Hermolaus, however, considered himself a victim of a gratuitous, cruel and unjust humiliation and from that day onward he nurtured deep rancour against the King and even conceived of a plan to kill him. Although he would act on his own, he needed someone to help arrange his escape route. Fired by Callisthenes’ ideas on freedom, he failed to realize that he himself was not an Athenian citizen engaged in defending his city’s democracy against a tyrant, but was rather a Macedonian squire in his King’s service in a land far from home and in the midst of all sorts of danger. He also failed to realize that Callisthenes himself was dependent on Alexander, that the historian received from the King the food, the clothes and the blankets that sustained him and kept him warm through the cold nights up on the plateau.
With all the thoughtlessness that is typical of young men, Hermolaus spoke to a friend of his by the name of Epimenides, who promptly spoke about it with a friend – Charikles – whom he trusted blindly and who in his turn spoke with Epimenides’ brother – Eurylochus – and this last, much frightened, sought to dissuade them in every way possible.
‘Are you all mad?’ he asked one day when they were gathered in a tent. ‘You cannot do this.’
‘Of course we can,’ replied Hermolaus, ‘and we will be doing the world a favour – freeing it of a hateful tyrant.’
Eurylochus shook his head, ‘It was your fault – you know perfectly well that the first strike is the King’s prerogative!’
He had almost fallen from his horse, how could he have struck?’
‘Alexander never falls from his horse, stupid, and in any case, how do you think you’re going to do it? It’s not easy to kill a King, you know.’
‘Oh, but it is. Just think about how King Philip died, and he was much better than this one here, and no one has ever discovered who the assassin was.’
‘But out here we’re on our own, surrounded by barbarians and by the desert. They’ll come looking for us straight away. And then, if you really want to know, I have to tell you that there are already rumours doing the rounds about Callisthenes, rumours that would make you both prime suspects. Someone heard you asking him what one would have to do to become the most famous man in the world and he apparently replied, “Kill the most powerful man in the world.” You are fortunate that these words have not yet reached the King’s ears, but you cannot tempt fate too long without retribution.’ He turned to Epimenides now and said, ‘As for you, that’s quite enough. I am your big brother and I order you to forget these wretches. And you two, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll forget it all. Behave respectably and perhaps all these rumours will fade away into nothing.’
Hermolaus shrugged his shoulders. ‘I do whatever I wish, and if you don’t intend to help me then that doesn’t matter, I have other friends. It will be as easy as this,’ and he spat a gob of saliva on the ground before turning his back and walking away.
The young conspirators waited for Alexander and his men to set out on an operation against a group of rebels; this way his death would appear to be the work of an enemy that had somehow infiltrated the camp. Then they debated the day and hour.
*
When the King left the palace at Bactra, Roxane embraced him hard and said, ‘Don’t go!’
‘You are making great progress with your Greek,’ replied Alexander. ‘When you have learned it, I will teach you the Macedonian dialect as well.’
‘Don’t go!’ repeated Roxane, her voice full of anguish.
Alexander gave her a kiss, ‘But why shouldn’t I go?’
The girl looked into his eyes and through her tears she said, ‘Two days. I see . . . darkness.’
The King shook his head as though to chase away some irritating thought, then his attendants laced up his armour and accompanied him into the courtyard where his horsemen awaited, ready for the off.
Two days went by and the King, worried by Roxane’s omen, spoke with Aristander. ‘What do you think it might mean?’
‘The women of this country practise divination and magic, they are able to feel menace when it is abroad, and what is more, Roxane loves you.’
‘What should I do?’
‘Do not sleep tonight. Read, drink, but keep your wits about you. You must remain awake.’
‘I will do as you say,’ replied Alexander and he waited for darkness to fall.
50
PTOLEMY SAW THAT A lamp was still burning in Alexander’s tent and went in, saluted as he did so by the two squires who were on duty that night.
‘Why are you still awake?’ he asked. ‘It’s already the second watch.’
‘I am not sleepy. I was reading.’
Ptolemy took a look, ‘India by Ctesias. You really can’t wait, can you?’
‘No. And when we have taken India, then we will be able to say that all Asia is in our hands. We will return then and we will begin to change the world, Ptolemy.’
‘Do you really believe that the world can be changed? Do you think we can ever succeed in such an undertaking?’
Alexander lifted his eyes from the papyrus scroll that he was holding open before him, ‘Yes, I do. Have you forgotten that evening in the sanctuary of Dionysius at Mieza?’
‘I do remember. We were youngsters, full of enthusiasm, of hopes, of dreams . . .’
‘Those youngsters have now conquered the world’s largest empire – two thirds of the earth – and they have founded many cities of Greek culture and with Greek constitutions in the heart of Asia. Do you think this has come about by chance? Do you think there is no meaning in all this? No purpose?’
‘I would like to think there is. In any case, you can always count on my friendship, on my loyalty. I will never abandon you – you may be certain of this. As for all the rest, there are certain moments when I myself don’t know what to think . . .’
At that moment Hermolaus entered. Peritas growled and Ptolemy turned towards him. ‘Are you on watch tonight?’
