Unable to face your assault.
But courage anew I feel in my heart
To face what must be faced—
As you all may recognize, it is Hector’s last challenge to Achilles before their duel at the walls of Troy. And though I had heard him quote the Poet before, this was the first time he had cast himself not as his ancestor, Achilles-the-swift-runner, but as Hector-breaker-of-horses.
Ptolemy gave Hermolaus a javelin. The latter looked at Alexander, then the weapon, holding it in front of him as if he’d never seen one before.
“Do you expect me to kill you with this?”
“I expect you,” replied the King, “to accomplish what you swore with your comrades. There was a time when you stood before me and called me a tyrant. Well now, here I am, boy! Strike me down! Fix my arrogance! I promise no one will stop you…”
Perdiccas looked to Ptolemy, who looked to me in amazement. It was the first time I had seen either man in such dire confusion. I suppose they would have said the same of me.
Hermolaus shrugged, seized the javelin with an overhand grip, and cocked it above his head. Then he sang:
You beyond forgiveness should not speak of pacts
Can there be deals between men and beasts?
Between wolf and sheep there is no common ground,
Born as they are to live in undying hatred.
So it is between us, no love lost, no peace
Until you or I may strike the dust and sate Ares,
Shielded scourge of men, with our blood.
Come to me, then, with what courage you have left
Death or victory! Show me your skill,
As a daring man of war!
He made his throw. The javelin flew from his hand and straight for Alexander’s head, only to lodge in the soft brick of the wall. The King had ducked.
Missed, have you! Now look at the divine Achilles!
So sure you were that Zeus decreed my death!
You were bluster only, trying to strike fear in me,
Make my legs shake, lose my nerve!
And so the King, taking his turn, lofted his spear. With the same unerring skill that had killed Cleitus, Alexander made a dead-center shot. This time, however, his opponent was armed with more than a drinking cup. The metal tip bounced off Hermolaus’ shield, leaving only a small dimple in the surface.
“I see you have no spear in reserve,” said the King.
“Only this sword,” replied the other.
“As do I.”
They closed on each other with blades unsheathed. Alexander seemed to be moving at half-speed, not yet at full strength after his illness. Hermolaus likewise had none of his former quickness, having spent much of his youth in a cell. Yet the slowness with which the duel unfolded only made it seem more terrible, as we could all anticipate and feel every blow. Alexander was on the attack, striking at his opponent as he grasped his wounded side. Hermolaus parried, backed up, counterattacked. The King stumbled and fell, his sword clanking to the dirt beside him. Perdiccas moved to intercede, but Ptolemy held him back. It had not taken long for the latter to realize how he could benefit from these incomprehensible events.
Hermolaus, perhaps overwhelmed by the prospect that briefly opened before him, did not kill Alexander right then. Instead, the King had time to take his sword again and ward off the final blow. As Hermolaus lost his balance, Alexander tried to get to his feet—but froze with the torment of his Mallian wound, his face and neck contorted with the agony of it. In that second, with Alexander’s hesitation, Hermolaus saw his chance: he put the point of his sword right through the cleft at the King’s throat, just above the top of Achilles’ cuirass. The blade cut with appalling ease through the soft flesh, exposing the white surface of his windpipe. Then the blood rose and covered everything—the windpipe, the blade, the hand that held the blade, the ground--
“Defendant, stop speaking,” said the judge. “You have run out of time.”
XXII.
Machon stood with his mouth open. The water had stopped. For a professional speaker to be interrupted like this was very bad form—the jurymen were left hanging just at the moment of Alexander’s death. Yet Swallow didn’t think this blunder would count too much against Machon. He was, after all, an acknowledged amateur, defending himself against one of the most formidable of orators. To show his inexperience was to make himself sympathetic, for if there was anything Athenian jurymen hated more than a bad show in the courtroom, it was a career litigant.
