Alexander (Vol. 3) (Alexander Trilogy)

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  And Callisthenes? Extremely able with the pen, no doubt about that, even though a trifle lacking in critical spirit, but definitely low on common sense. He wondered how he might be managing in those extreme situations, out in those inhospitable places, among those rough peoples and the intrigues of that movable court, unstable now and therefore even more dangerous. He had not received news from him for months, but of course lines of communication across such vast territories – deserts and highlands, fast-flowing rivers, mountain chains – would all be in some difficulty.

  The philosopher hurried his donkey by digging his heels into its flanks because he wanted to reach the top before darkness. Indeed, Philip’s assassin . . . whoever was behind it must have had a diabolic mind if up to that moment he had eluded him and any other investigators. The first clues suggested Queen Olympias, but she proved to be an unlikely culprit – why had Philip’s wife made the dramatic gesture of crowning the body of the killer? There were still many friends of the King who would have been able to make her pay dearly for the assassination, all the more so because she was a foreigner and therefore doubly exposed and weak in that situation. Then he had followed the hypothesis of a crime of passion, a sordid story of male sex in which Pausanias, the killer, wreaked his revenge on Philip for an outrage he had suffered at the hands of Attalus, father of young Eurydice and the King’s latest father-in-law. But Attalus was dead now and the dead do not speak.

  The regular noise of the donkey’s hooves on the gravel of the road accompanied his meditations, almost marking out the quiet rhythm of his thought. There came to mind his interview with Pausanias’s bride-to-be, at a graveside one cold winter’s evening. Here was the third hypothesis: as soon as Philip’s young bride, Eurydice, had given birth to a son, her father, Attalus, the boy’s grandfather and the King’s father-in-law, had thought up a daring scheme – to kill Philip and to proclaim himself regent in his grandson’s name, the grandson who would take the throne on coming of age. The plan stood a good chance of being successful because the little boy’s mother was pureblood Macedonian, unlike Olympias who was a foreigner. This plan would have had a perfect conclusion with the murder of Pausanias, the only witness to the conspiracy. But there was no proof for this theory because Attalus had made no attempt to take power following Philip’s death – he had not marched on Pella with the army he led at that time in Asia. Perhaps he was afraid of Parmenion? Or of Alexander?

  In any case, how to explain the words of Pausanias’s betrothed? She was certainly well informed and seemed to believe that her lover had been raped in an orgy by Attalus’s hunting stewards, which made no sense, if he was the assassin. He had searched for the girl again, but he was told that she had disappeared some time previously and that there had been no more news of her.

  There was one last possibility – the clues leading to the Shrine at Delphi, the oracle that had issued an apparently ambiguous, but ultimately accurate prophecy regarding the imminent death of Philip. And not far away from here there lived, under a false name, the man who had killed Pausanias, the only witness who might lead him to the person who ordered Philip’s assassination.

  The philosopher looked behind him and he saw that the dying light of the sunset had given a purple tinge to the waters of the gulf, a mirror enclosed between two promontories, and way up on high, to his left, was the great Doric temple of Apollo, already illuminated in the glow from the tripods and the lamps. At this point a melodious song rose into the clear silence of the evening:

  God with your silver bow, shining Phoebus,

  Who brings light now to the lands of Elysium,

  And the Isles of the Blessed, lost in the turbulent waters of the Ocean,

  Return, return now, Oh godly one! Bring us the dawn tomorrow,

  Your shining smile, after the dark night,

  Mother of nightmares, daughter of Chaos

  He had arrived. He tied the donkey to a ring near the fountain and set off on foot along the sacred road, passing through the small votive temples of the Athenians, the Siphnians, the Thebans and the Spartans. They were all full of trophies of victories won by spilling fraternal blood, of Greeks who had killed other Greeks, and on looking at them he felt he knew what Alexander would have had to say about them if they could have spoken to each other at that moment.

  The last pilgrims were leaving and the caretaker was about to close the doors of the deserted shrine.

  He asked him to wait, and added, ‘I have travelled here from far away and tomorrow I must leave. I beg you, give me just a moment, let me say a prayer to the god, a desperate request for I am victim of some terrible spell, of a curse that has persecuted me for many years,’ and he slipped the caretaker a coin.

  The man put it in his bag and said, ‘Very well, but be quick,’ and he set about brushing the steps of the podium.

  Aristotle entered and slipped into the half-darkness of the left-hand aisle, taking small steps as he moved along and observed the thousands of votive objects that hung from the wall. It was intuition that guided him, the shadow of a memory from many years previously when as a child he had visited the temple, hand-in-hand with his father, Nicomachus. One votive object in particular had grabbed his attention. This memory, together with his suspicion, had led him here under this sacred roof.

  He reached the end of the aisle and moved across to the other side, under the mother-of-pearl gaze of the god sitting on its throne. He continued his inspection, moving along the other aisle, looking carefully at the wall, but there was nothing that might confirm his memory, faded now in its remoteness. It was too dark. He took a lamp that hung from one of the columns, held it up to the wall, and immediately his face lit up in victory – he was right! There before him he could just make it out, faded by time, the mark left by an object that had hung in that place for many years.

