The Novels of Alexander the Great: Fire From Heaven, the Persian Boy, and Funeral Games

322 B. C.

THE ARMY OF KING PHILIP was encamped in the Pisidian hills. Perdikkas, blood-spattered and smeared with ash, was picking his way down a stony path strewn with dead men and abandoned weapons. Above him, circling a cloud of stinking smoke, vultures and kites made exploring swoops, their numbers thickening as news of the banquet spread. The Macedonians, prompter than the birds, scavenged the charred ruins of Isaura.

Spared by Alexander because they had surrendered without a fight, the Isaurians had been left with orders to pull down the robber fort from which they had plagued their neighbors, and to live peaceably. In his long absence they had murdered his satrap and fallen back into old ways. This time, from bad consciences or from having less trust in Perdikkas than in Alexander, they had defended their craggy nest to the bitter end. When their outworks fell, they had locked into their houses their goods, their wives and children, set timber and thatch alight, and to the hellish music of the fires had hurled themselves on the Macedonian spears.

Some fifteen years of war had made Perdikkas almost nightmare-proof; in a few days he would be dining out on the story; but with the stench of burnt flesh still hanging in the air he had had enough for today, and had welcomed the news that a courier awaited him in his camp below. His brother Alketas, a hard man and his second in command, would oversee the raking of the cinders for half-melted silver and gold. His helmet was scorching hot; he took it off and wiped his sweating forehead.

From the royal tent of dyed and emblazoned leather, Philip came out and ran towards him. “Did we win?” he asked.

He was armed in cuirass and greaves, a thing he had insisted on. In Alexander’s day, when he had followed the army much as now, he had worn civil dress; but now that he was King, he knew what was due to him. He had in fact been eager to fight; but, used to obedience, had not insisted, since Alexander had never let him do it. “You’re all bleeding,” he said. “You ought to see a doctor.”

“It’s a bath I need.” When alone with his sovereign, Perdikkas dispensed with formality. He told him as much as it was good for him to know, went to his own tent, cleaned himself, put on a robe, and ordered the courier brought.

This person was a surprise. The letter he brought was reticent and formal; he himself had much to say. A hardy grizzled man in his early sixties, with a missing thumb lost at Gaugamela, he was a minor Macedonian nobleman, and not so much a messenger as an envoy.

With elation, tinged by well-founded misgiving, Perdikkas reread the letter to gain time for thought. TO PERDIKKAS, REGENT OF THE ASIAN KINGDOMS, FROM KLEOPATRA, DAUGHTER OF PHILIP AND SISTER OF ALEXANDER, GREETING. After the usual well-wishings, the letter glanced at their cousinship, recalled his distinguished services to Alexander, and proposed a conference, to discuss matters concerning the well-being of all the Macedonians. These matters were not specified. The last sentence disclosed that the Queen had set out already from Dodona.

The envoy, affecting negligence, was toying with his wine-cup. Perdikkas coughed. “Am I to hope that if I should beg the honor of the lady Kleopatra’s hand, my suit would be graciously received?”

The envoy gave a reassuring smile. “So far, the Kings have been elected only by the Macedonians in Asia. Those in the homeland might like their own chance to choose.”

Perdikkas had had a grueling and hideous, even though successful, day. He had come back for a bath, a rest and a drink, not to be offered at short notice the throne of Macedon. Presently he said, with a certain dryness, “Such happiness was beyond my hopes. I feared she might still be mourning Leonnatos.”

The veteran, whom Perdikkas’ steward had refreshed while he was waiting, settled into his chair. The wine was strong, with no more than a splash of water, Perdikkas having felt he needed it. The diplomat gave way visibly to the soldier.

“I can tell you, sir, why he was her first choice, for what it’s worth. She remembered him from her childhood at home. He climbed a tree once, to get down her cat for her, when he was a boy. You know what women are.”

“And in the end I believe they did not meet?”

“No. When he crossed from Asia to fight the southern Greeks, he’d only time to raise his troops in Macedon and ride on down. Bad luck that he fell before our victory.”

“A pity that his troops were so cut up. I hear he fought while he could stand. A brave man; but hardly the stuff of kings?”

“She was well out of it,” said the soldier bluntly. “All her friends tell her so. It was a fancy; she soon got over grieving. Lucky for her she has the chance to think better now.” He tipped back his cup; Perdikkas refilled it. “If she had seen you, sir, at Gaugamela …”

This word of power diverted them into reminiscence. When they came back to business, Perdikkas said, “I suppose the truth is, she wants to get away from Olympias.”

The envoy, flushed and relaxed, planked down his cup and leaned his arm on the table. “Sir. Let me tell you, between ourselves, that woman is a Gorgon. She’s eaten that poor girl piece by piece, till she’s hardly mistress of her house, let alone the kingdom. Not that she lacks spirit; but left as she is, without a man to stand by her, there’s no fighting Olympias. She has the Molossians treating her like a queen. She is a queen. She looks like a queen; she has the will of a king. And she’s Alexander’s mother.”

“Ah. Yes … So Kleopatra has a mind to leave her Dodona, and make a bid for Macedon?”

“She’s Philip’s daughter.”

Perdikkas, who had been thinking quickly, said, “She has a son by the late King.” He had no wish to be caretaker for a stepson.

“He’ll inherit at home, his granddam will see to that. Now Macedon … No woman has ever reigned in Macedon. But Philip’s daughter, married to a royal kinsman who’s ruled like a king already …” Abruptly, remembering something, he hitched at his belt-purse, and brought out a flat package wrapped in embroidered wool. “She sent you this, seeing it’s a long time since you had a sight of her.”

The portrait was painted with skill, in encaustic wax on wood. Even allowing for convention, which smoothed away personality like a blemish, it could be seen that she was Philip’s daughter. The strong hair, the thick upswept eyebrows, the resolute square face, had defeated the artist’s well-meant insipidity. Perdikkas thought, Two years younger than Alexander—about thirty-one, now. “A queenly and gracious lady,” he said aloud. “A dowry in herself, kingdom or no.” He found more of this kind to say, while he played for time. Danger was great; ambition also. Alexander had taught him long ago to assess, decide, and act.

“Well,” he said, “this is serious business. She needs something more than a yes. Let me sleep on this. When you dine with us tonight, I’ll tell them all you brought a letter from Olympias. She’s forever writing.”

“I have brought one. She approves, as you may well suppose.”

Perdikkas set the thick roll aside, summoned the steward to find his guest a lodging, and, left alone, sat with his elbows on the rough camp-table and his head between his hands.

Here he was found by his brother Alketas, whose servants carried two rattling sacks filled with stained, smoked gold, cups and arm-rings and necklaces and coin; the Isaurians had been successful robbers. The slaves gone, he showed Perdikkas the loot, and was annoyed by his abstraction. “Not squeamish?” he said. “You were there in India, when the men thought the Mallians had killed Alexander. You should have a strong stomach after that.”

Perdikkas looked at him in irritation. “We’ll talk later. Is Eumenes back in camp? Find him, he can bath and eat later, I have to see him now.”

Eumenes appeared quite shortly, washed, combed and changed. He had been in his tent, dictating his memoir of the day’s events to Hieronymos, a young scholar who, under his patronage, was writing a chronicle of the times. His light compact body was toughened and tanned from the campaign; soon he would be riding north to get his satrapy of Kappadokia in order. He greeted Perdikkas with a calm alert expectancy, sat down, and read the letter Perdikkas handed him. At the end, he allowed himself a slight lift of the brows.

Looking up from the scroll, he said, “What is she offering? The regency or the throne?” Perdikkas understood him perfectly. He meant, Which do you plan to take?

“The regency. Or would I be talking to you now?”

“Leonnatos did,” Eumenes reminded him. “And then decided that I knew too much.” He had, in fact, barely escaped with his life, having affirmed his loyalty to Alexander’s son.

“Leonnatos was a fool. The Macedonians would have cut his throat; and they’d cut mine if I disinherited Alexander’s boy. If they elect him when he comes of age, so be it. But he’s the Bactrian’s son; by that time, they may not be so fond of him. Then we’ll see. Meantime, I’ll have been King in all but name for fifteen years or so, and I shan’t complain.”

“No,” said Eumenes grimly. “But Antipatros will.”

Perdikkas sat back in his leather-slung camp-chair, and stretched out his long legs. “That’s the crux. Advise me. What shall I do with Nikaia?”

“A pity indeed,” said the Greek, “that Kleopatra didn’t write a few months sooner.” He sat reflecting, like a mathematician before a theorem. “You won’t need her now. But you’ve sent her the betrothal gifts. She’s the Regent’s daughter. And she’s on her way.”

“I offered for her too soon. Everything seemed in chaos; I thought I should make sure of an ally while I could … Alexander would never have tied his hands like that. He always made alliances when he could dictate the terms.” It was rarely, now, that he was self-critical; he must be disturbed, Eumenes thought. He tapped absently at the letter. Perdikkas noted that even his nails were clean.

“Antipatros puts out his daughters as a fisherman puts out lines.”

“Well, I took the bait. What now?”

“You’ve bitten at the bait. The hook’s not yet in your belly. Let us think.” His neat thin lips came together. Even on campaign, he shaved every day. Presently, looking up, he said crisply, “Take Kleopatra. Take her now. Send an escort to meet Nikaia; tell her you’re sick, wounded; be civil, but have her taken home. Act at once, before Antipatros is ready. Or he’ll hear of it, you won’t know how or when; and he’ll act before you’re ready.”

Perdikkas bit his lip. It sounded prompt and decisive; probably it was what Alexander would have done. Except that he would never have put himself in need of it. Among these doubts, a disturbing thought intruded: Eumenes hated Antipatros. The Regent had been snubbing him ever since he had been a junior secretary, advanced by Philip because of his quick mind. The old man had all the prejudices of his race against the effete, fickle, subtle men of the south. Eumenes’ loyalty, his distinguished war record, had never made any difference. Even when he was in Asia as Chief Secretary to Alexander, Antipatros had tried often to go over his head. Alexander, whom it irritated, had made a point of replying through Eumenes.

