Child of a Dream
Page 34
‘What does that mean?’
Olympias turned towards the window as if searching for images and memories among the stars or on the face of the moon. ‘Once, before you were born, I dreamed that a god had touched me as I slept alongside your father in our bed chamber and one day, at Dodona, while I was expecting you, the wind that blew through the branches of the sacred oaks whispered me your name
Aléxandros.
‘There are some men born of mortal women whose destinies are different from those of ordinary mortals, and you are one of these, my son, I am sure of it. I have always felt it is a privilege to be your mother, but saying farewell to you is no less bitter for that.’
‘Neither is it for me, Mother. I lost my father recently, remember? And someone has told me that you were seen placing a garland around the neck of the assassin.’
‘That man avenged the cruel humiliations that Philip had inflicted upon me, and by his actions he also made you King.’
‘That man was carrying out someone else’s orders. Why don’t you put a garland of flowers around that person’s neck too?’
‘Because I don’t know who that person is.’
‘But sooner or later I will find out, and I will nail him to a pole.’
‘And if your real father was a god?’
Alexander closed his eyes and saw Philip once more, falling into a lake of blood, he saw him collapse slowly as in a dream and he could clearly distinguish every crease that the pain wrote so cruelly on his father’s face before it killed him. He felt burning tears come welling up in his eyes.
‘If my father is a god then one day I will meet him. But certainly he will never be able to do for me what Philip did. I have offered sacrifices to his wrathful shadow, Mother.’
Olympias looked out to the sky and said, ‘The Oracle at Dodona gave an omen for your birth. Another oracle, in the midst of a burning desert, will presage another birth for you, for a new life that will never perish.’ Then she turned and suddenly threw herself into his arms. ‘Think of me, my son. For I will think of you every single day and every single night. My spirit will shield you in battle, heal your wounds, lead you through the dark, defeat all malign influences, salve your fevers. I love you, Alexander, more than anything in this world.’
‘I love you too, Mother, and I will think of you every day. And now let us take our leave, because we set out before dawn.’
Olympias kissed him on the cheeks, on his eyelids and on his forehead and she continued to embrace him as though she simply could not bear to let go.
Alexander extricated himself gently from the embrace with one last kiss and said, ‘Farewell, Mother. Take good care.’
Olympias nodded while copious tears ran down her cheeks. And only when the King’s steps had faded into the distance of the palace corridors did she manage to murmur:
‘Farewell, Aléxandre.’
She stayed up all night just to see him one last time from her balcony. He put on his armour by torchlight, fitted his crested helmet, strapped his sword to his side, slipped his arm through the straps of his shield which bore the golden star of Argead. All of this while Bucephalas neighed and stamped impatiently and Peritas barked desperately as he tried to break free of his chain.
And Olympias stood there immobile watching her son as he sped off astride his stallion. She waited until the last echo of his gallop disappeared far off, swallowed up by the darkness.
49
ADMIRAL NEARCHUS gave orders for the royal standard to be raised and the trumpets to sound, and the great quin-quereme slipped smoothly through the waves. At the base of the main mast, in the centre of the deck, the gigantic drum of Chaeronaea had been fitted and four men beat the rhythm of the rowing with enormous mallets wrapped in leather. The thumping noise was carried on the wind and reached all the fleet as it followed behind.
Alexander stood at the bow wearing armour covered with silver laminate and on his head was a shining helmet of the same metal, but in the shape of a lion’s head with its jaws wide open. His greaves bore an embossed pattern and he carried a sword with an ivory hilt which had belonged to his father. In his right hand he gripped a spear with an ash-wood shaft and a head of gold; it flashed light at his every movement, like Zeus’s thunderbolt.
The King seemed intent on his dream and he stood there letting the brackish wind and the clear light of the sun caress his face, while all his men, from each of the one hundred and fifty ships of the fleet, kept their gaze firmly on the resplendent figure on the prow of the flagship. He looked like a statue of a god.
But suddenly he heard something and he cupped his hand to his ear. He turned round, worried, as if looking for something. Nearchus came closer. ‘What is it, Sire?’
‘Listen . . . can’t you hear it as well?’
Nearchus shook his head. ‘I can’t hear anything, Sire.’
‘Yes . . . listen. It’s like . . . but it can’t possibly be.’
He came down off the prow and walked along the gunnels until he heard, clearer now, but increasingly weak, the barking of a dog. He looked back into the foamy waves and saw Peritas swimming desperately, on the verge of going under. He shouted, ‘It’s my dog! It’s Peritas, save him! Save him, by Hercules!’
Three sailors dived in immediately, tied ropes around the animal and hauled him aboard the ship.
He lay almost lifeless on the deck and Alexander, deeply moved, knelt next to him, petting and caressing his faithful dog. There was still a piece of chain around his neck and his paws were bleeding from the long journey.
‘Peritas, Peritas,’ he called, ‘don’t die.’
‘Don’t you worry, Sire,’ reassured an army vet who had hurried to offer assistance. ‘He’ll make it. He’s just half-dead from exhaustion.’
When the sun’s rays had dried and warmed him, Peritas began to show some signs of life and it wasn’t long before he was making himself heard once more. As the dog barked, Nearchus put his hand on the King’s shoulder, ‘Sire . . . Asia.’
Alexander started and ran to the prow. Ahead loomed the Asian coast, marked by small bays and dotted with villages nestling up in wooded hills and arranged around sunny beaches.
‘We are preparing to land,’ Nearchus added, while the sailors lowered the sail and made the anchor ready.
