Alexander took a step after her, but she had vanished already into the empty streets. Aeropus retrieved the cloak and Alexander put it on, suddenly glad of its protection.
Hephaestion said, “You believe her.”
Alexander grinned at him. “And so do you.” A strange, giddy mood was taking hold of him, growing from the awareness of his danger. He snatched the torch from Hephaestion, who had been holding it like a weapon, and caught the slave by the shoulder. “It’s a night for friends, she said, so let’s have them. You, run and fetch Peucestas, tell him what’s passed and that I want him back. Erigyius and Laomedon, too, and Perdiccas and Coenus—Aeropus, send some of your men after them. And the rest of the Friends, by the gods.” He glanced again at Hephaestion, who shook his head, laughing.
“They won’t thank you for this,” he said. “They’re all home and asleep by now.”
“Wake them, then,” Alexander cried. He walked back toward the hall, where lights still showed under the heavy door. “Craterus, bring out more wine!”
“Are you ordering them to come?” Hephaestion asked.
“I’m inviting them,” Alexander answered, still smiling. “Let them stay in bed if they want. Now, come on.”
Ptolemy, by polite reckoning and official recognition the son of Lagus, was awakened by the noise of movement in the streets and his chamberlain’s gentle knock on the bedroom door. He sat bolt upright, listening in momentary panic for the sound of fighting, then relaxed enough to shout, “Come in.”
The chamberlain, a Greek from Alyzia, opened the door slowly, and sidled into the room. He was carrying a small oil lamp, and it sent strange shadows across the painted walls. Ptolemy was not in the mood for shadow pictures.
“What is it, Cleander?”
The chamberlain took a deep breath. “Sir, a message from the king—”
Ptolemy flung back the blankets, reaching blindly for his tunic, and Cleander added hastily, “Sir, it’s not an emergency. King Alexander’s sent a messenger to invite you to a party.”
“What?” Ptolemy stopped reaching for his clothes, and slid back into bed, drawing the blankets up over the lower half of his body. “He invites me to a party—at this hour? It must be after midnight.”
“The middle of the second night-watch, sir,” Cleander said, stone-faced.
“Tell the king—” Ptolemy began, then paused. “An invitation, not an order?”
“So the messenger said, sir.”
If the king had meant it as an order it would have been couched as one. With Alexander a man knew where he stood, always.
“Tell the king,” Ptolemy began again, “that I thank him for the courtesy, but am in no disposition to join him.”
Oleander’s lips moved silently as he memorized the message, and then he bowed deeply. “I’ll send that message, sir.”
“Good night,” Ptolemy said, and did not wait to hear the chamberlain’s murmured response. Beside him, Thaïs, his Athenian mistress, stirred with curiosity.
“I wonder what that was about,” she said.
“I have no idea,” Ptolemy said grimly, “and until tomorrow, I don’t care.” He could tell, from the restored silence in the streets, that there was no emergency requiring his attention—and if there had been, the king would have sent orders, not an invitation. It was all very well for the king to drink the night away, he could—and probably would—sleep through the next day. The King’s Friends, the core of officers and administrators that made up the royal council, had no such opportunity. Ptolemy himself, who bore the archaic title of Bodyguard, had the daily life of half a dozen infantry brigades to oversee. Chilled and grumbling, he burrowed deeper into the blankets, toward Thaïs’s warmth.
The chamberlain’s knock roused Ptolemy a second time just past dawn. The general swore at him, brushing away Thaïs’s automatic caress, and shouted, “What is it this time?”
“Sir, three of the men beg an audience. They say it’s an emergency.” Oleander’s voice was particularly sonorous, the tone he reserved for absolute disaster.
“Enter.” Ptolemy threw back the covers, heedless of the chill, and reached for his tunic. Thaïs, her presence already forgotten, sat up slowly, clutching the blankets to her bare breasts. She, too, had recognized the chamberlain’s tone, and had been Ptolemy’s mistress long enough to guess its cause. Not an enemy attack—the Sogdians were placated by Alexander’s recent marriage to one of their princesses and the Bactrians had been pounded into submission. In any case, tribesmen did not fight in winter. This had to be internal trouble: mutiny, trouble with the mercenaries, or, worst and most likely, Macedonians fighting among themselves.
