Jakob Wassermann
Alexander in Babylon
Ziff-Davis Publishing Co., c1949, English (no ISBN)
(original in German, 1905)
 

Wassermann, a German Jew, wrote Alexander in Babylon not long after the turn of the century, which makes it a bit earlier than the rest of our books, even though the English edition didn't come out until 44 years later.  Therefore, in style, it's similar to Butts, Berkovici, and Mann, and like Butts, it's also a highly poetic, romantic novel, full of symbolism.  For instance, after the death of Hephaistion, when the troubled Alexander has gone off by himself, he takes a wild ride in the night across a Persian prarie, his horse running out of his control.  He's finally able to bring the beast back to the camp where:

". . . it gave vent to a heartbreaking cry.  Then it collapsed.
"A huge scorpion clung to its flank."

We're given the last year and a half of Alexander's life.  Alexander is the confused world conqueror.  Hephaistion is the devoted friend who discovers that the man to whom he originally committed himself no longer exists, and upon learning this, loses his will to live.  There's also Arrhidaios, the unlucky (in this story younger) brother who lives in Alexander's shadow and has lost the ability to know dreams from reality.  And finally, there's the priestess-witch Liblitu, a completely ahistorical figure who serves a symbolic function.

Historically speaking, there is much wrong with the work.  Wassermann has collapsed events together for the sake of convenience.  It begins in the Gedrosian desert disaster and moves on from there.  Hephaistion dies not at Ekbatana, but at Opus.  Alexander then takes off by himself for a while until a sign (the scorpion) convinces him that it's time to go to Babylon, where things wind to a close with the mortal end of the man who thought himself a god.  But as noted above, history is not the point.  This novel is all about myth, and like Payne's Alexander the God, or the very odd work of Mann, it comes closer to (early) historical fantasy than to historical fiction.

As with some of the other early novels, this book would probably appeal mostly to those readers who already have an interest in the work of the late romantic era.  It's a beautiful book, in terms of language, symbol and poetry, and has an eerie ability to suck one in from almost the first page.  Like Butts, I recommend it as a fine example of a "type," but warn post-20th century readers that it may not suit everyone's taste.