The ship continued forwards, cutting through the foamy waves with its big bronze rostrum, and Alexander looked intently at the land which was now ever closer, as if the dream he had cherished for so long was about to become reality.
The captain shouted, ‘Ship oars!’
And the rowers raised the dripping oars from the water, letting the craft slide under its own momentum towards the coast. When they were close to, Alexander grasped his spear, took a run up along the deck and let it fly with all his might.
The pointed shaft glided through the air in a wide arc, glinting in the sun like a meteor, then the golden head turned and plummeted straight earthward, gaining speed all the way until suddenly it landed and stuck deep, vibrating, in Asia.
ALEXANDER: CHILD OF A DREAM
VALERIO MASSIMO MANFREDI is professor of classical archaeology at Luigi Bocconi University in Milan. Further to numerous academic publications, he has published thirteen works of fiction, including the Alexander trilogy, which has been translated into thirty-four languages in fifty-five countries. His novel The Last Legion was released as a major motion picture. He has written and hosted documentaries on the ancient world and has written screenplays for cinema and television.
IAIN HALLIDAY was born in Scotland in 1960. He took a degree in American Studies at the University of Manchester and worked in Italy and London before moving to Sicily, where he now lives. As well as working as a translator, he currently teaches English at the University of Catania.
Also by Valerio Massimo Manfredi
ALEXANDER: THE SANDS OF AMMON
ALEXANDER: THE ENDS OF THE EARTH
SPARTAN
THE LAST LEGION
HEROES
(formerly The Talisman of Troy)
TYRANT
THE ORACLE
EMPIRE OF DRAGONS
THE TOWER
PHARAOH
THE LOST ARMY
THE IDES OF MARCH
TO CHRISTINE
ALEXANDER
CHILD OF A DREAM
PROLOGUE
THE FOUR MAGI slowly climbed the paths that led to the summit of the Mountain of Light. They came from the four corners of the horizon, each carrying a satchel containing fragrant wood for the rite of fire.
The Wise Man of Sunrise wore a cloak of pink silk that shaded into blue and his feet were clad with deerskin sandals. The Wise Man of Sunset wore a crimson gown streaked with gold and from his shoulders hung a long stole made of byssus and embroidered in the same colours.
The Wise Man of Midday had a purple tunic decorated with golden ears of wheat and wore snakeskin slippers. The last of them, the Wise Man of the Night, was dressed in black wool woven from the fleece of unborn lambs and dotted with silver stars.
They moved as though the rhythm of their walk were marked by a music that only they could hear and they approached the temple at the same pace, covering equal distances even though the first was climbing a rocky slope, the next was walking along a level path and the last two progressed along the sandy beds of dried-up rivers.
They reached the four entrances of the stone tower at the same instant, just as dawn draped the immense deserted landscape of the plateau in pearly light.
They bowed and looked into one another’s faces through the four entrance arches, and then they moved towards the altar. The Wise Man of Sunrise began the rite, arranging sandalwood branches in a square; next came the Wise Man of Midday who added, diagonally, bundles of acacia twigs. Onto this base the Wise Man of Sunset heaped cedar wood, gathered in the forest of Mount Lebanon and stripped of its bark. Last of all the Wise Man of the Night laid branches of seasoned Caucasian oak, lightning-struck wood dried in the highland sun. Then all four drew their sacred flints from their satchels and together they struck blue sparks at the base of the small pyramid until the fire began to burn – weak at first, faltering, then ever stronger and more vigorous: the vermilion tongues becoming blue and then almost white, just like the Celestial Fire, like the supernal breath of Ahura Mazda, God of Truth and Glory, Lord of Time and Life.
Only the pure voice of the fire murmured its arcane poetry within the great stone tower. Not even the breathing of the four men standing motionless at the very centre of their vast homeland could be heard.
They watched on enrapt as the sacred flame took shape from the simple architecture of the branches arranged on the stone altar. They stared into that most pure light, into that wonderful dance of fire, lifting their prayer for the people and for the King: the Great King, the King of Kings who sat far away in the splendid hall in his palace, the timeless Persepolis, in the midst of a forest of columns painted purple and gold, guarded by winged bulls and lions rampant.
The air, at that hour of the morning, in that magic and solitary place, was completely still, just as it had to be for the Celestial Fire to assume the forms and the motions of its divine nature. It was this nature which drove the flames ever higher towards the Empyrean, their original source.
But suddenly a powerful force breathed over the flames and quenched them; as the Magi watched on in astonishment, even the red embers were suddenly transformed into black charcoal.
There was no other sign, not a sound except the screech of a falcon rising up into the empty sky; neither were there any words. The four men stood dumbstruck at the altar, stricken by this most sad omen, tears welling in silence.
*
At that same moment, far away in a remote western land, a young woman trembled as she approached the oaks of an ancient sanctuary. She had come to request a blessing for the child she now felt move for the first time in her womb. The woman’s name was Olympias. The name of her child came on the wind that blew impatiently through the age-old branches, stirring the dead leaves round the bases of the giant trunks. The name was:
ALÉXANDROS
ENDNOTES
Chapter 6
*The Odyssey, Book XI (translated by Robert Fitzgerald).
Chapter 7
*Sappho, fragment 168.
Chapter 34
* Diodorus Siculus, XVI.91.2.
Chapter 43
* Diodorus Siculus, XVII.10.3.
First published 2001 by Macmillan
This edition published 2001 by Pan Books
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Copyright © Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A. 1998 Translation copyright © Macmillan 2001 Originally published in Italian 1998 as Alexandros: Il Figlio Del Sogno by Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A. Milano
The right of Valerio Massimo Manfredi to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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