Alexander - Earthquake

[fajrdrako_fic]

Title: Earthquake
Author: fajrdrako
Fandom: Alexander
Characters: Alexander/Bagoas
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine, no claims.


Earthquake

The Macedonian was like an earthquake, destroying everything in his path.

He came like a force of nature, with his band of barbarians. They rolled over my country as one by one our Persian armies fell to his onslaught. Our King - our brave, noble, loving King Darius - was driven away into exile and shame, and we were left to the mercies of the invader.

We stayed in the King’s palace. There was nowhere to go. This was our home, the harem of the great palace of Babylon. It was usurped by the warrior tribes from the west, who took control of us all. Darius had brought together the loveliest women from each corner of the empire, the most sensuous youths, and the eunuchs in attendance. We waited to hear what our fate would be - death? Enslavement? Would we be thrown to the Greeks for the sport of rape?

It was an uneasy time. Fear made us numb. We believed every rumour, and none of them. It was said the Greeks were cannibals. It was said they were philosophers and poets whose mathematics were beyond anything our magi knew. They were sorcerers, they were illiterates, they were monsters, they were invincible. They had made a pact with demons; they were led by a living god.

This last was because it was said that their leader, the son of Queen Olympias of Pella, was begotten not by the King her husband but by their father-god Zeus. So the ignorant hill-folk form Greece whispered. This was superstitious nonsense; gods do not beget mortals on mortals. But I could well believe that the man was a bastard. Son of one of his father’s wild horsemen, most like.

Filthy and uncouth, the Greeks who had taken the palace came into the harem with their dirty boots and their loud foreign voices. Each of us reacted according to our will; you could smell the emotions in the air. Some of the women wanted to attract the soldiers, whoring themselves to save their lives. Others wanted to be unnoticed by the Greeks, and thought hiding was the route to safety. I knew there was no escape. This was a man who burned palaces.

The slaves had combed and perfumed my hair, and I took care to dress well. If I were to die, I would make it a good death. I would not grovel to the invader - not to the Macedonian princeling, not to the brigands who followed him.

I stood as still as the statues in the great hall, and prayed to the Light that I would be spared the cruelty and the notice of the Greeks.

Fate had other ideas in store. The Macedonian’s eyes fell on me as soon as he entered the room. He walked with the ungainliness of a man who lives in the saddle. He had the heavy thighs and overdeveloped arms of a man who has trained hard but has seldom danced. I did not lower my eyes, as I would before a rightful king. He did not drop his.

Despite all the people in the room, there seemed to be an echoing silence.

Reports had said he was beautiful, but I could not see it. What I saw with my eyes might have been any country-born youth, fair-haired and clean shaven. What I saw with my heart was the man who had destroyed my life. What I saw with my mind was someone who wore an aura of power as casually as other men breathe. I knew at once why they said he was the son of a god. He was not like other men.

People were speaking, I knew. Princess Stateira turned towards the conqueror, addressing the soldier beside him. I realized her error at once - she thought the taller man must be the King. I cringed in horror for her and her terrible mistake. The Macedonian, however, took it with good humour, touching the man beside him as he said, “You are not wrong. He too is Alexander.” Some of the Greeks grinned - was this a joke at our expense? I did not understand. The Princess spoke to him with simple courage, and I could have wept with pride for her. He replied in his ugly language, his voice gentle, though I did not know what he offered her. I could only tell that he was trying to show gallantry and mercy - perhaps he intended to marry her, to unite the dynasties of Persia and Macedon?

I burned with disgust at the thought, that she should descend to union with a mountain brigand’s house. And yet, she might consider it a fate better than death. I would not think so, even had I been born a prince.

The audience ended. The heavy feet of the Greeks marched heavily over our beautiful carpets, staining them. At the last moment, before leaving the room, the Macedonian turned his head, and looked directly at me again.

Alexander. His name was Alexander.

He had destroyed everything I valued, and I hated him for it.
* * *

Days went by as I ignored and avoided the Greeks as much as I could. I danced, knowing fear was turning my limbs to iron, refusing to let it make me less than I could be. I could not resist or escape the army which had taken my land, but I could lose myself in the dance, where nothing could touch me.

