Creation (84 page)

“Get up.” The voice was now as husky as a man’s. We stared at each other, like a pair of ghosts who have just met in the vestibule of the Aryan home of the fathers.

“Surprised?” I nodded, dumbly.

Atossa smiled, revealing one last tooth. Although I had some difficulty understanding the way she spoke, the queen’s voice was as strong as ever, and the old eyes still glittered. “You look,” she said, “very old.”

“You look, Great Queen—”

“—like something that they forgot to place in the tomb. It is ridiculous for anyone to live so long.”

“A blessing for us.” With surprising ease I assumed the courtier’s style. I had been fearful that I might have lost the knack. Cathayan and Indian dialects were now so mixed with Persian and Greek in my head that I was often at a loss for the simplest phrases. Even today I am uneasy with words. As I talk Greek to you I think in a Persian that is hopelessly adulterated with eastern languages, while my current dreams are peculiarly unsatisfactory. Since I no longer see anything in life, I seldom see much of anything in my sleep. But I do hear voices; and often I no longer understand what they are trying to tell me.

Atossa stopped my courtier’s flow with a shake of her head. “Stand there,” she said, pointing to a spot between the head of the bed and the statue of Anahita. “It is painful for me to move my head. Or anything else, for that matter.” She shut her eyes. For a moment I thought that she had drifted off to sleep—or even died. But she was simply gathering her forces. “I don’t suppose you expected to find me alive. Or to find Mardonius dead.”

“The first is a joy—”

“—beyond description.” She mocked us both. “But the second is a serious matter.”

“It was my impression”—I was obliged to proceed tactfully—“that Mardonius was responsible for all the ... happenings in Greece.”

“Yes. He conquered Greece. Beneath the heavy enamel paint, something like a delicate flush of color showed in the cracks. “Then he was killed.”

“By the Greeks?”

Atossa’s mouth set in a straight line, not an easy thing to do when only one tooth is left. “Let us hope so,” she said. “But it is possible that a certain faction at court might have killed him. The body was never found, which is very unlike the Greeks. For all their faults, they are most reliable when it comes to giving up the bodies of their enemies.”

Even on her deathbed, Atossa continued to spin her webs. Like an ancient spider, she was still eager to catch bright things. “You will,” she said at last, “find that the court is a very different place from what it was in our day.” Thus, casually, she made me her contemporary. “The harem is the center.”

“So it was in ... our day.”

Atossa shook her head; and winced from the pain. “No. In those days Darius ruled through the chancellery. In a small way, I was able to accomplish certain things. But not through the harem. I was obliged to use the chancellery, too. Now there are five hundred women in the harem. At Persepolis, the three houses are so full that the harem has been expanded to include all the old administrative buildings of the winter palace. My son—” Atossa stopped.

“He was always susceptible.” I put the case as tactfully as I could.

“Amestris is strong. I congratulate myself on having picked her. She understands women, eunuchs and the Great King. But she has no gift for administration. I was well-trained. She was not. Do you realize that I am the last person on earth to remember my father Cyrus?” At the end of her life, Atossa tended to stray from the subject, to say aloud what normally she would only have thought. “And hardly anyone remembers my brother Cambyses. But I do. I also know who killed him.” She gave me a secret smile. She had forgotten, if she’d ever known, that Xerxes had told me the true story of his father’s bloody rise. Then she regained the present. “I am counting on you to help my son. You and I are all that’s left from the old days. And I’ll soon be gone. Amestris cares only for her three sons, which is normal. She is also jealous, which is a dangerous fault. I never cared who shared Darius’ bed. Not that he was very interested in women. And I was a special case, of course. I was not just a wife: I was the Great King’s partner,
the
queen. But Amestris is different. Very different. She has put to death, secretly and sometimes not so secretly, at least twenty of my son’s favorites ...”

“Why does he give her such a free hand?”

“Don’t interrupt! You’ve no manners at all. But then, you never did. You’re a Greek Magian. Or a Magian Greek. You’ll be happy to know that Lais is now a great power in the harem because she makes herself very useful to Amestris.”

“Magic?” I murmured.

