Alexander the Great

by Jamila Gavin

  It was the autumn of 324 BC. Alexander had moved to the city of Opis, trying to consolidate his kingdom. The seething discontent culminated when a large contingent of young Persian men arrived to take part in army drill in full Macedonian military dress. Their presence unsettled the Greeks and Macedonians. They wondered jealously if they were about to be sidelined.

  REBELLION

  Alexander was heavily criticized by his hardcore of ageing veterans in particular, so he decided to retire them and send them home. Insulted and humiliated the grumblings surged into open protest, even though Alexander told them what generous pensions they would receive. The old officers rebelled, and the rest of the army supported them.

  It was the closest Alexander ever came to facing an all-out mutiny from the rank and file.

  He stood on a platform trying to exert his authority and explain his policies, but his men surged forward angrily.

  “If you send the veterans home, then we’ll all go.”

  The crowd was large now and in an ugly mood, taunting and booing. “Go on campaigning then with your father,” they jeered.

  “Father?” Did they mean Zeus? Who knows which taunt hit home, but as with the Malloi, Alexander, in a rage, leaped down among them – surely another act of pure folly. Any one of his men in that moment could have put the knife into him. But he strode among them, pointing out the main ringleaders and ordering them away to be executed as traitors. He then jumped back onto his podium and gave another of his pieces of oratory. Alexander could harangue, could rage, could sulk, but when he used his powers of persuasion, few could resist. If anything saved him on that day, it was the sheer force of his presence.

  With their ringleaders dead, and faced with the prospect of going home without wages and pensions, his men were finally pacified and begged to be forgiven. Alexander kept them waiting. For several days they came to his door by night and day, swearing loyalty, until at last he came out to be reconciled with them. They wept and sang victory songs, many falling to their knees to kiss him in the Persian way.

  The rebellion was over. With his usual sense of style and generosity, Alexander held a lavish banquet and forgave everyone.

  The departure of his elderly generals was dignified and emotional. With honour satisfied on both sides, Alexander continued his journey on to the beautiful city of Hamadan, where he hoped to spend a leisurely autumn being entertained with music and theatre and games.

  THE DEATH OF HEPHAISTION

  It was at one of these festivities that Hephaistion felt ill. He had a temperature and took himself off to bed. It didn’t seem too serious and the games and festivites continued. Although his doctor put him on a strict diet, Hephaistion ignored him and ate a full meal washed down with a flagon of wine. His condition deteriorated dramatically. For the next seven days, he struggled with a high temperature, and Alexander stayed constantly in touch. On the eighth day, while Alexander was watching the boys racing at the games, word came that Hephaistion had suffered a dramatic relapse. Alexander hurried from the games, but arrived at his friend’s bedside too late. Hephaistion was dead.

  Appalled that he had not been with him, Alexander flung himself, sobbing, over his body. Not since the death of Cleitus had any of them seen such uncontrollable grief. For three days, he shut himself away, weeping and lamenting, unable to eat or sleep. No one on this earth had he loved more than Hephaistion, and it seemed that nothing – neither Roxane nor anyone else – had ever dented the strength of their love for each other. Only the stories he had heard of Achilles and Patroclus, Gilgamesh and Enkidu, or the father and son, Sohrab and Rostam, could have prepared him for the sorrow he would feel.

  A period of mourning was ordered throughout the East, but Alexander was too upset to organize the funeral arrangements himself. Even so, it was a momentous, lavish occasion with no expense spared. The building of a fabulous chariot and monument was planned, to honour Hephaistion who, on consultation with the priests, was declared a god.

  What real happiness was left to Alexander after the death of Hephaistion? If he had lost the will to live, it wasn’t obvious.

  By 323 BC he was at the peak of his fame, wealth and splendour; feared and admired as a conqueror and worshipped as a god. Roxane was pregnant again. He could look forward to the future, and for him the future seemed full of possibilities. He hadn’t lost his passion for exploring and conquering the world, he was trying to consolidate trade and even making plans to go to those yet unvisited lands of the north – including Britain.

