Alexander the King

by Peter Messmore

  The engineer walked to the vertical wall and felt its surface with outstretched hands and arms. He then took a small hammer and a chisel from a leather belt around his waist and began to chip the rock away. It was hard, but not that hard. Soon a rough stair, a cubit wide and half a cubit deep started to take shape in the rock wall’s side. “It can be done, King Alexander,” the engineer said at last. “With ten of my nimble assistants, I’ll have stairs up and down Mount Ossa in three days. We’ll only be able to work in daylight. It’s too dangerous to cut stone at night from such heights. But it can be done!”

  Alexander smiled. A characteristic that Philip had noticed in him was being displayed. Greeks and Macedonians called it pothos: a yearning to strive against seemingly insurmountable odds and accomplish what everyone else thought was impossible. It was the first time the young king displayed it to gain advantage over a situation or enemy. It would not be the last.

  “Begin immediately,” he commanded the engineer. “I’ll send for your men. The work must be done quickly. If there are problems, let me know. Don’t fall behind the schedule you gave me. Our army will wait at the pass’s northern entrance, making enough noise to mask any rock cutting sounds. The Thessalians will never know what hit them when I come up from their rear. The pass will be ours.”

  Hephaestion and Alexander’s officers looked in awe at the young king. If they ever doubted it, here was a man they could follow and admire. He had Philip’s courage but was more resourceful. There would be no end to the worlds that they could conquer following such a leader. Most of the officers, scouts, and the king left the engineers at the beach and returned to the main army.

  In three and a half days, the stairs had been cut neatly up Mount Ossa’s eastern side and down its western flank. Alexander then led three thousand of his hypaspists up and over Ossa and entered the plain of the Peneus. When the Thessalians realized that they had been flanked, they surrendered without any loss of life on either side.

  ≈

  Demosthenes of Athens had planned his boule show for days. A former officer in Thessaly’s cavalry, a unit that had served with Alexander during the days after he had first left Pella, had defected to him ten days ago. He had told Demosthenes that he had personally seen King Alexander killed while leading a cavalry charge in Thrace. He further explained that the Macedonian army’s victories in Illyria had been achieved under the leadership of a different Alexander, Alexander of Lyncestis. The turncoat officer had agreed to appear before the boule and repeat his story. A rich payment, drawn from Darius’ bribe, had helped motivate the Thessalian.

  “I was closer to him than I am to most of you,” the officer announced to the boule members. “A Thracian soldier, who had been knocked to the ground and was thought to be unconscious or killed, regained his senses and allowed Alexander to ride by. In an instant, he reached out for a partially broken sarissa, stood, and then launched the spear into Alexander’s back. It went through the king’s chest, and he fell dead to the ground. Blood gushed from his mouth as his companions surrounded him. Alexander’s killer was immediately stabbed to death, but he had done his duty. Greece will no longer be threatened by Philip’s son.”

  There was a roar of elation from the boule members as the Thessalian finished his story. A few legislators asked clarifying questions, but the essential truth of the man’s story remained unchanged: Alexander was dead.

  “The gods have saved Athens and Greece,” Demosthenes announced theatrically as he replaced the Thessalian on the speaker’s platform. “Yet the powerful Macedonian army remains under the command of able generals. We must first spread the word of Alexander’s death to every polis in Greece. Since Thebes is in imminent danger, we must send arms to help them throw off the Macedonian yoke. They won’t need any of our soldiers; their hatred of the Macedonians is sufficient to spark a rebellion. All of Greece will rise up to reclaim its independence. Our time is now! Don’t miss another opportunity to liberate Hellas from the northern barbarians.”

  Demosthenes’ motion was debated for half a day and then passed. The next day, the full ecclesia supported the boule’s recommendation. Athens sent the first of a series of arms shipments to Thebes and other Greek poleis having strong Macedonian garrisons. Swift horse messengers were dispatched to every major Greek city-state as Demosthenes’ plan gained momentum.

