The Novels of Alexander the Great

by Mary Renault

  “No! Don’t try it on. That’s very unlucky. But you will look beautiful.” She had shed most of her puppy-fat, and showed promise of some distinction.

  “I hope we shall soon go up to Aigai. I want to see the decorations; when the crowds arrive, one can’t go about. Have you heard, Alexander, about the great procession to the theater, to dedicate the Games? They’re to be offered to all the twelve Olympians, and the images are to be carried—”

  “Not twelve,” said Alexander drily. “Thirteen. Twelve Olympians, and divine Philip. But he’s modest, his image is going last…Listen; what’s that noise?”

  They ran to the window. A party had dismounted from its mules, and was grouping formally, to approach the Palace. The men were crowned with bay, and the leader carried a branch of it.

  Sliding down from the sill, Alexander said eagerly, “I must go. Those are the heralds from Delphi, with the oracle about the war.” He kissed her briskly, and turned to the doorway. In it, just entering, was his mother.

  Kleopatra saw her glance pass by, and the old bitterness stirred once more. Alexander, who received the glance, knew it of old. It called him to a secret.

  “I can’t stay now, Mother. The heralds are here from Delphi.” Seeing her mouth open, he added quickly, “I’ve a right to be there. We don’t want that forgotten.”

  “Yes, you had better go.” She held out her hands to him, and, as he kissed her, began to whisper. He drew back saying, “Not now, I shall be late,” and loosened her hands. She said after him, “But we must talk today.”

  He went without sign of hearing it. She felt Kleopatra’s watching eyes, and answered them with some small business of the wedding; there had been many such moments, over many years. Kleopatra thought of them, but held her peace. Long before Alexander could be a king, she thought, if he ever was one, she would be a queen.

  In the Perseus Room, the chief diviners, the priests of Apollo and of Zeus, Antipatros, and everyone whom rank or office entitled to be there, had assembled to hear the oracle delivered. The heralds from Delphi stood before the dais. Alexander, who had run the first part of the way, made a slow entrance and stood at the right of the throne, arriving just before the King. Nowadays he had to manage such things for himself.

  There was a pause of whispering expectation. This was a royal embassy. Not for the swarming petitioners about marriages and land purchases and sea journeys and offspring, who could be dealt with by drawing lots, but for this single question, the grey-haired Pythia had gone into the smoky cave below the temple, mounted the tripod beside the Navel Stone swathed in its magic nets, chewed her bitter laurel, breathed the vapor from the rock-cleft, and uttered her god-crazed mutterings before the shrewd-eyed priest who would interpret them in verse. Old fateful legends drifted like mist from mind to mind. Those of more stolid temper awaited some stock response, advice to sacrifice to the proper gods, or to dedicate a shrine.

  The King limped in, was saluted, and sat down, his stiff leg pushed forward. Now he could exercise less, he had begun to put on weight; there was new solid flesh on his square frame, and Alexander, standing behind, saw that his neck had thickened.

  There were the ritual exchanges. The chief herald unrolled his scroll.

  “Pythian Apollo, to Philip son of Amyntas, King of the Macedonians, answers thus: Wreathed is the bull for the altar, the end fulfilled. And the slayer too is ready.”

  The company pronounced the well-omened phrases prescribed for such occasions. Philip nodded to Antipatros, who nodded back with relief. Parmenion and Attalos were having trouble on the coast of Asia, but now the main force would set out with good augury. There was a satisfied hum. A favorable answer had been expected; the god had much to thank King Philip for. But it was only to greatly honored ones, the courtiers murmured, that Two-Tongued Apollo spoke with so clear a voice.

  “I have put myself in his way,” Pausanias said. “But I have had no sign from him. Courteous, yes; but then he always was. From a child he knew the story. I used to see it in his eyes. But he gives no sign. Why not, if all this is true?”

  Deinias shrugged and smiled. He had feared this moment. Had Pausanias been prepared to throw his life away, he could have done it eight years before. A man in love with vengeance wanted to outlive his enemy, and taste the sweet on his tongue. This Deinias had known, and it was prepared for.

