Alexander the Great

by Jamila Gavin

  At last, the earth goddess Aruru heard their cries and prayers. She decided to create a warrior who would save them. She dipped her hands in water and with the earth formed a giant warrior out of clay. He was named Ea-Bani which meant “Ea is my creator.”

  The people of Uruk got to hear of Ea-Bani, the one who might be their saviour if he could be tamed.

  He was a strange man-beast, eating grass with the gazelles and drinking water with the wild animals; whose body was wet with the dew of heaven, whose hair was like eagle feathers and whose nails were like bird’s claws. A hunter was sent out to find him. He took a beautiful woman with him to entice Ea-Bani out of the wild and bring him into the city. When they found Ea-Bani, the beautiful woman told him about the city of Uruk, with its marvellous temples to Ishtar, Bel and the sun god, Shamash. She also told him of the ruler, Gilgamesh, whose strength in combat was supreme.

  Ea-Bani realized how lonely he was. He listened to the hunter and the beautiful woman, and heard all their stories about the city and the lives of men. He was also curious to see if he could fight Gilgamesh in single combat. So he consented to return with her and the hunter to Uruk.

  But Ea-Bani was warned that his role was to be Gilgamesh’s protector, and he must never allow him to be defeated in combat. So while the two men rough and tumbled and hurled themselves round the city, they ended their fight like competing brothers, and became the closest of friends, and each would fight to the death to protect each other. Now that Ea-Bani lived like a man, Gilgamesh named him Enkidu, and their love for each other was unparalleled.

  The two heroes set off for the Great Cedar Forest to fight King Humbaba and the Elamites. Their journey was long, and took them through treacherous vales and high mountains until they finally came face to face with Humbaba, and, after a long, bloody fight defeated him.

  Gilgamesh and Enkidu returned to their kingdom, Uruk, which then become happy and prosperous. Gilgamesh was welcomed as a hero; people adored and admired him, and when he stood in his splendid robes of state with a dazzling crown upon his head, he looked like a god himself.

  But Gilgamesh was fated. The goddess Ishtar, Queen of Heaven, fell in love with him. She came to him and said, “O Gilgamesh, come with me and be my husband and I will give you a chariot made of gold, with wheels encrusted with gems and lapis lazuli, and it will be pulled by the finest of white horses. If you will be my husband, you shall dwell among the fragrant cedars and every king, prince and ruler will bow before you and kiss your feet.”

  Some might think this was the most wonderful thing that could happen, but it was not. Gilgamesh knew that though she was Queen of Heaven her love was not to be trusted, and he said, “Why should I believe that, you would be faithful to me if I were your husband? Look what happened to your other loves: you loved Tammuz, who still weeps because of you; you loved the Alla Bird, then broke its wings; you loved the lion, then snared him; you loved the horse, then harnessed him; you loved a shepherd, who even sacrificed his goat kids to you, but you turned him into a jackal to be driven away by his own shepherd boy, and torn to pieces by the dogs; you loved the Gardener of Anu, but despite his offerings and devotion to you, you struck him so that he never moved again. What fate would befall me, if I became your husband?”

  Ishtar was furious with this rejection. She sent a monstrous bull to kill Gilgamesh. But Gilgamesh and Enkidu fought and slew the dreadful creature. When Ishtar cursed Gilgamesh, Enkidu threatened to kill her as he had killed the bull, so she cursed him too.

  Soon the curse began to take effect. Gilgamesh’s beloved Enkidu was afflicted by a terrible disease. Day by day, he worsened, and every night he was beset with terrible dreams. “I have seen what death is,” he cried.

  “What is it like down there in the Land of the Dead?”

  Enkidu replied, “I don’t like to tell you. It will only make you dread death all the more.”

  Gilgamesh insisted. “Tell me, tell me, so that I can sit and weep with you.”

  So Enkidu told him of a place where the ill doers were punished, where the young were like the old, where the worm devoured everything, and dust covered everything; where the state of the warrior who had been given a burial was better than the warrior who had not, and who had no one to lament over him; where even kings squatted in the darkness with dirt for food and clay for drink.

  “I will pray to the gods and beg them to show you mercy,” wept Gilgamesh.

