A Choice of Destinies

by Melissa Scott

  “Or any of the other Greek League cities,” Ptolemy agreed, one eye on the king. “I wonder who’s been talking to this Hermolaus.”

  Alexander controlled his temper with an effort, staring at the page. The boy made a pitiful figure, sniffling, frightened out of his wits: not worth anger, or even contempt.

  As if he had read the king’s thoughts, Charicles said, tentatively, “Sire, I beg you. Spare his life.”

  The king stared a second longer, prolonging the moment, then said, “Very well, he lives.” He glanced at Charicles, whose tensed body slumped fractionally with relief. “As for you, and you, Eurylochus, return to your duties. Epimenes will be kept under guard until this is settled—Ptolemy, you see to that—but when he’s returned to you, see he follows your examples and not another’s.”

  “Thank you, sire,” Charicles said. “I will.”

  “King Alexander, thank you,” Eurylochus echoed.

  Alexander nodded, his mind already turning to other business. “You may go.”

  The two Foot Companions backed from the room. Ptolemy beckoned to Menedemus. “Take the boy away, find some place secure to hold him, and make sure no one speaks to him.”

  Menedemus nodded. “At once, general,” he said, and jerked his thumb at the soldiers guarding the boy.

  Alexander said, as the man hustled an unresisting Epimenes from the bedchamber, “Anticles. Anticles son of Theocritus.” He glanced at Ptolemy. “Does the name sound familiar?”

  The general frowned, racking his brains, but shook his head. “Not offhand.”

  “Theocritus is a battalion commander of hypaspists,” the king said. “Currently commanding the garrison at Alexandria Eschate.”

  Ptolemy swore softly. The hypaspists were the elite infantry, even more so than the Foot Companions who formed the bulk of the phalanx. If a battalion of them were involved in the plot, especially holding that strategic fort…

  Alexander smiled without humor. “I see the same thought occurs to you.” He pushed open the main door of the bedchamber, and shouted, “Chares!” When the usher appeared at the bottom of the stairs, the king continued, “Send for the Friends. I want them here now. Craterus, pass the word to your officers, no one’s to leave the city without my personal order. If anyone gets out, they’ll answer for it.”

  “At once, Alexander,” the brigadier said.

  “And, Chares!” Alexander had turned back to the stairs. “Send for Menidas, as well.” Menidas was a Greek, commander of the mercenary cavalry, but had other talents as well. If Theocritus were involved in his son’s plot, and it became necessary to get rid of him, Menidas was the man to do it. He had proved his worth before.

  It took less than an hour for Chares’s runners to assemble the King’s Friends; Menidas, dressed as carefully as if he were going to a symposium, arrived on their heels. Alexander outlined what had happened, not omitting the seer’s warning, then invited them to join him in a thanks-offering. Menidas—watching from the sidelines as each general poured a few drops of wine, muttered a prayer, and threw a pinch of incense on the fire—saw how they eyed each other for signs of guilt, and was hard pressed to hide his own smile.

  It was mid-afternoon before Peucestas returned with word that he’d arrested all five pages and turned them over to Hephaestion as ordered. The evening was well advanced before Hephaestion appeared. The cavalry commander kept his face impassive as he took his place at the king’s right hand. His afternoon’s work had sickened and angered him in equal measure, but he refused to show either.

  Alexander waved for the Persian servants to pour wine—the pages had been relegated to other duties, at least until the conspiracy was fully exposed—and said, “Well?”

  Hephaestion took a gulp of his wine and answered, “Well, what? They confessed. They were eager to confess.” He emptied his cup with two more swallows, beckoned for the nearest servant to refill it.

  “Come on, out with it,” Craterus said. “Was it just the boys?”

  Hephaestion gave him a deadly look, and Alexander said, “Who else, then?”

  Hephaestion’s anger drained away suddenly, and he said, “Callisthenes.” Callisthenes was Aristotle’s nephew, allowed to teach the pages as a favor to the king’s old tutor.

  “I can’t believe Callisthenes had the practical sense to plot against the king,” Perdiccas said slowly.

