The Novels of Alexander the Great

by Mary Renault

  Most men about the court had been able, so far, to avoid taking sides. Only small groups of partisans, Attalids, agents of Olympias, friends and comrades of Alexander, had bickered and intrigued. But the exiles’ living presence was like verjuice stirred into milk. Separation began.

  The young knew that he was young and had excelled his elders; that when old envious men had tried to put him down, he had stood up to it and won. He was all their own smoldering rebellions, expressed in flame; their hero-victim. Because it was his, they made even Olympias’ cause their own. To see one’s mother shamed, and one’s father, an old man past forty, make a public show of himself with a girl of fifteen; why should one swallow that? When they saw him, therefore, they greeted him with defiant fervor. He never failed to acknowledge it.

  His face was thinner. It had been weathered for years, but the closed drawn look was new. Their salutations changed it; his warm confiding smile made them feel rewarded.

  Hephaistion, Ptolemy, Harpalos and the rest, the companions of his exile, were treated with awed respect, their stories becoming legend. They did not fail their friend. All the tales were of success; the leopard, the lightning marches to the border, a glorious victory in the tribal war. Their pride was invested in him, besides their love; they would have changed, if they could, his very memories. His thanks, though unspoken, were enough; they felt themselves beloved. Soon they seemed acknowledged leaders, to the young men and to themselves as well; they began to show it, sometimes with discretion, sometimes not.

  His party gathered; made up of men who liked him, or had fought beside him; who, perhaps, wounded and half-frozen in Thrace had been given his own place by the fire and a drink from his own wine cup; or whose courage had been damping out when he came along and kindled it; or who had told him tales in the guardroom when he was a child: supported by men who looked back to the lawless years, and wanted a strong heir; by men, also, who hated his enemies. The Attalids were daily growing in power and pride. Parmenion, some time widowed, had lately married Attalos’ daughter, and the King had stood as groomsman.

  The first time Alexander met Pausanias out of others’ hearing, he thanked him for his house’s hospitality. The bearded lips moved stiffly, as if they would have returned his smile had they not lost the knack. “It was nothing, Alexander. We were honored…I would do more than that.” For a moment their eyes met, Pausanias’ exploring, Alexander’s questioning; but he had never been an easy man to understand.

  Eurydike had a fine new house on the slope, a short walk from the Palace. A pine wood had been felled to clear the site, and a statue of Dionysos, which had stood in the grove, returned to Queen Olympias, who had set it up. It had not been a shrine of ancient sanctity, only a fancy of hers, to which rumor attached some scandal.

  Hephaistion, who had arrived too late to know much about such things, knew like anyone else that a son’s legitimacy hangs on his mother’s honor. Of course he must defend her, he had no choice; but why with such passion, such bitterness to his father, such blindness to his own good? True friends share everything, except the past before they met.

  That she had her faction, everyone knew too well; her rooms were like the meeting-house of some exiled opposition in the southern states. Hephaistion felt his teeth on edge, whenever Alexander went there. Did even he know all she was up to? Whatever it was, if trouble broke the King would believe he knew.

  Hephaistion too was young; he had shared the shock when time-servers, once assiduous, now kept their distance. Alexander’s very victories were their warning. In Macedon with its history, he was marked dangerous as brightly as the panther. He had always despised servility; but rooted in him was the need to be beloved. Now he was learning which men had known and used it. Watching the lesson, with grim quiet irony, was the King.

  “You should try to mend matters,” Hephaistion would say. “He must want to, or why recall you? It’s always for the younger to come forward first, no disgrace in that.”

  “I don’t like the way he looks at me.”

  “He may think the same, you’re both on edge. But how can you doubt you’re his heir? Who else is there? Arridaios?”

  The idiot had been in Pella lately, for one of the great festivals. His mother’s kin always brought him, spruced and combed, to pay his respects to his father, who had acknowledged him with pride when, a fine healthy-looking infant, he had been brought out of the birth-room. Now at seventeen he was taller than Alexander, and favored Philip’s looks except when his mouth fell open. He was no longer taken to the theater, where he would laugh loudly at the tragic climaxes, nor to solemn rites, in case one of his fits should take him, when he would flap on the ground like a landed fish, wetting and dirtying himself. It was the fits had done some violence to his mind, the doctors said; he had been a likely child before them. He enjoyed the sideshows of the feast, led about by an old family slave like a little boy with his pedagogue. This year his black beard had grown; but he would not be parted from his doll.

