Alexander (Vol. 3) (Alexander Trilogy) (37 page)

‘They are on their way to Smyrna,’ Oxhatres explained, laughing. ‘Do you want to go with them?’

Ptolemy shook his head and nodded to the barbarian to continue. His eyes were burning now because of the fatigue and he had blisters everywhere, but he would rather have died than ask to rest. Some of his men, however, had already stopped or had simply collapsed out of exhaustion. He abandoned them there where they fell, thinking he would pick them up again on the way back.

The sun had now risen high in the sky and the heat was almost unbearable. Swarms of flies arrived from who knows where and buzzed around their eyes, keen to suck up the humour, while hundreds of horseflies tormented their steeds, which stomped and neighed in pain. Ptolemy noticed that the Persian horses were impervious to these insects thanks to their thick, bristly hair and their tails that reached almost to the ground, long enough to scare off any of the parasites that approached. He thought that perhaps Alexander was right, up to a certain point, regarding the barbarians’ abilities and their knowledge of these lands and the people who inhabited them.

As he was lost in these thoughts, Oxhatres’ voice broke in as he said, ‘There’s the city,’ and pointed to a great wall in mud brickwork surrounding a grey-coloured settlement of low buildings, with just one structure that was high and imposing enough to single it out as the residence of the chief. Ptolemy nodded and the cavalry took up formation in an arc so as to surround the city in a sort of ring, so that no one could enter nor exit. Oxhatres negotiated with the enemy leader and after some time he came back to report to Ptolemy: ‘They are surprised to see us here and they have lost heart. Two satraps will hand him over to us, providing we let them go free.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Spitamenes and Datafernes.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘In the city. Bessus is with them.’

Ptolemy considered this for a moment while the flocks of sheep, that were returning now with the shepherds, found their way to the city blocked and started gathering outside the lines of soldiers, who in their turn were all covered in the dust raised by the animals. Then came Ptolemy’s decision. We accept. Get them to tell you where they will hand him over. We will leave most of the army here to avoid any surprises and we will go to the appointment.’

Oxhatres went back and spoke again for some time with the negotiators, then he signalled to Ptolemy that they had reached an agreement and so the flocks of sheep were allowed through. Together with their shepherds the animals rushed through the open gates. Soon afterwards the ramparts of the walls were teeming with people – men and women, the old and the young, all of whom wanted to see the
daiwa,
all decked in metal and with their helmets crested, on those enormous horses with their shining coats. They pointed them all out to one another and then they pointed to the sunset-red mountains as if to say that these men had swooped down from there like birds of prey.

Oxhatres reported the terms of the arrangement – Bessus would be handed over in a place some three stadia away from the city, at nightfall. As soon as it was dark, a group of their Sogdian horsemen would deliver the prisoner, while Spitamenes and Datafernes would retreat through the eastern gate that was to be left free for this very reason.

‘Tell him we agree,’ replied Ptolemy, thinking that he had received orders to capture Bessus and not to take the other two satraps, and so he allowed his men to eat and drink as they sat there on the ground. Then he gave orders for the eastern gate to be left free as soon as night fell.

‘Who guarantees that they will keep to the pact?’ he asked, rather worried, while they moved towards the appointed place.

Oxhatres replied, ‘I left a group of my men at the eastern gate; they all know Bessus and they will realize if he passes through that way.’

He stopped when he came within sight of an old, dried up acacia tree by the side of a pathway, and he turned to Ptolemy and said, ‘They will bring him here. All we have to do is wait.’

