Alexander (Vol. 3) (Alexander Trilogy) (30 page)

‘Back!’ shouted Alexander, clearly rattled. ‘Leonnatus, move back! Cover yourself . . . keep your guard up!’ His instinct was to run to his friend’s aid, but he had given his word as King that no one at all would intervene in the clash.

Satibarzanes struck again and again, while Leonnatus tried to fend off the blows with his shield before him as he moved backwards on his shaking legs. The whole army watched, impotent observers of the rain of terrible blows crashing down on their champion. On the other side the Persians shouted encouragement to their giant who advanced inexorably, seeking out a chance to inflict the mortal blow. Leonnatus, still unable to react, fell to his knees and another swipe from his adversary first caught the silver star on his shield, a frightful omen for the Macedonian soldiers, and then tore the flesh from his shoulder, sending up a spray of blood.

At the sight of this an anguished cry of disappointment ran through the ranks of the
pezhetairoi
and tears came to many of their eyes as they waited for the fatal blow to be unleashed by the Persian, but the pain, as sharp and as startling as the lash of a whip, brought Leonnatus his second wind. The Macedonian champion started to his feet with remarkable energy and in one deft movement tore his dented helmet from his head and hurled it away. At the same moment he caught sight of his own wound, spurting blood, and realized instantly that he did not have much time before his strength abandoned him completely: he rushed forward with a wild cry, crashing into his opponent’s shield with his own.

Satibarzanes was taken by surprise and was visibly shocked by this new aggression as he lost his balance. Leonnatus made the most of this momentary advantage and struck out once, twice, three times with his sword while the Persian tried to parry the blows with his own weapon. Satibarzanes fell backwards and Leonnatus let fly with even greater strength, but the blade of his sword snapped in two against the higher quality of the satrap’s metal.

The Persian reacted, soon regaining his balance, and then moved forward towards his unarmed enemy. He raised his sabre on high and it glinted menacingly in the rising sun, but just as he was about to strike, Lysimachus shouted, ‘Catch, Leonnatus!’ as he threw his double headed axe. Leonnatus caught it cleanly and in a flash, before Satibarzanes let fly with his sabre, he chopped the Persian’s arm clean off; his opponent stood motionless, petrified by the pain, and another blow from Leonnatus cut straight through the Persian’s neck and his head rolled across the ground, its big black eyes still wide open in astonishment.

A great cry of exultation rose up from the Macedonian ranks and immediately the attendants ran to offer help to their champion, pale now as a result of his labours and the loss of blood. They carried him to Philip’s tent so that the physician might save his life.

The Persians gathered round the dismembered body of their leader, forming a barrier to hide the terrible spectacle from the assembled ranks of their enemy and only when Satibarzanes’ body was recomposed and placed on a litter did they set off towards the city at a slow funeral march, leaving long streaks of blood on the ground behind them.

Artacoana surrendered before sunset that day.

A
LEXANDER RENAMED THE
city Alexandria of Aria when news came from Egypt that his first Alexandria, the one designed for him by the architect Dinocrates and built on the shore, was flourishing. Its trade was burgeoning and its population was growing day by day as new inhabitants came from all over to buy homes, land and gardens, so that it was enjoying great and tumultuous growth.

Alexander left a Macedonian governor at Alexandria of Aria, together with a small garrison of mercenaries to whom he assigned an income, properties, slaves and women. The idea was that they might set up families and thus come to feel themselves tied in some way to that remote, forgotten place, and perhaps their homesickness would never become too acute.

He waited until Leonnatus was fully recovered from the injuries sustained in the duel with Satibarzanes, then he gave orders for the army to set off northwards, along the green valley of a river that had many tributaries crisscrossing it continually, creating thousands of small green islands, which shone like emeralds, in a silver net. They were to march towards a chain of the highest mountains, which they’d been told made any other peak in the world seem like a small hill. This formidable barrier was called Paropamisus and it separated Bactriana from the limitless plains of Scythia, as vast as the ocean.

