Alexander and the Butcher

By Chris Riker

            ALEXANDER AND THE BUTCHER

            Ambitious actor and general horse's ass Matt Wilder dreams of making it big playing Alexander the Great on television in 1963. He's willing to sacrifice his friends, his morals, even his family for stardom. All he needs is insight and a little magic. A sketchy mystic known as Frau Bonkers agrees to send him back to meet and study the real Alexander.

            Weirdness ensues.

            Matt finds himself trapped in the body of a slave named Sophos in 331 BC Persia. He uses knowledge from the future to dazzle King Alexander. He uses his equestrian skills to ride the greatest horse of all time: Bucephalus. Impressed with Sophos/Matt's handling of Bucephalus, Alexander enlists him to fight in the massive Battle of Gaugamela.

            The two men forge a love-hate relationship. Alexander is charming, even seductive, then just as suddenly narcissistic and cruel. Sophos/Matt embarks on a series of choices and adventures which will cost him dearly. He will be a prisoner, a lover, a king, and both witness to and shaper of events that will echo through time.

             ALEXANDER AND THE BUTCHER follows the history we know while cleaving much closer than any dusty tome to Alexander the man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Riker
• Release date: Jun 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227715883

Chris Riker

CHRIS RIKER is a father, author, and journalist. He grew up in Rhode Island and now makes his home in Georgia with his wife, Ping. He has always loved books, from science fiction and fantasy to historical novels and biographies. Building on a background in broadcast news, including a five-year stint at CNNI, he is now focused on telling stories with strong characters and moral resonance. Chris Riker's premiere novel, Come the Eventide, focuses on a world after the fall of civilization and a dolphin named Muriel who is trying to save mankind from extinction. It is available now on Amazon and Audible. His second novel, Zebulon Angell and the Shadow Army, follows a hard-living Uber driver from Atlanta who happens upon a sex pill, leading to intrigues and adventures that take him inside the haunted tomb of China's first emperor. Goody Celeste offers a trip back to the summer of 1969, as a beautiful young witch named Cece helps a teen Paul and his friends learn about life and confront a dangerous stranger. He has a number of FREE short stories on his own site.

Book preview

"Half the harm that is done in this world

is due to people who want to feel important..."

— T.S. Eliot

"The only crime is pride."

― Sophocles

Quit being a jerk.

― Zebulon Angell

Notes on the Narrative

OUR HERO, MATT WILDER, occupies another body during much of the story. As such, many paragraphs refer to him as both Matt and Sophos. Matt, Sophos. Sophos, Matt. It’s Matt’s mind in Sophos’ body. Got it? Good. During his prison term, Matt briefly witnesses, and even experiences, other lives as well. This is all intentional. It should not confuse you, but if it does, just imagine how confusing it is for Matt. Persevere!

The violence in this story is not gratuitous. It is there for the reader to feel and consider. If history is a ladder, that ladder is rickety. We can fall. My purpose in including graphic violence is to demonstrate how high we’ve climbed, and how much of civilization we have to protect from those who would like to make us fall.

I have written this novel with a great respect for history. That is not to say I am history’s slave. You will not find ancient Greeks shooting guns, but you will find real events lifted and moved in time and space. The list of major characters is also trimmed, since history gets messy. I’ve opted for such changes as will provide you, my reader, with a better story. Here’s the thing, though: many of Alexander’s most puzzling quirks shown in this novel are his creation, not mine. I thank him for enriching this book. The bottom line is that, in my opinion, a good historical novel is an entertainment that encourages the reader to learn more about the actual events. Enjoy.

There is nothing impossible to him who will try.

Original image by US Military Academy. This item is in the public domain, and can be used, copied, and modified without any restrictions.

Chapter One

The Diviner

A YOUNG ALEXANDER GALLOPED out of the California hills, his flaxen hair and confident grin visible from a distance as he raced his horse to the tents overflown by his father’s pennants. Swinging one bare leg over the animal’s powerful back, he executed a perfect running dismount, his sandals skidding to a halt on an X carefully drawn in the sandy soil. Taking a scant moment to adjust his purple-and-white tunic at the shoulder and hem, the young warrior rushed to his friend and clasped the man’s forearm.

