The Novels of Alexander the Great

by Mary Renault

  Stateira lowered the letter and looked down at her grandmother. The child of two tall parents, she stood nearly six feet without her slippers. Much of her mother’s famous beauty had passed to her. She was queenly in everything but pride. “What shall we do?” she said.

  Sisygambis looked up impatiently under her white brows. “First finish the King’s letter.”

  “Madam grandmother, that is all.”

  “No,” said Sisygambis with irritation. “Look again, child. What does he say to me?”

  “Madam grandmother, that is the end.”

  “You must be mistaken. Women should not meddle with writing; I told him so, but he would have his way. You had better call a clerk, to read it properly.”

  “Truly, there is no more writing on the paper. May all be well with you. See, it stops here.”

  The strong lines of Sisygambis’ face slackened’ a little; her years showed like sickness. “Is the messenger still here? Fetch him, see if he has another letter. These men tire on the road and it makes them stupid.”

  The rider was brought, gulping from his meal. He pledged his head he had received one letter only, one from the King. He shook out his wallet before them.

  When he had gone, Sisygambis said, “Never has he sent to Susa without a word to me. Show me the seal.” But her sight had lengthened with age, and even at arms’ length she could not make out the figure.

  “It is his likeness, madam grandmother. It is like the one on my emerald, that he gave me on my wedding day; only here he has a wreath, and on mine he wears a diadem.”

  Sisygambis nodded, and sat awhile in silence. There were earlier royal letters in the care of the Head Chamberlain; but she did not like to let such people know that her eyes were failing.

  Presently she said, “He writes that he has been sick. He will be behindhand with all his business. Now he is overtaxing himself, as his nature is. When he was here, I saw he was short of breath … Go child, fetch me your women; you too, Drypetis. I must tell them what to pack for you.”

  Young Drypetis, the widow of Hephaistion (she was seventeen) moved to obey, then ran back to kneel beside the chair. “Baba, please come with us to Babylon.”

  Sisygambis rested her fine-boned old ivory hand on the young girl’s head. “The King has told you to hurry on the road. I am too old. And besides, he has not summoned me.”

  When the women had been instructed, and all the flurry had moved to the girls’ bedchamber, she sat on in her straight-backed chair, tears trickling down her cheeks and falling upon King Poros’ rubies.

  In the Royal Bedchamber of Babylon, now redolent of spices and of niter, the Egyptians who were the heirs of their fathers’ art pursued the elaborate task of embalming the latest Pharaoh. Shocked at the delay which would surely undo their skill, they had tiptoed in by dawnlight, and beheld the corpse with awed amazement. As their slaves brought in the instruments, the vessels and fluids and aromatics of their art, the single watcher, a white-faced Persian youth, extinguished his lamp and vanished like a ghost in silence.

  Before slitting the torso to remove the entrails, they remembered, far though they were from the Valley of the Kings, to lift their hands in the traditional prayer, that it might be lawful for mortals to handle the body of a god.

  The narrow streets of ancient Babylon hummed with rumor and counterrumor. There were lamps burning all night. Days passed; the armies of Perdikkas and Meleager waited in armed truce; the infantry around the palace, the cavalry in the royal park, beside the horse-lines where Nebuchadrezzar had kept his chariots for the lion-hunt.

  Outnumbered four to one, they had discussed moving to the plains outside, where there was room for horse to deploy. “No,” said Perdikkas. “That would concede defeat. Give them time to take a look at their booby King. They’ll come round. Alexander’s army has never been divided.”

  On the parade ground and in the palace gardens, the men of the phalanx bivouacked as best they could. Stubbornly they clung to their victors’ pride and their rooted xenophobia. No barbarian should rule their sons, they told each other across the campfires, where their Persian women, whom Alexander had induced them to marry lawfully, were stirring their supper-pots. They had long ago spent Alexander’s dowries; not one man in a hundred meant to take home his woman when he was paid off.

  They thought with confused resentment of the young bloods in the Companions, drinking and hunting beside the sons of Persian lords with their curled beards and inlaid weapons and bedizened horses. It was well enough for the cavalry; they could afford to Persianize without losing face. But the foot-men, sons of Macedonian farmers, herdsmen and hunters, masons and carpenters, owned only what the wars had won them, their little hoards of loot, and, above all, the just reward for all their toils and dangers, the knowledge that whoever their fathers might have been, they were Alexander’s Macedonians, masters of the world. Clinging to this treasure of self-esteem, they spoke well of Philip, his modesty, his likeness to his great father, his pure Macedonian blood.

