The flames from the lamps sculpted his face into the sharpest light and shadow, igniting his gaze. ‘Tell me what he looks like,’ he ordered with the same tone he had used in ordering his warriors to their death for the glory of Macedonia.
The messenger felt hopelessly at a loss, realizing that he had only three words to give his King. He cleared his throat and announced in a stentorian voice: ‘Sire, your son is beautiful, healthy and strong!’
‘And how do you know? Have you seen him?’
‘I would never have presumed, Sire. I was in the corridor, as ordered – my cloak, my satchel and my weapons ready. Nicomachus came out and said . . . these were his very words, “Go, fly to the King and tell him his son is born. Tell him he is beautiful, healthy and strong.” ’
‘Did he say the boy looks like me?’
The messenger hesitated, then replied, ‘No, he did not say so, but I am sure he looks like you.’
Philip turned towards Antipater who came forward to embrace his King, and just then the messenger remembered he had heard something else as he was running down the stairs in the palace.
‘The physician also said that . . .’
Philip turned suddenly. ‘What?’
‘That the Queen is well,’ concluded the messenger in a single breath.
‘When did it happen?’
‘The night before last, just after sunset. I flew here without stopping – I haven’t eaten, I only drank from my flask and only ever dismounted to change horses . . . I could not wait to bring you this news.’
Philip came back and clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Get something to eat and drink for our friend – whatever he wants. And make sure he has a good night’s sleep because he has brought me the best of news.’
The emissaries congratulated the King and sought to take advantage of the auspicious moment to conclude their negotiations to some extra advantage, given that Philip’s mood had improved so much, but the King said firmly, ‘Not now,’ and out he went, followed by his field adjutant.
He immediately summoned the commanders of his army’s forces; he had wine brought and asked them all to drink with him. Then he issued orders: ‘Sound the trumpets for fall in. Have my army lined up in perfect order – infantry and cavalry. I want them all assembled here.’
The noise of the trumpets resounded throughout the camp and the men, many of them already drunk or half naked in the tents with prostitutes, scrambled to their feet, put on their armour, took up their spears and hurried to fall in because the noise of the trumpets was as urgent as the voice of the King himself shouting into the night.
Philip was already standing on a podium, surrounded by his officers, and when the ranks were formed the eldest soldier, as custom dictated, shouted, ‘Why have you summoned us, Sire? What do you require of your soldiers?’
Philip stepped forward. He had put on his iron and gold parade armour with a long white cloak; his legs were sheathed in greaves of embossed silver.
The silence was broken only by the snorting of the horses and by the calls of nocturnal animals attracted by the camp fires. The generals standing alongside the King could see that his face was red, as if he had been sitting by the camp fire, and his eyes were moist.
‘Men of Macedon!’ he roared. ‘In my house, in Pella, the Queen has borne me a son. I declare here before you now that he is my legitimate heir and I entrust him to you. His name is
ALÉXANDROS!’
The officers gave the order to present arms: the infantry raised their sarissae, enormous battle pikes, twelve feet in length, and the cavalry lifted up to the sky a forest of javelins, while the horses stamped their hooves and neighed as their teeth ground into the bit.
Then, in rhythmic unison, they all began to shout the Prince’s name:
Aléxandre! Aléxandre! Aléxandre!
and they beat the handles of their spears against their shields, sending the clamour up to the stars.
They believed that in this way the glory of Philip’s son would rise, with their voices, like the tumult made by their weapons, up to the home of the gods, among the constellations of the firmament.
When the assembly was dismissed, the King returned together with Antipater and his adjutants to the tent where the delegates from Potidaea were still waiting for him, patient and resigned. Philip confessed, ‘My only sadness is that Parmenion is not here to rejoice with us now.’
Indeed, at that moment General Parmenion was encamped with his army in the mountains of Illyria, not far from Lake Lychnidos, their mission being to secure the Macedonian border in that area. Later some would say that on the very day Philip received news of the birth of his son, he had conquered the city of Potidaea and had received news of another two victories: Parmenion’s against the Illyrians and that of his four-horsed chariot in the races at Olympia. For this reason the fortune tellers said that the child born on the day of three victories would surely be invincible.
In truth Parmenion defeated the Illyrians at the beginning of the summer and soon after came the Olympic games and the chariot races, nevertheless Alexander was born into a wonderfully auspicious year and the omens pointed towards a future more akin to a god’s than a man’s.
The Potidaean delegates tried to resume their negotiations where they had left off, but Philip gestured to indicate his deputy: ‘General Antipater knows my feelings on the matter, speak with him.’
‘But, Sire,’ Antipater intervened, ‘it is absolutely imperative that the King should . . .’
Before he had even finished the sentence Philip had put his cloak on his shoulders and whistled for his horse. Antipater followed him, ‘Sire, this campaign has involved months of siege and fierce battle to reach this point and you cannot . . .’
‘Of course I can!’ exclaimed the King, leaping onto his horse and spurring it on. Antipater shook his head and was turning to go back into the royal tent when Philip called out, ‘Here! Take this,’ and he slipped the seal ring from his finger and threw it to his second in command. ‘You’ll need it. Make sure it’s a good treaty, Antipater, this has been a most costly war!’