Now that Perdikkas had been counseled to burn his boats, he felt a certain flinching. He said to himself that here was an old enmity, of the kind that warps a man’s better judgment.

“Yes,” he said, affecting gratitude. “You are right. I’ll write by her envoy tomorrow.”

“Better use word of mouth. Letters can go astray.”

“ …But I’ll tell her, I think, that I’ve already married Nikaia. It will be true by the time it reaches her. I’ll ask her to wait till I can decently get free. I’ll put the palace of Sardis at her disposal, and ask her to consider us betrothed in secret. That will give me room to maneuver.”

Seeing Eumenes looking at him in silence, he felt the need to justify himself. “If there were only Antipatros to consider … But I don’t like what I hear of Ptolemy. He’s raising too big an army down in Egypt. It only needs one satrap to make a kingdom of his province, and the empire will fall apart. We must wait a little and see what he means to do.”

A bland winter sun shone down through the columned window into Ptolemy’s small audience room. It was a handsome house, almost a small palace, built for himself by the previous administrator, whom Ptolemy had executed for oppression. The slight rise commanded a view of new straight streets and handsome public buildings, their pale unweathered stone touched up with paint and gilding. New wharves and quays fringed the harbor; hoists and scaffolding surrounded a couple of nearly finished temples ordered by Alexander. Another temple, less advanced, but promising to be the most imposing, stood near the waterfront, where it would dominate the prospect for incoming ships.

Ptolemy had had a busy but congenial morning. He had seen the chief architect, Deinokrates, about the sculpture on the temples; some engineers, who were replacing unsanitary canals with covered drains; and the heads of several homes, to whom he had restored the right to collect taxes. This, to the Egyptians who had suffered under his predecessor, meant something like a fifty percent tax reduction. A rapacious man, resolved to execute his commission and enrich himself as well, he had imposed forced levies and forced labor, extorted fortunes by threats to kill the sacred crocodiles, or to pull down villages for building-sites (which he would do in the end, when he had squeezed them dry). Moreover, he had done all this in the name of Alexander, which had so enraged Ptolemy that he had gone through the administration like a consuming fire. It had made him extremely popular, and he had remained so.

He was now busy recruiting. Perdikkas had only allowed him two thousand men when he took over the satrapy. He had found, when he got there, its garrison almost mutinous, the men’s pay in arrears while the interest was being skimmed off it. Things were different now. Ptolemy had not been the most brilliant of Alexander’s commanders; but he was reliable, resourceful, brave and loyal, all things Alexander valued; and, above all, he was good at looking after his men. He had fought under Philip before Alexander had his first command; the pupil of two great masters, he had learned from both. Trusted, sufficiently feared, and liked, he was apt with small touches of personal concern. Before his first year was out, thousands of active veterans settled in Alexandria were begging to re-enlist; by now, volunteers were arriving by land and sea.

He had not allowed this to inflate ambition. He knew his limits, and had no wish for the stresses of boundless power. He had what he had wanted, was content with it and meant to keep it; with luck, to add a little more. His men were well paid and fed; they were also well trained.

“Why, Menandros!” he said warmly as the last applicant came in. “I thought you were in Syria. Well, this is an easier climb than the Birdless Rock. You got here without a rope.”

The veteran, recognized at sight as a hero of that renowned assault, grinned with delight, feeling that after an uncertain year he had arrived where he belonged. The interview was happy. Ptolemy decided to take a break in his inner sanctum. His chamberlain, an Egyptian of great discretion, scratched at the door.

“My lord,” he murmured, “the eunuch of whom you spoke has come from Babylon.”

The broken nose in Ptolemy’s craggy face pointed like a hound’s at a breast-high scent. “I’ll see him here,” he said.

He waited in the pleasant, cool, Greek-furnished room. Bagoas was shown in.

Ptolemy saw a Persian gentleman, soberly suited in grey, equipped for travel with a businesslike sword-belt, its slots well stretched by the weapons left outside. He had grown his hair; a modest length of it fringed his round felt hat. He looked handsome, lean, distinguished and of no particular age. Ptolemy supposed he must be twenty-four.

He made the graceful genuflection due to a satrap, was invited to sit, and offered the wine which had awaited the morning’s leisure. Ptolemy made the proper inquiries about his health and journey; he knew better than to be precipitate with a Persian. It was clear that the midnight encounter in the paradise was to be remembered in substance only; etiquette was to be preserved. He remembered from old days Bagoas’ infinite resources of tact.

The courtesies fully observed, he asked, “What news?”

Bagoas set aside his wine-cup. “They will be bringing him out from Babylon two months from now.”

“And the convoy? Who’s in command?”

“Arybbas. No one has questioned it.”

Ptolemy sighed audibly with relief. Before marching south, he had proposed this officer to design and supervise the bier, citing his expertise; he had devised several important shrines for Alexander, and could handle craftsmen. Not cited was that he had served in India under Ptolemy’s command, and been on excellent terms with his commander.

“I waited,” said Bagoas, “till I was sure of it. They would need him, in case of mishap, to see the bier repaired.”

“You have made good time, then.”

“I came up the Euphrates, and then by camel to Tyre. The rest by sea. Forty days in all.”

“You will be able to rest awhile, and still be in Babylon before they start.”

“If God permits. As for the bier, in a hundred days it could hardly reach the coast. The roadmakers are out already, smoothing the way. Arybbas reckons it will travel ten miles a day on level ground, or five over hills, if sixty-four mules pull it. To bring it from Asia into Thrace, they plan to bridge the Hellespont.”

The quiet madness of the house in the park was gone. He spoke with the concentration of a man going about his chosen calling. He looked lean and fit after his long journey.

“You have seen it then?” Ptolemy asked. “Is it worthy of Alexander?”

Bagoas considered. “Yes, they have done all that men can.”

Arybbas must have excelled himself, Ptolemy thought. “Come to the window. There is something you must see.”

He pointed to the temple rising on the waterfront, the sea, pale blue under the mild sky, shining between the unfinished columns.

“There is his shrine.”

For a moment, the reticent face beside him lit and glowed. Just so, Ptolemy remembered from another life, the boy had looked when Alexander rode past in a victory parade.

“It should be ready in another year. The priests of Amnion would like him to go to Siwah; they say it would have been his wish. I have considered it, but I think this is his place.”

“When you have seen the bier, sir, you will know it could never go to Siwah. If once its wheels sank into sand, a team of elephants could not drag it free … That is a fine temple. They have worked quickly to get so far.”

Ptolemy had known that this must sometime be met. He said gently, “It was begun before I came. Alexander approved the plan himself. It is the temple he ordered for Hephaistion … He did not know how soon he himself would need it.”

Bagoas’ face returned to agelessness. He gazed in silence at the sunlit shafts of stone. Presently he said calmly, “Hephaistion would give it him. He would have given him anything.”

Except his pride, thought Ptolemy; that was his secret, it was why Alexander felt him as a second self. But it was only possible because they were boys together. Aloud he said, “Most men would welcome Alexander as a guest, even in death. Well, let us come to ways and means.”

At the table he unlocked a silver-clasped document-box. “This letter I shall give you when you leave, along with funds for your journey. Do not deliver it in Babylon. When the bier sets out, no one will wonder that you wish to follow it. Do nothing till it reaches Thapsakos—the Syrian border will be soon enough—and give it to Arybbas then. It commits him to nothing. It says I shall meet him at Issos, to do honor to Alexander. He will hardly suppose, I think, that I shall come alone.”

“I will see,” said Bagoas coolly, “that he is prepared.”

“Don’t lose the letter in Babylon. Perdikkas would send an army corps for escort.” Wasting no words, Bagoas smiled.

“You have done well. Tell me, have you heard anything of Roxane’s child? He must be walking now. Does he favor Alexander?”

One of Bagoas’ fine brows moved upward a very little. “I myself have not seen him. But the harem people say he takes after his mother.”

“I see. And King Philip, how is he?”

“Very well in health. He has been allowed a ride on an elephant, which made him happy.”

“So. Well, Bagoas, you have earned my gratitude; trust in it from now on. When you are rested, see the city; it will be your home.”

Bagoas made the elegant half-prostration of the gentleman to the satrap, learned at Darius’ court, and took his leave.

Later, as the sun declined towards the western desert, he walked down to the temple. This was the evening promenade of the Alexandrians, who would pause to notice the progress of the work; off-duty soldiers of Macedon and Egypt, merchants and craftsmen from Greece and Lydia and Tyre and Cyprus and Judaea; wives and children, and hetairas looking for trade. The crowd was not yet oppressive; the city was still young.

The workmen on the site were packing their tools in their straw bags; the nightwatchmen were coming with their cloaks and food-baskets. From the ships tied to the waterfront men were going ashore; the ship-guards on board kindled torches whose tarry smell hung over the water. As dusk fell, on the temple terrace a burning cresset was hoisted on a tall pole. It was not unlike the one Alexander used to have by his tent in central Asia, to show where his headquarters was.

The strollers drifted towards home; soon no one was about but the watchmen and the silent traveler from Babylon. Bagoas looked at Hephaistion’s house, where Alexander would be his guest forever. It was fitting, it was what he would have wished, and after all it made no difference. What was, was, as it had always been. When Alexander breathed his last, Bagoas had known who would be awaiting him beyond the River. That was why he had not killed himself; the thought was not to be borne of intruding on that reunion. But Alexander had never been ungrateful, he had never turned love away. One day, after faithful service done, there would be, as there had always been, a welcome.

He turned back towards the palace guest-house, where they were lighting the lamps. Alexander would be served worthily here. Nothing else had ever mattered.

In the manor-house of the late Prince Amyntas, Kynna and Eurydike were trimming each other’s hair. They were preparing for their journey. Till they were out of Macedon, they planned to travel as men.

The Regent, Antipatros, was besieging stubborn forts in the mountains of Aitolia, where the last of the Greek revolt still smoldered on. He had taken most of his troops. This was their chance.

“There,” said Kynna, standing back with the shears. “Many young men wear it as long as that, since Alexander set the fashion.”

Neither of them had had to sacrifice much hair; it was strong and wavy, not long. A maid was called to sweep up the clippings. Eurydike, who had already prepared her mule-packs, went to the stack of spears in the corner, and chose out her favorite javelins.

