Mary Renault - Greece 7 - The Persian Boy

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MARY RENAULTS

EPIC NOVEL OF THE LAST

YEARS OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT!

MARY RENAULT'S IS A SPECIAL BRAND OF HISTORICAL FICTION, at once imaginative,

dramatic, seductive, and scrupulous... An interplay of passion and intelligence.

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—Saturday Review

SHE KNOWS THE TIME, AND SHE LOVES IT—IT SHOWS IN EVERY WORD SHE WRITES

... The difficulty in dealing with Alexander in a work of fiction ... is in this book superbly overcome: by

using Bagoas, his lover, as the reader's eyes, she gets enough distance from Alexander to make him

utterly real, human and superhuman at once, the incarnation of the spirit of the ancient world.

—Cecelia Holland

A MASTER WRITER . . . RENAULT CREATES SEDUCTION SCENES THAT VIBRATE with

sensuousness. She probes into emotional relationships with compassion and insight.

—Cleveland Plain Dealer

THE PERSIAN BOY

RENAULT KNOWS HOW TO MAKE THE ANCIENT WORLD COME VIVIDLY ALIVE ... An

inherently dramatic story, full of the clash of mighty armies, and psychological insight into Alexander's

personality . . . Meticulous research and authenticity.

—Publishers Weekly

'THERE IS PLENTY OF JOY AND TERROR IN THIS BOOK, tempered by a gloriously romantic

idealism which is uplifting because it reflects a profound sympathy for the infinite variety in the beauty,

power, and mystery of

love.

—library Journal

EXCELLENT, IMAGINATIVELY RE-CREATING ANCIENT HISTORY ... A remarkable

chronicle, beautifully written, dramatic, and informative, not only about the past but

about human nature immemorially.

—Wall Street Journal

THE BATTLES AND SIEGES AND INTRIGUES AND FEUDS in Alexander's career are various

and exciting, but the main theme of this book is superior to them. It is the growth of a great man.

—Gilbert Highet,Book-of-the-Month Club News

HOW COULD MARY RENAULT SURPASS HERSELF? . . . THE PERSIAN BOY is the answer.

Miss Renault has written an unforgettable book!

—Baltimore Sun

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[A] CONVINCING AND GRAPHIC RECONSTRUCTION OF ANCIENT PERSIA and its

opulent and corrupt civilization ... In this novel, half documented history, half invention, we see through

the .eyes of Alexander's lover, the Persian boy, the conquering god, the brilliant general bent on conquest

but concerned for the welfare of the common soldier. It is a tale of war and intrigue but also

of love.

—Choice

Bantam Books by Mary Renault

Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed

THE KING MUST DIE THE MASK OF APOLLO THE PERSIAN BOY THE PRAISE SINGER

The Persian Boy

MARY RENAULT

BANTAM BOOKS TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON • SYDNEY

This low-priced Bantam Book

has been completely reset In a type face

designed for easy reading, and was printed

from new plates. It contains the complete

text of the original hard-cover edition.

NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

KL 6,IL age 14 and up

THE PERSIAN BOY

A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with Pantheon Books, Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY Pantheon edition published 1972 Bantam edition / February 1974

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2nd printing-----March 1974 5th printing____March 1979

3rd printing . November 1976 6th printing .... March 1980 4th printing....March 197S 7th

printing ... January 1981

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

This book may not be reproduced In whole or in part, by

mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: Pantheon Books, Inc.,

201 East 50th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022.

ISBN 0-553-22546-4

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Boots, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words Bantam

Books and the portrayal of a rooster, Is Registered In U,S. Patent and Trademark Office and In other

countries. Marca Registrada. BantamBooks, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.

FEINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMEB1CA

16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9

If anyone has the right to be measured by the standards of his own time, it is Alexander.

Hermann Bengston,

the greeks and the persians

est anyoneshould suppose I am a son of nobody, sold off by some peasant father in a drought year, I

may say our line is an old one, though it ends with me. My father was Artembares, son of Araxis, of the

Pasargadai, Kyros' old royal tribe. Three of our family fought for him, when he set the Persians over the

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Medes. We held our land eight generations, in the hills west above Susa. I was ten years old, and

learning a warrior's skills, when I was taken away.