  Yet there was something reckless in the way he was living; something ostentatious and excessive. He indulged in sumptuous banquets and long drinking bouts; he held constant games, with theatricals, music, poetry and dance. He loved being lavish and extravagant, often appearing dressed as a god, sometimes as Zeus Ammon, with horns on his head, and sometimes even dressed as Artemis, in female clothes.

  PORTENTS OF DEATH

  Autumn ended. In the tradition of Persian kings, Alexander left Hamadan and rodes towards Babylon. He planned to spend the winter there. He was stopped on the way. Omens had predicted his death. His priests begged him not to enter the city. But Alexander took no notice. He intended that Babylon should be the capital of his empire.

  Still full of enthusiasm and energy, he pursued a huge programme of opening up trade, rebuilding the fleet and constructing new harbours. People might think of him only as a despot and a tyrant, but most tyrants simply destroy and move on. Alexander was different. His desire for power embraced a passion for building, establishing trade and exploring the world. He often took the helm of his boat, and sailed out across the lake and into the many rivulets among the marshes and reed beds around Babylon, planning ways of draining them and developing the city further. Among the many islands was one near which Icarus was reputed to have fallen, so Alexander named it “Icarus”.

  “Pay heed, Alexander,” the soothsayers begged him. “Those who compete with the gods are doomed to lose! Think of Daedalus! In creating, he also killed! That is the lesson to be learned.”

  THE STORY OF DAEDALUS AND ICARUS

  Daedalus was an amazing genius, a descendant of Hephaestus, a craftsman, a sculptor and an inventor. As a carpenter, Daedalus invented the lathe, the saw, the carpenter’s compass; as an architect, he invented the plumb line, the gimlet and glue; as a sculptor he made statues that seemed alive. He constructed the maze for King Minos, and gave Ariadne a ball of thread which would lead her through the Minotaur’s palace to rescue Prince Theseus.

  Icarus was his beloved son. When King Minos discovered Daedalus had given away the secret of the maze, he ordered him and his son to be incarcerated in the labyrinth. But birds loved flying in and out of the labyrinth and Daedalus thought, “If only I too could fly and escape from here.” An idea grew in his mind. Painstakingly, he gathered all the feathers he could find and glued them together with wax to make two pairs of wings for himself and his son. Then they prepared to fly to freedom.

  “Be guided by the stars! Remember the reference points of sailors,” he told his son. “Follow the constellations of Bootes, the Ox-herder, Ursa Major, the Great Bear, and Orion’s Sword. Follow the straight route; the halfway point between high and low, as a carpenter guides his plane straight.”

  And so, one night, they leaped from the walls into space and flew. At first they followed the stars, but when dawn broke and the sun’s chariot came bounding across the sky, Icarus became intoxicated with his powers. Instead of keeping to the straight and middle way, he flew higher and higher towards the sun. And so, alas, the wax melted in his wings, and he plunged down, down to the waters below, and drowned before his father’s eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  DEATH

  The winter months gave way to summer. One day in May, as Alexander was being taken by boat out among the marshlands and waterways north of Babylon, where there were many royal and ancient tombs, a sudden wind caught his hat and dropped it into the water. The royal hat blew away among
the reed beds. This was seen as a worrying omen, but there was a further prophecy which stated that any man who wrongly wore the royal diadem must have his head cut off. Already, a Phoenician sailor had dived in to retrieve the hat and, when he found he couldn’t return to the boat without getting the hat wet, he put it on his head and swam back.

  Some say Alexander paid the man a talent then had his head cut off, others say he was simply flogged and others that he was paid his talent and not punished. But whatever the man’s fate, the episode with the hat was seen as a portent, signifying Alexander’s death.

  Alexander returned to business, concerned to honour Hephaistion with temples and shrines. But soon came another portent.

