‘There’s nothing in our way,’ said Alexander quietly, ‘except ourselves.’ His fey eyes were filled with something like joy.
Plexis shook his head. ‘Ah, Iskander. There was never anything between us except friendship. Cxious tried to change all that, but you were right all along. Sometimes the difference between love and need is as thin and transparent as spring ice.’
‘And the difference between love and need is like the difference between ice and water.’ Alexander spoke automatically.
‘I see you haven’t forgotten your lessons.’ Plexis smiled. ‘Aristotle should be proud.’
‘No, I never forget my lessons,’ he said.
‘May the gods hear you.’ Plexis winced as he levered himself from the ground. ‘I think I’ll go find Usse and beg some of his sleeping draught. My shoulder pains me. Perhaps I was hasty, moving about so soon.’ He turned and left, but not before I saw something shine on his cheeks.
‘Oh. Alex,’ I said, laying my head on his chest. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ His heartbeat was slow and regular. ‘I have all I need.’
‘And what about what you want?’ I asked.
‘You asked me that question long ago, if I remember well. It’s easy to answer. I want to find my son. I want to avenge Darius. And I want to make Alexandria the most beautiful city on earth. I want to grow old with you by my side, our children playing at our feet. I want the stars and the moon.’ He paused and kissed my nose. ‘I want to rule the world and the heavens. So, tell me. Tell me, my oracle, my love. Will I get what I want?’
I gave him the sweetest smile I could muster, and I said, ‘Alex, you’re standing on thin ice.’
He sputtered, then laughed. ‘I would be married to the only oracle in the world with a sense of humour!’
We sat in the fragrant grass watching as the horses came down the mountainside. The breeze was redolent of freshly cut hay and summer flowers. Dust sparkled in the air and butterflies darted about. White clouds looked like fat sheep grazing on an endless blue plain above us. The campsite was set up on the flank of the mountain, amongst the trees. Men came and went, fetching wood, forage, water, and meat. All around us there was bustle and the sound of men laughing, arguing, and singing.
We sat on the mossy bank of a silvery stream in a grove of white birch trees, surrounded by a sort of quiet grace.
I looked at the man I had read about three thousand years in the future, the man who would be known as Alexander the Great, and he smiled at me.
Chapter Twenty
Darius was sent back to Ecbatana to be buried. We lined up to watch the funeral cortège leave the camp. Alexander’s soldiers and Artabazus’s tribesmen lined each side of the road to salute him. With sixty thousand men lined up along the road, the farewell salute was fifty kilometres long. Alexander rode at the head of the funeral procession until he reached the end of the line of men. Then he stopped and let the wagon go by. He stood until it had disappeared, then he rode silently back to the camp.
We waited until the army caught up to us and then we headed across the Elburz Mountains towards the Caspian Sea.
The cavalry had new horses, courtesy of Artabazus and his mountain tribes.
The Caspian Sea was covered with whitecaps when I first saw it. We came down a winding mountain pass through a small pine forest. The air was full of the spicy scent of pine and the salty odour of the sea. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. The pines were balsamic and the fragrance was divine.
The wind hit us when we left the cover of the trees, and I caught my first glimpse of the huge salt-water lake called the Caspian Sea. It was grey-green, streaked with foam. Two white seagulls flew above us, calling to each other in their mournful voices. Alexander seemed to think this was an excellent omen, and he burst into a marching song, thankfully drowned out by soldiers with better ears for music.
I’d noticed Alexander’s mood could be influenced by such banal things as birds and dreams; he put great store in omens. It made me laugh sometimes and I’d tease him about it, but he saw nothing strange in his attitude. Rather, he tried to teach me all the things he thought a ‘normal’ person should know.
I spent most days being tutored in the major and minor deities, gods and demigods, and of course, the heroes. Alexander had been modelled by his mother into a sort of hero himself. He’d been raised believing his mother and father were both descended directly from the gods, and that the great hero Achilles was, in fact, his grandfather.
‘Do you really believe this?’ I asked one night as I lay in his arms.
