As soon as we were back at the encampment, Alestria lay down beside Alexander, and the two lovers spent the day asleep.
Alestria was exhausted.
Alexander was relieved.
THE ARMY SET up camp and broke camp. We were hounded by groups of Indian warriors: arrows fell, elephants trumpeted, and men screamed in their native languages. These skirmishes erupted more rapidly than summer storms and abated just as quickly. Everyone knew that the king was marching toward one murderous battle. He had an appointment with Poros, a fine, strong Indian king. The two men had never met but had loathed each other through intermediary wars. Each of them had sworn he would have his rival’s head and, with it, glory and immortality.
Rivers grew wider, becoming major waterways, and in between them paddy fields flashed like mirrors beneath the sky. Forests surrounded us, then opened out, only to swallow us up again in the shadows of their giant trees. The king rode, and the queen went with him. Side by side they marched toward the greatest war that Indian soil had ever seen.
Alexander gathered his troops on the banks of the Hydaspe. The wide, peaceful river with its muddy waters glinted yellow. Soldiers and horses arrived along the earth track and down the river. Slaves set out from the encampment with picks. The king disappeared for days on end, and every time he returned, another regiment left to take up its position in the forest.
Alexander had set up a table in his tent, and on it he had had a model of the entire region made with its forests, rocks, rivers, and swamps. I, Ania, who slept in front of the tent to ensure the king and queen’s safety, saw Alexander’s shadow bending over that table. I could see Alestria’s silhouette when she woke and joined her husband. Their two shadows met and forged into one. I no longer tried to decipher signs: I did not want to read the future. Alexander had sought out his wife in the kingdom of souls, and Alestria had followed him and come back to earth. According to steppe tradition, they were both already dead. They were both now living outside time.
Along the river crocodiles floated among broken branches, dead leaves, and pink water lilies. Tree trunks transformed into junks came and went, trailing long wakes of tiny eddies. A moon waxed and waned. Hephaestion, so calm by nature, grew nervous. Bagoas, always edgy and talkative, stopped chattering. Cassander thundered up on his horse, took his orders, and set off again. Persian commanders filed past in the same way. At night there were many sounds against the backdrop of rustling leaves: drum rolls, the wail of horns, and the cries of birds flying off in panic. I lay on my carpet with my ear to the ground, and heard heavy footsteps that made the very earth tremble. Poros and his allies were drawing close. Leading his elephants, the ape-men, and the best warriors in the Indies, Poros was marching on Alexander.
I coped badly with the heat and humidity and could not sleep. I got up and, by moonlight, sharpened the two daggers beaten by the People of the Volcano till their blades gleamed.
THE EARTH RUMBLED, the forest shook, huge ancient trees parted like reeds. Monkeys and birds threw themselves into the air with piercing shrieks. Poros used drugs on his white elephants, and now they hurled themselves at Alexander’s army. The soldiers fled while Cassander, dressed all in red, galloped at the head of the cavalry. Fired by the movement of troops, the enraged elephants chased the horses, trumpeting and trampling everything in their way. Cassander’s division surged on into an almost dry riverbed, and, following them, the elephants sank into the sludge. Suddenly the waters swelled and changed into a torrent, spilling over the monsters and bearing them away. This was Alexander’s doing: he had secretly had a dam built upstream and given Cassander orders to lure the elephants into the trap.
Columns of black smoke rose up and carved through the sky. Fires consumed vines and leaves, climbed up tree trunks, and spat out showers of sparks. Alexander had set fire to the forest, turning it into a labyrinth of flames. His troops marched along strips of land protected by trenches they had dug; they breached Poros’s surrounding defenses and cut his army to pieces.
The massacre began. I, Ania, had been given orders by my queen to protect Alexander from any arrows that could potentially be aimed at him by his own generals. He was disguised as an ordinary cavalry soldier as he launched himself at the Indians, screaming. I was dressed as a man and followed behind him, brandishing my weapons. In all that furious killing I forgot the steppes, the birds, and my queen—whose husband had forbidden her to take part in battle. Riding on behind Alexander like his shadow, I lost count of how many Indians I brought down. Furious galloping alternated with pauses during which we wiped off blood, bandaged wounds, and ate hunks of bread. The nights were short: after we snatched some sleep the dawn was already there, casting its white light over the trees while the horns and drums sounded again, urging the men to kill each other to the last one standing.
