Alexander (Vol. 2) (16 page)

He put it down on the table once more and started reading the correspondence which had reached him over previous days – a letter from the regent Antipater telling him that the situation at home was quiet on the whole, apart from the Queen’s intemperate insistence on interfering in affairs of state, and a letter from Olympias herself in which she protested that the regent had deprived her of her liberty and of any possibility of acting in a manner befitting her rank and her role.

There was no mention of the fine gifts he had sent her following the victory on the Granicus. Perhaps she had not received them yet.

S
HE WAS STANDING THERE
before him when he lifted his eyes from the correspondence. She wore no veil now, her eyes slightly emphasized with a simple black line in the Egyptian manner, her body wrapped in a dress of green linen worked in the oriental style, her raven-black hair gathered to the top of her head after the Greek fashion. Although they were in his tent, Alexander’s foreign guest seemed still to emanate the moonlight in which he had seen her for the first time.

The King moved towards her and she knelt to kiss his hand. ‘I had no idea, my Lord . . . forgive me.’

Alexander took both her hands and guided her to her feet, the two of them so close as their eyes met that he could smell her hair – the perfume of violets.

He was stunned. Never before had he so suddenly desired a woman, to hold her tight in his arms. She was aware of this, yet in the same instant she felt in his gaze an almost irresistible force that attracted her . . . like the light of a lamp that attracts a moth.

She lowered her eyes and said, ‘I have brought my sons to pay homage to you.’ Then she moved back to the entrance of the tent and had the two boys come in.

Alexander moved towards a tray filled with food and fruit, ‘Please have something to eat . . . help yourselves.’ But as he turned to speak to the boys he understood in the blink of an eye what had happened while his back was turned.

One of the young men had seen the portrait of Memnon on the table and had shown such surprise that his mother had thrown him an urgent look and put her hand on his shoulder.

The King pretended not to have noticed. He simply repeated, ‘Don’t you want to eat? Are you not hungry?’

‘Thank you, my Lord,’ replied the woman, ‘but our journey has tired us out and we wish only to retire, with your permission.’

‘Certainly. You may go. Leptine will carry this tray to your tent – if you are hungry or thirsty during the night you may help yourselves as you wish.’

He called the girl and had her accompany them, then he returned to his table and took the portrait of his adversary in his hands once more, studying it as if in an attempt to fathom Memnon’s gaze and to discover the secret of his mysterious energy.

*

The night was half-way through and the camp was completely immersed in silence. A guard completed his tour and the officer in command made sure that the sentries at the entrances to the camp were all awake. When the echoes of the calling and the passwords had died away, a cloaked figure came out of the guests’ tent furtively and headed towards the King’s quarters.

Peritas was asleep in his kennel and the sea breeze brought him only the scent of salt water, carrying all other smells off towards the open country. The two sentinels at the royal pavilion were leaning on their spears, one to the right and one to the left of the only entrance.

The cloaked figure stopped for a moment before setting off with decision towards the soldiers, bearing a tray.

‘It’s Leptine,’ said one of them.

‘Hail, Leptine. Why don’t you come to keep us company later? We’re tired and we feel terribly alone.’

The woman shook her head as if used to jokes of this kind, offered them some of the food on the tray and entered.

In the light of two lamps the figure uncovered her head, revealing the proud countenance of the foreign guest. She gazed long on the portrait of Memnon, which still lay on the table, and brushed it with her fingertips. Then she slipped a long pin with an amber head from her hair and moved lightly towards the curtain which separated the King’s bed from the rest of the tent. On the other side was the feeble light of a third lamp.

She moved the curtain to one side and went in. Alexander was sleeping on his back, covered only by his military
chlamys
. Alongside him was a stand bearing the armour he had taken from the temple of Athena at Troy.

At that very moment, far away in her bed in the palace at Pella, Queen Olympias turned in her sleep, tormented by a nightmare. All of a sudden she sat up and let forth with a sharp, bloodcurdling cry which resounded throughout the silent rooms of the building.

The Persian woman sought Alexander’s heart, holding the hairpin in her left hand, then she raised her right hand to strike the amber head, but just then the King awoke with fire in his eyes. Perhaps it was only the shadow projected by the lamp, but his left eye, dark as the night itself, made him look like some alien and titanic creature, almost a mythological monster. The woman’s hand hung in mid-air, suspended and incapable of unleashing the mortal blow.

Alexander raised himself slowly, pushing his chest against the bronze point so that a drop of blood appeared there. He continued staring at her without blinking at all.

‘Who are you?’ he asked when he was standing there before her. ‘Why do you want to kill me?’

T
HE WOMAN LEFT THE HAIRPIN
fall to the ground and covered her face with her hands as she burst into tears.

‘Tell me your name,’ said Alexander. ‘I will not harm you. I saw your son’s reaction on seeing Memnon’s portrait on my desk. He is your husband, is that not so? He is, isn’t he?’ he repeated, raising his voice and grabbing her by the wrists.

‘My name is Barsine,’ replied the woman without lifting her face, her voice feeble now, ‘and I am Memnon’s wife. Please do not harm my sons, and if you fear the gods, do me no dishonour. My husband will pay the highest ransom – whatever you ask – as long as his family is returned to him.’

Alexander had her lift her face and as he looked into her eyes he felt himself burn with desire once more. He understood that if he kept this woman near him she would be able to do whatever she wished with him. And in her gaze, too, he saw a strange apprehension which was different from maternal anxiety or the fear of a woman alone being held as a prisoner. What he saw there were flashes of an atavistic and powerful emotion, controlled by a will that was strong, yes, yet bore signs of strain. He asked her:

‘Where is Leptine?’

