Alexander (Vol. 2)

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Amyntas was still awake, sitting by lamplight in a bare room, its walls of bare tree-trunks. He was reading a papyrus scroll, which was held open on top of a rough wooden table with two stones that he must have gathered from the ground. He lifted his head as soon as he realized there was someone in the doorway and rubbed his eyes to see better. When he understood who it was who stood there before him, he got to his feet and moved back towards the wall, an expression of pain and unease on his face: ‘Was it you who had me arrested?’ he asked.

  Alexander nodded, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Didn’t Parmenion tell you?’

  ‘No. He simply had me arrested in front of my men in the full light of day and marched me off to this rathole.’

  ‘In that case he misinterpreted my orders and has certainly been excessively prudent in carrying them out.’

  ‘And what were your orders exactly?’

  ‘To keep you under arrest until I arrived, not to dishonour you before your men.’

  ‘And the reason why?’ Amyntas asked again. He looked terrible – he certainly had not combed his hair for some time, neither had he shaved or changed his clothes.

  ‘A messenger from the Great King was intercepted. He was carrying a letter for you promising two thousand talents and the throne of Macedon if you had me eliminated.’

  ‘I have never seen such a letter, and had I wanted to kill you I could have done so a hundred times since the day they killed your father.’

  ‘I couldn’t take any risks.’

  Amyntas shook his head. ‘Who advised you to do this?’

  ‘No one. It was my decision.’

  Amyntas lowered his head and leaned against the wooden wall. The lamplight illuminated only the lower part of his face, so that his eyes remained in the shadow. At that moment he thought of the day Philip had been assassinated and how he had chosen to support Alexander so as not to unleash a dynastic war. He had been among those who had accompanied the young King, weapons drawn, to the palace and since then had always fought alongside him.

  ‘You had me arrested without even seeing the evidence . . .’ he murmured, his voice trembling. ‘And I have risked my life many times for you in battle.’

  ‘A king has no choice,’ replied Alexander, ‘especially at moments like this.’ And he had a vision of his father falling to his knees in a pool of blood, the mortal pallor spreading over his face. ‘Perhaps you are right, this affair probably makes no sense, but I cannot pretend that it hasn’t happened. You would do the same thing if you were in my place. I can only seek to make your humiliation as brief as possible. But first I must know. I will send you a servant to wash you and a barber to wash your hair and shave you. You look terrible.’

  He gave orders to the sentries to make sure that someone took care of Prince Amyntas, then he headed back to Parmenion’s tent where the banquet had taken place. There came the noise of shouting and laughter, of crockery, of moans and grunting and the somewhat tuneless music of flutes and other barbarian instruments he did not recognize.

  He went in and crossed the tent, climbing over several knots of naked, gasping bodies, coupled in every possible way on the mats which covered the floor. He went to stretch out alongside Hephaestion, embraced him and started drinking from his friend’s cup. And he drank all through the night, first to the point of dejection and then to senselessness.

  42

  CALLISTHENES ARRIVED shortly before midday and entered accompanied by a member of the King’s guard. Alexander was sitting at his work table and his face carried the signs of the previous night’s binge, but he was sober now and alert. He had a sheet of papyrus unfolded before him and a steaming cup in his hand, probably an infusion prescribed by the physician Philip to help clear his hangover.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, ‘I’d like you to take a look at this document.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Callisthenes as he approached the table.

  ‘It’s a letter which was being carried by a messenger from the Great King, addressed to my cousin Amyntas. I’d like you to take a good look at it and tell me what you think.’

  Callisthenes studied the text without showing any visible signs of surprise, then asked, ‘What exactly would you like to know?’

  ‘I’m not sure . . . who might have written it, for example.’

  Callisthenes took another look, more carefully this time. ‘Whoever it was has a good hand, without a doubt a cultivated, refined person. What’s more, the papyrus is of excellent quality and the ink too. In fact. . .’

  Alexander was surprised to see him moisten the tip of his finger with some saliva, run it across the writing and then bring it to his mouth.

  ‘I can tell you that this type of ink is made in Greece using juice from elderberries and soot . . .’

  ‘In Greece?’ the King interrupted him.

  ‘Yes, but that in itself does not mean much. People travel all over carrying their own ink with them. I use it too, perhaps even some of your companions . . .’

  ‘Is there any other information you can glean from the document?’

  Callisthenes shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘If anything should come to mind, let me know immediately,’ Alexander said. Then he thanked him and let him go.

  As soon as Callisthenes left, the King called for Eumenes. While waiting for him he picked up a phial of his own ink, dipped the tip of his finger in it and tasted it, then did the same thing he had seen the historian do and noted that the taste of the two inks was identical.

  Eumenes arrived almost immediately. ‘You called for me?’

  ‘Have you seen the Egyptian around the camp by any chance?’ asked Alexander.

  ‘Parmenion said that after having delivered your answer, he set off again.’

  ‘This is strange too – try to find out more, if possible.’

  ‘I will do what I can,’ replied Eumenes. ‘Is there any news of our reinforcements?’ he asked before leaving.

  Alexander shook his head. ‘Nothing yet, unfortunately.’

