PROGRESS REPORT #37: WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT?

THESSALY

I'm back from my road trip to California. Had an excellent time, which I'll write more in detail about soon. I came back on the weekend faced with a load of work --writing, that is. The question is, What will happen next?

It took a bit of time (and procrastination) to reorganize myself. I started out by the usual - unpacking, laundry, reorienting myself. (Missing my bird a lot. He's still at the sitters.) And then I did a bit of the editing on a travel manuscript I'm doing before figuring out where to begin with the novel.

While I was away I did jot down a couple of brief notes and since coming back it's been on my mind. So I got the MSS out and made some editing notes and today I managed to finish off a chapter and get myself set up for the next one. I really do want to get this novel done quickly now. When I was visiting my cousins and Aunt in California they kept asking me about it. When will it be finished? When can we read it?

So here goes the latest snippet in the trials and tribulations of Polyperchon, the Regent of Macedon as he is holed up in a quickly diminishing army camp on the plains of Thessaly, while back up the coast in Pynda, Roxana, Iskander and Olympias wait hopefully for him to rescue them from their enemy Kassandros, who is camped dangerously near.

This scene is in the camp at Thessaly just after Polyperchon has received an ultimatum (to surrender) from Kassandros, and finds out Kassandros' general is quickly approaching. Rather than back down and surrender, the army agreed to confront the enemy in hopes that they can hold off until more recruits come.

The next morning, as a pale sun dawned over the low Thessalian hills, Polyperhcon stood by the alter in the midst of his camp. The priests and acolytes sang the hymns and the ram stood dumbly waiting, its amber eyes blank, empty of will, as though it was dead already. One swift slash of the priest’s sacrificial knife opened its throat and the blood spilled, bright crimson. But as the acolyte stooped to catch it in the bowl, some splashed him, drenching the front of his tunic. Polyperchon heard the hiss of the priests’ indrawn breath. A moment later, as the priest made the ritual cuts through the ram’s belly, he smelled the stench of animal guts. The knife had pierced the innards; another bad omen.
The priests muttered among themselves.
“This bodes ill, Sir!”

Polyperchon felt a throbbing in his temples and his mouth went dry. “Never mind!” he growled. “Perhaps the gods have lied.”

Within the hour, dressed in helmet and armour, Polyperchon mounted his stallion and raised his sword. A herald blew the trumpet as commands were shouted and the men came out at the call, infantry and cavalry both.

The commanders’ orders sounded crisp and clear, a chorus of calm, controlled voices. The the soldiers scrambled for their weapons and joined their units.
Polyperchon rode down the pitifully sparse ranks then back again and stopped.

“We’ll put up as best a fight as we can, take a few of those bastards down to Hades with us!“ he shouted.

There were no cheers to greet his speech, only a deadly silence. He could feel a gloom descending over the troops. It was too late to reverse things now. His horse snorted and tossed its head. “You who are loyal will be rewarded!“ he shouted. He gave the call to his trumpeter to sound the charge. He gathered his reins, dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. His stallion lunged forward. To the right and left were the squadrons of horse troops. As he glanced back he saw the peltasts march forward, the sun glinting off their forest of spears. The straggling lines of cavalry and footstolders faltered then slowly formed their units. He hauled his horse around and shouted: “March, damn you! March!“ In spite of the chill autumn air, sweat tricked from beneath the rim of his helmet.. He raised his hand to wipe it away, his eyes still on the disassembled troops. He kicked his mount again and it half-reared as if it too was resisting the order. Then someone began to sing a paean. Others took up the words, The song swelled through the ranks. The air rang with trumpet calls and slowly the army moved forward.

Before them lay a swath of sun-burned fields, scattered with boulders and stones among the heather and scrub. Towards afternoon they stopped to water their horses at a river. Polyperchon could feel the tension, taut as a bow-string. The river gleamed between the poplars. Beyond it spread a plain where the armies would meet. He pictured what might come once they had crossed and formed their lines of battle.

He sat on the river-bank and ate his meagre rations without much appetite, his
mind on the augurer’s predictions, the ramifications of the omens. He knew he should have considered them more carefully; instead, he had buried his head in the sand of delusion, imagining a certain victory. The truth was, the nearer they came to the enemy, the more his battle spirit waned. Now reality caught up with him. He must do something immediately. He felt the futility of facing death on this obscure, insignificant battle field. What was there to gain? A full-fledge battle when his men were so badly outnumbered meant certain death. There would be no victory here. Casualties would be massive. The gravity of the situation compelled him to reconsider his orders. Would his men defer to him without resentment? Resentment, he knew, bred treachery.

He sighed wearily, his mind going back to the days when he had been a crafty, stubborn war-dog. He had spent the best part of fifty years at arms; now,
when he should be living on the bounty of his years of service to the Kings, he was once again caught up in the maelstrom of war. He had survived many battles fiercer than this one would be, but he was no longer young and had lost his arrogance and taste for combat. He knew what taking chances could mean. Every morning he had made offerings and the seers read the omens, always adverse. Each day he had held councils with the officers of rural garrisons and tribal chiefs.. They had offered only token support. Knowing how many of his men had been bought off by Kassandros, none were willing to provide more than a scant compliment of men and horses.

He threw down the remnants of his food and called the herald to signal the mens’ attention. Within the hour he had the army assembled.

HOPLITE

So what do you suppose will happen next? And will I finish this endless saga before the summer ends? I certainly hope so! I've already written up an idea for the wrap party invitations; bought a bottle of champagne at a winery in the Napa Valley, and have a bottle of ouzo that was given to me on mother's day. It will be a grand celebration when I finally write "the end". But it will also be kind of sad saying goodbye to my long-time Macedonian and Persian friends.

Here's a picture of another part of Thessaly, Meteora. I've visited there a couple of times.

PROGRESS REPORT 36: SMALL ADVANCES

BARCLAY MANOR (back view)

I've been making about as much progress as poor old Polyperchon is in his attempt to hold back the invading army of Kassandros.

It seems there's been no end of distractions and events that have eaten up all my writing time in the past two weeks. Lots of fun, but now I'm exhausted and this week I am determined to rest up and get focused again. I'm so far behind.

My Memoir and Travel Writing classes ended last week. Above is the back of the heritage house where I hold the memoir classes each Thursday morning. A lovely old house in the West End of Vancouver, one of three on the block that have been preserved as heritage homes. There are beautiful grounds around the house and below are some of the flowering azaleas in the garden.

BARCLAY GARDENS

Some of the activities that have taken up my time these past two weeks included my high school's 100th anniversary and the arrival of my friend Patrick and his mom, Hanne, from Germany. They were only here for 3 days but it was quite a whirlwind, long walks and playing tour guide. Very exhausting. We took the ferry one day to Vancouver Island which was a nice trip but more walking. And I have been suffering through the pain of a pinched nerve in my foot and other foot problems. I ended up spending more money on a podiatrist and he suggested the proper shoes I need for all the walking I do. It's all eating into my Chile fund so I'm going to have some hefty saving to do this summer to catch up if I want to go to South America. Meanwhile, I'm heading south to California for my grandson's graduation from university. I'll stop in San Francisco first to visit a cousin, then go to Santa Barbara for the grad, then on to Bakersfield to visit my dear Auntie who is 91 and still active. I'm leaving next week so this week I am desperately trying to get things done. I've hardly been home at all lately and needed some down time.

