Dialogi mortuorum

Diogenes Dear me, Alexander, you dead like the rest of us?

Alexander As you see, sir; is there anything extraordinary in a mortal’s dying?

Diogenes So Ammon lied when he said you were his son; you were Philip’s after all.

Alexander Apparently; if I had been Ammon’s, I should not have died.

Diogenes Strange! there were tales of the same order about Olympias too. A serpent visited her, and was seen in her bed; we were given to understand that that was how you came into the world, and Philip made a mistake when he took you for his.

Alexander Yes, I was told all that myself; however, I know now that my mother’s and the Ammon stories were all moonshine.

Diogenes Their lies were of some practical value to you, though; your divinity brought a good many people to their knees.

But now, whom did you leave your great empire to?

Alexander Diogenes, I cannot tell you. I had no time to leave any directions about it, beyond just giving Perdiccas my ring as I died, Why are you laughing?

Diogenes Oh, I was only thinking of the Greeks’ behaviour; directly you succeeded, how they flattered you! their elected patron, generalissimo against the barbarian; one of the twelve Gods according to some; temples built and sacrifices offered to the Serpent’s son!

If I may ask, where did your Macedonians bury you?

Alexander I have lain in Babylon a full month to-day; and Ptolemy of the Guards is pledged, as soon as he can get a moment’s respite from present disturbances, to take and bury me in Egypt, there to be reckoned among the Gods.

Diogenes I have some reason to laugh, you see; still nursing vain hopes of developing into an Osiris or Anubis! Pray, your Godhead, put these expectations from you; none may reascend who has once sailed the lake and penetrated our entrance; Aeacus is watchful, and Cerberus an awkward customer.

But there is one thing I wish you would tell me: how do you like thinking over all the earthly bliss you left to come here—your guards and armour-bearers and lieutenant-governors, your heaps of gold and adoring peoples, Babylon and Bactria, your huge elephants, your honour and glory, those conspicuous drives with white-cinctured locks and clasped purple cloak? does the thought of them hurt? What, crying? silly fellow! did not your wise Aristotle include in his instructions any hint of the insecurity of fortune’s favours?