Empire of Ashes: A Novel of Alexander the Great (43 page)

“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.”

XXII.

Machon stood with his mouth open. The water had stopped. For a professional speaker to be interrupted like this was very bad form—the jurymen were left hanging just at the moment of Alexander’s death. Yet Swallow didn’t think this blunder would count too much against Machon. He was, after all, an acknowledged amateur, defending himself against one of the most formidable of orators. To show his inexperience was to make himself sympathetic, for if there was anything Athenian jurymen hated more than a bad show in the courtroom, it was a career litigant.

Machon sat down. At that point in the procedure there was an unofficial recess as the magistrates conferred and the clock was reset. The jurymen stretched their legs, and although any sort of discussion or politicking was forbidden before the verdict was read, deliberation was already underway by other means. Experienced jurors could always gauge sentiment by exchanging glances with the men around him. Arguments could be joined by raising an eyebrow, and resolved by a downward flicking of the eyes. Swallow looked at Deuteros, who concurred with a nod. Matters were not looking good for Aeschines. Though it came only near the end of Machon’s testimony, and was only one incident in the King’s eventful life, Alexander’s pardon of Cleomenes finally seemed to turn most of the jury against Aeschines and the appeasement faction.

“The parties will have one measure of time each for disputation. Prosecution, do you wish to ask questions of the defendant, or make a statement?”

Aeschines didn’t answer but simply manifested, bright-robed and full-throated, from his seat.

Athenians, we meet on a sad day, for what we have heard from the defendant represents a challenge to all of us who believe in the truth. Where to begin to unravel this Gordion Knot the defendant has spun for us? To be sure, the events that I have narrated and Machon has distorted took place years ago and far away, and are already passing from the vale of living memory. Yet I say that its passing should not be an occasion for self-serving revision. I say what the mass of observers believe to be true should command respect, and the subjectivities of certain others less so, no matter how well-placed they may have been. I say
something
happened in the past, and those happenings stand as facts regardless of insinuation or anecdote.

For my part, I am not afraid to tell you that I take these proceedings seriously. I spent a considerable time preparing my presentation, which was gleaned from the reminiscences of numerous witnesses. Based on those testimonies, I learned much about my subject, and I must tell you that the Alexander I came to know in no way resembles the person Machon has described. According to the defendant, the Lord of Asia was little more than a quailing, querulous child. He was afraid of the future, afraid of his enemy, and afraid of battle—imagine that, Alexander afraid of battle! Machon tries to exploit unkind rumors about Alexander’s friendships with men to portray him as some kind of womanly chimera. We should all reject anyone’s claims to know what the King and Hephaestion did in privacy, and it is nothing less than rank slander to claim, as Machon does, that Alexander let himself be used like a common prostitute! For that outrage alone he deserves conviction!

Perhaps Machon thinks so little of us as to think we can be fooled by his strategy. To defend himself, he must try to pull down Alexander. What a curious defense, to deny his impiety by denying the god! Meanwhile, he insults all Greeks with his malicious “recollections” of Alexander’s doubts. Could a man full of doubt have led an army for twelve years against the largest, most populous empire the world has ever seen? How does a general in constant fear of assassination so inspire his men as to leave behind an unparalleled legacy of peace and esteem? Could a mere drunk simply fall onto the throne of the Great King?

As he maligns Alexander, Machon slanders the characters of his most trusted lieutenants. Perdiccas and Ptolemy are made out to be craven opportunists who plotted and schemed for their own benefit while Alexander still lived. Craterus and Cleitus are, in Machon’s own words, “thugs.” Hephaestion was somehow reviled by everyone, though every scrap of evidence attests to the admiration he inspired in all men. How fortunate for you, Machon, that these heroes are not here to make you answer for your lies!

In these proceedings, we must be content to note that events since the King’s death do not bear out Machon’s version: it is not true, for instance, that Perdiccas or Ptolemy seized authority upon Alexander’s passing. Perdiccas, by all accounts, was most reluctant to pick up the King’s ring, and now rules by consent only as regent to Rohjane’s infant son and the half-wit Arridaeus. Ptolemy did not claim the throne at all, most obviously because his rank did not merit it, and also because he is a man of unimpeachable integrity. He is only the governor of Egypt now, not her king! How Machon can profess to know that Ptolemy has intentions to be pharaoh is beyond my understanding.

Distortions of this kind at least have the virtue of referring to actual persons, and therefore having some root in reality. Tales of massacres of non-existent people, such as “the Branchidae,” deserve no refutation. That Alexander died in a fight with Hermolaus is accepted by no one. Nor should we be detained by Machon’s claims that it was Arridaeus, not Alexander, who generaled the victories of the Greeks. Machon presents no evidence to support this contemptible assertion for one simple reason: it is nonsense. I myself glimpsed Arridaeus during an embassy to Pella some years ago. I assume my impression of him still holds. He is a fool, completely unable to care for himself, much less command an army. That a man may somehow be a drooling idiot at one instance and a dashing strategist at another is absurd. There is no such thing as a half-time half-wit.