Reinforcements came from Greece, and my Macedonian lieutenants put them in training with the Persian soldiers. I gathered information on the eastern territories and drew up better maps of them. At the head of a new army subjected to Macedonian discipline and reinforced with the battalions of camels and elephants abandoned by Darius, I marched toward eastern Persia.
Suse capitulated without a fight, but a riot erupted inside the city. The leader, a slave who had been driven out of the palace by the eunuchs after Darius's downfall, and who claimed he was the son of the winged god, had incited the poor to rebel. The uprising was swiftly quashed, and Bagoas chained and thrown at my feet. He was a slender young Persian with black hair and green eyes. The hatred, insolence, and religious fervor in those eyes bore right through me.
With that first glance from him, I forgot the order to have him executed and his body displayed for all to see. Kneeling at the foot of the dais, he seemed to know no fear, staring me down and making me uncomfortable. I, Alexander, master of the world, flushed as I ordered that he should be thrown into a dungeon. But I was haunted by his face, I could not sleep, and longed to hold him in my arms, to bring him suffering and pleasure.
I called for Hephaestion the very next morning and talked of my many concerns before tackling the question itself: I told him I would pardon the beautiful Bagoas, leader of the rioters, but that he would be punished with castration and would become my servant. Hephaestion smiled bitterly, understanding my message. He could not make me faithful, and did not know how to protect me from myself by saying no. He had always preferred my pleasure to his own happiness, and now, once again, his suffering would carpet the way to my delight.
Hephaestion had young Bagoas castrated, and was tender and patient with him while he healed, tolerating his insults and forgiving his attempts to murder him. One evening, when we were heading for Persepolis, he brought the youth to my tent, dressed in a eunuch's tunic.
I tore off Bagoas's clothing. Naked and backed into a corner, my captive had only his fierce emerald eyes as defense. His stare was so intense it paralyzed my desire. Instead of raping him, I held out my hand and stroked his face, which was rigid with loathing and pain. Bagoas loved me! That was why he suffered in silence. That was why he continued to appear cold and rebellious when his skin burned and moaned beneath my fingers. To prove my love for him, I put his tunic back on and sent him away.
I waited an eternity for Bagoas to come to me, and I waited another before he admitted he had desired me from our very first meeting. I did everything I could to make him a willing prisoner. He was a proud, tormented creature who showed me all the agonies of carnal passion. Bagoas was a wild bird I had forced into a gilded cage. He sang happily when he felt love, and raged for his lost manhood when hatred washed back over him. He dreamed up a thousand different ways to torture me. He told me Darius had let him mount him and had called him Little Bee. He chirped like a sparrow but refused to talk of his parents or homeland. One moment he would grovel at my feet, begging me to touch him; the next he would disappear for days on end, suffering and weeping over his infirmity. I was subjected to his mood swings and his determination to die, unable to impose my authority. His constant outbursts infuriated me, but as soon as he was away from me I missed his childlike voice, his honeyed skin, the blue shadows under his eyes, and the trace of tears on his cheeks. The Great Alexander capitulated, and Bagoas was given a place in my life: he oversaw my clothes and my meals. He was jealous of anyone close to me and complained that the Macedonians were brutal and the Greeks crude. He swept aside all rivals by intoxicating me with sensual delights of the Orient.
We headed east, then west, then north, then east again. Following the steep roads along which Darius had fled, I took cities by storm. To those that surrendered without resistance I gave their autonomy, setting up a garrison. I had scarcely arrived before I set off again, shield in hand, lance borne aloft. I no longer stopped to rest, there was not time. Towns, villages, fortresses, and fortifications reeled past, their names becoming confused. To simplify matters I called them all Alexandria. Every city that I embraced became my bride, but once married they were immediately abandoned.
The road forked in the mountains, and I always bore left. I sometimes rode for days on end, spurred on by my desire to advance ever faster. Sometimes, as I looked down on the deep valleys and torrential rivers beneath my feet, I thought of that young girl in red waiting for me at the summit of a rock. Where was she? Had I missed her by skirting round the mountain to the left? I smiled bitterly at the thought that she might be on a path I had already trodden, in a land I had already conquered.
Days of exultation alternated with times of despondency and sadness. I would shut myself away in my tent, refusing anyone entry. I wrote letter after letter to Olympias, one minute accusing her of failing to love me, the next praising her as the light of life. My mother was my only link with Macedonia, which grew a little more distant in my thoughts every day.
