Alexander (Vol. 2)

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘Sire, Eumolpus of Soloi has sent me.’

  ‘I know . . . he does have such an absurd password. Why didn’t he send the other messenger? I’ve never seen you before.’

  ‘The other messenger had an accident, he fell from his horse.’

  ‘What news do you have for me?’

  ‘Important news, my Lord. The Great King is now not far from you and Eumolpus has succeeded in bribing a field adjutant of Darius himself to discover where the battle will take place, the battle in which he intends to wipe you out.’

  ‘Where?’

  The messenger looked around and saw the map which Alexander always had with him arranged on an easel. He pointed his finger to a point between Mount Carmel and Mount Amanus.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘at the Syrian Gates.’

  47

  THE NEWS FLEW THROUGH the camp like lightning, by word of mouth, spreading panic everywhere: ‘The King is dead! The King is dead!’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘He drowned!’

  ‘No . . . he’s been poisoned.’

  ‘It was a Persian spy.’

  ‘And where is he?’

  ‘No one knows. He’s disappeared already.’

  ‘Let’s look for him. Which way did he go?’

  ‘Wait a moment, here’s Hephaestion and Ptolemy!’

  ‘And Philip’s with them, the King’s physician.’

  ‘So he’s not dead then!’

  How do I know? All I heard was that the King was dead.’

  The soldiers immediately crowded round the three who sought to clear their way through to the camp entrance.

  A group of shieldsmen set up a line to let them move more quickly between Philip’s tent and the entrance.

  How did it happen?’ the physician asked.

  We had just eaten,’ began Hephaestion.

  And it was unbearably hot,’ continued Ptolemy.

  ‘And doubtless you had also been drinking?’ asked Philip.

  ‘The King was in a good mood and he’d had some Hercules’ Cup.’

  ‘Half an amphora of wine,’ grumbled Philip.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ptolemy. ‘Then he said that he couldn’t bear the heat any more and when he looked out of the window and saw the Cydnus flowing, he shouted, ‘I’m off to have a swim!’

  ‘On a full stomach and on such a hot day?’ Philip shouted, losing his temper now.

  In the meantime the horses had arrived. All three of them mounted quickly and rode off at full tilt towards the river which was a couple of stadia away.

  The King lay on the ground in the shade of a fig tree. He had been stretched out and covered with a cloak. His complexion was deathly grey, while his eyes were ringed black and his nails a bluish colour.

  ‘Damnation!’ shouted Philip as he leaped to the ground. ‘Why didn’t you stop him? He’s more dead than alive. Out of my way! Clear off !’

  ‘But we . . .’ stammered Hephaestion, but he didn’t manage to finish the sentence. He turned to face the trunk of the tree to hide his tears.

  The doctor undressed Alexander and put his ear to the royal chest. He could hear a faint beating of the King’s heart, but it was very weak and faltering. He covered him again immediately. ‘Quickly!’ he cried to one of the shieldsmen. ‘Run to the King’s quarters and have Leptine prepare a very hot bath and tell her to put more water on to warm and have her make a decoction of these herbs which I will give you now in these exact proportions.’ He took a tablet from his bag together with a stylus and rapidly wrote out a prescription. ‘Go now! Run like the wind!’

  Hephaestion moved forward, ‘What can we do to help?’

  ‘Prepare a grid of canes and attach it to the harnesses of a pair of pack horses. We have to carry him back to his quarters.’

  The soldiers unsheathed their swords, cut a bundle of canes from the riverbank and did as they had been told. Then they lifted the King delicately and placed him on the grid, covering him with a cloak.

  The small convoy set off with Hephaestion up front, leading the two horses by their halters to regulate the pace.

  Leptine met them at the door, her big eyes wide with worry and anxiety, her fear so great she asked no one what had happened – one look at the King was enough for her to realize the gravity of the situation. She hurried off quickly towards the bathchamber followed by the bearers, biting her bottom lip to stop her tears.

  The King gave almost no signs of life now – his lips were blue, and his nails almost black.

