Ζει Και Βασιλεύει

Why is it so damn tough to make a (decent) movie/series about Alexander the Great? AND what might be ways to fix that. (Hint: it's less about historical accuracy, more about figuring out what story you're telling.)

I've talked before here (several times) about ATG movies and series. Here's the video version.

Olympias, Mother of Alexander the Great

Olympias was probably around 15 when she married Philip, and would probably have had Alexander at about 16, at most 17. That was a pretty standard age. Girls were traditionally betrothed after their first menses, and they seemed to start their menses later than we do now. In the case of Olympias, she was actually betrothed to Philip much younger, on the Isle of Samothrace during/after the initiations.

The deal would have been made between Philip's elder brother, King Perdikkas II and Olympias's uncle, who was regent for her younger brother, Alexandros. It would have been a backdoor deal between Macedon and Epiros against the power of Illyria under Bardylis. So contra the story in Plutarch, it was not a love match. 1) She was a little girl at the time, and 2) even if they'd hated each other on sight, the marriage would have been advantageous and gone through. (Beware of the "love matches" in the sources; they usually aren't.)

Driving around Epiros (see image below, 2nd is from Dodona), one gets a better sense of Olympias. It's rough country, compared to the lowlands. Families would have had to pull together there to survive, and the effort and work of women would have been required. The kingdom was not as absolute a kingship, and if the Molossian clan ruled, it was by consent of a council, who could remove kingship too. Alexander states at one point, observing when his mother and sister traded places, that his mother had made the smarter choice as the Macedonians wouldn't consent to be ruled by a woman. Apparently, the Epirotes would. And certainly Kleopatra had a great deal of power as regent for her son, when she was there. In this way, the Epirotes were perhaps closer to the Illyrians--also hill people, and among whom women could fight in combat.

In any case, Olympias would have been accustomed to more freedom and authority than she likely had in Pella. That may be one reason she clashed with Antipatros later, when he was regent, as well as with Philip occasionally. But clashes with Philip were exaggerated. They cooperated as much if not more than clashed, and any clashes were mostly as a result of offenses to the status of Alexander (or herself). In polygamous courts, the most important male in a wife's life wasn't the king but her son. If he didn't survive to take the throne, often she didn't either. So don't read Oedipal nonsense into that relationship. That's one reason I really disliked how Renault wrote Olympias, and how Stone directed Jolie to portray her in the movie (which is basically a direct steal from Renault).

Another important aspect for women in ancient Greece, Macedonia, Epiros, etc., was their role in religious rites. Olympias was a priestess, and Macedonia was rule by CLAN (the Argeads). So the women had specific roles to play, mostly in religion, but also in terms of dedications. We have information showing both Olympias and Kleopatra donating money to temples, etc., as did Philip's mother Eurydice...in her own name, not her husband's. And yes, that suggests some control over their finances, unlike women in Athens. I even put that in the novel; when Olympias interviews Kampaspe, she talks to her about a donation in Larissa, in the hopes of securing cavalry later for her son. That is precisely the sort of thing Macedonian royal women did.

I strongly recommend the work of Elizabeth Carney, if you want to know more about Olympias. Her biography is THE place to start. It's been out a while, so look for a used copy, or see if your local library has it, or can get it. Another article where Beth puts not a pin but a damn sword through the brutal image of Olympias in ancient sources is "Olympias and the Image of the Virago," Phoenix, 47.1 (1993): 29-55. The biography is a later work, but I point to that article as it really threw down the gauntlet to the (mostly male) Alexander scholars, about Olympias. As with the book, ask your local library to get a copy of the article for you via ILL (interlibrary loan).

It was Beth's work on Olympias that influenced how I portrayed her in the novels, even to using her other name, Myrtale, which I did to try to divorce her from ALL the horrible baggage. I did not want her to be a pushover--she manifestly wasn't--but all her actions have reasons, and reasons that aren't either jealousy or petulance. Even her objections to Hephaistion has nothing to do with jealousy of him and everything to do with what she considers a threat to Alexander's place as heir.

That's why I wrote "Two Scorpions," as one of the "outtakes" that occurs between the two novels, released between the publishing of book 1 and book 2. It's a confrontation between Hephaistion and Myrtale, and Hephaistion does not come out the winner, really.

