The Persian Boy by Mary Renault Page A

caught it from the men. Coming back I said to Neshi, “Keep a watch on the stable. See no one breaks in.” He asked no questions, but was as twitchy as the horses. In war many chances can happen to a slave, both good and bad.
    At noon came a King’s Messenger. The battle had begun soon after sunup. Our army had stood by all night, the King thinking that Alexander, being outnumbered, might try for a surprise; but he had waited till the sky was bright, before engaging. The messenger was the sixth of the relay; he knew no more.
    Night came. The soldiers lit watch-fires all along the walls.
    Towards midnight, I stood up there near the north gatehouse. It had been hot all day, but the night wind blew cool, and I went back to get my coat. As I returned, suddenly Northgate Street was filled with clamor; men heaving and crushing back from the road, the halting drumbeat of half-foundered horses, the crack of whips. The riders drove on like drunken men who have forgotten where they are going. These were not messengers; they were soldiers.
    As they began to come to themselves and slow down a little, people came up with torches. I saw the men white with caked dust, streaked with dark blood; the horses’ nostrils flaring scarlet as they fought for breath, their mouths all bloody foam. The men’s first word was “Water!” Some soldiers dipped their helmets in a nearby fountain and brought them dripping. As if the mere sight had given him strength, one of the riders croaked, “All’s lost… The King is coming.”
    I shoved forward and shouted, “When?” One who had had a gulp to drink said, “Now.” Their horses, maddened by the smell of water, were dragging them on, trying to get to the fountain.
    The crowd engulfed me. Wailing began, and rose to the night sky. It crawled and surged in my blood like fever. I raised a voice which I hardly knew for mine, a shrill crying like a girl’s; it flowed from me, without my will, without shame. I was a part of lamentation, as a raindrop is part of rain. Yet as I cried, I was fighting to get out through the press. I freed myself, and made for the King’s house.
    Boubakes had only just come out upon the threshold, and was calling a slave to go and learn the news. My wailing ceased. I told him.
    Our eyes spoke without more words. Mine, I suppose, said, “Again the first to run. But who am I to say so? I shed no blood for him, and he has given me all I have.” And his answered, “Yes, keep your thoughts to yourself. He is our master. That is the beginning and the end.” Then he cried out, “Alas! Alas!” and beat his breast in duty. But next moment he was calling all the servants to make ready for the King.
    I said, “Shall I see the women put in the wagons?”
    The wailing was washing all over the city, like a river risen in flood.
    “Ride round to tell the wardens, but do not stay. Our duty is with the King.” He might not approve of his master keeping a boy; but he would look after all his property and have it ready. “Have you your horse?”
    “I hope so, if I can get to him fast enough.”
    Neshi was watc?hing the stable door, without making a show of it. He had always had good sense.
    I said, “The King’s coming. I shall have to go with him. It looks like a hard journey, and worse for foot-followers. I don’t know where he means to go. The Macedonians will soon be here. The gates will all be open; they might kill you, or you might get away, even to Egypt. Will you run with us, or take your freedom? Make your own choice.”
    He said he would take his freedom, and if they killed him he would still die blessing my name. He prostrated himself, though he was nearly trampled doing it, before he ran off.
    (He did get back to Egypt. I found him quite lately, the letter-writer in a good village not far from Memphis. He almost knew me; I have good bones, and have looked after my figure. But he could not place me, and I kept quiet. I said to myself it would not be proper, now