The road wound on through the endless snow. Only the barbarians' furs could protect us from the biting cold, and my Macedonian generals were forced to wear oriental clothes. In the evenings we lit large campfires, and the successive feast days of all the different tribes called for banquets, drinking, frenetic dancing, sacrifices, and incantations.
One morning Bessos, a Persian general, delivered Darius's body to me, an event that caused jubilation throughout the army but chilled me to the bone. A final victory without a battle is, for Alexander, a defeat. I leaned over my enemy's mutilated body, unable to accept that he was dead. Late in the night, while my soldiers slept, I came back secretly with Bagoas. Darius's former lover confirmed my doubts: this was the body of a double. Darius the coward was renouncing his throne by sending me his body: he wanted to live safely and to deprive me indefinitely of a face-to-face dual. "Dead," he hoped to pacify me with his cities and his lovers. Alive, he would remain a latent threat: he could always reappear, avenge himself, and take back what had belonged to him, what he had temporarily lost.
I pretended to fall into the trap by arranging a royal funeral for his double. I made the most of his "death" to take the pompous title of King of Asia. On the pretext that every Persian province had to submit to Alexander, I set off again along those steep roads to find the real Darius. Tracking a man who no longer existed, I ventured deeper and deeper into the shadows of the Orient.
I climbed every mountain, guided by eagles. They were not afraid of the cold or of solitude, flying high above life. Standing on those peaks, looking down at the world, I smiled to think I could die in the next battle… but Darius would have survived me. He would be the conqueror in a war in which he had been conquered.
Bessos, darius's accomplice, was flayed alive, and now no one but Bagoas knew my rival was still alive.
The world fell apart, and the world was reborn. Where there had been a narrow path, a wide road defended by garrisons appeared. In the wake of my army, inns cropped up and prospered, and caravans came and went, selling the West and buying up the East. My troops formed a thread stretching out across the land, coiling back, tumbling down hillsides and undulating along mountain crests. Still we marched on, my legend traveling before me and most tribes choosing to surrender without resistance. My army had grown: the soldiers from the League of Corinth had been joined by Persian recruits and warriors offered by vassal clans. I ordered them to take local wives and sow in their bellies the seeds of future warriors for my empire. I sent for scholars from Greece and Babylon to accompany me in my explorations. They were to study these hitherto unknown lands, their fauna and their peoples, to draw them and write about them. The blacksmiths and armorers worked nonstop. After each battle, traders who specialized in selling weapons gathered up enemy arsenals to supply us with the pots, fabrics, and furs we needed. Tailors and seamstresses traveled in my footsteps to clothe my army. Macedonian cobblers assisted by oriental slaves supplied us with tens of thousands of pairs of sandals and shoes whose soles wore away with the endless marching. I drew up a contract with tomb raiders: they gave me half of their gains and secretly sent the treasure to Ecbatana, where Parmenion managed our supplies.
Despite my glorious title of King of Asia, I slept on a carpet on the bare earth like my soldiers, and like them I took only two meals a day: at dawn we had bread, honey, and dried fruits; late in the afternoon, as the sun skimmed behind the treetops, cooked vegetables, broth, and meat. I allowed myself alcohol and copious meals only on feast days, when all those who followed me-soldiers from every land-were invited to share in these dishes.
The fighting was so easy that the long march became wearying. Veterans who had followed me for eight years grew homesick, and their discontent crept up to the ranks of my generals.
Not daring to cross me publicly, they sent Hephaestion to ask me one simple question: When do we go home?
Maintaining command of such a huge army was weighing on me. Much time was lost in discussions over its administration, and the moment the fighting ceased, intrigues flourished in court once more. Having set out to conquer, I found myself a king with countless menial responsibilities, making me a slave to my own subjects. The accumulated irritations eventually drained my enthusiasm for this unprecedented spree of victories: I was filled with doubt.
When Hephaestion pressed me, I invented a justification:
"Darius is dead, but those faithful to him still resist us as if he were alive. Until I have pacified the Persian territories in their entirety, there could be revolts, towns we have already conquered could turn against us, the Achemenides nobility could betray us. We must flush out those who will not submit and exterminate every last one of them."
I could not admit to him that I missed the exultation of war, that at twenty-eight I was covered in scars and sometimes longed for rest and the sweet pleasures of family life. But a living Darius was a poison dripping stealthily into my thoughts. I could not reveal this truth to my friends, who believed I was already victorious: I am tracking a rival who confronts my strength with his cunning; he and I are competing in a trial of endurance and perseverance. Darius's flight drew me inexorably in his pursuit.
"There is no room for discussion," I told him yet again. "We must advance!"