“We shan’t have much chance to practice on the road.”

“Let us hope,” said Kynna, “that we may not need them in earnest.”

“Oh, robbers won’t attack ten men.” They were taking an escort of eight retainers. She glanced at her mother’s face, and added, “You’re not afraid of Olympias?”

“No, she is too far away, we shall be in Asia before she hears.”

Eurydike looked again. “Mother, what is it?”

Kynna was pacing the room. On stands and tables and shelves were the family treasures, her dead husband’s heritage from his royal father, and pieces from her dowry; her own father, King Philip, had given her a handsome wedding. She was wondering how much she dared entrust to such a journey. Her daughter could not go empty-handed, but …

“Mother, there is something … Is it because we’ve heard nothing from Perdikkas?”

“Yes. I don’t like it.”

“How long since you wrote to him?”

“I did not. It was proper for him to write.” She turned to a shelf and picked up a silver cup.

“There is something else you’ve not told me. I know there is. Why is Antipatros against our going? Have they betrothed the King to someone else? … Mother, don’t pretend you don’t hear me. I’m not a child. If you don’t tell me, I won’t go.”

Kynna turned round, with a face that would have meant a whipping a few years back. The tall girl, implacable, stood her ground.

Kynna put down the cup with its boar-hunt chasing. She bit her lip.

“Very well, since you will have it; I daresay it’s better. Alexander said frankly it was an empty marriage. He offered you wealth and rank; I daresay you could have gone home after, for all he cared.”

“You never told me so!”

“No, because you were not meant to grow old in a village. Be quiet and listen. He never looked further than the reconcilement of our houses. That was because he believed what his mother told him. He believed that his brother was born a fool.”

“So are all fools. I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you remember Straton the mason?”

“But that was because a stone fell on his head.”

“Yes. He was not born stumbling in his speech, or asking for a tree when he wanted bread. That was done by the stone.”

“But all my life, I’ve heard Arridaios was a fool.”

“All your life he has been one. You are fifteen, and he is thirty. When your father was hoping to be King, he told me a good deal about Philip’s house. He said that when Arridaios was born, he was a fine strong child, and forward. It is true your father was still a child himself, and it was servants’ talk; but he listened, because it concerned another child. They said that Philip was pleased with the boy, and Olympias knew it. She swore Philinna’s bastard should not disinherit her son. The child was born in the palace. Maybe she gave him something, maybe she saw to it that something should hit his head. So your father heard them say.”

“What a wicked woman! Poor baby, I would not do it to a dog. But it’s done; where is the difference now?”

“Only born fools beget fools. Straton’s children are all sound.”

Eurydike drew a sharp, shocked breath. Her hands gripped defensively the javelin she was holding. “No! They said I need not. Even Alexander said so. You promised me!”

“Hush, hush. No one is asking it. That is what I’m telling you. That is why Antipatros is against it and Perdikkas doesn’t write. It is not what they want. It is what they fear.”

Eurydike stood still, absently passing her hand up and down the shaft of the javelin; it was a good one, of smooth hard cornel-wood. “You mean, they are afraid I could found a royal line, to displace Alexander’s?”

“So I think.”

The girl’s hand tightened on the shaft so that the knuckles paled. “If that is what I must do to avenge my father, then I will. Because he left no son.”

Kynna was appalled. She had only wanted to explain their dangers. Quickly she said that it had been only slaves’ talk; there had always been gossip about Olympias, that she coupled with serpents, and had conceived Alexander by the fire from heaven. It might well be true that Philinna had borne a fool, and it had not shown till the child was growing.

Eurydike looked carefully at the javelin, and put it aside with the few she meant to take. “Don’t be afraid, Mother. Let’s wait till we are there, and I can see what I ought to do. Then I will do it.”

What have I made, thought Kynna; what have I done? Next moment she reminded herself that she had made what she had planned, and done what she had long resolved. She sent word to the herdsman to bring an unblemished kid, for a sacrifice to dedicate their enterprise.

Arybbas, the creator of Alexander’s bier, made his way to the workshop for his daily visit. He was a dandified but not effeminate man, soldier and aesthete, a remote kinsman of the royal house, and of course too aristocratic ever to have worked for hire. Alexander had made him lavish presents whenever he had created a shrine, a royal barge, or a public spectacle, but that had been just between friends. Alexander, who loved to give money away, took offense when it was stolen, and had valued his probity as well as his gifts. Ptolemy, when recommending him to Perdikkas, had stressed this virtue, so necessary in a man handling a great deal of gold.

He had in fact watched it jealously; not a grain had stuck to his fingers, nor anyone else’s. Weighing was a daily rite. A sumptuous designer, used by Alexander when notable splendor was required, he had used with gusto the whole treasure entrusted to him, for Alexander’s honor and his own. As the magnificent structure he had inspired took shape under the hammers and gouges and graving-tools of his hand-picked craftsmen, exultation mingled with solemnity; he pictured Alexander surveying it with approval. He had appreciated such things. Arybbas had never cared much for Perdikkas.

Outside the workshop he noticed that Bagoas the eunuch was loitering about again, and, smiling graciously, beckoned him up. Though hardly a person whose company one would seek in public, he had shown impeccable taste, and an eye for the finer points. His devotion to the dead was touching; it was a pleasure to let him view the work.

“You will find a change,” he said. “Yesterday they mounted it on the wheel-base. So now you can see it whole.”

He rapped with his staff. Bolts grated; the little postern opened in the great door. They stepped into shadow surrounding a blaze of glory.

The broad matting on the roof, which kept out bad weather and thieves at night, had been rolled back to open the great working skylight. The spring sun shafted down dazzlingly on a miniature temple, sheathed all over with gold.

It was some eighteen feet long; its vaulted roof was of gold scales set with gems, glowing balas rubies, emerald and crystal, sapphire and amethyst. On its ridge like a banner stood a laurel wreath with leaves of shimmering sheet-gold; on its corners victories leaned out, holding triumphant crowns. It was upheld by eight golden columns; around the cornice was festooned a flower-garland in fine enamels. On the frieze were pictured the exploits of Alexander. The floor was of beaten gold; the wheels were sheathed with it, their axles capped with lion-heads. A net of gold wire half hid the inner sanctuary on three sides; on the fourth, two couch-ant gold lions guarded the entry.

“See, they have hung the bells.”

Those too were of gold; they hung from the tassels of the garland. He lifted his staff and struck one; a clear musical sound, of surprising resonance, throbbed through the shed. “They will know of his coming.”

Bagoas swept his hand across his eyes. Now he had entered the world again he was ashamed of tears; but he could hardly bear that Alexander would not see it.

Arybbas did not notice; he was talking to the overseer about making good the dents and scratches caused by the hoisting. Perfection must be restored.

In a far corner of the shed gleamed, dimly, the sarcophagos, blazoned with the royal sunburst of Macedon. Six men could scarcely lift it; it was solid gold. Only at last, at the outset of his journey, would Alexander be brought out in his cedar coffin where, hollow and light, he lay in a bed of spices and sweet herbs, to be laid among more spices in his final resting place. Satisfied that it was undamaged, Arybbas left.

Outside, Bagoas offered unstinted praise, the price of admission, willingly paid. “It will be counted among the wonders of the world.” He added deliberately, “The Egyptians are proud of their funeral arts; but even there I saw nothing to compare with it.”

“You have been to Egypt?” Arybbas asked, surprised.

“Since my service with Alexander ended, I have traveled a little to pass my time. He spoke so much of Alexandria, I wished to see it for myself … You, sir, of course, were there at its foundation.”

He said no more, leaving Arybbas to ask questions. To these he replied obligingly, leaving loose ends which prompted further questions. These led to a modest confession that he had been granted an audience with the Satrap.

“As it happened, though officers and friends of Alexander had come from most of nearer Asia to join his army, I was the only one from Babylon, so he asked for news. He had heard, he said, that Alexander’s bier was to be a marvel, and asked who had been charged with it. When he knew, he exclaimed that Alexander himself could wish for no one better. ‘If only,’ he said, ‘Arybbas could be here to adorn the Founder’s temple.’ … Perhaps, sir, that is indiscreet of me.” Fleetingly, like a reflection upon water, appeared the smile which had entranced two kings. “But I don’t think that he would mind.”

They talked for some time, Arybbas having found his curiosity about Alexandria sharpened. Riding back to his house, he was aware he had been delicately probed; but he did not pursue this thought. If he knew what Ptolemy wanted, it might be his duty to divulge it; and this, he suspected, might be to his disadvantage.

In the thick-walled palace of red stone on the red-rock citadel of Sardis, Kleopatra and her women were settled in modest comfort by the standards of nearer Asia; in luxury by those of Epiros. Perdikkas had had the royal apartments refurbished and redraped, and staffed with well-trained slaves.

To Nikaia his bride, during their brief honeymoon, he had explained the arrival of the Molossian Queen by saying she was in flight from her mother, who had usurped her power and threatened her life; a daughter of Antipatros’ would believe anything of Olympias. After some ceremonious festivities suited to her rank, he had despatched the lady to an estate of his nearby, on the grounds that war continued and he would soon be taking the field. Returning to Sardis, he resumed his courtship of Kleopatra. His visits and costly gifts had all the conventions of betrothal.

Kleopatra had enjoyed her journey; the family restlessness had not passed her by. The sight of new horizons had consoled her even for leaving her son behind. His grandmother would treat him like a son of her own whom she could train for kingship. When she herself was married and living in Macedon, she could see him often.

She had assessed Perdikkas more as a colleague than a husband. He was a dominating man, and she had sounded him for signs that he would overrule and bully her. It seemed, however, he had the sense to know that without her support he could neither get nor keep the regency. Later, depending on how he behaved, she might help him to the throne. He would be a hard king; but after Antipatros a soft one would be despised.

With a certain detachment, she imagined him in bed with her, but doubted it would be of much importance to either of them once she had produced an heir. Clearly, it would be more valuable and more lasting to make a friend of him than a lover; this she was already doing with some success.