It was difficult to keep out of the way of the Greeks, because they seemed to be everywhere. No part of the palace was safe, though they did not harass the women, by order of their leader. Once a Greek stopped me by grasping me by the arm. I did not resist him, but waited with passivity just short of insolence. I did not lower my eyes to him. He asked me, “What are you?”

The accent was rough and it was clear he spoke little Persian, but was doing his best. “I am Bagoas,” I replied, and when he still looked puzzled, I said, “I am a dancer.”

“Oh,” he said, and let me go. I knew the answer did not satisfy him. He was a fool. Among the Greeks, there are no eunuchs, and many men go beardless. He could not think what to make of me.

I wanted to kill them all, but could only wait and see if they chose to kill me.

They did not. I danced alone until my muscles loosened. I danced until my mind knew nothing but the movement: no pain, no fear, none of the shame of conquest. My grief for my King, that was with me always, for I had loved Darius, gentle-heart, wise, lover of beauty. Where was he now? Alive, dead, lost? Who was reading the words of the poets to him, who was singing for him, who was massaging his body with oil? Who was there to dance for him?

The Macedonian earthquake had shaken the world, and made it a place I could not recognize. Sometimes I heard the Greeks shouting, singing, foolish in their drunkenness. They acted like boys with the strength of men and the understanding of children.

Some of the women lost their fear. “The Greeks will leave us be,” they said. “We have not been hurt so far.”

“So you think they will never hurt you?” I scoffed. “You’re dreaming. You think they will be gentle, because you are used to gentle ways. They’re thugs, who will treat us the way thugs do.”

“Their leader is kind,” said a girl from Susa. “I think he will treat us well.”

“Their leader is beautiful,” said a noblewoman from the south, and that set off laughter and whispers of speculation.

“You’re acting like fools,” I said, angered by their levity, but Fariba, a noblewoman from Ekbatana, touched my arm.

“You’re usually not so bad-tempered. Why not let the girls have hope? Maybe the worst has already happened. The Greeks don’t seem so bad.”

“Perhaps they will find husbands for us,” said the girl from the south.

I turned away, because I had no answer. They would not find a husband for me, since I was no woman. What would they do with me? A dancer is as useful to an army as shoes are to a snake.

So I danced. I danced for the women, who had become my companions; I danced for myself.

I did not dance for Greeks.

Then one night, I was summoned to Alexander’s bedchamber.

I could refuse to go to him, and die. I could kill myself before going. Or I could go to him, and ensure that he too would die.

When I thought it through, it was the only choice I could make.
* * *

Though I called it Alexander’s, the chamber and the bed had always belonged - and still did, by the only rights I recognized - to King Darius. I had been summoned here often in the past, and though my heart was heavy, it was also firm.

There were servants about, all Greeks. Seeing me, Alexander waved his hand at them and said something in Greek. It meant nothing to me, but as they left he looked at me in the doorway and said in Persian, with a cultured accent at odds with his barbarian appearance, “Enter.”

Someone closed the doors behind me. We were alone, except for a boy with a flute. I did not recognize him as either Persian or Greek.

When a King gives a summons, it is improper to delay. It had taken me only moments to respond to his command and come to this chamber - with no time to change my clothes for my best dancewear, no time to reapply my make-up or comb my hair or apply fine perfumes. If there had been time, I still would not have done it. I would let him take me as I was, naked from the waist up, wearing only my knee-length kilt for dancing. I would dressed more carefully for my King, but not for this usurper.

What he would get was my vengeance. Alone in his presence, I would have the opportunity somehow to kill the man who had destroyed my King. He had taken a kingdom: I would take his life, spoilt child that he was. I would die for it - but that was no less than thousands of Persian soldiers had already done.

It was said that Alexander of Macedon was the strongest of men and the greatest of fighters, but no one alive was unassailable. I would find a way to defeat him. I had no weapon, so I would kill him with my bare hands. I was strong. I could hold a man over my head while dancing; could a soldier do as much?

