The Novels of Alexander the Great

by Mary Renault

  “Macedonians. I see you do not wish to choose a king from the offspring of the conquered.”

  There was loud applause. The men, who had all come armed—it was the proof of their voting right—beat their spears on their shields till the high hall echoed. Ptolemy raised a hand for quiet.

  “We do not know if either wife of Alexander will bear a boy. If one or both should, when they come of age they must be brought before you and your sons, for Assembly to decide whom the Macedonians will accept. In the meantime, you await Alexander’s heir. But who will act for him? Here before you are those whom Alexander honored with trust. Lest too much power go to one man, I propose a Council Of Regency.”

  The voices were tempered. Reminded that in fifteen years or so they could still reject both claimants, they saw where the day’s serious business lay. Ptolemy said into the new quiet, “Remember Krateros. Alexander trusted him like himself. He sent him to govern Macedon. That is why he is not present now.”

  That got home to them. They honored Krateros next to Alexander; he was of royal stock, capable, brave, handsome and careful of their needs. Ptolemy could feel the eyes of Perdikkas, red-hot in his back. Let him make the best of it; I did as I had to do.

  As they buzzed and muttered below, Ptolemy thought suddenly, Only a few days back we were all alike the Friends of Alexander, just waiting for him to get up again and lead us. What are we now, and what am I?

  He had never set great store on being Philip’s son; it had cost him too much in childhood. Philip had been a nobody, a younger son held hostage by the Thebans, when he was born. “Can’t you make your bastard behave?” his father would say to his mother when he was in trouble. Philip had won him more than one boy’s share of beatings. Later, when Philip was King and he himself a royal squire, his luck had turned; but what he had learned to care for was not being Philip’s son, if indeed he was. He had cared, with affection and with growing pride, to be Alexander’s brother. Never mind, he thought, whether it is the truth of my blood, or not. It is the truth of my heart.

  A new voice broke his brief reverie. Aristonous, one of the Bodyguard, came forward to point out that whatever Alexander might have meant, he had given his ring to Perdikkas. He had looked around first, and knew what he was doing. This was fact, not guesswork; and Aristonous was for abiding by it.

  He spoke simply and frankly, and carried the Assembly. They shouted Perdikkas’ name, and many called to him to take back the ring. Slowly, scanning them, he took a few steps forward towards it. For a moment his eye met Ptolemy’s, noting him in the way a man notes a newfound enemy.

  It would not yet do, Perdikkas thought, to look over-eager. He needed another voice in Aristonous’ support.

  The hall, crowded with sweating men, was stiflingly close and hot. To the stink of humanity was added that of urine, where a few men had surreptitiously relieved themselves in corners. The generals on the dais were growing stupefied by their varied feelings of grief, anxiety, resentment, impatience and frustration. Suddenly, shouting something indistinct, an officer elbowed his way forward through the crowd. What, they all thought, can Meleager have to say?

  He had been a phalanx commander since Alexander’s first campaign, but had risen no higher. Alexander had confided to Perdikkas, one night at supper, that he was a good soldier if one did not stretch his mind.

  He arrived below the dais, red-faced with the heat, with anger, and, by his looks, with wine; then lifted a harsh furious voice which stunned the crowd almost silent. “That’s the royal ring! Are you letting that fellow take it? Give it him now, he’ll keep it till he dies! No wonder he wants a king who’s not yet born!”

  The generals, calling for order, were barely heard above the sudden roar. Meleager had aroused, from a kind of restless torpor, a mass of men who had not been heard before, the mental lees of the crowd. They took notice now, as they would of a knife-duel in the street, a man beating his wife, or a vicious dogfight; and shouted for Meleager, as if for the winning dog.

  In the camp, Perdikkas could have restored order in minutes. But this was Assembly; he was not so much Commander-in-Chief as candidate. Repression might seem to forecast tyranny. He made a gesture of tolerant contempt, meaning “Even such a man must be heard.”

