Empire of Ashes: A Novel of Alexander the Great Page 7

  There was nothing for us to do, then, but to put shoulder to shield and push hard against the line. We would accept the hours of exhaustion in our old panoplies, the heat, the terror of suffocation and the panicky spray of our neighbor’s urine. We would push, and push some more, until the Macedonians broke for their mountains at last, and we would bury our spears in the backs of many as we could.

  But it was not to be. The battle was not over in hours, but minutes, as the Macedonian cavalry somehow broke into our rear. Through one of the great gaps in our line, Philip’s so-called ‘Companions’ had rode and commenced to slash at our back rank. The Greek army, it seems, had come that day without any cavalry at all, and so our flanks had no defense.

  With that, the entire right wing of the Greeks crumpled. Hoplites dropped their spears, tore off their armor, and ran for their lives. The horsemen made them pay for their indiscipline: the deserters were chased down and butchered from the back by the Macedonian aristocrats. These were, incidentally, quite gaily turned out in their purple cloaks trimmed with gold. And how they seemed to enjoy the work of slaughtering fathers and grandfathers who came to fight for their children’s freedom! As fate would have it, this was not the last time I would watch the Macedonians go about this, their favorite business.

  Trapped in the center of the disintegrating phalanx, I was being propelled this way and that by waves of flailing, terrified men. Those who have been there know the danger: in the crush of armored bodies, it was difficult just to get a breath. Keeping upright was also a challenge, lest I suffer the fate of those trampled under the feet of their comrades. It was at that moment, when I was thus engaged, that I first glimpsed Prince Alexander.

  I’m not sure why I knew it was him, as I was too far away to see his face. I might have guessed his identity because he was riding at the head of a retinue, or because his cloak had a reversed color scheme, gold trimmed with purple, or from the fact that he alone wore the Gorgon’s head device on his breastplate. Or it might have been for the same reason that the sheep dog always stands out from the rest of the flock—the princely way he rode a horse, cantering here and there, directing his forces, pounding his fist for emphasis, gesturing his displeasure over some unfulfilled command.

  I watched him until I lost sight of him behind an obstacle—an obstacle that I belatedly realized was the Sacred Band, which was surrounded. The Thebans had formed themselves into a defensive square, with their spears presented at every side. Against them the enemy pikemen were forming up in columns thirty-two shields deep. When they were ready, the Macedonians charged at a run into the Thebans, with the soldiers in their back ranks pushing the ones in front. This kind of attack generated powerful momentum—the kind that drove leveled pikes straight through the armor of stationary men. The Macedonians did this over and over, giving each fresh regiment a crack at the Thebans; the defenders, who had locked shields, were able to hold their own for a while, but they lacked the force of forward movement, and their lances were too short to strike back. Inevitably, with their armor holed or split, the Thebans began to fall. As each died, his comrade protected his body with his shield, or with his own body, as the case may be. The square gave way as the Macedonians kept up the attack; we Greeks watched with tears in our eyes as this glorious Band, its history unblemished by defeat, was ground into the dust.

  At last, when there was only one stubborn pair left on what had become their funeral mound, Prince Alexander rode forward on his fabled mount, Bucephalus. Taking aim with his thrusting spear, and in a remarkable bit of horsemanship, he drove right into the morass of dead flesh and speared one of the Thebans straight through his breastplate. With the other resigned to do nothing more than watch, Alexander extracted the spearhead from the body of his companion, backed off a bit, then simply rode the last Theban down. The Macedonians roared as Bucephalus leapt free of the mound, and Alexander unfurled his tawny tresses and raised his blooded spear in triumph.

  This was not the end of the day’s slaughter. In defiance of custom, Philip’s troops massacred retreating Athenians for the rest of the afternoon, chasing them into the hills, into cornfields and granaries, up roofs and down into caves. Yes, the King made a gallant gesture of burning the bodies that were left on the battlefield and delivering the collected ashes to us here. But the bodies of hundreds of others—those who fled—were never recovered or given the proper rites. They were left to rot where they fell. We Athenians, for our part, did not ask awkward questions of the victors, but merely thanked the gods for what we were given.

  Like many of you, I was at Chaeronea to save my country. But at the risk of encouraging Aeschines’s bizarre speculations, I grant I did have an ulterior motive. It had always been my ambition to write a history. You may recall that Thucydides and Xenophon were soldiers, and commenced their histories because they foresaw that future generations might learn from an account of the conflicts of their time. I believed—and still do believe—that the same is true of our wars. Where Thucydides had his Pericles, Cleon, and Alcibiades, in our time we have Demosthenes, Philip, and, yes, Aeschines! So while my opponent attempts to make my ambition in this regard appear something dubious, he only shows his own contempt for the craft of history. How many of the men here would take up the pen too, if they had the means and the opportunity…? To your shame, Aeschines, see how many hands are raised!

  “The defendant may not pose questions to the jury,” the judge objected.

  “Your honor, would that rule apply to questions one might characterize as rhetorical?”

  “You may ask rhetorical questions only if you clearly indicate that you don’t want your questions to be answered.”

