Read Alexander (Vol. 2) Online
Authors: Valerio Massimo Manfredi
Alexander jumped, a shiver ran over him and he was about to cry out, ‘Father!’
But in just an instant he recognized the differences in the man’s features and the darker colour of his beard. A stranger he had never seen before until this moment.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing here?’
The man stared at him with a strange expression and again Alexander perceived something familiar – he somehow felt his father’s gaze in those burning eyes.
‘I am observing this fount,’ replied the man.
‘Why?’
‘Because I am a seer.’
‘And what do you see there? It is dark, and the light of your lantern is feeble.’
‘For the first time in living memory, the surface of the water has fallen by almost one cubit and has revealed a message.’
‘Of what do you speak?’
The man lifted up the lantern and held it close to the rock from which the spring gurgled. The glow of the light illuminated an inscription in some unknown alphabet.
‘I speak of this,’ he explained, pointing to the inscription.
‘And can you read it?’
The seer’s voice became strange, as if someone else was speaking with his larynx:
‘The Lord of Asia approaches, he who in his eyes has both the day and the night.’
Then he lifted the lantern and held it near Alexander’s face: ‘Your right eye is as blue as a clear sky and the left one is as dark as the night. For how long had you been watching me?’
‘Not for long. But you have not answered my question: who are you?’
‘My name is Aristander. And who are you, with your eyes of light and of darkness?’
‘Do you not know me?’
‘Not sufficiently.’
‘I am the King of Macedon.’
The man studied him again, intensely, the lantern still held near his face: ‘You will reign over Asia.’
‘And you will follow me, if you are not afraid of the unknown.’
The man lowered his head, ‘I am afraid of just one thing, a vision which has haunted me for ages without my being able to understand its meaning – a naked man being burned alive on his funeral pyre.’
Alexander said nothing, he seemed to be listening to the constant, rhythmic breaking of the waves. When he turned towards the summit of the headland he saw his guards up there, watching over this impromptu meeting. He took his leave. ‘I have a very difficult day ahead of me, I must go back. I hope to see you in the camp tomorrow.’
‘I hope so too,’ replied the man. And he set off in the opposite direction.
T
HE FLAGSHIP ROCKED GENTLY
at anchor in the harbour at Chios and a launch approached slowly. The royal standard, bearing an image of Ahura Mazda, flapped slightly with each gust of the night breeze and from the stern deck came the faint glow of a lantern.
All around was the Great King’s war fleet – more than three hundred vessels equipped with rostrums, battle triremes and quinqueremes, all lined up along the docks, held fast by large mooring ropes.
The launch drew up alongside and a sailor beat on the hull with his oar: ‘Message for Commander Memnon.’
‘Wait,’ replied the watch officer, ‘I’ll have a ladder lowered down to you.’
Shortly afterwards the sailor climbed up the rope ladder which had been lowered from the bulwark and asked to see the supreme commander.
The watch officer searched him and then led him aft, where Memnon was still awake, writing letters and reading the reports sent to him by the governors and commanders of the Persian garrisons still loyal to the Great King, and by the informers he had throughout Greece.
A message for you, Commander,’ announced the sailor as he handed over a roll of papyrus.
Memnon took it and saw immediately that the seal was his wife’s – the first letter he had received from her since their parting.
‘Is there anything else?’ he asked.
‘No, Commander. But if there is a reply, I will wait.’
‘Good. Go to the galley and have them give you something to drink and eat if you are hungry. I will call for you as soon as I have finished.’ Once alone, Memnon’s hands shook as he unrolled the missive.
Barsine to Memnon, her beloved husband, Hail!
My love, after a long journey we reached Susa safe and sound and King Darius has welcomed both myself and your sons, paying us great honour. We have been assigned a wing of the palace with servants and handmaids and a wonderfully beautiful garden, a
pairidaeza
with flowers of every imaginable colour, fragrant roses and cyclamens, ponds and fountains with coloured fish, and birds from every part of the world, peacocks and pheasants from India and the Caucasus, and tamed leopards from far off Ethiopia.Our situation would be enviable were it not for the fact that you are so far away. My bedchamber is desolate, too big and too cold without you.
A few nights ago I picked up the edition of Euripi-des’s tragedies which you gave me as a present and I read
Alcestis
, with tears in my eyes. I cried, my dear husband, thinking of that heroic love so intensely described by the poet, and I was particularly struck by the passage in which the woman goes to her death and her husband promises that no other woman will ever take her place. He says that he will have a great sculptor create an image of her and will have it placed in his bed, to lie beside him.Oh, if only I could do the same! If only I had called some great artist, one of the great
yauna
masters, Lysippus or Apelles, and had had him sculpt your image, or had your portrait painted to adorn my rooms, to embellish the most intimate sanctums of my bedchamber.Only now, my beloved husband, only now that you are far away do I understand the meaning of your people’s art, the stirring power with which you
yauna
represent the nudity of the gods and the heroes.I would like to be able to look upon your naked body, even if only a statue or a painting, and then I would close my eyes and imagine that by divine will your image might acquire life and come out of the painting or down from its pedestal, and come to me like that night before our parting when we made such love, and you would caress me with your hands, kiss me with your lips.
