Empire of Ashes: A Novel of Alexander the Great Read online

  Alexander, no longer Prince but King, appeared in Boeotia with his army, and besieged Thebes. As is all too typical of reprobates and cowards, the nerve of the anti-Macedonian rabble broke in the face of determined force. Thebes was destroyed—it cannot be denied. But Alexander shared his father’s distaste for vengeance against Athens. He invaded Persia instead, and upon his subjugation of that kingdom he returned to us the figures of the Tyrannicides stolen by Xerxes. Many of you passed those statues on your way to this chamber this morning, though I wonder how many of you paused to consider to whom we owe such relics of our patrimony. Did Alexander deserve divinity? For Athens’ sake, who deserved it more?

  I remember Alexander’s embassy after Chaeronea. Though I had meet the Prince before, as a boy in his father’s court in Pella, that occasion did not prepare me for the full splendor of his person. At eighteen years old, his beauty made slaves of men and women. His hair was fair and bright like the mane of a lion, sweeping up and back from his fine brow. Though he was short of stature, his spirit towered over every man in the room, not least over the political hacks sent to greet him, including, as it happened, Machon. Nor was this all that was leonine about the Prince. When he laughed, as he did freely, he showed a set of sharp teeth, like that of a young lion.

  In Alexander’s eyes was the real gleam of genius. I particularly recall their different colors, blue on the right, black on the left. The meaning of this feature was never obvious, but seemed to promise a unique destiny, which the Prince did easily fulfill. Yet not even this body could contain the noble spirit within it. That spirit was manifest in a sweetness of odor that seemed to emanate from him wherever he went, bathing his clothes, everything he touched, all around him, even poor Machon, in its perfume.

  For the first time, Swallow took notice of the figure seated on the defendant’s bench. His posture there did not show the theatrical flair of his opponent; he was bent over, shut off, as if he wished to disappear. In that position it was impossible to tell if he was short or tall, though from seeing Machon in the Assembly years before Swallow remembered he was of modest height, with curly black hair kept long in the Lacedaemonian style, so it would flow down from beneath his soldier’s helmet. He had a coarse face, with a nose broken to the right. His eyes were also black but not dull. Instead, they shined in that way only the darkest eyes could, from some combustion of personality within. Or rather, they shined a dozen years earlier, before he left for Asia with Alexander.

  As Aeschines spoke, Machon stared at the floorboards immediately before him, showing no reaction. He was so passive, in fact, that Swallow wondered if the magnitude of the event had overwhelmed him. The stakes were very high: conviction on a charge of impiety carried a mandatory sentence of death, while violation of the Assembly’s trust carried an indeterminate penalty, but would at least include confiscation of his ancestral property. For Aeschines the risk was only to his career--failure to get at least one fifth of the vote for conviction would earn him a fine of ten minas and permanent forfeiture his right to bring prosecutions in the future. He went on:

  But we may well ask, who is this Machon, son of Agathon? Many of you may believe you know him from his role in public life. You know him as a wealthy man who discharged his liturgies with fair distinction, such as financing a tragedy by Kantharos for the City Dionysia fifteen years ago, for which he earned third place. He has rarely spoken in the Assembly or the Council, and when he has it has been exclusively about military affairs. He has served no magistracies, although you might recall one event in which he figured: as a member of the selectmen some years ago, he was chairman on the day a fire broke out in a warehouse at the Piraeus. While the flames were confined on land, Machon dithered, failing to call out the cadets in sufficient numbers, until the fire spread to the fleet offshore. Eight hulls were burned, with damages exceeding twenty talents. Here was an instance where our friend, who affects to have some expertise in the mobilization of men, had an opportunity to display his ability—and failed. Perhaps that is why, when he stood for the post of general from his tribe that year, he was rejected overwhelmingly.

  But knowing Machon as I have come to, you would not be surprised at his incapacity. His father, Agathon, was more successful as a public servant, acting twice as naval contractor, yet the source of his wealth was none too clear. There were persistent stories of vast sums hoarded in the house, to avoid additional liturgies. Agathon doled out loans with as little effort as most men put out the condiments at dinner, and exacted interest with ruthless efficiency—yet where is that fortune now? For certain, Machon has inherited it. So are third-rate theatrical productions all your legacy can muster, Machon? The people want to know.

