Alexander (Vol. 2) (42 page)

The Persian recognized Alexander as well and stared at him speechless, as though struck by lightning.

‘No one must touch this man!’ shouted Alexander, and he set off at a gallop behind his companions.

The chase for Darius lasted until nightfall. The fleeing King would appear in the distance in the half-light only to disappear once again along new hidden roads in the thick vegetation which covered the hilltops. Suddenly, on coming round a bend, Alexander and his friends found themselves before Darius’s abandoned chariot, the royal gown hanging there, together with the Great King’s golden quiver, his spear and his bow.

‘There is no point going on,’ said Ptolemy. ‘It is dark and Darius is on a fresh horse now – we’ll never catch him. And you are wounded,’ he added, looking at Alexander’s bleeding thigh. ‘Let’s go back – the gods have been most generous to us this day.’

A
LEXANDER RETURNED TO
the camp in the middle of the night, soiled with blood and mud after crossing the plain, where fires were still burning and corpses and carcasses lay everywhere. Even Bucephalas was covered with a flaking layer of blood and dirt that gave him a spectral, nightmarish colour.

His companions rode alongside and, attached to the harnesses of their horses, towed behind them the Great King’s war chariot.

The Persian camp had been completely ransacked and looted by the Macedonian soldiers, but the royal pavilions had been left untouched because they belonged to Alexander by right.

Darius’s tent was gigantic, made entirely of decorated leather, with drapes of purple and gold. The supporting poles were of carved cedar, laminated in pure gold. The ground was covered with the most precious carpets imaginable. Inside, heavy curtains of white, red and blue byssus divided the various rooms, as though it were a true and proper headquarters, with the throne room for audiences, the dining room, the sleeping chamber with a canopy over the bed, and the bathchamber.

Alexander looked around without really taking in the fact that all these riches and such luxury were now at his complete disposal. The bathtub, the amphorae, the finger-bowls were all in solid gold and Darius’s handmaids and his young eunuchs, all stunningly beautiful, had prepared a bath for their new master and were ready, trembling with fear, to obey his every command.

Still astounded, he continued to send his gaze into every luxurious corner as he murmured, almost to himself, ‘So this is what it means to be a king.’ For one used to the austere simplicity of the palace at Pella, this tent was like a god’s home.

He moved towards the bath, limping because of the pain from his wound, and immediately the women hurried about him, undressing him and preparing to wash him. In the meantime, however, Philip arrived to examine and treat his King. Indeed, Philip showed the handmaids how to wash Alexander without causing any more bleeding. Then he had the King lie down on a table and with the help of his assistants he operated, cleaning and draining the wound then carefully sewing and bandaging. Alexander did not murmur even a single complaint, but the terrible effort, together with the superhuman feats of the battle, left him completely exhausted and as soon as Philip had finished he fell into a leaden sleep.

Leptine sent everyone away, made sure he was comfortable, and stretched out next to him, to keep him warm in the cold autumn evening.

He was awoken the following day by the sound of desperate crying coming from a nearby tent. Instinctively he put his foot to the ground and immediately his face contracted in a grimace of pain. The leg was painful, but the drainage Philip had effected with a silver cannula had minimized the swelling. Alexander was weak, but he was still able to move and to ignore the orders of his doctor, who had told him not to move for seven days.

He had himself dressed quickly and without even eating a thing he went out, limping, to discover the source of the crying. Hephaestion, who had slept in the entrance with Peritas, came close and offered him his arm, which Alexander declined. ‘What has happened?’ he asked. ‘What is all this crying?’

‘In that tent over there is the Queen Mother, Darius’s wife and some of his three hundred and sixty-five concubines. The others are all at Damascus. They have seen Darius’s war chariot, his gown and his quiver and they all think he’s dead.’

‘We must go to put their minds at rest then.’

