The greatest resistance, however, remained among Alexander’s senior officers. These were the men who had fought with him since he took the throne, who had helped bind up his wounds, and drank with him since he was old enough to hold a cup. For them, to risk their lives to conquer one despot, just to make another of a man they had known since he’d worn short pants, was too much. They took no notice of subtle encouragements to abase themselves. Far from understanding the sensitivities of the Persian courtiers, they were contemptuous of them.
One of these men was Cleitus son of Dropidas. Part of a family that had long served the Macedonian court, he led the very cream of the Cavalry Companions, the so-called “All Royals,” and was a formidable warrior. You recall that he saved the King’s life at the Granicus, when he struck down a Persian horseman with a bead on Alexander’s neck. More than twenty years the King’s senior, he was the sort of warhorse who was not about to grovel before anyone. His tendency to a certain brittleness of temperament, especially while drinking, had earned him the sobriquet of “Black” Cleitus.
The mutual respect Alexander and Cleitus bore for the other at first kept their disagreement over prostration from ever becoming a matter of contention. The King had more or less publicly designated him as the new governor of Bactria-a plum post that had the additional virtue of hustling Cleitus’s stiff back out of his court. But overindulgence in wine was a vice the men shared, and it nearly became the undoing of both.
The quarrel began when, at the latter reaches of a drinking party, Ptolemy suggested that Alexander should be deified because, even at a young age, he had already exceeded the achievements of his divine heroes-Achilles, the Dioscuri, and Heracles. Callisthenes begged to disagree.
“No man merits such honors while alive, when, for all his miraculous feats, Heracles was not made a god until he was dead.”
“The Pharaohs of Egypt are recognized in life as the divine sons of Zeus-Ammon, though all are clearly lesser men than Alexander,” observed Hephaestion.
Callisthenes, who had the defect of retaining far too much sophistic skill deep into his cups, replied that a distinction must be made between divinity for purely ceremonial purposes, such as for the maintenance of the Pharaohs, and deification for the feats of some individual, as was initially proposed for Alexander.
Hephaestion shook his head. “Still, it is absurd to claim that some plump Egyptian effete is entitled to divine honors, but Alexander is not.”
“And besides, I am Pharaoh, am I not? And I am not plump-yet!” interjected the King, making light of the dispute, so that everyone laughed with him. This seemed to close the discussion, and fortunately so, as the tender subject of prostration still hung in the air, perceived by all but unsaid.
But Ptolemy would not let the matter drop.
“At the very least, we may all agree that Alexander has far exceeded the works of his father!”
He added that it was Alexander, after all, that had broken the hitherto undefeated Theban Sacred Band at Chaeronea, so that even at Philip’s greatest victory, it was his son who merited the greater part of the glory. Alexander smiled at this, waving his hand to dismiss it, but made no clear disavowal. With that signal the more gross flatterers at the table, fearing Alexander had been insulted by arguments against his divinity, all rushed to extol the King’s feats of conquest, and to declare poor old Philip’s achievements as small change, really quite unremarkable. When I say “all,” I include myself, though by that time I was so lubricated I would have agreed to anything.
At this point Black Cleitus slammed his drinking cup to the table. Looking first to me, he declared that foreigners who had tasted defeat at Philip’s hand should be the last to belittle him. The same applied to the son who owed his very throne to his father.
“I have served with both,” Cleitus went on, with stunning indiscretion, “and I can tell you that there is no comparison. Philip waged war and won against free Greeks who fought for their very homes, gods, families. Not mercenaries in the pay of painted, perfumed, pantaloon-wearing orientals!
“Alexander, besides, owes the core of his army, his tactics in melee and in siegecraft, entirely to Philip. Without the fall of Methone, there would have been no Tyre!” Indeed, Cleitus went on, such a superb army would conquer no matter who was in charge. The proof was Antipater’s recent battle against the Spartan rebels at Megalopolis, which was fought around the time of Gaugamela. “Imagine that!” mocked Cleitus. “A victory that the Macedonians managed to scrape together without the divine Alexander!”
