The material was ready as evening fell and Alexander inspected the army, but when he found himself there before the veterans, exhausted after their long crossing of the mountains, he looked on them with compassion as though seeing them for the first time. Many were almost sixty years old. Others were even older and they all bore the signs of the ordeals they had been through – the battles, the wounds, the various hardships. He knew that they would follow him anyway, but he saw in their eyes their awe at the sight of that enormous river that they were attempting to cross with sacks of straw and beyond it the empty vastness of the desert plain.
So he called Craterus and ordered him to assemble all the veterans in front of his tent immediately after sunset because he wanted to dismiss them. Craterus obeyed, and when the old soldiers were all gathered at the centre of the camp, Alexander climbed up on to a podium and began speaking.
‘Veterans! You have served your King and your army with honour, overcoming every difficulty and every trial without ever sparing yourselves. You have conquered the greatest empire that has ever existed and you have now reached an age at which it is right that a man should enjoy the rest and privilege that he has earned in honourable combat. I free you of all your bonds and I send you back to your homes. You will each have two hundred silver staters as my personal gift and your salary will be paid until you reach Macedonia. Greet our homeland for me and live there happily for the rest of your days. You deserve this.’
He was quiet now, expecting an ovation, but instead there was only a buzz through the ranks, the noise of subdued chattering, then an elderly division commander stepped forward and said, ‘Why do you no longer want us, Sire?’
‘What is your name, Commander?’ Alexander asked.
‘My name is Antenor.’
‘Do you not want to see your family?’
‘I want to see them . . . yes, of course.’
And don’t you want to see your home once more and spend some time there eating and drinking and being looked after?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Then you may all leave now happily and let the youngsters who are about to join us take your places. You have done your job.’
The man did not move.
What else is there, Commander?’
‘I am thinking to myself that the first day will of course be wonderful – I will see my wife and my children, a few of my friends, our house. I will buy new clothes and plenty of food, but the day after that frightens me, Sire. Do you see what I mean?’
‘I understand, Commander. The day after that frightens everyone, myself included. This is precisely why I cannot bring myself to stop . . . ever. I must rush to reach it, to go beyond it.’
The veteran nodded even though he had not understood and said, ‘You’re right, Sire. You are young and we are old. It is time for us to return home. But at least—’
‘What?’
‘At least . . . may I embrace you for all of my companions?’
Alexander held him fast like an old friend and then the men broke out in an ovation because the veterans, from the first to the last, felt that the King was embracing them all and that he was much moved, and they all felt the tears come into their eyes.
That night Callisthenes wrote a long letter to his uncle Aristotle and gave it to one of the departing veterans who lived near Stagira. In payment he received a golden stater, the first one minted by Philip and bearing Alexander’s image, an Alexander who for Callisthenes no longer existed and who had not existed for some time now. The veterans left at dawn, saluting with all arms presented and great trumpet blasts as they moved off towards the west, following the line of the mountains in the direction of Zadracarta.
The echo of the drums that marked their march could still be heard when Diades set about assembling their bridge as quickly as possible and then, immediately afterwards, the crossing began: first the hetairoi on foot, leading their horses by the bridle, and then the infantry.
The entire contingent were on the other side by afternoon and the engineers continued to work until after nightfall to recover the material on the northern bank of the river. While the men were setting up the tents, Oxhatres and his horsemen carried out a far-reaching reconnaissance mission and then returned to Alexandria to report that they had found many horse tracks and that these must have come from the army accompanying Bessus the usurper.
The King immediately called a council of his Companions, Cleitus the Black and some battalion commanders who had performed particularly well during all their recent operations. He also admitted Oxhatres and some Persian cavalry officers and this was received very coolly by Cleitus and his commanders.