  Hephaestion kneeled down and lifted him up – his head and his arms fell backwards, like a corpse’s.

  Philip came nearer. ‘Put him in the tub slowly. Lower him in gradually.’

  Hephaestion murmured something quietly, a formula against misfortune, or a curse of some kind.

  ‘I told him not to jump into the water with him being so hot and so full of food, but he didn’t listen to me,’ whispered Leonnatus to Perdiccas. ‘He said that he’d done it a thousand times and that nothing had ever happened to him.’

  ‘There’s always a first time,’ said Philip, looking at them over his shoulder. ‘You are a bunch of irresponsible idiots. Can’t you understand that you are adults now? You bear responsibility for an entire nation on your shoulders. Why didn’t you stop him? Why?’

  ‘But we did try . . .’ Lysimachus sought to justify their actions.

  ‘My foot you tried! To hell with the lot of you!’ Philip swore as he began massaging the King’s body. ‘You realize why it happened, don’t you? Don’t you? No, perhaps you really don’t.’ And the young men stood there, heads bowed, like children before an angry teacher. ‘The waters of this river flow fast and full from the snows of the Taurus mountain range as they melt during the summer, but the course of the river is so short and its bed so steep that the water has no time to warm up and it arrives ice-cold when it flows into the sea. It’s as though he had buried himself naked in the snow!’

  Leptine in the meantime had knelt down by the side of the tub and was waiting for the physician to tell her what to do.

  ‘Good, well done. You can help me too. Massage him like this – from the stomach upwards, gently. Let’s try to get his digestion moving.’

  Hephaestion approached aggressively, pointing his finger at Philip. ‘Listen, Alexander is our King, he does what he wants and none of us has any right to interfere. You are a doctor and your job is to make him better. Understand? You have to make him better and that’s it!’

  Philip looked him straight in the eye. ‘Don’t speak to me in that tone, because I am not your servant. I will do what has to be done and I will do it as I deem right and proper, is that clear? And now get out of my way . . . move!’ Then, as they were all leaving the room, he added, ‘Except for one of you. I need someone to help me.’

  Hephaestion turned. ‘May I stay?’

  ‘Yes,’ grumbled Philip, ‘but sit in that chair and don’t bother me.’

  The King had regained some colour, but he was still unconscious and his eyes were closed.

  ‘We have to empty his stomach,’ said Philip. ‘Quickly. Otherwise he won’t make it. Leptine, have you prepared that decoction?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go and fetch it then. I’ll continue with the massage.’

  Leptine arrived with a phial full of an intense green liquid.

  ‘Right, now give me a hand here,’ ordered Philip. ‘You, Hephaestion, hold his mouth open, he must drink this.’

  Hephaestion did as he was told and the physician administered the liquid, pouring it into Alexander’s mouth.

  For a while there was no sign of reaction but then there came a spasm and a violent retching as the King brought up the contents of his stomach.

  ‘What is that mixture?’ Leptine asked, even more frightened now.

  ‘An emetic which is now working as we can see, together with a medicine which will force his body to react.’

  Alexander continued to vomit for a long time, while Le
ptine held his forehead and the servants cleaned the floor below the bath tub. Then there came a series of violent convulsions which wracked his body and were accompanied by terrible rattling noises from his throat as he struggled to breathe.

  Philip’s medicine was a powerful one, which provoked this violent reaction in the King’s body, and it also debilitated him considerably. He came through it, but the convalescence seemed interminable and involved frequent relapses, accompanied by persistent and insidious fevers which slowly consumed him for days and days at a time.

  It took months for there to be any sign of improvement and during this period the morale of the army suffered greatly. Rumours of his death continued to spread among the men, elaborated and seemingly confirmed by the parallel rumour that no one in command dared communicate the news officially. Finally, as summer moved into autumn, Alexander was able to get up and appear before the troops to give them heart, but he had to return to bed immediately afterwards.

  He would stay in his room for hours, pacing back and forth, as Leptine followed him around with a cup of broth, begging him, ‘Drink, my Lord, drink this and it will make you better.’