He caught the ring with the royal seal and stood for an instant watching his King gallop through the camp and exit by the northern gate. He shouted to the guardsmen: ‘Follow him, you idiots! How can you let him leave alone? Move, damn you!’
As the guards set off at full tilt, Antipater could still see Philip’s cloak gleaming in the moonlight on the mountainside and then he was gone. He returned to the tent, had the increasingly bewildered delegates from Potidaea sit themselves down, and said, as he himself took a stool, ‘Well, where were we?’
*
Philip rode all through the night and all through the next day, stopping only to change mount and to drink, with his horse, from streams or springs. He came within sight of Pella after sunset, just as the last rays gave a purple hue to the far off snow-coloured peaks of Mount Bermion. Down on the plain herds of galloping horses flowed like a sea swell and thousands of birds descended to sleep on the quiet waters of Lake Borboros.
The evening star shone so brightly as to compete in splendour with the moon which was rising slowly from the liquid surface of the sea. This was the star of the Argeads, the dynasty that since Hercules’ time had reigned over these lands, an immortal star, more beautiful than any other in the sky.
Philip drew rein, pulling up his horse to contemplate and invoke the star. ‘Watch over my son,’ he said from his heart, ‘let him reign after me and let his children reign after him and his children’s children after that.’
Then he went up to the palace, unannounced, exhausted and soaked in sweat. A buzz of activity greeted him: a rustling of women’s clothes as they fussed along the corridors, a clanking of arms among the guards.
When he looked in through the door of the bed chamber, the Queen was sitting on a grand, high-backed armchair, her naked body only just covered by an Ionian undergown gathered into the finest pleats; the room was perfumed with Pi
erian roses and Artemisia was holding the boy in her arms.
Two attendants undid the shoulder plates of the King’s armour and unhooked the sword from his side so that he might feel the child’s skin on his. He took Alexander in his arms and held him tenderly, the baby’s head nestled between his father’s neck and shoulder. He felt his son’s lips on the hardened scar tissue there, he breathed the scent of his lily-soft skin.
Philip closed his eyes and stood upright and immobile in the middle of the silent room. In that moment the roar of battle, the creaking wood of the siege engines, the furious galloping of the horses all faded away; he simply stood stock still and listened to his son’s breathing.
3
THE FOLLOWING YEAR Queen Olympias bore Philip a baby girl who was given the name Cleopatra. The child looked like her mother and really was most beautiful, so lovely that the maids played with her as if she were a doll, dressing and undressing her continuously.
Alexander, who had started walking three months previously, was only allowed into his sister’s room several days after the birth, and he bore with him a small gift the nurse had prepared. He approached the crib carefully and stood there looking at Cleopatra, his eyes wide open with curiosity, his head leaning to one side. A maid came closer, worried that the boy might be jealous of the new arrival and might harm her, but Alexander took his sister’s hand and squeezed it as though he actually realized that this little baby was united to him by a deep and special bond and that for some time she would be his only companion.
Cleopatra gurgled and Artemisia said, ‘See? She’s very pleased to meet you. Why don’t you give her your present?’
Alexander unhooked a metal ring with small silver bells from his belt and started to shake it in front of the baby who seemed to stretch out her hands to grab it. Olympias was very much moved as she watched them: ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could stop time right now?’ she said, thinking out loud.
For a long time after the birth of his children Philip was involved continuously in bloody wars. He had secured the borders to the north where Parmenion had defeated the Illyrians; to the west was the friendly realm of Epirus, ruled over by Aribbas, Queen Olympias’ uncle; to the east a series of campaigns had ensured that the warlike Thracian tribes had been quashed, extending Macedonian control as far as the banks of the Ister. Then he had taken possession of almost all the cities the Greeks had founded on his coasts: Amphipolis, Methone, and Potidaea, participating in the internecine struggles that tormented the Hellenic peninsula.
Parmenion had tried to warn Philip of the danger of this policy and one day, during a council of war the King had called in the palace armoury, he decided to speak up:
‘You have built a powerful, united realm, Sire, and you have given the Macedonians pride in their nation; why do you seek now to become involved in the Greeks’ internal struggles?’
‘Parmenion is right,’ said Antipater. ‘Their conflicts make no sense. They’re all fighting against one another. Yesterday’s allies fight each other tooth and nail today and whoever loses forms an alliance with his worst enemy simply to spite the victor.’
‘What you say is true,’ admitted Philip, ‘but the Greeks have everything we lack: art, philosophy, poetry, drama, medicine, music, architecture, and above all else – political science, the art of government.’
‘You are a king,’ objected Parmenion, ‘you have no need of science. It is enough for you to give orders, and you are obeyed.’
‘For as long as I have the strength,’ said Philip. ‘For as long as no one slips a knife between my ribs.’
Parmenion did not reply. He well knew that no Macedonian king had ever died of natural causes. It was Antipater who broke the silence that had become as heavy as lead.
