Alexander (Vol. 2)

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Alexander lifted his hand to interrupt. ‘It is already a masterpiece, Apelles. This is an example of your best work – anyone can imagine the rest.’

  Together they went to the banquet room where the dignitaries of the city were waiting for them, with the heads of the sacerdotal colleges and the King’s companions. Alexander had given orders not to overdo it with the banquet because he did not want the Ephesines to get the wrong idea about him and his friends. The ‘companions’ the Macedonians had brought with them limited their activities to playing musical instruments, and the wine was served in the Greek manner – one part wine and three parts water.

  Apelles and Lysippus, whose expertise and fame were recognized by all, were at the centre of conversation.

  ‘I heard a really good one recently!’ said Callisthenes, turning to Apelles. ‘The one about the portrait you made of King Philip.’

  ‘You did?’ replied Apelles. ‘Do tell me about it because right now I cannot remember it at all.’

  Everyone started laughing.

  ‘Well,’ Callisthenes said, ‘I’ll tell it just as it was told to me. Now then, King Philip sent for you because he wanted a portrait to hang in the sanctuary at Delphi, but he said, “Make me a bit more handsome . . . what I mean is, be sure to get me from my good side, without the missing eye, make me a bit taller, my hair a bit blacker, without pushing it too much of course, you understand.”’

  ‘It’s as if he were back here with us,’ laughed Eumenes, and then, imitating Philip’s deep voice, he said, ‘ “I don’t know, I call this great painter and then I have to tell him how to do everything?”’

  ‘Ah! Now I remember,’ said Apelles, laughing heartily. ‘That’s exactly what he said.’

  ‘Tell the rest of the story then!’ Callisthenes said.

  ‘No, no,’ the painter replied, ‘I’m enjoying myself too much listening to you.’

  ‘If you put it like that. Well then, the master painter finally completes his painting and he has it brought out into the courtyard in the full light so that his illustrious client can admire it. Whoever has been to Delphi will have seen it – beautiful, splendid! The King is depicted wearing his gold crown, his red cloak and sceptre, he almost seems to be the image of himself. “Do you like it, Sire?” Apelles asks him. Philip looks at it first from one side and then from the other – he doesn’t seem to be sure. “Do you want to know what I think?” he asks. “Of course, Sire,” says Apelles. “Well . . . in my opinion it doesn’t really look like me.” ’

  ‘That’s right, that’s it!’ said Apelles, laughing ever more heartily. ‘The fact is that by making his hair blacker, his beard neater, his complexion rosier, in the end it really didn’t look like him at all.’

  ‘So?’ Eumenes asked.

  ‘This is the good bit,’ Callisthenes started again, ‘if it’s a true story. Anyway, because the portrait was in the courtyard so that it could be admired in full light, at that moment one of the stable boys passed by, leading the King’s horse by the bridle. The animal, as it passed in front of the painting, began swishing its tail, shaking its head and neighing noisily, to the astonishment of all those present. Apelles looked first at the King, then at the horse, and then at the painting and in the end said, “Sire, may I now tell you what I think?” “By Zeus, of course,” the King replied. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but I am afraid your horse knows more about painting than you do.” ’

  ‘That’s just what I told him,’ laughed Apelles. ‘That’s exactly what happened.’

  ‘And what did he do?’ asked Hephaestion.

  ‘The King? He shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Ah! You’re always right. We’ll pay you for it just the same. Now that you’ve done it, I might as well keep it.’

  Everybody applauded, and Eumenes confirmed that Apelles had indeed been paid for the painting which everyone praised, even those who had never seen it.

  Apelles now felt himself to be truly at the centre of everyone’s attention and he continued to make the most of it, like a consummate theatrical actor.

  Alexander made his excuses, saying that the early rise that awaited him the following morning meant he had to retire. He was due to inspect the marine fortifications and he left the others to continue the evening with more wine, less watered down now, and new ‘companions’, a trifle more daring than the previous ones.