  “Surely that does not surprise you? Such things have a way of being seen, and remembered later. You may rest assured that you will be watched over like a friend; subject of course to a good appearance. Look. I have brought you something which will set your mind at rest.” He opened his hand.

  Pausanias, peering, said, “One ring is much like another.”

  “Look well at this one. Tonight, at supper, you will be able to look again.”

  “Yes,” Pausanias said. “With that I would be satisfied.”

  “Why,” Hephaistion exclaimed, “you’re wearing your lion ring. Where was it? We looked everywhere.”

  “Simon found it in my clothes chest. I must have run my hand through the clothes, and dragged it off.”

  “I looked there myself.”

  “I suppose it lodged in a fold.”

  “You don’t think he stole it, and then took fright?”

  “Simon? He’d have more sense, everyone knows it’s mine. It’s a lucky day, it seems.”

  He meant that Eurydike had just been delivered of her child; it was another girl.

  “May God fulfill the good omen,” Hephaistion said.

  They went down to supper. Alexander paused to greet Pausanias by the entry. From so grim-faced a man, it was always a small triumph to win a smile.

  It was the dark before dawn. The old theater at Aigai glowed with cressets and flambeaux. Small torches flitted like fireflies, as stewards guided guests to their places on the cushioned benches. The light breeze from the mountain forests picked up the smells of burning pine-resin and packed humanity.

  Down in the round orchestra were set in a circle the twelve altars of the Olympians. Fires glowed on them, sweetened with incense, lighting up the robes of their heirophants, and the strong bodies of the sacrificers with their shining cleavers. From the fields beyond came the lowing and bleating of the victims, restless at the stir and torchlight, wreathed already in their garlands. Above the rest rose the bellow of King Zeus’ white bull with his gilded horns.

  On the stage, its ornate setting still dim with dusk, the King’s throne was set, flanked with state chairs for the royal kin: his new son-in-law, his son, and the high chiefs of Macedon.

  In the upper tiers were the athletes, the charioteers, the singers and musicians who would compete in the Games when the coming rite had hallowed them. With these, and the multitude of the King’s invited guests, the small theater was packed full. The soldiers and peasants, the tribesmen ridden in from the hills to see the show, trampled and stirred on the dusky hillside around the scooped shell of the theater, or thronged the processional way. Voices rose and fell and shifted, like waves on a shingle beach. The pine trees, standing black in the eastward glimmer, creaked under their load of boys.

  The old rough road to the theater had been leveled and widened for the great procession. Laid by the mountain dews, the dust smelled sweet in the sharp daybreak air. Soldiers detailed to clear the route came with torches; the jostling was good-humored, shover and shoved being often fellow tribesmen. The torches were extinguished in the lift of a cloudless clear summer dawn.

  As pink touched the peaks beyond the Aigai ledge, the splendors of the parade way glimmered into view; the tall scarlet masts with their gilt finials of lion or eagle, the long streaming banners; the festoons of flowers and ribboned ivy; the triumphal arch carved and painted with the Exploits of Herakles, and topped with a Victory holding out her gilded bays. On either side of her stood two live golden-haired boys robed as Muses, with trumpets in their hands.

  In the castle forecourt on the ancient stone acropolis, Philip stood in a purple cloak
clasped with gold, crowned with a golden laurel-wreath. His head was turned into the light early breeze. Birdsong, the tweeting and twangling of instruments tuning up, voices of spectators and of marshals giving orders, came to him backed by the bass roar of the Aigai falls. His gaze traversed the plain that stretched east to Pella and the dawn-mirroring sea. His pasture lay lush and green before him; his rivals’ horns were broken. His wide nostrils snuffed the rich friendly air.

  Behind him, in a scarlet tunic and jeweled sword belt, Alexander stood beside the bridegroom. His bright hair, freshly washed and combed, was crowned with a garland of summer flowers. Half the states of Greece had sent the King wrought-gold wreaths as gifts of honor; but none had been passed to him.

  Round the forecourt were ranged the men of the Royal Bodyguard, ready to form the escort. Pausanias, their commander, was pacing about before the lines. Those in his path would dress ranks anxiously, or fidget with their equipment; then stand easier, aware that he had not looked at them.