Hephaestion withdrew sadly. He had long since stepped aside for Bagoas, who had seen him as a rival and done everything to distance him from me. The young eunuch had put on weight, like a Persian cat fattening up the moment it was well treated. Other younger and more beautiful boys had taken his place in my bedchamber. Their bodies might be slender or solid, tall or small, sometimes sculpted by exercise, their eyes might be green, brown, blue, or tawny, alive with passion or intelligence… they were like so many landscapes drawing me onward and appeasing me. But Bagoas was still my favorite because there was no official replacement for him in my heart. Since I had been called Alexander the Great, surrounded by courtesans, eunuchs, and guards, I had lost my appetite for love. My one constancy was Olympias, a diffuse light, an outpost that still answered my missives. I had become impatient and irascible.
Riding the umpteenth stallion called Bucephalus, I saw my abandoned past reeling out behind me. From an illegitimate girl, I had revealed myself a man. From weakness, I had acquired strength. My fear of Philip and the pain of rape had allowed me to build a life on revenge. By putting myself at the forefront of my attacks on every city, I had made myself the king of kings, leading men who were taller, more adept, and stronger than myself. I had lived intensely, wasting nothing of the lessons Aristotle taught me. I had done nothing to disappoint the gods who adopted me.
My courage was now legendary. My strength had been crowned with glory. My determination had taken me to heights forbidden to the sons of men. All these earthly rewards did nothing to gratify me. I was no longer happy.
How could I forget that Hephaestion, Bagoas, and all my friends and lovers created an invisible rampart condemning me to endless sterile solitude? How could I forget that glory was shortlived, that death might take me naked, with no crown and no lands but only regrets?
What was missing, and painfully so, was a wife who could accompany me on my journeys and through my life. What was missing was a child to whom I could pass on the ring of command. The absence of a family weakened me. The conspiracies around me multiplied, all with a view to assassinating a king with no heir.
A constant stream of young men appeared, to charm me. I saw this as an insidious maneuver intended to keep me from women. I used these boys and threw them away, convinced they had been sent to sound me out, to watch me and fill my free moments. Somewhere behind them was a man planning to take hold of my army and my empire.
I sat on my throne alone, and said nothing.
It started as a slanderous rumor. Then it grew, borne on the wind, spreading through the air like pollen. People whispered that I had belittled myself by dressing as a Persian and forming an attachment for a slave like Bagoas. They said I had sunk into the arms of luxury and wasted nights on end cavorting with Darius's concubines. They said I had developed a liking for the trappings of the Great Kings and insisted my advisers and guards prostrate themselves at my feet.
Not satisfied with spreading word of my preference for men among the Macedonians, my detractors persuaded the barbarian soldiers that Alexander had contracted an evil spirit while crossing the dark, shady Drangiane region. However fiercely I punished the gossipmongers to snuff out the defamation, the rumor persisted, nesting among the soldiers wearied by endless marching but flying away as soon as it was touched. As I had no concrete proof, nothing to indicate a particular enemy hiding in the shadows, I waited patiently.
Eventually the huge conspiracy fell apart, quite by chance. An officer called Dymnus became infatuated with a prostitute known as Nicomachus. He confided in him his plan to assassinate me and invited the boy to join him and the other conspirators. Nicomachus was quick to denounce him to his brother Cebali-nus, who in turn spoke to Philotas, who had access to my private tent. Philotas was the son of Parmenion, a general to whom I had entrusted the command of Media and the management of our supplies, but he was careful not to warn me of the danger.
Cebalinus eventually reached me himself and gave me the names of the parricidal plotters. But Philotas's silence struck me as more dangerous than a few little foot soldiers dreaming of killing their king. It proved that he wished me dead.
Everything became clear to me then: Parmenion, Philotas's father, was the man hiding in the shadows and slowly turning the army against me! I made Crateros responsible for subjecting Phi-lotas to torture. His cries rang out, filling me with self-loathing. I could picture him in one of his languid poses and could not bear the thought that he only loved me the better to betray me.
His father Parmenion, now seventy years old, had once enjoyed Philip's respect and Olympias's friendship. He had come over to my camp after Philip's death by executing my rival At-talus. He had used his skills as an orator to rally the Greeks, and his strategies had seen me win many battles. Two of his sons had died in combat, and he had offered me the vigorous young flesh of his last son. Blinded by this evidence of his support, I had interpreted his ambiguity as flexibility, his eloquence as sincerity, and his opportunism as loyalty.
The old man was a monster; why had it taken me so long to see?
