Alexander: Child of a Dream (3 page)

 
to the west was the friendly realm of Epirus, ruled over by Aribbas, Queen Olympias’ uncle; to the east a series of campaigns had ensured that the warlike Thracian tribes had been quashed, extending Macedonian control as far as the banks of the Ister. Then he had taken possession of almost all the cities the Greeks had founded on his coasts: Amphipolis, Methone, and Potidaea, participating in the internecine struggles that tormented the Hellenic peninsula.
Parmenion had tried to warn Philip of the danger of this policy and one day, during a council of war the King had called in the palace armoury, he decided to speak up:
‘You have built a powerful, united realm, Sire, and you have given the Macedonians pride in their nation; why do you seek now to become involved in the Greeks’ internal struggles?’
‘Parmenion is right,’ said Antipater. ‘Their conflicts make no sense. They’re all fighting against one another. Yesterday’s allies fight each other tooth and nail today and whoever loses forms an alliance with his worst enemy simply to spite the victor.’
‘What you say is true,’ admitted Philip, ‘but the Greeks have everything we lack: art, philosophy, poetry, drama, medicine, music, architecture, and above all else -political
science, the art of government.’
‘You are a king,’ objected Parmenion, ‘you have no need of science. It is enough for you to give orders, and you are obeyed.’
‘For as long as I have the strength,’ said Philip. ‘For as long as no one slips a knife between my ribs.’
Parmenion did not reply. He well knew that no Macedonian king had ever died of natural causes. It was Antipater who broke the silence that had become as heavy as lead.
‘If you are determined to put your hand into the lion’s mouth then there’s nothing I can say to change your mind, but I would advise you to act in the only way that has any chance of success.’
‘And that would be?’
‘There is only one force in Greece stronger than all others, only one voice that can impose silence
‘The sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi,’ said the King.
‘Or rather, its priests and the council that governs them.’
‘I know,’ said Philip in agreement. ‘Whoever controls the sanctuary controls much of Greek politics. These are difficult times, however, for the council: they have declared a sacred war against the Phocaeans, accusing them of having farmed lands that belong to Apollo, but the Phocaeans have taken them by surprise and appropriated the temple treasure, using the money to pay for thousands and thousands of mercenaries. Macedonia is the only power that can change the outcome of this conflict.’
‘And you have decided to go to war,’ concluded Parmenion.
‘With one proviso: if I win I want the Phocaeans’ seat and vote together with the presidency of the council of the sanctuary.’
Antipater and Parmenion understood that not only had the King already thought out his plan, but he would implement it whatever the cost and they made no attempt to dissuade him.
It was a long, bitter conflict with advances and reverses on both sides. Alexander was three years old when Philip was badly defeated for the first time ever and was forced to pull back his troops. His enemies accused him of fleeing, but Philip retorted: ‘I did not retreat, I only stepped back to take a better run up, lower my head and butt my opponent -like
an angry ram.’
This was Philip. A man of incredible strength of spirit and determination, of indomitable vitality, with a sharp and restless mind. But men of this stamp grow to be ever more alone because they find themselves increasingly incapable of giving anything to those around them.
When Alexander began to be aware of what was happening around him, and when he realized who his father and mother were, he was about six years old. He already spoke with conviction and understood complex and difficult reasoning.
Whenever word reached him that his father was in the palace, he would slip out of the Queen’s rooms and walk to

 
the chamber where Philip sat in council with his generals. They all seemed old to the boy, scarred as they were by the infinite number of battles they had survived, and yet they were little more than thirty years old, apart from Parmenion who was almost fifty and whose hair was almost completely white. Whenever Alexander saw the white-haired general he started chanting a rhyme he’d learned from Artemisia:
The silly old soldier’s off to the war And falls to the floor, falls to the floor!
And then Alexander himself would tumble to the floor amidst the laughter and to the delight of onlookers.
But it was his own father Alexander observed most carefully, studying his bearing, the way he moved his hands and his eyes, the tone and timbre of his voice, the way in which he dominated the strongest and most powerful men of the realm with the power of his gaze alone.
