Krat'eroi

Krat'eroi

In early June of 323 B.C., a man is dying in Babylon, the capital of a new empire that spans the civilized world. For nearly two weeks, he has languished in sickness and rapidly deteriorating health. It is clear from his surroundings that he is an important man; he is swathed in the finest Persian silks and blankets, and is attended by some of the most powerful generals in the world. Looking more closely at him, one can see that he holds his head and neck at an odd angle, but whether this is due to physical deformity or the result of wounds taken on the field, it is difficult to say. A young man, not long past 30 years old, even in his sickened condition he retains a look of martial nobility. He obviously is in the grips of a powerful fever, and appears close to death: sweat beads on his brow and neck, running like rivers over his prone form; a form which only a fortnight ago was muscular, powerful, and brimming with vitality; a form that has been devoured by sickness; wasted away to a shivering skeleton; a morbid parody of his former self.

Most of the great man's doctors have been dismissed, and only one remains; slowly removing leeches from the arm of the fever-gripped figure, allowing excess blood to run down and drip into a silver dish on the ground. The only other figures present are Perdiccas, regent to the dying man, and three of the most favored generals of the kingdom: Ptolemy, Antigonus, and Seleucos; only Craterus is missing, away with the final commands of the sick man. All four men show mixed emotions; sorrow, anger, despair.... and ambition. All know that, soon, one of them may well become the most powerful man in the world. For twelve years, they have sacrificed. For twelve years, they have fought, bled, and vanquished in the name of the wasted man lying on the Persian bed in front of them. For twelve years, they have followed this man to victory and glory, conquering the entirety of the known world.

The great man stirs, and opens his fever-glazed eyes. Weakly, he beckons Perdiccas to him. The generals stiffen, knowing that this is the time. Perdiccas approaches his king, and leans close to ask “Sire, to whom do you give your kingdom, unmatched in all the world?” The dying man speaks, his words a ragged whisper, and then he expires, claimed by Hades. The three generals look at each other, downcast. “Krater'oi,” they say, “To Craterus.” Perdiccas rises from his place at the dead king's side. 'No,” he says, holding up the ring of his former liege “Krat'eroi.” The generals smile at each other, but these are not smiles of mirth, but of predation. Already, they look at each other with hunger and hatred. The honor guard files in to take the corpse to the funeral pyre.

That night, the pyre is lit, and the king burns. He was the greatest man to have ever lived, a titan astride the world, undefeated in battle. He conquered all the known world before he was thirty-three, a hero-king to his people in Macedon, a demon to his enemies in Persia. Now, his dreams of a union of the East and West burn along with him. The four men who attended his final moments gaze into the flames consuming their king. “Krat'eroi,” they growl, as the body and ambition of Alexander the Great burn. Krat'eroi- To the strongest.