He’s generated
histories, romances, and biographies, songs
and folk tales, moral tales and religious
parables, glowing acclamations and rabid
damnations stretching from antiquity to the
present. This story stands in that long
line, albeit with a twenty-first century
vista.
By their very nature,
stories touch the capacity of the heart,
move us in ways visceral as much as
intellectual. In French, histoire
can mean either history or story, and the
same is true of storia in Italian.
To tell stories is part of our nature as
meaning-seeking, meaning-making creatures.
Historical fiction is, therefore, less
concerned with who any given historical
figure actually was than with who we
are now, and what it’s possible for us to
become.
The same might be said
of our need to pursue history. And while I’d
hardly argue there’s no difference between
history and fiction, any good historian
knows how much supposition goes into her
theories about the past. Of historical
fiction, novelist Marguerite Yourcenar said
over fifty years ago ("Reflections on
the Composition," Memoirs
of Hadrian, Grace Frick, trans. New
York, 1963: 330), what
I can only echo now:
Which is not to suggest, as is too
often done, that historical truth is never
to be attained, in any of its aspects.
With this kind of truth, as with all
others, the problem is the same: one
errs more or less.
So given that
perspective on history and fiction, let me
touch on a few choices—and in some cases,
poetic license—I’ve taken with regard to the
“facts.”
I've sometimes used an
anecdote that is of dubious historical
merit: e.g., the tale of Philip rebuking
Alexander for playing the lyre well. A
nearly identical story is told elsewhere (by
the same author) of Alexander
rebuking Philip
for “unkingly” interest in the arts. Then,
as now, stories circulated less because they
were true than because their tellers thought
they should be. Internet memes, anyone? I
use such anecdotes for characterization, so
historical authenticity may take a back
seat. It could
be true, and “could” trumps “is.”
Regarding the dialogue,
Classical Greek is an elegant language,
conversation impossible to render accurately
without sounding stilted. This left me with
two choices: write
something that would send readers into fits
of giggles or adopt a more modern style.
Obviously, I chose the latter, sprinkling it
here and there with Greek to remind. It’s a
compromise but will have to do.
Political affairs have
been downplayed or simplified in the first
novel (Becoming),
not because they’re uninteresting, but
because an author can keep only so many
balls in the air at once. I wished readers
to become familiar with ancient Macedonia
itself before tossing them into the
maelstrom of fourth-century politics
head-first. Besides, the young Alexander is
less attuned to such complexities.
Regarding
Myrtalē-Olympias, I’ve made a concerted
effort to get away from portrayals of her as
femme fatale. Such views are
simplistic, ignoring the polygamous nature
of the court. Still, apologetics are no more
honest than character assassination; like
the royal Argead men, she could be ruthless.
Treatment of her needs balance,
acknowledging her strengths as well as her
faults. As she had several names (Polyxena,
Myrtalē, Olympias, and Stratonikē), I chose
the lesser-known Myrtalē in order to
distance her from derogatory historical
baggage and Obligatory Snakes. I’ve also
sought to portray Alexander as part of a
larger, complex family. He wasn’t an only
child, although in some novels, a reader
might be under the impression he was.
Kleopatra’s point-of-view provides ballast
to her brother’s.
As for Alexander’s
physical appearance, and despite multiple
portraits in various mediums from statues to
gems to coins, we must beware of idealizing
and politicizing. Yet a few features seem
consistent: prominent nose,
round chin, curved lips, and deep-set eyes
beneath a heavy brow. His countenance has
been described as both fierce and somewhat
feminine (not mutually exclusive), and his
hair has been shown from dark blond, to
reddish, to medium brown. The strongest
tradition calls him fair-skinned with a
ruddy complexion, and if the Alexander
Sarcophagus and Pella Mosaics can be
believed, he was a ginger. He was shorter
than average, and walked and spoke fast, his
voice unpleasantly harsh and rather deep (barutēs).
Giving him “eyes of two colors” is myth, not
history; the description comes from late
sources of doubtful merit. I simply thought
it intriguing. Essential anisocoria, or
pupils of differing sizes, occurs in 15% of
the population (if not usually so
dramatically), and an expanded pupil would
have made one eye appear black. The truth is
no doubt less colorful. Making him
left-handed is also speculation. Statues
show him with a spear in the right, but
phalanx warfare required the spear to be
held so, and wouldn’t reflect handedness for
writing. He’d have been trained to fight
right-handed, but an ability to switch to
the left in the melee would have given a
southpaw swordsman a technique advantage.
For the reader’s
convenience, the ages of some characters
have been conspicuously altered in order to
introduce them earlier and let me reduce the
number of names floating about. Any story
about Alexander will suffer from a large
cast of characters, so I tried to use some
who might be familiar, such as Ptolemy and
Nearkhos. Likewise, Kampaspē (who may, in
fact, be a Roman fiction) was also
introduced early for an additional woman’s
voice, and I sent Alexander to Agriana
during his exile, although sources say
Illyria, because Langaros figures
prominently later in Alexander’s career.