With nightfall the vast plain had been swallowed up by the silence, but as time slipped by the call of the crickets came ever louder, adding to the long drawn-out call of the jackals that seemed to come from nowhere and disappeared into nowhere. Perhaps an hour went by and there came first the barking of a dog and then the stamping of hooves. Oxhatres stirred and was the first to speak, ‘They’re on their way.’ Suddenly he tensed up, like a predator waiting to strike. A group of shadows appeared from the steppes – some ten or so Sogdian horsemen led by a Persian officer and with a prisoner in chains. Oxhatres blew on the glowing stump of a torch he was carrying and the flame came back to life. He held it up to the face of the prisoner, recognized it and his own features lit up in a most sinister, wolf-like grin. The horsemen who had accompanied Bessus slipped away, immediately disappearing from sight.

Oxhatres nodded to one of his men to hold the torch and to another two to hold the prisoner still.

‘What are you doing?’ shouted Ptolemy. ‘He is Alexander’s prisoner!’

He’s mine before he’s his!’ replied the Persian, with such a ferocious look in his eyes that Ptolemy did not have the courage to react. Then he slipped his dagger off his belt, its blade razor sharp, and moved towards the prisoner who clenched his jaws in preparation for all the pain that a man who has fallen into the hands of his worst enemy might expect.

Oxhatres cut all of the fastenings off his clothes and left him completely naked – there was nothing more humiliating than this for a Persian. Then he grabbed him by the hair and sliced off first his nose and then his ears. Bessus bore these horrendous mutilations with truly heroic courage, without crying or shouting, his disfigured, bloody face sitting atop his still impressive, sculpture-like body which was graced with a dramatic, frightful dignity.

‘Enough!’ shouted Ptolemy, horrified at what he had seen. ‘I won’t stand for this!’ and he jumped to the ground and pushed Oxhatres out of the way, calling a surgeon and ordering him to bandage the prisoner’s wounds so that he didn’t lose too much blood.

There was no other way for the physicians to stem the blood apart from wrapping a bandage round the prisoner’s face. Bessus was then forced to set off on foot, naked and barefoot as he was, along the pathway littered with sharp flints. Ptolemy watched him as his enemies dragged him along by a rope tied round his neck and this pathetic scene seemed to him to be a grotesque parody of a passage from
Oedipus Rex,
a tragedy that he had seen as a young man performed by a travelling company in his native town. Oedipus had appeared like that, a bloody bandage round his head, after having driven the point of his buckle into his eyeballs.

They walked all through the night and all of the next day. On the third day they met Alexander with the rest of the army. The King came forward, surrounded by his friends and by a group of Persian officers and stared at his enemy, the would-be Artaxerxes IV. Those Persians present who had been loyal to King Darius sent him a rain of spit, punches and other blows on his still open wounds, reducing his face to a bloody mask.

Alexander said nothing because at that moment he was avenging Darius’s death and he felt himself to be truly the only and legitimate successor to the King of Kings. He waited until they had given vent to all their hatred, then he called Oxhatres. ‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘Have him taken back to Bactra and tell them to set up a trial for my return. Up until then no harm at all must befall him.’

Then he turned to Ptolemy. ‘You have accomplished an extraordinary feat. I have been told that you managed ten day’s march in three days. Will you dine with me this evening?’

‘I will,’ replied Ptolemy.

Night was falling and Alexander returned to his tent where Leptine was preparing his bath. Just as he was getting into the tub a visit from Philip, his physician, was announced.

‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I was about to take a bath. Is someone not well by any chance?’

‘No, Sire. Everyone’s well enough, but I have some sad news for you – Princess Stateira has miscarried.’

Alexander lowered his head, ‘Was it . . . a boy?’ he asked, his voice quavering.

‘As far as I have been told, it seems so,’ replied Philip. The King asked nothing more and not even the physician managed to say much more because a huge lump was now blocking his throat. He added only, ‘I’m sorry . . . I am truly sorry.’ And then he left.

T
HE ENTOURAGE FOLLOWING
the King’s army grew in number all the time. Sometimes it encamped as far as a few days’ walk from the military and in effect it constituted a moving city with its own courts for administering justice, travelling theatres that put on local popular dramas as well as comedies or tragedies from the Greek repertory, and emporia that bought and sold all types of merchandise.

