by Mary Renault
He was the man who had escaped to; Macedon to reveal Perdikkas’ plot. Alexander had made him Satrap of Phrygia; the grateful Regent had appointed him Commander-in-Chief of all the troops in Asia. He was now on the way to take up his new command.
He rode a Persian “great horse,” being so tall that no Greek horse could carry him far. But for his eye-patch—he had lost the eye winning Phrygia for Alexander—he was still a handsome man. His even handsomer young son Demetrios, who went with him everywhere, worshipped him. Riding side by side, they made an impressive pair.
With the small column of his entourage, he entered the woodland fringes of the park. Soon, cocking his ear, he motioned his train to halt.
“What is it, Father? Is it a battle?” The boy’s eyes kindled. He was fifteen, and had never yet fought in war.
“No,” said his father, listening. “It’s a brawl. Or mutiny. High time I came, by the sound. Forward.” To his son he said, “What’s Peithon about? He did well enough under Alexander. Never think you know a man whom you’ve only seen acting under orders. Well, he’s a stopgap here. We’ll see.”
The prospect did not displease him … His own ambitions were great.
Eurydike had rallied to her cause about four-fifths of the army. At the head of her troops, she had appeared before the generals’ lodge, announced with the royal fanfare, demanding, this time, joint rule for Philip and herself.
The three generals gazed down with revulsion, not unmixed with fear, at the mob below. It looked worse than mutinous; it looked anarchic. Eurydike herself was half aware of this. Her training in weaponry had not included military drill, and she had not considered in advance that her following would be more manageable, as well as more impressive, if she drew it up in some kind of formation. A year ago, the junior officers (the seniors had held aloof) would have managed for her; but much had happened in a year, and most of it bad for discipline. So now an armed rabble followed her; men shouldered each other to get in front, and hurled insults at the generals.
It was as boos and jeers were drowning Peithon’s voice that Antigonos and his suite had come into earshot.
After his first distant glimpse, he sent Demetrios to scout ahead; it was good training for the boy. He cantered gaily into the trees, coming back to report that there was a horde of men gathered in front of what looked like headquarters, but no one to speak of at the back.
Meantime, Eurydike felt, behind her, the mass begin to seethe. She must lead them on, now, or somehow hold them back. Inherited instinct told her she would not lead them long. They would surge past her and lynch the generals. After that, her frail authority would be swept away.
“Herald, blow halt!” She faced them with lifted arms; they swayed restlessly, but came no further. She turned again to confront the generals.
The verandah was empty.
During the uproar of the last few minutes, the generals had learned that their new commander-in-chief had arrived in camp. He was in the lodge behind them.
The room inside, with its dark wood and little windows, had an air of dangerous gloom, in which, peering, they made out the towering form of Antigonos, seated in the satrap’s chair; glaring at them, like a Cyclops, with his single eye. The young Demetrios, a splinter of light picking out his dazzling profile, stood like a fierce attendant spirit behind him.
Antigonos said nothing. He pierced them with his eye, and waited.
As he heard out their lamentable tale, his face changed slowly from grimness to sheer incredulity. After a disturbing pause, he said, “How old is this girl?”
Shouting against the impatient roar from outside, Seleukos told him.
Antigonos swiveled his head to sweep them with his eye, ending at Peithon. “Thundering Zeus!” he said. “Are you soldiers or pedagogues? Not even pedagogues, by God! Stay here.” He strode out on the verandah.
The apparition from nowhere of this huge, formidable and famous man, instead of the expected victims, startled the crowd into almost total silence. Eurydike, who had no idea who he was, stared at him blankly. Philip, whom she had forgotten, began, “That’s Antigonos. He …”
He was drowned by a boom from Antigonos’ great chest. Soldiers in the front, despite themselves, straightened up and made vain shuffling efforts to dress their line.
