Four Months, part II
Here's the second part of Four Months. Thanks a lot to my friends Jun_Yumemakura and Delos13 for commenting it. It means the world for me.
Drypetis carefully put the toy back on the table. No child of hers would ever play with it, now. She thought perhaps she could give it to her sister’s son, once born. Maybe Hephaistion would have done the same. After all, Alèxandros wanted her and Statira’s sons to be like brothers.
“And these” she said to her servant, taking the thick scroll and untying the ribbon “These are his letters. He wrote exactly once every fortnight. He never wrote a day after, or a day before.” She smiled bitterly. “He truly was a precise man. No wonder he became the King’s right arm.”
The letters were written mostly in Persian, but there were passages in Greek, as well. Although he had praised her for her knowledge of his language, he had urged her to practise with it; she didn’t need to ask the reason why. The Khilìarkhos’ sons, kinsmen to the Great King, potential successors to the throne, should speak perfectly both languages. “Yes, Anahambis. A very precise and punctilious man.”
He had a task to fulfil, she thought again, not without bitterness, and he set about to fulfil it to the very best of his abilities, neglecting no detail. Alèxandros had given him a wife, telling him that children were required: he had complied, and he would have done an excellent job, she could easily tell. She knew he always did.
She felt tears on her face, again, and wiped them away with the back of her hand. For what she was crying, she couldn’t tell: loss, pain, even anger that he had to leave her this way, not a result of a glorious wound on a battlefield, but because of a boiled fowl...
In some secluded corner of her mind, however, another reason was trying to reach her consciousness: a feeble regret that he hadn’t appreciate her company enough to stay back, safe at Susa. She didn’t allow that thought to surface, but her inner self kept on thinking that she would have been able to coax him into following the doctor’s order. She didn’t want to think about it, because her rational self would only object that her stubborn husband wouldn’t have listened to her. He didn’t care enough for her to ever take her words into consideration.
Maybe, said her inner self, this was the real reason for her tears.
She chose a sheet from among the others. It was his last letter from Ecbatana, in which he told her he wasn’t well, but that he hoped he would get better soon; he didn’t want to miss the Games Alèxandros was holding. His handwriting, usually steady and neat, was a little shaky, as if he was having trouble holding the stylus. He was ill, but it was the day in which he had to write to his wife, so he made an effort and wrote his last letter to her. That was the sort of man Hephaistion was.
Six days later, he was dead.
Anahambis put a hand on her mistress’s arm, unable to relieve her from her misery.
“What am I supposed to do now, Anahambis? Why were the Gods so cruel to me? Why let me meet him, only to take him from me?”
The servant didn’t have an answer. Nobody did.
Drypetis came back to her armchair, the very one where she had waited for her husband on that first night. Four months ago. She sat there, thinking.
What was it that she really felt? Could she really miss a man whom she had seen for a few weeks? Whom she spent only a handful of nights with? Can you really get to know a man in four months?
Surely, she missed her status. She was no more the Khilìarkhos’ wife. She was now only his childless widow: a woman of no importance any more.
Soon, after the due period of mourning, the King would choose another husband for her, and this thought terrified her. What would her new husband be like? The most important men of the Empire had been married off to Persian women, all four months ago; who could be left for her to marry?
Surely a less important courtesan, a general, a distant satrap. She could sense it was unfair, but it was the way things went. Alèxandros would have no more need of her, now that Hephaistion was dead. Moreover, she was sure that he, in his own pain and feeling of loss, would want her as far from him as he could send her, in order to avoid dealing with a woman who would only remind him of his soul mate.
In between those frightening thoughts another one crawled to her consciousness: she would be forced to share another bed, to sleep with another man. She felt a shiver down her spine as she pictured herself in an old, ugly, boorish man’s arms. She knew what it was like. She had eventually spoken with her cousin Amastris, now Krateròs' wife, after the marriage. She had asked Hephaistion for permission, and he had absently complied, dismissing the matter without a second thought. After they spoke, sharing their experiences as married women, Drypetis couldn’t help but consider herself even more lucky.
Hephaistion may have slept with her because he felt bound to, but she had nothing to recriminate about his countenance in their bedroom. Blushing, she recalled their intimate moments, and she knew she would miss the sensual feelings she had learned to acknowledge in her skilled, experienced husband’s arms. Apparently, the fact that to make love to her was merely one of his duties didn’t mean that he could not make her enjoy it. She knew this was one of the good things that her marriage had brought to her.
This thought led her to another trail of considerations. She remembered herself as a young girl: she had lived her life in the shadows of the Royal Harem, served and revered and still of no importance to anybody; almost a nobody, a simple pawn on a chessboard, waiting for the next move decided by an unknown player.
Then, she was given to the Khilìarkhos.
