The Novels of Alexander the Great: Fire From Heaven, the Persian Boy, and Funeral Games

315 B.C.

THE LYCEUM STOOD IN a pleasant suburb of Athens, near the plane-shaded Ilissos stream beloved by Sokrates. It was a new and handsome building. The humbler one, where Aristotle had set up his strolling university, was a mere annex now. A long elegant stoa with painted Corinthian columns now sheltered the Principal and his students when they paced discoursing. Within, it smelled benignly of old vellum, ink and writing-wax.

It was all the gift of Kassandros, presented through his cultured Athenian governor. The Principal, Theophrastos, had long been eager to entertain their benefactor, and the auspicious day had arrived.

The distinguished guest had been shown the new library, many of its shelves consecrated to Theophrastos’ works; he was a derivative but prolific author. Now they had returned to the Principal’s rooms to take refreshment.

“I am glad,” said Kassandros, “that you study history, and delighted that you compile it. It is for the scholars of each generation to purge it of its errors, before they infect the next.”

“Aristotle’s philosophy of history …” began Theophrastos eagerly. Kassandros, who had had an hour of learned garrulity, lifted a courteous hand.

“I myself sat at his feet, in my youth when he was in Macedon.” Hateful days, tasting of gall, seeing the charmed circle always from outside, exiled from the bright warmth by the centrifuge of his own envy. He said meaningly, “If only the chief of his students had put his privilege to better use.”

Cautiously, the Principal murmured something about the corruption of barbarian ways and the temptations of power.

“You suffered a grievous loss when Kallisthenes met his end. A brilliant scholar, I believe.”

“Ah, yes. Aristotle feared, indeed predicted it. Some unwise letters …”

“I am persuaded that he was falsely accused of inspiring his students to plot the death of the King. The voice of philosophy had become unwelcome.”

“I fear so … We have no one here who accompanied Alexander, and our records suffer.”

“You have at least,” said Kassandros smiling, “a guest who visited the court at Babylon in its last weeks. If you would like to call a scribe, I can give you some account of what I found.”

The scribe came, well furnished with tablets. Kassandros dictated at a smooth, measured pace. “… But long before this he had given way to arrogance and wantonness, preferring the godlike hauteur of a Persian Great King to the wholesome restraints of the homeland.” The scribe would have no polishing to do; he had prepared it all in advance. Theophrastos, whose own career had been wholly scholastic, hung fascinated on this voice from the theater of great events.

“He made his victorious generals fall down to the ground before his throne. Three hundred and sixty-five concubines, the same in number as Darius had, filled his palace. Not to speak of a troop of effeminate eunuchs, used to prostitution. As for his nightly carouses …” He continued for some time, noting with satisfaction that every word was going down on the wax. At length the scribe was thanked, and dismissed to begin the work of copying.

“Naturally,” Kassandros said, “his former companions will give such accounts of him as they hope will tend to their own glory.” The Principal nodded sagely, the careful scholar warned of a dubious source.

Kassandros, whose throat was dry, sipped gratefully at his wine. He, like the Principal, had looked forward to this meeting. He had never managed to humble his living enemy; but at least, now, he had begun to damp down the fame he had set such store by, for which he had burned out his life.

“I trust,” said Theophrastos civilly at parting, “that your wife enjoys good health.”

“Thessalonike is as well as her condition allows at present. She has her father King Philip’s good constitution.”

“And the young King? He must be eight years old, and beginning his education.”

“Yes. To keep him from inclining to his father’s faults, I am giving him a more modest upbringing. Granted that the custom was an old one, still it did Alexander no good that all through his boyhood he had his Companions to dominate—a troop of lords’ sons who competed to flatter him. The young King and his mother are installed in the castle of Amphipolis, where they are protected from treachery and intrigue; he is being reared like any private citizen of good berth.”

“Most salutary,” the Principal agreed. “I shall venture, sir, to present you with a little treatise of my own, On the Education of Kings. When he is older, should you think of appointing him a tutor …”

“That time,” said the Regent of Macedon, “will certainly be in my thoughts.”