“Stand back there, you sons of fifty fathers!” Antigonos roared. “Get back, Hades and the Furies take you! What do you think you are, a horde of naked savages? Stand up and let me look at you. Soldiers, are you? I’ve seen better soldiers robbing caravans. Macedonians, are you? Alexander wouldn’t know you. Your own mothers wouldn’t know you, not if they could help. If you want to hold Assembly, you’d better look like Macedonians, before some real ones come here and see you. That will be this afternoon. Then you can hold Assembly, if the rest agree. Clean yourselves up, curse you, you stink like goats.”
Eurydike heard, dismayed, defiant shouts change to an indeterminate grumbling. Antigonos, who had ignored her, seemed to see her for the first time.
“Young lady,” he said, “take your husband back to his quarters, and look after him. It’s a wife he needs, not a female general. Go about your work, and leave me to mine. I learned it from your grandfather before ever you were born.”
There was a wavering pause; the edges of the press began to fall away, the center to loosen. Eurydike cried out, “We will have our rights!” and some voices took it up, but not enough. The hateful giant had beaten her, and she did not know even his name.
Back in the tent, Konon told her. While she considered her next move, the smell of food reminded her that her young stomach was hungry. She waited till Philip had done—she hated to see him eating—and sat down to her meal.
Somewhere outside, a high imperious voice was arguing with the guard. Konon, who was pouring her wine, looked up. A youth came in; stunningly handsome, and hardly as old as herself. With his perfect features and clustering short gold curls, he could have posed for a Hermes to any sculptor. Like Hermes he entered lightly, and stood poised before her, fixing her with the gaze of a scornful god.
“I am Demetrios, son of Antigonos.” He sounded, too, like a deity announcing himself at the opening of a play. “I am here to warn you, Eurydike. It is not my custom to make war on women. But if you harm a hair of my father’s head, your life shall pay for it. That is all. Farewell.”
He was gone, as he had come, through the disorganized army; his speed, his youth and arrogance cleaving his way.
She stared after this first antagonist of her own age. Konon snorted. “The insolent young dog! Who let him in? ‘Not my custom to make war on women’! Who is he used to make war on, I’d like to know? His father should take a strap to him.”
Eurydike ate quickly and went out. The visitation had spurred her flagging purpose. Antigonos was a force of nature with which she could not contend; but he was one man alone. The troops were still mutinous and ripe for revolt. She dared not assemble them, which would bring him down on her again; but she went among them, reminding them that Antipatros, who was coming, was not the rightful Regent, that he feared being displaced by a rightful King. If he was allowed, he would seek out Philip and herself and all the best of their followers, to be put to death.
Antigonos, meanwhile, had sent one of his suite to meet the Regent and warn him to prepare for trouble. But the Regent and his escort had come by short-cuts over the hills; the messenger missed his way, arriving late at the tail-end of the column. There he was told that the old man had gone ahead with his bodyguard, long before noon.
Sitting straight on his easy-pacing charger, his stiff legs aching on the saddle-cloth, his face set in the harsh stare which was his mask for the pains and infirmities of age, the Regent rode to Triparadisos. His doctor had urged him to go by litter. But so had his son Kassandros, back in Macedon; who was only waiting to insist that his failing strength called for a deputy—naturally, himself. Antipatros neither trusted nor much liked his eldest son. Here in Syria, since Perdikkas’ de
ath anything might have happened; and he meant to arrive, the gods and physic helping him, looking like a man to be obeyed.
The main gate into the park was dignified with great columns topped with stone lotuses. Antipatros took the good road which duly led him there.
Noises came from beyond; but to his annoyed surprise no escort was there to meet him. He told his herald to announce him with a trumpet blast.
In the lodge, the generals knew, with dismay, that his main force could not have come so quickly. Their envoy had missed him. Almost at once a rising commotion was heard; and a squadron leader, who had not joined the revolt, came galloping up. “Sir! The Regent’s here with no more than fifty horse, and the rebels are mobbing him.”
They ran for their helmets—the rest of their armor was on—and shouted for their horses. Neither Peithon nor Arybbas had ever lacked personal courage; they reached for their javelins briskly. Antigonos said, “No, not you two. If you come they’ll fall on all of us. Stay here, get anyone you can find and hold the lodge. Come, Seleukos. We’ll go and talk to them.”