  When the secretary opened the curtain of the pavilion to leave, a gust of cold wind entered, making the papers on the King’s table fly. Leptine added some coal to the brazier which provided some meagre heat, while Alexander took a sheet and began writing:

  Alexander, King of Macedon, to Antipater, Regent to the Throne and Custodian of the Royal Palace, Hail!

  My congratulations on the wisdom with which you manage the government of the homeland while we fight in far off lands against the barbarians.

  Recently Parmenion has taken prisoner a messenger of the Great King who was carrying a letter for my cousin Amyntas in which he promises him the throne of Macedon and a sum of two thousand talents in gold in exchange for my life.

  This thing came to light thanks to an Egyptian by the name of Sisines who claims to have been a friend of my father Philip. This man has disappeared, however. He is about sixty years old with very little hair, an aquiline nose, dark, darting eyes, and a mole on his left cheek. I would like you to investigate him and to keep me informed if he should appear in the city or the palace.

  Take good care.

  Alexander sealed the letter and had it sent off immediately with a personal messenger, then went to Parmen-ion’s tent. The general was stretched out on his camp-bed and a servant was massaging his left shoulder with olive oil and nettle juice; an old wound there, collected while fighting as a young man in Thrace, was giving him problems now that the bad weather had set in. He stood up immediately and put an overgown on. ‘Sire, I was not expecting you. What can I give you? Some warm wine?’

  ‘General, I would like to interrogate the Persian prisoner. Can you arrange an interpreter for me?’

  ‘Of course. Now?’

  ‘Yes. As soon as possible.’

  Parmenion dressed quickly, gave orders to the servant to go and look for an interpreter, and led Alexander to the quarters where the captured messenger was being kept in strict cus
tody.

  ‘You have already interrogated him, I suppose,’ said the King as they walked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Parmenion.

  ‘And what did he tell you?’

  ‘Simply what we already know. That the Great King had given him a personal message for a yauna leader by the name of Amyntas.’

  ‘And nothing else?’

  ‘Nothing else. I had thought of torturing him, but then it seemed pointless – no one would ever entrust a simple courier with any information of any importance.’

  ‘And how did you manage to intercept him?’

  ‘It was all thanks to Sisines.’

  ‘The Egyptian?’

  ‘Yes. One day he arrived telling us he had seen a suspicious type in the merchants’ and women’s camp.’

  ‘So you knew Sisines already?’

  ‘Of course. He had worked for us as an informer during the first invasion of Asia, under your father’s orders, but I hadn’t seen him since then.’

  ‘And did this not seem suspicious to you?’

  ‘No, there was no reason for me to be suspicious – he had always been a reliable informer and had always been paid accordingly, as he was this time.’

  ‘You should have kept him,’ replied Alexander, obviously angered. ‘At least until I arrived.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Parmenion, lowering his head. ‘I did not feel it was necessary, and then he had told me he was on the trail of another Persian spy and so . . . but if I have made a mistake I beg forgiveness, Sire, I . . .’

  ‘It matters not. You acted as you felt you had to. Now let’s see this prisoner.’

  In the meantime they had reached the shed where the Persian messenger was being held in custody and Parmenion ordered the guard to open the bolts.

  The soldier obeyed and entered first, to ensure that everything was in order. But he came back out immediately, looking shocked.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked the general.

  ‘He . . . he’s dead,’ stammered the soldier, pointing inside the shed.

  Alexander entered and knelt down by the body: ‘Call my physician straight away,’ he ordered. Then, turning to Parmenion, ‘Evidently this man knew more than he told you, otherwise they would not have killed him.’

  ‘I am sorry, Sire,’ replied the general, embarrassed. ‘I . . . I am a soldier. My place is on the battlefield; give me a task, even the hardest of tasks on the battlefield and I will always know exactly what to do, but in these intrigues I find myself out of my element. I am sorry . . .’

  ‘Never mind,’ said the King. ‘We will see what Philip thinks.’

  The physician arrived and set to examining the messenger’s body.

  ‘Are there any clues?’ Alexander asked him after some time.

  ‘He has almost certainly been poisoned, and almost certainly it was with last night’s meal.’

  ‘Can you tell what type of poison was used?’

  Philip stood up and had some water brought to wash his hands. ‘I think so, but I’ll have to open him up . . .’

  ‘Do what has to be done,’ ordered the King, ‘and when you have finished arrange for his funeral with the Persian rites.’

  Philip looked around. ‘But there are no towers of silence hereabouts.’

  ‘Well, have one built then,’ ordered the King, turning to Parmenion. ‘There’s no shortage of stone and there’s no shortage of labour.’

  ‘As you wish, Sire,’ said the general, nodding. ‘Any other orders, Sire?’

  Alexander thought for a moment and then said, ‘Yes, have Amyntas freed and reinstated to his rank. Only . . . be careful.’

  ‘Of course, Sire.’

  ‘Good. And now you may return to your massage, Parmenion. You must take good care of that shoulder. The weather is about to change again.’ And then he added, looking at the sky, ‘And it won’t be for the better.’

