Alexander, no longer bemused, reasoned that his mother just might be right. Privately, he decided to send officers to investigate what she had just told him. If true, the events could only glorify him more. Subtly, her words even started to help him feel better about his inaction while Philip was being set up for assassination.
However, Olympias wasn’t done yet. “There is another thread in the tapestry of your lineage, Alexander. My oldest priest, a man who has traveled throughout the Mediterranean, told me that there is final, conclusive proof of what I’ve just told you at Ammon’s temple in the Egyptian desert. The place is called Siwah. He didn’t tell me what the proof was, but I know that you can discover it. After Persia falls, take Egypt and discover your life’s greatest mystery.”
Alexander was more serious now as he listened to his mother. He rubbed his face with one hand, then answered. “Thank you for sharing that with me, mother. If the opportunity presents itself, I will go to Siwa. I too have heard of this legend. Aristotle told me that it was just a myth. Know that your words have diminished some, but not all, of my guilt-demons over Philip’s death. I realize increasingly that you are Zeus-Ammon’s earthly messenger. Keep his revelations coming to me when we begin our letters. They’ll give me sustenance on the harsh fields of Asia.”
“That is my only role now. That and to help you keep your home base secure. I’ll not fail either Zeus-Ammon or you.”
Their private time was over, and Alexander escorted his mother out of the throne room and out of the palace into the king’s gardens. Macedonian wild roses were in full bloom and they filled the cool night air with their fragrance. Alexander shared his cloak with his mother as they walked downstairs to a path high above the lake. The son would see his mother again the next day, when the army marched on parade past the palace and to its staging area, east of the capitol. However, tonight was the last time the two of them would ever be alone again. Amid the croaks of the lake frogs, there was a morose quiet as mother and son continued their walk.
Alexander drew within himself with each step they took. The secret his mother had just shared was having a profound effect on him. It explained many things: why he resented his father, why they were rivals, why he had allowed King Philip to be killed.
Finally, they completed their walk and reached the palace again. “My love is always yours, mother. In many ways, you have made me who I am. My lifelong gratitude is yours. You will be in my daily thoughts during the difficult days ahead.”
“I know, Alexander.” Then she kissed her son and slowly started the climb up the stairs alone, back to her suite in the palace.
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Alone in her bedchamber, Olympias was serene and happy as she got out her snakes for her nightly devotional. Her ruse had worked. As she had done all of his life, she continued to dominate her son. That domination would continue to the farthest reaches of Asia. Her power would grow as Alexander’s did.
Her latest ploy had not been too difficult. The birthmark idea had come from her chief priest; but she had extended it so that it had assumed all of the attributes of past Olympias-stratagems. The worst part had been the searing pain that she had to endure when a slave-artist burned an image of a lion’s head on her thigh. The slave had then been put to death.
Now, three years later, the awful burn had fully healed and the created image looked like she had worn it all of her life. She would gladly endure the pain again. For she was Olympias, descendent of Helen of Troy, former Princess of Epirus, former Queen of Macedon, soon to be Queen Mother of Macedon and, most importantly, mother of the greatest conqueror the world would ever see.
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King Alexander was dressed in his most resplendent military uniform. Many of the pieces had been designed and created by the king and Hephaestion during the last months before the Persian invasion. Covering his torso was a long-sleeve tunic, light purple in color. The garment skirt fell just above Alexander’s knees. A long cloak, dyed in a darker purple shade, hung nearly to his heels. It was trimmed with a yellow border and held close around his thick neck by a pure gold, lion’s-head clasp.
Covering his chest and shoulders was a cuirass, a body armor made up of small metal plates. It was covered in white linen. A striking depiction of Heracles was hand-painted on the cuirass front. An intricate design, suggested by Olympias, surrounded Alexander’s revered ancestor. On Alexander’s head was a silver Boeotian helmet, emblazoned with a fine golden wreath on its front and sides. A pure-white, horsehair plume soared impressively from the helmet’s crown.
