Empire of Ashes: A Novel of Alexander the Great

by Nicholas Nicastro

  “Lord of the mountaintops!”

  “Master of the backcountry!”

  They leaned into their pillows in their hysterics, until Youtab raised her head and cried through her laughter, “Oh, that’s too much. Too much! I’ve wet myself!”

  I turned to leave them. Rohjane called after me.

  “Machon, only friend, come drink with us!”

  “Yes, come back! Just watch what you drink from around here!”

  I again call your attention to Youtab’s words: “watch what you drink from.” This seemed rather a morbid thing to say, given the circumstances of Hephaestion’s death. Of course, it doesn’t constitute evidence that Rohjane or her servant was responsible. It may have just been a bad joke. Nor was any poison ever found, in the dead man or anywhere in the palace. But I can tell you that Rohjane was not over the insult of Alexander’s other marriages, which occurred just a few months before Hephaestion’s death. Youtab’s choice of humor—and the poor timing of their “women’s symposium”—were suspicious.

  It is true that Alexander sent a request to the Ammon temple in Siwah that Hephaestion be accepted as a god in his own right. All of us—his advisors, his family, the priests of Ammon—indulged him this, taking it as a harmless, if somewhat indiscreet, testament to his love. What was not so easy to excuse, though, is a letter the King sent to Cleomenes, his governor in Egypt. Remember that this was the same Cleomenes who, upon taking control of Egypt in Alexander’s name, cornered the grain market in that country. I am told this raised the price of bread tenfold here in Athens. I submit a copy of this letter into evidence, with the magistrate’s permission.

  “The clerk will read the letter,” said Polycleitus. When the recitation was done, Swallow, Deuteros and the rest of the jury were stunned.

  This is the exact text of Alexander’s letter. I was there when he dictated it, and obtained my copy from Eumenes. Yes, Alexander orders Cleomenes to construct a marble monument to Hephaestion in Alexandria, and promises that if the construction pleases him, he will pardon all of the governor’s past malfeasance—his expropriation from the temples, his looting of the public treasury…and the famine he caused here and elsewhere in Greece. What is more, Alexander also promises to ignore any future crimes.

  You heard that right. Can you imagine such a promise coming from a man you all agreed to take as a god? Indeed, that it could be bestowed on a creature so villainous, so reprobate, that not even Ptolemy could stand him? The latter, as you recall, had him killed soon after he arrived in Egypt. Yet it seems that a pardon was exactly what Alexander gave to Cleomenes.

  I will say no more about Alexander’s letter. There is no need to gild that lily—memories of the pain of your empty stomachs, and the cries of your underfed children—shall be emphasis enough. But out of curiosity, how high did the price of wheat go in the market just a few feet from where we sit here, Aeschines? Three drachmas for a capithe? Four?

  “Higher!” someone cried from the back of the room.

  Higher still! But we must forgive Aeschines his ignorance, for he was not here to suffer with you. Nor was I, for that matter. The difference, I submit to you, is that I am not here extolling the virtues of the man—I mean, the god—who offered pardon to a man who brought famine to this city, or promised to look the other way when a villain like Cleomenes committed any other crimes that might have entered his head.

  As deep as his grief was for Hephaestion, there should be no doubt that Alexander did recover from it. At last he resumed work on his many projects; it was at this time, for instance, that he undertook a detailed examination of the shipping channels downstream from Babylon, thinking he would instruct the engineers on the best route by which deep-draught vessels might enter his harbor.

  As he often did, the King took the helm of his boat himself, showing as much skill afloat as he did directing armies on land. It so happened, however, that he rode up on an obstruction in the shallows, which knocked everyone on the deck to their knees. After his sojourn in the Gedrosian desert, Alexander had taken to wearing a hat to protect his neck and shoulders from the sun. With the shock of running aground this hat flew off his head and landed in the water some distance away. Before the current carried the hat too far, a slave on board took it upon himself to swim after it.

