Alexander (Vol. 3) (Alexander Trilogy)

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  They entered the palace and went to the council room where Alexander was waiting for them, sitting on his throne – pale, with all the signs of a sleepless night on his face. Peritas was curled up at his feet, occasionally lifting his muzzle, hoping to be stroked.

  He did not even wait for them to sit down but began immediately: ‘You were all present at the assassination of my father.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Eumenes, who still carried the event gaping like an open, painful wound to his soul, ‘but it would be a grave mistake to judge these events under the influence of those bloody images. It is not the same thing, it is not the same situation and—’

  ‘No?’ Alexander suddenly shouted. ‘I was the one who pulled the dagger from his body . . . I was the one whose clothes were stained with his blood . . . I was the one who heard his death rattle. I was the one . . . understand? Me!’

  Eumenes realized that there was nothing he could do or say. It was obvious that Alexander was obsessed by the idea of regicide and that he had spent the hours of darkness tormented by the nightmare of Philip’s violent death. At that moment Craterus entered, he too in the darkest of moods.

  ‘If you have already made your decision,’ said Ptolemy at that point, ‘why have you summoned us here?’

  Alexander seemed to calm down somewhat. ‘I have taken no decision as yet, nor will I. It will be the assembled army that will judge, in accordance with ancient custom.’

  ‘And therefore,’ said Seleucus, ‘we cannot be of much use—’

  Alexander interrupted him, ‘If you wish, you may leave, I will detain you no further. I had called you here to listen to your advice and draw comfort from your presence. Six of our most valiant officers, and with them one of our most intimate friends, almost a brother, have conspired to kill me. You were all present, you all saw and heard the squire’s testimony.’

  The Black, silent up to this point, now spoke: ‘Be careful, Alexander. You have no proof against Philotas apart from the boy’s testimony.’

  ‘The boy who saved my life and who in all other matters has told the truth. The three bowmen have confessed under torture and have confirmed Cebalinus’s story. The interrogations were carried out separately, but they all said the same thing.’

  ‘What do we know of Philotas?’ the Black asked once more.

  ‘He most certainly knew, yet he said nothing. Do you understand, Black? If it had been up to him then I would be dead already, run through with arrows, my body lying out there in a pool of blood.’ Alexander’s eyes were full of tears as he spoke these words and they all understood that it was not the thought of the weapons destined to enter his flesh that made him cry. It was, rather, the thought that a friend to whom he had entrusted the most important rank in their army after his own, making him the virtual custodian of Alexander’s very person, the thought that this friend had schemed and conspired against him, that this friend had been ruthless enough to envisage the arrows tearing through his flesh, leaving him to die in spasms of agony. At that moment no one failed to notice the pain in his gaze, the tremor in his voice, his hands as they gripped the arms of the throne spasmodically.

  ‘What have I done to you to deserve this?’ he asked, almost crying. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Alexander, we do not—’ Ptolemy sought to reply.

  ‘You are defending him!’ he shouted.

  ‘No,’ retorted Seleucus. ‘We simply cannot believe it, even though all the evidence goes against him.’

  With the evening shadows a deep silence fell in the room and no one managed to break it, not even Peritas who sat motionless, looking up at his master with his large watery eyes. They all felt too much alone and too far from the happy times of their friendship and their adolescence. Suddenly the days of their dreams and their heroism were so remote and now it was doubt and anguish that kept them company. Now their task was to find some way out of the coils of intrigue, of falsity and suspicion in which they were caught.

  ‘What do we know of Prince Amyntas?’ the Black asked.

  ‘He was to be the new King following my death,’ Alexander replied gravely. Then, an instant later, he asked, ‘What do you all think I should do?’

  The Black spoke for them all: ‘We have no choice. These are officers of the King’s army, and the King’s army must judge them.’

  There was nothing more to say and they all left, one after the other, leaving Alexander alone with his ghosts. Not even Hephaestion was brave enough to stay.