In any case, I tried to make it clear that Myrtale is FAR from hated in the women's rooms. At one point, Alexander says his mother's women would die for her the same as his father's men would for him. And Myrtale is the only one to think of Kampaspe, when Alexander flees after the wedding. Hephaistion helps her, but because he almost falls over her when he goes to Alexander's room. Myrtale actually asks about her. Alexander more or less forgets her in all the hooplah. Myrtale doesn't.

I'll leave you with an interesting tribute to her. When the Greeks decided to build a trireme on the ancient model, back in the '80s, did they name it The Themistokles? Or The Perikles? No, they named her Olympias:

Generally, I constantly wonder why there is so little known about him anyway? Considering that he was most likely the closest person to one of the greatest conquerors ever and ALSO had a high position in the military, it is strange to me that we know so little of him.

Why Don't We Know More about Hephaistion? (Or, one of the problems with Great Man history)

It’s not particularly strange to know so little given one important detail: Alexander didn’t outlive him by even a year.

In the Successor Wars that followed, it didn’t serve anyone to preserve his memory…especially not when they could elevate their own instead. This isn’t necessarily a matter of spite or resentment, but of simple ambition. Hephaistion was dead; he couldn’t help them. And he’d not been the king (seat of power), so elevating his memory couldn’t really help them to further their own. Unlike elevating Alexander’s memory, as their power came as a result of being his officers.

Also, we do know a fair bit about him compared to others—now virtual unknowns—who during Alexander’s lifetime were apparently pretty important individuals.

How many of you—WITHOUT racing to Google—can tell me anything about Aristonous, or Peithon? These were members of his personal bodyguard (Somatophylakes). And no, that does not make them faceless Men in Black/Secret Service. All Somatophylakes were quite highly placed Hetairoi from families as important as Hephaistion’s, maybe (probably) even more so.

Truth is, we know about those around Alexander who went on to become Successors, or who played pivotal roles in the drama (like Eumenes). Aristonous served those men instead…so you’ve never heard of him. Peithon might be slightly better known as he became a satrap, but he faded behind Seleukos and Antigonos and Perdikkas.

Even Krateros is unknown to the average person with only a passing interest in ATG. Kleitos is better known, and when I mention Krateros to non-specialists, they often confuse him with Kleitos … “Oh, is he the one Alexander killed in a drunken rage?” Nope. I couldn’t convince the Netflix people to include him even though he went on to become the second most important person in the empire at the end of Aleander’s life, after Hephaistion. From their point of view, his wasn’t a “recognizable” name.

So, I think it can sometimes help to get a sense of expectations. History written in that time was very much "Great Man" history, where the focus was on a particular individual and others would appear in the spotlight only when they walked on stage to interact with him.

As I’ve collected all ancient references to either Hephaistion or Krateros, it’s pretty clear that, even in the Roman world, Hephaistion was better-known. And he certainly had a much longer afterlife into the medieval and Renaissance worlds. The only surviving figures from the court to be remembered in greater detail were those who established dynasties of their own, such as the Ptolemies, Seleucids, and Antigonids. Or Eumenes, because Plutarch wrote a Life about him.

In the end, whatever you do won't matter if nobody remembers it--and writes about it. I'm opening my monograph on Hephaistion and Krateros with this famous line from Hamilton:

He wrote a lot of letters, or at least that seems to have been the case. Plutarch had access to a lot of them, so they weren't immediately lost. But he would have been writing them with an assumption that they might later be collected and read by strangers (as that was sort of a thing). Ergo, we may assume, I think, that anything he wrote would have been at least somewhat "curated." And even if some letters were personal or contained what we'd call "state secrets," anything too explosive/secret would almost certainly have been destroyed by the one receiving it. If it were kept, the assumption tended to be that it was meant for publication, either at the time or sometime later.

The notion of writing down highly private thoughts and feelings wasn't really done, at that point in history, except in the form of lyric poetry. And even that was meant to be shared. But anything like a modern "diary" simply didn't exist yet.

What was written down expanded across time, as humans learned new uses for writing. The earliest writing concerned record-keeping: taxes, essentially. Then lawcodes, then religious instructions, etc. Stories were, actually, among the later things written down.

In any case, in Greece by the middle/end of the Hellenistic age, if you could imagine it, they were probably writing it. But during Alexander's lifetime, that "explosion" of written material was really just beginning.

