“Alexander?” Meleager forced his horse through the crowd, grinning hugely. Seated on the saddle pad in front of him was a boy of seven or eight, whose wide mouth and slightly tilted eyes marked him unmistakably as Meleager’s son. The boy had been born while he was on campaign, and had never been formally acknowledged. His mother, well-dressed but with a rather plain, wary face, pushed her way through the crowd after him; seeing her, Meleager added, “My son Amyntor, Alexander.”
The woman sighed deeply, the worried lines easing from her face. There could not have been a more public acceptance of paternity.
“A brave horseman already,” Alexander said.
Coenus said, urgently, “Alexander, let me take a squad, clear a path for you. They’re blocking the gate completely.”
The king shook his head. “They’ll let me pass,” he said, and spurred forward. His gilded body armor and the double-ribboned diadem he wore in place of a helmet were unmistakable even at a distance. At his approach, the crowd set up another cheer and surged forward, pressing close around the horses’ legs. Alexander smiled, and reached out to accept the wreath offered him by a pretty, dark-haired girl, giving himself up to the adulation.
Coenus cursed, and shouted, “Neoptolemus.”
The hypaspist commander fought his way through the crowd, his mare dancing skittishly, completely unnerved by the friendly shouting. He had made the mistake of choosing a horse not yet battle-hardened. He curbed it savagely, and said, “What is it?”
Abruptly, Craterus had joined them, his horse under perfect control. “We’ve got to help Alexander,” he began, and gave the grimace that passed for a grin since the Megaran laid open his face. “Whether he wants it or not.”
Coenus nodded. “My thought exactly.”
“Neoptolemus, if you can’t keep that mare in hand, sell her,” Craterus snapped, swinging in his saddle to assess the resources at hand. “Meleager, I need you.”
The hypaspist commander flushed deeply, but had to admit the justice of Craterus’s complaint. The mare would panic if he tried to force her into the crowd and do more harm than good. Meleager tightened his hold on his son, and said, “Very well, Craterus.” He did not look back as his wife was swallowed by the cheering crowd.
At Craterus’s gesture, the other three officers began to work their way into the crowd that surrounded the king, using the weight of the well-trained horses to force a passage. At last Craterus had forced his way to the king’s side. He shouted, his words swallowed completely in the uproar and reached for the king’s bridle. Alexander started at the movement, his eyes wide and excited, and automatically began to swing his horse away before he realized who was beside him. Then some of the excitement faded from his face, and, very slowly, the column began to move forward again.
The crowds were just as thick in the city itself. The king and his officers moved forward at a snail’s pace, their progress frequently halted altogether by the press of people. They were deafened by the shouting and half buried in the hail of flowers thrown from windows and roofs, but at last they reached the palace itself. The crowd pressed close there, too; it was all the palace guard could do to keep the steps clear. Craterus swore loudly—there was no place for the king to dismount—and began to turn to clear a space, but Alexander waved him back. With a shout half of warning and half of sheer pleasure, the king kicked his horse forward, urging it through the line of palace guards and up the stairs to the broad porch. There was a renewed outburst of cheering, and the gelding danced nervously, its unshod hooves clattering loudly on the marble tiles. Alexander quieted it, and one of the guards came running to hold its bridle. The king dismounted easily and came forward to greet his son.
Olympias waited with the boy, radiating disapproval. She had dressed imperially, as always, her gold-bordered himation pulled tight over a crimson gown spangled with tiny gold stars. Even at the age of fifty she still had a maenad’s figure. The sunlight glittered from her jewelry, from the huge carved garnet that lay in the hollow of her throat, whitening her skin by contrast, and from the diadem, a heracles-knot on a double band of woven gold, that confined her high-piled hair.
Alexander took a deep breath, surprised by such an open challenge, and embraced his mother. There were more cheers from the crowd; under the cover of the shouts, Alexander said, “I want to talk to you, Mother.” Their embrace was what it had always been, Olympias’s iron will tangible beneath the incongruous softness of a woman’s body.