  “Eminence, am I to understand that if I ask a rhetorical question, and the jury elects to answer, I am to be held responsible for transgression of a rule that I myself have not committed?”

  The jurymen broke into heated discussion. Polycleitus, glowing red with anger, called for order. It took several moments for the room to quiet again.

  “The defendant will not ask questions, and the jury will not answer. Is that clear enough to you all?”

  “Perfectly. I also request additional time due to the interruption…”

  “So granted! Go on, please.”

  To resume, I went to Boeotia as a soldier, but also with the eye of a chronicler, as I judged this to be a unique moment in the affairs of men. Fortunately for my project, I was not killed during the battle, but taken prisoner. Along with several thousand other Athenians and allies, I was placed in a stockade not far from the Macedonian camp. The pen was just an offhand thing, a corral built of thin sticks and brush, with ditch water to drink. Philip fed his prisoners with rotten onions collected from the haversacks of the dead—yet so famished were the Athenians that they fought over these meager rations. It is a fortunate thing for the defeated men of Asia that Alexander did not inherit his father’s cheapness.

  Having foreseen the advantage of taking notes in the field, I had brought with me several lead tablets and a stylus, which I stored in the cave of my shield. It was at that point, when I had been in detention for two days without food, when the stench of the open pit toilets rose to new heights, and rumors flew that we would all be sent to short, miserable careers as slaves in the mines at Mt. Pangaeus, that I believed I was sufficiently immersed in my subject to begin composing.

  I had not gotten far along, recording my impressions of the battle, when a peculiar voice addressed me, asking “Ye scribe, what dost thou?”

  Perceiving that the question came from the Macedonian side of the fence, and in the archaic dialect of those backward northerners, I ignored it. A pair of booted feet came into my line of sight as I peered down at my tablet, and the voice resumed,

  “Be ye poet or proseur, o son of Theseus, I will own thine answer!”

  Bowing to the inevitable, I looked up, and was confronted with none other than Prince Alexander himself.

  VI.

  Anyone listening to Aeschines’s des
cription of this teenager would be severely misled. He spoke of fine long hair, which was accurate enough, but neglected the stringy, oily quality of it, which gave the impression of being perpetually wet. I still hear tales of Alexander’s ‘blond’ or ‘fair’ hair when it was clearly brown and nothing more. It fell in unrestrained sweeps down around his face—a face that was not without a certain dignity, but coarse, big-boned, and full of pimples. His eyes were not blue or blue-on-one-side but again, plain brown. At that distance I assure you I smelled nothing of the natural perfume that was supposed to permeate his body. His most remarkable features were a set of full, almost feminine lips, and a pair of wide-set eyes that focused on their object with a remarkable intensity.

  He was but eighteen years old that day, flush from his first victory in battle. For the first time, he was confronted with great numbers of Athenians, who despite their political rivalry with Macedon retained a certain stature in that primitive kingdom. To this day, the people of Pella still speak with pride of how Euripides spent his last days there, producing his Bacchae at the sanctuary at Dion, in the very shadow of Mt. Olympus. It was therefore with an uneasy mixture of superiority and awe that he addressed me, a bonafide Athenian sophisticate.

  “Did thy mother bear ye a tongue along with thy fingers?”

  “She did,” I replied. “But I cannot see how my affairs are any concern of yours, stranger.”

  The pimply Prince drew himself up to his full height, all of five feet and no inches.

  “Mark me as a man who bested thee in battle, friend, for you cavil with the crown prince of Macedon!”

  Having rendered for you how Alexander sounded in those days, for clarity’s sake I will now translate his archaic Greek into our modern idiom. To be sure, beyond a certain awkwardness at first, communication was never a problem between us. He did come to take on a less backward mode as time passed, and my ear for his northern dialect improved. But despite the elocution lessons, despite Aristotle’s tutoring, to the sophisticated Greek there was always something of the highland yokel in him, even when he was donning the diadem of the Great King at Susa.

  “Well, your highness, I will say that you ‘cavil’ with no one, for I am just plain Machon of Athens, son of Agathon.”

  “And do you profess the craft of writer, Machon son of Agathon? Tell me, do you know these lines…”

  The word ‘moderation’ when spoken

  Is better than renown, and mortals

  Who practice it find it superior.

  For renown, when taken to extremes,

  Is not an advantage to men…?

  “You insult me, sir, for what Athenian would admit he does not recognize the words of Euripides, from the prologue of Medea?”

  “I mean no insult, sir, but to my mind there too many poseurs carrying the attributes of your noble calling. If I were not Alexander, I would be a poet!”

  “There are many in Athens,” I replied, “who would urge both you and your father to pursue that ambition!”

  Alexander laughed with what seemed like genuine ease, without a trace of adolescent self-consciousness. On a certain level, I found myself liking him immediately, which was not an unusual reaction to him in those early years. He was not without charm.

  “Did you know that your Euripides found sanctuary at the court of Macedon?”

  “I have heard it said.”

  “I saw you on the field. You fought well.”

  “Not well enough, it seems.”

  At the time I thought it impossible that the Prince could have recalled glimpsing me among thousands of others through the melee of Chaeronea. He has since gained the reputation of remembering an astonishing number of faces and names—Aeschines himself has repeated this claim. The truth is somewhat more complicated, as I will tell you presently. But again, I could not help being pleased by his flattery.

