by Mary Renault
He had looked across at Hephaistion and smiled; but there was no need to say so.
“Egypt loved him. They welcomed him with hymns as their savior from the Persians. He honored all their temples that Ochos had profaned. I wish you had seen him laying out Alexandria. I don’t know how far it has gone up now, I don’t trust the governor; but I know what he wanted, and when I am there I shall see it done. There is only one thing he left no mark for: the tomb where we shall honor him. But I know the place, by the sea. I remember him standing there.”
Bagoas’ eyes had been fixed upon a light-point on his silver cup. He raised them. “What is it you want done?”
Silently, Ptolemy caught his breath. He had been in time.
“Stay here in Babylon. You refused Peukestes’ offer; no one else will make you his concern. Bear with it if they take your house for some creature of Perdikkas. Stay till the bier is ready and you know when it will set out. Then come to me. You shall have a house in Alexandria near where he lies. You know that in Macedon that could not be.”
In Macedon, he thought, the children would stone you in the street. But you have guessed that; there is no need to be cruel.
“Will you take my hand on it?” he said.
He held out his big-boned right hand, calloused from the spear-shaft and the sword, its seams picked out by the lamp as he held it open. Pale, slender and icy cold, Bagoas’ hand took it in a precise and steady grip. Ptolemy remembered that he had been a dancer.
In a last fierce spasm, Roxane felt her infant’s head thrust out of her. More gently, with swift relief, turned by a skillful midwife, the moist body slid after. She stretched her legs out, dripping with sweat and panting; then heard the child’s thin angry cry.
Shrill with exhaustion, she cried out, “A boy, is it a boy?”
Acclamation and praise and good-luck invocations rose in chorus, She gave a great groan of triumph. The midwife lifted the child to view, still on its blue-white cord. From the half-screened corner where he had vigilantly watched the birth, Perdikkas came forward, confirmed the sex, uttered a conventional phrase of good omen, and left the room.
The cord was tied, the afterbirth delivered; mother and child were washed with warm rose-water, dried, anointed. Alexander the Fourth, joint King of Macedon and Asia, was laid in his mother’s arms.
He nuzzled for warmth, but she held him at arms’ length to look at him. He was dark-haired.
The midwife, touching the fine fluff, said it was birth-hair that would fall away. He was still red and crumpled, his face closed up in the indignation of the newly born; but she could see through the flush an olive, not a rosy coloring. He would be dark, a Bactrian. And why not? Alone in a harsh alien element, missing the womb’s blind comfort, he began to cry.
She lowered him to her body, to take the weight from her arms. He hushed; the slave-girl with the feather fan had come back to the bedside; after the bustle, the women with silence and soft feet were setting to rights the rooms of the Royal Wife. Beyond the door, the courtyard with its fishpool lay under the mild winter sun. Reflected light fell on the dressing-table, and on the gold and silver toilet-set that had been Queen Stateita’s; her jewel-box stood beside it. All was triumph and tranquility.
The nurse came fussing up with the antique royal cradle, plated with gold and time-yellowed ivory. Roxane drew the coverlet over the sleeping child. Under her fingers, almost disguised by the elaborate embroidery, was a smear of blood.
Her stomach heaved. When she had moved into this room it had all been refurbished and redraped. But the bed was a fine one and they had not changed it.
She had stood by while Stateira writhed and tried to clutch at her and moaned “Help me! Help me!” and fumbled blindly with her clothes. Roxane had flung them back to see her beaten enemy, her son’s rival, come naked into the world he would never rule. Could it be true that the thing had opened its mouth and cried? Disturbed by her tightened fingers, the infant wailed.
“Shall I take him, madam?” said the nurse timidly by her side. “Would madam like to sleep?”
“Later.” She softened her grip; the child quieted and curled itself against her. He was a king and she was a king’s mother; no one could take it from her. “Where is Amestrin? Amestrin, who put this filthy cover on my bed? It stinks, it is disgusting, give me something clean. If I see it again, your back will know it.”
