Before he could finish, a page pushed back the doorway of the tent, coughing apologetically. “Beg pardon, sire, but another delegation’s here. From Thebes.”
“Show them in,” the king said.
The Theban commanders were still in their armor, clothing torn and stained beneath it. The leader, a stocky, greying man with a dirty bandage wrapped around one arm, gave Theagenes a single bitter glance, then turned his attention to Alexander.
“King Alexander,” he said formally, “I am Xenoclides son of Hipparchus, commander of the Theban brigade of the Greek League.” He did not introduce the two younger men flanking him, and Alexander did not ask their names. “I have come to concede the field and to beg for the return of our dead.”
“You shall have it,” Alexander answered.
Xenoclides took a deep breath, his eyes again straying to Theagenes, still sitting motionless in his corner. “I am also empowered to ask terms for the city.”
Alexander paused, following the direction of the Theban’s gaze. “I have said before,” he said slowly, “that I am not the only one who has been hurt by Thebes’s treachery—nor am I the one who has been worst injured. The Sacred Band, who came willingly with me to Asia, believing the city that bred them to be as honorable as themselves, has had its honor called into question by your actions. I ask Theagenes what should be done with Thebes.”
For a long moment, Theagenes sat frozen, staring at the king. Alexander was not the man to pose impossible choices, not when a man had served him well, so the question had to be precisely what it seemed, a mark of trust, a gift, and a chance for revenge.
“Alexander,” he said slowly, “if it were my choice alone, I would say burn the city, do with it what you will. But I recognize that not everyone in the city—certainly not the women and children, probably not my kinsmen, or my men’s—supported breaking the treaty, and I doubt they should be punished. Nor, in all fairness, should Thebes be punished worse than any other city—and never more than Athens!” He took a deep breath. “Therefore, I ask you, King Alexander, to spare the city—on terms that they hand over the men who broke the treaty, which is no more than you’ve asked of other states, and that you garrison the citadel with your troops.” He glanced at the Macedonian generals, and added, more urgently, “I don’t ask to hold that garrison myself—in fact, I beg you to give it to someone else. I am afraid I would be too harsh on my countrymen.”
Alexander nodded slowly. The Theban’s words had crystallized something that had been in the back of his mind for some days, a possible solution to the constant danger of revolt in Greece. It would take a Greek to deal properly with the city states—Antipater had proved that he could not, whether or not it was because of interference from Olympias. Theagenes, with the Sacred Band to back him, was a logical choice for the part—and the answer he had just given should be enough to convince even Craterus of the Theban’s loyalty.
“I find the terms wisely chosen,” he said aloud. “And Thebes?”
Xenoclides said bitterly, “Thebes has little choice in the matter. Yes, we accept.”
“So be it,” Alexander said. “Xenoclides, take your dead. I will send to the city tomorrow, to settle the terms more permanently. Is that agreeable to you?”
Xenoclides nodded jerkily. “Yes, King Alexander, it will do.”
The next days were spent in a whirl of activity. The League cities, warned by fugitives of the defeat, sent representatives to settle the peace terms. Alexander, who had been expecting them, asked only for money beyond the terms he had already settled with the field commanders. Megara alone saw this as a sign of weakness, and showed an inclination to repudiate her general’s agreement. Alexander sent Craterus south with several battalions of Foot Companions, and the city hastily came to terms. At the same time, the king sent messengers south and east to Athens, informing Hephaestion of the victory and of his own plans for the future. Hephaestion read through the scroll, filed Alexander’s long-term plans in a distant corner of his mind, and ordered Perdiccas to release the Athenian runner captured three days previously. The Athenians let the man into the city, jeering half-heartedly at the Macedonians escorting him, and Hephaestion settled back in his tent to wait for Athens to ask for a parley.
The signal came even more quickly than he had expected—the Athenians had had other messengers as well, bringing word of the defeat—but Hephaestion left the preliminary arrangements to Perdiccas. It would never do for the Athenians to guess that this capitulation—and a few demagogues’ heads—were what Alexander was really after, not the destruction of the city.
