The young soldier knelt near the bed and said nothing. Tears ran down his face, and his mouth trembled. Axiom looked grave. He set about lighting the lamp and making hot tea.
Brazza woke when the lamp was lit. He was deaf, not blind, and the light made him sit up and blink. He didn’t move, though. He saw Alexander and his face became troubled. He stayed where he was, but his hands twisted together, reminding me of Lady Macbeth. When I think back on that night, I always see Brazza’s hands, wringing and twisting in his lap.
After a minute, Axiom draped a cloak over Alexander’s shoulders. Alexander looked at the fine wool as if he’d never seen it before. His face was drawn in thin lines. I noticed his hands were shaking. What was going on?
Plexis stepped into the tent and formally announced General Parmenion.
The man ducked under the tent flap, and I recognized him at once. He was an older man, one of Antipatros’s cronies, and they often rode or played dice together. He always had a smile for me, and I leaned forward, a smile on my face, ready to greet him.
He didn’t see me. His expression of desolation mirrored Alexander’s countenance.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ were Alexander’s first words to the old soldier.
He flinched. ‘I didn’t believe it,’ he said slowly. ‘How could I? My own son, accused of treason? It isn’t possible.’
Treason? My skin prickled. So that was it.
Plexis stepped into the tent, his face impassive. ‘My king, we’ve found Philotas.’ There was something in his voice that made Alexander look up sharply.
‘And?’
‘He was with Lycenus.’
‘Where is Lycenus?’
‘He cut his own throat when he saw us coming.’
The words fell like missiles among us. I gasped, Alexander straightened, and Parmenion sank to his knees as if a huge weight had just fallen on his shoulders.
‘It was meant to happen tonight,’ said Alexander, and each time he drew a breath, it seemed to hurt.
The young soldier put his face in his hands. Alexander placed a light hand on his shoulder. ‘Go back to your tent now and try to sleep. I can never thank you enough. Come to see me in two days’ time, I will speak to you then.’
The boy got to his feet, and left without a glance at the old man kneeling on the floor, his head bowed against his chest.
There was a silence in the tent after he’d left. It was an awful silence, as if everyone were holding his breath. Then the generals filed in, without speaking: Leonnatos Pella; Nearchus; Antipatros; Cleitus; Craterus; Plexis; and Ptolemy Lagos.
Afterwards came Philotas, accompanied by Seleucos and Pharnabazus, Artabazus’s son.
Everyone stood in the tent, and no one seemed to know what to say, or where to start. Alexander wouldn’t look at anyone. He stood with his hands shaking, and looked at a corner of the tent where a patch of moonlight made a milky stain on the floor.
Finally Philotas threw himself on his knees, next to his father, and started to sob. His father put his arm around his son’s shoulders.
‘What have you done?’ asked the old man.
‘It was Antigone,’ sobbed Philotas, ‘She told me we would never see Macedonia again if Iskander lived to see the dawn. She said that we would all be lost in the wilds of Bactria, and that the barbarians would slaughter us all. She said that if Iskander died, you would be king. You are second in command, are you not?’
‘Antigone?’ The old general’s voice rose several octaves and he rocked back on his heels, away from his son. ‘You listened to your mistress?’ His face was twisted in disbelief and pain. ‘Have you lost your senses, boy? I am second in command of Iskander’s army, not to rule. How could you plot to kill your own king?’
‘He’s not my king!’ Philotas shouted harshly. ‘Philip was, and he never named his successor! Iskander’s an imposter! He killed his own father. I won’t be led by a bastard who committed patricide!’
His words were greeted by silence. Alexander’s skin shivered like a horse with flies, but otherwise he was still. His hands had stopped moving. ‘Is that what they say?’ he asked, when the silence, stretched as tight as a rubber band, finally snapped.
‘I was there, did you forget?’ hissed Philotas. ‘I was there! Your father wanted to marry your brother Arrhidaeus to Pixodaros’s daughter. You sent that actor to his court to show what Arrhidaeus was like so you could marry the girl. You were so afraid your father would declare Arrhidaeus his heir! Have you forgotten?’
