Alexander the Great Page 11

  The next day, as Tahmineh had promised, his steed, Rakhsh, was brought to him. Rostam was overjoyed. He saddled the horse himself, groomed its sleek body, and held its beloved head in his arms. Now he was longing to be off again. He kissed his new wife, gazed at her lovely face and caressed her hair, and told her he must go. And, so he should not be weakened by her beauty, he leaped onto his horse and galloped away.

  As Rostam rode on to Zabulistan, he decided to tell no one of his marriage.

  In due course, Tahmineh gave birth to a son. Straight away, he looked like his father, and was so full of smiles, that they called him Sohrab. Sohrab was a miracle. When he was only a month old, he was like a twelve-year-old; when he was five, he was already a warrior, skilled in the arts of war. When he was ten, no one in the land was stronger than he.

  One day, Sohrab came to his mother. “I am taller and stronger than any man in the city, yet I do not know who my father is. I order you to tell me!”

  Tahmineh smiled. Sohrab reminded her so much of Rostam. “Don’t be angry, my dear son. Be joyful, for you are of the seed of Saum and Zal and thy forefather was Neriman. Your father is Rostam the Pehliva – the like of which has never been created by God.” Then she put the onyx bracelet on his arm and gave him many jewels which his father had left for his child. But Tahmineh said, “Sohrab, you must keep this a secret. Our kingdom of Turan lies under the power of the terrible Iranian, Afrasiab. Afrasiab fears your father’s might and power. If he ever hears you are the son of Rostam, he will slay you.

  “Mother! You should have told me before. Everyone has heard of Rostam the Pehliva. I will lead an army of Turks against the Iranians and overthrow Afrasiab. Then I shall give Father, the Crown of Kaianides and you will be Queen of Iran and Turan. Everyone will be united! O Mother, I pant with longing to ride into battle and find my father.”

  Afrasiab had always been afraid that Rostam, the Pehliva, might one day challenge his authority and take Iran for himself. When he heard that a Turkish army led by a mighty young warrior called Sohrab, was planning to attack Iran, he devised a secret plan. “If Rostam can be persuaded to fight on our side, and if he and this young Turk Sohrab can be tricked into combat, perhaps Sohrab will kill Rostam. I can then slay Sohrab, thus disposing of both!”

  But Rostam had quarrelled with the Iranians and, at first, refused to fight. Afrasiab sent messengers to plead with him. They told him about Sohrab, the young Turk who was conquering everyone in his path. “Do not let Iran suffer. Iran has done no wrong, and does not deserve to perish at the hands of an upstart. Do not let Iran say that Rostam fled in the face of the enemy; that you were afraid to fight a beardless boy.”

  The cymbals clashed and the war cries sounded. Sohrab led his army into Iran slaughtering and leaving a fiery path of destruction in his wake. The Iranians were terrified. “Who can stand against this Turk?” they wailed. “Call for Rostam, the Pehliva! Unto Rostam alone must we Iranians look for help in this danger!”

  At last Rostam agreed to return to the palace with them and pledged to fight for Iran.

  The grey mist of dawn hung over the River Oxus. The armies were hushed with sleep, waiting for the morning when battle would begin. Only Sohrab, in the Tartar camp, had been sleepless. Finally he rose before the sun was up and put on his armour. Taking a captive Iranian called Hujir, he went to a peak overlooking the Iranian camp. Sohrab wanted to know if Rostam was among them. Hujir would recognize him.

  “If you answer my questions truthfully,” he told Hujir, “I will set you free.”

  They looked upon the tents spread below. One was of gold brocade, adorned with the skins of leopards, and guarded by 100 war elephants. Within its entrance was a throne of turquoise, and overhead floated a standard of violet, with a moon and a sun embroidered at its centre. “Whose tent is that?” he asked.

  “It belongs to Kai Kavoos,” replied Hujir.

  Above another tent floated a standard with an elephant. “This is the tent of Tus, son of Nuder,” said Hujir.

  “And that one?” Sohrab pointed to a tent with a golden flag of gold, whose ensign was a lion, around which stood eighty mighty warriors.

  “That belongs to Gudarz the brave, and the warriors are his sons, all sprung from his loins.”

