Story challenge - a contribution.

[3scoremiles_10]

Right. It is 4am and this thing has wanted to go off on several tangents of its own devising, but here it is - my response to the story challenge. It's a little clumsy in places - as I've said, it's 4am - but I hope it's fit to the task.

Title: Persian Lessons. (Yeah, I suck at titles, sooo not my forte, but this will do.)
Summary: Response to story challenge - Alexander sends Bagoas to Hephaistion's quarters. In this case, they both learn something.


Empires took a good deal of looking after. Bagoas, who had lived in one all his life, and a good part of that as a minor slave in the Great King’s Household, had not realised that before. He supposed he simply had not thought of it, of what it took to keep a kingdom so large working smoothly. He was a bed slave after all, and a dancer; he had never paid much mind to the details of such things. He thought Darius had not paid them much mind either - at least, he had not done so where Bagoas could see. He had not had a work table in his bedchambers, littered with maps and lists and reports; nor had he taken care of his own correspondence, or concerned himself with knowing every detail of his army, or all the doings of his many governors, or any number of other mundane things. He had been Great King of Persia - he had had people to do those things for him. So, for that matter, did Alexandros of Macedon, but that would never stop him from wanting to take care of things himself. It had startled Bagoas somewhat, in the beginning. Alexandros would even pour his own wine or take his own bath if he was given half the chance; he was not about to let his empire get away with running itself. Darius, Bagoas thought, had not been either a lazy man or a poor king, but he had been Royal Persian through and through. Alexandros was something else again, sharper and brighter and only half tame. It was not entirely proper, but Alexandros was purely himself.

Today, he was also purely in a temper. It was not the great blazing thing that it could be, but it was enough to send his squires scuttling for cover, and for his servants to tread with care. Bagoas, who had made a habit of being as much as he could where the king was, crouched quietly in his corner and half hoped Alexandros would not notice him. Alexandros in this mood had scant patience for people getting underfoot, and little use for his Persian dancing boy. If he was noticed, he would probably be told to go away.

Alexandros had been pacing about the room, reading some document or other and muttering darkly to himself. Bagoas thought he caught the name of the Royal Biographer, Kallisthenes, that pompous man who always looked at the Persian eunuch as if he were something a dog had dragged in. He could not make out the rest, though. Alexandros often spoke in Macedonian when he was alone, and Bagoas only knew a few words of that. Now the king stopped in front of his work table and swore, in Greek vulgar enough to make Bagoas stare in awe. He threw the papers down on the table; they scattered, some falling to the floor. Alexandros swore again, quite viciously, and snatched up another handful of lists and tallies. He scanned them quickly, shuffling from one to the other, then snarled softly in frustration. The papers were cast back onto the table, and the king grabbed a small wax tablet and stylus and scrawled something in his quick, impatient hand, then stared at it and grimaced and scratched it out in disgust.
“No,” he said. “No. Damn it all.” He tried something else, checked it against another document, and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. Bagoas recognised the gesture; he did that when he was working on some puzzle or other and couldn’t see a solution. His next gesture he didn’t recognise at all - except as a sudden flare of anger of a very unroyal degree. The wax tablet flew across the room, flung hard. It hit the wall near where Bagoas was sitting, broke in pieces and fell. Bagoas jumped, startled out of his stillness. Alexandros, seeing him there, gave him a hard look.
“Bagoas. What are you doing here?”