There's a recent book on Alexander's letters by Giustina Monti. Reviewed here by Bryn Mawr. You can get a copy, although be aware these are more mentions of letters than transcripts. Most come from Plutarch. There are virtually no surviving examples of actual letters. Arrian might contain one in official correspondence between Darius and Alexander. Almost everything else references "letters about" rather than the letter itself. That's unfortunately the state of our evidence.

Note that the price for the paperback is quite reasonable!

Been SO crazy-busy, although I recorded this Tuesday night, I'm only now getting it up.

A video that I promised to do on a somewhat recent chapter that came out, on Alexander's annihilation of the Branchidai, and what he may have thought he was doing. Discussion of religion in warfare in Greece and in the ancient near east.

Costume of a Lazarina from Kozani, Macedonia, Greece. The Lazarines are a custom of ancient origin. It is speculated to have been popularized by the Romans after their conquest of Greece and the Balkans and it was named the  “Rosalia” festival, which the Greeks called Ροδισμός (rhoðismós). During this celebration young girls and women sang, danced and gathered flowers in order to celebrate the spring.

The festival survived the establishment of Christianity and transformed into a celebration that takes place every Orthodox Lazarus Saturday in several south Slavic countries and northern Greece. Nowadays, it commemorates Lazarus’ resurrection by Jesus Christ, in an association of it with the rebirth of nature and life. 

It's pretty bad. YEARS ago, in grad school, I wrote a review which got published I don't even recall where. O'Brien was so angry he wrote a letter to me (a grad student, mind) to excoriate me for my review. But I won't back off. He implied Alexander was an alcoholic (even if, granted, he never used the word--he didn't need to). YET he never cited ANY modern psych analysis of ATG's drinking. I have SERIOUS issues with that sort of (to my mind) imprecise mixing of psychology and history. It's not the first time I've fussed about it. I do the same with Alexander and his mourning.

STOP psychoanalyzing dead people! Jesus. That's SO bad. He's DEAD. We can't sit him on a couch to ask questions. We can't throw him in a detox tank to see if he suffers the bends. And all our sources have their OWN cultural biases.

In short, our "data" STINKS. O'Brien doesn't do what I consider to be decent source analyses of that evidence.

That said, I will acknowledge that, at the time, his bio had some anecdotes (largely from Plutarch) not found in other popular biographies available and he cited them well. And his bibliography for the date published was quite complete. That's literally the best I can say about the book.

Below are two different videos I've done on YouTube that deal with Alexander and drink (and why it's SO problematic to evaluate)...then also his mourning for Hephaistion and why *that's* problematic to evaluate.

Basically ... don't start pulling psychology into history unless/until you understand all the clinical evidence (and possible issues with that evidence). Or you look like a fool. Psych is a GREAT tool for historians. When used responsibly.

**

The room was still dark when Alexander woke. The air held the quiet warmth of sleep, bodies at rest, breath slow and even in the close dark.

He did not move at first. Hephaestion was wrapped around him, close and solid, one arm drawn firmly across Alexander’s waist, his hand resting low against his side as if he had pulled him in sometime in the night and never let go. Their legs were tangled beneath the blanket, the length of him pressed warm and steady along Alexander’s back.

Alexander lay there for a moment longer, simply aware of it. The weight of Hephaestion’s arm. The slow rise and fall of his breathing. The unthinking certainty of the hold.

He shifted slightly, and Hephaestion tightened his hold at once. His arm drew in, pulling Alexander back against him on instinct , his face pressing briefly into the back of Alexander’s shoulder as if to keep him there.

“I’m getting up,” Alexander murmured.

A low sound answered him, more feeling than word. Protest, soft and immediate. Hephaestion did not let go.

Alexander turned his head as much as he could and caught his mouth in a slow kiss, meant to wake him gently rather than wrest himself free.

That did it. Hephaestion stirred properly this time, breath changing, his hand flexing once against Alexander’s side before loosening enough to let him turn.

“I’ll meet you,” he said, voice rough with sleep, still close, still not fully releasing him.

“Later,” Alexander said softly.

Hephaestion’s eyes opened a fraction, enough to find his. “Don’t forget the figures.”

“I won’t.”

Hephaestion pulled him back once more, this time awake enough to chase the kiss properly before letting him go. Alexander rose quietly from the bedding.

Arrhidaeus still slept nearby, sprawled without care, one arm thrown wide, blanket twisted around one leg. He did not stir as Alexander crossed the room.

