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

321 B.C.

SOUTH DOWN THE ANCIENT COAST ROAD that followed the eastern shore of the Middle Sea, the army of Perdikkas marched with its long following train: grooms and chandlers, smiths and carpenters and harness-makers, the elephants, the endless wagons, the soldiers’ women, the slaves. At Sidon, at Tyre, at Gaza, the people looked down from the mended walls. It was eleven years since Alexander had passed that way alive, whom they had just seen on his last progress, going to Egypt with a chime of bells. This army was no business of theirs; but it meant a war, and war has a way of spreading.

Flanked by its guard of armed Bactrian and Persian eunuchs, Roxane’s wagon followed the march, as it had followed from Bactria to India, to Drangiana, to Susa, to Persepolis, to Babylon. Each part had been many times renewed as its journeys lengthened, but it seemed the same, smelling as before of the stamped dyed leather that roofed it, of the essences which at each new city her eunuchs had brought for her approval; even now, a drift of scent on a cushion could bring back the heat of Taxila. Here were the heavy turquoise-studded bowls and trinkets of her dowry, the vessels of chased gold from Susa, a censer from Babylon. It might all have been the same, except for the child.

He was nearly two, and seen to be small for his age; but, as she said, his father must have been so. Otherwise, it was clearly her looks he favored; the soft dark hair, the bright dark eyes. He was lively, and seldom ill; curious and exploring; a terror to his nurses who must watch his safety at peril of their lives. Though he must be protected, she did not like him thwarted; he must learn from the beginning that he was a king.

Perdikkas called on her every few days; he was the King’s guardian, as he reminded her whenever they fell out, which happened often. He was offended that the child shrank from him; it came, he said, of never seeing any other man. “His father, you should remember, was not reared among eunuchs.”

“Among my people they leave the harem at five, and still make warriors.”

“However, he beat them. That is why you are here.”

“How dare you,” she cried, “call me a captive of the spear! You who were our wedding guest! Oh, if he were here!”

“You may well wish that,” Perdikkas said, and left to visit his other ward.

When the army made camp, Philip had his tent just as before. Eurydike, as became a lady of rank, had her wagon; and in this she slept. It lacked Roxane’s splendors; but, as she had not seen them, she found it comfortable, and even handsome when her dowry things were set out. It had a roomy locker; and in this, disguised in a roll of blankets, at the hour of departure she had concealed her arms.

Philip was quite happy with these arrangements. He would have been gravely disconcerted by her presence in his tent at night; she might even have wanted Konon to go. In the daytime he was delighted to have her company; would often ride beside her wagon, and point out the sights they passed. He had traversed this whole route in the train of Alexander, and from time to time something would jog an inconsequent flash of memory. He had been encamped for months before the huge walls of Tyre.

In the evening, she dined with him in his tent. She hated at first to watch him eat, but with instruction he improved a little. Sometimes at sunset, if the camp was near the shore, she would walk with him, guarded by Konon, helping him to look for stones and shells; and then she talked to him, telling the legends of the royal house of Macedon she had heard from Kynna, right back to the boy who took the sunbeam for his wages. “You and I,” she said, “will be King and Queen there soon.”

A dim anxiety stirred in his eyes. “But Alexander told me …”

“That was because he was King himself. All that is over. You are the King. You must listen to me, now that we are married. I will tell you what we can do.”

They had passed the Sinai, and in the lands of Egypt made camp by the flat green coast. A few miles ahead was the ancient port of Pelusion; beyond that, the spread-fingered Delta of the Nile, webbed with its intricate veins of canal and stream. Beyond the Nile was Alexandria.

Among the date-palms and little black irrigation canals and clumps of tall papyrus, the army spread itself restlessly. The warm dry wind from the southern sand was just beginning; the Nile was low, the crops stood deep in the rich silt, the patient oxen toiled at the wooden water-wheels. By the elephant-lines, the mahouts stripped off their dhotis to wash their children in the canal, gaily splashing them as they showered themselves with their trunks after the hot trudge across Sinai. The camels, drinking prodigiously, refilled their secret storage tanks; the soldiers’ women washed their clothes and their children. The sutlers went out to find supplies. The soldiers prepared for war.

Perdikkas and his staff scanned the terrain. He had been here with Alexander; but that was eleven years back, and for the last two, Ptolemy had been making himself at home. The land’s long vistas showed where, at vital points of access, where a mound or a rocky outcrop offered foundation, stout forts of brick or timber had appeared. He could get no further coastwise; Pelusion was well defended by the salt-marsh between. He must strike south, below the meshes of the Delta.

The main camp must stay here. He would take a mobile force, light and unencumbered. Alexander had taught him that. He rode back to his tent in the quick-falling dusk which the breath of the desert reddened, to make his plans.

Through the wide straggling camp, the cook-fires budded and bloomed; little fires of the women, big ones—for the nights were cold still—where twenty or thirty men would share their bean-soup and porridge, their bread and olives, with a relish of dates and cheese, washed down with rough wine.

It was in the hour between food and sleep, when men talked idly, told tales or sang, that the voices began to sound around the camp, just beyond the reach of the firelight. They called softly, speaking good Macedonian; uttering familiar names, recalling old battles under Alexander, old fallen friends, old jokes. First unrebuffed, then hesitantly welcomed, the speaker would come up to the fire. Just a jar together for old times’ sake, seeing he’d brought one. Tomorrow, who could say, they might have to kill each other, but meantime, good health and no hard feelings. As for himself, he could only speak as he’d found; now Alexander was gone, Ptolemy was next best. He was a soldier and no one’s fool; but he looked after you, he had time for your troubles, and where else would you find that today? What wage, by the way, was Perdikkas paying veterans? What? (A shake of the head, a long contemptuous whistle.)

“He promised you loot, I suppose? Oh, yes, it’s there; but not so you’ll ever get to it. This country’s murder to those who don’t know the waterways. Look out for the crocodiles; they’re bigger than in India, and cunning.”

To a growing audience, he would go on to the comforts and pleasures of Alexandria, the shipping from everywhere, the good fresh food, the wineshops and the girls, the good air all the year round; and Alexander to bring the city luck.

The wine-jar emptied, his mission done, the visitor would slip away, his footfalls merging into the uncanny noises of the Egyptian night. As he threaded his way back to his fort, he would reflect comfortably that he’d not given them a word of a lie, and doing old friends a kindness was a very good way of earning a hundred drachmas.

Perdikkas made his last camp a little above the wrist of the Nile, from which the fingers of the Delta spread northwards. The noncombatants he had brought thus far would await him; among them the Kings, whom he wanted under his eye. From here he would make his march towards the river.

They watched him and his soldiers go into the shimmer of morning mist, horse and foot, the pack-mules with the rations, the camel-train with the parts for the catapults, the elephants plodding after. For a long time they grew smaller in the flat distance, vanishing at last into a low horizon of tamarisk and palm.

Pacing the royal tent, Eurydike waited restlessly for news. Konon had found an escort, and taken Philip riding. She too had liked to ride, free on the hills of Macedon, sitting astride; but she had to remember, now, what would be acceptable in a queen. Perdikkas had told her so.

Now that for the first time she was with an army in the field, all her training and her nature rebelled at being laid aside with slaves and women. Her marriage she had felt as a grotesque necessity, something to be managed, altering nothing of herself; even more, now, she felt women an alien species, imposing no laws upon her.

Over by her wagon, her two maids sat in its shade, chattering softly in Lydian. Both were slaves. She had been offered ladies-in-waiting, but had refused, telling Perdikkas she would not ask softly nurtured women to endure the hardships of the march. The truth was that she would not endure the tedium of female talk. To sex she was indifferent; in this respect she needed women even less than men. Her wedding night had killed the last of that. In adolescent dreams she had fought, like Hippolyta, at a hero’s side. Since then she had become ambitious, and her dreams were otherwise.

By the third morning she was impatient even of ambition, which had no outlet. The day stretched before her, empty and flat as the land. Why should she endure it? She remembered the locker in the wagon which contained her arms. Her man’s tunic was there as well.

She was the Queen; Perdikkas should have sent reports to her. If no one would bring her news, she would go and see.

All she knew of the expedition she had heard from Konon, who had many friends in the camp. Perdikkas, he had said, had started out without telling anyone his objective, neither the camp commandant nor the senior officers who were going with him. He had heard there had been spies about the camp. The officers had not liked it; Seleukos, who commanded the elephants, liked to know how they would be used. Konon kept to himself much more than he had told; they were saying in camp that Perdikkas was far higher-handed these days than Alexander ever was; Alexander had known how to talk you round.

He had confided, however, to Eurydike that with the stores and remounts they’d taken, he reckoned they would not be marching above thirty miles. And that was the distance to the Nile.

Eurydike changed into her tunic, clasped on her tooled-hide corselet, laced down the shoulder-pieces, put on riding-boots and greaves. Her breasts were small and the corselet hid their curve. Her helmet was a simple, unplumed Illyrian war-cap; her grandmother, Audata, had worn it on the border. The drowsy servants never saw her go. Down at the horse-lines the grooms took her for one of the royal squires, and at her imperious order led a sound horse out.