Today I made a long list of things I must get done and so far manged to accomplish some of it. Each day I will have to do more. But tomorrow for sure I need my water-fit as my poor achy body needs some stretches. I did manage to take my bike out last weekend (first time in months) and peddled to a local pool for a swim. But since then the weather hasn't been good enough or I've been busy with other activities. I'll post a couple of the more interesting ones on my other blogs. But it was a birthday party weekend this past Friday with a small preliminary Gemini party at my friend's house as it was her boyfriend's as well as my birthday coming up. (Mine is tomorrow, June 3) and next Sat. we'll have a gala at the Latin Quarter with lots of salsa dancing and fun with friends.

Today I managed to get back at Shadow of the Lion. Still trying to finish up this chapter and so very little to go to actually finish Part VI.
I was really hoping to have it done by my birthday, but all these other things kept me from it. In addition, two weeks ago I got waylaid by an invite to submit a travel story to a certain syndicate and that turned into such a fassaria (as they say in Greek) I later regretted going along with it, especially when I had to question whether the $5. I might or might not make for my effort was worth distracting myself from my more important work: the novel! But...as I was told...it' "good exposure". Well, we'll see about that.

Meanwhile, my travel web site is getting readers and contributors from all around the world so that's a good sign. I just hope everyone remembers to click the google ads for me so I can make a bit of money to help pay for the site. Up to now it's out of pocket. But it's worth it, I think. And lots of fun to do. We decided not to publish in June though, as my webmaster is busy with another project, and I'll be away.

So...here I am on the bring of another year. Yikes! The numbers keep increasing. But somehow I keep on going -- as if the numbers are actually reversed. I'll write in my "Conversations With Myself" later on this week after the celebrating is over.

Until then...it's back to Alexander's world (where I truly wish I was going right now. But the sunshine and beaches of California will have to do.)

FREE SPIRIT

BRITANNIA HIGH SCHOOL


Last weekend it was the 100th anniversary of the high school I used to attend (and where I still sometimes go to take Spanish classes). There was a lunch on the afternoon of Friday May 16 for my grad class, the class of '52. We meet every year for lunch and each month some of the women also go for lunch so we've kept in touch -- a grand bunch of people who I always enjoy seeing again.

That evening there was a reunion for all years at the school and the classrooms were designated to the grad class years. They had beer and wine sales in the hallways where once us kids used to congregate in between classes. You could go from room to room finding other old school chums. So it was a lot of fun. The following night there was a gala at the Agradome with various well-known bands including the Dal Richards orchestra which has been playing around town for as many years as we grads can remember. A real touch of nostalgia. Of course there were rock bands and others for the sake of the young present-day students. There was also a lot of entertainment at the school that day but I didn't attend.

In all it was a wonderful reunion weekend. We were each given a beautiful book commemorating the school's venerable age with lots of mementos in it to remind us of our long-ago school days.

SCHOOL HALLWAY

Recently I indulged in some high school memory writing for a new project and display that is at the Royal B.C. Museum. The other weekend when my friend and I were in Victoria for our freebie weekend at the Spinnaker's Brew Pub and guest house, we also had media passes for the museum "Free Spirit" presentation. It's all about the people of B.C. and their history. There were many objects on display reminding you of the past and one of these was this hideous electric hair perm machine that was in use up to the mid '50's. I noticed there weren't any stories submitted to go along with it, but I had one. So I wrote it and submitted it, and you can now see it on-line on http://freespiritbc.com/peoplehistory/stories/ -- under "School Days"
But because this is all about my high school and the reunion, I thought I'd post it here too.

A BAD HAIR DAY (1952)

Back in 1952 when I was soon to graduate from Britannia High School in Vancouver, there was a popular hair style called the ‘poodle cut’. It was a short hair cut, permed into a soft curly style resembling a poodle’s pom-pom. A lot of my classmates were having their hair styled this way for our grad, and I wanted to be like them.

It happened that my Mom and little sister both came down with scarlet fever and were quarantined as they did in those days and I had to go and stay with a family friend, a very kind old lady named Mrs. Grey. I told Mrs. Grey how much I wanted a poodle cut. So one day she gave me some money and told me to go up to Commercial Drive and make a hair appointment.

Up to this time, my Mom always cut and permed my hair. So it was quite a thrill for this teenager to have an appointment at a real beauty salon. I felt somewhat daunted when I saw the electric perm machine, something left over from the ’30’s, a kind of weird thing like you‘d see in a mad scientist‘s lab. But I was determined to get my ‘poodle cut‘. The woman cut my hair, then rolled it up in the perm rollers. The perm machine worked on electricity. As I sat under it, I could feel it sear my scalp and I smelled burning hair. When the procedure was finished and the rollers were removed, to my horror I looked as if I had been zapped by 220 volts of lightening! My hair was frizzed like a Hottentots. You couldn’t even get a comb through it. What a frizzy mess! I was in tears. I wouldn’t go out without a kerchief on for days and even missed school because I was so embarrassed. How could I face my class-mates looking like such a freak? I didn’t realize I was pre-dating the Afro hair style of the late ‘60’s and ‘70’s.

Fortunately, my Mom soon recovered enough for me to return home. She immediately set to work on my ruined mop with her clippers. She had to cut off most of my hair. Even then it was still tight and frizzy. When I returned to school, the older guy that I had a crush on started calling me Puppy Dog. He’d pat me on the head every time I passed him in the hall. At least he was paying attention to me. After all, I did look like a poodle!

This is me after Mom cut off most of the frizzy perm.

MY WRITER'S LIFE

THE VANCOUVER SUN TOWER

I have been so busy lately that I haven't even had time to blog. Here's one of the reasons why: I wrote a small contribution to the Downtown Memory Project that Simon Fraser University, downtown campus, was holding.
My little story of how I got my start as a copy-runner at the Vancouver Sun newspaper was chosen to be displayed on the wall at the Harbour Centre downtown (site of the SFU downtown campus.) Here's my story:

THE SUN TOWER: Memoirs of a writer

A building in the downtown east side of Vancouver that inspires memories, is the old Sun tower at the corner of Beatty and Pender Streets. Imagine my thrill in 1952, a 17 year old aspiring writer just out of high school, when I was hired as a copy runner in the Sun’s editorial department. On the fourth floor of that tower, my future was shaped. I was privileged to become part of an editorial staff that included Hal Straight,managing editor, and renown writers like Jack Webster, Paul St. Pierre, Barry Broadfoot, Clyde Gilmore, Pierre Burton and Simma Holt.
My post was the centre of the busy editorial room, answering the booming calls of “Copy!” to put the squares of newsprint containing their stories into the tubes that were sent by pipe to the composing room. My world was the clatter of typewriters, the smell of newsprint, the demanding calls of reporters sending me on errands. I aspired to become a crime reporter and Simma Holt wanted to train me for her desk job taking police calls. But the city editor wouldn’t accept a 17 year old preacher’s kid for this role, so I joined the news library staff where I was put in charge of the bio and crime files. The reporters were my mentors. I was encouraged to write, and years later my journalism experience in the Sun led me to become a published travel writer. I’m a full time writer now, writing both travel and historical fiction novels, teaching writing classes for the V.S.B. I owe all of this to my seven years at the Vancouver Sun. Each time I pass that tower I remember those exciting, happy days that launched my writing career.

ME, POSING AS A FRAZZLED REPORTER, '53

I have a lot of wonderful memories of those years I worked in the newsroom, first as a copy-runner and then as a news librarian. It was, without a doubt, the best job I ever had in my life and it was certainly instrumental in leading the way to me becoming a travel writer as well as all the encouragement I got at the time from the reporters for the historical writing I was doing back then.

It was quite an honor to have my little piece chosen to go on display for this project. Later it will be on-line and perhaps later published in an anthology of Downtown Memories.

ME, POSING IN FRONT OF MY CONTRIBUTION

FOR THE DOWNTOWN MEMORY PROJECT.

