The eunuch who had sold Babylon to Alexander smiled and bowed. He walked backward before me and called for a bevy of castrated young musicians to sing the praises of my victory. His head was bare, and he wore a heavy amber necklace. His triple chin quivered, and his eyes-one tawny and one blue-studied me surreptitiously. He was holding a bracelet, nervously rolling the ruby and emerald beads in his fat fingers. He led me straight to the bedchamber of his former master, offering me his bed, his slaves, and his gynaeceum.
In the heart of the city of Babylon was the City of the King. In the heart of the City of the King was the City of Pleasure. At its highest point, up in the heavens, was my bedchamber.
The warriors' screams and the clash of arms ceased to haunt my ears. I heard only birdsong and the sibilant murmur of fountains. The most beautiful garden in the world stretched out beneath my arched windows, wiping away sorrows of the past and concerns for the future. The Euphrates snaked through meadows dotted with roses, violets, and carnations, and edged with orange trees and jasmine, and it spilled its ripples peacefully into ponds covered with water lilies.
I lay on the bed and forgot the incandescent sun, the cruel wind, the endless marching. I swam in a sea of cushions, heaped around me, soft and giving. A curtain the size of a tent was draped over my bed, and through it I glimpsed the cupola-shaped ceiling-a clear demonstration of the Persians' superiority in science and architecture. There were no pillars or support beams in that vast room: the substantial roof was held up by the six walls thanks to an ingenious distribution of its weight, calculated in a way the Greeks had not mastered. The frescoes were lit by candelabras that never went out. At the tops of the walls flowers blossomed between geometrical patterns. At eye level there were panels covered with a fine layer of gold, and Darius himself was represented as a handsome young man in his royal turban. A sequence of scenes from his daily life were depicted: reading, reciting poetry, chasing butterflies, watching monkeys dance, riding on an elephant, picnicking, bathing… and even in his bath the fallen king wore his turban. Loving embraces followed on from languorous walks, and poems in calligraphy accompanied the images. Beneath the panels were mosaics depicting a limpid spring edged with exotic vegetation. Among the countless faces of his beautiful and sensual young concubines, I noticed a favorite-small with very white skin and huge eyes over a small mouth-who featured in all the scenes of pleasure.
Hephaestion came to greet me, telling me Cassander was angered by these frescoes to Darius's glory, and wanted to replace them with scenes of Alexander's battles. I cast my eyes over Dar-ius's chests of different perfumes, his musical instruments, his carpets of spun gold… and I started to laugh.
I, Alexander, son of Olympias, whore of Philip, usurper of the League of Corinth, had become master of Babylon. It was a miracle I could barely believe.
The scars on my body counted out the battles won with force and fury. The calluses on my hands told of enemies defeated and lands conquered. Nothing else about me or on me proved that I was master of Macedonia, Greece, Egypt, Arabia, and Persia. I felt as if I had cheated: that was why I laughed. Since the dawn of time the earthly crown had been waiting for just one master. All those who longed for it had failed. I had grasped it, but not because I had greater strength, better tactics, or more determination. I, Alexander of Macedonia, was not afraid of the stars of decadence. Where other men retreated, I advanced. Where other men gave up, I persevered.
Hephaestion, my friend, why do Darius's courtiers speak Greek when none of our generals speak Persian?
Why do Cassander, Perdiccas, and Crateros insist on wearing worn old sandals when Darius's slaves wear embroidered shoes?
Why did the West close its doors on the East, claiming it was barbarian?
I, Alexander, shall wear oriental dress and learn the language of the defeated. I want the East and the West to unite, the luxuries of Persia to combine with our philosophy, the strength of Macedonia to flourish in the beauty of oriental art. I want our bloods to mix. I shall send Persian women to the Greek islands so their children can benefit from two languages and a double inheritance. I shall drive away the bandits who prowl the trading routes and put the corrupt Persian army back on a sound footing.
Tradesmen will no longer be subject to extortion: from now on our soldiers will protect their caravans. Alexander will open up the free market between East and West.
Hephaestion, do you understand what the forced marches were for, wearing down soldiers' feet and torturing their legs? Do you understand why horses died and soldiers starved and the incandescent sun blinded us and drove men mad? Do you understand the reason for the murders, executions, and massacres? A far greater good can emerge from evil!
Without violence there would be no exchange. Without the war led by Alexander, all these peoples-the Greeks, the Macedonians, the Persians, the Chaldeans, the Jews, the Egyptians, and the Arabs-would never have agreed to embrace each other.
Don't you see, it is here, in Babylon, in Darius's bed, that my fate has been revealed. I have conquered peoples, and those peoples have conquered me. For them I shall design a new civilization, a new world, that of the phoenix rising from the ashes.
The eunuch who has already betrayed one master must die of a sudden fever. I shall confer the regency of Babylon on Mazee, Darius's general who fought valiantly against Alexander.
Crateros shall be the arm mercilessly brandishing my sword. One by one, Darius's sons-both legitimate and illegitimate- shall be tracked down and decapitated. You, Hephaestion, who love medicine, you must learn Persian remedies and magic. You shall heal my wounds and give succor to my soul.
The door of the imperial gynaeceum opened to reveal thousands of women's bodies, offerings given by the empire's twenty satrapies. Princesses, noblewomen, daughters of the common people, daughters of vassal tribes, girls captured by nomadic cavalries… all had been Darius's slaves, captive to his desires.
Young, old, barely out of childhood, blond, brunette, white, black, women from every land on earth were represented here, living imprisoned in a vast room covered in carpets and decorated with pools and fountains. They slept, urinated, danced, embraced, sang, and ate in a hubbub of moans, cries, sighs, and laughter, all indifferent to onlookers or to the smell of putrefaction and excrement. Eunuchs circulated among them, some serving, others cracking a whip. I was informed that since Darius fled, the attendants in the City of Pleasure had stopped cleaning the gynaeceum and only fed the women once a day. Their eyes looked dull and empty for lack of air and freedom, like birds with clipped wings no longer dreaming of the sky. In all that dying flesh I found the king's favorite, the one painted on all the walls of his bedchamber. She was lying naked on a carpet, sobbing and weeping, her hair disheveled. Her body was covered with scars and scabs. I learned that after Darius's defeat the other women had scratched and bitten and trampled on her.
I gave orders for these women to be released, and handed each of them enough money to travel home. I myself washed and fed Jasmine, the woman whom the Great King had loved, and led her to my room. Although quite lucid now, she would not say anything. She was happy simply taking refuge in my arms. In my absence she stayed on the bed, motionless, occasionally sweeping her cold, joyless eyes over the frescoes depicting moments of happiness she no longer recognized. She had turned my room into another prison.