Alexander (Vol. 2)

by Manfredi, Valerio Massimo

  ‘We will move south along the coast,’ he announced one evening during a war council. ‘We have taken the capital of Phrygia, now we will take the capital of Lydia.’

  ‘Sardis,’ Callisthenes said, ‘the mythical capital of Midas and Croesus.’

  ‘It’s difficult to believe,’ said Leonnatus. ‘Remember the tales old Leonidas used to tell us? And now we’re going to see those very places.’

  ‘Indeed,’ confirmed Callisthenes, ‘we’ll see the Hermus, on whose banks Croesus was defeated by the Persians almost two hundred years ago. And we’ll see the Pactolus with its gold-laden sands, which gave birth to the legend of Midas. And the tombs where the Kings of Lydia lie.’

  ‘Do you think there will be any real money to be had in those cities?’ asked Eumenes.

  ‘All you think about is money!’ exclaimed Seleucus. ‘Anyway, I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right. Do you have any idea how much our Greek allies’ fleet costs us? Any idea at all?’

  ‘No,’ replied Lysimachus, ‘we have no idea, Mr Secretary General – you’re here to know these things.’

  ‘It costs us one hundred and sixty talents per day. That’s one hundred and sixty. That means that our income from the Granicus and Dascylium will be enough for a couple of weeks if things go well.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Alexander, ‘we’re now heading for Sardis and I don’t think we’ll meet with much resistance. Then we will go on to occupy what’s left of the coast as far as the border with Lycia, as far as Xanthus. At that stage we will have liberated all the Greek cities of Asia. And all this will be achieved before the end of the summer.’

  ‘Magnificent!’ said Ptolemy. ‘And then?’

  ‘We certainly won’t be turning back home!’ exclaimed Hephaestion. ‘I’m just beginning to enjoy myself.’

  ‘There is no guarantee it will be so simple,’ replied Alexander. ‘Up to now all we have done is dent slightly the Persian defences and it is almost certain that Memnon is still alive. And then we are not even sure that all of the Greek cities will open their gates to us.’

  *

  They marched for several days along promontories and bays of truly enchanting beauty – beaches shaded by gigantic pines and a succession of islands of all sizes that followed the coastline like a parade. Then they came to the banks of the Hermus, a large river with clear water that flowed over a bed of clean gravel.

  The satrap of Lydia was a reasonable man by the name of Mitrites, and he knew he had no choice but to send emissaries to Alexander, offering him the city’s submission. He then accompanied him personally to visit the stronghold with its triple walls, its buttresses and its trenches.

  ‘It was from here that the “march of the ten thousand” set off,’ said Alexander, as he looked out over the plain and the wind ruffled his hair and bent the willows and the ash trees.

  Callisthenes accompanied him at a slight distance, taking notes on a slate. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘And it is here that Prince Cyrus the Younger lived, then satrap of Lydia.’

  ‘And it is from here too, in a certain sense, that our expedition begins. Except that we will not take the same route. Tomorrow we go to Ephesus.’

  And Ephesus also surrendered with no use of force. The garrison of Greek mercenaries had already left, and when Alexander established himself in the city the democrats who had been chased away came back and instigated a real manhunt. They led the people in attacks on the houses of the rich, on the nobles who up until that time had been allies of the Persian governor.

  Some of these nobles sought refuge in the temples and they were dragged out and stoned to death – all Ephesus was in shock from the turmoil. Alexander sent the shields-men infantry out into the streets to re-establish order, guaranteed that democracy would be reintroduced and imposed a special tax on the rich for the reconstruction of the grand sanctuary of Artemis, which had been destroyed by fire years previously.

  ‘Do you know what they say about the fire here?’ Callisthenes asked him as they inspected the ruins of the enormous temple. ‘They say that the goddess couldn’t put the flames out because she was busy with your birth. Indeed, the fire took place twenty-one years ago, on the very day you were born.’