Darius of Persia would never have said that, never have asked a slave what he was doing and waited for an answer. Darius would never have thrown a tablet across the room either, or slipped in his royal control. Darius would simply have raised a hand, flicked his fingers, and Bagoas would have known to stay or go or pray for his life. Alexandros, though, seldom made things so easy. Alexandros expected a man to think for himself, even if he was a gelded slave. It was a lot to get used to. Sometimes, Bagoas thought he was managing. Now he crept to his feet - his inclination was to bow down, but Alexandros had told him before he did not like people talking to his boots - and stammered for an answer.
“My lord, I … I thought if you should need …”
“I don’t need anything right now, Bagoas. Well, nothing you can help me with. Unless you know more about dealing with jumped up historians or outfitting an army than you’ve let on.” Dry as old leaves, that was - Alexandros knew exactly how likely that was. He ran his hand through his golden hair again, leaving himself looking tousled and aggravated, like a young lion beset by jackals. He glared at the lists on the table, letting his lip curl in irritation. “Gods. This is Hephaistion’s thing, he’s better at this than I am. And as for the rest of it … am I the only man in this thrice damned kingdom capable of making a decision?” He was talking now simply for the sake of it, he hardly expected Bagoas to answer. Bagoas knew that. He spoke up anyway, if only to show he had his uses. He did not much like what he found himself saying, but he told himself he was only being practical. After all, Alexandros preferred a practical servant to an ornamental one any day.
“My lord, I saw Hephaistion going to his rooms not long since. Shall I fetch him for you?”
The king gave a grunt and rubbed briefly at his forehead as if he had a headache coming on. “That’s the most useful thing I’ve heard all day.” He paused a moment, then glanced to Bagoas as if surprised to find him still there and gave his hand a dismissive flick, waving him away. “Well, go on then - what are you waiting for? Do you want it in writing? Go! Go, go.” And then, because he knew he was being harsh, “Bagoas. I’m sorry, lad. It’s just everything … ah. Just … fetch Hephaistion. He knows how to deal with my tempers, I shouldn’t put you through them.”

It was meant for a kindness, Bagoas supposed. It was his own fault if he could not take it that way. Why should it be only Hephaistion who could deal with his tempers, or outfit his army, or set Alexandros’ mind at ease, just because it always had been? He knew better than to let himself dwell on it, though. He had his king’s kind regard, and whatever of his affection he could spare. It should have been enough, given what he was. Most of the time, he told himself that it was enough, that the Lord of Light had smiled on him to let him have so much as he did. If a part of him wanted more of his king and resented that it was given elsewhere, he knew at least to keep it to himself.

This place where they were, Zariaspa, was nothing much. There was a modest palace here, kept by the local governor; Alexandros had taken it over. There was space enough for those men of his Bodyguard and a handful of others to take rooms in the palace along with the king. The rest of his men had simply made do. Bagoas, who had served Darius in the great palaces of Susa and Babylon, considered that Zariaspa was not up to much. Alexandros of Macedon though, who had dealt with hardships a great deal worse than anything this place had to offer, seemed perfectly comfortable. It was, Bagoas supposed, a question of perspective.

The king had the governor’s own rooms, as was fitting. There were fine hangings and rugs on the floor, and furnishings that were at least half way to decent. The room Hephaistion had might have belonged to some minor palace functionary, or it might have been kept for lesser guests for all Bagoas could tell. It was tucked away at the end of a corridor, not large and plainly furnished. There was a pair of couches, a small table, a single chair. The bed was in a curtained alcove, screened from the rest of the room. There was a rug on the floor that had seen better days, and not a hanging or embroidered cushion in sight. That last did not surprise Bagoas overmuch; Hephaistion seemed to have a dislike of too many cushions. He could always tell when the man had been with the king in the inner room - all of the cushions that should have waited on the bed for the king’s comfort were cast onto the floor. There was a small desk in the corner, with a camp stool and a lamp and a stack of papers, more organised by far than the chaos in which Alexandros worked. There was a water jar on the table, and a fine blue cloak flung carelessly over one of the couches, and a net and a brace of spears leaning somewhat incongruously up against the wall. The man had been hunting, probably, or was planning to. Macedonians, Bagoas thought, were over fond of killing things sometimes.

He saw all this because the door had been left ajar, and because he had paused before announcing himself to stiffen his spine and smooth his face, not wanting to give anything of himself away before this man. Which was why he also saw something else, something that made him start and stare and begin to draw back - Hephaistion was across the room, facing a little away from the door, but Bagoas could still tell what he was doing. He should have been able to tell; he had seen it done often enough, the lifting of the hand, the kiss, the deep low bow. It was how one paid homage to the Great King, if one were a true and proper Persian. If one were a true and proper Macedonian however, one did no such thing. Bagoas had been scandalised by that at first - prostration before the Great King was rite and ritual, and yet men stood before Alexandros face to face, and spoke to him by name. The Hellenes did, at any rate. The Persians in the court gave him his dues as was proper, of course; it made him a little uncomfortable, but he accepted it as necessary. Bagoas had heard, a time or two, Macedonians sneer at those men who bowed down before the king. Nor had he been the only one to hear it; Persian eyes had glittered sharply with resentment, but nothing had been said. So far it had not, at least. Bagoas knew a thing or two about the way currents could shift in a royal court though. It was a thing, he had thought, that would bear watching.

