Alexander and Alestria

by Shan Sa

  The sun circled in the sky and the moon was growing more slender. We collected two newborn girls and exchanged a mare for three young slave girls. Once the little ones were strapped to our backs, we set off at a gallop for the ends of the earth.

  “Never love an Amazon,” children sang as they ran through the tall grass while their parents dismantled their tents and herded their sheep together. “They kill those who love them best…”

  CHAPTER 3

  A rmed with lances, masked with leather blinkers and covered in armor, the horses charged. They collided, breast to breast, their legs clashing together; they reared up and trampled fallen soldiers. Their manes scattered showers of blood. The men’s shouts mingled with the frantic whinnies of their mounts as they fell, never again to rise to their hooves. Arrows whistled through the air. Lances, shields, bludgeons, tridents, axes, and iron whips gleamed. Wherever a weapon flashed, blood sprang forth, organs spilled, limbs and heads fell. The smell of sweat, blood, and excrement was suffocating. I could no longer hear the drum roll. I could no longer make out the sun through the haze of white dust. I lost track of time. I was stepping into that eternity where men are reduced to incandescent patches, luminous halos. There was a hot liquid running over my face, a barbed whip had just ripped a piece of flesh from my thigh, an arrow had buried itself in my left side, the sharpened blade of a dagger had cut my arm to the bone. A heavy weapon struck me on the nape of the neck, and I staggered. That moment I knew my god had abandoned me. He had abandoned me to my own fate, to the Persian warriors who were still hurling themselves at me. I had to make the choice alone: to wake up or close my eyes, to let myself be carried off by the sweet torpor or to return to the horror and the shouting. Suddenly I could sense death breathing over me, hear its lascivious whispering. It wrapped me in its arms and rolled out a smooth calm road before me, stretching to the horizon. I don’t want its monotonous peace! I don’t want that bland gray, that platitude and inertia! Give me life in all its color and madness! Give me copulation and galloping horses and warfare! My body felt all its pain again. Strength returned, and with it the terrifying grimaces of the men around me, the froth on the horses’ mouths. I brandished my sword. My standards followed its lead and advanced slowly but surely toward the east.

  Darius, the Great King of Persia, had come to meet me, intending to crush me with an army of one hundred thousand men. His elephants and camels, his barbarian foot soldiers and armored cavalries, had filled the valleys and spread out across the plain. Confronted with this unprecedented deployment of troops, I opted for the strategy of exhaustion. The number three is perfection, while nine possesses the magic of infinity. I constrained Darius to a long duel of three cycles, each of which would be divided into three battles.

  During the first cycle the enemy were more numerous, but Alexander’s phalanxes were very disciplined. The Persians, who had believed they were invincible until then, were impressed by the temerity of my troops. The second cycle was a succession of badgering skirmishes. Trapped in its rigid formations, the Persian army was unable to defend itself from my cavalry’s repeated surprise attacks. In the third cycle I ordered my battalions to lose. As soon as the Persians drew near, our soldiers had to throw down their arms and flee. To flatter Darius, I myself pretended to run in fear, leaving behind my golden helmet, which the Persians swiftly carried back to their king as a trophy.

  The weather was magnificent on the day of the ninth engagement, but since dawn we could smell rain in the air. I reviewed my troops on horseback, riding a mount very like Bucephalus, who had succumbed to his wounds. No one had noticed the substitution. Everything around me had to contribute to the myth of an indestructible Alexander. I had manipulated certain elements to ensure that Apollo gave us a message of victory. On that decisive day I needed the complicity of this god, who was often silent in the face of my doubts and weaknesses.

  Above the emaciated faces and wounded bodies of my troops I saw my standards floating in the wind. To the death, soldiers! Or to all the gold in the East! Life is so short; tomorrow, rubies and sapphires, velvet sheets and beautiful slave girls, will be ours! Let us take the spices and palaces and sumptuous feasts of conquerors! The arrows strike only cowards and spare the brave! The blood we lose makes us stronger; a severed arm, a gouged eye, only makes us all the more courageous! To battle, my men! If you die, you shall go home to rest; if you live, you shall sleep in Babylon!