Even after three days, the spoor of the troops was plain: the plowed-up grass, the bared dust, the horse and camel droppings, the trampled banks of the irrigation canals, the leaked water caking in the little fields. The peasants laboring to mend the dikes looked up with sullen hatred of all destructive soldiers.

She was only a few miles out when she met the messenger.

He was riding a camel; a dusty, drawn-faced man, who stared at her angrily for not making way for him. But he was a soldier; so she wheeled round and overtook him. Her horse shied from the camel; she called, “What news? Has there been a battle?”

He leaned over to spit; but his mouth was dry, and only the sound came out. “Get out of my way, boy, I’ve no time for you. I’ve despatches for the camp. They must get ready to take the wounded … what are left of them.” He switched his mount; it bobbed its scornful head and left her in its dust.

An hour or two later, she met the wagons. As they came nearer, she guessed their freight from the groaning, from the water-carriers on their donkeys, and the doctor leaning under one of the awnings. She rode down the line, hearing the humming flies, a curse or a cry when a wagon jolted.

The fourth of them had men talking and looking out; men with disabled limbs, not too weak to be alert. She saw inside a familiar face; it was the veteran who had first taken her part on the Sardis road, when her mother died.

“Thaulos!” she called, riding up to the tailboard. “I am sorry to see you hurt.”

She was hailed with amazement and delight. Queen Eurydike! And they had taken her for some young blood in cavalry! What was she doing here? Had she meant to lead them into battle? A daughter of the house—her granddad would have been proud of her. Ah well, lucky she had been too late for yesterday’s work. It did one good to see her.

She did not understand that it was her youth they found endearing; that had she been thirty instead of fifteen they would have made a barrack-room joke of her for a mannish termagant. She looked like a charming boy without having lost her girlishness; she was their friend and ally. As she walked her horse beside the cart, they poured out their discontents to her.

Perdikkas had marched them to a place on the Nile called Camel ford. But of course the ford was guarded by a fort across the stream, with a palisade, a scarp, and the wall of the fort on top. Perdikkas’ scouts had reported it lightly manned.

A younger veteran said resentfully, “But what he forgot was that Ptolemy learned his trade from Alexander.”

“Perdikkas hates him,” said another, “so he underrates him. You can’t afford that in war. Alexander knew better.”

“That’s it; of course the fort was undermanned. Ptolemy was keeping mobile, till he knew where the stroke would be. Once he did know, he came like the wind; I doubt Alexander would have been much quicker. By the time we were half across, he was in the fort with a regiment.”

“And another thing I’ll tell you,” Thaulos said. “He didn’t want to shed Macedonian blood. He could have lain low, and fallen on us as we crossed; for he’d come up out of sight. But up he stood on the walls, with a herald, and his men all shouting, trying to scare us back. He’s a gentleman, Ptolemy. Alexander thought the world of him.”

With a grunt of pain, he eased himself over on the straw to favor his wounded leg. She asked if he needed water; but they were all in need of talk. The desperately wounded were in other carts.

Perdikkas, they said, had made a speech calling upon their loyalty. It was he who was guardian of the Kings, who had his appointment direct from Alexander. This they could not deny; moreover he was paying them, and their pay was not in arrears.

Scaling-ladders had been carried by the elephants; and it was they, too, who had torn down the palisades on the river-bank, as their mahouts directed them, plucking out the stakes like the saplings whose leaves they fed on, their thick hides making little of javelins from above. But the defenders had been well trained; the glacis was steep; the men dislodged from the ladders had rolled down the broken palisade into the river, where the weight of their armor drowned them. It was then that Perdikkas had ordered the elephants to assault the walls.

“Seleukos didn’t like it. He said they’d done their stint. He said there was no sense in a beast carrying two men up where they’d be level with a dozen, and exposing its head as well. But he was told pretty sharply who was in command. And he didn’t like that either.”

The elephants were ordered to give their war-cry. “But it didn’t scare Ptolemy. We could see him up on the wall with a long sarissa, poking back our men as they came up. An elephant can scare any man down on the ground; but not when he’s on a wall above it.”

The elephants had labored up the scarp, digging their heavy feet into the earth, till Old Pluto, the one the others followed, started to pull at the wall-timbers. Old Pluto could shift a battering-ram. But Ptolemy stood his ground, threw off the missiles with his shield, reached out his long spear and got Old Pluto’s eyes. The next elephant up, someone picked off the mahout. So there were these two great beasts, one blind and the other unguided, pounding and blundering down the scarp, trampling anyone in their way.

“And that,” said one man, “is how I got a broken foot. Not from the enemy. And if I never walk straight again, it’s not Ptolemy I’ll blame for it.”

There was a growl of anger from every man in the cart. They had seen little more of the action, having been wounded about this time; they thought it had gone on all day. She rode by them a little longer, offering sympathy, then asked them the way to Camelford. They urged her to take care, to do nothing rash, they could not spare their Queen.

As she rode on, a dark moving bulk appeared in the middle distance, coming slowly from a palm-grove that fringed a pool. As it drew near, she saw two elephants in single file, the smaller going first, the bigger one holding it by the tail. Old Pluto was going home, led as he had been by his mother forty years ago in his native jungle, to keep him safe from tigers. His mahout sat weeping on his neck; his wounded eyes, dropping bloody serum, seemed to be weeping too.

Eurydike noted him, as proof of Ptolemy’s prowess. At home her chief diversion had been the hunt; she took for granted that animals were put into the world for men to use. Questioning the other mahout, who seemed to have his wits about him, she learned that Perdikkas had abandoned the assault at evening, and marched after dark, the man did not know where. Clearly, if she rode on she risked falling among the enemy; so she turned back to the camp.

No one had missed her but old Konon, who recognized her as she came back; but, as she warned him with her eyes, it was not his place to rebuke her. He would not dare give her away. For the rest, Philip’s wedding had been a nine days’ wonder, and just now they had other concerns. It was she herself who began, dimly and gropingly, to see her way ahead.

The army of Perdikkas, what was left of it, came back next day.

Stragglers came first, unofficered, undisciplined, unkempt. Clothes, armor and skin were plastered with dried Nile mud; they were black men, but for their light angry eyes. They went about the camp, seeking water to drink and clean themselves, spreading each his tale of confusion and disaster. The main force followed, a sullen, scowling mass, led by Perdikkas with a face of stone, its tight-lipped officers keeping their thoughts to themselves. Her female dress and seclusion resumed, she sent out Konon to learn the news.

While he was gone, she became aware that round the small circle of the royal quarters a ring of men was gathering. They settled down in groups, not talking much, but with the air of men agreed upon their business. Puzzled and disturbed, she looked for the sentries who should have been somewhere near; but they had joined the silent watchers.

Some instinct dispelled her fear. She went to the entry of the royal tent, and let herself be seen. Arms went up in salute; it was all quiet, it had an air of reassurance, almost of complicity.

“Philip,” she said, “stand in the opening there, and let those men see you. Smile at them and greet them as Perdikkas taught you. Show me; yes, like that. Say nothing, just salute them.”

He came in, pleased, to say, “They waved to me.”

“They said, ‘Long live Philip.’ Remember, when people say that, you must always smile.”

“Yes, Eurydike.” He went to lay out with his shells some beads of red glass she had bought him from a peddler.

A shadow darkened the tent-mouth. Konon paused for leave to enter. When she saw his face, her eyes moved to the corner, where they kept Philip’s ceremonial spear. She said, “Is the enemy coming?”

“Enemy?” He made it sound like an irrelevance. “No, madam … Don’t be in a worry about the lads out there. They’ve taken it on themselves, just in case of trouble. I know them all.”

“Trouble? What trouble?”

She saw his old soldier’s stone-wall face. “I can’t say, madam. They say one thing and another in the camp. They were cut up badly, trying to cross the Nile.”

“I’ve seen the Nile.” Philip looked up. “When Alexander …”

“Be quiet and listen. Yes, Konon. Go on.”

Perdikkas, it seemed, had given his men a few hours’ rest after the assault upon the fort. Then he had ordered them to strike camp and be ready for a night march.

“Konon,” said Philip suddenly, “why are all those men shouting?”

Konon too had heard; his narrative had been flagging. “They’re angry, sir. But not with you or the Queen. Don’t fret about it, they won’t come here.” He took up his tale again.

Perdikkas’ men had fought through the heat of the day and on till evening. They were discouraged and dog-tired; but he had promised them an easy crossing, further south at Memphis, down the east bank of the river.

“Memphis,” said Philip brightening. Long ago, from a window, he had watched the tremendous pageant of Alexander’s enthronement as Pharaoh, Son of Ra. He had seemed to be made all of gold.

Konon was saying, “Alexander, now; He knew how to make a man throw his heart into it.”

Outside, the voices of the encircling soldiers rose a tone or two, as if receiving news. The sound sank again.

In the dark before dawn, Konon went on, they had come to the crossing-place. Here the river was split by a mile-long island, breaking its force, and the forks were shallower. They were to cross in two stages, assembling on the island in between.

“But it was deeper than he’d thought. Half over from this side, they were chest-deep. With the current pulling at their shields, some of them keeled over; the rest had all they could do to keep their feet. So then Perdikkas remembered how Alexander crossed the Tigris.”

He paused, to see if she knew about this famous exploit. But she had encouraged no one to talk about Alexander.