And now, here was Hephaistion, as Macedonian as the king himself, carrying out the ritual to the empty air. Bagoas knew with an absolute certainty that he had not been meant to see this thing. Hephaistion had more than his share of pride; he would not be best pleased to know that a Persian eunuch had seen him humble himself, even if it was only in an empty room. The eunuch started to draw away, but then Hephaistion turned and saw him, and Bagoas froze. For a long moment, they only looked at each other, and did not speak at all.

An odd expression flashed over Hephaistion’s face - surprise, mostly; Bagoas had always tended to avoid him before now - and then he shrugged, almost to himself. So the boy had caught him trying out that wretched Persian ritual … well, if the eunuch was going to go lurking about in corridors where he did not belong and peeping into a man’s rooms, Hephaistion might as well put him to some use over it. He should know what he was looking at, after all. Even if he did look as if he was ready right now to climb out of his own skin. He was an odd little thing to be sure, all watchful and skittery like a gazelle, with big eyes and soft skin like a girl. Hephaistion was damned if he could see what had taken Alexandros’ fancy - but then, Alexandros took the strangest fancies, sometimes. Conquering the world, for a start. If he wanted a gelded barbarian dancing boy in his bed from time to time, it was of no great concern. At least Hephaistion did not have to organise extra supplies and negotiate his way through awkward embassies because of it. Besides, Alexandros had learned some interesting new tricks from the lad. The first time he had tried one of them on Hephaistion, they had both ended up on the floor laughing like idiots, but Alexandros had refined his technique since then. Hephaistion felt his lips trying to quirk up at the edges, thinking about it. He held his face still though, and did not blush. He’d had plenty of practice at not giving himself away, it was useful for dealing with people who might want more than he had planned for. Instead, he only tipped his head to one side and looked at Bagoas steadily.
“So,” he said, without preamble. “Did I get it right?”
“My lord?” Bagoas blinked, startled almost as much by the man’s casual tone as by the question itself. He had expected to be shouted at, at the very least. Hephaistion, watching, wondered what was wrong with him - the boy had always seemed to speak decent enough Greek. Perhaps he had not understood. He spoke again, more slowly.
“Did I get it right? The proskynesis?” He frowned, and fixed a stern eye on the Persian boy. It worked on rowdy young troopers who had shirked their duties, that look; there was no reason why it should not work on Persian eunuchs too. “You were watching me, weren’t you?”
“My lord, I did … I was not … I did not intend …”
“Oh, stop that.” Hephaistion made an impatient gesture, cutting him off. “Do you Persians always babble so much? It’s a simple enough question. Did I do it properly?”

Bagoas considered that as best he could, with his heart hammering in his chest. He could not recall that Hephaistion had ever said so many words to him before at one time; he could not, in fact, recall that Hephaistion had ever noticed him much at all. A part of him, Bagoas realised belatedly, had been fool enough to resent that. Perhaps he had wanted to see jealousy in Hephaistion’s eyes, and know that he had earned it. Pure folly, that. There was no jealousy in the man’s eyes now, and no hostility either in all truth, only that level, measuring look that seemed to take stock of him down to the last inch and set him firmly in his place, and Bagoas was nervous of him all the same. He was very tall, and he moved like a leopard, all long lean grace and supple strength. If he wanted to, Bagoas had no doubt the man could snap him in half with only his hands. Better by far not to have been noticed. He was sure of it. As to the question though … the man wanted an answer. Bagoas did not think that he was testing him. Macedonians were seldom that subtle. He thought of what he had seen, and nodded slowly.
“It was … acceptable, my lord.”
“Acceptable.” Hephaistion seemed to give that a moment’s thought. Then he smiled, quick and suddenly bright. It would have been dazzling if Bagoas had caught the full shine of it, but he had dropped his eyes quickly to the floor. “Acceptable,” Hephaistion repeated, sounding amused. “As bad as that?”
“No my lord, not so bad,” Bagoas told him hurriedly. It was true too; he could have done that at Susa and got away with it. There were nuances though, small graces. Bagoas wondered if he could explain them.