  ‘I want it to rise again,’ said Alexander. ‘I want rows of gigantic columns, as thick as a wood, to support the ceiling and I want the best sculptors to embellish it and the best painters to decorate the interior.’

  ‘It’s a fine plan. You should start talking to Lysippus about it.’

  ‘Has he arrived?’ asked the King, his face lighting up.

  ‘Yes, last night, and he cannot wait to see you.’

  ‘Lysippus, gods in heaven! Those hands, that gaze . . . I have never seen such creative power burning in any man’s eye. When he looks at you you can feel that he is in touch with your soul, that he is about to create another man . . . in clay, in bronze, in wax, it matters not – he is creating a man just as if he were god.’

  ‘God?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which god?’

  ‘The god that is in all the gods and in all men, but which only a few are able to see and to hear.’

  The authorities of the city – the democratic leaders who years previously had taken up power under Philip’s rule, had later been expelled by the Persians and were now returning with Alexander’s arrival – could not wait to show Alexander the wonders of Ephesus.

  The town stretched along a gentle incline towards the sea and towards the huge bay into which the Cayster river flowed. The port was teeming with vessels unloading all sorts of wares and loading up the cloth, spices and perfumes from the Asian interior destined to be sold in far-off places, in the depths of the Adriatic gulf, in the islands of the Tyrrhenian, in the land of the Etruscans and the Iberians. The buzz of all this feverish activity rose up to the city, mixed with the shouts of the slave merchants auctioning strong men and beautiful girls who had been led to this fate by a sad destiny.

  The roads were flanked by porticoes on to which the richer and more sumptuous dwellings faced, while the sanctuaries of the gods were surrounded by the stalls of travelling merchants who offered passers-by amulets for good luck and for protection against curses, relics and pictures of Apollo and his virgin sister Artemis with her ivory countenance.

  The blood from the tumults had already been washed from the roads and the grief of the relatives of the dead had been locked away in their homes. In the city there was only rejoicing and celebration – the people lined up to see Alexander and waved olive branches, while the young maids spread rose-petals as he passed by or threw them from the balconies of the houses, filling the air with a wild riot of colour and perfume.

  Then they came to a magnificent palace, its atrium supported by marble columns capped with Ionian capitals, profiled in gold and painted blue, once the residence of one of the nobles who had paid in blood for his friendship with the Persians. It was now to be the dwelling of the young god who had descended from the slopes of Olympus to the edge of the immensity of Asia.

  Lysippus was standing waiting for him in the antechamber. As soon as the sculptor saw Alexander, he came forward and embraced him, holding him close with those big, powerful hands.

  ‘My good friend!’ exclaimed Alexander as he returned Lysippus’s embrace.

  ‘My King!’ replied Lysippus, his eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘Have you washed? Have you eaten? Have they given you clean clothes?’

  ‘I’m fine, please do not worry. My only wish is to look at you again – looking at your portraits isn’t the same thing. Is it true that you will pose for me?’

  ‘Yes, but I also have other plans. I want a monument such as no one has ever seen before. Sit down.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Lysippus while the servants prepared more seats for dignitaries and for Alexander’s friends.

  ‘Are you hungry? Will you eat with us?’

  ‘With pleasure,’ replied the great sculptor.
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  The servants brought the tables and arranged them in front of each of the guests and brought the speciality of the city – grilled fish seasoned with rosemary and salted olives, pulses, greens and bread fresh from the oven.

  ‘Well,’ began the King while everyone helped themselves, ‘I want a monument to commemorate the twenty-five hetairoi of my Vanguard who fell during the first attack against the Persian cavalry. I had their portraits drawn before putting them on the funeral pyre so that we can produce faithful likenesses. You must depict them in all the fury of the charge – as if we could almost hear the thunder of their galloping, the snorting of the horses. The only thing missing will be the breath of true life, a power which the gods as of yet have not granted you.’

  He lowered his head, while a veil of sadness came down across his face in the midst of all that cheer, in the midst of the cups of wine and the plates full of wonderfully aromatic dishes.