“It’s a fast stream, the Tigris. Before he sent the infantry across, he stood two columns of cavalry in the river, upstream and down of them. Upstream to break the current, downstream to catch any man carried away. He was the first man in on foot, feeling out the shoals with his spear.”

“Yes,” said Eurydike coolly. “But what did Perdikkas do?”

“What he did was to use the elephants.”

“They didn’t get drowned?” said Philip anxiously.

“No, sir. It was the men that drowned … Where’s that idle loafing Sinis? Trust a Karian to go off at a time like this. A moment, madam.” He took a taper to the little clay day-lamp which kept a source of fire, and kindled the cluster on the big branched lamp-stand. Outside, a red glow showed that the soldiers were making a cook-fire. Konon’s shadow, made huge by the light behind him, loomed dark and manifold on the worn linen hangings of the tent.

“He put the elephants upstream, in line across, and the cavalry downstream; then he told the phalanx to advance. They went in, the phalanx leaders each with his men. And when they got to the middle, it was as if the Nile had come up in flood. It was over their heads; the horses downstream had to swim for it. It was the weight of the elephants did it; it stirred up the muddy bottom, which the Tigris didn’t have. But the worst of all, they all say, was to see their mates being taken by crocodiles.”

“I’ve seen a crocodile,” said Philip eagerly.

“Yes, sir, I know … Well, before it deepened too much, a good few men had scrambled up on the island. Perdikkas saw there was no going ahead; so he hailed them, and ordered them to come back.”

“Come back?” said Eurydike. She listened with new ears to the sounds outside; the muttering that rose and fell, a long keening from the bivouacs of the soldiers’ women. “He ordered them back?”

“It was that or leave them there. It meant throwing away their arms, which no Macedonian did as long as Alexander led them, and they don’t forget it. Some of them shouted out they’d as soon take their chance in the west channel, and give themselves up to Ptolemy. No one knows what became of them. The rest went back in the water, which was deeper than ever, full of blood and crocodiles. A few got out. I’ve talked with them. One of them left his hand in a crocodile’s mouth. The rest of his arm’s in ribbons, he’ll never live … They lost two thousand men.”

She thought of the groaning hospital carts, a mere drop now in the ocean of disaster. A sweeping impulse, compounded of anger, pity, contempt, and ambition grasping at opportunity, lifted her out of herself. She turned to Philip.

“Listen to me.” He waited, attentive; recognizing as a dog would do the note of imperative command. “We are going out to see the soldiers. They have been treated badly, but they know we are their friends. This time, you must speak to them. First return their salute; then say—now, listen very carefully—‘Men of Macedon. My brother’s spirit would grieve to see this day.’ Don’t say anything more, even if they answer you. I will talk to them then.”

He repeated it after her; they went out into the falling dark, lit from behind by the lamps inside the tent, and from before by the soldiers’ fire.

An instant cheer greeted them; the word ran round, men ran up crowding to hear. Philip did not falter; she had not charged him with more than he could retain. She saw him pleased with himself, and, lest he should be tempted to improvise, turned to him quickly with a show of wifely assent. Then she spoke.

They were all ears. The King’s sense of their wrongs had amazed and pleased them; he could not be as slow as people said. A man of few words. No matter, the Queen would be worth hearing.

Roxane, near by in her wagon, had supposed the troop to have been posted for her own protection. Her eunuchs had told her there was trouble in the camp; but their Greek was poor, and no soldier had had time for them. Now with bewildered anger she heard the young ringing voice crying out against the waste of the gallant dead; promising that when the time came for the King himself to rule them, he would see to it that good men’s lives were not thrown away.

Roxane heard the cheers. All her five years of marriage had been told with cheers; shouts of acclamation, the rhythmic roar as the victory parade went by. This sound was different; starting with indulgent affection, but ending with a chorus of revolt.

There, thought Roxane, was an unsexed virago! That bastard and fool the husband should never share her child’s throne. Just then the child, who had been on edge all day, bumped into something and began to cry. Eurydike, the cheering over, heard the sound, and said to herself that the barbarian’s brat should never reign in Macedon.

Perdikkas sat in his tent at his trestle table, stylus in hand, a wax diptych blank before him. He was alone. Before this he should have called his staff to a war council, to decide on his next move; but, he thought, he must give them time to cool. Seleukos had answered him in monosyllables; Peithon had looked foxily under his reddish brows and down his pointed nose, saying this or that, but none of what he thought; Archias, though known to be in camp, had not reported at all. Once more he regretted having sent Alketas north with Eumenes; there was nothing like a kinsman in treacherous times.

Round the double bowl of his tall-stemmed table-lamp, brittle bronze beetles and papery moths fluttered and fell in a ring of ephemeral death. Outside the tent, the squires on duty were talking softly together. It was a breach of discipline, but he was strangely reluctant to go out and deal with it. All he could hear was, now and then, a name. Through the slit of his tent-flap, like a fiery crack, shone the flame of the fire at which the rest were sitting. He had not—yet—the royal right to choose fresh boys from the noble houses of Macedon. One or two had died of fever, or fallen in war; the rest were all here still, his inheritance from the death-chamber in Babylon. He had not had much time for them lately, just taken for granted that they would be there at call. They had been with him at the Nile, ready with spare horses, waiting till he was ready to cross.

The soft voices buzzed, a little nearer now, or a little less careful. “Alexander always used to …” “Alexander would no more have …” “Never! Remember how he …” The voices sank; voices not of protest but of intimate, private judgment. He got to his feet, then sat down again, staring at the tiny holocaust around the lamp. Well, he trusted me with his ring; do they forget that? But as if he had spoken aloud, he seemed to hear a murmur: “But Krateros was in Syria. And Hephaistion was dead.”

Seeking warmth and comfort, his memory groped back to the days of youth and glory; further yet, to the moment of exultation when, the blood of Philip’s assassin red on his sword, he had first looked into those searching intent grey eyes. “Well done, Perdikkas.” (He knew my name!) “When my father has had his rites, you will hear from me.” The long pageant of the short years unrolled. He rode in triumph through Persepolis.

There was a break in the sounds outside. The squires had fallen silent. New voices now; older, terser, more purposeful. “You may dismiss.” A single, uncertain “Sir?” Then, a little louder—Peithon surely—“I said, dismiss. Go to your quarters.”

He heard the click of weapons and armor, the fall of departing feet. Not one had come in, to ask for orders, to give a warning. Two years ago, they had cheered him for defying Meleager. But then, they had only just come from the room in Babylon.

His tent-flap opened. For a moment he saw the bright leap of the fire, before the press of men blotted it out. Peithon; Seleukos; Peukestes with his Persian scimitar. And more behind them.

Nobody spoke; there was no need. He fought while he could, grimly, in silence. He had his pride; he had been, even though not for long, second to Alexander. His pride chose for him, when it was too late to think, not to die calling for help that would not come.

From the royal tent, Eurydike heard the rising confusion of rumor and counter-rumor, contention and savage cheers. Their protectors grew restless, seeking news. There was a sudden stir; a young man ran up, helmetless, red and sweating with excitement and the heat of the fire.

“King, lady. Perdikkas is dead.”

She was silent, more shocked than she would have supposed. Before she could speak, Philip said with simple satisfaction, “Good. That’s good. Did you kill him?”

“No, sir.” (Just as if, she thought subconsciously, a real man had asked.) “It was the generals, as I understand. They …”

He paused. A new sound had pierced the vague fluctuant din: the roar of a lynch-mob for its prey. Soon it was mingled with the shrieks of women. For the first time she was afraid. A mindless thing was abroad, a thing that could not be spoken with. She said, “What is it?”

He frowned and bit his lip. “There’s always some will go too far once they begin. They’ll be after Perdikkas’ people. Don’t be afraid, lady; they won’t harm the Kings’.”

She was startled by a strong voice just beside her. “If they come here, I’ll kill them.”

Philip had found his ceremonial spear, and was fiercely grasping it. The ornate blade was pointed. It took her a little time to coax it from his hands.

Ptolemy arrived in the camp next day.

He had been informed of Perdikkas’ death as soon as it took place—some said before—and arrived with a cavalcade which, though impressive, had no appearance of threat. Relying on his informants, he chose to present himself as a man of honor trusting in his peers.

He was warmly welcomed, even cheered. The soldiers saw in this intrepid confidence a touch of Alexander. Peithon, Seleukos and Peukestes met and escorted him.

He had brought Arybbas, riding at his right hand. The bier of Alexander had been installed at Memphis, to await the completion of his tomb; Perdikkas from across the fatal river might almost have caught the gleam of its gold crest. Its architect now gave the generals a friendly salute. After the briefest pause they returned it; things had to be lived with as they were.

Ptolemy’s terms had been agreed beforehand. The first of them was that he should address the army, to answer Perdikkas’ accusation of treason. The generals had little choice. He had offered a gentleman’s undertaking not to incite their own troops against them. The need for this reassurance spoke, after all, for itself.

The engineers, working at speed, had run up a rostrum. As Alexander had accustomed them to do, they put it near the royal quarters. Eurydike took it at first for a scaffold, and asked who was being put to death. They told her that Ptolemy was to make a speech.