  “You should know that I am not writing poetry. It is a history of this war.”

  “Whose style do you favor, then—Herodotus or Thucydides?”

  “Herodotus is for children.”

  “Exactly right. Soon I will need men like yourself, Machon. Serious historians.”

  With that, he turned and walked back to his horse, which was held by a strikingly handsome youth that I later knew to be Hephaestion. The Prince seemed to give his friend an order, and the latter shot a measuring glance at me. Then, before he rode off, Alexander shouted back in my direction.

  “I can only hope that I am not a villain in your story!”

  He was smiling, but there was also a dark edge in his voice that was unmistakable.

  Soon I learned what Alexander had instructed Hephaestion to do for me: I was moved from the stockade to a small officer’s field tent nearby. Inside was a cot, a chair, and writing desk, and a sheath of Egyptian papyrus—truly an extravagant gift!

  In truth, it was perhaps too generous. After days living outside, and having never before been confronted with such fine materials, the comfortable surroundings became a distraction. In the short time before I was sent home I got no serious writing done at all.

  Contrary to what Aeschines has told you, I was not among those who attended the Prince during his peace embassy to Athens. Indeed, Aeschines’s associates Phocion and Demades were among that party, though I will not descend to my opponent’s level of scurrility in calling them “hacks.” Suffice it to say that I was too closely connected to those who opposed Macedonian power before Chaeronea to merit an invitation. I understand that he mentioned my name on several occasions, much to the embarrassment of his hosts. Attending a sacrifice at the altar of Athena Parthenos, he was heard to ask, “Is Machon in the crowd? Who will point him out to me?”

  Later, on his inspection of the Painted Stoa, he said “I think the paintings very fine, though I wonder what my friend Machon would say of them!”

  I understand that he referred to me so often Demades made serious inquiries on the question of whether he was simple-minded! In fact, Demades had no understanding of the Macedonian mind—Alexander asked for me not because he was simple, but out of a sense of obligation to a friend on a visit to his home. Indeed, I received a note from him communicating his disappointment that I would not be joining the festivities, and his hope that work on my history was proceeding well. These testaments to his goodwill, and of my vocation as historian, I hereby place in evidence.

  “They are so accepted,” responded the clerk.

  I next saw Alexander more than two years later. It was after his ascension to the throne of Macedon, following the murder of his father, and a short time after the destruction of Thebes. He was assembling his forces for his invasion of the Persian Empire; in deference to his position as the Captain of the Greeks, our Assembly resolved to send five hundred men to support his cause. Aeschines is quite correct to note that Demosthenes was the primary sponsor of my leadership of this force. He could not be more incorrect, though, in ascribing evil motives to my assignment. Rather, I was recommended by the simple fact that Alexander had shown a partiality for me, and these feelings might be of some use in persuading him to overcome his mistrust of the Athenians. That, and the fact that Phocion, who was far more qualified, didn’t want the job!

  I came up to attend the King at Dion, the Macedonian sanctuary of Zeus. At the time I arrived he was feasting his officers under a great tent not far from the theatre. It was a grand affair, in the style of all his celebrations: the tent covered an area larger than this building, and was lined with row upon row of gilded couches arranged around a royal loggia, where King Alexander reclined. Surpassing all other symposiasts, he served his guests the finest Chian wine from craters lined with snow fetched down from Olympus; the toasts were made with golden cups studded with jewels. One side of the tent was given over to trophies from his recent expedition against the Danuban Triballi—heaped pelts of bears and oxen, shields hewn from single enormous logs, belts dripping with amber beads. There was no loot from the sack of Thebes, however. Nor to my knowledge was this
event ever mentioned.

  “Machon, my friend! Come here and embrace me!”

  He greeted me like an old comrade, biding me to sit beside him. His enthusiasm was unique in that company. When they bothered to look to me at all, the rest of the Macedonians cast their eyes on me with obvious suspicion. Hephaestion regarded me unflinchingly from a nearby couch, his hostility unconcealed.

  “So tell me of your book! Have you completed it?”

  “Honestly, no. All I have so far is a prologue.”

  “You lack a protagonist!”

  He looked at me with some sort of great significance in his eyes, rolling his cup between his hands. The years since Chaeronea had improved his appearance: his face, though still beardless, had lost its adolescent softness, and the spots were gone. His waxy hair shined in the lamp-light in a way that could be taken for blond.

  “Perhaps we can help each other in our projects, you and I.”

  He was distracted by a servant who whispered something in his ear. I was just able to hear the message: his mother Olympias had requested to see him. With a sigh that indicated more than simple weariness, he rose to go to her.

  “We’ll talk together later,” he promised.

  I didn’t see him again for some time, after the third round of craters had been brought in. In the interim I sat alone, attracting stares more frigid than the ice in the wine coolers. As a precaution against the Eye, I clenched the fingers of my right hand around my thumb and spat on the ground. The Macedonians around me responded by spitting on the ground too. This set off the revelers around them, in a wide concentric ring of spitting, until men all over the great tent wet the floor.