A Choice of Destinies

by Melissa Scott

  Left alone with the king, Hephaestion waited for a long moment before saying, “Shall I have Adaeus call the bodyguard?”

  “No.” With an effort, Alexander managed a lighter tone. “No need.”

  Hephaestion sighed. “I thought that was what you had in mind.” No one had touched the plate of dried fruit since Metron had brought in the messenger. Hephaestion selected a piece and ate it, choosing his words with the same care. “It would be a foolish risk to walk into Theagenes’s quarters alone, tell him Thebes is in rebellion, and wait to see what he says. At least take an escort.”

  Alexander shook his head, recognizing the logic of the cavalry commander’s argument. “I’ll take two of Proxenus’s men, if that’ll make you happy, but it has to be the two of us alone who speak to Theagenes.”

  Hephaestion ran a hand through his hair, disordering the short curls. The Sacred Band might well respond to a personal appeal from the king for their loyalty—Theagenes, their commander, was well known as a man of strict honor—but if they did not… He put that thought aside. “I know what you want to do, and if anyone can do it, it’s you, Alexander. But it’s still a risk.”

  “I don’t think so.” Alexander drained his cup, and shouted for a page to bring his sword belt. He allowed the boy to arm him, then drew his cloak around his body. “Come on.”

  It was still light in the narrow streets, though there was a dank chill in the air that spoke of the approaching evening. There were not many people about: the watch did not change until sunset, and the soldiers’ women were either at the closing market or already busy preparing the evening meal. Already the cooking fires were lit in or behind the commandeered houses, sending up thin columns of smoke that vanished against the smoke-colored clouds.

  Theagenes had chosen his quarters with predictable caution. Like all of Alexander’s officers, he had displaced one of the city’s wealthier households; it had brought him and his men little in the way of comfort, but the shabby, single-story house did possess its own well-kept wall and a defensible gatehouse.

  At the head of the street a shadow moved, detaching itself from the doorway of a poorer house, and Proxenus came forward to meet them, taking care to keep out of the line of sight from the gatehouse.

  “Nothing stirring, sire,” he said, without waiting to be asked. He jerked his head toward the doorway, where a second armed figure could be seen. “Pithon’s with me. I sent Timander and Melamnides around the other way, and they didn’t see anything either. I’d stake my life the Thebans haven’t heard a thing.”

  The king nodded thoughtfully. Hephaestion glanced along the curve of the street, could just see one of the Sacred Band standing outside the shadow of the gatehouse. The Theban wore corselet and greaves, but had set aside shield and spear: Proxenus seemed to have guessed correctly.

  “Melamnides,” Alexander said abruptly. “You’ll keep watch here. The rest of you will accompany me while I speak with Theagenes. If we don’t return by the time the watch turns, Melamnides, inform General Craterus at once.”

  “Yes, sire,” the youth said, with great determination.

  The king rewarded him with a smile and a nod, then turned toward the Thebans’ quarters. The others fell into step automatically, Hephaestion at his shoulder, the three soldiers in line abreast, a few paces behind. Proxenus’s face bore its perpetual, disguising scowl; behind his back, the other two exchanged a speaking glance. They were both hypaspists of the spearhead battalion, the elite of the elite, the king’s own infantry, but the Sacred Band was a formidable opponent. Proxenus, true to his orders, had said nothing more than was necessary, but the hint of trouble in Greece had been enough. Pithon loosened his sword in its sheath, then, grimly, both men disciplined themselves to their toughest swagger.

  At the party’s approach, the pair of Thebans who held the guardhouse straightened to attention, the clean-shaven one hastily picked up his spear. Then the other—he was bearded, but no older than his companion, breaking the Sacred Band’s tradition that its sworn lovers be man and youth—recognized them and stiffened to the salute.

  “King Alexander,” he said, his voice more surprised than wary.

  Alexander acknowledged the salute, and said, “I want to speak with Theagenes, now.”

  The Thebans exchanged quick, puzzled glances, and then the bearded one said, “At once, sire. Cleander, take the king to the general.”

