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Out of Night seduced by Light stepped Chaos
with fiery hair to steam Oceanus, breeding Æther.
The world-egg split into heaven and earth
and Eros arose to bring from tender frictions
the mighty passions of the gods.
Zeus, sovereign of earth and heaven,
ordered Poseidon to the waters
and Hades to the nether regions.
Gæa, mother of all in the beginning!
Mother Earth and the gods
commanding all the world's forces conspired
to beget the generations of Homer's heroes.
We mortals scatter with the winds
to waters and woods, mountains and plains,
to seek and find where human hearts and minds
guide bodies toward wise, far-seeing acts.
There we feed to make our essence bright.
Now we gather here to shine on one our ancient
Lore exalts, to choose for greatness.
With time all came together in one accord
with this one,
that shapely son of earth, water and fire
who breathed the gas of life, Alexander!
King of Macedon! Pharaoh of Egypt! King of Babylon!
Great King of Asia!
Son of Queen Olympias, rests revered in Alexandria.
Olympias, the mother!
Hail, renowned mother of the Great King of Asia! Beautiful queen of the beautiful land of Epirus!
Hail, Timaeus! Son of Timaeus, your father, of distinguished valor who died in India shielding the body of my son!
We, the people of your court in this wondrous palace at Dodona delight each day in greeting your royal majesty. Now begins another day of play, to celebrate our lives with you, to entertain you and serve your needs for endless bright and happy hours which those who rule deserve. Hail, again, for all of us, most gracious Queen Olympias!
Hail, Attalus, Alexander's decoy, deflecting the enemy, at the battle at Hydaspes, because you have the stature and look of my son, Alexander--
Great King. Pharoah. Hegemon. King, of Macedon, of Babylon. Dear son, most dead, and mourned beyond reason these four years. And I, yet aggrieved out of my senses. I am mad with it.
Hail, Euxenippus, Gorgatus, Gorgias, Hecataeus, companions and heroes, all, of Alexander's campaigns to avenge the Persian's wars against all Hellas. I have reclaimed you from the conscription that first took you from my court. Hail, my radiant ladies, companions, tender kinswoman Thessalonike, divine Deïdameia, sagacious Sophia, far-seeing, impassioned Pothos, and my nightingale Demarete, singing and playing so artfully, all, my special dears. You are my people, men and women of Epirus, my loyal and trusted friends! I celebrate your youth, your vigor, your charm! Welcome to another day at this court!
Now, doff the drab!
Beautiful, my friends! But those amusements do not sprout my mood, my temper, my feeling, my desire as I need and wish. I crave theatre. I need representations to spur my thought for affairs of state. I want the frenzy of coming events to be portrayed here and now, as I foresee.
Here are the parts for our theatre laid out in dress to don for my players' characters. See what you can find.
I am a Satyr.
And I, too.
What is this? A serpent?
Put on the serpent, Gorgias, for my tale.
This is the story. Thessalonike, lie here. You shall be Olympias. One night, as I lay at rest, I awoke to see above me the sinuous weaving -- Weave, Gorgias! Over her! --
The weaving of a serpent's head. But I was not frightened, for I knew who it was.
I thought it was the king. But then I heard the serpent as hissing sweet words he coiled about my young form, revealing himself as the divine Olympian Father. I trembled and from that passionate toil, begot a prince. But in the wall of the room was a chink.
And Philip spying on me! --Hecataeus, peep!-- But Zeus shot a bolt into the offending eye.
Ha-a-a-a-a! And Philip lost his eye, gouged by Zeus. Behold! Philip One-Eye.
Come, Olympias. Your friends have gone too far in your game. Need we regret we enticed you there?
Zeus was not the parent. Nor was Heracles through Neoptolemus to you. And do not you wish too vainly that a battle scar was one that you had delivered?
I was avenged! This, my retribution!
This is your story. Your contrivance. But you have forgotten--
Or have you ignored--
not the Olympian gods!--
But the Moirae!
The Fates! Clotho has spun the thread of your life, as for us all.
Lachesis has tied the knots of circumstance in your thread. Inescapable events. You were born a woman, high-born, a descendent of gods, a daughter of kings, a wife of kings, a queen, mother of a king--
--always subject to kings! Simply a woman under a man! Capricious male monarchs! If I were... If...
Fate, beyond your control.
Atropos will cut the thread at the ordained moment. The Three Fates. Moira. Your share. Your portion. Your lot.
Your life is, and can only be perfect in its completeness, at that moment when the thread is cut.
That is my inheritance.
It is good the way you indulge me in my Dionysian vanities.
AH! Who is this imitation I see coming along?
My lord regent Antipater! You still among the living? How are affairs in Macedonia? You appear somewhat creaky to be carrying around that heavy load of arrogance. But the Fates must be hovering near to cut your string at any moment.