The chamberlain coughed discreetly from the doorway, and Ptolemy said, “Well, what is it?” He was mostly dressed now, sword at hip, lacing his sandals over the heavy sheepskin leggings.
“I had them wait below, in your private chamber,” Cleander said. “They say it concerns the king.”
Ptolemy swore again, and jerked the last knot tight. Slinging his cloak over his shoulder, he said, “Who are they?”
“Eurylochus, sir, rear-rank man in Demophon’s battalion,” Cleander answered.
Ptolemy nodded, recognizing the name, and gestured for Cleander to precede him from the room. As they hurried down the narrow stairs that led to the inner courtyard, the chamberlain added, “Also a Foot Companion and one of the royal pages.”
“Get Menedemus,” Ptolemy said. Menedemus commanded his household guard. “But quietly, don’t alarm anyone.” There was still a remote chance that this was nothing serious, but it was not a risk Ptolemy wanted to run, not when the king’s life might be at stake.
His private chamber was full of lamplight and shadow, the narrow shutters closed tight against the cold. At Ptolemy’s nod, Cleander opened them, letting the early morning light into the room. Two men and a boy were waiting under the watchful eye of a household soldier. Cleander spoke softly to a second guard, then came to stand at the general’s shoulder.
Ptolemy leaned back against the edge of the single table. “Well?” he asked at last. “You have information that concerns the king?”
The shorter of the two men, a powerfully built, swarthy man, hunched his shoulders uneasily, but answered promptly enough, “Yes, sir. Eurylochus son of Arseus, sir, rear-ranker Demophon’s battalion of Meleager’s brigade, and a Macedon of Pella.” Having identified himself, he was unable to go on. The boy, whose eyes were red and swollen from weeping, sniffled softly. Eurylochus cast a glance toward him and tried again. “It’s really my brother, sir, Epimenes. Him. They came to me and said there was a plot to kill the king, so I came straight to you.”
“Whose plot?” Ptolemy snapped.
Eurylochus hunched his shoulders again. “His, Epimenes’s.” He gestured at the weeping boy. His voice was bitter: he was facing not just the end of his military career, but probably his death as well.
The boy burst into tears, fist pressed to his mouth to choke the noise. He tried to speak, but could only shake his head silently.
“May I speak, sir?” That was the second man, taller and fairer than Eurylochus. He was very pale, and closed his hands into tight fists to hide their shaking.
Ptolemy nodded. “You are?”
“Charicles, sir, son of Menander. Pike-man in Demophon’s battalion.” He was younger than he had looked at first glance, not much older than the weeping boy, and coldly frightened. He swallowed hard, and said, “Epimenes is my beloved, sir. We’ve been together since the army came into Bactria. He had the night-watch at the king’s quarters last night, and he came to me when he came off duty, like he always does. This morning, he seemed upset about something, and when I pressed him, he told me that last night the other pages on his watch had persuaded him to join them in killing the king. When the king didn’t come home until after the watch had changed, they couldn’t do anything, and Epimenes didn’t want to go along with it anyway, not any more—” Despite his own fear—he knew only too well that
he could be accused of complicity in the page’s treason—Charicles reached out to touch Epimenes’s shoulder, offering what comfort he could.
Eurylochus said, “They came to me, sir, and we all came here.”
Ptolemy nodded, looking past them to the doorway. Menedemus was standing there, and had heard most of the pike-man’s account. Catching the general’s eye, Menedemus said, “Do I call out the guard, sir?”
“Not yet,” Ptolemy answered grimly, and glared at the sniffling page. “Who’s behind this—who put you up to it?”
Epimenes choked back a sob, and said, almost inaudibly, “No one, sir. Hermolaus thought of it. Because of Cleitus, he said.”
