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

310 B.C.

THE CASTLE OF AMPHIPOLIS crowned a high bluff above a sweeping curve of the Strymon, just before it reached the sea. In old days it had been fortified by Athens and by Sparta, strengthened and enlarged by Macedon, each of its conquerors adding a bastion or a tower. The watchmen on its ashlar walls could see wide prospects on every side. They would point out to Alexander, when the air was clear, distant landmarks in Thrace, or the crest of Athos; and he would try to tell them of places he himself had seen before he came here, when he was a little boy; but the years are long between seven and thirteen, and it was growing dim to him.

He remembered confusedly his mother’s wagon, the women and eunuchs in her tent, the palace at Pella, his grandmother’s house in Dodona; he remembered Pydna too well; he remembered how his mother would not tell him what had happened to Grandmother, though of course the servants had said; he remembered his aunt Thessalonike crying terribly although she was going to be married; and his mother crying too on the journey here, though she was settled now. Only one thing had been constant all his life: the presence of soldiers round him. Since Kebes had been sent away, they were his only friends.

He seemed never to meet other boys; but he was allowed out riding so long as soldiers went with him. It always seemed that as soon as he got to know them, to joke and race with them and get their stories out of them, they would be assigned somewhere else and he had a different pair. But in five years a good many turns had come round again, and one could pick up the threads.

Some of them were dour and no fun to ride with; but in five years he had learned policy. When Glaukias, the Commandant, came to see him, which happened every few days, he would say that these soldiers were most interesting people, who were telling him all about the wars in Asia; and soon after they would be transferred. When his friends were mentioned he looked glum, and they stayed on for some time.

Thus he had learned that Antigonos, the Commander-in-Chief in Asia, was making war on his account, wishing to get him out of Amphipolis and be his guardian. He had been two years old when Antigonos had come his way, and remembered only a huge one-eyed monster whose approach had made him scream with fright. He knew better now, but had still no wish to be his ward. His present guardian was no trouble because he never came.

He wished his guardian had been Ptolemy; not that he remembered him, but the soldiers said he was the best-liked of all Alexander’s friends, and behaved in war almost as handsomely, which was rare these days. But Ptolemy was far off in Egypt, and there was no way of getting word to him.

Lately, however, it seemed the war was over. Kassandros and Antigonos and the other generals had made a peace, and agreed that Kassandros should be his guardian till he came of age.

“When shall I come of age?” he had asked his friends. For some reason this question had alarmed them both; they had enjoined him, with more than their usual emphasis, not to go chattering about what they’d said, or that would be the last he’d ever see of them.

There had always been two of them, until yesterday, when Peiros’ horse had gone lame in the first mile, and he had begged Xanthos for one canter before they had to go home. So they had one while Peiros waited; and when they paused to breathe the horses, Xanthos had said, “Never a word. But there’s a lot of talk about you, outside of here.”

“Is there?” he said, instantly alert. “No one outside of here knows anything about me.”

“So you’d think. But people talk, like we’re talking now. Men go on leave. The word goes round that at your age your father had killed his man, and that you’re a likely lad who should be getting to know your people. They want to see you.”

“Tell them I want to see them, too.”

“I’ll tell them that when I want my back tanned. Remember; never a word.”

“Silence or death!” This was their usual catchword. They trotted back to the waiting Peiros.

Roxane’s rooms were furnished from her long travels. The splendors of the Queen’s rooms in Babylon, the fretted lattices and lilied fishpond, were twelve years away; all she had of them were Stateira’s casket and jewels. Lately, she hardly knew why, she had put them away out of sight. But she had plenty of ornaments and comforts; Kassandros had allowed her a wagon-train to carry her things to Amphipolis. He was sending them both there, he had said, only for their protection after all the perils they had undergone; by all means, let her make her stay agreeable.

She had however been very lonely. In the beginning the Commandant’s wife, and some of the officers’ ladies, had made overtures; but she was the Queen Mother, she had not expected a long stay, and she had exacted her proper dignities. As months became years she had regretted this, and put out small signals of condescension; but it was too late, formality was coldly kept.

It distressed her that the King her son should have no company but women and common soldiers. Little as she knew of Greek education, she knew that he should be getting it; or how, when he came to reign, would he hold his own at court? He was losing his tutored Greek, and falling into the uncouth Doric patois of his escorts. What would his guardian think of him when he came?

And he would come today. She had just had word that he had arrived without warning at the castle, and was closeted with the Commandant. At least, the boy’s ignorance should convince the Regent, of his need for schooling and civil company. Besides, she herself should long since have been installed in a proper court with her ladies and attendants, not penned up among provincial nobodies. This time she must insist.

When Alexander came in, dusty and flushed from his ride, she sent him to bathe and change. In her long leisure she had worked beautiful clothes for both of them. Washed, combed, dressed in his blue tunic bordered with gold thread and his embroidered girdle, she thought that he had added to the grace of Persia the classic beauty of Greece. Suddenly the sight of him moved her almost to tears. He had been growing fast, and was already taller than she. His soft dark hair and his fine delicate brows were hers; but his eyes, though they were brown, had something in their deep-set intensity that stirred her memories.

She put on her best gown, and a splendid gold necklace set with sapphires which her husband had given her in India. Then she remembered that among Stateira’s jewels were sapphire earrings. She found the casket in the chest, and put them on.