  While sitting on his gold throne, engaged in a meeting, Alexander felt thirsty. At that precise moment, he was unattended, so he got up from the throne to get himself a drink. Briefly, the throne was unguarded, except for the Persian eunuchs. From somewhere, no one knew where, a strange, deranged man appeared and sat down on it. Instead of throwing him off, the eunuchs began wailing and tearing their clothes, as this to them was a dreadful omen, suggesting something terrible was going to happen.

  Although the man was hauled away and tortured to find out what had possessed him to commit such an act, he had no explanation.

  A few days later, on 29 May, Alexander attended a feast in honour of his loyal general, Nearchus. Crowned admiral of a fleet, Nearchus was about to embark on a campaign to Arabia. Alexander went on to a late night drinking party with his friend, Medius, where Proteus, the nephew of Cleitus was present. There was some heavy drinking and much toasting of each other. Alexander raised his cup yet again, and drank. With a sharp cry of pain, he suddenly fell back onto his cushion. Saying he felt ill, he excused himself and took to his bed.

  According to the royal diaries, a fever set in. For the next nine days Alexander tried to carry out his usual daily routines: he ate, slept, bathed, played dice, listened to stories, prayed and made his sacrifices, but the fever did not abate. He became too weak to walk and had to be carried on a stretcher. But still he continued to hold court and hand out instructions from his bed.

  On 5 June, he was taken by boat to the summer palace of Nebuchadnezzar, thought to be a cooler place, but his fever continued and soon he was unable even to speak.

  Desperately, his generals consulted the priests and oracles, and searched for omens for guidance. They remembered the words of Calanus, “I’ll see you in Babylon.”

  Meanwhile, crowds were gathering. A boat had been seen going to and fro between the palaces. By 9 June, his officers had been told that Alexander was only ill, not dead, but now they were demanding proof, for all sorts of rumours had spread throughout the city. At last, the officers were given entry and, one by one dressed in their military uniforms, filed past his bed. Unable to speak, Alexander managed to raise his head to each one or signal his acknowledgement with his eyes.

  One account says that Roxane was at his side, that he felt ill and, wanting to vomit, asked for a feather to tickle his throat. A feather was brought to him by Iollas, a secret enemy who had tipped it with poison, a special poison, which had been smuggled to Babylon from Athens in the hoof of an ass. One account states that on the night of 9 June, lying in his bedroom alone, he ordered the door that led down to the river Euphrates to be opened and sent away his guards.

  One historian wrote:

  It was midnight. Alexander rose from his bed. He snuffed out the candle then, crawling weakly on all fours, made for a door which led out to the river. Gasping with pain, he dragged himself down to the bank, determined to throw himself into the waters and disappear forever.

  How much better to vanish like a god than die a weak, human death.

  But Roxane returned to the bedroom and, finding it empty, rushed out to look for him. Hearing his groans, she followed them to the riverbank. She threw her arms around him, and begged him not to die, so he allowed her to lead him back to bed.

  Roxane nursed him with drugs and remedies, but he was gripped by the final death throes. It was she who closed his eyes and kissed his mouth to catch his departing soul.

  DEATH OF ALEXANDER

  Whatever the truth, whether it was malaria fever, typhoid or deliberate poisoning; whether it was through too much alcohol or the effects of old wounds – he had sustained 21 wounds throughout his campaign – “Alexander, son of Philip, son of Zeus-Ammon, died in the 114th Olympiad, in the archonship of Hegesias at Athens, that being on 10 June 323 BC.”

  He was thirty-two years and eight months old, he was King of Macedonia and all the Greek territories, he had journeyed over 20,000 miles, founded seventeen cities named Alexandria, had conquered all from the Danube to the Nile, from Greece to Egypt, Persia and India, and become Lord over Asia. He ruled for twelve years and eight months.

  So, as the omens foretold, Alexander died in Babylon.

  Alexander’s body lay alone in the high hall of state, abandoned while the news sped to Athens. Conspiracies and power struggles swept through his officers and generals as they looked desperately for a new leader.

  A terrible silence spread through the Hanging Gardens, over the walls and across the city. Everywhere was in darkness. It was as if the sun had been extinguished.