  “What a rival!” Hephaistion said. “Why can’t you be easy?”

  After giving this good advice, he would go out, run into some man of the Attalid faction, or even one of Olympias’ many enemies; would resent what they said, and hit them in the teeth. All Alexander’s friends were doing their share of this; Hephaistion, being quick-tempered, did rather more. True friends share everything, especially their quarrels. Later he might reproach himself; but all of them knew they would get no reproach from Alexander for these proofs of love. It was not that he set them on to make trouble; only that there grew up around him that kind of defiant loyalty from which sparks are struck, as if from flint.

  He hunted untiringly, best pleased when the quarry was dangerous, or gave him a long hard chase. He read little, but to the purpose; his restlessness needed action, he was only content when readying his men for the coming war. He seemed everywhere, demanding from the engineers catapults which could be taken apart and carted, not left behind to rot after every siege; in the horse-lines, looking at feet, inspecting the stable floors and discussing fodder. He talked much with traveling men, traders and envoys, actors, paid-up mercenaries, who knew Greek Asia and even the lands beyond. All they told him, he checked stage by stage against Xenophon’s Inland March.

  Hephaistion, whom he shared his studies with, saw all his hopes staked on the war. He was scarred by the months of impotence as if by a fetter; he needed the medicine of command, victory to confound his enemies and heal his pride. He still took for granted he would be sent ahead, alone or with Parmenion, to make good an Asian bridgehead for the main force. Hephaistion, concealing his own uneasiness, asked if he had talked of it with the King. “No. Let him come to me.”

  The King, though busy himself, was watchful. He saw tactical changes which should have had his sanction and waited to be asked, in vain. He saw the young man’s altered face, and his friends as thick as thieves. It had never been easy to read his mind, but once he would have come with all this as soldier to soldier; he could not have kept it in. As a man, Philip was hurt and angry; as a ruler, he was distrustful.

  He had just had good news; he had brought off an alliance of priceless strategic value. In his heart, he was longing to boast of it to his son. But, if the boy was too stiff-necked to consult his father and King, he could not expect to be consulted. Let him learn for himself, or from his mother’s spies.

  It was from Olympias, therefore, that he heard of Arridaios’ coming marriage.

  The satrapy of Karia, on the southern curve of the Asian coast, was ruled under the Great King by its native dynasts. The great Mausolos, before he was laid in his grandiose Mausoleum, had built himself a little empire, seawards to Rhodes, Kos and Chios, south down the coast to Lykia. The succession, though in dispute, had passed firmly to Pixodoros, his younger brother. He paid tribute and did formal homage; the Great King took care to ask no more. After Syracuse sank back to anarchy, and before the rise of Macedon, Karia had been the greatest power on the Middle Sea.
Philip had long been watching her, sending secret envoys, playing her on a silken line. Now he was hauling in. He had betrothed Arridaios to Pixodoros’ daughter.

  Olympias learned of it one morning at the theater, during a tragedy put on to honor the Karian envoys.

  Alexander, when she sent for him, was not found at once. He had gone backstage with Hephaistion, to congratulate Thettalos. The play had been The Madness of Herakles. Hephaistion wondered, after, how he could have missed the omen.

  Thettalos was now about forty, at the height of his powers and fame. So versatile that he could give a performance in any mask from Antigone to Nestor, he still triumphed in hero roles. This one had been demanding. His mask only just off, he was careless of his face, which for a moment revealed concern at what he saw; after absence, changes show. He had heard things, too, and took trouble to make it clear that his own loyalty was unshaken.

  From the theater, Hephaistion went off to spend an hour with his parents, who had come into town for the feast. When he returned, it was to the center of a hurricane.

