Alexander (Vol. 2)
Page 37
On the fourth day many of them began to despair and it was only the King’s example which kept them going. Alexander was at the head of the column, on foot just like the humblest of his soldiers, and he always drank last and was happy to eat just a few dates while making sure that everyone had what he needed to survive. In this way he gave all his men sufficient energy and determination to continue.
On the fifth day the water ran out and the horizon was featureless as usual – no sign of life, not even a blade of grass, no shadow of a living being.
‘And yet there are people out there,’ said the guide, a Greek from Cyrene who was black as coal and whose mother was almost certainly Libyan or Ethiopian. ‘If we were to die out here, the horizon would suddenly fill up as if by magic – men would appear like ants from all directions and in no time at all our bodies would be left, stripped of everything, to dry up in the desert sun.’
‘A truly pleasant prospect,’ said Seleucus, who was just behind them, barely managing to keep up and struggling onwards with his Macedonian wide-brimmed hat on his head.
Just then Hephaestion noticed something and called to his companions, ‘Look over there!’
‘They’re birds,’ confirmed Perdiccas.
‘Crows,’ explained the guide.
‘Even more pleasant,’ complained Seleucus.
‘But it’s a good sign,’ replied the guide.
‘You mean because our carcasses won’t go to waste,’ said Seleucus.
‘But no . . . it’s a good sign. It means we are close to an inhabited area.’
‘Close for someone with wings, but for us, on foot and without food and water . . .’
Aristander, also walking nearby, suddenly came to a halt: ‘Stop!’ he ordered.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Perdiccas. Alexander also stopped and turned towards his seer, who had sat down on the ground and pulled his cloak over his head. A gust of wind blew across the dunes, the sand shining like molten bronze.
‘The weather is changing,’ said Aristander.
‘By Zeus! Not another sandstorm, please!’ said Seleucus in desperation. But the gust of wind became stronger and began blowing away the stifling air, bringing with it a vague hint of the freshness of the sea.
‘Clouds,’ said Aristander, ‘there are clouds on their way.’
Seleucus exchanged looks with Perdiccas, as if to say, ‘He’s delirious.’ But the seer really could feel the clouds approaching and it was not long before the grey weather front appeared from the north, darkening the horizon.
‘Let’s not get our hopes up too high,’ said the guide. ‘As far as I know it never rains here. Let’s start walking again.’
The column set off again into the blinding light, towards the south, but the men kept turning round to look at the clouds as they advanced from the north, ever darker, rent now and then by spasmodic flashes of lightning.
‘It may never rain here,’ said Seleucus, ‘but there’s plenty of thunder.’
‘You have very acute hearing,’ replied Perdiccas. ‘I can’t hear anything.’
‘It’s true,’ the guide agreed. ‘There is thunder. It won’t rain, but at least the clouds will provide us with shelter from the sun and the temperature will become bearable.’
An hour later the first drops of rain thumped into the sand and the air filled with the intense and pleasant smell of damp dust. The men, who had been at the end of their tethers, their skin burned, their lips cracked, seemed to go out of their minds – shouting, throwing their hats in the air, opening their dry mouths to capture even just a few drops before they were absorbed into the burning sand.
The guide shook his head, ‘You would all do better to save your breath. The rain evaporates in the sun even before it touches the earth and it returns upwards to the sky in the form of a light mist. And that is all we will have.’ But even before he had finished speaking, the sparse drops had turned into a light rain and then into lashing sheets of water that fell heavily in the midst of lightning and crashing thunder.
The men stuck their spears in the sand and tied their cloaks to the shafts to gather as much of the liquid as possible. They put their helmets and their shields on the ground, concave side up, and very soon they were able to drink. When the shower finished, the clouds continued across the sky, less dense and compact now, but still enough to provide them with shade for their march.
Alexander had said nothing up until that moment and he continued, lost in his thoughts, as though following some mysterious voice. Everyone turned to look at him, convinced now that they were being led by a superhuman being who would always survive wounds and adversity that would have killed anyone else, a being who could make it rain in the desert and who could even have flowers grow there, should he so wish.
