Timander cleared his throat nervously. “It’ll take some time to gather replacements for the men they lost,” he said. “They suffered heavy casualties, sire.”
“So Nearchus thinks that by the time they can assemble another army,” Alexander said, “the sailing season will be nearly over?”
Timander nodded.
“That might not stop a Carthaginian fleet,” Perdiccas said.
Cassius cleared his throat gently, strangely reluctant to intrude on this strategy conference. But the Macedonians were Rome’s allies now, and Carthage was an old and hated enemy. “With respect, King Alexander, there’s another thing Carthage will have to consider. They no longer have an ally on the mainland.”
Alexander nodded.
Hephaestion said, “Do you think they would try diplomacy, then, Cassius—treat with Nearchus, I mean?”
The tribune said apologetically, “General, they might, but certainly they wouldn’t mean it.”
Alexander shook himself abruptly. “For now, we have other obligations. First to the gods, to thank them for their favor. Then—Timander, the bearer of good tidings is to be rewarded, and doubly so when you did as much as any man to bring those good tidings to pass. Nearchus commends you highly for the flanking attack by the head of the Symaethus. Name your reward.”
Timander blushed and stammered incoherent thanks, but could seem to get no further. Alexander smiled gently at him, and said, “If you can’t name it now, you’ll have to take coin, my friend. Will a talent suffice, do you think?”
Timander stared, speechless—a talent was more money than a common man saw in a lifetime, the price of a king’s horse or the most exotic of slaves—and Alexander, still smiling, turned to the Roman. “Cassius, I must ask your indulgence. I’m afraid Carthage is the more pressing matter—and we’ve made a good start on the marriage contract, in any case.”
“Of course, King Alexander,” Cassius said politely. It was all he could do to keep a calm expression on his face. A Carthaginian defeat was always good news, but this time… It meant Alexander would turn his attention there, and away from Rome. “The remaining parts of the contract are trivial enough,” he said. “I’m confident of your honor.”
When the Roman had gone, Alexander gave orders for a thanksgiving feast to be held that night, and sent for the rest of the Friends. As they arrived, Nearchus’s dispatch made the rounds, and one by one the commanders moved to the desk to study the map of Carthage that Eumenes had been able to acquire. There was no question that Carthage had to be dealt with—it was past time that their raids on Sicily were stopped—but there was equally no question of its being an easy campaign. Even Eumenes’s map showed the city walled on all sides, and triply walled on the single land approach: it would be a long siege, in difficult territory. Despite that, Alexander was prepared to order Nearchus to raise a fleet, and make the crossing to Africa at the end of the main sailing season. The Friends, to a man, announced that they could not field an adequate army by then, even if the Romans were prepared to offer their own troops—the Macedonian army, though it had only lost four hundred men, had had nearly three thousand wounded. Reinforcements would have to be summoned from Macedon, if Antipater thought he could spare the levies. Alexander sighed at that, knowing what the regent’s answer was likely to be, and ordered the discussion closed.
For the thanksgiving feast, a temporary pavilion large enough to hold fifty couches was set up beside the king’s tent. Like the tent, the pavilion was Persian booty. The guests, arriving at sunset, were blinded by the sun glinting off the gilded tent poles. The pavilion itself, just a long roof without walls, was made of a rich, blue material, and sewn with silver disks that would shine like stars when the torches were lit. The food, when it arrived, would be served from golden dishes.
Slaves were waiting with wreaths of flowers at the entrance to the pavilion. Ptolemy accepted the first that he was offered, made of some unfamiliar yellow flower, and teased Thaïs into wearing a wreath of roses, the pale pink a pleasant contrast in her dark hair. The chamberlain was waiting for them inside the pavilion; bowing deeply, he led them the length of the tent to their couch just below the royal dais. Alexander was already present, Hephaestion, as always, seated at his left. Seeing Ptolemy, the king raised his cup in cheerful greeting. Timander had the couch to the king’s right, and was already drinking deeply to still his nervousness at such an honor. An expensive hetaira, another gift from the king, shared his couch.