Pages had planned—and committed—regicide before this in Macedon’s bloody history, but Ptolemy hesitated briefly. It was possible that others were involved. Of the King’s Friends, he knew he himself had not been involved, and of course Hephaestion’s devotion to Alexander was absolute. As for the rest… None of them were unambitious, but some made more believable conspirators than others. “Menedemus, double the household watch, but do it discreetly. Then choose a strong escort to take these to the king.” Menedemus nodded, and vanished. “Cleander, send word to General Hephaestion and General Peucestas; tell them what’s happened and that I’ve gone to the king. Who holds the walls?”
“Craterus’s brigade has that duty,” Cleander answered.
Ptolemy made a face. Alexander had begun the night at Craterus’s party, and it was just possible that that party had been an excuse to get the king drunk, to make it easier for the pages… He shook himself decisively. “Right. Warn his watch commander directly, and send someone to Craterus, too. And, Cleander—”
The chamberlain looked up alertly.
“After you’ve seen to those messages, inform Thai’s of what’s happened, and tell her to stay indoors until she’s heard from me.”
“Yes, sir,” Cleander said.
Menedemus reappeared in the doorway, somewhat breathless. “Sir, escort’s ready.”
“Good.” Ptolemy waved impatiently at the others. “Move.”
Alexander had taken up residence in the largest and most luxurious house in the city of Bactra; a two-storied building distinguished from the rest of the city by its painted columns and crude mosaic floors. The king’s bedchamber was at the rear, connected to the rest of the house by an unsteady stairway running along the back wall of the large dining hall. Chares, the usher who had charge of the royal household, usually slept in the alcove under the stairs, and Ptolemy wondered sourly what the conspirator pages had planned to do about his presence. Two pages, gawky adolescents who showed little sign of their high birth, were standing guard at the bottom of the stairway.
Ptolemy glared impartially at them all, and said, “I want to see the king.” His voice rang loud in the near-empty hall. In his alcove, Chares stirred, and dragged himself from his bed. The two pages exchanged looks, and then the braver of the two said, with a quick glance toward the alcove, “Sir, the king’s asleep, he left orders not to be disturbed.”
“I’ll wake him,” Ptolemy said. “It’s an emergency.”
By now, Chares had pulled himself out of his alcove and stood leaning against the stairs, rubbing at his temples. At Ptolemy’s words, however, he gestured for the pages to admit the general, saying, “What’s happened, general?”
“Treason,” Ptolemy flung over his shoulder. “Double the watch here.”
Chares froze, his aching head momentarily forgotten, then shouted for the nearest of the duty guards. Ptolemy turned away and hurried up the stairway. The other four pages who made up the day watch were waiting in the outer of the two rooms, eyeing each other nervously. They had heard the noise outside, as had the Persian servant who crouched silently in a corner, hoping to be ignored.
“You,” Ptolemy said, and pointed to the pages. “Get out.”
Their faces registered only honest confusion. The tallest opened his mouth to protest, but Ptolemy was in no mood to listen. “Out,” he snarled.
The pages scrambled to obey, and at the same moment, Ptolemy heard footsteps on the stairs. A second later, Hephaestion’s tall form loomed in the doorway. He had been running, but caught his breath enough to ask, “Alexander?”
Ptolemy nodded a welcome. “Still asleep. I was just about to wake him.”
Hephaestion gave a sigh of relief, even though he had known from Ptolemy’s message that the plot had failed.
“Hold them out here,” Ptolemy said to his soldiers, and pushed through the second door.
It was very bright in the inner chamber: the servants had not dared to risk disturbing the king by closing the painted shutters. Alexander did not move when the door opened, or when Hephaestion spoke his name. Ptolemy grunted irritably and shook the king’s foot.
Alexander woke instantly and sat up. There was a mark on one cheek where he had been lying on his seal ring. “I left orders,” he began querulously, and then the others’ expressions registered. “What’s happened?”
Ptolemy grunted. “The night-watch pages planned to kill you last night,” he said bluntly. “If you’d come home—but when you didn’t, one of them got cold feet.”
Alexander looked up sharply, and then a slow, thoughtful smile slid across his face. “So, her first prophecy’s fulfilled. I wonder what the rest of it’ll be.”
“Prophecy?” Ptolemy asked, not certain he wanted to hear.
