The general grunted again. “Help me think of a tactful way to put that in dispatches.”
Mithrenes grinned, his usual good temper reasserting itself. “I doubt there is one, sir.”
The general doubted it himself, doubted too that the young king could be persuaded to see reason before he had lost many good men. Then he squared his shoulders resolutely. It was a question of duty—he was a Roman Ptolemy, Stoic by upbringing and temperament—and he would do his duty to his men and the empire, whatever the cost. Even, he thought, if it meant pulling back to the Bactrian border without royal orders and accepting the consequences.
A Choice of Destinies
Chapter 4:
Brauron, early autumn (Hyperberetaios) to Athens, early winter (Audnaios), 29-30 imperial (327/6 B.C., 426/7 A.U.C.)
The crossing went more smoothly than Nearchus had anticipated, without even the threat of a bad storm to contend with. Polydamus had done his work well: Brauron turned out to welcome the Macedonian king, and the inhabitants grew even friendlier once they saw the Persian gold the newcomers had to spend. The city oligarchs even blocked Athens’s chief agent’s attempt to flee, and presented the man to Alexander on the king’s arrival in the city. Alexander eyed the sweating merchant, found that he owned one of the best houses in the city, and promptly appropriated it, confining the merchant and his household in what had been the women’s quarters. Polydamus had done extremely well to secure that kind of cooperation; the king’s reward was generous, and Craterus, who had never liked Athens or Athenians, quietly doubled the sum. A rich man for life, Polydamus retired to his tent to contemplate his fortune in discreet contentment.
Most of the army was billeted outside the city walls, as was the king’s practice when he did not plan to remain long in a place. The city and its attractions were not off limits to the soldiers, however, and the streets and markets were filled with Macedonians eager to spend their loot. For a few, it was a pleasure to rob feisty Greeks instead of servile Persians. The commanders punished those whom they caught, and watched carefully for any signs that Brauron was no longer willing to tolerate the Macedonian presence.
However, the city was still friendly—and would remain so, Perdiccas said caustically, until the money ran out. Hephaestion was more dubious, but when, already late for a meeting of the Friends, he was delayed by yet another cheerful, mixed crowd spilling out of an unrobbed wineshop, even he had to admit the justice of the brigade commander’s remark. He cursed them all impartially, marking the presence of one of his own troopers for a later reprimand, and managed to force his horse through the crowd without mishap.
At the royal quarters, he tossed the reins to a waiting slave, and hurried into the house, dodging a second slave at work sweeping up dirt and dead leaves in the main hall. The pages on guard outside the king’s rooms stood aside smartly at his approach, but Hephaestion checked abruptly at the sound of angry voices from within. From the pages’ blank faces, the argument had been going on for some time.
“Announce me,” Hephaestion said, as though he had heard nothing.
The nearest page swallowed hard, but said, “Yes, sir.” He ran lightly up the stairs, Hephaestion following more deliberately, and tapped his spear against the door. The angry voices stopped at once, and Alexander said, “What is it?”
“General Hephaestion, sire,” the page answered nervously.
“Admit him.”
The page pushed open the door. Hephaestion set his face in its most neutral expression, and stepped into the room. Craterus glared at him like a baited bull, then, finally seeing Eumenes’s smirk, turned away, muttering to himself. Alexander was standing in the archway that led onto a narrow balcony, hands jammed into his belt, feet apart, glaring at the other two. Without turning his head, he said, “You’re late.”
“I know,” Hephaestion said. “I’m sorry.” In the king’s present mood, there was no point in apologies. He glanced curiously at the others, wondering what had provoked this fury.
Craterus said, “Maybe you can talk some sense into him, Hephaestion, with your privileges. It’s beyond me.”
“It’s not a question of talking sense,” Alexander said, voice rising, “it’s a question of you learning to take orders.”
Craterus purpled. “Orders, is it, Oh-Great-King?” He ran the Persian words together into a single epithet.
Ptolemy said, carefully controlling his own anger, “I don’t see the sense in splitting the army yet, Alexander.”
Hephaestion looked quickly around the room, taking in the maps spread out in front of Eumenes, the flushed, angry faces, and said, “What’s going on?”