Our hill-fort was as old as our family, weathered-in with the rocks, its watchtower built up against a

crag. From there my father used to show me the river winding through the green plain to Susa, city of

lilies. He pointed out the Palace, shining on its broad terrace, and promised I should be presented, when

I was sixteen.

That was in King Ochos' day. We survived his reign, though he was a great killer. It was through

keeping faith with his young son Arses, against Bagoas the Vizier, that my father died.

At my age, I might have overheard less of the business, if the Vizier had not borne my name. It is

common enough in Persia; but being the only son and much beloved, I found it so strange to hear it

pronounced with loathing, that each time my ears pricked up.

Court and country lords whom, as a rule, we hardly saw twice a year, were riding up the mountain track

every few days. Our fort was well out of the way, a good place to meet. I enjoyed seeing these fine men

on their tall horses, and felt an expectation of events, but not of danger, since none of them owned to

fear. More than once they sacrificed at the fire-altar; the Magus would come, a strong old man who

could scramble the rocks like a goatherd, killing snakes and scorpions. I loved the bright flames, and their

light on the polished sword-hilts, gold buttons and jeweled hats. So it would all go on, I thought, till I

could join them as a man.

After the prayer they would take the sacred drink together, and talk about honor.

In honor I had been instructed. Since I was five and had been brought out from among the women, I had

been reared to ride and shoot and abhor the Lie. Fire was the soul of the Wise God. The dark Lie was

faithlessness.

King Ochos was lately dead. If his sickness had killed him, few would have cried; but it was said that

had been nothing much, it was his medicine he had died of. Bagoas had been highest in the kingdom, next

the King, for many years; but young Arses had lately come of age and married. Ochos, with a grown heir

and grandsons, had begun to trim Bagoas down. He died soon after this was seen.

So now, said one of my father's guests, the throne comes down by treachery, even though to the lawful

heir. Myself, I acquit Arses; I never heard anything against the boy's honor. But his youth will double

Bagoas' power; from now on, he might as well be King. No eunuch before has climbed so high.

Not often, my father said. But sometimes this lust for power will rule them. It is because they will see no

sons. Finding me near him, he took me in his arm. Someone uttered a blessing.

The guest of highest rank, whose land was near Persepolis but who had followed the court to Susa, said,

We are all agreed that Bagoas shall never rule. But let us see how Arses deals with him. Young though he

is, I think the Vizier has reckoned without his host.

I don't know what Arses would have done, if his brothers had not been poisoned. It was then he set out

to count his friends.

The three princes had been much of an age. All three had been very close. Kings mostly change to their

kin; Arses did not. The Vizier distrusted their private councils. Both the younger, without much time

wasted between, got cramps in their bellies and died.

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Soon after, a messenger came to our house; his letter bore the royal seal. I was the first person my father

met, when the man had gone.

My son, he said, I shall soon have to go away; the King has called for me. A time may

come—remember it—when one must stand for the Light against the Lie. He set his hand on my shoulder.

It's hard for you to be sharing your name just now with an evil man; you will not for long, God willing.

And that monster can't hand it on. It is you who will carry it down in honor; you, and the sons of your

sons. He lifted me up and kissed me.

He had the fort strengthened. It had a sheer cliff one side, and a gatehouse over the mountain track; but

he had the walls raised a course or two, with better slits for the archers.

On the day before he was due to leave, a party of warriors rode up. Their letter carried the royal seal.

We were not to know it came from a dead man's hand. Arses had gone his brothers' way; his infant sons

were smothered; the male line of Ochos was wiped out. My father looked at the seal, and ordered the

gates to be opened. The men rode in.

Having watched all this, I went back to some boy'sbusiness in the orchard below the tower. There was

some shouting; I came to see. Five or six men dragged through the door a man with a dreadful face. Its

center was red and empty; blood streamed from it into his mouth and beard. He had been stripped of his

coat; both shoulders dripped blood, for his ears had gone. I knew him by his boots; they were my

father's.