  Then he saw a tent of green. Before its doors was the flag of Kawah. Seated on its throne was a warrior of the Pehliva tribe, so much taller than the rest that his head seemed to reach the stars. Beside him stood a horse as tall as he and as powerful. A fluttering standard depicted a lion and a writhing dragon.

  “Whose tent is that?”

  Hujir hesitated. He didn’t want to betray Rostam. “His name is not known to me, though I believe he is some warrior come from far Cathay to fight for the Shah,” he replied.

  Sohrab was puzzled. He was desperate to identify Rostam’s tent. Why did Hujir know everyone’s tent, except the green one? He asked again and again, “To whom does the green tent belong – is it Rostam’s?”

  “No, no!” stammered Hujir. “Rostam is in Zabulistan for the feast of the roses.”

  But Sohrab couldn’t believe that the Iranians would fight without Rostam. He turned on Hujir. “If you don’t tell me which is Rostam’s tent, I’ll kill you.”

  Hujir knew that if he betrayed the tent, he would be killed by the Iranians, and if he didn’t he would be killed by Sohrab. “Why seek Rostam now?” he asked, fatalistically. “You’ll know him soon. He will soon strike thee dumb and quell thy pride of youth. I will not show him to thee.”

  Furiously, Sohrab struck off the man’s head, and bellowed, “Where is the man who will do battle with me?” He hoped to lure Rostam from his tent.

  His thunderous voice made the Iranians turn pale. They all knew that only Rostam’s sword could cause the sun to weep. They swept over to the green tent and called upon him.

  “Rostam, come out! Only you can fight this young lion!” They gathered round him and buckled on his armour and threw a leopard skin around his shoulders.

  Just as Afrasiab had hoped, Rostam went down onto the plain that lay between the two camps to where Sohrab waited.

  When Rostam saw the wondrous boy, so like the son he wished he had, the old warrior cried, “O young man. The air is soft and warm, but the ground is cold. I do not wish to take your life. If we fight, you will surely fall beneath my hands, for none have withstood my strength – neither men nor demons nor dragons. Leave the ranks of those Tartars of Turan. Join me instead.”

  “O hero!” replied Sohrab. “I seek one man, and ask only one question. What is your name? Are you Rostam, son of Zal, son of Saum, son of Neriman.”

  But Rostam did not tell him the truth. He wanted to persuade him to give up, not fight. “I am not Rostam,” shouted. “Rostam is a Pehliva not an Iranian. I am just a slave, without crown or throne. Give up now, or soon your bones will whiten along the banks of the Oxus.”

  Sohrab was full of sorrow. This was not his father. His hopes, which had risen so high, were shattered, and the day which had seemed so bright, darkened at these words.

  “Do you think you can frighten me?” Sohrab cried angrily. “I am no girl to be made pale by your words,” and, lifting his spear to the shoulder, he hurled it at Rostam’s feet and challenged him.

  The two heroes flew at each other; they fought till their spears splintered, they hacked till their swords bent, they clawed at each other with their bare hands till their mail was torn from their bodies and sweat and blood ran into the sand. When they fell apart, each too exhausted to move, Rostam knew he had never fought with such a warrior. They fought till the sun darkened over their heads, and a moaning wind swept the sand around them like a shroud. With bloodshot eyes and heaving chests, they crashed together, pulling each other off their horses and rolling on the ground. Then, with one last desperate lunge, Sohrab hurled himself at Rostam and broke his sword at the hilt.

  Rostam opened his mouth and bellowed into the air “Rostam!”

  Sohrab heard the n
ame and hesitated.

  Rostam flung his final spear.

  Sohrab was struck. He dropped his shield before the advancing giant. He staggered back, sinking to the ground, mortally wounded. It was the end. “All I wanted was to find my father,” he gasped. “I tell you, even if you became a fish and swam in the deepest water, even if you became a star, and tried to hide in the heavens, heed me well, when my father learns of my death, he will come after you. My father, Rostam, will be told that I, Sohrab, his son, perished seeking for him.”

  Horror-struck, Rostam fell to the ground next to the dying boy. “Do you have any proof? Do you carry any token of Rostam about you? I must know if what you say is true, for I am Rostam the Pehliva.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me your name?” wept Sohrab. “I tried to recognize you. Now it’s too late. Open my armour, and you will find a jewel upon my arm – an onyx – given to me by my father so that he should know me.”

