“King Alexander,” Fabius said deliberately. “I have come to ask for a truce, to recover our dead. I have brought these men with me to add their voices to mine: Marcus Hirtius Fimbria, my co-consul, Caius Domitius Mela, his tribune, and Lucius Cassius Nasidienis, my tribune, whom you know already.”
Hirtius Fimbria, a dark and stocky man, murmured a nervous greeting, pinching at his unshaven jowls. Caius Domitius Mela gave him a swift, contemptuous glance, and nodded, unspeaking. Unlike his consul, he looked like a soldier: he had the corded muscles of a fighter and long hands that should have been delicate but were calloused and knotted from long hours of drill. His face was almost expressionless, but the taut muscles that bracketed his thin mouth betrayed his anger.
Hephaestion, who had been going to sit slightly apart from others, where his filthy tunic would be less offensive, took one look at the steely, fanatic face, and took the chair that stood between Domitius and the king. Ptolemy glanced warily at them all, but said nothing.
Alexander took another long swallow of his wine and gestured for the page to serve the others. “I am more than willing to set a truce for recovering the dead,” he said, almost amiably. “I would wish to show all honor to so gallant an enemy.”
Domitius sneered faintly and waved away the drink. Fabius glared at him and Hirtius made a choked, disapproving noise. The king continued without noticing, “Will two days be sufficient for your ceremonies?”
Fabius nodded but the stocky Hirtius said, diffidently, “Three days would be better, King Alexander.”
Alexander said, “I see no difficulty in that, consul. Do you, Ptolemy?” There was an odd note in his voice, one that the Macedonians recognized uneasily. Alexander was playing king in his father’s style; he had something planned, and there was nothing anyone could do but wait to see what would come of it.
Ptolemy glanced warily at Hephaestion and answered cautiously, “No, Alexander, I see none.”
The king glanced at Hephaestion, who shrugged fractionally. “There is one question you could answer, consul,” Alexander went on. “Why have both consuls and their tribunes come to make a request that any one of you could have made with perfect propriety?”
“Like you, King Alexander,” Fabius said, “we wish to honor our respected foe.” There was a hint of irony in those words, which Alexander chose to ignore. Ptolemy hid a smile behind his hand.
“I am grateful for that,” Alexander said, and beckoned for the page, at the same time giving an order in a low voice. Heiron refilled the king’s cup directly from the wine pitcher. Alexander drank thirstily before continuing, “And I truly regret we’re at war.”
Fabius looked up at that, but Hirtius said wearily, “As do we all, King Alexander.”
It was Alexander’s fourth cup of neat wine, on top of the wine he had drunk on the way back to tent. He was growing flushed, color showing hectic on his broad cheekbones. Again, the Macedonians exchanged uncertain glances.
“Then perhaps we can come to some further agreement,” Alexander said, “a truce, at least.”
Hirtius opened his mouth to speak, and the other consul unobtrusively motioned for him to be silent. “King Alexander,” Fabius said slowly, “I do not think we have the authority to make such an agreement.”
“You’re the two consuls of Rome, are you not?” Alexander asked. “How can you lack that authority?”
Domitius shifted in his chair, and a fleeting smile crossed his thin face. Hirtius glared at him.
“As consuls,” Fabius said slowly, “we have the authority to negotiate, but the Senate and people of Rome must approve any treaty that would end the war.”
Domitius said, with vicious formality, “I wish to remind the consuls of the Senate’s decision the first time a truce was debated.”
Hirtius turned on him suddenly, heavy face taking on new dignity. “And I remind you, tribune, that Poppaeus won by damn few votes, and the wise men—like you, Fabius, I admit it—all voted against it.”
“Hirtius.” Fabius leaned forward, touched his co-consul’s knee. “Not now.”
Hirtius took a deep breath. “No, of course not, I’m sorry.” He looked up at Alexander. “I ask your pardon, too, King Alexander.”