  Philip came by every evening for his daily visit. The rest of his working day was spent out in the camp because many soldiers had fallen ill with the change in climate and food. Many of them had diarrhoea, others fever, nausea and vomiting.

  One evening Alexander was sitting at his table, where he had begun again to deal with the correspondence which arrived from Macedonia and the conquered provinces, when a courier came in and handed him a sealed, secret message from General Parmenion. The King opened it, but just at that very moment Philip arrived.

  ‘How are we today, Sire?’ he asked, immediately setting about the preparation of the medicine he intended to administer.

  Alexander looked quickly at the old general’s note and read:

  Parmenion to King Alexander, Hail!

  According to information which has just reached me, your physician, Philip, has been corrupted by the Persians and is poisoning you.

  Take care.

  He replied, ‘Quite well,’ to Philip as he stretched out one hand to take the cup and with the other gave his doctor the letter. Alexander drank while Philip read.

  The doctor showed no reaction whatsoever, and when the King had finished he poured what remained of the mixture he had prepared into a pot and said, ‘Take another dose tonight before going to bed. Tomorrow you may start eating solids and I will leave instructions with Leptine regarding your diet – instructions which you must respect faithfully.’

  ‘I will,’ the King assured him.

  ‘I will return to the camp then. Many of our men are unwell, did you know that?’

  ‘I know,’ replied Alexander. ‘And it’s a real problem. Darius is approaching, I can feel it. I really must get back on my feet.’ Then, as Philip was about to leave, he asked, ‘Who do you think it was?’

  Philip shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have no idea. But there are plenty of young, very able and very ambitious surgeons who might be capable of plotting their rise to the position of royal physician. If anything were to happen to me, one of them might take my place.’

  ‘Just let me know who they are and I . . .’

  ‘I don’t think so, Sire. Soon we will need all the surgeons we have and even then I’m not sure there will be enough of us. Thank you in any case for your trust,’ he added, closing the door behind him.

  48

  NEARCHUS’S FLEET dropped anchor off Tarsus about halfway through autumn and the admiral disembarked to greet and embrace Alexander, who had now completely recovered.

  ‘Have you heard that Darius intends to prevent us from passing through the Syrian Gates?’ the King said.

  ‘Perdiccas has informed me. Unfortunately your illness will have given them all the time they needed to consolidate their positions.’

  ‘Yes, but listen to my plan – we will move down along the coast, climb up towards the pass and then we will send out scouts to discover exactly where Darius is. We will dislodge his garrison with a surprise attack and then come down with the entire army to attack his forces on the plain. In any case they have a crushing superiority in terms of numbers – ten to one.’

  ‘Ten to one?’

  ‘This is what we have heard. I will leave our infirm and convalescent soldiers at Issus and then begin the march towards the pass. We set off tomorrow. You will follow us with the fleet and from now on we will keep close enough to ensure direct signalling between us.’

  Nearchus returned to his ship and raised anchor the following day, setting course southwards, while the army proceeded along the coast in the same direction.

  They reached Issus, a city which stood at the foot of the mountains and which was laid out like the terraces of a theatre, and orders were given for all those men who were not battle-fit to be billeted there. Then he set off once more on the march towards the Syrian Gates.

  The following evening he sent out an advance party of scouts, while Nearchus’s flagship signalled that there was a swell on the way and that a storm was brewing.

  ‘This is all we needed!’ complained Perdiccas. His men sought to pitch camp in the rising wind, the tents flapping and flying like ships’ sails in the midst of a squall.

  When the camp was finally ready, around nightfall, the storm broke in earnest with a downpour, blinding lightning and thunder that resounded across the foothills of the mountains.

  Nearchus had only just moored in time and his crews had to use sledgehammers to secure the harpoons which held the stern ropes thrown to them from the ships.

  Finally it seemed the situation was under control and the entire chiefs of staff met together in Alexander’s tent to eat a light supper and to discuss plans for the following day. It was almost time for them all to retire when a messenger arrived from Issus; soaked to the skin, breathless and covered in mud, he was immediately led before the King.

