by Shan Sa
Why suffer? Why take pleasure? Why do women and children cry? Why do men get drunk and copulate?
When I asked these questions of Aristotle, he gave me no answers. It was a hot, starless night full of perfumes and the hum of insects.
“You are the star in this starless universe,” Aristotle told me. “You are black, red, yellow, green, purple, white, and blue, the seven colors the Demiurge used to create the world of stars.”
I opened my eyes wide and saw mysterious lights in the sky: creatures like butterflies, fireflies, birds, sometimes transparent, sometimes opaque, decked in sparks of light. They brushed past me, settled on my shoulder, then flew away.
My father wanted to make a warrior of me. My mother claimed that I was the son of a god. Aristotle hoped to make a good and just ruler of me. I wanted to become none of these three Alexanders.
Papyrus books had taught me about the pyramids, the Sphinx, and boats with crimson sails. I believed I was destined for oceans and deserts, for forests, mountains, and volcanoes.
Without Homer, the exploits of men would have been scattered on the wind. Without him, kings would not have known immortality. I, Alexander, would give birth to majestic landscapes, grandiose cities, and warriors who exceeded all norms. Their weapons would be exceptional, their horses magnificent, their words unparalleled. Riding forth with furious desire, they would know neither hunger nor thirst, forget rumor and calumny, and ignore the countries and hearts trampled by their steeds. They would conquer the sun. They would steal and compete with each other to advance faster, ever faster, to the very edge of the universe.
I would be a poet.
MY BODY WAS changing and causing me suffering. Standing naked beside the river, I was intimidated by the soldiers who stopped their horseplay under the waterfall to turn and look at me. I was no longer slender as a little girl: my shoulders, hips, and buttocks were muscled up by Olympian exercises. The brown and black curls of my hair floated about my face, which had lost its childish curves. I threw myself into the water to hide. Hephaestion came over and whispered that the commander of the phalanx had asked us to take part in a water fight. I was overcome with shame and indignation, and escaped by swimming downstream. Rushes swayed in the wind, swifts skimmed over the water and flitted up to the trees. There was an inexpressible pain inside me: something was about to happen, and I knew it would bring both fear and joy.
Hephaestion always watched me, growing aggressive when I spoke to other boys. He sulked for days on end, then came back. The tall, brutish adolescents at the school had stopped making fun of me, looking for opportunities to flatter me and allow me to win wrestling matches. In exchange for this servitude they took turns asking me to scrub their backs when bathing. Only Crateros continued to assault me, never hesitating to spit in my face or hurt me in combat. His hostility appalled me: I hovered around him, smiling at him and flashing him burning glances, which infuriated Hephaestion. The two boys fought over everything and anything; they even went so far as to brandish their swords and threaten to kill each other. I leaned against a column and watched them with a feeling of melancholy.
I was beautiful, I realized that. Not like these boys born for massacres; I had only my beauty to protect me and to ensure I was accepted by other men. I wanted to please everyone I met. Pleasing is a means of escape, it is a means of domination.
I realized how much I had changed when I walked out to meet Philip on his return to Pella after yet another victory: the tyrant watched me in silence. At the banquet he seated me beside him and covered me with compliments. He called for Bucephalus, a huge horse with a dazzling white coat, and offered him to me.
He ordered me to pose naked before the royal sculptors. In their deft hands, the clay became a mouth, curls, a torso, thighs. The divine Apollo and I were now but one. Together we would dictate the law of perfection throughout Macedonia and Greece. Philip came to watch, walked round, then left. He came back and stood before the statue, motionless as he contemplated it.
He begged me to let him kiss me, ordered me to open my arms to him. He clambered over me suffocatingly, kneeling before me when I rebuffed him with a scream. My rejection unleashed his desire: his gifts piled up, he summoned me to every celebration, introducing me as the future king of Macedonia, seating me in pride of place beside him, pouring wine for me as eagerly as a woman in love.