A BIT OF SELF-PROMOTION

This is just a short blog to blow my own horn a little (toot! toot!) and let my 'fans' (haha) know that there is an interview with me on this travel writer's website:

http://writetotravel.blogspot.com/2008/04/interview-with-travel-writerw-ruth.html.

Some blatant self-promotion...but necessary in this business!

I'm truly grateful for this bit of publicity and the publicity for my travel web site. Every little bit helps just when I've been feeling rather down in the dumps for various reasons (some of which I mentioned in my last blogs here). I think partly it's the weather and I must have SAD because of the ongoing cold unseasonable weather here on the Coast. A glimpse of sun now and then but too much rain and cloud and very cold. I'm still wearing winter clothes and here it is almost May 1st!

I did have an excellent weekend away though, taking advantage of the 1 night's stay and dinner for two at an excellent place in Victoria B.C. which I won at the last BCATW a.g.m.
The place is called Spinnakers Gastro and Brew Pub and there are heritage guest houses where we stayed. The dinner was an 8 course beer and wine pairing extravaganza which I intend to write in more detail about on my travel blog. I also scored a media pass for the Royal B.C. Museum where there was a new show called "Free Spirits". I travelled with a girlfriend who was excellent company so we had a truly lovely time together.

Still when I got home Sunday night I started to feel sad again. Trying to keep myself busy and in a more positive space. And tonight I went out for Beers with Peers with two of my travel writing friends which was quite an excellent way to spend the evening, talking and enjoying adventure stories. Then I got home and saw that the interview was posted on the travel web site, so that made my day alright!

I haven't been working on my novel, but I have been researching travel markets and have had two stories accepted by one that pays!! Also sent a few others out. So now I'm inspired to write those stories that I've been neglecting. First things first, though. I have to get more of the novel finished. I'm so close to the end!

SOME FUN AND HAPPY MEMORIES

This is the band "Sumalao" that plays at the Latin Quarter on the weekends.

After a busy week of writing, teaching and various other activities, I decided that on Saturday night I'd attend a literary event and then meet my friends at the Latin Quarter (our hangout) for some salsa dancing and fun. It had started out to be a stressful week, and it took me a couple of days to get my centre point again, but then I immersed myself in my writing and teaching and by the weekend I needed to have some R&R. I've decided to attend more literary events as well as the travel media things I go to. It's good for schmoozing and getting to know the literary community of the city (which is a pretty active one.) So I on Saturday night I went to the B.C. Book Prize soiree at a big hotel downtown. It was one of those lah-de-dah affairs where you stand around drinking an $8 glass of wine, nibbling on canapes that the waiters bring round on silver plates. Aside from a well-known poet (a poet laureate) who I am familiar with and in awe of, I didn't see a soul I knew. I really wanted to talk to Mr McWhirter but was just too shy to approach him. I wanted to tell him how much I admired his work on the script of "Hecuba" the play I loved so much and went to see twice earlier this year. But he seemed pretty absorbed with his own crowd so I never did quite get the courage up.

I stood around for as long as my tired back would take it, the found a place to sit at a table with two other women and a guy. I got into a conversation with the older woman who said she recognized my name (that's good!) and when she told me hers, I also recognized it.
But neither of us could figure out from where, except I am a member of the Federation of B.C.Writers and also actively attend some events such as the Surrey Writer's Conference. Anyway I felt kind of thrilled to think my name is 'known' out there in the literary world!
Later, I checked her card, and see is is connected with Suite101.com and it happens I've been thinking of submitting some travel stories to them.

The woman and her party left the table but then I ran into another dear friend and her husband, a poet who used to belong to our writer's group but who has been absent for some time due to a disability. I have great admiration for Mavis, and always read her poetry to my classes when we are doing a poetry night. So it was excellent to run into her and her wonderful husband Paul, who said he'd just had a book published about falcons. (He's very involved in ecology issues). That rounded up the soiree very nicely for me and made me realize how important it is to attend these functions as you never know who you'll meet there.

Our writer's group doing timed writings in a scenic spot on

Mayne Island where we often went for weekend retreats.

Mavis and I were reminiscing about our writer's group -- the great fun we always had together, especially on the twice a yearly retreats to this lovely coastal island. This last year we didn't go away at all, and there didn't seem much interest generated. I miss this, and so do a couple of other older members. And these kinds of retreats really brought us closer together as a group and as friends. We used to do crazy writer's things, always with a theme (such as a pirate weekend, or favorite writer's weekend, or rites of Spring...all with costumes)
And we'd do writing exercises, like in the photo above, timed writings on the knoll overlooking the sea, when we were out for one of our hikes. I've been feeling very nostalgic about those days lately and wonder if ever we can recreate them again. There were specific things on the island that were precious to our group. One of them was visiting the 'circle tree'. It's an old arbutus twisted into a circle shape and every retreat we'd go there, pose by the tree, drink a toast of wine and toss the lees to the spirits of nature, and in an old hollow stump we have a cache of messages we've been writing over the years, like time capsules. So each time we'd go to the tree we'd unearth the buried cache and read the previous years writings. Oh, I miss all of that so much!

Me, in the circle tree

Anyway, after the literary soiree, I went to meet my friends at our favorite bistro, The Latin Quarter (often referred to here as the LQ)

And that turned out to be another sort of 'literary' evening too. My friend had just returned from Peru, proudly showing off the book of short stories he had published there; another friend who just returned from Beijing came to talk to me about writing a story for my travel web site; there was a whole table of artists/musicians/poets/writers celebrating the visit of a remarkable and beautiful woman who has been living in Turkey (she's a Rumi poet and whirler as well as a singer, dancer) At the same table was another woman who I recognized as someone I'd talked to recently in the neighbourhood Greek taverna -- also Turkish, and a writer from the S.F.U. writing/publishing program. The vibes were simply fantastic last night. And what a grand group of people we all are, we regulars who love to meet each weekend to dance salsa, chat, have fun, give each other hugs and kisses and hang out together. That made my weekend, and I woke today feeling much more settled, though still that cloud of unhappiness is there and will remain until things are solved and perhaps tomorrow at our meeting here it will be. Otherwise I will stick to my resolution to remove myself, as I really have to protect myself from further outbursts.

Today I took myself on a field trip to do some photographing for a blog I am planning about the public markets here. I went on the skytrain to the New Westminster quay and public market. The sun was out, although the weather is very cold -- record lows for April and there was snow on Friday! Enjoyed my stroll around by the Fraser River but the market itself was totally boring and scuzzy so I wasn't too impressed with it. I'll only give it two stars out of five, and that's just because of the historical significance of its location.

Well, here's the end of the weekend. I've just had an hour long reflexology treatment and a long chat with my friend, so it's time to make a late dinner (very late, it's almost 10 pm!) and perhaps watch a movie to round off the day.

PROGRESS REPORT #35: BESIEGED

I've spent the last days writing and will do so again today. It's important for me to stay focused and work through the difficult chapter segments which are leading to the finale of the story. Yesterday I was still reeling over an incident at my writer's group on Monday night. I have decided that the best way for me to personally resolve this is to move on. At least until the toxic situation is removed from the group. I doubt very much it will change so long as this person is still attending as his issues are psychological and perhaps even pathological. I just can't expose myself to this any longer.

It makes me sad to have to step out of the group which I've belonged to so for so many years. But it's to save myself from future incidents and protect my Muse, because it takes me days after these encounters to get back my balance and to be able to think properly and proceed with this very crucial stage of my writing. I have to protect myself at all costs. And at this point my creativity is more important that being in the group and subjected to the unpleasantness this other person brings into the group.

