Alexander (Vol. 2)

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Leptine sent everyone away, made sure he was comfortable, and stretched out next to him, to keep him warm in the cold autumn evening.

  He was awoken the following day by the sound of desperate crying coming from a nearby tent. Instinctively he put his foot to the ground and immediately his face contracted in a grimace of pain. The leg was painful, but the drainage Philip had effected with a silver cannula had minimized the swelling. Alexander was weak, but he was still able to move and to ignore the orders of his doctor, who had told him not to move for seven days.

  He had himself dressed quickly and without even eating a thing he went out, limping, to discover the source of the crying. Hephaestion, who had slept in the entrance with Peritas, came close and offered him his arm, which Alexander declined. ‘What has happened?’ he asked. ‘What is all this crying?’

  ‘In that tent over there is the Queen Mother, Darius’s wife and some of his three hundred and sixty-five concubines. The others are all at Damascus. They have seen Darius’s war chariot, his gown and his quiver and they all think he’s dead.’

  ‘We must go to put their minds at rest then.’

  He had himself announced by one of the eunuchs so as not to create too much embarrassment and they entered together. The Queen Mother, whose face was wet with tears and dirty with streaks of bistre make-up, had a moment of panic and threw herself at Hephaestion’s feet, thinking he was the King, he being the taller and more imposing of the two. The eunuch, who had understood the situation, went pale and murmured to her in Persian that the King was in fact the other one.

  The Queen shook her head in confusion and prostrated herself before Alexander, wailing even more loudly now and begging him to excuse her, but the King bent over and helped her up on to her feet and, while the eunuch translated into her language, said, ‘It matters not, my Lady, for he, too, is Alexander.’ And, seeing that she was beginning to feel somewhat less disconsolate, added, ‘Please do not cry and do not despair. Darius is alive. He abandoned the chariot and the royal cloak and fled on horseback to be lighter and faster. He is certainly safe now.’

  The Queen Mother bowed once more to take his hand and would not stop kissing it. The Great King’s wife approached to pay the same homage and Alexander was struck by her incredible beauty. But then, looking around, he realized that all the other women were stupendous, so much so that he whispered in Hephaestion’s ear, ‘By Zeus, these women really are a sight for sore eyes!’ But it was clear that he was looking for one woman in particular.

  ‘Are there no other women in the camp?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ replied Hephaestion.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely certain.’ And then, believing he had detected a slight air of disappointment from his friend, he added, ‘But the Great King’s full entourage is at Damascus. Perhaps you will find whoever you are looking for there.’

  ‘I am not looking for anyone,’ replied Alexander brusquely. Then he turned to the eunuch. ‘Tell the Queen Mother, Darius’s wife and all the others that they will be treated with every respect and that they have nothing to fear. They may ask us whatever they require and, if we can, we will provide it.’

  ‘The Queen and the Queen Mother thank you, Sire,’ the eunuch translated, ‘and for your clemency and your good heart they ask for you a blessing from Ahura Mazda.’

  Alexander nodded and then left, followed by Hephaestion. Outside he gave orders for those who had fallen in battle to be gathered up and for their funeral rites to be celebrated.

  That evening Callisthenes wrote in his work that only three hundred and nine Macedonians had perished, but the real figure was much more bitter, and the King limped his way among the horribly mutilated and ravaged corpses and realized that there were in fact thousands of them. The greatest number of losses had been at the centre, at the point where the Macedonians had come face-to-face with the Greek mercenaries.

  Many trees were cut down from the surrounding hills and giant funeral pyres were built. The bodies were burned before the assembled army. And when the funerals had been completed, Alexander inspected his soldiers with a red standard paraded before him, the bandage on his thigh clearly visible, the stains on it of the same bright colour as the flag. He had words of praise and encouragement for all the units, and also for the men who had fought with valour alongside him. He gave personal gifts to many of them, objects which they might keep as souvenirs.

  At the end he shouted, ‘I am proud of you, men! You have defeated the most powerful army on earth. No Greek or Macedonian has ever conquered such vast territory! You are the best, you are invincible – there is no power in the world which can withstand your force!’

  The soldiers responded with a chorus of frenetic shouting, while the wind dispersed the ashes of their fallen companions and carried myriad sparks up towards the grey autumn sky.

  When evening came Alexander had someone lead him to the Persian prisoner whose life he had spared on the battlefield. As soon as Alexander saw him sitting on the ground, bound hand and foot, he kneeled down alongside and undid the ropes. Then he asked him, using gestures as well, ‘Do you remember me?’

  The man understood and nodded.

  ‘You saved my life.’

  The soldier smiled and explained that he remembered there being another young man with Alexander on the lion hunt.

  ‘Hephaestion,’ said Alexander. ‘He is around here somewhere. He is still alive.’

  The man smiled again.

  ‘You are free,’ said Alexander, accompanying his words with an eloquent gesture. ‘You may return to your people and to your King.’

  The soldier seemed not to have understood, so the King had a horse brought and put the reins in his hands. ‘You may go. There must be someone waiting for you at home. Children perhaps?’ he asked, indicating with his hand, palm downwards, the height of the supposed child.

