Flood Tide Page 7

  It didn’t diminish Perdikkas’s self-esteem that, when Alexandros’s father Philippos was organizing the elite school for the education of his heir apparent, Orontes of Orestis was one of the first noblemen whom he asked to send his son to the academy at Mieza. Perdikkas was sixteen at the time, three years older than Alexandros, and one of the oldest boys at the school. (I was twenty-one, but I was not a student; I was an instructor.) He took the young prince under his wing, not that Alexandros, even at age thirteen, required, or tolerated, much mentoring by anyone. But Alexandros appreciated the gesture.

  Once Alexandros became king, Perdikkas quickly rose in the ranks. He specialized in risky, dangerous assignments, both in the infantry and the cavalry, and proved himself a capable, brave, almost reckless commander, which only raised him further in Alexandros’s esteem. He didn’t spend as much time cultivating the esteem of people below his rank.

  I turned toward Perdikkas as we pushed our way through the crowd. “How are the games going?”

  “I’ve got more important things to worry about than games,” he replied. We refrained from further chitchat.

  Finally, we reached the overturned wagons. I clambered aboard, secure in the knowledge that no threat against me could possibly lurk on this elevated platform. There was a pause in the games just then, as the makeshift arena was reconfigured for the combat sports. Judges marked out a large circle, using small logs and tree branches to demarcate the extent of the fighting field. Inside the zone, soldiers were picking up debris, raking the ground, and pouring a layer of sand on top. Outside the boundary, spectators pushed and shoved one another in their rush to secure the best vantage points around the circuit.

  While waiting for the games to resume, Alexandros was busy dictating correspondence and cracking jokes. Kallisthenes the Historian was tasked with the unenviable responsibility of separating what was meant to be written down from what was meant only to amuse the assembled posse of the king’s friends and hangers-on.

  “Two days after the battle was concluded, Ptolemaios succeeded in capturing Memnon,” Alexandros solemnly recited upon noticing my arrival. “Don’t write that, you fool,” he yelled when Kallisthenes dutifully started to scratch his reed across the papyrus sheet. “Am I right, Ptolemaios?”

  “I am sorry, sire. We didn’t succeed in capturing Memnon.”

  A shadow passed over Alexandros’s sunny mien but it didn’t last. “We’ll catch up to him yet.” He turned his back on me. “We urgently require additional men if we are to make good on our promise to liberate the Greek cities of Ionia from Persian captivity – why aren’t you writing?”

  Poor Kallisthenes got busy again, while I carefully edged as far away from the king as I could manage without falling over the side. Kallisthenes was unique in our ranks. In fact, he was unique in the history of warfare, as far as I knew. He was a pale, pudgy young man, whose complexion betrayed an aversion to sunshine and whose physique testified to a lifelong abstinence from physical exercise. Surrounded by men raised from childhood to endure the rigors of war, Kallisthenes fit in like an earthworm crawling on a porcupine. He was from Athens, which made him only slightly less of an outsider in this camp than I was, but he spoke such a highfalutin, refined Greek that my heavily accented Macedonian dialect made me one of the boys by comparison. But what made him truly unique was his commission in Alexandros’s army – he was the official campaign historian.

  Before Alexandros, it had never occurred to a military leader about to launch an audacious invasion of the greatest empire on Earth that what the expeditionary force really needed was a noncombatant intellectual, incapable of defending himself against an attacking mouse, whose primary function was to keep contemporaneous written records of the campaign, so that an accurate chronicle of the military leader’s deeds could be bequeathed to posterity after his inevitable triumph. In fairness, Kallisthenes had other functions as well: He was responsible for committing to written form Alexandros’s correspondence and his propaganda, to the extent there was a discernable difference between the two.

  At the moment, the king was evidently writing a letter to Antipatros, his regent back in Pella, to request reinforcements. He was interrupted in his dictation when a sleek youngster, dressed only in a perspiration-soaked tunic, sprang up to our jury-rigged platform. His appearance elicited much cheering among the tussling crowd below, which he acknowledged with a smile and a wave.

  “Gorgias,” Alexandros called out, “magnificent race. You practically flew above the ground. Even if I’d had a chance to run today, you might have beaten me.”

  Gorgias shook his head. “Never, sire.”