Yesterday I was happy to get back to my waterfit class and I even picked up a strip of gym tickets so I can start working out again. Then I met another writer friend for coffee and we had a long walk back home. I spent the afternoon editing and taking notes for my novel and my travel web site. Today I'll be writing most of the day (the weather has turned foul again!)
and tonight I look forward to my novel writing class. My classes are the highlights of my week and always fun places to be. That's the way my critique group used to be. But not any more. So sad!

At this point in my novel, I'm setting up the siege of Pydna which leads to the demise of a couple of my precious characters and sets the stage for the final act of the tragedy. It's tricky putting your head into that of a military strategist. Having those notes about ancient Pydna certainly helped set the stage and I have reviewed my research notes regarding the sequences of events that lead to this final stand-off between Olympias and the antagonist Kassandros. Fortunately it's one part of the history that seems to be laid out clearly except for the time sequences, but I think I've safely got those covered. So today I'll continue taking notes and making additions to what I've been writing over the last few days. The weather, having turned gray and chilly again, makes it easier to sit at the computer and plod along!

Meanwhile, inside the fortress at Pydna:
Olympias lay on her couch contemplating the Soghdian’s strange snake dream. What prophecy was this? While she meditated, she was aware of the muted sounds of voices outside. Soon the sounds grew louder and she heard the ring of armour, the thud of feet and a rumble of guards’ urgent voices. Someone banged on the door. Alarmed, she called out and the door burst open. Commander Kronos entered. His face looked drained and drawn, ashen coloured as his beard.

“Madam, a day runner has brought news that Kassandros and his army have sailed into Dion. He bypassed Thermopylai by sea and is encamped at the holy precinct.”

Olympias stiffened and tried to hide her shock. Dion, one of Macedon’s most holy sites at the foot of Mount Olympus, was only a two-day ride from Pydna.
“What of Polyperchon?”

“The Regent has withdrawn his troops from the Hot Gates and has retreated to the mountains in Thessaly near the Epiros border.”

Until then, Olympias had considered Kassandros’ threats no more than one of the hundreds of tribal skirmishes both Philip and Alexander had successfully put down during their reigns. Even that old goat Antipater had little problem squelching these incessant clan quarrels. She’d had every confidence that Polypchercon and their allies would drive their enemy back. Now, reading between Kronos’ unspoken lines, she shouted, “We will not ever surrender!”

Kronos stared at her with incredulity. “What are we to do then, Madam? We are greatly outnumbered here at Pydna and Kassandros has blocked the way through the Hot Gates, so there is no way Polyperchon can bring his troops back to Macedon.”

“He will find a way over the mountains through Epiros.“ Olympias got off her chair and began to pace the room.. “The insolence of Kassandros setting up his stand at Dion. He knows we can not fight him there because it’s sacred ground. We will have to wait until he advances north. Then we will set a snare and trap him.”

“But how, Madam? Where will we find more troops? Even the Epirotes have defected. Kassandros men have infiltrated their ranks and convinced them to return home. He has even sent envoys to Dodoni to treat with the young king, your grandson, Neoptolemos.”

“The wretched usurping swine!“ Olympias cursed. “How did everything turn so quickly? We had strong allies...”

“Hubris, Madam,” Kronos said. “ Polyperchon was too sure of himself. He didn’t count on Kassandros infecting his troops like the plague with promises of gold and glory. Kassandros has welcomed and rewarded anyone who defected.”

Olympias heard every word, but the news left her mute with shock. Half of her was thinking her own thoughts, plotting her next move. Macedon’s allies and even her own countrymen, the Epirotes, were now in Kassandros’ pay. How did it happen?

“ May vultures eat their livers!” she raged. Everything became clear to her then. She thought back on the omens indicated in Roxana’s strange dream. “We will sever the head of the serpent and save Macedon from its deadly venom,” she proclaimed. “Gods damn Kassandros.. We will not let him defeat us.”

“Winter is coming, Madam. We must leave here -- retreat to Pella,” Kronos urged. “ If you stay here, you risk starvation, or you’ll freeze to death -- to be sure a more merciful end, my Lady, than capture by your enemies.”

Olympias held her ground stubbornly. “Alexander survived worse in the
mountains of Asia. We will too!”

Kronos shook his head. “I beg you, Madam. Leave while you still can.”

“No!” she shouted obstinately. “We will stay here. As soon as it’s sailing weather, Eumenes’ warships will come with the new troops. I know he will not let us down. Eumenes will be faithful always to the Macedonian royal house.”

Kronos’ arms fell to his sides. He shifted his tall bulk and gave a resigned shrug. “Very well, Madam. As you command!”

After he went out, Olympias sat immobile, staring at the marble bust of Alexander on the plinth by her bedside. In the dim light she saw the shine of his eyes as he gazed back at her. She put out her hand to touch the sculptured curls. Her fingers brushed the cold marble. She remembered how, whenever she had caressed Alexander’s hair it always seemed to spark.

“My son!” she declared. “Polyperchon may be losing his battle, but we will not lose ours!” She remembered the bloodless victory she and the Molossians had at the Epiros border when Eurydike’s troops had turned and ran. She would rally her Molossions . They were fearless warriors and she knew they would stand by her. Nobody would dare fight the mother of Alexander. Kassanros’ troops would turn tail and run, just as Eurydike’s had.

THE IMPORTANCE OF KEEPING JOUNALS & NOTES: PROGRESS REPORT 34

I wanted to have my own photos of Pydna to accompany this posting but I've searched high and low and can't find them. I have an idea that perhaps they are all just slides, in which case I shall have to get prints made. At any rate, you have the photos from the previous post to refer to, as I am again writing about Pydna, the ancient fortress where Olympias holed up with the royal household and was beseiged by Kassandros back in 317 - 316 BC

Every time I travel, I keep journals, post blogs and make lots of notes. Back in 1992 I began a special journal "In the Shadow of the Lion", in which I wrote about all my research journies in quest of Alexander in Macedonia. Since I first began the diary, I have been to most of the northern sites, often more than once, and visited many of the museums including the royal tombs at Vergina. My journal goes up to July 2003 because I haven't been back up to northern Greece since then. However, I am thinking that next year it's time for another visit there.

To stress the importance of keeping journals and notes, when I started looking through my old journal I found several pages written about my visit to Pydna in September 1994. And because of these notes, I was able to get a much clearer pictures of the setting and was able to rewrite some of the setting details in the chapter I've been working on.

Here's what I wrote back then:
Ancient Pydna: pronounced "Peethna" (near Makrigialos)
The fortress remains are on a high promontory overlooking the Thermaikos Gulf. Behind it are fields and low hills. To the soutwest Mount Olympos is visible -- vague in the heat mist, probably usually very clear, dark blue, rising above the farmlands. (In winter the snow peaks would be distinct). There is nothing visible on the horizon of the sea though later, the Peninsula south of Thessaloniki would be vaguely visible.) **note: this first fortress I described turned out to be the Byzantine site.

Just down the road, south of the fortress, are temple remains. The town of Pydna was built around the harbour. The fortress was walled, buff coloured large blocks of stone (sandstone?) From the East, looking seaward, is a long view of the sandy beach. Water is clear to depths,, pale green near shore, rocks and hsoals black and teal colored farther out to sea. Lots of fishing boats. On the north side of the fortress site is another steep bluff, probably for a watch tower, or beacon post.

Here was Olympias' last view of life -- the sea, and most importantly, a view of Mount Olympos which she undoubtedly watched each day, looking for omens.

Later, at the hotel next to the site I spoke to some people who told me about Olympias ("Olympieada") being stoned to death here and her body buried nearby, but some people think her remains were removed to Vergina to the royal tombs.