As the entourage grew, so too did the numbers of relationships between Macedonian soldiers and local girls, with the subsequent birth of many mixed race children. For all these people the young King was now a god in every respect – because of his appearance, because of his invincibility and because of his ability to overcome all natural obstacles, from the highest of mountains to the widest and fastest-flowing of rivers.

However, Alexander was perfectly aware that this entourage would eventually cripple the army, impeding its ability to move and slowing down its reactions in case of attack. He therefore decided to send back part of the army with Craterus, to the banks of the Oxus, to found there a new Alexandria. He settled a few hundred people in the city, together with four hundred soldiers, those who had set up families with the women of their entourage, and this community was organized with all the institutions of Greek cities, with elected assemblies and magistrates.

Then the King set off once more on his march northwards, through land that for the most part was completely arid, until he reached the banks of a tributary of the Oxus that the locals called ‘The Most Honourable’, and thus the Greeks decided to call it by the same name – Polytimetus. A fine city overlooked the river – Samarkand, frequented by both Sogdians and Asian Scythians who came from the limitless territories beyond the river and who brought their goods to market there: skins, livestock, gemstones, gold-dust and occasionally slaves plundered from far off lands. The caravans that came across the mountain passes from India also travelled through the city.

From here Alexander moved eastwards to the farthest point ever reached in that direction by the Persians. It was a city founded on the River Jaxartes by Cyrus the Great in person and it bore the name Kurushkkat, which means Cyropolis. At that moment it was the stronghold of a group of rebels, friends of the two satraps, Spitamenes and Datafernes, who had handed Bessus over to Ptolemy, and were still intent on leading the resistance of their people against the new sovereign.

The city was protected by an old bastion of rough stonework, much eroded by the rain and the wind and surmounted by some lookout turrets made of wood. Surrounding it were another seven smaller cities. It took less than a month to bring them all under control, one by one, and they were all forced to accept a Macedonian garrison.

*

Alexander chose to celebrate his victory with a banquet and he sent a personal invitation to all his Companions and higher officers.

The King welcomed them all at the door, kissed them on the cheek one by one and then had them enter where the symposium had been arranged with a crater, cups and ladles. When they had all taken their places, the other guests arrived and everyone turned to watch them as they entered; Oxhatres and his nobles, dressed in their fine national costumes, took the places that had been assigned to them. They had acquitted themselves admirably in the attacks on the rebel cities and the King had decided to honour them by inviting them to his table.

The other guests watched in amazement and then looked at one another – speechless all of them. Alexander was the first to speak in the general embarrassment. ‘We have taken Bessus, my friends, and we have occupied the rebel cities thanks to the extraordinary speed of Ptolemy’s division and thanks to the help of our Persian friends. Now I must make an important announcement – tomorrow I intend to dismiss the allied cavalry of the Thessalian veterans. I will keep only the youngest, those who came with the latest reinforcements.’

‘You want to dismiss the Thessalians?’ Cleitus asked in amazement. ‘But the Thessalians saved us from defeat at Gaugamela . . . have you forgotten that?’

The Thessalian commander, who had evidently already been informed about this decision by the King himself, said nothing at all.

‘I have no wish to send them away, but many of them are tired, some want to join their families after all these years of war, others again do not feel that they can risk an expedition against the Scythians.’

‘Against the Scythians?’ asked Craterus. ‘Are we going after the Scythians? But no one has ever succeeded in defeating them – Cyrus the Great lost his life, Darius’s army was annihilated . . . no one knows exactly how many of them there are, where they are, and no one knows where their territory ends. It’s like advancing into . . . the unknown, into the void.’

‘That may be,’ replied Alexander calmly, ‘and in any case this is exactly what I wish to discover.’

‘I am with you,’ said Hephaestion. Craterus had nothing to add and he began to eat, reluctantly, the mutton roast that was being served at the table.