  When he entered his apartments he found Leptine waiting for him, holding a lamp burning with a warm light, but the girl herself was obviously annoyed about something. Alexander looked at her while she turned her back to lead him with the light through into the bedchamber and he simply couldn’t understand why she was so sullen, but he asked no questions.

  When the door of his bedchamber was opened, however, he understood everything. Pancaspe lay stretched out on his bed, naked and in a pose reminiscent of some mythical heroine – Danae¨, perhaps, waiting for the golden rain, or Leda waiting for the swan, he was not really sure which.

  The girl stood up, moved towards Alexander and proceeded to undress him, then she knelt down on the rug before him and started kissing his thighs and his belly.

  ‘Your ancestor Achilles’s weak point was his heel,’ she whispered as she lifted her eyes, subtly made up, to his face. ‘As for your weak point . . . let’s see if I still remember.’

  Alexander caressed her hair and smiled – she had spent so much time with Apelles she found it impossible to speak of anything without making some reference to mythology.

  12

  ALEXANDER LEFT EPHESUS ROUGHLY halfway through spring, his plan being to move on to Miletus. Lysippus, the King’s project vivid in his mind, set off towards Macedonia with written orders for the regent – Alexander asked Antipater to make sure the sculptor had everything he needed for the creation of the gigantic work.

  His first port of call was Athens, where he met Aristotle, who now held regular lessons in his Academy. The philosopher received Lysippus in a private room and had chilled wine served.

  ‘Our King has asked me to send his greetings and to pay homage to you, and to let you know that as soon as he is able, he will write you a long letter.’

  ‘I thank you. Echoes of his feats have not been slow in reaching us here in Athens. The three hundred sets of armour he sent to the Acropolis have attracted thousands of sightseers and word of the dedicatory inscription with its gibe at the Spartans has sped like the wind to the Pillars of Hercules – Alexander certainly knows how to make people talk about him.’

  ‘How are things here in Athens?’

  ‘Demosthenes still exerts considerable influence, but the King’s achievements have fired the people’s imaginations. Indeed, many of them have relatives who are with the military in Asia – the army or the navy – and this makes them tend towards a prudent political leadership. But we must not delude ourselves – should the King fall in battle there will be an immediate uprising and all his friends will be sought out door-to-door and arrested, and there is no doubt I will be the first. But tell me, how has Alexander behaved up to now?’

  ‘As far as I can say, with great equilibrium – he has been clement with his defeated enemies and in the cities he has gone no farther than re-establishing democracy, without demanding any change in organization.’

  Aristotle nodded gravely and stroked his beard as a sign of approval – the pupil was evidently putting into practice the teachings of his master. Then the philosopher stood up. ‘Would you care to see the Academy?’

  ‘With great pleasure,’ replied Lysippus as he followed.

  They went out into the internal portico and walked around the central courtyard, in the shadow of an elegant colonnade of Pentelic marble with Ionic capitals. In the middle there was a well with a low brick wall around its edge in which there was a deep groove worn by years of friction from the rope. A servant was hauling up a bucketful of water at that moment.

  ‘We have four slaves, two for cleaning and two for serving at table. We often have guests from other sch
ools and some of our pupils stay here with us for a time.’

  They then went through an arched doorway: ‘This is the political science sector, where we already hold the constitutions of more than one hundred and sixty cities in Greece, Asia, Africa and Italy. And here,’ he continued as they walked along a corridor on which there were other doors, ‘we have the naturalistic sector with collections of minerals, plants and insects. Finally, in this other area,’ he continued as he accompanied his guest into a large hall, ‘we have the rare animals collection. I had a taxidermist come from Egypt; he is an expert in sacred cats and crocodiles, and he works extremely quickly.’

  Lysippus looked around and was increasingly fascinated, not so much by the stuffed animals – snakes, crocodiles, vultures – as by the anatomical drawings, in which he recognized the skill of a consummate artist.

