Alexander’s harangue came to an abrupt halt. He had said enough for now. Let silence punctuate my points, he decided. His logic had been overwhelming. His men, who had gone through so much with him, would not abandon him now. Awkwardly, he continued to manage the silence. Then he spread his arms, arched his eyebrows, and invited a response.
However, not one officer spoke. Most refused to even look at Alexander. The silence seemed interminable. Finally, the king could stand it no more. “Someone speak, damn it!” he yelled.
At last, an aging former son-in-law of Parmenio, Coenus, rose to answer his king. He was in the beginning stages of what his physicians had told him was a mortal illness. It was only because of his failing health that he was able to summon up his courage and speak. His words were aimed at a man who knew that he was the son of god.
“Alexander,” he began, “the most courageous of the Macedonians, men who have taken us where we are today, are utterly exhausted. Their friends, men who grew up with them in Macedonia’s provinces, are lame, broken, or dead. Their vitality is sapped. They want to see their families again; they want to enjoy the wealth that you have brought them in what remains of their old age.”
“King Alexander,” Coenus continued, “I believe your wisest course is to return to Greece and Macedonia. From there, you can mount other expeditions with younger men. You can continue to have a conquering life ahead of you. But not with this group of worn-out fighters. You must understand that one mark of a great leader is knowing when to stop, knowing when enough is enough.”
Coenus sat down and, for a brief time, silence reigned again. Then every officer in Alexander’s top command structure rose and gave Coenus’ remarks a thunderous roar of support. The message was clear: even Alexander’s most loyal officers had turned against him.
“You miserable, fucking cowards,” Alexander shouted. “If you won’t continue with me, I’ll lead the Persians and mercenaries eastward. My historians will record that you abandoned your king with his enemies at every side. But I will not stop!”
Alexander turned on his heel and strode arrogantly out of the command tent into the Indian rain.
Inside the tent, his commanders sat in silence. It was the worst crisis of the expedition. None of them knew if they would survive the next days, but their resolve was fixed. Like the common, fighting men, they would not go on.
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Alexander pouted in his private quarters for three days. Only Hephaestion saw him. Each time Hephaestion left the king, he spread the word that Alexander had not relented. He could not accept what he considered the ultimate betrayal.
Finally, Alexander called in his personal seer, Aristander. He had decided to leave it up to the gods. “Tomorrow I want you to sacrifice a thousand sheep and a thousand goats,” he directed. “Even though I have insisted on continuing the expedition, I will abide by the omens. If the signs are favorable, I will cross the Beas with whatever fighters remain loyal to me. If the signs are unfavorable, I will turn back and lead the men home. This will show everyone that I am still a pious man. The final decision is out of my hands!”
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Aristander was not only skilled at delivering messages from the gods and interpreting omens and prophesies, he also knew a volatile leadership crisis when he saw one. The evening of the next day, he went to his king and told him the gods’ wills. “My priests examined the entrails of every slaughtered animal,” he began. “Ninety percent of the organs were black or gray. Even those without dark color showed organs that were not their normal red or pink. The gods’ intentions are clear: the expedition must stop.”
Alexander bowed his head. So, this is how my destiny is to be thwarted. Not by Memnon, Darius, Spitamenes, or Porus. No mortal human had been able to halt his great eastward movement. Now, the guts of sheep and goats had stopped the son of Zeus-Ammon.
A powerful surge of negative emotion swept over him. During the night, he had wrestled with the possibility of the omens going against him. By morning, he hoped that he would be able to recover from a possible humiliating affront and shortsighted limitation of his great abilities. Now, for the first time in his life, he doubted. He would lead his men back, but the journey would not be quick or easy. Neither would he ever forgive them.
“Tell my commanders that I will abide by the gods’ intentions,” he announced to Aristander. Leave me. I want to be alone.”
