By wearing the diadem Alexander had laid claim to the whole of Darius’s empire. To earn it, he would have to strike eastwards into the fastnesses of Afghanistan through mountain-passes and steppes of sand. ‘In Khorasan’, runs the Persian proverb, ‘the staging posts of the Royal Road are as endless as the chatter of women,’ and ahead lay a world of vast space and slowness where the only bustle was the royal courier on the one Royal Road. There was nothing to be gained from Iran’s central basin to the south and south-east of him, as it belonged to the Deserts of Salt and Death and was therefore ignored by roads and settlers. Like every traveller, he would skirt it; so, eastwards from his base in Gurgan he marched across a landscape of infinite flatness, hot, hungry but aware that this was only a preliminary to a world of tribes and barons hitherto unknown to the Greeks.
Short of supplies he had to march fast and it was as well that the army was still slimmed of the sections detailed to Hamadan; after four hundred miles he paused at modern Meshed where his Persian Companions explained to the camp surveyors that they now had a choice of two routes. One, the future Silk Road from China, led north-east through hill and desert past the oasis of Merv to the province of Bactria, where the rebel Bessus, a murderer of Darius, was reported ‘to have worn his tiara upright’, a symbol of royalty, ‘and proclaimed himself King of Asia’ with the help of Persian refugees, nomads and the local nobility. The other, also to Bactria, turned due south from Meshed towards the dunes and prairies of Seistan and then crooked north-eastwards up the Helmand valley, into the heart of the Hindu Kush mountains and so by any one of four high passes down into Bessus’s new dominions along the banks of the river Oxus. For the moment, Alexander preferred the first of these two alternatives, half as long as the southern detour.
He was encouraged in his choice by a local windfall. Meshed lay on the border of the ancient satrapy of Aria, which the Persians called Hariva, and as its name implied, it was a heartland of Iranian tribesmen who had lived there for at least five hundred years; the title Ariana, whence modern Iran, was already applied to the eastern lands beyond it, even as far as the Punjab borders. Possibly it was from Aria, centred on the oasis Hariva and watered by the Hari-Rud river that the Iranians had first swept westwards in their early tribal wanderings: such a history would have made it an awkward province for Darius’s heir to pass through, let alone to control, had not its satrap Satibarzanes come to Meshed and surrendered on the border. Leader of the Arians’ cavalry at Gaugamela and then, like Bessus, a murderer of Darius, he was nonetheless restored to his high office and given an advance squadron of mounted javelin-throwers, Iranians like himself, to police the Macedonians as they passed along the edge of his province, only too keen to plunder it for supplies. Favouring one royal assassin, therefore, Alexander prepared to pursue another, but first all excess baggage was piled on to wagons and massed in the centre of the camp; Alexander then set fire to it, his own wagon first, the others only when his own example had been observed. From now on, pack-animals would serve as transport on roads too rough for wheels. The army acquiesced in the sudden loss of their luggage, knowing that Alexander had suffered too; at least they were allowed to keep their native concubines.
Satibarzanes left with his guards for the distant capital of his province and from Meshed in mid-August, Alexander continued east towards the Silk Road, still meaning to dislodge the pretender Bessus from his distant base at Balkh. He had not gone far along the edge of the Arians’ satrapy when grave news compelled him to hurry south to its heart; Satibarzanes had murdered his guards, raised 2,000 horsemen in revolt and blockaded his capital’s fortress. In two days Alexander raced a picked force southeast down the seventy miles to Artacoana, the capital city, where reprisals could only be merciless as trust had been badly betrayed. The rebels took refuge on a steeply wooded hill, but the undergrowth was fired until those who stood their ground were smoked and burned to death; at Artacoana, siege towers breached the city walls and all troublemakers were set aside for death or enslavement. Alexander ordered the rest to be resettled on the site which was to be renamed Alexandria and strengthened by new walls and Macedonian veterans. The result still survives in Herat, its modern successor, but not for the last time in the East, an Alexandria had merely developed the buildings of an ancient Persian citadel and satrapal court. Satibarzanes, meanwhile, was nowhere to be found. On news of Alexander’s advance he had escaped up the Hari Rud valley and disappeared into the foothills of the Hindu Kush to collaborate with Bessus. He had been a bad mistake, and he was to prove persistent.