  ‘Obviously we have to be very much on our guard against forgeries and scams of all kinds,’ continued Aristotle. ‘Since word has spread of our collection, we have received the most outlandish offers – Pharaoh’s rats, basilisks and even centaurs and sirens.’

  ‘Centaurs and sirens?’ repeated Lysippus in amazement.

  ‘Precisely. And we are even invited to inspect these wonders before we purchase them.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘Elementary taxidermy. It is not by coincidence that the offers come for the most part from Egypt, where embalmers and taxidermists have thousands of years of experience. For these craftsmen sewing the torso of a man on to the body of a foal, ably concealing the stitches with skin and mane and then embalming everything is nothing at all. The end result of such masterful handiwork is really quite impressive, I assure you.’

  ‘I can well believe it.’

  Aristotle moved towards a window from which there was a view of Lycabettus, with its cover of pine trees, and in the background the Acropolis and the great mass of the Parthenon. ‘What will he do now, in your opinion?’

  Lysippus understood immediately that Aristotle had not stopped thinking about Alexander for even one instant.

  ‘All I know is that he will head south now, but no one knows his true intentions.’

  ‘He will go on,’ said the philosopher, turning towards the artist. ‘He will continue until he feels he can breathe freely and no one will be able to stop him.’

  *

  Apelles had stayed on alone at Ephesus, and was busy working on his big equestrian portrait of the King of Macedon. The King himself in the meantime had started off again on his march to Miletus.

  The painter had concentrated above all else on the head of Bucephalas, depicting it so realistically that it was as if the animal were about to leap out of the painting. Apelles wanted to astound his client, and he had already organized transport to take him to Alexander’s next camp together with the paintings, so that the King could admire the finished articles.

  He had dedicated a long time and much work of precision to depicting the bloody foam around the bit in the horse’s mouth, but he hadn’t managed to reach quite the right depth of colour. Pancaspe, who never shut up, drove him wild with rage – the initial joys of their falling in love had long since passed.

  ‘If you don’t shut that mouth of yours,’ shouted the exasperated painter, ‘I’ll never manage to finish this!’

  ‘But, dear . . .’ Pancaspe started again.

  ‘Enough!’ screamed Apelles, completely out of his mind as he threw a paint-sodden sponge at the painting. By some extraordinary miracle the sponge hit the painting just at the corner of Bucephalus’s mouth before it fell to the floor.

  ‘There you are,’ she whinged. ‘Happy now? You’ve ruined it! And I suppose it will all be my fault, won’t it?’

  But the painter was not listening. He walked incredulous towards his painting, his arms raised in a gesture of utter wonder. ‘It cannot be true,’ he murmured. ‘By the gods, it is not possible.’

  The mark of the sponge had rendered the bloody saliva on Bucephalas’s mouth with a realistic effect that no human ability could ever have equalled.

  ‘Oh, now . . .’ chirped Pancaspe as she too became aware of the miracle.

  Apelles turned towards her and lifted his index finger until it was almost touching her nose: ‘If you ever tell anyone about how this particular detail was achieved,’ and his finger moved slowly to point to the miraculous splash of colour, ‘I will personally bite that pretty little nose of yours off your head. Understand?’

  ‘Perfectly, my beloved,’ nodded Pancaspe as she gradually retreated from his menacing gaze.

  And she really did mean it at that precise moment, but discretion was certainly not the greatest of her virtues and within a day or two all the Ephesines came to know just how the great Apelles had painted the wonderful detail of the bloody foam around Bucephalas’s mouth.

  13

  THE COMMANDER OF THE garrison at Miletus, a Greek by the name of Eghesikratos, sent a message to Alexander in which he declared he was ready to hand the city over. Although the King had the army advance with the intention of taking possession, as a precautionary measure he sent a squadron of cavalry on ahead as scouts, across the river Meander, under the command of Craterus and Perdiccas.

  They forded the river and climbed up the slopes of Mount Latmus, but just as they went over the crest they stopped, dumbstruck at the incredible spectacle there before them – a fleet of warships was rounding the Miletus promontory, each of the vessels taking up position to close off the gulf.