As Seleukos mounted, vaulting upon his spear, Antigonos on his tall horse beside him, he felt for a moment the old elation of the golden years. It was welcome after the squalid affair in Egypt, from which he did not yet feel clean. When, though, in those years had he ever felt in danger from his own men?
The Regent had reached an age when discomfort and fatigue bothered him more than danger. Expecting nothing worse than disaffection, he had come in a light riding tunic and straw sun-hat, armed only with his sword. Seleukos and Antigonos, galloping down between huge cedars and deodars and spreading planes, saw the tight knot of the bodyguard sway in the press around it, the broad-brimmed hat fly off among the helmets, the vulnerable gleam of silver hair.
“Try not to draw blood,” called Antigonos to Seleukos. “They’ll kill us then.” With a bellow of “Halt, there!” he shoved down into the press.
Their firmness, their fame, Antigonos’ great height and overwhelming presence, got them through to the Regent, glaring under his white brows like an ancient eagle beset by crows, and grasping his old sword. “What’s this, what’s this?” he said. Antigonos gave him a brief salute (did he think there was time to chat? the old man must be failing at last) and addressed the soldiers.
Had they no shame? They claimed to respect the King; had they no respect for Philip his great father, the maker of their nation, who had appointed this man and trusted him? He had never been deposed by Alexander, only summoned for a conference while a deputy relieved him … Antigonos when he chose could persuade as well as dominate. The crowd sullenly parted; the Regent and his rescuers rode up to the lodge.
Eurydike had been preparing her speech for the coming Assembly, and knew nothing of the fracas till it was over. It shocked her that followers of hers might have butchered this ancient man. It offended her poetic image of war. Besides, they should be under her control and seen to be so. Only Athenian demagogues made speeches while others fought.
An hour before sunset, Antipatros’ main force arrived. She heard, rumbling on into the dusk, the horse and foot filing into the parks, the shouting and creaking of the supply trains, the bustle of camp slaves pitching tents, the rattle of stacked arms, the whinnying of horses scenting their kind; and, lasting long after, the hubbub of men in animated talk, exchanging news and rumors and opinions. It was the sound of the agora, the wineshop, the gymnasium, the forum; age-long leitmotif of the lands by the Middle Sea.
After sundown, a few of her following came, to say they had been arguing her cause with Antipatros’ men; one or two had cuts and bruises. But these had been little fights, stopped quickly by authority. She read the omens of discipline restored, and not wholly unwelcome. When a senior officer of the Regent’s staff came to the tent, they all, to a man, saluted.
He announced that a full Assembly would be held next day, to decide the kingdom’s affairs. King Philip would no doubt wish to attend it.
Philip had been building himself a little fort on the floor, and trying to man it with some ants who persisted in deserting. Hearing the message, he said anxiously, “Must I make a speech?”
“That, sir, is as you wish,” the envoy said impassively. He turned to Eurydike. “Daughter of Amyntas, Antipatios sends you greeting. He says that though it is not the custom of the Macedonians for women to address Assembly, you have his leave to do so. When he himself has spoken, they will decide if they wish to hear you.”
“Tell him I shall be there.”
When he had gone, Philip said eagerly, “He promised I needn’t make a speech if I didn’t want to. Please don’t make me.”
She felt she could have struck him; but she held back, fearing to lose her hold on him. Indeed, she had some fear of his strength.
The Assembly was held next day with ancient procedure. Foreign soldiers, the legacies of Alexander’s catholic racial mix, were barred. An impressive rostrum was raised in the biggest clearing, with seats of honor below it. As Eurydike took her place, whispering to Philip a last order to keep still, she felt in the huge throng a new, impalpable change. Something was different, and yet somehow familiar. It was the feel of the homeland, the native hills.
Antigonos spoke first. Here, at Assembly, the angry general was gone. A statesman spoke, not without the skills of oratory. With dignity he reminded them of their heroic past under Alexander, urged them not to disgrace it, and introduced the Regent.