Menander! Alexander pulled the other into a manly embrace, slapping him roughly on the back as battle-forged brothers do. As he turned to kiss him on the cheek, he whispered, Stop looking up my skirt.

Menander grinned back at Alexander, never breaking character. The good soldier pointed to Alexander’s uncomfortable passenger, bound and strapped over the back of his horse. You bring a fine gift for your father, King Philip.

Facing away from the camera, the bearded captive awkwardly raised his head of dark ringlets and spit at Alexander.

Such are Persian manors, Alexander responded. "Not to worry, sir. I will repay your impudence from our finest kegs. I will sail you home to King Darius on rivers of wine... after your tongue sings us to a Macedonian victory."  

Both Alexander and Menander laughed while their new captive fumed.

Cut! the director cried.

Funny as always, Matt, Glenn Givens said.

Matt appreciated Glenn giving his all as Menander, though, in Matt’s opinion, he drew from a shallow well. Matt’s contacts told him Glenn had another audition set up a few days after they wrapped, this time for the lead in a Western, sure money. The kids at home couldn’t get enough TV shows about scruffy men punching or shooting each other. The odds of the studio greenlighting both pilots were infinitesimal. Matt didn’t begrudge Glenn his ambitions, but he felt Glenn was better suited to play second fiddle to his, Matt Wilder’s, Alexander the Great.

Three men ran over and helped the stuntman doubling for John Carradine as the captured Persian general. They released his bindings, then lowered him ass-first from the horse’s flanks. Thanks, Gary. I think we got your best side, Matt joked. The stunt actor smiled back amiably and walked through the set, which had taken over a section of Vasquez Rocks Park. He passed the actual John Carradine, who was sipping an iced tea through a straw while using a giant sun reflector as a mirror to preen the curls of his glossy black wig and pointed beard.

A wrangler hurried over and took charge of the towering horse playing Alexander’s storied steed, Bucephalus. Matt wished he could bring Janey and Becca to the set. They’d love these horses. He kept meaning to teach them to ride, but the timing never worked out. Maybe he could get a trailer big enough for Jan and the girls to stay in during shooting hours, instead of leaving them in Sun Valley in a rental house surrounded by loud neighbors and crabgrass. How many times Jan had begged for a simple drive to the ocean and maybe an overnight at a cheap hotel, he’d lost count. They were living in their fourth home in five years, thanks to the vagaries of showbiz. Now, he was working steadily, meaning he was up and out the door by four a.m. and never home before the girls were in bed. Matt was becoming a stranger to his family. That could change, if the show sold.

Through his giggles, Matt urged the wrangler, Give our boy extra oats on me. He’s a champ! Good boy, Flapjack! Good boy! He gave the majestic Hanoverian’s neck two quick slaps in appreciation, earning a pleasant snort and nod in return. Sweetie! Like the horses he used to ride on his Grampa Ed’s ranch. To the director, Matt said, Jack, I hope the mic didn’t pick up my ad lib. Couldn’t resist. We’ll fix that in looping, right?

As usual, Matt. Loved the dismount, the director said. He got paid whether the pilot sold or not. The director treated Matt well – not because Matt was a nice guy; that was too much to ask for in Hollywood – but because he brought his natural athleticism and a raw cockiness that sold these action roles. Matt had worked hard on his physique and sported a well-defined chest, a steel-worker’s arms, and a ballet dancer’s nimble legs, a Frankensteinian assembly not lost on casting directors of the female persuasion. He also liked to do his own stunts, which won over directors burdened by a limited budget.

Matt needed allies behind the camera. In his early thirties, he was past the point of doing bit parts and in that tricky window of time. He’d either land the lead in a hit before his fortieth birthday or he’d spend the rest of his career playing the villain-of-the-week, the odd man out in a romantic triangle, or the forgettable walk-on.