  ≈

  Alexander, Hephaestion, Ptolemy and Perdiccas sat in the king’s command tent near Larissa, Thessaly. All were exhausted and dirty from a forced march back to Macedonia. Nevertheless, broad smiles painted each face and a spirit of joviality was present. The group had opened a second large cask of strong Macedonian red wine, one from the Gardens of Midas that still bore Philip’s name. They were quickly becoming drunk.

  Ptolemy, who was not quite as inebriated as the others were, spoke first. He had been a fellow student at Aristotle’s Mieza school and was the rumored bastard son of former King Philip. “Cutting those stairs over Mount Ossa was brilliant, Alexander. Already, they’re being called ‘Alexander’s Stairs.’ They will last as long as the mountain itself.” Then he grew more political. “The Thessalians knew they were whipped when we emerged behind them. Never has a Greek achieved life-long archon status without a single battle. Philip had to fight many wars before he was granted it.”

  Alexander smiled. Privately, he knew his legend was just beginning to grow. Filling another kantharos of wine, he grew serious. “The Greek city-states granted me hegemon of the Corinthian League because of our lightning-fast descent into central and southern Greece. It wasn’t because they wanted it, but because of our army. It won’t last; we will be back soon. I’ll have to raze a city before Greece is pacified.”

  Perdiccas, Alexander’s friend and an aristocrat from Orestis province, allowed silence, then changed the subject with vital news that he had just received. “Alexander, you are aware that Demosthenes has been promising Attalus in the Troad everything imaginable. Hecataeus just informed me that the offers ranged from great gifts of gold to honorary citizenship in Athens. With our unopposed moves into Greece, all of that is over. Attalus has appealed for mercy and turned over all written communications from Demosthenes to Hecataeus.”

  Alexander suddenly grew soberer. “Is Hecataeus bringing him back to Pella as I ordered?”

  “Attalus refused to come and was killed on the spot,” Perdiccas answered. “His body awaits you in Pella.”

  Alexander was pleased but knew that the murder of one of Macedon’s leading generals was not without great risk. Most of that risk could be managed. But Philip’s other general in the Troad, the venerable Parmenio, was his greatest concern. “What was Parmenio’s reaction to all of this?” he asked.

  “He remains loyal to you,” Perdiccas said. “He told Hecataeus that he accepts your version of Philip’s assassination. He will need your encouragement and understanding as the Persian invasion begins, however. We don’t want him opposing us. He would split apart our forces.”

  Hephaestion finally spoke. “Parmenio won’t oppose us. His allegiance to Philip has been transferred to Alexander. If that changes, I will take care of him.”

  Alexander smiled at his friend. “We won’t need your dagger, Hephaestion. Let’s be patient with Parmenio—he will come around. I need his abilities as we prepare for the invasion. Leave me now. I have dispatches from Pella that must be read before I sleep.”

  The king’s generals left and Alexander started on the dispatches. Among them was one from his regent in Pella, Antipater. He wrote that he knew of Attalus’ death and was pleased. The last part of Antipater’s message complained to the king that Olympias was making his regency almost impossible. She questioned every decision he made and she was reestablishing her priest spy network, one that Philip had dismantled. Using strong language, Antipater pleaded with Alexander to confront his mother upon his return. Without that action, he concluded, he would find it difficult to continue in the important role that the king had given him.

&nbs
p; Alexander thought about Antipater’s complaints. He knew well how Olympias could meddle in others’ affairs. Yet, she was his strongest domestic ally. He was not about to curb her powers just because Antipater was having trouble getting along with her. Let mother serve as a check on any ambitions that Antipater might have, he decided. He would speak with Olympias about Antipater’s concerns, but his words to his mother would not carry the sting that the regent wanted. Let them battle it out. I’ll decide the issues that are important. Frankly, he wanted his mother’s priest network expanded, for it would provide a much-needed source of intelligence information. Antipater’s threat to resign was meaningless. The regent would just have to cope with Olympias. The king was glad that the unpleasant task of dealing with her on a daily basis would lessen. Olympias was like fire. She could be used to light his way in life but getting too close to her on a regular basis would singe anyone’s body and spirit. It was better to have Antipater vexed than himself. He smiled and thanked Zeus-Ammon for a gift in the form of his demanding mother, who would unhesitatingly aid his ascent to glory.