I would have prostrated myself but he gestured with his hand for me to remain standing. This was a man whose presence overwhelmed the world. Of course it would all but overpower one single dancer, making my breath quick, my palms damp. I said, “My lord?”

He sat at his ease, relaxed, knees apart, ankles crossed. He wore both tunic and robe, and I could not tell whether he was ready for bed or partying, so uncouth and plain was his attire.

He said something that I did not understand, though I didn’t believe he meant me to. It must have been Greek, or even the uncouth dialect of his mountain home. Then he said in Persian, in that accent denoting breeding and style: “Dance for me.”

No doubt he had commanded someone to teach him the words, and he could pick our finest scholars of rhetoric. It shamed me that a Persian traitor should teach him our beautiful words, and yet here was I, preparing to dance for the enemy.

It would be my last dance.

My dance-kilt was sky-blue. I removed my sandals with movements that were already a part of the dance - and out of the corner of my eye I watched him watching me, and could not guess his thoughts. A man stirred by lust, I knew, was never likely to think fast, nor likely to be on his guard. But it would not do to underestimate this man, who was unlike others.

So I danced. I danced as I had never danced before. Not for myself, experimenting with technique as I trained my body; not for my teachers when I was young; not for Darius, my King.

I forgot myself in the movement. I did not forget Alexander, my enemy and my prey. I watched him carefully, because the work of the eyes was the work of the dance - that was the first and greatest lesson I ever learned.

He had a goblet of wine at his side, and a jug to fill it with - the Greeks were heavy drinkers, and they held it badly. Yet he did not drink. He watched me dance, and the lines of strain left his face. His eyes held warmth as if he were at home.

I danced close to him, and then away, knowing I had never danced so well or with such purity. Perhaps the certainty of death to come - both his and mine - gave me supernatural stamina; I could have danced all night, and through tomorrow.

But there would be no tomorrow, and this was something I must end soon.

The boy with the flute was no master musician, but his fingers knew their work and his rhythm was true. He did not look at me as I danced, intent on his fingers, or perhaps too much in awe of the tyrant. I had no fear he would stop me, even though he was almost certainly a Greek. He could not move fast enough to save this warlord king, even if he dared.

No. All I had to fear was Alexander himself.

I was crouching, about to make the leap which would bring me upon him, my fingers around his throat, when he moved restlessly in his chair and the boy with the flute struck a false note. Alexander looked at him then, and spoke gently. The boy rose, bowed without looking at either of us, and fled, letting the door latch behind him.

This would make my task easier, having no witness. I would still die, but so would he.

I was breathing more heavily than usual, not just from exertion. I was filled with the exhilaration of the dance and a sense of my power. I began to rise.

He said, “Bagoas?”

I was surprised that he knew my name. Of course he did, he had summoned me, he must know who I was. Just one of many hundreds in the King’s household, but someone he had noticed, singled out, remembered. I took a deep breath, holding his eyes as I rose. The eyes were blue, and I saw how great their beauty was as I sprang at him, taking him by surprise, my fingers closing around his throat as I landed.

He was strong. He was not prepared for this, but he was trained to many kinds of attack, and the speed with which he struck me was a shock. I did not let go of his throat, barely feeling his blows. We tumbled to the floor with the force of his movement. He tried to knee me in the groin but I eluded him, pressing my fingers deeper into his windpipe. He had no breath. How could he still go on fighting, go on living? His face was flushed, but I saw no desperation - I could not tell what I saw, and could not pause to think on it, as his arms swept my arms aside, and I had to release his neck or have my arms broken.

I should have let him break them.

I fought to regain my purchase, but he had a grip on my right arm, fingers digging like claws into my biceps, and I twisted, growling, reaching for his throat with my left - failing that, his eyes - failing that, any part of his body I could batter or maim. We rolled over each other, and as we grappled, as I pressed his body brutally to the ground, I felt his arousal, felt the joy in him that was almost an eruption of laughter.