‘Our Persian friends have provided us with precious help,’ he began, ‘in putting us on our enemy’s trail. Now we know where Bessus is going and we know what must be done. We have to catch him now or we never will. Ptolemy will take command of the Vanguard, together with a squadron of hetairoi and two of light assault troops and he will give chase as rapidly as possible. Oxhatres will accompany you with his division.’ At this point Ptolemy gave a slight sign of irritation that Alexander did not fail to notice. Any objections, Ptolemy?’
‘None whatsoever,’ came his prompt reply.
‘So that is settled then. You will leave immediately. Your guides know the way even through the darkness.’
Ptolemy put on his helmet and left, followed by all the other members of the council. Only the Black remained.
‘Was it strictly necessary to send those barbarians with Ptolemy?’ he asked. ‘Haven’t we always managed on our own?’
Alexander looked firmly into his eyes. ‘Yes, it was necessary, and for two reasons, Black. The first is that they know these lands like no one else, the second is that they will soon be part of our army at the same level as our cavalry and infantry.’
Cleitus lowered his head as though having received some terrible blow. ‘You are making a terrible mistake, Alexander.’
‘Why?’
‘Because sooner or later you will have to choose us or them,’ and he left without saying goodbye. Not long after, Ptolemy’s trumpets sounded the signal for his army to fall in.
42
OXHATRES IMMEDIATELY PROVED to be indispensable. He sported Scythian leather trousers and a bodice of reinforced leather with metal plates, his bow and quiver over his shoulder and a long Hyrcanian sabre hanging by his side. He rode a horse typical of the steppes – small and with a long-haired coat, but very strong.
He made sure they all had torches, then he lit his own and stared into Ptolemy’s eyes with an eloquent expression, as though to say, ‘Let’s just see if you’re as tough as you make out you are.’ He then set off at a gallop, the flaming torch held on high to illuminate the path and to be as visible as possible to the troops following on behind. As they advanced, the tracks they were following appeared progressively fresh and evident, a sign that they were gaining ground.
Ptolemy noted that the Asian horsemen never stopped at all, even urinating while still astride their mounts. When he finally gave the order to stop, to give the animals some rest and a few hours’ sleep to the men, Oxhatres shook his head to manifest his disagreement, then he let himself fall forward on to his horse’s neck and dozed for a while, as did his Hyrcanian and Bactrian horsemen. The others had just settled on the ground, wrapped up in their cloaks, when the barbarian straightened his back once more and grabbed the bridle, saying, ‘It’s late, Bessus will not be expecting us now.’ He lit a second torch from the smoking remains of his first and set off at a gallop, followed by his men. He came to a halt just before dawn, dismounted, gathered up some horse dung and showed it to Ptolemy. ‘It’s fresh . . . we’ll have them tomorrow.’
‘If we haven’t died of exhaustion before then,’ replied one of the officers of the Vanguard.
Ptolemy, who did not wish to appear any less valiant, shouted, ‘To your horses, men! Show them what you’re made of!’
Pride and self-respect were enough to awaken
some residue of energy in the tired horsemen’s limbs, but Ptolemy noted that some of them were bleeding from wounds on the inside of their thighs.
‘Perhaps you understand now why they wear trousers? Let’s move, let’s go now!’
The sun rose shortly afterwards and in its clear light their shadows lengthened along the completely deserted steppes of the plain. All the colours of this apparently godforsaken land were called up out of the darkness and at that moment of pure peace and quiet, the landscape was truly lovely. There were the small yellow flowers of the wild daisies, tufts of purple thistles and occasional silver-coloured bushes that shone like jewels on the ochre of the sandy earth. At a certain point they met a long caravan of gigantic camels – hairy and with two humps and called ‘Bactrians’ – filling the morning silence with strange, mournful bellows.
‘They are on their way to Smyrna,’ Oxhatres explained, laughing. ‘Do you want to go with them?’
Ptolemy shook his head and nodded to the barbarian to continue. His eyes were burning now because of the fatigue and he had blisters everywhere, but he would rather have died than ask to rest. Some of his men, however, had already stopped or had simply collapsed out of exhaustion. He abandoned them there where they fell, thinking he would pick them up again on the way back.
