Alexandros: Private Thoughts, 3

Author: Lysis –Revised (Copyright © December 2012,

Originally posted 2006 by Selket -Elizabeth C. Owens)

Picks up from Part 2.


Three

My father lay quiet, at last, his spirit succored and buried in his tomb with the splendor of Macedonian gold glittering in the eternal dark surrounding him. It was only right - fitting that he, such a great ruler should feel comfort from the gold that was now a sign of Macedon's wealth and pride, along with its invincible army. The long years of patronage had been buried with him, in the form of shimmery, delicate crowns of golden wheat stalks, and laurel wreaths. Now he would spend his days with the gods in feasting and enjoying the pleasures of the afterlife. With my own hand I had placed his favorite gold and silver wine krater and cups in one corner of his tomb, after I had placed his weapons near his sarcophagus.

My sister, Kleopatra, placed our father's most favored wine cup, of pure, chased gold, bearing the image of great bulls on both sides, next to his gold and lapis inlaid dagger, which never left his side, even while he lay in the arms of Morpheus. Nightly they would rest beneath his pillow. The dagger to protect his life, and the cup - was it not quick thinking to have a cup so handy should he thirst in the night? As a boy I would laugh at his quick wit. As a man grown, and King myself, I understand his message. The cup would rest beneath his pillow close to him so that he might not forget what the gods had given him, and the dagger to remind him how quickly it could be lost. This is what he told me when he made me regent, when I was but sixteen summers, while he went north on campaign.

Now they reside next to the gold larnax bearing his bones.

My sister, Kleopatra's eyes were luminous with tears and her lovely face reddened from weeping. She, so lately made a bride, now was burying her father. I took her hand, small and fragile in mine and squeezed it gently. "He is at peace now, dear sister." She leaned over and kissed my cheek. Her silky, dark auburn hair which escaped the confines of her himation brushed my face. The scent of roses hung about her. Never again would the perfume of roses be sweet for me – they became flowers of mourning. I gave her into her husband's care, my uncle, Alexandros of Epiros, and turned back toward my father's tomb and set a pair of my father's greaves at the door of his tomb. For this was what Philippos of Macedon was, before he was the king and Hegemon of the Hellenes, he was, as I am, a warrior. He bore the tattoo of the Dioscuri upon his person. In his youth he was initiated into their mysteries, as was I. As my eyes seek the deepest recesses of his tomb, they find most easily, most quickly these things, his swords, his shield, his lances; they are as much him as his favorite wine cup.

"Go to the Gods, father, for now you are one with them. May they take your pain and transform it into joy. May you know only the grant of your desires in the peace of Elysium, and forget the strife of this world." I prayed softly, as I turned, torch in hand after pressing close the great door on his tomb. I let fall the spray of white roses, clutched in my hands, at the foot of the closed door. I found myself standing alone for a moment, as the mist of early morning rose up around me. The fire from his pyre was smoldering red-orange still. It would not be doused with wine, but rather left to burn itself out.

I thought myself back a spare handful of sad hours, standing beside my mother, at his pyre. She wore her black widows' weeds a little too sleekly, and I kept a sharp eye for her tears. His other wives, mourned him in a more seemly manner. Their tear stained faces showed pale against the bitter darkness of their mourning robes. Their lamentations rose wild and high toward Olympus, and their long black lined eyes bled with sorrow. I cannot say for some, if it was any more real than my mother's, but Eurydike, his young new wife, her eyes were stained red from weeping, and my heart burned in my breast for her sorrow. Whether she had loved him, I know not, for she was still much a child, having known but fifteen summers, but now….? All I need do was slide my eyes toward my mother and watch the steeling glint in those grey orbs. There was nothing soft there when they would alight on Eurydike; they were all hardness and cruelty. Were my mother's eyes to speak words, they would say to her "follow your king onto his pyre until you are white ash, for that is all the justice I will allow you, here. For Macedon is now my son's."