Alexander turned on his heel, slamming one hand against the nearest pillar of the archway, staring out the narrow window. Ptolemy made a gesture of disgust.
“Antipater’s sent word it’s too dangerous to bring his troops out of Thessaly,” Craterus said through clenched teeth. “The League army’s just waiting for him, it’s too big, too well trained, and his men won’t face it—and Alexander wants to split our men—”
Alexander’s hand contracted to a fist. Controlling his voice with an effort, he said, “I intend to besiege Athens, and Thebes, if the League doesn’t turn to face me before I get there. And by the gods, Antipater will come south if I tell him to.”
Hephaestion whistled softly and crossed to the desk, swinging the top map to face him. It was one of Philip’s beautifully drawn maps of Attica and Boetia, stained from travelling and heavy use. He studied it carefully, though the painted lines were thoroughly familiar, and said, cautiously, “Can we afford to split the army, if the League has as many men as Antipater says?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say,” Craterus began, and Alexander said, still keeping a tight rein on his temper, “I tell you, the League doesn’t have that large a force. Not of trained men, in any case—I’ve the Scouts’ reports to prove it. Which is why I’m also sending a man to Antipater, to make sure my orders are carried out.”
“I pity the poor bastard,” Craterus muttered, loudly enough to be heard.
The king turned on him. “If you haven’t anything useful to say, keep quiet.”
Ptolemy pulled unhappily at his stubbled chin, then rose and crossed to the desk, fumbling through the papers for the Scouts’ report. Eumenes, with the faintest of smiles, handed it to him. The brigade commander glanced again over the lines of neat, secretarial handwriting, and said, “Alexander, to choose between these reports, and Antipater’s—I’d tend to choose Antipater.”
Alexander, sensing that the other was wavering, said, “You read the last three dispatches Antipater sent me in Asia. Did they sound like the man my father trusted? This defeat’s shaken him badly, Ptolemy, he’s not seeing clearly.”
Ptolemy shook his head, but he had to admit the force of the king’s argument. And if that were the case, and the Scouts’ reports were the reliable ones, then Alexander’s plan was the best.
Alexander said coolly, “Hephaestion, I’ll want you to command the army that besieges Athens. I don’t care if you take the city—I’d rather you didn’t, in fact. But I want the League army to think that Athens is in danger. I want them to have something to argue about.”
Hephaestion frowned, then understood. The Greek League had always been plagued by disputes between the representatives of the various member cities. If Athens were under siege while Alexander advanced on Thebes and Antipater moved in from Thessaly, the League generals would tie themselves in knots trying to decide on a strategy. And whatever they did—move south to raise the siege, hurry to protect Thebes, turn north to meet Antipater, turn south to face Alexander, or, most likely of all, do nothing—there would be seriously discontented troops in the army that met Alexander.
Craterus said, less unhappily than before, “I still don’t like it, Alexander. The League troops are good.”
Alexander smiled slowly, offering an honorable peace. “I know that, believe me. But the Foot Companions are better,
and you’ll have command of them.”
Craterus made a wry face, recognizing the king’s tactics. “What can I say to that?”
“Nothing, I trust,” Alexander answered, a fraction too sharply, and turned to Ptolemy. “I want you to go to Antipater for me. I need his troops to move south—that’s a direct order from me, which you’ll have in writing, as well as my authority to take command of the levies if necessary.”
Ptolemy’s bushy eyebrows flew up. Taking command of the regent’s army, even with a royal order to back him up, would be a touchy business—merely persuading Antipater of the accuracy of the king’s information would be difficult enough. “And how am I to get to Pherae?” he temporized. “It’s three days’ hard ride to Thermopylae alone, with the League army in my way.”
“You can go by sea,” Eumenes said helpfully. “It’s not too late in the season for coastal travel.”
Ptolemy shot an annoyed glance in the secretary’s direction, even as he recognized that the man was right. “If you think it’s really necessary, Alexander, of course I’ll go.”
The king nodded. “Good. Eumenes, draft the appropriate orders, and have them for me to seal by tomorrow morning.”