  Alexandros obviously knew this contestant by name and the contestant obviously knew Alexandros’s proclivities by heart.

  As if on cue, Hephaistion materialized from among the clutch of people surrounding Alexandros and Gorgias. “It’d be too boring if we had to keep crowning you the winner after every race, sire,” he observed as he handed a wreath to Alexandros. The young king laughed, clearly pleased. I couldn’t tell whether he was enjoying the subtle mockery of the conceit of his being a great runner or simply accepting the acknowledgement of his purported running prowess. He ceremoniously placed the wreath on Gorgias’s head, provoking a fresh round of cheers among the spectators. “Go see Parmenion over there about your prize money.”

  A beaming Gorgias made his way across our platform, accepting congratulations as he went. Perdikkas patted him on the back, carefully maintaining a discreet distance from his sweaty torso. Kleitos, by contrast, showed no hesitation in exchanging a warm embrace with the victorious runner. Philotas, whom we used to call Fast Philotas in Mieza, seemed genuinely pleased to meet someone clearly faster than he. He grabbed Gorgias by the arm, punched him in the opposite shoulder, and indulged in a bit of good-natured ribbing. Aristandros the Seer, cleverly anticipating the perspiring runner’s approach, carefully stepped to the other side of the platform before Gorgias could reach him. Eventually, Gorgias made his way to Parmenion, who regretfully informed him that he carried no coins on his person but advised him to see Harpalos the Purser to claim his prize. While all this was going on, Alexandros turned back to Kallisthenes and resumed his dictation, except now he seemed to be writing to his mother, Olympias, who had also remained back at the palace in Pella.

  “It’s not nice to eavesdrop on other people’s correspondence,” someone whispered into my ear. I whirled on my heels, almost punching the whisperer in the nose. When I saw it was Aristandros, I wished I had. I laced my fingers to keep them from balling into fists. “Get out of my face, before I find an excuse to knock you off this wagon.” Aristandros favored me with one of his malevolent smiles before silently gliding away.

  Everyone’s attention turned to the three judges who were marching ostentatiously across the field toward us, wearing long, flowing robes. Each judge carried a freshly-cut switch. They were followed by five extremely large, naked men, walking jauntily, single-file, swinging their arms and other appendages, acknowledging the shouts of their supporters among the crowd. Illustrating the diversity of Alexandros’s army, three were clearly highland Macedonians, one looked to be some sort of Thrakian, judging by his war paint, and one was an Agrianian. The wrestling competition was about to begin.

  Alexandros administered the oath to the judges. The wrestlers spread olive oil on their bodies, rubbed sand on one another’s arms and backs for a better grip, and infibulated their penises. That’s not something I could ever do, I thought as I watched the men pull down their foreskins, tie leather thongs around them, and then fasten their penises against their abdomens.

  The head judge set up a silver urn and placed five small lots into it. The wrestlers lined up in front of the urn. Whether by happenstance or design, they ended up standing in size order. The smallest contestant, standing at the head of the line, was twice as large as I was. Not twice as tall (he was shorter than I) but twice as thick and probably three times as heavy. His neck was as thick as hi
s head; his arms as thick as my legs; his legs as thick as my torso; and his torso as thick as a barrel - a short, stout barrel.

  His thick hand reached into the urn and emerged clutching a lot. At least we all assumed it was clutching a lot because nothing was visible amidst those massive fingers. “Beta,” Mr. Thick announced loudly and showed the small tile to the head judge, who nodded his agreement. His supporters – presumably his phalanx mates – shouted their approval, even though they had no way of knowing whether beta would turn out to be a favorable draw.

  The next contestant, the Agrianian, was slightly taller and somewhat thinner, although certainly solidly built. His most distinguishing feature was his face. I could easily believe he won most of his matches by scaring his opponents to death. To say he was ugly, while accurate, would miss the essence of his countenance. He looked like a man who enjoyed breaking things. In fact, he gave the impression of someone who couldn’t wait to start breaking his opponent’s bones.

  Mr. Scary reached into the urn. I was surprised he didn’t shatter the little pottery shard in the process of extracting it. “Alpha,” he called out, which was duly confirmed by the judge. He ambled over to Mr. Thick and glared at him in a ravenous sort of way. Mr. Thick ignored him, continuing to stretch his legs, arms, and fingers.