King Alexander was ready. Now his last Macedonian act was to show the people of Pella what the coming conqueror of Persia looked like.
Alexander’s horse, Bucephalas, waited restlessly for the king to mount. The magnificent steed seemed to absorb all of the energy of the world-altering events that surrounded him. It had a saddlecloth on its back covered with a panther-skin shabraque.
At last, Alexander mounted the powerful stead. Bucephalas reared and let out a mighty whinny, as if it were announcing to the world that the moment of conquest had begun. Alexander got control of the horse, and then looked up at his mother standing on the balcony of his throne room.
He considered yelling a last farewell but changed his mind. He had said everything he wanted to say to her. It was time to leave. Instead, he gave her a last wave and lurched forward on his horse to begin the parade.
The king led his Companion Cavalry forward through Pella’s broad streets, flanked by the elite circle of young men that Hephaestion had just established. The departure mood was joyous and a great air of expectation surrounded both the army and Pella’s citizens.
General Parmenio, surrounded by his close supporters, followed the king’s group at a measured interval. The old general’s support of Alexander had been purchased at a high cost. Nearly all of the king’s key army command positions were either one of Parmenio’s sons, a relative, or a blood-related, ancient kinsman.
Parmenio’s supporters were followed by ten percent of the soldiers in each unit of the king’s 30,000-man army. The other ninety percent waited at the army’s departure encampment, just east of the capitol.
Most of Pella’s citizens watched the army’s departure by lining the city’s main streets. Rich merchants and their families stood on the roofs of their impressive houses, waving colorful Macedonian battle flags. They yelled farewells and called for the gods to look after the fighters as they encountered Darius.
Alexander knew most the affluent families of the palace district and yelled back to them as the parade progressed. “Get your storehouses ready for the treasure that I’ll send back soon,” he yelled. “You’ll become the richest people in all Macedonia and Greece! Start making male babies for the army. When they come of age, I’ll take them to the ends of the earth,” he roared.
Alexander’s subjects acknowledged the king’s remarks as they showered him and his companions with flower petals. It occurred to Alexander that more than one of Pella’s citizens might think it ironic that he had not taken his own advice and left a male heir in Macedonia before leaving.
Nevertheless, he knew that they would support the invasion as long as he delivered on his promises. The young king had lived long enough to know that wealth prevails. No matter what royalty and political leaders did or didn’t do, the wealthy would continue to prosper one way or the other. That was not true of the Macedonian middle class or the common people.
King Alexander led the contingent away from the palace district and down Pella’s main street past the agora, the city’s commercial center. Cheering, middle-class merchants and common people filled the agora. Small groups of musicians played patriotic Macedonian songs; the moment was filled with national pride.
Finally, the parade exited the city and the crowds started to thin. Alexander saw small groups of slaves and common laborers working on the main road leading eastward out of Pella. The road they were traveling on was the result of Philip’s massive road-building projects,
started over twenty years ago. It was the main east-west artery, was over fifteen cubits wide and stood high above the surrounding countryside. Practically all of the land east of Pella was dry now, even in early spring when the rains came. Alexander’s father had systematically drained the vast, swampy marshes that had almost surrounded Pella.
As he rode east, these civil engineering thoughts left the king and he started to focus his attention on Amphipolis. It was there that he would bring all of the elements of his army together. The journey would require ten days. He knew that his army could only sustain itself for just a month. The thought both excited and terrified him.
The driven feeling that the Greeks called pothos suddenly infused him. Clearly, his life-mission had started. He examined these feelings as he rode along at the head of his abbreviated army. His pothos-anxiety produced a curious sensation inside him, one that both motivated and haunted him. He continued this self-analysis until the invasion force stopped for its first night’s encampment. So pervasive were his reveries that he even refused Hephaestion admission into his private tent.
King Alexander appeared the next morning, refreshed and knowing that he could not be stopped. A night of private drinking and eventual deep sleep had produced a fury in him that would sustain him as he encountered the powerful Persian empire.