Rather than pursue him Alexander reversed his plans. He would no longer return to the north-eastern Silk Road and approach Bessus’s henchmen directly; he would entrust Aria to a Persian, perhaps the son of Artabazus, his most trusted Oriental, and follow the more devious route
due south, to Seistan, the Helmand valley and eventually the passes over the central Hindu Kush. It was a momentous decision, rich in surprises and hardships but not without strategic sense. Satibarzanes was still un-captured on the shorter alternative road and Alexander would not have wished to encounter him and Bessus for the first time in late autumn, in an arid valley which allowed an ambush. Seistan’s satrap, too, was known to have murdered Darius. If ignored he might rally to Bessus and block Alexander’s rear. Of the three enemies he should be routed first.
Emboldened by 6,000 reinforcements who had arrived from Antipater and the West, Alexander marched as he pleased from Herat to the borders of Seistan, so scaring its satrap, also a murderer of Darius, that the man fled away to the nearest Indians of the Punjab. But they soon arrested him and sent him back to be executed ‘for his crime against Darius’; Alexander, by then, had learnt the perils of mercy and preferred to appear as Darius’s righteous avenger. In early autumn, Seistan is not a place in which to give enemies a second chance: its dusty plains are scoured by the seasonal Wind of a Hundred and Twenty Days, which pipes down through the cliffs and sand-dunes of the north-west and rolls the earth into such clouds of greyness that a man has to struggle to stand, let alone to march with a sarissa. Tufts and bushes of greenery are stripped of their leaves, a discomfort for Alexander’s horses which had already browsed imprudently among the poisonous spurges near Herat. As for the 32,000 troops, they were short of food in a land where the harvest is garnered early in order to escape the cutting winds: tents, therefore, were tugged down for nine days’ rest at Farah, site of the local satrap’s palace on the northern edge of modern Seistan.
Hungry and buffeted by the wind, the troops might be forgiven for envying Parmenion his opportune absence in Hamadan. For the past three months the elderly general had remained on communications, perhaps a sign of impending retirement, for he was already in his seventieth year. His absence tended to support this suspicion. His last known orders had been to join Alexander in Gurgan in July but he had never arrived and it was charitable to guess that the orders had been cancelled in favour of staying his ground. He had been left with some 25,000 men, the Thracians, the veteran mercenaries, the Thessalians, the Paeonian horsemen and 6,000 Foot Companions whose four battalions had been ordered to supervise the arrival of the treasure in Hamadan. Cleitus had been instructed to take these four battalions ahead as soon as their job was finished, but they had not reached Alexander by the time he arrived in Seistan. Even if they were already on the road from Hamadan, Parmenion retained a sizeable force. He still controlled nearly twenty thousand troops at a time when Alexander had little more than thirty thousand in his own camp. The balance of forces happened to be nearly equal between king and general; at Farah the general was to spring for the last time into memorable prominence: ‘Safe from outside, Alexander was suddenly attacked from within his household.’ It was a most mysterious affair. Those who might have known the truth said little about it: others elaborated, guessing freely on the basis of rumour and hearsay.
According to Ptolemy, a plot was revealed to Philotas, Parmenion’s son, who failed to pass the report to Alexander even though he visited the king’s tent twice every day. A second version fills in the details, and in the absence of anything more convincing it has to be believed. The affair was said to have begun when a Macedonian called Dimnus told his boy-lover that a plot was afoot to kill the king. He gave the names of the conspirators and he revealed in extreme secrecy that their attempt was to be made in three days’ time. But his lover was young and indiscreet. He told the secret to his brother Cebalinus and like all young men who give away secrets, asked him to do what he had not: keep the plot to himself. But Cebalinus lost his nerve. He was shocked and he did not wish to be an accessary to murder, so he went to the highest officer he knew and told him all his brother had let slip. The officer was Philotas, son of Parmenion.
Twice daily, Philotas would go to Alexander’s tent but for two days he put off Cebalinus’s inquiries, saying that the king had been busy and there had been no chance to raise the matter in his presence. Cebalinus became suspicious. Time was running short, so he turned to one of the royal pages whom he found on guard in the armoury. The page had intimate access to the king and at once he made for the royal bathroom where he found Alexander having his bath. The plot was reported and those concerned were ordered to be arrested. Cebalinus told his story, excusing himself as a loyal informer; Dimnus was summoned as the source of the evidence, but killed himself, probably before he could be questioned. The king had lost his prime witness and was left with a garbled list of names, passed by Dimnus to his boyfriend and by the boyfriend to his brother. Only one clear fact had emerged: Philotas had been told of a plot, but had suppressed the news for the past two days. That needed rapid investigation.