  But Enkidu replied, “My fate is settled. There is nothing you can do,” and he slowly died.

  Gilgamesh was heartbroken. “What is this sleep which has come over you?” he wept. “You have turned dark and do not hear me!” He bent over his friend looking for signs of life, but Enkidu’s eyes did not move and when he pressed his ear to Enkidu’s heart, it no longer beat. Gilgamesh covered his friend’s face like a bride.

  With terrible lamenatations, Gilgamesh cut off his hair, scattering his curls upon the ground. He took off all his fine ornaments and clothes and called upon all, from Uruk as far as the Great Cedar Forest, to mourn his friend.

  “My beloved friend is dead. His spirit is a prisoner of the Spirits of Death in the Underworld? Oh Enkidu!” wept Gilgamesh. “Now you will never draw your bow, nor shout the battle cry, nor embrace the woman you love, nor kiss your beloved child, nor will you be able to fight with those that hate you.”

  Then something terrible happened to Gilgamesh. He became afraid, for he too was afflicted with a disease. Despite all his heroism and famous deeds in battle, faced with the loss of his friend, the reality of death and how absolute it was, how inevitable and irretrievable it was, struck him to the core. He was afraid of death. He wept and cried out to the gods, “Oh, let me not die like Enkidu, for death is fearful!” Now his one thought was to find a way to avoid death himself.

  Gilgamesh set off alone on his quest. He had heard of an island which was to be found in the Ocean of Death, and where his ancient ancestor Utnapishtim lived. Utnapishtim had succeeded in defying death and could live for ever. Perhaps his ancestor could tell him where to find the Water of Life and where he could pluck the Plant of Life.

  The journey was full of perils and hardship: Gilgamesh fought lions and other wild beasts; he descended into sunless chasms, crossed rocky ranges, and scaled mountains until he came to the vast mountain peak of Mount Mashu, whose foundations were in Aralu, the Nether World, but whose peak rose as high as heaven.

  A long tunnel ran through this mountain, which Gilgamesh knew would bring him to the shores of the Ocean of Death. He searched the sides of the mountain to gain entry and came to a door. But barely had he found the door when he fainted with horror at the sight of two fearsome creatures which guarded the entrance into the mountain – two gigantic scorpions, with vast scaly bodies, burning tails, and heads which reached into the clouds. When Gilgamesh came to his senses, he found the two monsters had not harmed him at all, but gazed over him with sympathetic eyes.

  “What brings you to this lost and dreadful place?” they asked.

  Gilgamesh told them how he was searching for his ancestor, Utnapishtim.

  “The dangers are great,” warned the giant scorpions. “Turn back, turn back.”

  If Gilgamesh was afraid of death, he wasn’t afraid of dangers. “I will face whatever perils cross my path,” he said. So the scorpions opened the door and he crossed the threshold into the start of the tunnel. The door slammed behind him, leaving him in impenetrable darkness. For twelve miles he groped his way blindly along the passage until at last, 24 hours later, he glimpsed a ray of light. Filled with joy and renewed energy, he ran towards it.

  It was like running into paradise. Bursting out into glorious sunshine, he found himself in a beautiful garden of flowers, shrubs, bushes and trees of every kind. But most wondrous of all, in the middle of the garden, was an amazing tree on whose branches hung clusters of jewels and leaves of lapis lazuli. Although the temptation was almost unbearable, Gilgamesh managed to tear himself away from the
beautiful garden, and hurried on until he came to the shore of the Ocean of Death.

  This country by the sea was ruled by a sea lady called Siduri. When he told her he wanted to sail across the sea, she tried to persuade him to turn back. “Accept your portion in life and what God has given you. Besides, no one but the god Shamash has ever crossed these billows of death. The way is full of peril.”

  But though Gilgamesh was now full of disease and sorely stricken, he would not be put off and accept his fate. He cried, “I must cross the Ocean of Death and find my ancestor, Utnapishtim.”

  At last the lady told him of a boatman called Arad Ea, who once served Utnapishtim, and who might help him. Gilgamesh went in search of him and, finally, after much pleading, persuaded Arad Ea to ferry him across the water.

  They endured terrible experiences crossing the Ocean of Death, but finally, they arrived, exhausted, at the Island of the Blessed on which dwelt Gilgamesh’s ancestor, Utnapishtim, and his wife.