He went to every banquet and invited himself into all the taverns, befriending the Persian nobility to build up his network. He waited until I reached the remotest regions of Persia to launch rumors that disrupted my soldiers. He arranged for supplies of food to arrive late or be lost along the way. Hunger and cold angered my commanders, and they too started criticizing me and plotting against me. Parmenion was a fine strategist; he could have eliminated me without touching a weapon. As governor of Media he could have taken over my empire without taking part in any conspiracy.
This ploy would have been the perfect crime, but the gods decided otherwise. The moment Philotas's confession was ripped from him, I sent a well-chosen man to take a letter to Parmenion announcing a promotion. The general who dreamed of becoming King of Asia greeted my message with delight. He was stabbed on the spot; the strategist had lost thanks to his own strategies.
The steep mountains softened and curved; the hills turned to plains covered in meadowland. Despite warnings from my Persian generals, who still remembered defeats inflicted by the nomads, despite complaints from the Macedonians, who wanted to go home, I unleashed an arrow toward the sun and my army advanced into the kingdom of the Scythians.
Every country has its own ocean. The steppes were the Mediterranean of the northern peoples. The whispering of leaves replaced the murmur of waves. As seagulls cluster around ships, so here blackbirds flew up into the sky singing of heroes who died for glory and for love. The Scythian tribes, renowned for their savagery and insolence, appeared and vanished around us. Their mounted warriors and skilled archers attacked us and then withdrew. They loomed on the horizon like a pack of starving wolves, stole food, took women and children, then-like thunderclouds fleeing to reveal blue skies-dispersed.
"The steppes are haunted, and these tribes have powerful sorcerers," the Persians muttered, trying to discourage me. "During their ceremonies, these men dress in lion skins and adorn themselves with feathers, animal teeth, and mirrors. They beat drums and sing and dance until they collapse, foaming at the mouth and rolling their eyes. Then the earth ripples and opens up to swallow foreign troops while the spirits of dead soldiers come down from the sky."
I learned that Darius had been here before me. Nothing could stop me in my headlong pursuit of him. If the enemy fled across the steppe, then why should I, Alexander, not face its shifting vastness and elusive horsemen in my turn?
The wind whispered, the wind howled. Unhindered, the sky spilled over the four horizons. Some soldiers, oppressed by the vastness, went mad. They threw off their clothes and ran screaming from the encampment. The Persians explained that, unable to find houses to live in, the spirits wandered day and night over these lands, without rest. When they met foreigners not protected by magic formulae, they took possession of their souls. I thought nothing of their superstitions but doubled the number of guards watching over our camps because I knew that at night the nomads could disguise themselves as spirits to sow terror in my army.
I heard tell that on the banks of the Iaxarte there was an annual market that drew all the tribes together, and that the previous year, Darius had been seen there. He had become a flamethrower, and the crowd applauding him had no idea he had once been king of kings.
Before I arrived, the nomads had taken down their tents and disappeared. All that was left on the ground were the holes where they had planted their stakes, and chariot tracks almost washed away by the rain. The river reflected the blue sky. I was accustomed to conquering cities and attacking fortresses on steep rocks, and for the first time I was overcome by how strange life was on the steppe. I had not come through a single town or met a single inhabitant. I could see no villages or roads on my map. Wherever I went, the horizons were empty and the inhabitants vanished. Only the grasses with their constant whispering seemed to want to communicate to me the cries of joy and animated conversations of those people. But where are the tribes? Where are my enemies? Where are the people I should subjugate and who should proclaim me as their king? Who are these people that they are indifferent to Alexander and don't come to meet him in war?
Has Darius learned to be invisible? Has he come to the steppes in search of the magic that allowed men to melt into the wind?
I could no longer bear the weight of my army on my shoulders or the slow pace of our progress: I silenced their displeasure and their nostalgia by ordering them to set up camp and rest. I myself took a detachment and headed north.
I abandoned my demoralized troops with a sense of relief, galloping toward the skies like a bird escaping a trap.
The horizon drew closer. The vast swell of grasses threw itself in the air and closed in again. With every wave conquered, another impetuous wave rose up. I slid deeper into their dark ocean, forgetting sunlight, thirst, and hunger. What I truly forgot were the traitors and the complainers, their constant appetite for booty and their intriguing for glory. I called to Hephaestion to advance even faster. With speed I would conquer this vastness. With strength I would subjugate the infinite and transform it into the finite.