“I was wondering,” Hephaistion said suddenly. “I’ve seen it done where men go down on their knees, or fall on their faces. That’s not necessary, is it? For a free man before his king? I’ve asked, but I get told different things.” And then, with another of those impatient little gestures, “Oh, Herakles’ balls boy, come in and shut the door. I don’t want to do this standing in a bloody corridor. Come on, I don’t bite.”
“Yes, my lord.” Bagoas stepped across the threshold, and pushed the door to behind him. The wood must have been warped though; it stuck partway. Bagoas left it as it was. He stood close by the door and tried to seem calm. There was no true reason why he should not be, after all. Hephaistion didn’t care about him enough to want to kill him. The thought had probably never crossed his mind. “I’m sorry, my lord. No, you do not need to kneel, or go to the floor. That is for lesser men, my lord.”
“So.” Lesser men. Well, that was a good thing. It was going to be hard enough to talk the others into this as it was; if he’d had to tell them to crawl on the floor, they would have laughed in his face. They might laugh in his face anyway, but for Alexandros’ sake he would try and talk them around. He had thought it best if he learned what was involved, first. If this thing were going to be done, it should be done properly. That was why he’d been practicing when the boy had wandered in. Hephaistion nodded to himself, looking thoughtfully at the eunuch, who looked as if he might bolt at any sudden movement. The lad would not look directly at him either, he kept looking at the floor, or at the wall beyond him. It was disconcerting, but Hephaistion supposed he was getting used to it. Persians seldom looked at anything directly, in his experience. They tended to be all sidelong glances and careful words. This one, it seemed, was not much different. The boy was making an effort to gather himself though … well, that was something. At least he had some courage. “So. What am I doing wrong?”

It did not, in the end, take very much explaining. Hephaistion had been paying attention somewhere, and he had an eye for detail. It was in the timing of things, Bagoas told him, faltering only a very little under those steady grey eyes. He had seen this man at the head of a cavalry brigade, drilling men and horses through their paces; he did things well, did Hephaistion. He did not tolerate shoddiness from his men. He was hardly going to tolerate it from a barbarian slave. Bagoas made sure to be very precise. It mattered when a man moved, when he raised his hand, when he set his fingers to his lips. “It should all be as one, my lord. Smoothly and together.”
Hephaistion nodded again, and looked down at Bagoas. “Show me.”

There was no indignity in it. This man was civilised enough as Macedonians went, and of considerable rank; it was right to pay him respect. It was not only for the king, this custom of his people, after all. Bagoas did as he was asked. He looked up when he was done to find Hephaistion watching him with his head tipped to one side, in the same way that Alexandros did sometimes. He must have picked the habit up from the king, Bagoas supposed. He felt his heart clench a little, thinking that. How long would two men have to share their lives for them to take on each other’s habits and gestures? Ah, well, he had known they were close. It was only the proofs of it that he did not need. There was a difference between knowing a blade was sharp and feeling it break the skin. Hephaistion did not seem to notice his distress, though. He only said, “I see now. Thank you.”

He probably meant it for a dismissal. Bagoas had been thinking though, of what he had seen and what he knew. The way the Macedonians muttered and scowled if made to wait their turn to see the king, while ahead of them the Persians, who knew their manners before the Great King, bowed down. The way that Persian eyes slid sideways with a quick, hooded glitter to see a man march up to the Great King as if he were just anyone at all. Hephaistion, trying the ritual of it on for size, as if it were a cloak he could put on and take off. Well, so it was for him; so it would be for any Macedonian, playing at Persian custom. There would be a point to it, all the same. Bagoas had learned that about these men who had changed his world so utterly. They were half wild and as fierce as wolves, but they knew what they were about. There was always a point. Bagoas thought he might almost understand was it was. It made him more bold than was his wont, but he thought that he would get away with it. Hephaistion had not snarled at him yet.
“My lord, may I ask you, why do you do this? I know it is not a custom of your people.”