  The third contestant, sporting the blue battle paint favored by some of the Thrakian tribes, was a fairly tall youngster, perhaps eighteen years old, and thin as a rail. I couldn’t imagine what he was doing in this lineup because he looked intelligent enough to realize he was sure to get killed in short order.

  Mr. Lucky drew a gamma. He was delighted, dancing a jig in the dirt and waving his arms jubilantly. The other contestants, and the crowd, studiously ignored him since he was a gamma. Undeterred, in skipped his way to the wrestlers’ tent.

  The tension in the arena rose by an order of magnitude. People stopped their screaming. Everyone stared intently at the silver urn. The next lot would determine everything.

  The fourth man was seriously large, in every dimension. But what was more surprising was his agility, especially in a big man. He did everything nimbly and fast. He ran into the arena on cat’s paws; he tied up his massive penis in a flash; he oiled himself more adroitly than Aristandros buttering up his next mark; and now he ran up to the urn and jabbed in his hand like a frog flicking his tongue at a fly, emerging with the penultimate lot in his fingers. “Beta,” Mr. Quick cried out, showing the scrap of baked clay to the head judge. He, and his supporters (he was another heavy infantry man) seemed pleased enough.

  Mr. Quick ran over to Mr. Thick, the other beta, and they engaged in a brief, animated conversation. Then together they made their way out of the rink, Mr. Quick jogging and Mr. Thick trying his best to keep up. When they reached the boundary of the rink, the crowd parted respectfully to let them pass and they disappeared into the wrestlers’ tent.

  The last contestant walked up to the urn. To me, he looked like a man from the Macedonian mountains; he was certainly a mountain of a man. His size caught your eye but his physique sucked your breath out. To watch him walk was to observe a dynamic work of art. With every step, his glutes clenched, his pecs rippled, and his abs danced under his gleaming skin. It was like watching a marble statue of Herakles, sculpted by a masterful albeit overexuberant artist, come to life. His muscles didn’t move; they flowed, the way a swollen river flows over the cataracts.

  Although there was no suspense left, the crowd was buzzing. Mr. Muscles reached in and drew out the last tile, which had to be the other alpha. Impassively he walked over to Mr. Scary, the first alpha, and offered him his hand. Mr. Scary slapped it away.

  “Let the betas go first,” Alexandros called out. The crowd picked up his call. The head judge frowned but then conferred with his two colleagues. The two alphas were sent to the wrestlers’ tent and an attendant was dispatched to recall the two betas.

  Messrs. Thick and Quick ambled back onto the fighting field. They were handed cups of wine; made their libations; said their prayers; and saluted their king. They rubbed more dirt onto each other. They circled each other warily, trying to get the sun in the other’s eyes. They slapped each other across the arms and shoulders. Mr. Thick tried to grab Mr. Quick’s hand but was too slow. Mr. Thick slapped Mr. Quick across the face, hard. This maneuver earned him a prompt lash of the assistant judge’s switch. “No punching,” the judge admonished. More circling, slapping, and unsuccessful grabbing ensued.

  Suddenly, Mr. Quick lunged to one knee and grabbed Mr. Thick behind his right ankle, pulling vigorously. Mr. Thick hopped awkwardly a couple of times on his left foot but couldn’t maintain his balance and toppled. He managed to turn his body in the air, keeping his back and shoulders from hitting the ground and using his hands to cushion his landing but his left hip brushed the dirt.

  “One fall,” the head judge called out.

  Both men regained their feet and the match resumed. This time, Mr. Quick didn’t wait. He immediately lunged for his opponent’s leg, grabbing him behind the knee. Mr. Thick, however, was ready for the attack. He hunched forward, tensed his muscles, and refused to budge. Try as he might, Mr. Quick couldn’t unbalance him. Instead, Mr. Thick placed his hands on Mr. Quick’s shoulders and started to push down. Mr. Quick, who was down on one knee, tried to rise back to his feet but Mr. Thick was too strong. After a few moments, during which there was no apparent movement but during which both men were evidently exerting tremendous effort, Mr. Quick sank, ever so slowly, to his knees.

  “Two knees,” the head judge called out. “One fall each.”