  CHAPTER 3

  CONSOLIDATION

  Alexander had been gone from Pella more than two months when Antipater received word that the king was returning victorious from Thrace and Illyria. His bravery and leadership had been stunning. It was well-received news by everyone in Pella but especially by Antipater. Alexander’s victories would allow Macedon’s regent to slow his hectic administrative pace. It appeared, at last, that most of Macedon’s threats had been eliminated. Among the communications that the regent had spent the morning examining was one from Alexander to his mother. From its size, Antipater knew it was a brief one. It was sealed and marked on the outside with large writing: Olympias’ Eyes Only.

  “The courier made it clear that you alone were to read it, Olympias,” Antipater said to the king’s mother as he gave the scroll to her. He waited, showing that he wanted Olympias to open it in his presence.

  “That will be all, Antipater,” Olympias said, with a callous dismissive stare.

  The regent returned the gaze but said nothing. So this is the way it is going to be. As regent, he expected that all communication from Alexander in the field would come through him, even letters to Olympias. It was clear that the king was still devoted to his mother and saw her as his strongest ally. He would have to learn to live with the son-mother bond. The message probably involved some useless drivel about Alexander’s Zeus-Ammon linkage and how his spiritual father was guiding him to new victories. Antipater turned and left.

  When Olympias was alone, she broke the seal on the small parchment scroll. It was no larger than a man’s hand. Unrolling it, she saw a simple coded message. Then, as Alexander had instructed her before he left, she went to her copy of the Iliad. On the third scroll segment was the key to interpreting Alexander’s clandestine communication.

  She opened Homer’s work and began to decode her son’s brief message. Then she went to a sofa and considered its significance. Alexander’s decoded message contained two commands. They were written simply, both to avoid confusion and to aid his mother’s limited reading ability. The first said “Eliminate Caranus now.” The second read, “I’ll remove Amyntas when I return.”

  Olympias stared across her sitting room in silence. A grim, deadly look of determination developed on her face. Then she stood up, walked quickly to her door, and shouted “Open!” Her plan was well rehearsed; her actions were sure and unwavering.

  “Get Altious, now!” she commanded the waiting guard. Her most trusted priest soon joined her. When the guard closed the door, she addressed the expectant priest.

  “Isolate Cleopatra-Eurydice from her two children immediately,” she said with a glint in her eyes. “Use Alexander’s seal as authority for your action. When she’s locked in a room alone, get two other priests and bring her two children to my bedchamber. This must be done quickly,” she shouted. “No one can interfere with what must be done.”

  The Queen Mother of Macedon released her long-awaited plan; each person carrying it out knew his role. “Tell them the time of Olympias has come,” she yelled at Altious as he was leaving. “They’ll understand.”

  Alexander’s mother walked into her bedchamber and stood before a large charcoal brazier. She stirred its nearly cold coals with an iron rod until she could feel heat. Impatiently, she blew briskly on the small cluster of coals until a small patch of red could be seen. Then she added charcoal chips until a strong fire blazed. Soon, the bronze brazier bowel began to ping and pop as cool metal surrendered to the fire. By the time her guard knocked at her door, the brazier’s heat could be felt halfway across the room. Olympias was ready.

  She opened the door and saw her bodyguard, Altious, and two priests standing there. One held an infant boy. The other cradled a nearly asleep one-year-old girl. “Give me the boy!” she demanded. “Put the girl on the sofa in my bed chamber and leave.”

  The priests obeyed and left. One had a smile on his face; the other looked troubled. Altious walked silently to a corner of the bedchamber and stood there with his arms crossed. When Olympias heard the door close, she walked to the charcoal brazier and knelt beneath it holding baby Caranus above her head.

  “You commanded me to do this, mighty Zeus-Ammon. It’s the first action that you have ordered to protect Alexander. I do it without remorse, just as a soldier kills his enemy. I’ll do it again, if necessary.”

  She stood slowly, repositioned an awakening Caranus in her arms and thrust the baby face-first into the red-hot coals. A muffled, high-pitched scream filled the room. It merged with a sizzling, hissing sound of human flesh being incinerated. The sound and smell filled the room. Olympias held the baby hard against the glowing coals until his spasmodic movements stopped. Then she released her claw grip and surrendered the dead infant’s body to the fire.