‘Of course.’ He frowned. In the moonlight, his skin was as white as milk, and his eyes became even more strange. His full mouth curved in a smile. ‘Mother always told me, “You have the blood of heroes in your veins.” She meant Achilles and Heracles. Oh, by the way, Artabazus told me that Barsine had decided to name her babe Heracles if it’s a boy, and Persephone, after you, if it’s a girl.’
‘How sweet,’ I said, grinning at his expression.
I had figured out that Heracles was in fact Hercules.
Names were quite fluid at this time. For example, Hephaestion was Plexis, and sometimes he was called Chytroy, which was a big pot, because when he was little he got stuck in a chamber pot. Nicknames were common, and Iskander even had a few, but he wouldn’t translate some of them.
Nearchus was sometimes called Cretos, because he was born in Crete, and Baldy, as a joke, because of his beautiful blond hair of which he was inordinately proud. He was called Blondie for the same reason.
Ptolemy Lagos was sometimes referred to as Baldy too, because he was bald, and Sotar, which was what his nurse had called him. One got a nickname and it stuck until a new one came along, which drove the scribes and the historians crazy, especially the ones who were supposed to be writing Alexander’s journal.
We had historians with us. They wrote about our journey, copied Alexander’s speeches, and described everything in great detail. One was very nice, he was actually related to Aristotle – his nephew, I believe. His name was Callisthenes, and Alexander put him in charge of my education. There was also Aristobulus, an engineer, who would come into Alexander’s tent at night and interview him, writing everything on a long roll of papyrus.
Ptolemy Lagos was also a writer. He was using Nassar to record his memoirs, which Nassar told me were quite interesting, being the description of all the battles he’d fought, both with Philip of Macedonia and with Alexander.
Alexander’s half-brother was also named Ptolemy, but Alexander referred to him as Pylos – bathtub – for two reasons: he was rather tubby, inheriting none of his famous brother’s good looks; and he hardly ever washed. I avoided him. I much preferred Ptolemy Lagos, who’d come to see me in Ecbatana with Sis. He was a quiet man, with dark, piercing eyes and a keen wit. There was something about him that I didn’t quite trust, though. Perhaps I sensed his immense ambition, carefully hidden, like a shark beneath the surface of the sea.
Another man often visited Alexander in our tent. He had also joined us in Ecbatana, and his name was Cleitus. His nickname was ‘Blackie,’ another joke, for he was as blond as Nearchus, and his candid eyes were blue. He was also referred to by his father’s name sometimes, Dropides, and I liked him very much. He was of royal blood: he told me that each time I saw him. He wasn’t too bright, but he was of royal blood. He commanded all the Macedonian soldiers who came from royalty, and his squadron was called ‘The Royal Guards’. I got a case of the giggles every time I saw them. He adored Alexander, though. He honestly loved him. He didn’t expect anything in return. He was ‘ as proud as a peacock to be able to follow my king and serve him, as my father served Philip, and as my sons will serve Alexander’s sons’. – his words exactly.
He was also a heavy drinker, and he would sometimes be seen weaving through the camp, his tunic on backwards, his sandals around his neck, singing love-songs at the top of his lungs. Then he would stop a few minutes in front of Alexander’
s tent and serenade us. He would sing a garbled song about valiant soldiers and beautiful women, devious gods and goddesses, and then he’d hiccup loudly and bid us sweet dreams. When he did this, he would inevitably wake us up. Ignoring Alexander’s bellows that he shut up and let us sleep, he’d bow gracefully and roar, ‘Long live the King!’
Alexander loved when I sang. He adored rock and roll songs, soft ballads, and opera arias. The music they played in Alexander’s time was heavy on percussion, strings, woodwinds and brass. Choruses were popular, and the music would give me shivers. It could be amazing, especially when all the trumpets blew together. I loved the sweet music of the harps and flutes and there were reed instruments, like oboes, included at every banquet. However, music was also an everyday thing, with the soldiers singing as they marched or worked. People sang as they went about their everyday business. And children were taught with songs, as I found out when Callisthenes came for my first lesson.
