A Choice of Destinies

by Melissa Scott

  The lamp flared then and the figure was gone. Alexander took a deep breath and winced at the returning pain in his side. He could not guess what the god had wanted from him, and was too drained and weak to send for the augers who could interpret the vision. There had been neither urgency nor comfort in the god’s eyes, only an inhuman watchfulness. Still puzzling over it, Alexander slept.

  The Friends were waiting in the antechamber when Philip emerged from the king’s bedroom. The doctor eyed them warily, reading the signs of recent quarrelling, and said, “Sirs, the king will be well enough, if he rests.”

  Craterus, bearded face still showing the dirt of the forced march, said shortly, “The gods send he can.”

  Philip frowned without understanding, and Hephaestion said, “Never mind, Craterus. Go on, Philip.”

  Craterus grumbled something and the doctor said hastily, hoping to avert a quarrel, “As I said, general, he will be well enough, if he lets it heal. The wound in itself is not so bad, but he lost much blood, and there is always the danger of fever. The rib itself is cracked, too, and that will take time to heal.”

  Ptolemy said, “How soon will he be up and about?”

  “He should stay in bed for three or four more days,” Philip said austerely. “He’s asleep now, but I’m sure he’ll be able to see you in the morning.”

  Ptolemy grunted, glancing at the other generals. “Good enough,” he said. The others nodded. Once their first fears were stilled, and there was a promise of a morning conference, each man had to attend to his own troops. The group broke up quickly, Perdiccas muttering something about the king’s charmed life. Only Hephaestion remained behind. Philip eyed him curiously but waited.

  “You said a cracked rib,” the cavalry commander said, after a moment. “The way the javelin caught him, it ran along the bone. It would be more—chipped—than cracked, wouldn’t it?” It was hardly a question.

  Philip sighed. Aristotle’s medical lore might be somewhat old-fashioned, but Hephaestion had remembered at least the rudiments of what he had been taught. And no one had ever called the cavalry commander a fool. “Yes, general, and there were chips of bone in the wound. I removed all that I saw, but there is always a danger that I did not get all the pieces, or that other bits will break loose if he doesn’t let this heal. But I did the best I could.”

  Hephaestion forced a smile. “I never doubted that. I just hope he has time to recover.” At the doctor’s puzzled frown, the cavalry commander laughed softly. “Philip, we beat one legion. There are five more waiting for us, and their commander would be a fool not to take advantage of the king’s injury.”

  Philip nodded and mumbled to himself, “Let’s hope he is a fool, or we could lose the king.”

  Alexander beat the doctor’s predictions by two days. On the third day after the battle, tightly bandaged and carefully dressed in a dark red tunic that would disguise any fresh bleeding, he joined the Friends in the large, cold room that had served as the council chamber since the citadel was built. The servants had done their best to make the place comfortable, but even three smoking braziers did little to warm it. At Hephaestion’s order, the pages had brought a massive, high-backed chair for the king—Persian spoils—as well as the usual light Greek chairs for the generals. Alexander settled into it, nodding his thanks to the cavalry commander, and carefully arranged his feet on the low stool.

  The Friends exchanged nervous glances—the king’s face was still very pale, an indefinable shadow of illness around his eyes—and Alexander frowned. “To business, then,” he said. His voice was almost normal.

  Craterus cleared his throat. “The Scouts have returned,” he said, without preamble. “The two Roman armies have joined, and they have a fortified camp here, about a hundred and ten stadia due north of us. So far they haven’t made any move to besiege the city, I don’t know why not.”

  “Maybe they’re interested in a treaty,” Perdiccas muttered.

  Alexander leaned back against the stiff cushions, suddenly grateful for their support. He would have to face the Roman army sooner or later—at the moment, it blocked the land road to the Greek cities in the south, and controlled a large part of the countryside that fed Neapolis—but he could make use of any delay. “Maybe they are,” he said aloud, “Perdiccas, your people captured the Roman commander, didn’t you? Let’s see if he’ll take a message to this Fabius.”

  Craterus said, “They don’t seem the kind to make treaties, Alexander. Remember what their envoys were like.”