The director called out, We’ll take the bath scene after lunch, so eat light, everyone.

Matt slapped his belly. Tight as an army cot!

They happily fled the tent city set and drove the forty-five minutes back to the relative comfort of the studio. The commissary had a hot meal waiting. Matt sat at the table with his co-stars. The supporting cast had another table, while extras – sixty of them had to give the impression of vast phalanxes – mulled about, eating beef stew out of paper bowls.

The legendary Carradine ate his meal quietly. He was a consummate actor but by no means social. He had made it clear he was here to act, not make friends. It was hard to fault him. The man had starred in Stagecoach, The Grapes of Wrath, and The Ten Commandments for Chrissake. More recently, though, he’d collected paychecks for low-brow fare like Sex Kittens Go To College! He’d also popped up on Wagon Train, Gunsmoke, and every other oater on the tube. He and Matt even guest starred in the same episode of Rawhide. They both bit the dust in that one. The point was that Carradine was a known quantity, a draw. People who couldn’t tell Matt Wilder from canned Spam would recognize Carradine’s saturnine face.

Matt would beat out Spam... if the series sold.

The Nordic sun appeared inside the commissary in the very female form of Ylsa Larsen. She joined them at the table, carrying only a salad. A decade younger than Matt, she was every inch the leading lady, and he fully appreciated all seventy of her inches – even if he had to stand on a stool for their close-ups. 

"Finally, a ten at our table," Matt said, beaming his little boy charm at her. The thought If I only were single... prompted a blush.

You’re the prettiest one at any table, Matt. He loved the mischief in her infinite blue eyes. She chided, With that pretty golden hair and smooth chest, I’m sure half the men on this set would love to date you.

That drew a laugh from Glenn, which robbed the grin from Matt’s face. I don’t think the Macedonians shaved their chests, Glenn said, beaming out a smile that hit folks with a big child-like innocence.

That was a note from the boys in the front office. They like the hairless look.

I bet they do, Ylsa snickered. She was right, Matt knew. For queer men on the make, a Hollywood studio office was the motherload. Anything, anytime, any- where.  

I don’t think I’d have to go that far to get a date, Matt said. It was Glenn’s turn to lose his humor.  

Into the awkward pause that followed, Carradine spoke up unexpectedly. James Whale. Now there was a man who knew how to throw parties. And in those days, most people who were that way kept quiet. Not Whale. English expats indulge in forbidden fruit, you know! With this last remark, he bugged out his eyes like a spaniel hearing a can opener. Then, as quickly as he had begun, he stopped and went back to eating his food.

Ylsa placed her hand on Glenn’s. Live and let live, I say. 

Matt casually looked over at the far side of the lunch tent. After a moment, he turned back and said, You and I should run lines later, for our scene.

The kissing scene, Ylsa said, playing along.

I seem to recall there being some kissing involved.

She narrowed her eyes in cat-like fashion. I see the rumors about you are well-earned, Matt. I think we’ll have to ration your rehearsals, tiger.

Matt turned up his smile and leaned even closer. Your character could be a regular love interest for Alexander. Or maybe we could recast you as his girlfriend – the one he marries. Roxanne.

Roxana, Glenn corrected. She was wife number one, and she murdered wife two and probably number three as well.

The good old days, Matt joked. No divorce lawyers.

Glenn ignored his attempt at levity. You should know this stuff by now. Glenn had studied under Elia Kazan at The Actors Studio. He preached immersion in acting as the only true way to make the characters come to life. Matt respected his dedication, but it got on his nerves at times. Did you read those books I gave you?

From somewhere inside him rose Matt’s sixth-grade self, fidgeting at being caught blowing off his homework. I did. I read and read, but... the names swim in my head. I’ve read books and seen Burton’s movie twice, but there’s something about Alexander that escapes me.