  ‘Lysippus, my friend . . . those lads are ashes now, but you must capture their living souls, gather them from the wind before they are lost completely and meld them into the bronze, render them eternal!’

  He had stood up and he walked now towards a window that gave out over the bay, shimmering under the midday sun. Everyone was eating, drinking, joking, warmed by the weather and the wine. Lysippus followed him.

  ‘Twenty-six equestrian statues . . . Alexander’s troop at the Granicus. It will be a tangle of hooves and muscled backs, of gaping mouths shouting war cries, of arms brandishing swords and spears in anger. Do you understand, Lysippus? Do you understand what I’m trying to explain?

  ‘The monument will stand in Macedonia and will remain for eternity to celebrate those young men who gave their lives for our country, rejecting a dull, ordinary existence, lacking in all glory.

  ‘I want you to pour into the molten bronze your very own vital energy, I want your art to be a vehicle for the greatest miracle the world has ever witnessed. Those who pass in front of the monument must tremble with admiration and awe, as if the horsemen were actually about to attack, as if their mouths were about to utter the cry that goes beyond death, beyond the mists of Hades from which no one has ever returned.’

  Lysippus looked at Alexander in silent astonishment, his huge, calloused sculptor’s hands hanging motionless, apparently lifeless, by his side.

  Alexander took them and held them tight. ‘These hands can achieve this miracle, I know. There is no challenge that you cannot meet, as long as you want to. You are like me, Lysippus, and it is for this reason that no other sculptor will ever model my statue. Do you know what Aristotle said the day you finished my first statue in our retreat in Mieza? He said, “If god exists, he has Lysippus’s hands.” Will you cast my fallen companions in bronze? Will you do it?’

  ‘I will do it, Alexander, and the result will astound the world. I promise you.’

  Alexander nodded and stared at him with his eyes full of affection and admiration.

  ‘Come with me now,’ he said and took Lysippus by the arm. ‘Have something to eat.’

  11

  APELLES ARRIVED THE FOLLOWING afternoon, accompanied by a grand entourage of slaves and fine-looking women and young men. He was extremely elegant, though slightly eccentric with the amber and lapis lazuli pendants he wore round his neck and his brightly coloured clothes. Rumour had it that Theophrastus had written a small satirical booklet with the title Charakteres and that Apelles had been the inspiration for the section on the exhibitionist.

  Alexander received him in his private apartments together with the beautiful Pancaspe, who still dressed in a young girl’s peplum, the only way for her to display her splendid shoulders and cleavage.

  ‘You look in fine shape, Apelles, and I am glad that Pancaspe’s splendour is still a fount of inspiration for you. Few are those artists who enjoy the privilege of having such a muse.’

  Pancaspe blushed deep red and moved closer to kiss Alexander’s hand, but he simply opened his arms and embraced her.

  ‘Your arms are still as strong as ever, Sire,’ she whispered in his ear, in a tone of voice that would have reawakened the sexual drive of an old man who had been given up as dead three days previously.

  ‘And I have other things which are no less strong, in case you had forgotten,’ he murmured in reply.

  Apelles coughed in slight embarrassment and said, ‘Sire, this painting must be a masterpiece that will last through the centuries. Or rather, these paintings, because I would like to paint two of them.’

  ‘Two?’ asked Alexander.

  ‘If you agree, of course.’

  ‘Let us hear about it.’

  ‘The first will depict you standing, poised to let loose a lightning bolt, like Zeus. And next to you will be an eagle, one of the symbols of the Argead dynasty.’

  The King looked doubtful and shook his head.

  ‘Sire, I must emphasize that both Parmenion and Eumenes agree with me on the fact that you should appear in this pose, especially because of its possible effect on your Asian subjects.’

  ‘If they say so . . . and the other painting?’

  ‘The other one will depict you astride Bucephalas, spear in hand, about to charge. It will be a memorable work, I can assure you.’

  Pancaspe giggled.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Apelles, evidently irritated.

  ‘I’ve had an idea for a third painting,’ she replied.