  Hephaestion replied, “Oh, I don’t think he was behind the plot itself, but he gave enough philosophy lessons on republics and tyrannicides—and on the ethical and political inferiority of all things Persian—to make him morally guilty. I’ve got him under guard now.” He shook himself, angry that he had wasted time on someone so unimportant. “But that’s not the main thing. Anticles—son of the garrison commander at Alexandria Eschate. He claims he sent a letter to his father, Theocritus, telling him what he was going to do. By the time Theocritus got it, of course, it’d be what he’d done—so Theocritus would have no choice but to help him.”

  Heads nodded around the circle of couches—Macedonian law presumed that all a traitor’s kinsmen were equally guilty of treason—and Alexander said, “A very clever boy, Anticles.”

  “Too clever,” Coenus growled. He looked unusually aged in the uncertain lamplight, but his voice was still strong.

  “When did he send the messenger?” Neoptolemus asked. He was a young man, only recently promoted to overall command of the hypaspists, and could not hide his unease at the thought of treachery from his men.

  “Two days ago, he says,” Hephaestion answered.

  Everyone turned to look at the royal secretary, who was in charge of the surveyors. Eumenes said, in his unpleasantly precise voice, “Approximately two thousand, one hundred and seventy-five stadia to Alexandria Eschate. A man on a fast horse could do that in five days. If he had cause to hurry, of course.”

  “He was told it was urgent, but not told the message,” Hephaestion said wearily.

  Alexander said, “Menidas. Take a party of your best men, and your pick of the horses—my own, if you choose—and overtake that messenger. When you catch up with him, send him back here under guard, and go on to Alexandria Eschate. Sound out Philip—Philip son of Gorgias, he’s Theocritus’s second-in-command—” He did not glance at Neoptolemus for confirmation. “If he isn’t in on the plot, and I doubt he is, inform him of what’s happened, and together you can arrest Theocritus. If he is, kill him, and Theocritus. Eumenes, draft an order to that effect.”

  Menidas sighed deeply. Order or no order, it would not be easy if he, a mere Greek mercenary, had to kill a Macedonian officer. But the royal name worked a potent magic with these troops—and in any case, it probably wouldn’t come to killing. “And if I don’t overtake the messenger, sire?”

  “Proceed to Alexandria Eschate anyway,” the king answered. “Deal with Theocritus.” He smiled suddenly, dazzlingly, as though he’d read the Greek’s thought. “You’ll have my order and my seal to give you authority.”

  Menidas nodded. From any other commander, that promise of protection would have been mere bluff, and the Greek, like any intelligent mercenary, would have started looking for a new employer. But from Alexander… Menidas had cause to know how powerful the king’s name could be. Three years ago, when General Parmenion, commander of the Macedonian army stationed in Ecbatana, had plotted against the king, Menidas had been sent with forces to break the conspiracy. The safest way of doing that was to kill the general; his troops, given the choice of believing the king or their immediate commander, unhesitatingly condemned Parmenion.

  “And the pages?” Perdiccas asked.

  “Get it over with,” Coenus said. Despite his seniority, he didn’t often speak in council, and the others glanced curiously at him. “What I mean to say is, put the case before the Assembly right away; let the men decide. That’ll stop what the little bastards were saying, anyway.”

  Alexander’s eyes narrowed. He resented the suggestion that he needed to prove the pages wrong, and doubly
resented his sense that the brigadier was at least partly correct. None of which was Coenus’s fault: the king would not be angry at a man who was merely speaking his mind in council. “I fully intend to put the matter to the Assembly,” Alexander said. “They’re Macedonians, all of them, that’s their right. But not until Menidas gets back from Alexandria Eschate.” He glanced again at the Greek, whose face was still remote, calculating the best way to do a difficult job. “I don’t want to give Theocritus any warning. Craterus, you’ll keep the city sealed until he returns.”

  “Let everyone in and nobody out,” Craterus said, nodding. “What about Callisthenes? From what Hephaestion says, he started it all.”

  Hephaestion made a face. “As I said before, I don’t think he was part of the plot itself. I do think he talked too much to be considered entirely innocent.”

  Craterus shrugged. “Either he’s guilty or he isn’t—and he sounds guilty enough to me.”