  He looked around to make sure no one was watching, then with one hand he lifted the lamp while with the other he pulled out of his satchel the short Celtic sword that had killed King Philip that day at Aegae. He moved it towards the mark on the wall, slowly, almost as though afraid to do so . . . and the two coincided perfectly!

  The two nails were still there in the wall, fitting the curves of the spiral handle and Aristotle hung it in its place.

  ‘So . . . have you finished your prayers then?’ came the voice of the guardian from outside. ‘I have to lock up now.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ replied the philosopher, and he left quickly, thanking the caretaker as he passed by.

  He spent the night under the portico, wrapped up in his cloak like all the other pilgrims, but he slept very little. The amphictyony! The league of Delphi! Was it possible? Was it possible that the most revered sanctuary in the Greek world had commissioned the death of King Philip? Perhaps that mark on the wall was just a strange coincidence, perhaps it was simply that Aristotle at all costs wanted to find a solution to the enigma that had defied his intelligence for so many years. And yet this theory was the only one for which there was objective proof – the weapon that had killed the King came from the temple! In the end it was even plausible – could the greatest authority in all Greece ever have allowed itself to be dominated by the will of one man alone? Was it not a manifestation of divine intelligence to kill a great King at a moment when almost anyone could have been accused of his assassination – Athenians who saw in him an oppressor and usurper of their supremacy, the Theban survivors who hated him fiercely because of the rout at Chaeronaea, the Persians because they feared his invasion of Asia, Queen Olympias who hated him for having humiliated her and having chosen young Eurydice, Prince Amyntas to whom Philip had denied his legitimate succession? Even Alexander, ultimately, was under suspicion. Everyone, and therefore no one. Sublime – and the motive was one that justifies any crime: the power of the mind over men, much stronger and more important than any power in the world, the closest there is to the power of the gods.

  There was one last link – the man who had killed Pausanias and who lived, a
s far as Aristotle had been able to gather, on a farm that belonged to the sanctuary.

  It was still dark when he got up, loaded up his donkey and set off again. He went down the road that led to the sea for some ten stadia, then he turned on to a mule track that went towards the right and moved into a small plain arranged with terraces for the cultivation of vines.

  The house was visible, down beyond the vines and standing next to an old oak tree: a small building with terracotta tiles on its roof and in front of it a small portico with olive wood columns.

  He entered the yard where a small group of pigs were rooting around, eating the acorns scattered underneath the oak, and called, ‘Is there anyone here? Is there anyone here?’ but there came no reply. He dismounted and knocked at the door, which opened up, letting a ray of light into the interior.

  It was him. And he hung from a rope tied to the ceiling beams.

  Aristotle backed away in astonishment, hurried to his donkey and set off at a trot, trying to get away as quickly as he possibly could.

  *

  He wasted no time in reaching Athens and for several days refused to see anyone. He destroyed his notes and the copies of all the letters he had sent to his nephew regarding the matter. In the file on the assassination of Philip he left only the vaguest and most generic notes and began writing a conclusion: ‘The true cause of the assassination probably lies in a sordid story of sexual relations between men

  Towards the end of the month a messenger knocked at his door and handed him a bulky package. Aristotle opened it and found that it contained some of Callisthe-nes’ personal effects and all the letters he had written to him. To one side was a roll of papyrus bearing the seal of Ptolemy, son of Lagos, King Alexander’s bodyguard, Commander of an armoured division of the Macedonian army. His hands trembled as he opened it and read:

  Ptolemy to Aristotle, Hail!

  The fourth day of the month of Elaphebolion of the third year of the one hundred and thirteenth Olympiad, your nephew Callisthenes, official historian of Alexander’s expedition, was found dead in his tent and Philip, the King’s physician, certified that the death was the result of his having taken a powerful poison. A group of young squires had conspired to kill the King, and although none of the accused during the trial mentioned Callisthenes by name, nevertheless there were those who attributed your nephew with a sort of moral responsibility for the criminal plot. It is indeed strange that such young men should take the decision to kill their King, without someone having planted the thought in their minds. There is reason to believe that by his suicide your nephew sought to avoid the pain of public judgement.

  The King feels unable to write to you, his soul troubled as it is by so many and such conflicting feelings, and I decided to do this in his stead.

  I know that this news will reach you with a great delay because as I began writing our army had already moved through some extremely inhospitable country in preparation for the invasion of India. I have also chosen to send you a copy of the History of the Expedition of Alexander, which Callisthenes had his own scribe make. Unfortunately the regrettable matter of his death leaves his work incomplete.

  I thought anyway that it was best to send you news of events up to this point and the most important episodes in the Indian expedition, in case you want to finish the work of your nephew in whichever way you deem fit.