  But now, Gilgamesh’s strength was completely spent, and he hadn’t the energy to go ashore. So he just sat there in the boat, too ill to move. However, Utnapishtim had seen the boat approaching and, marvelling that anyone could have crossed the Ocean of Death, came down to the shore.

  “What brings you to my dreadful shore?” Utnapishtim asked Gilgamesh.

  Gilgamesh told him of his troubles and sufferings; how all he longed to do was escape the curse of his disease by bathing in the Water of Life, and to take back the Plant of Life. “How is it that you, O revered ancestor, have eternal life and no one else? What must I do to get it too, for death hovers round me now, waiting to snatch away my soul?”

  Then Utnapishtim told him how God had warned him that he was going to send a mighty flood. That he had obeyed God’s instructions and built an ark, and taken onboard the lion, the mule, the raven and the dove, and all living things, so that they may flourish once more in a new land. For this favour, God had rewarded him with everlasting life.

  Utnapishtim tried to reason with Gilgamesh. “All men must die,” he reminded him. “They build houses, seal contracts with each other, quarrel with each other, sow seeds, reap crops – and continue in this way till death comes. Nor does any man know the hour of his death. Only the God of Destiny who has measured out the span of life for each man – only he knows the secret and will never tell.”

  But Gilgamesh refused to give up and said he wanted to receive the same blessings as his ancestor. So Utnapishtim relented. He told Gilgamesh to sit for six days and seven nights as one in meditation.

  Gilgamesh was enveloped by a deep sleep. While he slept, Utnapishtim and his wife circled the young man and took pity on him. They prepared magic food and gave it to him while he slept so that when, on the seventh day, Utnapishtim touched Gilgamesh and woke him, the young warrior was amazed to feel full of life and energy. Now he could continue his journey.

  Utnapishtim instructed the boatman to take Gilgamesh to a fountain of healing water. Here, after bathing in the waters, his diseased skin fell away and he was cured. All he needed now before returning home was the Plant of Life. Then the boatman took him to an island where this magic plant grew. Gilgamesh plucked it and rejoiced and was immediately eager to return to the city of Uruk.

  Gilgamesh bade farewell to Utnapishtim, and was rowed back across the ocean to begin the return journey. But the journey back was no less perilous than coming.

  One day, Gilgamesh stopped at a well to drink, laying down the Plant of Life on the ground. While he sated his thirst, a snake, smelling the plant’s beautiful fragrance, slithered forward and stole it. Gilgamesh was terror-sricken. “Oh Arad Ea! All my suffering has been for nothing!”

  With heavy heart, he continued on his way until he reached the walls of Uruk. But though his eyes gazed upon the ramparts gleaming in the sun of this incomparable city: though he climbed the stone steps to the great temple of Ishtar, and gazed around the palm trees, gardens, orchards and marketplaces, Gilgamesh…

  And so the story dwindles away. If Alexander hoped to hear a happy ending, I cannot give it. It seems there is no happy ending – if happiness means succeeding in the quest for everlasting life. Not even Alexander can hope for that.

  But wherever he went, he heard this story – or something like it; stories of Heracles, or Prince Rama of India in the Ramayan, all give the same message, that a hero must be comforted by the words of wisdom; live his best, love his loved ones, rejoice in food and bathing and clean clothes; be inspired by music and poetry and all the good things in life; not ask to control the time of his death, for that is in the hands of the gods and, above all, fear God and keep his commandments. This is what was written on those tablets of clay.

  Weep now, Alexander! Even Hephaistion must die one day, and the sorrow you feel will be as great as that of Gilgamesh for Enkidu, and Achilles for Patroclus.

  THE SEAT OF KINGS

  Despite the wonders of Babylon, Alexander only stayed there for five weeks. He had to keep pressing on until he had defeated Darius, for conquering Babylon was not conquering Asia.

  Having appropriated the treasures and established rule under Mazaeus, he was on the road again heading for the ancient palace in Susa.

  Susa was the centre of administration for the Persian empire, and the heart of its power. He might have expected heavy resistance, but, perhaps because Darius had disgraced himself by running away, there was very little.