  The man lifted the hand to an adult height and Alexander smiled, ‘Yes. Of course, time passes.’

  The Persian looked into Alexander’s eyes with a grave and intense look and his black eyes shone with emotion as he brought his hand to his heart and then touched Alexander’s chest.

  ‘Go now,’ said the King, ‘before it is pitch dark.’

  The soldier murmured something in his own tongue, then leaped on to the horse and disappeared into the distance.

  That same night the Egyptian Sisines was found in the camp, the man who the year previously had had Prince Amyntas of Lyncestis imprisoned, leading everyone to think that he had perhaps been bribed by Darius to kill Alexander and take his place on the throne. Ptolemy organized a brief trial and identified him beyond any doubt as a Persian spy, but before having him executed he sent for Callisthenes, because he was sure the historian would like to ask him some questions.

  As soon as the Egyptian saw him he threw himself at his feet, ‘Please have mercy on me! The Persians took me prisoner to make me give them information regarding your army, but I didn’t tell them a thing, I have no . . .’

  Callisthenes stopped him with a simple gesture. ‘Undoubtedly the Persians treat their prisoners remarkably well, since you had a most luxurious tent, two slaves and three handmaids. And where are the signs of the torture they inflicted upon you? You look most healthy to me. A trifle pale perhaps.’

  ‘But I . . .’

  ‘Your only chance of saving your hide is to speak,’ the historian threatened. ‘I want to know everything, especially all about that business with Prince Amyntas – Darius’s letter, the money he had promised for killing Alexander and so on.’

  Some colour came back into Sisines’s face, ‘My most illustrious friend,’ he began. ‘I had no intention of revealing the most secret and most delicate facets of my work, but since my life is at stake, I nevertheless am forced most reluctantly to . . .’ Callisthenes gestured to let him know that he had no time to waste. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I can demonstrate to you that I have done no more and no less than serve faithfully the Macedoni
an throne: the whole story was invented on orders from Olympias, the Queen Mother.’

  Callisthenes immediately thought of the taste of the ink he had found on that letter, a most familiar taste. ‘Continue,’ he said.

  ‘Well, Olympias was concerned that Amyntas might become a threat to her son Alexander sooner or later. Her boy, who is so far away, in foreign lands, exposed to all sorts of risks. What would happen if Alexander suffered a defeat? The troops might proclaim Amyntas King, obtaining in exchange an end to the campaign and their immediate return to the homeland with the prospect of a much easier life. She therefore had the letter written by a Persian slave that Philip had given her as a gift, and in order to achieve a convincing reproduction of the formulas of Persian diplomacy, she had the barbarian seals copied perfectly from examples in the palace archives and honoured me by entrusting me with the job of . . .’

  ‘I understand,’ Callisthenes cut him short, ‘but what about the Persian messenger?’

  Sisines cleared his throat. ‘My delicate role has often necessarily led me into Persian circles where I have many influential friends. It was not so difficult for me to persuade the governor of Nisibis to lend me a Persian orderly and to give him the job of delivering a document.’

  ‘Neither was it difficult to eliminate the messenger with poison when you were afraid he might speak.’

  ‘It is always best to be sure of everything,’ replied the Egyptian impassibly. ‘Even though that poor man did not really have very much to say.’

  Callisthenes thought to himself: This way, you are the only one holding the truth, but what exactly is that truth? And he said immediately, ‘All of this explains many things, but it does not explain your presence here, surrounded by luxuries and diversions of all kinds. In truth there is nothing to stop us from believing the letter to be authentic.’

  ‘I agree with you that this might just be a possibility worth evaluating.’

  The historian was silent again as he thought to himself about the possibility that the Great King really had sought to bribe Amyntas, but there was no proof that the prince had accepted, apart from Sisines’s insinuations. At that moment he decided it was time for him to take the responsibility for a decisive move in this matter. He lifted his eyes and looked Sisines straight in the face. ‘The best thing for all concerned is for you to tell me the truth. You are a Macedonian informer found in a Persian camp in a compromising situation. Ptolemy has no doubts that you are a spy.’

  ‘My noble Lord,’ replied the Egyptian, ‘I thank the gods that they have sent such an intelligent and reasonable man with whom it is possible to discuss matters in a realistic manner. I have a considerable quantity of money deposited at Sidon, and, if we can reach some agreement, I will provide you with a version of the facts with which you might be able to convince Commander Ptolemy.’

  ‘The best thing for everyone is if you tell me the truth,’ repeated Callisthenes without taking the bait.

  ‘Let’s just say that I decided to go self-employed and, given my contacts, the Great King thought I might be able to return to Anatolia and convince the governors of a few cities to reopen their harbours to the Persian fleet and . . .’

  ‘And cut us off from Macedon.’

  ‘Would fifteen talents be enough to persuade you of my innocence?’

  The historian stared at him with an inscrutable look on his face.

  ‘And another twenty for Commander Ptolemy?’

  Callisthenes hesitated slightly before replying, ‘I think that will do fine.’ Then he left the tent and went straight to Ptolemy.