“Magic? Nonsense! Poison.” Atossa looked more amused than not. “Whenever the Great King takes a particular fancy to someone, the girl loses her color in a week. The second week she suffers from stomach cramps. The third week she loses all taste for food. The fourth week she dies—of seemingly natural causes. Your mother is certainly the best witch that I’ve ever known, and I was brought up with Chaldeans. There are too many drunken promises.” I was mystified by this sudden shift. Atossa grudged the time that it took to make necessary connections; there was not much time left.

“Drunken promises?” I repeated.

“Yes. Yes.” The answer was irritable. Atossa had always hated explaining things that seemed obvious to her. “Xerxes is drunk more often than not. When he is, Amestris—or anyone nearby—will ask him for something and, of course, he grants them whatever it is they want. The next day he realizes too late what he’s done. But the Great King may not break his word.”

This is something, Democritus, that the Greeks have never been able to grasp. Not only is it impossible for a Persian to lie, but once he has made you a promise he cannot go back on it. I attribute most of the disasters that have befallen Persia to this noble trait or custom.

Democritus reminds me that in this answer to Herodotus, I have said that whatever was decided upon in drunken council is reviewed the next day in a sober light—and accepted or dismissed. That is indeed the case. But I was referring to high councils and to gatherings of law-bearers, not to those occasions when the Great King alone is—not himself. Also, and this is really what I am talking about, on certain ceremonial occasions those close to the Great King may ask him for whatever they please, and he is obliged to grant them what they want. Obviously, a shrewd—and sober—sovereign can so maneuver things that he will never give away anything that he does not want to. Also, those close to the Great King are not exactly eager to displease him by an abuse of privilege. But when the Great King is drunk he loses control; and terrible things can happen. When Xerxes gave up the world for the harem, the women and the eunuchs took advantage of his confused state.

“I don’t know what influence you will have on him. Very little, I should think. But she’ll see you.”

I picked up this rapid shift. “Queen Amestris receives men?”

Atossa nodded. “It is now agreed that
I
set the precedent. Naturally, you’ll never see her alone, as you see me now, defenseless before you, an easy prey for masculine lust.” Atossa laughed suddenly, and I realized that in the lifetime that I had known her I had never heard her laugh before. She sounded just like Darius—or Cyrus? In Atossa’s final days she was like a man or, to be precise, she was like a Great King.

“Xerxes encourages Amestris to meet with the councilors of state, with the law-bearers, with the guards commanders, with all the people
he
ought to see but prefers that she see on his behalf. Empires are not governed in this fashion. Not for long, anyway. Do you know that he falls in love? Imagine! My father, brothers, Darius—not one of the lot ever took a woman seriously. Women were for pleasure, and nothing more—except for me. Not that I ever gave much pleasure. But I didn’t have to. I am part of the governance of Persia. Xerxes must always be in love. Notice I have spoken Greek,” she said, “to describe a state of sexual enthusiasm which is not Persian. Or ought not to be.”

Atossa frowned so deeply that the white enamel on her forehead suddenly fissured like a dry river bottom in high summer. She spoke in jagged, almost breathless sentences. “The wife of Masistes. His half-brother. Xerxes saw her with Amestris. In the harem. At Sardis. An accident, of course. The ladies are chattering. Xerxes suddenly appears. Sees his brother’s wife. Falls in love with her. Sends her messages. Presents. Everyone knows. It’s too shameful.”

“Did the lady respond?”

“No. She’s a clever woman. And plain. I can’t think what Xerxes wants her for. To make confusion, I suppose. Well, he’s succeeded. Amestris is furious. Masistes is terrified. The lady is crafty. She has a beautiful daughter aged thirteen. Xerxes has arranged for this girl to marry the crown prince. He thinks that when this happens, the mother’s gratitude will be so great that she will surrender herself to him. Cyrus Spitama, my son will lose his throne.” Atossa pulled herself up on the bed. The effort was great. But so was the will. “He is destroying us all. Masistes is a son of Darius. He is satrap of Bactria. He is popular. Xerxes will drive him into rebellion.”

“What is to be done?”

“I don’t know.” Atossa shut her eyes. The soft lamplight seemed to hurt her eyes. “He seldom comes to me anymore. He knows I disapprove of the way he lives. He also knows that I’ll soon be on that stone shelf at holy Pasargada. So I am not to be noticed.”

