Alexander (Vol. 3) (Alexander Trilogy) (19 page)

He dismounted and moved off on foot towards the wretches. As he approached he realized that there seemed to be many more of them than there had first appeared to be. Alexander also dismounted and started walking, but as he got nearer he found himself increasingly disturbed by a deep sense of anguish. When he was close enough he heard that they were talking to Eumenes in Greek.

He continued forward and saw that they all bore the most terrible mutilations – some of them had had both hands amputated, others a leg or even both legs, while others still had not only lost limbs, but their skin was ridged with deep scars, typical of someone who has been sprayed with a boiling liquid.

‘Oil,’ explained one of the wretches as he felt Alexander’s gaze on his maimed body.

‘Who are you?’ asked the King.

‘Heratosthenes of Methone,
Heghemón,
third
syssitia
eighth battalion, Spartan.’

‘Spartan? But . . . how old are you?’

‘Fifty-eight,
Heghemon.
I was taken prisoner by the Persians during the second campaign of King Agesilaos, when I was twenty-seven years old. They cut my foot off because they knew that a Spartan warrior would never accept the idea of being held prisoner – he would rather be killed.’

Eumenes shook his head, ‘Times have changed, my friend.’

‘I tried to commit suicide anyway, and my master threw boiling oil on me. Then I resigned myself to my fate and accepted captivity, but when I heard that Alexander was on his way—’

‘We spread the word so that we could all come to meet him,’ piped up another, waving his two stumps, his forearms having been chopped off just below his elbows.

Why did they do that to you?’ asked the King, his voice trembling in anger and emotion.

‘I was serving in the Athenian army during the war of the satraps, a rower on the
Krysea,
a beautiful trireme, a new vessel, just out of the yard. We fell into an ambush, I was taken prisoner and they said that I would never row on an Athenian ship again.’

Alexander saw another whose eyes sockets were empty and dried up like those of a skull. ‘What happened to you?’ he asked.

‘They cut off my eyelids, covered my eyes with honey and then tied me to the ground near an anthill. I also served in the Athenian navy – they wanted to know where the rest of the fleet was hidden, but I refused and

Yet others came forward, displaying their mutilations, their miseries, their white hair, their scalped skulls, their hands devoured by scabies.

‘Heghemon,’
said the Spartan once more, ‘tell us where we may find Alexander so that we can pay homage to him and thank him for having freed us. All of us here are testimony to the price paid over the years by the Greeks in the battle against the barbarians.’

‘I am Alexander,’ replied the King, pale with rage, ‘and I have come to avenge the wrong done to you.’

A
LEXANDER TURNED AROUND
and called out loudly to his companions, ‘Ptolemy! Hephaestion! Perdiccas!’

‘Ready, Sire!’

‘Surround the royal palace, the treasury and the harem and make sure no one dares set foot there.’

‘As you wish,’ they replied, setting off at a gallop to the head of their divisions.

‘Leonnatus, Lysimachus, Philotas, Seleucus!’

‘Ready, Sire!’

Alexander pointed to the great city that stood there before them up on the hill, shining in gold, bronze and enamel under the sun.

‘Lead the army into the city – Persepolis is yours, do what you will with it!’

He turned back to the
hetairoi
who were waiting motionless on their horses – ‘Have you understood what I have just said? Persepolis is yours! What are you waiting for? Take it!’

There came a great cry from the squadrons of cavalry and they set off at a gallop towards the capital, which at that moment was just preparing to open its gates. They mowed down the group of delegates that Abulites had sent to meet them and burst into the richest and greatest city in the world with all the fury of a herd of wild bulls.

Eumenes made no move and looked at Alexander in amazement, ‘You cannot give such orders, gods above! Call them back, call them back while there’s still time. You cannot do this.’

Callisthenes approached, ‘Of course he can, and unfortunately he already has.’

The group of mutilated Greeks who had come to meet them pulled back in confusion now, as though realizing that without wanting to they had caused a disaster of inhuman proportions. The King saw how upset they were and nodded to Eumenes.