It is here, probably wrongly, that the drama is made to gather pace by its Roman historian, elaborating the original histories four hundred years after the event. First, Alexander is said to have received Philotas alone and when Philotas begged forgiveness, Alexander gave him his right hand as a sign that his negligence was not to be punished. Philotas left the tent and Alexander promptly called his closest friends to ask for their opinions. They had no fondness for Philotas, and were led by the loyal Craterus to take the opportunity and turn the king against him. It was this encouragement which proved decisive.
That evening Philotas was due to dine in the royal tent. He arrived punctually, was received without comment by friends who hated him and took his place near Alexander. No change of mood was betrayed. As one course followed another, the guests talked of their orders for the morrow; the army was to leave the camp at daybreak and in expectation of a hard day’s march the party broke up at a reasonable hour. Philotas retired to his tent, but at midnight he awoke to the tramp of the royal Shield Bearers: they had come to put him in chains. All the roads out of camp had already been blocked against his escape.
This setting, though vivid, is more than likely to have been invented for a Roman readership, well used to such dissimulation from their emperors. Alexander could afford to act bluntly, and Ptolemy, the only eyewitness, says no more than that Philotas was arrested and brought before the Macedonians where Alexander accused him ‘Vigorously’; Philotas defended himself, but ‘the informers came forward and convicted him and his associates on several obvious charges’, conspiracy no doubt among them, ‘and especially for the fact that Philotas himself had learnt of a plot, as he admitted, but had suppressed any mention of it’. Philotas and ‘those who helped him conspire’ were speared by the Macedonians. Others said, probably wrongly, that after his trial Philotas was tortured until he confessed, and only then put to death by stoning. His confession, if true, would say more for the torture than for his guilt: Ptolemy, it seems, added no such ‘proof’ of the victim’s complicity, nor even the stoning which suggested Philotas’s guilt. It is the one death penalty which is communal, involving a crowd who must therefore believe in their victim’s crime.
Not satisfied with seven culprits, Alexander extended his inquiry. Among his officers, there were four brothers of highland Tymphiot family and dangerous because of their friendships with Philotas. One of them had long ranked high as leader of a phalanx battalion; another had fled as soon as Philotas was known to be arrested and his flight was so suspicious that the other three were hauled before the soldiery and tried for their lives. But their defence was spirited and they managed to acquit themselves; at once they asked leave to fetch their other brother back, a request which seemed to guarantee their innocence, and so with a clear name, they retained their positions of trust. Amyntas died from an arrow wound two months later; Attalus took over his dead brother’s brigade and eventually married a daughter of Perdiccas, a well-judged alliance; Polemon made progress from his brother’s marriage and reappeared after Alexander’s death as an admiral in Perdiccas’s fleet. They are a rare example of a family who survived a crisis and backed a rising star.
Once again, there was more to the story than Ptolemy implied. It was three years since Alexander of Lyncestis had been put in custody as a possible traitor, and in the meantime he had been kept with the king as a prisoner too dangerous to be abandoned. Now was the moment to remove him in public; perhaps he had been involved in the plot, perhaps he was no more than a plausible suspect, but Alexander arranged that the leader of the Shield Bearers should begin the prosecution before an army who were ready to expect treason from any quarter. Alexander of Lyncestis heard the case, faltered and found nothing to say in reply, perhaps because the charges went beyond the truth, perhaps because he was involved with the plot of an obscure Oriental called Sisines of whom he remembered nothing. Bystanders speared him to death; the incident was too unsavoury for the histories of Ptolemy and Aristobulus, a sign of the feelings it could have aroused.
The sequel was too infamous to be suppressed. In a crisis Alexander turned his thoughts to the most dangerous suspect of them all. Philotas was son of Parmenion; Parmenion was miles away in Hamadan, commanding the treasuries, the crossroads of the empire and up to 20,000 troops. There was also the danger of Cleitus and the 6,000 Macedonians; they had not yet rejoined the army and at best they were a few miles down the road from Hamadan. Parmenion could recall them and tip the balance between the two halves of the army if it came to an open fight. It was a month’s march back to Hamadan down a road still threatened by Satibarzanes.
As usual, Alexander knew the means and the man for the job. He sent for Polydamas a friend of Parmenion, who arrived in trepidation, fearing that his friendship was now to cost him his life. Alexander played on his anxieties and only told him as much as was good for him to know; when Polydamas heard what was required, he obeyed, thankful that the past was not to be held against him. He was to take letters to Parmenion, one from Alexander, one signed with Philotas’s seal; he was to give written orders to the generals under Parmenion’s command. The journey was urgent, the main road was neither direct nor secure; he was to dress like a native and travel by racing camel directly through the intervening Dasht-i-lut desert. Two guides would show him the way, while his younger brothers were detained as hostages.