His efforts flattered and disgusted me. His passion softened my loathing even as it heightened it. I nurtured a towering contempt for the human body and for those obsessed with the flesh. A new Alexander was burgeoning within me. I could not tell whether he was strong or weak. He told me that my beauty was the rarest of goods: if I learned how to barter, I would become a superior being.
Everything was reduced to trade-offs. I gave only on condition of receiving. Philip, the king who was never refused anything, began to enjoy this game that reversed our roles. I had become his tyrant; he reveled in his servitude. To persuade me to undress, he had to heap gifts at my feet: gold plates, weapons, jewels, all the treasures he had grasped from the Greeks by force and by blood, at the risk of his own life. I soon tired of this accumulation; gold elicited only my disdain. My displeasure aroused him further, and he made dogged attempts to earn my smile.
I asked for every extravagant gift that came to mind: a three-horned bull, an embalmed Egyptian, a shrunken head, a freshly aborted fetus from a slave girl. When I tired of the game and felt satisfied with my offerings, like Apollo consenting to step down from the heavens, I gave myself to him and his companions in pleasure with perfect indifference. He would laugh and put his golden laurel wreath on my head, offering me his throne in exchange for one long kiss. Through all the madness of this capricious behavior, I kept my feet anchored to the ground.
Of all the things he had, I wanted only his strength.
EVER IN PURSUIT of the model of divine beauty, artists abandoned the coarse bodies of athletes and became infatuated with the cool contours of my muscles, my graceful limbs and fine features.
Looking at my reflection, I no longer saw the timid girl with braided hair, or the melancholy little boy who dreamed of being Homer. Instead there was a young prince with a proud nose and a determined chin. He had large, green innocent eyes that fascinated the powerful Macedonian warriors, and an adolescent mouth that the Greeks longed to kiss. His square shoulders, strong chest, and narrow waist, his firm belly and muscled buttocks, still had the harmonious curves and sweet proportions of a woman. I had become a work of art and was offered to everyone, but was forever inaccessible to common mortals.
How could it be that such filth and crime had made my body so resplendent? I was obsessed with hatred, ravaged by vengeance, initiated in the art of torture, unmoved by corpses, laughing as I decapitated and eviscerated them…how could it be that my features were still so incomparably pure?
Is the face a comedian’s mask hiding the tragedy of the soul?
The body a statue of marble to serve men and the gods?
With Aristotle, I was an assiduous and intelligent pupil. With my father, a torturer and a whore. With my fellow students, a tyrannical leader and a servile lover. With Hephaestion, a suspicious woman, constantly haranguing him reproachfully to make him suffer.
I had grown accustomed to being several different people. There were as many Alexanders as there were men and women interested in me, in love with me, intoxicated by my face.
Paris took Helen away, and the Greeks waged war on the Trojans for ten years. Achilles killed Hector and was killed in turn. The defeated Priam had his throat cut, and the conquering Agamemnon was assassinated by his own wife. Beauty is prey to strength. Beauty destroys strength. From a crawling caterpillar I had turned into a butterfly. From the defenseless little girl I had forged my own strategy. My beauty had subjugated Philip; it had incited young men to fight each other, and elicited vows of loyalty. It made Hephaestion weep and tricked Aristotle. I offered it, then took it back; I threw it out, then hid it again. Beauty was my s
word, and I loathed it.
Hatred of beauty was my armor. Self-loathing appeased my pain.
Philip had taught me to spy, Olympias to plot and scheme. I never hesitated to follow the king’s order in killing lovers he thought were traitors. I trained myself to know no pity in order to protect my girlish heart and my poet’s dreams.
I woke in the mornings exhausted by my restless sleep. I stripped naked and posed for artists who displayed my image as the aesthetic ideal to every nation. I would rule over this world of ugliness and violence with my radiant smile and innocent expression. In Pella everyone had become my lover, my slave. Everyone wanted to die within me, had sworn to die for me.
My mother’s indulgence and constant weeping exasperated me. I now hated her more than I loathed Philip. So long as she was alive, her existence would remind me that I was the instrument she had forged to spite the tyrant. Wherever I was, she would be inside my head, whispering her disappointment and resentment toward men. My mother was the mirror in which I contemplated my own reflection in horror.