CHAPTER 7
PERSIA
“I want this morning’s events made into legend, Callisthenes,” Alexander said. “Make a reader understand why I threw my spear from my command trireme. Let them recognize that Macedonian arms will win the conquest of Persia and Asia. Record also the symbolism of what Hephaestion and I did at Troy. Write a poetic description of how I laid a wreath on the tomb of Achilles. Explain how Hephaestion laid a wreath on the tomb of Patroclus. This story will be told five thousand years from now.”
The king, his expedition historian, Callisthenes, and his chief secretary, Eumenes, sat in Alexander’s tent, awaiting news from Parmenio and the army’s scouts. Callisthenes, Aristotle’s nephew, had been one of Alexander’s teachers at Mieza. He had taught Alexander that every great king must have a sympathetic chronicler of his deeds. That was the reason that King Alexander had asked him to accompany the invasion force. Eumenes had served Alexander’s father. Philip had also required that Macedon’s court records must always reflect his actions in a positive light.
“We understand what you desire, King Alexander,” Callisthenes answered. “Will you read our reports before we send them back to Macedonia and Greece?”
“Always,” Alexander said curtly. “Both of you must write three drafts. The first one should be your initial impressions of what happened. Feel free to speak with my commanders, even common infantrymen, as you gather information. During military action, do this behind our lines. I don’t want you two in the way.
“You must then write a second version. My military, political, or social goals must always be reflected in this draft. At every opportunity, you must glorify my kingship and military leadership. Is that clear?”
“I did this flawlessly under King Philip,” Eumenes said. “I’ll explain the style to Callisthenes. You will be pleased with our product.”
Alexander smiled but held out the palm of his hand to the two men, showing them that there was more. “When you complete the final version, it must always be read to me. I will have final edit authority. Properly written historical records are vital. After I give final approval, destroy the first two drafts. I don’t want any fragmented records confusing future historians. Do both of you understand my wishes on this matter?”
The historian and secretary nodded that they understood and the meeting was at an end. Alexander escorted them out of the tent and asked his bodyguard about Parmenio’s location. The Royal Bodyguard told the king that Macedonian scouts had located the enemy. Alexander’s first Persian battle was at hand.
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Persian forces had gathered east of the River Granicus. Led by the local provincial satraps, Spithridates of Lydia and Ionia, Arsites of the Hellespont Phrygia region, and Arsamenes, of the Cilician seaboard region, they were reinforced by 5,000 Greek mercenaries under General Memnon. Memnon’s scorched Persian earth strategy had been rejected by all of the satraps, just as Darius had said it would. The Macedonian boy-king wasn’t believed to be that formidable. Instead, they had elected a defensive strategy.
In a command tent that far-exceeded Alexander’s in opulence, Memnon met with the Persian satraps. “It has been decided then,” he said. “Our forces are aligned along the Granicus; we will bring the enemy to battle at the spot we selected. The river runs fast and deep there. The eastern bank is much higher than the other side and there is soft mud below the embankment. I rode my horse there two days ago.”
Hearing nothing from the satraps, Memnon continued. “I’ve known Alexander since his teenage years. He’s impulsive and bent for Homeric glory. When his scouts report our positions, he will make a direct, frontal assault. The Granicus embankment will become our ally. His cavalry charge will be softened; the famous Macedonian phalanx will not be able to hold formation. Our numbers will then overwhelm them.”
Spithridates listened to the paid Greek general. Even though he held him in high military esteem, he didn’t trust any Greek. However, his battle plan and words made perfect sense. “What are our total numbers? How do they compare to our enemy’s forces?” he asked.
“We total a little over 30,000 men,” Memnon replied. “Half of that is cavalry. We’re not sure of Alexander’s numbers. Our spies and scouts seem to think we are about equal. Importantly, our 15,000 cavalry is much stronger than their 6,000 cavalry. That will be critical. With our strong defensive position, we should win the day.”