‘He’s not my brother,’ retorted Alexander, ‘he’s an abomination of nature.’
‘Because your mother poisoned him when he was a babe!’ shouted Philotas. ‘The abomination is you! How many of your half-brothers and sisters did your mother kill when they were still sucking at their mothers’ breasts? Infanticide! A witch, and the son of a witch, that’s what I was plotting to kill.’
Alexander’s face turned ashen. My own nose started bleeding, and yet I couldn’t move, frozen in place by the terrible look on Alexander’s face and on the faces of his generals.
I don’t know if what Philotas said was true, or if Alexander had ever heard the slightest rumour about it. It seemed that he was innocent of the murders attributed to his mother, whom he ‘hated and loved’. I shuddered.
‘Iskander.’ It was Plexis, stepping forward.
‘No, don’t touch me.’ His whisper was hoarse. He stared at Philotas without blinking. His face was awful to look at. It seemed that his flesh had contracted around his skull. ‘We vote,’ he said, ‘as an assembly.’
The generals didn’t move. No one even breathed.
‘All those who think Philotas guilty raise their right hand,’ said Alexander. ‘All those who think him innocent raise their left hand.’
There was no hesitation. All present lifted their right hands, including the boy’s father, Parmenion.
‘Father!’ Philotas’s voice was ragged.
Parmenion got to his feet and walked across the tent to Alexander. He stood straight; no sign of sorrow was in his voice. ‘I only ask one favour of you,’ he said clearly.
‘I will grant you whatever you wish, old friend,’ said Alexander, putting his hand on Parmenion’s shoulder.
‘Is that a promise?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then grant me this wish. You must kill me before you kill my son. I won’t watch my own son being executed, and I won’t live knowing that I was warned of the plot and did nothing to prevent it.’
Alexander’s hand slipped off Parmenion’s shoulder and he staggered. ‘No!’
‘You swore.’ The old general’s voice was gentle. ‘And now you must.’
Alexander’s eyes glittered with tears. ‘I cannot kill you,’ he said.
‘And yet you must.’ Parmenion smiled kindly. ‘I will die gladly by your sword, my king.’
Philotas was sobbing now, his face buried in his hands, but no one looked at him.
‘You were not tried by the assembly,’ said Alexander, searching for words.
‘I will be ready when the sun rises,’ said Parmenion. ‘I will need a scribe until then.’
‘Take Nassar,’ said Ptolemy, snapping his fingers at Axiom, who bowed and ran from the tent.
‘Will you tell me just one thing?’ asked Alexander, drawing deep breaths like a man who is drowning. ‘Will you tell me if you believe what your son said, about me killing my father, and about my mother. Do you think it is true? Will you tell me? Will you ...’ He broke off and gasped, his face turning grey.
The old man’s face crumpled, and he took Alexander in his arms, holding him tightly, patting his back gently. ‘By Zeus and by Amon, I swear to you, I never believed you killed Philip. You loved your father, and he loved you. He was proud of everything you did, and he would be even more proud of you now. You’re a good boy, Iskander, a good boy. Now, let me go. I must prepare myself. But I promise, by all the gods in Olympus, I love you still, Iskander, and I’m proud to die by you
r hand.’
He turned and left the tent, with only a brief glance at his son, prostrate on the floor.
The generals took Philotas to a tent and stood guard around it. He had a scribe assigned to him, but he spent the rest of the night screaming. His voice scraped and battered against the night until the sun rose, and the noise of the camp finally drowned his cries.
Alexander spent the night standing in the middle of the tent, silent and unmoving. Only now and then, his whole body would convulse. Once he vomited, but he would allow no one to touch him.
Brazza cleaned up the vomit. Axiom took Alexander’s ceremonial robes out of the large cedar chest at the foot of the bed, and got them ready. I started to cry, and finally Brazza crawled into bed with me and held me. I couldn’t stop crying, and it was good of him to hug me. I wanted to comfort Alexander, but he would not allow it. Plexis had gone to stay with Philotas, he didn’t return until the next morning.
Towards dawn, Philotas’s voice gave out. I laid my head on Brazza’s chest, and his heartbeat lulled me to sleep.