Who was I?
A weakling or a towering force?
HEPHAESTION, DO YOU remember our early years spent running through the forests like fawns?
Do you remember our first embrace?
Do you remember the sunbeam that came in through the temple doors, unfurling a great carpet of light at our feet!
Veiled in brilliant red by the setting sun and draped in white cloth, you blushed and smiled, twisting your head away when I tried to kiss you. I pinned you to the plinth at Apollo’s feet, reached out my hand, and let your tunic slip from your shoulder. As you struggled, you did the same to me so that I was naked. You were only fifteen years old, and I even younger. Do you know that I was already accustomed to hairy adult bodies and was moved by your young, hairless skin? Your lips seemed to swell, your eyes pierced mine, paralyzing me. I had to force you to turn round. You clung to Achilles’ ankles. Drops of water fell on my arms, you wept as you gave me my first climax.
You have always asked me why I wept with you that day. And why I laughed as I wept. Here is my secret: I was my father’s whore. I had just freely given you what my father paid for in cattle, horses, and gold pieces. I had just realized that what you had given me without compensation was worth more than the treasures of every Greek city. I learned that there was something in the world, a feeling that could not be bartered, stolen, or taken by force.
Love repairs what beauty destroys. I became a man the day you gave yourself. I, who hoped to find a warrior to release me from the prison created by my father, I nurtured the desire to become a hero to guard our purity!
Hephaestion, do you remember? For the first year of school I was always on the ground during wrestling classes. The boys called me a bastard and you fought for me, rolling on the ground with Crateros, who took pleasure in humiliating me. Do you know that for a long time I wondered which I liked best: you, my protector who looked on me tenderly, or him, the cruel one who rejected me?
When we left the temple, the sun was shining along the path. I was filled with the happiness of having known physical delight. As I walked hand in hand with you, I understood that I was no longer the king’s slave, and now I wanted to become king, your king and king of the Macedonians and the Greeks. On that day I knew I had something more than my father, the invincible warrior, ever had.
I am woman and man. I am stronger, more intelligent, and more determined than a man who has not known a woman’s suffering.
Be thanked, Hephaestion, for your patience and tolerance. I was once afraid you might abandon me, and I tormented you to keep you by my side. This evening I release you from my possessive desire. You are free.
Tomorrow Philip will die, or he will survive.
Tomorrow I shall be king, or I shall be condemned.
Tomorrow will be ours, or we shall be forgotten to the world for ever.
Come, Hephaestion! Let us join Cassander, Crateros, Perdiccas, and the others. We should not make them wait.
Slaves, light the braziers! Dionysus, break open your pitchers, let the wine flow.
Let us drink and make love and celebrate!
Here’s to us, brothers in arms, children of Macedonia, may we conquer pyramids, deserts, oceans, the steepest mountains and the most magnificent cities.
Blood is our strength; pain our ecstasy!
PAUSANIAS DID NOT break his word; his dagger struck Philip.
The king crawled along the ground before falling motionless. Only his hands still quivered. Blood blossomed on his white tunic, tinting it red. All around me women screamed and children howled. Men blamed themselves and beat their chests. They tore their clothes and lost their sandals as they barged past each other in pursuit of the murderer. Olympias threw herself at my feet, shaking me as she sobbed. I looked up toward the sun and let tears of joy stream over my cheeks.
Aristotle, your words hardened the ribs of my flanks, your lessons straightened my spine! Your knowledge armed my mind. Henceforth I shall be a king, I shall dominate this world of violence with the strength of thought. Pausanias was a soldier prepared to die for a great cause; others will follow his example and die for Alexander.
I am not the son of Philip, I am the son of a god. Apollo forged me in his divine brazier to make an indestructible warrior of me. Now that its wings have grown, the firebird is ready to fly. It will launch itself toward heights unknown to man, where there are dangers, challenges, and infinity.
