by Jamila Gavin
It was with added hatred that Alexander gazed at the Persian city palace before him.
It was a glorious city palace – as glorious as the Temple of Solomon. It was built over a vast area, with winding walls and fortifications, temples and towers. If the houses for the private citizens were sumptuously furnished and overflowing with opulence, it was the palace which astonished Alexander with its bronze gates, gold-plated walls, huge doors of cedar, and tall fluted columns of marble, whose plinths were carved with monstrous mythical animals. Flanking the stairways, giant reliefs depicted gods and kings and Persian life, attendants serving, noble horses pulling chariots into battle, and hunters chasing gazelles and fighting with leaping lions. There were vast staircases leading to amazing platforms and halls – including the great 100-columned hall where the king received important guests from all over the world.
All that was most magnificent in Persian culture – sculpture, architecture, and art – was here.
If Alexander was impressed by the beauty of the palace, he was more impressed by the knowledge that he was at the core of the Persian Empire; the symbol of its wealth and power; the heart of its civilization. This was the prize. With Persepolis in his hands, he would have the jewel, the very soul of Persia. For him, it was the most hateful city in Asia.
Alexander was 25 years old. His youth took over; his blood was up. He wanted revenge.
Sparing the palace, Alexander let his men loose on the city. They ripped through the streets and houses and villas and temples, killing the men, raping and enslaving the women and girls. Homes were stripped, vandalized and pillaged; the soldiers staggered out with armfuls of gold and silver, ornaments and jewellery, with purple and gold cloth, and wonderful artefacts. Consumed by greed, lust and demonic energy, they looted, smashed and destroyed till, within hours, a city which had taken generations to build was in ruins.
This was Alexander’s way of repaying his men for their fortitude and loyalty, and of giving them the will to carry on the campaign – for carry on he would. By the time everything calmed down, he had already appropriated the bulk of the treasure in the palace storehouse and cleared Persepolis of all its wealth. It took 3,000 pack camels and a great number of mules to carry it all to safety. Alexander then proceeded to restore order to the city – or what was left of it. He organized a system of taxation and structure, as he had done with all the other cities, and installed a Persian governor as ruler.
Winter was now upon them, with torrential rain and sudden falls of snow – not a good season to continue campaigning, so Alexander stayed in Persepolis for four months. It was not in his nature to do nothing, so he went out in the hills, hunting, and also fitted in the conquest of the former capital, Pasagarde, another seat of Persian power, succeeding easily with the collaboration of its Persian administrators.
Not far from Pasagarde was the tomb of Cyrus the Great, who Alexander greatly admired from all he had heard about him. As king of Persia, he had conquered Babylon and the land of the Chaldeans. His goal had been to conquer the universe. Though he ruled over 200 years before Alexander was born, his fame was known throughout the ancient world.
Alexander knew that Cyrus had been famous, not just for being a conqueror, but for being a civilized and merciful man, who respected other people’s religions and customs. He had formulated a Charter of Human Rights, and returned captured people to their own country. Enslaved Jews had sung, “By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea we wept when we remembered Zion” – and Cyrus had allowed them to go back to their own lands.
Alexander honoured him.
But Cyrus would have wept at what this young man did next, this youth who could alternate between behaving like a god and hero, then acting like a beast; who could plan as brilliantly as any military strategist, then suddenly be feckless and blindly destructive.
THE BURNING OF PERSEPOLIS
Alexander returned to Persepolis from the tomb of Cyrus. Oh, what a disastrous return. It was as if he was besotted with the wealth and power which now lay in his hands. There was much feasting, drinking and debauchery and, one night, in one senseless act, the Palace of Persepolis was burned to the ground. How could a man of Alexander’s taste and refinement have allowed this?
There was a drunken party with flowing wine and whirling dancers. They say a beautiful dancing girl, Thais, took Alexander’s hand and, as he was intoxicated, enticed him and his guests to frolic wantonly through the palace with firebrands in their hands. His general, Parmenion, begged Alexander not to destroy the palace. “After all, why burn what is yours?”
But they egged each other on, laughing and joking, thrusting their fiery brands at the silken drapes, the rich brocades, the soft furnishings and the hanging carpets. Soon the palace was ablaze. The fire spread, consuming the magnificent wooden panels and floors, which came crashing down. The glow was seen with horror for miles around.
By dawn, the glorious palace city was reduced to ash. It was an act of destruction which many would never forgive.
The burning of Persepolis should have marked the end of the Greek revenge on the Persians. But the Great King Darius was still free and was boasting that he was still king.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE DEATH OF DARIUS
That dreadful winter fades away. The spring of 330 BC stirs their bones.
Darius needed friends; he needed to raise a further army, but doubt had spread among the people. They knew that Alexander was coming after Darius; Alexander, who had overpowered Babylon, Susa, Persepolis and Pasagarde, would not give up. With his supporters falling away, Darius was forced to flee Ecbatana, marching eastwards to the Caspian Gates, over the mountains of the Hindu Kush to Bactria, where he hoped to reform his power base.