Philip, who had been arranging his stones in an elaborate spiral, looked up alertly. “Is Ptolemy coming? Has he brought me a present?”

“No, he is only coming to talk to the soldiers.”

“He always brings me a present.” He fondled a memorable lump of yellow crystal from central Asia.

Eurydike was staring at the tall dais, deep in thought. Now Perdikkas was dead, the only appointed guardian of the Kings was the distant Krateros, campaigning somewhere in Syria against Eumenes. There was no Regent of Asia, either. Was this the moment destiny had appointed? “Men of Macedon, I claim the right to govern in my own name.” She could teach him that, and afterwards speak herself, as she had done last night. Why not?

“Philip. Put that away now.” Carefully she gave him his words. He was not to interrupt Ptolemy’s speech; she would tell him when to begin.

A ring of soldiers cordoned the royal quarters. It was only to protect them from the crush of the Assembly; but it gave space, one could step out and be heard. She rehearsed her speech in her head.

Ptolemy, flanked by Peithon and Arybbas, mounted the steps to the rostrum, welcomed with cheers.

Eurydike was astounded. She had heard cheers already that day, but it had never occurred to her that they could be in honor of the recent enemy. She had heard of Ptolemy—he was, after all, a kind of left-handed kinsman—but had never seen him. She was young, still, in the history of Alexander’s army.

However often told by Perdikkas that he was a traitor, the troops knew Ptolemy as a well-liked man, and one who led from the front. From the start, none of them had really wanted to go to war with him; when they met disasters, there had been no bracing hatred of the enemy to stiffen their morale. Now they hailed him as a revenant from better days, and heard him eagerly.

He began with an epitaphion for the dead. He mourned as they did the loss of brave former comrades, against whom it would have grieved him to lift his spear. Many had been cast up on his side of the river, whom, had they lived, he would have been proud to enroll under his command. They had had their due rites and he had brought their ashes. Not a few, he was glad to say, had reached shore alive. He had brought them back; they were here now at Assembly.

The rescued men led the cheering. All had been freed without ransom; all had enlisted with Ptolemy.

And now, he said, he would speak of him who, while he lived, had united all Macedonians in pride, victory and glory. Moving many to tears, he told them of Alexander’s wish to return to the land of Ammon. (Surely, thought Ptolemy, he would have said so if he could have spoken at the last.) For doing Alexander right, he had been accused of treason, though he had never lifted sword against the Kings; and this by a man who had himself been reaching for the throne. He had come here to submit himself to the judgment of the Macedonians. Here he stood. What was their verdict to be?

The verdict was unanimous; it verged on the ecstatic. He waited, without anxiety or unbecoming confidence, till it had spent itself.

He was glad, he said, that the soldiers of Alexander held him in remembrance. He would subvert no man’s loyalty; the army of the Kings could march north with his goodwill. Meantime, he had heard that through the late misadventures the camp was short of supplies. Egypt had had a good harvest; it would be his pleasure to send some victuals in.

Rations were indeed disorganized, stale and scanty; some men had not eaten since yesterday. There was a furor of acclamation. Seleukos mounted the dais. He proposed to the Assembly that Ptolemy, whose magnanimity in victory had equaled even Alexander’s, should be appointed Regent in Asia, and guardian of the Kings.

Cries of assent were hearty and unanimous. Hands and hats waved. No Assembly had ever spoken with a clearer voice.

For a moment—all the time he had—he stood like Homer’s Achilles, this way and that dividing the swift mind. But he had made his choice, and nothing had really happened to change it. As Regent, he would have had to leave prospering friendly Egypt, where he was as good as King already; to lead his troops, who liked and trusted him, into a cutthroat scrimmage where one could trust no one—look at Perdikkas, his body hardly cold! No. He would keep his own good land, husband it, and leave it to his sons.

Gracefully but firmly, he made his speech of refusal; the satrapy of Egypt, and the building of Alexandria, were a great enough charge for such a man as himself. But since he had been honored with their vote, he would take it on himself to name two former friends of Alexander to share the office of guardian. He gestured to Peithon and Arybbas.

In the royal tent, Eurydike heard it all. Macedonian generals learned how to make their voices carry, and Ptolemy’s soundbox was resonant. She heard him end his speech with some homespun army anecdote, mysterious to her, delightful to the soldiers. With a sense of hopeless defeat she observed his height, his presence, his air of relaxed authority; an ugly, impressive man, talking to men. Philip said, “Does your face hurt you?” and she found she had covered it with her hands. “Shall I make my speech now?” he said. He began to step forward.

“No,” she said. “Another day you shall make it. There are too many strangers here.”

He went back happily to play with his toys. She turned to find Konon just behind her. He must have been standing there quietly for some time. “Thank you, madam,” he said. “I think it’s better.”

Later that day, an aide announced that Ptolemy would shortly pay his respects to the King.

He arrived soon after, saluted Eurydike briskly, and clapped Philip’s shoulders in a fraternal embrace, to his beaming pleasure. It was almost as good as Alexander coming. “Have you brought me a present?” he asked.

His face scarcely flickering, Ptolemy said heartily, “Of course I have. Not here; I had to talk to all these soldiers. You’ll get it tomorrow … Why, Konon! It’s a long time, eh? But I see you take good care of him; he looks as fit as a warhorse. Alexander used to say, ‘That was a good posting.’”

Konon saluted with glistening eyes; no one since Alexander had commended him. Ptolemy turned to go, before remembering his manners. “Cousin Eurydike, I hope that all goes well with you. Philip’s been fortunate, I see.” He paused, and took a long second look at her. In a pleasant, but different voice, he added, “A sensible wife like you will keep him out of mischief. He’s had enough in his life of people trying to use him. Even his father, if Alexander hadn’t … well, never mind. Now Alexander’s gone, he needs someone to watch out for him. Well—health and prosperity, cousin. Farewell.”

He was gone, leaving her to ask herself what had possessed her, a queen, to bow to a mere governor. He had meant to warn, not praise her. Another of Alexander’s arrogant kindred. At least she would never see him again.

Roxane received him with more formality. She still took him for her son’s new guardian, and offered the sweetmeats kept for important guests, warning him against the intrigues of the Macedonian vixen. He disillusioned her, praising Peithon and Arybbas. Where, he wondered as he nibbled his candied apricot, would she be today if Alexander were alive? Once Stateira had borne a boy, would he have put up with the Bactrian’s tantrums?

The child was clambering over him, clutching his clean robe with sticky hands. He had grabbed at the sweets, thrown down his first choice on the rug, and helped himself to more, with only the fondest of maternal chiding. None the less, Ptolemy took him on his knee, to see Alexander’s son who bore his name. His dark eyes were bright and quick; he knew better than his mother did that he was being appraised, and put on a little performance, bouncing and singing. His father was always a showman, thought Ptolemy; but he had a good deal to show. What will this one have?

He said, “I saw his father when he was as young as this.”

“He takes after both our houses,” said Roxane proudly. “No, Alexander, don’t offer a guest a sweet after you have bitten it … He means it for a compliment, you know.” He tried another, this time throwing it down.

Ptolemy lifted him firmly down and set him on his feet. He resented it (That’s his father, Ptolemy thought) and started to howl (And that’s his mother). It dismayed rather than surprised him to see Roxane picking him out his favorites from the dish, and feeding him in her lap. “Ah, he will have his way. Such a little king as he is already.”

Ptolemy got to his feet and looked down at the child; who looked up, from the cosseting lap, with a strange uneasy gravity, pushing his mother’s hands away.

“Yes,” he said. “He is the son of Alexander. Do not forget that his father could rule men because he had first learned to rule himself.”

Roxane caught the child to her breast and stared at him resentfully. He bowed and saw himself out. At the entrance of the tent with its precious rugs and gem-studded hanging lamps, he turned to see the boy gazing after him with wide dark eyes.

In the palace of Sardis, seated in the same room where she had entertained Perdikkas, Kleopatra confronted Antipatros, the Regent of Macedon.

Perdikkas’ death had shocked her to her roots. She had not loved him; but she had committed her life to him, and founded on him her future. Now she looked into a void. She was still trying to come to terms with her desolation when Antipatros arrived from his campaign in Kilikia.

She had known him all her life. He had been fifty when she was born. Except that his hair and beard and brows had turned from grizzle to white, he seemed unchanged, and as formidable as ever. He sat in the chair Perdikkas had often used, spear-straight, fixing her with a faded but fierce blue eye of inflexible authority.

It was his fault, she said to herself, that Olympias had come from Macedon to Dodona to make her life intolerable. It was his fault she was here. But the habit of youth still held; he was the Regent. It was she who felt in his presence like a child who has wickedly broken something old and precious, and awaits a well-earned chastisement.

He had not rebuked her; simply addressed her as someone whose deep disgrace could be taken for granted. What was there to say? It was she who had set the landslide moving. Through her, Perdikkas had rejected the Regent’s daughter, after marrying her for policy; had planned to usurp his power, loyally wielded through two kings’ reigns. She sat silent, twisting a ring on her finger, Perdikkas’ betrothal gift.

After all, she thought, trying to summon up defiance, he is not the rightful Regent. Alexander said he was too oppressive, Perdikkas told me so. By rights, Krateros should be Regent now.

Antipatros said in his slow harsh voice, “Did they tell you that Krateros is dead?”