On this day of early spring he was to take the midday meal with her. Both preferred the informality of noon and the chance of undisturbed talk. The single dish would be good; he had found her a Karian cook. She studied his tastes against the time when they would be married. She did not mean to deal hardly with Antipatros’ poor plain little girl, as her mother had done with rivals; Nikaia could go back safe to her family. The Persian wife from Susa had done so long ago.

He arrived on foot from his quarters at the other end of the rambling palace, whose buildings clambered about the rock. He had dressed for her with a jeweled shoulder-brooch and a splendid arm-ring clasped with gold gryphon heads. His sword-belt was set with plaques of Persian cloisonné. Yes, she thought, he would make a convincing king.

He liked to talk of his wars under Alexander, and she to listen; only fragmented news had reached Epiros, and he had seen the whole. But before they had reached the wine, her eunuch chamberlain coughed at the door. A despatch had arrived for His Excellency’s urgent attention.

“From Eumenes,” he said as he broke the seal. He spoke rather too easily, aware that Eumenes called nothing urgent without good cause.

As he read, she saw his weathered tan go sallow, and sent out the slave who was serving them. Like most men of his time, he sounded the words he read (it was thought remarkable in Alexander to have suppressed this reflex); but his jaw had set; she heard only an angry mutter. Seeing his face at the end, she guessed that he would look like this in war. “What is it?” she said.

“Antigonos has fled to Greece.”

Antigonos … while he stared before him, she remembered that this was the Satrap of Phrygia, nicknamed One-Eye. “Was he not under arrest for treason? I suppose he was afraid.”

He gave a snort like a horse’s. “He, afraid? He has gone to betray me to Antipatros.”

She saw that he wanted only to be thinking ahead; but there was more here than she had been told, and she had a right to know. “What was the treason? Why was he being held?”

He answered savagely, “To stop his mouth. I found out that he knew.”

She took this in without trouble; she was not a daughter of Macedon for nothing. My father, she thought, would not have done it; nor Alexander. In the old days … must we go back to that? She only said, “How did he come to know?”

“Ask the rats in the wall. He was the last man I’d have confided in. He was always close with Antipatros. He must have smelled something and sent a spy. It’s all one now, the harm’s done.”

She nodded; there was no need to spell it out. They must be married with royal ceremony before attempting Macedon. There was no time now; Antipatros would be marching north from Aitolia the moment he got the news. A scrambled wedding would bring them nothing but scandal. She thought, This will mean war.

He swung himself down from his dining-couch and began to stride the room; she had a stray thought that they might as well be married already. Wheeling round, he said, “And I still have to deal with those accursed women.”

“What women?” She let her voice sharpen; he was keeping too much, lately, to himself. “You’ve said nothing of women; who are they?”

He made a sound, compounded of impatience and embarrassment. “No. It was hardly fitting; but I should have told you. Philip, your brother ♥”

“Pray, don’t call that wittol my brother!” She had never shared Alexander’s tolerance of Philinna’s son. Her only passage of arms with Perdikkas had taken place when he had wanted to install the King in the palace, as became his rank. “If he comes, I go.” He had seen in her face a flash of Alexander’s will. Philip had stayed in the royal tent; he was used to it, and had no thought of any other arrangement. “What has he to do with women, in God’s name?”

“Alexander betrothed him to Adeia, your cousin Amyntas’ daughter. He even granted her the royal name of Eurydike, which she’s made a point of using. I don’t know what he meant by it. Shortly before he died, Philip took a turn for the better. Alexander seemed pleased. You’d not know, it’s too long since you saw either of them. Alexander took him along in the first place to keep him safe out of the way, in case someone should use him in Macedon. Also, as he told me one night when he was drunk, because Olympias might have killed him if he was left behind. But he got a kind of fondness for him, after taking care of him all those years. He was glad to see him looking more like a man, and let him be seen with him, helping at the sacrifices and so on. Half the army saw it, that’s why we’ve the trouble we have today. But there were no plans for any wedding. If he’d not fallen ill, he’d have marched to Arabia within the month. In the end, I expect, the marriage would have been by proxy.”

“He never told me!” For a moment her face was an injured child’s; a long story was there, if Perdikkas had cared to read it.

“That was on account of your mother. He was afraid, if she knew, she’d do the girl an injury.”

“I see,” said Olympias’ daughter, without surprise. “But he should never have done it. Of course we must free her now, poor child.” He did not answer. In a new voice of authority, she said, “Perdikkas, these are my kin. It is for me to say.”

“Madam, I know.” He spoke with studied respect; he could well afford it. “But you have misunderstood. Antipatros canceled the contract with my agreement, some months ago. In his absence, without his leave, her mother Kynna has brought the girl to Asia. They are demanding that the marriage shall proceed.”

His exasperation spoke for his truth. “Shameless!” she cried. “There you see the barbarian blood!” It might almost have been Olympias speaking.

“Indeed. They are true Illyrians. I hear that they traveled as far as Abdera dressed as men, and carrying arms.”

“What will you do with them? I can have no dealings with such creatures.”

“They will be dealt with. I have no time; I must meet with Eumenes, before Antipatros crosses to Asia. Krateros will be sure to join him, which is much worse. The men love Krateros … My brother will have to meet them, and keep them from making mischief.”

Presently he left to make his dispositions. One of these was to send to Ephesos, summoning Roxane and her child. He had known better than to quarter the Bactrian on the daughter of Philip and Olympias; besides, if she knew of their plans she would probably have him poisoned. But now it was time to move, and she must follow the army. At least, he thought, she was used to that.

On the high road to the Syrian coast, flashing in the sun and ringing all its bells, the bier of Alexander trundled towards Issos. The sixty-four mules drew it, four yoke-poles hitching each four teams of four. The mules wore gold wreaths, and little gold bells on their cheeks. Their tinkling, and the deep clear chime of the bells upon the bier, mingled with the shouts of the muleteers.

In the shrine, between the gold columns and the shimmering golden nets, the sarcophagos lay draped with its purple pall. On it was displayed Alexander’s panoply of arms, his helmet of white iron, his jeweled sword-belt, his sword and shield and greaves. The cuirass was the parade one; the one he had used in battle was too worn and hacked to match the splendors around.

When the iron-bound felloes of the gold-sheathed wheels jolted on rough ground, the bier only swayed gently; there were hidden springs above the axles. Alexander would come whole to his tomb. Veterans in the escort said to each other that if he had been anywhere near as careful of his body while he was alive, he would be with them yet.

All along the road sightseers stood in expectant clusters, awaiting the sound of the distant bells. The fame of the bier had far outstripped its progress. Peasants had walked a day from mountain hamlets, and slept in the open to await it; riders on horses or mules or asses kept along by it for miles, unwilling to relinquish it. Boys ran themselves to a standstill, dropping like spent dogs when the escort struck camp at night, creeping to the cook-fires to beg a crust, and listening half in dreams to the soldiers’ tales.

At each town on the way, sacrifices were offered to the deified Alexander; the local bard would extol his deeds, inventing marvels when his store of history failed. Arybbas presided calmly over these solemnities. He had had Ptolemy’s letter, and knew what he would do.

Save for his one visit to Arybbas’ tent, Bagoas made himself imperceptible. By day he rode among the changing sightseers; at night he slept among the Persian soldiers who formed the rear guard. They all knew who he was, and no one troubled him. He was keeping-faith with his lord, as a true follower of Mithra ought. They respected his pious pilgrimage, and thought no more of it.

Kynna and her daughter had traveled as armed men, sleeping in their baggage-cart with their retainers in the open round them, till they could take ship from Abdera. There the people were Greek, there was plenty of merchant shipping, and the only question asked was whether they could pay. Kynna, who could deceive no one at close quarters, resumed female dress; Eurydike traveled as her son.

The ship carried hides on deck; the retainers found them a grateful bed at night, but their smell made Eurydike sick at the first flurry of wind. At last, they sailed into the green sheltering arms of the long gulf of Smyrna. From now on, their progress must be very different.

Smyrna consisted of ancient ruins, an old village, and a brand-new town refounded by Alexander, whom the harbor had impressed. The traffic had grown with his conquests, and it was now a busy port. Here they would be seen and spoken of; though Babylon was still far off, they must think about appearances. The old man who acted as their major-domo—he remembered Amyntas’ father—went before them to seek good lodgings, and hire transport for the long journey overland.

He returned with startling news. The journey to the east was not required of them. Perdikkas, and King Philip with him, were no further off than Sardis, some fifty miles.

They felt a shock, as people do when a distant crisis leaps up close; then told each other that luck was speeding them. Eurydike went ashore with a long cloak over her tunic, and, in the lodging, assumed himation and robe.

They must travel at once with public consequence, a king’s betrothed traveling to her bridal. They should of course have been met at the port by a kinsman or friend of the groom; but the greater their state, the less they would be questioned. They could afford lavishness for so short a journey; Amyntas’ estates had never been confiscated, their quiet life had not been due to poverty.

When, two days later, they set out, their train was an imposing one. Thoas the major-domo, who had purchased them maids and porters, reported that according to people here they should have a eunuch chamberlain. Kynna, much outraged, replied that they were Greek, as was her daughter’s bridegroom, and they had not crossed to Asia to adopt the disgusting customs of the barbarians. Alexander, she had heard, had been given too much that way.

The faithful Thoas, transacting all this business, made no secret of his ladies’ rank, or of their purpose. It was no spy, but the eternal gossip of travelers on the road, that ran ahead of them with the news to Sardis.

The field of Issos still yielded up old weapons and old bones. Here, where Darius had first fled from Alexander’s spear leaving mother and wife and children to await the victor, two armies sacrificed a milk-white bull before the golden bier. Ptolemy and Arybbas poured incense side by side. The escort had been much moved by Ptolemy’s address, affirming the divine hero’s wish that his body return to his father Ammon.

Each of Arybbas’ men had been given a hundred drachmas, a bounty worthy even of Alexander. Arybbas himself had received, in private, a talent of silver, and in public the rank of general in the Satrap’s army, whither all his Macedonian troops had agreed to follow him. There was a feast at night in Alexander’s honor; a whole spit-roast sheep and an amphora of wine to each campfire. Next morning, satrap and general riding either side the bier, the funeral cortege turned south towards the Nile.