Hephaistion, who had turned away from the eunuch and crossed to the couch where he had left his cloak, cast a quick appraising eye over Bagoas. Of course the boy knew it was not a custom of Macedon, he had been with them long enough to know that. He had eyes in his head too, he could see what was in front of him. He may even have been able to put it together, in his sidelong Persian way. It was not so complicated as all that, after all, for a man who could see what was happening around him. The Hellenes thought themselves above the Persians in their court, even those men of breeding and rank, only because the Persians went to the floor before the Great King, or bowed down to the ground. The Persians, in their turn, knew that they were looked down on. It did not make for an easy situation. None of which was anything that Hephaistion felt like explaining to Bagoas. He was hardly going to discuss Alexandros’ plans for dealing with that with a gelded dancing boy with painted eyes. Some small part of Hephaistion was even a little amused; who was this boy, after all, to be anticipating him? Anticipating Alexandros? He let a little of that show in the faint raise of his brows, the small twist of his lips, and lifted his cloak and fastened it, letting it settle over his shoulders.
“I do this,” he said mildly, but with a note of warning in it, “for Alexandros.” That level stare again, putting Bagoas where he belonged. “Like most things.”

For Alexandros. Bagoas could relate to that. It was why he did most things, too. As if, a small voice in Bagoas’ head pointed out, there could be any other reason for doing anything at all. The tall Macedonian watched him work his way through that. His eyes on the Persian eunuch were cool and considering, making him feel like a bug pinned to a board. But then Hephaistion gave a quiet little half smile that seemed to be more for himself than anything else, and moved towards the door, coming to stand right in front of the eunuch.
“Thank you for your help, Bagoas. If I need to know more, I’ll send for you. Now, I have things to do. Was there anything else?”

Oh. Great Lord of Light. Alexandros. Bagoas indulged in a brief flurry of shock that he had forgotten - he had been sent here for a purpose, after all. He drew himself up as best he might with Hephaistion looming over him, and said what he had come to say in the first place, trying to give it its proper weight. “My lord, yes, apologies my lord but there is a message. The Great King sends for you. He asks that you come to his rooms, my lord.” A pause, and then, greatly daring, “He is not in a patient mood, my lord.”

To Bagoas’ great surprise, Hephaistion laughed. It sounded purely natural, warm and rich and sure of itself. Hephaistion was not about to enlighten him when it came to that, either. He had expected Alexandros to have trouble with those lists - the man had no patience for contingency, sometimes. His mood would not be helping either, he had been as twitchy as a wet cat for days. Hephaistion did not blame him for that; Kallisthenes could be beyond aggravating when he set his mind to it, and at the moment he seemed more set on it than ever. The matter of the proskynesis was only a part of that; the rest, in Hephaistion’s opinion, was the historian’s own natural contrariness. There were other things too to fray at Alexandros’ temper - the mundane duties of kingship, seeing to an army in the field, hunting for an enemy who would not stand still and make a fight of it … ah, Hephaistion would not have been king for all the world. He loved the man who was, though. Sometimes that was its own burden, but he had never yet come to resent it. It was the shape of the world he knew - might as well resent the sun for rising. As for Alexandros not being patient … Hephaistion laughed again and gave the eunuch a sharp grin. It made him flinch a little. Hephaistion thought that was amusing too.
“Boy, Alexandros is seldom patient. If he was chewing rocks before, he’ll be spitting gravel now.”

He set off along the palace corridors, paying no mind to whether Bagoas followed or not. As it happened, Bagoas did not. He only stood and watched the man who was the king’s lover stride away, and knew that he was going to give Alexandros what he himself could not. There should not have been this grief in it, this strange sense of loss. Hephaistion had known him for a lifetime, after all. Bagoas had only been his for less than a handful of years. It was to be expected, and it was what his lord needed - the king had said so himself, that Hephaistion knew how to deal with his tempers. Knew them well enough in fact to be able to walk into one with a light heart and a laugh, which was more than Bagoas could do.

There had been time when Bagoas had thought that it would have been easier to simply hate the man, for what he was that Bagoas was not. But he had seen Hephaistion bow down, learning Persian custom for a Persian court, to make a point. There had been respect there, and a mind that wanted to understand. The man had even, after a rough sort of fashion, been pleasant to him. And he was, damn him to all hells, exactly what Alexandros needed. It was not so easy to hate him, knowing that. It never really had been.

Bagoas pulled the door shut hard on Hephaistion’s room, and turned and walked away.