‘Yes, Heghemon,’ replied the boy.
‘So why were you outside?’
‘The King was not sleeping and I did not want to disturb him.’
‘You do not disturb me,’ said Alexander. ‘You may remain, if you wish.’
The young man sat in a corner of the tent. Ptolemy looked at him, and then at Alexander – he sensed something strange going on, an impalpable atmosphere of tension and repressed energy.
‘He’s the boy I had punished the other day, after the hunt.’
‘Do you resent it, boy?’ Ptolemy asked the squire, seeing the dark expression on his face. ‘You mustn’t, you know. If only you knew how many times I took a beating when I was your age. King Philip himself kicked me up the backside, and he even had me whipped once when I lamed one of his horses, but I never let it get to me because he was a great man and he did it for my own good.’
‘Times have changed,’ said Alexander. ‘These lads aren’t like we were. They’re . . . different. Or perhaps it’s us, perhaps we’re getting on. I’m thirty years old . . . would you credit it?’
‘If it comes to that, I passed that mark some years ago. Good. I’ll continue with my inspection rounds. Can I take the dog with me? He’s good company,’ at which Peritas wagged his tail.
‘Take him. He’s putting on weight and a bit of exercise will do him good.’
‘I’m off then. If you need me just call.’
Alexander nodded and returned to his reading, every so often taking a sip from the cup on the table.
Hermolaus was sitting there before him in silence, his jaws clenched tight, his eyes lowered. Now and then the King lifted his head from the scroll and looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face. Eventually he said to him, ‘You hate me, don’t you? You hate me because I had you beaten.’
‘That’s not true, Sire. I. . .’ but it was clear that he was lying and this convinced the King that the boy was a bad one because he had neither the courage to manifest his hatred nor to relinquish it.
‘Forget it, it matt
ers not.’
Almost all the night passed in this way – a cold, empty, useless night. The end of the watch was approaching now and dawn would soon be breaking. Hermolaus was tormented by doubts and continued to look at the King who kept lowering his head as though about to fall asleep.
Eurylochus too had stayed up all night because he had realized that all three of the squires on watch were conspirators and he was sure they would decide to act, all the more so because Commander Ptolemy was in the habit of taking Peritas with him when it was his turn to inspect the guard. On seeing that the light in the royal tent kept burning, and that the King had not retired to bed despite the fact that there was no imminent danger of enemy incursions, he was sure that something terrible was about to happen: perhaps Alexander had discovered their plan. Perhaps Hermolaus and the others were about to strike. To think he had believed that words alone were enough to save those wretches. He saw Ptolemy coming to the end of his inspection and decided to speak to him, ‘Heghemon
‘What’s wrong, lad?’
‘I . . . I must speak to you.’
‘I am listening.’
‘Not here.’
‘In my tent then,’ and he led him there and showed him the way in. ‘So? What’s all this secrecy about?’
‘Listen, Heghemon,’ began Eurylochus. ‘My brother Epimenides, Hermolaus and other lads . . . how to put it . . . they have rather strange ideas . . . you know that Hermolaus together with my brother and some of their friends spend time with Callisthenes, and he’s filled their heads with all sorts of stupid talk about democracy and tyranny and so . . .’
‘So?’ Ptolemy asked, his eyebrows bunching.
‘They are only lads, Heghemon,’ continued Eurylochus, no longer able to hold back the tears. ‘Perhaps they’ve called it off this time, perhaps the King suspected something . . . I don’t know . . . I decided to speak to you, so that you might give them a good scare and then they’ll get these stupid ideas out of their heads. It’s all Callisthe-nes’ fault, can’t you see? They would never have thought of it. Even if the King did have Hermolaus beaten over that matter of the boar, I don’t know if he would ever actually . . . but then you never know
‘Oh, by Zeus!’ exclaimed Ptolemy, then he shouted, ‘Peritas! Run! Run to Alexander!’ and the dog set off running as fast as his legs could carry him and he burst into the tent just as his master was nodding off, his head on the table, and Hermolaus’s hand was moving stealthily to his belt, under his tunic. Peritas charged him to the ground and bit into the hand that held the dagger.
Ptolemy burst in immediately afterwards and managed to grab the dog just in time before he bit straight through the boy’s hand. Alexander was woken suddenly from his dozing by all that noise and got to his feet, unsheathing his sword.
‘They were out to kill you,’ said Ptolemy, struggling for breath as he disarmed Hermolaus.
The boy writhed and kicked, shouting, ‘Damned tyrant! You bloodthirsty monster! Your hands are stained with blood! You killed Parmenion and Philotas, you are an assassin!’
The other two who were on guard outside tried to slip away, but Ptolemy called the trumpeter and had him sound the call for the shieldsmen, and so the squires were stopped immediately as they sought to make their escape. Eurylochus was still crying as he arrived at a run and pleaded, ‘Do not harm them, Heghemon! Don’t hurt them. They will do nothing more, I promise you. Give them to me, I’ll punish them, I’ll have them beaten, but do not harm them, I beg you!’
Alexander left, pale with rage, while Hermolaus continued shouting all types of insult and offence in the midst of the camp that was now seething with soldiers running from all directions.