Aristander left and Alexander started a solitary, all-night drinking session. Hephaestion found him at noon the next day asleep and soggy. He was unconscious. The king of the world’s greatest empire lay oblivious to everything on a wet cot under the dripping tent. When Hephaestion finally awakened him from his drunken stupor, Alexander remembered what had happened. It had not been a nightmare, it was real. He had lost.
Nevertheless, final retribution was to be his. The journey home would provide opportunities to prove his worth as the son of god. Although shaken about his men’s refusal to go on, he started to dream mighty dreams. Some of them involved northern Africa, Italy and a little-known, still inconsequential continent: Europe. His glorious life would continue but in a different direction.
CHAPTER 20
JALALPUR ON THE JHELUM TO PATTALA AT THE DELTA
Alexander walked among the enormous altars and fake artifacts that he and his army were leaving on the banks of the Beas River. Surrounding him were twelve tall altars, one to honor each of the Olympian gods. He climbed to the top of one and gave prayers for the gods’ sponsorship. He also made supplication for their continued support during his army’s arduous trip home.
Then he inspected enormous pieces of military equipment, bigger-than-needed earthen fortifications, absurdly long sleeping beds, and oversized dining couches. His armorers and construction corps had been building them for weeks. “Anyone looking at what we leave behind will think that they belonged to a mighty race of giants, three times our actual size,” he said with smug satisfaction. “That’s how I want these barbarians to remember us.”
As he walked among the artifacts, scores of his men came up to him, thanking him for his decision to return home. He had never seen them so joyful and full of enthusiasm. Before long, his shoulders started to hurt from the friendly pounding that each gave him. Finally, he had to tell his bodyguards to stop the physical outpouring of gratitude. His men were overjoyed but he was not. It was not in his heart to forgive them, not ever.
“It’s time to leave this miserable place,” the king said at last to Ptolemy. “Write these events in that journal you’re keeping. You understand all sides of what happened. Your record must be the last of this matter. We’ll go back to the Jhelum River at Jalalpur tomorrow. Craterus has exceeded my command to build a fleet for our trip south. I’m told the flotilla is vast. I have ordered competitions and festivals there before we head south.”
Ptolemy left and Alexander remained alone, except for ten of his omnipresent bodyguards who stood at a distance. The king looked up and studied a tall, brass obelisk. It had been erected by pacified Indians on an embankment, high above the river. Written on its base in three languages was a terse, factual statement: ‘Alexander stopped here.’ Nothing else. Is this my zenith, the king asked himself in a silent voice. Just a brass monument that will rust to nothing in the perennial Indian rains?
Anger rose in him, and with it a resolve was born to continue growing his legend. The East had seen enough of him. Other lands would meet the son of Zeus-Ammon. The last eight years had been only the opening chapter of his young life. He was barely thirty, yet he had he achieved so much. Already, he was greater than Philip or Dionysus, greater even than his ancestor, Heracles. Walking back to the army’s main encampment, his mind raced with grandiose, visionary dreams of more conquests. He was not done yet.
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Craterus and Nearchus of Crete stood proudly on the prow of Alexander’s command boat and waited for their king to board. An enormous flotilla that both men had created was docked at Jalalpur on the Jhelum River.
King Alexander boarded, followed by Ptolemy, Craterus, and Hephaestion. Craterus and Hephaestion glared at each other as they vied to be closest to Alexander. Their bitter hatred for each other had grown more intense in recent years.
Craterus raised his arms and began the presentation of the fleet to his king. “Alexander, you now command eighty, thirty-oar boats. There are two hundred galleys without decks. Eight thousand soldiers can be transported on these boats. The rest of the army will march at your direction. Eight hundred service ships will support us and serve as horse transports and supply vessels. There are also other smaller boats, too numerous to count. India has never seen anything like this.”
Alexander smiled and was pleased. He looked around and saw brightly colored banners and battalion flags as far as the eye could see. His command vessel’s sails were dyed bright, royal purple. Hundreds of temporarily friendly Indians lined the riverbank. Many played strange musical instruments. Everyone’s mood was celebratory. If Alexander must return home, this departure had the style that his bruised ego needed.
