Alexander wasn't permitted any visitors; he was kept under close watch by Bagoas, who spent many nights and days with Alexander during the slow journey of detoxication. Alexander hadn't had a drink in a week of the killing of the Cleitus, and was looking far worse than when he had been. He was gaunt, sickly thin and pale. His lips still hadn't healed properly from the blistering snow, and now in the heat he had welts on his body. Many nights he would cry for a drink, and no-one would listen. No-one would come to his aid, except some nights, Bagoas would stay up with him, put a damp cloth to his forehead and whisper comforting words to Alexander. All for which, Alexander ignored.
Bagoas was hit more than once during this time, and Alexander became just a shell, he was neither the old Alexander nor the tyrannical drunkard. He was, just a sad and confused, and terribly ill man, which Bagoas did take pity on.
"Why isn't anyone listening to me?" Alexander cried out, banging his fists against the bed post, as Bagoas tried to calm him down.
"Alexander, we are listening to you" Bagoas would tell him kindly, "It's just, we fear for your safety, now. You're getting better… another letter from your mother arrived today…"
"And that, I suppose, is what is meant to comfort me?" Alexander bickered, "I care not for my mother, Bagoas" Bagoas sighed; he had heard this argument many times before. He stood with the letter in his hand, and Alexander kept looking at it anxiously, before he finally gave in.
"Fine, read it to me" Alexander told him, and Bagoas looked down at the foreign language before him, knitting his brows in an awkward manner as he perused the document.
"I cannot" Bagoas muttered, "I cannot read something personal…" he offered, but Alexander grunted angrily and grabbed the letter off him. He then looked at Bagoas, pursing his lips together,
"Well, if you cannot read it to me, than you may as well busy yourself with something else?" Alexander commented spiritedly but Bagoas didn't see it that way and left Alexander's tent promptly.
Alexander played with the papyrus in his hands, feeling it in his fingers before he turned it over and looked at the seal embossed in the back.
"My father's seal she still uses" he scoffed, "yet I am the son of Zeus she claims? Ridiculous woman" he muttered, peeling red wax off the back of the letter. He unfolded it carefully and opened it out so it sat on his lap.
"Alexander" he read aloud glancing down at the scrawled tiny writing of his mother, "My son, I pray you are well for I am not. Things here have turned so violent since the death of Attalus, that there is talk of revolt. People blame me for Phillip's death, still and now they believe their King, which is you, will never come home to them. Women of the town have received letters from husbands and brothers, all telling them that they are on some never-ending quest for their King. Is this true? Did you intentionally go farther than what you were expected?"
"They only ever see the journey…" Alexander muttered, "Never the prize at the end" Upset, Alexander dropped the letter and curled up against the pillows in his room. Why did everyone think him such a failure, when he had taken Macedonia's world to greater heights and its people to bigger, wealthier cities?
"I only ever think of you, my son. My golden light of beauty, my one hope in this world for peace and unity. Come home Alexander, please come home"