  On the north rampart, among her women, was the bride, just risen from her marriage bed. She had had no pleasure in it; but she had been ready for worse. He had been decent, not very drunk, much aware of her youth and maidenhood, and not really old. She no longer feared him. Craning over the rough stone parapet, she saw the long snake of the procession forming along the walls. Beside her, her mother stared down into the courtyard; her lips were moving, a faint murmur of breath came out. Kleopatra did not try to hear the words. She felt the sorcery, like heat from a covered fire. But it was time to set out for the theater, their litters were ready. Soon she would be on her wedding journey; such things would no longer matter. Even if Olympias came to Epiros, Alexandros would know how to deal with it. It was something after all, to have a husband.

  The Muses’ trumpets blew. Under the Victory arch, to shouts of wonder, the Twelve Gods passed in progress to their altars. Each float was drawn by matched horses, caparisoned in red and gold. The wooden images were carved god-size, seven feet tall, and had been tinted by the Athenian master who colored for Apelles.

  King Zeus enthroned, with staff and eagle, had been copied in little from the giant Zeus at Olympia, his throne gilded, his robe stiff with gems and bullion. Apollo was robed as a musician, with a gold lyre. Poseidon rode in a sea-horse chariot. Demeter sat crowned with gold corn, between mystai holding torches. Queen Hera had her peacocks; wits remarked that King Zeus’ consort came rather far down the line. Virgin Artemis, bow at shoulder, held a kneeling stag by the horns. Dionysos rode nude on a spotted panther. Athene had her shield and helmet, but not her Attic owl. Hephaistos wielded his hammer; Ares, his foot on a prone foe, glared under his crested helmet; Hermes laced a winged sandal. Clad in a narrow drift of veil, a little Eros beside her, Aphrodite sat in a flowered chair. It was observed, in undertones, that she had a look of Eurydike; she was still in the lying-in room; she would not appear today.

  The last float of the twelve received its fanfare. The thirteenth float came on.

  King Philip’s image had an eagle-headed throne with couchant leopards for arms. His feet rested on a winged bull with a Persian tiara and the face of a man. The artist had trimmed down his figure, left out his scars, and put back his age ten years. Allowing for this, he was very lifelike; one almost expected movement from the black painted eyes.

  There were cheers; but like a cold current in warm seas, there could be felt a flaw of silence. One old countryman murmured to another, “He ought to have been made smaller.” They looked askance at the line of jolting gods ahead, and made ancient averting signs.

  The chiefs of Macedon followed, Alexandros of Lynkestis and the rest. It was seen that even those from the back hills wore good loom-woven wool with border-work, and a gold brooch. Old folk recalled days of sheepskin cloaks, when bronze pins were riches; their tongues clucked between doubt and wonder.

  To the beat of deep-toned pipes playing a Dorian march, came the van of the Royal Guard, Pausanias leading. The men swaggered in their parade armor, smiling at friends in the crowd; a feast-day did not demand the sternness of maneuvers. But Pausanias looked straight on, at the tall doorway of the theater.

  There was a blare of archaic horns, and cries of “May the King live!”

  Philip paced on a white horse, in his purple cloak and gold crown. Half a length behind, at either side, rode his son-in-law and his son.

  The peasants made good-luck phallic signs at the bridegroom, and wished him offspring. But by the arch, a troop of young men, who had been waiting with filled lungs, yelled all together, “Alexander!”

  He turned his head smiling, and looked at them with love. Long after, when they were generals and satraps, they would boast of it to silence envy.

  The rear of the bodyguard came after; then, finishing the procession, the victims for the sacrifice, one for each god, led by the bull with a garland around his dewlaps, and gold foil on his horns.

  The sun floated up from its nets of light; everything glittered; the sea, the dewy grass, crystal cobwebs on yellow broom; the jewels, the gilding, the cool gleam of the burnished bronze.

  The gods had entered the theater. Through the tall gateway of the parodos, the cars drove round the orchestra one by one; the guests applauded; the resplendent images were lifted off, and put on bases near their altars. The thirteenth deity, who claimed no shrine but owned the precinct, was set down in the middle.

  Outside in the road, the King made a sign. Pausanias barked an order. The van of the Royal Guard wheeled smartly left and right, and fell back on the rear guard, behind the King.