  Alexander’s room was milling with his friends, all talking at once, indignant, guessing, plotting. Seeing Hephaistion at the door, Alexander broke through the crowd to him, grasped him by the arm and shouted the news in his ear. Dazed by his rage, Hephaistion made sounds of sympathy; certainly he should have heard of it from the King, certainly he had been slighted. The truth came piecemeal through the din: he believed this to prove Arridaios had been adopted as heir of Macedon. Olympias was sure of it.

  I must get him alone, Hephaistion thought; but he dared not try. Alexander was flushed as if with fever; the young men, recalling his victories, cursing the King’s ingratitude, offering wild advice, had felt his need of them and did not mean to leave him. He wanted from Hephaistion what he wanted from all the rest, only more urgently. It would be madness to cross him now.

  Illyria, Hephaistion thought. It’s like a sickness he can’t shake off. Later I’ll talk to him. “Who’d be a woman?” he said. “Does she know she’s promised to a wittol?”

  “What do you think?” said Alexander, his nostrils flaring. “Or her father either.” His brows drew together in thought; he began to pace about. Hephaistion recognized the prelude to coming action.

  Ignoring the danger signs, falling into step beside him, Hephaistion said, “Alexander, this can’t be true unless the King’s gone mad. Why, he was elected King himself because the Macedonians wouldn’t accept a child. How could he suppose they’d accept a halfwit?”

  “I know what he’s doing.” A dry heat seemed to radiate from him. “Arridaios is a stopgap till Eurydike has a boy. This is Attalos’ work.”

  “But…but think! This boy’s not even born. Then he has to grow up. Say eighteen years. And the King’s a soldier.”

  “She’s pregnant again, didn’t you know?” If one touched his hair, Hephaistion thought, one would hear it crackle.

  “He can’t think he’s immortal. He’s going to war. What does he think would happen if he died in the next five years? Who is there but you?”

  “Unless he has me killed.” He threw it off like a commonplace.

  “What? How can you believe it? His own son.”

  “They say I’m not. Well, then, I must look out for myself.”

  “Whoever says so? Do you mean that sottish wedding speech? I think all the man really meant by a true-born heir, was Macedonian blood both sides.”

  “Oh, no. That’s not what they’re saying now.”

  “Listen. Come out awhile. We’ll go hunting. Then we’ll talk later.”

  Looking quickly round to be sure no one else could hear, Alexander said in a desperate undertone, “Be quiet, be quiet.” Hephaistion went back to the others; Alexander paced, like a caged wolf, to and fro.

  Suddenly he faced round to them, and said, “I shall deal with this.”

  Hephaistion, who had never before heard this voice of decision with less than perfect trust, felt an instant presage of disaster.

  “We’ll see who wins,” Alexander said, “at this marriage-broking.” Prompt as a chorus, the others begged to hear. “I shall send to Karia, and tell Pixodoros what kind of bargain he’s made.”

  There was applause. Hephaistion thought, Everyone’s gone insane. Over the noise, Niarchos the naval officer called out, “You can’t do that, Alexander. You might lose us the war in Asia.”

  “You might let me finish,” Alexander shouted back. “I shall offer for the girl myself.”

  Almost in silence, they took it in. Then Ptolemy said, “Do it, Alexander. I’ll stand by you, here’s my hand on it.”

  Hephaistion stared, appalled. He had counted upon Ptolemy, the big brother, the steady one. He had lately fetched his Thais back from Corinth, where she had spent his time of exile. But now it was clear he was as angry as Alexander. He was, after all, though unacknowledged, the eldest of Philip’s sons. Personable and capable, ambitious and turned thirty, he thought he could have managed in Karia very well. It was one thing to uphold a loved and legitimate brother; something else to stand aside for slobbering Arridaios. “What do you say, everyone? Do we all stand by Alexander?”

  There were sounds of confused assent. Alexander’s certainties were always catching. They exclaimed that this marriage would secure his place, that it would force the King to take care with him. Even the fainthearted, seeing him count heads, joined in; this was no Illyrian exile, there was nothing they need do, all the risks would be taken, they thought, by him.

