The Lion of Susa

 It was the hundredth and fourteenth Olympiad, in the month of Gamelion, when we returned to the conquered city of Susa. It was high noon when the gates were opened before us and Hyperion’s eye, high in the sky, was enflaming the world below. A great crowd had gathered in the streets to greet our coming, Greeks and barbarians alike. Our countrymen cheered king Alexander and our noble generals riding with him at the head of our phalanxes. The men gave us praise and the women skins of water and wine to slake our thirst. My dark-eyed Polychronia was there as well. I could have recognized her face amidst a thousand others in a heartbeat. She had her lips painted with oriental red and wore that new dress of azure she had talked about last time I saw her. She smiled at me and I smiled at her – although I’m not sure she could see my face under the blood-spattered facemask of my bronze helmet.

The Persians, still accustomed to the displays of thralldom the Great King demanded of them, threw themselves on the ground and did not dare lift their faces when king Alexander passed by.

Seven years had passed since we first came to Susa. Back then we had come to gates barred and walls teaming with archers notching arrows, their soot-painted eyes aiming as best as the cold grip of fear would allow them at our throats. We had swept these gates open like an angry tide and ran the barbarians down like a sturdy plough cuts through the wet earth. King Alexander rode ahead of all astride Bucephalus, his great warhorse, with Cleitus and Philotas and Hephestion and the mighty Lysimachus at his side cleaving a red swath through the ranks of the enemy. The sarissae of my company were thrust so deep in the Persian’s midst that they came out crimson and hanging with Persian gore around the head of our general, Lysimachus, thus crowning him with a grim diadem of spikes: the foe lost all heart at this terrifying sight and turned to flee.

We burned Susa to the ground and the glare of the burning in the night was reflected as far as the waters of the Tigris, more than a hundred dolichi to the East. Our cries of victory echoed keenly across the side of the mountains overlooking the city; the drumming and piping of our celebration lasted until the rising of the new day.

Much had changed during these seven years. Black Cleitus and brave Philotas were no more and even Bucephalus, that magnificent steed, had perished in the ill turns of fortune that befell us. But Susa rose from its ashes more splendid than ever before. King Alexander had temples and palaces built, thermae and balnea using the waters of Tigris’ offshoots for the cleansing of bodies, schools and libraries and even a grand stadium for games to be held on the holy days of feasting. He brought the rule of Greek law and justice. The populous of the city not only remained unharmed but was not enslaved by right of conquest. I still remember the astonishment in the barbarians’ faces when their former masters and satraps had to grudgingly announce to them that they were, for the first time, free men. The eating of the dead was abolished as well as the nefarious customs of incest and all that was crude and barbaric. Many of our veterans settled in the city, geographers and cartographers, men of science and pensive thinkers who followed king Alexander’s march. Those of us who so wished were allowed to build a home for our betrotheds in the city. I was never much of a builder. But I did my best for my Polychronia. She said she loved it but I think she did it only because she didn’t want me to feel bad about the labors of my own two hands. She often talks about having the walls painted with some fancy scene or other. I think she intends to hide their crookedness.

That day, when I saw my simple home from the distance, my heart was filled with the joy of Ulysses returning to Ithaca.

Suddenly, as we paraded in battle-scarred triumph through the streets, a fierce growl came from within the confines of the stadium near the city’s agora. King Alexander demanded what that sound was. A Persian, red-faced with shame, informed him that the day before they had brought in a captured giant lion from Ethiopia. They had meant to offer it to Alexander as a gift of sacrifice but the fierce beast had broken free of its bonds, killed three of its keepers and after rampaging through the streets it had wandered into the stadium where they had finally contained it. Presently they were assembling a small cadre of spearmen to go in and put it down.

I saw Alexander smile just like he did when he first surveyed the impregnable walls of Tyre. When the king smiled like that I knew that there was not a thing in the world that could prove impossible – either for him or for us. He leaned over to Lysimachus and whispered something in his ear, so as the Persian couldn’t hear. Our general laughed boisterously in response and dismounted.

He stood before the barred entrance of the stadium, undid the golden clasp that held his crimson mantle in place and he let it fall around his feet on the ground. He discarded his sword and dagger as well, throwing them down. His squires rushed to help him out of his brass cuirass with the silver gorgon’s head hammered on its breast and the rest of his armor. In the end he stood as naked as the day he was born. A brisk gust of wind blew through the locks of his black hair and caressed his bruised and scarred face. He spat on the side.
“Open the doors!” he commanded in a loud voice.

The Persian blinked in utter amazement. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to find the appropriate words.

“But, my lord, the beast tamers have not yet arrived!” he protested.

“Open these doors, little man, or I’ll open the gates of Hades for you!”

The Persian must have thought that our general had surely been struck with the madness of the sun.

“My lord!” he cried in a dumbfounded attempt to dissuade him. “Didn’t you hear me? A lion awaits you inside! An Ethiopian lion!”

“By Zeus! As Heracles fucked the lion of Nemea in its ass so I shall fuck this Ethiopian lion!” Lysimachus laughed and grabbing his cock and balls he brandished them at us.