  Their officers, whose affairs took them into the royal presence, came back increasingly taciturn. The enormous business of Alexander’s empire could not come to a standstill. Envoys, tax-collectors, shipbuilders, officers of the commissariat, architects, disputing satraps seeking arbitration, still appeared in the anterooms; indeed, in augmented numbers, many having waited for audience through Alexander’s illness. Not only had they to be dealt with; they had to find a visible, believable King.

  Before each appearance, Meleager briefed Philip carefully. He had learned to go, unled, straight to his throne, without wandering off to speak to some chance person who had caught his eye; to keep his voice down so that he was seen, but not heard to speak, enabling Meleager beside him to proclaim suitable replies. He had learned not to call while enthroned for lemonade or sweets, or to ask permission from his guard of honor when he wanted to go outside. His scratching himself, picking his nose and fidgeting could never be quite controlled; but if his appearances were kept short, he presented as a rule a quiet and sober figure.

  Meleager had appointed himself to the post of Chiliarch, or Grand Vizier, created for Hephaistion and inherited by Perdikkas. Standing at the King’s right hand, flamboyantly panoplied, he knew that he looked impressive; but he knew too, all too well, what a soldier thinks when the chief to whom he has come for orders speaks through an intermediary and never looks him in the face. His officers, all of whom had had free access to Alexander, could not be kept out; nor could the royal guard. And all of them, he felt it through his skin, were looking at the stout stocky figure on the throne, the slack mouth and wandering stare, and seeing in mind’s eye the dynamic vanished presence, the alert responsive face, the serene authority, that now lay stilled forever in the locked Bedchamber, submerged in the embalmers’ bath of niter, preparing to abide the centuries.

  Beyond all this, Persian officers appointed by Alexander could not be refused audience, and were not fools. The thought of a concerted rising, against a mutinous divided army, gave him waking nightmares.

  Like other men who have indulged a long rancorous hate, he blamed all adversity upon its object, never considering that his hatred, not his enemy, had created his predicament. Like other such men before and after him, he saw only one remedy, and resolved to seek it.

  Philip was still in his old apartments, which, having been chosen for him by Alexander, were pleasant and cool, at least for Babylon in midsummer. When Meleager had tried to move him into more regal quarters, he had refused with shouts so loud that the palace guard had come running, thinking murder was being done. Here Meleager sought him, taking with him a kinsman, a certain Duris, who carried writing things.

  The King was occupied happily with his stones. He had a chest full, collected over thousands of miles of Asia as he trailed along after the army; pebbles he had picked up for himself, mixed with bits of amber, quartz, agate, old seals, and colored glass jewels from Egypt, which Alexander or Ptolemy or Hephaistion had brought h
im when they happened to remember. He had arranged them in a long winding path across the room, and was on his hands and knees improving it.

  At Meleager’s entrance he scrambled guiltily to his feet, clutching a favorite lump of Scythian turquoise, which he hid behind his back lest it be taken away.

  “Sire!” said Meleager harshly.

  Philip, recognizing this as a severe rebuke, hastened over to the most important chair, carefully stuffing the turquoise under the cushion.

  “Sir,” said Meleager standing over him, “I have come to tell you that you are in grave danger. No, don’t be afraid, I will defend you. But the traitor Perdikkas, who tried to steal Alexander’s body and rob you of the throne, is plotting to take your life, and make himself King.”

  Philip jumped to his feet, stammering incoherently. Presently Meleager made out, “He said … Alexander said … He can be King if he wants to. I don’t mind. Alexander told me they mustn’t make me King.”

  With some trouble, Meleager freed his arm from a grip he had feared would break it. “Sir, if he is King his first act will be to kill you. Your only safety is in killing him. See, here is the paper ordering his death.” Duris set it, with pen and ink, upon the table. “Just write PHILIP here, as I taught you. I will help you, if you like.”

  “And then you’ll kill him before he kills me?”