Agriana is next to Illyria.
Otherwise, the name
problem is without easy solution. Greek
names simply look odd to
English-speakers. Even had I used Anglicized
forms, it would have helped a bare handful.
My decision to use Greek forms arose from a
desire to create ambiance, but I do have an
ulterior motive. In trying to bring the
world of Alexander closer to our own, I
don’t want readers to confuse them. As
similar as they seem at times, they were not
like us.
Regarding Aristotle’s
tutelage of Alexander, at the time, he had
yet to earn his reputation. He was only
about forty. Nonetheless, the fact the
greatest scientific mind of his age played
tutor to the greatest military genius has
long been a source of romantic conjecture
about what he taught, due to a lack of
evidence. Alexander remained fond of his old
tutor, dutifully sending him botanical
specimens from all across Asia, but his
political policy showed little Aristotelian
influence. Aristotle was likely hired for
his prior familiarity with the court.
I’ve skipped the Hermias
Affair for reasons of dating and complexity.
One may assume it occurred offstage in the
year gap between novels. Similarly, Philip’s
three-year campaign in east Thrace is only
skimmed, and I assume he wasn’t absent from
Pella for the entire time, but made
occasional, brief returns, even if the
sources, notoriously abbreviated, don’t say.
As for Mieza, the site
of Aristotle’s school at the base of Mount
Vermion below modern Naoussa has been
identified, nestled among modern peach
groves and vineyards. It still shows ridge
cuts along which the ancient stoa
ran, and an old quarry looks suspiciously
like a miniature lecture hall. It’s highly
unlikely the boys lived in the caves
themselves, so I’ve proposed an earlier
estate on the site of a later Roman villa.
The entire area is charming, under-visited,
and remains one of my favorite places in
Greek Macedonia.
As for the various
religious festivals, all have literary
references but details remain elusive. We
have no evidence for a Dionysic precinct in
the location I placed it for Alexander’s
initiation, and how such initiations went is
far from clear. I built a theoretical rite
from clues in Orphic tablets, et al.
Gender-segregated, repeating elective cults
were fashionable by the fourth century, and
Dionysos was hugely popular in Macedonia.
Likewise, we have no idea where the
Hetairideia was celebrated nor what it
entailed. Aigai and Dion are both likely
locations. The oath binding king and army
with a dog sacrifice is attested by Livy,
but as part of a “Xanthika” which included
mock combat, although a Hetairideia for a
similar purpose is mentioned in earlier
Greek sources. The aetiological myth behind
Dionysos Pseudanor is related in Polyaenus,
but we have no description of how or where
any festival occurred. I placed it at a
lovely “sacrificial site” with waterfalls,
identified on the Arapitsa River in modern
Naoussa.
The murder of Philip has
become a viper-pit of controversy, eliciting
article after article attempting to solve
it. For that matter, the last two years of
Philip’s life are baffling. Hypotheses on
his final marriage, Alexander’s true
standing at the court, the timing of the
Pixodaros and Pausanias affairs, as well as
Attalos’s real influence, present a would-be
novelist with a smorgasbord of possibility.
Some of my choices are based on what I found
probable, whilst others are purely for
drama. Certainly Philip’s “counterplot” is
my own invention. Another writer would
probably tell the tale another way,
following a different set of primary
evidence. That said, I find little to
convince me that either Alexander or
Olympias were complicit. Amyntas Perdikka is
another story.
A variety of smaller
issues merit a word:
Ptolemy’s later claim
(or that of Ptolemy Keraunos on his behalf)
to be Philip’s bastard offered a path to
legitimization for Ptolemaic rule in Egypt
and is, thus, likely false. But it’s an
intriguing lie. Given Philip’s reputation,
he no doubt had several bastards floating
about.
Yes, “the finger” was an
abusive gesture then as now and meant the
same thing. Many of their obscenities would
seem shockingly modern, yet they were also
literal. So an opinion or idea could be like
shit, but nobody would yell “Shit!” after
dropping a cup and breaking it.
The amount of wine even
younger characters consume might surprise
readers, but wine-consumption was normal
cultural practice and children had their
first taste of (well-watered) wine between
three and four. If southern Greeks critiqued
the Macedonians for drinking wine “akratos”
(unmixed) at symposia, Macedonians did take
water in their wine for common use. Or
perhaps wine in their water would be more
accurate.
Paionians occupied
northern areas along the Axios River and
west till the Persians drove them out. Most
moved into Asia, but some remained. The
ethnic identity behind the rich burials at
Sindos (or those at Archontiko down to c.
450) is unclear, but the cities of Europos
and Idomene certainly retained Paionian
ties.
Under Alexander, the
Hypaspists were the crack infantry unit
filled by special selection. But according
to Philip's contemporaries (Demosthenes and
Theopompus), in Philip's day, that unit was
dubbed Pezhetairoi--Foot Companions, a
courtesy comparable to the Companion
Cavalry. Extending the term to the
rank-and-file probably belonged to
Alexander.