  Hephaestion said, looking at the ceiling, “Of course, if we’re negotiating—”

  Alexander silenced the cavalry commander with a look and beckoned to the duty page. “Send for the Roman commander. And for the Neapolitan magistrates.”

  The boy bobbed his head and vanished. The Neapolitans appeared almost at once, as though they had been waiting for an audience. The page returned a few moments later, followed by a pair of hypaspists and a slight, brown-skinned man in a dirty cloak. “Lucius Cassius Nasidienis, Tribune of Rome, sire,” the page announced.

  “Come forward,” Alexander said. He tilted his head to one side, studying the Roman. Cassius Nasidienis had a clean-shaven, cheerful, boyish face—deceptively boyish, if the way he handled the retreat were a true indication of his abilities, and not the work of more senior officers.

  Cassius returned the king’s stare openly, noting the signs of illness. Alexander nodded slightly, acknowledging the other’s scrutiny. “So, tribune,” he said. “The Neapolitans have asked me to—arbitrate in their quarrel with Rome.”

  Cassius drew himself up, uncomfortably aware of the multiple undercurrents in the conversation. “Neapolis had no quarrel with Rome three years ago,” he answered, “when they begged us to protect them against their own kin.”

  Alexander smiled, very slightly, and one of the civilians said hastily, “Great King, not all the city chose to invite the Romans to be our allies. Even he will tell you that.”

  “I’ve yet to see a Greek city that ever agreed to anything unanimously,” Ptolemy murmured, just loud enough to be heard clearly, and Perdiccas laughed. The Neapolitan flushed angrily.

  “Is that so, tribune?” Alexander asked.

  Cassius said, choosing his words carefully, “Certainly Anytus’s faction never supported Rome. But they were very much in the minority here.” He could not resist a pointed glance at Hector son of Demetrius, who stood with the other magistrates, his gilt-embroidered gown glittering in the lamplight. “Unlike the ones who accepted Roman aid and office, and then deserted us.”

  “You betrayed us,” Hector son of Demetrius snapped back, “leading us against them.” He glanced hastily at Alexander, and added, “No one could expect to defeat the great Alexander, conqueror of Asia and Greece—”

  “I had my orders,” Cassius said, unable to keep his temper any longer. “And if you hadn’t broken, coward, we could have saved more than your miserable life.”

  “Whore’s bastard, how dare you—” the Neapolitan began, and Hephaestion snapped, “Hold your tongue, you, do you always brawl in council?”

  “Enough, all of you,” the king said.

  “I ask King Alexander’s pardon,” Cassius said, stiffly. “I forgot myself.” There was something perversely senatorial about this Macedonian council, he realized suddenly, a crude resemblance between the freedom—the license—Alexander allowed his men, and the polished debates of the senators. The thought, true or not, freed his tongue. He had been trained for the Senate and its debates; he could handle this. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, waiting for the next chance to speak.

  “Granted,” Alexander murmured, and Neoptolemus said clearly, “The Roman had provocation, the gods know.” Craterus snorted his agreement.

  “In any case, tribune,” Alexander went on, ignoring his officers’ comments, “we have other business, you and I. There is the matter of ransom for yourself, and for the other prisoners. And the possibility, at least, of some peace
ful arrangement for Neapolis.”

  “Alexander, Great King,” Hector cried. “You can’t make peace with Rome.”

  “Be quiet,” Alexander said, raising his voice for the first time. The sudden exertion sent a wave of pain through his chest. With an effort, he kept his face expressionless, but his left hand closed slowly into a white-knuckled fist.

  “King Alexander,” the Roman said abruptly. “I fear I’ve forgotten myself again. I am—I was—the commander of the garrison here, but I am only a military tribune, under the consuls’ authority. I cannot speak for Rome; only the Senate, or the Senate through the consuls, may do so. I am not really empowered to arrange ransom, that is the commander’s right as well. If you will allow it, I will send one of my officers—under escort, of course—to speak to Fabius, so that my people can be ransomed. Fabius himself will have to decide if he can treat with you on behalf of the city.”

  Alexander drew a careful breath. “You are honest to tell me so. Very well. Will you take my message to your—consul?”