Machon sat down. At that point in the procedure there was an unofficial recess as the magistrates conferred and the clock was reset. The jurymen stretched their legs, and although any sort of discussion or politicking was forbidden before the verdict was read, deliberation was already underway by other means. Experienced jurors could always gauge sentiment by exchanging glances with the men around him. Arguments could be joined by raising an eyebrow, and resolved by a downward flicking of the eyes. Swallow looked at Deuteros, who concurred with a nod. Matters were not looking good for Aeschines. Though it came only near the end of Machon’s testimony, and was only one incident in the King’s eventful life, Alexander’s pardon of Cleomenes finally seemed to turn most of the jury against Aeschines and the appeasement faction.
“The parties will have one measure of time each for disputation. Prosecution, do you wish to ask questions of the defendant, or make a statement?”
Aeschines didn’t answer but simply manifested, bright-robed and full-throated, from his seat.
Athenians, we meet on a sad day, for what we have heard from the defendant represents a challenge to all of us who believe in the truth. Where to begin to unravel this Gordion Knot the defendant has spun for us? To be sure, the events that I have narrated and Machon has distorted took place years ago and far away, and are already passing from the vale of living memory. Yet I say that its passing should not be an occasion for self-serving revision. I say what the mass of observers believe to be true should command respect, and the subjectivities of certain others less so, no matter how well-placed they may have been. I say something happened in the past, and those happenings stand as facts regardless of insinuation or anecdote.
For my part, I am not afraid to tell you that I take these proceedings seriously. I spent a considerable time preparing my presentation, which was gleaned from the reminiscences of numerous witnesses. Based on those testimonies, I learned much about my subject, and I must tell you that the Alexander I came to know in no way resembles the person Machon has described. According to the defendant, the Lord of Asia was little more than a quailing, querulous child. He was afraid of the future, afraid of his enemy, and afraid of battle—imagine that, Alexander afraid of battle! Machon tries to exploit unkind rumors about Alexander’s friendships with men to portray him as some kind of womanly chimera. We should all reject anyone’s claims to know what the King and Hephaestion did in privacy, and it is nothing less than rank slander to claim, as Machon does, that Alexander let himself be used like a common prostitute! For that outrage alone he deserves conviction!
Perhaps Machon thinks so little of us as to think we can be fooled by his strategy. To defend himself, he must try to pull down Alexander. What a curious defense, to deny his impiety by denying the god! Meanwhile, he insults all Greeks with his malicious “recollections” of Alexander’s doubts. Could a man full of doubt have led an army for twelve years against the largest, most populous empire the world has ever seen? How does a general in constant fear of assassination so inspire his men as to leave behind an unparalleled legacy of peace and esteem? Could a mere drunk simply fall onto the throne of the Great King?
As he maligns Alexander, Machon slanders the characters of his most trusted lieutenants. Perdiccas and Ptolemy are made out to be craven opportunists who plotted and schemed for their own benefit while Alexander still lived. Craterus and Cleitus are, in Machon’s own words, “thugs.” Hephaestion was somehow reviled by everyone, though every scrap of evidence attests
to the admiration he inspired in all men. How fortunate for you, Machon, that these heroes are not here to make you answer for your lies!
In these proceedings, we must be content to note that events since the King’s death do not bear out Machon’s version: it is not true, for instance, that Perdiccas or Ptolemy seized authority upon Alexander’s passing. Perdiccas, by all accounts, was most reluctant to pick up the King’s ring, and now rules by consent only as regent to Rohjane’s infant son and the half-wit Arridaeus. Ptolemy did not claim the throne at all, most obviously because his rank did not merit it, and also because he is a man of unimpeachable integrity. He is only the governor of Egypt now, not her king! How Machon can profess to know that Ptolemy has intentions to be pharaoh is beyond my understanding.
Distortions of this kind at least have the virtue of referring to actual persons, and therefore having some root in reality. Tales of massacres of non-existent people, such as “the Branchidae,” deserve no refutation. That Alexander died in a fight with Hermolaus is accepted by no one. Nor should we be detained by Machon’s claims that it was Arridaeus, not Alexander, who generaled the victories of the Greeks. Machon presents no evidence to support this contemptible assertion for one simple reason: it is nonsense. I myself glimpsed Arridaeus during an embassy to Pella some years ago. I assume my impression of him still holds. He is a fool, completely unable to care for himself, much less command an army. That a man may somehow be a drooling idiot at one instance and a dashing strategist at another is absurd. There is no such thing as a half-time half-wit.
