A Choice of Destinies

by Melissa Scott

  Fabius shrugged, an accurate imitation of the cavalry commander’s gesture. “The general says he is somewhat acquainted with our customs and history, unlike other of Alexander’s officers. More important, he is of high rank, but not a king himself, or in any way connected with kings.”

  Ptolemy passed his fingers quickly over his mouth as though to erase a smile, but sobered quickly. If he agreed to this solution, what would happen when the Romans heard the speculation—common talk throughout Greece—that King Philip was his real father? Hephaestion had an odd look on his face: clearly he, too, had worked out the ramifications of the offer.

  Fabius eyed the Macedonians warily, but, when they said nothing, continued apparently without noticing the strange reaction. “You would also find it easier to remain in or near Rome, as a consul must, than would your king.”

  “True enough,” Hephaestion said. “Consul—consuls, I see no immediate objections to this plan, and we’ll gladly carry it back to Alexander. I assume that he would be able formally to propose Ptolemy’s candidacy?”

  Hirtius nodded eagerly. “It could be arranged.”

  “Then I can’t think of anything objectionable.” Hephaestion glanced at his companion, who stood ponderously.

  “Nor can I, though I can hardly speak for or against.” Ptolemy tucked both thumbs into his belt. “We will put your proposal before the king, consuls.”

  “At least as a base for further negotiations,” Fabius murmured, but politely, and Ptolemy nodded.

  “Of course. And of course any treaty with us would supersede any treaty with Carthage.”

  Hirtius began some incoherent answer at that, glancing in panic to his fellow consul for help. Fabius sighed—it had been obvious that Rome’s alliance could not be kept a secret forever—and said, “Perhaps that will not be necessary, general. In any case, we can discuss that further at our next meeting.”

  The two consuls accompanied the Macedonians to the edge of the camp; on their return, Cassius had the slaves pour fresh wine and bring more fruit. Fabius settled into the nearest chair, sighing, and waved away both food and drink. Hirtius nibbled morosely at a fig, glaring at nothing.

  After a moment, Fabius looked up. “Well, Cassius? You look displeased.”

  “How can I be pleased, Rome’s beaten—” Cassius broke off abruptly, biting back the anger and grief of the past three days. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  Hirtius plucked another fig from the platter. “You should be pleased, boy, you’re getting what you argued for. Alliance with Alexander, and most likely against Carthage.”

  “Not like this,” Cassius said, voice rising, and Fabius said, “Shut up, Hirtius.” The heavyset consul made a face and continued nibbling at his fig.

  To Cassius, Fabius said, “We’ve lost a battle, my boy, but at least we’ve preserved the city.”

  Cassius took a deep breath, controlled himself enough to say, almost calmly, “By making Rome a vassal of the king of Macedon, sir. I wanted an alliance of equals, not this. I could almost agree with Domitius that it would be better to go down fighting.”

  Fabius said, “You would agree that we can’t beat Alexander in battle? That he could take the city if he tried?”

  Cassius, recognizing the familiar, tutorial note in the consul’s voice, nodded reluctantly. “Yes.”

  “And why can’t we beat the Macedonians, when we’ve beaten every other invader?” Fabius went on.

  “Because Alexander is the best general around—and the luckiest,” Hirtius said through a mouthful of fig. “We don’t have anyone his equal. Get to the point.”

  “That is the point,” Fabius said. “We can’t beat Alexander—but Alexander won’t live forever.” He looked almost coyly at his folded hands. “It is rumored even now that he’s very ill, maybe even dying.”

  Hirtius snorted contemptuously. “I wouldn’t count on it, Fabius.”

  “Even so,” Fabius said. His voice was suddenly, fervently insistent. “He is not a god, for all his pretensions; he won’t live forever. Do you think he’s the man to build anything that will outlast him? Rome, Rome is immortal. If nothing else, we have time.”

  Cassius shook his head unhappily, swayed in spite of himself by the consul’s certainty. It went against the grain to have to feign surrender, to wait for freedom until Alexander’s death—which could be many years away, the man was only thirty-one—but there were no reasonable alternatives.