Alexander searched frantically for Poros, but this war of kings was also a battle of look-alikes. In the distance I saw a number of Alexanders wearing his armor and riding various Bucephaluses. They chased after Poroses in their narrow chariots. For two days now the real King of Asia had been tracking down the Prince of the Indies, who, according to our prisoners, was wearing a slave’s armor.
At the end of the third day we came across a group of warriors whose clothes were in shreds and whose horses were bleeding. They moved in a particular way that attracted Alexander’s attention: he gave a great cry and carved a path for himself with his lance, swooping eagle-like on a slave who rode in the middle of the formation of Indians. The two men eyed each other. Both had bandaged wounds and had lost their helmets. Their faces were daubed with mud and blood, and the only thing alive in them was their glowering, shining eyes. They stared at each other for a moment as if each hoped he might kill his enemy with the ferocity and pride in his eyes; then they threw themselves at each other, screaming.
Alexander’s sword wounded Poros’s arm, and two Indian warriors came to help their master. They surrounded Alexander, and Poros ran away, but the king threw off his attackers and set off in pursuit of his prey. I let go of a man I was about to kill and rejoined Alexander in his headlong gallop. We followed Poros deep into a part of the forest that had not been burned. The sun was sinking, and this made Alexander nervous. Afraid that Poros might slip through his fingers at nightfall, he redoubled the pace and rushed into a circular meadow. Suddenly high-pitched whistling sounds rose up and interrupted the thunder of our horses’ hooves. Arrows aimed at us were flying from the surrounding trees.
Poros had set a trap for Alexander! Alexander the invincible, too eager to finish off his rival, too impatient to claim victory, had offered himself to his enemy’s archers! But it was too late to think. We surrounded the king and made a wall with our bodies. I waved my daggers to deflect the arrows, but in vain: they embedded themselves in my legs. A muffled cry made me shudder, and I turned to see that Alexander, who already had several arrows in him, had one right in the middle of his forehead. He fell from his horse. I slipped to the ground and dragged myself painfully toward him. Blood was spreading over his forehead, down his nose, and onto his pale cheeks. Blood spilled into my eyes, and something knocked me out.
When I came around, it was already night. The arrows had stopped whistling. Shadowy figures moved closer to us, cooing with joy in a language that sounded like strange night birds. We had been taken prisoner by Poros.
I WOKE IN the dark to the boom-boom of drums, and realized straight away that my hands and feet were tied. A long time went by before I remembered what had happened: Alexander’s body had been taken away; the surviving soldiers had been piled onto carts and taken to Poros’s encampment, where we were searched from head to foot. The Indian soldiers cried in amazement when they discovered I was a woman. Their officer left. When he returned, he gave the order to carry me to a tent, where two women hauled out the arrows that had struck me, and I passed out with the pain.
I crawled to the side of the tent and put my eye up to a gap: I could see the soldiers guarding me and
campfires blazing in the distance. The sound of singing and clapping reached me, and there were silhouettes dancing round the fires—Poros was celebrating his victory.
Where was Alexander? Where were the soldiers? Where was Alestria?
I woke again when dawn lit up the tent and shed light over my body, which was wrapped in Indian cloth. Some women came in and untied me, took off my bandages, and changed the foul damp mud applied to my wounds. They gave me some food, then tied me up. They came back toward the end of the day. A little later night fell, and in the distance, the celebrations began once more. I felt no fear and no regret. I was expecting torture, rape, and execution—that is the fate reserved for the defeated. For a warrior there is no humiliation in this, it is the natural end to a fight.
