by Max Overton
Alexander smiled. "I'll be better now, you'll see. Help me up; I must make the morning sacrifice." He struggled up onto one elbow, supported by Bagoas. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and clutched his chest, a look of agony on his face. A stifled groan ripped out of him and he doubled over in a paroxysm of coughing.
Bagoas, assisted by Tomyra and Nikometros, eased Alexander back onto the bed and propped him up with pillows. Bagoas took a clean cloth and wiped bright red arterial blood from Alexander's chin.
The king looked up at him with a forced smile, fighting for breath. "Perhaps I won't make the sacrifice this morning, after all." He leaned back on the pillows and closed his eyes.
Ptolemy beckoned Nikometros back out of earshot. "I must summon the other generals," he said grimly. "Alexander is dying."
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Chapter Forty-Three
"Alexander, this has gone too far," Peukestas remonstrated. "Let us bring in a doctor."
Alexander, pale beneath his tan, fluttered his hand in dismissal. "No doctors," he gasped. "I've told you. Don't raise the subject again." He closed his eyes and drifted into semi-sleep.
Peukestas turned away, a mix of emotions warring for supremacy. "Ptolemy," he muttered. "Back me up."
Ptolemy shook his head and signed to the eunuchs of the bedchamber to rearrange the bed clothing.
Alexander now lay in the formal King's Bed, where once Darius had slept. Built for a giant, the bed measured nine feet by six and dwarfed the dying king. The eunuchs fluffed the pillows and propped Alexander up into a half sitting position. Behind the carved headboard with its hunting motif, Bagoas gently waved an ostrich plume fan, moving the still air of the chamber over the sleeping king.
Their efforts roused Alexander. He opened his eyes and signed Peukestas closer. "Order the army to assemble," he whispered. "Commanders and above...in the courtyard."
Peukestas went out and presently there came the growing sounds of men trooping into the palace grounds.
Alexander laid unmoving, eyes closed, his breath rasping. Around him the generals and staff officers withdrew from his immediate presence and talked quietly.
Peukestas returned, with the news that most of the officers were assembled. "A lot of the ranks have come too. They have heard rumours."
"What will happen, sir?" asked one of the body squires. "I mean, what if..." The young man's voice broke off in a sob.
"Control yourself, Andremedon," hissed Perdikkas. He glanced over his shoulder at the bed. "He'll hear you."
"All the same," Eumenes murmured. "It pays to think ahead."
"You mean, what will happen to the king's secretary when the king no longer requires a secretary?" jeered Seleukos.
Perdikkas grinned at Eumenes' fury. "I imagine you'll find some other avenue for your...ah, talents."
"Gentlemen, please," said Nikometros quietly. "This is not seemly. We should be more concerned with helping the king."
"Helping him do what?" Seleukos asked. "He's dying well enough without our help. I think your wife has seen to that."
Nikometros paled. "What are you implying, sir?"
Perdikkas stepped between the young men, sending Seleukos a meaningful glance. "Nothing, Nikometros, I assure you. It's obvious that the gods have set a term to Alexander's life. No blame falls to your wife. In fact, I thank her for her efforts."
Nikometros, his face a stiff mask, stepped back, accepting the general's words with a nod.
Ptolemy plucked at the young man's sleeve. "Don't blame yourself...or your wife. The gods will not be denied."
The morning advanced and the men waiting beside Alexander's bed grew tired, sending out for food and drink. The king's rasping breath waxed and waned as he struggled, sweat beading on his body as the heat of the day increased.
At last, Perdikkas stepped up to the bed and put his hand on Alexander's shoulder. "Alexander, the men are still waiting for orders in the courtyard. Should I send them away?"
The king's eyes opened and he shook his head, rocking it weakly on the pillows. "Let...let them in. Everyone."
Perdikkas looked around at the others, his eyebrows knotted in perplexity. "Let them in? How? The room is too small."
Ptolemy pointed to a small door at the far end of the room. "Let them in through there. They can file past the bed and out of the main doors." When Perdikkas hesitated, Ptolemy added softly, "Go on, man, the men deserve to see him one last time."
