While he was making plans for the invasion, Philip took time to further his own image as patron of all things Greek by commissioning a grand edifice known as the Philippeum in the sanctuary of Zeus at Olympia. This structure was circular in shape, surrounded by columns, and held sumptuous ivory and gold statues of Philip and his family, including Olympias and Alexander. Some believed that Philip was now seeking to establish himself and the Macedonian royal house as semi-divine figures. There had been previous cases of mortal heroes accorded special honor bordering on worship, but to construct a shrine to a living ruler was unprecedented in Greek history. Egyptian pharaohs were seen as divine intermediaries between gods and humans, but not even the Great King of Persia was worshiped as a god. Among Macedonian nobility, the ruling king was seen as the first among equals—blessed by the gods, certainly, but not one of them. Whatever Philip’s intentions, whether a proclamation of his power after the victory at Chaeronea or something more, the fact that Olympias and her son were included in the Philippeum made it clear that Philip considered Alexander the undisputed heir to the Macedonian throne.
It was now that one of the strangest events in the turbulent history of the Macedonian court occurred. Philip had no sooner returned to Pella than he announced that he was divorcing Olympias on suspicion of adultery and taking yet another wife, this time from an old Macedonian family of impeccable pedigree. Moreover, he began spreading rumors that Alexander was not his true son. Why would Philip throw the court into turmoil with such baseless charges at this crucial stage of his expansionist plans? Philip was ready to send his generals Attalus, Parmenion, and Amyntas across the Aegean to prepare the way for his invasion of Persia. Thousands of troops and tons of supplies had been requisitioned from his Greek and barbarian allies. It seemed sheer insanity to risk his conquest of the Persian cities of Asia Minor because of a domestic dispute.
And yet, Philip must have had a very good reason for rejecting Olympias and Alexander so suddenly. The answer seems to lie in the political maneuvering among the leading Macedonian families. Olympias had always been an outsider to them, a half-wild foreigner from the mountains of Epirus who worshiped snakes and cared only for securing her son’s position as Philip’s heir. If the king was to take a bride who was a blue blood Macedonian and if she bore him a son, then that boy would be worthy to inherit the throne. Philip was only in his forties, with plenty of time to sire a son who would come of age before Philip grew old. It just so happened that his general Attalus had a niece and ward named Cleopatra who was young, beautiful, and, he hoped, fertile. Attalus was married to Parmenion’s daughter, so that any child of Cleopatra would have ties to almost all the leading families at Pella. In their minds, any future heir of pure Macedonian blood was preferable to a half-Epiriote prince like Alexander.
Philip agreed that rejection of Olympias and her son was in his best interest. He had seldom slept with Olympias in the twenty years since Alexander’s birth and had never forgotten the chilling sight of her entwined with a snake on her bed. Her son Alexander was a fine lad, he admitted, handy as could be in battle, but too talented and ambitious for his own good. It would be a shame to lose him, but Philip was confident he could father other sons to take his place.
Philip wanted to show there were no hard feelings and so invited Alexander to the wedding banquet. As with all Macedonian parties, the wine flowed without ceasing, with Philip drinking more than anyone. It was late into the night when Attalus rose and proposed a toast to his niece the bride and a very drunk Philip. He called on all Macedonians to offer a prayer to the gods that they would soon grant the couple a legitimate successor to the throne. Alexander was furious at the none-too-subtle insult and threw his cup at Attalus, demanding to know if he was calling him a bastard. Philip then jumped up and drew his sword, intending to strike down his son, but stumbled and fell flat on the floor. Alexander glared down at him in disgust and proclaimed: “Look, everyone! The man who wants to cross from Europe to Asia can’t even make it from one couch to the next.” Alexander then stormed out of the room. By dawn he and his mother had fled to her family in the mountains of Epirus.
Months passed while Philip fumed in Pella and Alexander brooded in Epirus, then moved on to stay with friends in Illyria. The next summer Cleopatra gave birth to a daughter named Europa, not the son Philip and the Macedonian nobility had hoped for. But time was now short before the planned invasion of Persia would have to begin. Troops and supplies were ready. The Persian court was more chaotic than ever with the timely murder of Artaxerxes IV—again by the eunuch Bagoas—and his replacement with the new Great King, Darius III (Darayavaush, in the Persian language). Philip had even sent to Apollo’s oracle at Delphi for the god’s approval of his upcoming expedition. After appropriate offerings were made, the priestess replied in verse: “The bull is ready for slaughter, the end is near, the sacrificer is present.”
It was a typically ambiguous response from Delphi, but Philip chose to interpret it favorably, seeing the bull as Persia and himself as the sacrificer. Soon others would see it differently.
