A Choice of Destinies

by Melissa Scott

  “You really should not do that,” James of Kano said, in his precise, accented Greek, and accepted the pear that Theon offered him. He was the son of a Hausa resident alien, and a recent convert to unreformed Christianity; the freedom demanded by—and given to—the once-cloistered women of St. Hypatia’s college both disturbed and intrigued him.

  Ursulina made a rude noise, well aware of the other’s interest, and examined the pear Theon handed her. “It’s bruised.”

  Instantly, James said, “Take this one, Ursulina, I haven’t touched it yet.”

  The girl made only a token protest, and rewarded the other’s insistence with a brilliant smile and graceful surrender. Theon rolled his eyes and sighed with audible disgust. “What did you think of the lecture?” he asked.

  Ursulina’s hand went involuntarily to the overfold of her gown, confirming the presence of the tablets on which she—and every other student at the various Universities of Egyptian Alexandria—made her daily notes before transferring the important facts to papyrus or the even more expensive parchment. Reassured, she said, “I enjoyed it. I think it’s very plausible that Olympias was responsible for the great Alexander’s going into Italy.”

  Theon said, “I think you’re overstating her influence.”

  “No, I do not think so,” James said slowly. “After all, there was no sound tactical reason to go there. The Italiote cities were of no value, and still are of no value. Yet the great Alexander went there.”

  “I think he just couldn’t turn down a request for help,” Theon said.

  “Yes, but who made the request?” Ursulina asked. “Mentor of Consentia, the queen’s cousin.” James nodded in solemn agreement.

  Theon eyed them both with disgust, recognizing an alliance he could not possibly break. “Maybe,” he said, “but was it witchcraft?”

  “No,” Ursulina said promptly, and at the same moment James said, “Yes.”

  A belief in witchcraft and the powers of magic was a firm tenet of Old Christianity, as well as a part of Hausa culture; Ursulina, only tenuously a Reform-Christian herself, was notorious among her friends for her interest in radical materialist philosophies. The two looked at each other, romantic interest for the moment submerged in the greater passions of scholarship and philosophy, and Theon leaned back against the dryad to enjoy the fun.

  A Choice of Destinies

  Chapter 6:

  Southern Italy, late summer (Gorpiaios) to Campania, late autumn (Apellaios), 30 imperial (326 B.C., 427 A.U.C.)

  Two days later, Alexander accepted the hegemony of the Italiote League, demanding only token safeguards against betrayal. The Friends protested vehemently, even as they recognized the futility both of any safeguards and of their protests, and were ignored. The fleet was already assembled and supplied for the short voyage to Italy proper; all that remained was to settle matters in Syracuse. Demonax begged for a garrison, both to protect himself and to protect the city. After much debate, and over the Friends’ protests, Alexander left not only a garrison made up primarily of Greek mercenary infantry, but also Philip Alexander as its nominal commander. Nearchus would have the actual command, and both the chief engineers would remain until Dionysius’s walls had been rebuilt around Ortygia. Even so, it was something of a risk, and Craterus in particular was vocal in his opposition. Alexander pointed out sharply that the boy would be in more danger in Italy with the army, and that, in any case, Syracuse only gave trouble when the city sensed weakness. No one suggested returning the boy to Macedon, and Alexander carried the day. At the end of Gorpiaios, the bulk of the army crossed to Italy, leaving Philip Alexander in nominal command of the forces in Syracuse.

  The next two months were spent in the Italian hills, chasing Samnites. The tribesmen had learned long ago that they could not stand against well-trained troops in a pitched battle. At the first word of Alexander’s approach, they retreated to their hill fortresses, ready to resume raiding as soon as the Macedonians moved on. Alexander had faced the same tactics in Sogdiana and Bactria, and methodically proceeded to neutralize them. Leaving Craterus in command of the main body of the Foot Companions, Alexander divided the more lightly armed, fast-moving troops—hypaspists, Agrianians, Thracians, and the archers—between himself and Ptolemy, and the two groups struck deep into the mountains, attacking the Samnites on their own ground. Hephaestion, with a strong cavalry force, patrolled the foothills. The Samnites were completely unprepared to respond to these unexpected attacks. Alexander and Ptolemy took three of the hill fortresses almost without loss to themselves, taking hostages and forcing several major tribal chiefs to sue for peace. When at last the remaining tribes united to attack Metapontium, Craterus brought his troops across the peninsula by forced marches to support Hephaestion, and together the two generals utterly destroyed the Samnite army. By the middle of Dios, Alexander was camped on the southern borders of Campania, hammering out the last of the treaties with the Samnites.

