Alexander and Alestria (11 page)

A constant stream of young men appeared, to charm me. I saw this as an insidious maneuver intended to keep me from women. I used these boys and threw them away, convinced they had been sent to sound me out, to watch me and fill my free moments. Somewhere behind them was a man planning to take hold of my army and my empire.

I sat on my throne alone, and said nothing.

It started as a slanderous rumor. Then it grew, borne on the wind, spreading through the air like pollen. People whispered that I had belittled myself by dressing as a Persian and forming an attachment for a slave like Bagoas. They said I had sunk into the arms of luxury and wasted nights on end cavorting with Darius's concubines. They said I had developed a liking for the trappings of the Great Kings and insisted my advisers and guards prostrate themselves at my feet.

Not satisfied with spreading word of my preference for men among the Macedonians, my detractors persuaded the barbarian soldiers that Alexander had contracted an evil spirit while crossing the dark, shady Drangiane region. However fiercely I punished the gossipmongers to snuff out the defamation, the rumor persisted, nesting among the soldiers wearied by endless marching but flying away as soon as it was touched. As I had no concrete proof, nothing to indicate a particular enemy hiding in the shadows, I waited patiently.

Eventually the huge conspiracy fell apart, quite by chance. An officer called Dymnus became infatuated with a prostitute known as Nicomachus. He confided in him his plan to assassinate me and invited the boy to join him and the other conspirators. Nicomachus was quick to denounce him to his brother Cebali-nus, who in turn spoke to Philotas, who had access to my private tent. Philotas was the son of Parmenion, a general to whom I had entrusted the command of Media and the management of our supplies, but he was careful not to warn me of the danger.

Cebalinus eventually reached me himself and gave me the names of the parricidal plotters. But Philotas's silence struck me as more dangerous than a few little foot soldiers dreaming of killing their king. It proved that he wished me dead.

Everything became clear to me then: Parmenion, Philotas's father, was the man hiding in the shadows and slowly turning the army against me! I made Crateros responsible for subjecting Phi-lotas to torture. His cries rang out, filling me with self-loathing. I could picture him in one of his languid poses and could not bear the thought that he only loved me the better to betray me.

His father Parmenion, now seventy years old, had once enjoyed Philip's respect and Olympias's friendship. He had come over to my camp after Philip's death by executing my rival At-talus. He had used his skills as an orator to rally the Greeks, and his strategies had seen me win many battles. Two of his sons had died in combat, and he had offered me the vigorous young flesh of his last son. Blinded by this evidence of his support, I had interpreted his ambiguity as flexibility, his eloquence as sincerity, and his opportunism as loyalty.

The old man was a monster; why had it taken me so long to see?

He went to every banquet and invited himself into all the taverns, befriending the Persian nobility to build up his network. He waited until I reached the remotest regions of Persia to launch rumors that disrupted my soldiers. He arranged for supplies of food to arrive late or be lost along the way. Hunger and cold angered my commanders, and they too started criticizing me and plotting against me. Parmenion was a fine strategist; he could have eliminated me without touching a weapon. As governor of Media he could have taken over my empire without taking part in any conspiracy.

This ploy would have been the perfect crime, but the gods decided otherwise. The moment Philotas's confession was ripped from him, I sent a well-chosen man to take a letter to Parmenion announcing a promotion. The general who dreamed of becoming King of Asia greeted my message with delight. He was stabbed on the spot; the strategist had lost thanks to his own strategies.

The steep mountains softened and curved; the hills turned to plains covered in meadowland. Despite warnings from my Persian generals, who still remembered defeats inflicted by the nomads, despite complaints from the Macedonians, who wanted to go home, I unleashed an arrow toward the sun and my army advanced into the kingdom of the Scythians.

Every country has its own ocean. The steppes were the Mediterranean of the northern peoples. The whispering of leaves replaced the murmur of waves. As seagulls cluster around ships, so here blackbirds flew up into the sky singing of heroes who died for glory and for love. The Scythian tribes, renowned for their savagery and insolence, appeared and vanished around us. Their mounted warriors and skilled archers attacked us and then withdrew. They loomed on the horizon like a pack of starving wolves, stole food, took women and children, then-like thunderclouds fleeing to reveal blue skies-dispersed.