Perdikkas nodded. "Peithon, Leonnatos," he beckoned to two of the staff officers. "See to it. Get the men organised and see them through."
The officers left on the double, throwing the doors wide.
A few minutes later, the first soldiers entered through the small door. They advanced hesitantly, and then under the direction of Peithon, walked in single file past the bed.
Alexander, as the first man approached, drew himself into a sitting position and turned to face the soldier. "Dienorus," Alexander whispered.
The soldier gaped, his eyes wet with tears. He stumbled past the bed, ushered out by the other staff officers. The next man approached.
Alexander greeted the first few by name, officer and enlisted man alike. Presently he lapsed into silence, though he continued to acknowledge each man by a look or a vague tremor of his fingers.
The men filed by slowly, several hundred, officers and ranks. The morning turned past the noon hour and still they came. Alexander drew on reserves of strength and remained upright, pressed back into his pillows, the only sounds being the shuffling tread of the men and the ragged intake of each breath the king made.
Many openly wept, and several hardened troopers, veterans of a lifetime of rapine and slaughter, broke down as they left the Bedchamber.
"He knew me," bawled one, tears streaming down his scarred and bearded face.
"I could see it in his eyes," sobbed another. "He thanked me."
At last, the procession thinned and ceased. The doors closed, shutting off the tide of grief and unrest from outside the palace. Stillness fell over the room, even as the last rays of afternoon sunlight streamed through the window onto the rumpled and sweat-stained sheets of the bed.
Alexander sank back, his face grey and hollowed. He closed his eyes and his breathing faltered and ceased.
Ptolemy, closest to the bed, gasped in horror and strode to the bedside. He grasped Alexander's shoulder and shook it. "No. Alexander, no!"
The king's eyes fluttered open and he stared vacantly up. "Bagoas?" Alexander whispered. "Where is Bagoas?" He feebly licked his dry and cracked lips.
"Here, lord." The king's eunuch slipped forward from his position behind the bed. He smoothed a damp cloth over Alexander's face and arms, wiping away the stale sweat.
"Ah...feels good."
Bagoas held Alexander's head up off the pillows and poured a little water from a cup onto his parched lips. Alexander coughed, spilling the water. Bagoas set the cup down and, dipping a napkin in the water, squeezed a dribble into the king's mouth.
"Thank you, Bagoas." The king closed his eyes and drifted into an uneasy sleep, his breathing laboured but regular.
Perdikkas ushered two men forward. The men, garbed in long flowing robes and wearing expressions of terror, reluctantly advanced to the side of the bed. "Go on then," growled Perdikkas. "Examine him."
"Who in Hades are these?" asked Peukestas.
"Doctors. It's probably too late to do any good, but if there's any chance, we should take it."
The doctors timidly put their hands on the king, resting their fingers lightly on his wrist, bending their ears to his chest. After a few moments they exchanged a scared glance and turned to face Perdikkas.
"Well? Can you save him?"
"It...it's c...complicated," stuttered one. "We sh...should have been called days ago."
The other one gave a nervous smile. "I can prescribe a tea," he said. "Perhaps with a regimen of fasting and exercise..."
Peukestas s
norted. "This is ridiculous. The time for doctors is over." He looked around at the others. "I'm going to the temple of Serapis to petition the god. Who will come with me?" He looked at Ptolemy, who shook his head. Most of the other officers did likewise but Leonnatos and Peithon agreed to accompany the general.
"Very well, then," muttered Peukestas. "I'll spend the night in prayer at the temple and bring the oracular utterance to you in the morning. It's the least I can do for my king and my friend." He pushed through the crowded chamber.
Perdikkas dismissed the doctors and ordered lamps to be lit against the deepening dusk. He had chairs brought in, together with food and wine and Alexander's friends and generals settled down to the long death watch.
The night passed slowly and silently. The usual noises of palace and city faded to a watchful uncertainty, the stars in the heavens steadily wheeling above the palace where a god lay dying.