Alexander took the wrapped bundle from beside the bed and set it into the satchel. Then he slipped out into the corridor and made his way down to the kitchens, gathering what he needed without hesitation. Milk. Honey. Wine. Each chosen with care. Each settled securely into the bag.

Then he stepped outside the living quarters at the gymnasium. The air met him cool and damp, touched with the scent of water and the dark green smell of the grounds before sunrise. The sky had begun to pale behind the trees, but the sun had not yet risen. Everything felt hushed, suspended.

He took the path downhill. At first it was stone underfoot, familiar and level. Then the path bent, and the ground softened into packed earth as the slope led toward the sanctuary. Trees gathered closer. The open sky above broke into smaller pieces through branches and leaf.

The sound of water reached him before the sight of it. By the time the Nymphaeum opened below, the whole place seemed made of it. The caves sat dark and cool in the rock, and the stream ran clear along the edge of the sanctuary, slipping over stone, breaking into little falls where the ground dropped, gathering in shallow basins that caught the dim early light.

On the way down he stopped at a laurel. Its leaves were dark and glossy in the half-light. Alexander reached up, chose a branch, and cut it cleanly. He stripped several leaves free and held them in his hand, tucking the rest into the satchel for later. Then he continued down.

At the Nymphaeum he set the satchel aside and went first to the water. He crouched at the edge of the stream and rinsed his hands, letting the cold wake him fully. Then he lifted a double handful to his face and pushed his hair back, drawing a steadying breath as the chill ran down his skin.

Only then did he begin the offering. He unstoppered the milk and poured it slowly into one of the basins where the water pooled, watching the white cloud spread and thin as the current took it.

He dipped two fingers into the honey and let it fall in a slow thread into the moving water, watching it catch, stretch, and vanish into the flow.

He laid several laurel leaves at the edge of the basin, pressing them lightly against the wet stone so they would hold.

Then he took up the wine and poured it not into the basin itself, but along the rock above it, letting the dark liquid run down in narrow lines to join the water more gradually.

He stood back then and listened. The whole sanctuary answered in in the sound of the fresh flowing water.

“Be well,” he said quietly.

He remained another moment, then gathered his satchel and moved on.

Beyond the sanctuary the path narrowed quickly. It was not truly a path, only a way known by repetition.

He pushed through low branches and stepped into the clearing. The altar stood where he had left it. The olive stump was low and wide, its top worn smooth by use, the wood darkened by old offerings soaked in and dried again over time. The carved names had deepened with weather and repetition. Leaves and dust had gathered around the edges.

Alexander set the satchel down and knelt to clean the altar. He brushed away the leaves and dust with his hands first, clearing the edges, lifting away the bits that had collected in the shallow cracks. Then he took a cloth and wiped the top more deliberately, not scrubbing away the old stains of wine and honey, only removing what did not belong, and reset what remained. The small dish. The stone. Each put back where it should be.

He sat back on his heels for a moment and looked at it. Only then did he begin.

He unwrapped the amphora first. It fit easily in one hand, a miniature, finely made, the clay smooth, the painted figures clear despite its size. Achilles and Patroclus, close in motion, one just ahead of the other, both turned toward the same fight.

He had commissioned it in town and stood over the work while it was painted, correcting the line of a shoulder, the set of a shield, the distance between them. It had not been left to chance.

He turned it once in his hands now, checking it again, then set it at the back of the stump, angled carefully so it sat steady and faced outward.

Then the two bronze figures. They had come from his mother, meant for offering. He unwrapped them one by one. They were simply warriors, but well made. Round shields, properly formed, each with a central boss. One bore a radiating star worked into the face, the other left plain. Their helmets were crested, cheek guards fitted close to the jaw, the lines clean and functional rather than decorative.

He placed the first and pressed it lightly until it held. The second he set opposite, adjusting both in small increments, turning one, then the other, until the balance settled exactly as he intended.

He checked them again. Satisfied, he reached for the wine, when a branch shifted behind him.

Hephaestion stepped into the clearing, cloak thrown on hastily, hair still loose from sleep. In one hand he carried a small bronze spearhead.

Alexander turned and smiled.

“Meli,” he said. “You’re right on time.”

Hephaestion came forward, his gaze moving over the altar first, taking in the cleaned surface, the miniature amphora at the back, the bronze figures set just so.

“How were the nymphs?”

“Sleepy,” Alexander replied.

“I brought something,” Hephaestion said, holding out the spearhead.

