All night the mobs coursed through the streets of Syracuse, hunting out and killing anyone who had the slightest connection with Demosthenes. By dawn the crowd had grown to number nearly three thousand, and a grocer named Periander had emerged as leader of the mob. In Ortygia, those members of the Six Hundred who had managed to reach the comparative safety of the inner city debated what to do. But Ortygia’s walls had been drastically weakened during Timoleon’s rule, to prevent further tyranny, and Periander forced a breach. The militia fled and the mob took control of Ortygia.
Polydamus, knowing there was nothing else he could do, barricaded himself in his rented house, and waited, praying that the inevitable fires would not reach him. Two young Athenian women, daughter and wife of one of Demosthenes’s lesser allies, struggled through Polydamus’s garden to beg sanctuary. The mob had dragged Demosthenes and the other Athenians from their beds, they said; they had escaped through an upper window when the mob broke down the main door. The younger woman clutched her three-year-old son to her breast: she had been forced to leave her infant daughter sleeping with her nurse. Polydamus brought them in, and waited tensely for other refugees. There were none; the women crouched, too terrified to weep, in the center of the house, listening to the screams from the street.
After two days of rioting, the mob wore itself out. The violence lessened, then turned against the mob’s original leaders. Polydamus, recognizing the signs, took half of his hypaspist escort and ventured out into the battered city. There had been fires, one wiping out the poorest quarter, where the rioting had begun; bodies lay in the streets, already beginning to stink. Grimly, the Macedonian sought out the survivors of the Six Hundred. The chief magistrate, who was also chief priest of Olympian Zeus, lay dead beside his polluted altar. Polydamus rounded up what was left of the militia and together they began to put things in order.
There was no question now of anything but submission to Alexander. The Six Hundred gathered the mutilated bodies of Demosthenes and his allies and left them on the Ortygia docks, mute testimony to the riots and the decision of the people of Syracuse to support Alexander. When at last Alexander’s fleet was sighted from Ortygia, Polydamus himself sailed to meet it, to try to offer some explanation.
Alexander, balancing himself against the guy ropes that supported the quinquireme’s mast, eyed the tendrils of smoke still curling up from the city proper, and shook his head. “You did what you could.”
Polydamus sighed. “There are also two women who survived, Athenians,” he began.
Alexander said, “They’re under my protection.” His voice was harsher than he had intended; he moderated his tone with an effort. “They can be returned to their families, if that’s what they want. But they’ll be provided for.”
Hephaestion said, watching the king, “Syracuse will do this sort of thing, for all their fine talk of Timoleon.”
“Is it safe to go ashore?” Craterus asked abruptly.
Polydamus nodded.
Alexander said, “We will land.”
There was no further argument from the Friends. One by one, the quinquiremes made their way into the great harbor, the crews hastily covering the catapults in the bows of each ship. They docked at the long wharves that served Ortygia; the triremes and the round-bellied troopships landed along the north shore of the harbor, just outside the city suburbs. Most of the army would camp there, Alexander decreed, to avoid straining the city’s already limited resources any further. The speaker for the Six Hundred accepted the king’s wishes gracefully, and then, gesturing vaguely at the heaped bodies, asked what the king wanted done with them.
Alexander’s face tightened. There was no identifying the individual bodies now, not without a sickeningly close examination, but Polydamus was sure of Demosthenes’s death. “Give them their rites, in the gods’ names.”
The army spent nearly a month in Syracuse: there was much to be done. The news of the riots encouraged the Carthaginians to try raiding across the Halycus again. At the Six Hundred’s request, Alexander sent a flying column of Companions and hypaspists west to supplement the force sent by the other Sicilian cities. The Carthaginians were driven back, but everyone knew that it was merely a temporary victory.
Syracuse itself began quite patiently to rebuild its civic life. The temple of Olympian Zeus was cleansed, Macedonians and Syracusans alike attending the ceremony, and a new chief magistrate was chosen from the three eligible families. Perdiccas swore the judges had manipulated the choice, and even Alexander, usually willing to give the gods the benefit of the doubt, had to admit that the brigadier’s suspicions seemed justified. The lot fell on one of the most vocal of the pro-Macedonian faction, a man who was quite young for the post, with little political experience. Demonax proved, however, to be a shrewd, practical man. After their first meetings, Alexander recognized a competent administrator, and began to talk of leaving Syracuse.