ALEXANDER REJECTED SUGGESTED negotiations. Alexander wanted to show the world how determined he was to reign. Alexander repudiated Aristotle, whose talk was of clemency. Rebellious cities would be reconquered with the lance.
Thebes, the ancient white city backed up against the sea, the city of trade and giant sailing ships, Thebes, the home of prophetesses and fallen gods, Thebes waited for us with its gates closed and its ramparts defended by mercenary archers who had run to its aid from neighboring towns. I feigned hesitation, sent messages to Pella, called for the most astute diplomats to begin talks. As I anticipated, in council these traitors could not wait to communicate the good news to the Thebans. I waited twenty-one days for their hope of peace to disarm their vigilance.
The order to attack was given in the middle of a moonless night. The cavalry advanced on horses whose hooves were wrapped in cloth. The infantrymen left their lances behind and marched in silence, saber in hand. It was only when we reached the walls of Thebes that I called for the drum to be sounded. Thebes woke too late. Behind me my soldiers formed great waves that spilled into the city. Swords flashed zigzags in the dark. Arrows whistled. War cries mingled with wailing from the injured. The smell of blood and the thrum of combat made me deaf and blind to danger. I kept on advancing, not noticing those who fell beside me and would never again see the light of day. The gates creaked open noisily and my cavalry streamed in. The Macedonians had orders to pursue any resistance, even into the Thebans’ beds. The massacre lasted three days. Street after street, house after house, my soldiers killed, pillaged, and raped. Sword in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, I amused myself slicing and dismembering bodies. I dined while noblemen were grilled alive beneath the steps. Rather than soothing my rage, victory increased it tenfold.
I left Thebes dissatisfied and melancholy, riding at the head of my army, followed by the women and children taken as slaves. Thebes was in flames. Thebes was reduced to columns of black smoke.
Citizens of Greece, listen! There are none more wily than the Thebans. There are no ramparts more impregnable than theirs. There is no history more proud than theirs. Philip conquered them. Alexander destroyed them. Submit now, why wait! The Macedonian king is on his way! His lance brings with it lightning and his sword brings forth fire. When his mount Bucephalus whinnies, the swiftest steeds are paralyzed. Flee! Run! Crawl! Alexander is on his way, for peace or for annihilation!
FEROCITY AND INTRANSIGENCE are necessities. In order to be feared, a military commander must prove he is not af
raid to have men mutilated and put to death. He must sacrifice his peace of mind for his authority. I no longer drank wine until it had been tasted by a slave. I woke in the night believing an assassin had crept into my tent. Philip came to me in my dreams, covered in blood and crawling along the ground, clutching at me with his icy hands. This was my punishment for plotting against my father.
I returned to Pella. With my white tunic, a gold laurel wreath on my forehead, and the royal scepter against my heart, I arrived through the principal gateway, cheered as Philip once was. Olympias took me in her arms. Her woman’s perfume erased the ashen faces, the wounds seething with maggots, and the burned corpses. My mother’s voice woke me from my nightmares. I noticed olive trees again, and orange blossom, sparkling water in the fountains and the gentle hum of a peaceful life: doves cooing, sparrows scrapping in the trees, bell-ringing carried on the wind, the clinking sounds of masons building a house, the laughter of Macedonians cleaning their linen down by the river.
My wounds scarred over, and I regained my strength. Pella became unbearable to me once again. Rumors circulated through doors and open windows in the palace: the world still thought of me as a bastard, as Olympias’s daughter clinging to the tunic of a mother who had murdered her own husband. They said I was under her spell, they whispered that she poisoned anyone who questioned my legitimacy, and they laughed at this weak Alexander who let himself be manipulated by his debauched, scheming mother.
I set off for war again to escape the wagging tongues. Far from Pella I could make use of my mother’s devotion. Orders were sent to her in secret: she had to eliminate anyone who contested my actions; she had to continue wreaking my revenge on Philip, silencing those who sang his praises, wiping away every trace of his legend, washing clean the marble floors and columns impregnated with his smell. She had to help me drive him out of my life and erase him from my memory.