Polydamas hurried about his innocent business. The camels were made ready; the desert caused them no distress. On the eleventh day they reached Hamadan, having reduced the journey by three weeks and shown that remarkable speed over waste land which was later to make them the spearhead of Arab armies. Parmenion’s generals were sought out, as ordered, and given their written message; their leader, a Macedonian noble, said that Parmenion would best be approached on the following morning. The generals conferred while the messenger retired.
Soon after dawn, Parmenion was ready to receive his visitor. He was taking a walk, it was said, in the palace gardens of Hamadan with the generals at his side; his friend’s appearance pleased him and after an embrace, he began to undo his letters. First, a note from Alexander with news of a further expedition; then, the communication sealed as if from his son Philotas. He began to read it ‘with an expression of evident pleasure’, when his generals drew their daggers and stabbed him repeatedly. Only then would Polydamas realize the horror of his mission; he had been sent, not with a tactical message but with orders for the murder of his friend. Being well known to Parmenion, he had not aroused his suspicions.
The news caused a commotion in Hamadan. The soldiers threatened to mutiny unless the murderers surrendered, and they were not pacified until Alexander’s letters had been read aloud, explaining that Parmenion and Philotas had conspired disgracefully against the king’s life. That was enough to satisfy humble men, and within five weeks, some of them had joined Alexander’s main troops in Seistan. But what was good enough for the army is not good enough for history. The deaths of Philotas and Parmenion were moments of high crisis whose effects were felt throughout the high command. They need a delicate investigation.
There can be no doubt that a plot had indeed been formed against the king. Dimnus, the first to reveal this information, had killed himself when summoned; such a prompt suicide can only have been due to a guilty conscience, for he knew he was certain to die and he did not intend to talk first. As for the names he had already revealed to his lover, all are otherwise unknown, though men of a certain rank, and they contain no clue to a motive. But their ambitions are less arguable. They were a group of six and they must have discussed the future before they acted. They were proposing to kill the most remarkable king and general in all ancient history and leave the army divided and leaderless in the wastes of Seistan with a rebel raising troops beyond them and the lands behind them far from peaceful. One man, slighted personally, might have struck irresponsibly to satisfy a passion. But a group of six would have had plans for a replacement, especially in the face of Alexander’s intimate bodyguards, not the men to sit idle after a murder. It is here that Philotas, son of Parmenion, comes into question.
Philotas, though powerful, had long been the subject of gossip and suspicion. He had served the king as a friend since boyhood, but the past suggests they had never been very close. When Alexander’s young circle of friends had been exiled by Philip seven years before, Philotas had stood on the edge of the group, perhaps as informant against others. Then, in the intrigues of Alexander’s first months, he had nearly chosen the wrong side; he had been a friend of Amyntas, the former king whom Philip had supplanted and Alexander put to death, and he had married his sister to Attalus, Alexander’s bitterest enemy. But unlike others, he had put his misjudgements behind him: within months, he had been invited to command the Companion Cavalry, a remarkable honour for a young man and no doubt due to his father’s influence. It was a demanding job and in all the pitched battles, he had fought under Alexander’s own command. Presumably they would argue about their respective heroics. Neither was the man to belittle his own abilities, and soon their relationship had come under strain.
Among the spoils taken after Issus, Parmenion had found a noble Macedonian lady called Antigone, whom the Persian fleet had captured during the summer before the battle. She had been sailing from home to take part in the mystery religion on the Aegean island of Samothrace. Philotas had fancied her and taken her on as his mistress; in bed of an evening, they would tease and tell tall stories with all the silliness of perfect intimacy. Philotas would drink and brag of his own incomparable prowess: he and Parmenion, to be quite honest, had done all the work, while Alexander was only a little boy who ruled in their name. Antigone thought him bold and amusing, and she told her friends. The friends told one another until word came to Craterus, the king’s devoted general. Antigone was summoned and bidden to continue her affair. But all such boasting and scraps of insolence were now to be passed to Alexander.
It was a year later, in Egypt, said Ptolemy, that Philotas was first reported for plotting, but Alexander had disbelieved the rumour ‘because of their long friendship and his own esteem for Parmenion’. It is hard to know how to treat this. Possibly the rumour was invented to make the eventual conspiracy seem more plausible; possibly, but Philotas’s youngest brother had recently been drowned in the river Nile, an accident which may have embittered the family and caused Philotas to voice his annoyance again to his mistress. And yet, since Egypt, these vague suspicions had not brought him down. He was boastful and rich; his hunting nets were rumoured to stretch for more than twelve miles, and even Parmenion had warned him ‘to be less of a person’. But the advice was painful when the family’s power was beginning to ebb away.