  Of his mother’s background the less said, the better. To claim she was a woman of questionable repute would be an exaggeration. It would be more accurate to call her a common whore; her face—or shall I say, several other choice aspects of her anatomy—were nightly spectacles at the Sacred Gate. Upon first meeting her with his friends at some low establishment, Agathon further amused himself by purchasing her freedom. This was not to actually set her free, of course, but to increase his pleasure by placing her in debt to him. That he debased himself by proceeding to marry her was only the final act of a long, sad farce.

  The sequel is our friend, the defendant. As I have shown you, he cuts a far diminished figure on the public stage than his father, but in one sense he is a chip off the old block. Shortly before departing for Asia, Machon threw a party for his friends in the city that, to this day, remains infamous. The evening started innocently enough, they say, but by the cracking of the fifth crater Machon brought in a very pretty free-born Corinthian boy, ostensibly to play the harp. The skill of the boy’s play, it is said, made the guests very excited at his talent, and there were demands for kisses from every quarter. The boy was respectable, however, a musician only. At this, Machon flew into a rage. Screaming that he had been cheated, he struck the boy across the face and threw him to the floor. There was, alas, nothing the poor creature could do to escape, as the servants had barred the doors, and to face drunken Machon is a frightful thing indeed. Nor did the defendant’s accomplices object to this behavior. On the contrary, they might best be likened to a pack of ravening jackals, surrounding the prone boy, lasciviously stripping him of his tunic. Machon ordered his footmen to the barn to fetch horsewhips, and for the rest, well, you can well imagine it. Together the host and his guests amused themselves defiling the boy’s tender skin, making their own kind of music out of his screams. Of this episode I will say nothing more. Search your memories and you will recall rumors of it.

  Swallow looked inquisitively to Deuteros, who tossed his head in the negative. Neither had heard such a story involving Machon, though tales of similar incidents would circulate in Athens every few years. Whether Aeschines’s recitation of it did any harm to the defendant’s cause was not clear: its effect seemed merely to pique the jury’s interest, sending amused murmurs through the room. Machon, for his part, gave only a single response, looking up with raised brow when Aeschines called his mother a whore. Then he went back to examining the floor.

  You see, therefore, that the substance of the charges are not without foundation in the defendant’s dissipated past. Even so I declare that Machon deserves to indulge his cynicism, his hateful politics, and his vices, as any man should be free to keep his gluttonies in private. Where I object—where I strenuously object—is where such men are placed in positions where their foolishness may endanger the welfare of the city, and indeed in this case the welfare of all the Greeks. That Machon was insinuated in just such a position was not the choice of any man in this room, but was foisted upon us by a faction of dangerous fanatics who gave little thought to the consequences of their designs. Their motive was hatred only, and the result may yet be disaster. I am pledged to expose them, by the gods, but to do so I will require more time, and this I humbly request.

  Polycleitus made a mark on the wax tablet before him
. “Your request is recognized, and is so granted—if the prosecution agrees to adhere to the relevant charges only.”

  Aeschines put his hand on his heart. “To that, I do swear.”

  “Reset the clock, please.”

  III.

  Has the world ever seen the like of Alexander? Was there ever a man whose endeavors were more certainly blessed by the gods? For have the Greeks not lived in fear of another Persian invasion since Xerxes was driven from our shores? Did the Greeks in Ionia, in Ephesus, Miletus, Assos, Halicarnassus, not groan under tyrants installed by Persia? Did we all not grow up, age, and die under the shadow of the monstrosity we called the Great King?

  No more. The Persian Empire, the client satrapies, the danger they represented to Athens—all have been swept aside. Alexander accomplished it, and indeed did it in about the time it took our ancestors to reduce the single city of Troy. Such a feat was beyond what any of us would have dared dream before him. How long did Greeks speak of uniting at last to remove this threat? How many fine speeches were made, how many eloquent pamphlets were published? But we have seen that speeches and pamphlets cannot accomplish such labors—only men like Alexander can.