  Cassius nodded, waiting.

  “Tell him first I want to come to terms over the prisoners—and you may tell them, too, the dead had all their rites.” Alexander paused again, eyeing the Roman warily. For all his apparent youth, Cassius had the unreadable face of a seasoned diplomat. “You may also tell him I have no quarrel with Rome.” In spite of himself, the king’s voice took on a hint of irony. “I am here only to protect my allies’ rights and I wish to come to some reasonable solution. Polydamus will escort you.” He beckoned, left-handed, to the messenger, who came forward quickly, taking the king’s hand in a ritual gesture. “Polydamus is a Friend. He has authority to speak for me.”

  Cassius sighed slowly. Alexander had used the Macedonian word for “friend”, which seemed to indicate it was a title like the more familiar “companion”, but Polydamus had the look of something more than a mere ambassador. Abruptly, Cassius was overcome with the desire to refuse to be Alexander’s messenger—there was nothing to like and everything to distrust about this embassy—but he had left himself no choice. “Very well, King Alexander,” he said. “I will speak to Fabius.”

  Fabius received the embassy with his usual courtesy, sparing no formality in his reception of Polydamus. After Fabius had accepted Alexander’s assurances that the Roman dead had been given their rites, the Macedonian was treated to a dinner conducted with solemnity. The consul refused to discuss business during the meal, promising that he would attend to Polydamus’s other messages in the morning, after the Romans had made their own preparations for their dead. Polydamus, knowing perfectly well why the consul wanted a delay, soon returned to his own tent, leaving the Romans to talk among themselves.

  Cassius waited in the chill half-darkness of the consul’s tent, staring at the flame of the single lamp. The flame flickered as the tent flap was drawn back, and the tribune leaned forward quickly to protect the flame. Fabius drew the tent flap tightly closed behind him and said to his body-slave, “Get out. Wait in Gabinius’s tent until I send for you.”

  The wizened Greek did as he was told. Fabius waited until he felt sure the man would be out of earshot, then, cautiously, opened the tent flap a few inches. No one was in sight. Satisfied, he came back into the circle of lamplight, and seated himself opposite his tribune. Cassius regarded him steadily, bracing himself for either praise or censure.

  Fabius said, “Horatius tells me Alexander is wounded.”

  “Horatius is alive?” Cassius exclaimed. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought he’d been killed. Yes, Alexander’s been wounded, but he’s already up and about again.”

  Fabius grunted. “Alive, well, and very angry he missed his shot at the Macedonian.”

  Cassius smiled. It did not surprise him that it had been the veteran Horatius who had finally succeeded in damaging the seemingly unstoppable Alexander.

  Fabius went on, “How badly was he hurt, could you tell?”

  Cassius hesitated, then said honestly, “I don’t know. There were a lot of rumors flying around, and, while I speak Greek well enough, Macedonian is another matter. He was in pain, but not incapacitated, when I saw him.”

  Fabius nodded, then rose from his chair to pace the length of the little tent and back again. Cassius watched him with a growing unease. Then he straightened his shoulders. He was the consul’s protégé, as well as the son of Fabius’s closest friend; he had a right to know what was going on. “Sir,” he said, “is there trouble?”

  Fabius started. He had half forgotten the tribune’s presence, caught up in his own bleak thoughts. “Trouble enough,” he said, and returned to his seat. “I received a dispatch from the Senate today.”

  “Oh?”

  Fabius smiled grimly. “The Senate informs me that I now have allies in my fight. They’ve signed a treaty with Carthage, against Alexander.”

  “No,” Cassius said involuntarily, though he knew perfectly well the Senate was capable of such an action. “Are they out of their minds?”

  “Not entirely, I suppose,” Fabius answered. “But I confess I don’t see the sense of it. What can Carthage do to help us?”

  Cassius said, bitterly, “Nothing and they never will.” His father had been killed by raiding Carthaginians.

  Fabius smiled again. “Ah, but you’re prejudiced, dear boy, because of your father’s death, and I am also suspect—no, that’s too strong a word. Let’s say my judgment’s not to be relied on, since I was so strongly opposed to insulting Alexander in the first place.”