It seemed an age before there was a cough outside the cavalry commander’s tent, and one of Perdiccas’s troopers appeared in the doorway.
“Beg pardon, general,” he said, “but the Athenians have asked for a parley. General Perdiccas wants you.”
Hephaestion nodded, tucking his helmet under his arm. “Lead on.”
Perdiccas had chosen to confront the Athenian messengers on the siege line itself, almost in the shadow of the largest of the stone-throwers set up opposite the main gate. Hephaestion raised an eyebrow at that. It was a nice touch, keeping the envoys in mind of what could happen if they refused to make peace, but unnecessary—almost certainly so unless either he or Perdiccas made some serious blunder, since the Athenians themselves had come to ask for peace.
Perdiccas lifted a hand in greeting as the cavalry commander approached the line. His thin, mobile face was still, kept so only with an effort. Hephaestion returned the gesture, wondering what the brigade commander found so amusing.
“Hephaestion,” Perdiccas said. “These are the Athenian envoys: Lysias son of Philoneus, Nichomachus son of Antiphon, and Asteius son of Phrynion, some of whom you may know already.”
Hephaestion murmured a polite acknowledgement, trying to remember. He had only been in Athens once before, and that had been during Philip’s reign, on Philip’s business, but one name did sound familiar. Philoneus had been one of the politicians who had opposed Demosthenes, and therefore supported alliance, or at least accommodation, with Philip. This Lysias looked young enough to be that Philoneus’s son, but there was no way to be certain of that.
“General Hephaestion,” the oldest of the three—Asteius—said gravely. “We are here with the approval of the people of Athens—”
“At the request of the people of Athens,” Lysias murmured gently, and Nichomachus grumbled something under his breath.
“—to sue for peace with Alexander,” Asteius finished smoothly.
That little exchange defined the three of them neatly, Hephaestion thought. Lysias was part of an anti-Demosthenes faction, all right, and probably the son of Philip’s agent; Nichomachus was a member of a faction that still supported the demagogues; and Asteius, then, was some grave, politically neutral elder, chosen for his ability to keep the peace between the other two members of his embassy as well as for his abilities as a speaker.
“As you surely know,” the cavalry commander said carefully, “the king himself is elsewhere, but I have his authority to speak for him.”
Asteius nodded slowly, a gesture that was almost a bow. “We accept you as his lawful representative and we ask for terms.”
“These are the terms I am empowered to offer,” Hephaestion said. “Alexander offers to respect the rights of Athens, under the terms of the Greek League as agreed at Corinth in the first year of his reign; to return any Athenian prisoners in exchange for due compensation; and to return any Athenian dead—on the condition that Athens herself punish those politicians who have been open enemies of Alexander and of Macedon—Demosthenes in particular—or turn said demagogues over to the king to be punished. Alexander asks this knowing that the people of Athens are not his enemies, but they have been misled by power-seeking politicians.” That was something of a lie—the people of Athens, lately, were easily swayed by any plausible orator—but it would allow the more reliable factions within the city to save face.
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��We would be glad to see our prisoners returned,” Asteius said sadly. He looked and felt suddenly very old: he had sons with the Athenian army, and the messengers had brought no word of either. “And our dead.”
Hephaestion nodded.
Nichomachus made a disgusted face. “We’ve no choice but to agree to terms,” he said irritably. “Though what you mean by ‘open enemies’…” He glared at the Macedonians, challenging them both with a look. “I’ve spoken against Alexander, and against Philip, for a dozen years now. Does that make my head a trophy for Alexander’s tent?”
Before Hephaestion could answer that, Lysias said, “And spoke against breaking our agreement with the League, once it had been made.” He fixed his eyes on Hephaestion, the illusion of youth dropping away. “General Hephaestion, let’s be plain. It’s Demosthenes you want—maybe one or two others, but most of all Demosthenes. Well, we don’t have him. He was with the army—though I doubt he stayed with them for long—but when word came that Alexander was in Greece, he and his closest associates fled, no one knew where.” He took a deep breath and reached into the folds of his himation, ignoring both the whispered curse from Nichomachus and the sudden tension in Perdiccas’s shoulders, to produce a crumpled roll of papyrus. “This arrived three days ago—how the messenger got through your lines, I don’t know, but I think you’ll find the information of use to you.”