It was hot in the king’s tent, and very stuffy: the tent was wrongly sited to catch the occasional sea breeze. No lamps had been lighted in the stifling outer chamber, but it was still so hot that the heavily watered wine stood untouched in the center of the table.
“Demonax has asked that we leave a supporting garrison,” Ptolemy said. His tone gave no hint of whether or not he agreed with the Syracusan.
“If we’re going back east,” Craterus said, tugging at his beard, “we’ll need all our men ourselves.”
Alexander did not answer, twisting the massive bracelet he wore on his left wrist. In the dim light, the central garnet, framed by coiling snakes, looked like a pool of ink. The conversation faltered and died.
Hephaestion stared out the open tent flap, wishing he were in his own somewhat cooler quarters. Beyond the narrow line of a drainage ditch, light glinted painfully from a line of stone, the remnant of a hundred-year-old counterwall. Another such course of stones backed one side of the king’s tent. Twice in a hundred years, Syracuse had been the death of Athenian pretensions: the words trembled on his lips, but it was too hot for philosophy.
There was a mutter of voices outside the tent. Alexander looked up sharply, but before he could shout a question, one of the pages stuck his head into the tent. “Your pardon, sire, but there’s a runner from the harbor. A delegation has arrived from Taras and Heraclea, and some other cities.”
“The old Italiote League!” Ptolemy said, startled.
Alexander frowned. The Italiote League had been the creation of his maternal uncle, Alexander, the king of Molossia; it had also been that Alexander’s death. Eight years before, the same year he himself had invaded Asia, the Greek city-states of the Italian peninsula had applied to Alexander of Molossia for help in dealing with encroaching Samnite and Lucanian tribesmen. Alexander of Molossia had united the cities in an efficient League and had driven back the tribesmen, taking control of southern Italy. Taras had promptly revolted, and in the ensuing fighting, Alexander of Molossia was killed.
“I’d like to know what they want first,” Craterus said.
Perdiccas said, “Alexander’s help against the Samnites, of course.”
“They wouldn’t have the gall,” Neoptolemus said. “Would they?”
Perdiccas laughed, and Ptolemy grunted reluctant agreement.
“Those cities haven’t any shame,” Craterus muttered.
Alexander held up a hand to silence them, and said to the page, “Bring this delegation here at once.”
“Yes, sire—” The page’s voice was abruptly cut off as a figure darted past him, closely followed by a second page. It was Pasithea. Ptolemy sighed audibly, and sheathed his half-drawn sword.
The second page said, “I’m very sorry, sire, truly, but she wanted to see you regardless, and I didn’t like stopping her—”
Alexander nodded, cutting off the flow of words, and said, “What is it, mother?”
“You must not see these people,” Pasithea said. She was out of breath, her clothes disordered, as though she had run all the way from the harbor.
“King Alexander, you must not. It is most unlucky, a witchcraft, and you must not.”
Neoptolemus made a gesture to ward off evil. Ptolemy and Hephaestion exchanged looks, and then Ptolemy said, “Alexander, bad luck or not, there’s no reason not to see them.”
The king frowned at them, commanding silence, and took Pasithea’s hands. She was trembling perceptibly. Cautiously, Alexander touched her hair, smoothing it as he would soothe a frightened animal. “Why mustn’t I see them?” he asked, very gently. “Tell me about this witchcraft.”
Pasithea shook her head wildly, making her jewelry clatter. “I cannot, it’s hidden. But there’s witchcraft in it, and you must not see them.”
“Why not?” Alexander said again. Pasithea shook her head, but said nothing.
There was a long silence, and then Craterus said, explosively, “Gods below, they’re only envoys. What can they do—what harm could there possibly be in seeing them?”
Neoptolemus made his warding-off gesture again, saying, “The omen’s clear, Alexander. Don’t see them.”
“On what grounds?” Perdiccas asked sweetly. “The king’s afraid of—what?”