I woke, and there was still no change. Philotas had started screaming again. Alexander stood while Axiom dressed him and shaved him. Brazza brought breakfast but none of us touched it.
Plexis came in and put on his finest tunic, and I put on my black silk. We didn’t speak, but waited until the sun no longer touched the horizon. Then Alexander took a deep breath. His colour was still bad, but at least he could breathe more easily.
In the centre of the camp was a large empty space where the sacrifices were carried out or meetings were held. The entire army gathered around. Word had travelled fast. Everyone was standing mutely, feet shifting, eyes worried, hands twisting.
Treason was the worst thing, perhaps, that could befall a king. What’s more, Alexander had been betrayed by a childhood friend. A Macedonian no less, whose father happened to be second in command. Rumour swept the camp that both men were to die, but that the father had not had a trial.
Parmenion walked out of the tent where he’d spent the night dictating his memoirs to Nassar. He had dressed in his military finest. He walked with his back straight, and his step was as light as if he were going for a quick stroll. The murmur in the crowd grew, but it hushed when Parmenion stopped in front of Alexander and knelt. Alexander wouldn’t look at him. He looked over all our heads into the distance. Parmenion got to his feet and embraced Alexander, who simply stood there, his arms by his sides. Then slowly, slowly, his arms crept up, and he hugged the old general. His composure shattered. Tears spilled down his cheeks.
Suddenly, he stepped backwards and seemed to dance once in and out, his hand a dazzling blur. Parmenion staggered, but before he fell Alexander caught him, and a knife dropped to the ground. A fountain of scarlet blood drenched both men as they sank to their knees. For a split second, I didn’t understand what had happened. Then I saw Alexander’s face, and I knew he’d killed a man he loved, and he would never be the same.
The ground drank the general’s blood as if it were a thirsty beast, while Alexander held him and begged him over and over to forgive him. Afterwards, he laid the old man on the ground and folded his arms over his chest. A single wound showed where the knife had entered his chest and severed his aorta.
I didn’t faint, and my nose didn’t bleed, but beside me Plexis hit the ground, hard. I heard a distinct crack, and I realized his collarbone, not quite healed, had broken again. Usse, standing not far away, groaned.
I made it to the tent before I collapsed, and then lay on the bed and wished myself somewhere else. I didn’t watch Philotas’s execution, carried out by another soldier. I was seriously considering packing up and returning to Ecbatana, where I thought I could stay with Sisygambis.
Plexis was carried into the tent. He lay on his pallet, moaning, until Usse gave him a sleeping draught and reset his collarbone. Then Plexis dropped off to sleep.
I thought Alexander would want to avoid us, but soon afterwards he came into the tent and crawled into the bed next to me. He was covered with blood, and I nearly pushed him away, but then I saw his face. It was as if he didn’t even know I was there. He lay in the bed and shivered. I started to peel off his clothes and shouted for Usse and Axiom.
‘Usse!’ I said urgently, ‘I think he’s in shock! Help me elevate his legs and pull these covers over him.’
We worked quickly. Axiom took the bloody clothes away, and Usse brought me a small pot of honey. I dipped my finger in it and tried to put it in Alexander’s mouth. I didn’t know if that would help, but Usse seemed to think so.
Alexander was unconscious, so I had to rub my finger along his gums, waiting for the honey to melt before putting some more in his mouth. After nearly an hour, his eyelashes fluttered and he awoke. He still had that frightening blank look in his eyes though.
‘Alex, please, speak to me, are you all right?’
He closed his eyes and squeezed them shut.
‘Answer me, we’re so worried about you, please, Alex!’
‘Leave me alone.’ Each word was as clear as cut glass and separated by a harsh breath.
I pinched my lips, but I’d had time to think. ‘I will never leave you, Alexander,’ I said. ‘I love you, I want you, and I need you. You are the only reason I came to your world, and you are the only reason I stay. I will not leave you, ever.’
A faint smile stirred his lips. ‘All right. Leave me alone for a little while, then.’ His voice was still faltering, but no longer tortured. It was all he said, but it was enough. My shoulders sagged, and I took a deep breath. I turned to Usse, who stepped backward and smiled. ‘He'll be all right,’ I said. Then I left the tent. I wanted to be alone.