  43

  ONE EVENING, ROUGHLY HALF-WAY through the winter, Commander Memnon suddenly felt unwell. There came a deep sense of nausea, strong pains in his joints and kidneys and his temperature soared. He took refuge in his cabin – his body shaking, his teeth chattering – and he refused all the food that was brought to him.

  He managed only to take a little warm broth every now and then, but he did not always keep it down. His physician administered medicines for the pain and had him drink as much as possible to replace the liquids he lost continually in perspiration, but he could find nothing that would cure him.

  Memnon’s illness threw the entire crew into deep dismay, and many of them noticed the indifference of the new second-in-command, a Persian by the name of Tigranes, who up until then had led the Red Sea fleet. He was an ambitious, politicking man, who at court had never made any mystery of his disapproval of King Darius’s decision to entrust general command to a yauna mercenary.

  Tigranes took Memnon’s place when it became clear that the Greek was no longer able to fulfil his responsibilities. The new commander’s first order was to raise the anchor and to set a course southwards, abandoning the blockade of the Straits.

  At that point Memnon asked to disembark on dry land immediately and Tigranes did not oppose the request. He also asked to be able to take five of his mercenaries with him, his most loyal soldiers, so that they might help him in the journey he was about to undertake. The new commander looked upon him with a certain amount of commiseration, convinced that the invalid would certainly never manage to travel very far, given the state he was in. In any case Tigranes wished him all the best in Persian and took his leave.

  And so it was that a launch was lowered in the deep of the night. Six men were on board and the boat slipped through the water, driven by vigorous strokes of the oars, until they came to a small deserted inlet on the eastern coast of the Hellespont. That same night the six men began their journey – Memnon wanted to be taken to his wife and children.

  ‘I want to see them before I die,’ he said, as soon as they landed.

  ‘You won’t die, Commander,’ said one of his mercenaries. ‘You’ve been through much worse than this. But you just give the orders and we’ll take you wherever you wish, even if it’s to the ends of the earth, even if it’s to hell itself. We’ll carry you on our shoulders, if need be.’

  Memnon gave a tired smile, but the thought of seeing his family once again seemed to restore some mysterious energy, a hidden force in him. One of his men went to look for some means of transport because their leader in any case was not fit enough to ride, and he returned the following day with a cart drawn by two mules, and four horses which he had bought on a farm.

  The mercenaries held a meeting along the way and decided that one of them should go on ahead to the Great King’s Road to send a message to Barsine, so that she might start travelling towards them. In truth there was no hope that their commander would last the journey to the palace at Susa, almost a month away.

  For some days the illness seemed to have granted a truce and Memnon began eating again, but come evening the fever would rise once more, burning his temples and his very mind. He became delirious then and from his lips came the cries of a whole life spent in combat, in clashes, in frightful pains inflicted and received, the moans and the tears of lost hopes and vanished dreams.

  The most senior of his soldiers, a man from Tegea who had always fought alongside him, looked upon him then in anguish and worry as he wiped his brow with a damp cloth and grumbled, ‘It’s nothing, Commander, it’s nothing at all. It won’t be a stupid fever that brings down Memnon of Rhodes, it won’t . . .’ And it was almost as though he was trying to convince himself.

  The man who had been sent on ahead reached the road of the Great King at the bridge on the river Halys, which was said to have been built by Croesus of Lydia, and there he learned that they would not have to go all the way to Susa. King Darius had finally decided to give the insolent young yauna who had invaded his western provinces a lesson, and he was advancing now towards the Syrian Gates with half a million men b
ehind him, hundreds of war chariots and tens of thousands of horsemen. The entire court was with him too, and Barsine was certainly among them. Thus Memnon’s call travelled as quickly as the light of the fires and the reflections of the bronze mirrors from mountainside to mountainside, as fast as the headlong gallop of the Nysaean steeds until it reached the Great King under his marquee of purple and gold. And the Great King called for Barsine.

  ‘Your husband is gravely ill,’ he announced, ‘and he has asked for you. He is coming along our Royal Road and hopes to see you one last time. We do not know if you can reach him before he dies, but if you wish to try then we will give you ten Immortals from our guard, as your escort.’

  Barsine felt her heart shrivel in her breast, but she remained impassible, not even shedding a single tear. ‘Great King, I thank you for having given me this sad news and for giving me permission to leave. I will go to my husband immediately and I will have no peace, I will neither sleep nor rest until I reach him and embrace him.’

  She returned to her tent, changed into a felt bodice and leather trousers which made her look like an Amazon, took the best horse she could find and set off at a gallop, followed by the guards the Great King had assigned to her, who struggled to keep up with her.

  She travelled for days and nights, resting only for a few hours every now and then while horses were changed or when she could no longer feel her limbs due to the fatigue. And then one evening, at sunset, she saw a small convoy advancing jerkily in the distance along the semi-deserted road – a covered cart drawn by two mules, escorted by four armed men on horseback.

  She spurred her mount on until she was level with the cart, leapt to the ground and looked inside – Memnon lay dying on a pile of sheepskins. His beard was long and his lips were cracked, his hair unkempt and ruffled. The man who until a short time previously had been the most powerful in the world after the Great King had been reduced to nothing more than a wretch.