He had himself announced by one of the eunuchs so as not to create too much embarrassment and they entered together. The Queen Mother, whose face was wet with tears and dirty with streaks of bistre make-up, had a moment of panic and threw herself at Hephaestion’s feet, thinking he was the King, he being the taller and more imposing of the two. The eunuch, who had understood the situation, went pale and murmured to her in Persian that the King was in fact the other one.

The Queen shook her head in confusion and prostrated herself before Alexander, wailing even more loudly now and begging him to excuse her, but the King bent over and helped her up on to her feet and, while the eunuch translated into her language, said, ‘It matters not, my Lady, for he, too, is Alexander.’ And, seeing that she was beginning to feel somewhat less disconsolate, added, ‘Please do not cry and do not despair. Darius is alive. He abandoned the chariot and the royal cloak and fled on horseback to be lighter and faster. He is certainly safe now.’

The Queen Mother bowed once more to take his hand and would not stop kissing it. The Great King’s wife approached to pay the same homage and Alexander was struck by her incredible beauty. But then, looking around, he realized that all the other women were stupendous, so much so that he whispered in Hephaestion’s ear, ‘By Zeus, these women really are a sight for sore eyes!’ But it was clear that he was looking for one woman in particular.

‘Are there no other women in the camp?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Hephaestion.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely certain.’ And then, believing he had detected a slight air of disappointment from his friend, he added, ‘But the Great King’s full entourage is at Damascus. Perhaps you will find whoever you are looking for there.’

‘I am not looking for anyone,’ replied Alexander brusquely. Then he turned to the eunuch. ‘Tell the Queen Mother, Darius’s wife and all the others that they will be treated with every respect and that they have nothing to fear. They may ask us whatever they require and, if we can, we will provide it.’

‘The Queen and the Queen Mother thank you, Sire,’ the eunuch translated, ‘and for your clemency and your good heart they ask for you a blessing from Ahura Mazda.’

Alexander nodded and then left, followed by Hephaestion. Outside he gave orders for those who had fallen in battle to be gathered up and for their funeral rites to be celebrated.

That evening Callisthenes wrote in his work that only three hundred and nine Macedonians had perished, but the real figure was much more bitter, and the King limped his way among the horribly mutilated and ravaged corpses and realized that there were in fact thousands of them. The greatest number of losses had been at the centre, at the point where the Macedonians had come face-to-face with the Greek mercenaries.

Many trees were cut down from the surrounding hills and giant funeral pyres were built. The bodies were burned before the assembled army. And when the funerals had been completed, Alexander inspected his soldiers with a red standard paraded before him, the bandage on his thigh clearly visible, the stains on it of the same bright colour as the flag. He had words of praise and encouragement for all the units, and also for the men who had fought with valour alongside him. He gave personal gifts to many of them, objects which they might keep as souvenirs.

At the end he shouted, ‘I am proud of you, men! You have defeated the most powerful army on earth. No Greek or Macedonian has ever conquered such vast territory! You are the best, you are invincible – there is no power in the world which can withstand your force!’

The soldiers responded with a chorus of frenetic shouting, while the wind dispersed the ashes of their fallen companions and carried myriad sparks up towards the grey autumn sky.

When evening came Alexander had someone lead him to the Persian prisoner whose life he had spared on the battlefield. As soon as Alexander saw him sitting on the ground, bound hand and foot, he kneeled down alongside and undid the ropes. Then he asked him, using gestures as well, ‘Do you remember me?’

The man understood and nodded.

‘You saved my life.’

The soldier smiled and explained that he remembered there being another young man with Alexander on the lion hunt.

‘Hephaestion,’ said Alexander. ‘He is around here somewhere. He is still alive.’

The man smiled again.

‘You are free,’ said Alexander, accompanying his words with an eloquent gesture. ‘You may return to your people and to your King.’

The soldier seemed not to have understood, so the King had a horse brought and put the reins in his hands. ‘You may go. There must be someone waiting for you at home. Children perhaps?’ he asked, indicating with his hand, palm downwards, the height of the supposed child.