The sun set and the moon rose. The stars revolved and dawn came back again. Under the reddening sky, the darkness was an army beating the retreat. As I galloped onward I heard laughter and murmuring. The spirits were close by me now, mocking my progress. Their singing! The incantations of those invisible peoples trying to slow my pace, to frighten Bucephalus. Be gone, evil spirits!
Hephaestion was exhausted. He fell ill, and I had to stop. He ranted for a whole night: like a woman determined to take her warrior home, he was trying desperately to drag me back the way we had come.
"Alexander who has triumphed over every mountain peak shall not be defeated by the steppe," I explained.
The next morning I did not wake him but left him with half my soldiers while I carried on northward.
One day at dawn some impoverished nomads driving a flock of sheep appeared. They greeted me in their language, welcomed me into their tent, invited me to eat and drink and offered their wives and daughters for my bed. They did not know who I was. They were not troubled by the absence of dialogue, and I managed to speak in gestures. I asked many of them the same question: Where are the outer limits of the steppes? and they all replied: In the stars.
We rode on together. I met other tribes, some made up of only ten people. They lived in poor, flimsy tents and vanished without warning, leaving us adrift on the green waves. Their sorcerers dressed in robes of leather and lion skin, they danced and sang and raved until they looked liked wolves, bears, or eagles and delivered their oracles. They could not write, and they healed the sick using magic potions and formulae. They smiled a great deal and took us for a warrior tribe.
I forgot Pella and Olympias and her marble palace. I forgot Athens and its ruined temples. I forgot Babylon, its scarlet walls, its tall chambers filled with incense. I forgot the burned citadels, the conquered towns, my argument with Cleitos and his body pierced by my lance. I had left them all to be with the wind, the spirits, and the green waves.
I navigated ever northward. I was no longer Alexander but the chief of a small nomadic tribe. The moon had a different luminosity, watching me and smiling. That evening it spoke:
"Alexander, prepare yourself! The volcano is about to spew out a storm of stars, the sun will come to meet the moon! Pack away your tent, pack your trunks. She is coming, she will capture you. She will take you away!"
The following morning an army appeared on the horizon.
At first it was a line of black, then short silhouettes on broad sturdy horses. They became minute warriors wearing painted armor and helmets adorned with feathers. Their arrows rained down on us; one burrowed into my shoulder, another into my horse's neck. It was a very long time since I had been in battle. The pain awakened Alexander as he slept. My own body unfurled, and Bucephalus, spurred on by his blood, reared and whinnied. Dashing aside arrows with my shield, I sped toward the enemy with a roar.
One of their number launched himself at me. He held off my lance with a long-handled bludgeon covered in spines, while with the sickle in his left hand he cleaved into the bronze plate and seven layers of leather on my shield. I pushed it at him, and he flung it in the air with a swipe of his bludgeon. My left hand found my sword in its sheath; I threw myself forward, aiming for his head. My lance crossed his bludgeon. My bronze sword, inherited from Philip and blessed by Vulcan, clashed with his sickle. A deafening sound. Sparks. The sickle had just chipped Alexander's invincible two-edged sword!
On his chest, over his darned red tunic, this barbarian warrior wore a strange glinting black panel. There was a furious face painted on it, and as he moved, it became a bird with pointed teeth and golden talons at the ends of its wings. He wore a helmet topped with an eagle's head and adorned with long white feathers.
He was riding bareback on a chestnut mare much smaller than Bucephalus but so nimble-footed she hovered round my stallion like a bee, avoiding his charges then coming back to brush past him, biting him, then fleeing.
The warrior's sharp weapons flew and flashed around me. When they struck my sword, their sharp cries rang out like the anguished wails of a starving beast. The face painted on the black panel laughed derisively, trying to frighten me. The eagle-headed helmet hid his forehead and eyes, which appeared as two black flames dancing languidly and apparently talking to me of love.
In previous combat, when I looked my enemy in the eye I read death, not love. Was this stranger trying to bewitch me? His bludgeon suddenly broke my lance, and my rage exploded: I threw off the combination of sentimentality, pity, and admiration I had felt for the hardened and audacious young barbarian. My sword whistled through the air, and, unable to withstand my powerful blows, he retreated. As Bucephalus charged on the mare, my weapon touched the panel covering the warrior's breast. Sparks flew. A furious noise like the roar of a wounded tiger almost deafened me and stunned the barbarian. When he recovered his composure, he turned his horse and fled.
I understood from what he was wearing and from the standing of his weapons that he was chief of this warrior tribe. All those who gave offense to Alexander had to choose between capitulation and death. I set off in pursuit of him.