The sun had now risen high in the sky and the heat was almost unbearable. Swarms of flies arrived from who knows where and buzzed around their eyes, keen to suck up the humour, while hundreds of horseflies tormented their steeds, which stomped and neighed in pain. Ptolemy noticed that the Persian horses were impervious to these insects thanks to their thick, bristly hair and their tails that reached almost to the ground, long enough to scare off any of the parasites that approached. He thought that perhaps Alexander was right, up to a certain point, regarding the barbarians’ abilities and their knowledge of these lands and the people who inhabited them.
As he was lost in these thoughts, Oxhatres’ voice broke in as he said, ‘There’s the city,’ and pointed to a great wall in mud brickwork surrounding a grey-coloured settlement of low buildings, with just one structure that was high and imposing enough to single it out as the residence of the chief. Ptolemy nodded and the cavalry took up formation in an arc so as to surround the city in a sort of ring, so that no one could enter nor exit. Oxhatres negotiated with the enemy leader and after some time he came back to report to Ptolemy: ‘They are surprised to see us here and they have lost heart. Two satraps will hand him over to us, providing we let them go free.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Spitamenes and Datafernes.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘In the city. Bessus is with them.’
Ptolemy considered this for a moment while the flocks of sheep, that were returning now with the shepherds, found their way to the city blocked and started gathering outside the lines of soldiers, who in their turn were all covered in the dust raised by the animals. Then came Ptolemy’s decision. We accept. Get them to tell you where they will hand him over. We will leave most of the army here to avoid any surprises and we will go to the appointment.’
Oxhatres went back and spoke again for some time with the negotiators, then he signalled to Ptolemy that they had reached an agreement and so the flocks of sheep were allowed through. Together with their shepherds the animals rushed through the open gates. Soon afterwards the ramparts of the walls were teeming with people – men and women, the old and the young, all of whom wanted to see the daiwa, all decked in metal and with their helmets crested, on those enormous horses with their shining coats. They pointed them all out to one another and then they pointed to the sunset-red mountains as if to say that these men had swooped down from there like birds of prey.
Oxhatres reported the terms of the arrangement – Bessus would be handed over in a place some three stadia away from the city, at nightfall. As soon as it was dark, a group of their Sogdian horsemen would deliver the prisoner, while Spitamenes and Datafernes would retreat through the eastern gate that was to be left free for this very reason.
‘Tell him we agree,’ replied Ptolemy, thinking that he had received orders to capture Bessus and not to take the other two satraps, and so he allowed his men to eat and drink as they sat there on the ground. Then he gave orders for the eastern gate to be left free as soon as night fell.
‘Who guarantees that they will keep to the pact?’ he asked, rather worried, while they moved towards the appointed place.
Oxhatres replied, ‘I left a group of my men at the eastern gate; they all know Bessus and they will realize if he passes through that way.’
He stopped when he came within sight of an old, dried up acacia tree by the side of a pathway, and he turned to Ptolemy and said, ‘They will bring him here. All we have to do is wait.’
With nightfall the vast plain had been swallowed up by the silence, but as time slipped by the call of the crickets came ever louder, adding to the long drawn-out call of the jackals that seemed to come from nowhere and disappeared into nowhere. Perhaps an hour went by and there came first the barking of a dog and then the stamping of hooves. Oxhatres stirred and was the first to speak, ‘They’re on their way.’ Suddenly he tensed up, like a predator waiting to strike. A group of shadows appeared from the steppes – some ten or so Sogdian horsemen led by a Persian officer and with a prisoner in chains. Oxhatres blew on the glowing stump of a torch he was carrying and the flame came back to life. He held it up to the face of the prisoner, recognized it and his own features lit up in a most sinister, wolf-like grin. The horsemen who had accompanied Bessus slipped away, immediately disappearing from sight.
