Alexander (Vol. 2) (13 page)

‘Apelles. He has finished his equestrian portrait and he wants to show it to you, Alexander.’

‘Oh, by the Gods! I don’t have time for paintings just now. I’m making war. Thank him, pay him and tell him we’ll meet up just as soon as I find the time.’

‘As you wish, but you’ll give him an attack of spleen,’ said Eumenes. ‘Ah! I was forgetting – there is no news of Memnon. Absolutely nothing. It appears he has vanished into thin air.’

‘I cannot believe that,’ said the King. ‘Memnon is too cunning. And it is certainly too dangerous for us not to know his whereabouts.’

‘The fact is that none of us has ever seen him. We don’t know what he looks like. They also say that he has never suffered any wound in battle that might distinguish him. He fights wearing a Corinthian sallet without any crest, which completely covers his face apart from the eyes. And it is difficult to recognize a man in the reel of battle from just one look.’

‘That is true. But I am still not convinced by this disappearance. Have you found the Greek doctor who treated him? Parmenion says he is from Abydos, Ariston is his name.’

‘He has disappeared as well.’

‘And is his home at Zeleia still under surveillance?’

‘There is no one left there now, only the servants.’

‘Do not stop looking for him. He is the one we must fear more than anyone else. He is the most dangerous of our enemies.’

‘We will do what we can,’ replied Eumenes and he moved back into the convoy of siege engines.

‘Wait!’ Alexander called out.

‘Here I am. What’s wrong?’

‘You said that Apelles is here?’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘I have changed my mind. Where is he?’

‘He is down at the naval camp. I have had them prepare a tent and a bath for him.’

‘Well done. I’ll see you later.’

‘But what . . .’ Eumenes didn’t even manage to finish his sentence and Alexander was already at a gallop, heading in the direction of the camp.

Apelles was irritated by the fact that no one had been assigned to look after him and almost none of these military types recognized him as the greatest painter of his time. On the contrary, they were all crazy for Pancaspe, who went swimming in the sea naked and on dry land paraded about with the shortest military cloak that barely covered her modesty.

He was delighted when Alexander dismounted and came towards him, his arms wide open. ‘Apelles – grand master of the brush! Welcome to my humble camp, but you really shouldn’t have . . . I would have come to you as soon as possible. I am anxious to see the fruit of your genius.’

Apelles made a slight bow with his head. ‘I had no wish to disturb you in the midst of such an important siege, but at the same time I simply could not wait to show you my work.’

‘Where is it?’ asked Alexander, sincerely anxious to see it.

‘Here, in my tent. Come.’

The King noticed that Apelles had had a white tent pitched for himself, so that the light within was uniform and equally diffused, thus reducing interference with the colours of the painting.

The artist led the way inside and waited until the King’s eyes had adjusted to the light. The work was covered by a curtain and a servant held a cord, waiting for a word from his master. In the meantime Pancaspe had come in and she now took up position near Alexander.

Apelles nodded and the servant pulled the curtain to one side, uncovering the painting.

Alexander was speechless, struck by the remarkable evocative power of the image there before him. The details which had fascinated him so much in Apelles’s sketch and which had made him think the work was more or less complete at that stage had now acquired body and soul. All those particulars shone now with the moist vividness of real life, dense with atmosphere, and miraculously pulsing with vigorous movement.

The figure of Bucephalas was of such expressive power that the horse seemed to be alive and breathing fury from its nostrils. His hooves seemed to break out of the vertical plane of the painting and into real space, contending for space with the observer. The horseman was equally impressive, but also very different from the way Lysippus had depicted him in his sculptures up until that time. The infinite tonalities of the colours had allowed the painter to achieve a disturbing realism – on the one hand even more effective than bronze, on the other somehow almost a desecration of the figure of Alexander.

The King’s face showed all the anguish and the ardour of the conqueror. There was nobility in the great sovereign’s features, but there was also the fatigue and the sweat that stuck his hair to his temples in disorderly licks, his eyes too wide in a superhuman effort to dominate the situation, his forehead contracted in such a frown that it seemed almost painful, the tendons in his neck standing out and his veins turgid in the fury of battle. There was a man on that horse in all his greatness, but he was also mortally weary and heavily burdened with misery. This was not a god, as in Lysippus’s works.

Apelles anxiously watched the King’s reactions, fearing that he might explode into one of his now famous rages. But Alexander actually embraced him. ‘It’s wonderful! I look at this painting and I see myself at the height of battle. But how did you manage this? I posed for you astride a wooden horse and Bucephalas was standing outside his stable. How on earth . . .’

‘I spoke with your men, Sire, with the companions who are by your side as you fight, with those who know you well. And I also spoke with . . .’ and here Apelles lowered his head, ‘. . . Pancaspe.’

Alexander turned to the girl and she looked at him with a smile full of complicity. ‘Would you be so kind as to leave us alone for a moment?’ he asked her.

Pancaspe seemed surprised and almost resentful of the request, but she obeyed without any discussion. As soon as she left, Alexander began, ‘Do you remember the day I posed for you at Ephesus?’

‘Yes,’ replied Apelles, trying to fathom what this was leading to.

‘Pancaspe mentioned a painting for which she had posed as Aphrodite, a painting you had created for . . . she was just about to say the name of your client, but you had her keep quiet.’

‘Nothing goes by you.’

‘A King is very much like an artist – he has to dominate the scene and he cannot allow himself the luxury of distraction. If he is distracted, he is dead.’

‘That is true,’ said Apelles, and he timidly lifted his eyes to meet Alexander’s, preparing himself for the difficult moment.

‘Who commissioned that painting from you?’

