Arrian, whose source, Ptolemy, must certainly have been present, simply says he did it against the advice of Parmenion, who pointed out that it would be looked on as the act of a conqueror rather than a king. Diodorus, Curtius and Plutarch all agree that Alexander gave a drinking party to which were invited a number of flute girls and hetairas; among them Thais, the Athenian courtesan, mistress of Ptolemy the future king; that at the height of the revelry she recalled Xerxes’ ravaging of the Acropolis, and urged Alexander to let an Athenian girl pay it back in kind; that thereon he proclaimed a Dionysiac comus, which he led with wreath on head and torch in hand; that he threw the first torch himself and let her throw the next one. Plutarch says he had second thoughts after a while, and ordered the fire put out. If so he was too late; the layer of ash was found by archaeologists to cover everything.
No one was hurt; when it got too hot inside, they came out to watch the spectacle. There is no doubt that a really first-class fire, when no fear for human life intrudes, is one of the great atavistic joys still known to man. Today it is very shocking to think of archaeological treasures burning; to Macedonians and still more to Greeks, the significance of Persepolis was rather different.
Tarn has preferred to reject the party entirely, and have the palace burned “as a manifesto.” True, there is no party in Arrian. It does, however, seem likely that Ptolemy, a venerable King and grandfather when he wrote, may have thought fit to suppress such details of his riotous youth as the exuberant Thais. Parmenion’s objections are no doubt historically true. He may even have been reminding Alexander of intentions which he himself had expressed at soberer moments. He did wish to be a king rather than a conqueror; and the burning of the kings’ ceremonial seat must certainly have been held against him by the Persians. On the whole, it is hard not to conclude that, like so many happenings at very successful parties, it seemed a good idea at the time.
As to the archaeological treasures, they were left so wholly to the lion, the lizard and the shifting sands that Persepolis is today the best preserved of all monuments of the Achaemenian era.
The troops outside, seeing the bonfire and knowing that the cream of Persian wealth had been skimmed, took it as a sign their labours were over and that they could now march home with their loot. They were soon undeceived; Alexander had merely paused before a final reckoning with Darius. They were now to be led into hard unknown country, with a strictly military objective. Yet without protest they followed their commander.
Too little has been made, too much taken for granted, of the extraordinary magnetism which this implies. The army of Macedon was steeped in an archaic, feudal democracy. Its forebears had made and unmade and murdered kings. He had grown up among these men; he accepted their traditional freedom of speech, unparalleled in the annals of emperors. Save for foreign auxiliaries, he was all alone with them in hostile country; if they mutinied he was wholly at their mercy. He kept no secret police to intimidate or spy on them; two later plots against his life were both revealed to him at the last moment by ordinary people. He had created a relationship of unique intimacy and trust, and inspired a possessiveness which was to create unforeseen complications. Their dependence on him grew almost superstitious, as their reaction to his wounds and sickness shows. When spring had melted the mountain snows, they followed him north towards Ecbatana.
When he reached it, Darius had gone. He took possession of the summer palace. In its strongrooms he deposited the enormous reserves of treasure which were left when he had filled his war chest. As treasurer and governor he left his old friend Harpalus.
Darius had left, as usual, the initiative to the enemy. At the news of Alexander’s advance he moved northward, sending the women ahead for safety. He himself paused en route to meet promised reinforcements. But they had smelled disaster, and did not keep the rendezvous. Alexander came on, taking time to secure his communications. In Media he was met by a certain Bistanes; a surviving son of King Ochus, eager to tell which way Darius had fled.
This incident underlines a factor of great importance in Alexander’s story, the power of blood feud in the ancient world. By standards of modern nationalism Bistanes was a traitor; by those of his day, he fulfilled a religious duty in avenging his poisoned father and brother, to whose murder he believed (rightly or wrongly) that Darius had been a party. Had he been a Greek, this obligation would similarly have cancelled other loyalties.
Darius was making north towards the pass of the Caspian Gates, hoping to reach Bactria. For the rest of his story, Curtius has a detailed narrative, unique to himself. It is entirely without propaganda value; almost free from rhetoric; and returns us, this time at some length, to the account suggestive of an eloquent eyewitness, soon to appear upon the scene.
Darius had gathered up from the ruins of Gaugamela about 30,000 infantry and 4,000 skirmishers. Among the former were some 3,000 Greek mercenaries, the faithful core of Memnon’s 50,000. Even if some were exiles who dared not go home, most of them could have deserted to the Macedonians. Their courage and loyalty were exemplary.
The 3,000 cavalry and many foot soldiers were Bactrians, under the command of their satrap, Bessus. Other commands were held by the capable cavalry general, Nabarzanes; and by the ancient Artabazus, the friend of Alexander’s childhood, now in his nineties but still alert and spry.
The Great King’s household was pathetically depleted. His coffers held only 7,000 talents; his concubines had gone; his personal attendants were down to a handful of court eunuchs; the senior an Egyptian, Bubaces, the youngest a boy called Bagoas, an accomplished singer and dancer. A favourite of the King, he had been castrated to preserve his exceptional beauty.
When the reinforcements failed to appear, Darius made camp and held a war council. Curtius has written him an oration; his own may have been little better. The rest of the speeches sound much more authentic. Old Artabazus reaffirmed his loyalty and that of his Persian troops. Nabarzanes then came forward. Pointing out that bad luck seemed to be dogging them, he inferred that the gods had at present forsaken Darius, and proposed that Bessus, his cousin, should for a time assume the throne, retiring when the enemy was vanquished.
It sounds as if the formal meaning was that Bessus should stand in for the King as royal scapegoat, to shoulder his bad luck. But Darius had no doubt of the real intent. He drew his sword, and made for Nabarzanes. He was politely restrained with gestures of pleading for mercy, and the two leaders got away. A vivid account follows of their efforts to subvert the loyal Persians during the night, opposed by the indomitable Artabazus. He had withstood the dangerous tyrant Ochus, but now kept faith with a weak king who had not wronged him, though sure of a free pardon from Alexander.
Nabarzanes’ priorities were different. Since the flight at Issus, he had seen that the only hope of effective Persian resistance was to get rid of Darius. His plan had been to hand him over to Alexander, make peace to get a breathing space, proclaim Bessus King in Bactria, and from there renew the war. But the Greeks and Persians would not come in. In the morning, therefore, the two professed repentance and loyalty, and rejoined the march.
Darius trustingly believed them; not so the Greeks, who knew of the night’s activities. Their commander, Patron, made his way during that day’s march to the royal chariot, beckoned to Bubaces the chief eunuch, and asked to speak with the King, who had some knowledge of Greek, without interpreter; a needed precaution, since Bessus was riding near by. Darius listened to his warning, and dismissed him with a kindly word. If Patron was right, his own position was hopeless; and it is to his credit that he did not clutch at straws at the cost of faithful lives.