Forgetfulness

Odi et amo, quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.

Nescio, sed fieri sentior et excrucior.

(I hate and I love. May be you want to know how it happens.

I don't know, I only feel it happens, and it is excruciating.)

G.V. Catullus, Poems, 85

It was pouring down. It had been raining for weeks. The Persian rallied in his cloak, trying to gain more shelter from the strong, insistent raindrops. Walking had become difficult, even for soldiers setting down wooden catwalks on the more used paths.

He surveyed his surroundings while crossing the camp. He could perceive the bad mood from a thousand little evidences: untidy equipments left unguarded in the rain, a group of soldiers arguing and cursing about trifles, captains barking orders and getting furious with their soldiers' indolence, deep wrinkles in the frowned foreheads of higher rank officers who on rare occasions could be found outside their tents. Such weather made all men in the army nervous and prone to fights.

When he entered the west area of the camp, he felt the change in the atmosphere. Soldiers still had dark faces and officers still frowned, but he noticed their efforts to dominate their mood and to behave professionally. No fights, no shouting. Only a tense silence.

While approaching the Hipparch's tent, positioned alone on a small natural hill, he noticed small groups of soldiers gathered around fires, heedless of the annoying rain. They were sitting on logs or standing, softly talking to each other, wearing serious expressions on their determined faces. You would have assumed that they were waiting, perhaps guarding something or somebody.

Oxatre(1) made his way to the tent through the mud, carefully watched by the men. The looks on their faces could be read clearly: "Friend or foe?" But, his name was whispered by someone before he could seize the opportunity to introduce himself, and the look on their faces changed. Not that it became friendlier, but lost some hostility. He went beyond the fires, and climbed the slope leading to the tent. Two guards stood at the entrance, under a small wooden repair.

He smiled. Only his friend, among all the Makedonian commanders, could have bothered to have a repair built for his guards. He really cared for his men, and they were loyal to him to the point of madness. Well, the majority of them. Men are men, whoever is commanding them. There are always incorrigible ones, those who always complain, whatever the situation is. However, very few of the Hipparchos' men asked to be transferred in other units.

It was not that the Makedonian was soft, or that he pampered them. The Persian could remember several times when he had asked of them huge amounts of work and effort.

He smiled again, when he recalled the times he had heard him yelling towards some culprit, in true harsh Makedonian dialect, making the men blush like virgins on their wedding night; they kept their eyes cast down, not even daring to object.

No, he was not a sweet man. But he cared for them, and respected their work, and moreover, he was constant in his mood, not allowing himself to vent his frustrations on them. He had never asked anything of them that he wasn't doing himself. That he learned from the King. And that was the reason why his unit's soldiers had closed ranks around their commander, now that he was in disgrace, the reason why they were enduring the weather without complaining. They wouldn't add to the difficulties of the current situation.

He stepped to the tent's entrance, and the guards welcomed him with a bow, before calling up a page from inside the tent. A young boy rushed through the flaps of the tent, bowed, listened to the Persian's request and hurried inside to announce his master of Oxatre's visit. He returned only a few moments later.

'Good' thought Oxatre 'He's not denying himself' and politely showed him in.

The inner room of the tent, where his host was waiting for him, was lit with dim lights, provided by two braziers and some lamps. Oxatre stopped, surprised by the scene before his eyes. He had expected to find his friend alone, grieving in an elegant pose, or savagely stirring in wild anger. But, instead, Hephaistion was sprawled on a chair, his feet on one brazier's leg and a look of annoyance on his face, while Ptolemàios and Leònnatos were pacing up and down in the tent, frowning deeply.

As he stepped in, the Hipparch turned his head, warmly smiling at him, and immediately got up from his chair to walk to his guest. He grabbed his forearms and said in a cheerful tone, "Joy to you, my friend. What has made you come up here, and in this terrible weather too?"

"I wanted some good wine and good conversation, and there's one only tent in the whole of Alèxandros' camp where you can find both, although it means putting your dignity in danger. But you are not alone, I don't want to intrude" said Oxatre, politely greeting the other two Makedonians.

"By all the gods, Oxatre" exclaimed Hephaistion, "Stay please, and save me from this nuisance!"

Ptolemàios snapped, doing nothing to conceal his anger towards the younger man, "A nuisance! When we are here doing our best to get you out the bloody mess you're in!"

Hephaistion only smirked and rolled his eyes, sighing heavily, as if he had had enough.

Leònnatos brusquely turned to the Persian: "Oxatre, maybe you've been sent here by Pallàs Athenà. You are a wise man, and with your help we may manage to knock some sense into that mulish head."

Oxatre looked from one to another, not knowing what to think, even less what to say.