Alexander would move closer while his father led a council -step by step, little by little -and
when Philip reached the high point of his speech or his debate, Alexander would try to climb up onto his knees, as though he hoped that no one would notice at that critical moment.
Only then did Philip seem to be aware of his son and he ; would hold him close to his chest, without a pause, without losing the thread of his speech, but he saw that his generals changed their posture, he saw their eyes turn to the child and their expressions melt into a light smile, whatever the gravity of ( the topic he had been dealing with. And Parmenion would smile too, thinking of the rhyme and Alexander’s antics.
Then, just as he had arrived, the child would leave quietly. -Sometimes he went to his room hoping that his father would come to him there. On other occasions, after waiting for a long time, he would go and sit on one of the palace balconies, staring at the horizon. He would remain there, speechless and motionless, under the spell of the immensity of sky and earth.
And when in those moments his mother approached quietly, she would see the shadow that darkened his left eye deepen slowly, almost as if a mysterious night were falling in the young Prince’s soul.
He was fascinated by weaponry, and more than once the maids found him in the armoury attempting to unsheathe one of the King’s heavy swords from its scabbard.
One day, while he was staring at a giant set of bronze armour that had belonged to his grandfather Amyntas III, Alexander sensed someone behind him. He turned and found himself in front of a tall, wiry man with a goatee beard and two deep, haunted eyes. He said his name was Leonidas and that he was to be his tutor.
‘Why?’ asked Alexander.
And that was only the first in a long series of questions that Leonidas would find himself unable to answer.
From then on Alexander’s life changed profoundly. He saw his mother and sister less often and saw more and more of his tutor. Leonidas began by teaching him the alphabet, and the following day he found the child writing his name correctly with the point of a stick in the ashes in the hearth.
He taught him to read and to count, things that Alexander learned quickly and easily, but without any particular interest. But when Leonidas began to tell him stories of gods and men, stories of the birth of the world, of the struggles of giants and titans, he saw Alexander’s face light up as he listened enrapt.
The child’s spirit inclined towards mystery and religion. One day Leonidas took Alexander to the temple of Apollo near Thermai and allowed him to offer incense to the statue of the god. Alexander took great handfuls and threw it on the brazier, but his teacher shouted at him: ‘Incense costs a fortune! You will be entitled to waste as much as you wish when you have conquered the countries that produce it.’
‘And where are these countries?’ asked the child to whom it seemed strange that one might have to be miserly where the gods were concerned. Then he asked, ‘Isn’t it true that my father is a great friend of the god Apollo?’

 
‘Your father has won the sacred war and has been nominated head of the council of the sanctuary of Delphi, seat of the oracle of Apollo.’
‘Is it true that the oracle tells everyone what they must do?’
‘Not quite,’ replied Leonidas, taking Alexander by the hand and leading him into the open air. ‘You see, when people are about to do something important, they ask a god for advice: I “Should I do it or not? And if I do it, what will happen?” for example. Then there is a priestess called the Pythia and the god replies through her, as if he were using her voice. Do you understand? But the words are always obscure, difficult to interpret, and that is why priests exist to
explain the words to the people.’
Alexander turned back to look at the god Apollo standing erect on his pedestal, rigid and immobile, his lips pulled into that strange smile, and he understood why the gods need men in order to be able to speak.
On another occasion, when the royal family had travelled to Aegae, the old capital, in order to offer sacrifices at the tombs of previous kings, Leonidas took Alexander to a tower of the palace from which they had a view of the summit of Mount Olympus covered with storm clouds, being struck by bolts of lightning.
‘You see,’ he tried to explain, ‘the gods are not the statues you admire in the temples: they live up there in an invisible house. They are immortal up there, they sit and dine on nectar and ambrosia. And those lightning bolts are thrown by Zeus himself. He can hit anyone and anything in any part of the ; world.’
Alexander, his mouth gaping, looked long and hard at the awesome mountain top. I
The following day an officer of the palace guard found him outside the city, walking briskly along a path that led towards the mountain.
‘Where are you going, Prince Alexander?’ the officer asked as he dismounted.
‘There,’ replied the child, pointing to Mount Olympus.
