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Authors: Mary Renault
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right, the tank warmed with filtered sun. There was a couch with cushions of fine linen, to rest on after the bath.
Not a tile, not a golden fish, not a thread of linen there will ever leave my memory while I live. When I saw it that first time, I just thought it very pretty.
Soon we had settled in, the days turning as smoothly as the water-wheels below the Hanging Gardens; though our lot was lighter than the oxen’s there. That beautiful man-made hill, with its shady trees and the cool groves within its terraces, needs a deal of watering, and it’s a high haul to the top. Often amid its bird-song you can hear, if you listen, the cracking of whips below.
Fresh troops were still coming in from the distant satrapies, after months upon the march. All the city turned out to see the Baktrians. It was cooling down for autumn, but still they sweated, having put on their best for show; felt coats, quilted trousers, and fur-lined hats, all fine and warm for the Baktrian winters. You could tell their land was rich, by the lords’ adornments, and the sturdy build of the men after so long a march. Each lord brought from his own stronghold his own warriors, as my father would have done if he’d been alive. But the Baktrian lords numbered hundreds. Their baggage was borne by a long train of their two-humped camels, long-bodied and thick-legged, shaggy, built for endurance.
At the head rode their satrap, Bessos, Darius’ cousin. The King greeted him standing, in the Hall of Audience, and offered his cheek to kiss. He was the taller, but not much. Bessos was thickset like his camels, war-scarred, burnt almost black with sun and wind. They had not met since the defeat at Issos. Now I saw in Bessos’ eyes, pale under black brows, a show of respect over a shadow of scorn; and in the King’s, a shadow of mistrust. Baktria was the most powerful satrapy in the empire.
Meantime, news came that Egypt had opened its arms to Alexander, hailed him as liberator, and proclaimed him Pharaoh.
I knew little of Egypt then. I know it now; I live there. I have seen him carved on a temple wall, worshipping Ammon, made to look just like all the other Pharaohs, even to the little blue strip of ceremonial beard. Perhaps when they put on him the double crown, and set in his hands the crook and flail, he even wore it. He was courteous in such things. But it makes me smile.
He had been to Ammon’s oracle, at green Siwah in the desert, where it seems he was told the god was there before the King his father, when he was conceived. So rumo?r ran; he went in alone, and said only, after, that he was satisfied.
I asked Neshi about this oracle, while he dressed me and combed my hair. He had been at a school for scribes, till Ochos conquered Egypt, when they had all been taken from their temple and sold. Even now, he still shaved his head.
He said the oracle was very old and revered. Long ago (and from an Egyptian that means at least a thousand years), the god used to speak in Thebes as he does at Siwah. In the days of the terrible Hatshepsut, the only woman Pharaoh, her stepson Tuthmosis was a young boy serving the shrine. The symbol of the god was carried by, as at Siwah now, in a boat enriched with gold and jewels and tinkling vessels. The bearers say that the carrying-poles press on their shoulders, when the god wants to speak; they feel the weight of him telling them where to go. He guided them to this young prince, who then was a nobody in the crowd, and made the boat bow before him; and they set him in the royal seat, knowing his destiny. Neshi had some very good tales like this.
I myself, when I made my pilgrimage (and a hard journey it is, though I have known a worse one), asked a question of the oracle. I was told it was enough for me to offer the proper sacrifice, and not be curious about one who had been received among the gods. Still, I could not be content never to have seen it.
Meantime at Babylon I had time on my hands, the King being always
Not a tile, not a golden fish, not a thread of linen there will ever leave my memory while I live. When I saw it that first time, I just thought it very pretty.
Soon we had settled in, the days turning as smoothly as the water-wheels below the Hanging Gardens; though our lot was lighter than the oxen’s there. That beautiful man-made hill, with its shady trees and the cool groves within its terraces, needs a deal of watering, and it’s a high haul to the top. Often amid its bird-song you can hear, if you listen, the cracking of whips below.
Fresh troops were still coming in from the distant satrapies, after months upon the march. All the city turned out to see the Baktrians. It was cooling down for autumn, but still they sweated, having put on their best for show; felt coats, quilted trousers, and fur-lined hats, all fine and warm for the Baktrian winters. You could tell their land was rich, by the lords’ adornments, and the sturdy build of the men after so long a march. Each lord brought from his own stronghold his own warriors, as my father would have done if he’d been alive. But the Baktrian lords numbered hundreds. Their baggage was borne by a long train of their two-humped camels, long-bodied and thick-legged, shaggy, built for endurance.
At the head rode their satrap, Bessos, Darius’ cousin. The King greeted him standing, in the Hall of Audience, and offered his cheek to kiss. He was the taller, but not much. Bessos was thickset like his camels, war-scarred, burnt almost black with sun and wind. They had not met since the defeat at Issos. Now I saw in Bessos’ eyes, pale under black brows, a show of respect over a shadow of scorn; and in the King’s, a shadow of mistrust. Baktria was the most powerful satrapy in the empire.
Meantime, news came that Egypt had opened its arms to Alexander, hailed him as liberator, and proclaimed him Pharaoh.
I knew little of Egypt then. I know it now; I live there. I have seen him carved on a temple wall, worshipping Ammon, made to look just like all the other Pharaohs, even to the little blue strip of ceremonial beard. Perhaps when they put on him the double crown, and set in his hands the crook and flail, he even wore it. He was courteous in such things. But it makes me smile.
He had been to Ammon’s oracle, at green Siwah in the desert, where it seems he was told the god was there before the King his father, when he was conceived. So rumo?r ran; he went in alone, and said only, after, that he was satisfied.
I asked Neshi about this oracle, while he dressed me and combed my hair. He had been at a school for scribes, till Ochos conquered Egypt, when they had all been taken from their temple and sold. Even now, he still shaved his head.
He said the oracle was very old and revered. Long ago (and from an Egyptian that means at least a thousand years), the god used to speak in Thebes as he does at Siwah. In the days of the terrible Hatshepsut, the only woman Pharaoh, her stepson Tuthmosis was a young boy serving the shrine. The symbol of the god was carried by, as at Siwah now, in a boat enriched with gold and jewels and tinkling vessels. The bearers say that the carrying-poles press on their shoulders, when the god wants to speak; they feel the weight of him telling them where to go. He guided them to this young prince, who then was a nobody in the crowd, and made the boat bow before him; and they set him in the royal seat, knowing his destiny. Neshi had some very good tales like this.
I myself, when I made my pilgrimage (and a hard journey it is, though I have known a worse one), asked a question of the oracle. I was told it was enough for me to offer the proper sacrifice, and not be curious about one who had been received among the gods. Still, I could not be content never to have seen it.
Meantime at Babylon I had time on my hands, the King being always
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