Arsites finally spoke up. “Good. Then, while Alexander is retreating to Thrace, we will launch our navy against Macedonia itself. Great King Darius has promised us that his mopping up is nearly done in Egypt. In months, a year at most, Macedonia and Greece will be ours. I have always wanted possession of those Thessalian horse estates. In a few years, I will breed the finest steeds in the world.”
The satraps all laughed and the war council broke up. Each knew that they would rid Persia of the Macedonian youth in a day. Then, Great King Darius himself would lead Persia’s mighty army and navy into Macedonia and Greece, forever destroying their ancient adversary. The Persian supreme god, Ahura Mazda, was watching over them.
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“It’s a deathtrap,” Parmenio shouted at King Alexander. “A direct charge by our cavalry is exactly what Memnon wants. Come to your senses! They have chosen the high ground above the Granicus for good reasons. If you insist on a frontal charge, I’ll fetch your dead body downstream tonight.”
Alexander glared at Parmenio, sensing that his 65-year-old second-in-command may be right. Yet, this was his long-awaited opportunity. His insatiable need for glory boiled deep inside his chest. Both he and Philip had dreamed of this moment for years. The Persians didn’t know that he was the son of Zeus-Ammon. “We attack,” he announced with contempt for Parmenio in his voice. “I know it’s late in the day. I will prevail because none of them expects that I will do it. Go to the other cavalry units on my left. Fight a holding action while I create a gap in their center. Then, we will wrap up their wings. Victory will be ours!”
Parmenio glared back at Alexander, threw up his hands, then rode off to join the Thessalian, Thracian, and allied cavalry. “Leave the fool to his own designs,” he muttered to himself as his horse gained speed.
Parmenio had just given the unified cavalry under his command their orders when he saw 1,800 of Alexander’s Companion Cavalry, led by the king himself, launch their charge across the swift-moving River Granicus. He was followed by thirteen squadrons of heavily equipped Thessalians and mounted Macedonian scouts. A mighty roar emerged from the Macedonian side as the riders made it to the eastern side of the river. Quickly, Alexander and 6,000 of his men were in the midst of the enemy.
Alexander charged straigh
t into Memnon’s mercenaries, while a deadly barrage of Persian javelins rained down on the attacking allies. Briefly, the flying spears obscured the late afternoon sun. The fighting soon became hand-to-hand, but Alexander could not break through Memnon’s strong line. As he continued to slash his sword, killing Greek mercenaries all around him, he looked around and saw that his forces were in danger of being driven back into the Granicus. His charge had failed in less time than it takes to drink a kantharos of wine.
“Back,” he yelled to his left and right. His face reflected rage at this enormous personal failure. King Alexander’s first action against the Persians had been a defeat.
The withdrawal was orderly, yet scores of his men lay dead in and beside the river. Others, badly injured, were being dragged west across the Granicus to the safety of Parmenio’s protective line. Gradually, parts of the Granicus started to turn red from the dead and injured as the opposing forces withdrew to their original lines. Memnon’s mercenaries had suffered few losses.
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Darkness fell quickly that spring night beside the Granicus. Both opposing forces lit campfires and started preparation for what would be a decisive battle the next day. Soldiers from both sides were close enough that they hurled insults across the river. “You Greek bastards don’t know how to fight,” yelled a Persian archer from the top of a hill beside the river. “Return to Macedonia and fight women—you may have a chance with them.”
A Macedonian infantryman who had fought with King Philip returned the insult with several obscene remarks about King Darius’ wife. Insulting barbs continued most of the evening. They were heard clearly by most of the fighters on both sides.
“Keep the campfires burning along our lines,” Alexander told Parmenio. “Don’t let the men’s insults stop. I want the enemy thinking we are encamped here tonight. You were right in your advice not to charge the enemy here, Parmenio,” he said. “I hate to say this, but I should have listened. It won’t happen again.”
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