  The match resumed without a pause. The next fall would decide the outcome. Mr. Thick kept trying to grab his opponent’s hand, wrist, or arm and Mr. Quick kept eluding his grasp. Finally, Mr. Thick managed to latch onto Mr. Quick’s left hand and they held onto each other, their fingers intertwined. Mr. Thick, whose fingers were short and thick, in keeping with all other aspects of his body, tried to bend Mr. Quick’s fingers back. Mr. Quick, using his right hand, grabbed Mr. Thick’s right arm and tried desperately to free his left hand but Mr. Thick was just too strong. Mr. Quick’s fingers started to bend back. It was clear that in a moment, his fingers would start breaking, one by one. Mr. Quick let out an anguished yell and raised his right arm, conceding the fall and thus conceding the match.

  As soon as Mr. Quick raised his arm, the head judge immediately jumped between the fighters and separated them, hitting Mr. Thick with his switch for good measure. Mr. Thick let go of his opponent’s hand and started jumping for joy. It was amazing to see how high such a short and heavy man could jump. The members of Mr. Thick’s company were screaming their heads off. The remainder of the crowd rewarded him with polite applause. Mr. Quick hung his head in shame and disappeared.

  Messrs. Scary and Muscles now made their way onto the fighting field. They also made their libations, said their prayers, and saluted their king. The match started but neither man seemed to be in any hurry. Mr. Scary didn’t seem to mind when he ended up looking into the sun, presumably pleased at not having any shadows detracting from the natural ugliness of his countenance. He must have done some boxing in his time because his ears were flattened and his nose unnaturally contorted. More importantly, he must have partaken in an armed conflict or two because a long scar curved from below his left eye to the corner of his jaw below his left ear. A thick, purple rope of cicatricial tissue ringed his neck like a collar. Innumerable little blotches, bruises, and blemishes adorned his face and body. And then there was that blood-curdling leer.

  Mr. Muscles didn’t seem intimidated. He walked up to Mr. Scary, placed one hand on his opponent’s arm and the other around his neck, and started to pull. Mr. Scary took no umbrage at the familiarity of the embrace and reciprocated his adversary’s gesture. Then they pulled and pushed, snorted and grunted, waltzed and curtsied, as best of friends. Except in a few minutes Mr. Scary’s knees buckled and he sank to his knees.

  When the match resumed, Mr. Sc
ary tried to run and evade but that strategy proved short-lived as well. Mr. Muscles cut off the ring, trapped him against the boundary sticks, embraced him in a bear hug, lifted him high in the air, squeezed the living daylights out of him, and threw him into the dirt.

  “Karanos son of Pandrosos is the winner,” the head judge announced, “two falls to none.” Karanos’s comrades started to cheer. “Akoniti,” the head judge added over the noise, “dust-free.” The appellation was picked up and amplified by the crowd. “Karanos Akonitos, Karanos Akonitos,” they chanted.

  The three remaining contestants gathered once again in front of the silver urn. This time Mr. Lucky went first. He drew a beta and couldn’t contain his happiness. His cheer infected the crowd, which found the unlikely turn of events amusing. The other two contestants, Messrs. Thick and Muscles, didn’t appreciate the humor of the situation. They dutifully reached into the urn, each emerging with the inevitable alpha in his hand, and grimly proceed to prepare for their match. Mr. Lucky disappeared once again into the wrestlers’ tent.

  The bout between the short but incredibly strong Mr. Thick and the extremely large and amazingly built Mr. Muscles proved to be somewhat anticlimactic. The two men latched onto each other and danced, neither able to uproot the other, notwithstanding the expenditure of prodigious amounts of energy. Eventually, neither man had any strength left. At the end, they remained on their feet only because they were holding each other up. Mr. Muscles finally let go and Mr. Thick sank to his knees.

  Although he had suffered only one fall, Mr. Thick declined (or was unable) to continue and Mr. Muscles was declared the winner of the bout.

  Mr. Lucky now returned for the final match. It was no contest. The skinny, tall, blue-tinted kid from Thrake ran around the ponderous and exhausted mountain man from Macedonia, spotted an opening, dove in, and felled the huge man with a single lunge. Mr. Muscles rose laboriously to his feet and tried gamely to even the match but he had no chance. The speed, agility, and especially the freshness of Mr. Lucky were too much to overcome. After some desultory slaps and attempted grabs, Mr. Muscles meekly succumbed when Mr. Lucky moved in for the victorious throw.