Empire of Ashes: A Novel of Alexander the Great

XXI

Notice, gentlemen, that unlike Aeschines I did not tell you he died on that occasion. To be sure, Alexander very nearly did succumb to poison-as my opponent has told you, by the fourth day of his illness matters were desperate. What Aeschines does not know is that, in fact, the efforts of the King’s Babylonian doctors met with complete success. Now that I see I have your attention, and though I know I am racing the clock, I will try to tell you the real circumstances of Alexander’s death.

Thanks to the arts of the Babylonians, the King’s fever broke within two days; before the end of the week his was able to hold down his food. As it happened, then, this incident seemed like yet another of the King’s victories over mortality. Rumors spread that Alexander had rallied; the world, having held its breath, took ease at last. On orders of the King, however, no official announcement was made of his recovery. While it seemed odd that he wanted to withhold this information, I presumed he wished only to test the loyalty of those satraps who might revolt. On this, as on several other matters that day, I was wrong.

For Alexander was not pleased with his recovery. Instead of launching himself into fresh plans for building or conquest, he sat with a dejected look on his face. No one-not his friends, his new wives, nor Bagoas could rouse him. As for me, he tolerated my presence in the room, but would not speak. When he looked at me, it was with accusation in his eyes, as if I had been responsible for the undue extension of his life.

Rohjane gave the entirely appropriate reaction to his improvement. For the very first time, she had followed my directives on dress and comportment to the letter, looking very much like the dutiful Greek wife.

“My lord, I rejoice at your recovery!” she exclaimed, approaching to give him a kiss.

But Alexander turned his face away from her. She soldiered on, smacking him on the cheek, going on about the growth of the child within her. Alexander was silent, regarding her coldly. He only seemed to relent when she held up a piece of woven cloth for him to see.

“I’ve had Youtab begin the swaddling clothes for our son. I’ve made her swear to finish before he comes…”

The King’s brow softened a bit as he looked at this naive bit of handiwork. He was filled, no doubt, with that ambivalence particular to new fathers, as yet unsure they are up the demands of the role. In Alexander’s case the uncertainty must have been deeper still, convinced as he was that his wife had a hand in his poisoning. And yet, while she carried his heir, there was nothing he could do about it. Knowing Rohjane, I am also sure that everything she did in that meeting was contrived to remind him of this fact.

“If I may serve you in any way, please call me.”

“If I call for anything,” he finally said, “it will not be for a drink. Do you remember the water you brought?”

“I remember.”

“Good. And do you remember Hephaestion, too?”

“Of course,” she said, keeping up her denial. “Who could forget such a noble captain?”

“Very well,” he replied, waving her away.

After she was gone the King grew tired, and slept for three hours in the middle of the afternoon. When he woke up, he called for all his personal companions to attend him. Perdiccas was there, and Ptolemy, Nearchus, Eumenes, and myself. Pulling himself to a sitting position, the King asked a strange question:

“Eumenes, is Hermolaus still with us?”

“You mean, Hermolaus son of Sopolis? The page?”

“Yes.”

“He lives, though in what condition I cannot…”

“Good. Bring him.”

And so I learned that Hermolaus, the main instigator of the pages’ plot against the King’s life, had not been executed yet. It was a peculiarity of the Macedonians, I saw, that certain important prisoners were not killed right away, but imprisoned for as long as it took to wear down their defiance. For particularly stubborn characters this process might take years. There were still rumors about the camp that Callisthenes was not dead, but languishing in some hole until he earned a kiss with his prostration. Only then would he have been allowed to die.

None of us had seen Hermolaus for some years. In his confinement he had grown into a man, albeit a thin, pale, unkempt one, so unused to daylight that he could not keep his eyes open. He was naked as he was brought in, bearded to his breastbone, shackled by his feet.

“Do you know where you are, boy?” Alexander asked.

“By the stench of oppression, I would say I am before Alexander.”

“It is the stink of sickness you smell, and your own rot.”

“Rot, sickness, tyranny-all the same.”

Alexander laughed. “A clever answer from a ghost! What a man you might have become, O Hermolaus. Now peevish retorts are all you have left. Or is it?”

The page’s eyes cracked open a bit. “The Alexander I once loved did not waste time with riddles.”

The King rose to his feet, stretched his arms, grimaced in pain from the Mallian wound. “Fair enough. The day of execution is at hand! Eumenes, bring him arms. Meet me under the east wall, near the Marduk Gate. Hermolaus, once during the hunt you stole the prize from me. I give you an opportunity now for the biggest game of all. Don’t disappoint me!”