However, worse was still to come for the Great King. His own generals, Barsentes and Nabarzanes plotted against him, instigated by Bessus. They planned to arrest Darius, and if Alexander caught up with them, to surrender to him and hand over their king. If, however, Alexander turned back, then they would rule and re-enforce their own powers. It was pure treason.
But Alexander was never going to turn back. Even with Persepolis burned to the ground, he was determined not just to have Darius surrender but to prevent a new power base being built up by Bessus.
Then news came that Darius had been captured by his treacherous general. Two of Darius’ loyal senior men reported Bessus’ plan to Alexander, and told him where he had last camped with the prisoner king.
Alexander was galvanized into action. Leaving the women, children and other camp followers to journey at their own pace, he took a contingent of his toughest men. Carrying only their weapons, they set off along the road eastwards, riding at such breakneck speed that some of the horses died on the way.
After riding day and night for two days, they reached Bessus’ camp, only to find it deserted. But they were told the stories were true. King Darius had been arrested and taken off in a covered wagon, and Bessus had declared himself ruler.
Losing no time, Alexander continued the chase. Taking those of his men who weren’t too exhausted, he rode all day, ordering the rest to follow. He found a shortcut that would enable him to catch up with the king and, at last, as another night was falling, they came across straggling Persian soldiers. Some fought, many ran away.
Realizing that Alexander was upon them, Nabarzanes and Barsentes struck and assassinated their king in his wagon, then fled.
Dawn was breaking when Alexander and his men arrived at a pitiful scene. They wandered among the dead, turning the bodies over to see if Darius was among them. Strewn all around were abandoned wagons and weapons, but there was no sign of the king.
They were preparing to hurry on, following the trail, when a soldier happened to notice an upturned cart lying in a ditch. Casually, he prodded the covering away and peered inside. There lay Darius, the Great King, shackled in gold chains; murdered by his own officers.
There was an awestruck silence. After so many conflicts an
d battles, after such epic struggles between the two men, even his enemies felt an overwhelming sense of tragedy to see this god-king reduced to such a pathetic and ignominious state. Alexander was so moved that he stripped off his own cloak and laid it respectfully over the dead king.
He took Darius’ body back to Persepolis and there he was given a royal funeral befitting the Great King. As far as Alexander was concerned, Darius had not been defeated in battle. Bessus and his cohorts had committed regicide – an act Alexander vowed to avenge. If any of his men harboured the hope that, with the Persian king dead, Alexander would be ready to go home, they were disappointed. Bessus was raising troops in Bactria, and calling himself King. Alexander was determined to destroy him.
It was the height of summer when, in 330 BC Alexander set off again in the searing heat. Months of hard campaigning took him and his army across hostile deserts and mountainous terrain from the Iranian Plateau to Kabul; from the River Oxus to Samarkand. He traversed the land of ancient heroes: of the mythical king of Iran, Afrasiab, and of the heroes Kai Khosrow, Goodarz, Piran, Sohrab and Rostam.
THE SMILE THAT MEANT DEATH
Darius had been betrayed by his own followers, and Alexander too was in danger of rebellion from among his own officers.
Why? Was it because they were tired of war and wanted to go home? Was it because Alexander had become bedazzled by the wealth and power he had achieved – so much so that it had gone to his head?
Or was it because, despite himself, Alexander had come to admire the Persian culture and way of life so much that it was more than the Greeks could bear?
He had taken on Persian courtly customs; wearing their dress and acquiring their manners. This enraged the Greeks both in the army and at home – for even though the troops were out in the wilds of Central Asia, there was regular communication between the army and Athens. Athens received bulletins and messages from the historians and diarists travelling with the army. Athens knew what Alexander was doing almost every inch of the way.
By now, he had fallen out with his tutor, Aristotle, who regarded any non-Greek as “barbarian”. Callisthenes, Alexander’s historian and fellow pupil of Aristotle, had been sending back reports which disturbed the authorities in Athens, especially Demosthenes, who loathed Alexander, believing him to show signs of behaving like an eastern despot rather than a Greek democrat. “Well what would you expect of a simpleton?” he sneered.
Many were plotting against Alexander in Athens. Closer to hand, his officers and generals were increasingly outraged by the number of Persians coming into their army, and were suspicious of how close and influential they were. Yet the rank and file of Alexander’s army still adored him. He treated them like brothers and comrades in arms. He led from the front: if they were wounded, so was he; if they hungered and thirsted, so did he; if there was a bridge to be built, or a road to be cleared, he was among them, working with his own bare hands, and if there was a wounded man to be tended, he was often there to tend him, as he had been educated in medicine and the treatment of illnesses.
In the autumn, at Drangiana, one of his oldest friends, Philotas, was accused of treason and executed. Worse still, Philotas was the son of Parmenion, his most senior and trusted general. Alexander could not believe Philotas had been part of a plot to kill him without the knowledge and approval of his father. Parmenion was in Ecbatana. Alexander sent a messenger to him with a forged letter purporting to be from Philotas. The letter said that the plot had been successful and that Alexander was dead. He told the messenger to judge from the expression on Parmenion’s face whether he was guilty or innocent.
When Parmenion read the letter, he smiled. Thus was he judged and instantly assassinated.