  “Sir.” The Theban spoke not to his companion but to the Macedonians. “This way, please.” He led the way through the narrow gatehouse and out into the courtyard that stretched between the protecting wall and the house itself. There were more Thebans there, most of these unarmored, some clustering around a dice game, another group sharing a wineskin. A cluster of Asian women, spoils of the campaigns through Persia and Bactria, were busy at the cook fires. The flow of conversation checked at the king’s entrance, but resumed again almost at once, the voices merely curious, not concerned.

  There was another pair of soldiers at the main door of the house. Cleander nodded to the senior of the two, and said, “King Alexander wishes to speak with Theagenes.”

  “He’s at dinner,” said the younger of this pair, wide-eyed.

  His companion said, rather irritably, “Tell him King Alexander is here, idiot.”

  The younger man set his spear aside and hurried into the house. The other said, “You can return to your post, Cleander. If you’d come with me, sire—sirs?”

  Alexander nodded his thanks, and followed the man into the darkness of the house. It was an old-fashioned place, built around a central hall that was barely large enough to hold a dozen dining couches. The broad firepit gave off more smoke than heat, and the whole house smelled of its ashes.

  Theagenes had established himself in the largest and most comfortable part of the house, a pair of rooms at the very back, separated from the main hall by a heavy curtain. Cleon was waiting there. At the king’s approach, he pulled back the curtain and said, “The general bids you welcome, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Alexander said. “Proxenus, you and your men wait here.”

  Proxenus nodded once, sharply. Cleon, who had intended to offer the newcomers wine, fell nervously silent in the face of unexpected hostility. Alexander spared the hypaspist one reproving glance, then he and Hephaestion entered Theagenes’s quarters.

  The small outer room was very dark, and a slave woman, a Greek this time, was busy with the lamps that stood in clusters in the corners. There was very little other furniture in the room, and what there was was crudely-made local stuff. As the Theban guard had said, Theagenes had been at dinner: a tray full of half-emptied dishes stood on a side table.

  “King Alexander?” Theagenes emerged from the bedchamber, hooking back the curtain to let in a little more light from the inner room’s narrow windows. “What can I do for you?” Without waiting for an answer, he prodded the slave woman. “That’s enough. Go on, out.”

  In silence, the woman caught up the tray of dishes and fled. Hephaestion stepped quickly aside to let her pass.

  “News from Greece,” Alexander answered.

  Theagenes’s heavy eyebrows drew together in a thoughtful scowl, and his eyes grew wary. “I’ve sent for Menander,” he said. Menander was his second-in-command, as well as his sworn companion. “Wine?”

  “I’d be glad of a cup,” Alexander said with a bleak smile, and seated himself beside the low table.

  The slave had mixed the wine already, and the painted jar—Greek ware, brought with care all the way from Thebes—sat in the center of the table, a ladle and a set of worn silver cups beside it. Theagenes filled the cups and handed them round, watching the king. Alexander’s face was closed, inviting no questions, and, seeing that, the Theban felt a cold touch of fear.

  The silence stretched to breaking. Hephaestion shifted uneasily, but could find nothing to say. At last, footsteps sounded outside, and a new voice announced, “Menander, general.”

  “You sent for me—?” Seeing
Alexander, the newcomer checked abruptly, uncertainty and then distrust flickering across his face. Theagenes frowned at him, and Menander hastily smoothed his expression.

  “News from Greece,” Alexander said again.

  Hephaestion tensed in spite of himself at the change in the king’s voice, then put aside his wine with studied casualness. Alexander spoke into the deepened silence.

  “Thebes and Sparta have rebelled.”

  For a second neither Theban moved, and then Theagenes slammed his clenched fist against the table, making the wine cups rattle. Hephaestion started, then flushed deeply in embarrassment. Alexander ignored them both.

  “Thebes has betrayed me; you haven’t,” he went on. “I have no reason to distrust you. But I can’t ask you to make this choice, Theagenes. I won’t force you to fight against your city, and I can’t let you return to Greece to fight for her. And I won’t waste good men. I’m asking you to garrison Bactra for me, until this rebellion is settled.”

  The little room was close, smelling of the lamp oil and the fire in the hall outside. The sound of their breathing seemed thunderous; beneath it could be heard, faintly but very distinctly, the sound of a woman wailing in another part of the house. A bad omen, the king thought. Let it be for Thebes. The sound stopped abruptly, and the quiet closed in again. Alexander stared at Theagenes, willing him to speak, to give the answer he wanted to hear, to take the opening he had carefully left for him.