“How can you betray him, Lysias?” Nichomachus demanded.
“He’s always wanted to die for the city, hasn’t he?” Lysias answered. “Now he gets his wish.” He glanced again at Hephaestion. “Demosthenes’s head for Athens’s safety is a good bargain for us.”
Hephaestion accepted the battered scroll, unrolled it carefully, and scanned the crabbed letters. The message was not addressed to Lysias—and I won’t ask how he got it, the cavalry commander thought—but the intended recipient, one Simmias, was obviously in Demosthenes’s confidence. Hephaestion skimmed through the text of the letter, then let the scroll fall closed again. Perdiccas, struggling to read over the cavalry commander’s shoulder, cursed him in a whisper.
“I thank you for this, Lysias,” Hephaestion said, and turned to Asteius. “Sir, if you allow, I will take this as evidence of Athens’s willingness to make peace with Alexander, and to rejoin the Greek League.”
Asteius nodded slowly. “As you wish, General Hephaestion. We accept, for Athens, the terms you outlined for us—but as it grows late, may we defer the discussion of which of our people Alexander considers his open enemies until tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Hephaestion answered. Perdiccas nodded impatiently, his attention still on the scroll.
The envoys took their departure formally, and then, as soon as they were out of earshot, Perdiccas demanded, “Let me see the letter—and what was in it, anyway?”
Hephaestion ignored him, beckoning to the nearest trooper. “Find Polydamus, have him meet us in my tent,” he ordered. Handing the scroll to Perdiccas, he said, “There wasn’t a chance, was there? Demosthenes has gone to Syracuse—apparently he’s made connections there, had this plan all worked out in advance, expecting the League army to lose once Alexander came back. A truly noble man.”
“Syracuse,” Perdiccas said, and whistled.
“Exactly,” Hephaestion answered. The Athenian envoys had reached the shadow of their own gate; there was no need, even in the strictest etiquette, for the Macedonians to remain waiting any longer. The cavalry commander turned away, drawing his cloak about his shoulders. Perdiccas followed, shaking his head unhappily.
“Syracuse,” he said again. “That’d be worse than Tyre to take.”
“If we have to besiege it,” Hephaestion said. He smiled suddenly, with more confidence than he felt. “Do you think the Syracusans will have much love for a stray Athenian demagogue?”
“He has a knack for popularity,” Perdiccas said dryly.
The trooper had done his work promptly; Polydamus was sitting in the antechamber of the tent, the Egyptian body-slave pouring wine. Hephaestion nodded a greeting, and extended the scroll toward the slave. The Egyptian set aside the wine jar and took it, glancing curiously at his master.
“Make me a fair copy of that,” Hephaestion said, “no, two fair copies, as quickly as you can.” He did not need to add the usual injunction to silence. The slave nodded, and settled himself in a corner of the tent, balancing a writing board on his lap.
“What’s happened, general?” Polydamus asked.
Hephaestion grimaced. “Demosthenes has fled to Syracuse and seems likely to be welcomed there with open arms. I want you to ride to Alexander at once—leave as soon as you can, as soon as Psintaes finishes making your copy of the letter.”
Polydamus nodded, and Hephaestion went on, thoughtfully, “You might also make plans to go to Syracuse yourself, see if you can’t persuade them that sheltering Demosthenes—the gods forbid they should consider making an alliance against Alexander—might be hazardous for the city. That might ultimately prove as effective as a siege, and a lot cheaper.”
“Send him with a few talents, that’ll get the job done,” Perdiccas said.
Hephaestion nodded. “That had also occurred to me,” he said. “If Alexander doesn’t mention that possibility, Polydamus, tell him we suggested it—but I think he will.”
Polydamus nodded again. “This’ll be hard on the men,” he said quietly. “They were counting on an end to the fighting.”