Atossa opened her eyes, gave me a speculative look. “
You
may still be able to talk to him. I pray to the goddess that he will listen. I will even pray to the Wise Lord,” she added. “But be prepared for surprises. Xerxes is not the man you knew. He is not the son I bore.”

OUTWARDLY, XERXES WAS LITTLE CHANGED. He had grown somewhat stout from drink, and his beard had been dyed the same fox-red color that the barbers had used for Darius. Otherwise, he treated me just as he did when we were boys.

I should note that the court’s arrival from Sardis was like that of an invading army. The harem was so vast that the road from the northwest was crowded for a hundred miles with wagons full of furniture and chests of gold and silver and, of course, the women and the eunuchs and the household slaves. Since Lais always traveled with her ever-loyal—to her, if to no one else—Greeks, she was one of the last to arrive.

Shortly after the Great King’s arrival, he held his first audience. As the ushers led me toward him, he stared with astonishment. Then he raised the golden sceptre in greeting and announced his delight at the successful conclusion of my embassy. Later that evening he sent for me to join him in his bedroom.

Despite all my years at court, I had never before seen the fabled bedroom furniture of the Great Kings. For once fable and reality coincide. A century ago the Samian goldsmith Theodore had fashioned an elaborate grape vine of solid gold which curves about and around and above the bed, giving the impression of a metallic vineyard whose vines produce not grapes but precious stones. The famous gold plane tree is opposite the bed. Since it is somewhat less high than a man, it is a bit of a disappointment. One had always heard that a man could stand in its shade. Next to the bed, on an ivory stool, there is a huge golden bowl filled with scented water.

Xerxes lay upon the bed. Beside him was a table on which had been arranged several flasks of Helbon wine. There were two golden cups. As I did obeisance he said, “Get up. Come here. Let me see you!”

Affectionately he embraced me with his left arm, while the right hand was busy filling the cups with wine.

“I never thought I’d see you again. Sit down. On the bed. Forget protocol. No one can see us—except for Amestris’ spies. They’re peeking at us through holes in the wall. Once a month I have the holes sealed. Once a month she has them reopened. She likes to know who joins me in bed.
This
will puzzle her!” Xerxes grinned. Despite thick folds of puffy skin above and below the eyes, he looked younger than he was. Except for a slight tremor of one hand, he seemed healthy; certainly, he looked younger than I did.

“You must,” he said, after a long look at me, “use my barber. Dye your hair. Everyone knows we’re the same age. So you make a fool of me when you go about with all that white hair.”

We drank. We talked of the past. Of Mardonius. “Oh, we had such a victory! All Greece was ours except the Peloponnesus. Wait, I told him before I left. The Spartans will either surrender or they’ll come into Attica. Then you’ll be able to buy them off. Or smash their army. Which is what he did.
We
were the winners at Plataea. But that wasn’t enough for Mardonius. No. He wanted to be world hero. So he was reckless. And they killed him. They always do,” he added obscurely. “And we lost our one chance to destroy the entire Spartan army. Then the business at Mycale ...” The voice trailed off. I wondered—but did not dare ask—who it is that always kills world heroes.

“Anyway, we’ll soon be back.” Xerxes brightened at the thought, an effect that was assisted, literally, by the wine. In those days Xerxes’ cheeks turned scarlet when he drank. Toward the end of his life they ceased to turn scarlet because they were permanently the color of fresh blood. “Thanks to my Spartan regent Pausanias, the victor of Plataea.” Xerxes finished off a second cup of wine. “He wants to be king of all Greece. To be me, in other words. So he’s asked for my help. Secretly, of course. He’s up at Byzantium now. He wants to marry a daughter of mine. Then, with my help, he’ll occupy Athens. And so on.”

“Can you trust him?”

“Of course not!” Xerxes’ mood was improving. “But he’ll be useful to us. He’s already sent me a number of Persian captives, as a sign of good faith. What’s that old saying? Never trust a Greek who gives you a present. Well, I don’t trust him but I suspect that he can make a lot of trouble for his fellow Greeks. Now then”—Xerxes was mischievous—“what did you think when Atossa told you that I’m bound to lose my throne because of time ill spent in the harem?”

I was terrified; and showed it. “Is the time ill spent?” I could think of nothing else to say.