“Mother,” said Alexander as they waited, “don’t forget, not a word about what Xanthos told me yesterday. I promised. You’ve not told anyone?”

“Of course not, darling. Whom should I find to tell among these people?”

“Silence or death!”

“Hush. He is coming.”

Escorted by the Commandant, whom he dismissed with a nod, Kassandros entered.

He noticed that she had grown stout in the idle years, though she had kept her clear ivory skin and splendid eyes; she, that he looked older and thin to gauntness, and that his cheekbones had a flush of broken veins. He greeted her with formal civility, asked after her health and, without awaiting an answer, turned to her son.

Alexander, who had been sitting when he came in, got up, but only on reflection. He had long ago been told that kings should not rise for anyone. On the other hand, this place was his home, and he had a duty as host.

Kassandros, noting this, did not remark on it. He said without expression, “I see your father in you.”

“Yes,” said Alexander, nodding. “My mother sees it, too.”

“Well, you would have outgrown him. Your father was not tall.”

“He was strong, though. I exercise every day.”

“And how else do you spend your time?”

“He needs a tutor,” Roxane cut in. “He would forget how to write, if I did not make him. His father was taught by a philosopher.”

“These things can be attended to. Well, Alexander?”

The boy considered. He felt he was being tested, to see how soon he would come of age. “I go up to the ramparts and look at the ships and ask where they all come from, and what the places and the people are like, if anyone can tell me. I go riding every day, under guard, for exercise. The rest of the time,” he added carefully, “I think about being King.”

“Indeed?” said Kassandros sharply. “And how do you plan to rule?”

Alexander had given this thought. He said at once, “I shall find all the men I can whom my father trusted. I’ll ask them all about him. And before I decide anything, I shall ask them what he’d do.”

For a moment, to his surprise, he saw his guardian turn quite white, so that the red patches on his cheeks looked almost blue; he wondered if he was ill. But his face grew red again, and he only said, “What if they do not agree?”

“Well, I’m the King. So I must do what I think myself. He had to.”

“Your father was a—” Kassandros checked himself, greatly though he had been tempted. The boy was naive, but the mother had shown cunning in the past. He finished “… man of many aspects. So you would find … Well, we will consider these matters, and do what is expedient. Farewell, Alexander. Roxane, farewell.”

“Did I do well?” Alexander asked when he had gone.

“Very well. You looked truly your father’s son. I saw him in you more than ever before.”

Next day brought the first frost of autumn. He rode out with Xanthos and Peiros along the shore, their hair blowing, tasting the sea-wind. “When I come of age,” he shouted over his shoulder, “I shall sail to Egypt.”

He came back full of this thought. “I must see Ptolemy. He’s my uncle, or partly. He knew my father from when he was born to when he died. Kebes told me so. And my father’s tomb is there, and I ought to offer at it. I’ve never offered him anything. You must come too, Mother.”

Someone tapped at the door. A young girl slave of the Commandant’s wife came in, with a jug that steamed spicily and two deep goblets. She set it down, curtseyed, and said, “Madam brewed it for you, and hopes you will honor her by taking it, to keep out the cold.” She sighed with relief at having remembered it. She was a Thracian and found Greek hard.

“Please thank your mistress,” Roxane said graciously, “and tell her that we shall enjoy it.” When the girl had gone, she said, “She is still hoping to be noticed. After all, we shall not be much longer here. Perhaps tomorrow we will invite her.”

Alexander was thirsty from the salt air, and tossed down his cupful quickly. Roxane, who was at a tricky stage of her embroidery, finished the flower that she was stitching, and drank hers then.

She was telling him a story about her own father’s wars—he must remember, after all, that there were warriors on her side too—when she saw his face tauten and his eyes stare past her. He looked urgently at the door, then rushed to a corner and bent over, retching and straining. She ran to him and took his head in her hands, but he fought her off like a hurt dog, and strained again. A little came up, smelling of vomit and spices; and of something else, that the spices had masked before.

It was from her eyes that he understood.

He staggered to the table, emptied the jug out on the floor, and saw the grounds at the bottom. Another spasm cramped him. Suddenly his eyes burned with pure rage; not like the tantrums of his childhood, but like a man’s; like the blazing anger of his father which she had, once only, seen.

“You told!” he shouted. “You told!”

“No, no, I swear!” He hardly heard her, clenched in his agony. He was going to die, not when he was old but now; he was in pain and afraid; but overwhelming even pain and fear was the knowledge that he had been robbed of his life, his reign, his glory; of the voyage to Egypt, of proving himself Alexander’s son. Though he clung to his mother, he knew that he craved for Kebes, who had told him his father’s deeds, and how he had died game to the last, greeting his men with his eyes when his voice was gone. If only Xanthos and Peiros had been here, to be his witnesses, to tell his story … there was no one, no one … The poison had entered his veins, his thoughts dissolved in pain and sickness; he lay rigid, staring at the roof-beams.

Roxane, the first qualms working in her, crouched over him, moaning and weeping. Instead of the stiffened face with the blue mouth, the white forehead sweating under the damp hair, she saw with dreadful clarity the half-made child of Stateira, frowning in Perdikkas’ hands.

Alexander’s body contracted violently. His eyes set. In her own belly the gripe became a stabbing, convulsive pain. She crept on her knees to the door and cried, “Help me! Help me!” But no one came.