I was introduced to two archaeologists (Manos and Nancy) who work on the stie. They said the real fortress was a bit farther north, part of the mud-brick wall and the ditch had been found -- the ditch ("foss") dug by Kassandros to cut off their food supplies, went from the sea all around the city walls. (Manos was the archaeologist who had discovered the ditch site) The city of Pydna was larger than Dion (a Macedonian sanctuary and site of a military garrison in Alexander's time, located some miles farther south closer to Mount Olympos.) The city was an important site since Neolithic times. Olympias may be buried here. The archaeologists have found grave stele of family members at Dion.

I was told that the royal household probably travelled by sea from Pella ( two or three days journey.) They said the town of ancient pydna was quite large and the fortress was big, not necessarily on a high promotory. All the building was made of mud bricks so little of it has remained and most is well below the present earth surface. Walls would follow the lay of the land. There are many important finds coming out of the toms although they aren't sure if Olympias' tomb is still nearby. Her tomb was not believed to be as grand as the other royal tombs as she was the enemy at the time and not Macedonian. The archaeologists said a stele had been found previously marking information regarding Olympias' grave site, but it has disappeared (The site was apparantly recorded in the histories).

What a stroke of good fortune today! (Pythia and Olympias, were your listening?) first the chance, arranged by the lady at the hotel, to speak to the two archaeologists, then an offer of a ride to the bus and en route the man drove us by the grave sites (new excavations) and also the tumulous and general area of the digs where the original fortress was located, which was much bigger than the 6th C. AD Byzantine fortress I had been exploring first.

In regards to Olympias -- I imagined her focusing on the mountain, perhaps facing it as she is stoned to death - her spirit rising to the mountaintop, residing on the summit with the gods of Olympos after whom she is named.

So, after reading through these notes, I was able to edit the small passage I previously posted here, to include clearer setting details, making it a little more accurate.

The palace became a hive of activity as preparations were made for the move to Pydna. By mid November, they made their way south. The troops and the war elephants went by land, accepting guest-friendship from their allies along the way, pretending all was well as they assured the citizens that soon a treaty would be signed with Kassandros, and the threat of civil war would be over.

The royal household travelled by trireme. The weather was still mild, the breezes gentle. Three days later, they neared the sandy shoreline of the coast and saw the imposing walled fortress of Pydna and the rough-hewn houses of the town clustered around the harbor. Beyond the fortress and a swath of ochre coloured fields, rose the mighty heights of the holy mountain, Olympos, the wild pine-clad range where wolves and lynxes roamed.

After we left the campsite where we'd spent several days at Platamonos:
This morning there were rainbows over Mount Olympos so I take that as a good omen. We're on the train heading back to Athens after an enjoyable five days of camping and exploring. Following a route, via the Vale of Tempe, similar to that which Philip's army would have taken on their way to Chaironeia. (**in fact, the rail line followed close to the great battle field of Chaironeia!)

The journey was a success in that I saw Pydna and spoke to the archaeologists and visited the wonderful castle at Platamonos, which was likely on a site visited by Philip and Alexander. (It was the site of the ancient city of Heracleion).

Rereading my journals is always a valuable experience and an easy research source as I usually take time to write down setting details and sometimes even draw sketches. As well, I think photographs are a valuable source of research as they will remind you of details you otherwise may have forgotten.

As for my progress on Shadow of the Lion I have completed another chapter segment.
The web of intrigue is getting more and more tangled, the tension increasing, my characters' world coming closer to collapse!

PROGRESS REPORT 33: MOVING ALONG

View of the plains behind Pydna and Mt. Olympus

I've finally started to feel remotely 'recovered' after a long bout with a cold virus.
In the last few days, as the sun was shining (though it was unseasonably cold) I ventured out on various errands -- prepared the handouts for my night school classes which begin next week, and delivered them; went to the lab for blood tests; and today I got up very early (6 a.m.!) in order to attend a travel agent/media breakfast for a Norwegian cruise line. The rest of the time I've been doing market research for travel, a bit of editing for my travel site, and finally tonight I got out the manuscript of Shadow, read through the last bits I had been so diligently working on up to a week ago, and prepared myself to move along.

A few years ago I had actually visited the site of ancient Pydna on the north-east coast of Greece. Fortune had it that day that I was introduced to the archaeologists who were working on the digs there. I met the archaeologist who had just discovered the trench that Kassandros had dug around the fortress blocking Olympias and the royal family inside for the winter, with dire consequences. At the time, they told me they were searching for a tomb for Olympias -- which, they said, would likely be just an ornamental memorial tomb as they felt her body had likely been moved to the royal tombs at Vergina some time after her death by stoning at Pydna. There wasn't much else to see there but it was quite a thrill to just be there, at the place, where the Epirote queen (Alexander's mother) had died. I imagined that from where she stood, surrounded by the kinsmen of people she'd had murdered, that she could look up toward Mt. Olympus and will herself to be transported in spirit to the home of the Gods. And here I am, once again, in that place - Pydna - on the brink of another crises that ends in tragedy.

I tried to find my own photos of the place but in their stead I have posted some that I found on-line. It gives just a hint of what it was like there. Pydna was a sea port with a garrisoned fortress commanding the seaway of the Gulf of Salonika.
Olympias had insisted on moving the royal household there from the palace of Pella - a crucial mistake, it turned out. Here's just the beginning of the next chapters where everything starts to go horribly wrong.

The ancient fortress of Pydna

THE MOVE TO PYDNA

The palace became a hive of activity as preparations were made for the move to Pydna. By mid November, they made their way south. The royal household travelled by horse and mule-drawn wagons, surrounded by bodyguards. They accepted guest-friendship from their allies along the way, pretending all was well. The army and the lumbering herd of war elephants had gone on ahead to confront Kassandros’ troops at the border. Soon a treaty would be signed and the threat of civil war would be over.

A week later, from a distance they could see the imposing fortress of Pynda lying in the shadow of the mighty heights of the holy mountain, Olympus, and the wild pine-clad range where wolves and lynxes roamed. A wreath of thick, dark clouds hid the dazzling peak where the Gods dwelt.

The weather was still mild, the breezes gentle. Below the ramparts of Pydna the white-crested sea churned. Soon the ships would come and the war would be over, Kassandros defeated.

View of the coast from the ramparts of Pydna's fortress

PROGRESS REPORT 32: SLOW-DOWN

It's supposed to be Spring in my coastal city. The cherry blossoms are out in full bloom. So are the daffodils, crocus, hyacinths and other spring flowers. Who would have imagined that today I'd wake to a blizzard! Yes...snow at the end of March...just when we thought that Spring had arrived in full bloom!

I've had a set-back that has slowed me down with the progress on the novel. The unseasonably cold weather has brought along a lot of nasty 'bugs' with it and unfortunately, I caught one. I was at the doctor's for my annual last week, bragging more or less about my 'perfect' health, how I never get sick when those around me are falling prey to the viruses. By that evening my chest was tight and my throat sore. I rushed out to get some strong vitamin C fizzy tabs which usually do the trick when I feel a cold coming on. But by the next day it hit me full and hard and right in the chest. I managed to get myself through the next two days with fits of coughing, and hoped it would all go away. But by Saturday I felt worse. And Sunday I had to drag myself out to the 'burbs for the Easter dinner I'd been invited to with my friend's family. I made it home to bed that evening and there I've been pretty well all week long. By Monday I felt so ill all I could manage to do was go to the pharmacy and ask for some cough suppressant, then I went back home to bed. Tuesday I was worse and feared I might have pneumonia. Friends have been most helpful and caring. I hadn't been able to do grocery shopping but my pal brought me chicken noodle soup and herbal teas and a bag of lemon, ginger and garlic. Another friend brought me ginger ale. I just lay there coughing and choking and couldn't care less about food or anything, least of all the writing I wanted to get done this week.