When Seistan was reached, Parmenion was past seventy and Philotas his only son left alive. A month before, his second son, who commanded the Shield Bearers, had died in Aria’s desert and Alexander had been too short of supplies to stop and honour him. Philotas had been left to attend to his funeral and, as in Egypt, he may have reflected with distaste on a family bereavement. Two other associates had recently died or been sent away to the provinces and Parmenion himself was far removed in Hama-dan, where he might soon be retired. Briefly, he controlled the roads, the treasure and 20,000 foreign troops, enough to be dangerous, even under four independent commanders; there were also Cleitus’s 6,000 veterans, out of Alexander’s reach for the first and last time. Alexander had at most 32,000 men with him, but in another two months, the main army might be reunited with Cleitus and the others and Parmenion might be dead. It was a last chance. If Alexander was removed, father and son could combine to create a new king, none more plausible than Alexander of Lyncestis, son-in-law of the viceroy Antipater and himself of princely blood. Returning from his brother’s funeral, Philotas would have the chance to plan and involve the six accomplices who finally let him down.
The conspirators still had to be persuaded, and here there were principles which might be invoked. Only six weeks before, Alexander had worn Persian dress for the first time, having ended his Greek expedition and dismissed the Greek allies who had fought so often under Parmenion. The new dress and court life were a symbol of new ambitions which would not be satisfied until all Asia had been overrun; meanwhile, the Persians would be respected rather than punished, perhaps to the disgust of that same Philotas who at Susa had urged Alexander to use the Persian king’s table as a mere footstool beneath his feet. In the course of the trial a detail is said to have been mentioned, too unusual perhaps to be only a history’s fiction; Alexander denounced Philotas for speaking in Greek and disdaining the Macedonian dialect of the listening soldiery. Alexander may have seized on a charge which could otherwise have been turned against himself. If any soldier thought that his Persian customs betrayed Macedonian traditions, let him first consider the case of Philotas, too haughty even to use the native dialect. The king’s prosecution may have been more than vigorous, for it may have played on the prejudice, of ordinary men. But similar prejudice may first have encouraged the conspirators; they may have wanted a Macedonian monarchy, no dalliance with the diadem and, after plunder, a return to western Asia. Conspiracy followed fast on the change in Alexander’s myth: ‘Alexander was right’, wrote Napoleon, in retirement on St Helena, ‘to have Parmenion and his son killed, because they were blockheads who considered it wrong to abandon the customs of the Greeks.’ When two events are so close in time, it is indeed attractive to link them as cause and effect.
This background of principles and personalities makes Philotas’s guilt very plausible, but it is not enough to prove it. For in Philotas’s case, so far as it is known, there were few solid truths which the informers could have adduced. They cannot have known him to be involved in the conspiracy, for they chose him as the fit man to expose it to Alexander; there were further accomplices of whom they were unaware at the time, but their ignorance about Philotas cannot have lent support to their other evidence. Had Philotas indeed been plotting, he would have welcomed the informer’s approaches as a stroke of extraordinary luck; he could have arranged for them to be silenced or at least acted swiftly before they turned to anyone else. But he had done neither: he had simply suppressed their rumour, and although this negligence was held against him it strongly suggests that he had no part in the conspiracy. He did not take it seriously, because he did not care: that, perhaps, was criminal in its own right, especially to Alexander’s friends who hated him anyway. In Seistan influence ran strongest among the bodyguards and baronial leaders of the phalanx, Craterus again most prominent among them. But Philotas was a cavalryman, whose platoons had been subdivided a year ago between minions chosen for merit, not nobles distinguished by birth. He was vulnerable, therefore, and unpopular: enemies led by Craterus, may have seized their chance to bring him down.