Now all understood that Black Cleitus, who favored one of those deep Spartan canteens, had drunk more than anybody. He had fallen silent, and though nobody yet dared speak, there was still time for him to make light of it all, as if his insults were mere campfire humor, or at least to dismiss himself for sickness, and have everything forgotten. Alexander, tight-lipped, did not reply to any of it, but governed his outrage, merely summoning his servant to freshen his cup. But Ptolemy opened his baleful mouth again, and the moment for a reprieve was lost.
“Philip was no great individual warrior, while Alexander exceeds us all in his zeal for battle. Surely our friend will admit as much, will he not?”
Cleitus admitted nothing. “On the contrary,” he declared, “if it had not been for this very hand-the one at the end of my arm-the great Alexander would have been dead at the Granicus, and Darius still on his throne at Susa!”
With that, Alexander leapt from his cushion to throttle Cleitus. Hephaestion, Craterus and Ptolemy held him back, which unfortunately left the drunk to continue his tirade, boasting that perhaps Alexander should prostrate himself to him, given that he owed Cleitus his very life. Alexander was so vexed that he was literally sputtering with rage, begging for a sword to kill the man. Cleitus was rushed out of the room before he could say anything more.
But as it is so common in these kinds of confrontations, the alcoholic kind, one of the parties could not let a bad situation rest. The remaining symposiasts had managed to calm Alexander down, edging him away from the table to bed, when Craterus and Ptolemy returned, thinking they had delivered Cleitus to his valet. There was a commotion outside the tent, and Cleitus burst in again-this time without his tunic. Tearing off his undergarments, he commenced to show everyone his gray and sagging testicles.
“Since you prefer men without nuts, Alexander, take those of a true patriot of Macedon!”
This insult rooted everyone to their spots. Unrestrained, Alexander leapt up and snatched a javelin from a guard. His throw was dead on, piercing his future governor of Bactria through the chest; Cleitus collapsed with his hands still grasping his balls.
So much for the story you all know. What you may not have heard about, however, is the trouble Alexander endured from the other side-from Persians and Medes who objected violently to what they saw as the rank disrespect of their King by wine-soaked brutes like Cleitus. I am thinking in particular of a Persian noble named Rathaeshtar, who had estates in Pisidia and fought with distinction on behalf of the Great King at the Granicus. Before Issus, he switched allegiance to Alexander, albeit at great personal risk to himself. Rathaeshtar was invaluable in providing information about Persian tactics, and about the lay of the country around the Cilician Gates. At Issus, he led his armored cavalry beside Alexander’s, and proved his valor by coming away with a shoulder wound. The King was very pleased with this Persian, for he had exactly the skills and the spirit Alexander would need to help his kingdom endure. That he would receive a choice governorship was a certainty.
All that ended when Rathaeshtar saw something he didn’t like at court. Before witnesses, old Cleitus not only failed to prostrate himself before the Lord of Asia, but, in a fatherly but ill-timed gesture, patted Alexander’s back. The Persian bidded his time while in the King’s tent, though no doubt seething within, and confronted Cleitus when he left. Though I did not see it, I am told that Cleitus laughed and waved Rathaeshtar aside. When the Persian pressed his complaint, Cleitus shoved the man and drew his sword. At this point a fight was inevitable: the honor of Persian nobility, which was their greatest possession, could permit no other end. Rathaeshtar held his scimitar, but as his shoulder was not healed from the wound he got defending Alexander at Issus, he could not lift it. That their duel was not a fair match did not restrain Cleitus. With his opponent standing defenseless, the old general cut him down without a second thought. He then wiped his sword on the clothes of the dead man, spat on the body, and went off for a good meal in the officer’s mess. At the table, he boasted and mocked the funeral rites of the Persians.