On Wednesday I managed to get myself to the doctors, for by now I did fear I might have pneumonia. I got some heavy-duty antibiotics and they seem to be doing the trick. Yesterday I felt somewhat better, though still had some problems sleeping as I couldn't lie down without coughing and choking. But last night I actually slept well. Two nights in a row I dreamed of Anibal or his family. On Tuesday when I was so sick I dreamed I was in a big farmhouse with his daughters and ex wife (my friend in Santiago Chile). He was a shadow figure in the dream. It was a very pleasant dream and I woke feeling as if it had all really happened. The next night, because I had been to the clinic which had misdiagnosed him, saying he had pneumonia when it turned out to be lung cancer, I went to bed and dreamed he came to visit me, playing his guitar and singing for me and my friends. The next morning his daughter wrote on Facebook how she missed her Dad so much. I emailed her about the dreams and she had dreamt of him as well. He must have been hovering around to check up on us.

Last night I slept well and was dreaming of walking along a sea wall trying to catch up to two of my friends. It was peaceful and beautiful, a bright sunny day and sparkling ocean. We were going to visit an island. I woke up and opened the blinds and my gosh! There was a blizzard blowing outside. I couldn't believe it! So I stayed in all day today, not daring to go out in this freezing, cold weather. Not that the snow stayed -- it never does -- but it's just too cold for nearly April! (and more predicted for tomorrow!)

So, instead, I did some editing for a friend's novel which I found brilliantly amusing and fun to work on. And then a bit more editing for a travel piece one of my students needed help with. Perhaps tomorrow I'll have the mental energy back enough to delve into Shadow again.
I always feel guilty when I leave it too long. But really, I haven't been this ill in quite some time and it hasn't gone away yet. I think I'll be house bound at least for the weekend until this cough breaks up and my head clears. Two more antibiotics to go. If I'm not better by Monday it may mean a chest x-ray is in order.

Meanwhile, we all wait patiently for Spring to really arrive!

CELEBRATING NOROOZ, THE PERSIAN NEW YEAR

Originating back several 1000 years, predating the Archaemenian Dynasty, Norooz (Nowruz) begins the first day Spring for Persians, symbolic of two ancient concepts : The End and the Rebirth. Good and Evil.

One the eve of the last Wednesday of the year bonfires are lit in public places. With the help of fire and light it is hoped for enlightement and happiness throughout the coming year. People leap over the flames shouting "Give me your beautiful red color. And take back my sickly pallor." Special foods are made and distributed. The ceremonial table is called Sofreh-e Haft Seen (cloth of seven dishes) The name of each dish begins with the Persian letter Sinn. (see http://plateauofiran.wordpress.com)

Some time ago, early in the second part of my novel Shadow of the Lion the Persian characters in the story celebrate Norooz, but they have to do it in secret because the Macedonians have prohibited them from worshipping and celebrating their own customs. This is a chapter segment from the novel describing the way the celebrated Norooz.

The new moon of March heralded Nowruz, the Persian New Year. To celebrate,
Roxana had planned a lavish feast and invited all her household. Persian delicacies
were imported from the coastal trading ports. A caravan of mangy-furred camels arrived at
Ilion from Damascus bearing wares from the East. Nabarzanes took the child to the
bazaar and he watched with round, curious eyes as the merchants unloaded their wares
and dickered with Nabarzanes over the quality of their merchandise.

There were leather flasks of fine Shirz wine from Persia; baskets of pistachios,
almonds, dates, pomegranates and citrus fruits from the Land of Rivers; clay vessels
painted with dragons and tied with hemp chord that contained gigner and spices. Nabarzanes said these came from beyond the Singing Desert And from Damascus, bolts
of gossamer cloth dyed all the virant hues of a beautiful garden to make garments for his
mother.

Nabarzanes inspected the contents of each cask and bundle. Waving hands,
tapping fingers and pulling their long bears, the khajas haggled with him over every shekel
until, after much shouting, the price was agreed upon.

As they returned to the citadel, Nabarzanes explained the customs of the New
Year’s festival to the child.

“Tonight, just as in Persia, we will light a beacon fire. In Persia at Nowruz, we
light fires on every high place, fires as high as towers. Then there will be offerings of
flowers, food and milk, and a bounteous feast with foods such as you have never seen
before. Everyone exchanges gifts. It is the custom to bring gifts to the Shah and in old
times, before the Macedonians came, the Shah always granted the wishes of his guests.
Nowruz is a jubilant time, Iskander-shah,” he said, “And this year you are old enough to
participate.” He squatted down beside the child, his brow creased with a worried frown.
“Have your Guardians questioned you about this? They don’t celebrate as we do. This is
their festival of the Departed Ancestors, a solemn time for them. If your Guardians ask,
do not tell them about our rites because they do not approve.”

“Why?” the child asked, regarding Nabarzanes solemnly.

“They only want you to honour their customs,” Nabarzanes explained. He took
the child by the hand and looked candidly into his eyes. “We must be careful from now on,
Iskander-shah. Peithon will be angry if he finds out we have disobeyed him. He has
forbidden us to speak about Persian things to you, so you must remember everything we
have already taught you.”

The child scuffed his toes in the dirt and tried to understand Nabarzanes’ words.
His world was changing. He had often overhead the whispered secrets and witnessed his
mother’s violent rage when she spoke about his Guardians. Whenever Peithon and
Arrybas came to visit there were quarrels about him and after these visits, his mother
would be in such a temper that everyone in her household would cower in fright. He
worried that something dreadful might come to pass, but he dared not speak of his fears,
especially to his mother. She would only remind him who he was and slap him for
whining. Nor did he speak of them to Nabarzanes and Leila whom he loved most dearly.

At the door of his mother’s Bedchamber, Nabarzanes kissed him farewell and saw
that the Warder let him inside. She had just come from her bath. The room was warm and
scented with bath-oil and musk. She was surrounded by her servants so she did not
notice him enter. He waited politely, half-hidden by the high, carved sideboard, not
making a sound, though he was bursting with news and questions. He had learned long
ago to be patient and careful with his mother.

He watched as her handmaidens dressed her in her favourite Soghdian gown, a
blaze of red and orange with an embroidered bodice and flounces hung with crescents like
tiny moons which jangled as she spun around. She let out a little laugh as she swirled the
skirt. She seemed in a gay mood.

Roxana sat down at her dressing table and admired herself in a mirror while her
handmaiden combed and twisted her hair into coils, pinning it up with sparkling jeweled
hair ornaments. Her hair was black as a horse’s mane, much darker than his own.

He poked his fingers into the basket of figs on the sideboard and helped himself. He had eaten three of them from the basket before she finally noticed him. When she did, she put down her mirror and waved away her lady. “How long have you been hiding there quiet as a cat? Who let you in?” She gathered him into her arms and kissed the nape of his neck. Then she held him out at arm’s length to inspect him. “Where have you been? Down in the elephant pens?” She clicked her tongue. “I shall summon Leila straightaway to bathe you.”

“Camels,” he said. “’Zanes took me to see the camels.”

“The caravan has arrived from Damascus then? Good. Everything will be ready for
Nowruz.” She caressed the blood-red stones of her necklace. “It will be the feast of all
feasts. There will be dancing and lots of food.”

“And gifts?” the child hopped on one foot then the other excitedly. “’Zanes said
so. When shall I have mine?”