Even though she was small, the chestnut mare sped across the steppe like a star. Aroused by the long mane that she shook vigorously, Bucephalus galloped behind. At first, arrows continued to whistle past: my soldiers and the barbarian warriors were still fighting as they tried to follow us. Then, silence. Then, the trembling speed. Then I was carried on the wind. I could hear nothing but its wailing.
The sun set. A truce.
The warrior had set up camp a hundred paces or so away. He built a fire and ate. I nibbled on some dried bread from my pouch and lay down on the grass with my sword in my hand. I closed my eyes, but my ears remained open, alert to my rival's movements.
Before dawn he set off again at a gallop. I whistled to Bucephalus, who launched into his frenetic pursuit once more. The sun rose and poured its orange light over the steppe, making millions of dewdrops roll and glisten on the grass. Birds frightened by the horses flew off in a beating of wings, leaving their calling, cooing, and trilling behind.
On the third day the warrior stopped fleeing, and we fought from morning till night. I did not know where he found his inexhaustible strength, but his attacks were not so aggressive. I returned this mark of courtesy, careful not to injure him. Night fell, and the crescent moon rose. I lay watching the stars with my hands behind my head. The last time I had looked closely at them had been fifteen years ago, when I was still a boy full of dreams who knew nothing of the hard combat and noisy conquests inscribed in my destiny. I had still been rich with my own loneliness, unfamiliar with the plots of generals, the banter of eunuchs, or the luxurious laughter of courtesans. My eyes had not been invaded by towns, roads, corpses, and lovers' naked bodies; nor my ears sullied by rumors, accusations, arguments, and the clamor of war. That is why I could see the stars and understand their language. I had lost touch with the sky to delve into the world of men. Now, with the challenge laid down by this unknown warrior, I had left behind my soldiers, the last men who tied me to the tumultuous life of a king.
In the sky, dark eyes sparkled among the stars, talking of love, not death.
On the fourth day a group of nomadic horsemen appeared, like monsters uprooted from the depths of the ocean. They glided closer on the crests of those green waves. Without explanation, they plied toward us, screaming, weapons raised. The unknown warrior rode straight at these men, though they were much taller than him, like an intrepid young wolf throwing itself on a horde of starving hyenas. I fell in step with him, and together we forged a path for ourselves.
The screams of those once fierce horsemen faded and disappeared.
Ahead of me, the warrior continued to gallop. I no longer had any reason to want his death or his submission. I was following him for the competition, curious to see which of us was the stronger, had the better endurance.
On the fifth night there was no moon and the wind stirred. I woke with a start: a pair of eyes shone in the darkness in front of me. The young man was standing in the tall grass, and we fought on foot. During this struggle I managed to hoist off his helmet, and my hand grasped his thick hair. I pulled with all my strength; the savage leapt at me and bit me ferociously on the neck. At dawn the next day he mounted his mare and set off again at a gallop. I chased after him without even wondering why. Our horses sped across the steppes, accompanied by flocks of birds fluttering out of the bushes.
I held in my hand a long hank of smooth black hair, floating on the wind. I would go to the very edge of this terrestrial world, I would go where this young barbarian could no longer flee. He would let me disarm him, I, Alexander, who wished only love for him, not hatred.
But love weakened me, and during the course of the day I was overwhelmed by sadness. Philip loomed in my thoughts, Philip in flesh and blood, holding me in his arms, against his phallus. Olympias stood on the edge of her terrace where the orange trees blossomed and gazed at the horizon over which I had left her forever. I saw Hephaestion as a youth, wanting to leave Macedonia with a medicine man to forget my disloyal heart. I had kept him there with my tears, abusing his gentleness but never promising him anything. Other boys came to mind, furtive loves met in taverns or loved for one night after the glories of battle. They were followed by Persian slaves who had offered me their bodies, and Bagoas, whose love for life I had castrated. I had conquered and raped everything. I had submitted men and women to the strength of my lance. Every city that bore my name and every soldier dead in my name had further fanned the flames of fury in me. Alexander, king of Asia, had driven out the other Alexander, the reader of stars who had loved a philosopher, his flaccid body, his considered words, his calm mind, and his world without wars.
That night as I gazed at the stars I started singing a Macedonian washerwoman tune that I had not thought of once through all the years of campaigning. My voice floated on the silence, burrowed through the rustling grasses, and reemerged, accompanied by a higher voice. In the distance the barbarian was singing a sad melody in his own language. Our two voices followed and outran each other, mingling together and rising toward the stars.
