Conquest of Persia

by Alexander Geiger

  Kassandros did not idly acquiesce in Olympias’s disruption of his spy network. Frequently, soldiers arriving for their regular nocturnal assignations found their favorite means of erotic relief lying in pools of blood, with their throats slashed. Olympias herself was confined to the women’s quarter, with guards posted at the entrance. They had strict orders not to admit anyone without written authorization bearing Kassandros’s seal. In short order, Olympias found means to suborn the guards. And so the deadly dance continued.

  *******

  Alexandros, still basking in the warm Egyptian sun and the heady afterglow of his recent coronation, was nevertheless frustrated. He wanted to continue our voyage up the Nile, all the way to Thebes, the ancient former capital. “I should’ve been crowned in the Southern Temple at Thebes. That’s where all the pharaohs used to be crowned. Plus, I’m told the Karnak Temple Complex is much larger than anything here in Memphis. And then there’s the Valley of the Kings, where all the previous pharaohs are buried. We definitely have to go there.”

  “The Southern Temple is in disrepair, my lord,” a Greek-speaking priest informed him. “Although they still hold the annual Opet Festival there, it’s been a long time since they’ve held an actual coronation ceremony. Most pharaohs, if they’re interested in a ceremony at the Southern Temple at all, get crowned by proxy. And we could certainly do that for you, my lord.”

  “But I like to see things for myself,” Alexandros protested.

  In the end, it was the added travel time that dissuaded our indefatigable explorer from pressing ahead. Thebes lay another 400 miles farther south and, other than Alexandros’s insatiable curiosity (and perhaps his enjoyment of risible rituals), there was no rational justification for expending three more precious months on this detour. Reluctantly, Alexandros bowed to practicality. He sent a sizeable donation to the priests in charge of the Southern Temple, instructed them to effect all necessary repairs, to crown him by proxy during the next festival, and to erect a monument within the sacred precinct commemorating his donation and coronation. His instructions were in fact carried out to the letter.

  And instead of spending three months traveling to Thebes and back, he took one day to visit the monuments at Memphis. For some reason he chose me as his sightseeing companion.

  It was a long day. We walked the entire length of the necropolis, four miles there, four miles back, without missing a single pyramid, funerary monument, or sepulcher. And of course, to the extent that some of them had been re-opened to corporeal visitors, as opposed to gods and ghosts, we had to crawl into each one. It was a remarkably eclectic burial ground. There were, according to our guides, mummies of kings and queens but also their spouses, high priests, middling officials, and assorted other people rich enough to afford the cost of being interred in a stone monument, whether large or small. The creepily echoing galleries in which they reposed were highly decorated and came furnished with all the necessities of afterlife, including funerary equipment, death masks, official regalia, weapons, cooking and eating utensils, idols and other objects of worship, boxes and chests, toys and figurines, model boats and chariots, lamps, changes of clothes, jewelry, slaves (mummified), and household pets (also mummified). But the necropolis was not limited to people. There were lots of animal tombs, filled with mummified ibises, baboons, cats, dogs, falcons, and, lest we forget, bulls. Of course, these hadn’t been ordinary animals prior to their departure from our mortal coil. They had been temporal incarnations of immortal, albeit bestial, gods, worshipped during their lifetimes and suitably interred after their return to the netherworld.

  The oldest tomb at Saqqara, to hear our guides tell it, was the Step Pyramid of Djoser. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a pyramid at all because it had a rectangular base and started out as nothing more than a huge, coffin-shaped box, about 400 feet long, 360 feet wide, and 40 feet high, which was supposed to house old Djoser’s sarcophagus. It was, at that time, the largest stone structure built by man. However, according to legend, the architect of the tomb, a man named Imhotep, who was also Djoser’s chief minister, high priest, physician, engineer, and all-around factotum, then hit upon the idea of outdoing his own grandiose design by placing a second, somewhat smaller coffin-shaped box on top of the first one. This worked so well that he decided to add another, and another, until there were six rectangular prisms of diminishing size on top of each other, making Djoser’s tomb 200 feet tall and giving it its characteristic staircase profile. He then clad the entire structure in gleaming polished white limestone, which still shimmered in our day.