We had stopped for the night on the shores of the Caspian Sea. The wind was making the tent lean in a way that frightened me, but Alexander assured me there was no danger. I expected to be blown away any second, but the tent held. Callisthenes came by after dinner. I was lying on the bed, and Alexander was at his table going over the day’s journal with Ptolemy Lagos and Nearchus. Plexis was being treated by Usse – his collarbone still hurt – and I was playing a game of checkers with Axiom.
I was winning, for once, so I was cross when Alexander ordered Axiom to fold up the game, and told me to go sit in the corner with Callisthenes for my first lesson. I made a face, but obeyed. Besides, I was curious. What would I learn?
Callisthenes took a small harp out of his robes and proceeded to sing a very cute song about nine women called ‘muses’ who lived on an island somewhere, and did all sorts of artistic things. Their names were lovely in themselves, and the song had three verses, with a chorus that went like this:
“We are the muses, all standing in line,
Nine sisters, nine inspirations divine,
We sing, dance, tell stories and give you stimulation
For all your artistic inspiration.”
Well, it loses something in the translation. However, it was the first little song a child learned. It told him about the nine subjects he would study: epic poetry; history; lyric poetry and hymns; music; tragedy; mime; dance; comedy; and astronomy. Those would be my lessons, and since each subject belonged to a muse, that’s where we started.
I went around humming about Clio and Calliope, Urania and all the other sisters until my next lesson.
The evenings were spent learning, but the days were spent walking. We marched around the shore, passing through many modest villages, all of which swore allegiance to Alexander. In each village he sacrificed a goat to the local gods, and met with the chieftain. It took us three days to reach the largest village on the shores of the sea, where we met the high chief of the Tapures, the tribe living in that region. The high chief laid down his arms without fighting, and Alexander rewarded him with the title of Satrap.
We travelled through his territory and then penetrated into the Hyrcania region, where we spent two weeks in Zadracarta, the capital. The people there, called the Madrians, submitted themselves to Alexander without a fight, and we were received with many banquets and feasts.
We stayed long for several reasons. Alexander was heading toward hostile territories. Bessus was still in front of us and was rallying the Bactrians against us. Alexander wanted to make sure of his allegiances, so he would never have to worry about being attacked from behind. It was his worst nightmare, the thing he worked the hardest to avoid. He would spend sleepless nights with his generals, working out the various things that could go wrong. He approached fighting exactly as if he were playing a gigantic chess game. He had to make sure he could plan every one of his opponent’s moves before he himself decided what to do. Afterwards, he would often sleep twenty hours to recuperate. He used up more energy planning than he did fighting.
He told me fighting was a relief to him. Planning was torture.
I’m sure that most of the cities’ names have been changed since I was in Iran. My journalist instincts made me ask for names and explanations everywhere we went. Sometimes they were hard to understand. A place could be named after a tribe or the tribe’s chief, or it could be the name of the river it was on, or a landmark, or even something that had happened there, as the place called, ‘Orian’s Big Trip’. I inquired after that name. Orian was a man who’d stumbled on a rock, and fallen off the cliff overlooking the village. Nearly all the villages we passed were named after the Caspian Sea. We passed through – rough translations – three ‘Lake Views,’ five ‘Lakesides,’ one ‘Saltwater Town,’ a ‘Lots of Fish Place,’ – I liked that one – and a ‘Deep Water, No Wading’. It seemed the smaller the village, the more picturesque the name.
Plexis was bucked off his new horse, and his arm got worse. I was worried, but Usse wasn’t. He told me that two weeks’ rest would help put things right, and so, when we got to Zadracarta, I made Alexander forbid Plexis to ride.
Plexis took a great interest in my education, and he would often sit with Callisthenes while he gave me my lessons. He and Callisthenes would usually end up in a lively discussion about philosophy, literature or science. Alexander would join in if he had finished working, and I would take Callisthenes’s harp and try to play a few of the songs I knew on it.