Bagoas, whose name had been proclaimed in no citation, followed behind the rear guard. The other Persians had gone home; but the troops from Egypt made the column a very long one, and he was far, now, from the bier. When he topped a rise, he could just see its glittering crest. But he rode contented. His task was done, his god was served; and there would still be his fame to tend in his chosen city. A Greek might have seen in him the serenity of the initiate, fresh from a celebration of his mystery.

Kynna’s caravan was within a day’s journey from Sardis. They were not hurrying; they meant to arrive there next morning before the heat began. Its fame had reached even Macedon for wealth and luxury; the bride of a king must not be outshone by his subjects. Overnight they would prepare their entry.

Along the road, the stony heights were topped with old forts, newly repaired by Alexander to command the passes. They passed rock-slabs carved with symbols, and inscriptions in unknown writing. The travelers who passed them making for the port were all barbarians, strange to sight and smell; Phoenicians with blue-dyed beards, Karians with heavy earrings dragging down their lobes; a train of Negro carriers bare to the waist, their blackness strange and terrible to a northern eye used only to the red-haired slaves from Thrace; sometimes a trousered Persian, the legendary ogre of Greek children, with embroidered hat and curved sword.

To Eurydike all was adventure and delight. She thought with envy of world-wandering Alexander and his men. Kynna, beside her under the striped awning, kept a cheerful countenance, but felt her spirits flag. The alien speech of the passers-by, the inscrutable monuments, the unknown landscape, the vanishing of all she had pictured in advance, were draining her of certainty. Those black-veiled women, carrying burdens beside the donkeys their menfolk rode, if they knew her purpose would think her mad. The two-wheeled cart jolted over stones, her head was aching. She had known that the world was vast, that Alexander in ten years had never reached the end of it; but at home in her native hills it had no meaning. Now, on the mere threshold of the illimitable east, she felt like a desolation its indifferent strangeness.

Eurydike, who had been admiring the defenses of the forts and pointing out their chain of beacons, said, “Is it true, do you think, that Sardis is three times as big as Pella?”

“I daresay. Pella is only two generations old; Sardis ten maybe, or even more.” The thought oppressed her. She looked at the girl in her careless confidence, and thought, I brought her here from home, where she could have lived out her life in quiet. She has no one but me to turn to. Well, I am healthy and still young.

Night would soon fall. An outrider brought news that they were within ten miles of Sardis. Soon they must find a camping-place. A rocky turn shut off the westering sun, and the road grew dusky. The slope above them, dark against a reddening sky, was scattered with great boulders. Somewhere among them a man’s voice called, “Now!”

Stones and shale fell rattling on the road, dislodged by scrambling men. Thoas at the escort’s head shouted out, “Ware thieves!”

The men reached the road, thirty or forty or them, on foot, with spears. Among them the escort looked what it was, a troop of willing, confused old men. Those who had ever fought had done it in Philip’s wars. But they were true Macedonians, with the archaic virtues of the liegeman. They shouted defiance, and thrust at the bandits with their spears.

The squeal of a wounded horse echoed against the rocks. Old Thoas fell with his mount; a huddle of men closed stabbing over him.

There was a high shout, a wordless “Hi-yi!” of challenge. Kynna leaped down from the cart, Eurydike beside her. Their spears had been at hand; with practiced speed they had kilted their skirts into their girdles. With their backs to the cart, which rocked with the shifting of the frightened mules, they stood to face the enemy.

Eurydike felt a shiver of exultation. Here at last was war, real war. Though she could guess the consequence of defeat if they were taken alive, it was mainly a good reason for fighting well. A man reached out at her, fair-skinned, with a week’s red stubble on his chin. He had on a hide cuirass, so she went for his arm. The spear sunk in; he leaped back crying out, “You hell-cat!” grasping the wound. She laughed at him; then realized with a sudden shock that here, in Lydia, a bandit had spoken Macedonian.

One of the lead mules, hurt by a spear, suddenly squealed and leaped forward. The whole team bolted, the cart bucking and bouncing behind. It struck her, but she just kept her feet. There was a cry beside her. Kynna had fallen; she had been braced against the cart when it moved off. A soldier was leaning over her with a spear.

A man came forward with upheld hand. The men around her withdrew. It grew quiet, except for the struggling mules which had been pulled up by the soldiers, and the groans of three of the escort on the ground. The rest had been overpowered, save for old Thoas, who was dead.

Kynna moaned; the almost animal sound of a warmblooded creature struggling in pain to breathe. Her breast was stained with red.

Eurydike’s first impulse was to run to her, take her in her arms, entreat the bandits for mercy. But Kynna had trained her well. This too was war; there would be no mercy for asking, only for winning. She looked at the chief who had been at once obeyed, a tall dark man with a lean cold face. Knowledge was instant: not bandits, soldiers.

Kynna groaned again; the sound was fainter now. Pity and rage and grief lit like one flame in Eurydike, as they did in Achilles, shouting for dead Patroklos on the wall. She leaped to her mother’s body and stood across it.

“You traitors! Are you men of Macedon? This is Kynna, King Philip’s daughter, the sister of Alexander.”

There was a startled pause. The men all turned towards the officer. He looked angry and disconcerted. He had not told them.

A thought came to her. She spoke this time in the language of the soldiers, the peasant dialect of the countryside she had known before she was taught court Greek. “I am Philip’s grandchild, look at me! I am Amyntas’ daughter, the grandchild of King Philip and King Perdikkas.” She pointed at the lowering officer. “Ask him. He knows!”

The oldest soldier, a man in his fifties, walked across to him. “Alketas.” He used the name without honorific, as a freeman of Macedon could do to kings. “Is what she says true?”

“No! Obey your orders.”

The soldier looked from him to the girl, and from her to the other men. “I reckon it’s true,” he said.

The men drew together; one of them said, “They’re no Sarmatians, like he said. They’re as Macedonian as I am.”

“My mother …” Eurydike looked down. Kynna stirred, but blood was running from her mouth. “She brought me here from Macedon. I am betrothed to Philip, your King, the brother of Alexander.”

Kynna stirred. She rose a little on one arm. Chokingly she said, “It is true. I swear by …” She coughed. A rush of blood came out, and she fell back. Eurydike dropped her spear and knelt beside her. Her eyes fixed, showing the whites.

The old soldier who had faced Alketas came over and stood before her, confronting the rest. “Let them alone!” he said. Another and another joined him; the rest leaned on their spears in a confused and sullen shame. Eurydike flung herself on her mother’s body and wept aloud.

Presently, through the sound of her own crying, she heard voices raised. It was the sound of mutiny. Had she known, it was one with which Macedonian generals were growing over-familiar. Ptolemy had confided to close friends in Egypt that he was glad to hand-pick his men, and be rid of the standing army. It put one in mind of Alexander’s old horse Boukephalas, liable to kick anyone else who tried to mount him. Like the horse, it had been too long used to a rider with clever hands.

More urgently now, Eurydike thought of throwing herself upon their mercy, begging them to burn her mother’s body decently, give her the ashes to bury in the homeland, and take her back to the sea. But, as she wiped the blood from Kynna’s face, she knew it for the face of a warrior steadfast to the death. Her shade must not find that she had borne a coward.

Under her hand was the gold pendant her mother always wore. It was bloodstained, but she slipped it over the lifeless head, and stood erect

“See. Here is my grandfather King Philip’s likeness. He gave it to my grandmother Audata on her wedding day, and she to my mother when she married Amyntas, King Perdikkas’ son. Look for yourself.”

She put it in the veteran’s cracked horny hand; they crowded round him, poring over the gold roundel with the square-boned, bearded profile. “Aye, Philip it is,” the veteran said. “I saw him many a time.” He rubbed it clean on a fold of his homespun kilt and gave it back to her. “You should take care of that,” he said.

He spoke as if to a young niece; and it struck a chord in all of them. She was their foundling, the orphan of their rescue and adoption. They would take her to Sardis, they told Alketas; she had Philip’s blood in her as any fool could see; and if Alexander had promised her his brother, wed they should be, or the army would know why.

“Very well,” said Alketas. He knew by now that discipline hung by a thread, and maybe his life. “Then get the road cleared, and look alive.”

With rough competence the soldiers laid Kynna out in the cart, and covered her with a blanket; brought their own transport-cart for the dead and wounded guards; picked up the baggage which the porters had dropped when with the maids they fled to the hills. They settled the cushions for Eurydike, to ride beside her dead.

One of them rode off willingly with Alketas’ despatch to his brother Perdikkas. On his way would be the main camp of Perdikkas’ and Eumenes’ armies, where he could spread the news.

So, when the last turn of the road showed her the red-rock citadel with the city around its feet, it showed her also a great throng of soldiers, crowding the road, and parting to make an avenue of honor, as if for a king.

As she came they cheered her. Close to her by the road she heard gruff murmurs: “Poor maid.” “Forgive them, lady, he told them wrong.” The strangeness, the dreamlike consummation of their long intent, made her mother’s death dreamlike too, though she could have reached out and touched the body.

From her high window, Kleopatra looked down with Perdikkas, fuming, beside her. She saw his impotence, and struck her hand in anger on the sill. “You are permitting this?”

“No choice. If I arrest her, we shall have a mutiny. Now of all times … They know that she’s Philip’s grandchild.”

“And a traitor’s daughter! Her father plotted my father’s murder. Will you let her marry his son?”

“Not if I can help it.” The cart was coming nearer. He tried to descry the face of Amyntas’ daughter, but it was too far. He must go down and make some gesture which would preserve his dignity and, with luck, gain time. Just then new movement below, from a new direction, caught his eye. He leaned out, stared, and, cursing, swung back into the room.

“What is it?” His rage and dismay had startled her.

“Hades take them! They are bringing Philip out to her.”

“What? How can—”

“They know where his tent is. You wouldn’t have him here. I must go.” He flung out, without even the curtest apology. For a very little, she thought, he would have cursed her, too.

Down below in the thick outer walls the huge gates stood wide. The cart halted. A group of soldiers, pulling something, came running out of the gateway.