‘If you are determined to put your hand into the lion’s mouth then there’s nothing I can say to change your mind, but I would advise you to act in the only way that has any chance of success.’
‘And that would be?’
‘There is only one force in Greece stronger than all others, only one voice that can impose silence . . .’
‘The sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi,’ said the King.
‘Or rather, its priests and the council that governs them.’
‘I know,’ said Philip in agreement. ‘Whoever controls the sanctuary controls much of Greek politics. These are difficult times, however, for the council: they have declared a sacred war against the Phocaeans, accusing them of having farmed lands that belong to Apollo, but the Phocaeans have taken them by surprise and appropriated the temple treasure, using the money to pay for thousands and thousands of mercenaries. Macedonia is the only power that can change the outcome of this conflict.’
‘And you have decided to go to war,’ concluded Parmenion.
‘With one proviso: if I win I want the Phocaeans’ seat and vote together with the presidency of the council of the sanctuary.’
Antipater and Parmenion understood that not only had the King already thought out his plan, but he would implement it whatever the cost and they made no attempt to dissuade him.
*
It was a long, bitter conflict with advances and reverses on both sides. Alexander was three years old when Philip was badly defeated for the first time ever and was forced to pull back his troops. His enemies accused him of fleeing, but Philip retorted: ‘I did not retreat, I only stepped back to take a better run up, lower my head and butt my opponent – like an angry ram.’
This was Philip. A man of incredible strength of spirit and determination, of indomitable vitality, with a sharp and restless mind. But men of this stamp grow to be ever more alone because they find themselves increasingly incapable of giving anything to those around them.
When Alexander began to be aware of what was happening around him, and when he realized who his father and mother were, he was about six years old. He already spoke with conviction and understood complex and difficult reasoning.
Whenever word reached him that his father was in the palace, he would slip out of the Queen’s rooms and walk to the chamber where Philip sat in council with his generals. They all seemed old to the boy, scarred as they were by the infinite number of battles they had survived, and yet they were little more than thirty years old, apart from Parmenion who was almost fifty and whose hair was almost completely white. Whenever Alexander saw the white-haired general he started chanting a rhyme he’d learned from Artemisia:
The silly old soldier’s off to the war
And falls to the floor, falls to the floor!
And then Alexander himself would tumble to the floor amidst the laughter and to the delight of onlookers.
But it was his own father Alexander observed most carefully, studying his bearing, the way he moved his hands and his eyes, the tone and timbre of his voice, the way in which he dominated the strongest and most powerful men of the realm with the power of his gaze alone.
Alexander would move closer while his father led a council – step by step, little by little – and when Philip reached the high point of his speech or his debate, Alexander would try to climb up onto his knees, as though he hoped that no one would notice at that critical moment.
Only then did Philip seem to be aware of his son and he would hold him close to his chest, without a pause, without losing the thread of his speech, but he saw that his generals changed their posture, he saw their eyes turn to the child and their expressions melt into a light smile, whatever the gravity of the topic he had been dealing with. And Parmenion would smile too, thinking of the rhyme and Alexander’s antics.
Then, just as he had arrived, the child would leave quietly. Sometimes he went to his room hoping that his father would come to him there. On other occasions, after waiting for a long time, he would go and sit on one of the palace balconies, staring at the horizon. He would remain there, speechless and motionless, under the spell of the immensity of sky and earth.
And when in those moments his mother approached quietly, she would see t
he shadow that darkened his left eye deepen slowly, almost as if a mysterious night were falling in the young Prince’s soul.
He was fascinated by weaponry, and more than once the maids found him in the armoury attempting to unsheathe one of the King’s heavy swords from its scabbard.
One day, while he was staring at a giant set of bronze armour that had belonged to his grandfather Amyntas III, Alexander sensed someone behind him. He turned and found himself in front of a tall, wiry man with a goatee beard and two deep, haunted eyes. He said his name was Leonidas and that he was to be his tutor.
‘Why?’ asked Alexander.
And that was only the first in a long series of questions that Leonidas would find himself unable to answer.
From then on Alexander’s life changed profoundly. He saw his mother and sister less often and saw more and more of his tutor. Leonidas began by teaching him the alphabet, and the following day he found the child writing his name correctly with the point of a stick in the ashes in the hearth.
He taught him to read and to count, things that Alexander learned quickly and easily, but without any particular interest. But when Leonidas began to tell him stories of gods and men, stories of the birth of the world, of the struggles of giants and titans, he saw Alexander’s face light up as he listened enrapt.
The child’s spirit inclined towards mystery and religion. One day Leonidas took Alexander to the temple of Apollo near Thermai and allowed him to offer incense to the statue of the god. Alexander took great handfuls and threw it on the brazier, but his teacher shouted at him: ‘Incense costs a fortune! You will be entitled to waste as much as you wish when you have conquered the countries that produce it.’
‘And where are these countries?’ asked the child to whom it seemed strange that one might have to be miserly where the gods were concerned. Then he asked, ‘Isn’t it true that my father is a great friend of the god Apollo?’
Child of a Dream Page 2