When I opened my eyes again, it was morning. I saw the face of a young boy, huge as he leaned right over me. He had two long black braids and the high cheekbones of the people of the steppes; the slanting line of his eyes reached his temples, and there was a scar on his chin.
I gave an involuntary cry:
"You're a spirit!"
His eyes seemed to question the meaning of my words. I tried to use a word I had learned from the nomads: "You're a cheugoul!"
He smiled. He nicked the top of my chest with the tip of his sickle. I shuddered. This was not a dream! I recognized his scarlet tunic, his black eyes, and his mare grazing close by with Bucephalus. I slid my hand discreetly toward my sword but touched the sharpened spines of his bludgeon.
"What's your name?" I asked in a friendly voice.
He did not seem to understand my accent, learned from a different tribe to his. He raised his weapon again and laid it over my throat. I was not afraid of death. I was used to the cold surface of a blade. I stared right into my tormentor's eyes, challenging him. He moved closer to me abruptly and put his lips to mine. The instincts of a man accustomed to combat tensed my every muscle; I struggled and pushed him away. He stood back up and put two fingers into his mouth to whistle for his mare; she came over, followed by Bucephalus. He mounted his horse; I got on my stallion. He threw himself into the limitless steppes; I galloped by his side toward the sky.
Clouds scudded by, gradually tinged with yellow, blue, pink, and orange, then brilliant red. Birds as swift as arrows sped noisily toward the sun, which had just dropped to the horizon. We galloped behind them, heading right into the sun blazing with flames and aglow with light. The vermilion hills wavered and turned to rivers, mountains, giant trees reaching their branches up to the burning red sky. The sun's heart was a lake of boiling crimson lava. White creatures appeared and ripped away my past like a tattered old robe, then vanished in the incandescent waters.
Night fell, and we lit a fire. The boy eyed me through the flames.
"What's your name?" I asked again. "I am Alestria," he told me, "and you?" I hesitated.
"Are you a man or a woman?" he asked me.
His question amused me.
"I'm a man, and you?"
"You, a man? I don't believe you."
Amazed by his reply, I repeated myself to remove any possibility of misunderstanding: "I am a man, a man!"
He leaped up and jumped over the fire, pushing me to the ground and putting his hand between my legs.
"Zougoul!" he cried in horror and fled toward his horse.
I was astonished, watching him leave in the darkness but unable to react. It was a dark night, and the grasshoppers wept softly. Shadows had engulfed the steppes, for the young warrior had disappeared and taken all my joy with him. I vaulted onto Bucephalus and set off to find him.
I drifted across the steppe, calling Alestria. Wolves answered my calls, and their solitary howls pierced right through my heart. Why did you run from me, Alestria? Were you deceived by my curly hair, my fine features that have lent their beauty to sculptors in every country? Are you looking for a wife, Alestria? I would be as gentle as a girl, I, Alexander, who was Olympias's daughter and Philip's wife!
Come back, Alestria!
A black silhouette outlined against a wide ribbon of silver. Alestria had stopped before a river: it blocked his way so he could not escape me. Such was the will of the gods and the cheugouls. I went over to him and took him in my arms. We threw down our weapons and fell to the ground, rolling in the grass, lips against lips, breast against breast, our legs intertwined… but Alestria was a woman!
A woman who knew how to fight!
A woman who had taken Alexander from his men!
A woman who had fled me but been returned to me by the will of the gods!
Tears spilled from my eyes, though I could not have said why. Soon my own body gave me the explanation: it had found the other half lost when it fell from the skies. My hands, arms, hips, stomach, the backs of my knees, the tips of my toes… all slotted into the contours that had been waiting to make a whole with them. They embraced and knotted together, becoming a tree with roots spreading over the steppe, plunging into rivers, and climbing up to the sky.
I was woken the following morning by birdsong, and found myself lying naked surrounded by hundreds of wildflowers. The sun was peeping over the horizon, pouring a layer of red light over the steppes. My eyes searched for Alestria: she had gone again! My head swam, and I leaped to my feet. Standing beside the river, I could make out a dark shape in the water. I called to her. She turned and waved to me from a distance, then vanished among the blinding sparkles and reappeared below me, shaking her head and sending out a shower of droplets. "Talas!" she cried.
I knew neither how to swim nor how to tell her I could not. "Talas, come!"
She climbed out of the water and came over to me. Her body was that of a warrior: her breasts, hips, and thighs gleamed and were marked with long scars and deep wounds like trophies. Her black braids shone in the sunlight and hung down to her navel. Her wet face was like a child's, with full lips and cheeks tanned by the sun. She threw her arms around me and held me to her till I shivered at the touch of her icy skin.