‘Tell them they will have three thousand silver drachmae each and safe conduct for any of them who wishes to return home to his family. If they prefer to remain here they will have a home, servants, and plenty of land and livestock. Take care of it all.’

The Secretary communicated these arrangements, but as he spoke it was difficult for him to think because already the sounds of the looting and the desperate cries of the city’s inhabitants at the mercy of the military had reached his ears.

In the meantime the infantry units arrived and ran in their turn towards the city gates, afraid they were too late to find much loot. Some messengers reached Par-menion’s army, now just a few stadia away, and announced that the King had left the capital to the soldiers. Discipline quickly gave way to complete disorder as the men broke ranks and headed off towards Persepolis, from which columns of smoke and tongues of flame began to rise.

Parmenion spurred his horse on at full speed, followed by the Black and Nearchus and came to Alexander who was sitting astride Bucephalas, contemplating the slaughter from a hilltop, as motionless as a monument in stone.

The old General leaped to the ground and moved closer with anguish written all over his face, ‘Why, Sire? Why? Why destroy what is already yours?’

Alexander did not even turn to look at him, but Parmenion could see the darkness of death and destruction in his left eye. Callisthenes also looked at him and murmured, certain that he would not be heard, ‘Ask no more, General, I am sure that at this moment his mother Olympias is engaged in some bloody rite in some secret place and is in complete control of his spirit. Oh, if only Aristotle were here now to take care of this nightmare!’

Parmenion shook his head, stared at the Black and Nearchus with an expression of amazement, then mounted his horse and left.

Only towards sunset did the King move, as though waking up from a deep sleep, and he proceeded to ride Bucephalas through the gates of the city. One of the most beautiful and beguiling places in the world, the highest expression of universal harmony according to Achaemenid ideals, was now at the complete mercy of a horde of drunken savages – the Agrianians were raping young maids and boys, tearing them from the arms of their parents; the Thracians were on the rampage, full of wine and covered with blood, showing off the severed heads of the Persian warriors who had attempted resistance; the Macedonians, the Thessalians and the Greek auxiliaries were no less brutal – running like madmen, loaded down with loot, with containers full of precious stones, wonderful candelabra, fine cloth, armour in gold and silver. Here and there they met up with companions who still had had no success in their looting and fights broke out, with blood being spilled and throats cut in the middle of the streets, all sense of humanity having been abandoned. At other moments, on seeing some companions who had requisitioned particularly beautiful women, they sought to take them by dint of force, and when they succeeded they took turns at raping them there and then on the ground sodden with the blood of the victims’ relatives.

The King and Bucephalas walked through all that shouting and all that blood, through all those horrors, but his face gave away no emotion, as though it had been sculpted in Lysippus’s cold marble. His ears seemed not to hear the heart-wrenching cries of the infants being grabbed from their mothers’ arms, of the women invoking the names of sons and daughters as they cried over the maimed bodies of their husbands who had been slaughtered mercilessly outside their own homes. It was as though all he heard was the slow clopping of Buce-phalas’s shoes on the stone of the road.

He stared straight ahead, feasting his eyes on the endless extent of the royal palace, the divine
apadana,
surrounded by its marvellous gardens with their towering cypresses, silver poplars, and plane trees reddish in the glowing rays of the last sun. He took in the splendid atria with their gigantic columns, with winged bulls, griffins, and images of the Great King who had built and decorated this wonder. Alexander, the little
yauna,
lord of a small realm of peasants and shepherds, once a vassal, had now come as far as to pierce the giant’s heart, and the giant lay moribund at his feet.

He climbed up the huge stairway on horseback and there, in the stone on both sides, he saw representations of the processions of the kings and the chief vassals bearing gifts for the feast of the new year. Medians and Kisseans, Ionians, Indians and Ethiopians, Assyrians and Babylonians, Egyptians, Libyans, Phoenicians and Bactrians, Gedrosians, Karmanians, Dahae – many nations all advancing solemnly towards the gold baldachin over the throne of Darius, the King, the Great King, the King of Kings, Light of the Aryans and Lord of the Four Corners of the Earth.