The other guests, the Friends and the unit commanders, perhaps fifty men in all, were arriving slowly, a laughing, contented crowd decked out in festival clothing. Already, flute-girls moved among the couches, and a female acrobat, naked except for thick bands of gold on her wrists and ankles, postured and danced in the open space between the rows of couches.
As the sun went down, a pair of slaves lit the torches, while others moved among the couches, staggering under the weight of the heavy trays, serving the first course. The wine flowed freely; by the third course, conversation was equally free, and the commanders’ voices had risen cheerfully, shouting to be heard above the laughter and the squeal of flutes. Craterus acquired the company of the girl acrobat at some point during the final course. By the time the after-dinner wine was carried ‘round, she sat giggling on the foot of the brigade commander’s couch, wrapped in a chiton improvised from Craterus’s cloak.
The king was in good spirits, quite recovered from his wound and fever. He reclined comfortably on his couch, talking to Hephaestion and Timander, or raising his voice to carry on a conversation with someone farther down the line of couches. He had drunk enough wine to bring a high color to his face. Hephaestion had matched him cup for cup: he reclined now on his own couch in a sort of companionable silence, watching the king.
By the time the wine bowls made a second round, the gathering had grown louder still, Greek and Persian manners disappearing. Some of the Greek Friends, still not entirely used to Macedonian customs, looked overwhelmed. Eumenes was asleep, face down on his couch. The hetaira whom he had hired for the evening sat placidly beside him, sipping at her wine. A new relay of slaves appeared, bearing yet more wine, and the woman prodded discreetly at the secretary, rousing him.
The slaves placed the fresh bowls on the cleared tripods and moved to refill the guests’ cups. The king accepted his newly filled cup and raised it high, signalling for the toasts to begin. The guests were not too drunk to respond to that cue. The more sober nudged the rest to silence, and all eyes turned to the dais.
“Macedonians!” Alexander’s voice silenced the last pockets of talk. “We have much to celebrate tonight, as you all know well.”
At that, there was a laughing cheer from the listening soldiers, starting at the far end of the pavilion. Alexander waited it out, grinning. He was not precisely drunk, but he wasn’t sober, either. “Yes, we’ve enough to celebrate,” he repeated. “A victory, and the start of a good peace. I ask you to drink to that peace—and to the success of the marriage that will seal it.” Without waiting for his listeners’ response, he tipped the cup sharply, allowing the wine to fall in a thin stream to the dirt of the pavilion floor.
The answering cheer was more ragged as the guests struggled to take in the meaning of the king’s announcement. Hephaestion poured a seemly libation, watching the others. The possibility of a Roman marriage had been an open secret, but this blunt statement of purpose was unusual in the king. Ptolemy, startled—he had expected first an announcement to the Friends in council, and then an announcement to the army—spilled nearly half his wine into the dirt, the purple liquid splattering Thaïs’s gown. She didn’t seem to notice, watching the king.
Most of the younger men, the squadron leaders and the battalion commanders, seemed happy with the idea, cheerfully trading the traditional lewd jokes. Craterus, shocked into sobriety, had pushed the acrobat to the foot of the couch and was sitting up fully, eyes fixed on the dais. Eumenes, flushed and stupid with wine, was frowning as thou
gh he hadn’t quite understood, or was still looking for the punch line.
“Alexander!” Neoptolemus sat up straight on his couch, putting aside his pair of flute-girls. “What is this marriage—who is the woman?”
“Her name is Cassia, sister of the tribune Cassius,” Alexander answered. “A girl of excellent family. I intend to marry her to strengthen the alliance, and to prove to Rome that I intend to keep my word.”
The hypaspist commander nodded owlishly. “The gods bless this, then.”
“Alexander!” Craterus lurched to his feet, steadying himself against acrobat’s shoulder. “You know how I feel about this Roman alliance—”
“We all know that,” Hephaestion said.
“Shut up, boy,” Craterus said. “If the king chooses to make a treaty with these people when the only way to deal with them is to burn the city, that’s the king’s business.” He broke off abruptly, and went on, with surprising self-control, “But it doesn’t matter, I said. What matters is, this girl isn’t anything. What does marrying her get us, if—when their Senate decides to repudiate the treaty?”