  ‘The quicker you do it, the better for all concerned,’ Callisthenes said. ‘Apart from being a spy, he also holds a certain number of rather embarrassing secrets regarding the Queen Mother and . . .’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Ptolemy. ‘Not another word. What’s more, I’ve never really liked Egyptians.’

  ‘You might have to rethink that one,’ replied Callisthenes. ‘Before long you’ll be meeting lots of them. Rumour has it that Alexander wants to take Egypt.’

  51

  FROM DAMASCUS, WHERE HE had been ordered to march as quickly as possible, Parmenion sent a message saying he had occupied the royal quarters and taken possession of the Great King’s monetary reserves and his entourage:

  Two thousand six hundred silver talents in coin and five hundred minae in ingots, more than three hundred and fifty concubines, three hundred and twenty-nine flute and harp players, three hundred cooks, seventy wine-tasters, thirteen confectioners and forty perfume makers.

  ‘By Zeus!’ exclaimed Alexander when he had finished reading. ‘That is what I call living!’

  ‘I also have a personal message to relay to you orally,’ added the messenger after the King had rolled up the letter.

  ‘Speak. What is it?’

  ‘General Parmenion wants you to know that there is a noblewoman in Damascus who will come back with him together with her two children. Her name is Barsine.’

  Alexander shook his head as though unable to believe what he had just been told. ‘It’s not possible,’ he murmured.

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied the messenger. ‘The general told me that an old soldier will bring you the password, if you don’t . . .’

  ‘I see,’ Alexander interrupted. ‘I see now. You may go.’

  *

  Eight days went by before he saw her, a period which passed as slowly as an eternity. His head spun as he watched her ride by on horseback in the midst of the soldiers, in the procession of the royal entourage, surrounded by two rows of hetairoi from Parmenion’s guard. She was wearing Scythian trousers made of leather and a grey felt jacket, her hair was gathered up at the back of her neck, held in place with two pins, and she was, although it seemed impossible, yet more beautiful than she had been when they first met.

  Her face had acquired a slight pallor and her features were sharper now, so that those great dark eyes stood out even more and shone with an intense, vibrant light, as bright as the stars.

  He went to her much later on, when the camp was already steeped in the silence of the first watch. He wore only a short military chiton, on his shoulders he carried a cloak of grey wool, and he had his arrival announced by a handmaid.

  She had taken a bath and had changed her clothes – now she wore a long Persian gown which reached her feet and which clung lightly to her figure. Her tent smelled of lavender.

  ‘My Lord,’ she murmured, lowering her head.

  ‘Barsine . . .’

  Alexander moved a few steps closer. ‘I have been waiting for this moment since the last time I saw you.’

  ‘My soul is full of grief.’

  ‘I know – you have lost your husband.’

  ‘The best of men, the most affectionate father, the sweetest husband.’

  ‘He was the only enemy I have ever respected, and perhaps the only one I have ever feared.’

  Barsine kept her eyes low because she well knew that she was Alexander’s prey now, she knew that the enemy’s woman was the most prized reward for the victor who had fought through the pain and the wounds, the fatigue and the horror of the blood, the shouting, the massacre. But she had also been told that this young man had displayed pity and respect for the old Queen Mother, for Darius’s wife and his children.

  Alexander put out his hand and gently touched her chin, lifting her head so that he looked into her gaze and the changing colours of her eyes. He saw the intense blue of a clear sky, the blue that had been there in Memnon’s eyes. He also saw the dark colour of death and the night and he felt himself being drawn in, as though into a dizzying vortex, as though he had looked upon a god or some creature of fantasy.

  ‘Barsine . . .’ Alexander repeated her name, and the sound of his voice vibrated with the deepest passion, a burning desire.

  ‘You may do with me what you will, you are the victor, but I will always have the image of Memnon before my eyes.’

  ‘The dead live with the dead,’ replied the
King. ‘I am before your eyes now and this time I will not let you go because I have seen in your eyes that you want to forget death. And this time I am life for you. Look at me. Look at me, Barsine, and tell me that I am wrong.’

  Barsine did not reply, but she looked him straight in the eyes with an expression that was both despair and confusion at one and the same time. Two enormous tears shone in her eyelashes like the purest springwater; slowly they ran down her cheeks and stopped to moisten her lips. Alexander moved closer until he could feel her breath on his face, until he felt her breasts against his chest.

  ‘You will be mine,’ he whispered. Then he turned suddenly and left. A moment later there came the sound of Bucephalas neighing, an excited drumming of hooves and then the hammering of a reckless gallop that tore through the silence of the night.

  *

  The following day Callisthenes received another letter in code from his uncle. It arrived with the messenger who brought mail from Antipater in Macedonia.

  I have discovered the whereabouts of the daughter of the man who calls himself Nicander, Pausanias’s accomplice in the assassination of Philip. The child is under the protection of the priests in the temple of Artemis on the border with Thrace. But the priest is of Persian origin, a relative of the Satrap of Bithynia, who in the past has sent money and fine gifts for the sanctuary. This makes me think that Darius himself is connected with the killing of Philip and, unbeknownst to anyone, I have been able to read a letter which is kept in the temple and which would seem to suggest that this hypothesis is most likely.