Toward dawn, Alexander stirred. He drew a deep ragged breath and started coughing violently, spraying a fine speckle of bright blood over the sheets. His eyes opened and wandered round the room, finally alighting on Perdikkas. His hand twitched then beckoned to his general.
Perdikkas sat on the edge of the bed, his craggy face set in a mask of concern. "Alexander. I'm here. What would you have me do?"
Alexander opened his mouth but could form no words. He fumbled with the royal ring for a moment then pulled it off his hand and passed it across to Perdikkas. The king closed his eyes again.
Perdikkas got up and faced the room. He held up Alexander's ring with a triumphant expression. "He gives me his ring of authority."
Ptolemy made a disgusted noise. "All it means is he deputises you to act for him during his illness. It's no more than that."
"Nonsense," broke in Seleukos. "He handed over his ring. He clearly nominates Perdikkas his successor."
Chairs scraped as officers leapt to their feet, their voices rising in argument.
"What about the baby?" asked one of the squires. "Roxane is pregnant. Surely her babe will inherit."
"Yes," said another. "Alexander's son must succeed him."
"And what if it's a girl?" asked Nikometros, getting caught up in the excitement.
"Gentlemen!" Perdikkas' voice cut through the babble. "This is all irrelevant. Of course Alexander's blood will succeed him, but for now he's named me as regent, to hold the kingdom in trust."
"Name you?" growled Ptolemy. "I didn't hear him name you. He only gave you his ring and who knows what he meant by that." He planted his fists on his hips and stared round the room. "No, if there is any man worthy to succeed Alexander...or act as Regent...it's Krateros. Do you forget he's even now on his way to Macedon to assume the Regency of Greece?"
Niarchos pushed his way to the front. Silent in his grief he felt emboldened to speak. "Aye, let Alexander himself tell us his wishes. Ask him what he wants."
A chorus of agreement arose and Perdikkas scowled. "Very well, I'll ask him. Keep quiet."
The general bent over the bed and gently shook Alexander. When the eyes opened, unfocused in a face devoid of expression, Perdikkas asked his question. "Alexander, to whom do you leave your kingdom?"
The king drew a shuddering breath and moved his lips, a whistling rattle escaping his throat.
Perdikkas, leaning close over Alexander's mouth, smiled. He turned, his face triumphant. "He says, 'Hoti to kratisto'--to the best."
Ptolemy's face darkened. He turned aside to Nikometros and lowered his voice. "Kratisto or Kratero, I wonder. To the best or to Krateros?"
With the dawn came Peukestas, together with a coterie of close friends, tired from their vigil at the temple of Serapis. He entered the bedchamber and looked around at the assembled officers, noting the strain and suspicion evident between them. "What has happened?" he asked. "Alexander...?"
"Still lives," Seleukos said dryly. "He has named no successor but leaves my lord Perdikkas as Regent."
Perdikkas beckoned to Peukestas. "What did the god say? Should we move him to the temple?"
Peukestas shook his head. "The god said it were better that he stay here."
"My lords," came a quiet voice. Heads turned toward the bed where Andremedon knelt, his hands holding the king's. Alexander's breath came in great laboured gasps, the fluid in his lungs bubbling and rattling in his throat. "He goes, my lords," the squire sobbed.
Peukestas pushed through to the bed. He stared down at his dying king then dropped to his knees. "Alexander, where do you wish to be buried?"
Alexander's hand rose toward the morning sunlight breaking through the curtained windows. "Ammon," he wheezed, before falling back into his torturous breathing.
Perdikkas joined Peukestas beside the bed. "You are a god, Alexander. When do you wish to be worshipped?"
Alexander opened his eyes and looked up at his general. Gradually his breathing eased and he smiled. "When...you're...happy." He shut his eyes and sank back into the pillow. His breathing cycled slower and shallower for a time and then ceased.
Every man in the room held their breath, eyes fixed on their king.
Ptolemy reached over and placed his hand over his friend's heart. After a moment he stepped back and straightened, tears streaming from his eyes. "Alexander is dead."
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Chapter Forty-Four
Perdikkas and Peukestas stared at each other in shock. Everyone in the room, despite Alexander's protracted illness, wore stunned or grief-stricken expressions.