  This man’s initiative was especially welcome, as the hat was fixed with a royal coronet of gold. Allowing this emblem of universal kingship to wash up on some dung-strewn shore would have been awkward indeed. Yet all were equally appalled when the slave plucked the hat from the water and, perhaps thinking he would keep it from further damage, put it on his own head for the swim back. The Macedonians were murmuring, and the Persians gesticulating at him to remove it, but he came on and climbed up anyway, conscious of nothing but his pride. He was oblivious, that is, until he saw the circle of frowning faces around him.

  Now I know that it has been a long time since we Athenians have had kings. It has not been too long, however, for you all to imagine the magnitude of this disaster: for this slave to put the royal device on his head was just as ominous a sign as a servant taking the throne, or walking on the royal carpet. Nor was Alexander immune from such concerns, for it was now obvious in his mind that Hephaestion’s death was connected to the discovery of the ram with the deformed liver. So where before he would have forbidden the presumptuous slave to be punished, this time he allowed him to be severely beaten; the hat was then tossed back into the water, where it was retrieved properly by a sailor with a better grasp of the side-stroke. Later Alexander regretted the beating, and rewarded the slave’s good intentions with a fortune of thirty minas in silver. That particular coronet, however, was locked away, never to be worn again.

  As I have spoken to you here, friends, I realize I have asked much of your credulity. You have all heard what you believe to be the truth about Alexander, have sat your sons upon your knees and told them these same stories to fill their hearts with pride at the exploits of the Greeks. So it is with some trepidation that I speak to you now of the death of Alexander. Though you may find what I say difficult to believe, I assure you it is what Perdiccas in Babylon knows, and Ptolemy in Alexandria, and the handful of others who witnessed the events I am about to describe. By the gods, I swear it.

  Alexander, believing himself abandoned by both friends and fortune, sought comfort in wine and conversation, as his sociable nature had always been accustomed. He was sharing the cup with Peucestas, Ptolemy, and myself when the first signs of fever came over him. Thinking perhaps that he would nip his sickness in the bud, the King took a last drink from a great Spartan canteen before going to bed. As he downed the wine, we saw a strange expression come over his face—an expression that did not necessarily imply pain, but a kind of dejection, as if he was reminded of some inescapably dispiriting thought. Then, in a voice so small none of us could recognize it, he bid us a good night.

  The testimonies of his servants give us some hint of what happened next. Alexander spent the next hours in fitful sleep, and rose with his fever worse than before. Unwilling to skip his obligations, the King presided over the morning sacrifice, then reviewed two regiments of troops newly arrived from Macedon. He then bathed and withdrew early, perhaps still convinced that his illness would pass. When he awoke the following morning his fever was worse; though his chamberlain had ordered all the windows in his chamber to be left open, so the breeze would sweep over him, his bedclothes were soaked. Nevertheless, he insisted on presiding over the morning sacrifice, and then met with Nearchus about his plans for the exploration of the Caspian. And again, he bathed and retired before sunset.

  There began to be real concern in court for Alexander’s health. In fact, the execution of Glaucias had left him without a regular doctor, and the death of Hephaestion had left him suspicious of the care of anyone unfamiliar. By the third day he failed to rise for the sacrifice and was not seen at all. On the fourth the servants were barred from the royal chamber.

  The King began to
drift in and out of consciousness, at times barking out bizarre commands, or violently stripping his bedclothes from his body, then lapsing into a trembling stupor. The foremost Babylonian physicians were brought in to attend him; his bedroom was transformed as they forbade certain fabrics and substances from his proximity, brought in braziers burning medicinal incense, and applied ointments to him that no Greek doctor could recognize. His officers, meanwhile, gathered in the forecourt of the palace, each insisting he had some essential business to discuss with the King, but—we may assume—wishing really to have a last look at Alexander before he was gone.