  Remember that Athens fought his leadership, and in her jealousy remained an open sewer of plots and schemes while he was in Asia fighting for the Greeks. Yet we have all derived the benefits of his conquest. Never again will the Great King connive with Lacedaemonians and Illyrians and Scythians against us. Never again will the Ionian ports be closed to our trade. Never again will our grain supplies from the Black Sea be threatened from the flank. Proud Athens, can you not accept a boon so unexpectedly but so graciously delivered? Can you not rejoice?

  There never was a better champion of mankind, never a brighter light among the barbarians. With Alexander, anything was possible. India trembled at his approach, and would have fallen into his hands, as no doubt would Carthage, Italy, Sicily. His empire would have stretched to both shores of the boundless Ocean, a vast common home for the Greeks that would have made our city the Queen of the World.

  I say ‘would have,’ because Alexander is dead. Having understood what he accomplished, and the promise of his coming reign, you might well ask how this hero, this young god, who was so favored in Heaven, could have died in a manner so untimely, at the age of thirty-two. You might wonder whether the hand of weak, petty Man was implicated in the murder of the future. And you might ask, what does all this have to do with our friend Machon? What, exactly, was the nature of his impiety? Listen, then, and I will tell you.

  Machon was present at Chaeronea. Of his conduct there, I have no independent report, except that he was captured and, at the mercy of Philip, was returned to Athens along with two thousand other prisoners. Upon his release, an inquiry was conducted on the reasons for the defeat. As one of the senior officers to survive that sad day, Machon appeared before the subcommittee of the Assembly. His testimony was most remarkable. We have his whole speech here—it is a tedious document, too long to read today, which is unfortunate because it says much about the character of the man. At its essence it is a tissue of rancorous, unsubstantiated accusations, blaming the disaster on our generals, our soldiers, our equipment, our allies, in short, on everything and everyone except Machon himself. There is one section, however, that is most relevant to the charges under consideration. Please read it.

  The clerk took up the transcript. “For the reasons I have described, it will be most difficult to defeat this enemy. Our city cannot make the changes necessary to meet the Macedonians on equal terms, such as foundation of a permanent, professional army, as this would require changes in our system of government that would be repugnant to the citizenry. In the future, more subtle methods than direct confrontation will have to be employed, if this chronic threat to Athens is to be removed. I pledge myself ready to assist in this project in any way I can.”

  Aeschines turned to address Machon directly.

  It is a continual wonder how some men roar with courage in peacetime, but bleat with pessimism at the first reverse. What do you mean, Machon, that Athens cannot meet the enemy on equal terms? Do you impugn the courage of our fallen comrades? Can the sons of Erechtheus fight only with fennel stalks? Do they bleed breast milk? This claim of Athens’s inferiority should embarrass you, as it did the committee, which rejected your outburst.

  Note the key phrase. He says “more subtle methods than direct confrontation will have to be employed, if this threat to Athens is to be removed.” What can this mean? What other method, other than the clash of arms on the battlefield, would be worthy of men? Are we to resort to womanish scheming at the first reverse? To be sure, I doubt that anyone took his words seriously—they could not, in fact, because Machon was not punished for his foolishness.

  The inspiration for Machon’s brave call for subterfuge is not hard to guess. Shortly after, Demosthenes went around the city boasting he had a vision directly from Zeus that Philip had died. Such a partisan invocation of a god would have seemed merely typical of the man’s inveterate selfishness, and dismissed as such, until word reached Athens that, indeed, Philip had been assassinated. As the King entered the theatre at Aigai on the occasion of his daughter’s wedding, he was stabbed by a retainer. All Greece was stunned by the news. Leaving aside the proposition that Zeus signals his intentions to Demosthenes alone, how he happened to learn of this event before anyone else in the city—even before mounted messengers could reach Attica—is a mystery. But in light of Machon’s call for underhanded tactics against Philip, Demosthenes’ connivance in his murder makes perfect sense.

  On the death of his father, Alexander was bequeathed a kingdom whose rule would have challenged the powers of any mortal man. It stretched from the banks of the Danube to Thessaly, and from the Balkans to Byzantium. Thinking the new king, a mere youth of twenty, could not match the skill and determination of the old, opportunists incited rebellions among the tribes of Illyria, and in Greece proper, among the Thebans and here in Attica. What shame will ever adhere to this cynical enterprise—that civilized men of Thebes and Athens, who had duly sworn to respect the leadership of the King in Pella, would attach the fate of Athens to skin-clad barbarians! For had we not agreed, as did all the cities of Greece except Sparta, to aid Philip in his plan to humble the Great King? The pact was made in Corinth, shortly after Chaeronea. Read the terms of the pact, please.