  ‘What has happened?’ Alexander asked.

  ‘Sire,’ the man began, still struggling for breath, ‘Darius’s army is directly behind us, at Issus.’

  ‘What did you say? Have you been drinking?’ shouted the King.

  ‘No, unfortunately, I am sober, Sire. They arrived suddenly, towards sunset, taking the sentries outside the city by surprise and taking all the invalid and convalescent soldiers you left with us prisoner.’

  Alexander thumped his fist on the table, ‘Damn! Now I will have to negotiate with Darius for their release.’

  ‘We have no choice,’ said Parmenion.

  ‘But how can they possibly be behind us all of a sudden?’ asked Perdiccas.

  ‘They couldn’t have come through this way because we’re here,’ said Seleucus with an almost detached air, as though seeking to calm everyone. ‘Neither by a sea-borne route because Nearchus would have seen them.’

  Ptolemy moved towards the messenger. ‘And if this were a trick to have us move away from the pass and give the Great King the time to move up and then attack us from the high ground? I do not know this man. Do you know him?’

  Everyone moved nearer and studied the messenger, who sidled towards the door in fear.

  ‘I have never set eyes on him,’ said Parmenion.

  ‘Neither have I,’ said Craterus, looking at him suspiciously.

  ‘But, Sire . . .’ pleaded the messenger.

  ‘Do you have a password?’ asked Alexander.

  ‘But I . . . there was no time, Sire. My commander told me to fly, so I climbed on my horse and flew.’

  ‘And who is your commander?’

  ‘Amyntas of Lyncestis.’

  Alexander was speechless and exchanged a brief knowing look with Parmenion. At that same moment there came a flash of lightning so intense that it penetrated the tent and illuminated the faces of all those present in ghostly glare. Immediately afterwards came the crash of a deafening thunderclap.

  ‘There is only one way of finding out what is going on,’ said Ne
archus as soon as the rumble had faded away, out towards the sea.

  ‘And that is?’ asked the King.

  ‘I will go back to take a look. With my ship.’

  ‘But you are mad!’ exclaimed Ptolemy. ‘You will sink like a stone in this storm.’

  ‘Not necessarily. The wind is turning northwards – with a bit of luck I might manage it. Don’t move from here until I come back, or until I send someone. The password is “Poseidon”.’

  He pulled his cloak around his head and ran out under the beating rain.

  Alexander and his companions followed, carrying lanterns with them. Nearchus hauled himself up on to his flagship and gave orders for the moorings to be freed and for the oars to be put in the water. Soon the ship turned, pointing northwards, and as it moved away from the beach the white ghost of a sail opened up over its bow.

  ‘He is a madman,’ said Ptolemy, trying to shield his eyes from the lashing rain, ‘he has even hoisted a sail.’

  ‘He is not a madman,’ replied Eumenes. ‘He is the best mariner who has ever sailed the seas between here and the Pillars of Hercules, and he knows it.’

  The whitish mark of the bow-sail was soon swallowed up by the darkness and everyone returned to the King’s tent to warm themselves around a brazier before going to sleep. Alexander was too shocked to rest and he remained outside, by the entrance, watching the fury of the storm, every now and then taking a look at Peritas, who whined in complaint at every thunderclap. Suddenly he saw a lightning bolt strike an oak up on the top of a hill and split it in two. The huge trunk burst into flames and in the light the fire produced he saw for a moment the white cloak and the silhouette of Aristander the seer, standing motionless in the wind and the rain, his hands raised towards the sky. Alexander felt a long shiver run down his back and he thought he heard the cries of many dying men, the desolate lament of many souls joining the ranks of the dead before their time, but then his mind seemed to plunge into some sort of dark oblivion.

  *

  The storm raged for the rest of the night and only towards morning did the clouds begin to clear, revealing some patches of blue in the sky. When the sun finally rose above the peaks of the Taurus range, the air had cleared and down on the beach the waves were breaking rhythmically, edged with long lips of white foam.