She tweaked his chin and smiled. “Come along then. I’ll show you what I have for you. Something truly worthy of my little Shah.”

She opened the tall sandalwood chest that kept her garments and took out a little
suit made of shimmering cloth a bright shade of purplish red embroidered with flying
serpents. It had a tunic with wide sleeves and a sash with gold threat in it. To match,
trousers and kid slippers dyed saffron, decorated with gold tassels.

“This is the rare Chin silk that comes over the Hindu-Kush from beyond the Land
of Encircling Ocean,” she said. “I had it made especially for you. Only an imperial child
wears clothing of such fine fabric. Truly, when the Macedonians see you they will know
you are such a child!” Roxana liked to pamper her child and took great pleasure in
dressing him in fine things. She insisted he should never be seen looking less than
a royal child. All the motherly affection she denied him was made up by lavish gifts and
pretty clothes.

“Tonight we will be together with our friends,” she said. “We must all be merry.
Come now, why the glum face?”

He felt somewhat crestfallen, having hoped for a new toy. He managed a hesitant
smile. It wouldn’t do for her to see that he was displeased.

When Leila came to fetch him he went happily even though he disliked the fuss of
the hot perfumed bath and the anointments of almond-scented oils.
He usually chattered incessantly to her, plying her with questions. Today he was
silent.

“What is it, dear Lamb?” she asked as she coaxed the tangles out of his hair.
“Come. Make a better face for me! Tonight is Nowruz and such a celebration you have
never beheld!” She set the comb down and gazed at him sadly. “Perhaps it will be our last
time...”

He shivered under the damp towel she had wrapped him in after his bath. She
padded across the room to fetch his clothes. He stared after her saying nothing. He
watched her as she moved away from him, the ample curves of her body swaying as she
moved, the braid of her chestnut hair hanging thick as a rope down her straight spine. He
had understood more than what she had said. But still, he refused to believe that
everything would not be this way for all times, just as it had been for as long as he could
remember. He stood patiently while she dressed him in the new red coat. Her plump
fingers moved nimbly as she fastened the loops over the little jeweled buttons.
“This is a fine coat! You’ve outgrown all your other clothes. You’ve sprouted up
so tall over the winter. You’re not a babe anymore.” She set the round braided gold hat
on his head and tucked a stray curl under its brim. “There now! How beautiful you are!”
She gazed at him adoringly.

He felt stiff and formal in his new clothes. He stood still while she straightened the
sash. “When I go to Macedon,” he said. “I shall not have to wear clothes like these
anymore. And I won’t have to live in the women’s rooms either. My Guardians said so.”

“Where will you live then?” asked Leila.

His voice sounded gruff because of the lump in his throat. “Arrybas said I shall
have a room of my own in the palace. The same room my father lived in.”

“Then you will not need a nurse after all,” Leila replied ruefully. She took his face
between her hands and gazed into it for a long time. “Even though you are the Shahinshah,
you are still my Precious Lamb,” she said. “I could not love you more had you been my
own son.”

He studied the toes of his slippers and blinked hard so she would not see his tears.
But suddenly they burst in a torrent and he throw himself into her arms, sobbing against
her breast. “If you leave me, who will I go to when I’m sad?” He was shaking all over and
could not catch his breath.

She rocked him in her arms. “Is that why you are afraid? Are you afraid of going
to Macedon?” She took his hands and held them between her warm, moist palms. “Hush
now, sweet Lamb. Your tears will spoil the cloth of your fine new coat. You must not
grieve. Whatever happens, the Good Wise Lord knows His children and looks after them.”

He caught his breath and let her wash his face with a cool, scented cloth. His nose
was running and his throat ached. “My Guardians say you can’t come with us.”

She stroked him and kissed him again. Her eyes glittered. “Hush now. Tonight we
will be together, and tomorrow too. And if it is the will of the Benevolent Lord, we will
be so for always.”

Then, because she always knew how to cheer him, she said brightly: “I have
brought you a gift, which I shall give to you now instead of making you wait for the feast
to begin, because you have kept out of mischief and been so agreeable today.”

She reached under his bed and produced a packet wrapped in scarlet cloth. He
unwrapped it eagerly. Inside was a little chariot made of gilded wood, pulled by a white-
glazed horse with golden hooves. In its centre on a tiny pole stood a sunburst emblem set
with a small diamond globe. He stroked the horse tenderly and ran his fingertips over the
rims and spokes of the chariot wheels.

“How beautiful it is, the Horse of the Sun.” He inspected the chariot reverently,
lifting it into the lamplight so the diamond globe dazzled in a prism of rainbow colours.
“When I am the Great King...after I’m grown...I shall ride in a beautiful chariot like this
one!” He smiled at her. “”Zanes says at Nowrus the Shah must grant wishes to everyone
who brings him gifts. What is your wish?”

“That was long ago, the granting of wishes...” Leila replied.

He pressed his cheek against her hand. “Truly I love you, Leila, and I will give you
anything you wish for.”

“If only you could, my precious One,” she said softly.

“I will tell the Regent he mustn’t sent you away!” he stated bravely.

“Alas, Iskander-shah, you are just a little boy and the Regent is the most powerful man in your father’s kingdom.”

“But I am the Shahinsha,” he insisted. “Mama and ‘Zanes said so!”

She stood looking at him a long time. Finally she said: “All that I wish for is that you are happy and live a long, prosperous life.”

* * *

The ceremony began at sundown. A ram’s horn sounded the summons for the
Persians to gather in the courtyard. Everyone came dressed in their finery for the occasion
and took their places in order of rank. Roxana and her ladies, including Leila, who were all
from noble families, sat on carpets on one side. Nabarzanes, the stewards, the Warder,
and visiting envoys stood in a circle around the stack of juniper logs for the New Year’s
pyre. The eunuchs, servants and slaves stayed behind them.
The chanting started with a single voice but soon others joined in. As if in answer
came the soft beat of a tabour and the thin wail of a reed flute. The Magus entered the
courtyard, accompanied by the child and two acolytes who bore the sacred fire altar. As
the people shouted loud hosannas and spread palm branches in their path, the Magus raised
his wand to bless them. Everyone laid on the ground and pressed their foreheads to the
stones in obescience.

The child shone like a jewel beside the dignified snowy-bearded priest who was
garbed in ceremonial garments of pure white. The Magus moved toward the altar and
washed his hands three times in the basin of clean spring water held by an acolyte. On the
altar was a small bowl containing grain roasted with salt, and seeds. Beside it were placed
baskets of figs, dates and dried herbs. Another dish held honey and another
contained milk. He offered the grain and seeds at the altar and burned them for the God.
Then he poured the honey and milk into a bronze offering dish ad set it on the ground in
front of the altar, placing the baskets of fruit and herbs on the ground beside it.

In a clear, pious voice, the Magus sand the anthem. There was an absolute silence
as he sang the sacred words.
“He is the God of all things,
The Fire of heaven and earth, sky and wind.
He is the power of life and the power of death.
All things that grow and fill the universe are His.”

The old priest’s hands shook as he lifted the flask of purified water and drank from
it. As he blessed the oil and poured some for the God, a sudden sound from beyond the stone walls stopped his voice. There was a long, murmuring hush, then a sigh of
relief as the marching footsteps of guards calling out their rounds for the night watch
retreated. The Magus stood in an attitude of prayer, his hands on his forehead.

“We must pray for peace between all nations, food for the hungry, and
steadfastness in the face of many hardships,” he said. He bowed to the child, hand to
forehead, and spoke the words of worship and adoration.
“Lord, O light of all mankind, O Lord who sees all things, Upon the Shah who stands in awe of Thee, Confer they bountiest blessings...”