“Granted,” Alexander said. He took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “I respect what I have seen of Rome and Romans, and I have no unresolvable quarrel with the city. But at the same time, I must protect my other allies, either by a truce, or by—other means. No, I’ll be blunt: I can either destroy Rome—”
“You could try,” Domitius interjected.
“I could do it,” Alexander said, anger flaring abruptly. “I took Tyre; I could certainly take Rome.” Ptolemy cleared his throat gently, eyes fixed on the king’s face. Alexander paused and then, with an effort, mastered his temper. “Consuls, I suggest you find a more diplomatic tribune, or come alone. In any case, I have a proposal for you. As I said, I do not wish to destroy Rome, but I must settle things, for myself and for my allies. I propose this: we enter into an alliance, by which Rome will pledge to keep the peace with me and my allies. In my turn, I’ll turn my troops against Carthage, which is no friend to either of us.”
The two consuls exchanged wary glances, and Cassius could not suppress a soft, startled sound. Clearly the Macedonians did not yet know of the Senate’s treaty with the Carthaginians. Fabius cleared his throat and said, cautiously, “That offer is most generous, King Alexander, but I fail to see how it guarantees your security. I’m not so naive as to think you are foolishly generous, sir.”
“Nor am I,” Alexander agreed. “I will want two things. First, I wish to hold one of the two consulships—”
“It can’t be done,” Domitius said, and Alexander glared at him.
“I have held magistracies in the Greek cities in Asia,” the king said, silkily. “I’m certain something could be arranged.” He glanced at the consuls, measuring their reactions. “I would also want to seal such an alliance by marriage with a Roman woman of suitable family.”
Fabius drew a nervous breath, glancing again at his co-consul. “King Alexander, the offer is generous, and it will be considered. But I’m afraid you underestimate the difficulties of obtaining the consulship. Marriage with a girl of senatorial family would be easy in comparison.” He broke off as Alexander shook his head.
“I must have the consulship if this is to work. No, I don’t want any answer now. Take the time you need—three days, you said, to give your dead their rites?”
Hirtius nodded slowly, heavy face gone suddenly pasty.
“Then at the end of those three days, tell me your decision, if we can continue to talk, or if an alliance is impossible.”
The note of dismissal in the king’s voice was unmistakable, and Fabius rose slowly to his feet, collecting the others with a glance. “King Alexander,” he said slowly. “We accept the three days’ truce to bury our dead. At the end of that time, we will give you an answer to your other proposal.”
“Very well,” Alexander answered. “Heiron! You and the rest of your watch, escort the Roman gentlemen to the edge of the camp.”
When they were all gone, pages and Romans together, Alexander leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His face was very flushed.
“That’s a dangerous game to play with them,” Ptolemy said abruptly. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Bluffing,” Alexander answered, without opening his eyes. “I know it’s dangerous, Ptolemy, but I don’t want to face a siege, not of these people. It would be a waste to destroy them. If it doesn’t work, we’re no worse off than we were.” His voice trailed off wearily.
Ptolemy eyed him narrowly. This bald threat—and it was a threat, and everyone knew it, no matter what was said about alliances—was the sort of thing Philip had done to win his hegemony over Greece, only Philip had usually been a good deal subtler about it. This was a time for cunning and that was a quality Alexander conspicuously lacked.
Hephaestion
said, “Alexander?” There was no answer, and the cavalry commander leaned forward to prod the king’s shoulder. Alexander’s eyes flickered open briefly, but closed again almost at once. Worried, Hephaestion laid his hand on the king’s forehead. The skin was frighteningly hot beneath his fingers.
Hephaestion said, “Get Philip.”
“What?” Ptolemy looked at him for a moment in complete confusion, before the fear in the cavalry commander’s voice registered. Then the brigadier shouted for the duty page to fetch the doctor, and came to stand beside the king. “What’s the matter?”
“Alexander’s—” Hephaestion took a deep breath, getting himself under control with an effort. “Fever, I think—I’m sure. He’s burning up.”