You and the producers. They’re not big on details. Today, they had a teenage Alexander – played by a thirty-something you – heroically capturing one of King Darius’ generals and delivering him to his father. Alexander doesn’t even invade the Achaemenid Empire until after Philip’s assassination by Pausanias of Orestis in 336 B.C.

The names! Memorizing Shakespeare was child’s play compared to dealing with the intricacies of actual ancient history. An actor was athlete, fashion model, historian, chameleon – basically whatever the production called for. Matt’s eyes had glazed over. "Yeah, you make my point for me. Look, this is a family-oriented action adventure. I get that. I can’t rewrite the producers’ rewrite of history. What I want to do is find out who I am."

Mischief flashed in Ylsa’s baby blues. You should consult Madam Love. Matt mouthed Madam Love with eyebrows raised. Ylsa shook her head and added, She has certain insights.

What, a clairvoyant? Seriously? It’s the 1960s for goodness’ sake! Matt didn’t want to laugh at Ylsa, but the thought of some old crone in a head scarf and gold earring peering into a crystal ball struck him as preposterous.

Ylsa pressed on. She calls herself a diviner, a finder of truth. She’s an eccentric, but she gets amazing results. She’ll help you focus. Clear out bits you should really get rid of. She taps into your inner core and pulls out reserves of energy you never knew you had. Matt wasn’t sure he wanted anyone rummaging around inside his skull.

She’ll do you right, Glenn added. I had a sitting with Madam Love once. I learned – His face went funny. —a lot about myself. He snapped his finger and someone at the next table put a pen in his hand, which he used to scribble information onto a paper napkin. Here, he said, handing the napkin to Matt. I’ll call and set it up.

You both recommend her? Fine, I’ll check her out this weekend.

Madame Love. This should be interesting.

BOTH GLENN AND YLSA were in the bath scene. Matt debated whether to wear the flesh-colored swimsuit or let it all hang out. It was tempting.

Steam rose from the heavy bronze tub as Ylsa poured another jug of water over Alexander’s distressed flesh. My lord plays too rough. Look what they’ve done to your gorgeous back!

The golden-haired son of Zeus braced under the near scalding torrent. Yes, hot! That’s good! Darius has an army of lions. I felt their claws. Fortunately, their leader is no lion. He’s a sheep.

Ylsa reached for another piping hot jug, but Menander appeared and took it from her. He poured the hot water over Alexander’s head. Sheep, lions, or wild hares, they badly outnumber us, sire, he said.

Oh! Alexander laughed and shook water from his flaxen mane. My father’s armies are more than a match for any Persian horde. Like cunning Odysseus, we will use our wits. Tomorrow, we scout a field to the northeast for the coming battle.

Which battle? Menander asked with alarm. Your father has mentioned nothing of a new offensive.

Oh, Alexander, you mustn’t. I would simply die if anything happened to you! Ylsa’s character – unnamed in the script, probably a slave girl – threw her arms around him and wept.

I’ll turn those tears into tears of joy! I shall lure in Darius’ men at a time and place of my choosing and give them a taste of the Macedonian phalanx. The camera came in for a close-up of Alexander’s self-satisfied face. The sound mixer would add a stab of dramatic music in post-production. Matt paused a moment, then said, That sounds dirty, ‘taste of the Macedonian phalanx.’ There it was again, that patented Matt Wilder giggle.

Cut! the director shouted, though the scene was clearly over already.

Johnny! That line. Matt didn’t look around but spoke loudly enough to fill the set with his intent.

The nervous young scriptwriter, Jonathan Gold- wasser, appeared as if summoned by a spell, flipping through the script to the offending line. He was college-educated and a fine writer but had signed away his soul and now toiled at the whim of the producers. Uh – how about ‘taste of our mighty spears’?

More giggling. Same thing. The problem is taste and ... well, anything that sounds like a... you know.

A penis, the director said, helpfully. The crew’s snickering filled the set.