  “How old is it?” Alexandros wanted to know. Our guides asserted that it was 3,000 years old. Alexandros turned to me as the font of all historical knowledge for confirmation. I knew from my studies that in my own time it was about 4,800 years old. Since I had traveled back 2,400 years, the correct figure for the age of Djoser’s Step Pyramid at that time was 2,400 years. I was struck by the coincidence. Imagine traveling back in time twice as far as it took me to reach ancient Greece, I thought. Old Djoser and his brilliant polymath Imhotep were as long removed from Alexandros’s time as he was from my own native era. So, the priests were a little off in their estimate of the antiquity of Djoser’s Step Pyramid but I chose not to quibble with them, simply nodding to confirm their figure. I did, however, marvel at the durability of this simple structure, which had inspired all subsequent Egyptian pyramids.

  “It was the first one,” one of the priests continued, “but it’s far from the largest. The Pyramid of Khufu is the biggest, almost 500 feet high.”

  “Where is that one?” Alexandros immediately asked. Fortunately, it was too far to walk but the priests assured us that we would see it, along with its companions, when we sailed back down the Nile. “How did you not see it coming upriver to Memphis?”

  “I may have been otherwise occupied,” Alexandros admitted sheepishly.

  “Well, you can’t miss it on the way back.” It turned out that the priests were right. Standing fifty stories high, its highly polished white limestone casing gleaming in the stark Egyptian sunshine, it tended to attract one’s attention.

  I noticed, when we started our voyage back to the delta, that Alexandros and Barsine were seated on the deck of their barge, looking portside, making sure they wouldn’t miss the great pyramids this time around.

  *******

  Sailing downstream and aided by a favorable breeze, our flotilla reached the apex of the Nile delta in less than two days. After a night at anchor, we headed down the westernmost arm of the mighty river. Alexandros’s plan was to visit Naukratis, a port located about half-way down this branch, before making our way to the Mediterranean and returning to Pelousion.

  Surprisingly, our reception at Naukratis was less effusive than it had been at our other Egyptian ports of call. Naukratis was inhabited mostly by Greeks. Ordinary Egyptians – after decades of Persian contempt for their religious beliefs, repression of their culture, and exploitation of their labor and natural resources – greeted Alexandros as their liberator, happy to bestow on him whatever earthly and divine honors they could devise. The Greek colonists, by contrast, were somewhat ambivalent in their reactions to Alexandros. He was, on the one hand, the liberator of Ionia but he was also, in the eyes of many Greeks, the conqueror of mainland Greece.

  A difference in national character may have been at work as well. Egyptians were used to treating their leaders as gods on Earth and to being treated as slaves in return. Their religious beliefs emphasized the ephemeral nature of life in the present world and stressed the promise of eternal life in the afterworld. The rhythms of their existence were dictated by the vagaries of a river; their welfare and their very lives depended on the whims of unseen forces, unpredictable spirits, and unfathomable gods; like grains of sand in the desert blown about by winds and carried off by floods, they toiled, worshipped, and died, pushed around by the caprice of forces beyond their control or understanding. The Greeks, on the other hand, had an implicit faith in th
e power of rational thought. Their gods were a lot like ordinary people, except for the minor detail of their immortality. Even the actions of the gods, and hence the forces of nature, could be understood and explained, if only one knew enough, thought hard enough, and was smart enough. Most importantly, people were autonomous actors, responsible for their actions, but also endowed with the dignity that is the birthright of every human being. (Well, the birthright of every free adult male Greek human being.) The Egyptians lavished adulation on Alexandros and his entire army. The Greeks debated amongst themselves how best to respond to this latest twist in the story of their lives.