“And I want to talk to you, Alexander,” Olympias answered, pulling away. “But you’re forgetting your son.” She smiled as she always had when hiding a rebuke, and Alexander turned his attention to the boy.
The boy looked back at him with hugely solemn eyes. He looked younger than the eleven years Alexander knew he possessed, dwarfed by his princely clothes, and the king was unaccountably disconcerted.
“Philip Alexander,” he said aloud. “I’m glad to see you, now you’re grown. You wouldn’t remember me, I think. You were not yet two when last I saw you.”
“No, Father,” the boy said in a colorless voice.
“His name is Alexander,” Olympias said, in the same moment, still softly.
Alexander glanced sharply at her. “It was Philip Alexander when I acknowledged him,” he said, and could not keep an edge out of his voice.
“But he prefers to be called Alexander,” Olympias said, and set a jeweled hand on the boy’s shoulder. Philip Alexander darted a single glance at it, and looked away again, only his eyes moving in his solemn face. “Don’t you, Alexander?” Olympias went on, and the king saw her hand tighten fractionally.
The boy’s eyes lifted in sudden adult appeal. It was like a scene from his own childhood, Alexander realized, and felt a sudden rush of sympathy for Philip. This was what Olympias had done to him all those years, to them both, pitting father against son to her own ultimate advantage. “It’s my wish that Philip Alexander bear both names,” he said, forestalling any answer from the boy, “honoring Philip as well as me. But in any case it’s a matter we’ll settle between us, Philip Alexander and I. For now, we’ll go in.”
Without waiting for Olympias’s answer, he lifted one hand in a final acknowledgement of the crowd’s cheers, gathered his officers with a glance, and turned to pass through the carved doorway.
“As you wish, Alexander,” Olympias answered, still smiling slightly, and stood aside to let him precede her through the door. “There’s wine and a light meal waiting in my chambers. I thought you might like to join me there, and tell me everything about your conquests. The chamberlains will see to your friends.”
“Of course, Mother,” the king answered, grimly. “I’m sure we have a great deal to say to each other.”
The women’s quarters were much as they had always been. The afternoon sunlight streamed in from the central garden, falling just short of the loom that filled one wall. The frame was never empty, though Olympias herself never set hand to it. One of the women had begun an intricately patterned piece, but it had barely progressed beyond the first few rows of rosettes and waves. The door of the inner room stood partly open, just enough to offer a glimpse of the painted cabinet that was said to house the queen mother’s magical paraphernalia.
Alexander took his seat opposite his mother as one of the slave girls poured wine, studying Olympias’s face. She had aged well, visibly disdaining any attempt to conceal it; her skin fell in on strong, proud bones. There was no grey at all in her dark hair. Olympias smiled slowly, well aware of his scrutiny, and gestured toward the table a second slave set between them.
“I hope you’ll find these still to your taste, after the delicacies of the Persian court.” She was watching the king as closely as he watched her, assessing the changes. Alexander’s face had hardened and thinned, revealing the strong bones beneath the boyish roundness. There was a new maturity in the set of his full lips, and new shadows in his deep-set eyes.
“I haven’t changed much, Mother,” Alexander said,
politely acknowledging her examination. “I have a great many things to settle with you, so many that I’d prefer to start now.”
“Of course, Alexander,” Olympias said. “What is it you want?”
“These are private matters, Mother,” Alexander said. “You will want to dismiss your women.” Before she could answer, he added, “You may go, too, Philip Alexander. I will see you again at dinner.”
Olympias gestured sharply at her attendants, then got herself under control. “Give your grandmother a kiss before you go, Alexander, and be sure you come to me before dinner so I can dress you properly.”
Philip Alexander gave his father a swift, unreadable glance, but submitted dutifully to Olympias’s embrace. When both he and the women were gone—and Alexander felt reasonably confident that none of the women were lingering behind the closed doors—the king leaned forward in his chair.
Olympias forestalled him. “What is all this nonsense about business, that you can’t even have a bite to eat before you begin? And after all the effort Elaphion made to please you.”