The two men looked at each other with perfect understanding. If the king were incapacitated now, it could easily mean disaster for the entire army. When Philip arrived, they helped to move the king’s unresisting body into the bedchamber, then waited outside until the doctor had finished his ministrations. Philip emerged at last and shrugged in answer to the unspoken questions.
“The king is resting now,” he said simply. “He’s very feverish—there’s nothing to do but let it run its course.”
“How long?” Ptolemy asked hoarsely.
Philip shook his head. “That’s in the god’s hands, generals. I will stay with him.” He turned and went back into the bedchamber.
“So what now?” Ptolemy asked softly, less in anticipation of any answer than to break the sudden silence.
Hephaestion took a deep breath, conquering his fear with a visible effort. “We carry out his bluff,” he said. “If we can.”
A Choice of Destinies
Chapter 9:
Latium, winter (Peritios) to Rome, late spring (Daisios), 31 imperial (325 B.C., 428 A.U.C.)
The king grew no better over the next few days, still feverish, hovering between fitful sleep and even more fitful waking. The Friends did their best to hide the severity of the king’s illness, but when Alexander was unable to preside at the funeral rites for the Macedonian dead, even the most optimistic of the soldiers had to admit that something was wrong. Grimly, the generals moved to stamp out the worst of the rumors. It was announced that the king was ill, that he was recovering, and sacrifices were offered for his restored health; this was nothing unusual, and the ritual seemed to restore some of the army’s confidence.
The Friends had other things to deal with, too. Laomedon’s questioning of the Roman prisoners—it seemed a pity not to make use of their presence, when it was unclear if the city would ever ransom them back—brought out references to a Roman alliance with Carthage. Craterus, his temper already strained to the breaking point, swore that this proved that the Romans were completely untrustworthy, and demanded that the army move to besiege Rome before it was too late. Hephaestion, with Ptolemy already deeply involved in informal negotiations with Fabius, lost his temper at that, and the two nearly came to blows before the rest of the Friends managed to restore peace.
After twelve hours of acrimonious senatorial debate, Rome finally agreed to allow Fabius to continue negotiating, though the consuls were unable to obtain the Senate’s approval of the terms suggested by Alexander. The senators also decreed that, for now, all talks would take place outside of Rome. The men of Fabius’s party argued in vain against such a gratuitous insult, but the majority remained adamant. These limited concessions did not arrive until the morning of the fourth day, Alexander’s deadline for the Roman answer. Fabius cursed the senators for the delay and the vagueness of their answer, and sent riders of his own to the Macedonian camp to inform the king that he was ready to talk.
The Friends had been waiting for Fabius’s decision, and had taken precautions to keep the Romans from discovering the severity of the king’s illness. The messenger was met by an escort of select men and brought at once to Craterus’s tent. There, Ptolemy announced unblushingly that Hephaestion and he had been appointed by the king to handle the negotiations, and that they would return at once with the messenger to speak with the consuls. The messenger, flustered by his reception, could think of no way to refuse, asking only to send a runner ahead to warn the consuls of their coming. The Friends agreed, with more flowery declarations of courtesy, and Perdiccas himself walked the runner to the camp perimeter and saw him on his way.
Three days after the battle, the Roman pyres were still burning. Ugly plumes of smoke rolled across the plain, sickening even the old soldiers with the stench. Cassius, ordered to meet the Macedonian embassy, was very glad to be able to turn over the supervision of the rites to his centurions and his fellow tribune—in fact, he wished Domitius the joy of it. At the very least, it gave him the chance to bathe and change into fresh clothes, ones that did not smell of the fires.
The Macedonian party drew rein just outside the perimeter of the Roman camp and Hephaestion advanced to meet the Romans, throwing back his cloak to show that he carried only a sword. “Tribune,” he said gravely.
“General,” Cassius said, as soberly.
“Alexander sends us—myself and Ptolemy son of Lagus—with authority to speak for him,” the cavalry commander went on.
Cassius nodded stiffly, and said, “The consuls will speak to you. If you will come with me?”