The man lifted the hand to an adult height and Alexander smiled, ‘Yes. Of course, time passes.’

The Persian looked into Alexander’s eyes with a grave and intense look and his black eyes shone with emotion as he brought his hand to his heart and then touched Alexander’s chest.

‘Go now,’ said the King, ‘before it is pitch dark.’

The soldier murmured something in his own tongue, then leaped on to the horse and disappeared into the distance.

That same night the Egyptian Sisines was found in the camp, the man who the year previously had had Prince Amyntas of Lyncestis imprisoned, leading everyone to think that he had perhaps been bribed by Darius to kill Alexander and take his place on the throne. Ptolemy organized a brief trial and identified him beyond any doubt as a Persian spy, but before having him executed he sent for Callisthenes, because he was sure the historian would like to ask him some questions.

As soon as the Egyptian saw him he threw himself at his feet, ‘Please have mercy on me! The Persians took me prisoner to make me give them information regarding your army, but I didn’t tell them a thing, I have no . . .’

Callisthenes stopped him with a simple gesture. ‘Undoubtedly the Persians treat their prisoners remarkably well, since you had a most luxurious tent, two slaves and three handmaids. And where are the signs of the torture they inflicted upon you? You look most healthy to me. A trifle pale perhaps.’

‘But I . . .’

‘Your only chance of saving your hide is to speak,’ the historian threatened. ‘I want to know everything, especially all about that business with Prince Amyntas – Darius’s letter, the money he had promised for killing Alexander and so on.’

Some colour came back into Sisines’s face, ‘My most illustrious friend,’ he began. ‘I had no intention of revealing the most secret and most delicate facets of my work, but since my life is at stake, I nevertheless am forced most reluctantly to . . .’ Callisthenes gestured to let him know that he had no time to waste. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I can demonstrate to you that I have done no more and no less than serve faithfully the Macedonian throne: the whole story was invented on orders from Olympias, the Queen Mother.’

Callisthenes immediately thought of the taste of the ink he had found on that letter, a most familiar taste. ‘Continue,’ he said.

‘Well, Olympias was concerned that Amyntas might become a threat to her son Alexander sooner or later. Her boy, who is so far away, in foreign lands, exposed to all sorts of risks. What would happen if Alexander suffered a defeat? The troops might proclaim Amyntas King, obtaining in exchange an end to the campaign and their immediate return to the homeland with the prospect of a much easier life. She therefore had the letter written by a Persian slave that Philip had given her as a gift, and in order to achieve a convincing reproduction of the formulas of Persian diplomacy, she had the barbarian seals copied perfectly from examples in the palace archives and honoured me by entrusting me with the job of . . .’

‘I understand,’ Callisthenes cut him short, ‘but what about the Persian messenger?’

Sisines cleared his throat. ‘My delicate role has often necessarily led me into Persian circles where I have many influential friends. It was not so difficult for me to persuade the governor of Nisibis to lend me a Persian orderly and to give him the job of delivering a document.’

‘Neither was it difficult to eliminate the messenger with poison when you were afraid he might speak.’

‘It is always best to be sure of everything,’ replied the Egyptian impassibly. ‘Even though that poor man did not really have very much to say.’

Callisthenes thought to himself: This way, you are the only one holding the truth, but what exactly is that truth? And he said immediately, ‘All of this explains many things, but it does not explain your presence here, surrounded by luxuries and diversions of all kinds. In truth there is nothing to stop us from believing the letter to be authentic.’

‘I agree with you that this might just be a possibility worth evaluating.’

The historian was silent again as he thought to himself about the possibility that the Great King really had sought to bribe Amyntas, but there was no proof that the prince had accepted, apart from Sisines’s insinuations. At that moment he decided it was time for him to take the responsibility for a decisive move in this matter. He lifted his eyes and looked Sisines straight in the face. ‘The best thing for all concerned is for you to tell me the truth. You are a Macedonian informer found in a Persian camp in a compromising situation. Ptolemy has no doubts that you are a spy.’