The felicity of this phrase earned Aeschines murmurs of assent. He seemed to absorb this encouragement and magnify it, becoming still more compelling as he went on.
Though Machon is an uncommon liar, he cannot help but ensnare himself as any liar must. Note that several times in his narrative he esteems himself as a skilled warrior. Yet in his account of Chaeronea he clearly states that he was “in the sixth rank of a phalanx eight shields deep.” As we all know, veterans are never placed in the middle of the phalanx! They are either in front, to inspire the rest with their valor, or in the last rank, to prevent cowards from fleeing. So which is it, Machon—are you not such a doughty fighter after all, that you were stuck in the middle? Or was your account of the battle a fiction after all? See how he sits there, having sought so vainly to disrupt me before!
All these matters distract us from the real issue. To my mind, these are and always have been the specific charges against Machon: that he violated his oath to the Assembly, and that he showed impiety. That he failed in his service is proven by his own testimony. By his own admission he was in charge of “managing” Rohjane, yet he also suggests that the woman had a hand in Hephaestion’s death. Once a poisoner, always a poisoner: I have argued myself that this same person slipped the fatal dose to Alexander. So on this count the effect of Machon’s work was far less than negligible—his gentle instruction was the very incubator of her crimes.
Regarding his other claims of service, such as repelling a Mallian raid on the King’s tent, no one else corroborates his story. Yet he admits that he tried to twist Alexander’s mind in an effort to “help” him. What arrogance! As if anything poor Machon would have to say would affect the fate the gods had in store for noble Alexander! It is interesting, though, that Machon admits wishing for the King’s death, and therefore the failure of Greek arms, during the invasion of India. By the gods, what sort of patriotism is that?
I must address the issue of the alleged letter to the governor of Egypt. Gentlemen of the jury, I will not stand here and claim that Cleomenes was a virtuous man, or that he did not deserve the end he found under Ptolemy. He was indeed rapacious, grasping, despicable—any adjective you chose! But to claim that he alone caused the famine in Attica is to engage in irresponsible exaggeration, for the truth is that the shortages began as early as the archonship of Aristophanes, which was almost exactly the time Cleomenes was first appointed tax collector. So unless we are prepared to believe that this man seized control of the grain trade instantaneously, it cannot be true that he caused the famine. Ships carrying grain from the Black Sea were sailed through a war zone during those years; anyone may go down to the Piraeus and talk to the captains there, who will speak of massive disruptions in this trade.
Again, I excuse nothing. That Cleomenes’ greed may have worsened the crisis deserves our contempt. But that is a far different proposition than suggesting Alexander turned a blind eye to crimes that caused hunger in Greece. The letter Machon bandies about, therefore, is a transparent forgery. That Eumenes would even share such a letter, if it had indeed come from Alexander, beggars belief.
Machon’s impiety requires no proof from me, for it festers in the open, in every word that he utters. It lies not only in his contempt for Alexander, and his lack of respect for the beliefs of his elders, and his inordinate fascination with the ravings of Zoroastrians, Brahmins, and other aliens. You may hear it in the way he speaks of Macedon, where great Olympus stands, as if it were foreign territory—or in his eloquence when he describes the charms of notorious courtesans! This last we possibly excuse, as his mother was a whore. But what we cannot excuse is his mendacity, Athenians, for his is the type of thinking that has always placed our city in danger. His affinity for ambiguities of his own making, his championing of the weaker argument over the stronger—these are the legacies of men like Machon. Hearing his testimony, is it any surprise that strumpets, pacifism and sophistry have become our leading exports? For this reason, for his presumption, for his failure, indeed for every reason in the world, I ask you to take the only just course—conviction. Only with that may we begin to repair the damage he has caused to us all.