Chapter Twenty-two
I went to the stables and found my grey mare. She was happy to see me. I spoiled her terribly. I fed her the morsel of stale bread I’d kept aside for her and put her bridle on. With all the tragedy in the camp this morning, hardly anyone was about. They’d gathered into tight groups and were discussing the events. I noticed Ptolemy Lagos stalking around; his face was tight with anger, and I wondered what else was going on. Cleitus and Nearchus were trailing after him, but none of them noticed me leaving. I rode along the path towards the village in the distance. I’d put some coins in my pouch, and I was thinking of buying some warm cloth. We were climbing higher and higher, and I knew that soon we would reach the Hindu-Kush Mountains. Alexander had discovered that Bessus had headed that way and was intent on catching him.
He was also drawing plans for new cities; I’d seen them on his desk. They were all based on the plans of Greek cities, with a square market place, gymnasium, government centre, baths, and temples. Everything that a Greek-style metropolis had, was transplanted into Alexander’s plans. It was so typical of him. He didn't once think of asking anyone else what they wanted. What he wanted was obviously the best for everyone. That was his philosophy. Yet, he wasn’t a tyrant. He surrounded himself with intelligent men, and he was open to their ideas, but after hearing them he made his own decisions, and everyone was expected to follow. I wondered what would happen if his generals all revolted, if they just suddenly became fed up with Alexander. Why should they follow him? What made them walk across Asia Minor in his footsteps? Land? They had too much of it. Fortune? The treasure at Persepolis was the most they’d ever see. Power? They held as much as they would ever get, as long as Alexander lived. So what was it? Was it a kind of love? Awe, perhaps? Or did they share the same urge to go forward into new territories? An ancient saying came to my mind: ‘... to go where none have gone before, to explore new worlds ...’ Was that it?
I patted my little mare on the neck and wondered. It was as if Alexander had put an enchantment on his men. Then I shivered. If Philotas had been considering treason, it meant that others could be thinking about it too. The magic was wearing thin. Yet, we were only on the first part of our journey. We still had six more years to go before we turned back to Persia. Would the army last that long?
&nbs
p; In the village, I bought some thick felt for a jacket and some leather boots. I would show Alexander my new outfit and suggest he give one to each soldier. Climbing snow-covered peaks in flimsy sandals and linen skirts would definitely make the men regret following him.
Back at camp, I saw that we were getting ready to march again. I had no time to pack – Brazza had done it for me. When I arrived in the tent, Alexander was up and pacing.
‘Where were you?’ he asked, before I could greet him.
‘In the village.’ I frowned. I’d only been gone four hours. ‘Where are we going?’
‘South. We’re going to consolidate the territories in the south before heading east again.’ His voice was curt.
I nodded. ‘Fine, let’s go south. I was worried about spending the winter in the mountains anyway.’
His mouth twitched. ‘Well, that’s another reason we’re going.’
‘Fine. Did you tell your men?’ I asked sarcastically, ‘or did you just say “march south”, as if they were a gaggle of geese?’
‘A gaggle of geese?’ His eyebrows raised. ‘I don’t think my men think of themselves as geese.’
‘Oh? Well, excuse me. It’s a just silly impression I got, that’s all.’
‘Explain.’ It was an order.
‘Did you tell them why you did it?’ I asked, getting angry now. ‘Did you bother to explain? Do you know what they’re saying?’
‘About what?’
‘You know damn well about what. I’ll tell you what they’re saying. They’re saying that Parmenion had no trial. They’re saying you were the judge, the jury and the executioner, and that you did it out of sheer fury! That’s what they’re saying.’
‘Where did you hear this?’ His eyes were blazing.
‘In the stables, the grooms are talking. Alex, you have to do something. You can’t just expect your men to read your mind and follow you blindly. They deserve your trust.’
‘Oh? They do? What about Philotas?’
‘I think he was an exception,’ I said levelly. ‘But if you go on pretending to be God, he’ll become the rule.’
The Road to Alexander Page 29