  Alexander’s campaigns had not gone unnoticed in Rome. As his troops moved closer to Campania, an area Rome considered Roman property, the senatorial debates grew more and more acrimonious. Alexander’s reputation had preceded him: a majority of the Senate wished to establish good relations, but the specifics of the embassy were hotly debated. The more nervous wished to negotiate an entirely new treaty; others—older senators unaffected by the new fashion for things Greek—pointed out sharply that Rome already had a perfectly good treaty with the Italiote League, and that a change of hegemon did not invalidate it. The latter view prevailed, and the embassy that went south to Campania carried a tart reminder of the old treaty. Alexander, annoyed, reminded the senators of Rome’s breach of that treaty, and demanded that Rome return the city of Neapolis to his Samnite allies, from whom it had been taken a year before. After a week’s debate, there was no agreement. The two ambassadors, following their instructions from the Senate, declared Alexander the aggressor in a just war and returned to Rome. On the first day of Apellaios, Alexander marched into Campania, heading for Neapolis.

  Marcus Fabius Caeso, the junior of the two newly elected consuls, had opposed the Senate’s ultimatum, proposing instead an alliance with Alexander against Carthage, Rome’s perennial and most dangerous enemy. He was unwise enough to remind the jittery senators of his opposition; in a nearly unanimous vote, Fabius Caeso was granted the command of the army assembling to stop Alexander’s advance. The consul shook his head in disgust, and began to plan his strategy. Slowly, the Roman forces began to move, heading south by easy stages toward Neapolis.

  The Macedonians moved cautiously in Campania, wary of both its hostile population and of their nominal Samnite allies. Alexander chose his campsites with an eye to defending them against either a surprise attack from Rome or an attack from “renegade” tribesmen. The men of the phalanx, seeing that, kept an obtrusive, unofficial watch on both the hundred or so Samnites who escorted their chief, and on Mentor’s Consentian levies. Mentor, wisely, pretended he did not notice, but made arrangements to take himself and his men back to Consentia. The Samnite chief protested and was told to provide the excellent guides he had promised or put up with it. The Samnite, who controlled only half the men he had claimed to rule, was forced to back down. The guides remained unreliable, and progress was slow.

  Six days into Campania, Thaïs presided over a dinner in her tent, watching the guests and the level of the wine with equal care. Ptolemy had suggested she hold the entertainment, hoping it would help ease the growing tensions, and Thaïs had accepted the veiled order without demur. Now, as she glanced from under lowered lashes at the men’s faces, she could see that she had failed. To be fair, though, neither the food nor the wine were up to her usual standards—the greater part of her household, including her expensive Sicilian cook, had been left behind in Taras—and the entertainment, two flute-players and an Italian acrobat, was distinctly common, as were the other women present. While most of the king’s Friends had current mistresses who could be produced at parties,
and Craterus was perfectly content with the company of the rangy blonde known to most of the army as the Amazon, Thaïs had been unable to find suitable companions for either Hephaestion or the king. The best she could find were two rather ordinary Megaran courtesans, uneducated, pretty things, who did their best to ape the manners of their betters. Thaïs eyed them fiercely, reducing the bolder of the pair to blushing silence, and glanced at Ptolemy, who reclined beside her, staring into the depths of his wine cup.

  “More wine?” Thaïs asked softly, and crooked her finger at a slave.

  Ptolemy roused himself enough to glance ‘round the circle of couches, and shook his head. The army had barely covered fifty stadia, less than half a normal day’s march, and tempers were short. Too much wine would only fuel that anger. Thaïs shrugged to herself and waved the slave away.