They were all impressed by rock music; it sounded like great incantations to them, and they thought I was talking directly to the gods.
Callisthenes had a remarkable voice, so I taught him some of the songs I knew, and we would sing harmony for Alexander. He loved music; it brought tears to his eyes. He would insist on singing along, which brought tears to our eyes; I have never heard anyone with a worse singing voice.
Chapter Twenty-one
Autumn was coming, the autumn of 330 BC. We headed due east and arrived in Arie, a large country in what is known now as Turkmenistan. Here Alexander founded another great city, Alexandria Arian, or Alexandropolis, as it was also called.
Whenever he founded a city, he made it completely independent; that is to say, it had its own government and didn’t have anything to do with the surrounding kingdoms. Alexander left Macedonians in charge most of the time, promoting them to governor, and giving them the freedom to control the city and the immediate countryside. The result of this manoeuvre was threefold. First, it meant that the cities would not be swallowed up in the local customs; on the contrary, they would be islands of pure Greek culture, where schools were set up and artists and poets would express themselves in what would be known as Hellenistic Art. Secondly, these cities would be democracies, able to decide their own governments, separating them from the satraps who ruled the great expanses of land around them. Thirdly and lastly, this meant that after Alexander’s death, when his kingdom splintered into many different parts, these cities stayed exactly as he’d planned. They continued to be landmarks of Greek culture, inspirational landmarks that would continue to thrive centuries later. They would be a wonder unto themselves and would carry forward the legend of Alexander. While the world around them changed, they remained the same.
We followed a river east, then climbed over a small mountain range to a large plateau. We’d come to a place called Phradra, a windy plain, where we decided to spend the week to rest the horses. It was a natural pastureland, with tall, waving grass like some vast, whispering, green sea. The tents were set up, the horses were corralled, and Alexander sent his best scouts to find out where Bessus had gone.
That night, while we slept, a young soldier crept into our tent and woke Alexander.
I heard them whispering together. Somehow, he’d gotten past the guards, and even past Axiom, who slept in front of our bed, and was the lightest sleeper I knew.
The young soldier was kneeling next to the bed, whispering into Alexander’s ear. His face was not familiar to me. He had the smooth, round cheeks of a
teenager, and his beard was sparse. His eyes were red from weeping, and he clutched Alexander’s arm so hard his fingers were white.
‘What is it?’ I murmured sleepily, rolling over in the bed and putting my chin on Alexander’s hip.
The youth gaped at me.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ Alexander was using his most gentle voice, the one I’d heard just once before when he was in the tent with the dying soldiers, right before he plucked the arrow from the man’s chest.
‘I swear by Zeus and all the gods that it’s true,’ the soldier said, and he collapsed into tears.
That woke Axiom, of course, and he poked his head up and asked Alexander if everything was as it should be.
Alexander said “no”, it was not as it should be, and he got out of bed, standing in a pool of silver moonlight, his head tilted to the side, considering. His eyes were wells of sorrow.
‘You said that you told Parmenion, and he did nothing? Three times you told him?’
‘But what could he do?’ The boy’s voice was pleading. ‘It is his son.’
‘But Parmenion is my general,’ said Alexander still with that gentle voice. ‘He should have told me.’ To Axiom he said, ‘Wake Hephaestion, tell him to bring Parmenion to me.’
‘I can get him,’ said Axiom, looking over at Plexis, sleeping deeply on the far side of the tent.
‘No, this is between generals,’ said Alexander. His voice was giving me the shivers. I dived back under the covers and found my shift. Alexander could parade about naked and look like a king, but I needed clothes if the tent was going to fill with men in the middle of the night.
Alexander stood while Axiom roused Plexis. When he realized what Alexander wanted him to do, he was wide-awake in an instant. His face was pale, and his eyes very wide. ‘I’ll get Parmenion,’ he said, throwing his cloak over his shoulders. He left silently; I never knew anyone who could walk as quietly as Plexis.
The Road to Alexander Page 28