Hephaistion just laughed, and waved to his page to fetch more wine and a cup for the Persian, who was led to a comfortable couch near one brazier. Oxatre followed the Hipparch, a puzzled look on his face.

'This really doesn't make sense...' he said to himself, accepting the cup and sipping the watered wine.

The older Somatophylakes were looking hopefully at him, but all the Persian could do was shake his head, signaling to the two men that he did not understand what was going on.

Ptolemàios snorted, like a bull preparing itself to attack. "This stubborn, pig-headed, arrogant, conceited asshole doesn't want to listen to reason! We've been here for what seems like hours, trying to persuade him..."

"To do what?" Hephaistion burst abruptly, finally losing his temper. "To trample on my dignity! To grovel at his feet like a servant, a guilty servant! To let everyone know that Hephaistion Amyntoros is a coward and a toady! No, my friends, that shall never happen!"

His face was red with an anger that he had probably been withholding for hours, and he was nervously gesticulating. His cup was thrown to the side, colliding with a jar and then rolling on the floor, making a noise that made Oxatre flinch. The two Makedonians stood as still as statues, and his pages rushed in from outside the chamber, but were brusquely dismissed by a firm wave of his hand.

Everyone could see rage in Hephaistion's features, yet still he didn't raise his voice. He was good at that, famous for it, even. When it came to arguing, he was the one who stayed cold, speaking soft and lethal words. If you ever heard Hephaistion yelling, you could be sure he was either scolding his men or having fun with someone, feigning rage.

Even to Krateròs, right before Alèxandros had rushed between them and ruined everything in his own indignation, Hephaistion had merely hissed words that made the older man go crazy, and that was when he had unsheathed his sword. Hephaistion did the same, and that was how Alèxandros found them: on guard and ready to attack.

Hephaistion breathed heavily, trying to regain his composure. He lowered his head, gathering his thoughts, and ran his fingers through his long, curly hair several times. He then raised his head to look to Ptolemàios and apologized, a bitter tone in his voice: "I'm sorry, my friend. I know your intentions are good. But I can't, you have to understand that I simply cannot go to him and ask for forgiveness. I'd rather be sentenced to death."

Leònnatos growled and put a hand on the younger Makedonian's shoulders "And you will be, you have to remind yourself that you're risking your life."

"But I'm saving my honor. Besides, I don't really think I'm in any danger of being killed. You forget something, my friends," and saying this, he sprawled on another couch, disregarding the chair, which a page moved near a table.

Deeply focused on the conversation, which he was starting to gather together some information from, Oxatre was pretending to be invisible, but suddenly he sneezed, loudly. The three of them looked at him, a little puzzled, remembering all of a sudden that he was there.

Ptolemàios recovered first and immediately began to speak, but was sternly interrupted by Hephaistion, who stated with a plain voice: "See, my friend, what's going on: they are trying to convince me to act like a minion. And I simply won't do it."

Oxatre was starting to regret he had come, as now Ptolemàios and Leònnatos were looking at him, expecting his judgment. He was stuck between two fires. His instinct was to yell that it was simply Hephaistion's duty to kneel down to his King and humbly accept whatever punishment he chose. After all, he was the King.

But he had been in this army for long enough to know that it was not so simple when it came to Makedonians, and that it was even more difficult with Alèxandros and Hephaistion. And he knew Hephaistion's stubbornness well enough to know for sure that he wouldn't comply with his friends' advice if he thought his honor could be damaged. He knew he couldn't tell him to go and apologize to Alèxandros. And on the other hand, he didn't want to disappoint the other Somatophylakes, admitting Hephaistion was right.

His mind was racing, trying to find a solution to the dilemma. He clung to Hephaistion's words, trying to find a diversion. "What do they forget?"

Hephaistion smiled wickedly. "Did you attend Ptolemàios' big party last night?" he asked, instead of answering "They say Thais sung a very moving ancient Athenàios song."

Oxatre was glad that Hephaistion himself offered the diversion that was needed, and didn't care if his question wasn't answered. So Oxatre politely praised both the party and Ptolemàios' mistress, adding that the song was so involving that many hardened soldiers had tears in their eyes. Ptolemàios had a look in his eyes, as though he wasn't particularly enjoying the conversation, but he thanked the Persian nonetheless. Leònnatos simply turned his head to the brazier, and slowly, resignedly, shook his head.

"And tell me, my dear friend, did our almighty king enjoy it as well, or was he already drunk practically beyond consciousness?"

Oxatre was taken aback by the question. What was he supposed to answer? He looked pleadingly to the older Somatophylakes, after all, they had been there, they knew, and they could tell themselves exactly what the king had been like the previous night.