  He had seen the naked hatred in Meleager’s face. The rank of their fathers had been much the same; they had both been royal squires to Philip; both had looked with secret envy at the tight-knit circle round the young Alexander. Then, when Philip was assassinated, Perdikkas had been the first to run down the fleeing assassin. Alexander had praised him, noticed and promoted him. With promotion came opportunity; he had never looked back. When Hephaistion died, he had been given his command. Meleager had remained an infantry phalanx leader, useful if not too much was put on him. And, as Perdikkas saw, the knowledge that burned him was that they had started equal.

  “How do we know,” Meleager shouted, “that Alexander gave him anything? Whose word do we have for it? His and his friends’! And what are they after? Alexander’s treasure here, which all of us helped to win! Will you stand for that?”

  The noise turned to turmoil. The generals, who had thought that they knew men, saw incredulously that Meleager was beginning to lead a mob; men ready to sack the palace like a conquered town. Chaos broke out around it.

  Perdikkas summoned, desperately, all his expert powers of dominance.

  “Halt!” he thundered. There was a reflex response. He barked his orders; sufficient men obeyed them. Solid ranks with locked shields formed before the inner doors. The yelling sank to growls. “I am glad to see,” said Perdikkas in his deep voice, “that we still have here some soldiers of Alexander.”

  There was a hush, as if he had invoked the name of an offended god. The mob began to lose itself in the crowd. The shields were lowered.

  In the uncertain pause, a rustic voice, from somewhere deep in the press, made itself heard. “Shame on you all, I say! Like the Commander says, we’re soldiers of Alexander. It’s his blood we want to rule us, not regents for foreign children. When we’ve Alexander’s true-born brother, here in this very house.”

  There was an astonished silence. Ptolemy, stunned, felt all his well-considered decisions shaken by a surge of primitive instinct. The ancient throne of Macedon, with its savage history of tribal rivalries and fratricidal wars, reached out its beckoning spell. Philip—Alexander—Ptolemy …

  The peasant spearman below, having gained a hearing, went on with gathering confidence. “His own brother which King Philip himself acknowledged, as every one of you knows. Alexander always cared for him like his own. I do hear say he was backward as a boy, but it’s not a month since the both of them were sacrificing for their father’s soul at the household altar. I was on escort, and so were my mates here. He done everything right.” There were sounds of assent. Ptolemy could barely repress the stare and dropped jaw of utter stupefaction. Arridaios! They must be mad.

  “King Philip,” persisted the soldier, “married Philinna lawful, which was his right to have more wives than one. So I say, pass by the foreign babes, and let’s have his son, which is his rightful heir.”

  There was applause from law-abiding men, who had been shocked by Meleager. On the dais, the silence was general and appalled. Simple or devious, not one of them had thought of this.

  “Is it true?” said Perdikkas quickly to Ptolemy through the noise. “Did Alexander take him to the shrine?” Urgency overcame enmity; Ptolemy would surely know.

  “Yes.” Ptolemy remembered the two heads side by side, dark and fair, the apprentice piece and the sculptor’s. “He’s been better lately. He’s not had a fit in a year. Alexander said he must be kept in mind of who his father was.”

  “Airidaios!” came a growing shout. “Give us Alexander’s brother! Long live Macedon! Arridaios!”

  “How many saw him?” said Perdikkas.

  “The Companion escort and the foot-guard, and anyone looking on. He behaved quite properly. He always does …
did, with Alexander.”

  “We can’t have this. They don’t know what they’re doing. This must be stopped.”

  The speaker, Peithon, was a short wiry man with a foxily pointed, rufous face and a sharp foxy bark. He was one of the Bodyguard, a good commander, but not known for the spirit of persuasion. He stepped out, forestalling Perdikkas, and snapped, “Alexander’s brother! You’d do better to choose his horse!”

  The bite in his voice produced a brief, but not friendly silence; he was not on the parade ground now. He went on, “The fellow’s a halfwit. Dropped on his head as a baby, and falls down in fits. Alexander’s kept him like a child, with a nurse to tend him. Do you want an idiot for a king?”

  Perdikkas swallowed a curse. Why had this man ever been promoted? Competent in the field, but no grip on morale in quarters. He himself, if this fool had not stepped in, would have recalled to the men the romantic winning of Roxane, the storming of the Sogdian Rock, the victor’s chivalry; winning back their minds to Alexander’s son. Now their feelings had been offended. They saw Arridaios as a victim of obscure intrigues. They had seen the man, and he had behaved like anyone else.