“Krateros?” She stared, almost too dulled to feel it. “No, I had not heard.” Handsome commanding Krateros, the soldiers’ idol next to Alexander; never Persianized, Macedonian dyed in grain. She had adored him at twelve years old when he was one of her father’s squires; she had treasured a strand of horsehair left in a tree by his helmet crest. “Who killed him?”

“It would be hard to say.” He stared back under his white thatched brows. “Perhaps he might think that you did. As you know, Perdikkas sent Eumenes north to hold the straits against us. He was too late for that; we crossed, and divided our forces, and it was he who met with Eumenes. The Greek is clever. He guessed that if his own Macedonians knew whom they were to fight, they would mutiny and go over; so he kept it from them. When the cavalry met, Krateros’ horse went down. His helmet was closed, he was not recognized; the horses trampled him. When it was over they found him dying. I am told that even Eumenes wept.”

She was past tears. Hopelessness and humiliation and grief lay on her like black stones. It was grey winter with her; in silence she bore the cold.

He said drily, “Perdikkas was unfortunate.” Was it possible, she thought, that there was more to come? He sat there like a judge counting the hangman’s lashes. “Eumenes’ victory was complete. He sent a courier south to Egypt, to tell Perdikkas. If he had heard in time, he might have persuaded his men that his cause was still worth following. When it reached the camp he was dead.”

What did we do, she thought, to make the gods so angry? But she knew the annals of the throne of Macedon. She had the answer: We failed.

“And so,” Antipatros was saying, “all Eumenes got for his trouble—and he is wounded too, I hear—was to be condemned in his absence, for treason and for the death of Krateros. Perdikkas’ army condemned him in Assembly … also, when they mutinied, a mob of them murdered Atalante, Perdikkas’ sister. Perhaps you knew her.”

She had sat in this room, tall and dark like her brother; rather grave, because of his other marriage, but civilly planning for the wedding; a woman with dignity. For a moment Kleopatra shut her eyes. Then she straightened. She was Philip’s daughter. “I am sorry for it. But they say, Fate rules all.”

He said only, “And now? Will you go back to Epiros?”

It was the final stroke, and he must know it. He knew why she had left her dead husband’s land, which she had governed well. He knew that she had offered herself to Leonnatos and then Perdikkas, not in ambition but in flight. No one knew more than he about Olympias. His wronged daughter was in his house in Macedon; and Olympias’ daughter was wholly in his power. If he chose, he could pack her off like a runaway child, in custody to her mother. Rather than that she would die; or even beg.

“My mother is governing in Epiros till my son succeeds. It is her country; she is Molossian. There is no place for me in Epiros any more. If you will grant it me”—the words almost scorched her throat—“I will stay here in Sardis and live privately. You have my word I shall do nothing more to trouble you.”

He kept her waiting, not to punish her but to think. She was still worth, to any well-born adventurer, what she had been to two dead pretenders. In Epiros she would be restless and resentful. It would be wisest to have her killed. He looked, and saw her father in her face. For two reigns he had kept his oath of loyalty to absent kings; now his pride was invested in his honor. He could not do it.

“These are uncertain times. Sardis has been fought for time out of mind, and we are still at war. If I do as you ask, I cannot ensure your safety.”

“Who is safe in this world?” she said, and smiled. It was her smile that for the first time made him pity her.

The army of the Kings had struck camp in Egypt Generously victualed and politely seen off by Ptolemy, it was marching north to its rendezvous with Antipatros.

The guardians of the Kings, appointed after Alexander’s death, were now both dead within two years of it. Their office was held, at present, by Peithon and Arybbas.

In the two royal households, only Roxane had known the fallen Krateros. He had convoyed her back from India with the noncombatants, while Alexander was shortening his life in the Gedrosian desert. She had greatly preferred him to Perdikkas, and looked forward to being in his charge again. She had had a new gown made to receive him in; her mourning for Krateros had been sincere. The new guardians were both unpromising. Peithon, fiercely devoted to Alexander, had always regarded her as a campaign wife who ought to know her place. Arybbas she suspected of preferring boys. Besides, they had only visited her both together; a precaution privately agreed between them.

To Eurydike, Krateros had been only a name. She had heard of his death with relief; his fame had threatened a powerful force; more powerful, she had been quick to sense, than the present guardians could command.

Soon after the mutiny she had felt the change of air. Morale had altered. These were now men who had successfully defied their leaders; some were men who had shed blood. They had won; but their inward certainty was wounded, not strengthened, by their victory. They had been led disastrously and did not repent rebellion; but a navel-cord that had nourished them had been broken, a common trust. Without it they felt restless and bereaved.

Peithon and Arybbas had not filled up their emptiness. Peithon they knew by repute, as all the eight Bodyguards were known; but few, as it happened, had ever served with him. His quality was untested, and in the meantime they found him uninspiring. As for Arybbas, his record under Alexander had been undistinguished except in the field of art, which did not interest them.

If either one had given signs of hidden fire, the army would have been his own; it was like a pack of powerful dogs missing a master’s voice. But on both alike their office sat uneasily; both alike were anxious to avoid all occasion for disorder, all look of rivalry or of forming factions. Both went about their duties with sober competence.

Thus the drama dragged, the action sagged; the audience fidgeted, coughed and yawned, began fingering its apple-cores and half-bitten onions and crusts, but was not quite ready yet to throw them at the actors. The play was a gift to any talented supporting player who had the wit to steal it. Eurydike, waiting in the wings, felt the theater pausing and knew that her cue had come.

Had Peithon had about him the wily veterans of his old command, some gnarled and canny phalanx-leader would have come to his tent and said, “Sir, with respect. That young wife of King Philip’s is going about among the men and making trouble … Oh, not that kind of trouble, she’s a lady and knows it too; but …” But Peithon’s crafty old veterans had marched with Krateros, carrying the gold with which Alexander had paid them off. It was Eurydike who had her allies and her faithful spies.

Her chief problem was Philip. On the one hand he was indispensable; on the other, he could not safely be produced for more than minutes. To receive men without him would invite scandal; with him, disaster.

And yet, she thought, my blood is as good and better. What is he but the bastard of a younger son, even if his father did seize the throne? My father was the rightful King; what’s more, I was born in wedlock. Why should I hold back?

She picked up her faction first from soldiers who already knew her; her saviors on the Sardis road, the men who had guarded the tent in Egypt; some of the walking wounded who had survived the battle on the Nile. Soon many found pretexts to approach her wagon on the march, give a respectful greeting, and ask if she or the King had need of anything. She had taught Philip, if he was riding beside her, to smile and salute and go a short way ahead. Thus sanctioned by her husband, the ensuing talk was relieved of any awkwardness.

Soon, by devious ways known to soldiers not keenly scrutinized, the King had his own unofficial guard, and his wife commanded it. It was proud of itself, and its unrostered numbers grew.

The march dragged on, at foot-pace with all its followers. A young officer of her troop, remembering Alexander (they were all prone to this, and she had learned better than to check them), told how he used to leave the sluggish column and go hunting with his friends. The idea delighted her. One or other of them would ask leave to ride out for the day and join the column at sunset, taking a few comrades; a common indulgence in a peaceful area. She would get into her men’s clothes and, asking no one’s leave, go with them.

Of course the news got round; but it did her no harm. She was played into her role by now, fed by her audience. A confiding gallant boy, a girl receiving gratefully their protection and support, a queen who was wholly Macedonian; in all these parts they loved her.

In upland pastures, sharing a breakfast of barley-cake and thin wine, she would tell them stories of the royal house, from her great-grandfather Amyntas down; of his gallant sons, Perdikkas and Philip, both kings and both her grandfathers, fighting the Illyrians on the border when Perdikkas fell. “And because of Philip’s valor they made him King. My father was a child and could not help them; so they passed him by. He never questioned the people’s will, he was always loyal; but when Philip was murdered, false friends accused him falsely, and the Assembly put him to death.”

They hung on her words. All of them in their youth had heard old garbled tales around the family fire; but now they were getting the real truth, straight from a queen of the royal line; they were proud, impressed and deeply grateful. Her chastity, so evident to them, so natural to her as to be unconsidered, awed them. Each one of them would boast of her notice to a dozen envious comrades when the wineskin went round at night.

She talked, too, of Philip. He had been delicate, she said, in youth; when he grew strong, Alexander was in the full tide of his victories, and his brother felt abashed beside him. Now, he would be glad no longer to be ruled by guardians, but himself to be the guardian of the Macedonians, whose good he had at heart. But because of his modesty, Perdikkas had usurped his rights; and the new guardians did not know him, or care to know.

Philip was pleased, when he rode through the camp, to be so often and so warmly greeted. He would salute and smile; soon she advanced his instruction. He learned to say, “Thank you for your loyalty,” and was happy to see how much the soldiers liked it.

Arybbas, going about, once or twice noticed these greetings, but saw no harm in them and did not report them to Peithon. Peithon for his part was paying the price for his own resentment of Perdikkas’ overbearing ways. On the march to Egypt he had shrugged his shoulders and lost interest in administration. By the time catastrophe had prompted them to kill Perdikkas, Peithon was out of touch with the men. Mutiny had made them truculent; all he wanted was to get the army in one piece to the rendezvous with Antipatros. Once an Assembly could be mustered there, a permanent guardian could be elected. He would stand down with relief.