He was mad. Fighting excited him. He was as accustomed to violence as to pleasure - no wonder he was taking over the world.

He was impossible to kill, impossible to hold, moving like no man should be able. Was he indeed the son of a god?

He tried to dislodge me, and I saw blood where my fingers gouged his cheek. A movement, a flash of pain, and he was on top of me. I tried to bite him, but could not reach him as his forearm against my throat held me too far away. He was not crushing my windpipe, he did not stop my breathing - just held me back with implacable force. “I will kill you,” I shouted.

His reply was in Greek, breathless but welcoming whatever was to come - baiting me, challenging me, seducing me. I flipped him over my shoulder, the force of the motion breaking his hold on my arm. I sprang to my feet as he landed. He somersaulted to a half-upright position, crouched like a wrestler, shrugging aside his over-robe. Underneath it, he wore a short white tunic, like a Persian child might wear.

This was no child. He spoke again, fluid sounds flowing in incomprehensible syllables, a smile on his face. It was as if we were playing a game. Had he no sense of danger?

Perhaps, but he had no fear.

I was beyond fear as I attacked him again, overcome by anger. Perhaps I misjudged his speed; perhaps, muscles tired from the dance and battered by his blows, I did not have normal control of my body. He overcame me, held me locked against his body, my back to his chest. I was immobilized as he twisted my wrists in his grasp, my arms crossed over my body.

Neither of us moved. I could not shift my weight without dislocating or breaking my shoulders, such was his hold; he could not shift his hold without risking my attack. Tight against his body I could feel his warmth, his accelerated breath, his half-hard cock - which was, as we paused from our battle, getting harder. He liked this. He liked this too much.

He was breathing against my neck now, speaking softly in Greek. I shivered. He murmured some gibberish, and then the word, “Safe. Safe.”

I tried to twist away, but he soothed me with his voice, as he might talk to a wild animal he was hoping to tame. He had the strength to let go of one of my arms, holding both wrists in one hand, and that hand powerful as a manacle. His other hand soothed my hip, while the mouth at my neck was kissing me gently, licking my skin.

I shuddered.

Perhaps he thought it was distaste or fear. Perhaps he thought it was capitulation. In any case he released me. I turned to attack him, but he simply held his hands up in a sort of surrender, smiling boyishly.

He believed I would not kill him.

His belief was destroying me. I was losing my knowledge that I could; losing the will to do it. I cried, “You killed my King!” and was shamed to know there were tears on my face.

He touched the tears with gentle fingers. “King,” he repeated, for no doubt it was a word he knew. Then he said, “I am your king.”

“No,” I said, but I looked away from the gentleness in his. His hand cupped my cheek as he moved forward, the tip of a tongue touching the track of my tears for just an instant.

I could not fight. I could not hate. I did not know whether to call this rape or seduction. I only knew that he had disarmed an unarmed killer. I tried to push him away - the halfhearted movement of someone who does not care what happens - and he gathered me in his arms, running his hands down my bare back, holding me against him.

I could not hate. I was weeping, and he comforted me, with foreign words and soft touches that were somehow both sensuous and soothing. I remembered the rumour that he was a magician.

I had never wept in the presence of my King, or of any man to whom I was beholden. I had no such weaknesses. Through all my life, I had too much pride to weep.

In the arms of Alexander I wept like a boy, and felt as if a burden were leaving me. Perhaps he felt it too, because his soothing touch became more sexual, his hands straying to my thighs and my buttocks, and he found my mouth with his - his hands busy elsewhere, his lips travelling across my face till he claimed a kiss that took my breath in a way the previous struggle never had.

I pressed against him, enjoying his warmth. I let my hands roam over his shoulders, broader than my own, equally muscular. He let his hands wander under my kilt and over my buttocks, around to my thighs, exploring the ways in which I am unlike a man and yet not a woman; and I, shameless as any lover, let him. Let him! I encouraged him by shifting my weight, wrapping a leg around and over his hip, while his hands explored my belly and backside and the place my balls would have been, had I been a man. His fingers wrapped my cock with a touch both gentle and strong. He murmured something into my ear, so I could feel his warm breath, utterly sweet, then feel his tongue and teeth against the lobe. I may have moaned. Once, I had felt shamed by what had been done to me, and tried to hide it. Now, I flaunted my body like the most shameless streetwalker, and felt myself filling with joy because it pleased this man I hated.