With that, the King left. The rest of us, including Hermolaus, stood dumbfounded. Perdiccas came out of it first. “You heard him! Arms for the prisoner!”

Alexander waited for Hermolaus outside the Marduk Gate. He had only his chamberlain with him; on his back and legs he wore the cuirass and greaves of divine Achilles. He left the ancient sword leaning against the pitch-clad bricks, and the great Gorgon’s head shield next to it, still marked from the ordeal at Multan. As we all met there, it seemed we were all on stage, with the scene lit only by torches set in the theatrical backdrop of the Babylonian wall. Like distant stagehands, the tiny, helmeted heads of two guards looked down on us from hundreds of feet above. They were, as it was, the only other audience for the night’s drama.

Still in shackles, Hermolaus had a peaked Phrygian helmet with the cheek-guards down, leather corselet, and a hoplite shield. He was standing straighter now, his eyes wide open, but he still had the look of a man who expected at any moment to wake up from his dream.

Alexander took up Achilles’ shield. “Give him a javelin,” he ordered.

“If the King permits it, we might execute the prisoner in the usual fashion,” suggested Perdiccas.

Alexander answered with these verses, from the 22^nd book of the poem:

The running is over, Achilles! No more.

Three times around the city of Priam I ran

Unable to face your assault.

But courage anew I feel in my heart

To face what must be faced-

As you all may recognize, it is Hector’s last challenge to Achilles before their duel at the walls of Troy. And though I had heard him quote the Poet before, this was the first time he had cast himself not as his ancestor, Achilles-the-swift-runner, but as Hector-breaker-of-horses.

Ptolemy gave Hermolaus a javelin. The latter looked at Alexander, then the weapon, holding it in front of him as if he’d never seen one before.

“Do you expect me to kill you with this?”

“I expect you,” replied the King, “to accomplish what you swore with your comrades. There was a time when you stood before me and called me a tyrant. Well now, here I am, boy! Strike me down! Fix my arrogance! I promise no one will stop you…”

Perdiccas looked to Ptolemy, who looked to me in amazement. It was the first time I had seen either man in such dire confusion. I suppose they would have said the same of me.

Hermolaus shrugged, seized the javelin with an overhand grip, and cocked it above his head. Then he sang:

You beyond forgiveness should not speak of pacts

Can there be deals between men and beasts?

Between wolf and sheep there is no common ground,

Born as they are to live in undying hatred.

So it is between us, no love lost, no peace

Until you or I may strike the dust and sate Ares,

Shielded scourge of men, with our blood.

Come to me, then, with what courage you have left

Death or victory! Show me your skill,

As a daring man of war!

He made his throw. The javelin flew from his hand and straight for Alexander’s head, only to lodge in the soft brick of the wall. The King had ducked.

Missed, have you! Now look at the divine Achilles!

So sure you were that Zeus decreed my death!

You were bluster only, trying to strike fear in me,

Make my legs shake, lose my nerve!

And so the King, taking his turn, lofted his spear. With the same unerring skill that had killed Cleitus, Alexander made a dead-center shot. This time, however, his opponent was armed with more than a drinking cup. The metal tip bounced off Hermolaus’ shield, leaving only a small dimple in the surface.

“I see you have no spear in reserve,” said the King.

“Only this sword,” replied the other.

“As do I.”

They closed on each other with blades unsheathed. Alexander seemed to be moving at half-speed, not yet at full strength after his illness. Hermolaus likewise had none of his former quickness, having spent much of his youth in a cell. Yet the slowness with which the duel unfolded only made it seem more terrible, as we could all anticipate and feel every blow. Alexander was on the attack, striking at his opponent as he grasped his wounded side. Hermolaus parried, backed up, counterattacked. The King stumbled and fell, his sword clanking to the dirt beside him. Perdiccas moved to intercede, but Ptolemy held him back. It had not taken long for the latter to realize how he could benefit from these incomprehensible events.

Hermolaus, perhaps overwhelmed by the prospect that briefly opened before him, did not kill Alexander right then. Instead, the King had time to take his sword again and ward off the final blow. As Hermolaus lost his balance, Alexander tried to get to his feet-but froze with the torment of his Mallian wound, his face and neck contorted with the agony of it. In that second, with Alexander’s hesitation, Hermolaus saw his chance: he put the point of his sword right through the cleft at the King’s throat, just above the top of Achilles’ cuirass. The blade cut with appalling ease through the soft flesh, exposing the white surface of his windpipe. Then the blood rose and covered everything-the windpipe, the blade, the hand that held the blade, the ground-

“Defendant, stop speaking,” said the judge. “You have run out of time.”