  The theater was some hundred yards away. The chiefs, looking back, saw the Guard retire. The King, it seemed, had entrusted himself to them for this last lap of his progress. Pleased by the compliment, they opened their ranks for him.

  Noticed only by his own men, who thought it none of their business, Pausanias strode on towards the parodos.

  Philip saw the chiefs waiting. He walked his horse up to them, from the standing ranks of the Guard, and leaned down smiling. “Go on in, my friends. I shall come after.”

  They began moving; but one elderly laird stood planted by his bridle, and said with Macedonian forthrightness, “No guard, King? In all this crowd?”

  Philip leaned down and clapped his shoulder. He had been hoping someone would say it. “My people are guard enough. Let all these foreigners see it. Thanks for your kindness, Areus; but go on in.”

  As the chiefs went forward, he slowed his horse, falling back between the bridegroom and Alexander. From the crowd each side came a buzz of friendly voices. Ahead was the theater, packed with friends. His broad mouth smiled; he had looked forward to this moment of public proof. An elected King, whom these southerners had dared call tyrant; let them see for themselves if he needed the tyrant’s square of spearmen. Let them tell Demosthenes, he thought.

  He reined up and beckoned. Two servants came up to the younger men, and stood ready to hold their horses. “You now, my sons.”

  Alexander, who had been watching the chiefs go in, looked sharply round. “Are we not to go with you?”

  “No,” Philip said crisply. “Weren’t you told? I go in alone.”

  The bridegroom looked away, to hide his embarrassment. Were they going to bicker over precedence now, before everyone? The last of the chiefs was going through out of sight. He could not walk over by himself.

  Sitting upright on Oxhead’s scarlet saddlecloth, Alexander looked along the stretch of empty road, empty in sunlight; wide, trampled, wheel-rutted, hoof-marked; ringing with emptiness. At its end, in the triangle of deep shadow thrown by the parodos, was a gleam of armor, a line of red cloak. If Pausanias was there, he must have his orders?

  Oxhead pricked up his ears. His eye, bright as onyx, looked sideways; Alexander touched his neck with a finger; he stood like bronze. The bridegroom fidgeted. Why would the youth not move? There were times when one could understand the rumors. It was something about the eyes. There had been a day at Dodona; a
bitter wind, a fall of snow lying, he wore a sheepskin cloak…

  “Get down then,” said Philip impatiently. “Your brother-in-law is waiting.”

  Alexander glanced again at the dark gateway. He pressed with his knee, bringing Oxhead nearer, and looked with deep concentration into Philip’s face.

  “It is too far,” he said quietly. “It’s better if I go with you.”

  Philip raised his brows under his gold garland. It was clear enough now what the lad was after. Well, he had not earned it yet; let him not push for it. “That is my business. I will be judge of what is best.”

  The deep-shadowed eyes reached for his. He felt invaded. From any subject, it was an affront to stare at the King.

  “It is too far,” said the high clear voice, inexpressive, steady. “Let me go in with you, and I will pledge my life for yours…I swear it to you by Herakles.”

  Faint, curious murmurs began to be heard among the bystanders, aware of something unplanned. Philip, though growing angry, was careful of his face. Keeping down his voice, he said sharply, “That is enough. We are not going to the theater to act in tragedy. When I need you I will tell you so. Obey my orders.”

  Alexander’s eyes ceased their quest. His presence left them; they were as empty as clear grey glass. “Very well, sir,” he said. He dismounted; Alexandros followed with relief.

  Pausanias in the tall gateway saluted as they came. Alexander returned it in passing, while he spoke to Alexandros. They ascended the short ramp to the stage, acknowledged the acclamations, and took their seats.

  Outside, Philip touched his rein. With a stately gait, his well-trained charger went forward, undisturbed by noise. The people knew what the King was doing, admired it, and took care he heard. His anger passed; he had something better to think of. If the boy had chosen some more fitting time…

  He rode on, acknowledging the cheers. He would sooner have walked, but his limp robbed it of dignity. Already, through the twenty-foot-high parodos, he could glimpse the orchestra with its ring of gods. The music had struck up for him.