*
The oasis at Siwa appeared on the horizon two days later at dawn. Across the blinding reflection of the sand, the men saw a strip of an incredibly lush green colour. They shouted enthusiastically at the sight, many of them crying on seeing this triumph of life in the midst of that infinite, arid landscape. Others gave thanks to the gods for having saved them from a terrible death, but Alexander continued his silent march as though he had never doubted that they would reach their goal.
The oasis was immense, covered with palm trees laden with dates and nourished by the wonderful spring which gurgled at its very heart. The water was as clear as crystal and it reflected the dark green of the palms and the age-old monuments of Siwa’s ancient and mysterious religious community. The men threw themselves into the water immediately, but the physician Philip began shouting, ‘Stop! Stop! The water is very very cold. Drink slowly, take small sips.’ Alexander was the first to obey, thus setting an example for the others to follow.
What they all found difficult to believe was the fact that they were expected – the priests were lined up on the steps of the sanctuary, preceded by their ministrants, who waved censers which smoked with incense. But by now the events of their journey had convinced them that anything might happen in this land.
The guide, who also functioned as their interpreter, translated the words of the priest who welcomed them with a cup of fresh water and a chest of ripe dates. ‘What do you want of us, O guest who comes from the desert? If you ask for water and food you will find them because the law of hospitality is sacred here.’
‘I ask to know the truth,’ replied Alexander.
‘And of whom do you ask these words of truth?’ the priest inquired once again.
‘Of the greatest of all the gods, of Zeus Ammon, who lives in this solemn temple.’
‘Then return to the temple tonight and you will know what you wish to know.’
Alexander bowed and moved over to his companions, who were setting up camp near the spring. He watched Callisthenes put his hands in the water and splash it on his forehead.
‘Is it true what they say? That in the evening it warms up and then at midnight it is actually lukewarm?’
‘I have another theory. In my opinion the spring water is always the same temperature – it is the air temperature which varies incredibly, so that during the day, when the air is very hot, the water seems very cold. While at night, when there is a bit of a chill in the air, the water feels warmer and even lukewarm at midnight. It’s all relative, as Uncle Aristotle would put it.’
‘Quite,’ said Alexander. ‘Have you had any more news about his investigations?’
‘No, only the things I have already told you about. But we will certainly have more news when the ships return with the new recruits. For the moment it seems he has found some trace of Persian involvement, but I already know what he would say if he were here.’
‘So do I. He would say that of course the Persians were interested in having my father assassinated, but even if they didn’t do it, they would spread word that they had so that future Kings of Macedon would think twice about undertaking hostile action against them.’
‘That is indeed most probable,’ Callisthenes agre
ed as he put his hands into the spring once more.
Just then Philip the physician arrived. ‘Look at what the men have found,’ he said, holding up a large snake, its head wrinkly and triangular in shape. ‘One bite can bring death in an instant.’
Alexander looked at it. ‘Tell the soldiers to be careful and then have it embalmed and sent to Aristotle for his collection. And do the same thing if you see any interesting plants, or anything with unusual properties. I will give you a letter to accompany everything.’
Philip nodded and moved on with his snake, while Alexander sat at the edge of the spring and waited for evening to fall. Suddenly he saw Aristander’s reflection appear in the water before him.
‘Do you still have that nightmare?’ asked the King. ‘That dream about the naked man being burned alive?’
‘And you?’ asked Aristander. ‘What nightmares trouble your mind?’
‘Many . . . perhaps too many,’ replied the King. ‘My father’s death, the death of Batis, the valiant soldier I dragged behind my chariot around the walls of Gaza, the ghost of Memnon, who appears between myself and Bar-sine every time I hold her in my arms, the Gordian knot which I cut with my sword rather than undoing and . . .’
And he stopped, reluctant to continue.
‘And what else?’ asked Aristander, staring into his eyes.
‘A rhyme,’ replied Alexander, lowering his gaze.
‘A rhyme? Which rhyme?’
Very quietly the King sang it:
‘The silly old soldier’s off to the war
And falls to the floor, falls to the floor!’
Then he turned his back and continued to look at Aristan-der’s reflection.
