Alexander (Vol. 3) (Alexander Trilogy) (31 page)

The King visited her that evening, coming from the camp where he had spent the afternoon checking on the preparations for their departure. The sun had slipped below the horizon and the last golden rays gilded the occasional clouds that floated slowly across the sky, but looking eastwards the heavens were already dark and it was in that direction that Alexander noticed the flames of a solitary fire.

‘Who is that down there?’ he asked his guards.

‘Perhaps it is a shepherd preparing his meal before going to sleep,’ came the answer, but when they moved closer, they saw a white cloak flapping in the evening breeze.

‘Aristander,’ the King murmured as he urged his horse on towards the fire. The guards made ready to follow him, but he nodded to them to stay where they were and they had to obey.

The seer stood before a pile of stones on which the fire was burning, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames as they consumed the acacia twigs and branches. He did not seem to have heard the noise of the horse’s hooves, but he started at the sound of Alexander’s voice:

‘So you heard my call?’ he asked, his voice somehow altered now.

‘I saw your fire.’

‘You are in danger.’

‘I have always been in danger. My body is covered with scars that prove this fact.’

Only now did the seer’s eyes seem to register Alexander’s presence and as he stared at him he said, ‘It is strange, only your face has been spared. It is said that your father instead was disfigured when he died.’

‘Have you perhaps received some premonition of my death, Aristander? I want to realize my dream and I would like very much to have a child . . . before . . .’

The seer interrupted him, ‘You will survive, but listen out carefully for a boy’s voice. A boy’s voice,’ he repeated. ‘I can say no more, I cannot . . .’ and his eyes were moist.

And your nightmare? Do you still see that naked man being burned alive on a funeral pyre?’

‘I see him all the time,’ and he pointed to the fire burning there before him. And his silence troubles me greatly. His silence, do you understand?’

Alexander moved away on foot, holding his horse by its bridle as he set off along the path to where his guards were waiting. He had a vision of his father falling, run through by the sword of one of his men and he waved them off, ‘Go now. I have no need of any guards. My men love me, as do my Companions. Go now I tell you.’

*

Philotas left his quarters after nightfall and walked quickly towards the higher part of the city, to a large building made of mud bricks that had been assigned to the officers of the
hetairoi
cavalry. There was no moon, but the sky was nevertheless brimming with a myriad of incredibly large, bright stars and the shimmering ribbon of the galaxy was spread out against the celestial vault like a long sigh of light.

He was wearing a dark cloak and a hood covered his head and face so that no one would recognize him. He only revealed himself to the guard at the entrance, who immediately lowered his spear in salute. He entered and found himself standing before Simmias, one of the battalion commanders of the
pezhetairoi.

‘Where are the others?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ replied the officer.

‘Of course you know. You know as well as I do where they are. I will not leave here until I have seen them all, every one of them, otherwise I will inform the King.’

Simmias turned pale and said, ‘Wait here. Some of them are in the turret of the eastern bastion, others in the guard house of the central courtyard.’ He exited through a side door and Philotas was left to pace up and down, wringing his hands as he waited.

They arrived in dribs and drabs and Philotas looked them up and down as though inspecting a division of troops, but with an expression of disgust on his face: Simmias of Neapolis, commander of the third battalion of
pezhetairoi,
Agesander of Leucopedion, deputy commander of the fifth squadron of
hetairoi,
Limnos of Calestra, commander of the first company of the Vanguard, Polemon and Attalus, brothers of Amyntas, commanders of the shock troops, and Aristarchus of Poliakmon, deputy of the shieldsmen.

He started his lecture without even giving them time to open their mouths.

Have you gone mad? What is this story about your having decided to kill the King?’

‘Listen, you’ve got it wrong,’ Simmias sought to reply.

‘Enough!’ Philotas shut him up. Who do you think you’re speaking to? I want you now to tell me who took this decision and when exactly you intend to act, but above all else I want to know why.’