Leonnatus, his left shoulder still strapped up, had the servants prepare his baggage while Callisthenes, who seemed to be in an increasingly dark mood, looked on. The Macedonian champion asked him, ‘Can it be that those mountains are actually higher than Olympus?’

‘We are approaching places that none of us have ever seen before,’ replied Callisthenes, ‘we will meet peoples none of us knows. It is possible that those mountains mark the farthest ends of the earth and for this reason they are higher than any others we know. We are now in a land where everything and anything is possible, and everything and anything is absurd at the same time.’

What do you mean?’

The historian lowered his head without replying and Leonnatus said nothing else. The great joy of his victory had soon soured with the discontent he felt spreading through the army, with the atmosphere of suspicion he sensed even among their leaders and officers. The only men who seemed truly enthusiastic about their achievements were the youngsters who had come from Macedonia to serve as squires to the King. They cast their eyes around in continual wonderment as they took in the majestic, stupendous landscape with its bright colours at sunset, the intense blue of its skies, suspended between the immaculate snow of the mountaintops, in the incredible splendour of the myriad stars in the clear nights.

Even nature itself amazed them with its continual changes – plants they had never seen before and animals they had only ever heard tale of. Someone spotted the striped coat of a tiger down by the river – it was crossing over at dawn to hunt deer and gazelles or great curly-horned buffaloes that grazed on the other side.

The duties of the young squires often brought them to the royal residence alongside Alexander, as well as to the other residences of the King’s Companions and the higher officers of the army. It was in this way that one of them, a slender, graceful and blond boy of fifteen by the name of Cebalinus, came to hear a terrible secret – a plot to kill the King!

He recounted the story to a slightly older friend of his, a youngster by the name of Aghirios who sometimes protected him against bullies, and had his bunk nearby in the dormitory tent. Cebalinus woke him up when all the others were sound asleep and the older lad rubbed his eyes as he sat on the edge of the bed and listened on, incredulous.

‘If you’re not absolutely sure of these things you have told me then say nothing to anyone,’ was Aghirios’s advice.

‘I am sure. There is no doubt,’ replied Cebalinus. ‘I heard two officers of the phalanx discussing how, where and when.’

Aghirios shook his head, ‘We’ve been here for just a matter of days and already we’re involved in something like this. It’s frightening.’

‘What do you think I should do? Should I speak to the King?’

‘No . . . you must be out of your mind. Not the King. We could never manage to speak to him directly, especially now that court protocol has become so complicated. You might be able to speak to one of his Companions – Philotas, for example, he’s supreme commander of the
hetairoi
cavalry and from tomorrow we’ll be assigned to him as his attendants. He’ll make sure the King is warned.’

‘I think you’re right,’ replied Cebalinus. ‘That’s good advice.’

‘Sleep now,’ said Aghirios. ‘Tomorrow our commander is going to wake us up at dawn for horseback training.’

The young man tried to get to sleep, but the enormity of the secret he now bore was too great and he lay there on his back for a long time, his eyes wide open in the darkness, tormented by this bloody regicidal nightmare. At the same time he was deeply excited as he sensed the great merit that might come his way with his revelation of the plot, as he thought that Alexander III of Macedon in person, the conqueror of Memphis, Babylon and Susa, might owe his life to him, Cebalinus, the smallest of the squires, the one who always bore the brunt of the others’ scorn and practical jokes.

He got dressed before the morning trumpet was sounded and took breakfast in silence with the other squires, sitting next to Aghirios.

Hey! The cat has got Cebalinus’s tongue!’ said a companion.

‘Leave him alone!’ Aghirios shut him up. ‘You’re all so good at picking on those smaller than you.’

‘Well . . . do you want me to start on you, by any chance?’

Aghirios ignored the provocation and finished eating, then they all followed the commander who led them towards the horse stockades for their daily training.