The officer picked him up and took him back to Leonidas, who was sick with fright and fretting about the terrible punishment the Queen would inflict on him if anything ever happened to her son, his pupil.
Throughout that year Philip had to contend with serious illness a
result of the hardships he had endured during his military campaigns and the unsettled life he led when he was not in battle.
Alexander was pleased because it meant he saw more of his father and was able to spend more time with him. Nicomachus was responsible for overseeing the King’s treatment and from his clinic in Stagira he had two assistants sent who would help gather the herbs and roots for his medicines from the surrounding woods and mountains.
The King was put on a strict diet, almost completely without wine, to the point where he became unapproachable and indeed when he was in a bad mood only Nicomachus dared come near him.
One of the two assistants was a fifteen-year-old boy and his name too was Philip.
‘Get him out of here,’ the King ordered. ‘Another Philip here gives me no pleasure whatsoever. I know what we’ll do! I’ll appoint him as my son’s physician, under your supervision, of course.’
Nicomachus agreed, being well used by now to the whims of his King.
‘What is your son Aristotle doing?’ Philip asked Nicomachus one day as he was drinking a decoction of dandelion, grimacing as it slithered down his throat.
‘He’s living in Athens and studying with Plato,’ replied the physician. ‘In fact, I am told he is the best of Plato’s students.’
‘Interesting. And what is the topic of his research?’
‘My son is like me. He is attracted by the observation of natural phenomena rather than by the world of pure speculation.’
‘And is he interested in politics?’

 
‘Yes, of course, but here too he demonstrates a particular inclination towards the various manifestations of political organization rather than political science true and proper. He collects constitutions and makes comparative studies of them.’ ‘And what does he think of monarchial rule?’ ‘I don’t think he has any opinion on the matter. For him the monarchy is simply a form of government typical of certain communities rather than others. You see, Sire, I think that my son is interested in knowing the world for what it is rather than establishing a series of principles that the world should conform to.’
Philip forced down the last sip of the decoction under the vigilant gaze of his physician, which seemed to command, ‘Every last drop.’ Then he wiped his mouth with the edge of his royal cloak and said, ‘Keep me informed about that boy, Nicomachus, because I’m interested in him.’
‘I will. I’m interested in him too he’s
my son.’ During this period Alexander spent as much time as possible with Nicomachus because he was an affable man and full of surprises, while Leonidas was somewhat cantankerous and terribly strict.
One day he entered the physician’s surgery and saw Nicomachus examining his father’s back and measuring his pulse at his neck.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I am checking the speed of your father’s heartbeat.’
‘And what is it that moves the heart?’
‘Vital energy.’
‘And where is this vital energy?’
Nicomachus looked in the boy’s eyes and read there an insatiable hunger for knowledge, a wonderful intensity of feeling. He brushed the boy’s cheek with his finger while Philip intent
and fascinated by the scene watched
on.
‘Ah! No one knows the answer to that one,’ said Nicomachus.
Philip was soon back on his feet and engaged in the business of government with his energies fully restored, disappointing those who had even gone so far as to suggest that he had died.
Alexander was not pleased because this meant he no longer saw his father so often, but it meant he became interested in getting to know other youngsters some
his age, others a little older the
children of Macedonian nobles who frequented the court and lived in the palace in accordance with the King’s specific wishes. For Philip this was a way of keeping the kingdom united, of binding together the most powerful families, with all the tribal and factional chiefs under one roof -the King’s.
Some of these youngsters also attended Leonidas’ lessons -Perdiccas, Lysimachus, Seleucus, Leonnatus and Philotas, General Parmenion’s son. Others, who were older, such as Ptolemy and Craterus, already bore the title ‘Page’ and were directly dependent on the King for their education and their training.
Seleucus at this stage in his life was quite small and thin, but Leonidas liked him because he was good at his schoolwork. He was particularly well versed in history and mathematics and for his age was surprisingly wise and well balanced. He could do complicated sums in increasingly shorter times and he enjoyed competing with his companions, often besting them.
His dark, deep eyes lent him a penetrating look and his unkempt hair was a sign of a strong and independent, though never rebellious character. During lessons he was often keen to get himself noticed for his remarks, but he never tried to