  Hirtius said, almost mildly, “You’ll have a time persuading the Senate of that, Fabius.”

  “My party will agree,” Fabius answered, “and with your support, and your party’s, we will be able to convince the rest.”

  “We’d better be,” Hirtius muttered, shaking his head. “The gods send you’re right, Fabius, or you’ll have doomed Rome.”

  The king was sleeping normally when the generals returned from the Roman camp. By the next morning, he had recovered enough to listen to their report and to give his consent to their negotiations. That evening, however, the fever returned, and the king sank slowly into a sort of waking dream. All of Philip’s remedies had no effect, and rumors of impending doom circulated wildly. On the second day, there was nearly a riot when a battalion of Foot Companions became convinced that the king had died. The trouble was only stopped when Alexander was carried to the doorway of his tent for them all to see. He revived briefly then, managed to speak a few words, and collapsed again as soon as the soldiers had dispersed. Craterus cursed everyone, and threw a tight cordon round the camp, hoping to keep the Romans from hearing exactly how sick the king really was.

  Four days after Alexander’s second collapse, the Friends gathered in Ptolemy’s tent to discuss the latest dispatch from Nearchus in Syracuse. The Carthaginians, the admiral reported, were raiding in force across their old boundary of the Halycus River, and he asked for extra troops to help repel them. The decision to send reinforcements would normally have been an easy one, but under the circumstances it sparked an angry debate.

  “Craterus has been saying all along that we shouldn’t split up the army,” Neoptolemus said at last.

  “Let Craterus make his own arguments,” Ptolemy snapped.

  The hypaspist commander subsided, muttering, “Well, I agree with him.”

  In the same moment, Perdiccas asked, “Where is Craterus, anyway?”

  There was an irritable mutter in answer, each general disclaiming any knowledge of the brigadier’s whereabouts. Hephaestion pushed himself to his feet, suddenly impatient with everyone and everything. Alexander could be dying, and yet the Friends continued the same stale routines. He crossed to the open doorflap and leaned out, keeping his back to the others until he had controlled himself.

  A group of women, soldiers’ wives and slaves and common whores, clustered together by the embers of a fire, bending close over something in the dirt. One of them stooped, collected the irregular objects, and held them close to her lips. She muttered to them, and Hephaestion realized at last what it was she held. There could be no uncertainty about her question, either, and Hephaestion suppressed a shiver of superstitious fear. The woman opened her eyes and tossed the divining bones into the air. They fell softly and the women bent close over their pattern.

  “No sign of him, then?” Ptolemy asked.

  Hephaestion shook his head and returned to his place, saying “We’d better tell Nearchus about the king, whatever else we do, and send that at once.”

  The others nodded their agreement, reluctantly—no one wanted to cede any authority to any other officer, just in case the king did die and there were opportunities for ambitious men—but they had to admit that the cavalry commander was right. The message itself proved surprisingly easy to draft, a plain statement of the king’s illness and a promise to consider the admiral’s request. Eumenes produced a fair copy and passed the slip of papyrus to Ptolemy, who read it and handed it back.

  “It’ll do,” he said.

  Hephaestion nodded and reached for the seal he
wore on a thong around his neck. A lump of wax waited in its metal dish, but the wax had congealed in the cool air. The cavalry commander made a face and set the dish on the brazier.

  There was a sudden commotion outside the tent, and one of Ptolemy’s slaves said quickly, “General Craterus, sirs.”

  Craterus swayed slightly, caught himself on the tent rope, and lurched through the doorway. He was royally drunk and knew it, and didn’t care. He pulled himself up with an effort, turning his head owlishly to survey the company.

  “Greetings, Craterus,” Ptolemy said, a warning in his voice, and was ignored.

  The brigadier’s bloodshot eyes fixed on Hephaestion. “Hard at work, Hephaestion?” he said loudly, and stumbled forward, fetching up against the secretaries’ table. Eumenes caught the rolls of papyrus without taking his eyes off the scene.

  Hephaestion said, “Go sober up, Craterus.” He turned his back on the brigade commander, poured the proper amount of wax on the foot of the rolled papyrus, then set the dish aside and slipped the seal from around his neck.