Discipline, meantime, he left to the junior officers, who in turn thought it wiser to take things easily. Eurydike’s faction grew and fermented. When the army made camp at Triparadisos, the brew was ready.

Triparadisos—Three Parks—was in north Syria, the creation of some past Persian satrap who must have wished to emulate the Great King himself. Its small river had been channeled into pools and cascades and fountains, with marble bridges and whimsical stepping-stones of obsidian and porphyry. Rhododendron and azalea jeweled the gentle hills; specimen trees of great rarity and beauty, brought here by ox-train in a solid bed of their native earth, made laced or spreading patterns against a springlike sky. There were glades starred with lilies, whose green perspectives were overlooked by summerhouses with fretted screens, designed for harem ladies; and hunting-lodges of cedar-wood for the satrap and his guests.

During the years of war, the deer had been mostly poached, the peacocks eaten, and a good deal of timber felled; but to restless weary soldiers it was Elysium. Here was the ideal rest-camp in which to await Antipatros, reported a few days’ march away.

The generals ensconced themselves in the chief hunting-lodge, built on a central eminence and commanding long man-made vistas. In the glades and clearings the army camped, bathing in the sparkling streams, cutting the trees for cook-fires, snaring conies and liming birds for the pot.

Arybbas found it delightful, and went off on long rambling rides with a dear friend. Peithon so much outranked him that it seemed more graceful, as well as much more pleasant, to leave discipline to him.

Peithon, who thought him a lightweight, scarcely missed him, but thought uneasily that Alexander would have found the men something to do. Games very likely, with prizes big enough to keep them on their toes for a few days’ practice … He considered talking to Seleukos; but Seleukos, who thought he had a better claim to the guardianship than Arybbas, had been sulking lately. Well, thought Peithon, better leave it alone.

Philip and Eurydike were lodged in the summerhouse of the old satrap’s chief wife. By now she had the remount officer among her partisans; a good horse was always hers for the asking. She rode about her business, wearing her man’s tunic now all day. Peithon and Arybbas saw from their knoll, if they happened to look out, only a distant horseman like any other.

By now, most of the camp knew what was going on. Not everyone approved; but Philip was King, there was no getting past that; and no one loved either guardian well enough to risk the dangerous task of talebearing. No matter, the doubtful thought; any day now Antipatros would arrive.

As it happened, however, an inland cloudburst had brought the river Orontes down in flood, across Antipatros’ line of march. Seeing no pressing need for haste in peaceful country, and preferring to keep his eighty-year-old bones dry, he made camp on rising ground and awaited the sinking of the waters.

In Triparadisos the weather was fresh and fine. Bright and early one day, when the dew lay on the spring lilies in crystal globes, and the birds were singing high in the fifty-year-old trees, Peithon was wakened by an aide who rushed into his room half dressed, still tying his girdle. “Sir, the men …”

His voice was drowned by a trumpet-call which brought Peithon to his feet, naked and staring. It was the royal fanfare which announced a king.

Arybbas came running in, a robe thrown around him. “It must be Antipatros. Some fool of a herald …”

“No,” said Peithon. “Listen.” He peered through the little window. “What in the Furies’ name …? Get dressed! Get armed!”

It was quick work for Alexander’s veterans. They came out on the verandah from which the satrap had aimed his arrows at driven game. The broad glade before them was filled with soldiers. At their head, mounted, were Philip and Eurydike. The trumpeter stood by them, looking defiant, and full of the importance of a man who is making history.

Eurydike spoke. She was wearing her man’s tunic, and all her armor except her helmet. She was uplifted, glowing; her skin was clear and transparent; her hair shone; the vitality of great daring flowed through her and rayed out of her. She did not know, nor would have wished to know, that Alexander had glowed like this on his great days; but her followers knew it.

Young, clear and hard, her voice carried as far as Ptolemy’s bass had done in Egypt. “In the name of King Philip son of Philip! Perdikkas his guardian is dead. He has no need of new guardians. He is of age, thirty years old, and able to reign for himself. He claims his throne!”

Beside her, Philip threw up his hand. His shout, startlingly loud, unfamiliar to all his hearers, boomed out. “Macedonians! Do you take me for your King?”

The cheers came crashing back, making the birds beat up from the tree-tops. “Long live King Philip! Long Live Queen Eurydike!”

A galloping horse thudded over to the lodge. The rider threw his bridle to a scared slave and strode up to the verandah. Seleukos, whose courage was legendary and who knew it, was having no one say he had skulked in his quarters during a mutiny. He was a well-liked general. In his presence, incipient shouts of “Death to the guardians!” sank away. The cheers for Philip went on.

Through the din, Seleukos bawled in Peithon’s ear, “They’re not all here. Play for time. Call for a full Assembly.”

It was true that about a third of the men looked to have stayed away. Peithon stepped forward; shouts sank to muttering. “Very well. You’re free Macedonians, you have your rights. But remember, Antipatros’ men are only a few miles off, and they have their rights. This touches all the citizens.”

There was a surge of discontent. They were keyed-up, impatient. It needed only Eurydike’s “No! Now!” to set them off again.

Something made her look around. Philip was drawing his sword.

She had had to let him wear it if he was to look like a man, let alone a king. In another moment, by the look of his eyes, he would be charging at the lodge. For an instant she hesitated. Would they follow him …? But he would be helpless in combat, all would be lost. “Let’s kill them!” he said eagerly. “We can kill them, look.”

“No. Put it back.” He did so, obedient though regretful. “Now call out to the men, ‘Let Peithon speak.’”

He was at once obeyed. Never before had he so impressed the soldiers. Peithon knew he could do no more. “I hear you,” he said. “Yes, you can call Assembly. Don’t blame me when the Regent comes and it’s all to be done again. Herald, you down there. Come up here and sound.”

The Assembly was held in the glade before the hunting-lodge. The men who had stayed aloof answered the summons; there were rather more than Eurydike had thought. But the glow of success was on her when, with Philip, she mounted the verandah which was to serve as rostrum. Smiling she looked around the cheering faces. The silent ones she could do without well enough.

At the far end of the platform, Peithon was talking quietly to Seleukos. She ran over in her mind what she meant to say.

Peithon came up to her. “You shall have the last word. A woman’s privilege.” He was sure of himself, she thought. Well, let him learn.

He stepped forward briskly to the front of the platform. He got a few boos, but soon the sound died down. This was Assembly, and ancient custom held.

“Macedonians!” His crisp bark cut through the last murmurs. “In Egypt, in full Assembly, you appointed me and Arybbas as guardians of the Kings. It seems that you’ve changed your minds, never mind why. So be it. We accept. No need to put it to the vote; we are both agreed. We resign the guardianship.”

There was complete, stunned silence. They were like men in a tug-of-war when the other team lets go. Peithon made the most of it.

“Yes, we resign. But, the office of guardian stands. That office was decreed in full Assembly when Alexander died. Remember, you have two kings, one of them too young yet to speak for himself. If you vote Philip to rule in his own right, you appoint him guardian of Alexander’s son, till he comes of age. Before you vote, consider all these things.”

“Yes! Yes!” They were like the audience at a play when the actors are slow to enter. Eurydike saw it. It was for her that they were waiting; and she was ready.

“Here, then,” said Peithon, “is Philip son of Philip, who claims his right to rule. King Philip, come here.” Meekly, with a look of faint surprise, Philip joined him at the head of the central steps. “The King,” said Peithon, falling back a pace, “will now address you and state his case.”

Eurydike stood frozen. The sky had fallen on her, and she had not seen that it was inevitable from the first.

She was crushed by the shock of her own folly. She sought no excuse, did not remind herself that she was only just turned sixteen. In her own mind she was a king, a warrior. She had blundered, and that was all.

Philip gazed around him, smiling vaguely. He was greeted with friendly, encouraging cheers. They all knew he was a man of few words, and over-modest. “Long live Philip!” they called. “Philip for King!”

Philip’s head went up. He knew quite well what the meeting was about, Eurydike had told him. But she had told him, too, never to say a word she had not taught him first. He shot an anxious look at her, to see if she would talk instead; but she was looking straight before her. Instead, the voice of Arybbas just behind him, smooth and insistent, said, “Sir, speak to the soldiers. They are all waiting.”

“Come on Philip!” they shouted. “Silence for the King!” He waved his hand at them; they hushed each other to hear.

“Thank you for your loyalty.” That was safe, he knew; yes, they all liked it. Good. “I want to be King. I’m old enough to be King. Alexander told me not to, but he’s dead.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “Alexander let me hold the incense. He told Hephaistion, I heard him, he said I’m not as slow as I’m made out to be.” There were indeterminate noises. He added, reassuringly, “If I don’t know what to do, Eurydike will tell me.”

There was a moment’s stupefied pause, then confused uproar. They turned on one another, abusive, expostulating, wrangling. “I told you, now you see.” “He spoke to me like any man, only yesterday.” “He has the falling sickness, it takes men so.” “Well, he told us the truth, you can give him that.”

