Few figures in history have captured the imagination like Alexander the Great. Conqueror of an empire stretching from Greece to the Indus Valley, pupil of Aristotle, and a master of military strategy, his death in 323 BC at the age of just 32 marked the end of an era. Yet, his passing was not the final chapter of his story. Instead, it sparked a new saga – one of intrigue, betrayal, and centuries of speculation.

His body, much like his empire, became a contested prize. Ancient accounts claim that his corpse resisted decay for more than a week – divine proof of his godhood? His funeral procession, meant to carry him home to Macedon, was hijacked in what can only be described as one of the greatest heists in history and rerouted to Egypt. Once enshrined in Alexandria, his mummified remains were revered, looted, possibly desecrated – and then lost to time.

Yet, among these mysteries, one stands out as both bizarre and oddly poetic: what happened to Alexander’s nose?

The Mysterious Death of a Conqueror

In the final days of his life, Alexander was a man on fire.

Ancient sources recount that in early June of 323 BC, while feasting at the palace of Nebuchadnezzar II in Babylon, the king suddenly collapsed with a raging fever. His condition worsened over the next ten days – his voice failed, his strength faded, and, wracked with severe abdominal pain, he eventually lost the ability to move. Writing in the 1st century BC, the Greek historian Diodorus Siculus described how Alexander was “struck with pain” after drinking a large bowl of unmixed wine, a libation in honor of Heracles.

As the fever consumed him, his generals – desperate for guidance and, more importantly, to learn who would inherit his empire – filed past his deathbed. They found their king silent, unblinking, already halfway to the underworld.

Then, between the evening of June 10 and June 11, 323 BC, he was gone. Or was he?

Alexander’s death remains one of history’s great enigmas. Was he assassinated? Some of his own officers believed so. Many later biographers, including Arrian, Diodorus, and Plutarch, alluded to foul play. Writing in the second century AD, the Latin historian Justin alleged in his “Historia Philippicae” that Antipater, Alexander’s regent in Macedon, poisoned him with a slow-acting toxin smuggled from Greece – a poison so deadly it had to be “conveyed in the hoof of a horse.” In a 2014 study, researchers proposed that the medicinal plant white hellebore (Veratrum album) could have been used to poison Alexander.

Modern scholars have debated alternative explanations for Alexander’s death, based on assessments of the symptoms recorded in the ancient sources. Could his relentless years of drinking have led to acute alcoholic liver disease? Or was it malaria or typhoid fever, both endemic in Babylon? In a chilling new study, Katherine Hall, a senior lecturer at the University of Otago in New Zealand, suggests that Alexander may have died from Guillain-Barré syndrome – a rare neurological disorder that could have left him paralyzed, yet fully conscious, entombed in his own body.

Strangely, according to Quintus Curtius Rufus (1st century AD), Alexander’s body showed no signs of decay for over seven days after his death – leaving embalmers hesitant to begin their work.

Yet, whatever the cause, Alexander’s body found no peace. His physical remains would soon become the most coveted relic in the ancient world.

The Stolen Corpse

Picture the scene.

A vast, golden funerary carriage, gleaming in the Babylonian sun, begins its slow journey westward. The structure is monumental, adorned with sculpted lions, towering columns, and golden reliefs depicting Alexander in battle. Pulled by sixty-four mules, it traverses the desert like a moving temple to a fallen god.

But in the shadows, Ptolemy watches. 

One of Alexander’s closest friends and most trusted generals – and one of the powerful Diadochi (“Successors”) who would carve up his empire – Ptolemy had fought alongside him for over a decade, witnessing firsthand his triumphs and conquests. But now, his loyalty lay not with the dead king, but with his own ambitions.

He knew that Alexander’s corpse was more than a body – it was a symbol of power. Whoever controls it could claim legitimacy over his vast empire. And so, as the procession winds toward Macedon, he struck.

Somewhere near Damascus, in 321 BC, Ptolemy’s forces intercepted the funeral cortege. The golden carriage, meant for a hero’s burial in his homeland, was forcibly rerouted to Egypt – the seat of Ptolemy’s new kingdom. The soldiers seized the body, its silent form still draped in golden cloth. In an instant, the greatest funeral march in history became an audacious political coup.

“Ptolemy took possession of the body,” wrote Diodorus Siculus, “and brought it to Egypt, where he laid it to rest as an object of great veneration.”

According to Quintus Curtius Rufus and Justin, Alexander himself had allegedly wished to be buried in the temple of Zeus Ammon at Siwa Oasis rather than alongside his father, Philip II of Macedon, at Aigai. But Ptolemy had other plans. He first placed Alexander’s remains in Memphis, the old Egyptian capital, before his son and successor, Ptolemy II Philadelphus (r. 284–246 BC), later moved them to Alexandria, the city Alexander himself had founded.

By 274 BC, Alexander’s tomb had become a place of pilgrimage, drawing kings, philosophers, and conquerors from across the known world. To stand before his remains was to stand in the presence of divinity. His tomb became more than just a resting place; it was the sacred heart of a Ptolemaic cult, where Alexander was worshiped not as a man, but as a god who had once walked the earth.

But even in death, his body was not safe.

Centuries later, the Greek writer Strabo (64 or 63 BC–c. 24 AD) recorded that Ptolemy X (r. 107–88 BC) defiled this sacred relic in pursuit of wealth, melting down Alexander’s golden sarcophagus and replacing it with one made of glass. Some scholars believe this “glass” was actually alabaster, a semi-translucent material used for sacred enclosures and temple windows. Whether an act of desecration or necessity, this alteration marked yet another chapter in the long saga of Alexander’s restless corpse.