  Menander said, “What about Athens?”

  Hephaestion and Theagenes jumped. Alexander said, “What of her?”

  “Where does Athens stand in this? Is she allied with Thebes again?” Menander’s tone was bitter: it had been Athens that persuaded Thebes to stand against Philip, and Athenian troops that had broken first at Chaeronea.

  Hephaestion glanced at the king, willing him to say yes. It was almost certainly true—Athens never missed a chance to meddle in the politics of other states, and her demagogues bitterly hated Macedon. It would hardly be a lie.

  Alexander could feel the cavalry commander’s eyes on him, and shook his head almost imperceptibly. “When my messenger was sent, Athens was still uncommitted.”

  Menander grunted and was silent. Theagenes sat very still, his hand white-knuckled on the wine cup. It had been nearly eight years since he had, reluctantly, agreed to the oligarchs’ decision to ignore Athens’s proddings and obey the terms of their treaty with the late King Philip, supplying men and money for the invasion of Asia. Theagenes, knowing perfectly well he and his men were hostages, had expected nothing better than to be distrusted and ignored, or, more likely, to see his people systematically destroyed. Neither had happened; Alexander had accepted their presence at face value, assuming their loyalty, and, grudgingly, Theagenes had found himself giving it. Alexander had treated them as he treated his other units, Macedonian and foreign alike, as tools shaped for specific but different tasks, never committing them unless they were clearly the right unit for the job at hand, but then expecting nothing less than their greatest efforts. On the long march down the Asian coast, the Sacred Band had regained their pride. And now, Theagenes thought bitterly, the oligarchs had once again conspired to destroy that pride. They were men without honor; they did not know how to keep their given word, nor even have the intelligence to know when to break it… He took a deep breath, mastering himself with an effort.

  “You said Thebes betrayed you,” he said abruptly. “They’ve betrayed us too, and after you kept faith with all of us, Alexander. We knew nothing of this, I swear it, we—I—would have voted against it if I could have. Let us keep our word. Let us stay with you.”

  “I will not ask you to fight against your city,” Alexander said again.

  “In the years since it was founded, the Sacred Band has never broken faith, or acted against honor,” Theagenes said. Menander growled something, and Theagenes flung out a hand to silence him. His splayed fingers were shaking; Alexander was careful to look away.

  “These oligarchs have dishonored us too often,” Theagenes went on. “Let us stay.” He drew a deep breath. “I swear to you, on Iolaus’s altar, if you’ll have us, we’ll serve you to the death. Even—especially against Thebes.”

  Menander gave him a shocked glance. It was one thing, that swift look said, to disapprove of Theban policy, but something else entirely to offer to fight against the city. Theagenes said sharply, “They’ve left us no other honorable course this time.”

  Menander hesitated, then, reluctantly, nodded. “Very well.”

  Alexander said carefully, “I accept your oath, Theagenes, and I swear this, in my turn: I’ll hold your honor as dear as my own.”

  Theagenes nodded jerkily. “Done.” He hesitated for a moment, clearly marshalling his thoughts, then said slowly, “This plot of the pages, did Thebes have a hand in that, too, I wonder?”

  Alexander’s mouth tightened abruptly. The thought had not occurred to him, in the more pressing concerns of the morning, and the possibility angered him even further. Hephaestion, with a quick glance at the king’s stiff face, said, “The two couldn’t be connected. The timing’s impossible.”

  Tardily aware of the king’s anger, Theagenes murmured an apology, and repeated his promise of loyalty. With an effort, the king relaxed enough to respond graciously, and the two men parted in formal friendship. In the street, voice lowered to keep both the Thebans and the trailing hypaspists from hearing, Hephaestion said, “But will he keep that word?”