Nothing wrong with that, Ylsa mused aloud, not missing a beat. Since we’re all dressed for an orgy. The idea of a beautiful woman speaking the way men wished women talked reduced the crew to a mass of sophomoric glee. Their laughter rang louder than it had for any of Matt’s jokes, something not lost on him.

The others didn’t understand. Sure, they thought he craved attention. If so, it was for a purpose. He was the center of gravity holding them all in his orbit. This series would either succeed or disappear along with countless other TV pilots, based on how executives and test audiences reacted to him, Matt Wilder. The future of everyone on this cast and crew, their mortgage payments, their kids’ braces, their trips to Disneyland, all rested squarely on his shoulders.

Confirming it with the director, Matt made the announcement, That’s it for today, folks. He drank in the big cheer. Finally. I’ll see everyone here on Monday morning, five a.m.! Get some rest and come back in full fighting mode! Let’s take this job seriously, but let’s have fun!

Mumbles of agreement filtered back through the soundstage. Not as much enthusiasm as he’d like. They’d learn.

THE RADIO GUSHED ABOUT the first lady looking stunning in an Oleg Cassini original mauve silk chiffon embroidered with hand-sewn crystal beads. The Kennedys welcomed the president of India to the White House— Matt clicked it off. He drove his gleaming new Shelby Cobra into the driveway, narrowly dodging a pink tricycle. It was late. The ninety-minute commute turned into three hours on Fridays. L.A. was killing him.

The living room was barren and cold.

I’m home. The silence that followed seeped all the way in.

The kitchen’s saloon-style doors swung open, and Jan stepped out in her floral A-line dress. She looked as young and fresh as she had on their wedding day, but something was missing. He used to look forward to her big goofy smile; it had been the light of his life. Lately, though, it was if she’d stopped caring. At night, one question circled his brain, digging cruel grooves into the gray matter: had he also stopped?

I fixed you a plate, Jan said. Salmon and asparagus. His favorite. It’s in the oven.

Thank you. It was all perfunctory. The magic was definitely slipping away, replaced by domestic banalities. You and the girls ate already? Without me?

It’s eight-thirty, Matt. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not doing well-enough to dine Republican. Yes, we’ve eaten.

She didn’t ask about his day. He wanted to tell her, but her antennae were in; she wasn’t receiving. He looked around.

The girls are getting ready for bed. Jan’s voice was steady, controlled. That was never a good sign.

I want to tell them the news. I spoke with our head wrangler, and he says Janey and Becca can come ride Flapjack. Well, they can sit on him, anyway. They can take lessons later. He’s the sweetest horse I’ve ever met. They’ll love him.

"You love him. They want a pet of their own, not a loaner dog... and not a horse. You love horses. You spend more time with that wrangler than you do with your own family. Hell, we come in behind the damned horse! Don’t go filling their heads with ideas of horseback riding lessons. We don’t have that kind of money either. We could have, but, of course, there’s your two closets full of new clothes and your trips to the beauty salon..."

She’s a professional hair stylist.

...and the fencing lessons.

Weapons training, spears and swords; I have to keep in practice with both.

And of course, there’s that giant toy parked in the driveway. That was a low blow, even for Jan. Recent Jan. Early Jan would never harbor this kind of bitterness.

I have to present a successful image, he argued. You know that.

She crossed her arms. Uh-oh. Your image. So, you drive a two-seater?

You can’t expect me to take the station wagon to work. Never mind that it was more rust than car, or that it was loaded with the girls’ toys and smelled like fermenting carnival candy.

No, she said like the axeman making small talk with the condemned, You’d look ridiculous with a starlet on your arm behind the wheel of a family car.

Jan... He took a breath. What if you and I slip out and catch the late show. Burton’s Alexander is still playing at the Bijou.

Her foot tapped, driving an invisible nail into the floor. Not again.

So, maybe we don’t actually watch the movie. He brushed his fingers along her bare arm, the way she liked. The way she used to like.