  “Yes, and all our troubles will be over. Write it here.”

  The blot with which he began did not efface the writing; and he produced, after that, a quite tolerable signature.

  Perdikkas’ lodging was one of the grace-and-favor houses built in the royal park by the Persian kings, and bestowed on his friends by Alexander. Around it were encamped the royal squires. They had attached themselves to Perdikkas as Alexander’s chosen Regent. Though they had not offered to wait upon his person, and he had known better than to ask it, they rode with his messages, and guarded him in their accustomed rota by day and night.

  He was consulting with Ptolemy when one of them came in. “Sir. An old man is asking for you.”

  “Thirty at least,” said Ptolemy flippantly. Perdikkas said crisply, “Well?”

  “He says, sir, he’s the servant of Arridaios.” The honorific Philip was not used on the Companions’ side of the river. “He says it’s urgent.”

  “Is his name Konon?” said Ptolemy sharply. “Perdikkas, I know this man. You had better see him.”

  “So I intended.” Perdikkas spoke rather stiffly. He found Ptolemy too easygoing and informal, traits which Alexander had regrettably not discouraged. “Bring him in, but search him for weapons first.”

  Old Konon, profoundly ill at ease, gave an old soldier’s salute, stood to attention, and said nothing till given leave.

  “Sir, with permission. They’ve made my poor master sign a paper against you. I was in his bedroom, seeing to his things, they never thought to look. Sir, don’t hold him to blame. They took advantage of him. He never meant harm to you, not of his own accord.”

  “I believe you,” said Perdikkas frowning. “But it seems that harm is done.”

  “Sir. If he falls into your hands, don’t kill him, sir. He was never any trouble, not in King Alexander’s day.”

  “Rest assured we have no such wish.” This man could be useful, his charge more useful still. “When the army returns to duty, I will have your master well cared for. Do you want to stay with him?”

  “Sir, yes sir. I’ve been with him nearly from a boy. I don’t know how he’d go on without me.”

  “Very good. Permission granted. Tell him, if he will understand you, that he has nothing to fear from me.”

  “I will, sir, and God bless you.” He left, saluting smartly.

  “An easy favor,” said Perdikkas to Ptolemy. “Did he think we could afford to kill Alexander’s brother? Meleager, now …”

  Later, his day’s business done, Perdikkas was sitting down to supper when raised voices sounded outside. From the window he saw a company of a hundred foot-soldiers. The squires on duty numbered sixteen.

  He was too old a campaigner to have changed into a supper-robe. In moments, with the speed of two decades’ practice, he had whipped his corselet from the stand and clasped it on. A panting squire dashed in, saluting with one hand while the other waved a paper.

  “Sir! It’s a summons from the rebels. A royal warrant they call it.”

  “Royal, eh?” said Perdikkas calmly. The missive was brief; he read it aloud.

  “PHILIP SON OF PHILIP KING OF THE MACEDONIANS AND LORD OF ASIA, To the former Chiliarch Perdikkas.

  You are hereby summoned to appear before me, to answer a charge of treason. If you resist, the escort has orders to use force.”

  “Sir, we can hold them. Do you want a message sent?”

  Not for nothing had Perdikkas served directly under Alexander. He laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, shaping his austere face into the needed smile. “Good lad. No, no message. Guard, stand to arms. I will talk to this squad of Meleager’s.” The squire’s salute had the faint reflection of a remembered ardor. Perhaps, thought Perdikkas, I can show Acting Chiliarch Meleager why I, and not he, got promoted to the Bodyguard.

  He had had twelve years to absorb a basic Alexander precept: Do it with style. Unlike Alexander, he had had to work for it, but he knew what it was worth. On his own account, needing instruction from no one, he could deliver a memorable dressing-down.

  Striding bareheaded onto the porch, the summons in his hand, he paused formidably for effect, and began to speak.