“Of course,” Ptolemy answered, and Hephaestion nodded. Most of the troopers, Companion cavalrymen of Hephaestion’s personal squadron, dismounted at that, leaving their mounts with the remaining pair of Companions. They formed a loose column at the generals’ backs. Cassius’s face tightened at the sight, and he repressed an angry comment. Instead, he turned toward Fabius’s tent, and started walking without waiting to see if the Macedonians would follow.
The consul’s tent was not nearly as elaborate as Alexander’s massive pavilion, and at the moment looked positively threadbare: neither consul had been able to save much of his baggage after the battle. Cassius glanced at the Macedonians, daring them to notice. Hephaestion met the tribune’s look with a bland stare. Ptolemy, more tactful, noticed nothing.
Fabius rose to meet them. Hirtius rose with him, looking even bulkier by contrast. The four exchanged formal greetings, eyeing each other, then took their places around the central table. Cassius, acting in place of Fabius’s son, served wine and offered a plate of fruit, then sat unobtrusively in the shadows where he could hear everything.
Ptolemy spoke first. “Your messenger said you were willing to continue negotiating,” he said bluntly.
Fabius nodded slowly. “That is correct. We wish to come to some agreement to end this war. I assume that is possible?”
Hephaestion shrugged slightly, watching the Romans. “That’s the king’s wish, certainly.”
Ptolemy said, “Let’s get to the point. Alexander named certain conditions he believes necessary for a permanent peace. Have you come to any further decision on those matters?”
The consul’s shoulders tensed beneath his sober cloak. “In part. Allow me also to speak plainly. Your king’s demands are understandable, but impossible. If we cannot discuss them, then however much we may all regret it, there can be no peace between us.”
Hephaestion lifted his head at that and Ptolemy gestured unobtrusively for him to be quiet. “You say you understand them,” the brigadier said patiently, “so why are they impossible?”
“The marriage isn’t impossible,” Hirtius said hastily, “it’s just the consulship.”
“Rome is a republic,” Fabius said, overriding his co-consul. “Alexander is a king, twice a king, in fact. Our history—Romans could never accept a king ruling them, especially not as a consul. That is the impossibility.”
“There are practical problems with Alexander’s being consul,” Hirtius interjected. “After all, the consul really has to stay in Rome, except during a war, and the people would never elect someone who was going to be off in a foreign country for his entire term.”
Ptolemy nodded. “I know a little of your history,” he said. Hephaestion gave him
a sidelong glance at that bald lie, and Ptolemy continued blandly, “and I respect your traditions. Yet at the same time you must understand Alexander’s position. He needs to be certain of Rome, particularly at first, when we’ve been such recent enemies. But he does not want to interfere with your city’s government. What better way to gain both objectives than by holding your chief magistracy?”
Fabius spread his hands. “I understand that, and I appreciate his desire to spare us as much as possible.” Irony tinged his voice, and Ptolemy smiled in knowing response.
“There is another option,” Fabius went on, “or at least I see another option. Must Alexander himself be consul, or could he delegate the responsibility to one of his generals?”
Hephaestion’s eyebrows rose almost comically, and even Ptolemy seemed taken aback. The older Macedonian recovered quickly, however, and said, “Wouldn’t that be too easily construed as an insult to Rome and her people?”
“It could be presented as tact, unexpected in one unfamiliar with our ways,” Fabius said dryly.
Hephaestion smothered a slightly hysterical laugh. Ptolemy’s mouth twitched, but he said calmly enough, “I don’t see any inherent impossibility in it.”
Hephaestion shrugged again. “Nor do I.”
“Did you have a candidate in mind, consul?” Ptolemy went on.
Fabius, who had hoped to reserve that point for later discussion, hesitated briefly. “We had discussed it,” he said at last, “Hirtius and I. You, General Ptolemy, seem the logical choice.”
Ptolemy’s thick eyebrows rose, and he leaned back in his chair, one hand caressing his chin. When he did not speak, Hephaestion said, “Why?”
A Choice of Destinies Page 20