  “I thought he agreed with Callisthenes,” Peucestas murmured to Ptolemy, but Craterus heard.

  “I hate to see any Macedonian turning into a Persian, yes. But I’m the king’s man.”

  Peucestas, who had adopted Persian coat and trousers and the Persian language with equal facility, swore at the brigadier in barracks Macedonian.

  “Be quiet,” Alexander said. “Craterus, guilty or not, Callisthenes is a Greek—of what city I don’t know.” He looked mildly surprised at his own lack of information.

  “Stagyra, probably,” Ptolemy said. That was Aristotle’s city, it would make sense for Aristotle’s nephew to be its citizen. “And since your father refounded it, Alexander, you’re technically its patron now.”

  Alexander waved the suggestion aside. “That wouldn’t do me any good with the Greek League—especially with Athens. And there’s Aristotle to think of, whom I won’t willingly offend.” He glanced at Hephaestion, who had been Aristotle’s pupil as well, and a favorite. The cavalry commander nodded his thanks, and the king went on, smiling slightly, “Besides, he’s not that dangerous—his death isn’t worth the political consequences. Put him under close arrest, Hephaestion; he’ll keep until we return to Greece.”

  Which could be never, Hephaestion thought, with the Indian campaign in the spring and the projected search for the encircling Ocean. Close arrest forever… it suited Callisthenes. “Yes, Alexander,” he said aloud.

  Alexander glanced at Eumenes, who looked up quickly.

  “Almost done, sire,” the secretary said. He sprinkled the sheet of papyrus with fine sand, blotting the ink, then brought it to the king. Alexander read through it—four brief lines giving Menidas the king’s authority in the matter of Theocritus’s treason—then, rising, crossed to the secretary’s desk to add his signature. There was wax already melting on the brazier; he poured a generous amount at the foot of the papyrus and added his personal seal. To Menidas, he added, “What horses do you want?”

  Menidas accepted the order, careful not to touch the still-soft wax. “My own are good enough,” he said. He had never stinted on horseflesh, though he had starved himself and his men before this. “I’ll leave at once?”

  The king nodded. “The gods go with you.”

  From the king, the farewell was more than merely conventional. Menidas nodded his thanks and was gone.

  The council broke up quickly then. Hephaestion, following the other officers from the room, glanced over his shoulder. The king was watching him, and, seeing that, Hephaestion paused with one hand on the painted door post. Alexander nodded.

  “You stay.”

  Hephaestion had more than half expected the invitation, but he was gratified by it nonetheless. He came back into the room, and, at Alexander’s gesture, seated himself in a chair by a large brazier. “I’m glad you decided not to try Callisthenes,” he said.

  Alexander shrugged, stretching his feet toward the brazier. “As I said, he’s not worth the trouble it’d cause. He’s no danger if he doesn’t have an audience—and I trust you to deny him one.”

  “Oh, I will, believe me.” Hephaestion finished the last of the olives someone had left on the low table.

  Alexander stared at the nearest lamp, fixing his eyes on the brooding, brutal Pan-face that decorated the handle. It had come with him from Macedon, and, before that, had stood in his rooms at Mieza and at the palace at Pella. “I’m still sorry Aristotle didn’t come with us,” he said.

  “So was I, the minute I met Callisthenes,” Hephaestion said.

  “It might have changed his mind about the Persians,” Alexander went on, as though the other had not spoken.

  Hephaestion sighed and replied, “Aristotle’s getting too old for campaigning and in any case he’s more use to you back in Macedon, teaching your son.”

  “It depends on what he’s teaching him,” Alexander said. He glanced thoughtfully at his friend. “You keep up your correspondence with him still. Has he changed his thoughts on barbarians yet?”

  Hephaestion made a face. “Philip Alexander has other tutors, you know.”

  “Which means—?”

  “No, he hasn’t.” Hephaestion sighed again. “That’s not fair, though. He doesn’t say all barbarians should be our slaves any more, only real barbarians like the Sogdians. But he doesn’t approve of your idea of giving the Persians equality with us.”

  Alexander swore softly, but without much passion. He had long ago realized that some of Aristotle’s political theories were less than useless, especially when compared to his other teachings—but then, he had made it quite clear both to Aristotle and to his son that he had not hired the old philosopher to teach kingship. The boy would learn that from Antipater, the regent, who had been regent under Philip a dozen times before.

