As he lies fatally ill in bed, June of 323 B.C., Alexander, in the delirium of his disease, must have envisioned the journey that he was about to take through the underworld of Hades.
By Lake Avernus, a malodorous sheet of bad water, was a cavern leading to the underworld. Make sacrifice to the dreaded goddess of night. On the road frightful forms of disease, hunger, death-dealing war, mad discord. Then innumerable spirits at the juncture of two great rivers begging the ferryman, Charon, for transport to the other shore, he choosing only the properly buried who also had the coin, the remainder doomed to aimless wandering with never a rest.
Alexander Afield
“The fang,
horn,
claw,
sting,
snarl,
hiss,
roar,
trumpet,
hoof,
all have fallen to me in the hunt.
I scuffle to hold my ground, to stay on my feet.
In my ferocious roaring, howling, grunting in the beast’s ear, fear of myself stands my hair on end.
In war,
The thrilling war chants,
cries and shrieks,
dust of plains,
bloody wounds,
singing saber,
splintering lance,
clash of shields,
flesh bruised, broken, stuck,
sweat, stench, terror,
wrenching struggle
all have fallen to me in battle.
But this enemy, here, now, inside,
unseen, silent,
strikes me deep,
stabs me with sure death.
Time is brief. The tether to earthly life is short.
Mother!
One secret of Alexander — not from Siwah, mother!
Foresight! Vigor! Beyond necessary!
Blinds the quickly dead!
Preemptive energy, my life, now of no avail.”
There, Hermes! To lead him down.
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