‘You see, Sire, I could never imagine that . . .’

‘There is no need to apologize. An artist goes where he is required. That is the way things work. Speak freely, you have nothing to be afraid of, I assure you.’

‘Memnon. It was Memnon.’

‘I don’t know why, but I had imagined it was him. Who else in this area could afford a painting of this type and of this size by the great Apelles?’

‘But I assure you that . . .’

Alexander interrupted him. ‘I told you there is nothing to explain. I simply want to ask you a favour.’

‘Whatever you wish, Sire.’

‘You obviously saw him?’

‘Memnon? Why, yes, of course.’

‘Well then . . . draw me a portrait of him. None of us knows what he looks like, and we need to be able to recognize him if we happen to find him there before us . . . understand?’

‘I understand, Sire.’

‘Then set to it.’ ‘Now?’ ‘Now.’

Apelles picked up a sheet of papyrus and some charcoal and began working.

B
ARSINE DISMOUNTED
together with the boys and headed for the house, which was illuminated discreetly, with just one lamp burning under the portico. She entered the atrium and found her husband standing there before her, leaning on a crutch.

‘My love!’ she cried and ran forward, embracing him and kissing his lips. ‘My life has not been worth living without you.’

‘Father!’ exclaimed the boys. Memnon held them fast, closing his eyes to savour the emotion.

‘Come, follow me! I’ve had supper prepared. We must celebrate.’

They were in a fine house in the middle of an estate between Miletus and Halicarnassus, procured for them by the Persian satrap of Caria.

The tables were arranged in the Greek manner, with dining beds and craters brimming with Cypriot wine. Memnon invited his wife and his children to take their places and he lay down on his own bed.

‘How are you?’ asked Barsine.

‘Very well, I am almost fully recovered. I still use the crutch because the doctor has advised me not to put any strain on the leg yet, but I feel good and I could easily walk without it.’

‘And does the wound itself still hurt?’

‘No, the Egyptian doctor’s treatment was extremely effective – the wound closed and healed in a matter of days. But please eat . . . help yourselves.’

The Greek cook brought them fresh bread, various cheeses and hard-boiled duck’s eggs, while his assistant served a soup of broad beans, chickpeas and peas.

‘What will happen now?’ asked Barsine.

‘I had you brought here because I have many important things to tell you. The Great King in a personal decree has nominated me commander-in-chief of the Anatolian region. This means that I can even give orders to the satraps, enlist men and make use of any resources I deem necessary.’

The boys were fascinated by his every word and their eyes shone with pride.

‘So this means you will start making war once again,’ said Barsine, much less enthusiastically.

‘Yes, as soon as possible. And so . . .’ he continued, lowering his head, as if studying the colour of the wine in his cup.

‘What is it, Memnon?’

‘And so this is no place for you. It will be a fight to the bitter end, there will be no safe places for anyone . . .’ and he hesitated as his wife shook her head. ‘You must understand, Barsine, because this is also what the Great King himself wants. You will go to Susa, you and the boys, and you will live in court, respected and revered by everyone there.’

‘The Great King wants us as hostages you mean?’

‘No, I honestly don’t think so, but it is certainly a simple fact that I am not a Persian. I am a mercenary, a paid swordsman.’

‘I will not leave you.’

‘And neither will we,’ said the boys.

Memnon sighed. ‘There is no other way. You will set off tomorrow. A carriage will take you as far as Kelainai, and from there on you will be safe. You will travel along the King’s Road, where there will be no danger, and you will reach Susa towards the end of next month.’

As he spoke, Barsine lowered her eyes and tears started to run down her cheeks.

‘I will write to you,’ Memnon began again. ‘You will hear from me often because I will use the royal messengers, and you will be able to write to me by the same means. And when it is all over I will join you at Susa where the Great King will grant me the highest honours and he will repay me for services rendered. Finally we will be able to live in peace wherever you wish, my love, here in Caria, or in our palace in Zeleia, or on the coast in Pamphylia, and we will watch our children grow. Be strong now and don’t make our parting more difficult than it already is.’

Barsine waited for the boys to finish eating and then she sent them off to bed.

They went to their father one at a time and embraced him, the wellspring of emotion making their eyes brim with tears.

‘I want no tears in the eyes of my young soldiers,’ said Memnon. And the boys kept their chins up and looked on proudly as their father stood to say goodbye: ‘Good night, my sons. Sleep well, because you have a long journey ahead of you. You will see wonderful things – palaces gleaming in a thousand colours, lakes and gardens worthy of fantastic stories. You will taste the rarest fruit and foods. You will live like gods. Go now.’

The boys kissed his hand – a Persian custom – and went to bed.

Barsine dismissed the servants and accompanied her husband to his room. She had him sit in an armchair and for the first time in her life she did something she had never done because of the strong sense of modesty that had been part of her upbringing since childhood – she undressed before him and stood there naked in the warm red light of the lamps.

Memnon gazed upon her as only a Greek could gaze upon beauty in its highest manifestation. His eyes ran over her amber skin, over the smooth oval of her face, her shapely neck, her elegant shoulders, her ample and full bosom, her nipples dark and erect, her belly pliant, the velvet down between her legs shining.

He held out his arms to her, but she moved backwards until she lay down on the bed. While he gazed at her with fever in his eyes she opened her thighs, ever more audacious, stripping herself of the last veil of modesty to give her man all the excitement and pleasure she was capable of, before leaving him for what was perhaps to be the longest time.

‘Look at me,’ she said. ‘Do not forget me. Even if you should take other women to your bed, even if they should offer you young eunuchs with shapely thighs, remember me, remember that no other can ever give herself to you with all the love that burns in my heart and in my flesh.’