  The clerk read the terms.

  Take note of the parties stipulated in the agreement. It says, the Greeks will respect the captaincy of Philip and his descendants. Could anything be more clear? Could any perfidy be more obvious than the course urged by the anti-Macedonians, who managed again to put Athens on a war-footing, on course for another disaster? Note that the purpose of Corinth alliance was to avenge Greece against the Persians. It demanded nothing of Athens, no booty, no levies, no garrison in our city. Philip expected only our trustworthiness, which one would think would be the least onerous demand on honest men. But instead, Demosthenes, Hypereides, Charidemos and their rabble seduced the Assembly with talk of overthrowing ‘the Boy,’ of marching all the way to Pella!

  What hubris! What rubbish! And with what dismay did these cowards watch as Alexander wasted no time in reducing the Illyrians: not only did he defeat their forces within the boundaries of his kingdom, but he contrived to float his army across the Danube on skin boats and exact the pledges of the tribes beyond. Was this not impressive campaigning for a mere boy?

  And then, even more shockingly, Alexander marched south, through Thermopylae, and put Thebes to the torch before the demagogues could clear their golden throats. “Demosthenes called me ‘a mere child’ when we marched on Illyria,” Alexander said to his troops, “and ‘just a youth’ when I came through Thessaly. I guarantee that when he sees me beneath the walls of Athens, it will be as a man!”

  Naturally, plans for our glorious march on Pella were forgotten. Instead of an army, the anti-Macedonians sent out pledges of eternal fealty. Demosthenes himse
lf volunteered to lead the peace delegation to Alexander’s camp. He was hailed for his bravery, and after accepting these encomiums—for when has he ever refused cheap acclaim?—he rode out of the city in triumph…and slunk away.

  We had every reason to expect the worst from Alexander. From the slopes of Hymettus we could see the glow of Thebes burning. There was talk of gathering the fleet, of evacuating the people, of refounding the city elsewhere. This talk, too, was rubbish, because it took no account of the divine character of this new king, who never made a move toward Attica. Instead, he only asked for a recommitment to the Corinth pact, and for the detention of the worst of the demagogues. The latter stipulation was not even pressed—Demosthenes was spared. At this, even the most rabid of Alexander’s enemies were taken aback. Was this the leader against which Athens had so treacherously plotted? When had Athens herself ever showed such mercy to a rebellious subject of her empire?

  Yet the contrition of these zealots lasted only as long as the Macedonian army was in Boeotia. Having disposed of the father, they turned against the son. Unfortunately for them, Alexander was too quick a target, moving with his army the length and breadth of his kingdom, as I have already described to you. Thereafter, the young king took up his father’s project of invading Asia. This campaign alone should have refuted the absurd claims of Demosthenes and his faction, as Alexander did not linger long enough in Greece to tax, oppress, enslave, or otherwise afflict anybody. But instead of at last putting aside their hatred of Alexander, they merely hatched an even more subtle plan to, as Machon demanded, “remove this chronic threat.”

  It is obvious now their solution was a kind of Trojan Horse. Athens, like most of the other big cities, sent ships and troops to support the expedition to Persia. A land force of one thousand landless citizens, outfitted by emergency decree from the Theoric fund, was organized. Machon, at the instigation of Demosthenes, was placed in command of this force. I was not present in the Assembly when this decision was made. All I can say about it is that it is a prime example of the burden under which our democracy labors, when strong personalities can undo a manifestly correct policy, and in this case subvert it utterly. How else may we understand the appointment of Machon to this command, when his prejudice had been made so very clear in this Chaeronea testimony? We may forgive the more honorable among us for their naiveté, believing perhaps that this was an instance of mere cronyism on Demosthenes’ part, when in fact the design was still more sinister. Machon even had the audacity to raise his hand and lie in the face of the Assembly when his orders were laid out. Read the orders, please.