My dear Olympias--
--Not your dear Olympias!
My "dear" queen--
Not your dear!
My honored queen Olympias, I would slobber your hand with a buss, but there is too much blood there. My lips would drop off with such poison. I would prefer to kiss one of your many snakes.
Thank you, my dear Euxenippus, for that artful cue.
Poison? You have the effrontery to give breath to the word poison? You, whose three rats you call sons delivered their foul bite to my Alexander in Babylon, depriving earth of its greatest hero? You should stay far away from that subject, old weed. Would you now please die for me, sir creaky? DIE!
Ah-h-h, that was good!
What now! There comes old Aristotle, close friend of Antipater, tutor to my young Alexander, and perhaps also complicit in my son's murder. Should you not be counting and classifying the tree roots invading your grave?
Appointed by the lord Zeus himself, after my recent death. I am conducting post-mortem investigations of the constitution of the soul, for that is the only matter of substance surviving death.
Then how are you presently constituted?
I am but a creation of your hatred, ordered into the body of Gorgatus. Do with me as you will.
Come, my sweet Gorgatus, can you not be a bit more creative with your impersonation of old Ari? Take your cue from me!
Then you are my prisoner, and I will slay you by removing from the earth all your works. But you can save your tomes, if you can, in a trial. Answer my questions with pertinence. Your friend here, Antipater, will be your judge. Antipater! Arise!
In character, Euxenippus!! You are old.
Judge this learned friend of yours as to the pertinence of his answers to my questions. If his answers are judged pertinent, he will live and you, Antipater, will die, by the power I have to command it, and I am eager to do that. If he be judged not to the point, his works will be destroyed, because I cannot kill him twice--and I am eager to do that--so you shall live.
Furthermore, they are works based mostly on what Alexander had sent him from all the lands in the east; I can rightfully claim them as my own. You see, you are hostage to my whims because you, alongside Antipater and his foul brood, conspired against Alexander through your nephew Callisthenes, whom Alexander found it necessary to execute.
Now your trial begins. Which are the most numerous, the living or the dead?
The living because the dead are not at all.
O what good sophistry! Does the earth or the sea produce the largest beasts?
The earth, for the sea is but a part of it.
The sophistry of geography. Which is the cunningest of beasts?
That which men have not yet found out.
The sophistry of evasion. Which is the eldest, night or day?
You prejudice my judge with your opinions.
You should not wonder if strange questions should receive strange answers. Day is eldest by one day at least.
You should not wonder if a stranger to practical knowledge hears useful questions as strange. What should a man do to be exceedingly beloved?
He must be very powerful without making himself too much feared.
What argument do you use to support your idea that the courage and justice of a man is shown in commanding, of a woman in obeying?
My queen, I know the direction where you have pointed your question to go, but I am not prepared to go there.
Silence! Answer!
Let me try, Olympias.
Antipater would answer a question that only Aristotle has begged?--No!
And furthermore, why is silence the glory of a woman, but not equally the glory of a man? The man commanding, the women obeying? ANSWER!
The final cause, for the good of man, we value it, it is the essence of life, and it is the rule. It is an enthymeme rooted in the people, needing no further proof.
How might a man become a god?
By doing that which is impossible for men to do.
Is life stronger than death?
Life is stronger than death because it supports so many miseries.
How long do you think it decent for a man to live?
'Til death appears more desirable than life.
What is the meaning of life?
Now this is not Aristotle.
In the style of Aristotle. Without knowing it, we worship the meaning of life. The meaning is in what one does with it, one, create; two, destroy; three, destroy in order to create, or four, in the middle ground, watch others create or destroy. Destroyers are worshipers of evil, and give pain. Creators are worshipers of good, and give pleasure. The meaning of life is in what one does with life. The assessment must be made. How would you assess Olympias?
Do ants have life?
Certainly, as do all insects and other creatures.
Then does an ant's life have meaning?
My concern is man. Meaning is up to the ant. However, I have seen it waggle its head as if to choose right or left. Does it ponder right on the right or wrong on the left? Right, and wrong. But it does meander much, which I ascribe to indecision.
As a child, I would look down and see one. When it sensed my thundering step shaking its earth, it would suddenly scurry to save itself. What is the meaning of life to the lowly ant? Its meaning of life in that instant?
One day, as I lay on the earth studying the ant, I knew the answer: preservation. To get safely out of my way. It behaved as if it had a life worthy of saving. A past and a future. Tasks undone. An obligation to avoid my step. To flee to the comfort of those others of its kind. The ant is diligent and industrious, eager to gain and tenacious in holding gains. Thus they were worthy to become the Myrmidons, the army of Achilles.
Then your ancestors consorted with the ants.