  38

  EUMENES AND CALLISTHENES went to Alexander before dawn and found him sitting on a plain stool, covered only by a rough Macedonian chlamys. It was clear that he had not slept at all.

  ‘Has he confessed to his treason?’ he asked, without even lifting his head.

  ‘He bore the torture with incredible courage. He is a great soldier,’ replied Eumenes.

  ‘I know,’ said Alexander darkly.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what he said?’ asked Callisthenes. The King slowly nodded his head.

  ‘At the height of his suffering he shouted, “Ask Alexander what he wants me to say and let’s be done with it!”’

  A cut above all things,’ said the King, ‘like a true Macedonian noble. Disdainful as always.’

  How is it you have no doubts in this matter?’ asked Callisthenes.

  ‘There is no doubt,’ replied Alexander. ‘The evidence is overwhelming, and it is confirmed by the killers themselves.’

  ‘And Amyntas?’ asked Eumenes. ‘Spare him at least. There are no accusations against him.’

  He has come under suspicion before. And he was to be King following my assassination. Is that not enough?’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Callisthenes with a courage and conviction he had never shown before now. ‘No! It is not enough! Do you want to know why? Do you remember the letter from Darius promising two thousand talents? It was false! It was all false – the letter, the messenger, the conspiracy . . . or rather there certainly was a conspiracy, but it was your mother who organized it, together with Sisines the Egyptian, and their aim was to eliminate Amyntas.’

  ‘You are lying!’ shouted Alexander. ‘Sisines was a spy employed by Darius and for this reason he was executed following Issus.’

  ‘Yes, but I was the last person to speak to him; he sought to buy me and to buy Ptolemy. I pretended to accept the offer – fifteen talents for myself and twenty for Ptolemy so that we would keep quiet and corroborate his innocence. I told you nothing and I kept this secret so as not to cause you more anguish and so as not to put you into a situation of conflict with your mother. Olympias has always been obsessed by your succession – it was she who arranged for Eurydice’s young son to be strangled in his cradle, or have you forgotten?’

  Alexander shivered as an image of Eurydice covered in bruises came into his eyes, her face scratched, her hair dirty as she clasped her baby’s body to her breast.

  A child born of your same bloodline,’ Callisthenes continued, implacable, ‘or perhaps you really do believe yourself to be the son of a god?’

  Alexander jumped to his feet as though lashed by a whip and he rushed at the historian with his sword unsheathed, shouting, ‘You have gone too far!’

  Callisthenes turned pale as he suddenly realized he had provoked a rage the consequences of which he was incapable of managing, but Eumenes swiftly took up position between the two and the King stopped short at the very last moment. ‘Callisthenes has spoken his thoughts. Do you want to kill him for this? If you want adulators and courtiers who always tell you only those things you want to hear then you have no need of us.’ Then the Secretary General turned to the historian, who was deathly pale and trembling like a leaf, and said, ‘Come, Callisthenes, let’s go; the King is out of sorts today.’

  They left and Alexander sat heavily on his stool, bringing his hands to his head as though to contain the stabbing pains in his temples.

  ‘It’s a nasty business, I agree,’ said a voice behind him, but unfortuna
tely you have no way out. You must strike without any hesitation, even if you have doubts. Perhaps Philotas did not want to kill you, perhaps he wanted to have you kept in custody or to force you to act according to his wishes, putting his trust in his position and in that of his father, but he was certainly involved in the conspiracy and that in itself is enough.’ Eumolpus of Soloi crossed the almost dark room and sat on another stool opposite the King.

  ‘Did you listen to the other things that Callisthenes had to say?’

  ‘The story of Amyntas? Yes, but in this case too, can you really be sure? Who was present at the interrogation that preceded the execution of Sisines? No one, as far as

  I know, apart from Callisthenes himself, and therefore his story cannot be corroborated. Objectively, Amyntas is a threat; in the Persian court he would have been eliminated immediately. Remember that you are now King of the Persians. You are the King of Kings. However, I don’t really think you will have to stick your neck out: the court will certainly find him guilty. All you will have to do is refuse clemency if anyone should ask for a pardon for him.’