Even now, sometimes I think how I let him go to his death without a word, struck dumb with horror. I

suppose he understood; when he spoke it was to the purpose. As they led him on, he cried at me in a

loud harsh voice, horribly changed by the wound where his nose had been, Orxines betrayed us!

Orxines, remember the name! Orxines!

With the mouth open and shouting, the face looked more frightful than before. I did not know I heard the

words it uttered. I stood like a post, while they pushed him to his knees, and pulled his head forward by

the hair. It took them five or six sword-strokes, to cleave through his neck.

While they were about this, they forgot to watch my mother. She must have run straight up the tower;

the moment he was dead she leaped from it, so they lost their sport with her. She screamed as she fell;

but that, I think, was because she saw too late I was there below her. She struck the ground about a

spear-length away, and her skull burst open.

I hope my father's spirit saw her quick death. They could just as well have taken his ears and nose when

his head was off. The Vizier, when they brought it him, would never have known the difference.

My sisters were twelve years old and thirteen. There was another of about nine, by a second wife of my

father's who had died of fever. I heard all three of them shrieking. I don't know if they were left for dead

when the men had done, or taken away alive.

At last, the captain of the troop set me on his horse and rode with me down the hill. Slung to his

saddlecloth was the bloody bag with my father's head. I wondered, with what power of thought was left

me, why he had had mercy on me alone. I learned the answer that same night.

He did not keep me long, being in need of money. In the dealer's courtyard at Susa, city of lilies, I stood

stripped naked, while they drank date wine out of little cups, and haggled over my price. Greek boys are

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reared without shame and used to nakedness; we have more modesty. In my ignorance, I thought one

could fall no lower.

Only a month before, my mother had scolded me for looking in her mirror, saying I was too young to be

vain. I had no more than glimpsed my face in it. My new owner had more to tell. A real thoroughbred,

the antique Persian strain, the grace of a roebuck. See those delicate bones, the profile—turn round,

boy—the hair shining like bronze, straight and fine as silk from Chin —come here, boy, let him feel it.

Brows drawn with the fine brush. Those great eyes, smudged in with bister—aha, pools to drown love

in! Those slender hands you won't sell cheap to sweep floors. Don't tell me you've been offered such

goods in five years, or ten.

At his every pause, the dealer told him he did not buy at a loss. At last he reached his final offer; the

captain said it was robbing an honest man; but the dealer said there was the risk to reckon for. We lose

one in five when we geld them.

Geld them, I thought, while the hand of fear closed the gate of understanding. But I had seen it done to

an ox at home. I neither spoke nor moved. I begged for nothing. I had learned better than to hope there

was pity in the world.

The dealer's house was strong as a prison, with courtyard walls fifteen feet high. On one side was a

shed, where they did the gelding. They had purged and starved me first, which is thought to make it safer;

I was led in cold and empty, to see the table with the knives, and the frame with splayed-out legs to

which they bind you, with old black blood on it and dirty straps. Then at last I threw myself at the

dealer's feet and clasped them crying. But they made no more of it than farmhands of the bawling

bull-calf. They did not speak to me, just strapped me down, talking across me of some gossip in the

market, till they began and I knew nothing, only the pain and my own screams.

They say women forget the pain of childbirth. Well, they are in nature's hand. No hand took mine. I was

a body of pain in an earth and sky of darkness. It will take death to make me forget.

There was an old slave-woman who dressed my wounds. She was skillful and clean, for boys were

merchandise, and, as she told me once, they thrashed her if they lost one. My cuts hardly festered; she

used to tell me they'd made neat work of me, and later, she said giggling, I would be the gainer. I had no

use for her words, and only knew she laughed when I was in pain.

When I was healed, I was sold at auction. Once more I stood stripped, this time before staring crowds.

From the block I could see the bright glazes of the Palace, where my father had promised to present me

to the King.