Alexander refused to allow her to seize control of the conversation so easily. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about, Mother,” he said. “You’ve done your best to undermine Antipater’s authority—which I granted to him, and not to you.”
Olympias leaned back in her chair, her back still very straight, both hands resting on the arms of the chair. She looked like a statue of Athena seated in judgment, though Athena was not one of the gods she worshipped. “Antipater is an old woman, more so than I am, incompetent, and jealous of anyone cleverer than himself. He’s never liked me, so naturally he blames his failures on me, and not his own stupidity.”
“He’s a good general,” Alexander began.
Olympias laughed. “Who lost everything you’d won in Greece—and then blames that on me. I understand he’s asked to be relieved of his responsibilities; I think you should do it.”
Alexander raised an eyebrow, wondering who had informed Olympias of Antipater’s decision. “Did you have someone in mind for the post?”
Olympias shook her head. “No. That is the king’s decision.” The lines at the corners of her dark eyes tightened slightly, a faint betrayal of an inner laughter. There were very few suitable candidates for the post of regent; she knew them all, and how to control each one.
“I’m relieved to hear you say so,” Alexander said, guessing her thoughts. “It’s my decision, then, to keep Antipater as regent, though I shall appoint Theagenes to help him keep the peace in Greece itself.”
“A wonderful pairing,” Olympias jeered. “An old woman and a Greek to rule Macedon.”
“Better than an old woman alone,” Alexander answered. Olympias flushed angrily and the king went on, “Antipater remains my regent, and I won’t have his authority questioned by anyone. If necessary, Mother, I will give my commanders instructions to ignore any orders from you.” Such an order would do no practical good—Olympias was adept at working through others when she had to—but the threat of such humiliation might at least make her act more circumspectly. “Now, to more important matters. I intend to take Philip Alexander with me on the coming campaign.”
Olympias looked up sharply. “He’s a child—he’s not yet ten.”
“Eleven at the new year, Mother,” Alexander answered. “Old enough.”
“I’m surprised you remember his age,” Olympias said spitefully. “But then, you’ve overcome your aversion to women—or at least to marriage, since then.”
Alexander ignored the jibe, and said, shrugging, “It’s necessary to secure the succession.”
“Half-Persian brats to rule over Macedon? Unlikely.”
“They could rule very well in Persia, I think,” Alexander observed.
Olympias waved a hand in dismissal. “You’ve yet to get them,” she said, “and I doubt you shall.” There was something about her voice, less taunting than contemplative, that made Alexander look up quickly.
“Don’t threaten me, Mother.”
Olympias merely looked at him, all innocence except for her unreadable eyes. Alexander matched her stare for stare, and for the first time, it was Olympias who looked away first. “I intend to bring Philip Alexander with me to Syracuse,” the king said after a moment. “At least for now, he is my heir—”
“All the more reason not to risk him,” Olympias said, feebly.
“—and it’s time he began learning to rule,” Alexander went on as though she had not spoken.
“You didn’t learn to be what you are from Philip.”
Alexander smiled. It was a creditable imitation of his mother’s expression of triumph, startling on his younger face. “Nor did I learn it from you, Mother.” He rose to his feet, forestalling Olympias’s bitter answer, and bowed politely. “I’m glad we’ve had this talk, Mother, I think we understand each other much better now. We will be some months in Macedon—my chamberlains will see that Philip Alexander has what he needs for the campaign.” Without waiting for any response, he stalked from the room.
Olympias remained sitting for a long time, watching the sunlight drain from her rooms. Alexander had neatly taken most of her power from her: not even she could rule Macedon without a male heir to speak for. It had simply not occurred to her that Alexander would be prepared to do that to her, and the taste of that miscalculation was bitter in her mouth. For the first time in her life, she felt old.
A burst of cheering from the main hall roused her. It was just sunset. The king and those of his Friends who had come north with him would be feasting tonight, celebrating his triumphs. Olympias’s mouth thinned. Alexander had won a single battle, but she had the means at hand to negate it, and to make hers the ultimate victory.