It was an unexpectedly good question, from a man as drunk as Craterus. Hephaestion’s hand closed over one of the apples lying by his plate, and he said, “If you can’t see that, Craterus—”
“I’ll speak for myself, Hephaestion,” Alexander said. He did not raise his voice, but the cavalry commander flinched back as though struck. The king rose from his couch and came slowly down the pavilion to stand facing Craterus. The two men locked eyes, and after a moment, the brigadier looked away.
“Cassius is of rank, his family has high status in the city,” Alexander said. “Even their Senate will think twice before shaming him by repudiating his sister’s marriage. And Rome doesn’t know me: it’s only reasonable to offer them something.”
Craterus said, “Alexander, the treaty won’t last.”
Alexander said, “Enough.” He paused a moment, and then said, quietly enough that the men on the couches to either side could not hear, “Craterus, I respect you and your opinions. But the decision is made.” He smiled, without much humor. “If I’m wrong, you have my permission to tell me so, and as often as you like. But not until then.” His smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Will you drink to my wedding?”
Craterus took a deep breath. This was a new Alexander, more like Philip in his dealings with his men, and the brigadier was uncertain of how far he could push this new persona. The king waited patiently.
“As you wish, Alexander,” Craterus said at last. “The gods send it prospers.” He picked up his cup from the table where he’d left it, then squared his shoulders. “Macedonians!” he shouted. “The king’s wedding!”
The rest of the guests echoed his shout. Alexander touched Craterus’s arm lightly, and smiled. Craterus returned the smile almost sheepishly, and the king turned away, moving to soothe Hephaestion’s wounded feelings. The celebration resumed.
The king did not return to his own tent until well after midnight. Hephaestion, his good humor restored, returned with him, and the two settled companionably onto the king’s bed, Alexander leaning against the other’s shoulder. After a while, he said, thoughtfully, “The Carthaginian campaign is going to be interesting.”
“It will be that,” Hephaestion agreed. “We’ll have to have reinforcements from Antipater.”
Alexander nodded. “And Peucestas, if he can spare them. There’s no reason to worry about using Persian troops in Africa.”
Hephaestion gave a grunt of agreement. “They can’t arrive until the end of the summer, though, and that doesn’t leave much time to raise a fleet for Africa.”
“I doubt there will be time,” Alexander said. “I was thinking we’d cross in the spring.” He tilted his head back to watch the cavalry commander’s reaction.
Hephaestion whistled softly. “That’s taking a risk.” he said, after a moment. “Especially for the horses.” The spring sailing season was notorious for unpredictably bad weather.
Alexander nodded again, and said, “I think Nearchus could find the captains to handle it.”
“You’ll have a time convincing Craterus,” Hephaestion said.
Alexander laughed softly, but sobered quickly. The pages had forgotten to refill the single lamp. In its fading light, which flickered now and then in an errant breath of air, the furniture cast monstrous shadows that moved uneasily across the fabric of the tent wall. The king studied them warily, reminded in spite of himself of the dream-figures that had haunted him during his illness. Hephaestion felt the sudden tension in the other’s body, and said, “What is it?”
Alexander hesitated, then said slowly, “Twice now, I’ve seen Zeus Ammon. He had Achilles’s face… The first time, he just watched, but the second…” His voice trailed off again.
Hephaestion glanced sharply at him, recognizing the sudden remoteness in the king’s voice. Alexander’s face had the expression he had worn at Siwah, the ear tuned to an inner voice, the heart given to something immortal, and the cavalry commander suppressed his frown of distrust. Part of that distrust was founded in jealousy, and Hephaestion was honest enough to admit that to himself—the words Zeus Ammon had spoken through his oracle at Siwah were one of the few things Alexander did not share with him—but a good part of it was grounded in practical philosophy. Zeus Ammon had done his best to lead them into India, and, when that failed, he brought them into Italy: no reason, in Hephaestion’s very private opinion, to trust the god’s tactical sense. But Alexander believed utterly, and the cavalry commander could feel that belief tightening every muscle of the king’s body.