Eurydike stood as if bound to the execution post. Gladly she would have been dispersed in air. Everywhere, repeated as the joke was relished, she heard, “Eurydike will tell me what to do.” Encouraged by his reception, Philip was still speaking. “When I’m King, I shall always ride an elephant.”

Behind him, Peithon and Arybbas looked complacently at each other.

Something in the laughter began to give Philip doubts. It reminded him of the dreadful wedding night. He remembered the magic phrase, “Thank you for your loyalty”; but they did not cheer, only laughed louder. Should he run away, would he be caught? He turned on Eurydike a face of panic appeal.

At first she moved like an automaton, carried by her pride. She gave the smug guardians a single look of scorn. Without a glance at the buzzing crowd below, she went on to Philip and took him by the hand. With ineffable relief and trust he turned to her. “Was the speech right?” he said.

Holding up her head, for a moment she faced the crowd before she answered him. “Yes, Philip. But it is finished now. Come, we can sit down.”

She led him to the benches by the wall, where once the satrap and his guests had sat with their wine to await the huntsman’s call.

The Assembly continued without them.

It was involved and fretful. The factions had collapsed into absurdity. A few hundred voices urged Peithon and Arybbas to resume their charge, meeting a vigorous refusal. Seleukos in turn declined. While lesser names were being tossed about, a courier rode in. He announced that Antipatios with his army was crossing the Orontes, and would arrive within two days.

Peithon, giving out this news, reminded the men that ever since Perdikkas’ death both the Kings had been on their way to Macedon, where they belonged. Who, then, was more fitted than the Regent to be their guardian, now Krateros was dead? Sullenly they settled for this solution, since no one had a better one.

Quietly, during the debate, Eurydike had led her husband away. Over their midday meal he repeated his speech to Konon, who praised it and avoided meeting her eyes.

She hardly heard them. Beaten to her knees, faced with surrender, she felt her blood remembering its sources. The shade of Alexander taunted her; he, at sixteen, had held Macedon as Regent, and fought a victorious war. The fire of her ambition smoldered still under its embers. Why had she been humbled? Not for reaching too high, but too low. I was mocked, she thought, because I did not dare enough. From now on, I will claim my rights for myself.

At evening, when the sun sank over Asia and the first smoke rose, she put on her man’s tunic, called for her horse, and rode out among the watch-fires.

Two days later, riding ahead of the Regent and his army, Antigonos One-Eye reached the camp at Triparadisos.

He was the man who had escaped to; Macedon to reveal Perdikkas’ plot. Alexander had made him Satrap of Phrygia; the grateful Regent had appointed him Commander-in-Chief of all the troops in Asia. He was now on the way to take up his new command.

He rode a Persian “great horse,” being so tall that no Greek horse could carry him far. But for his eye-patch—he had lost the eye winning Phrygia for Alexander—he was still a handsome man. His even handsomer young son Demetrios, who went with him everywhere, worshipped him. Riding side by side, they made an impressive pair.

With the small column of his entourage, he entered the woodland fringes of the park. Soon, cocking his ear, he motioned his train to halt.

“What is it, Father? Is it a battle?” The boy’s eyes kindled. He was fifteen, and had never yet fought in war.

“No,” said his father, listening. “It’s a brawl. Or mutiny. High time I came, by the sound. Forward.” To his son he said, “What’s Peithon about? He did well enough under Alexander. Never think you know a man whom you’ve only seen acting under orders. Well, he’s a stopgap here. We’ll see.”

The prospect did not displease him … His own ambitions were great.

Eurydike had rallied to her cause about four-fifths of the army. At the head of her troops, she had appeared before the generals’ lodge, announced with the royal fanfare, demanding, this time, joint rule for Philip and herself.

The three generals gazed down with revulsion, not unmixed with fear, at the mob below. It looked worse than mutinous; it looked anarchic. Eurydike herself was half aware of this. Her training in weaponry had not included military drill, and she had not considered in advance that her following would be more manageable, as well as more impressive, if she drew it up in some kind of formation. A year ago, the junior officers (the seniors had held aloof) would have managed for her; but much had happened in a year, and most of it bad for discipline. So now an armed rabble followed her; men shouldered each other to get in front, and hurled insults at the generals.

It was as boos and jeers were drowning Peithon’s voice that Antigonos and his suite had come into earshot.

After his first distant glimpse, he sent Demetrios to scout ahead; it was good training for the boy. He cantered gaily into the trees, coming back to report that there was a horde of men gathered in front of what looked like headquarters, but no one to speak of at the back.

Meantime, Eurydike felt, behind her, the mass begin to seethe. She must lead them on, now, or somehow hold them back. Inherited instinct told her she would not lead them long. They would surge past her and lynch the generals. After that, her frail authority would be swept away.

“Herald, blow halt!” She faced them with lifted arms; they swayed restlessly, but came no further. She turned again to confront the generals.

The verandah was empty.

During the uproar of the last few minutes, the generals had learned that their new commander-in-chief had arrived in camp. He was in the lodge behind them.

The room inside, with its dark wood and little windows, had an air of dangerous gloom, in which, peering, they made out the towering form of Antigonos, seated in the satrap’s chair; glaring at them, like a Cyclops, with his single eye. The young Demetrios, a splinter of light picking out his dazzling profile, stood like a fierce attendant spirit behind him.

Antigonos said nothing. He pierced them with his eye, and waited.

As he heard out their lamentable tale, his face changed slowly from grimness to sheer incredulity. After a disturbing pause, he said, “How old is this girl?”

Shouting against the impatient roar from outside, Seleukos told him.

Antigonos swiveled his head to sweep them with his eye, ending at Peithon. “Thundering Zeus!” he said. “Are you soldiers or pedagogues? Not even pedagogues, by God! Stay here.” He strode out on the verandah.

The apparition from nowhere of this huge, formidable and famous man, instead of the expected victims, startled the crowd into almost total silence. Eurydike, who had no idea who he was, stared at him blankly. Philip, whom she had forgotten, began, “That’s Antigonos. He …”

He was drowned by a boom from Antigonos’ great chest. Soldiers in the front, despite themselves, straightened up and made vain shuffling efforts to dress their line.

“Stand back there, you sons of fifty fathers!” Antigonos roared. “Get back, Hades and the Furies take you! What do you think you are, a horde of naked savages? Stand up and let me look at you. Soldiers, are you? I’ve seen better soldiers robbing caravans. Macedonians, are you? Alexander wouldn’t know you. Your own mothers wouldn’t know you, not if they could help. If you want to hold Assembly, you’d better look like Macedonians, before some real ones come here and see you. That will be this afternoon. Then you can hold Assembly, if the rest agree. Clean yourselves up, curse you, you stink like goats.”

Eurydike heard, dismayed, defiant shouts change to an indeterminate grumbling. Antigonos, who had ignored her, seemed to see her for the first time.

“Young lady,” he said, “take your husband back to his quarters, and look after him. It’s a wife he needs, not a female general. Go about your work, and leave me to mine. I learned it from your grandfather before ever you were born.”

There was a wavering pause; the edges of the press began to fall away, the center to loosen. Eurydike cried out, “We will have our rights!” and some voices took it up, but not enough. The hateful giant had beaten her, and she did not know even his name.

Back in the tent, Konon told her. While she considered her next move, the smell of food reminded her that her young stomach was hungry. She waited till Philip had done—she hated to see him eating—and sat down to her meal.

Somewhere outside, a high imperious voice was arguing with the guard. Konon, who was pouring her wine, looked up. A youth came in; stunningly handsome, and hardly as old as herself. With his perfect features and clustering short gold curls, he could have posed for a Hermes to any sculptor. Like Hermes he entered lightly, and stood poised before her, fixing her with the gaze of a scornful god.

“I am Demetrios, son of Antigonos.” He sounded, too, like a deity announcing himself at the opening of a play. “I am here to warn you, Eurydike. It is not my custom to make war on women. But if you harm a hair of my father’s head, your life shall pay for it. That is all. Farewell.”

He was gone, as he had come, through the disorganized army; his speed, his youth and arrogance cleaving his way.

She stared after this first antagonist of her own age. Konon snorted. “The insolent young dog! Who let him in? ‘Not my custom to make war on women’! Who is he used to make war on, I’d like to know? His father should take a strap to him.”

Eurydike ate quickly and went out. The visitation had spurred her flagging purpose. Antigonos was a force of nature with which she could not contend; but he was one man alone. The troops were still mutinous and ripe for revolt. She dared not assemble them, which would bring him down on her again; but she went among them, reminding them that Antipatros, who was coming, was not the rightful Regent, that he feared being displaced by a rightful King. If he was allowed, he would seek out Philip and herself and all the best of their followers, to be put to death.

Antigonos, meanwhile, had sent one of his suite to meet the Regent and warn him to prepare for trouble. But the Regent and his escort had come by short-cuts over the hills; the messenger missed his way, arriving late at the tail-end of the column. There he was told that the old man had gone ahead with his bodyguard, long before noon.

Sitting straight on his easy-pacing charger, his stiff legs aching on the saddle-cloth, his face set in the harsh stare which was his mask for the pains and infirmities of age, the Regent rode to Triparadisos. His doctor had urged him to go by litter. But so had his son Kassandros, back in Macedon; who was only waiting to insist that his failing strength called for a deputy—naturally, himself. Antipatros neither trusted nor much liked his eldest son. Here in Syria, since Perdikkas’ death anything might have happened; and he meant to arrive, the gods and physic helping him, looking like a man to be obeyed.