  According to Herodotos, Naukratis had been founded by Greek traders from twelve different places: Ionians from Samos, Miletos, Chios, Teos, Phokaia and Klazomenai; Dorians from Rhodos, Knidos, Halikarnassos and Phaselis; Aiolians from Mytilene on Lesbos and the people of Aigina, the island close to Athens. They wanted to establish a safe, protected emporion (their word for a trading post) for seaborne commerce to and from Egypt. For a long time, it was the only port of entry into Egypt sanctioned by the pharaohs. By the time of our visit, other ports had been established, such as Pelousion, but Naukratis retained its unique, cosmopolitan character, with altars, temples, sanctuaries, and sacred precincts for a constellation of gods, foreign and domestic, sufficient to meet the spiritual needs of traders, merchants, and sailors from all corners of the Mediterranean world. There were also numerous enterprises to cater to their more carnal needs. For example, the brothels of Naukratis were said to employ the most alluring ladies of the night since the last sighting of the sirens.

  Naukratis was a thriving commercial hub and a melting pot of cultures and nationalities that had seen many conquerors come and go. Not surprisingly, its inhabitants turned out to be fairly blasé about the arrival of the latest shooting star in the military firmament. Our ships were still straggling into port when Alexandros decided we’d stayed long enough and ordered us to weigh anchor and press ahead to the mouth of the delta.

  *******

  There was a small fishing village called Rhakotis hidden away on a strip of dry land between a shallow, inland lake on one side and the lapping waters of the sea on the other, near the point where the westernmost branch of the Nile emptied into the Mediterranean. It was at this village that Alexandros decided to spend the night after our abortive visit to Naukratis. Although most of our troops stayed aboard their ships, a few of us officers joined our commander-in-chief for what was supposed to be a brief onshore excursion.

  Our reception in the village mirrored the welcome extended to Alexandros in all the other villages and towns we’d visited during our Nile sojourn. A banquet was quickly organized, featuring the catch of the day. Although most Egyptians considered fish and other sea creatures low-class fare, I thought the dishes thrown together by the Rhakotian women on short notice were delicious and a nice change of pace from our mostly vegetarian diet. The beer was the typical Egyptian brew. Alexandros seemed quite pleased with it, judging by the quantity he consumed.

  It was past midnight by the time the men settled down to sleep in the open air. I had other plans. I knew full well I was being foolish: It was way too early, more than eleven years too early, and yet, I couldn’t help myself. While the others snored, I quietly snuck away.

  It was a crystal-clear, moonless night, perfect for the celestial observations I had to make. I just hoped I still remembered how. It turned out I had nothing to worry about. I knew, almost subconsciously, what to do. I guess the homing instinct is stronger in humans than we realize, I thought as I carried out my observations and made my measurements. When I was done, I marked the spot with a little pyramid of smooth stones. What are the chances this pile of rocks will still be here eleven years from now? Better yet, what are the chances I will be back here on the appointed day? And still, I couldn’t shake my elation.

  I’d arrived at the location where the emergency escape hatch would materialize. When I’d first realized that my scheduled portal had failed to appear, that my extraction team would not be coming, that I was marooned in this ancient era, and that, if I ever hoped to see home again, I would have to make my way from the highlands of Macedonia to the coast of Egypt, through many foreign lands and during a long-ago time, with nothing but my wits to assist me, the probability of success seemed vanishingly small. Yet, here I stood, on the very spot. Now if only I could make the next eleven years magically swoosh by.

  Dawn was breaking. I danced a jig, slapped my heels, laughed out loud. I lifted my eyes. The natural beauty of the rocky beach on which I found myself put me in a strange, mythological state of mind. I imagined Eos, the goddess of dawn, stirring from her bed on the far side of the sea. To my right, her brother Helios, his golden chariot groaning under the weight of the Sun, was urging his team of fiery steeds to rise from the cerulean waters of the Mediterranean and begin their diurnal journey across the sky. The bright rays of the emerging sun were transmuted by the perpetual motion of the sea into a myriad facets of shimmering gold. A gentle northerly breeze bathed my face in the cool, fresh, salty air of the new day. The chimes of Poseidon tinkled brightly, in the guise of small, choppy waves that splashed ceaselessly against a rocky promontory straight ahead. Nature, oblivious to my presence, continued its eternal journey through time.