Then he broke pieces of sandalwood and placed them in the fire holder, drank
again from the consecrated water, and emptied the flask to east and west, sprinkling some
on the door lintels.

“Rejoice with the fruits of the earth,” he cried.

As the sacred offering burned, the thrum of a harp shimmered around the
courtyard. An acolyte threw a torch into the pile of logs. Jubilant cheers filled the courtyard.
Cymbals clanged and tabours rattled. The blazing logs drenched everything in
gold. Even the walls and pillars seemed to be burning. The Magus raised his wand and
the people lifted their hands to sing the anthem of praise to the sky, sun and stars.

It was a glorious night. The air was blue with smoke and fragrant with the resin-
scent of burning juniper. Above, in the clear- star-filled sky, the new moon hung like the
curved blade of a shimshir. Just next to it, Venus shone brightly as a beacon.
The child drank in everything: the bright flames, the dazzle of light reflecting off
gold and jewelry. His ears rang from the din of the music. He looked around and saw
his mother standing motionless, sparkling in the firelight. A strange power seemed to
radiate from her that made a tingling sensation prickle down his spine. He felt like crying,
but did not know why. He looked over at Leila and gave her a hesitant smile. If he could
have, he would run to her for reassurance, but it would not be seemly to behave like a
baby.

The the music of flutes and strings began. Hands clapped, drums and cymbals beat.
Dancers began to twirl to the skirling of reed pipes and the rich lilting tune of the ivory
flute. In the midst, with skirts and jewels swinging, arms entwined, the women wove and
twisted, swaying to the beat. He saw his mother, laughing as if she had no dread, no cares
in the world, as she lead the dance.

Suddenly he was nudged forward, caught in her beckoning hands. She whirled
him round and round, his feet flying over the stones as he laughed with delight, caught in
the rhythm of the joyful dance.

Some of the men began to leap over the flames, calling on Atar the Fire, to bring
them good fortune. Mesmerized by the hypnotic cadence of the music, the child held his
breath as they jumped and twirled, daring the flames to scorch them. Their ululating
grew louder and the dance became more frenzied, until finally the flames burned down to
embers and the drum-beats slowed to a faint thudding. The fire dancers sank to the
ground in a trance, beads of sweat streaming down their faces, their eyes glazed with
rapture.

Then the kitchen slaves announced that the feast was ready. The child took his
place beside the Magus seated on a dais raised above the heaps of pillows where the
guests reclined. The entire floor was covered with dining cloths except for narrow spaces
where the servants moved about carrying trays heaped with food.

There was pheasant cooked in pomegranate juice; whole roasted lambs; piglets
stuffed with apples and pistachios; marrows and melons and fruits of every variety;
pastries drenched in honey and little cakes made with almonds, dates and cloves. Before
the feasting began the Magus blessed the special Nowruz foods: the sprouted grains; the
purple hyacinth petals; the sweet puddings; the ripe black olives in their brine of vinegar
and herbs; the russet apples saved from the autumn harvest.

“This is the time of thanksgiving and bestowing gifts,” he announced in his high,
ancient voice. “It is the way we have celebrated the New Year since the old days when
Shah Kyros proclaimed it to be a festival of friendship.” He laid his hand on the child’s
head. “The Shah, our Honoured One, is always the first to be served.”

Nabarzanes tucked an embroidered napkin over the front of Iskander’s coat.

“Iskander-shah, I won’t even scold you today if you spill anything or talk with your
mouth full,” he whispered good-humouredly. “This napkin has been used by all the Persian
Shahs since the time of the Great Kyros, Father of Persia.” He stood, and addressed the
banquet guests. Voices grew silent as he began his speech.

“Our Shahs, the First Darius and Xerxes the Destroyer, were hated by the Greeks.
The Greeks say we Persians stole sacred treasures from the High Place in Athens and
drove their priests out of the temples. Because of this, Persians are not tolerated in
Greece, so when we go to Macedon, we will be prohibited from practicing our customs.”
He spoke in the high-bred Elamite tongue of the Persian royalty, in a voice deep-toned as
a nefer. His brows were drawn over his nose in a stern expression. “Shah Kyros, the
Lord’s Annointed, ruled over many nations. Even though they did not speak the same
language or worship the same God as Persia he believed that all men are God’s children,
so he made those whom he conquered -- Medes, Assyrians, Babylonians, Soghdians,
Bactrians -- one kingdom. We must try to live in peace and accord with the
Macedonians.”

He looked down upon the child with a compassionate smile. “Iskander-
shah, your father the Invincible Alexander, also believed in the union of all nations. He
honoured our God and paid tribute to the Great Kyros. You are a fortunate child, for you
have been born into the best of two worlds. May you always be proud of who you are,
and rule as wisely as your father and the Great Shah Kyros.” He bowed low before the
child in a gesture of respect. In his eyes were both pride and grief. “The people of Persia
look to you as their Shah now. You must live well and endure, for the sake of us all.”

Unable to comprehend everything Nabarzanes had said, the child put down the
candied apricot he had been nibbling, then went back to arranging the apricot pits around
the edge of his silver plate.

The Magus spoke to him like a kindly grandfather. “You have been taught how to
live a good life, my child. These things you will remember long after you have forgotten
the rituals. There is a divine spark within you. You have nothing to fear so long as you
trust the Good Wise lord and honour Him.” He stood and lifted his hands in a gesture of
blessing. “Let us be joyful. This is the beginning of a new life for Iskander-shah. As he
goes to the homeland of his father, he will be honoured and welcomed, for truly he is a
worthy child.”

After the meal was finished, the guests got up one by one to present their gifts.
They knelt and bowed their heads and placed their offerings on the dais before the child.
There were drinking cups of exquisite cloisonnes and embossed gold; ceramic plates
painted with entwining vines and many-coloured birds; jeweled brooches, tiaras,
and a gold bracelet with two pairs of lion cubs lying face to face. After the tributes were given, the child stood and bowed and thanked everyone politely. As it was the custom for the recipient of a gift to give one in return, each guest was presented with medallions or vases or fabrics of silk and linen.

Then the wine was served. The stewards broke open flasks of wine that had been
sent from Damascus, the fabled wine of Shiraz, thick, amber-coloured, sweet as nectar.
The child was given a little egg-shaped cup and Nabarzanes poured some wine into it,
mixed it with water.

“You must take the first drink, Iskander-shaw. It is the custom that nobody is
allowed to touch their until you do.”

The child looked over toward where the women sat to get a nod of approval from
Leila and his mother, but Persian women did not partake in drinking parties so all of them
had left and he was alone with the men. He sipped the wine while everyone watched. It
tasted cloyingly sweet. He tilted the cup and swallowed a mouthful. Everyone smiled and
raised their cups to drink.

More food and drink was passed around; the musicians played and a band of
acrobats performed tricks and contortions, leaping on and off each others shoulders to the
beating of drums and timbrels. The child shrieked with pleasure at their antics.

“This was all planned for your amusement,” Nabarzanes said, passing him another
sweet cake.

The Magus leaned toward him relating a rambling tale of things remembered from
his long, venerable life. He rhapsodized over Persia’s past glories, described temples and
cities that shone with gold, wept over the desecration of royal tombs and the burning of
sacred testaments in a fire that he said was set by Alexander and the the rioting Macedonians.
As he told of an ancient prophecy etched on bricks, that foretold the coming of
Alexander and the destruction of Babylon, his voice quavered with emotion.

“All this has come to pass, I fear,” he said. He covered his eyes with his hand and
gave a long, weary sigh.

The child did not hear his words because he had fallen asleep.

* * *