It can only have been on his orders that they were let inside. A door was opened at the far end of the room, so that they could pass through in single file; and thus Alexander held his last parade. As the first man entered, he turned himself towards them, and held himself there till the last man had gone by. Not one of them went without acknowledgment; “he greeted them all, lifting his head though with difficulty, and signing to them with his eyes.”
Ever ready to die in war, he must long have been prepared to die in pain, and resolved it should not diminish him. The exhaustion must have shortened his last hours, but it is unlikely that at this stage he could have recovered. The necessary suffering he accepted in return for what had been essential to him all his life: to be equal to his legend; to be beloved; and to requite it extravagantly, regardless of expense. Whether sustained by pride, by philosophy, by belief in the immortality of his fame or of his soul, he met his end with no less dignity, fortitude and consideration for others than Socrates himself. And he, till he drank the quick painless hemlock, was a healthy man with a long, fulfilled life behind him; Alexander carried it through with a great design in ruins, and in the distress of a mortal sickness.
No pretence was now maintained that he was not near death. Peucestas and six other friends spent the night in prayer for him at the temple of Sarapis, a much-metamorphosed Egyptian Asclepius whose cult Alexander seems to have brought to Babylon, where it was merged in that of some local god. Asclepius’ patients slept in his sanctuary to have healing dreams; Sarapis was consulted by vigil, giving his oracular verdict at dawn. In unselfish concern for the friend whose life he had saved in India, Peucestas was absent from the death chamber, and from the shadowy power struggle already forming.
Alexander is credited with remarking ironically that he foresaw a great contest at his funeral games, but it falls a little too pat; he had never been a wit and had now no breath to spare for it. He took off his royal ring and handed it to Perdiccas, which in itself did no more than appoint a temporary deputy—he did not give up easily—though it was accepted as the appointment of a Regent. But the time came, as it was bound to come, when his generals asked him, “To whom do you leave your kingdom?”
It has been widely assumed that he was being asked to choose a successor from among his chief officers. But by now, if Barsine-Stateira was pregnant, he may have confided a secret of such dynastic importance to high-ranking friends like Perdiccas and Nearchus. If so, he had two unborn children of unknown sex; and, in case they should both be male, was being confronted by Macedonians with the age-old question of the polygamous Macedonian kings.
Arrian gives his answer: “Hoti to kratisto”—to the strongest; words which acquired the force of prophecy during the succession wars. But it can also mean, “To the best.” He was dying; explanations were beyond him; he may have meant that when the children were of age, the Macedonian Assembly should choose between them. Superlative for comparative in colloquial speech was probably used as loosely then as now. That is, if “kratisto” was what he really said.
Normally pronounced, “kratisto” and “Kratero” are not very much alike. But whispered by a man rattling and gasping with pneumonia they could be confused quite easily; especially if it was convenient. Craterus was the man highest in Alexander’s trust. He had already been appointed Regent of Macedon. If he was now meant to take over the Regency of the empire, on behalf of the unborn heirs, it would hardly be welcome news to Perdiccas, present holder of the royal ring. Probably Alexander’s words were barely audible, except to someone leaning over him. There may have been an expedient mistake.
Early next morning, Peucestas and his friends returned from the healing shrine. They had asked the god whether it would help Alexander if he were carried into the sanctuary; but the oracle had replied that it would be better for him where he was.
No doubt the deity was concerned for his professional reputation; but his advice was sound. It allowed Alexander to produce, for the last time, that basic ingredient of all the multiform legends which his death was in process of bringing to birth—his indestructible sense of style. Curtius, for once renouncing rhetoric, gives his parting words. When Perdiccas asked him at what times he wished to have his divine honours paid him, he answered, “When you are happy.”
A dark mist crossed the sky, and a bolt of lightning was seen to fall from heaven into the sea, and with it a great eagle. And the bronze statue of Arimazd in Babylon quivered; and the lightning ascended into heaven, and the eagle went with it, taking with it a radiant star. And when the star disappeared in the sky, Alexander too had shut his eyes.
The legend had begun.
Postscript
AFTER MUCH WRANGLING, INTRIGUE, and intervals of actual fighting, it was agreed among the generals that it was unthinkable the throne should pass to anyone not of Alexander’s blood. The feeble-minded Arridaeus was brought out to rule under Perdiccas’ regency, pending the birth of Roxane’s child.
In Curtius’ account, confused references are made in the debate to a child of Barsine. That Darius’ daughter is referred to seems probable in Plutarch. The most persuasive evidence for this is the action of Roxane. Unlike Alexander when he lost Hephaestion, she proceeded at once to practical matters. She sent off by fast courier a letter to the Princess, forged in Alexander’s name, summoning her immediately to Babylon. It must have been by using the royal post relay, which raced day and night, that the news of the death was outrun. If it met her on the road, she did not turn back, still expecting to be met with honour. She arrived with Drypetis her sister, Hephaestion’s widow. Roxane had both of them killed, and their bodies thrown in a well. It was precisely what Olympias would have done in her position; when the two queens met, they must have found much in common.
Plutarch says that Perdiccas was her accomplice in the deed; but this is most unlikely in view of the fact that the sex of her own child was still unknown. Faced, however, with the fait accompli, and only a single child of Alexander now in prospect, he most probably helped to cover up for her.
The son, Alexander IV, was thirteen years old when Cassander murdered him together with Roxane. No shred of information about his character or appearance has survived.
Olympias had been lynched four years before: Cassander’s soldiers, who had themselves voted for her death, could not bring themselves after all to kill the mother of Alexander. Cassander handed her over to the numerous relatives of those she herself had killed. She met her fate, of which the details are mercifully lacking, with unflinching courage.
She had outlived her son seven years. Sisygambis, the Queen Mother of Persia, survived the news of his death five days. On receiving it she bade her family and friends farewell, turned her face to the wall and died by fasting.
Ancient Sources
IN COURTESY TO THEIR fellow scholars, classical historians naturally and properly take for granted a previous knowledge of the ancient source material. This book is meant for general readers; and the following list may serve as a guide to those wishing to make their own assessments and explorations. Almost all the works are available in translation; the relative reliability of the more important has been discussed in the text.
Arrian, History of Alexander
Quintus Curtius, History of Alexander