"Come on, Hephaistion, do you really need to ask?" blurted Ptolemàios angered by Hephaistion's blatant amusement at how very changed Alexander had been of late, as opposed to the merry king they had known for so long "You know perfectly well."

"Oh, no, my friend, I don't know anything. I wasn't even there. How could I know?" he said with feigned innocence.

"Cut it, now, you moron! Do you want us to speak the words aloud to you? Here's to you" Leònnatos yelled abruptly, raising his cup to him "Hephaistion son of Amyntor, the greatest damned arrogant, uppish, stupid jerk that the Gods ever sent to earth to bother us all! Alèxandros is behaving like he has lost his mind, he isn't eating, he isn't riding, he isn't listening to his officers, he isn't even drinking, or, at least, not as much as before, he... by the Gods, he is barely speaking!"

That made Hephaistion's eyes shine wickedly "He isn't speaking? By Hermès, messenger of the Gods, then the matter must be really serious"

"Oh, Diònisos be merciful, what's the point in this, when everybody knows that he is always like this when you two argue? " asked an exasperated Ptolemàios as he let himself fall on the same couch upon which Hephaistion was stretched, forcing him to sit up.

Hephaistion didn't bother to show any consideration for his long-life friend. He addressed the Persian, instead, and smiled his sarcastic smile. "That's what they forget. They forget that he is lost without me. He is nothing without me. He knows. He would never harm me" he raised his hand, to stop the objection he could foresee all too clearly "Especially afterwhat happened with Klèitos."

A tense silence fluttered in the tent.

Oxatre couldn't help but asking, greatly worried, "But there are many in this army who would be pleased if you disappeared. Doesn't it seem reasonable to fear that, now that the King is not protecting you any more" Hephaistion smiled, amused by the witty paraphrase "Someone could take his chance? Even your men are worried. I've noticed it"

Hephaistion let a sincere, warm smile stretch his lips. "They're loyal, good people, I know they are worried."

"Aren't you, my friend?"

Hephaistion just shrugged. "They are forgetting, too"

Oxatre looked at him questioningly. The Makedonian produced a little mocking smile. "I'm not in danger. You have seen that the king is upset, anybody can see it. This means he still cares about me. It's a matter of time, and he'll come back to me. No one would dare harm me while they know things can be fixed between us."

"So" said Oxatre "You seem to have the entire situation under control."

Ptolemàios and Leònnatos snorted in unison, the former raising himself from the couch to resume his nervous pacing.

Hephaistion shrugged again. "It's always been like this, ever since we were two boys in Pella. They know it as well as I do. He goes crazy, we argue, he hurts me, I go away, he seeks me, we fight, we make peace. Until the next time he goes crazy." his voice was monotonous, but Oxatre could sense a hint of bitterness to his words.

The Persian nodded in response, not daring to voice his thoughts. The Makedonian nodded, too. He stared at the fire for a while, motionless, and with a tiny smile on his lips. Then he sighed.

"Oxatre, my friend, you seem puzzled. What is bothering you?"

"To tell you the truth, I think we are more worried about your situation than you are"

"We are, by Zeus, because he's the most imbecilic, dumb-ass, self-defeating..." Leònnatos wanted to give another contribution to the conversation, but Hephaistion simply silenced him with a look, then came back to focus on his cup.

They were well into their cups by now, and Oxatre knew the Makedonians' costumes all too well to let himself hope they would stop drinking any time soon.

"In other words" Hephaistion looked like he was having the time of his life "You are wondering why I am not upset, having heard my king lessen me in front of the whole army and that damn ugly old goat."

"Are you not?"

"Of course I am. I'm mad at him."

Oxatre couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"What?"

"I'm tremendously mad at him. Oh, I know he had to reprehend us, it was simply his duty; I would have done the same. But, by Zeùs Ammon and all the Gods, he dared to scold me before my men, and he said nothing to him. Do you understand? He humiliated me, his Pàtroclos, and let him go to his tent without a word." he raised his hand in a brusque gesture, to stop Ptolemàios reply "I don't give a damn if he rebuked him in private. But he didn't say a single damn word to him, in front of our men! No, I will never forgive him. Never can I forget such an affront. He is the one who should apologize! As a matter of fact, I'm so mad that I've not even spoken to him since it happened, and I immediately had my unit's camp moved as far from his as humanly possible."

"But you don't look mad at all!"

"Well I am, and truth be told I'm sick and tired of being mad at him. And truth be told again, I'm not sure if I want us to make peace this time." He emptied his cup, and waved for his page to refill it.

His words froze the three men.

"I'm sick and tired. That's the plain and simple fact." Hephaistion repeated, his mind as clear as if he had been drinking naught but water all night.