Alexander took it from him and set it carefully with the others.

“Good.”

Hephaestion crouched opposite him. “You started without me.”

“I set it,” Alexander said. “I didn’t finish.”

Alexander took up the wine and poured it over the carved names, slow and deliberate, letting it run into the grooves and darken the wood, and then reached for the honey.

“Honey this time?” Hephaestion asked.

“For immortality,” Alexander clarified.

“Of course.”

“And because his kleos was sweet.”

He dipped his finger into the honey and reached across the altar, tracing it lightly over Hephaestion’s lower lip.

“Sweet,” he said softly. “Just like you.”

Then he kissed him. It began gently. It did not stay that way.

Hephaestion’s hand came at once to Alexander’s waist, pulling him in across the small space between them. The kiss deepened quickly, sharpened by the sweetness still between them. Alexander leaned into it, one hand braced against the altar, the other catching at Hephaestion’s shoulder as the kiss threatened to pull him entirely off balance.

“Mm. My Patroclus,” Alexander hummed into his mouth, and kissed him again, and again, slower only long enough to make it worse.

Hephaestion made a small sound against his mouth, then took a breath and pressed lightly at Alexander’s chest.

“Alex.” he said, lips still kiss-warm. “Achilles,” he said more firmly when Alexander didn’t stop. “The offering.”

“What? This is part of it,” Alexander insisted, sitting back.

Hephaestion’s mouth twitched, but he pushed him back all the same.

“Finish it.”

Alexander exhaled through his nose, more playful heat than annoyance in it, and turned back to the altar.

He poured the wine again, slower this time, filling the carved lines fully. Then he set the laurel beside the names, a few leaves saved from the branch he had cut.

Alexander took a steadying breath, and began.

“Achilles, best of the Achaeans. Patroclus, most beloved.”

His voice was steady now, focused again.

“I give you wine, and honey, and what I have brought with my own hands. Receive them.”

Hephaestion stepped closer and rested his hand at the edge of the stump.

“See me,” Alexander said. “Know me when I come to you again.”

A breath.

“Grant me strength that does not fail. A name that does not fade. Kleos that endures.”

Hephaestion spoke then, low and clear.

“As you are remembered together, let us be remembered the same.”

Alexander pressed his hand once against the wood. “It is given.”

“Remember it,” Hephaestion said.

They knelt there a moment longer in the quiet that followed, then stood and stepped back from the altar together.

As they turned to leave, Hephaestion reached out in passing and straightened one of the bronze figures.

Alexander saw it. He said nothing.

The walk up from the clearing took them through the same green hush, the stream finding them again in flashes through the trees. The light had strengthened while they were there. Water moved bright over stone. The first real warmth of morning had begun to reach the higher branches.

They fell into step beside one another without speaking at first. Then Alexander said, “He chose it.”

Hephaestion glanced at him. “What?”

“The short life. Long and forgotten, or short and remembered forever.”

Hephaestion’s brow drew slightly. “You think it was really a choice?”

Alexander stepped over a root, barely looking down, his pace steady. “Does it matter?”

Hephaestion didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped for a moment to the ground between them, then lifted again, searching Alexander’s face.

“He knew what he was,” Alexander went on. “What he could be. That is what matters. Not the years.” A beat. “The kleos.”

They walked a few more steps in silence. The path narrowed, the sound of water beginning to return somewhere ahead, faint but constant.

“And Patroclus?” Hephaestion asked.

Alexander didn’t answer at once.

His jaw tightened, just slightly. His gaze stayed forward, fixed on the path, as if the answer required more than speech.

Then, quieter, he said, “He made it worth it. You. You make it worth it.”

Hephaestion slowed half a step, looking at him properly now. “And that is enough?”

Alexander’s mouth curved, but there was nothing light in it.

“It is the only thing that is.”

They walked on, closer together now, shoulders rubbing.

It was only when the clearing was well behind them and the altar out of sight that Alexander said, flatly, “It was not off.”

Hephaestion did not even pretend not to know what he meant. “It was.”

“It wasn’t!” Alexander insisted.

“Well, I guess it is now.”

Alexander stopped and turned on him, openly annoyed.

“You always do that.”

Hephaestion looked entirely untroubled. “Because you set them crooked.”

“I did not.”

Hephaestion’s mouth twitched. “You did.”

Alexander stared at him, jaw tight, then turned sharply and started uphill again in a huff.