For a king to begin a long and distant war without an heir at the ready was a risky proposition. Even some of the old Macedonian families began to worry that the kingdom would descend into chaos if Philip were killed in Asia. Finally it was the arrival of an old friend, Demaratus of Corinth, that brought the king to his senses. When he met Philip, they exchanged the usual pleasantries, then Philip asked if the Greek cities were still quarreling. Demaratus shook his head and then, as only a longtime companion could, told Philip he was a fine one to ask about affairs in Greece when he couldn’t even manage his own family. He admonished Philip, saying that he had brought the recent bitterness and dissension on himself. It was time to end the feud with his son and establish him again as heir before sailing to Asia. Philip was taken aback, but he saw the wisdom of Demaratus and reluctantly agreed. Soon messengers were on their way over the mountains of Illyria to bring Alexander home.
Philip welcomed his son back to Pella, but before long he began to regret his clemency. No sooner had Alexander returned than an ambassador arrived in Macedonia from Pixodarus, the Persian satrap of Caria in southwestern Asia Minor. The satrap had recently seized the Carian throne from his sister, Ada, and now wanted to make sure his position was secure if Philip made it as far as Halicarnassus. His message to Pella proposed marriage between his daughter and Philip’s eldest son and Alexander’s half brother, the mentally handicapped Arrhidaeus. Philip would gain the favor of a key Greek city on the Aegean coast and Pixodarus would benefit from ties to the Macedonian royal family, though never breaking officially with Persia. Philip was unimpressed with the proposal, but drew out negotiations while he finalized his campaign plans. However, when Alexander and his closest friends heard of these dealings, the prince immediately sent his own ambassador to Caria, Thessalus, an actor famed for his role in tragedies. Thessalus asked Pixodarus why he would want a half-wit for a son-in-law when he could instead have Alexander? Pixodarus jumped at the chance to marry his daughter to Philip’s heir and readily agreed.
When news reached Pella of Alexander’s behind-the-scenes talks, Philip was livid. He burst into Alexander’s bedroom and demanded to know why he was working behind his father’s back to marry into the family of a Carian schemer who was nothing more than a pitiful slave of the Great King. Philip declared that Alexander showed little hope for being a worthy king someday if he behaved so foolishly. How dare he listen to the traitorous advice of his friends and usurp the royal prerogative! Alexander, caught in the act and unwilling to challenge his father so soon after his return from exile, admitted he had behaved imprudently. Philip was still furious, but instead of forcing his son out of Macedonia again, he ordered the actor Thessalus sent home in chains and banished four of Alexander’s closest friends—Ptolemy, Nearchus, Harpalus, and Erigyius.
The time for the invasion was now at hand, but there was one final task to complete before Philip left Macedonia. The recent
unpleasantness with Olympias and Alexander had outraged Philip’s allies in Epirus. The king of that country, also named Alexander, was the brother of Olympias and a man who could cause trouble for Philip once he had crossed the Aegean if his indignation at the treatment of his sister was not mollified. Philip therefore decided to give his own daughter to Alexander of Epirus in marriage. This daughter, also named Cleopatra, like Philip’s latest wife, was the child of Olympias and therefore young Alexander’s full-blooded sister. To an outsider the confusion of similar names and overlapping family relationships must have seemed a perfect muddle, but to Macedonians it was clear that Philip was bestowing a great honor on Alexander of Epirus by allowing him to marry his own niece.
Philip realized that this wedding could be much more than just a cementing of ties between Macedonia and Epirus. As he was soon leaving for Asia, this would be his last opportunity in perhaps many years to entertain visitors in the grand Macedonian style. He therefore decided to invite friends, dignitaries, and ambassadors from all of Greece and beyond to attend the lavish festivities at Vergina. Pella was the administrative capital of the kingdom, but ancient Vergina was the heartland of Macedonia and the burial place of its kings.
Philip ordered athletic games, sacrifices to the gods, and lavish banquets to be readied. Greek visitors renewed their pledges of loyalty to him as leader of the League of Corinth. The Athenian ambassador even brought a golden crown for the king and declared that if anyone dared to plot against Philip and fled to Athens for refuge, he would be delivered to Macedonia for justice. The famed actor Neoptolemus offered a song for the king at a state banquet and proclaimed:
Your dreams soar higher than the sky,
of greater fields to sow,
of palaces grander than men have ever known . . .
But death is coming, sudden, unseen,
that robs us of our distant hopes.
Philip was enchanted by the verses, which spoke, of course, of the upcoming demise of the Persian king.
The games were set to begin at sunrise the next day with opening ceremonies at the hillside theater of Vergina. Crowds flocked to claim a seat while it was still dark, so that as rosy-fingered dawn appeared in the eastern sky that summer morning, a multitude was waiting for the king. Philip had constructed a splendid entry to the theater flanked by superbly crafted statues of the twelve Olympian gods decorated with gold. Only the most distracted guest would fail to notice one additional image among the gods, a statue of Philip himself, enthroned as if he were the thirteenth member of the divine pantheon.
At last the king entered the theater clothed in a shining white robe. He had dismissed his bodyguards that morning, trusting in the benevolence of his adoring subjects. The crowds rose from their seats and cheered the king with all their might. On one side of Philip was his new son-in-law, Alexander of Epirus, and on the other was his son and heir, Alexander. It must have been a glorious moment for Philip. After all the years of struggle and fighting to secure his throne and expand his Macedonian empire, the greatest men of Greece were gathered around him shouting his name. The riches of Persia were just waiting to be seized by the best army the world had ever known. And there was his son, Alexander, a headstrong but promising young man who would someday continue his legacy as ruler of his kingdom.