“Of course, Alexander,” the secretary murmured, gathering his papers.
The other officers stood as well and turned to go. Alexander said, “Hephaestion.”
“Alexander?” Hephaestion paused just inside the doorway. Ptolemy, one hand on the latch, sighed and pulled the door closed behind him.
“You were late,” the king went on. “Was there trouble?”
Hephaestion shook his head. “No trouble, just crowds in the streets. Brauron still seems content with us.”
“At least until the money runs out,” Alexander said.
Hephaestion nodded and came to join the king beside the window. It overlooked the street, and the cavalry commander gave the dusty, sun-baked ground only a cursory glance before turning back to face the king. Alexander leaned against the pillar, hands now clasped behind his back, staring blindly into the street and asked, “How badly do the men want to go home?”
Hephaestion blinked, momentarily nonplussed. “Badly enough,” he said, after a moment. “A lot of them have family they haven’t seen, and they all want a chance to act like heroes to their wives.”
Alexander shrugged, still staring into the empty street. “And so they should,” he said, after a moment. “When I’ve settled with the League, Hephaestion, that’ll be the time to go home. I’ll take the married men, go with them myself.”
That was unlike Alexander, who had never expressed the least desire to return to Macedon. Hephaestion looked up sharply, and Alexander grinned.
“Yes, I have other reasons, two good ones, in fact.” The king’s face sobered quickly. “You’ve seen the dispatches from Antipater. You’ve also seen the letters from my mother.”
Hephaestion took a few steps back into the room, hiding his expression of distaste. He disliked and distrusted the Queen Mother Olympias and knew she returned the feeling. She also hated Antipater and her letters to her son were full of complaints about the regent’s incompetence. “Do you really believe any of what she says?”
Alexander’s mouth twisted wryly. “Any trouble in Macedon is more than half her doing, that I do believe. But there definitely is trouble—that’s why I’m sending Ptolemy to speak to Antipater, to find out just what’s really going on.”
Hephaestion nodded. “Have you spoken to Ptolemy about the Queen’s letters?”
“No,” Alexander answered, “and I don’t intend to. I want to hear what he makes of the situation, without any hints from me.”
Hephaestion nodded again, more slowly. He didn’t envy Ptolemy his assignment, going north without a full knowledge of the situation, but he could understand the king’s reasons. “You said there were two reasons?” he asked, after a moment.
“Yes.” Alexander paused a moment, thinking of his own childhood, then said, “After the pages’ conspiracy—it’s time Philip Alexander had some real experience. He’s old enough; I intend to bring him with me on my next campaign.”
As the king had ordered, Ptolemy left for the north as soon as Alexander and the secretaries could draft the appropriate letters and orders. Two were for public consumption, a long, polite letter from the king to his regent, and the formal order to bring the levies south; the others were private, to be used only if Antipater proved obstinate. The packet weighed heavily on Ptolemy’s mind through the first days of the uncomfortable sea journey, until the seas grew too rough and even Ptolemy took to his bunk, quite seasick. Nearchus’s chosen captain, a stocky, dark-skinned Cretan like the admiral, took an insane pleasure in the storm, but Ptolemy, who had cursed him roundly throughout the voyage, had to admire his skill as he brought the ship safely into the unprotected harbor north of Thermopylae.
The commander of the Thermopylae garrison was waiting for them, having seen the ship and its royal markings as it came up the bay, and greeted them all with effusive warmth, promising lodgings and all the comforts of home for as long as they wished to remain. The Cretan captain, whose insanity did not extend to chancing the return voyage, cheerfully and immediately accepted, and was soon installed with one of the garrison’s better hetairas. Ptolemy thanked the man politely, explained that he was sent from the king to Antipater, and asked only for a few men to supplement his own escort. The garrison commander hesitated, a strange wariness showing beneath his effusive welcome, but agreed. Ptolemy slept a single night at Thermopylae and rode out the next morning in the rain.