“Lady, if you’ll please to step down, we’ve something here more fit for you.”

It was an old and splendid chariot, its front and sides plated with silver gryphons and gold lions. Lined with tooled red leather, it had been built for Kroisos, that legend for uncounted riches, the last Lydian King. Alexander had made a progress in it, to impress the people.

This moving throne made her sense of dream grow deeper. She came to herself to say that she could not leave her mother’s body untended.

“She’ll be watched with, lady, like she ought, we’ve seen to that.” Worn black-clad women came forward with eager pride; veterans’ wives, looking from work and weather old enough to be their mothers. A soldier approached to hand Eurydike down. At the last moment Alketas, making a virtue of necessity, came up to do the office. For a moment she flinched; but that was not the way to take an enemy’s surrender. She inclined her head graciously and took his offered arm. A team of soldiers grasped the chariot-pole, and pulled it forward. She sat like a king on Kroisos’ chair.

Suddenly, the sound of the cheering altered. She heard the ancient Macedonian cries: “Io Hymen! Euoi! Joy to the bride! Hail to the groom!”

The groom was coming towards her.

Her heart gave a lurch. This part of the dream had been blurred.

The man came riding, on a beautiful, slow-pacing dapple-grey. A grizzled old soldier led it by the rein. The face of the bearded rider was not unlike the one on the gold medallion. He was looking about him, blinking a little. The old soldier pointed towards her. When he looked straight at her, she saw that he was frightened, scared to death. Among all she had thought of, so far as she had allowed herself to think at all, she had not thought of this.

Urged by the soldiers, he dismounted and walked up to the chariot, his blue eyes, filled with the liveliest apprehension, fixed on her face. She smiled at him.

“How are you, Arridaios? I am your cousin Eurydike, your uncle Amyntas’ daughter. I have just come from home. Alexander sent for me.”

The soldiers all around murmured approval, admiring her quick address, and cried, “Long live the King.”

Philip’s face had brightened at the sound of his old name. When he was Arridaios he had had no duties, no bullying rehearsals with impatient men. Alexander had never bullied, only made one pleased to get things right. This girl reminded him, somehow, of Alexander. Cautiously, less frightened now, he said, “Are you going to marry me?”

A soldier burst into a guffaw, but was manhandled by indignant comrades. The rest listened eagerly to the scene.

“If you would like it, Arridaios. Alexander wanted us to marry.”

He bit his lip in a crisis of irresolution. Suddenly he turned to the old soldier who led his horse. “Shall I marry her, Konon? Did Alexander tell me to?”

One or two soldiers clapped hands over their mouths. In the muttering pause, she was aware of the old servant subjecting her to a searching scrutiny. She recognized a resolute protector. Ignoring the voices, some of them growing ribald, which were urging the King to speak up for the girl before she changed her mind, she looked straight at Konon, and said, “I will be kind to him.”

The wariness in his faded eyes relaxed. He gave her a little nod, and turned to Philip, still eyeing him anxiously. “Yes, sir. This is the lady you’re betrothed to, the maid Alexander chose for you. She’s a fine, brave lady. Reach out your hand to her, and ask her nicely to be your wife.”

Eurydike took the obedient hand. Large, warm and soft, it clung to hers appealingly. She gave it a reassuring pressure.

“Please, Cousin Eurydike, will you marry me? The soldiers’ want you to.”

Keeping his hand, she said, “Yes, Arridaios. Yes, King Philip, I will.”

The cheers began in earnest. Soldiers who were wearing their broad-brimmed hats flung them into the air. The cries of “Hymen!” redoubled. They were trying to coax Philip into the chariot beside her, when Perdikkas, red and panting from his race down the steep and winding steps of the ancient city, arrived upon the scene.

Alketas met him, speaking with his eyes. Both knew too well the mood in which Macedonians grew dangerous. They had seen it in the time of Alexander, who had dealt with it at Opis by leaping from his dais and arresting the ringleaders with his bare hands. But such things had been Alexander’s mystery; anyone else would have been lynched. Alketas met with a shrug of the shoulders his brother’s furious stare.

Eurydike in the chariot guessed at once who Perdikkas was. For a moment she felt like a child before a formidable adult. But she stood her ground, sustained by strengths she was largely unaware of. She knew she was the grandchild of Philip and King Perdikkas, greatgrandchild of Illyrian Bardelys, the old terror of the border; but she did not know they had bequeathed her more than pride in them; she had some of their nature, too. Her sequestered youth, fed upon legends, let her see in her situation nothing absurd or obscene. All she knew was that these men who had cheered her should not see her afraid.

Philip had been standing with one hand upon the chariot, arguing with the men who had been trying to hoist him into it. Now he grabbed her arm.

“Look out!” he said. “Here comes Perdikkas.”

She put her hand over his. “Yes, I see him. Come up here, and stand by me.”

He scrambled up; encouraging soldiers steadied the chariot as his weight rocked it. Grasping the rail, he stood rigid with scared defiance; she rose to her feet beside him, summoning her nerve. Briefly, they presented an uncanny semblance of a triumphant pair, remote in pride and power. Tauntingly, the soldiers flung at Perdikkas the marriage-cry.

He reached the chariot; there was a moment of held breath. Then he raised his hand in salute.

“Greeting, King. Greeting, daughter of Amyntas. I am glad that the King has been prompt to welcome you.”

“The soldiers made me,” mumbled Philip anxiously. Eurydike’s clear voice cut in: “The King has been very gracious.”

Philip gazed anxiously at these two protagonists. No vengeance from Perdikkas happened. The soldiers were pleased, too. He gave a conniving grin. Hiding with care her almost incredulous amazement, Eurydike knew that, for the present, she had won.

“Perdikkas,” she said, “the King has asked for my hand with the goodwill of the Macedonians. But my mother, the sister of Alexander, is lying here murdered, as you know. First of all I must have leave to direct her funeral.”

Loud, respectful sounds of approval greeted this. Perdikkas agreed with as good a grace as he could. Scanning the sullen faces, thinking of Antipatros’ forces making for the Hellespont, He added that the death of her noble mother had been a shocking error, due to ignorance and to the valor of her defense. The matter would of course be searched to the bottom shortly.

Eurydike bowed her head, aware that she would never know what Alketas’ orders had really been. Kynna would at least meet the flame with all the honors of war; one day her ashes must return to Aigai. Meantime, her funeral offerings must be courage and resolve. As for her blood-price, that would be with the gods.

The funeral was barely over, when news reached Perdikkas that Alexander’s bier was proceeding in state to Egypt.

It struck him like a thunderbolt. All his plans had been directed against the threat from the north, the outraged father-in-law to whom he had already despatched Nikaia. Now, from the south, came a clear declaration of war.

Eumenes was still in Sardis, summoned when danger came from the north alone. It had come, as they both knew, from neglect of his advice to marry Kleopatra openly, to send Nikaia still virgin home, and advance at once on Macedon. This was not spoken of. Like Kassandra, Eumenes was fated never to reap much good from being right. A Greek among Macedonians had no business to know best. He refrained, therefore, from pointing out that Perdikkas could now have been Regent of Macedon with a royal bride, a power against which Ptolemy could have attempted nothing; and merely voiced a doubt that he was planning war.

“All he has done so far in Egypt has been to dig in and make himself snug. He’s ambitious, yes; but what are his ambitions? It was a fine piece of insolence to steal the body; but even that may be only to glorify Alexandria. Will he trouble us if he’s let alone?”

“He’s already annexed Kyrene. And he’s raising a bigger army than he needs.”

“How does he know? If you march against him he’ll need it.”

Perdikkas said with sudden venom, “I hate the man.”

Eumenes offered no comment. He remembered Ptolemy as a gangling youth, hoisting the child Alexander up on his horse for a ride. Perdikkas had been a friend of the King’s manhood, but it had never been quite the same. Alexander promoted on merit—even Hephaistion had started at the bottom—and Perdikkas had outstripped Ptolemy in the end. But it was Ptolemy who had suited Alexander like a well-worn, comfortable shoe; the trusted Perdikkas had never quite matched that ease. Ptolemy, by instinct and from watching Alexander, had a way with men; he knew when to relax discipline as well as when to tighten it; when to give, when to listen, when to laugh. Perdikkas felt the absence of that sixth sense as a man might feel short sight; and envy ate at him.

“He’s like a vicious dog, that eats the flock it should be guarding. If he’s not whipped back, the rest will be at it too.”

“Maybe; but not yet. Antipatros and Krateros will be marching now.”

Perdikkas’ dark jaw set stubbornly. He has changed, thought Eumenes, since Alexander died. His desires have changed. They grow hubristic, and he knows it. Alexander contained us all.

Perdikkas said, “No, Ptolemy can’t wait. That asp of Egypt must be stepped upon in the egg.”

“Then we divide the army?” His voice was neutral; a Greek among Macedonians had said enough.

“Needs must. You shall go north, and refuse Antipatros the Hellespont. I will settle with Ptolemy, and settle for good … But before we march, we must have this accursed wedding. The men won’t move else. I know them too well.”

Later that day, Perdikkas spent an hour reasoning with Kleopatra. In the end, with flattery, cold logic, appeal, and as much charm as he could conjure, he persuaded her to act as Eurydike’s matron of honor. The troops were set on the marriage; it must be done with a good grace. Any grudging would be remembered against them both, which they could not afford.

“The girl was a child at nurse,” he said, “when they murdered Philip. I doubt even Amyntas was more than on the fringe of it. I was there when he was tried.”

“Yes, I daresay. But it is all disgusting. Has she no shame at all? Well, you have dangers enough without my making more for you. If Alexander was willing to give it countenance, I suppose I can do the same.”

Eumenes did not await the feast. He marched at once to meet the forces of Antipatros and Krateros (another of his sons-in-law); leading the Macedonians with their loose and dubious loyalty to the alien Greek. For Eumenes, that was an old story. Perdikkas, whose business was less urgent, stayed on another week to give his troops their show.

Two days before the wedding, a flustered maid announced to Eurydike in her inner room—built for the chief wife of old Kroisos—that the Queen of the Epirotes had come to visit her.