Toward the middle of the next day some men burst into the tent, tipped me violently onto a carved wooden door, tied me to it, gagged me, and carried me out of the tent. Trees skimmed past me against the sky. I greeted passing birds, asking them to fly to my queen and my sisters, and tell them Ania would be joining the glorious souls of the warrior women.
There were four men carrying me on their shoulders, and they were joined by an escort of horsemen. Shouting and jeering started up, accompanied by slow, languid music. We passed foot soldiers, more horsemen, and then Poros on his golden chariot or—more likely—one of his look-alikes.
Some westerners on horseback loomed against the sky. They slipped to the ground and leaned over me. I recognized Hephaestion! The Indians put me down and withdrew, while the Macedonian soldiers untied me and took the gag from my mouth.
“Alexander!” I cried. “Where is Alexander?”
I leaped to my feet, but a sharp pain shot through me, and I fell back down.
“Alexander has gone home,” Hephaestion replied.
His words chilled me to the bone: so Alexander was dead.
The soldiers helped me to a sedan chair. Alexander’s troops greeted me as I passed before them. I could not help shedding tears when I spotted the royal tent adorned with gold and pearls gleaming at the far end of an avenue guarded by soldiers. Four Amazons took over my chair, lifted the door of the tent, and set me down inside.
Alestria was standing, while Alexander, stretched out on a wooden door like mine, still had the arrow that had brought him down in his forehead.
“Alexander is not dead. You, Ania, have come back to me! I am the happiest woman in the world,” the queen told me, smiling, as tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks and onto her husband’s arm.
POROS KNEW THAT if he killed Alexander, the Macedonians and Persians would come back to avenge their king’s death. He also knew that the arrow that had struck Alexander’s forehead was fatal.
Alexander was still alive, but he was condemned to die.
Poros had proposed peace to the Macedonians in exchange for their king’s body.
Hephaestion had negotiated with Poros and promised to leave Indian territory.
Hephaestion and Poros had agreed on the division of wealth: the Macedonians would leave Poros any towns conquered in the Indies, while Poros would hush up Alexander’s injury and capture, and would help put about the word that Alexander was still alive.
Poros’s army withdrew.
Alexander’s army erected a wall of spikes around the encampment.
Hephaestion transported Alexander’s body inside a sealed tent. He purified the air by burning large candles. He delicately removed the arrowhead using a magnetic stone, closed the hole in the skull with powdered ivory, and covered the wound with skin taken from Alexander’s leg. Alexander lay in darkness for three days. His heart was beating, but he did not talk or even open his eyes.
Alestria, alone in her tent, could not eat. She lay with her eyes closed, not sleeping but praying.
FLAMES PRESS AGAINST each other, joining together and then exploding. Flames crawl and leap and swirl. They are black, threatening, ice-cold. I stray aimlessly through the world of flames, not knowing who I am. I move forward and turn back. I run and then walk. Who am I? I finger a body I do not know but which is somehow mine.
The flames throw themselves at me, then drop back and fall to the ground. I am not afraid. They seem familiar to me. They are like me. They have come to cheer me on with their frenetic dancing.
A question hovers over my lips.
“Do you have souls?” I ask them.
A sharp pain stabs at me. The flames quiver, try to strangle me, then withdraw, and I understand that this is a forbidden question in this world. By asking it, I have proved I have a soul. Whose is it?
Every part of me hurts, and I curl up tightly. I roll on the ground, then leap to my feet and start to run. But the pain follows me. The pain is inside my body, so the soul is also rooted in my body. The flames leer and sneer at me. They are the damned whose souls have been taken; that is why they seem so voracious and so fierce, and why they do not burn me. For, without souls, all beings are but illusion. They can survive only thanks to the fear they engender.
I have a soul. I am Alexander! That name is a terrible aching! Images reel by in the flames.
Two little boys going into Apollo’s temple. The marble god watches them as they undress and fall into each other’s arms.
A woman with a long braid and heavy breasts leans on the balustrade of a terrace, waving her hand and weeping.
A city appears with painted walls, embroidered flags, and streets milling with people and horses. A succession of palaces, and in them eunuchs and concubines.
