Product Description

Who could have been born to conquer the world other than a god? A boy, born to be a great king - Philip of Macedon - and his sensuous queen, Olympias. Alexander became a young man of imense, unfathomable potential. Under the tutelage of the great Aristotle and with the friendship of Ptolemy and Hephaiston, he became the mightiest and most charismatic warrior, capable of subjugating the known world to his power. A marvellous novel of one of history's greatest characters and his quest to conquer the civilised world.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #432266 in Books
• Published on: 2001-07-06
• Original language: Italian
• Binding: Paperback
• 480 pages

About the Author
Valerio Massimo Manfredi is an Italian historian and archaeologist and was voted Man of the Year 1999 by the American Biographical Institute. Manfredi's books have been translated into several lanuages. All of this Alexander books have been blockbusting successes all over Europe.

Excerpted from Alexander 1 by Manfredi Valerio Massimo. Copyright © 2001. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved
Prologue

The four Magi slowly climbed the paths that led to the summit of the Mountain of Light. They came from the four corners of the horizon, each carrying a satchel containing fragrant wood for the rite of fire. The Wise Man of Sunrise wore a cloak of pink silk that shaded into blue and on his feet he had deerskin sandals. The Wise Man of Sunset wore a crimson gown streaked with gold and from his shoulders hung a long stole made of byssus and embroidered in the same colours. The Wise Man of Midday had a purple tunic decorated with golden ears of wheat and wore snakeskin slippers. The last of them, the Wise Man of the Night, was dressed in black wool woven from the fleece of unborn lambs and dotted with silver stars. They moved as though the rhythm of their walk were marked by a music that only they could hear and they approached the temple at the same pace, covering equal distances even though the first was climbing a rocky slope, the next was walking along a level path and the last two progressed along the sandy beds of dried-up rivers. They reached the four entrances of the stone tower at the same instant, just as dawn draped the immense deserted landscape of the plateau in pearly light. They bowed and looked into one another’s faces through the four entrance arches, and then they moved towards the altar. The Wise Man of Sunrise began the rite, arranging sandalwood branches in a square; next came the Wise Man of Midday who added, diagonally, bundles of acacia twigs. Onto this base the Wise Man of Sunset heaped cedar wood, gathered in the forest of Mount Lebanon and stripped of its bark. Last of all the Wise Man of the Night laid branches of stripped and seasoned Caucasian oak, lightning-struck wood dried in the highland sun. Then all four drew their sacred flints from their satchels and together they struck blue sparks at the base of the small pyramid until the fire began to burn – weak at first, faltering, then ever stronger and more vigorous: the vermilion tongues becoming blue and then almost white, just like the Celestial Fire, like the supernal breath of Ahura Mazda, God of Truth and Glory, Lord of Time and Life. Only the pure voice of the fire murmured its arcane poetry within the great stone tower. Not even the breathing of the four men standing motionless at the very centre of their vast homeland could be heard. They watched on enrapt as the sacred flame took shape from the simple architecture of the branches arranged on the stone altar. They stared into that most pure light, into that wonderful dance of light, lifting their prayer for the people and for the King: the Great King, the King of Kings who sat far away in the splendid hall in his palace, the timeless Persepolis, in the midst of a forest of columns painted purple and gold, guarded by winged bulls and lions rampant. The air, at that hour of the morning, in that magic and solitary place, was completely still, just as it had to be for the Celestial Fire to assume the forms and the motions of its divine nature. It was this nature which drove the flames ever higher towards the Empyrean, their original source. But suddenly a powerful force breathed over the flames and quenched them; as the Magi watched on in astonishment, even the red embers were suddenly transformed into black charcoal. There was no other sign, not a sound except the screech of a falcon rising up into the empty sky; neither were there any words. The four men stood dumbstruck at the altar, stricken by this most sad omen, tears welling in silence. At that same moment, far away in a remote western land, a young woman trembled as she approached the oaks of an ancient sanctuary. She had come to request a blessing for the child she now felt move for the first time in her womb. The woman’s name was Olympias. The name of her child came on the wind that blew impatiently through the age-old branches, stirring the dead leaves round the bases of the giant trunks. The name was:

ALÉXANDROS

Customer Reviews

A very poor recapitulation.
I found the writing very stilted, though (as has been said) this could be the fault of the translator. I had the impression of a historian wanting to show off his knowledge, and found no real enjoyment in the tone or phraseology of the book. Fortunately, this doesn't matter, as a good trilogy on Alexander has already been written. If you don't know the books, do read Mary Renault's 'Fire From Heaven', 'The Persian Boy' and 'Funeral Games'. (Gore Vidal called them something like 'a magnificent creation and re-creation of the life of Alexander'.) I am currently reading 'The Persian Boy' for the umpteenth time - in it, I think Renault found her most mature voice.

Unfortunately Mediocre
Underneath the title of this book is printed 'Huge international bestseller'. Having read it through I am at a loss as to how it has acheived this status.

The first thing that struck me was the simplistic and faulty prose. At some points it tried to be poetic while at others it was very basic. The lack of depth in writing leads to poorly developed characters which in turn strips the story of its heart. It will undoubtedly be claimed that the original language version is better and that it has simply lost some of the flow in translation. While this may be, to some extent, true I do not believe that that alone is reason enough for the lack of passion conveyed in the story.

The tale of Alexander's life is however a fascinating one and many of the bare facts are laid down in the book as Alexander grows up to become King and lead an army into Asia. Although it can never be entirely factual Manfredi does his best to stick to history and this is where I found the book to be more satisfying. The politics and warfare of the period are much more adequately told and I do now have a yearning to know more.

All in all this book is neither particularly bad nor particularly good. It is maybe a reason for historians to write history books and leave novellists to write novels. There are reasons to read this book and I did not feel as though I had wasted my time in reading it but neither was I rushing into the second in the series. I will read the next book to find out how Alexander's journey continues but I will be hoping that he becomes a more interesting character as he grows older.

A badly researched and badly written pre-fab bestseller
A huge disappointment. This Alexander is badly researched and, on top of that, either badly translated or badly written.
The research quality shows up in all sorts of anachronisms such as the scene where Alexander "shakes the hand" of the Fleet commander taking him to Asia. But the top is certainly the moment where one of the princes in the royal household "produces a written note from the royal doctor that he is sick" to be excused from participating in a hunt. How likely is this ?

Then there is the language. Alexander vacillates between Shakespearean hero ("Fare thee well, my sister") and British tough guy (such as calling his comrades "lads").
If you're looking for a model of how to handle Greek myths and history go for the first part of "In the shape of a boar" by Lawrence Norfolk.