‘Does it have some special significance for you?’ ‘No, it is only a rhyme I used to sing when I was young. My mother’s nurse, old Artemisia, taught me it.’
‘In that case pay it no heed. As for your nightmares, there is only one way out of that,’ said Aristander.
‘And what would that be?’
‘Become a god,’ replied the seer. And as soon as he spoke his image dissolved into the water because of the frantic movements of a tiny insect on the surface, desperate to escape death in the jaws of some predator.
*
At nightfall Alexander crossed the threshold of the great temple, illuminated within by a double row of lamps hanging from the ceiling and one great lamp on the floor which spread a flickering glow over the colossal limbs of the god Ammon.
Alexander looked up to the savage gaze of the giant, his enormous curled horns, like a ram’s, his ample chest, his strong arms hanging at his sides, his clenched fists. He thought again of the words his mother had said to him before he left: ‘The oracle at Dodona marked your birth, another oracle, in the middle of a burning desert, will mark for you another birth and another life which will last for ever.’
‘What do you ask of the god?’ all of a sudden came a resounding voice from the forest of stone columns which supported the roof of the temple. Alexander looked around, but saw no one. He turned his gaze to the enormous ram’s head with its great yellow eyes crossed by a black slit – was this then truly a manifestation of the divine?
‘Is there still anyone . . .’ he began. And the echo responded, ‘Anyone . . .’
‘Is there still anyone among those who killed my father whom I have yet to punish?’
His words died out, refracted and deformed by the thousands of crooked surfaces in the temple, and there was a moment’s silence. Then the deep, vibrant voice resounded again from the giant’s chest – ‘Take care! Measure your words, for your father is not a mortal man. Your father is Zeus Ammon!’
The King came out of the temple deep in the night, after having listened to the answers to all of his questions, but he did not want to return to his tent among all his soldiers in the camp. He crossed through the palm gardens until he found himself alone on the edge of the desert, under the infinite expanse of the starry sky. Then he heard someone approaching and turned to see who it was. Eumenes was standing there before him.
‘I would rather not talk just now,’ Alexander said, while Eumenes continued to stand motionless, ‘but if you have something important to tell me, I will listen.’
‘Unfortunately it is bad news which I have carried with me for some time now, waiting for the right moment . . .’
‘And you think that this is the right moment?’
‘Perhaps. In any case I cannot keep the news from you any longer. King Alexander of Epirus has been killed in battle, ambushed by a horde of barbarians.’
Alexander nodded gravely, and while Eumenes walked away he turned once more to the infinity of the sky and the desert, and cried in silence.
Endnotes
1 Archilochos, fr. 114, translation by M. L. West.
2 Xenophon, Anabasis 3.4.34–5, translated by Carleton L. Brownson.
3 Sappho, fragment 31.
4 Homer, Iliad XII, 322–8, translated by Robert Fitzgerald.
ALEXANDER: THE SANDS OF AMMON
Valerio Massimo Manfredi is professor of classical archaeology at Luigi Bocconi University in Milan. Further to numerous academic publications, he has published thirteen works of fiction, including the Alexander trilogy which has been translated into thirty-four languages in fifty-five countries. His novel The Last Legion was released as a major motion picture. He has written and hosted documentaries on the ancient world and has written screenplays for cinema and television.
IAIN HALLIDAY was born in Scotland in 1960. He took a degree in American Studies at the University of Manchester and worked in Italy and London before moving to Sicily, where he now lives. As well as working as a translator, he currently teaches English at the University of Catania.
Also by Valerio Massimo Manfredi
ALEXANDER: CHILD OF A DREAM
ALEXANDER: THE ENDS OF THE EARTH
SPARTAN
THE LAST LEGION
HEROES
(formerly The Talisman of Troy)
TYRANT
THE ORACLE
EMPIRE OF DRAGONS
THE TOWER
PHARAOH
THE LOST ARMY
THE IDES OF MARCH
First published 2000 by Macmillan
This edition published 2001 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2010 by Pan Books
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ISBN 978-0-330-53888-6 PDF
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Copyright © Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A. 1998
Translation copyright © Macmillan 2001
Originally published 1998 in Italy as Alexandros: Le Sabbie di Amon by Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A., Milano
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