  I would also like to tell you a story you may find interesting. A man from Elis, by the name of Pyrrho lived in the camp with us for some time. He had begun his career as a poor, almost unknown painter and had followed our expedition in the hope of making his fortune, but over the years he met the magi in Persia and then the wise men in India, after having spent much time with Callisthenes. From all these experiences he is elaborating a new scheme of thought that may, as far as I can understand, enjoy some considerable renown throughout the world.

  I hope this letter finds you in good health. Take good care.

  52

  ONLY AT THE END of the month, with the arrival of the cold weather, did Aristotle settle down to reading Ptolemy’s report, a succinct but effective account that could have formed the basis for the continuation of Callisthe-nes’ work.

  The army set off through the Paropamisus or Indian Caucasus – as some prefer to call it – and this move cost great sacrifices. The cold was so severe at the pass that one night some sentries were found dead, still leaning against the trees at their posts, their eyes staring straight ahead and their moustaches and beards encrusted with ice. Alexander once again distinguished himself by virtue of his great humanity. He saw a veteran whose strength was obviously failing, shaking with cold, and had him take his throne, which was made of wood, and told him to burn it so that he might warm himself. After nine days’ march we reached the city of Nisa, where the inhabitants claimed Dionysius had passed through on his journey towards India. The proof they offer for this is the presence of Mount Meru, which in Greek means ‘thigh’, for Dionysius was born of one of Zeus’s thighs. What is more they maintain that this is the only place in all India where ivy grows, a plant that is sacred to the god.

  Everyone crowned themselves with ivy and celebrated with great feasts and orgies, drinking, dancing the komos and shouting, ‘Euoè! ’

  There the army was divided into two contingents: Hephaestion and Perdiccas marched down the valley of a torrent from the highlands to its confluence with the Indus and built a bridge there; the other, of which I formed part together with the King and the other Companions, marched towards the high course of the Indus to take the cities lying in those valleys – Mas-saga, Bazeira and Orus, all of which fell after repeated attacks. The largest of them all was Aornos, over twenty miles in circumference and located at a height of eight thousand feet, defended by a deep gully all around.

  The King had a dyke built and a ramp and I took up position one night at an outpost from which it was possible to attack the city at one of its weakest points. The Indians defended valiantly, but in the end the battering rams managed to open a breach and the army burst inside. We united our two divisions and took the city with a simultaneous attack. Alexander offered the Indians the opportunity to join his army as mercenaries, but they preferred to flee rather than fight against their brothers.

  In these cities we captured a certain number of elephants, animals that Alexander was most pleased to have. They are truly extraordinary in their enormous mass, with their great tusks protruding from their mouths. They can carry towers with armed warriors on their backs and are led by a man who sits on their neck and spurs them on with his heels. If this man is killed in battle then the elephant loses all sense of direction and knows not which way to go.

  The Indians are a tall people, darker than all other men, with the exception of the Ethiopians, and they are most valiant in combat. After conquering Aornos, the King installed a garrison there, and as governor an Indian prince who initially had been with Bessus but then moved over to our side. His name is Sashagupta, in his language, but the Greeks call him Sisycottos. At Aornos we took two hundred and fifty thousand oxen as loot, out of which the strongest and the most handsome were chosen to be sent back to Macedonia to plough the fields and improve our breeds. Alexander then had boats built and even two ships, each with twenty-five oars, and we started moving down the River Indus, which is very wide and completely navigable, as far as I know, for its entire course.

  Thus we reached the point where Perdiccas and Hephaestion had finished building their bridge over the river near a city called Taxila, whose people welcomed us in friendship. The Indian King of Taxila, who goes by the name of Taxiles, offered twenty-five elephants and three hundred talents of silver to Alexander. I have seen very little gold. As for the legends according to which there are giant ants in these lands that dig gold out of the mountains, which is then guarded by winged griffins, I found no evidence of this worthy of credit and I believe they must be considered groundless stories.

  From there we went on as far as the banks of the River
Hydaspes, the largest of all the Indus’s tributaries, wide and fast-flowing because of the rains that had fallen on the mountains. On the other side was an Indian king by the name of Porus with a large army – thirty thousand foot soldiers, four thousand horsemen, three hundred war chariots and two hundred elephants. It was impossible to cross the river because Porus shifted his own position each time we moved, preventing us from fording. Alexander then gave orders to the troops to move continuously, even at night, shouting and making as much noise as possible as they did so, and in this way our enemies no longer had any idea what our plans were and Porus had to pitch camp at one point and wait for us there.

  We left Craterus opposite their camp with a certain number of soldiers and followed Alexander up the river with the hetairoi cavalry, the mounted archers, the Agrianians and the heavy infantry. In the meantime a storm had broken out, with deafening thunder and blinding lightning, which discouraged the Indians from venturing along the banks of the Hydaspes. The ford was extremely difficult, made possible only by the presence of an island in the middle of the river. The men crossed with the water up to their shoulders, while the horses sank up to their withers. Alexander, even though he had promised not to take Bucephalas into battle any more after Gaugamela, decided to mount him on that occasion because only a horse of his size would allow him to crush the enemy cavalry with their faster, but smaller mounts.