.’

 
          
Muzi
pushed Anshar aside and dismounted. The general clapped Muzi on the back, and
together they headed for the royal tent.

 
          
Inside
the purple tent, as first the hills turned purple, then the whole sky from
zenith to western horizon, a drinking bout commenced. This went on for a whole
double hour till long after the bruised blood of evening had become clotted
darkness, hardly dispelled by feeble lanterns which acted more as navigation
markers to those picking their way around camp. A mound of uprooted creosote
bushes, now sun-withered, had been built up the day before; but this bonfire
would be lit only if lions menaced the camp - it would quickly consume itself.
A half-moon arose.

 
          
At
last the cold feast was called for, and Alex was summoned inside to be one of
the waiters. Now he could see what he had been listening to intermittently.

 
          
Muzi,
Antipater and General Perdiccas sat on fat cushions upon the carpeted ground.
The king would alternately sprawl out on his own low couch like the sick
voluptuary he had once been - and then suddenly swing himself upright to perch
on the edge, alertly studying whoever was speaking, swinging his gaze sharply
onward to bring in another opinion, like a magistrate or a judge at a rhetoric
competition. Alex soon realized that themes were being set by the king for his
three guests to discourse upon amusingly, inventively, and in firm strong
voices whilst keeping pace with the drinking. Every so often the king wearied
of a subject and cut across whoever was speaking to proclaim a new topic - the
real riddle of the Sphinx, the habits of crocodiles, the secrets of the
pyramids - which he would enlarge on with boisterous intensity and tipsy
rodomontade before lolling back limply again, his wine-cup wavering in his
hand.

 
          
Muzi
looked glad of the distraction and ballast offered by the viands.

 
          
‘I
warrant,’ said the king, seizing a stick of celery, ‘that a slave could discourse
as well as a free man! Eh, Antipater?’

 
          
Gaunt
but sinewy Antipater said diplomatically, ‘Some slaves in
Greece
are well educated, sire. Some are used as
tutors. But it would surely be a false syllogism to suggest that therefore all
slaves possess this capacity. Generally slavery is a sign of inferiority.
Perhaps only through the happenstance of fortune! But equally the condition of
slavery provides a natural niche for life’s donkeys, as opposed to life’s
stallions or life’s lions. Thus slaves must labour - and some of them may even
bray persuasively. One surely would not wish to abolish slavery any more than
one would wish to make lions eat grass. Democracy often tends towards weakness
because all voices are heard - and many are the voices of asses.’

 
          
‘How
would one test my proposition? Why not at random? I shall wager with Master
Muzi here one golden talent that a slave can best me in argument, thanks to
that slave’s own native talent for wit and logic.’

 
          
Muzi
looked up anxiously from his ox-tongue.

           
‘I challenge Master Muzi,’ continued
the king, ‘since I see that we have here with us a slave whom he prizes highly.
There must be something special about such a slave, eh?’

 
          
Alex
had become a focus of attention.

 
          
‘Your
Majesty,’ Muzi said hastily, ‘would a slave
dare
defeat you in argument, even if he could?’

 
          
‘Good
point,’ growled Perdiccas. ‘The really clever slave might aim to lose. His
victory might embarrass his master.’

 
          
The
king clapped his hands. ‘I make a decree! Just as there is truce at the Olympic
Games and at the Oracle of Delphi, so this slave shall be a free man for
tonight. He shall join us at table. Give him my chaplet of golden laurel leaves
to wear.’

 
          
A
palace servant hastened to the royal travelling bag, and Alex found himself
crowned with metal which bit into his brow.

 
          
King
Alexander patted the couch. ‘Come sit by me. I like the look of you, as much as
I’ve liked the look of any man since my beloved Hephaestion departed into the
heavens. Your face even seems familiar, as though I glimpsed you during the
fever dreams of my illness.’

 
          
So
that’s the score, thought Alex.

 
          
The
king hadn’t been flying a kite about the possible abolition of slavery; as
feared perhaps by Antipater, who now smiled wanly.

 
          
Nor
was this some spur-of-the-moment scheme to embroil Muzi in public shame, for
one reason or another.

 
          
The
king fancied Alex.

