The King appropriated the marvelous fowl, retaining its name, Asnorius, to which it answered very well. Guzil, a young, still-adolescent slave, was specially assigned to look after the bird, with the duties of feeding it attentively and seeing that it came to no harm.

Shortly afterward, while the conquering army was stationed at Susa, the bird was installed in the apartment of Alexander, who greatly appreciated the decorative effect of its splendid plumage. The end of the golden thread was secured to the wall not far from the royal couch and Asnorius used to wander about the room all day, within the limits imposed by the length of his fetter, sleeping at night on a perch a few paces from his master. But the bird, meanwhile, remained cold and apathetic and displayed no affection for the King, who kept him only for his resplendent beauty.

There was, at that time, among the Persian chieftains admitted by Alexander into his entourage, a certain Bruces, who nursed deep hatred for his new master while at the same time displaying hypocritical marks of affection. Carried away by patriotism, Bruces considered bribing one of Alexander’s servants, with the object of bringing the invader’s triumphant march to a halt with an assassination in which he would only be indirectly involved.

The choice fell on Guzil, who used to enter the royal chamber freely at all times by virtue of the position he held at Asnorius’s side; Bruces promised to make the young slave rich for ever if he would bring about the death of Asia’s oppressor. Having agreed to the bargain, Guzil searched for some way to win his reward without compromising himself.

During the long period in which he had constantly cared for Asnorius, the youth had noticed that he was very obedient and seemed remarkably gifted for any kind of training. He conceived a course of education that would lead the bird to kill Alexander in such a way that his death could not be laid at anyone’s door.

Whenever he found himself alone in the royal chamber, Guzil lay down on the King’s bed and patiently taught Asnorius the habit of using his beak to make a loose slip knot, all by himself, in the golden thread attached to his foot. When the obedient creature was able to perform this feat, the slave, still lying down, spent many sessions training him to slip the huge noose loosely round his face, laying one side of it on his neck and the other against the top of his head; then, imitating the tossing and turning of a sleeping man, he taught the bird to seize every opportunity of sliding the perilous golden thread gradually beneath the nape of his neck, for it was slender enough to slip easily between the pillow and his hair. Alexander was a notoriously restless sleeper and, when the time came, this would facilitate Asnorius’s task.

When this stage of the training had been reached, Guzil, seizing his terrible collar with both hands to avoid being strangled himself, accustomed the bird to take flight suddenly in a suitable direction, tugging on the thread with all the might of its immense wings. Given the exceptional force that Asnorius’s terrifying wingspread repre­sented, this procedure, once put into practice, would inevitably lead to Alexander’s instant death; furthermore, everything would transpire in silence — necessitated by the presence of the athlete Vyrlas, a devoted and invincible bodyguard who kept vigil in the next room each night, watching over the King’s repose.

Guzil had full confidence in the cord’s strength, for it was very firmly braided to prevent the strong-winged fowl from escaping.

When everything was ready the young slave hastened to carry out his plan. Since the training began he had deliberately lain down each time on the bed, so that the mere sight of a man outstretched became for Asnorius a signal for action. So far he had had no reason to fear that the task entrusted to the bird would be even partially attempted, as the latter always slept soundly for the whole duration of the night. On the chosen date, the youth simply gave Asnorius a drug to keep him awake, in the certainty that, with Alexander sleeping on the couch, he would sooner or later act in accordance with the plan hatched in secret.

As became evident later, everything occurred just as Guzil had foreseen. When the King fell into his first slumber, Asnorius skillfully made his slip knot, succeeded in passing it round the sleeper’s neck and took flight exactly as required, beating his wings and tugging strongly at the cord. However, in an agonized convulsion, Alexander unconsciously dealt a backhanded blow at a nearby metal cup, still filled with a potion that was prepared for him every night — and at the shock it emitted a ringing sound.

The athlete Vyrlas immediately rushed into the chamber, feebly illuminated by a night lamp, and saw the purple face of the King, whose limbs were arching convulsively on the point of death. He leapt straight at Asnorius and promptly subdued him, then, with his strong fingers loosened the lethal knot gripping Alexander and at once administered a treatment that proved successful.

An inquiry led to Guzil’s arrest as the only person who could have taught the bird the intricacies of such a performance. On being closely questioned the slave confessed and named the instigator of the murder. But Bruces, who had learnt of the failure of his attempted homicide hastily fled, leaving no trace.

At Alexander’s command, Guzil was put to death — along with the dangerous Asnorius, for he would always have been capable in future of making criminal attempts upon the life of any sleeping person.

2. An assertion by Saint John according to which Pilate, after Jesus’s crucifixion, suffered throughout his life from a terrible affliction and was unable to enjoy the solace of peaceful, sleep-bringing shade.

According to the evangelist, when evening fell, Pilate experienced a frightful burning on his forehead, growing more painful as the light diminished, which originated in a phosphorescent mark representing Christ crucified, with the Virgin and Mary Magdalene kneeling beside him. Its contours became progressively brighter, and in the darkness of the night this strange attribute was so intensely blinding that it seemed traced by the sun. The sufferer, meanwhile, was subjected to real torture, like that of some hellish roasting endlessly renewed.

To the physical pain was added moral torment, for Pilate was perfectly aware of this flaming image, the counterpart of his obsessive remorse. The fiery mark, occupying the center of his forehead, extended as far as his eyelids, where Mary Magdalene’s garment ended on one side, symmetrically with the Virgin Mary’s on the other.

Thereafter, the only course left open to the wretched man was to expose himself to bright lights, for then both the burning and the luminous emblem immediately disappeared. Yet that perpetual light in itself constituted an atrocious torment, and Pilate was scarcely able to achieve a few moments of shallow and feverish sleep. When, during these fugitive states of repose, he made some involuntary effort to avoid the tiring radiance by covering his forehead and eyes with his hand, at once the terrible igneous motif returned, on account of the shadow created, and the sharp, burning pain was renewed. Even by day the accursed man was constantly forced to confront the brightest lights, for whenever he turned by chance toward the darkened corner of a room the glowing impression instantly arose and laid a veritable brand of infamy upon him for all to see.

In the end the situation became intolerable. Almost deprived of sleep, his eyes ruined by the uninterrupted glitter they had to face, Pilate would have given anything to be able to plunge into thick shadows for a moment. But when he yielded to his irresistible desire to surround himself with darkness, the stigmata suddenly shone forth with its richest coruscation and gave him such a roasting that he hastily resorted again to the bright, detested light.

Until his dying day the condemned man suffered without respite from this same incurable malady.

3. An incident recorded by the poet Gilbert in his Rêves d’Orient vécus.

About 1778, Gilbert traveled extensively in Asia Minor as a dilettante prompted by curiosity and a lofty appetite for artistic sensations. To this end he had devoted long months to the study of Arabic.

After visiting various secondary sites and towns, he arrived at the ruins of Baalbek, the principal goal of his wanderings. The chief attraction of the illustrious dead city lay for him in the memory of Missir, the satirist and poet whose works had once appeared when Baalbek’s glory was at its height, and have, in part, come down to us.