The Sacred Band as a
crack unit made up of pairs of pledged
lovers, as Plutarch describes them, versus a
more traditionally constituted special
force, has come under closer scrutiny lately
for discrepancies in the evidence. For my
purposes here, I continue to follow
Plutarch.
Modern revisionist
analyses of Chaironeia discount Alexander’s
cavalry charge, as “horses won’t run at a
line of men with spears,” despite ancient
evidence saying otherwise. Sears and
Willekes have now shown how such a charge
is, indeed, possible, so I follow Diodorus.
Kynnanē as a warrior is
not feminist exaggeration. Polyaenus relates
her single combat, and victory, over an
Illyrian queen. If he may have embellished
her martial prowess, he didn’t make it up.
Illyrian women fought, and certainly
Kynnanē’s daughter, Hadea Eurydikē, led
armies later during the early Successor
Wars.
The Pixodaros Affair has
been conspicuously altered. The tale is
found in Plutarch alone, who, we must
remember, is only as good as his sources.
The more I tried to fit in the incident, the
clearer it became that everything about it,
from motive to timing, is problematic. It
makes more sense—both politically as well as
in the need for travel
time—if the initial overture to
Pixodaros occurred while Alexander was in
exile.
The Greeks did know of
the mongoose but called them “cats.”
Likewise, if apricot trees were first
brought to Greece after Alexander’s conquest
of Persia, dried apricots were common enough
in Anatolia (Turkey) to be imported already
from Asian city-states. Many crops now grown
in the rich fields of lowland Macedonia
would have been unknown in antiquity. And of
course, citrus (the citron) wasn’t available
until after
Alexander’s conquests. (Greek cooking
without the lemon? I know!)
The oath at Iolaos’s
shrine is an historical blank. It existed is
all we can say. Certainly no evidence
suggests Alexander and Hephaistion ever took
it. I simply liked the idea.
Finally, I should
address the question of Hephaistion himself.
His and his father’s
names suggests the family was of Greek
descent. Hēphaistíōn (that spelling) is
Attik-Ionian, whilst Macedonian names,
Tataki points out, are typically Doric. An
inscription from Athens may indicate
Athenian familial roots, and a curious curse
tablet may connect Amyntor to Pydna. Arrian
says Hephaistion was “of Pella,” but the
same list also names Leonnatos “of Pella”
although we know he came from Lynkestis, so
not too much weight can be placed on that
origin
Otherwise, we know
nothing of Hephaistion’s family, only his
father’s name, and that via a patronymic.
Due to Hephaistion’s prominence, it’s
assumed Amyntor was an Hetairos of the king.
We have no evidence for siblings, yet death
in warfare wasn’t uncommon (nor death in
childhood), and ancient sources rarely give
full genealogies unless important to the
larger narrative. Certainly, no evidence
suggests Hephaistion was descended from the
tragic playwright Agathon, but like
Euripides, Agathon did leave Athens for
Macedonia. I made up the connection. However
well-attested Agathon’s attachment to his
lover Pausanias, Greek inheritance laws
would assume marriage to produce legitimate
heirs.
Regarding Hephaistion’s
personality and appearance, we know little
more than about his family: he
was tall and striking-looking, loyal to a
fault, sometimes charming and sometimes
quarrelsome. According to Curtius, he and
Alexander were educated together, probably
at Mieza (along with a handful of others),
but this is inferred, not certain. The boys
I chose for Mieza are, again, more about
name reduction than an accurate list.
Later Roman gossip
assumed that he and Alexander were lovers.
Homoeroticism was a recognized part of
ancient Greek and Macedonian society, and
between Alexander and Hephaistion, an affair
of some depth and duration seems plausible,
although the evidence is either diffident or
late (e.g., untrustworthy). The best clue
may lie in the emotional devastation
Alexander experienced upon Hephaistion’s
death. If they’d met by the time Alexander
went to Mieza, they were friends at least
nineteen years—longer than many modern
marriages. Even if they were lovers, at
least as youths, it would be quite wrong to
reduce their relationship to an affair of
the gonads. Perhaps the best insight of all
comes from Alexander’s own lips: he
called Hephaistion “Philalexandros”—friend
of Alexander—whilst Krateros was only “Philobasileus”—friend
of the king. C’est cela.
As they were about the
same age, a love affair between them would
have strayed from the Athenian pattern of an
older man with a younger boy. Yet Curtius’s
“aetate par erat regi” doesn’t mean
the same age to the month, nor even year,
but does indicate they were coevals, which
might argue against any affair. Yet to
assume Athenian patterns a norm for all of
Greece would be a mistake. Homoerotic
attachments in Macedonia, as well as Sparta
and Thebes, were rooted in the army,
a point often overlooked. We are told
explicitly of two Pages under Alexander who
were lovers and coevals both: Hermolaos
and Sostratos. More egality existed in these
pairs whilst maintaining a division of
roles. More, people’s ideals rarely match
their actual behavior. Flesh
and blood resists pigeonholing.