It was then that another young man approached the king. He was a royal bodyguard and familiar to the members of the court, so no one thought anything of his presence at the entrance to the theater. No one noticed the beautifully inlaid Celtic dagger he pulled from beneath his cloak as he rushed at the king and plunged the knife into Philip’s heart.
The young assassin fled as screams filled the air. The king collapsed, his blood pouring onto the ground around him. As he drew his final breath, his last glimpse of the world of mortal men were the eyes of his son, Alexander, staring down at him.
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GREECE
THUS AT THE AGE OF TWENTY ALEXANDER
INHERITED THE KINGDOM OF MACEDONIA, BESET
AS IT WAS BY GREAT JEALOUSY, BITTER HATRED,
AND DANGERS ON EVERY SIDE.
—PLUTARCH
The man who murdered Philip was named Pausanias, from a noble family in the Macedonian mountain district of Orestis. He had been welcomed to the court of Philip as a royal page and soon found favor in the king’s eyes because of his beauty. But as adolescence gave way to full manhood, Philip lost interest in his young lover and turned his attention to another youthful courtier, also named Pausanias. The first Pausanias was beside himself with jealousy and launched a smear campaign against his rival, whispering to everyone who would listen that the king’s new bedmate was a womanly hermaphrodite and shameless slut who would give his body to anyone. The second Pausanias, however, was a brave soldier and a man of honor who could not bear such slander. Soon afterward, when he and Philip were fighting on the front lines in one of the countless battles against the Illyrians, young Pausanias deliberately threw himself into the thick of the bloody fight to prove his courage and manliness at the cost of his own life.
Unfortunately for the first Pausanias, his dead competitor was a friend of Attalus, one of Philip’s best generals and a leader of the advance force assigned to cross into Asia Minor to prepare the way for the king’s invasion of Persia. Attalus, as mentioned, was also the uncle of Philip’s recent bride, Cleopatra, and a powerful supporter of the king among the Macedonian nobility. When Attalus heard that his young friend Pausanias had sacrificed his life to prove his honor because of the rumors spread by the first Pausanias, he devised a suitably Macedonian revenge to punish the slanderer.
Attalus invited the surviving Pausanias to dinner, entertaining the young man royally with food and drink. Macedonians normally added water to their wine at banquets, but Attalus kept refilling Pausanias’ goblet with unmixed wine until he passed out on the dinner couch. Attalus then sodomized the young man and invited all the dinner guests to do likewise. When they were finished, he handed Pausanias over to his mule drivers to be gang-raped in the stables by the lowliest servants in his household.
When Pausanias recovered his senses the next day, he found that he was now an object of ridicule at the court. He rushed to Philip demanding justice against Attalus, but the king hesitated. He was genuinely disgusted by his general’s shameless behavior, but he had to consider the larger picture. Attalus was crucial to his plans for the Persian invasion and a key supporter whose family and friends in Macedonia might turn on the king if he punished the general. Therefore Philip put off the irate Pausanias with promises of future justice. In the meantime, he tried to soothe the young man’s anger with splendid gifts and a post of honor among his bodyguard.
But Pausanias was not so easily mollified. He went about his duties and tried to ignore the laughter behind his back, all the while watching as Attalus received the king’s favor and was sent across the Aegean. The new bodyguard sought solace by attending lectures of the visiting Greek sophist Hermocrates. One day, when Hermocrates was discussing fame, Pausanias asked the philosopher how one might best achieve undying glory. Hermocrates replied that the surest way was to kill a famous man. That was all that Pausanias needed. His tormentor Attalus was beyond reach in Asia, but Philip, his former lover and the man who denied him justice, was close at hand.
On the morning of the royal wedding of Alexander of Epirus and Philip’s daughter Cleopatra, Pausanias was ready. He had planned his escape with three sympathetic friends who were also members of the king’s bodyguard. A horse would be waiting in the trees just outside the theater. Thus when Pausanias slipped his dagger between Philip’s ribs and watched the king fall to the ground, he had every reason to expect he could flee to safety. The Athenians, in spite of their promises, would surely welcome the man who had slain their hated enemy. All of Greece would rise and proclaim his name, shrines would be built, and perhaps a golden statue would be dedicated at Delphi in his honor. He would truly live forever in the memory of all who loved freedom and justice.
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Pausanias was therefore surprised when things immediately began to go horribly wrong. His three friends, instead of helping him escape, lunged after him with swords drawn as he fled the theater. He had almost made it to his waiting horse when his foot became tangled in a vine and he fell to the ground. His pursuers were on him in an instant and quickly slew the bewildered Pausanias. He died beneath the trees at Vergina before he could speak a word. His body was hung on a cross like that of a slave so that all might gaze on him in shame.
Alexander the Great Page 5