Here was the throne now, here before him. Made of fragrant cedar wood and ivory, encrusted with precious stones, held by two griffins with eyes of rubies. Behind, on the wall, King Darius I was represented – gigantic and in all the splendour of his ceremonial robes, while he fought with a winged monster, the incarnation of Ahriman, genius of evil and of darkness.

The great hall was empty and silent, but outside the waves of an ocean of grief were breaking cruelly on the walls of that paradise. Philip’s courageous, loyal soldiers had become a horde of beasts fighting over scraps of prey left in the streets, shouting obscenities from their foul mouths, setting fire to the gardens and the palaces, devastating the sanctuaries of Ahura Mazda, god of great Persepolis.

Alexander dismounted, moved towards the throne, climbed the steps and sat down, resting his hands on the polished marble armrests. He relaxed, let the backrest take his weight and sighed deeply, then suddenly he saw dark silhouettes appear in the doorway and heard confused, hurried steps.

‘Who goes there?’ he asked, without moving.

‘It’s us, Sire!’ said a voice. It was one of the Greek slaves who had come to meet him along the road to Persepolis.

‘What do you want?’

The man did not reply, but moved to one side and let two of his companions through; they were carrying an infirm, elderly man.

‘His name is Leocares,’ explained the man. ‘He is one of Xenophon’s “ten thousand”, the last survivor, I believe. He is almost ninety years old and has spent seventy-two in captivity and slavery.’

Alexander struggled to hide his emotion, What do you want, old man?’ he asked. ‘What can I do for a hero of the “ten thousand”?’

The old man whispered something the King could not catch.

He wants nothing. He says that all those Greeks who have died before this day have missed the greatest joy possible, the joy of seeing you sitting on that throne. He says that he can die a happy man now.’

The old man was so moved and there were so many tears streaming down his sunken cheeks that he could say no more, but the expression on his face painted more than a thousand words.

Alexander nodded and continued to look at him, almost incredulously, while he shuffled away, supported by his companions. Then the King came down from the throne and walked towards Bucephalas who was waiting in the atrium, but as he took the bridle he saw a Persian warrior there before him, like something out of a dream, splendidly clad in the dress uniform of the Immortals and astride a sorrel horse decked in golden tack. He seemed to be looking at Alexander.

Alexander gripped the hilt of his sword, but he did not move; at that very moment the dark sky was rent by a blinding bolt of lightning followed immediately by a thunderclap that shook the entire palace.

He recognized the Immortal in an instant of awareness – the warrior who on that far off day had saved him from the lion’s claws, the Persian he had saved from certain death on the battlefield at Issus.

The man pushed his horse forward a few steps and spat on the ground before Alexander; then he turned, spurring the animal on with his heels and set off at full gallop across the vast deserted yard.

‘I
T WAS FOUNDED BY
King Darius I – Darius the Great – in the very heart of Persis, and it was to be the most glorious capital of all time – fifty thousand people from thirty-five different nations worked on it for fifteen years. Entire woods on Mount Lebanon were cut down, their trunks used for ceilings and doors while marble and other stone was quarried from throughout the empire, precious lapis lazuli was brought from the mines of Bactriana, gold was transported by camel from Nubia and India, precious stones from the Paropamisus Mountains and the deserts of Gedrosia, silver from Iberia and copper from Cyprus. Thousands of Syrian, Greek and Egyptian sculptors created the images that you now admire here on these walls and on the doors of the palace and the goldsmiths added decoration in precious metals and gemstones. The best weavers were called to make the carpets, the drapes and the tapestries that you see on the floors and on the walls. Persian and Indian painters worked on the frescoes. The Great King’s intention was that this city would constitute a harmonious, total expression of the civilization that made up his limitless empire.’