"Talas!" she cried, running toward the river.
I did not know how to swim. But I had no choice but to follow her. I ran into the water and sank like a stone. The waves surrounded me. The river was a bed of flowers: magnolias, dahlias, carnations, roses, and violets bloomed around me. I moved forward and reached out to pick them. My body felt light and rose up from the riverbed, flying toward the sky: yes, I was flying, beating my hands, which had turned into wings. I slid among silvery fish and avenues of undulating weeds. At the far end of the path the sun was no longer an incandescent ball of fire but a face floating over a vault of shadows and reflections. All of a sudden it became wrinkled, and its expression changed. I saw Alestria moving back and forth: she was looking for me! I wanted to swim toward her, but the current stopped me reaching her, and I was carried farther away. I wanted to call her name, but water poured into my mouth. I lost sight of her silhouette, and the sun disappeared. My eyes were filled with beams of yellow, orange, pink, purple, and crimson, which turned into a rainbow.
I opened my eyes and saw Alestria's chin and chest. My head was resting in her hands on her lap. Her melancholic gaze fixed the horizon. Although she was naked, she seemed to be wrapped in a magnificent veil made neither of fabric nor fur but of a corner of sky pierced with flashes of lightning. She looked down and stared into my eyes. Her dark eyes seemed to be questioning me: "Will you dare to lay down your weapons and love a little savage? Will you dare take a vagabond with you on your noble Bucephalus? You, Alexander, son of Philip, king of kings, conqueror of the Greeks, and of Olympias, daughter of Achilles and Zeus, will you dare to make this child your queen, this child abandoned by men and by the gods?"
I said nothing, but met her gaze.
No, I would not hesitate.
The king of conquerors was not afraid of a warrior woman. He recognized in her someone who had been banished from those kingdoms with ten thousand palaces and one hundred thousand downy cushions; she was a brother living in a stranger's body, a spiritual sister carved from the same block of diamond.
No, I would not hesitate. My pride would be disarmed, the invincible warrior would be vanquished. Wait a little longer! Let me gather my strength in silence and prepare to welcome in the love about to strike my life like a thunderbolt.
She was my queen! Without any doubt. Her melancholy calm, her spontaneous joy, and her black eyes reflecting all the mysteries of Asia displayed more majesty than those capricious princesses who were never exposed to the sun. My eye slid down her neck to her naked breasts, and on the inside of her left breast, I discovered a large scar, a terrifying emblem. I could not tell whether her flesh had been deeply scored by a dagger or marked by a white-hot iron. The crimson skin that had grown over the wound was marked with lines and calluses, and I imagined that she positioned the bound rope of her bow there.
I laid my hand on the scar. She sat up with a start and wanted to flee, but I rolled on top of her and pinned her down with the weight of my body. I rested my face on her injured breast and heard her heart beating.
Alestria, your origins do not matter: whether you are a free warrior or a fighting slave, I shall take you from your tribe and free you from servitude.
Alestria, child of the steppes, you have conquered the invincible Alexander! For you he will stop scouring conquered lands in search of a noblewoman worthy of being his queen.
Alestria, you who do not know my name, I who do not know your parents' names, we shall found our own dynasty. Alexander and Alestria: from our two names combined a river will spring up and flow to the very ends of humanity.
What does it matter that you have neither clothes nor jewels nor a kingdom? All that is Alexander's is yours: he offers you his army, his cities, his empire! You will lay down your arms, he will wage wars for you.
You will be my companion in my travels and in my life. Together we shall ride to the ends of the earth. All my suffering will be relegated to the past. All your suffering will be erased.
Alestria, I love you! I offer you Alexander, whose beauty is nothing compared to his ability to love. I offer you diamonds, sapphires, rubies, and the most luxurious fabrics to make you the youngest, most beautiful, and most glorious queen on earth.
You were destined for me, Alestria! It is I, the most powerful of men, whom the gods have chosen for you to tear you from the shadows and make you shine in the zenith!
Oh, Alestria, give me your wounds and your weapons. All those who have possessed you and all those you have loved shall be exiled! I have come to take you, to take you away!
Come, Alestria, my love! I came onto this earth for you. Together we shall ride to the firmament. Do not refuse me!
A thousand years, ten thousand years, from now the birds on the steppe will still sing of our meeting: on a moonless night two stars collide, the sky burns and spews out a tempest of flames and lightning. Every legend already written shall be burned, and a new era shall rise up from their ashes!