Poor Cleitus, rictus grin, his staring eyes.
Wine, it has been spilt, amphorae shattered.
‘He’s dead my Lord.’ A cry profane.
Dismay, regret, not that it mattered.

For, Alexander, you proclaimed yourself the son of Ammon,
Zeus Ammon, but even so
By doing that you disowned Philip
Who was once our king.
Your father.

And when eunuchs foul make their approach,
They kiss the ground. And Persians you have made
kneel and bow to scrape the floor.
Cleitus did but cry ‘Alexander, no more.’
And you killed him.

“Did but cry” - I hear you say. ‘That is wrong.
Cleitus the Black was furious and fighting drunk.
Since Granicus he has claimed to own my life.
To own the king’s life!
Could any obligation so strong?’

‘He, Lanike’s brother, a childhood friend.
Evoking memories of that Macedon, long ago.
This, the man with whom I played and once whom I admired.
Who, after sharing Thasian, Mendaean, Lesbian wine,
Did threaten that, which others just as bold declare divine.’

“Alexander, brave men have died to put you where you are,” he said.
“And yet, instead of using us you use these Persian Swine.”
And then, would you believe, he poured himself a cup of wine?
This angered me, to the extent that I hurled an apple at his head.
Shouting “would you rather Philip, here; that I was dead?”

I have done more than Philip ever did or planned to do.
And yet, still you all compare me with that man.
Know that what we plan to do, and what we have done, e’en with you,
Is because of me, of what I am.
Done not by Philip but by Alexander; by me - because I can.

Yes, I know, he saved my life.
But did that give him leave to rant, and rave, and roar?
There can be no doubt, the way that he was poised.
It was to attack. And being so, I had no choice
I had to fight him back.

And now he is dead. But let us be clear,
‘Twas not in anger, neither was it fear.
Cleitus, he was mine and I held him dear.
Why then, you say, turn the spear?
Because it was Cleitus. That is why. You hear?

He, whom once I loved disdained my claim:
“That but for Philip I would not be here.
That Parmenion’s death will ever sully my great name.”
And “his death betrayed our dead; that’s to my shame.”
All this he bellowed, and then the sneer.
That is why I turned the spear.

How did Cleitus ever think to call my Nemesis?
Even drunk he had not that right.
And now, such this time of mine I must spend in sorrow.
Talking not with man, nor planning where or when to fight.
And from the daughter of bleak night must look to borrow
Surcease; so, might I once more Alexander show
In all his awful might.