‘You know why,’ replied Polemon. ‘Alexander is no longer our King, he is a barbarian king, he dresses like a barbarian and he is surrounded by barbarians. And what of us? We who have conquered an empire for him and are now required to wait in humiliation in antechambers when we need to speak to him.’

And as if that were not enough,’ Simmias intervened, ‘there are his crazy plans to conquer the world. Understand? Conquer the world. But what world? Do any of us know where the world ends? And what if it never does end? Does that mean we have to drag ourselves through deserts, across mountains and desolate prairies just to conquer the occasional miserable little village like this Artacoana?’

And that’s not everything,’ said Limnos of Calestra. ‘He’s founding colonies now, but have you noticed where? Not on the coast, in suitable locations like the one chosen for the first Alexandria. Now he’s creating cities in desert places, among barbarous peoples and at great distances from the sea. He’s forcing thousands of poor wretches to set up home in frightful places and to mate with barbarian women to spawn a generation of unhappy bastard children.’

‘All the Greeks of the colonies have mated with barbarian women,’ said Philotas. ‘This is no reason for killing him.’

‘Don’t be such a hypocrite,’ replied Simmias. ‘You have always agreed with us, the only one among his friends, on the fact that we cannot continue in this manner. You are the only one who understands our men and their suffering, their fears, their desire to return home, and now you pretend to be surprised by something you already knew.’

‘This is not true!’ Philotas retorted. ‘Our understanding was completely different. We had decided that our divisions would act when the right moment presented itself, and that we would make him change his plans.’

‘With force if necessary,’ Aristarchus offered some detail.

‘But not with blood,’ Philotas replied, even more decidedly now. ‘If your mad plan succeeds now the army will be left leaderless in the midst of a foreign land and the throne will be left without a king.’

‘This is not so,’ said Polemon. We have a king.’

‘Amyntas IV,’ said Simmias. ‘The legitimate son of the legitimate King, Amyntas III.’

Philotas shook his head. ‘This is impossible. Amyntas is loyal to Alexander.’

‘So you think,’ said Simmias. ‘Just wait until he has the crown of Macedon on his head.’

Philotas sat down heavily on a chair and fell into silence. Simmias began speaking again after a few moments. ‘You are the supreme commander of the
hetairoi
cavalry and the new King will have to be able to count upon your support. We must know where you stand.’

Philotas sighed, ‘Listen . . . I think, indeed I am certain, it is not necessary for us to stain our hands with Alexander’s blood; we all owe so much to him.’

‘He’s the one who owes
us
so much,’ Aristarchus interrupted. ‘And then, when he is dead, there is no reason why we cannot grant him great honours, build statues and monuments and celebrate him throughout the world with inscriptions in stone . . . this is the done thing. As for Amyntas, the throne means he will be in our debt and he will listen to us.’

Philotas continued as though Aristarchus had said nothing, ‘I don’t want to kill him. Neither will you assassinate him. I will tell you how to act and when.’ He spoke with such decision that no one dared contradict. Then he covered his head once again with his hood and left the building.

Simmias waited until the sound of Philotas’s footsteps had died away and then he turned to his fellow conspirators, ‘Who told him?’

They all shook their heads.

‘Philotas knew of our decision, so someone told him.’

‘I said nothing, I promise,’ Limnos assured him.

And neither did we,’ the others echoed.

‘Our lives are on the line here,’ said Simmias. ‘Not a word of this to anyone, neither to lovers nor friends nor brothers. In any case Philotas has come to know, and in the same way others might know as well, anyone might learn of our plans.’

‘This is true,’ said Aristarchus. ‘What do you think we should do now?’

We must act immediately.’

‘You mean . . . kill the King . . . now?’

As soon as possible. If he hears tale that Philotas has learned of our plot, all is lost. Have you ever witnessed a Macedonian trial for high treason? I have. And the execution as well. The traitors are torn to pieces by the army . . . slowly.’