“Shut up, Perdiccas,” Hephaestion said. “You can always tell the truth, Alexander, you had a warning from the gods to transact no business today.”
Alexander gave no sign of having heard any of them. Pasithea was a tall woman: they stood eye to eye, the king staring at her face as though he could read some further omen in its lines. Then, abruptly, the woman pulled away from him, crying, “You will not heed me.”
It was not a question. Before Alexander could move to stop her, she had darted from the tent, running blindly toward the shore. She stumbled once, nearly falling, and just managed to save herself. Alexander said, “Heiron! Go after her; make sure she’s all right.” The page nodded and was off. Alexander went on, “When the envoys arrive, Adaeus, admit them.”
It seemed an age before Adaeus at last appeared in the doorway, saying, “Messengers from Taras, Heraclea, Thurii, Consentia, and Metapontium, sire.”
Alexander did not move as the envoys filed into the tent, blinking in the sudden dimness. The silence stretched out for a dozen heartbeats, and then Alexander said, “You are welcome, gentlemen, be seated. Adaeus, wine for the envoys.”
“I thank you, King Alexander,” the leading envoy said, and found a seat in the circle of chairs, gathering his long gown with a dramatic gesture.
At the sound of his voice Hephaestion sat up sharply. He knew that voice, and fought to place the memory. It was at Pella, at the marriage of Alexander of Molossia and Philip’s daughter Cleopatra—Mentor, his name was, and he was an Epirote noble, distant kin both to the Molossian Alexander and to Olympias. For no good reason, Hephaestion felt a chill of fear.
“I am Mentor son of Amathus,” the envoy went on, and Alexander said, “I know you. What does an Epirote prince have to do with the cities of Italy?”
“I speak for Consentia, King Alexander,” Mentor answered. “After your uncle’s untimely death, the citizens asked me to lead them, to protect them against their enemies.”
Ptolemy snorted audibly, his face a study in polite disbelief. He knew Mentor, too: if Consentia had asked for protection, the citizenry almost certainly regretted their choice of protector.
“But I also speak for the Italiote League,” Mentor went on, and gestured to the other envoys who still clustered nervously at his back.
“The Italiote League’s dead,” Alexander said. “Your rebellions killed it.”
Ptolemy lifted an eyebrow at the king’s dismissive tone, and Craterus and Perdiccas exchanged uncertain glances. It was not like Alexander to be so abrupt with any embassy, even one led by a man with a reputation as bad as Mentor’s, and even more unlike Alexander to refuse help to anyone.
“That’s true, King Alexander,” a second envoy said, “and we’ve had cause to regret it ever since. Your pardon, sire, I am Hippodamus of Taras. The League was the one thing that kept our lands safe against the tribes, and when it was broken—” He hesitated, then said, firmly, “—when we broke it, we broke our own strength. We can’t stand alone, King Alexander. We’ve come to beg you: accept the hegemony of the new Italiote League, defend us against these barbarian tribes. You will have our absolute loyalty.”
“As my uncle did?” Alexander began, but his voice was drowned in the envoys’ murmured agreement. He waited until that died away, and said again, “My uncle had the same assurances, Hippodamus. Will yours be worth any more?”
“We will swear to whatever terms you like, King Alexander,” the Tarentine answered promptly. “Only help us.”
Alexander sighed, recognizing the desperation in the envoy’s appeal. From all accounts, Hippodamus had reason enough to be afraid—the Samnite tribesmen were no match for hoplites in a pitched battle, but they were canny enough to refuse such a battle, and they were deadly raiders—but Mentor’s presence warned of hidden meanings. “Gentlemen,” he said slowly. “It’s late in the day to make such a decision, and I will also wish to discuss this with my Friends. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow; in the meantime, you’ll dine with me tonight.”
Alexander ordered a separate, open-sided pavilion set up to hold the dinner couches, but the usual evening breeze did not appear, and the diners lay sweltering in the hot, still air. The envoys, knowing their business, lost no opportunity to talk of the injuries they and their cities had suffered at the hands of the Samnites and Lucanians, and even from the citizens of Rome, who were slowly extending their influence to the south. The king listened impassively, and ended the dinner as quickly as he could.