  Rostam opened the young boy’s armour. There on his arm was the onyx. He howled with grief and tore his clothes. Tears of penitence flowed like a river from his eyes. But Sohrab sighed with his dying breath, “Weep not, my father. It is all in vain. There is no remedy. Doubtless it was written that this should be so. All I beg is that the Iranians take not vengeance on the men of Turan. If I came like the thunder, now am I vanished like the wind. Pray that we meet again in paradise.”

  Rostam set up such a wailing as the earth had never heard before. “I that am old have killed my son. I that am strong have uprooted this mighty boy. I have torn the heart of my child. I have laid low the head of Pehliva.”

  Then he made a great fire and flung upon it his tent, his trappings, his leopard skin and armour and all his weapons.

  Sohrab’s body was swathed in rich cloth of gold brocade encrusted with many jewels, and made ready to return to Zabulistan. Nobles marched before the bier, beating their chests with their fists, their heads covered in ashes and their garments torn with grief. The drums of the war elephants were broken and the cymbals smashed. All the tails of the horses were shorn to the root, and everywhere were the signs of mourning.

  News spread to Samarkand, that Sohrab was dead. When Tahmineh heard, she wept bitterly, rolling on the ground in agony and covering her head with earth. When his clothes and horse were brought to her, she kissed them as if he still wore them; she caressed his horse and cut off its tail. She gave all his jewels to the poor. Finally, Tahmineh set fire to the house of Sohrab, and after a year of grief, the breath went out of her body and her spirit fled in search of her son, Sohrab.

  “O warriors of Alexander!” the storytellers sing. “Give ear to the story of Sohrab and Rostam – a tale as sorrowful as any you may hear.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF DIONYSUS

  It is the spring of 328 BC and Bessus is vanquished. Alexander is the unchallenged King of Kings, and still he doesn’t turn back. Ahead, over the Hindu Kush is India. As Alexander makes his way towards India, he walks in the footsteps of Dionysus.

  Thousands of years before, Dionysus had travelled the length and breadth of the world, from Thrace to India, leaving his mark wherever he went.

  Divine Dionysus – one of the oldest of gods: a horned god, whose head is wreathed in serpents, entwined with ivy, who transforms himself into Lion, Horse, Serpent and Bull. The storytellers sing of this most gentle and most terrible of gods. He was the god of ritual dance and sacred mysticism, of poetry, drama and wine. He was a god of bliss and ecstasy, but also of savagery; flesh-eating, demonic. He was a bull-horned god of fertility and male potency, yet slender as a woman. He was a god of the mountains, wild and untamed, yet also generous and the bringer of gifts. It could be a description of Alexander. Almost.

  Dionysus was a twice-born; first of an illicit union between Zeus and Semele, and then born again from the thigh of Zeus, who had hidden him there from the jealous eyes of his wife, the goddess Hera. Alexander would have called him brother, as he too believed he was born of Zeus.

  Wine was Dionysus’ gift to man. But wine was sometimes the enemy – as it was also for Alexander who, for all his genius of command and military strategy, was still a young man of only 25. Now he would collect a further scar on his reputation.

  THE DEATH OF CLEITUS

  After a battle success in Sogdiana, at a celebration feast to Dionysus, there was a quarrel and another act committed – this time unforgivable, even to Alexander himself. Again, as at Persepolis, drink was the instigator; drink released the tongue and allowed home truths to be voiced; drink revealed all the suppressed anger against Alexander.

  “Black” Cleitus, one of Alexander’s oldest friends and foster brother, who had saved his life at Granicus, picked a drunken quarrel with Alexander. He began to sneer at Alexander’s achievements; he suggested they were commonplace, and nothing compared to his father, Philip’s.

  While Cleitus continued to insult him, Alexander leaped to his feet and grabbed a spear. Others sprang to separate the two men. “What,” taunted Cleitus, “am I a royal prince in name only? Am I to be like Darius, dragged around in chains by Bessus and his cronies?”

  Cleitus was dragged from the hall before he could say anything worse, but just when things were calming down, he reappeared, shouting and hurling insults. “Alexander! Is it thus that Greece repays her warriors? Shall one man claim the conquest won by thousands?” jeered Cleitus.