  Alexander entered the great palace of Susa and sat on the golden throne of kings. One of his followers burst into tears to see a Greek ruler sitting on the Persian throne at last.

  However, it could have been an embarrassing moment for Alexander. Although he was famous for his godlike beauty, he was not tall. This throne had been designed for Darius, who was over six feet, and when Alexander sat down on it, his feet didn’t touch the ground, but dangled like a child’s.

  Disconcerted, he swung his legs on to a small table, causing one of Darius’ household to weep and wail at the lack of respect. Attendants at the scene noticed Alexander hesitate – one part of him didn’t wish to humiliate the Persians, or perform an ignorant act of discourtesy, but he kept his feet on the table, to save face and demonstrate his absolute power.

  Alexander stayed in Susa just long enough to make sure it was under his control – albeit under the command of a Persian. This was his way – to allow those who surrendered to him to worship their own gods and be ruled by one of themselves, though under overall Greek control.

  He left Darius’ mother, Queen Sisygambis, his wife and children safely in Susa, and continued on his way. The next stop was in the very heart of Persia, Persepolis.

  CHAPTER 14

  PERSEPOLIS

  It wasn’t an easy march. Alexander’s army was now up against stiff local resistance.

  They reached a sheer wall of rock known as the Gates of Persia. It was approached by a narrow gorge; a perfect place for an ambush.

  In one of the few setbacks of Alexander’s campaign, a huge contingent of Persians lay in wait, desperate to prevent him reaching Persepolis. They were hidden high up among the rocks and, as Alexander’s troops approached, they hurled huge rocks and boulders down on top of them, and flung stones from catapults. Many of his men were killed and wounded, and they were forced to retreat – a reverse Alexander was not used to. It only made him more determined to succeed whatever the cost.

  A local shepherd came forward, a man who was part Lycian, part Persian. Perhaps he had a grievance against the Persians, but he offered to help Alexander. He knew of a rough secret track which went round the gorge. It was steep and dangerous, but it led to the Persian camp.

  Alexander cunningly ordered part of his army to make camp, so that the Persians would see the fires of about 4,000 men, burning through the night, and would think themselves safe. Meanwhile, with three days’ supply of food, he took the majority of his men and mules and followed the shepherd through the freezing darkness, until they reached the high plateau where h
e found the Persians’ camp.

  He slaughtered them without mercy.

  Winter was approaching; the winter of 331 BC. It was cold, and would get colder, with torrential rain and snow flurries. The near disastrous engagement at the Gates of Persia had left Alexander shaken, and his men uncertain. They needed rewards to compensate them for the immense rigours and privation of their campaigns.

  They had crossed the River Araxes and reached a broad plain surrounded by hills. They were now in the heart of Persia on the road to Persepolis, the capital palace city of the Persian kings.

  The Greeks had talked of Persepolis for generations. They knew its meaning and significance. This was the city most hated by the Greeks for what it represented: the power of the first Persian King Darius, and his son Xerxes, who had poured into Greece with his armies. The Greeks still shuddered with the humiliating memory, passed down from generation to generation, of how, in 480 BC the Persian king, Xerxes, actually reached Athens and burned down the temples of the Acropolis. Now it was the turn of the Greeks. They were about to hold Persepolis in their hands. What a glorious revenge!

  As its tall towers and pillars glimmered into sight, hundreds of men suddenly appeared before them on the road, waving branches to show they came in peace. Alexander brought his horse to a standstill; he was filled with shock and pity, for most of the men were old and had been mutilated in some way: noses and ears cut off, or hands and legs. It brought tears to his eyes.

  They told him they were Greek artists and craftsmen, who had been enslaved by the Persians years before, and brought to Persepolis to work on the city palace. Their mutilations had been carefully carried out so that they could use their skills, but not run away.

  Alexander was so moved, he wanted to arrange for them to be sent home immediately. But they were old and incapacitated, and the prospect of trying to integrate back into their previous lives was more than they could bear. They told him they would rather stay where they were, but they wanted his protection. Alexander therefore gave each of them 3000 drachmae, five men’s robes and five women’s robes, two yoke of oxen and 50 sheep, and 50 measures of corn. He also exempted them from all taxes and warned his officials that they were never to be ill-treated.