The main gate into the park was dignified with great columns topped with stone lotuses. Antipatros took the good road which duly led him there.

Noises came from beyond; but to his annoyed surprise no escort was there to meet him. He told his herald to announce him with a trumpet blast.

In the lodge, the generals knew, with dismay, that his main force could not have come so quickly. Their envoy had missed him. Almost at once a rising commotion was heard; and a squadron leader, who had not joined the revolt, came galloping up. “Sir! The Regent’s here with no more than fifty horse, and the rebels are mobbing him.”

They ran for their helmets—the rest of their armor was on—and shouted for their horses. Neither Peithon nor Arybbas had ever lacked personal courage; they reached for their javelins briskly. Antigonos said, “No, not you two. If you come they’ll fall on all of us. Stay here, get anyone you can find and hold the lodge. Come, Seleukos. We’ll go and talk to them.”

As Seleukos mounted, vaulting upon his spear, Antigonos on his tall horse beside him, he felt for a moment the old elation of the golden years. It was welcome after the squalid affair in Egypt, from which he did not yet feel clean. When, though, in those years had he ever felt in danger from his own men?

The Regent had reached an age when discomfort and fatigue bothered him more than danger. Expecting nothing worse than disaffection, he had come in a light riding tunic and straw sun-hat, armed only with his sword. Seleukos and Antigonos, galloping down between huge cedars and deodars and spreading planes, saw the tight knot of the bodyguard sway in the press around it, the broad-brimmed hat fly off among the helmets, the vulnerable gleam of silver hair.

“Try not to draw blood,” called Antigonos to Seleukos. “They’ll kill us then.” With a bellow of “Halt, there!” he shoved down into the press.

Their firmness, their fame, Antigonos’ great height and overwhelming presence, got them through to the Regent, glaring under his white brows like an ancient eagle beset by crows, and grasping his old sword. “What’s this, what’s this?” he said. Antigonos gave him a brief salute (did he think there was time to chat? the old man must be failing at last) and addressed the soldiers.

Had they no shame? They claimed to respect the King; had they no respect for Philip his great father, the maker of their nation, who had appointed this man and trusted him? He had never been deposed by Alexander, only summoned for a conference while a deputy relieved him … Antigonos when he chose could persuade as well as dominate. The crowd sullenly parted; the Regent and his rescuers rode up to the lodge.

Eurydike had been preparing her speech for the coming Assembly, and knew nothing of the fracas till it was over. It shocked her that followers of hers might have butchered this ancient man. It offended her poetic image of war. Besides, they should be under her control and seen to be so. Only Athenian demagogues made speeches while others fought.

An hour before sunset, Antipatros’ main force arrived. She heard, rumbling on into the dusk, the horse and foot filing into the parks, the shouting and creaking of the supply trains, the bustle of camp slaves pitching tents, the rattle of stacked arms, the whinnying of horses scenting their kind; and, lasting long after, the hubbub of men in animated talk, exchanging news and rumors and opinions. It was the sound of the agora, the wineshop, the gymnasium, the forum; age-long leitmotif of the lands by the Middle Sea.

After sundown, a few of her following came, to say they had been arguing her cause with Antipatros’ men; one or two had cuts and bruises. But these had been little fights, stopped quickly by authority. She read the omens of discipline restored, and not wholly unwelcome. When a senior officer of the Regent’s staff came to the tent, they all, to a man, saluted.

He announced that a full Assembly would be held next day, to decide the kingdom’s affairs. King Philip would no doubt wish to attend it.

Philip had been building himself a little fort on the floor, and trying to man it with some ants who persisted in deserting. Hearing the message, he said anxiously, “Must I make a speech?”

“That, sir, is as you wish,” the envoy said impassively. He turned to Eurydike. “Daughter of Amyntas, Antipatios sends you greeting. He says that though it is not the custom of the Macedonians for women to address Assembly, you have his leave to do so. When he himself has spoken, they will decide if they wish to hear you.”

“Tell him I shall be there.”

When he had gone, Philip said eagerly, “He promised I needn’t make a speech if I didn’t want to. Please don’t make me.”

She felt she could have struck him; but she held back, fearing to lose her hold on him. Indeed, she had some fear of his strength.

The Assembly was held next day with ancient procedure. Foreign soldiers, the legacies of Alexander’s catholic racial mix, were barred. An impressive rostrum was raised in the biggest clearing, with seats of honor below it. As Eurydike took her place, whispering to Philip a last order to keep still, she felt in the huge throng a new, impalpable change. Something was different, and yet somehow familiar. It was the feel of the homeland, the native hills.

Antigonos spoke first. Here, at Assembly, the angry general was gone. A statesman spoke, not without the skills of oratory. With dignity he reminded them of their heroic past under Alexander, urged them not to disgrace it, and introduced the Regent.

The old man stepped briskly up to the rostrum. His own army cheered him; no hostile sound was heard. As he looked about him, as with perfect timing he signed for silence, an unwanted voice said within Eurydike, This man is a king.

He had reigned over Macedon and Greece throughout Alexander’s, wars. He had crushed the sporadic risings of the south, imposed on its cities the rulers of his choice, exiled his opponents. He had defeated even Olympias. Now he was old and brittle, his height had begun to shrink, his deep voice to crack; but still, given off from his inner core, the aura of power and command surrounded him.

He told them of their forefathers, he told them of Philip who had rescued their fathers from invasion and civil war, and begotten Alexander who had made them masters of the world. They had become a tree with wide and spreading branches—he gestured to the noble timber standing round—but the greatest tree will die if its roots are sundered from its native earth. Could they bear to sink down among the barbarians they had conquered?

He told them of the birth of Arridaios, the lackwit they had honored with Philip’s name; he told what Philip had thought of him, ignoring his presence in the seats below. He reminded them that in all their history, they had never had a woman ruler. Would they now choose a woman and a fool?

Philip, who had followed this peroration, nodded sagely. He found it somehow reassuring. Alexander had told him he ought not to be King, and now this forceful old man agreed. Perhaps they would tell him, now, that he could be Arridaios again.

Antipatros’ own men had been for him from the start.

For the rebels, it was like a slow awakening, from restless dreams. All round her, like the sough of shingle on an ebb-tide beach, Eurydike felt the lapse of the withdrawing sea.

She would not, could not admit defeat. She would speak, it was her right; she had won them once and would again. Soon this old man would finish talking, and she must be ready.

Her hands had clenched, her back and her shoulders tightened; her stomach contracted, achingly. The aching turned to a cramp, a low heavy drag which, with dismay, she tried at first not to recognize. In vain; it was true. Her menses, not due for four days, had started.

She had always counted carefully, always been regular. How could it happen now? It would come on quickly, once begun, and she had not put on a towel.

She had been strung-up this morning; what had she failed to notice in all the stress? Already she felt a warning moisture. If she stood on the rostrum, everyone would see.

The Regent’s speech approached its climax. He was talking of Alexander; she hardly heard. She looked at the thousands of faces round her, on the slopes, in the trees. Why, among all these humans made by the gods, was she alone subject to this betrayal, she only who could be cheated by her body at a great turn of fate?

Beside her sat Philip, with his useless gift of a strong man’s frame. If she had owned it, it would have carried her up to the rostrum and given her a voice of bronze. Now she must creep from the field without a battle; and even her well-wishers would think, Poor girl!

Antipatros had finished. When the applause subsided, he said, “Will the Assembly now hear Eurydike, daughter of Amyntas, the wife of Arridaios?”

No one dissented. Antipatros’ men were curious; her partisans were ashamed to vote against her. Their minds were made up, but they were prepared at least to listen. Now was the moment for a true leader to compel their hearts … She had come, the morning being fresh, with a himation round her shoulders. Now, carefully, she slipped it down to her elbows, to drape in a curve over her buttocks, as elegant ladies wore it in fresco paintings. Getting to her feet, taking care over her draperies, she said, “I do not wish to address the Macedonians.”

Roxane had kept her tent in a good deal of alarm, among scared eunuchs and terrified women; sure that if the mutiny succeeded, Eurydike’s first action would be to kill her and her child; it was, as Roxane saw it, the natural thing to do.

It took her some time to learn the Assembly’s decision, since only Macedonians had attended. At length her wagoner, a Greek-speaking Sidonian, came back to report that the wife of Philip had been quite put down without a word to say; that Antipatros the Regent had been made guardian of both the Kings; and that, as soon as the great lords had agreed to divide the satrapies, he would take both royal households back to Macedon.

“Ah!” she cried, and threw off fear like a cloak. “All will be well, then. It is my husband’s kingdom. They know the fool Philip from his childhood days; of course they will have none of him. It is my child they will wish to see. Alexander’s mother will be waiting.”

Alexander had never read her the letter Olympias had sent him when he had informed her of his marriage. She had advised him, if the barbarian girl should bear a boy, to have it smothered lest it should someday pretend to the throne. It was high time for him to visit the homeland and beget a Macedonian, as she had begged him to do before he crossed to Asia. This letter had not been placed in the royal archives. He had shown it to Hephaistion, and then burned it.