  Craterus sat up abruptly, dislodging the Amazon from her comfortable sprawl, and beckoned for a slave to bring more wine. “Fifty stadia,” he said, as the slave filled his cup, “fifty stadia up and down these hills, and we’re still how far from Neapolis?”

  “The guides say, about three hundred and fifty stadia,” Laomedon son of Larichus said, grimacing, and shrugged his thin shoulders. He was no great soldier, was not even properly a Macedonian, being the son of one of Philip’s Mytilenean allies, but he had the gift of tongues. That talent was more of a curse these days: he was responsible for communicating with the Samnite and conscripted Latin guides, and the strain of that responsibility showed in his eyes.

  “The guides,” Craterus said contemptuously.

  Alexander said, “The surveyors say the same, Craterus. Five or six days, given the ground.”

  “Six days’ march, then, and then a siege,” Craterus said. “It’s getting on toward winter, Alexander.”

  “We’ve campaigned in winter before,” Hephaestion said. “Even you’ve had a few successes after snow was on the ground.”

  Craterus bristled at that and Ptolemy roused himself hastily. “Winter campaigns, yes,” he said loudly, riding over Craterus’s attempt to continue the quarrel, “but not like this. How far can we trust the Samnites—or the Leaguers, for that matter?”

  “Is now the time to discuss this?” Coenus protested thickly. He had drunk heavily all evening, trying to drown the ache that had settled deep in his bones.

  Alexander sat up and ran his hand through his hair, dislodging the wilted garland. The Megaran courtesan retrieved it mechanically, but did not dare replace it. “There’s no one but the Friends here,” the king said. “And we’re in Thaïs’s house. You can speak freely here.”

  “I thank you, King Alexander,” Thai’s said loudly, hoping to divert attention, and snapped her fingers for the acrobat. The Italian ignored her, listening with wide-eyed fascination.

  Coenus ignored her, leaning forward, hands planted on his knees. “Very well, then, Alexander,” he said, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to say.”

  The brigadier had spoken in Macedonian; Alexander answered in the same language. “Go ahead, say your piece.”

  “My men are unhappy about this campaign,” Coenus said, “and I’m not happy about it myself. They ask—and I ask—what good this Samnite bargain does us? All it does is get our men killed. Why should we do their dirty work, when they’ve never been friends of Greece—by the gods, Alexander, they killed your own uncle. It’s not territory we can hold easily, the damned Italiote League’s useless, the Romans’re bad enemies—” He broke off suddenly, frowning, then remembered the thread of his argument. “So why don’t we just go back to Macedon and let them kill each other?”

  Craterus nodded slowly. He had drunk just enough to make himself careless; before he could think about what he was saying, he said, “There’s sense to that, Alexander.”

  Hephaestion hissed an obscenity and Perdiccas kicked him hard, just above the ankle. The cavalry commander took the blow without flinching, eyes fixed on the king. Alexander ignored them, staring at the two Foot Companion brigadiers. “Well?” he said, after a long moment. “Are there others who agree?”

  “No,” Hephaestion said at once. “There’s a treaty to keep. I say we go on.”

  “You would,” Craterus snapped. “This is a matter of strategy, boy, not your pretty feelings.”

  “You wouldn’t know strategy from—” Hephaestion began, furiously, and Alexander said, “Enough.” He did not raise his voice, but Hephaestion sank back onto his couch. Craterus paled and was silent.

  “Enough,” Alexander said again. He stared a moment longer, daring either man to say another word, then relaxed a little. He had drunk as heavily as the others, and when he spoke again he was a little too eloquent. “You’ve raised a fair question, Coenus, I understand your concern. But listen to me, then. The Greek cities along the coast have been fighting one tribe or another since they were founded. If we’re going to protect those cities we have to settle things with the tribes once and for all. There’s no solid frontier, either we take it all, or we abandon the cities—that’s what happened to my uncle, he didn’t see how much he could win with an alliance. As for Rome—Rome declared war on me, remember? I’d’ve preferred some alliance. And, yes, they’re good fighters, but we’re better.” He paused, and went on more naturally, “Much better. Neapolis is a Samnite city, we’re bound by our treaty to recover it for them. We’ll winter there, and see if Rome is more willing to treat.”