  From the top of the hill I watched the two armies throw themselves at each other like two great waves. My two look-alikes, each escorted by a commander’s standard-bearer, fled in opposite directions. The Persian troops immediately followed them in the hopes of looting weapons, helmets, and saddles. Then, disguised as a lowly soldier, I rode down the hill with a cavalry detachment in light armor and sped to the rear of the Persian army, where Darius had his headquarters.

  I confronted the showers of arrows with my eyes open. In our galloping frenzy, I grew taller, and death receded. Stupefied by the extraordinary phenomenon of a warrior who would not die, the barbarians believed I was the manifestation of a god. They threw down their arms and began to flee. Darius, the master of the Persian universe who had grown up in the suave luxury of oriental palaces surrounded by women and eunuchs, Darius, the demigod who had never wielded a weapon, was terrified by the war cries drawing closer to him. He lost any desire to fight and fled with his personal guard.

  WITH THAT FLIGHT began his downfall.

  The regent in Babylon, an ambitious eunuch, exploited the Great King’s defeat, proclaiming himself master of the city and taking the royal children hostage. On hearing this, Darius decided not to return home and fled toward the mountains. Confusion reigned over his lands. Many towns surrendered, and many regiments capitulated without a fight. I learned that Darius was a weak man and had been manipulated by his eunuchs, who could think only of bickering for power and increasing their own wealth. Constantly traveling between the splendors and marvels of Babylon, Suse, and Persepolis, he had known nothing of the famines and epidemics in the provinces. As if deaf and blind, he had slowly released his authority at the expense of his governors, and so, thanks to him, the decadence that had ravaged the West reached the East.

  Poor peasants, undernourished soldiers, and local dignitaries who had never been respected at court rushed after me and showered me with gifts. I was hailed everywhere as a liberator, as the one who had conquered the tyrant, I was encouraged to march on Babylon and drive out the usurper.

  The regent tried to negotiate for peace by sending me finery, caravans filled with Darius’s treasure. He promised me other fabulous riches if I continued to pursue Darius without stopping at the gates of his city. I sent him a herald with my reply: if he recognized Alexander as his master, he would be under my protection, shielded from challenges and insurrections.

  Three days’ march from Babylon I was greeted by a procession of royal dignitaries with incense and music. We signed a secret treaty: the regent would proclaim me master of Babylon, and I would entrust the running of the city to him.

  On the horizon I could see the bronze gates piercing the very skies and stopping birds in flight. They opened before Alexander with the servile enthusiasm of a great courtesan spreading her legs for her richest client. Dressed as a lowly soldier, I watched with satisfaction as one of my look-alikes stepped into that ancient city crowned with golden laurels and dressed in my gold armor with scarlet straps. He was hoisted onto a cart and drawn triumphantly down the widest avenue in the world, waving proudly and indulgently to the prostrations of the Chaldeans and Persians.

  The wind blew, and the hanging gardens scattered a shower of petals.

  THE TOWER OF Babel had disappeared; Babylon had become that Tower of Babel, carrying off its inhabitants, its palaces and gardens, its streets and canals, in a giant spiral toward the heavens. Wide avenues wound round networks of sinuous little streets. To make the streets more passable the Babylonians uprooted trees and bushes, replanting them on roo
fs and terraces high up on pillars. But still carts, traps, camels, and horses jostled for space. The streets became blocked and then cleared for no apparent reason. Shops, restaurants, smoke houses, taverns, and baths kept their doors open day and night. The crowds drifted in and out; they went up steps into high-perched houses decorated with balustrades, or down underground where snatches of incantatory music wafted from dark rooms lined with cushions and lit by lanterns. The rustle of clothing and clacking of shoes mingled with clinking glasses, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the hubbub of conversation, and the bustle of waking households. The high, painted city walls resonated with the echoes of all this never-ending life, emitting a muffled buzz that grew louder with every new dawn.

  Temples dedicated to the gods occupied street corners: people from all over the world, dressed in every kind of costume, went there to pray in every language. Each wore the perfume of his or her country. Every variety of incense from every land blended with every smell of every different style of cooking. Newborns were greeted according to a thousand different customs, and the dead were left naked or shrouded, burned or mummified, buried or left to scavengers. Each individual went to heaven or to the shades on horseback or by boat, in chains or on beating wings.

