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!