  Alexander was always fortunate, thought Ptolemy. Already people wore his image cut on rings, for luck-charms. What spiteful fate inspired him, so near his end, with this kindly impulse towards a harmless fool? But, of course, there was a ceremony to come, at which he must appear. Perhaps Alexander had thought of that …

  “Shame!” the men were shouting up to Peithon. “Arridaios, Arridaios, we want Arridaios!” He yapped at them; but they drowned his voice with boos.

  Nobody noticed, till too late, that Meleager was missing.

  It had been a long, dull day for Arridaios. No one had come to see him except the slave with his meals, which had been overcooked and half cold. He would have liked to hit the slave, but Alexander did not allow him. Someone from Alexander came nearly every day to see how he was, but today there had been no one to tell about the food. Even old Konon, who looked after him, had gone off just after getting-up time, saying he had to attend a meeting or some such thing, and hardly listening to a word he said.

  He needed Konon for several things: to see he had something nice for supper, to find him a favorite striped stone he had mislaid, and to say why there had been such a terrible noise that morning, wailing and howling which seemed to come from everywhere, as if thousands of people were being beaten at once. From his window on the park, he had seen a crowd of men all running towards the palace. Perhaps, soon, Alexander would come to see him, and tell him what it was all about.

  Sometimes he did not come for a very long time, and they said he was away on a campaign. Arridaios would stay in camp, or sometimes, as now, in a palace, till he came back again. Often he brought presents, colored sweets, carved painted horses and lions, a piece of crystal for his collection, and once a beautiful scarlet cloak. Then the slaves would fold the tents and they would all move on. Perhaps this was going to happen now.

  Meantime, he wanted the scarlet cloak to play with. Konon had said it was far too hot for cloaks, he would only make it dirty and spoil it. It was locked in the chest, and Konon had the key.

  He got out all his stones, except the striped one, and laid them out in pictures; but not having the best one spoiled it. A flush of anger came over him; he picked up the biggest stone and beat it on the table-top again and again. A stick would have been better, but he was not allowed one, Alexander himself had taken it away.

  A long time ago, when he lived at home, he had been left mostly with the slaves. No one else wanted to see him. Some were kind when they had time, but some had mocked him and knocked him about. As soon as he began to travel with Alexander, the slaves were different and more polite, and one was even afraid of him. It seemed a good time to get his own back, so he had beaten the man till his head bled and he fell down on the floor. Arridaios had never known till then how strong he was. He had gone on hitting till they carried the man away. Then, suddenly, Alexander had appeared; not dressed for dinner, but with armor on, all dirty and splashed with mud, and out of breath. He had looked quite frightening, like a different person, his eyes pale grey and large in his dirty face; and he had made Arridaios swear on their father’s head never to do such a thing again. He had remembered it today when his food was late. He did not want his father’s ghost to come after him. He had been terrified of him, and had sung with joy on hearing he was dead.

  It was time for his ride in the park, but he was not allowed to go without Konon, who kept him on a leading-rein. He wished Alexander would come, and take him again to the shrine. He had held everything nicely, and poured on the wine and oil and incense after Alexander did, and had let them take the gold cups away though he would have liked to keep them; and afterwards, Alexander had said he had done splendidly.

  Someone was coming! Heavy feet, and a clank of armor. Alexander was quicker and lighter than that. A soldier came in whom he had never seen before; a tallish man with a red face and straw-colored hair, holding his helmet under his arm. They looked at one another.

  Arridaios, who knew nothing of his own appearance, knew still less that Meleager was thinking, Great Zeus! Philip’s face. What is inside it? The young man had, in fact, much of his father’s structure, square face, dark brows and beard, broad shoulders and short neck. Since eating was his chief pleasure he was overweight, though Konon had never allowed him to get gross. Delighted to see a visitor at last, he said eagerly, “Are you going to take me to the park?”

