The Novels of Alexander the Great

by Mary Renault

  “I am looking,” said Arrabaios. “That’s why I said he has it in him to do this business. Bastard or not.”

  “You say he can afford to wait.” Heromenes’ blue eyes in his wine-reddened face stared with contempt at Alexandros, whose place he envied. “Some men can’t wait for power.”

  “I only say, ask yourself who gains most. Olympias gains everything, because this match will lose her everything, if the King outlives it. Demosthenes gains the blood of the man he hates worse than death, if he hates anything worse; the Athenians gain a civil war in Macedon, if we play our part, with the kingship in doubt, or passed to a boy they make light of, the more so since he’s in disfavor. Darius, whose gold you want to keep even if it hangs you, gains even more, since Philip’s arming for war against him now. Out of them all, not one would care a dog’s turd, once the thing’s done, if we’re all three crucified in a row. Yet you put your bet on Alexander. No wonder you can’t win at a cockfight.”

  They mulled it over a little longer. In the end, they agreed to refuse the go-between and return the gold. But Heromenes had debts, and a younger son’s portion; he agreed unwillingly; and it was he who set the guest on his way to the eastern pass.

  The scent of raw warm blood mixed with the cool scents of a dewy morning, of pine-resin and wild thyme and some little upland lily. Tall dogs as heavy as men gnawed contentedly at deer bones; now and then strong teeth would split one with a crack, to reach the marrow. The dead stag’s sad empty face lolled on the grass. Over an aromatic fire, two of the hunters were grilling steaks for breakfast; the rest had gone looking for a stream. Two servants rubbed down the horses.

  On a rock-ledge cropping out from small-flowered turf, Hephaistion sprawled beside Alexander in the early sun, seen on the skyline by the rest, but far out of hearing. So, in Homer, Achilles and Patroklos had drawn apart from their dear comrades to share their thoughts. But it had been Patroklos’ ghost who recalled it, when they shared their grief; so Alexander thought the lines bad luck, and never quoted them. He had been talking of other things.

  “It was like a dark labyrinth,” he said, “with a monster waiting. Now it is daylight.”

  “You should have talked before.” Hephaistion drew his reddened hand over a patch of wet moss, to wash off the blood.

  “It would only have burdened you. As it was, you knew, and it did.”

  “Yes. So why not have talked it out?”

  “It would have been cowardice, then. A man must deal with his own daimon. When I look back on my life, I remember it always there, waiting at every crossroads, where I knew that I would meet it. From the time when I was a child. Even the wish, never acted, the wish alone, was a terrible thing to carry. Sometimes I would dream of the Eumenides, as they are in Aischylos; they would touch my neck with their long cold black claws, saying, ‘One day you will be ours forever.’ For it drew me on, by the very horror of it; some men say that standing on a cliff, they feel that the void is drawing them. It seemed my destiny.”

  “I have known this a long time. I am your destiny too; did you forget?”

  “Oh, we have spoken of it often, without words, and that was better. Things are fixed by words, as fire fixes clay. So I went on; sometimes I thought I could be free of it, then I would doubt again. All that is over, now it’s been revealed to me what my true birth is. Once I knew he was no kin to me, I began to think what should be done. And from that moment, my thought was clear. Why do it? To what end? Why now? From what necessity?”

  “I tried to say all this.”

  “I know; but my ear was closed. It was more than the man himself oppressing me. It was the gods’ ‘You may not’ stifling my soul’s ‘I must.’ And the thought of his blood in me, like a sickness. Now I’m free of it, I hate him less. Well, the god delivered me. If I meant to do it, no time could be worse than now, at this ebb-tide of my fortune, with the tide ready to turn. He won’t leave me Regent here, when he goes to Asia; I’m in disgrace, and besides I doubt he’d dare. He’s bound to take me to the war. Once I’m in the field, I hope I can show him something, and the Macedonians too. They were glad enough of me at Cheironeia. If he lives, he’ll change to me when I’ve won some battles for him. And if he falls, I’m the man who will be there, with the army round me. That above all.”