Outside the pavilion, the guests dispersed to their beds, the generals to their tents, and the envoys collected their horses for the short ride back to the city. Alexander put his hand on Hephaestion’s arm. “Walk with me a while.”
The cavalry commander nodded, falling into step at the king’s side. Alexander did not turn toward his own tent, but kept walking toward the sea.
The narrow beach was crowded with the ships that had brought the Macedonian army from Greece, each one lit by a single lantern hanging from the bow. A ship’s watchman called a soft challenge as they passed. At Hephaestion’s gesture, the escorting page gave the watchword, for good measure holding up his torch to show the king’s impassive face. It was dead low tide. Alexander led the way between the ships, out onto the sand past the heap of debris that marked the tide line.
“Wait here,” he said to the escort, and walked on toward the water. Hephaestion followed silently. The escorting troopers leaned against their sarissas, yawning; the page planted his torch in the sand and sat beside it, resting his head on his knees.
The king did not pause until he reached the water’s edge. Small beach creatures, disturbed by his presence, scurried out of his way, their scuttling noises blending with the sound of the waves. On the horizon, the white stones of Ortygia glowed faintly in the starlight. Hephaestion waited, watching the king.
“I haven’t any choice in this,” Alexander said at last.
Hephaestion said, “Accept the hegemony, but send someone else—me, Craterus, Ptolemy—to lead the campaign. Any one of us could deal with these tribesmen. You can go east again.”
The king shook his head, his face a pale blur in the darkness. “You know better than that. I don’t have the men to split the army—if I gave you enough men to beat the Samnites, I wouldn’t have enough for India, or the other way ‘round. Better I make an end to the threat once and for all.”
Hephaestion sighed. Alexander was right, of course; the garrisoning of Asia and Greece had left the core of the army intact, but without the manpower to create two separate armies. But that knowledge would not ease the king’s disappointment. Before the cavalry, commander could say anything, Alexander went on, “This is my mother’s doing, I’m sure of it. I should have listened to Pasithea—the omen was clear enough.”
“Clear?” For a moment, Hephaestion’s anger on the
king’s behalf threatened to overwhelm him. He calmed himself with an effort, and said, “She gave no reason. Alexander, even if you’d waited until tomorrow, nothing would have been changed. They would have asked exactly the same thing. What difference could it have made?”
Alexander shrugged. After a moment, he said again, “I can’t refuse.”
Hephaestion made a face, glad of the darkness. Any other king could refuse—there were a dozen different excuses that would work, all legitimate—but not Alexander. The Greek cities were in danger, that much was clear, and, with the probable exception of Mentor, their envoys had made an honest appeal for help. Alexander was not the man to deny them and it was that generosity that made him loved. “No,” he said aloud, “you can’t.”
“And what’s the shame in that?” Alexander flared.
“None,” Hephaestion said. “Only honor.”
Mollified, Alexander put his arm around the other’s waist. “I’m not pleased, though,” he said. “I feel my mother’s hand in this.”
“Oh?”
“Witchcraft, Pasithea said, and what other sorceress knows me so well?” Alexander smiled without humor. “And Mentor is her kinsman. Witchcraft or not, I think he’d do her bidding.”
Hephaestion nodded in spite of himself. Olympias was no politician, but she was clever enough to see the possibilities of her Italian kinsman and his troubles, and use them to keep Alexander from returning to the east.
“The gods blast them all,” Alexander said bitterly, and turned back toward his tent.
Interlude:
Egyptian Alexandria, autumn (Dios), 1440 imperial (1084 A.D., 1837 A.U.C.)
It was hot in the Square of the Whispering Hermes. Theon son of Hermaïscus settled himself on the rim of the central fountain, leaning companionably against a carving of a dryad, and reached into the breast of his tunic for the fruit he had purchased earlier. At his side, Ursulina of Tyre hiked up the skirts of her dress, heedless of maiden modesty and the censorious stare of a passing Reform-Christian priest, and dangled dirty feet in the waters.
A Choice of Destinies Page 12