Even so the affair is more of a mystery than a scandal. A letter is said to have been cited, written by Parmenion to his two sons, at least a month before: ‘First, take care for yourselves, for in that way, we shall bring off our plans.’ Even if genuine, it was most ambiguous: it helped little that Philotas, as a last resort, blamed the design on a certain Hegelochus, as Hegelochus was recently dead. Nobody believed that Philotas was innocent and it is absurd to idealize him as a martyr to Alexander’s ruth-lessness simply because the histories explain so little. Neither the timing nor the method of his death suggest the affair was a ruthless purge. Had Alexander wished to kill an innocent man, he could have poisoned him, exposed him in battle or quietly lost him on the next mountain march; he had no need to prosecute him clumsily in a public trial, where other suspects contrived to acquit themselves despite his prosecution. Above all, the moment was far from ripe for sly murder. A ruthless intriguer would first have detached Parmenion from his resources, waited for Cleitus and the 6,000 veterans and then pounced secretly: the man who staged an inopportune trial in Seistan must surely have believed that right, and a grievance, were suddenly on his side. Numbers, certainly, were not.
Whatever its precise justice, condemnation of Philotas made Parmenion’s murder inevitable. It was a grave risk but it had to be taken, for Parmenion was the most powerful figure in the entire army, well up to the art of judicial murder himself and he could not possibly have been left alive to use his resources and supporters for a rebellion based on Hamadan. A fight against Cleitus’s veterans and 20,000 troops was not to be relished, especially when they held the money and could find more food. Parmenion, powerful father to a condemned son, was a threat quite unprecedented since Alexander’s accession, and it is not in the least surprising that in self-defence Alexander arranged his assassination. It is irrelevant to complain that he might have mistaken his general’s ambitions; among Macedonians, the king who waited in a crisis in order to be certain would find himself dead first. There was no law to protect and limit the monarchy: custom could be ignored by a strong character, and self-preservation went just as far as the people would condone. It was said, perhaps correctly, that the soldiery in Seistan had approved Parmenion’s murder before it was ordered: certainly, most of them cared little when they heard of it, and even the troops in Hamadan were pacified. Alexander had friends there, among them Harpalus the treasurer, and they had seen him through; doubtless by royal request, it was now that Parmenion’s memory would be blackened in court histories. The victory on the Granicus, the burning of Persepolis were probably rewritten against a murdered general.
Among the officers there was consternation. The noblemen in the cavalry panicked and began to fly to the desert, fearing their past friendships in the light of what had happened. Alexander was forced to announce that relations of the conspirators would not now be punished, although his rapid treatment of Philotas’s father had implied exactly the opposite. In an emergency nothing breaks quicker than a clique of family and friends: Philotas, for example, had been accused most vigorously by his own brother-in-law, while Parmenion had been murdered by this same turncoat’s brother in Hamadan. Such men were scared of their former connections, and they betrayed them decisively. Others, absent from camp, could not be so bold; Asander, perhaps the brother or nephew of Parmenion, was away in the west raising reinforcements, but he is not known to have received another job when he arrived in camp a year and a half later. Possibly he died of sickness or a wound, but more probably Parmenion’s name was held against him.
With the plot only half-uncovered, Alexander could not afford to be too magnanimous. For some months the army’s letters home had been opened and censored in secret: now Parmenion’s few known sympathizers were separated into a unit known as the Disorderlies, along with any who had complained in their letters of military service. Their discipline was to be stern, but ‘no group was ever keener for war: they were all the braver for being disgraced, both because they wished to redeem themselves and because courage was more conspicuous in a small unit’: any who malingered could always be abandoned in the next Alexandria.
There remained the Companion cavalry. They had been led by Philotas ‘but it was not thought safe to entrust them now to any one man’. Hephais-tion took half the command as an officer above suspicion and known to sympathize with Alexander’s Persian customs; the other half was left open until the missing 6,000 Macedonians arrived from Hamadan. Their loyalty, or their ignorance, had helped to decide Parmenion’s fate. Many were veterans, Philip’s men, and they arrived to find a court much changed from the one they had left at Hamadan; their king had his eunuchs, ushers and diadem. Their loyalty had to be repaid and reassured; they had been led to camp by Cleitus, also a veteran and the most experienced leader of cavalry. Cleitus was named as the second Hipparch, beside Hephaistion who had never led horsemen. His promotion would steady a shaken high command, but it was a reward not altogether of Alexander’s choosing.
The last and only certain word went to Alexander himself. Before he left Farah he decided to rename it Prophthasia, a puzzle only until the name is translated. For Prophthasia is the Greek for Anticipation: here, then, is how Alexander saw himself, not as a judge with certain evidence, but as a king who had struck others before they could strike him first. The justice or injustice of Philotas’s plot will never be known precisely, any more than Alexander had waited to know it precisely himself. But for the first time in history a conspiracy had been put on the map; its survivor had acted fast and as the Wind of Seistan at last began to drop, it was time for him to consider how best to advance his anticipation elsewhere.