  Why am I so happy? I asked myself. It’s so unlike me. Lyrical flights of fancy were bad enough but a jig? Reaching the site of the portal, even if eleven years too early, was clearly intoxicating. Or perhaps the fact that I still had eleven years to live in this time was at least partly the cause of my exhilaration. I shrugged. Nothing is harder than trying to explore the inscrutable reaches of our own minds.

  I was still marveling at the sensory feast that enveloped me when I became aware of the drumbeat of hooves approaching from behind. I refused to turn around, hoping that, by shutting out the sound, I could hang on to this instant of sublimity.

  “So that’s where you disappeared to,” a familiar voice called out. It was Alexandros, aboard Boukephalas, smiling broadly, showing no ill effects from the previous night’s festivities. He had ridden up, accompanied by Hephaistion, Perdikkas, and Aristandros, and was surveying the scene that had enthralled me only moments earlier.

  After a good look, he nodded approvingly. “You have a good eye, Ptolemaios. This really looks like a great spot to found a new city. Look at that harbor.” There was no harbor yet, only a broad, placid bay, but I could see what he meant. “Now that Tyros is destroyed,” he continued, “there’s a need for a new port to take over as a hub for all the trade routes in the eastern Mediterranean.”

  “Our friends in Naukratis won’t be pleased,” Hephaistion observed.

  “Exactly,” Alexandros agreed, with a twinkle in his eyes. “This really is a perfect location.” He was quiet for a moment. “Just smell the air. And there’s plenty of space.” He dismounted and started to pace off distances, running around like a delighted child, pointing out where various buildings were going to be.

  Hephaistion watched him with an impish smile. “Don’t you need permission from the pharaoh before you can found a new port in Egypt?”

  Alexandros played along. He stopped dead in his tracks and slapped his head. “By all the gods of Egypt, I think you’re right. What are we going to do?”

  Hephaistion shrugged. “I don’t know, Aniketos. I guess we’re out of luck.”

  Suddenly, Alexandros’s face brightened. “Wait a minute,” he cried out. “I am the pharaoh.”

  “And the son of one of the chief Egyptian gods,” Hephaistion put in.

  “Let me see. I have to think about this.” Alexandros hesitated. “Alright, I’ve thought about it. I hereby grant myself a charter to found a new port on this spot.”

  We all clapped and laughed. Every now and then, Alexandros’s enthusiasm and good cheer could be infectious. Even old Aristandros was applauding.

  Alexandros eyed the soothsayer mischievously. “I take it the omens are favorable?�
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  Aristandros stopped clapping. “As you know, sire, that’s not how I operate. I can’t possibly give you an answer on the spot. It takes preparations; it takes time; rituals must be carried out; sacrifices made; auspices observed; gods propitiated.”

  Alexandros raised his hand to stop the hemorrhage of words. “I wasn’t asking for an official augury, old man. We’re simply chatting. Forget you’re a soothsayer for a moment and tell me what you think.”

  Aristandros hesitated. Finally, he shrugged and delivered his prognostication. “Speaking just as a layman, my guess is that this city will become your greatest, most lasting legacy.”

  Alexandros’s mien clouded and then, without any transition, like a sudden sandstorm, he flew into a rage. “I don’t think so,” he yelled. “You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. And you call yourself a seer. My legacy is going to be far greater than founding a mere city – on a whim, mind you – at a place stumbled upon by Ptolemaios, for crying out loud. Get out of my sight. And next time, before flapping your lips, do your work first.”

  Aristandros said nothing in response. He laboriously mounted his horse and rode away. He really did look old. Maybe he’s sick, I thought. For reasons I couldn’t understand, the soothsayer had been my mortal enemy for years now and I, in self-defense, had resolved to get him off my back. Now, I began to hope my problem might take care of itself, if only I let nature take its course.

  Perdikkas waded into the lengthening silence in his usual reckless fashion. “What are you going to call it, sire?”