The Secret Life of Alexander The Great

Chapter One: Alexander

Chapter One

All my life, I have been a Macedonian masquerading as a Greek. Or so I think. My father, the illustrious King Philip II of Macedon, has hired a Greek tutor for me. But not just any Greek tutor—he hired Aristotle, one of the greatest philosophers of all time. It might strike as queer to some people on why on earth my father had a Greek tutored me, one who desires to conquer the Greeks and considers them beneath him. The truth is, though, he rather envies the unique and intelligent Greeks and even though he wouldn’t admit it, he somewhat admires them too.

            Aristotle is a fine man, though I fear that he values intelligence over power. He feels that with knowledge, power follows. But I disagree. You need knowledge and wisdom, yes, but most of all? Courage and ruthlessness. How, I ask, can one conquer and be successful when one does not possess either of these traits? How can one learn to never give up until he gets what he wants? How can one be powerful?

            When I bring this up, Aristotle merely shakes his head at this. “You need knowledge, young Alexander,” he says.

            “I know I do,” I say firmly. “But you should be teaching me more other than these fine points of literature and ways of critical thinking. What of ruthlessness, courage, and bravery?”

            “Bravery is needed to speak your mind,” Aristotle says.

            “What of leadership skills?” I press. “Battle strategy—”

            “Your father,” Aristotle snaps firmly, “would not approve.” He sighs. “Back to your books.”

            I pick up my slate and scroll. Deep inside I know why my father has not set up this aspect of my education. It is because he intends to lead, and he doesn’t want me to get in the way.

Is it arrogant to think I can conquer more countries than my father in half the time it took him to build his empire? I wonder as I reach a balcony where my mother, Olympia, stands, flanked by several guards.

            I was born in Pella, on the 6th day of the month of Hekatombaion. When my mother, daughter of Neoptolemus I, and the principal wife of my father’s seven others, consummated her marriage, she dreamt her womb was struck by a thunderbolt. This caused a flame that spread far and wide until it died away. Next, my father dreamt that he secured my mother’s womb with a seal that held a lion’s image. There are several predictions and meanings made by the royal advisors, but by far my favourite is the one where I am supposedly a son of Zeus.

            “Alexander,” my mother says, snapping me out of my reverie.

            I look up, startled. “Hello, Mother.”

            She smiles thinly. “How are your lessons?”

            “Good.” I take a deep breath. “I do wish Aristotle would teach me about better stuff, though. Like what Leonidas and Lysimachus taught me, before, as a young child. Like battle strategy...”

            “Why doesn’t he?”

            “Father,” I say, mimicking Aristotle’s deep voice, “would not approve.”

            Mother smirks slightly. She is not close with Father. So am I. All he talks about with me—that is, when he talks to me at all—is about being a man, being royal, and basically lectures on how I should not bring him shame and more. It’s rather tedious.

            Father was never there for me. He is always out on a siege, or with another one of his wives.

            “Do not worry, son,” Mother says, putting an arm on my shoulder—a tough feat, considering that I tower over her by a head or two—in an attempt to comfort me. She adds, “You’re fifteen. Only a year more to go under Aristotle’s tutelage. Then, I shall arrange to have you tutored by one of the commanders.”

            I gasp. “Thank you, Mother!” Although I would rather miss Aristotle. He was probably my only father figure in my entire life.

            “You’re welcome,” she says generously. She pauses. “You want to be king, don’t you?”

            I hesitate, then nod. “Yes, Mother.” More than anything else in the world.

            “More than anything else in the world?” my mother repeats. Too late, I realize I said that part out loud. Can’t change it now. But Mother does not look angry. No, indeed she looks...I find it hard to read the expression on her face. Happy? Pleased? Brooding? Relieved?

            “I see.” She purses her lips. I hold my breath.

            She eyes me then. “And why, my son, do you want to be king?”

            I think to myself. Why do I want to be king?

            Because, I think, I want to be remembered. I will be remembered.

            I will be a good king. I will lead, I will conquer. I will spread culture.

            I will have power.

            “Because,” I say, “because of power. And culture. And, well, I want to lead.”

            Mother nods in understanding. I do not sense disapproval in her face. “I see,” she says again.

            I nod vigorously. “It’s just that...” I gulp. “I have dreams sometimes. Bucephalus and myself. We ride, through battles, with armies. Conquering empires. Like Persia. I rather want to go there...”

            Mother looks me straight in the eye. “You do really want to be king.”

            “Yes.”

            Mother smiles. “More than anything else in the world?”

            “Yes.”

            “Are you willing,” she says, “to lose anything just to be king?”

            At that line of questioning I begin to reflect. Will I really do anything to be king? Will I defeat all odds to rule? Will I sacrifice something to be king?

            And will I even be a good king? I hope so. I want to lead. I want to help. But most of all, I want to be remembered greatly. Alexander the Great has a rather nice sound to it.

            It is not wrong to seek greatness, I think. And I might even prove a better leader than my father.

            So I look my mother straight in the eye. And I say, “Yes. Yes, I will.”

            Mother smiles. And unless it’s my imagination I can swear she has a wicked glint in them. “Then I will make sure of that.”