  The king did not answer, and Hephaestion, watching the other’s grim face, did not press the issue. There were other questions he wanted to ask as well, and did not dare—what would be done about the pages now that the situation in Greece made their treason even more dangerous; what, if anything, would be done to secure the loyalty of the satraps back on the Asian coast; and most important of all, would the army march to help Antipater? He himself could see no way to avoid it; and thus no way to carry out the planned Indian campaign. If the officer left behind in Asia had thought their reinforcements would be enough to quell the rebellion, Mazaeus’s dispatch would have said as much; by the time a new messenger could reach Bactra from the mainland, it would be summer at least, and the army would not be able to relieve Antipater until the next year. Even starting as soon as possible, it would be hard to make the coast before the sailing season ended. And even Alexander would not move instantly when it meant the end of his cherished dream of reaching Ocean.

  The courtyard of the royal quarters was unexpectedly crowded: Chares, acting under Ptolemy’s orders, had doubled the household guard. Alexander eyed them dubiously—they were hardly inconspicuous—but continued on into the house.

  Peucestas was waiting in the antechamber that gave onto the main hall. At the king’s approach, he gave a sigh of relief and came forward quickly, saying in a low, urgent voice, “Alexander, Exathres requests an immediate audience.”

  Exathres was Darius’s brother, who had joined Alexander in hopes of getting revenge on Darius’s murderer. The king raised an eyebrow. “What does he want?”

  “To offer his loyal assistance, he says,” Peucestas answered, sighing. “Alexander, I don’t know how he heard. He has his agents in the camp—all the foreign commanders do—and agents in Babylon as well. I’m trying to find out.”

  “Do what you can,” Alexander answered. “Very well, I’ll see him.”

  The Persian was waiting with his retinue in the main hall, the lamplight glinting from the gold borders of his luxurious coat. His fleshy, heavily bearded face was in shadow, hiding his expression as he turned to face the king. Alexander drew himself up to his full height—he was still nearly half a foot smaller than the other—and beckoned to the Persian. Exathres came forward gracefully, stooping to the prostration, then rose to receive a kinsman’s kiss. The ritual greeting completed, the Persian stepped back, saying, in Persian, “Great King, Majesty, I am greatly grieved to hear of this rebellion in Greece. Am I correct in believing you will soon march to punish th
e traitors?”

  The king’s command of Persian was somewhat limited, though he understood it well enough. He answered, in Greek, “As I’ve only just heard of the trouble myself, Exathres, I’ve made no firm plans. I will be meeting with my officers over the next few days, and you will, of course, be invited.”

  Exathres bowed, switching smoothly to Greek himself. “I hope Your Majesty will permit me and mine to accompany you. Treason is a terrible thing.”

  Both Hephaestion and Peucestas looked up sharply at that. Persia and the Greek cities were ancient enemies; to land in Greece with Persian troops as any part of the army would be to throw away any chance of winning over the smaller League cities. Alexander hid his own grimace of distaste, and said, “I’m grateful for this proof of loyalty, Exathres. But as I said, my plans aren’t certain yet. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  Exathres bowed again. “I am honored to be of service to Your Majesty.” With a graceful gesture, he collected his attendants, who also bowed, and then the group of Persians backed politely from the hall.

  When he was certain they were out of earshot, Peucestas said softly, “I have men watching them.”

  Alexander nodded thoughtfully. “It’s as well to be careful,” he said, almost to himself, then beckoned to the others. “Come on, there’s work to be done tonight.”

  A Choice of Destinies

  Chapter 3:

  Bactra, winter (Peritios) to Miletos, late summer (Hyperberetaios), 29 imperial (327 B.C., 426 A.U.C.)

  Despite attempts at secrecy the news of the Greek rebellion spread like fire in dry tinder. By the time of the morning sacrifice, some version of the news had penetrated every corner of the camp. By evening, it had reached the camp followers and petty merchants. There was little reaction from the camp followers—the Greeks among them were professionals, or slaves bought cheap before the army had left the mainland, and the few exceptions had come for the love of some soldier and cared nothing for politics—but the news sent ripples of panic through the traders’ camp. Many of them were Greek, and half a dozen, citizens of the most prominent rebel cities, abandoned their goods and tried to slip away from Bactra. Ptolemy, whom the king had detailed to watch for any such attempts, took a certain grim pleasure in thwarting them. He was equally pleased to find that none of them seemed to be spies for the League; in the king’s present mood it was unlikely even Ptolemy could keep spies alive long enough to provide any useful information.