“Craterus, march south with your force on the right bank,” he shouted so that hundreds could hear him. “Leave immediately and make the way safe for our slower journey. Hephaestion, march on the left bank with the main army. Two hundred elephants will accompany you. If danger is to come to us, it will be from the east. Leave now and pacify the territory as you move southeast. Nearchus is now my admiral and will command all vessels. He tells me that they total more than 1,800. I’ll depart the command ship when I’m needed.”
“With the 30,000 new infantry and 6,000 cavalry reinforcements that just arrived from Thrace, Greece, and Babylon we will be unstoppable. India will never forget that we came this way.”
A mighty cheer emerged from all of his fighters who could hear him and the departure ceremonies were over. The king then gave sacrifices to Ammon, the Nereids, Poseidon and finally Amphitrite, the wife of Poseidon and Heracles, his ancestor. Also recognized with libations and sacrifices were the Jhelum, Chenab, and Indus river gods. Then the king ordered immediate departure.
Alexander’s massive baggage train, hundreds of married and unmarried women, the expedition’s scholars, historians, architects, geographers, mathematicians, botanists, zoologists, poets, and the thousands of noncombatants who supported his army followed at a slower pace. The number of humans that left northwestern India that day totaled more than 120,000.
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Beneath the main deck of Alexander’s command vessel his wife rested. Two days earlier, Roxane had given birth prematurely. Sadly, the baby was born dead. The young queen had seen the infant’s sex. It had been a boy. It was a terrible ordeal for the royal consort.
Roxane looked up and saw Alexander coming to her bedside as the ship started its gentle swaying movement in the water. Alexander paused, examined his wife to see if she was sleeping, and then walked to her side. Seeing her eyes open, he stroked her forehead and stretched out beside her.
Roxane managed a weak smile and snuggled next to her husband. She heard Alexander begin singing a simple song whose words she could not understand. She assumed that his tune was a love song and she was touched. With tears in her eyes, she buried her head deeper into his shoulder. When her massive vaginal tearing healed, she knew that she would become pregnant again. Now that Alexander had agreed to return home, she felt that there was less danger of him being killed in battle. All she needed was nine more months.
Roxane would learn much later that Alexander’s song was about the sacrifices of motherhood. It ended with a blessing for women who give their husbands a son.
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The Malli were one of the two most powerful peoples that Alexander was to meet southeast of where the Jhelum and Chenab Rivers joined. Inspired and supported by the Brahmans—the Indian priestly, aristocratic class—the Malli were fierce fighters who defended their cities to the death. Soon, Alexander’s fighters were again in the business of all out, even genocidal, war. Although no Indian force could resist Alexander’s army and victories became commonplace, Macedonian morale, once again, fell in the ranks.
Deep in the southern Punjab was the ancient Malli city called Multan. Alexander’s forces quickly surrounded it and began a half-hearted attack. It became apparent to the king that most of his Macedonians’ fighting spirit was gone. Without energy or aggression, they were just going through the motions of a deadly ritual that they had done too many times.
Alexander watched his flagging fighters and realized that the final attack on Multan’s citadel was in danger of failing. “What’s wrong with you?” he screamed to several hundred of his sappers and shock troops. The Mallians had beaten them back several times and most were just standing idly by, out of arrow shot. Their ladders were horizontal at their sides.
Without thinking, the king pressed three of his officers into service. “Follow me,” he ordered with anger in his voice. “I’ll show the weak bastards how real Macedonians fight.” The four grabbed two siege ladders and charged the citadel’s main wall, dodging a barrage of Indian arrows as they ran. Alexander was the first to climb the ladder and stood high on the wall’s parapet, a clear target for Indian archers. He shouted for the others to follow. Quickly, the officers joined him.
His heroic action spurred the rest of the Macedonians to launch their attack. Almost immediately, several of their ladders broke under their weight. Scores of Macedonian fighters fell in a heap at the wall’s bottom. The king and his officers were now alone atop the wall and in deadly danger.