Oxhatres nodded to one of his men to hold the torch and to another two to hold the prisoner still.
‘What are you doing?’ shouted Ptolemy. ‘He is Alexander’s prisoner!’
He’s mine before he’s his!’ replied the Persian, with such a ferocious look in his eyes that Ptolemy did not have the courage to react. Then he slipped his dagger off his belt, its blade razor sharp, and moved towards the prisoner who clenched his jaws in preparation for all the pain that a man who has fallen into the hands of his worst enemy might expect.
Oxhatres cut all of the fastenings off his clothes and left him completely naked – there was nothing more humiliating than this for a Persian. Then he grabbed him by the hair and sliced off first his nose and then his ears. Bessus bore these horrendous mutilations with truly heroic courage, without crying or shouting, his disfigured, bloody face sitting atop his still impressive, sculpture-like body which was graced with a dramatic, frightful dignity.
‘Enough!’ shouted Ptolemy, horrified at what he had seen. ‘I won’t stand for this!’ and he jumped to the ground and pushed Oxhatres out of the way, calling a surgeon and ordering him to bandage the prisoner’s wounds so that he didn’t lose too much blood.
There was no other way for the physicians to stem the blood apart from wrapping a bandage round the prisoner’s face. Bessus was then forced to set off on foot, naked and barefoot as he was, along the pathway littered with sharp flints. Ptolemy watched him as his enemies dragged him along by a rope tied round his neck and this pathetic scene seemed to him to be a grotesque parody of a passage from Oedipus Rex, a tragedy that he had seen as a young man performed by a travelling company in his native town. Oedipus had appeared like that, a bloody bandage round his head, after having driven the point of his buckle into his eyeballs.
They walked all through the night and all of the next day. On the third day they met Alexander with the rest of the army. The King came forward, surrounded by his friends and by a group of Persian officers and stared at his enemy, the would-be Artaxerxes IV. Those Persians present who had been loyal to King Darius sent him a rain of spit, punches and other blows on his still open wounds, reducing his face to a bloody mask.
Alexander said nothing because at that moment he was avenging Darius’s death and he felt himself to be truly the only and legitimate successor to the King of Kings. He waited until th
ey had given vent to all their hatred, then he called Oxhatres. ‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘Have him taken back to Bactra and tell them to set up a trial for my return. Up until then no harm at all must befall him.’
Then he turned to Ptolemy. ‘You have accomplished an extraordinary feat. I have been told that you managed ten day’s march in three days. Will you dine with me this evening?’
‘I will,’ replied Ptolemy.
Night was falling and Alexander returned to his tent where Leptine was preparing his bath. Just as he was getting into the tub a visit from Philip, his physician, was announced.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I was about to take a bath. Is someone not well by any chance?’
‘No, Sire. Everyone’s well enough, but I have some sad news for you – Princess Stateira has miscarried.’
Alexander lowered his head, ‘Was it . . . a boy?’ he asked, his voice quavering.
‘As far as I have been told, it seems so,’ replied Philip. The King asked nothing more and not even the physician managed to say much more because a huge lump was now blocking his throat. He added only, ‘I’m sorry . . . I am truly sorry.’ And then he left.
43
THE ENTOURAGE FOLLOWING the King’s army grew in number all the time. Sometimes it encamped as far as a few days’ walk from the military and in effect it constituted a moving city with its own courts for administering justice, travelling theatres that put on local popular dramas as well as comedies or tragedies from the Greek repertory, and emporia that bought and sold all types of merchandise.
As the entourage grew, so too did the numbers of relationships between Macedonian soldiers and local girls, with the subsequent birth of many mixed race children. For all these people the young King was now a god in every respect – because of his appearance, because of his invincibility and because of his ability to overcome all natural obstacles, from the highest of mountains to the widest and fastest-flowing of rivers.