  He had recognized the officer—he had a good general’s memory—and reviewed in detail the last campaign in which they had all served under his own command. Alexander had once spoken highly of them. What did they suppose themselves to be doing, disgracing themselves like this; they who had once been men, and even, God help them, soldiers? Could they face Alexander now? Even before he was King, the wittol bastard had been used in intrigue against him; anyone else would have had him put out of the way; but he in the greatness of his heart had cared for him as a harmless innocent. If King Philip had wished a fool to bear his name, he would have said so. King Philip! King Ass. Who would believe that men of Alexander’s could come here as servants of Meleager, a man he had known too well to trust with a division, to sell the life of the man he himself had chosen to command them? Let them go back to their comrades, and remind them who they had been, and what they had sunk to now. Let them ask themselves how they liked it. They could now dismiss.

  After an uneasy, shuffling silence, the troop captain rapped out gruffly, “About turn! March.”

  Meantime, the squires on watch had been joined by every squire in hearing. When the troop departed, they gathered round Perdikkas and cheered. Without effort this time, he returned their triumphant grins. Almost, for a moment, he felt like Alexander.

  No, he thought as he went in. People used to eat him alive. They had to touch him, his hands, his clothes. I’ve seen them fighting to reach him. Those fools at Opis, when he’d forgiven them for rioting, demanded the right to kiss him … Well, that was his mystery, which I shall never have. But then, nor will anyone else.

  Slowly, against the stream, the rowers’ labor lightened sometimes by a flaw of wind from the south, the canopied barge meandered along the Tigris. On linen cushions stuffed with wool and down, waving their fans, the two princesses stretched like young cats, luxuriating in smooth movement and the cool air off the water, after the jolting heat of their covered wagon. Within the awning, their duenna was fast asleep. Along the towpath trundled the wagon and the baggage-cart, the escort of armed mounted eunuchs, the muleteers and the household slaves. When the caravan passed a village, all the peasants would gather on the bank to stare.

  “If only,” sighed Stateira, “he had not told us to hurry. One could go all the way by water, downstream to the Gulf, and up the Euphrates to Babylon.” She settled the cushions in her back, which had the ache of pregnancy.

  Drypetis, fingering her dark-blu
e widow’s veil, looked over her shoulder to be sure the duenna was sleeping. “Will he give me another husband?”

  “I don’t know.” Stateira looked away at the riverbank. “Don’t ask him yet. He won’t like it. He thinks you still belong to Hephaistion. He won’t let Hephaistion’s regiment ever have another name.” Feeling a desolate silence behind her, she said, “If I have a boy, I’ll ask him.” She lay back in the cushions and closed her eyes.

  The sun, splintering through tall clumps of papyrus, made shifting patterns in the rose-red light that filtered through her eyelids. It was like the sun-glowing crimson curtains of the wedding pavilion at Susa. Her face burned, as always when the memory came back to her.

  She had been, of course, presented to the King before. Grandmother had ensured that she made the deepest curtsey, before he took his tall chair and she her low one. But the wedding ritual could not be evaded; it had followed the Persian rite. She had been led in by her dead mother’s brother, a fine tall man. Then the King had risen from his chair of state, as the bridegroom must, to greet her with a kiss and lead her to the chair beside him. She had performed, for the kiss, the little genuflection Grandmamma had taught her; but then she had had to stand up, there was no way out of it. She was half a head taller, and ready to die of shame.

  When the trumpets had sounded, and the herald announced that they were man and wife, it was Drypetis’ turn. The King’s friend, Hephaistion, had stood up and come forward, the most beautiful man she had ever seen, stately and tall—with his dark-gold hair, he could have been one of the fair Persians—and taken her sister’s hand, matching her height to a hair. All the King’s friends, the other bridegrooms, had given a kind of sigh; she knew that when the King had stepped out to meet her they had been holding their breath. At the end, he and she had had to lead out the procession to the bridal chambers. She had wished that the earth might swallow her.

  In the crimson pavilion with its golden bed, he had likened her to a daughter of the gods (her Greek was quite good by then), and she had seen that he meant well; but since nothing could do away those dreadful moments, she would have preferred him to keep silence. He was a powerful presence, and she was shy; though the defect was his, it was she who had felt like an ungainly tent-pole. All she had been able to think about in the marriage bed was that her father had run away in battle, and Grandmother would never speak his name. She must redeem the honor of her house by courage. He had been kind, and hardly hurt her; but it had all been so strange, so overpowering, she could hardly utter a word. No wonder she had not conceived, and that though he had paid her visits of compliment while still at Susa, and brought her gifts, he had never once had her to bed again.