 
          
‘If
this free man - free for tonight - pleases us,’ King Alexander enthused, ‘why
then he shall ride to hunt tomorrow as a reward.’ The king slipped an arm round
Alex and cuddled him briefly. ‘He seems muscular enough to dare death or glory.
Do not tremble so, free man! Tonight you are almost my equal.'

           
‘Sire,’ said the general doubtfully,
‘Lord Aristander might doubt the wisdom of a new Hephaestion . . . from the
ranks, as it were. Hardly even from the ranks.’

 
          
‘We
are miles from
Babylon
, my General. And I am drunk, am I not? So watch your tongue. Yes, yes!’
The king stabbed a finger at the mound of ox-tongue. ‘Eat it! Eat your great
bovine tongue!’ He giggled crazily. ‘If only we had killed a lion today, how
different I might feel!’

 
          
Perdiccas
obediently carved a slice of tongue; but now the king snatched the laden plate
towards the couch.

 
          
‘You
eat his tongue, free man! Put a burly tongue in your hand before you become an
orator! Devour it, gobble it down.’

 
          
Several
sorts of misery haunted Alex. He picked a whole tongue up in both hands and
began to gnaw his way through, hoping that bad table manners might disqualify
him as King Alexander’s bed-warmer. The king only laughed and drank deeply.

 
          
He
wiped his lips. ‘Bolt it down! I can’t wait to find if your mind also is
muscular.’

 
          
Alex
soon sickened of this surfeit of tongue and laid the stump down. Muzi had
hitherto refrained from uttering Alex’s name; nor had the king enquired it. In
the monarch’s current volatile mood Alex rather feared the consequences -
hostile or affectionate - if King Alexander learned that his namesake sat by
him.

 
          
‘Are
we ready?’ cried Alexander. ‘Best of three. I choose the first topic, Master
Muzi selects the second, and our free man makes the final choice. The first
theme shall be: the Size of the World, according to Eratosthenes. I shall argue
in favour of the Greek sage.'

           
‘Not born yet,’ muttered Perdiccas.

 
          
‘Never
mind! According to an oracle book, thus it shall be.’ The king shuffled his
buttocks and farted. ‘Eratosthenes will visit
Egypt
. He will observe that the sun stands
directly overhead at
noon
on the summer solstice in the town of
Syene
. Whereas at the same time in my own city of
Alexandria, several hundred miles north, the sun is seven degrees away from
vertical . . .’

 
          
The
king expatiated for a while. When he concluded, all eyes turned towards Alex.

 
          
He
was expected to argue against
this
?
It sounded as though Eratosthenes had calculated the size of the world
correctly!

 
          
The
only opposing argument Alex could think of was that the world which he and King
Alexander inhabited was actually an
elektronik
pattern within a piece of future
tekhne.
Babylonia
was the whole of the world, and no bigger
than the box which stored it.

 
          
Wouldn’t
this be blasphemy? Blasphemy punishable by impalement?

 
          
‘Well?
We wait, agog.’

 
          
Alex
opened his mouth with no idea what to say. He was saved by a commotion outside.

 
          
Outcry.
A crackling roar.

 
          
A
guard ducked inside the tent. ‘Pardon me, sire! General Perdiccas - ’

 
          
The
general rose, seized a sword, and hurried out. While the tentflap was open it
was plain that the pile of creosote bushes was blazing; red firelight enflamed
the night.

 
          
The
king chucked Alex under the chin. ‘
Argumen
-
turn ex machina
, as the well-shaved
Roman barbarians will phrase it!’ He too rose and grasped a spear. As he did
so, a martial transformation came over him. ‘Perhaps the lions have come to
us!’ he roared, and strode swiftly out.

 
          
Muzi
armed himself and followed. Antipater too, and servants. Alex, still chapleted
with golden leaves, also took his leave of the tent.

 
          
Near
the bonfire Anshar was wailing and beating his breast. A strange horse stood
quivering, streaming in the sudden heat. By the horse stood Nettychin.

 
          
The
general intercepted the king: ‘It’s another messenger for Master Muzi, sire.
The fool thought wild beasts were chasing him. At the bottom of the hill he lit
a brand. To alert us he threw the brand into our wood.’