Hephaestion made a face, but before he could say anything the slave had risen from his corner, holding out a fresh piece of papyrus. Hephaestion accepted it, glancing quickly at the text, then handed it to Polydamus, who took it cautiously, careful not to smudge the ink.
“Go now,” Hephaestion said.
“At once, general,” Polydamus answered, and was gone.
Perdiccas said, after a moment, “He’s right, you know, the men won’t like it.”
“Alexander was planning to go with the married men to Pella once things were settled with Thebes,” Hephaestion said. “This needn’t stop him—any of us can handle collecting an invasion fleet, especially if Syracuse is willing to talk. And as for our people—they aren’t stupid. They’ll be able to see as well as we can that we can’t say Greece is pacified until Demosthenes is dead.”
The other man shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I’d better be,” Hephaestion answered, and Perdiccas nodded, grinning.
“Yes, you had.”
The king received Hephaestion’s message and the captured letter philosophically. He had expected further trouble from Demosthenes when interrogation of the Athenian prisoners revealed that the demagogue had abandoned the League army as soon as it became clear Alexander himself was marching north to meet them. He had not, however, expected anything quite so dramatic as an attempt to ally with Syracuse, and could not accept the threat as a serious one. Syracuse, with its long tradition of rule-by-tyrant, was not likely to listen to any democrat, and especially not an Athenian one. Nonetheless, he ordered Polydamus to join the force sent south to assure Corinth’s cooperation. If Demosthenes had reached Syracuse safely, someone in Corinth was likely to have heard of it. Once the sailing season opened, Polydamus would cross to Sicily and open negotiations with the city.
Antipater’s belated arrival with the northern levies brought more important matters to the fore. Demanding an immediate audience with the king, he poured out his complaint against the queen mother, accusing her of every crime from political meddling and malice to witchcraft. Alexander listened, shocked in spite of himself by the regent’s decline, then consulted Ptolemy. The bodyguard told him bluntly what he had seen in Pherae, sparing no details; the king took less than a day to make the inevitable decision. Hephaestion and Ptolemy could easily handle what was left to do to reestablish harmony in the League and to set up Theagenes and Antipater as joint regents. Only the king could correct the problem in Macedon. Regretfully, Alexander announced that he would personally bring the married me
n back to Macedon to spend the last months of winter and the early spring with their families.
A Choice of Destinies
Chapter 5:
Pella, late winter (Dystros) to Syracuse, late summer (Gorpiaios), 30 imperial (326 B.C., 427 A.U.C.)
The king’s decision was a popular one. The army returned to Macedon in triumph, collecting a train of followers on the way. On the last stage of the march, from Aegae, where Alexander sacrificed at his father’s tomb, to Pella itself, the column disintegrated into a Dionysian procession. It took five days to cover a distance that should only have taken two days’ travel, as families who had not seen their soldier-kinsmen for six or seven years came to celebrate their return. Anticipating their arrival, the king had ordered stores of food, and especially of wine, brought in the baggage train from Aegae. He issued both freely to all comers, and the wine, at least, eased the shock as families met again as strangers.
More than that, the wine fueled the celebration. The soldiers decked themselves in the plunder they had taken from Persia, and gave still more away, to their own women and to the women who came to join the festival procession. As the straggling column came within sight of Pella’s gleaming walls, the crowds grew larger still. The country people lined the roads, bringing food and more wine and flowers, cheering the army as it passed. More people spilled from the main gate of Pella itself, and others leaned from the walls, shouting their welcome, some chanting the old hymns of rejoicing and thanksgiving. The noise was like a solid wall; the horses, battle-hardened though they were, snorted uneasily, flattening their ears against their skulls. Alexander reined in, absently soothing his nervous gelding, smiling at the waiting crowd. Coenus watched the crowds with less pleasure. Philip, to whose memory the king had sacrificed not a week before, had been murdered during just such a triumph. Then he shook away the thought. Today, at least, the king had no enemies in Pella.
A Choice of Destinies Page 10