I know my mother well. I blink, thinking for a moment, as a memory long forgotten invades, and I sway against its images. Hephaistion, sensing the change in me, turns and smiles patting my shoulder, we exchange glances, his is soft and sad. He knew my father as his King, as his general and as a man. He respected the King; loved the general and as to the man - he knew his foibles and weaknesses, but honored him still; as to my mother, he is always elegant in his courtesy and constant to do her the honor, she is due. He does not treat with her as he would his own mother, as she is his queen, but he wishes her well, and at times I can hear them laugh together when I come into her rooms, to find him already there with a fist full of bright flowers to grace her dressing tables. Hephaistion has been kissed upon the brow by Apollo he has gifted him with a graceful voice, and a gentle glow shines from his eyes when it pleases him to do so. My mother has become his unwilling conquest.

Yet, do not mistake me, neither are they trusting friends. She wants no other in my heart. It ought to be the province of her alone, and will not forgive Hephaistion for usurping her place. She cannot grasp that I can love them both, and I do, though differently.

She knows I am safe with Hephaistion, so she wishes him well, and has been good to him, especially when he came as a child of eleven summers, to live in the palace. However, now he is a man, and she never fails to remind me, in her subtle, voiceless manner, that he holds much power with me, perhaps too much for her to be comfortable with. She reminds me, he is not of royal blood. Yet in truth, I know it is more than that. "Let him be your confidant, the Plato to your Dion, but forsake the role of Akhilleus with him." Her voice, a bare whisper trying to banish the promise given at my birth curls in my ear with these words. But the smoke from her offering fire swirls heavenward, and she can hear Apollo's voice in the wind, and cries while she holds a curling lock of my hair, that she clipped when I was a child. She keeps this lock in a small alabaster urn, and has taken also a lock of Hephaisiton's to place therein, and set them together upon her altar. This urn she protects with the strongest magic.

We both, Hephaistion and I will feel more at ease when we are away from Macedon. She, in turn, studies him wondering at length what hold he has over me, for she knows it is more than the physical, and I believe she is envious. That my father could not grasp it, I pardon him, he, I think did not ever truly love another, but I think there was a place in him that sought and craved affection, Black Kleitos' red rimmed eyes and loud sobs attest to this, but my mother knows what love is, yet in her hands it has become grasping and greedy. It was not always this way. When I was a boy, she was the best of mothers, but as I grew older and my troubles with my father began, she, in her fears, changed, and grew cagey. The crimes she committed against me are silent ones, they have pierced the hidden recesses in my heart, for there are times I cannot still believe they happened. But my wariness around her tells me what I would forget, and at times almost do. Still, in all I know, she has always loved me, but not perhaps as a mother should, especially when I was older. I will not think on these troubling thoughts now.

And I think on my father, again. We had been enemies, yea, this is true, but we had always been father and son, and I would not take from him the glory he had so hard earned. But did I breathe more easily? Did my mind rest a bit more at peace knowing Philippos of Macedon, Hegemon of the Greeks was no more? How many men were wondering on this? And how many could guess the truth. I was now the new King of Macedon. Did I welcome the passing of power to my hand?

Yes, my Soul had answered for me, long before the words left my lips. I would not disguise the joy, that rose constant in my breast, with false humility when my dreams were finally taking form. I would not be so disdainful of the gods who had granted me them. Yet, I knew I would miss the man, the father of the child I once had been. Then I turned myself and stood before the mute doors of his tomb. Did I truly, was I still lying to myself?

I could feel still the sting of his hand against my face, when he cracked his fist against my cheek, when we fought with vicious words, just a bare six full moons ago. Twice within the last few years, he had sought to kill me. The first time at his wedding, and then again, this time, truly I believed his intent was clear, as he was not drunk when he came to my guarded chamber, after I had been betrayed for my bid with Pixadoros. I remember still the cold rasp of the blade of his sword against my throat.