The squire Andremedon put his hands to his face and sobbed.
Bagoas, standing on the far side of the bed, his face contorted in an agony of grief, threw himself onto Alexander's body with a wail of anguish.
The sound, ripped from a breaking heart, sent Andremedon stumbling back. He cried out and ran for the door of the bedchamber, bursting through it and pushing past the throng of servants, eunuchs and officials crowding the corridors of the palace. He ran until he found the army, still clogging the forecourt of the palace.
A great swell of grief rose from the army. A surge of wordless anguish and panic rose from a thousand throats. Men pushed and shoved, some to get out of the forecourt, others to go in to the palace and see for themselves.
Inside the death chamber, the generals heard the swelling panic and reacted instantly. Training and experience precipitated them out the door, racing for the courtyard to stem the rising chaos.
Perdikkas burst into the courtyard and shoved his way to a raised platform at one end. He grabbed a trumpeter and pushed him onto the platform. "Sound the call to Assembly. Quickly, you fool."
The herald put the trumpet to his lips and sounded a long quavering note. The milling mass of armed men hesitated, heads turning to see what was happening. The herald blew again, more confidently, calling the men to Assembly. Training took hold and with a deal of grumbling and shoving, the Macedonian army and its auxiliaries formed ranks. The Persian levies formed up too, but moved toward the edge of the courtyard, fingering their weapons and looking askance at their erstwhile comrades. Slowly, the noise died as they awaited some announcement from their officers.
"Too bloody slowly," muttered Ptolemy. "Has discipline disintegrated so fast?"
"Look at the Persians," commented Nikometros. "They're on the verge of mutiny. If someone doesn't reassure them quickly there'll be bloodshed."
Perdikkas waited patiently for complete quiet before signaling to Peukestas.
The satrap of Persia, though Macedonian, had adopted the dress and customs of his Persian subjects. A tall, imposing man with the full beard of the noble Persian, he smoothed his robes and composed his face. He stepped to the front of the platform and addressed the Persians in their own language. "Noble lords and esteemed warriors, it is with a heavy heart that I stand before you today. Our beloved Great King, Alexander son of Philip lies dead. Great is our grief yet we have no cause for concern. The Kingship passes on and in due course, the successor to the Great Alexander will
be named. In the meantime, go about your life as always. You are dismissed."
The listening Persians visibly relaxed, sheathing their weapons and moving toward the exits.
The Macedonians, straining to understand a foreign language started muttering. A soldier near the front yelled out a rough translation, his words repeated and shouted across the courtyard. The muttering swelled to a roar of displeasure.
"What do you mean, 'name a successor'," an officer called out. "In Macedon we choose our king."
"That's right! It's the law. The king only reigns with the permission of the army."
"The bastards are trying to cut us out. Kill them!"
Perdikkas took his place at the front of the platform and held up his arms for silence. As the sounds of fury died away he started speaking softly, conversationally, in the gutter patois of the common soldier, forcing them to listen. "Men of Macedon, we've all lost the greatest king that ever ruled the earth, the bravest warrior, the noblest man to walk this world since the gods themselves left us. We each of us bear an enormous burden of grief."
A low moan rose from the army as the misery and anguish in thousands of hearts found expression.
"Remember though, that you're men favoured above all other generations. You've known Alexander, you're part of his army, and you've shared in his everlasting glory. It is to you, his Macedonians, that he's left the mastery of half the world. Show that you're the men of courage that Alexander believed in. Go back to your camp. Wait there for further orders. Be assured that all things will be done according to law, Macedonian law."
The army broke up into small groups, individuals, and started to leave the forecourt. Perdikkas watched them go then turned and left the platform, followed by the other generals, the bodyguard and staff officers.
Within the city, the priests quenched the temple fires for the second time in just over a month. A tide of lamentation swept over Babylon, many genuinely grieving the strange young conqueror, others going through the forms of grief, voicing the ritual phrases and hoping fervently that a successor would be named soon, before serious trouble erupted.