So have I studied them. But what of the bee, old Ari? I shall be a gadfly, of sorts, and shall demand you answer why the bee bites. Is it to get itself swatted and killed? Does the bee think that when it stings that it could be provoking a killing response? Does the bee know that when it stings it will die? Is the bee stinging out of vengeance? anger? a misguided self-preservation? Does the bee act to protect the hive? Is that altruism? Does the bee sting, knowing that the act is more important than continuing to gather honey? Do the answers apply to human predators? You see, I am no stranger to empirical science.
I have studied Aristotle, my eagle-eyed queen, but your animals do not have deliberative imagination and are not calculative, as you have assumed they are. Thus Aristotle would remark.
Your judgment, Antipater.
All that I can determine is that each answer was less pertinent than another.
Sufficiently vague and circular, sir, to avoid your responsibility, Antipater, and have it both ways. You say good of your friend and you are condemned. You put yourself up and your friend goes down. For giving such a verdict, you shall die.
Not so, Queen Olympias, unless you said that he should die if all his answers were impertinent. You should be unmistakable.
My dear Ari, tutor to the world THROUGH my son. Your mind is a knife, but no matter how sharp, it will not cut water, which is the substance of your tomes. Aristotle cannot be made to die twice, so Antipater who still lives, will die. Antipater, DIE!
oh HO ho! What comes here! Philip, the king! Great general of Macedon. Creator of the indomitable phalanx and fierce lightning attack that conquered Asia, revenging our losses to Xerxes. My shade of a husband, the king, escaped from Hades, I see. Make way for the king!
Let us see who this king really is, as I knew him.
The king with his pet lion, a smallish cat, if I remember right, suitably caged.
I love this part!
Hecataeus!
Courtesan.
Concubine.
Wife. Now we have him in all his gore-y. Watch him waggle!
See how he flares his nostrils! Prances and paws around like a stallion in a sweat to relieve his agony in the more challenging battle for conquest. He is-- He has-- The Virgin Seeker!
I know you looked into the eyes of Pausanias, who murdered you, as he ran his blade into your heartless heart, your false heart, a heart not ever for me, my dear, dear Philip. Did you not see me there in his eyes? Divorce me? Never. Get an heir to displace Alexander? Never! You could breed only girls anyway. Breed with one younger even than Alexander? Never! You made good wars for Macedon, until you made a bad war against me and your son. Show us your manhood, Philip!
Now, promiscuous lord of the underworld, pray to the ivy-crowned one.
The god of wine and snakes and dance,--
--god of joy, release of the spirit!
The lot of the favored.
Hear it now, the lyre and drum!
Waving the cone-tipped thyrsus in blood-eyed praise to the wine-god who ever calls forth from worshippers raptures divine and deathless.
I take my place in the stately march and twirl my gossamer robes Until my skin glistens, my cheeks glow.
My auburn hair flows, freed from the tight furl, and I dance, posture, twirl, and step to a prayer to god for a deep, elevating, transcendent passion.
These vain pleasures of retribution are nearly ended.
Come, Furies, scourge the smell of sulfur out of these scoundrels and bash their crooked forms from my eyes. O villainous weeds that clogged the garden of my love, choking it with brambles of pain and anger! Hasten, Furies three, to soothe my ears with your vengeful screech against these outlaw seducers, oligarchs, murderers, and plotters. Ho! Furies! Descend! Avenge this mother!
Do you hear this moment of peace at dawn after the tumult in the dark of rage? Do you feel healed of the evil sores of infection? Has a burden been laid on the earth that makes us free and light? Has a hunger been sated, a thirst quenched? A desire fulfilled? Come up, Attalus. A love must yet be requited.
Stand there, my friend. Strip, Attalus!
This is my gift for you. This is my son, the King of Macedon, re-born, Alexander!
Cavalry boots!
Tunic!
Cuirass!
Cloak!
Helmet!
Xyston!
Timaeus! Hold the spear! Sword
!Shield bearer!
Eyes up into the distant frontier, his pothos! Mouth open just a little! Now walk around with grace and strength! His arretê!
Alexander! My creation! As he set out, at twenty years, King of Macedon. To avenge the atrocities of Xerxes and the Persians against the Hellenes. I never saw him in a Persian robe.
Read!
"My dear mother Olympias--"
Higher. The voice higher.
"Today--"
From the beginning. His sophos!
"My dear mother Olympias--"
"Today I was on the hot sands of Egypt. Apollo's chariot crossing overhead, I heard him shout courage to our train below. With little water to feed the sweat, we marched on. I was in a trance of the greatest joy. My thirst was quenched at the oasis of Siwah by the knowledge I had sought there from the oracle of Zeus Ammon. No one shall know, but you, dear mother, shall be the only one I tell when I see you again. I heard what will bear me through any fortune or misfortune.