  His eye was caught by a small blue flower in a rock-crevice. Delicately he raised its head, named it, and added the use of its decoction for coughs.

  “Of course,” he said, “I shall kill Attalos as soon as I can do it. It will be best in Asia.”

  Hephaistion nodded; he himself, at nineteen, had long lost count of men he had already killed. “Yes, he’s your mortal enemy; you’ll have to get rid of him. The girl’s nothing then, the King will find another as soon as he’s on campaign.”

  “I told Mother that, but…Well, she must think as she chooses, I mean to act in my own time. She’s a wronged woman, it’s natural she should want revenge; though of course that’s what has set the King on getting her out of the kingdom before he leaves, and it’s done me harm enough…She’ll intrigue to the last, she can’t help it, it’s become her life. There’s some business now, she keeps hinting she wants to drag me into; but I forbade her even to tell me.” Arrested by this new tone, Hephaistion stole a sidelong glance. “I have to think and plan, I can’t be thrown out from day to day by these fits and starts. She must understand it.”

  “It eases her mind, I suppose,” said Hephaistion, whose own was eased. (So she made her conjuration, and the wrong spirit answered; I should like to know her thoughts.) “Well, the wedding can’t but be a day of honor for her; her daughter and her brother. Whatever the King may feel, or mean to do, he’ll have to give her her dignities then, for the bridegroom’s sake. So he must give you yours.”

  “Oh, yes. But it’s to be his own day mainly. Memory and history both surpassed. Aigai’s teeming already with craftsmen; and the invitations have gone out so far afield, I only wonder he hasn’t sent to the Hyperboreans. Never mind, it’s something to be lived through, before we cross to Asia. Then it will seem like that.” He pointed to the plain below, and the flocks tiny with distance.

  “Yes, it will be nothing then. You’ve already founded a city; but there you’ll find yourself a kingdom. I know as if a god had told me.”

  Alexander smiled at him; sat up, and with hands clasped round knees looked towards the next range of mountains. Wherever he was, he could never keep his eyes long from the skyline. “Do you remember, in Herodotos, where the Ionians sent Aristagoras to the Spartans, begging them to come and free the Greek cities of Asia? They cried off, when they heard Susa was three months’ march from the sea. Farm-dogs, not hunting-dogs…That’s enough, now. Down.” A year-old deerhound, which had just tracked him there by scent after getting loose from the huntsman, ceased its caresses and lay obediently, pressing its nose against him. He had had it in Illyria as a pup, and had spent his spare hours in training it; its name was Peritas.

  “Aristagoras,” he said, “brought them a map on bronze, of the whole world with the Encircling Ocean, and showed them the Persian empire. Truly the task is not hard; for the barbarians are people unfit for war, while you are the best and bravest fighting men on earth. (Perhaps it was true in those days.) This is how they fight: they use bows and arrows and a short spear, they take the field in trousers, and cover their heads with turbans (not if they can afford a helmet); that shows how easy they are to conquer. I tell you, too, that the people of those regions have more wealth than all the rest, of the world together. (Now that is true.) Gold, silver and bronze; embroidered garments; asses, mules and slaves; you can own it all, if you choose. He goes over the nations with his map, till he gets to Kissia by the River Choaspes. And on its banks the city of Susa, where the Great King holds court, and where the treasuries are, in which his wealth is stored. Once you are lords of this city, you may challenge Zeus himself to surpass your riches. He reminded the Spartans how they were always at war around their borders,
over bits of poor land, fighting men who owned nothing worth a battle. Do you need to do that, he said to them, when you might be lords of Asia? They kept him waiting three days, then said it was too far from the sea.”

  A horn blew from the cook-fire, to say breakfast was ready. Alexander gazed at the mountains. However hungry he was, he never hurried to food.

  “Only Susa. They didn’t let him even begin to talk about Persepolis.”