The army spent three months in Macedon, the men dispersing across the hills to their families. Alexander remained in Pella, putting his own house in order. Olympias’s agents in the royal household were quietly replaced with men of Alexander’s choosing. They were all men who had served with the king in Asia, mostly trusted junior officers too old or too badly injured for further campaigning, men who would remember Alexander as their commander, not as an untried boy.
Dispatches arrived regularly from Hephaestion in the south. The battle near Thebes had broken the League’s resistance completely; the smaller cities, never fond of their larger neighbors, competed with each other to demonstrate their friendship with Macedon. Even Sparta sent envoys to discuss a new treaty. Hephaestion, who had always had a good sense of political realities, sent them on to Pella, where they were received with appropriate ceremony. The envoys were practical politicians beneath their mask of Spartan bluntness. Alexander came to terms with them quickly enough, and enlisted a battalion of Spartan mercenaries, commanded by the son of the elder envoy, to compensate for the garrisons he would have to leave behind with Theagenes.
Only Syracuse remained silent, neither openly hostile nor offering any tokens of friendship. Craterus, scratching at the beard he was growing to hide his scar, muttered irritably about bad sailing weather and advised the king to wait. Alexander agreed that the sailing season was over, but sent orders for Polydamus and a strong escort to sail for Syracuse as soon as the weather moderated.
It was an early spring. By the middle of Xandikos, Polydamus had found a captain willing to make the crossing. He was received with all courtesy by the Syracusans, but it quickly became clear that the oligarchs who controlled the city were divided, and Demosthenes was gaining in power. Syracuse had good reason to fear tyrants, having only in the past twenty years recovered from the devastating cycle of tyranny, revolution, and anarchy that had left her a broken, depopulated city, with grass growing in her streets. Demosthenes fanned those fears, and evoked the memory of Timoleon, the moderate Corinthian democrat who had single-handedly rebuilt the city. Polydamus’s only weapons were fear of Alexander and fear of Carthage. Alexander was still in Greece, and Dionysius’s walls, the greatest in the known world, still defended Syracuse; the
Carthaginians were quiet beyond the river Halycus. Slowly, the balance began to shift in Demosthenes’s favor.
Alexander received Polydamus’s information with outward calm and immediately ordered Nearchus to begin assembling another fleet. By the beginning of Daisios, when the reassembled royal army left Pella, Nearchus’s work was already well underway. When the army, joined now by the better part of Hephaestion’s troops, reached the coast at the end of Panemos, the fleet was waiting. It was too soon after the great reunions at Pella and throughout Macedon for the officers even to think of separating the soldiers from their women, and they turned a blind eye as men struggled to buy places for their lovers on the already crowded merchantmen. Despite the complications, the fleet sailed as planned on the third day of Loios, preceded by a single fast trireme bearing Alexander’s final offer to the city.
At its arrival, Syracuse panicked. The Council of Six Hundred met in haste to consider the king’s letters, failed to come to a decision, and threw the matter before the popular Assembly. The townsmen, plagued by rumors from the moment the Council opened, were in no state to consider anything calmly, and the chief magistrate was too old and frightened himself to control the orators adequately. There was a riot in the Assembly itself, the worst of all possible omens. The city militia subdued that disturbance, but as night fell more rumors filled the city. Alexander had sworn to kill anyone who had ever supported the demagogues, some said; others, that he had vowed the death of every third man unless the city surrendered. The cry went up that Alexander was already at the gates, and the militia had joined him, betraying the city. A mob surged to the harbor, and was beaten back by the militia, but the brief calm did not last.
By midnight, most of the townsmen had taken to the streets in a frenzy of terror, feeding on each other’s fear. A mob of artisans broke into the house belonging to Demosthenes’s most prominent local supporter, and butchered him and his wife in their bed. His son, a boy of ten, was thrown from the houseroof; he survived the fall, but lay bleeding until some cobblers noticed him and kicked him to death. The militia, arriving too late to save anyone, was driven back by the mob. The watch commander, panicking, gave the order to fall back into the fortress of Ortygia, and lost the last chance to stop the riots.
A Choice of Destinies Page 11