For the final time, Aeschines brought his statement to a close just as his time expired. Deuteros nudged his friend and Swallow nodded in response. Aeschines had made a strong response to Machon, and had been clever in linking the defendant to that class of professional obfuscators who had been in ill-repute since Athens had first lost her empire. True, only yokels still believed the agora to be crawling with sophists. Philosophy had run out its string, having long since been domesticated, professionalized, and packaged for the consumption of rich men’s sons. Yet nobody was ever disappointed who counted on the votes of ignoramuses.
It was hard to tell now which advocate had the advantage. It was beyond dispute that Machon had an interest in blackening Alexander’s name, and as the orator said, men don’t just fall into such fabulous success. Yet Aeschines could not allay concerns over the pardon of Cleomenes quite so easily. Claims of forgery were easy to make, and could not erase a few simple facts: before Alexander, no hunger—after Alexander, hunger. If it wasn’t by his encouragement of Cleomenes, Alexander had to be responsible for the famine in some other way.
Swallow looked at the sky through the window—daylight was fading. More than for the fate of Machon, he feared he would lose his sleeping spot by the shrine if the trial went on much longer. With a shudder, he realized he might even be forced to go home to sleep with his wife.
Polycleitus indicated to Machon that it was his turn. The defendant took his feet with none of Aeschines’ élan. Instead, he seemed exhausted.
I must tell you that I was not expecting to have to speak again. Never in my life have I had to keep my mouth running for so long! Really, Aeschines, I have new respect for those in your profession. In war, we try to have at it and settle the issue as quickly as possible. In the courts I see it is the longest-winded set of lungs that carries the day.
Before I rest, I must tell you a few more things. First, although Aeschines tries to put the best face on it, he cannot excuse Alexander’s letter to Cleomenes. The argument that Cleomenes was not so bad because he only aggravated your misery is just too subtle for a simple soldier like me to understand. Alexander did not just pardon the man’s past crimes, though that is bad enough. He also forgave in advance any others he would see fit to commit in the future. It therefore follows that if Cleomen
es did take it upon himself to starve the Greeks at some later time, that would have been fine with Alexander. I say this without taking any satisfaction in it—had he lived beyond his grief, the King himself would probably have regretted his action. Didn’t he always regret the awful things he did? As it was, the letter was written and delivered, and the offer was never rescinded. These are the facts.
Nor does the mere assertion that the letter is a forgery necessarily make it so. The clerk has the original, and originals of other letters the King sent to the Athenians—I invite the clerk to make a comparison of the documents. Does the seal match? Is the style comparable? I have nothing at all to lose from giving back my time for this purpose.
The clerk just staring, doing nothing, while Polycleitus glanced at the clock.
I see the magistrates are late for dinner, so I will not insist. And so on to my second point, which is this: I do not now bear, nor have ever borne, any ill-will toward Alexander. To say that I try to save my skin by harming his reputation is nothing but a handy supposition by my accuser. Against Aeschines’ word I have almost twelve years of continuous service, which is a long time to serve under someone one supposedly hates! The truth is the very opposite of what my opponent says: as time passed, I grew to esteem him more, for no man had ever faced the challenges he did. To conquer an empire, to become the target of universal flattery, envy, and hope—these would try the sanity of any man. For suffering these assaults who can despise him? I could not have done half as well as he.
Indeed, if I truly wanted to disparage Alexander I could do no better than to repeat the stories that have persisted here in Athens. I could have said he was nothing but a brat, a drunk, a barbarian, a sodomite, a lunatic, or best of all, an illusion! For at one time or another I have heard it claimed that Alexander died at the Granicus, Issus, Gaugamela, and Multan, and that the Macedonians had concealed this truth from the world for their own purposes. I have also heard that he is alive right now, in this city, preparing to succeed where Xerxes failed by annexing Attica to his mongrel empire! Beside these rumors, my tale is tame stuff.
Empire of Ashes: A Novel of Alexander the Great Page 30