The old man stepped briskly up to the rostrum. His own army cheered him; no hostile sound was heard. As he looked about him, as with perfect timing he signed for silence, an unwanted voice said within Eurydike, This man is a king.
He had reigned over Macedon and Greece throughout Alexander’s, wars. He had crushed the sporadic risings of the south, imposed on its cities the rulers of his choice, exiled his opponents. He had defeated even Olympias. Now he was old and brittle, his height had begun to shrink, his deep voice to crack; but still, given off from his inner core, the aura of power and command surrounded him.
He told them of their forefathers, he told them of Philip who had rescued their fathers from invasion and civil war, and begotten Alexander who had made them masters of the world. They had become a tree with wide and spreading branches—he gestured to the noble timber standing round—but the greatest tree will die if its roots are sundered from its native earth. Could they bear to sink down among the barbarians they had conquered?
He told them of the birth of Arridaios, the lackwit they had honored with Philip’s name; he told what Philip had thought of him, ignoring his presence in the seats below. He reminded them that in all their history, they had never had a woman ruler. Would they now choose a woman and a fool?
Philip, who had followed this peroration, nodded sagely. He found it somehow reassuring. Alexander had told him he ought not to be King, and now this forceful old man agreed. Perhaps they would tell him, now, that he could be Arridaios again.
Antipatros’ own men had been for him from the start.
For the rebels, it was like a slow awakening, from restless dreams. All round her, like the sough of shingle on an ebb-tide beach, Eurydike felt the lapse of the withdrawing sea.
She would not, could not admit defeat. She would speak, it was her right; she had won them once and would again. Soon this old man would finish talking, and she must be ready.
Her hands had clenched, her back and her shoulders tightened; her stomach contracted, achingly. The aching turned to a cramp, a low heavy drag which, with dismay, she tried at first not to recognize. In vain; it was true. Her menses, not due for four days, had started.
She had always counted carefully, always been regular. How could it happen now? It would come on quickly, once begun, and she had not put on a towel.
She had been strung-up this morning; what had she failed to notice in all the stress? Already she felt a warning moisture. If she stood on the rostrum, everyone would see.
The Regent’s speech approached its c
limax. He was talking of Alexander; she hardly heard. She looked at the thousands of faces round her, on the slopes, in the trees. Why, among all these humans made by the gods, was she alone subject to this betrayal, she only who could be cheated by her body at a great turn of fate?
Beside her sat Philip, with his useless gift of a strong man’s frame. If she had owned it, it would have carried her up to the rostrum and given her a voice of bronze. Now she must creep from the field without a battle; and even her well-wishers would think, Poor girl!
Antipatros had finished. When the applause subsided, he said, “Will the Assembly now hear Eurydike, daughter of Amyntas, the wife of Arridaios?”
No one dissented. Antipatros’ men were curious; her partisans were ashamed to vote against her. Their minds were made up, but they were prepared at least to listen. Now was the moment for a true leader to compel their hearts … She had come, the morning being fresh, with a himation round her shoulders. Now, carefully, she slipped it down to her elbows, to drape in a curve over her buttocks, as elegant ladies wore it in fresco paintings. Getting to her feet, taking care over her draperies, she said, “I do not wish to address the Macedonians.”
Roxane had kept her tent in a good deal of alarm, among scared eunuchs and terrified women; sure that if the mutiny succeeded, Eurydike’s first action would be to kill her and her child; it was, as Roxane saw it, the natural thing to do.
It took her some time to learn the Assembly’s decision, since only Macedonians had attended. At length her wagoner, a Greek-speaking Sidonian, came back to report that the wife of Philip had been quite put down without a word to say; that Antipatros the Regent had been made guardian of both the Kings; and that, as soon as the great lords had agreed to divide the satrapies, he would take both royal households back to Macedon.
“Ah!” she cried, and threw off fear like a cloak. “All will be well, then. It is my husband’s kingdom. They know the fool Philip from his childhood days; of course they will have none of him. It is my child they will wish to see. Alexander’s mother will be waiting.”