‘In my tent, guarded by my sons.’

‘And you took her cloak . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you harmed her?’

‘No.’

‘I will let you go and these events will remain our secret. There is no need for a ransom, I do not make war with women and children – when I meet your husband I will fight him personally and I will win, if I know that the prize will be to share my bed with you. Go now, and send Leptine to me. Tomorrow I will have you escorted wherever you wish to go.’

Barsine kissed his hand as she murmured incomprehensible words in her native tongue, then she went off towards the door, but Alexander called her back:

‘Wait.’

He moved towards her, towards those splendid, tearful and trembling eyes, took her face in his hands and kissed her lips.

‘Farewell. Do not forget me.’

He led her out of the tent and stood watching her as the two
pezhetairoi
stood at attention, their spears held firmly, on seeing their King.

Leptine returned shortly afterwards, angry and upset at having been held prisoner by two boys, but Alexander calmed her down:

‘There is nothing to fret about, Leptine – the woman was afraid for her own personal safety. I have reassured her. Go to sleep now, you must be tired.’

He kissed her and returned to his bed.

The following day he gave orders for Barsine to be escorted as far as the banks of the Meander with her own guards and he himself followed the small convoy for some stadia.

When he stopped, Barsine turned to wave goodbye.

‘Who is that man?’ asked Phraates, the younger of her sons. ‘Why did he have a portrait of our father on his desk?’

‘He is a great soldier and a good man,’ replied Barsine. ‘I do not know why he had that portrait of your father – perhaps because Memnon is the only man in the world who can be compared to him.’

She turned once more and saw that Alexander was still there, motionless astride Bucephalas, atop a windswept hill. She would remember him this way.

*

Memnon remained for ten days on the hills around Halicarnassus, waiting for all his soldiers who had survived the Battle of the Granicus, about a thousand in total, to join him and re-form the ranks. Then one night he entered the city on horseback, alone, wrapped in his cloak and wearing a Persian turban that almost completely covered his face. He rode towards the council chamber.

The great assembly hall stood near the giant Mausoleum, the monumental tomb of the dynast of Caria, Mausolus, who had made the city the capital of his realm.

The moon was now high in the sky and it illuminated the great structure – a cube of stone crowned by a portico of Ionic columns, in turn surmounted by a stepped pyramid supporting the stately four-horse chariot in bronze which carried an image of the former sovereign.

The decorative sculptures, created by the greatest artists of the previous generation – Scopas, Bryaxis, Leo-chares – represented episodes from Greek mythology, a cultural heritage which had come to form part of the indigenous culture, particularly those stories which were traditionally set in Asia, such as the struggle between Greeks and Amazons.

Memnon stopped for a moment to look at a relief in which a Greek soldier held an Amazon by the hair as he pinned her back down with his foot. He had always wondered why Greek art, so sublime, depicted so many scenes of violence against women. And he had decided that it must simply have been fear, the same fear that made them keep their women segregated in the harems and meant that for social occasions they had to turn to the participation of the ‘companions’.

He thought of Barsine, who was safely along the King’s Road now, by the golden gates, and he felt a deep wave of regret wash over him. He remembered her gazelle-like legs, her dark complexion, the violet perfume of her hair, the sensual timbre of her voice, her aristocratic pride.

He struck the flanks of his horse with his heels and moved further on, trying to chase the melancholy away. But right at that moment the special powers granted him by the Great King himself were of no consolation whatsoever.

He went past the bronze statue of the most illustrious citizen of Halicarnassus, the great Herodotus, author of the monumental
History
, the first to narrate the titanic clash between Greeks and barbarians during the Persian wars and the only one to have understood its underlying causes, himself being the son of a Greek father and an Asian mother.

On reaching the council building he dismounted, walked up the steps, illuminated by two rows of tripods bearing gigantic lamps, and knocked repeatedly on the doors until someone came to open for him.

‘I am Memnon,’ he said, uncovering his head. ‘I have just arrived.’

They led him into the chamber where all of the civil and military dignitaries of the city were gathered together – the Persian commanders of the garrison, the Athenian generals Ephialtes and Thrasybulus who led the mercenary troops, and Orontobates, the satrap of Caria, a corpulent character who immediately stood out because of his eye-catching clothes, his earrings, his precious ring and the shining solid gold
akinake
which hung from his belt.

The local dynastic ruler was also present – Pixodarus, the King of Caria, a man of about forty with a very black beard and hair just slightly streaked with grey around his temples. Two years previously he had offered his own daughter in marriage to one of the princes of Macedon, but the arrangement had fallen through and so he had compromised on the new Persian satrap of Caria, Orontobates, who was now his son-in-law.

Three seats had been prepared for chairmanship of the assembly – two were already occupied by Pixodarus and Orontobates, while Memnon took his place on the third, to the right of the Persian satrap. It was clear that everyone was expecting him to speak immediately.

‘Men of Halicarnassus and men of Caria,’ he began. ‘The Great King has honoured me with a tremendous responsibility – to halt the invasion of the King of Mace-don, and I have every intention of completing the task, no matter what the cost.

‘I am the only one here who has seen Alexander face to face and who has taken on his army with spear and sword, and I can assure you he is a fearsome enemy. Not only is he valiant on the battlefield, to the point of fearlessness, but he is also skilful and unpredictable. The manner in which he took Miletus shows us what he is capable of, even in conditions of complete inferiority at sea.

‘But I have no intention of being taken by surprise – Halicarnassus will not fall. We will force him to use up his strength and energies under these walls to the point of total exhaustion. We will continue to receive supplies by sea, where our fleet rules, and so we will resist for as long as it takes. When the right moment comes we will break out and crush his debilitated soldiers.