It rained throughout the three days it took for Ptolemy’s party to reach Pherae; it was raining still when they passed under the massive carved gates into the city. Damp and chilled to the bone, Ptolemy did not question his good fortune when he was met not by Antipater but by a younger chamberlain, who apologized for the regent’s absence and escorted the bodyguard to a well-warmed chamber. By the next morning, however, dry and warm again, Ptolemy began to sense a new wariness, almost a veiled hostility, among the household servants, and braced himself for trouble when he met Antipater.
The regent did not make his appearance or send any message until well after noon. By then, Ptolemy had had to put a tight rein on his temper: Antipater unquestionably was regent, and thus second only to the king, but Ptolemy was the king’s messenger, and deserving of more courtesy. When Antipater at last summoned him, Ptolemy was only just able to give the messenger the polite answer he deserved.
The regent’s quarters were close and musty-smelling, shutters closed tight against the rain, a dozen smoky lamps providing what little light there was. An Illyrian slave woman had just finished mixing wine; at Antipater’s querulous order, she measured out two cups, and backed from the room.
Before Ptolemy could think of a polite beginning, Antipater said, “I suppose I should be flattered it was you Alexander sent.”
Ptolemy controlled himself with an effort, managed to smile smoothly as he turned to face Antipater. “Indeed, sir, it was a coveted assignment. After seven years in Asia, it’s good to be even this close to home.”
Antipater grunted dubiously. “I can think of a few other reasons you might covet it,” he muttered.
Ptolemy decided to pretend he had not heard, and reached for his cup of wine. Antipater had aged badly in the past years, skin falling in onto the bones as though all his muscles had wasted away, a half dozen teeth gone, the fierce eyes dimmed, hands swollen and crooked. He was not yet sixty, but looked twenty years older.
Antipater nodded grimly. “Oh, it’s not a pretty sight, and it’s all her doing—like your being here. I know that, so you needn’t bother lying.”
“Sir?” Ptolemy said carefully, trying to capture the tone of the old days, when he had served in Antipater’s brigade. Then, watching the old man’s face, he abandoned the effort. He was not under Antipater’s command any more, and there was nothing he could do to recall the bond that had been between them. “Antipater,
” he said aloud, “Alexander sent me with orders for the army, to bring them south to support him against the League. I don’t know what else you’re talking about, but you owe me an explanation.”
Antipater’s anger collapsed with surprising suddenness, and he sank back into his chair. “That’s what you say,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Maybe you even believe it. But it’s her doing all the same.”
Ptolemy seated himself across from the regent. “Whose doing?”
“Is there any other her in Macedon?” Antipater asked bitterly. “Olympias, that’s who. And don’t tell me you don’t know she’s been plotting against me. I’ve seen the reports she’s sending Alexander, I know what she says, what she thinks.”
That made almost too much sense for Ptolemy’s taste. Olympias was ambitious—that was common knowledge throughout Greece, from Epirus to Sparta; Olympias had sent weekly dispatches to Alexander throughout the Persian campaigns, though the king had confided their contents to no one but Hephaestion, and had shown no inclination to act on them. But now, Ptolemy thought, I can guess what they said, and I think if I were Antipater I would find it hard to believe that Alexander hadn’t listened to his mother. Only Alexander would send me on a mission like this without telling me Olympias had been meddling in politics again.
Aloud, he said, slowly, “Antipater, I give you my word, I know nothing of all this. Alexander sent me north from Brauron to bring you his orders and to explain what he has in mind, nothing more. I landed at Thermopylae four days ago—and a lousy journey that was, too. But it was better than going overland and risking a run in with the League army. I rode straight here, expecting none of this.”
Antipater sighed, and straightened slowly. “I’m sorry, Ptolemy,” he said, a little stiffly. “I beg your pardon if I’ve misjudged you. But you haven’t been here, haven’t had to contend with the things I’ve had to put up with. Gods, I’d rather have fought the Persians than have to put up with her ways. She has questioned my judgment, to my face and behind my back; she has undermined my authority with my men, especially in Macedon, and with her kinsmen in Epirus—” He broke off, flushing, and said more calmly, “I won’t endure it any longer, Ptolemy, and you may tell the king that from me. Either I am Regent, and my word is as the king’s, or I am not, and I will retire to my own lands—which the gods know need my attention after all these years of service.”
A Choice of Destinies Page 8