"The steppes are haunted, and these tribes have powerful sorcerers," the Persians muttered, trying to discourage me. "During their ceremonies, these men dress in lion skins and adorn themselves with feathers, animal teeth, and mirrors. They beat drums and sing and dance until they collapse, foaming at the mouth and rolling their eyes. Then the earth ripples and opens up to swallow foreign troops while the spirits of dead soldiers come down from the sky."

I learned that Darius had been here before me. Nothing could stop me in my headlong pursuit of him. If the enemy fled across the steppe, then why should I, Alexander, not face its shifting vastness and elusive horsemen in my turn?

The wind whispered, the wind howled. Unhindered, the sky spilled over the four horizons. Some soldiers, oppressed by the vastness, went mad. They threw off their clothes and ran screaming from the encampment. The Persians explained that, unable to find houses to live in, the spirits wandered day and night over these lands, without rest. When they met foreigners not protected by magic formulae, they took possession of their souls. I thought nothing of their superstitions but doubled the number of guards watching over our camps because I knew that at night the nomads could disguise themselves as spirits to sow terror in my army.

I heard tell that on the banks of the Iaxarte there was an annual market that drew all the tribes together, and that the previous year, Darius had been seen there. He had become a flamethrower, and the crowd applauding him had no idea he had once been king of kings.

Before I arrived, the nomads had taken down their tents and disappeared. All that was left on the ground were the holes where they had planted their stakes, and chariot tracks almost washed away by the rain. The river reflected the blue sky. I was accustomed to conquering cities and attacking fortresses on steep rocks, and for the first time I was overcome by how strange life was on the steppe. I had not come through a single town or met a single inhabitant. I could see no villages or roads on my map. Wherever I went, the horizons were empty and the inhabitants vanished. Only the grasses with their constant whispering seemed to want to communicate to me the cries of joy and animated conversations of those people. But where are the tribes? Where are my enemies? Where are the people I should subjugate and who should proclaim me as their king? Who are these people that they are indifferent to Alexander and don't come to meet him in war?

Has Darius learned to be invisible? Has he come to the steppes in search of the magic that allowed men to melt into the wind?

I could no longer bear the weight of my army on my shoulders or the slow pace of our progress: I silenced their displeasure and their nostalgia by ordering them to set up camp and rest. I myself took a detachment and headed north.

I abandoned my demoralized troops with a sense of relief, galloping toward the skies like a bird escaping a trap.

The horizon drew closer. The vast swell of grasses threw itself in the air and closed in again. With every wave conquered, another impetuous wave rose up. I slid deeper into their dark ocean, forgetting sunlight, thirst, and hunger. What I truly forgot were the traitors and the complainers, their constant appetite for booty and their intriguing for glory. I called to Hephaestion to advance even faster. With speed I would conquer this vastness. With strength I would subjugate the infinite and transform it into the finite.

The sun set and the moon rose. The stars revolved and dawn came back again. Under the reddening sky, the darkness was an army beating the retreat. As I galloped onward I heard laughter and murmuring. The spirits were close by me now, mocking my progress. Their singing! The incantations of those invisible peoples trying to slow my pace, to frighten Bucephalus. Be gone, evil spirits!

Hephaestion was exhausted. He fell ill, and I had to stop. He ranted for a whole night: like a woman determined to take her warrior home, he was trying desperately to drag me back the way we had come.

"Alexander who has triumphed over every mountain peak shall not be defeated by the steppe," I explained.

The next morning I did not wake him but left him with half my soldiers while I carried on northward.

One day at dawn some impoverished nomads driving a flock of sheep appeared. They greeted me in their language, welcomed me into their tent, invited me to eat and drink and offered their wives and daughters for my bed. They did not know who I was. They were not troubled by the absence of dialogue, and I managed to speak in gestures. I asked many of them the same question: Where are the outer limits of the steppes? and they all replied: In the stars.