Did Parmenion, his senior general, who had fought alongside Alexander’s father, deserve such an ignominious death? Could Alexander not have shown him compassion? Remember that family loyalty was more important even than loyalty to a king. With Parmenion’s son already executed, Alexander would not have been able to trust the father ever again, for the murder of a family member required the automatic necessity for another of the family to take revenge.
Alexander may have conquered the palaces of Persia, but he was still assailed by uprisings from every quarter, which he had to quell. With utter ruthlessness, he crushed any opposition from towns and villages, massacring all the men, and enslaving the women and children. But nothing deterred him from his pursuit of Bessus. Although he came up against Sogdian and Scythian units of the Persian army, and though he was concussed, wounded and ill, Alexander still went on and on, hard on the traitor’s heels. At last, in the spring of 329 BC, he caught up with him.
It had been a desperate chase: Alexander and his men had scaled the peaks and passes of the Hindu Kush, suffering incredible hardship. Bessus’ scorched earth policy had destroyed the crops, bringing the army to the edge of starvation. But they kept on his trail and followed him down to the fertile plains of Bactria, where they found the Persian general had already declared himself the Great King.
Surprised that Alexander had caught up with him so quickly, Bessus abandoned Bactria and fled to the other side of the River Oxus into Sogdiana, desperately burning every boat, ferry and bridge he could find. But he reckoned without Alexander’s ingenuity. Alexander ordered his men to do what the locals did – stuff ox hides with straw and float across the river.
By now, time and friends had run out for Bessus. A Sogdian nobleman called Spitamenes betrayed him, just as Besus had betrayed Darius.
Spitamenes handed Bessus over to Alexander. Bessus was humiliated and tortured in the Persian manner, which was to have his ears and nose cut off. Then he was taken back to Ecbatana, to be tried and judged by his own people at an assembly of Medes and Persians, and executed.
But this was still not the end of the road for Alexander. There were uprisings breaking out everywhere. Battles he thought he’d won had to be fought again.
Throughout the year 328 BC he fought Scythians, Bactrians and Sogdians. Alexander and his men struggled over icy mountains, starving, and eating their mules; they died, fell by the wayside, were wounded and endured all kinds of injuries while being constantly attacked by local tribes. Alexander, too, suffered from a broken fibula when it was pierced by an arrow. But still he struggled on.
This was the land of the Oxus – and from there the road led to Samarkand.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SAMARKAND
Nowhere are there greater stories to be found than in this ancient land, here on the banks of the Oxus; children are told of heroic deeds, great villains and past heroes. They hear of Ahriman the Evil, and Zohak, the Serpent. They hear of Zal, who was born with the white hair of an old man, and was abandoned to die by Saum, his father, because he feared that his child’s white hair was an evil omen. But Zal was saved by a marvellous bird, who reared him as her own until one day, full of repentance, Saum came and reclaimed his son. This son, Zal, was to be the father of Rostam, who was then to become the father of a miraculous child, Sohrab.
Before there had even been a Persian Empire, tribes of Turks, Pehlivas, Iranians and Tartars all fought one another, creating incredible myths of tragedy and heroism.
Night after night, weary with battle, Alexander’s soldiers gather round listening to the storytellers. How they stir up the blood, and restore courage and valour to Alexander’s men. No story was listened to more eagerly than the sorrowful tale of Sohrab and Rostam.
SOHRAB AND ROSTAM
Rostam of Pehliva was as fine a warrior as any that Alexander knew – comparable to Heracles or Achilles. Everyone feared him.
One day, his wonderful horse, Rakhsh was stolen from him. His search led him to Samarkand. The King of Samarkand welcomed Rostam into the palace and, that night, held a great feast in his honour. There was much food, plenty of wine, and singers and dancers who performed in his honour. Finally he was led to a couch scented with musk and roses, and there he lay down and fell into a deep sleep.
It was nearly dawn, and the morning star gleamed in the sky, when into Rostam’s chamber came a silent slave holding a burning lamp which exuded the sweet smell of amber. Behind the slave was a mysterious, veiled woman. She came to his bed, and he awoke, still heavy with wine and sleep.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” he asked.
She said, “I am Tahmineh, the daughter of the King of Samarkand. We are of the race of the leopard and the lion, yet there is no man in this city worthy of my hand. I have heard of your valour, your incredible deeds, that the earth groans beneath your feet and many warriors have perished at your hand. No man has ever seen me unveiled, yet I have come to your chamber to tell you that I wish to be your wife. What a mighty son you and I could have, if you will accept my hand. In return, I will lead you to your horse, Rakhsh.” The princess drew aside her veil to reveal a woman as fair as the moon.
Rostam thought of his wonderful horse and of the beautiful Tahmineh who could be his for the asking, and he agreed.
The marriage took place with all the rites and customs, and everyone praised Rostam and Tahmineh. Rostam embraced his bride, and took from his upper arm an onyx bracelet. “If you should give birth to a daughter, bind her hair into this bracelet, and it will shield her from all evil. But if we should have a son, let him put it on his arm and wear it as his father does. Then he will be as tall as Saum, the son of Neriman, as strong as Keriman, and with the gift of speech like my father, Zal.”