  The roar and bustle of the greatest metropolis on earth stopped at the foot of the City of the King. This town within a town was crammed with administrators’ palaces and ministers’ residences. Built with blocks of beaten earth and painted inside and out, they shamelessly displayed their splendor. As the sun set, an entire population of plants and animals came to life as if trying to break away from those facades: monkeys squabbled along the walls; parrots called from the rooftops; dogs ran alongside leopards; bees plundered roses and carnations. A bird with the head of a vulture and a long shining tail had pride of place on the pediments. I learned that it was called the phoenix. Every hundred thousand years it died in flames and was reborn from the ashes.

  What secret shame I felt as I cast my eye over the conquerors and the conquered! On the one side, Macedonians and Greeks, their heads bare, their linen tunics leaving their arms, shoulders and legs for all to see, their leather sandals revealing hairy feet and filthy black toenails. On the other, Persian administrators in turbans, wearing rich brocade all the way down to their shoes which were embroidered with gold. They each held a different flower in their hands as a symbol of their responsibilities. They were followed by eunuchs, imperial slaves with shaven heads, who wore vests over their short tunics and ballooning pants threaded with gold. An evolved civilization clothes its people; it covers their flesh, ties their hair, and decks out their limbs with precious stones to distinguish them from animals. I who had conquered Darius must have looked to the Persians like the leader of a band of savages set loose in the Orient.

  In Pella life had only five colors: green like the fields, yellow like wood, white like houses, blue like the sea, and black like the earth. When the regent opened the gates to the citadel of pleasure, I was accosted by a profusion of unfamiliar colors carried on a blend of subtle perfumes.

  The eunuch who had sold Babylon to Alexander smiled and bowed. He walked backward before me and called for a bevy of castrated young musicians to sing the praises of my victory. His head was bare, and he wore a heavy amber necklace. His triple chin quivered, and his eyes—one tawny and one blue—studied me surreptitiously. He was holding a bracelet, nervously rolling the ruby and emerald beads in his fat fingers. He led me straight to the bedchamber of his former master, offering me his bed, his slaves, and his gynaeceum.

  IN THE HEART of the city of Babylon was the City of the King. In the heart of the City of the King was the City of Pleasure. At its highest point, up in the heavens, was my bedchamber.

  The warriors’ screams and the clash of arms ceased to haunt my ears. I heard only birdsong and the sibilant murmur of fountains. The most beautiful garden in the world stretched out beneath my arched windows, wiping away sorrows of the past and concerns for the future. The Euphrates snaked through meadows dotted with roses, violets, and carnations, and edged with orange trees and jasmine, and it spilled its ripples peacefully into ponds covered with water lilies.

  I lay on the bed and forgot the incandescent sun, the cruel wind, the endless marching. I swam in a sea of cushions, heaped around me, soft and giving. A curtain the size of a tent was draped over my bed, and through it I glimpsed the cupola-shaped ceiling—a clear demonstration of the Persians’ superiority in science and architecture. There were no pillars or support beams in that vast room: the substantial roof was held up by the six walls thanks to an ingenious distribution of its weight, calculated in a way the Greeks had not mastered. The frescoes were lit by candelabras that never went out. At the tops of the walls flowers blossomed between geometrical patterns. At eye level there were panels covered with a fine layer of gold, and Darius himself was represented as a handsome young man in his royal turban. A sequence of scenes from his daily life were depicted: reading, reciting poetry, chasing butterflies, watching monkeys dance, riding on an elephant, picnicking, bathing…and even in his bath the fallen king wore his turban. Loving embraces followed on from languorous walks, and poems in calligraphy accompanied the images. Beneath the panels were mosaics depicting a limpid spring edged with exotic vegetation. Among the countless faces of his beautiful and sensual young concubines, I noticed a favorite—small with very white skin and huge eyes over a small mouth—who featured in all the scenes of pleasure.