  Her bedchamber filled with the nauseating stench of burned, human flesh. It had already started to burn her eyes.

  Most everyone who was in the palace that morning heard the screams. It wouldn’t be long until they also smelled burning human flesh. Its odor was unmistakable.

  Caranus’ death screech awakened his older sister, Europa. She was crying uncontrollably on the sofa in an adjacent room. Olympias went to her and gently picked her up. She held the frightened child to her breast and soon stopped her crying. “It’s all right, dear,” she said. Then she walked back to the brazier with the girl in her arms and repeated the second, hideous infanticide of the morning with Europa.

  Seconds later, both of Philip’s and Cleopatra-Eurydice’s children lay burning on the brazier. The smoke and smell in the room made the air no longer breathable, not even to a woman who had long dreamed of eliminating her replacement’s children. Olympias walked slowly to her bedchamber door and ordered it opened. Her guard retched as soon as the acrid human smoke invaded his nostrils. The room was no longer tolerable to living humans. Altious burst out of the room, followed by Alexander’s mother.

  “Leave it open until the smoke clears,” Olympias screeched viciously at the aghast bodyguard, a veteran of Macedon’s many wars. “I’ll be in the courtyard. Get Cleopatra-Eurydice and take her to the brazier. Show her what remains of her children. Then bring her to me.”

  The guard gagged on the acrid smoke, frowned, and then obeyed Olympias’ command.

  ≈

  When Cleopatra-Eurydice saw her blackened children, smoldering on the large brazier, she let out a heart-stopping scream that was heard throughout the palace grounds. Then she fainted. Her lifeless body was brought to Olympias, sitting serenely in the courtyard beneath her bedchamber window. She had heard everything that had happened in the room above.

  “Put her on the bench,” she commanded the guard. “Then leave us. Get those burned bodies out of my bedchamber. Take them into the country and finish the cremation. Break their bones in small pieces. Then, scatter them along the road to Paiko. No one must ever be able to identify either of them. If you fail at t
his you will answer to Alexander.”

  The guard looked with quiet contempt at Olympias and returned to the bedchamber. Then he poured a large container of water on the brazier and extinguished the fire. Using two metal thongs, he picked up the children’s blackened and soaked remains and put the charred bodies in his cloak. He left quickly, after tying his cloak into a bundle so he would not have to look at the product of Olympias’ vengeance.

  Alone with the unconscious body of Philip’s last wife, Olympias studied the limp body of her mortal enemy. She was young and beautiful, just as Olympias had been when Philip had married her. Philip always liked large-breasted women, she thought as she watched her rival’s chest move up and down.

  At last, the mother of Caranus and Europa stirred. She opened her eyes, and then remembered the terrorizing reason why she had fainted and began screaming again. Olympias helped her sit up and waited for the young woman to regain control. Then, towering over her, she gave an ultimatum.

  “I act with Alexander’s authority, Cleopatra-Eurydice. He ordered the death of your children and you. You will soon join them. Unlike them, you have a choice of how you can die. One of my priests will kill you, you can take poison, or you can hang yourself in your room. If you’re unable to decide, I will. Give me your answer now!”

  The young woman couldn’t speak and merely resumed her screaming and crying. Finally, her composure returned and she stood regally to face the woman who was ending her world. “I’ll do it myself; stay away from me, you bitch!”

  Philip’s last wife continued cursing and crying. Then she shoved Olympias out of her intended path and turned to leave. The distraught young woman stumbled, regained her footing, and then slowly began making her way toward her bedroom on quivering legs that barely supported her.

  Olympias motioned for a priest to follow her. Macedon’s Queen Mother walked away, studying an approaching rainstorm that was moving swiftly across muddy Lake Loudias. Her nostrils were still burning from the mordant smell of the two roasted children. She wanted to inhale the fresh wind of a Macedonian downpour. It would help wash away the small amount of guilt she felt and the pungent, oily smell of human flesh that seemed to cover her alabaster skin.