In the end, she had come to the realization that her life had significantly changed the night she had become Hephaistion’s wife. It was not about herself or her feelings, she knew: it was all about her rank, her position in the Court. She was still on the same chessboard, her moves decided and performed by others, and still she had no say in it; but now she was no longer a pawn, she was the Queen.
That night, alone in her room, after reading her husband’s news in his latest letter, she sighed, content with her life, though she missed his presence, and disappointed by the knowledge she wasn’t pregnant. Yes, she thought, she was lucky. The happiest, she thought, a woman could be.
Even her sister wasn’t so happy. Alèxandros had two other wives, and he seemed to care very little about them, focusing on government matters even when he visited them. Blushing, and whispering in her sister’s ears, Statira had recently confessed that it had taken some time before she became really his wife.
She, on the contrary, was Hephaistion’s only wife, so far, and she felt proud and happy that he had visited her quite often while staying at Susa, and that he seemed to care for her. Yes, in the end, she had been lucky. She was a King’s daughter, a King’s sister-in-law, possibly the future mother of an heir to the throne; she had plenty of servants and all the riches she could dream of; a caring, considerate and gentle husband who was almost the most potent man of the Empire. Some said it was actually the most important, because he could influence the King’s will.
She was nothing less than a Queen; after all, she was Hephaistion’s wife, and Hephaistion, everybody knew, was Alèxandros, too.
She had finally realized that she had started to live her true life. She would live as a revered member of the Royal House, close to her sister and her grandmother; she would share Alèxandros’ greatness and grow old as Sisygambis, respected and loved by all. She would see her sons growing up and taking their place in the Empire, and her daughters marrying the most dignified noblemen of the new, mixed generation.
There would be no more invaders and surrenders, no more fights and attempted assertion of one’s superiority over another between Makedonians and Persians. She would witness the new world Hephaistion spoke about; moreover, she would be a part of it, an instrument to achieve that goal.
This was her fate, the life the Gods had forged for her.
She let the sheet fall on the carpet, sighing in despair. She’d lost everything. She was no part of the pattern, now; she was simply a pawn once more.
Shaking her head, she turned to her servant, trying to find the words to voice her feelings; but she was no philosopher, as Hephaistion had been - it was all she could do to utter a few, harsh words, spoken quietly in a hoarse voice, a perfect epitaph of her future:
“Can’t you see, Anahambis? I’m already dead. My life, my real life, lasted only four months.”
________________________________________________________________________________
Drypetis carefully put the toy back on the table. No child of hers would ever play with it, now. She thought perhaps she could give it to her sister’s son, once born. Maybe Hephaistion would have done the same. After all, Alèxandros wanted her and Statira’s sons to be like brothers.
“And these” she said to her servant, taking the thick scroll and untying the ribbon “These are his letters. He wrote exactly once every fortnight. He never wrote a day after, or a day before.” She smiled bitterly. “He truly was a precise man. No wonder he became the King’s right arm.”
The letters were written mostly in Persian, but there were passages in Greek, as well. Although he had praised her for her knowledge of his language, he had urged her to practise with it; she didn’t need to ask the reason why. The Khilìarkhos’ sons, kinsmen to the Great King, potential successors to the throne, should speak perfectly both languages. “Yes, Anahambis. A very precise and punctilious man.”
He had a task to fulfil, she thought again, not without bitterness, and he set about to fulfil it to the very best of his abilities, neglecting no detail. Alèxandros had given him a wife, telling him that children were required: he had complied, and he would have done an excellent job, she could easily tell. She knew he always did.
She felt tears on her face, again, and wiped them away with the back of her hand. For what she was crying, she couldn’t tell: loss, pain, even anger that he had to leave her this way, not a result of a glorious wound on a battlefield, but because of a boiled fowl...
In some secluded corner of her mind, however, another reason was trying to reach her consciousness: a feeble regret that he hadn’t appreciate her company enough to stay back, safe at Susa. She didn’t allow that thought to surface, but her inner self kept on thinking that she would have been able to coax him into following the doctor’s order. She didn’t want to think about it, because her rational self would only object that her stubborn husband wouldn’t have listened to her. He didn’t care enough for her to ever take her words into consideration.
Maybe, said her inner self, this was the real reason for her tears.
She chose a sheet from among the others. It was his last letter from Ecbatana, in which he told her he wasn’t well, but that he hoped he would get better soon; he didn’t want to miss the Games Alèxandros was holding. His handwriting, usually steady and neat, was a little shaky, as if he was having trouble holding the stylus. He was ill, but it was the day in which he had to write to his wife, so he made an effort and wrote his last letter to her. That was the sort of man Hephaistion was.
Six days later, he was dead.
Anahambis put a hand on her mistress’s arm, unable to relieve her from her misery.