He had driven me mad.

His face was touched with stubble, though his hair was soft. I kissed his face and tasted his skin for the first time. I felt as if I had been drinking, or taking rare drugs. They call love an intoxication, but what, before that moment, did I know of love? I thought I knew everything, but I had been oblivious and blind.

He was caressing me with a sure touch, keeping one hand at my groin while the other unfastened the buckle on my girdle and it fell, with my kilt, to the floor. I dared not watch his face as he looked at me, but impatiently - and with sudden shyness - I tugged at his belt, and he let it fall, and pulled his tunic over his head and tossed it aside, so he too was naked.

I have only one scar, almost invisible. He had many, some in parts of his body that must have been painful beyond imagining, some you would think must have come close to killing him. I thought again of my fingers on his throat, this time with a trace of alarm - so close to killing him, what could I have been thinking? To extinguish such beauty - not just of body but of spirit - Lord of Light forgive me!

He gestured to the bed, and rolled onto it, smiling as he did, then holding out his hand to me. He might have gestured in this way to a friend, a true lover - not a servant and enemy who had tried just now to kill him. How could I make amends, but to give him whatever pleasure he wished from my body? It seemed wrong for me to want this... yet I did, more than I had ever wanted his death. I moved towards him, touching first his hand with mine, then his body, then touching my lips to his chest, to his nipple, to his belly, to his cock - hot and hard and beautiful. He let his voice make love to me, sayings Macedonian words that might have meant anything. Instead of being ugly and foreign and meaningless, they sounded like poetry, they sounded like music. They sounded like love.

He did not need to seduce me. He was a King, I was a servant - a servant who had forfeited everything in my attempt to kill him - and yet he offered this bounty I would never deserve. I had abandoned my desire for revenge; I was damned for my weakness in loving him, damned for offering him my body - which he demanded with an increasing need which he made no attempt to hide- and most of all I was damned for giving him my soul, when he never asked for.

Over and over he touched my body and I craved more. Over and over I touched him and maddened him further. Never had my nipples been so hard as at his sucking; he made my armpits tingle with the force of his tongue against my nerves, and with oiled fingers he pushed into my body to make me groan and tremble. I tossed my head back and forth and he grabbed my hair to hold me steady, kissing my throat and murmuring words without meaning. He kissed the bruises he had left on me as if to heal them, and I touched my tongue to the fingermarks which were still red on his throat.

Then he lay me down below him on my belly and pressed his cock into me, gently, swiftly, creatiing a thousand sensations, his fingers reaching round me to tweak an oversensitized nipple, and I shouted at him for more, and moved against him, feeling all that power inside me and against me, pushing me harder and to more distant heights than I had imagined. He showed me what a soldier can do to a dancer, and I thought I was no longer one person, but a part of another, fused in some invisible bond that would last forever. I felt the waves of pleasure run through my body.

Darius had been gentle and forebearing with me, never rough, never fully letting me feel his strength. Alexander treated me as his equal, sparing me nothing, and he was nothing but strength.

Just when I thought there was no limit, he climaxed inside me. His motion slowed, with his breathing; the beautiful pressure inside me eased. He pulled out and lay beside me, lax, loose-limbed, smiling as if at some deep secret. He gathered me into his arms and murmured something, kissing my eyes. Then he said, “Bagoas.”

It was said with such sweetness that I swallowed. I touched his hair, soothing it. Caressed his cheek. I said, “My King,” for so he now was.

And for the first time ever, I said his name aloud. “Alexander.”

He smiled and kissed my hand. Then, still with the faintest of smiles on his face, fell asleep in my arms, trusting me with his life.

He was right to do so. His life was my life, now.

He moved like an earthquake, overturning the world, and in the place of the old he created something new and wonderful.