  All around the circle of couches, heads nodded solemnly, ready to be convinced. Thaïs sighed almost soundlessly, and signalled for the flute-players to begin again.

  As the first notes shrilled out, the door of the tent was whisked back to admit one of the pages. Alexander frowned, but said nothing as the boy hurried over and murmured something in a low voice. The king’s face hardened, and he stood up abruptly.

  “Amyntas son of Arrabaeus has made contact with the Roman army,” he announced. “All of you, come with me.”

  The Friends scrambled to their feet, wine and women forgotten, and followed the king from the tent, shouldering each other aside in their haste. Thaïs, left to herself, exchanged wry glances with Perdiccas’s current favorite. It had not been one of the Athenian’s more successful parties and both women knew it—and its ending had been a spectacular disaster.

  “We’ll be on the move tomorrow,” the Amazon said. Her voice was flat-voweled, uncultured. She was no high-class hetaira and made no pretense of being one.

  “And a battle to come,” Perdiccas’s mistress said. “The gods protect us all.” Her prayer was mechanical: like all the women who followed the army, she had long ago come to terms with all the possible permutations of victory and defeat. She rose in a flurry of draperies, and hurried away to her tent. The other women followed.

  Thaïs echoed the prayer, already clapping her hands for the household slaves to begin clearing away. If Ptolemy dies, she thought, I’m still young, there will be other men. I have wealth enough, in coin and in jewelry, and I have fast horses that will take me out of range of the Romans, if Alexander should lose this battle. The litany did little to still the knowledge that she would miss Ptolemy if he were killed. She shook her head angrily. Alexander had not lost a battle in his life, and would not begin now.

  Amyntas was waiting in the antechamber of the king’s great tent, sitting in a chair drawn close to the brazier. He was a swarthy man, unshaven, and still filthy from days of riding. In his faded tunic and cloak—like all the Scouts, he wore no body armor—he looked more like a Thracian bandit than a soldier. Only his plumed helmet, discarded beside his chair, gave any hint of his rank. He looked up as the king entered, one hand going to the dirty rag looped above his right knee in a vain attempt to hide the wound.

  Alexander raised an eyebrow at the movement. “Timander, have Chares send for Philip the doctor,” he said. “You had fighting, Amyntas?”

  “We did that,” Amyntas said grimly. Hephaestion gestured for the nearest page to pour the scout a cup of wine. Amyntas accepted it gratef
ully and took a deep swallow before saying, “This is nothing, though, not worth a doctor. One of their short javelins grazed me, that’s all. The important thing is, they’re on the move.”

  Alexander nodded. Amyntas had earned command of a squadron of scouts during the Persian campaigns, and had proved his reliability a dozen times since then. If he said the Romans were moving, he was right. “And your men?”

  Amyntas made a face. “I lost eight, Alexander, and another four, wounded not too badly. We ran right into their scouting column; we had to fight. My mistake; I wasn’t expecting them. But after we got free we tracked them back to their camp, and I got a pretty good look at them.”

  He broke off as a page returned, escorting the doctor, and said urgently, “Sire, it’s only a scratch.”

  “Let Philip see to it,” Alexander said, and nodded to the doctor, forestalling further protest.

  Ptolemy said, thoughtfully, “Twelve men dead or wounded, out of thirty. That’s a strong advance party.”

  “Very strong,” Amyntas agreed. He gave a grunt of pain as Philip unwound the rag from his leg and fell silent, biting his lip.

  Hephaestion gestured for the nearest page to bring the map case, then sorted through the rolls of papyrus himself. The map of Campania was not as good as the maps of Greece or Asia, being based more on guesswork and the Scouts’ reports than on the surveyors’ work, but he unrolled it anyway, shaking his head at the blank patches. Perdiccas came to lean over his shoulder, muttering to himself.

  When the doctor had finished his work, the king dismissed him with thanks. Amyntas lurched to his feet, most surprised when the bandaged leg bore his weight. Before he could join the group around the map, the tent flap was pulled open again.