  Anywhere along Armorers’ Street at Piraeus, the port of Athens, it was hard to make oneself heard above a shout. The shops were open in front, to let out the heat of the forges and show the work. These were not the cheap off-the-peg factories with their hordes of slaves; here the best craftsmen made to measure, from clay molds of the naked client. Half a morning might go to a fitting, and to choosing from pattern books the inlaid design. Only a few of the shops made armor meant for war; the most fashionable catered for knights who wanted to be noticed in the Panathenaic procession. They would bring all their friends along, if they could stand the noise; comings and goings were little noticed. In the rooms above the shops, the din was hardly muted; but men could just hear each other speak, if they kept close together; and it was well known that armorers grew hard of hearing, which lessened the fear of eavesdroppers.

  In one of these rooms, a conference was going on. It was a meeting of agents. None of the principals could have been seen with any of the others, even had it been possible for all of them to attend. Three men of the four were leaning over an olive-wood table on their folded arms. The feet of their wine cups rattled to the pounding of the hammers that shook the floor; the wine shivered, sometimes a drop leaped out.

  The three who were talking had reached the last stages of a long wrangle about money. One was from Chios; his olive pallor and blue-black beard derived from the long Persian occupation. One was an Illyrian, from close to the Lynkestid border. The third, the host, was an Athenian; he wore his hair tied over his brow in a topknot, and his face was discreetly painted.

  The fourth man sat back in his chair, his hands on the pinewood arms, waiting for them to have done; his face seeming to say that to tolerate such things was part of his commission. His fair hair and beard had a tinge of red; he was from north Euboia, which had long had commerce with Macedon.

  On the table was a wax diptych tablet, and a stylos, the sharp end to write, the flat end to erase what had been written, in the presence of all four parties, before they left the room. The Athenian tapped it impatiently on the table, then on his teeth.

  The Chian said, “It is not as if these gifts were to be the end of Darius’ friendship. As I say, Heromenes can always count on a place at court.”

  “He is seeking,” said the Illyrian, “to rise in Macedon, not to prepare for exile. I thought that was understood.”

  “Certainly. A generous earnest has been agreed on.” The Chian looked at the Athenian, who nodded, drooping his lids. “The bulk sum to follow a revolt in Lynkestis as arranged. I am not satisfied that his brother, the chief, has agreed to this. I must stand out for payment by result.”

  “Reasonable,” said the Athenian, taking the stylos from his mouth. He had a slight lisp. “Now do let us take all that as settled, and come back to the man who matters most. My principal wants an undertaking that he will act on the day agreed—no other.”

  This brought the Euboian leaning across the table, like the rest. “You said that before, and I answered that there’s no sense in it. He is always about Philip’s person. He has entry to the bedchamber. He might have far better chances, both to do it and to get away. This is asking too much of him.”

  “My instructions are,” said the Athenian, tapping the stylos on the table, “that it shall be that day, or we will not offer him asylum.”

  The Euboian thumped the already rattling table, making the Athenian shut his eyes protestingly. “Why, tell me? Why?”

  “Yes, why?” said the Illyrian. “Heromenes doesn’t ask for it. The news could reach him any time.”

  The man from Chios raised his dark brows. “Any day will do for my master. If Philip does not cross to Asia, it is enough. Why this insistence on the day?”

  The Athenian lifted the stylos by both ends, rested his chin on it, and smiled confidingly.

  “First, because on that day every possible claimant to the throne, and every faction, will be there at Aigai for the rites. Not one can escape suspicion; they will accuse each other, and very likely fight for the succession; this will be of use to us. Secondly…I think my principal deserves some small indulgence. It will crown his life-work, as anyone aware of his life can see. He finds it fitting that the tyrant of Hellas be brought down, not some dark night as he stumbles drunk to bed, but at the climax of his hubris; in this I agree, let me say.” He turned to the Euboian. “And, your man’s wrongs being what they are, I should suppose it would please him too.”

  “Yes,” said the Euboian slowly. “No doubt. But it may not be possible.”

  “It will be possible. The order of the ceremonies has just come into our hands.” He detailed them, till he reached a certain event, when he looked up meaningly.

  “Your ears are good,” said the Euboian, raising his brows.

  “This time you may rely on them.”

  “I daresay. But our man would be lucky to come off well out of that. As I say, he could get better chances.”