‘When do we strike?’ asked Polemon.

‘Tomorrow,’ replied Simmias, ‘before any other qualms worm their way into Philotas’s mind. Once Alexander is dead, he won’t be able to back out and he’ll assume his full responsibilities in all this. As for Perdiccas, Ptolemy, Seleucus and the others, they will all look at the situation rationally. They are almost all reasonable men. Listen to me carefully now because the slightest error might give us away and expose us to some terrible fate.’ He unsheathed his sword and began drawing on the beaten earth floor. ‘Tomorrow the King inaugurates the new theatre – he wants Stateira to see Thessalus’s performance in the
Suppliants
. He will set off from Satibarzanes’ palace and will come along this road through the spice merchants’ quarter. When he reaches this point he will take the road that leads to the theatre; it will be lined with two rows of
pezhetairoi
from the phalanx and they will offer him their salute and protect him from the crowd. That will be our moment.’

He drove his sword firmly into the ground and looked his fellow conspirators in the eyes, one by one.

C
EBALINUS HAD MANAGED
to push his way through almost to the front row, together with his friend Aghirios. On the one side he anxiously watched the approach of the King, surrounded by his friends, while from the other direction came the commanding officers of the combat units together with Prince Amyntas.

‘I cannot see Commander Philotas,’ he said, after having searched for him in vain among the men in Alexander’s entourage.

‘Do you think he has informed the King?’ Aghirios asked him.

‘I’m sure he has,’ replied Cebalinus. ‘He listened to me carefully and told me not to worry, that it would all be sorted out.’

‘But when do you think they’ll do it?’

‘I don’t know. There was a lot of noise outside while I was listening, so I didn’t catch everything they said. I imagine they’ll strike before the army sets off on the march to Bactriana.’

‘Look,’ said Aghirios as he pointed to the leaders of the procession as it came towards them. ‘There’s the King with Princess Stateira and his companions. I can’t see Commander Philotas either.’

‘Perhaps he was busy today; I’ve heard that the other satrap, Barsaentes, is prowling around the foothills with bands of armed Saka and Gedrosian warriors. Perhaps he has received orders to deal with them.’

‘Perhaps . . .’

The King was coming closer now and Cebalinus felt himself suddenly gripped by the strangest sensation, all his limbs started trembling for no apparent reason.

‘What’s wrong?’ Aghirios asked him. ‘You don’t look well.’

At that very moment his young friend had remembered a word he had heard from the lips of one of the generals, a word that at the time had seemed meaningless, but now resounded in his mind with awesome significance –
Xsayarsa gadir,
‘Xerxes’ Gate’. And there they were! There behind him and up in the turret three bowmen had appeared and were now taking aim. Cebalinus rushed forward through the barrier of
pezhetairoi
and shouted, ‘They’re about to assassinate the King! They’re killing the King! Save him!’

The arrows came raining down at that very instant, but already Ptolemy’s and Leonnatus’s shields were in position, protecting the King’s exposed chest. Perdiccas shouted with all the breath he had in him, ‘Arrest those men!’ and he sent a group of assault troops off in the direction of Xerxes’ Gate.

All these words echoed through Alexander’s mind, amplified by a memory that reawakened a nightmare – the image of his father Philip as he fell into a pool of blood with a Celtic dagger in his ribs. He heard Stateira’s voice as she shouted curt orders in her own language, and then came the metallic clangour of weapons, the hammering gallop of horses, but all he could see was blood and yet more blood and the deathly pallor of Philip as he lay dying.

It was Ptolemy’s voice that brought him round: ‘This is the boy who saved your life. He is a young, courageous and devoted squire, his name is Cebalinus.’

Alexander looked at him intently – fine features, almost graceful limbs, large, fair eyes. He was still shaking and kept his eyes to the ground to hide his emotions. The King asked him, ‘Where are you from, boy?’