  “No, sir.” He stared avidly at Arridaios, who, disconcerted, tried to think if he had done anything wrong. Alexander had never sent this man before. “Sir. I have come to escort you to Assembly. The Macedonians have elected you their King.”

  Arridaios stared at him with alarm, followed by a certain shrewdness. “You’re telling lies. I’m not the King, my brother is. He said to me, Alexander said, “If I didn’t look after you, someone would try to make you King, and you’d end up being killed.” He backed away, eyeing Meleager with growing agitation. “I won’t go to the park with you. I’ll go with Konon. You fetch him here. If you don’t, I’ll tell Alexander of you.”

  His retreat was blocked by the heavy table. The soldier walked right up to him, so that he flinched instinctively, remembering boyhood beatings. But the man just stared into his eyes, and, very slowly, spoke.

  “Sir. Your brother is dead. King Alexander is dead. The Macedonians are calling for you. Come with me.”

  Since Arridaios did not move, he grasped his arm and guided him to the door. He came unresisting, not heeding where he was led, striving to come to terms with a world which Alexander did not rule.

  So expeditious had Meleager been that the crowd in the hall was still shouting “Arridaios!” when he himself appeared upon the dais. Confronted by this sounding sea of men, he gazed in a numb astonishment, giving a brief illusion of dignified reserve.

  Most of the dumbfounded generals had never seen him before; only a few of the men had glimpsed him. But every Macedonian over thirty had seen King Philip. There was a pause of perfect silence; then the cheers began.

  “Philip! Philip! Philip!”

  Arridaios sent a terrified look over his shoulder. Was his father coming, had he never been really dead? Meleager beside him caught the revealing change of countenance and whispered swiftly, “They are cheering you.” Arridaios gazed about, slightly reassured, but still bewildered. Why did they call so for his father? His father was dead. Alexander was dead …

  Meleager stepped forward. So much, he thought triumphantly, for that upstart Perdikkas and his unborn ward. “Here, Macedonians, is the son of Philip, the brother of Alexander. Here is your rightful King.”

  Spoken loudly and almost in his ear, it reached Arridaios with awful comprehension. He knew why all these men were here and what was happening. “No!” he cried, his high plaintive voice issuing incongruously from his large hirsute face. “I’m not the King! I told you, I can’t be King. Ale
xander told me not to.”

  But he had addressed himself to Meleager, and was inaudible beyond the dais, drowned by the cheering. The generals, appalled, all turned upon Meleager, talking across him. He listened with mounting fear to the loud angry voices. Clearly he recalled Alexander’s large deep-set eyes, fixed upon his, warning him of what would happen if they tried to make him King. While Meleager was quarreling with the tall dark man in the middle of the dais, he bolted for the now unguarded inner door. Outside, in the warren-like passages of the ancient palace, he wandered sobbing to himself, seeking the way back to his familiar room.

  In the hall, new uproar began. None of this had precedent. Both the last two kings had been elected by acclamation, and led with traditional paeans to the royal palace at Aigai, whence each had confirmed his accession by directing his predecessor’s funeral.

  Meleager, wrangling with Perdikkas, had not missed his fugitive candidate till he was warned by sounds of derision from the floor. Feeling was swinging against him; the powerful presence of Perdikkas had appeal for men seeking some source of confidence and strength. Meleager saw that only instant resource would avail. He turned and ran, followed by boos, through the door Arridaios had used. The most vocal of his supporters—not the loot-hungry mob, but kinsmen and fellow-clansmen and men with grudges against Perdikkas—took alarm and hurried after.

  Before long they ran down their quarry, standing where two passages met, debating with himself which way to turn. At sight of them he cried out, “No! Go away!” and started to run. Meleager grasped his shoulder. He submitted, looking terror-stricken. Clearly in this state he could not appear. Gently, calmingly, Meleager changed his grip to a protective caress.

  “Sir, you must listen. Sir, you’ve nothing to fear. You were a good brother to Alexander. He was the rightful King; it would have been wrong, just as he said, for you to take his throne. But now he is dead, and you are the rightful King. The throne is yours.” A flash of inspiration came to him. “There is a present for you on it. A beautiful purple cloak.”