"In the evening, I rode out alone away from the train. The heavens were falling into the warm and cooling sand. All was silence. In the desert are no beings. No needs. Only the stars were alive, and cool turned to cold. Bucephalus knew, too, and stood in silence. A horse's head is pointed mostly down and ahead, but this evening, he tried to look up, after I shared with him the secret of my life. I did not sleep and welcomed again the fair order and harmony of golden Apollo as he arose in the east.
"I am amused that the frenzies of your Dionysian mysteries do not provide you with a philosophy of moderation to guide you through your quarrels with Antipater, which give me much pain. You charge a high rent for the nine months you housed me before I was born. Your loving son."
You never returned, my son. I never learned your secret. But I know you, and I know what it is. It is the source of your honor. Your invincibility. Your aretê. The gods are like men, and you are one who became god-like.
I will have my esteem!
I have begged the question I see in your eyes and in the twirl of your heads. Esteem for what, you ask.
I am sad my friends cannot see it. I was highborn, given the wealth and privilege of rulers. I was given the customs and practices of male monarchs in a patriarchy. I received the heritage of a descendant of the gods. Thus have I lain in a dream and stitched together, from the skein of the spinster, Clotho, the fabric of my fate ordained by the Goddesses. I know the given. I know my lot. But did the goddesses decree a horny husband, as well? Did they predestine his witless bastards crawling everywhere into the pattern?
Am I not his bastard, Olympias?
Yes. --well-- Not a bastard, my child. Not a bastard in that tone I save for others.
Daughter of your King Philip?
Yes. One of many. Each one a threat to the birthright of Alexander. You are a woman. A woman is not a threat to any throne. Your mother was a minor wife of his. But I find you more than tolerable. Unlike the other issue of my goatish husband.
Did the Fates spin the whole tapestry of circumstances where I have no presence and occasion to rule? Alexander, you loved to throw the dice and stake a sum on the chance. Tell me, are the Fates attentive to every fortune or misfortune of every throw? Do they hover and pounce on the result they ordain? Are you toying with the Fates in your game? Do not they always win? No, my son. That is a diversion in which you learn from them what they have in store for you. I will never play that game. I will let the Fates know what I have in store for my friends and enemies, and they can draw the picture from that. That is the man's game. I have learned from all your letters that when you made war, you did not throw the dice and stake the fate of your army on the result. I have determined what your secret is, the word of the gods through the oracles you consulted at Dodona and Siwah, the words you promised to disclose only to me. Your words hiss like the flicking tongue of Zeus Ammon in my ear. Our secret, Alexander. Our secret. I know. I know.
My queen, you challenge the gods. You draw your fate upon yourself.
Your regent overvalues himself in wealth and political power, Alexander.
Be content with God's will, Olympias. It is the joy of your life.
Antipater has usurped, in your absence, your power at home, and converted your democracy to an oligarchy of his friends, where citizens suffer a measure of wealth to belong. The anguish of my struggle with him is no less than yours for the battles you enter. I will redress those wrongs. I have your ideal for this, my Alexander.
Leave me, Alexander!
Farewell, my dear son.
Hear it now, the lyre and drum! I hear the Bacchantes dancing near!
...the cone-tipped thyrsus
...praise to the wine-god
...raptures divine
...and deathless
...the stately march
...and twirl
...my skin glistens
...my cheeks glow.
My auburn hair flows
...I dance
...a prayer to god
...a passion.
Mother.
No, Attalus. I am not your mother.
I am not Olympias. I was called Polyxena. On the day of Alexander's birth, the king had won an Olympic victory in a race of chariots at Olympia and a great victory in war. At Philip's request, I became Olympias, who sprang Minerva-like from the head of Philip. Olympias was not born. She was born Myrtale. The Fates were caught off guard. You must know me as Polyxena. As Olympias, I am Alexander's mother. And you. You were Alexander's counterfeit!
As a strategy against the enemy, at the Hydaspis.
Shape-shifting Attalus.
It has made my fortune. All people have likenesses, I believe. The Fates gave me one that was the most glorious. And that is why you recalled me when he died.
You will be Alexander to my Olympias. And I will be Polyxena to your Attalus. Come now, Attalus. Come with me. I will be the maiden Myrtale.
Shape-shifting Olympias. Shape-shifting Attalus. What you see may not be who I am. Like water that starts as rain, slides into a stream, fills a pond, and trickles into a torrent and joins the river, floods into the lake, empties into the Great Ocean circling all life, filling the heavens with mist, shrouding Olympus in clouds--but always water, always ready to fill the form given by circumstance. Like earth. Like fire. Like air. We are all many shapes where another form lies just below the surface, but at the heart we are of one character.-- Come, Attalus.-- And bring Alexander with you.