“What, the second time?” he asked gently.
Alexander shuddered slightly, and the cavalry commander slid his arm around the other’s waist, pulling him close.
“He never spoke,” the king said, after a moment. “He threw dice, but I didn’t see the numbers. ‘The die is cast,’ I suppose—but I don’t know what that means.”
Hephaestion tightened his hold. “Have you spoken to Aristander?”
The king shook his head.
“Pasithea?”
Again, Alexander shook his head. Hephaestion held him close. Whatever else the omen meant, it spoke of finality, of a decision made. If it heralded ultimate defeat, Alexander did not want to know. Alexander said nothing further, but he did not relax. His very silence demanded an answer.
“I don’t know,” Hephaestion said. “A man can see many things in a fever, you know that as well as I do.”
That was not the answer Alexander wanted. He shrugged one shoulder, and said nothing.
Hephaestion said, “I’m not an augur. If you pushed me—”
“Yes,” Alexander said fiercely.
“If you pushed me, I’d have to agree with you, it means your destiny is decided already. But if it were a curse, a tragic ending, you would know it. Achilles knew his fate, and chose it.” Hephaestion hesitated, then added, “Unless that was what was said at Siwah.”
Alexander shook his head, and said, in a more normal voice, “Maybe it means it’s time to stop, to consolidate.”
That was returning to solid ground again. Hephaestion breathed a sigh of relief, and said, “You knew that anyway.”
Alexander smiled rather wryly. “You think I don’t know what was happening while I was ill?”
This time, it was Hephaestion who tensed. Alexander went on, “If I were to die tomorrow, do you mean to tell me that Craterus, Perdiccas, all the rest of them would sit back and let the boy have it all?”
“If Ptolemy and I have anything to say about it,” Hephaestion said, “yes, they would.”
Alexander smiled then, and returned the other’s embrace. After a moment, the king continued in a thoughtful voice, “There has to be a way to bind them to what I want, but I don’t see it yet. And there’s still Rome to deal with.”
“The treaty’s a good start on that,” Hephaestion said.
“For as long as it lasts,” th
e king said, and pulled away slightly. “Fitting Romans into the empire won’t be easy—Persia was simple by comparison.”
Hephaestion said, “Carthage will make it easier—a common enemy never hurts. And our people will take things from you, for love, they’d never accept from anyone else. You can use that.”
“I know,” Alexander said. “Still, sometimes I think Craterus’s way would have been easier.”
Hephaestion smiled, and, after a moment, the king returned the smile. “That’s hardly Alexander’s way,” the cavalry commander said. “Come to bed, my friend.”
Interlude:
Syracuse, early autumn (Hyperberetaios), 1895 imperial (1539 A.D., 2292 A.U.C.)
The young man glanced over his shoulder, in the same instant pushing his black beret, badged with the Companions’ wagon-wheel star and the lean Eastern Command lion, even deeper into his hip pocket. He should not have brought it with him at all, but he had trained himself from the age of seventeen to snatch up that beret as he left his quarters, and he had not been able to break the habit even now.
At least in Syracuse, carrying the beret was only dangerous if someone had gotten wind of the commanders’ plot. Further north and west, an Eastern Command badge or even the hint of a Greek accent could mean a man’s death. The Latin-speaking provinces were tired, they said, of paying to defend the eastern borders against the Islamic kingdoms in Arabia and the encroaching Kievan vassal-states, when the east did nothing to help against the Germans and Scandinavians who troubled the west. The emperor, old and sick and a confirmed easterner in temperament, could do nothing to calm the westerners, and the empire trembled on the verge of civil war.
The interior of the bar was very cool and quiet after the hot noise of Syracuse’s streets. The young man paused to let his eyes adjust to the dimness and nodded in answer to the bartender’s murmured greeting. It was safe to go up: he crossed the main room, empty except for a couple of old men slumped over the chessboard in the far corner, and took the rattling stairs two at a time.
A Choice of Destinies Page 23