  Craterus mumbled something, and Ptolemy said, “Shut up.” Perdiccas laughed openly. Hephaestion ignored them all and started to set his seal to the cooling wax. Craterus caught his wrist, forcing the seal away.

  “Who do you think you are?” Craterus hissed, and suddenly the drunkenness was gone from his voice. Hephaestion shoved back, forcing the bulkier man to step back from the table. Craterus’s question seemed to echo dangerously in the quiet tent. None of the Friends was unambitious, but until now their desire for power had been leashed, subservient to Alexander’s greater ambition. But if the king died… The unspeakable question seemed to hover in the air, on the verge of an answer.

  Coenus said sharply, “What are we, barbarians? Fighting in the council, indeed. Sit down, the pair of you, and be civil.” He was old enough to have fathered either man, and the acerbic paternalism of his words shattered the spell.

  Craterus mumbled something incoherent. Coenus said, not unkindly, “Go home and sober up, son. Council’s over, anyway.”

  Craterus made a face, but turned unsteadily and stalked away. The rest of the Friends exchanged wary glances, and then Ptolemy said, “Thank you, Coenus. I think you’re right, we should end this.”

  “Nearchus needs to be informed,” Perdiccas said.

  Ptolemy said, rather sharply, “So we’ll seal the dispatch.”

  The wax had solidified on the end of the scroll. Hephaestion managed a nod, not daring to speak, and reached for the scraper. He removed the hardened wax, then poured a second careful pool and set his seal to it. “Eumenes,” he said, and despite his efforts the tone was still angry, “see that the messenger leaves at once with this.”

  The secretary took the papyrus, considering further comment, but decided against it. “As the Friends wish,” he said, with delicate emphasis. Before anyone could answer, he collected his scrolls and slipped from the tent.

  The council broke up quickly after that. Ptolemy gestured unobtrusively for the cavalry commander to remain behind, and, when the others had gone, extended a long arm to snare a cup of wine from a sidetable. He raised a questioning eyebrow at the other general. Hephaestion nodded wearily and accepted a cup.

  “Drunk and stupid,” Ptolemy said after a moment, “but mostly drunk. Alexander wouldn’t thank him for it.”

  “No,” Hephaestion said shortly, and took a long swallow of his wine. Ptolemy was watching him closely, and the cavalry commander made a face, knowing exactly what the other was waiting for. “As you say, he was drunk, and I don’t carry tales. Am I a schoolboy?” Hephaestion controlled himself with an effort. “And anyway, the king’s too ill to be bothered with trifles.”

  “Craterus isn’t the only one to be thinking along those lines,” Ptolemy said.

  Hephaestion looked up, momentarily puzzled, then snorted agreement. “Yes. ‘If Alexander dies, what can I get for me?’ I know.”

  “It’s a pity the boy isn’t here.”

  “It would’ve been too dangerous to bring the heir on this campaign,” Hephaestion said. “You know that. Nearchus can be trusted—I trust him.”

  “As do I,” Ptolemy said.

  The two men looked at each other in perfect understanding. They would defend Philip Alexander’s rights against any of the Friends, and against each other, if it came to that.

  “However,” Ptolemy said, and smiled suddenly, “we’re not likely to have this to worry about. Alexander heals quickly.”

  “True enough,” Hephaestion said, but he could not bring himself to return the smile. Alexander had always healed quickly before, that was true enough, but he had never been this sick before, either. Philip did not seem to be able to do anything for him. Hephaestion closed his eyes tightly, tasting fear. More than anything else, he wanted to be at Alexander’s side, to give what help he could, but there was no time to waste on such self-indulgence. He opened his eyes again and saw Ptolemy nodding at him.

  “He’ll be all right,” the brigadier said softly, as much to convince himself as to comfort Hephaestion. “He will be.”