  Behind the first group came others and then yet more, until the entire gulf was teeming with hundreds of ships and the sea boiled with the foam of thousands of oars cutting through it. Muffled by the distance, yet still distinct, came the booming of the drums that beat the rhythm for the rowers.

  ‘Oh, by the gods,’ murmured Perdiccas. ‘The Persian fleet!’

  ‘How many ships do you think there are?’ asked Craterus.

  ‘Hundreds . . . at least two, perhaps three hundred. And our fleet is on its way here – if they end up being taken by surprise in the gulf, they’ll be annihilated. We must get back as soon as possible and signal to Nearchus to stop. They outnumber us by at least two to one!’

  They turned their horses and went down the slope at a gallop, spurring them on towards the army on its march southwards.

  They reached their companions on the left-hand bank of the Meander and immediately went to the King, who together with Ptolemy and Hephaestion was supervising the passage of the cavalry across the bridge of boats that had been constructed by his engineers near the estuary.

  ‘Alexander!’ cried Craterus. ‘There are three hundred warships in the Gulf of Miletus. We have to stop Nearchus or they’ll sink our fleet!’

  ‘When did you see them?’ asked the King with a frown.

  ‘A short while ago . . . we had just reached the top of Mount Latmus when the first ones appeared and then others came, and yet more . . . there was no end to them. Enormous ships with four or five rows of oars.’

  ‘I even saw some of the eight-row reinforced types,’ added Perdiccas.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I am! And they’re equipped with bronze battering-rams at least one thousand pounds in weight.’

  ‘You have to stop our fleet, Alexander! Nearchus knows nothing of this and he is still on the other side of the Mycale promontory . . . he’ll end up sailing straight into the Persians if we don’t warn him.’

  ‘Keep calm,’ said the King, ‘there is still time.’ Then he turned to Callisthenes, who was sitting not far away on a small stool. ‘Give me a slate and a stylus.’

  Callisthenes provided the writing equipment and Alexander quickly wrote a few words and gestured to a horseman of his guard. ‘Take it immediately to the signalman on the Mycale promontory and tell him to send the message to our fleet straight away. Let’s hope it reaches them in time.’

  ‘I think it will,’ said Hephaestion, ‘the southerly wind that’s blowing helps the Persians com
ing up from the south, but it’s against our ships coming from the north.’

  The horseman set off at a gallop across the bridge of boats in the opposite direction to the flow of soldiers, crying out for everyone to clear the way, then he gave the horse free rein and spurred it on up the slopes of the Mycale headland. Stationed up there was a group of surveyors who were observing Nearchus’s fleet off to the north. They were equipped with a mirror-like polished shield for sending signals.

  ‘The King sends orders for this message to be sent without delay,’ he said, handing over the slate. ‘The Persian fleet is in the Gulf of Miletus – three hundred warships.’

  The signalman studied the sky and saw a cloud advancing from the south, driven forwards by the wind. ‘I cannot send it just yet, we must wait for that cloud to pass by. Look, it’s blocking out the sun as we speak.’

  ‘Damnation!’ swore the horseman. ‘Why don’t you try with flags?’

  ‘They’re too far away,’ the signalman explained, ‘they wouldn’t be able to see us. We have to be patient – it won’t take long.’ Indeed, the shadow of the cloud now covered the headland, while the fleet proceeded in full sunlight, all lined up neatly behind Nearchus’s flagship.

  The cloud seemed to stop moving completely and the fleet approached the western point of the headland and began moving out towards starboard, ready to round it.

  Finally the sun reappeared from behind the last fringe of cloud and the surveyors straightaway began signalling. The message was transmitted almost immediately, but the fleet continued forwards towards the headland.

  ‘But have they seen us?’ asked the horseman.

  ‘I hope so,’ replied the signalman.

  ‘Then why don’t they stop?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Signal again then, quickly!’

  The surveyors tried again.

  ‘By Zeus! Why don’t they respond?’