We roared with laughter and cheered him on though still many of us were uncertain whether he would really proceed with such a daring feat.

The Persian bowed his head in obeisance and quickly opened the doors to the stadium, making sure to be behind them as they swung outwards.

The lion was pacing in the far end of the stadium’s track. Upon hearing the hinges of the door creek it turned its head and paused for a moment to sniff the air. It opened its massive jaws wide and growled a fearsome threat of fury and razor sharp teeth. In truth, it was a magnificent beast of prodigious size built entirely of hulking muscle. It had a long mane black as the whisper of death and the talons on its paws were as long as daggers.

Our general did not hesitate even for a second. Letting out a fierce cry he charged headlong towards the beast as it, in turn, sprinted with terrifying agility for its girth to meet him.

At that point we broke ranks and mingled with the amassed crowd of people. Pushing and shoving I found myself in the front lines next to king Alexander who had also mingled in the throng. We all held our breath and I’m certain that every Greek heart skipped a beat. The Persians looked on with jaws agape at one they no doubt considered a man stricken with sudden folly rushing to meet his most gruesome end.

Just as man and beast were about to collide, Lysimachus sprung to the side with the grace of a dancer. The lion, losing sight of its prey, abruptly halted on its tracks in an attempt to maneuver around; but unable to harness the great speed of its charge and burdened by the massive weight of its body it toppled over. Lysimachus seized the advantage of the moment and dove down locking his muscular arms around the lion’s neck. The beast snarled and roared as it struggled to shake him off. Lysimachus dug his heels into the earth and arched his body backwards. A cloud of dust rose hiding them from our sight briefly. We heard the general cursing and yelling like a man possessed.

The lion kept thrashing about growling and clawing frenziedly with its front and hind paws in every direction. Even though Lysimachus did not release his grasp on the beast’s neck he was tossed around like a rag doll attached to its collar with each violent spasm that raked the hulking creature’s body. Claws rent his flesh to the bone and bright blood came gushing out. All he could hear were the lion’s snarls. Our cries, our voices and cheers, the warnings of the Persians, their pleas to bring in the beast tamers, nothing seemed to reach his ears. All he could smell was the animal’s foul breath on his face, its frothing saliva spraying his beard.

Man and beast were one in the dust and blood – and the growls of one could not be distinguished from those of the other.

I saw the general’s muscles strain from the effort. I saw the veins in his arms and forehead bulge out like rivers carved in marble; I saw his eyes fixed on an eagle crossing the sky.

Mustering every ounce of strength in his battle-hardened body, Lysimachus twisted his vice-like grip in one fluent movement of artful violence. There was a faint snapping sound which silenced at once our uproar. The lion stopped thrashing and fighting. It lay there twitching, its tongue sticking from between its teeth, its eyes glazed by sudden death. All we could do was stand there in awed silence not daring to utter a word.

The general slowly rose to his feet covered in dust and blood and sweat. His breath was coming out in strained rasps. He put his foot on the lion’s sprained neck and raised his mighty arms to the vastness of the skies.

“Alala!” he howled the sacred war cry of Ares Alalaxios. “Alala!”

In one voice we took up the cry:

“Alala! Alala!” the stadium resounded with the clamor of our triumphant ecstasy.

Fear and amazement came over the Persians and they looked at the general with round eyes and trembling lips. Being barbarians, they had never seen a hero worthy of song in real life before.

Even as our doctors hastened to the scene to treat Lysimachus’ wounds king Alexander and all the rest of us swarmed around him to congratulate him on his outstanding valor and praise his Heraclean strength.

“You there, Dexippos!” the general said turning to me. “You’re getting married this month, aren’t you?”

“Indeed I am, general!” I replied.

“Then take this carcass out of here – skin it and make your bride a blanket to love you under!”


The "it’s all Greek to me" explanatory notes:

“one hundredth and fourteenth Olympiad” : 324 B.C.E. Even though defining the year they lived in was not one of the primary concerns of the Greeks (an intriguing concept we’ll discuss in another post), back in the good ole days they would do it by counting the Olympiads, that is to say each time the Olympic Games were held. For example, the first Olympic Games were held in 776 B.C.E so that was the first Olympiad. Four years later, it was the second Olympiad and so on… and keep in mind that years count backwards when we’re talking B.C.E… oh, screw this! I’ll go with quantum physics on this one: time doesn’t really exist!

“the month of Gamelion” : That’s February or, more literally translated, “the month of marrying”. Because February is a great month to marry. I have no idea why. But it sounds just about right, doesn’t it? Please note, for purely academic purposes of public information, that dogs fuck on February. And I mean they go at it like clockwork. It’s one of those things I never thought I’d learn but, somehow, I did; and now you do too. Welcome to my Hell!

“a hundred dolichi” : a dolichos (singular of “dolichi”), being a unit used for measuring distances, is 12 stadia. And if that doesn’t ring a bell because you live in the 21st century, 12 stadia is 2219 meters. Which, in turn, is 2.219 km (1.378 miles). A hundred dolichi is a fucking long way away, alright? How’s that for metric sense?