Kleopatra arrived in state. Olympias had not stinted her since she left home; meanness had never been one of her sins. Her daughter came dressed like a queen, and with queenly gifts: a broad gold necklace, a roll of Karian embroidery stitched with lapis and gold. For a moment, Eurydike was overwhelmed. But Kynna had trained her in manners as well as war; she achieved a kind of naive dignity which moved Kleopatra against her will. She remembered her own wedding, to an uncle old enough to be her father, at seventeen.

The compliments paid, the formal sweet cakes tasted, she went dutifully over the wedding ritual. It was a dry business, since there could be no question of the sly feminine jokes traditional at such a conference. Careful correctness resulted. Kleopatra’s sense of duty nagged at her. This grave guarded girl, left alone in the world at fifteen; what did she know? Kleopatra smoothed her gown over her knees, and looked up from her ringed fingers.

“When you met the King”—how allude to so disgraceful an occasion?—“did you have time to talk with him? Perhaps you saw he is a little young for his years?”

Eurydike’s straight eyes met hers, deciding that she meant well and must be answered civilly. “Yes. Alexander told my mother so; and I see it is so.”

This was promising. “Then, when you are married, what do you mean to do? Perdikkas would give you an escort to your kin in Macedon.”

Eurydike thought, It is not quite a command, because it cannot be one. She answered quietly, “The King has a right that I should be his friend, if he needs a friend. I will stay for a while and see.”

Next day, such ladies of standing as Sardis could supply—wives of senior officers and administrators, with a few timid ornate Lydians—paid their respects. Later, in the quiet afternoon, sacred since Kroisos’ day to the siesta, came a different caller. A twittering maid announced a messenger from the household of the bridegroom.

Old Konon, when shown in, eyed the attendants meaningly. She sent them out, and asked what message he brought.

“Well, madam … to wish you health and joy, and God speed the happy day.” Delivered of this set speech, he swallowed audibly. What could be coming? Eurydike, dreading the unknown, looked withdrawn and sullen. Konon, his nervousness increased, marshaled his words. “Madam, he’s taken a real liking to you, that’s sure. He’s forever talking of Cousin Eurydike, and setting out his pretty things to show you … But, madam, I’ve cared for him man and boy, and I know his ways, which he sets store by, seeing he was ill-used before I came. If you please, madam, don’t turn me off. You’ll not find me taking liberties or putting myself forward. If you’ll just keep me on trial, to see if I suit; I won’t ask more.”

So that was all! In her relief she could have embraced him; but of course one must not show it. “Did I not see you with the King? Your name is Konon, is it not? Yes, you will be welcome to stay on. Please tell the King so, if he should ask.”

“He’s never thought to ask, madam. It would have put him in a terrible taking.” They eyed each other, a little relaxed, still cautious. Konon was reaching for words, even for the little that could be said at all. “Madam, he’s not used to big feasts, not without Alexander giving him the lead and seeing him through it. I daresay they told you, he has a bad turn sometimes. Don’t be afraid, if you just leave him to me, he’ll soon be right again.”

Eurydike said she would. Echoing silence engulfed them. Konon swallowed again. The poor girl would give anything to know what he didn’t know how to tell her—her groom had no notion that the act of sex could be performed with a second party. At length, turning crimson, he managed, “Madam, he thinks the world of you. But he’ll not trouble you. It wouldn’t be his way.”

She was not too naive to understand him. With as much dignity as she could summon, she said, “Thank you, Konon. I am sure the King and I will agree together, You have leave to go.”

Philip woke early on his wedding morning. Konon had promised that he could wear the purple robe with the great red star. Besides, he was going to be married to Cousin Eurydike. She would be allowed to stay with him, and he could see her whenever he liked. Perdikkas himself had said so.

That morning, the bath-water came in a big silver ewer, carried by two well-dressed young men who stayed to pour it over him, wishing him good luck. This, Konon explained, was because he was a bridegroom. He saw the young men exchange a grin across him; but such things often happened.

A good many people were singing and laughing outside the door. He was no longer in his familiar tent, but had a room in the palace; he did not mind, he had been allowed to bring all his stones. Konon explained that there was no room in the tent for a lady, while here she could stay next door.

The young men helped him put on the beautiful robe; then he was taken by Perdikkas to sacrifice at the little temple of Zeus at the top of the hill. Alexander had built it there, where fire had fallen from heaven. Perdikkas told him when to throw incense on the burning meat, and what to say to the god. He got everything right, and the people sang for him; but nobody praised him afterwards, as Alexander used to do.

Perdikkas, indeed, had had trouble enough to plan a convincing ceremony. Thanks to Alketas, the bride had no family to give the marriage feast. He was grateful to Kleopatra for consenting to hold the torch of welcome in the bridal chamber. But what mattered most, because the troops would see it, was the wedding procession.

Then, to compound his troubles, at midday two forerunners announced the approach of the lady Roxane. Since this affair, he had entirely forgotten having sent for her, and had not even asked her to the wedding.

Lodgings were hastily prepared; her closed litter was carried up through the city. The Sardians crowded to see; the soldiers gave a few restrained greetings. They had never approved of Alexander’s foreign marriages; but now he was dead, a kind of aura clung to her. Besides, she was the mother of his son. The child was with her. A Macedonian queen would have held him up for them to see; but Bactrian ladies did not show themselves in public. The child was teething and fretful, and could be heard whimpering as the litter passed.

Dressed in his wedding robe, and putting a good face on it, Perdikkas greeted her and invited her to the feast; prepared, he said, at short notice owing to the imminence of war.

“You told me nothing of it!” she said angrily. “Who is this peasant girl you have found for him? If the King is to marry, he should have married me.”

“Among Macedonians,” said Perdikkas frostily, “a dead king’s heir does not inherit his harem. And the lady is granddaughter to two kings.”

A crisis of precedence new arose. Alexander and his officers had married their foreign wives by the local rites; Roxane, ignorant of Macedonian custom, could not be brought to see that Kleopatra was taking a mother’s place and could not be removed from it. “But I,” she cried, “am the mother of Alexander’s son!”

“So,” said Perdikkas, very nearly shouting, “you are the kinswoman of the bridegroom. I will send someone to explain the rite to you. See to it that your part is properly done, if you want your son accepted by the soldiers. Don’t forget they have the right to disinherit him.”

This sobered her. He had changed, she thought; grown colder, harsher, more overbearing. He had not forgiven Stateira’s death, it seemed. She was unaware that others had noticed a change as well.

Philip had looked forward all day to the wedding ride. It did not disappoint him. Not since the time he rode an elephant had he enjoyed himself so much.

He wore the purple robe, and a gold diadem. Eurydike beside him had a yellow dress, and a yellow veil flung back from a wreath of gold flowers. He had thought they would have the car all to themselves, and had been displeased when Perdikkas got up on the other side. Eurydike was married to him, and Perdikkas could not marry her as well. Hastily people had explained that Perdikkas was best man; but it was Cousin Eurydike he listened to. Now he was married, he felt much less frightened of Perdikkas; he had been on the point of pushing him out of the car.

Drawn by white mules, they drove along the processional Sacred Way, which bent and turned to bring it downhill without stairs. It was adorned with old statues and shrines, Lydian, Persian, Greek. Flags and garlands were everywhere; as the sun sank they were starting to light the torches. People were standing and cheering all the way, climbing up on the house-roofs.

The tasseled, sequin-netted mules were led by soldiers wearing scarlet cloaks and wreaths. Behind and in front, musicians played Lydian airs on flutes and pipes, shook sistra with their little tinkling bells, and clanged great cymbals. Auspicious cries in mingled tongues rose like waves. The sunset glow faded, the torches came out like stars. Full of it all, Philip turned and said, “Are you happy, Cousin Eurydike?”

“Very happy.” Indeed, she had imagined nothing to compare with it. Unlike her groom, she had never before tasted the pomps of Asia. The music, the shouts of acclamation, elated her like wine. This was her element, and till now she had never known it. Not for nothing was she the daughter of Amyntas, a king’s son who, when a crown was offered him, could not forbear to reach for it. “And now,” she said, “you must not call me cousin any more. A wife is more important than a cousin.”

The wedding feast was set out in the great hall, with a dais for the women in their chairs of honor, a flower-decked throne for the bride. Her gifts and her dowry were displayed on stands around her. With wondering and distanced eyes, she saw again the jewels and cups and vases, the bolts of fine dyed wool, which Kynna had brought with cherishing care from Macedon. Only one piece was missing, the silver casket which now held her calcined bones.

Kleopatra led her to the King’s high table to take her piece of the bride-loaf, sliced with his sword. It was clear that he had never handled a sword before; but he hacked a piece off bravely, broke it in two when told, and, as she tasted hers—the central rite of the wedding—asked her if it was nice, because his own piece was not sweet enough.

Back on her dais, she listened to a hymn by a choir of maidens; Lydians mostly, mangling the words, a few Greek daughters trying hard to be heard. Then she became aware that the women round her were murmuring together, stirring with little fidgets of preparation. With a sudden clutch in her midriff, she knew that when the song ended, they would lead her to the nuptial chamber.

All through the ride, nearly all through the feast, she had overleaped this moment, throwing her mind ahead to next month, next year, or living in the present only.

“Have you had instruction?”

She looked round with a start. The voice, with a strong foreign accent, came from just beside her. Not till this morning had she met the widow of Alexander. She had bowed to a small jeweled woman, stiff with embroideries of gold and pearl, rubies like pigeons’ eggs hanging from her ears. Her surface had been so stunning that she had seemed hardly human, a kind of splendid adornment for the feast. Now, Eurydike met the gaze of two large black eyes, their whites brilliantly clear between eyelids dark with kohl, fixed on her in concentrated malice.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“So, truly? I had heard your mother was a man, as well as your father. To look at you, one might think so.”

Eurydike gazed back, fascinated as the prey by the predator. Roxane, bright as a little shrike, leaned out from her chair of honor. “If you know all you should, you will be able to teach your husband.” Her rubies flashed; the song, rising to its climax, did not cover her rising voice. “To Alexander he was like a dog under his table. He trained him to heel, then sent him back to the kennel. It is my son who is King.”