The two older Makedonians looked at each other in alarm. They could understand rage. They could understand pride. They could understand Hephaistion wanting to punish Alèxandros, (he had gone too far this time; they wouldn't admit it aloud, but it could be read it in their eyes). But they were terrified to hear those words coming from their friend. He had always been the strongest among them. Many hated him, envious that Alèxandros had chosen him to stand by his side, but Ptolemàios and a few others simply accepted Hephaistion's excellence, instead admiring him.

They had witnessed what he had been enduring, because of his closeness to the king. They knew Hephaistion was ambitious, of course, but they believed he deserved what he had achieved.

For his part, Oxatre had feared that Hephaistion would have been crushed by pain and anger, and, earlier that night, he had thought that he didn't want to confront his king and beloved simply for those reasons alone. But what he saw before him was not a man in pain. This was a man full of resentment, and yes, that was the word, tired.

That shocked him. Since the very first day that he had joined Alèxandros' army, he had been aware that Hephaistion was the main pillar of the Makedonian Empire.

Oxatre was introduced to the Makedonian king almost without formalities. That was utter nonsense for him, accustomed to the complicated etiquette of the Persian court. To be allowed to meet the Great King was so difficult and took so much time, that outside the Royal Palace a rich business of homes to rent and secretaries who helped with the bureaucracy flourished, in all the cities in which the King chose to reside. But when he arrived at Ecbatana, he found that to meet the "yahuna" ("the Greek," as Alèxandros was nicknamed at the Persian court), was incredibly easy.

He had mourned his brother, the Great King, for a while, nursing his intentions of revenge against the cowardly traitors that had slaughtered Darèius without shame. But how to get to Besso and prevail over him? Uxii and Susians, the soldiers he had led into battle at Gaugamela, had been dispersed after the defeat and flight. He could count on a hundred or so faithful soldiers, but Besso had all the people of the Battria behind him, dreaming of ruling over Persia... He needed a strong, powerful ally.

The idea had struck him like a thunder. Why not him? Why not the young, bewildering king storming from the west, the one who had overturned a secular empire with the force of a hurricane? He had caused his brother's defeat, he had an army, he had the power, he was going to be the Great King... he was the one who could get him his vengeance.

He stood in front of the throne, seeing in a momentary delusion his brother seated on it. But the moment passed, and he blinked, his eyes focusing on a blond boy, wearing a white, short and quite simple tunic and a golden band around his forehead. He was glaring at him with a dignified but not pompous look, waiting for him to do his next move. So this boy was Alèxandros. This small, silent and, by the Gods, kingly boy was the one who had crushed his world into tiny pieces. He made his proskìnesis to him, knowing in his heart that he was bowing to a worthy king.

When he rose, Alèxandros was warmly smiling at him. He knew that this act meant that he was acknowledged as the king. He also knew that the submission was to be followed by a request and he was willing to comply with it. He respected dignity and loyalty; he had admired Oxatre's bravery on the battlefield, and he could feel how much courage it had taken for Oxatre to submit to him. He spoke for the first time, calling an old Persian from behind the throne and asking him, in Greek, to greet the guest and welcome him. "Forgive my impertinence, mighty king, but I speak a suitable amount Greek."

The king smiled, clearly pleased, nodded, and suddenly turned to his right. Oxatre followed his gaze, and saw that Alèxandros had searched forthe eyes of a man sitting on a couch very close to the throne. He was not much more than a boy himself, a very tall and handsome man, who reciprocated the king's smile. Alèxandros then properly welcomed his guest, offering a seat, some wine and fruit that a servant brought to him. It was all simple, austere, not refined at all, but in a way the Persian took comfort from this. The Makedonian wasn't mocking the pomp of the former king, and that spoke of strength and self-assurance. Yes, he thought, he was the right man for the job.

Reassured, Oxatre politely complimented Alèxandros for his victories and assured him of his and his men's loyalty. The King nodded, thanked the Persian and leaned to the man on his right, and the man whispered something in his ears. He smiled warmly at him, turned again to Oxatre and told him, with a hint of emotion in his voice, that he intended to avenge the unworthy death of Darèius, and wanted to ask the former king's brother to help him. Then the kingsmiled again to his Makedonian adviser and received a beaming grin in return.

Oxatre had to push back tears of gratitude. This young and astonishing foreign boy had granted him his greatest wish, before having even been asked. He could tell without any doubt that he owed all this to the tall young man on the king's right, and who was now looking at the floor, as if he had no involvement in the conversation.

It was at that precise moment that Oxatre knew he was following Alèxandros, wherever he should lead him. And it was at the same precise moment that he understood who the other young man was. There could be no doubt: he was Alèxandros, too.

1 Even if my historical sources aren't concordant, I assume he was Dareius's brother, who joined Alèxandros' army, becoming an Hetàiros; later Krateròs married his daugther.