  “None so distinguished. Fame sweetens vengeance…Well, well, since we are speaking of fame, I will let you into a little secret. My principal wants to be first with the news in Athens, even before the news arrives. Between ourselves, he plans to have had a vision. Later, when Macedon has sunk back to its tribal barbarism—” He caught the Euboian’s angry eye, and said hastily, “That is, has passed to a King who is prepared to stay at home—then he can proclaim to a grateful Greece his share in the liberation. Meantime, when one remembers his long battle against tyranny, can one grudge him this small reward?”

  “What risk is he taking?” shouted the Illyrian suddenly. Though the hammers below were noisy, it startled the others into angry gestures, which he ignored. “Here’s a man risking death to avenge his honor. And only Demosthenes must choose the time, so that he can prophesy in the Agora.”

  The three diplomats exchanged looks of scandal and disgust. Who but a backwoodsman of Lynkestis would have sent this rude clansman to such a conference? There was no knowing what he might say next, so they broke up the meeting. All that mattered had been determined.

  Each left the building separately, with a little time between. The last left were the Chian and the Euboian. The Chian said, “Can you be sure your man will do his part?”

  “Oh yes,” said the Euboian. “We know how to manage that.”

  “You were there? You yourself heard it?”

  The spring night blew chilly in the hills of Macedon. The torches smoked with the window-draft, the embers of the sacred hearth faded and flickered on their old blackened stone drum. It was late. As the shadows deepened above, the stone walls seemed to lean inward, craning to hear.

  The guests had departed, all but one; the slaves had been sent to bed. The host and his son had drawn three couches close round one wine table; the others, shoved aside in haste, gave the room a disordered look.

  “Do you tell me,” said Pausanias again, “that you were there?” His head and shoulders were thrust forward; he had to grasp the edge of the couch to keep his balance. His eyes were bloodshot with wine; but what he had just heard had sobered him. His host’s son met his gaze; a youngish man with expressive blue eyes, and a mean mouth under his short black beard.

  “The wine tripped my tongue,” he answered. “I’ll say no more.”

  “I ask pardon for him,” said his father, Deinias. “What possessed you, Heirax? I tried to catch your eye.”

  Pausanias turned like a speared boar. “You knew of it too?”

  “I was not present,” said the host, “but people talk. I am sorry it should be here in my house that it rea
ched your ears. Even between themselves in secret, you would think both the King and Attalos would be ashamed to boast of such a thing; much more in company. But you know, none better, what they’re like when they’ve had a skinful.”

  Pausanias’ nails dug at the wood, so that the blood receded. “He took his oath before me, eight years ago, never to let it be spoken of in his presence. It was that persuaded me to forgo vengeance. He knew it, I told him so.”

  “Then he was not forsworn,” said Heirax with a sour smile. “He didn’t let it be said, he said it. He thanked Attalos for the good service. When Attalos would have answered, he clapped a hand across his mouth, and they both laughed at that. Now I understand it.”

  “He swore to me by the stream of Acheron,” said Pausanias, almost whispering, “that he had no foreknowledge of it.”

  Deinias shook his head. “Heirax, I take back my rebuke. When so many know, it is better Pausanias hears of it first from friends.”

  “He said to me”—Pausanias’ voice was thickening—“‘In a few years, when you are seen to be held in honor, they will doubt the tale; then they will forget it.’”

  “So much for oaths,” said Deinias, “when men feel themselves secure.”

  “Attalos is secure,” said Heirax easily. “Safe with his troops in Asia.”

  Pausanias stared past them into the dulling red core upon the hearth. Speaking, it seemed, to that, he said, “Does he think it is too late?”

  “If you like,” said Kleopatra to her brother, “you may see my dress.”

  He followed to her room, where it hung on a T-shaped stand, fine saffron-dyed linen embroidered with jeweled flowers. She was to blame for nothing; soon they would seldom meet again; he gave her waist a pat. In spite of all, the coming pomps began to charm her; shoots of pleasure broke through, like green on a burnt hillside; she began to feel she would be a queen. “Look, Alexander.” She lifted from its cushion the bridal wreath, wheat-ears and olive sprays worked from fine gold, and walked towards the mirror.