Muddy roads, torrential rains, icy tracks, unbearable cold! Corpses slither over the flames, wearing different costumes, bearing open wounds. Columns of smoke rise up and wither away. Breached ramparts, sumptuous banquets, and warriors’ faces all file by. Fruits and vegetables spring from the gaping neck of a bull. Naked men embracing women wrapped in fine cloth, swaying together and disappearing. All these images make up Alexander. Alexander is mountains climbed, rivers crossed, land burned. Alexander is in the dust, in the clouds, and in the ashes.
A voice calls me: “Alexander, Alexander!”
It is a woman’s voice. I do not know her: she is pure and tender, it is not my mother’s anxious voice, no, it is not my mother—she is far away, I fled from her, she can no longer reach me, hold me to her breasts, kiss my forehead, stroke my hair, put me to bed, or laugh and weep about my fate. This woman is different; her voice is simple and courageous, she loves me and wants nothing from me. She is looking for me and calling to me to take me back to another world, where I will be delivered from these flames and illusions.
What is her name? Where did I meet her? How did she find me among the flames? These questions will never have answers. But what use are answers? I must follow her, I must trust her. Alexander has been defeated.
An arrow hurtles toward me and plants itself violently in the middle of my forehead. The flames go out, and I fly through the blue transparent universe, twirling toward the light, my heart brimming with joy. I smile, every portion of my body smiles, and I can hear the universe smile. I am in another world, one the flames cannot reach. Solemn music resonates through me and through the clarity of each ray of light.
White lights form a gigantic door. I move closer, a tiny body longing to receive life, waiting for the door to open for the distribution of souls.
The door metamorphoses into a face surrounded by a golden halo. It reminds me of Philip, my father, but this man has both his eyes. His eyes are open, clear blue; he has no wrinkles or scars. All earthly suffering has been erased from this face, it radiates with goodness. This must be a god who has taken on my father’s appearance in order to address me.
“Go back to the earth,” he tells me. “Your destiny has not finished being written. Go back, oh body without a soul, go back to your soul that stayed below for the love of a woman.”
I bow to him and hurry away, tumbling through the air. The wind whistles, blue turns to white, and the white grows dark. I scatter, reassemble myself, then br
eak again. I fall headlong, spinning downward.
I opened my eyes. The candle flames flickered.
A man sat up sharply and leaped out of the tent.
“The king is alive! The king has opened his eyes!”
Cheering broke out. Men filed past the table I was lying on: I recognized Hephaestion, Cassander, Bagoas, and all my companions. They withdrew, and silence returned. A woman came in, lifted one corner of her veil, and leaned over me. Her lips were cool. I drank her breath like water, I drank her life like honey. She put her arms around me, and I entered into her as a gazelle leaps into a spring river.
Alestria—I came back for her!
CHAPTER 11
G lory, wealth, and war were no longer of interest to me. The crimson tunic embroidered with three phoenixes that Bagoas helped me into and the golden wreath Hephaestion put on my head no longer thrilled me. Military formations, gleaming lances, harnessed horses, and the hundreds of thousands of men beating their shields and crying in unison, “Alexander! Alexander! Alexander!”…all of it bored me. Like a man who has been physically gratified, like a hero who has accomplished his exploits, like Ulysses back in his own country, what I had been through no longer interested me.
I let Hephaestion lead me and leaned on Bagoas. I made the effort to stand upright, but the sun dazzled me, the wind chilled me to the bone, and military parades left me anxious. I was happier in the darkness beneath my tent. The silence soothed my headaches but diffused them all over my body. Hephaestion gave me a drug to ease my pain, but it made me drowsy, so he gave me another to keep me awake. In our council meetings the generals debated and argued, calling on Alexander to arbitrate: I simply smiled at them.
I remembered our campaign in snatches. I understood nothing of their discussions, and their impassioned reasoning struck me as ridiculous or boring in turns. I said nothing, had lost the use of my tongue. Alexander, the peerless orator, could no longer utter a single coherent sentence. I could not wait to get back to my tent and lie down.