  This is treason, Hephaistion thought. Arrogant with desperation, he took Alexander by the shoulders, with the firmness of one who claims his rights. At once Alexander turned aside with him.

  “Sleep on it. Think tomorrow.”

  “Never put off.”

  “Listen. What if your father and Pixodoros are swapping stinking fish? What if she’s a slut or a hag? Just fit for Arridaios? You’d be a laughingstock.”

  With an effort he could see, Alexander turned on him dilated glittering eyes, and said with controlled forbearance, “What is it? This will make no difference to us, you know that.”

  “Of course I know that!” said Hephaistion angrily. “You’re not talking to Arridaios, what sort of fool do you…” No, no; one of us must keep his head. Suddenly, for no reason that was clear to him, Hephaistion thought, He’s proving he can take a woman from his father. She’s for Arridaios, that keeps it decent, he need not know. And who dares tell him? No one, not even I.

  Alexander, his head tilted defiantly, had started to assess the strength of the Karian navy. Through all this, Hephaistion sensed appeal. He wanted not advice, but the proofs of love. Anything he needed, he must have.

  “You know I’m with you, whatever comes of it. Whatever you do.”

  Alexander pressed his arm, gave him a quick secret smile, and turned back to the rest.

  “Whom will you send to Karia?” asked Harpalos. “I’ll go, if you want.”

  Alexander strode over and clasped his hands. “No; no Macedonian; my father could make you pay. It was noble to offer, Harpalos, I’ll never forget it.” He kissed Harpalos’ cheek; he was getting very emotional. Two or three others crowded up, offering to go. This is like the theater, Hephaistion thought.

  It was then that he guessed whom Alexander would send.

  Thettalos came after dark, and was let in through Olympias’ private postern. She had wished to be present at the conference, but Alexander saw him alone. He went away with a gold ring on, and his head held high. Olympias, too, thanked him with the charm she could still sometimes command, and gave him a talent of silver. He replied with grace; he had had practice in making speeches when his mind was on other things.

  Some seven days later, Alexander met Arridaios in the Palace courtyard. He came oftener now; the doctors advised he should mix more in company, to stir his wits. He trotted eagerly forward to meet Alexander, the old servant, now half a head shorter, bustling anxiously behind. Alexander, who bore him no more malice tha
n an enemy’s horse or dog, returned his greeting. “How’s Phryne?” he asked. The doll was missing. “Have they taken her away?”

  Arridaios grinned. There was a wet trickle in his soft black beard. “Old Phryne’s in the box. I don’t need her. They’re bringing me a real girl, from Karia.” He added, like a dull child echoing adults, an obscene boast.

  Alexander looked at him with pity. “Take care of Phryne. She’s a good friend. You might want her after all.”

  “Not when I’ve a wife.” He nodded down at Alexander, and added with friendly confidence, “When you’re dead I shall be King.” His keeper tugged quickly at his belt; he went on towards the stoa, singing to himself a tuneless song.

  Philotas was growing concerned. He had seen looks exchanged whose meaning he would have given much to know. Again he had been left outside a secret. Half a month he had scented it, but they were all holding their tongues. Who they were, at least, he knew; they were too pleased with themselves, or too scared, to hide it.

  It was an uneasy time for Philotas. Though he had lived for years on the fringe of Alexander’s set, he had always failed to reach the inmost ring. He had a good war record; impressive looks, but for rather prominent blue eyes; he was good company at supper, and in the van of fashion; his reports to the King had always been discreet, and he was certain were undetected. Why then was he not trusted? His instincts blamed Hephaistion for it.

  Parmenion was badgering him for news. If he missed this, whatever it was, it would set him back, both with his father and the King. It might even have been better to have shared the exile, he could have been useful there, and now he would have been told everything. But it had been too sudden, the choice at the wedding brawl; though brave in the field, he was comfort-loving off it, and in doubtful issues he liked hot chestnuts pulled out of the fire by others.

  He wanted no one reporting to Alexander, or to Hephaistion which was the same, that he had been asking dangerous questions. It therefore took him some time, picking up trifles here and there, and seeking the missing pieces where he would least be noticed, before he learned the truth.