The first was murder. Having the heads lopped off slaves was merely an apéritif for Olympias. The main dish may well have been Philip of Macedon himself. Historians disagree as to the role she played in his assassination. But there’s no doubt about her having had dessert. After Philip was dead, she killed the child of his second wife while the mother held it in her arms, and then slowly strangled the mother—a rather lengthy operation during which Olympias delivered a running monologue filled with the sort of taunts and barbs that really hurt a person. Example: “You really should do something about your breath, dear; it’s no wonder your‘ mother preferred your sister to you”-—and wringing her neck all the time.
Olympias’ second outlet was Alexander. From the first, although Philip had other sons, Olympias campaigned to insure that Alexander would be the heir to the throne. The most important part of her campaign lay in convincing Alexander from earliest childhood that he was more than a king, more than his father, indeed, that he was a god, the son of Zeus himself.
As Olympias presented it to Alexander, Philip was merely a tool to forge the army which his son would then take over and use to conquer the world. Historically, she was right. That’s exactly what happened. And in order for it to happen, Alexander had to believe that some nine months before his birth, while Philip was out massacring Greeks, Olympias received a caller from Mount Olympus—Zeus himself-—who bedded her down and planted the seed which would be Alexander.
Some kids believe in Santa Claus. Alexander believed he was a god. But there comes a traumatic time when kids find out there is no Santa Claus and Mama has feet of clay ever after. Only with Alex it was reversed. First he spotted Mama’s feet of clay at the time that she disposed of Philip’s second wife. Then he began to wonder if she could have lied to him and if maybe he wasn’t really a god.
That’s where it was at right now. Despite the triumphs he’d already racked up in Greece, and in Persia too, Alex had secret doubts about his divinity. That’s why he was so happy to have another god with a golden phallus to confirm it. But there was one ultimate confirmation he sought, and after some hours of god-talk, he confided it to me.
“A long time ago another son of Zeus walked the earth not far from where we are right now,” Alexander told me earnestly. “He came in the guise of a Phrygian peasant named Gordius. Zeus heralded his coming. He commanded the people to select the first person who rode up to the temple in a wagon as their king. Gordius came and the prophecy was fulfilled. He founded the city known as Gordium. Subsequently, Gordius dedicated the wagon in which he’d come to the gods. In doing so, he made a prophecy. He declared that whoever should succeed in untying the complex knot of cornel bark holding the yoke to the pole of the wagon should rule all of Asia. Through the centuries many great warriors have tried to solve the problem of the knot. But none has succeeded. And none has conquered all of Asia. I shall loose the sacred knot. Then will I know that I am truly a god. Darius the Persian can wait. We start for Gordium tomorrow.”
So there it was! “If—!” the Wise Man of Saigon had said. “If Alexander the Great hadn’t hacked the Gordian Knot to pieces . . . humanity might have chosen the road to its salvation instead of the path to its destruction.” And now here was Alexander telling me that it the Knot confirmed his godhood, he would be sure of his right to conquer the world.
But what if I could stop him? The whole course of history would be changed. And ultimate extinction might be avoided! I didn’t know how I was going to do it, but I decided that somehow I would keep Alexander from shattering the Gordian Knot. With that firmly in my mind, I drifted off to sleep, Alexander’s voice still confessing his dreams of glory to my ears.
The next morning, he had servants bring me the finest clothes so that I might keep covered the evidence of my divinity. I replaced Denise’s slippers with leather-thonged sandals and donned the splendiferous tunic of a high-ranking Macedonian officer. Dressed thusly, I accompanied Alexander to a council of war with his advisors.
The situation was that Darius the Persian had retreated with his army to the mountains separating the plains from the sea. Alexander’s captains wanted to pursue him iminediately. But Alexander stood firm. First he would detour to Gordium to satisfy the prophecy, and only then would he wheel back to face Darius. Shortly before noon the army, led by Alexander, got under way for Gordium.
If Alexander was a god, he was a working god. He was everywhere on the line of march, his voice a whiplash snapping out orders, straightening a line of foot soldiers here, seeing to the transport of giant catapults there, checking the steeds of the cavalry, straining beside his men to lift a broken chariot so a wheel might be removed and replaced. He treated his army the way a master carpenter looks after his tools -- constantly on the alert to be sure all would be at peak efficiency when the time came for their use. At the same time, he drove them hard, and it was long after nightfall before he called a halt and gave the order to set up camp.
I dined with him in his tent. We did not dine alone. There was a lady whom Alexander was eager to have meet me. Her name was Dymitria.
Originally Dymitria came from Thebes. She had been the daughter of a great and noble household there before Alexander razed the city during one of the highpoints of his bloody campaign to unite the Greek city-states. Now she was his paramour. There were many ramifications to this situation, but I didn’t become aware of them until the next day.
That evening, Dymitria came on much more like the lady of the manor than the backstairs concubine. She turned the rough interior of the tent into a grand Theban dining room. The most gracious of hostesses, she put me completely at my ease. Her conversation sparkled with wit and her beauty was tangible balm after the exertions of the day.
That beauty might have served as a model for the sculptors who immortalized Greek womanhood in the form of goddess statues. A tall girl in her early twenties, Dymitria had proud, patrician features, a strong jaw-line, a perfect nose, pronounced cheekbones, all softened by wide-set, soft blue eyes and full lips that always seemed soft and moist and on the verge of pursing to be kissed. She had long, flowing, black hair which framed her face like a halo and drifted down over the gown she wore. The gown was typical of the Theban garb favored by noble ladies; it was white and loose, falling to her ankles and held at one shoulder by a knot. The other shoulder was bare, revealing a complexion that was pure alabaster softness. Far from being concealed by the gown, her physical charms were enhanced by it. Large, high breasts rippled enticingly under the material when she moved. A silken cord gathered the folds of material at her waist stressing its tininess and the voluptuous jut of her hips. Without being able to see them, I knew her legs would be long and slender. A tall, proud beauty—such was Dymitria.
Her effect on Alexander was obvious. There was a sort of unspoken power struggle going on between them. I didn’t quite understand it, yet somehow it seemed to me that she might be winning. A part of this seemed to be Alexander’s anxiousness to convince her of my godhood.
“Stevictor is a god recently arrived from Olympus,” he told her.
“A god?” The look she shot me was polite, but speculative. “Like you are a god, my liege?” There was a faint teasing note in her voice as she turned back to Alexander.
“Not the same,” he granted. “Excepting that we both are deities. Stevictor is a god of fertility, while I am a god of war.”
“Indeed? Well, of the two, what woman would not be more intrigued by the former?”