Alexander saw the ladders collapse and realized that his small group would soon be killed. “Jump inside the wall,” he shouted to his men. Nearly in unison, they leaped down the inside of the wall and formed a meager defensive fighting group. However, they were hopelessly outnumbered; death appeared imminent.
The Mallians, yelling with bloodlust in their voices, saw their opportunity. They launched wave after wave of attacks and the fighting reached a point where it was just a matter of time before the Macedonians were overwhelmed. Nevertheless, the king and his brave fighters continued to kill every Indian fighter that came near them. “Hold out,” Alexander shouted to his fighters as he dodged an enemy sword. “We are Macedonians. They cannot kill us. The rest of our army will rescue us!”
Suddenly, a Mallian archer shot a long Indian arrow that struck Alexander in his right breast. The tip of the arrow, barbed and shaped like a leaf, penetrated the king’s cuirass, tore into his lung, and ended up lodged deep in an inner rib. Alexander was able to fight on briefly, but then fell back against the wall, a glazed look in his eyes. Blood covered his chest armor and a gurgling sound emerged from his throat.
Peucestas, the king’s shield bearer, straddled Alexander and used the king’s shield of Achilles to cover him. Another Indian arrow struck Abreas, a young guards’ officer, in the face and killed him instantly, while Leonnatus defended his king from the side. Only brave Peucestas, Leonnatus, and a near-mortally wounded Alexander remained. Another wave of Mallian fighters started to form, and the trio knew that their end was near.
By now, the Macedonians outside the wall realized that their king was in deadly danger, if not dead already. When the ladders collapsed, they rushed an enormous battering ram to the citadel’s main gate and began to pound it relentlessly. Others used axes and began a frantic dismantling of the wall. Soon, the mud-brick that surrounded the gate gave way and the king’s fighters began clawing and fighting their way into the city. Other Macedonians used metal spikes to pound into the citadel’s outer mudbrick wall, and they soon emerged atop the parapet.
The Mallians attacking Peucestas, Leonnatus, and Alexander withdrew and rushed to help their fellow fighters stop the Macedonians’ incursion into the city. But they were too late. Thousands of blood-seeking Macedonians surged throughout the citadel; before long, not one Mallian man, woman, or child was left alive.
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“Get Critobulus,” Alexander muttered as he revived briefly. He grasped th
e arrow shaft in his chest and continued to choke on his own blood. “He fixed Philip’s eye soc—” he stammered, and then passed out. His officers put him on his great shield from Troy, lashed his lower body to it with leather thongs, then started a wild run toward the king’s royal tent, two stadia from Multan. Each of the body carriers had a frightened look on his face as he ran, screaming for the way to be cleared.
Thousands of Alexander’s fighters, both Macedonian and mercenaries alike, saw the ashen-faced body of their king as he was rushed back to camp. Even before Alexander had been placed in his royal bedroom, hundreds of his soldiers knew of the king’s devastating wound. By sunset, rumor had it that he was dead and that his top officers were withholding the news for fear of losing control. Dread and fear hung in the air like the suffocating, South Punjab humidity.
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“How in the hell will we ever get back?” one young Macedonian who had just joined the army asked. “Only Alexander has that ability. We’re doomed to die in this miserable place.” He was close to tears.
The aging battalion commander walked up to him and slapped him viciously with the back of his battle-scarred hand. “Stop sniveling, you little worm,” he snapped. “I could lead us back alone. Don’t make matters worse with your cowardice.”
The old commander limp-walked away from the worrisome group of soldiers, a group that was intent on fanning the dangerous flames of rumor. He muttered invectives against them to himself, and then decided to walk to the army’s main camp and inquire about the king’s condition. If Alexander were dead, he would begin to take actions that would preserve his life. The moment was dangerous and he needed knowledge before taking action. His well-honed, practical understanding of how things worked in Alexander’s army, coupled with his life-shrewdness, had saved his life more than once during the last eight years.
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