"I should end this now, for such a son as you, is no son at all. Go to your faithless witch of a mother." He stood before me, and swung the blade of his sword in my direction. I did not bow my head, if I was to die, it would be proudly, not as his son, but as the man I knew myself to be. His hand stopped just short of allowing the sharp edge to cut too deeply. I could still, deep in the night, recall the cold spill of my blood as it fell upon my breast. I recall my words to him, "If you are to do it, then do it, do not think to frighten me with your sword play. I would not do the same to you. I would swing, and your head would roll out there upon the shining floor." He then struck me such a blow in the face that it rocked me off my feet, and left me locked in my chambers, a prisoner. But that was not the cruelest blow, oh no, for my father knew how to bite deep, until the cry left one's lips unbidden.

He had brought me before him later in the day, and then called in the guard to bring their prisoner. I'll never forget the gasp that left my lips and the way his thick one's formed that triumphant smile, as Hephaistion entered between two armed guards.

Hephaistion his nose crusted with blood came forward calmly one would not have thought him in peril, so dignified was his bearing. At times it seems nothing can disturb his deep composure. He is wiser than I in such ways. I have often told him of his, he is the stillness that my Soul seeks. My father knew how to wound me where it would not show. I crumbled at the first sight of him. My voice froze in my mouth, only my miserable eyes, which beseeched him for Hephaistion, could answer his words. So with words unspoken, or swords not raised, did he win a battle? But I hid away my pride, and made ready to meet him. When next we came upon the field that time, I took the prize.

And of Hephaistion? After all my father had done to him, he still honored his King. Hephaistion is above all things a Macedonian. He is the man I honor above all else, even the gods, though I would only keep this deep in the most secret places of my Soul, lest they become jealous and seek to harm him.

One day, when I am writing my memoirs, I will write the truth of my father's actions; they were not the mere scolding of which Philotas might have one think, for Philotas was there and witnessed it all. True, my father exiled my friends, but he showed his distain of the gods, when later he had brought before him my emissary who acted for me in Caria Thettalos the tragedian. Thettalos is known not only as a crown winner of the Lenia and other contests, but as a man in the sacred service of the god Dionysius. The god protects Thettalos. That my father should transgress in this and harm him, is truly to me at least, hubris. . I begged on bended knee for Thettalos' life, for he had thrown himself in the way of the Fates in my service. True, my voice, I kept silent lest it condemn Hephaistion when my father had him brought forth. For had I opened my mouth to speak against my father's ill use of Hephaistion, I would have condemned us both to the cross, and this my father knows. Perhaps it was his deepest wish. This I will never know, but it wounded me deeply. And this Hephaistion understands, but he is also solider, he knows the risks of such a life. However, Thettalos is not, he is a servant of the god, and I begged most piteously for Thettalos' life, when all the while Philippos had known he would spare him. How could I not beg for this good man? This servant of Dionysus, it would be hubris to allow such a cruel deed to be done. Do I set myself higher than the gods, when casting my eyes upon the sufferings of my friends? For Hephaistion I would give my soul, can I offer less than my life for Thettalos, who also is a good friend? My father is a man who will always steal the scene if he is able, caring little how it might look to an artist; for he is naught but an amateur – he has no art in his soul only baseness. . However, that was only for show, to prove he could bend me to his will. His actions with Hephaistion, I will think on no more. I know my father, and his works that day, were not a pretty jest to bring bright cheers to an entranced audience. No, the Chorus sang long before of such sorrows to be, and I knowing well the signs, heard from the god walk the voice of Apollo Loxias in my ears. He whispered to be watchful of the snake that lies as though asleep, for there upon my father's brow was the cruel desire for that I could not but be moved, and for that, I'll not forgive him.

I turn toward the sound of the mourners and the wind blows the scent from the pyre toward me. Underlying the stench of burnt flesh, that not even the richest of spices can mask, some odor from the ash on the pyre calls to me.

Continue to Part 4.