And the storm clouds opened: I’m sick of Richard Burton... and of Alexander. I’m sick of stubbing my toe on all your books. I’m sick of these hours. Matt, I’m done. I’m taking the girls to my folks’ place for a while.

In Rhode Island? What’s in Rhode Island? Those fat clams? Look, I know it’s been tough, but this pilot is going to sell – I can feel it. Things will change fast. You’ll see. I’ll be making real money. We’ll get a better place. You’ll come with me to parties and events.

That’s your dream, Matt. And I love that you have a dream. But it’s not mine. Someone was trapped behind those eyes, a prisoner willing to take desperate chances to escape. "I need a home and dinner at six and bills that get paid and... I need... I don’t know what I need, but it’s not this." 

As if on cue, the girls thundered into the room dressed in towels and chased by the neighbor’s water-logged terrier. He hated dog-sitting, even if they were paying Jan ten dollars. The animal positioned itself dead center in the room and shook, spraying the entire contents of the tub from its fur onto the walls and furnishings. 

Rufus! You’re not supposed to get in the tub! Flustered, Jan chased the dog out the back door and into the yard. He’d no doubt roll in the nearest compost heap, negating any effects of his bath with the girls.

Matt, meanwhile, was spinning Becca under one arm and Janey under the other, their swinging feet narrowly avoiding lamps and other breakables. The girls felt tiny in his thick arms – the sessions with his physical trainer were really paying off!

Jan returned, a bedraggled expression breaking through her former composure. I just got them quieted down.

Don’t blame me. It was Rufus’ fault. Wasn’t it girls? Matt said, setting them down and tickling them mercilessly until their squeals shook the walls. Hey, Daddy has a surprise for his favorite girls. We’re all going to visit with Flapjack and –

Your horse? cried Becca.

I love Flapjack, added Janey, who had never met Flapjack. When, Daddy, when?

We’ll aim for next week, maybe –

Now Jan glared at him. Did you not hear what I just said? He was actively trying not to remember it, but reality was both mean and insistent. We won’t be here next week. She shooed the girls back out of the room, threatening them with dire consequences if they weren’t in bed in ten seconds. The adorable pair of tornadoes roared up the stairs, leaving an uneasy calm in their wake.

You don’t have to go to your mother’s, baby. There are only two more weeks left of shooting. We can –

I’ve booked the flight. We leave first thing in the morning.

Matt’s heart sank to the bottom of the sea. How long will you be gone?

She sat down, her skirts puffing out a gust of exhaustion. A few weeks. Maybe longer.

MATT DOUBLE-CHECKED the address on the gravy-stained napkin. Glenn had a woman’s loopy-swoopy handwriting, but at least it was legible. He had the right place. Good. He’d already loaded his family into a taxi; he didn’t need any more headaches this morning.

The Saturday sun shone down on a 1920s California Bungalow that had seen better eras. Paint peeled away from buckling stucco walls under a tiled roof with pieces chipped or missing. Out front, a shirtless boy struggled to push a manual lawn mower outmatched by the dense thicket of weeds. He swerved to avoid a sad-looking ’49 Tucker that stood on cinder blocks in the middle of the yard. A woman of a certain age sat on the front porch, drinking from a tall glass of amber liquid, her eyes fixed on the sweaty teen.    

Matt stepped out of his smart new ’63 Shelby Cobra, walking past the boy and up the steps. You must be Madam Love.

No. She’s dead. It was a conversation stopper, but the woman said it as casually as if she were announcing she’d run out of corn flakes. I will do this. Before Matt could ask anything else she stepped inside.

Matt stood staring at the door. He turned to the teenager and shrugged. The boy shrugged back. Undaunted, Matt stepped into the front room of the house.

Shabby drapes matched the worn fabrics on the outdated furniture. A sheer red kerchief lay draped over a single lamp, rouging the far side of the room. The walls held a number of photographs showing the woman he’d just seen standing next to a much older woman in flowing silk garb. Madam Love, he presumed. Possibly this woman’s mother. In one corner, a