We rode on together. I met other tribes, some made up of only ten people. They lived in poor, flimsy tents and vanished without warning, leaving us adrift on the green waves. Their sorcerers dressed in robes of leather and lion skin, they danced and sang and raved until they looked liked wolves, bears, or eagles and delivered their oracles. They could not write, and they healed the sick using magic potions and formulae. They smiled a great deal and took us for a warrior tribe.

I forgot Pella and Olympias and her marble palace. I forgot Athens and its ruined temples. I forgot Babylon, its scarlet walls, its tall chambers filled with incense. I forgot the burned citadels, the conquered towns, my argument with Cleitos and his body pierced by my lance. I had left them all to be with the wind, the spirits, and the green waves.

I navigated ever northward. I was no longer Alexander but the chief of a small nomadic tribe. The moon had a different luminosity, watching me and smiling. That evening it spoke:

"Alexander, prepare yourself! The volcano is about to spew out a storm of stars, the sun will come to meet the moon! Pack away your tent, pack your trunks. She is coming, she will capture you. She will take you away!"

The following morning an army appeared on the horizon.

At first it was a line of black, then short silhouettes on broad sturdy horses. They became minute warriors wearing painted armor and helmets adorned with feathers. Their arrows rained down on us; one burrowed into my shoulder, another into my horse's neck. It was a very long time since I had been in battle. The pain awakened Alexander as he slept. My own body unfurled, and Bucephalus, spurred on by his blood, reared and whinnied. Dashing aside arrows with my shield, I sped toward the enemy with a roar.

One of their number launched himself at me. He held off my lance with a long-handled bludgeon covered in spines, while with the sickle in his left hand he cleaved into the bronze plate and seven layers of leather on my shield. I pushed it at him, and he flung it in the air with a swipe of his bludgeon. My left hand found my sword in its sheath; I threw myself forward, aiming for his head. My lance crossed his bludgeon. My bronze sword, inherited from Philip and blessed by Vulcan, clashed with his sickle. A deafening sound. Sparks. The sickle had just chipped Alexander's invincible two-edged sword!

On his chest, over his darned red tunic, this barbarian warrior wore a strange glinting black panel. There was a furious face painted on it, and as he moved, it became a bird with pointed teeth and golden talons at the ends of its wings. He wore a helmet topped with an eagle's head and adorned with long white feathers.

He was riding bareback on a chestnut mare much smaller than Bucephalus but so nimble-footed she hovered round my stallion like a bee, avoiding his charges then coming back to brush past him, biting him, then fleeing.

The warrior's sharp weapons flew and flashed around me. When they struck my sword, their sharp cries rang out like the anguished wails of a starving beast. The face painted on the black panel laughed derisively, trying to frighten me. The eagle-headed helmet hid his forehead and eyes, which appeared as two black flames dancing languidly and apparently talking to me of love.

In previous combat, when I looked my enemy in the eye I read death, not love. Was this stranger trying to bewitch me? His bludgeon suddenly broke my lance, and my rage exploded: I threw off the combination of sentimentality, pity, and admiration I had felt for the hardened and audacious young barbarian. My sword whistled through the air, and, unable to withstand my powerful blows, he retreated. As Bucephalus charged on the mare, my weapon touched the panel covering the warrior's breast. Sparks flew. A furious noise like the roar of a wounded tiger almost deafened me and stunned the barbarian. When he recovered his composure, he turned his horse and fled.

I understood from what he was wearing and from the standing of his weapons that he was chief of this warrior tribe. All those who gave offense to Alexander had to choose between capitulation and death. I set off in pursuit of him.

Even though she was small, the chestnut mare sped across the steppe like a star. Aroused by the long mane that she shook vigorously, Bucephalus galloped behind. At first, arrows continued to whistle past: my soldiers and the barbarian warriors were still fighting as they tried to follow us. Then, silence. Then, the trembling speed. Then I was carried on the wind. I could hear nothing but its wailing.