  “Poppaeus Piso?” Cassius asked, naming Fabius’s most important senatorial rival.

  “Oddly enough, the very man who sponsored this treaty,” Fabius said. Abruptly, the lightness left his voice. “Gods hear me, what am I supposed to do? Our numbers are roughly even, and I think our legions are as good as his phalanx any day, but I’m not Alexander. I’m no Greek-lover, I was brought up before this fad for Greek education, but I’m not ashamed to admit he’s a better general than I am.”

  Cassius sat very still, unnerved by the frustration in Fabius’s voice. After a long moment, he said, “You’ll think of something, sir…” His voice died away, and he felt himself flush painfully.

  Fabius shook himself. “Oh, I’ve thought of a few things, Cassius, never fear. It’s winter now. For all that he holds the Neapolis harbor, the seas are still too rough for him to be supplied that way. And I control the farmlands. I’m going to make him come after me, and then I’m going to retreat, and burn everything behind me. It may not stop him, but at least he’ll come to battle hungry.”

  Polydamus met with the consul the following day, and again the day after that. Fabius was impeccably polite, but it became clear even without a definite refusal that there would be no negotiation except for the return of the prisoners. Recognizing that, Polydamus spent two more days obtaining a firm offer from Fabius for the prisoners, and a third day extricating himself from the other talks, and returned to Neapolis.

  Alexander heard his agent’s report with some disappointment, but in truth he had expected no more. He accepted Fabius’s offer for the prisoners, pointing out, when Craterus objected violently, that two hundred men would make little difference to Fabius’s force, and would be that many fewer mouths to feed. Supplies were growing short in Neapolis—the city was not prepared to feed nearly twenty-five thousand men, or their accompanying animals, in addition to its own population—and roving Roman patrols made it hard to live off the surrounding countryside. That left only one real alternative. Overriding Philip’s predictions of disaster, and the Friends’ cautious objections, Alexander began preparations to leave Neapolis in pursuit of the Roman army.

  The main problem was supplies and there was no guarantee that Fabius would allow them to live off the countryside. Ptolemy took a certain grim pleasure in stripping Neapolis of every ounce of grain it could spare. It was paid for in full, but the city magistrates complained bitterly that they could not eat gold. Craterus suggested dryly that in that cas
e payment could be omitted and the complaints ceased: the city was leaner for its contribution but it would not starve.

  The Macedonian army left Neapolis at the full moon. Fabius, well informed of their movements by his agents still in the city, withdrew slowly toward Rome, using his knowledge of the land to keep about a day’s march ahead of the Macedonians. The two armies between them had pretty much stripped Campania bare already, despite that land’s reputation for abundance. As the consul moved into Latium, as yet untouched by the armies’ passage, he did his best to strip towns and countryside, burning everything he could not carry off himself. The senior consul, Marcus Hirtius Fimbria, objected strenuously to the tactic, but Fabius contrived to ignore his protests.

  Alexander, struggling to overtake the Romans, was forced to send his foragers farther and farther afield, slowing his progress even further. There was much grumbling and complaints of corrupt practices among the few merchants who still followed the army. To prevent trouble, the king sequestered those supplies, promising double payment later, and began issuing them as a supplement to the already reduced royal ration.

  Fabius continued to avoid battle, falling back into Latium toward Rome itself. However, his orders were to keep Alexander away from the city, and not even he could evade the explicit wishes of the Senate. After much consideration, and consultation with his officers, he abandoned his policy of withdrawal, and moved directly north toward the little Roman town of Lanuvium, on the slopes of the Alban Mount. A sluggish river ran south from Lanuvium toward the allied city of Ardea some ten miles to the southwest. The true ford lay only a few miles from Lanuvium, less than a quarter of a mile beyond the swelling shoulder of the Alban Mount, though the river was passable even in the rainy season for at least a quarter of a mile above and below it. Farther downstream, the channel swelled and deepened, impassable even in the driest weather. Fabius took up his position on the far side of the river along the passable stretch, and set his troops at once to pitting the ford, leaving only a few disguised safe paths for his own skirmishers. Others worked to improve the already steep banks, cutting timber for crude breastworks.