But war keeps you far from me, war which brings only mourning and grief and destruction. Come back to me, Memnon; let someone else lead Darius’s army. You have already done more than enough, no one can find fault with you and everyone tells of your valiant feats in defending Halicarnassus. Come back to me, my dear husband, my shining hero. Return to me because all the riches in Susa, all the riches in the world are nothing compared to an instant spent in your arms.
Memnon rolled up the letter, got to his feet, and walked towards the gunwale. The lights of the city glowed faintly in the peace of the evening, and from the dark streets and squares came the shouts of children playing hide-and-seek, making the most of the last warm days of autumn. From farther away came a song, a young man’s serenade for his loved one who perhaps was listening, blushing in some nearby shadow.
He felt oppressed by an endless melancholy, by a mortal tiredness, but at the same time there was the awareness that his shoulders bore the destiny of a limitless empire, the hopes of a great sovereign and the esteem of his soldiers. All these things combined meant that he could not give in to those feelings of melancholy.
He had received news of the last of his diehard warriors; blocked in the acropolis at Halicarnassus, they were resisting to the bitter end, struggling against hunger and thirst. He could not bring himself to accept the fact that he had been unable to free them. Oh, if only the great Daedalus had really existed – father of Icarus, the inventor capable of making wings for man! He would fly to his wife by night to make her happy and then return to his place of duty before sunrise.
But the Great King’s orders were quite different – he was to sail for the island of Lesbos, from where he was to prepare for the landing in Euboea: the first Persian invasion in over one hundred and fifty years.
He had recently received a letter from the Spartans, who declared themselves ready to ally with King Darius and to lead a general uprising of the Greeks against Macedonia.
He returned to his table and began writing:
Memnon to Barsine, his dearest wife, Hail!
Your letter has stirred in me the most beautiful and moving memories – those moments we spent together at Zeleia and in Caria before our final separation. You cannot imagine the pain I feel in missing you and how the image of your beauty recurs every night in my dreams. I will desire no woman and I will have no peace until I succeed in embracing you once more.
I must make this final effort – this will be the definitive battle – and then I will return to live in peace alongside my sons and in your arms, for as long as the gods grant me life and breath.
Kiss our boys for me and take good care.
As he rolled the letter he thought how this inert material would receive the touch of Barsine’s fingers, light as petals and just as perfumed. He sighed, then he called the messenger and handed it to him.
‘When will it reach her?’ he asked.
‘Soon, in less than twenty days.’
‘Good. May your journey be a safe one, may the gods protect you.’
‘And may they protect you too, Commander Mem-non.’
He watched the sailor disappear on his launch before returning aft and calling for the captain of the ship.
‘We sail now, Captain. Signal the other ships.’
‘Now? But would it not be better to wait for dawn? Visibility would be better and . . .’
‘No. I want our movements to remain secret. What we are about to do is of the utmost importance. Signal to the other ships that I also want all the commanders of battle units to come to a meeting, here on the flagship.’
The captain, a Greek from Patara, bowed and set about his orders. Shortly afterwards, several launches approached Memnon’s ship and their occupants climbed on board.
One after another they saluted the commander and took up their positions on the benches arranged to the sides of the poop deck. Memnon sat at the stern, on the navarch’s throne. He wore his blue cloak and his armour. His Corinthian helmet was placed before him on a stool – polished and with the silver rose of Rhodes set into the forehead.
‘Commanders, at this moment fate offers us our last chance to redeem our honour as soldiers and to earn the money we receive from the Great King. There are no longer any harbours in which we can seek refuge, except for the remote ports of Cilicia or Phoenicia, many days’ sail away. We therefore have no choice, we must move forwards and cut off at the root the source of our enemy’s strength.
‘I have received a
skytale
with a secret message from the Spartans. If we invade the mainland they and their army are willing to join with us against Alexander. I have therefore decided to sail to Lesbos and from there towards Skyros and Euboea, where we will meet up with those Athenian patriots who will give us their support. I have sent a messenger to Demosthenes and I believe that his response will certainly be positive. That is all for now. Return to your ships and prepare for departure.’
The flagship slipped slowly out of the harbour with its stern lamps burning, and all the other vessels followed. It was a clear, starry night and Memnon’s helmsman was firm with the rudder. On the second day the weather changed and the sea swelled up under a strong southerly wind. Some of the ships suffered damage and the fleet had to proceed under oars for almost two full days.
They reached their destination on the fifth day and entered the great western roadstead, waiting for the weather to improve. Memnon gave orders for all the damaged vessels to be repaired and sent his officers to recruit mercenaries to join them. In the meantime he visited the island and was much charmed by it and asked to be shown the homes of the poets Sappho and Alcaeus, both natives of Lesbos.
In front of the house said to be Sappho’s, there were several itinerant scribes copying her lyrics to order on wooden tablets or on rolls of papyrus, which were much more expensive.
‘Could you copy one for me in Persian?’ Memnon asked a more oriental-looking scribe.
‘Yes, of course, my Lord.’
‘Well then . . . copy me the one which begins:
I see he who sits beside you
As an equal of the gods
For he may listen to you
As you speak sweetly
And smile so desirably.’
3
‘I know it, Lord,’ said the scribe as he dipped his straw into his inkwell. ‘It is a song of jealousy.’
‘Yes, it is,’ nodded Memnon, apparently impassive. And he sat on the wall waiting for the scribe to finish his translation.
He had heard that Barsine had been for a while in Alexander’s hands and there were moments when this fact left him full of dread.