  An attendant entered, flanked by two squires carrying the King’s weapons. ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘it is time.’

  *

  The military trial held before the assembled army was an ancient and most awesome rite, conceived by the forebears to inflict the maximum of pain and shame on the traitors: it was chaired by the King and was celebrated in the presence of all the soldiers, the generals of the cavalry, the infantry and the auxiliaries. The members of the court, ten in all, were drawn by lots from among the officers of the highest rank and the oldest soldiers.

  The army lined up on the desert plain before dawn, called by a high, prolonged trumpet blast, piercing in its single note, as cutting as a blade. The pezhetairoi were arranged in seven rows, armed to the teeth, their sarissae held firmly in their hands. Before them was the hetairoi cavalry. Out at the far reaches of the flanks, almost closing the two long lines in a rectangular form, the light infantry assault troops were lined up, together with the shock troops and the shieldsmen, leaving only a small entrance way on the eastern side, through which the King, together with the judges and the prisoners, was to enter. Neither the mercenary Greeks of the infantry nor the Thracians and the Agrianians were admitted, because only Macedonians could judge Macedonians.

  At the centre of the hetairoi line-up was a low podium with the King’s throne together with chairs for the rest of the court.

  The sun was rising from behind the mountains and its rays struck the points of the sarissae first of all, making them shine with a sinister gleaming and then the light moved down gradually to illuminate the men, motionless in their metal armour, sculpting their stony faces, marked by the sun, by the wind and by the ice.

  Three trumpet blasts announced the King’s arrival and shortly afterwards came the judges, followed by the prisoners in chains. Philotas stood out among them, much maimed by the torture, and then came Amyntas, who walked forward apparently impassible.

  When the King and the members of the court had taken their positions on the podium, the eldest member read the charges out loud. The witnesses were then lined up and a herald repeated each and every statement they made, so that the entire assembly could hear. Then the members of the court voted and the verdict was unanimous for all of the accused – guilty.

  ‘Now,’ shouted the herald as he repeated the words of the eldest judge, ‘may the assembly vote. Your votes are to be cast for each of the accused individually. Those who do not agree with the verdict will place their swords on the ground. All of you will then take ten paces backwards so that their weapons may be counted.’

  The eldest judge called the names of the accused one by one and each time he did a certain number of warriors placed their swords on the ground and stepped back. The accused looked this way and that, first towards the infantry lines, then towards the cavalry, in the residual hope that their fellow soldiers might try to save them, but every time they did so there were too few swords left shining there on the ground. When it came to Philotas’s turn there were more swords, especially from the hetairoi, but not enough to overturn the verdict. His haughtiness and his inability to familiarize with the men, particularly with the foot soldiers, cost him dear, and in any case the testimony of Cebalinus the squire, which everyone had heard now, lay heavily against him.

  Unlike the other prisoners, Philotas did not turn his gaze groundwards; instead he continued to stare at Alexander, gritting his teeth to stifle his groans of pain. He was still staring at the King when they put him before the stake for his execution. He pushed back the executioners who wanted to tie his wrists and his ankles and he stood erect in all his pride, presenting his chest to the troop of archers who were to carry out the sentence. The officer in command moved closer to the podium, as custom dictated, to hear whether the King wanted to grant a reprieve.

  Alexander issued his orders curtly: ‘The heart. First time round. I don’t want him to suffer an instant more than necessary.’

  The officer nodded, went to his unit and exchanged a few words briefly with his men. Then he shouted an order and the bowmen notched their arrows and took aim. The camp was brimming with soldiers, but now a leaden silence fell around and the horsemen kept their gaze on Philotas’s body for they knew that even at this extreme moment, even though already on his last legs because of the torture, he would teach them how a commander of the hetairoi should die.

  The officer gave the order to fire, but Philotas, before the arrows sped through his heart, had the time to open his mouth and shout: ‘Alalalài!’

  He fell to the dust, and a pool of blood expanded around him.