  Alexander was aware of the tension filling the camp but could not muster the strength to do anything about it. Still feverish, he drifted from waking to something like sleep, and was not always certain which was which. Philip, growing steadily thinner himself, remained constantly in attendance, but even he finally had to admit that there was nothing to be done except to allow the disease to run its course. Alexander accepted the doctor’s presence and the regular visits from various of the Friends, but there were other, less definable figures that lurked in the shadows and sometimes whispered to each other in strange, foreign voices. Most often the shadows vanished as soon as the king looked straight at them; other times they remained visible for an instant before they disappeared, giving Alexander a glimpse into their shadowy world. With the cunning of illness, he refused to mention the shapes to Philip or to anyone, and set himself to learning how to see the phantoms. Over the days he mastered the gift of it, the steady sidelong glance that brought them into focus. Philip watched worriedly as the king grew more and more remote, lost in a half dream. Alexander was dimly aware of the doctor’s concern, but obstinately refused to enlighten him.

  Most of the shadow-figures were unfamiliar to him—shapes like odd, hybrid animals, or distorted characters stolen from the theater—but occasionally he caught a glimpse of one that he thought he recognized. Those figures were the hardest to see and the ones on which he expended the most effort. For the most part, he was not successful: he often saw an old woman whose jutting chin and scrawny figure seemed familiar, but her name remained unknown. There was a shape in Persian dress, too, who kept his face forever turned away. Alexander fought constantly to see it, not afraid of Darius’s ghost but wanting to know the reason for such a visitation, yet he never could quite see the face. And once, Olympias sat for a moment beside the great loom in her rooms at Pella. She looked up and smiled, as though aware of Alexander’s regard, and then the shadow faded.

  There was another familiar shape, too, lurking just out of the range of Alexander’s vision. He fought grimly to bring it into focus, struggling impatiently with his weakening body. He caught brief glimpses of the shield, the cloaked figure, once the head, helmet pushed back to rest on the god’s horns, but no more. Exhausted, he sank back into sleep.

  He was roused one night by a strange noise, clear and musical. In the light of the single lamp, he could see Bagoas asleep on his pallet by the doorway, and Philip drowsing in his chair. A third figure stood by the closed doorflap, cloaked and helmeted, shining with an uncanny light of its own. The king stared at it unafraid, trusting in his god. To his surprise, the figure did not speak, but drew his closed fist from beneath his gold-trimmed cloak. For a long moment, he stood frozen in that position, then, decisively, tossed something into the air. The ivory dice twisted lazily in the air, leaving trails of fire behind them, and bounced twice across the king’s bed. They were wei
ghtless, entirely without substance. Even as Alexander struggled to sit up, to read their message, the cubes became transparent and faded altogether. The god vanished with them. Alexander lay back against his pillows, puzzling over the strangeness of it all. He was not afraid even now; he was curious, and, if anything, annoyed that the god had given him so ambiguous, so nonsensical, an omen. After a while, he slept, and this time there were no dreams to plague him.

  Philip woke to find the king’s fever had broken, and the king was sleeping easily. The doctor was not greatly encouraged—the fever had abated before, only to return—but when by midmorning the king showed no signs of the restlessness that had previously marked a relapse, Philip allowed himself a cautious optimism. The king slept out the rest of the day, a natural, healing sleep, rousing himself around sunset to demand food. Elated now in spite of himself, Philip had a light broth brought and fed it to the king with his own hands. Alexander ate eagerly and fell asleep again. He woke the next morning with a moderate appetite and for the first time in weeks showed a real awareness of his surroundings. Philip, vowing massive sacrifices to Asclepius if the king continued to improve and equally massive vengeance against the nearest shrines if he suffered a relapse, cautiously informed the Friends that the king was showing definite signs of improvement.

  The Friends declared a formal thanksgiving sacrifice, followed by celebrating games. Alexander was furious at missing the latter, and it was the outburst that followed Philip’s absolute refusal to allow him to attend that finally convinced his generals that the king was really on the mend. Coenus and his three sons held solemn sacrifices of their own, paying up vows. Ptolemy, predictably, shared his celebration with Thaïs. Perdiccas and Craterus, in a sudden burst of good feeling, hosted an expensive party, and one of the battalion commanders nearly died of the cold he caught sleeping dead drunk under the tables. In the privacy of his own tent Hephaestion wept briefly from sheer relief, then emerged again to watch the festivities with a philosopher’s eye.