Alexandros: Private Thoughts, 1
Author: Lysis –Revised (Copyright © December 2012,
Originally posted 2006 by Selket -Elizabeth C. Owens)
A story of Alexander as he has just come to the throne - told as though he were dictating it to Peritas, perhaps. (This is material I cut from my novel and thought I would share it.)
One
To my rooms I have consigned myself for the evening. My new rooms of State are indeed lavish, but void of my boyhood comforts. Great clothes chests full of furs to pile upon the bed in the depths of winter, and fur edged mantles. Rich furnishings which come from Khmet, Rhodes, Athens, Persia and gold, so much gold, that my eye becomes sore beneath its steady glow. I never knew that shining material could cause one to tear up in self-defense.
My laughter echoes the room as though it is drunk itself on this new power. I recall my teacher Leonidas and his nightly raids of my clothes' chests when I was a boy. What would he say now to such largess? No doubt some smooth, subtle rebuke to me on waste. I think I will send the man a rich cloak all lined in bear fur with a great-jeweled clasp. It will have garnets from India and amethysts from Bactria upon it, yellow golden citrines and Khmet's famed lapis. I will design the clasp myself, a great barbaric thing which will shout out to all the low tastes of his unfortunate foster child. I chuckle at my musings; we shall see how well he wears his austerity. Peritas, my dog, who has been lying near the warm hearth open his eyes and studies me anxiously. He has been locked up here within for an hour at least and captor to my inconsistent moods. I can see he wonders at my sanity. It is clear in the tenor of his gentle black gaze. He is a good dog, a wonderful god, all soul and great heart.
Without my closest confidant from boyhood, Hephaistion, son of Amyntor, to share my thoughts, musings and ill-timed laughter these things have fallen upon Peritas' smooth brown head.
"It is nothing, Peritas." I tell him soothingly. "I am merely entertaining a torment toward Leonidas." His head bobs in agreement and he draws his eyes to the smallest slits as though his thoughts too center on the man. Poor Peritas, he too often has been the recipient of my woeful tales of difficulties at Leonidas' hands as a boy. However, to do the man justice, his governance has brought me to the man I am today. Hard work and struggle are the fabric of great heroes such as my ancestor, Herakles. I'll not distain such ways.
I am most lazy. An unkingly activity tonight as I lie on this great new bed that has an immense black, silvery, and ivory headboard. It is dressed with cool linens that shine like foam upon the sea, or so I am told. Nearkhos, another boyhood friend, a Kretan by descent, speaks of these things of Ocean and many far-flung seas; I've yet to see such a thing, but am sure I shall. The bed curtains wear Macedonian sunbursts my mother worked in her own hand in thread of gold. The first night I slept in here, Hephaistion was caught in them, accidentally, and I would not free him from them unless he offered a kiss as payment. They are now the richest bed curtains in all Hellas as they have been bought with his lips. More rich coverings dress the sheets. The blue and red woven coverlet that had long lain on my bed has been replaced with a great splendid swathe of red and gold in the softest of materials edged with white fox tails. It is well to lie upon and Hephaistion found it smooth enough for sleep even on the floor, as he lies barring the door on nights he is not on duty but in my rooms. I smile still thinking on the smile on his face as he rubbed the silky fibers against his tanned skin and the delight in his eyes glowing like a child's when they have been told they are going to a festival. Yet, little else is left me. My mother consigned the rest to the children's nursery. I brood a bit; I miss my pair of little lamps with their painted tales of Herakles. The lamp I read by now is gold and ivory, a handsome thing, to be sure, for a gold and ivory Artemis holds the moon full in her hand for me to read by, but I would have Herakles to light my reading. He is whom I have known since a child. Leaning back across a gold tasseled pillow I take Hephaistion's little lion into my hand and kiss it. The lion is always with me, even now, my side he does not leave, save for when he is with Hephaistion. It is something I cherish as much as I cherish its giver. So, here I lay surrounded by gold, ivory, rare woods, precious materials. Yet, I am the most ungrateful of sons, yes, this is what my mother said when I told her to touch nothing of my things, that I would live as I long have in the room of my youth. She laughed, truly it was a rather merry sound, for her eyes twinkled, and she pinched my cheek, and turned to her ladies and within an hour of the water clock I was transformed, at least my rooms where. The truth is I would be happier in my tent among my men, but for now, I reside for reasons of State in the palace. Antipater has guided me wisely in this, as there are still delegations to receive from Athens and other polis with regard to my Father's death. It is my duty as Basileos to see that he is honored properly.
I settle back hoping sleep will come on it does not. My hand is restless and finds my bed box. I pull my Iliad forth and as I do, cold iron brushes my fingertips. With a sigh, I close my eyes, as my fingers explore my dagger, my protection. So many kings of Macedon have died by violence, that it is now custom to keep a dagger beneath our pillow. I test the point and sharpness with my fingers, I suck the torn skin, and a single drop stains the snowy linen near my throat. It is sharp, it is at the ready should invaders make it this far. However, I will be ready for them no one shall take from me what is mine, I smile on the thought, my hands on the dagger again, no one.
I pull out Iliad, but find I cannot read. It is all too new. I am now Basileos, of all of Macedonia and Hellas. I, a twenty-year old soldier am ruler of all the might of the great army of my father, Philippos, son of Perdikkas. I have not, until this moment asked myself how this truly sits with me.
I came to the throne from behind a bier, my fathers'. He was murdered and I, his son... I his son who fought with him, who saved his life… who lead his army to victory against other Hellenes, whom he twice tried to kill, I Alexandros, his son …. I pause as my heart is beating fast, reaching into my throat, I must find his true killers.
Were they Persian, Hellene, or perhaps Macedonian? Who besides Pausinas, his commander of the guard wielded that knife that slammed into his ribs taking his life's breath? Who indeed?
Continue to Part 2…