  Prince Amyntas was executed last of all, and many of those present found it impossible not to cry when they saw what a pathetic end such a noble, valiant young man had come to. Fate had deprived him first of his throne and then of his life in his prime.

  Alexander returned to his palace, more upset than he ever had been before in his life, filled with anguish because he had lost a childhood companion, not on the battlefield but before an execution squad. He was still unable to conceive of the fact that a young man of his same age, who had always participated gladly in his enterprises, to whom he had entrusted the highest of responsibilities, could have suddenly come to such a point of rejection and refusal as to turn his back on him completely and to conspire against him.

  The season of deceit and blood was not yet over – now an even more terrible decision had to be taken.

  He convened a council of his Companions after sunset, under a tented cover that stood alone in the midst of the countryside. Eumenes was present, but not Cleitus the Black, who had been given the job of burying the executed men. There were no guards at the entrance, nor were there any chairs, tables or carpets under the cover, only the bare earth. They stood to discuss matters by the light of a single lamp. No one had eaten supper and only bitterness and dismay could be read on each of their faces.

  ‘This is unlike you,’ began Alexander. ‘No one said anything to save Philotas from death.’

  ‘I am Greek,’ said Eumenes immediately, ‘I had no right to say anything.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Alexander, ‘otherwise you would have spoken in his favour in public, just as you had done in private, but at this point the judgement has been handed down, approved by the assembly and the sentence carried out. What’s done is done.’

  ‘So why have you summoned us here?’ asked Leonnatus.

  ‘Because it’s not over yet. Am I right?’ said Eumenes. ‘When one starts something, it must be carried on to the bitter end.’

  ‘Have you discovered there are other conspirators?’ asked Ptolemy anxiously.

  The King turned to him for an instant with a lost expression, as though he now had to face the most difficult, the most repugnant of tasks, and then he began, his voice very quiet, ‘Today, when I came back to my quarters after the executions, I sat at my table and I began writing to General Parmeni
on . . .’

  The very mention of the name was enough to evoke the enormity of the tragedy that was now unfolding and they all realized the nature of the terrible decision that had to be taken.

  ‘I started writing to him personally to give him the news that his son Philotas had been condemned to death and the sentence had been carried out according to the wishes of the assembled army. I wanted to tell him that as King I had to accept that verdict, but that as a man I would rather die than have to inflict such terrible pain on him.’ Eumenes looked and saw tears were streaming down his cheeks as he spoke; at that moment Alexander’s suffering was the same as the old General’s. ‘However, my hand soon stopped writing. A deeply troubling thought prevented me from continuing and led me to summon you all here. None of us will leave this until a decision is reached.’

  ‘How will Parmenion react? This is the thought that torments you, is it not?’ Eumenes once again provided an answer with a question.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Alexander.

  He had already given you two of his sons,’ said Eumenes. ‘Hector, who drowned in the Nile, and Nicanor, struck down by a fatal blow. And now you have had his third son, his firstborn, the son he was most proud of, tortured and executed.’

  ‘Not me!’ shouted Alexander. ‘I had granted him the highest rank after myself. He was judged for his actions,’ and he lowered his head for one long, interminable instant before beginning again in a softer voice:

  ‘We are alone, stuck here in the midst of a limitless, unknown land, and we are about to embark once more on the enterprise we swore to bring to a conclusion. The slightest error on our part might ruin everything, might grant new strength to an enemy who is still not completely quashed, and who as I speak is preparing to fight to the last; an error might spell the collapse of our entire expedition. Do you want to see our comrades scattered to the winds or made prisoners, tortured and killed, or sold like slaves into far off lands, deprived forever of the hope of returning home one day? Do you want our land to be invaded, our families annihilated, our homes burned by these implacable enemies? Don’t you realize that if Alexander falls, the known world will be thrown into tremendous turmoil? Is this what you want, Eumenes of Cardia? Is this what you all want? I had no choice but to strike without hesitation, suppressing all scruples, all emotion, all . . . mercy.’