  Hephaestion came to greet me, telling me Cassander was angered by these frescoes to Darius’s glory, and wanted to replace them with scenes of Alexander’s battles. I cast my eyes over Darius’s chests of different perfumes, his musical instruments, his carpets of spun gold…and I started to laugh.

  I, Alexander, son of Olympias, whore of Philip, usurper of the League of Corinth, had become master of Babylon. It was a miracle I could barely believe.

  The scars on my body counted out the battles won with force and fury. The calluses on my hands told of enemies defeated and lands conquered. Nothing else about me or on me proved that I was master of Macedonia, Greece, Egypt, Arabia, and Persia. I felt as if I had cheated: that was why I laughed. Since the dawn of time the earthly crown had been waiting for just one master. All those who longed for it had failed. I had grasped it, but not because I had greater strength, better tactics, or more determination. I, Alexander of Macedonia, was not afraid of the stars of decadence. Where other men retreated, I advanced. Where other men gave up, I persevered.

  HEPHAESTION, MY FRIEND, why do Darius’s courtiers speak Greek when none of our generals speak Persian?

  Why do Cassander, Perdiccas, and Crateros insist on wearing worn old sandals when Darius’s slaves wear embroidered shoes?

  Why did the West close its doors on the East, claiming it was barbarian?

  I, Alexander, shall wear oriental dress and learn the language of the defeated. I want the East and the West to unite, the luxuries of Persia to combine with our philosophy, the strength of Macedonia to flourish in the beauty of oriental art. I want our bloods to mix. I shall send Persian women to the Greek islands so their children can benefit from two languages and a double inheritance. I shall drive away the bandits who prowl the trading routes and put the corrupt Persian army back on a sound footing. Tradesmen will no longer be subject to extortion: from now on our soldiers will protect their caravans. Alexander will open up the free market between East and West.

  Hephaestion, do you understand what the forced marches were for, wearing down soldiers’ feet and torturing their legs? Do you understand why horses died and soldiers starved and the incandescent sun blinded us and drove men mad? Do you understand the reason for the murders, executions, and massacres? A far greater good can emerge from evil!

  Without violence there would be no exchange. Without the war led by Alexander, all these peoples—the Greeks, the Macedonians, the Persians, the Chaldeans, the Jews, the Egyptians, and the Arabs—would never have agreed to embrace
each other.

  Don’t you see, it is here, in Babylon, in Darius’s bed, that my fate has been revealed. I have conquered peoples, and those peoples have conquered me. For them I shall design a new civilization, a new world, that of the phoenix rising from the ashes.

  The eunuch who has already betrayed one master must die of a sudden fever. I shall confer the regency of Babylon on Mazee, Darius’s general who fought valiantly against Alexander.

  Crateros shall be the arm mercilessly brandishing my sword. One by one, Darius’s sons—both legitimate and illegitimate—shall be tracked down and decapitated. You, Hephaestion, who love medicine, you must learn Persian remedies and magic. You shall heal my wounds and give succor to my soul.

  THE DOOR OF the imperial gynaeceum opened to reveal thousands of women’s bodies, offerings given by the empire’s twenty satrapies. Princesses, noblewomen, daughters of the common people, daughters of vassal tribes, girls captured by nomadic cavalries…all had been Darius’s slaves, captive to his desires.

  Young, old, barely out of childhood, blond, brunette, white, black, women from every land on earth were represented here, living imprisoned in a vast room covered in carpets and decorated with pools and fountains. They slept, urinated, danced, embraced, sang, and ate in a hubbub of moans, cries, sighs, and laughter, all indifferent to onlookers or to the smell of putrefaction and excrement. Eunuchs circulated among them, some serving, others cracking a whip. I was informed that since Darius fled, the attendants in the City of Pleasure had stopped cleaning the gynaeceum and only fed the women once a day. Their eyes looked dull and empty for lack of air and freedom, like birds with clipped wings no longer dreaming of the sky. In all that dying flesh I found the king’s favorite, the one painted on all the walls of his bedchamber. She was lying naked on a carpet, sobbing and weeping, her hair disheveled. Her body was covered with scars and scabs. I learned that after Darius’s defeat the other women had scratched and bitten and trampled on her.