  Provoked beyond endurance, his mind irrational with drink, Alexander hurled his spear deep into Cleitus’ heart, and killed him on the spot.

  The instant the deed was done, Alexander was struck with horror. He tried to kill himself by running onto his own sword, but was held back.

  Howling and struggling, he was taken to his tent. There he lay for three days, refusing to see anyone, not eating or drinking, but weeping and blaming himself bitterly.

  There had been nothing noble about the death of Cleitus. He had not been a traitor, he had not died on the field of battle or in equal combat. He had died because of a drunken quarrel; because drink had befuddled both of them, and distorted all judgement and principle. Cleitus had died shamefully in front of guests at a feast, by the hand of his own friend and brother, Alexander.

  He was no god at this moment, but a man, who was too feeble to stand up to the effects of the wine of Dionysus.

  Priests and seers looked for omens and evidence that the gods had forgiven Alexander, and only when they finally reassured him did he emerge to face the world.

  PROSKYNESIS: THE PERSIAN KISS

  Here among the dusty plains and brown mountains of Central Asia, so far from home, it seemed to many that Alexander was forgetting his own Greek culture. Murmurings of discontent rippled among his officers. Worst of all, Alexander insisted on introducing yet another Persian custom – one which profoundly disgusted them. This was the custom of proskynesis: Persians who came before their king always prostrated themselves. The king then raised them to their feet with a kiss. Alexander liked this custom. But it was deeply offensive to the Greeks, going against their democratic principles.

  Callisthenes, the historian and a nephew of Aristotle, spoke for them all, and made a speech denouncing Alexander for taking on foreign ways.

  Alexander suggested a compromise. “Perhaps only Persians need prostrate themselves,” he said.

  But Callisthenes was scornful:

  “Just because we are in a foreign land, are we therefore expected to think foreign thoughts? Alexander! I beseech you to remember Greece. Was it not for Greece that you undertook this campaign, to add Persia to her empire? And have you thought about what you will do when you go home? Will you really expect Greeks – who love freedom more than anything else in the world – to fall to the ground and prostrate themselves before you? Or will you perhaps exempt the Greeks and only insist on Macedonians performing this shameful act? Or you could let off the Greeks and the Macedonians, and make a broader distinction, and insist that only barbarians follow this barbarous custom
, so that Greeks and Macedonians may be permitted to respect you honourably as a man!”

  Alexander accepted the criticism, but only made small concessions. He kept the custom of proskynesis, though not enforcing it among his own officers. He continued involving the Persians in his administrations, often giving them high positions which caused great jealousy, and unrest continued among the officers.

  Soon after, there was another plot against Alexander’s life, which almost succeeded. It involved the young sons of noblemen whose job was to protect Alexander. Instead, three or four of them plotted to kill him one night.

  He had been drinking again and, on his way back to his tent, encountered a strange wild woman who told fortunes. “Don’t sleep in your tent tonight, Alexander,” she warned. Heeding her warning, he went back to the drinking party, and so the young men who had decided to kill him that night in his tent, waited in vain.

  In the morning, one of the youths confessed and, under torture, another cited Callisthenes as the instigator.

  Callisthenes had continued to criticize Alexander, but there was no proof he had plotted against him. Only the word of a terrified youth.

  Perhaps Alexander was looking for an excuse to be rid of his critical historian. At any rate, Callisthenes was imprisoned and executed. It was an act which enraged Athens, who found Alexander’s behaviour outrageous; Callisthenes was a respected historian, a nephew of Aristotle, and had been with Alexander from the beginning. His dispatches home had kept the Athenians in touch with the campaigns.

  Even Alexander’s admirers murmured, “Surely this act was ill-advised.”

  ROXANE

  It was the winter of 328–327 BC when Alexander met Roxane.

  There had been two years of bloody struggle for the outer reaches of Iran. Two years, in which there had been wholesale massacres; ignoble acts combined with acts of mythic heroism. Alexander’s character and charisma was such that he had the loyalty and devotion of his men – despite everything that had happened – for no matter what the criticisms whispered among the officers, his men still loved him and would do whatever he asked of them.