“What am I supposed to do now, Anahambis? Why were the Gods so cruel to me? Why let me meet him, only to take him from me?”
The servant didn’t have an answer. Nobody did.
Drypetis came back to her armchair, the very one where she had waited for her husband on that first night. Four months ago. She sat there, thinking.
What was it that she really felt? Could she really miss a man whom she had seen for a few weeks? Whom she spent only a handful of nights with? Can you really get to know a man in four months?
Surely, she missed her status. She was no more the Khilìarkhos’ wife. She was now only his childless widow: a woman of no importance any more.
Soon, after the due period of mourning, the King would choose another husband for her, and this thought terrified her. What would her new husband be like? The most important men of the Empire had been married off to Persian women, all four months ago; who could be left for her to marry?
Surely a less important courtesan, a general, a distant satrap. She could sense it was unfair, but it was the way things went. Alèxandros would have no more need of her, now that Hephaistion was dead. Moreover, she was sure that he, in his own pain and feeling of loss, would want her as far from him as he could send her, in order to avoid dealing with a woman who would only remind him of his soul mate.
In between those frightening thoughts another one crawled to her consciousness: she would be forced to share another bed, to sleep with another man. She felt a shiver down her spine as she pictured herself in an old, ugly, boorish man’s arms. She knew what it was like. She had eventually spoken with her cousin Amastris, now Krateròs' wife, after the marriage. She had asked Hephaistion for permission, and he had absently complied, dismissing the matter without a second thought. After they spoke, sharing their experiences as married women, Drypetis couldn’t help but consider herself even more lucky.
Hephaistion may have slept with her because he felt bound to, but she had nothing to recriminate about his countenance in their bedroom. Blushing, she recalled their intimate moments, and she knew she would miss the sensual feelings she had learned to acknowledge in her skilled, experienced husband’s arms. Apparently, the fact that to make love to her was merely one of his duties didn’t mean that he could not make her enjoy it. She knew this was one of the good things that her marriage had brought to her.
This thought led her to another trail of considerations. She remembered herself as a young girl: she had lived her life in the shadows of the Royal Harem, served and revered and still of no importance to anybody; almost a nobody, a simple pawn on a chessboard, waiting for the next move decided by an unknown player.
Then, she was given to the Khilìarkhos.
In the end, she had come to the realization that her life had significantly changed the night she had become Hephaistion’s wife. It was not about herself or her feelings, she knew: it was all about her rank, her position in the Court. She was still on the same chessboard, her moves decided and performed by others, and still she had no say in it; but now she was no longer a pawn, she was the Queen.
That night, alone in her room, after reading her husband’s news in his latest letter, she sighed, content with her life, though she missed his presence, and disappointed by the knowledge she wasn’t pregnant. Yes, she thought, she was lucky. The happiest, she thought, a woman could be.
Even her sister wasn’t so happy. Alèxandros had two other wives, and he seemed to care very little about them, focusing on government matters even when he visited them. Blushing, and whispering in her sister’s ears, Statira had recently confessed that it had taken some time before she became really his wife.
She, on the contrary, was Hephaistion’s only wife, so far, and she felt proud and happy that he had visited her quite often while staying at Susa, and that he seemed to care for her. Yes, in the end, she had been lucky. She was a King’s daughter, a King’s sister-in-law, possibly the future mother of an heir to the throne; she had plenty of servants and all the riches she could dream of; a caring, considerate and gentle husband who was almost the most potent man of the Empire. Some said it was actually the most important, because he could influence the King’s will.
She was nothing less than a Queen; after all, she was Hephaistion’s wife, and Hephaistion, everybody knew, was Alèxandros, too.
She had finally realized that she had started to live her true life. She would live as a revered member of the Royal House, close to her sister and her grandmother; she would share Alèxandros’ greatness and grow old as Sisygambis, respected and loved by all. She would see her sons growing up and taking their place in the Empire, and her daughters marrying the most dignified noblemen of the new, mixed generation.
There would be no more invaders and surrenders, no more fights and attempted assertion of one’s superiority over another between Makedonians and Persians. She would witness the new world Hephaistion spoke about; moreover, she would be a part of it, an instrument to achieve that goal.
This was her fate, the life the Gods had forged for her.
She let the sheet fall on the carpet, sighing in despair. She’d lost everything. She was no part of the pattern, now; she was simply a pawn once more.
Shaking her head, she turned to her servant, trying to find the words to voice her feelings; but she was no philosopher, as Hephaistion had been - it was all she could do to utter a few, harsh words, spoken quietly in a hoarse voice, a perfect epitaph of her future:
“Can’t you see, Anahambis? I’m already dead. My life, my real life, lasted only four months.”
________________________________________________________________________________