‘What are the just deserts of these men, Sire?’ Ptolemy asked, using the ritual formula.
‘Let the army decide their fate,’ replied Alexander, and he retired to his tent.
The military judges assembled immediately and the squires underwent a trial which lasted all that day and all through the following night – they were asked to corroborate one another’s stories, led into contradicting themselves and their fellow conspirators, beaten and whipped until they all confessed. None of them, not even under torture, mentioned Callisthenes, but Eurylochus, who had been spared for having saved the King’s life, continued to say that those lads would never have thought up such a plan if Callisthenes had not filled their heads with his ideas. He continued to implore right up to the very end for them to be saved, but it was all in vain.
At dawn, a grey, drizzling daybreak, they were all stoned to death.
Eumenes, who witnessed both the trial and the execution, went to Callisthenes’ tent and found him there, trembling and as pale as a corpse, wringing his hands in anguish.
‘Your name was mentioned,’ he said.
Callisthenes collapsed into a chair with a deep, rattling sigh. ‘So this is the end, is it not?’
Eumenes did not reply.
‘This is the end for me, is it not?’ he shouted.
‘Your ghosts have acquired physical form, Callisthenes, the bodies of those lads, who lie now under a heap of stones. A man like you . . . didn’t you realize that words can kill just as easily as the sword?’
‘Will they torture me? I’ll never hold out, I won’t resist. They can make me say whatever they want!’ Callisthenes shouted as he sobbed.
Eumenes lowered his head in embarrassment. ‘I am sorry. I only wanted to tell you that they will come before long. You don’t have much time,’ and he left under the beating rain.
Callisthenes looked around in desperation, searching for a weapon, a blade, but the only things available were rolls of papyrus, piled everywhere, his works, his History of Alexander’s Expedition. Then he suddenly remembered something he should have destroyed a long time ago, but for some reason had kept. He went to a chest, rummaged through it, breathless in fear and anxiety, and finally he held firmly in his hands a metal box. He opened it and inside was a small sheet of papyrus and then, wrapped up in a cloth, a glass phial filled with a white powder. These words were written on the sheet:
No one can control the incubation of diseases, but this medicine gives the same symptoms.
One tenth of leptón gives high fever, vomit and diarrhoea for two or three days. Then there is an improvement and it seems the patient is on the mend. On the fourth day the fever rises once more and immediately afterwards comes death.
Callisthenes burned the papyrus and then swallowed the entire contents of the phial. When the guards arrived, they found him collapsed among the scrolls of his History, his eyes wide open and full of terror, staring into nothing.
51
THE COAST OF PHOCIS was clearly visible now, looming out of the evening mist, and the clouds in the sky and the waves in the sea were ablaze with the colours of the sunset. The boat sailed forward on a wind that blew from the Gulf of Aegina. Aristotle moved towards the bow to watch the manoeuvres as they moored and shortly afterwards he disembarked in the small harbour at Cyrra where seamen, port labourers and vendors of sacred objects were all busy at work.
‘Want a sheep to offer in sacrifice?’ one of them asked. ‘Here they cost half of what they want at Delphi. Just take a look at this little lamb – four obols, that’s all. A pair of pigeons then?’
‘I need a donkey,’ replied the philosopher.
A donkey?’ the merchant retorted in amazement. ‘You’ve got to be joking . . . who on earth would ever offer a donkey in—’
‘I do not intend to sacrifice it. I wish to ride it.’
‘Ah! That’s different then. In that case come right this way; I’ve got this old friend, a donkey specialist, and he has the most docile creatures you could ever ask for.’ The merchant had already realized that the man before him was a scholar, a man of letters who was certainly poorly versed in matters equestrian.
They negotiated a price for three days’ hire and a deposit to be refunded on return of the animal, and thus Aristotle set off for the sanctuary of Apollo, un
accompanied. It was late now and usually travellers preferred to climb up through the shining silver of the olive wood in the morning, in the full light of day, rather than in the darkness that transformed the centuries-old trunks into threatening, disturbing shapes. The calm gait of the philosopher’s mount meant that he was able to think a little as the last rays of the setting sun warmed his limbs, somewhat cold as a result of the evening crossing and the wind that had evidently blown down across the first snows up on Mount Cithaeron.
He thought of the many years he had dedicated to his investigation of the death of King Philip, seeking out the elusive truth.
The news from Asia had not been encouraging for some time – Alexander seemed to have forgotten his teachings, at least as far as politics were concerned. He had put the barbarians on the same level as the Greeks, he dressed like a Persian despot, demanded proskynesis from those who approached him and gave credit to the rumours his mother Olympias had deliberately spread regarding his divine origin.
Poor King Philip! But it was said that it was the destiny of all great men to be the bastard offspring of a god or a goddess: Hercules, Castor and Pollux, Achilles, Theseus . . . Alexander could not be an exception to this rule. This was understandable, indeed it was only to be expected. And yet, despite all this he missed Alexander and would have given anything to be able to see him once more. He wondered what he might look like, whether he still had that curious way of tilting his head towards his right shoulder when he was listening to or saying something that touched his soul.