The song was over. Along the dais there were agitated rustlings.

Kleopatra rose to her feet, as she had seen Olympias do it. The others stood up with her. After a moment Roxane followed, staring defiantly. In the formal, studied Greek of her father’s court, looking down from her Macedonian height at the little Bactrian, she said, “Let us remember where we are. And who we are, if we can. Ladies, come. The torches. Io, Hymen! Joy to the bride!”

“Look!” said Philip to Perdikkas, who had the place of honor beside him. “Cousin Eurydike is going away!” He scrambled anxiously to his feet.

“Not now!” Grabbing him by his purple robe, Perdikkas thumped him back on his supper-couch. With savage geniality he added, “She is changing her dress. We will take you to see her presently.”

The guests in hearing, even the elegant young Lydian servers who had picked up a bit of Greek, made stifled noises. Perdikkas, lowering his voice, said, “Now listen to the speeches, and when they look at you, smile. We are going to drink your health.”

Philip pushed forward his wine-cup, an engraved gold Achaemenid treasure from the Persian occupation. Konon, standing behind his chair, got it quickly back from a too-zealous server, and filled it from a jug of watered wine, in the strength given to Greek children. He looked incongruous among the graceful Lydians and well-born Macedonian pages waiting at table.

Perdikkas rose to make the best man’s speech, recalling the groom’s heroic ancestry, the exploits of his grandfather whose name he had auspiciously assumed; the lineage of his mother, the noble lady of horse-loving Larissa. His compliments to the bride were adequate, though rather vague. Philip, who had been occupied in feeding someone’s curly white poodle which had been sitting under the table, looked up in time to acknowledge the cheers with an obedient grin.

A harmless person, a distant royal connection, responded for the bride, uttering bland platitudes about her beauty, virtue and high descent. Once more the health was given, and honored with ritual shouts. It was the time for serious drinking.

Goblets were emptied and briskly filled, faces reddened under tilting wreaths, voices grew louder. Captains still in their thirties argued and bragged about past wars and women; Alexander had died young with young men all about him. For the older men, a real Macedonian wedding brought back the feasts of their youth. Nostalgically, they roared out the time-honored phallic jokes remembered from their family bridals.

The noble pages had slipped out to get their share. Presently one said, “Poor fellow. Old Konon might let him have a mouthful he can taste, at his own wedding. It might put heart in him,” He and a friend came up behind Philip’s couch. “Konon, Ariston over there told me to say he pledges you.” Konon beamed, and looked about for his well-wisher; Perdikkas was talking to the guest on his other side. The second page filled up the royal cup with neat wine. Philip tasted his new drink, liked it, and tilted back his cup. By the time Konon noticed and angrily diluted it, he had had more than half.

Some of the men started to sing a skolion. It was not yet lewder than a wedding feast allowed, but Perdikkas pulled himself together. He had known all along that this could not be a long drinking-bout. A little time yet could be allowed for hospitality, but soon he must break it up. He stopped drinking, to keep alert.

Philip felt a surge of well-being, strength and gaiety. He banged the table in time with the skolion, singing loudly, “I’m married, married, married to Eurydike!” The white poodle pawed at his leg; he picked it up and put it on the table, where it ran about, scattering cups, fruit and flowers, till someone hurled it off, when it fled yelping. Everyone laughed; some men far gone in drink bawled ancient encouragements to first-night prowess.

Philip gazed at them with blurred eyes, in which lurked a dim anxiety and suspicion. His purple robe felt too hot, in the stew of torch-warmed humanity. He heaved at it, trying to take it off.

Perdikkas saw that it was high time. He called for a torch, and gave the signal to conduct the bridegroom.

Eurydike lay in the great perfumed bed, in her night-robe of fine mussel-silk, the brideswomen gathered round her. They talked among themselves; at first they had dutifully included her, but none of them knew her, and the wait for the men was always tedious; the more since coy jokes were barred. Mostly the floor was held by Roxane, who described the far more splendid ceremonies of Alexander’s day, and patronized Kleopatra.

Solitary in the little crowd, with its warm smell of female flesh, of the herbs and cedar-wood of clothes-chests, essence of orange and of rose, Eurydike heard the rising sounds of the men’s revelry. It was warm, but her feet felt icy cold in the linen sheets. They had slept in wool at home. The room was huge, it had been King Kroisos’ bedchamber; the walls were patterned in colored marbles, and the floor was porphyry. A Persian lamp-cluster of gilt lotuses hung over the bed, bathing her in light; would anyone put it out? She had an overpowering memory of Philip’s physical presence, his strong stocky limbs, his rather sweetish smell. The little she had eaten lay in her like lead. Supposing she was sick on the bed. If her mother were only here! The full sense of her loss came home to her; she felt, terrified, a surge of approaching tears. But if Kynna were here, she would be ashamed to see her cry in the presence of an enemy. She pulled in her stomach muscles, and forced back the first sob in silence.

Behind the matrons the bridesmaids clustered whispering. Their song sung, their small rite done of turning back the bride-bed and sprinkling it with perfume, they had nothing to do. Among a little set of sisters and cousins and friends, the tittering began; dying away if one of the great ladies looked round, rustling like a faint breeze in leaves. Eurydike heard it; she too had nothing to do. Then suddenly she knew that the sounds from the hall had altered. Supper-couches scraped along the floor, the slurred singing stopped. They were getting up.

Like a tense soldier released by the call to onset, she summoned up her courage. Soon all these people must go, and leave her alone to deal with him. She would talk to him, tell him stories. Old Konon had said he would not trouble her.

Roxane too had heard the sounds. She turned, clashing her intricate ruby earrings. “Joy to the bride!” she said.

Surrounded and pushed on by laughing, drunken, torch-bearing men, stumbling over his robe on the shallow stately stairs with their painted murals, Philip made his way towards the royal bedchamber.

His head swam, he sweated in his purple robe; he was angry about the dog being chased away. He was angry with Perdikkas for fetching him from the table, and with all the men for mocking him, as he knew they were; they had stopped even pretending. They were laughing at him because they knew he was scared. He had heard the jokes in the hall; there was something he was expected to do with Eurydike, so bad that one must not do it even by oneself, if anyone could see. He had been beaten long ago for being seen. Now, he believed—no one had thought to tell him otherwise—they would all stand and watch him. He didn’t know how, and was sure Cousin Eurydike would not like it. Perdikkas was holding him by the arm, or he would have run away.

He said, despairingly, “It’s my bedtime. I want to go to bed.”

“We’ll put you to bed,” they chorused. “That’s why we’re here.” They roared with laughter. It was like the bad old days at home, before Alexander had taken him away.

“Be quiet.” Perdikkas’ voice, suddenly unfestal, an angry martinet’s, sobered everyone down. They led Philip to an anteroom, and started to undress him.

He let them take off the hot purple robe; but when they undid the girdle of his sweat-soaked tunic, he fought them, and knocked two flying. The rest all laughed; but Perdikkas, looming and awful, commanded him to remember he was King. So he let them strip him, and put him into a long white robe with a gold-embroidered hem. They let him use the chamber-pot (where was Konon?); then there was no more to stay for. They led him to the door. He could hear inside a murmur of women’s voices. They would be watching, too!

The wide doors opened. There was Eurydike, sitting up in the great bed. A little brown slave-girl, laughing, ran before him with a long snuffer, ready to quench the hanging lamps. A great wave of anger and misery and fear built up in him. It hummed and boomed in his head, booom, booom, booom. He remembered, he knew that soon the white flash would come. Oh, where was Konon? He shouted, “The light! The light!” and it flashed, a lightning that struck all through him.

Konon, who had been standing in shadow along the passage, ran in. Without apology he shoved aside the horrified group, shocked sober, which bent over the rigid figure on the floor; pulled from his belt-pouch a wooden wedge; prised Philip’s jaws apart, so that his tongue should not fall back and choke him. For a moment, he looked up at the men with bitter reproach and anger; then his face settled back into the blank mask of the soldier confronted with stupid officers. He said to Perdikkas, “Sir, I can see to him. I know what to do. If the ladies could leave, sir.”

Disgusted and ashamed, the men stood aside to let the women go first. In panic disregard for precedence, the bridesmaids ran at once, their slippers pattering on the stairs. The matrons of middle rank, obsessed all day with etiquette and protocol, clustered helplessly, waiting for the queens.

Eurydike sat in the bed, grasping around her the crimson gold-fringed coverlet, looking for help. She had on only her thin wedding shift; how could she get up in the presence of men; of Konon, who was staying? Her clothes were on an ivory stool, at the far end of this great room. Would none of them remember her, stand to shield her, put something round her?

She heard a sound from the floor. Philip, stiff as a board till now, had begun to twitch. In a moment he was in the throes of the clonic spasm, his whole frame jerking and thrashing, his robe flung up by his kicking legs.

“Joy to the bride!” It was Roxane, looking down over her shoulder as she swept towards the door.

“Come, ladies.” Kleopatra gathered in a glance the huddled matrons, averting her face from scandal. Making for the door she paused, and turned back to the bed. Eurydike saw the long look of contempt, the unwilling pity. “Will you come? We will find you something to wear.” Her eye moved to the clothes-stool; an officious matron bustled over.

Eurydike looked after the widow of Alexander, whose gold embroideries gleamed beyond the door; she looked up at Alexander’s sister, to whom she was like a beaten whore, whose shame must be covered for the house’s honor. She thought, What do I know even of him, except that he killed my father? May the gods curse them all. If I die for it, I will make them kneel at my feet.

The matron brought her himation of dyed saffron, the lucky color of fertility and joy. She took it in silence, and wrapped it round her as she rose. Philip’s tremor was growing weaker; Konon was holding his head, to keep it from striking the floor. Standing between him and the watching faces, she said, “No, lady, I will not come. The King is sick, and my place is with my husband. Please leave us and go away.”

She fetched a pillow from the bed, and laid Philip’s head on it. He was hers now, they were both victims together. He had made her a queen, and she would be a king for both of them. Meantime, he must be put into bed and covered warmly. Konon would find her a place to sleep.