  In Persia, a lamenting Queen Sisygambis starved herself to death.

  He had wanted to be buried in his soul country, Egypt, and that’s where he was finally taken. Not to the oasis at Siwa, where he had wanted to rest, but to his finest achievement, the city of Alexandria.

  O Alexander, Iskander, Ishkander, Iskindar or Skander!

  Should we rejoice at the death of a bloodthirsty conqueror, or mourn for the loss of a genius?

  Did Alexander, looking down from his heavens as a god, or mortal soul, see how all his dreams and ambitions for a unified empire, stretching from Macedonia to India, fell apart so quickly? Did he despair, as others without his vision fought tooth and nail in deadly power struggles?

  Remember, he had set off as a young man of 22, with fire in his belly, eager to be as heroic and famous a warrior as Achilles. But by the time he died, a mere twelve years later, his vision had extended. He had become more than just a conquering warrior; he was a builder, an explorer, a man who saw the potential for world trade; a man who, when he wasn’t fighting and conquering, was seeing where routes by land and sea could be opened up, harbours built, marshes drained and cities governed based on the Greek concept of democracy. He was a man of education and curiosity, who loved the arts and philosophy, who had a vision of a vast interaction of peoples, cultures and goods being exchanged across his empire.

  Had he lived to his sixties, as so many of his soldiers and generals did, what kind of world would we have inherited?

  Yet wherever he did pass, his name lives on, written into histories, myth, legends, romances and folk tales.

  ALEXANDER’S HAND

  The Persian storytellers sing:

  “Hear how Alexander conquered the east, the west, the north and the south – all belonged to him – he won the world, but lost his soul!”

  When Alexander died, his weeping friends and officers placed his body in a coffin, but as they tried to close the lid, his hand thrust outwards. They tried to press it down and hold it shut again, but every time they pushed it back his hand flew out again.

  “What are we to do? Alexander is dead, we have put our ear to his chest, and no heart beats, we have put our cheek to his mouth, but there is not one breath of air, and yet his hand will not stay down,” his friends wailed.

  All sorts of physicians and priests came to see if they could keep Alexander’s hand in the coffin, but it kept stretching out as if trying to grasp something.

  At last a wise old man came by. “I suggest you carry this coffin round the world, and maybe then, you will find someone who is able to tell you what to do.”

  So Alexander’s friends carried his coffin from town to town until one day, they came to the town of Hegmatane, now known as Hamadan, w
hich means “wise people”.

  The wise people of Hamadan came to ponder over the problem, but no one could find a solution. Alexander’s hand kept reaching out of his coffin.

  Just as his friends were preparing to move on, a strange, wild boy came over to the coffin. “Shoo, go away, boy!” They tried to chase him off.

  But the boy said, “I know how to keep Alexander’s hand inside the coffin.”

  At first they thought he was being cheeky, but when they saw his solemn face, and determined expression, they shrugged and said, “Well, what would you do, my lad!”

  “Just pour a handful of soil into his palm,” said the boy.

  The men laughed at him, but the boy picked up a handful of soil and let it trickle into Alexander’s outstretched hand. Immediately, the fist closed over the soil and the hand fell back into the coffin.

  “How could that be?” asked the men, amazed. “Why did that work, and not the spells and magic and wisdom of priests? Where did this boy get such wisdom?”

  “It is because your Alexander is still not done with conquering land. He wants more countries, more soil!” shouted the Persian boy.

  EPILOGUE

  Alexander had the beauty of a god, great power of strength and endurance, and a keen intelligence. He was not only brave, adventurous, and hungry for fame, but observed his religious duties faithfully.

  Those who deem to belittle Alexander only reveal their own limitations. Any criticism should take into account his whole life and career. And if there is anyone mean and petty enough to malign Alexander, he should first compare himself with this “blackguard”. He should confront the unparalleled global success of this great king, this undisputed ruler of two continents, whose name was known all over the earth, and then dare to open his mouth and abuse him. Perhaps he will finally see his own littleness, the triviality of his life, and the paucity of his own abilities.