“There was a woman, a seer, waiting for me when I left Craterus’s party,” Alexander answered. “She told me I should spend the night with friends, so I went back to the party.” His smile widened briefly. “I invited you, Ptolemy, you could’ve come.”
Ptolemy muttered something blasphemous under his breath. He distrusted oracles as a matter of principle, especially ones that came true.
Hephaestion said, “She could’ve heard something of the plot, Alexander.”
“However she knew, she saved my life,” the king said. He looked around automatically for a page to bring his clothes, then frowned, realizing. Hephaestion brought a tunic from the nearest clothes chest, and Alexander put it on, still frowning. The Persian servant brought sword belt and sandals. Alexander pushed himself out of bed and allowed himself to be dressed, listening to the rising noise of voices from the outer chamber.
“Who have you told?” he asked.
“Hephaestion, Peucestas, Craterus,” Ptolemy answered promptly. “Craterus’s men had the watch. The boy said it was just pages, but…” He let his voice trail off as Alexander’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“We’ll see, won’t we? That’ll be all, Bagoas,” he added, to the Persian, and stepped into the outer room.
The other generals Ptolemy had summoned were waiting there, Craterus unshaven and puffy-eyed. Peucestas, who had not answered the king’s invitation, looked more alert, Macedonian sword visible beneath his Persian coat.
“Thank the gods you’re all right, Alexander,” Craterus said.
“The gods are gracious,” the king answered conventionally. His eyes were fixed on Epimenes, who stood trembling under the watchful gaze of two of Ptolemy’s troopers. “Epimenes son of Arseus.”
The boy bit his lip, and answered, very softly, “Yes, sire.”
“Why?” Alexander asked.
Craterus said, “Never mind that now. Who else is involved?”
Epimenes looked wildly from king to general, then drew a shaky breath. “The other pages of my watch. They—we—worked it so we were all on duty together. Hermolaus and Sostratus, Antipater son of Asclepiodorus, Anticles, and Philotas son of Carsis the Thracian. Sire, truly, that was all. Charicles and Eurylochus didn’t know anything about it until I told Charicles, and they went straight to General Ptolemy, I swear it.”
“Eurylochus is your brother, I know,” Alexander said. He glanced at the two men who stood under guard, trying not to show their own fear. Eurylochus was on the verge of promotion to file-leader, while Charicles was still young enough to hope for a
dvancement. There was little motive for treason there. “And Charicles—what kin is he to you?”
“My lover,” Epimenes answered faintly.
Ptolemy said, “They’re both reliable, good soldiers, Alexander.” He did not bother adding details, knowing the king’s uncanny memory for his men.
Alexander nodded. Epimenes was telling the truth, of that he was certain, but this plot was serious enough even without outside involvement. And the seer had warned of days of danger to come. “Peucestas,” he said aloud. “Send a detachment of your men to arrest the others.”
“The royal pages Hermolaus, Sostratus, Antipater, Anticles, and Philotas,” Peucestas repeated. “At once, Alexander.”
“Wait,” Alexander said. “When you have them, turn them over to Hephaestion for questioning.” Macedonian law and tradition permitted torture in treason cases. He glanced quickly at the cavalry commander, reading in his face the anger that would give him the necessary ruthlessness. “Make sure they can walk to their trial.”
Hephaestion nodded grimly, knowing exactly why he had been chosen, and followed Peucestas from the room.
“And Epimenes?” Craterus asked.
Alexander looked back at the page. “You haven’t answered my question,” he said. “Why?”
Epimenes looked away. Almost inaudibly, he said, “We were seduced.”
Craterus gave a short bark of laughter, and the page flushed deeply.
“It was Hermolaus,” he said. “He kept talking about how you’d changed, become more like a Persian tyrant than a king of Macedon—never in so many words, though—and then…” Epimenes’s voice trailed away, and he shrugged miserably. “It seemed like he was right,” he said, almost in a whisper. “After Cleitus.”
Alexander’s face went rigid. He had not yet forgiven himself for Cleitus’s death, but he could not bear to have anyone else throw that in his face. Into the sudden silence, Craterus said, “That has an Athenian sound to it.”
A Choice of Destinies Page 2