  ‘And what might that be?’ asked Alexander. ‘Aren’t two enough? I can’t spend the rest of my life posing for Apelles.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t be alone in this one,’ explained Pancaspe with an even cheekier giggle. ‘I’d thought of a painting with two figures – King Alexander depicted as the god Ares resting after battle, his weapons spread around him on a fine meadow, and I might be Aphrodite, attending to his pleasures. You know, a bit like the one you did at that Greek general’s house . . . what was his name?’

  Apelles’s face suddenly drained of colour as he furtively elbowed Pancaspe. ‘We must go now, the King doesn’t have time for all these paintings. Two are more than enough, is that not so, Sire?’

  ‘Exactly, my friend, that’s exactly right. And now I must go; Eumenes has organized a full day for me. I will pose for you before supper. You may choose the subject you wish to begin with. If it is to be the equestrian pose, have the wooden horse prepared – I doubt Bucephalas will have the necessary patience for the portrait, not even for the great Apelles.’

  The painter exited with a bow, dragging his reluctant model behind him, telling her off as they went down the corridor.

  Immediately afterwards Eumenes introduced some new visitors – ten or so tribal chiefs from the interior who had heard about the arrival of the new master and had come to pledge their allegiance.

  Alexander stood and walked towards them, shaking hands warmly with all of them.

  ‘What is their petition?’ he asked the interpreter.

  ‘They wish to know what they must do.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ replied the interpreter in amazement.

  ‘They may return to their homes and live in peace as they did before my arrival.’

  The one who seemed to be the leader of the delegation murmured something in the interpreter’s ear.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He’s asking about the taxes.’

  ‘Oh, the taxes . . .’ Eumenes piped up. ‘. . . Well, they will remain exactly as they were because we too have our expenditure and . . .’

  ‘Eumenes, please,’ Alexander interrupted him, ‘there’s really no need to go into detail.’

  The tribal chiefs conferred and declared themselves very happy with the situation. They wished the powerful new chief all the best and thanked him for his benevolence.

  ‘Ask them if they wish to stay for supper,’ said Alexander.

  The interpreter did his job and the chiefs again conferred.

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘They
are honoured by the invitation, Sire, but they say that the road is long and they are needed at home to milk the livestock, to help the mares give birth and . . .’

  ‘I see . . .’ said Eumenes, cutting the interpreter short, ‘urgent affairs of state.’

  ‘Thank them for their visit,’ concluded Alexander, ‘and remember to give them tokens of our hospitality.’

  ‘What kind of tokens?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . weapons, clothes . . . whatever you like, but don’t send them away empty-handed. These are old-fashioned people who still appreciate good manners. And in their own homes they are kings . . . do not forget this fact.’

  Supper was served after sunset, when Alexander had finished his first session posing for Apelles, astride the wooden horse. The grand master, obviously, had decided to begin with the most difficult subject.

  ‘And tomorrow I will go to the stables and have Bucephalas brought out – he too must pose for me,’ said the painter as he threw a contemptuous glance at the padded wooden mock-up which Eumenes had managed to have prepared in a rush with the help of a craftsman from the theatre.

  ‘In that case I advise you to pay a visit to my cook and collect a few of his honey-flavoured biscuits,’ said Alexander. ‘Bucephalas is partial to them and they will certainly help you make friends with him.’

  An orderly came to announce that supper was served. Apelles was just completing his preparatory sketch of the figure. Alexander dismounted and came closer to the painter. ‘May I look?’

  ‘I cannot say no, Sire, but no artist is ever keen on showing an unfinished work.’

  The King took one glance at the large tableau and his mood changed suddenly. The master painter had used charcoal to trace the basic lines of the image, rapid, whirlwind strokes, slowing down only occasionally to refine a few details – eyes, some locks of hair, hands, Bucephalas’s dilated nostrils, his hooves drumming on the ground . . .

  Apelles furtively checked the King’s reactions.

  ‘Remember, it is as yet unfinished, Sire, it is only a sketch. It will flesh out when colour is added and . . .’