  “If you want,” Hephaestion went on, “I can remind him of his duty—I’ll be writing anyway; he shouldn’t hear of Callisthenes’s arrest from someone else first.”

  “No,” Alexander said, more sharply than he had intended. “They both know their responsibilities, Philip Alexander and Aristotle. Hermolaus was a troublemaker from the day he left Macedon. And I’ll tell Aristotle, Hephaestion.”

  Hephaestion glanced quickly at the king, recognizing the warning in his voice. Alexander was still too angry and too hurt by the pages’ treachery to want to talk of it. To push further would be to invite one of his rages, of which he would be ashamed in the morning. And to be honest, Hephaestion thought, I’m grateful it’s he who’ll break the news to Aristotle. “Very well,” he said, and added lightly, “If you believe the Pythagoreans, Aristotle must’ve committed quite a crime in some previous life, to be given a nephew like Callisthenes.”

  Bagoas appeared then, followed by a second servant carrying pitchers of wine and water. Bagoas set the tray of food on an unsteady table then turned to supervise the mixing of the wine. Hephaestion turned his attention to the food; a cold roast fowl, bread, cheese, and more olives.

  Alexander said, “That will be all, Bagoas, we’ll serve ourselves.” The Persians bowed and edged away, Bagoas’s beautiful face impassive. The king waited until he was sure they were out of earshot, then said, “If the seeress doesn’t come to claim her gift, Hephaestion, I want you to find her.”

  Hephaestion tore a strip of meat off the chicken’s side—he was well on his way to stripping it bare—and said, “She said she’d claim it when the danger was past.”

  “Whenever that may be,” Alexander said quite calmly, “she ought to be rewarded before that.”

  Hephaestion grunted dubiously. He was not entirely sure he believed in the woman’s prophecy—there were too many temporal ways she could have heard rumors of the boys’ plot for him to be convinced of the warning’s supernatural origins—but he had to agree she had earned a substantial present. “I’ll find her, then. But I, for one, won’t be convinced the danger’s over until Theocritus is standing in front of the Assembly.”

  A Choice of Destinies

  Chapter 2:

  Bactra, winter (Peritios), 29
imperial (328 B.C., 426 A.U.C.)

  After the alarms of the previous day—the summoning of the Friends, the hunt for and the arrest of the pages—the conspiracy could not be kept secret. Knowing that, Alexander summoned the rest of his officers, including battalion captains and cavalry squadron leaders, to the next morning’s sacrifices, told them of the plot, and asked them to join him in special prayers of thanks to the gods of his house. The king spoke well, as always, and, like the Friends, the officers were eager to prove their own goodwill. The news spread rapidly, as Alexander had intended, and later in the day more sacrifices were made among the individual units, foreign and Macedonian alike.

  The next day, one of Craterus’s men caught a Persian merchant trying to bribe his way out of the city. He was the first of three such, all agents of minor Persian princes. All were handed over to Peucestas, who imprisoned them comfortably, promising in flawless Persian to release them to carry their message as soon as the king saw fit. There were no further signs of trouble, and the army rapidly returned to something approaching its usual routine. Even the royal pages returned to their duties, watched over by a more than usually careful Chares. Still, the seeress did not appear to claim her reward.

  Following the king’s orders, Hephaestion spent the better part of a morning searching for her. When he finally found the seeress, squatting comfortably on the doorstep of a house that had been taken over by some troopers of the Companion Cavalry, she was polite, but absolutely refused to see the king or accept any present from him. When Hephaestion would have pressed her further, she repeated her promise that she would claim her reward when the danger was over, and retreated hastily into the house. Shrugging to himself, the cavalry commander hunted out the senior trooper of that squad, a grizzled, responsible wing-rider, told him to treat the woman as someone under the king’s personal protection, and headed back through the dirty streets to the royal quarters.

  The king was busy with the secretariat, but dismissed them with thanks as soon as the duty page announced Hephaestion’s arrival. “Well?” he called, even before the cavalry commander had reached the top of the stairs. “Is she provided for?”