I was bought by a gem-stone dealer; though it was his wife who chose me, pointing a red-tipped finger

from her curtained litter. The auctioneer had delayed and pleaded; the price had disappointed him. From

pain and grief I had lost flesh, and no doubt most of my looks. They had stuffed me with food, but I had

brought up most of it as if my body disdained to live; so they got me off their hands. The jeweler's wife

wanted a pretty page, to set her above the concubines, and I was pretty enough for that. She had a

monkey too, with green fur.

I grew fond of the monkey; it was my work to feed it. When I came it would fly through the air to me,

and clasp my neck with its little hard black hands. But one day she wearied of it, and had it sold.

I was still young, living from day to day. But when she sold the monkey, I looked ahead. I would never

be free; I would be bought and sold like the monkey; and I would never be a man. In the night I lay and

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thought of it; and in the morning, it seemed that without manhood I had grown old. She said I looked

peaked, and gave me a dose that griped my belly. But she was not cruel, and never beat me unless I

broke something she valued.

While I lay at the dealer's, the new King had been proclaimed. Ochos' line being extinguished, he was

royal only by side descent; but the people seemed to think well of him. Datis, my master, brought no

news to the harem, thinking the only concern of women was to please men, and of eunuchs to oversee

them. But the chief eunuch would bring us all the gleanings of the bazaar, taking delight in this importance;

and why not? It was all he had.

Darius the new King, he said, had both beauty and valor. When Ochos had been at war with the

Kadousians, and their giant champion had challenged the King's warriors, only Darius had come forward.

He stood six feet and a half himself, and had transfixed the man with a single javelin, living ever since in

the renown. There had been consultations, and the Magi had scanned the skies; but no one in council had

dared cross Bagoas' choice, he was too much dreaded. However, it seemed that so far the new King

had murdered no one; his manners were reported gracious and mild.

As I heard this, waving my mistress's peacock fan, I recalled my father's birthday feast, the last of his

life; the guests threading up the mountain and coming in through the gatehouse, the grooms taking their

horses; my father with me beside him, welcoming them at the door. One man had towered over the

others, and looked so much a warrior that even to me he did not seem old. He was handsome, with all

his teeth still perfect, and had tossed me up like a baby, making me laugh. Had he not been called

Darius? But one king or another, I thought as I waved the fan, what is that to me?

Soon all this was stale news, and they were talking about the west. There were barbarians there whom I

had heard my father speak of, red-haired savages who painted themselves blue; they lived north of the

Greeks, a tribe called Macedonians. First they had come raiding; then they had had the impudence to

declare war, and the coastal satraps were arming. But the news now was that not long after King Arses'

death, their own King had been killed, at some public spectacle where, in their barbarous way, he had

walked about unguarded. His heir was only a young lad, so there was no more need to be concerned

about them.

My life went by in the small duties of the harem, making beds, carrying trays, mixing sorbets of mountain

snow and citron, painting my mistress's finger-ends, and being petted by the girls; Datis had only one

wife, but three young concubines, who were kind to me, knowing the master had no taste for boys. But if

ever I waited on them, my mistress would clip my ear.

Soon I was let out on little errands, to buy henna and kohl and herbs for the clothes-chests, and such

things beneath the chief eunuch's dignity; and would see other eunuchs shopping too. Some were like

him, soft and fat with breasts like women's, and after seeing one, though I was growing quickly, I would

eat less. Others were shriveled and shrill like careworn crones. But a few stood tall and straight, with

some look of pride in themselves; I used to wonder what their secret was.

It was summer; the orange trees in the women's court scented the air, mixed with perfumed sweat from

the girls, as they sat dabbling their fingers at the rim of the fishpool. My mistress had bought me a little

harp, to hold on the knee, and bade one of the girls teach me to tune it. I was singing, when the chief

eunuch rushed in, wheezing with haste and quivering all over. He was bursting with news, but paused to

mop his brow and complain about the heat, making them wait. One could see it was a great day.

Madam, he said, Bagoas the Vizier is dead!

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