  The next day, to the surprise of everyone except perhaps the Babylonians, the patient rallied. The fever broke at last, and Alexander was able to sit up and take food. As he did during his recovery from the fight with the Mallians, his thoughts turned to settling the apprehensions of his men by making an appearance before them. With servants supporting both shoulders (for he was still quite weak) he came out on the balcony of the palace and looked down on a sea of faces. Upon seeing Alexander, the troops erupted in joy, begging him to lead them again, and promising that they would follow him to the shores of the great Ocean if he so wished it. The King raised his hand to acknowledge them all, and opened his mouth to speak, but could produce only a whisper. In their thousands the soldiers all leaned forward, as if they might discern the invalid’s faint words from hundreds of feet away. Of what Alexander actually said, none could be sure, except that his statement twice included the word “duty”. Exhausted, he then had to be carried back to his room.

  It was at this point that a peculiar thing happened. Rohjane, who had been standing behind the King as he appeared on the balcony, attended him as he settled back on his bed. It was the first time she had stood at his side since the illness had struck. She then insisted on helping her husband drink some water, which she professed to have fetched herself from the cistern. The Babylonians, who were not unfamiliar with the art of poisoning, examined the contents of the cup and could find nothing suspicious about it. Nevertheless, they brought in a taster. Rohjane professed great annoyance at the doctors’ impertinence, demanding by what power they could so insult their Queen. When the taster did not drop dead, they begged her forgiveness, and thereupon left the patient to his wife’s tender ministrations.

  Alexander took the water and sleep peacefully. The next morning Rohjane was gone, and the doctor were confounded to find the King in the grip of a fever and new symptoms. These included sharp pains in his abdomen, and a fierce thirst that propelled him into a frenzy. The latter would not let him rest, so that Alexander could not conserve his strength at all. By the evening both his heartbeat and his breathing were faint. The doctors, perhaps with Glaucias’s example in their minds, brought to bear every art at their disposal to save him. By early the next morning, they managed to wake him for what all expected would be the last time. His generals were brought in, and he was asked if there was anything he wished to tell them. Perdiccas leaned down to hear his answer, which was but a single word: ‘water’.

  Hours later, the messengers to Ammon in Egypt returned with an answer to Alexander’s request for Hephaestion to receive divine honors. The god said that all such men, including Heracles and Achilles, merit worship as demi-gods. It was an answer that would have pleased Alexander very much.

  XXI.

  Notice, gentlemen, that unlike Aeschines I did not tell you he died on that occasion. To be sure, Alexander very nearly did succumb to poison—as my opponent has told you, by the fourth day of his illness matters were desperate. What Aeschines does not know is that, in fact, the efforts of the King’s Babylonian doctors met with complete success. Now that I see I have your attention, and though I know I am racing the clock, I will try to tell you the real circumstances of Alexander’s death.

  Thanks to the arts of the Babylonians, the King’s fever broke within two days; before the end of the week his was able to hold down his food. As it happened, then, this incident seemed like yet another of the King’s victories over mortality. Rumors spread that Alexander had rallied; the world, having held its breath, took ease at last. On orders of the King, however, no official announcement was made of his recovery. While it seemed odd that he wanted to withhold this information, I presumed he wished only to test the loyalty of those satraps who might revolt. On this, as on several other matters that day, I was wrong.

  For Alexander was not pleased with his recovery. Instead of launching himself into fresh plans for building or conquest, he sat with a dejected look on his face. No one—not his friends, his new wives, nor Bagoas could rouse him. As for me, he tolerated my presence in the room, but would not speak. When he looked at me, it was with accusation in his eyes, as if I had been responsible for the undue extension of his life.

  Rohjane gave the entirely appropriate reaction to his improvement. For the very first time, she had followed my directives on dress and comportment to the letter, looking very much like the dutiful Greek wife.

  “My lord, I rejoice at your recovery!” she exclaimed, approaching to give him a kiss.

  But Alexander turned his face away from her. She soldiered on, smacking him on the cheek, going on about the growth of the child within her. Alexander was silent, regarding her coldly. He only seemed to relent when she held up a piece of woven cloth for him to see.