The Curious Case of the Broken Nose

In 48 BC, another mighty conqueror stood before Alexander’s remains: Julius Caesar (100–44 BC).

At the time, Caesar was locked in a brutal civil war against Pompey (106–48 BC) and had come to Alexandria seeking both refuge and allies. Yet amid the political turmoil, there was one site he could not ignore. Standing before Alexander’s tomb, the great Roman general was transfixed. Here lay the man who had reshaped the world – a warrior-king whose empire had stretched to the edges of the known world.

Ancient writers such as Plutarch were eager to draw comparisons between the two men. Like Alexander, Caesar was a military strategist of unmatched brilliance, a leader whose ambition knew no limits. Alexander had swept through Persia like a storm; now, Caesar was poised to propel Rome to even greater heights. As he gazed upon the remains of the Macedonian king, it is easy to imagine him measuring himself against the legend – a silent challenge passed between the conqueror of the past and the conqueror of the present.

Yet, it was not Caesar’s visit that would leave a lasting mark on Alexander’s remains.

In 30 BC, fresh from his triumph over Cleopatra and Mark Antony at the Battle of Actium, another Roman entered Alexandria as its undisputed master – Octavian, the future Augustus, first emperor of Rome (r. 27 BC–14 AD).

He did not seek out the temple of Serapis, the great deity of Egypt. He did not offer sacrifices to the gods of Rome. Instead, he went straight to Alexander’s tomb.

According to the Roman historian Suetonius (c. 69–c. 122 AD), Octavian “viewed the body with veneration, placed a golden crown upon the head, and scattered flowers.” Standing in the presence of his greatest predecessor, the young conqueror was overcome with awe.

Then, something strange happened.

As Octavian leaned in – perhaps to whisper a tribute, perhaps to lay a hand upon the sacred remains – disaster struck.

With a brittle snap, Alexander’s nose broke off.

In Book V of his “Roman History,” Cassius Dio (c. 165–c. 235 AD) recounted the fateful moment: “After this he viewed the body of Alexander and actually touched it, whereupon, it is said, a piece of the nose was broken off.”

For a moment, time must have frozen. Did the assembled dignitaries gasp? Did whispers ripple through the chamber? The emperor, who had come to honor Alexander, had instead defaced him.

Was it a mere accident, the inevitable fragility of a corpse nearly 300 years old? Or was it an omen? And, more importantly, did it really happen, or was it merely fiction?

In Egyptian tradition, a broken nose was more than just physical damage – it symbolized the severing of power, the destruction of a ruler’s divine essence. If this unfortunate event did occur, had Octavian – now master of the Mediterranean – unknowingly shattered Alexander’s godhood?

Caligula and the Breastplate Heist

Octavian wasn’t the only Roman statesman captivated by the legacy of Alexander the Great. Some 70 years later, his great-grandson, the notorious emperor Caligula (r. 37–41 AD), driven by his own desire to claim the mantle of history’s greatest conqueror, set his sights on Alexander’s tomb in Alexandria.

According to Cassius Dio and Caligula’s biographer, Suetonius, the emperor orchestrated a daring heist, breaking into the sacred burial chamber and seizing Alexander’s famed breastplate – a “double linen breastplate” or linothorax, as described by Plutarch, and famously depicted in the Alexander Mosaic at Pompeii. This ornate armor, once worn by the legendary Macedonian king, was now in the hands of a Roman emperor whose delusions of grandeur extended to claiming divine status.

But this wasn’t simply theft – it was a bold proclamation. By wearing the breastplate, Caligula didn’t just acquire a relic of history; he declared himself Alexander reborn, the reincarnation of a conqueror who had once reshaped the world. According to Suetonius, he wore the breastplate at the head of triumphal procession, crossing a bridge of ships over the Bay of Baia in Italy, sometime in 39 AD.

Whether this audacious act truly occurred or was later embellished by historians eager to paint Caligula as the embodiment of madness remains unclear. What is certain, however, is that it stands as yet another bizarre episode in Alexander’s posthumous saga – one that continues to blur the line between history and legend.

The Fate of Alexander’s Tomb

For centuries, Alexander the Great’s tomb stood as a revered landmark, a silent witness to the centuries of power and myth that followed his death. Septimius Severus (r. 193–211 AD) is said to have sealed it off, forbidding further visitors, while the emperor Caracalla (r. 211–217 AD) made a pilgrimage there, leaving his own military cloak as an offering – a gesture of respect for the legacy of the man whose conquests had reshaped the world.

Then, the tomb vanished.

By the 4th century AD, references to it disappeared. Was it swallowed by an earthquake, deliberately hidden as Christianity’s influence spread, or submerged beneath rising sea levels? No one knows. The tomb of Alexander, one of history’s most iconic figures, slipped from view, leaving only fragments of its story behind.

Today, its fate remains one of archaeology’s greatest mysteries.

Alexander the Great left behind more than just an empire; he left a legend – and, it seems, a missing nose. His body, like his vast empire, was fought over, stolen, and lost to time. From Babylon to Alexandria, from Octavian’s grasp to Caligula’s audacious heist, his remains became the ultimate political relic, a symbol of power and divine right that no emperor could resist claiming for themselves.

Perhaps, one day, his tomb will be found, its secrets laid bare for the world to see. But until then, Alexander sleeps beneath the sands of time, his legend alive in the myths and mysteries that continue to surround him.