Cebalinus was so preoccupied he fell several times during training, acquiring a considerable number of bruises, but no one thought anything of it, putting it down to his usual ineptitude.

That evening, before supper, he was admitted, together with his friend, to Philotas’s quarters in order to help the General take off his armour and to help him look after his weapons – shine his breastplate and greaves, check the straps on his shield, sharpen his sword and spear. They set about their work enthusiastically and Cebalinus anxiously waited for the right moment to speak to Philotas, but he could not quite pluck up enough courage.

So it was that he said nothing, neither that day nor the day after.

Aghirios encouraged him to speak up: ‘The General will surely praise you for telling him of the conspiracy. You mustn’t be afraid. Time is slipping by and any moment now the conspirators might decide to kill the King. Come on, what are you waiting for?’

The young man made up his mind and the following evening, when Philotas was about to go out, he finally managed to speak, ‘Commander . . .’

Philotas turned, ‘What is it, lad?’

‘I must speak with you, Sire.’

‘I have no time now. What is it about?’

‘It is about a most important matter. It regards the King’s life.’

Philotas froze suddenly on the threshold, shocked as though struck by a bolt of lightning, but he did not turn round to face Cebalinus.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean his life is in grave danger. Someone wants to kill him and—’

Philotas closed the door abruptly and turned, ‘Madmen!’ he hissed through his teeth, ‘They simply wouldn’t listen to me . . .’ The youngster moved backwards, frightened by this reaction, but then Philotas gave him a look of encouragement, ‘What is your name, boy?’

‘My name is Cebalinus.’

‘Fine. Sit down here and tell me what you know. We’ll sort everything out, you’ll see.’

T
HE DAY DESIGNATED
for their departure was drawing closer and Alexander had Princess Stateira come from Zadracarta, so that he could spend some time with her before what would be a long separation. He met her as she came along the road and as soon as she saw him she alighted from the carriage and ran to him like a young girl rushing to the arms of her first love. He too dismounted and held her to himself as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He was completely enamoured of her fresh ingenuousness, her docile and accommodating nature, and the fact that she made no demands on him, not even in the letters she wrote.

Then they set off on foot, talking like old friends, in the direction of the King’s residence in Alexandria of Aria and Stateira noticed all the building sites that would make a Greek city of old Artacoana: the gods’ temples on the highest level, the gymnasium to one side of the square for the young warriors’ training, the theatre for dramatic productions.

‘What moves me most of all,’ said the King, ‘is to think that in this place so far away from Athens, from Corinth and from Pella, the poetry of Euripides and Sophocles will soon be heard. Have you ever seen one of our tragedies?’

‘No,’ replied Stateira, ‘but I have heard tale of them. A story is told, there are actors who recite, a chorus that dances and sings, is that not how it is? My tutor told me how he had once seen a tragedy in one of the
yauna
cities on the coast.’

‘That’s more or less how it works,’ replied Alexander, ‘but actually to witness these dramas is quite another thing – in this way the emotions and the passions of the ancient heroes and their women are relived, just as though they were alive and real once again.’

Stateira squeezed his arm to let him know how moved and excited she was by his words.

‘I would like to wait for the theatre to be completed, but there is no time. The usurper Bessus is about to cross the Paropamisus to join up with the Scythian tribes of the great plains. I must reach him and dispense justice, and therefore I have arranged for the drama to be performed tomorrow on a wooden stage with wooden terraces. I will depart the day after.’

‘May I sleep with you this evening?’ Stateira asked him. Then she whispered, ‘Believe me when I tell you I have travelled seventy parasangs on this carriage for this and no other reason.’

Alexander smiled, ‘I hope I am worth such a sacrifice. In the meantime I will make sure suitable accommodation is found for you.’ They had now reached his residence, the palace that had been Satibarzanes’, and the women took care of the Princess and led her to her rooms.