  “I’ve had Youtab begin the swaddling clothes for our son. I’ve made her swear to finish before he comes…”

  The King’s brow softened a bit as he looked at this naïve bit of handiwork. He was filled, no doubt, with that ambivalence particular to new fathers, as yet unsure they are up the demands of the role. In Alexander’s case the uncertainty must have been deeper still, convinced as he was that his wife had a hand in his poisoning. And yet, while she carried his heir, there was nothing he could do about it. Knowing Rohjane, I am also sure that everything she did in that meeting was contrived to remind him of this fact.

  “If I may serve you in any way, please call me.”

  “If I call for anything,” he finally said, “it will not be for a drink. Do you remember the water you brought?”

  “I remember.”

  “Good. And do you remember Hephaestion, too?”

  “Of course,” she said, keeping up her denial. “Who could forget such a noble captain?”

  “Very well,” he replied, waving her away.

  After she was gone the King grew tired, and slept for three hours in the middle of the afternoon. When he woke up, he called for all his personal companions to attend him. Perdiccas was there, and Ptolemy, Nearchus, Eumenes, and myself. Pulling himself to a sitting position, the King asked a strange question:

  “Eumenes, is Hermolaus still with us?”

  “You mean, Hermolaus son of Sopolis? The page?”

  “Yes.”

  “He lives, though in what condition I cannot…”

  “Good. Bring him.”

  And so I learned that Hermolaus, the main instigator of the pages’ plot against the King’s life, had not been executed yet. It was a peculiarity of the Macedonians, I saw, that certain important prisoners were not killed right away, but imprisoned for as long as it took to wear down their defiance. For particularly stubborn characters this process might take years. There were still rumors about the camp that Callisthenes was not dead, but languishing in some hole until he earned a kiss with his prostration. Only then would he have been allowed to die.

  None of us had seen Hermolaus for some years. In his confinement he had grown into a man, albeit a thin, pale, unkempt one, so unused to daylight that he could not keep his eyes open. He was naked as he was brought in, bearded to his breastbone, shackled by his feet.

  “Do you know where you are, boy?” Alexander asked.

  “By the stench of oppression, I would say I am before Alexander.”

  “It is the stink of sickness you smell, and your own rot.”

  “Rot, sickness, tyranny—all the same.”

  Alexander laughed. �
��A clever answer from a ghost! What a man you might have become, O Hermolaus. Now peevish retorts are all you have left. Or is it?”

  The page’s eyes cracked open a bit. “The Alexander I once loved did not waste time with riddles.”

  The King rose to his feet, stretched his arms, grimaced in pain from the Mallian wound. “Fair enough. The day of execution is at hand! Eumenes, bring him arms. Meet me under the east wall, near the Marduk Gate. Hermolaus, once during the hunt you stole the prize from me. I give you an opportunity now for the biggest game of all. Don’t disappoint me!”

  With that, the King left. The rest of us, including Hermolaus, stood dumbfounded. Perdiccas came out of it first. “You heard him! Arms for the prisoner!”

  Alexander waited for Hermolaus outside the Marduk Gate. He had only his chamberlain with him; on his back and legs he wore the cuirass and greaves of divine Achilles. He left the ancient sword leaning against the pitch-clad bricks, and the great Gorgon’s head shield next to it, still marked from the ordeal at Multan. As we all met there, it seemed we were all on stage, with the scene lit only by torches set in the theatrical backdrop of the Babylonian wall. Like distant stagehands, the tiny, helmeted heads of two guards looked down on us from hundreds of feet above. They were, as it was, the only other audience for the night’s drama.

  Still in shackles, Hermolaus had a peaked Phrygian helmet with the cheek-guards down, leather corselet, and a hoplite shield. He was standing straighter now, his eyes wide open, but he still had the look of a man who expected at any moment to wake up from his dream.

  Alexander took up Achilles’ shield. “Give him a javelin,” he ordered.

  “If the King permits it, we might execute the prisoner in the usual fashion,” suggested Perdiccas.

  Alexander answered with these verses, from the 22nd book of the poem:

  The running is over, Achilles! No more.

  Three times around the city of Priam I ran