After panic scurryings, another cover was found; the state one, a year’s work in Artaxerxes’ day, was whisked out of sight. The baby slept. Roxane, her body loosening into comfort from its labor, sank into drowsiness. In a dream she saw a half-made child with the face of Alexander, lying in blood, its grey eyes staring with anger. Fear woke her. But all was well; he was dead and could do nothing, it was her son who would rule the world. She slept again.
322 B. C.
THE ARMY OF KING PHILIP was encamped in the Pisidian hills. Perdikkas, blood-spattered and smeared with ash, was picking his way down a stony path strewn with dead men and abandoned weapons. Above him, circling a cloud of stinking smoke, vultures and kites made exploring swoops, their numbers thickening as news of the banquet spread. The Macedonians, prompter than the birds, scavenged the charred ruins of Isaura.
Spared by Alexander because they had surrendered without a fight, the Isaurians had been left with orders to pull down the robber fort from which they had plagued their neighbors, and to live peaceably. In his long absence they had murdered his satrap and fallen back into old ways. This time, from bad consciences or from having less trust in Perdikkas than in Alexander, they had defended their craggy nest to the bitter end. When their outworks fell, they had locked into their houses their goods, their wives and children, set timber and thatch alight, and to the hellish music of the fires had hurled themselves on the Macedonian spears.
Some fifteen years of war had made Perdikkas almost nightmare-proof; in a few days he would be dining out on the story; but with the stench of burnt flesh still hanging in the air he had had enough for today, and had welcomed the news that a courier awaited him in his camp below. His brother Alketas, a hard man and his second in command, would oversee the raking of the cinders for half-melted silver and gold. His helmet was scorching hot; he took it off and wiped his sweating forehead.
From the royal tent of dyed and emblazoned leather, Philip came out and ran towards him. “Did we win?” he asked.
He was armed in cuirass and greaves, a thing he had insisted on. In Alexander’s day, when he had followed the army much as now, he had worn civil dress; but now that he was King, he knew what was due to him. He had in fact been eager to fight; but, used to obedience, had not insisted, since Alexander had never let him do it. “You’re all bleeding,” he said. “You ought to see a doctor.”
“It’s a bath I need.” When alone with his sovereign, Perdikkas dispensed with formality. He told him as much as it was good for him to know, went to his own tent, cleaned himself, put on a robe, and ordered the courier brought.
This person was a surprise. The letter he brought was reticent and formal; he himself had much to say. A hardy grizzled man in his early sixties, with a missing thumb lost at Gaugamela, he was a minor Macedonian nobleman, and not so much a messenger as an envoy.
With elation, tinged by well-founded misgiving, Perdikkas reread the letter to gain time for thought. TO PERDIKKAS, REGENT OF THE ASIAN KINGDOMS, FROM KLEOPATRA, DAUGHTER OF PHILIP AND SISTER OF ALEXANDER, GREETING. After the usual well-wishings, the letter glanced at their cousinship, recalled his distinguished services to Alexander, and proposed a conference, to discuss matters concerning the well-being of all the Macedonians. These matters were not specified. The last sentence disclosed that the Queen had set out already from Dodona.
The envoy, affecting negligence, was toying with his wine-cup. Perdikkas coughed. “Am I to hope that if I should beg the honor of the lady Kleopatra’s hand, my suit would be graciously received?”
The envoy gave a reassuring smile. “So far, the Kings ha
ve been elected only by the Macedonians in Asia. Those in the homeland might like their own chance to choose.”
Perdikkas had had a grueling and hideous, even though successful, day. He had come back for a bath, a rest and a drink, not to be offered at short notice the throne of Macedon. Presently he said, with a certain dryness, “Such happiness was beyond my hopes. I feared she might still be mourning Leonnatos.”
The veteran, whom Perdikkas’ steward had refreshed while he was waiting, settled into his chair. The wine was strong, with no more than a splash of water, Perdikkas having felt he needed it. The diplomat gave way visibly to the soldier.
“I can tell you, sir, why he was her first choice, for what it’s worth. She remembered him from her childhood at home. He climbed a tree once, to get down her cat for her, when he was a boy. You know what women are.”
“And in the end I believe they did not meet?”
“No. When he crossed from Asia to fight the southern Greeks, he’d only time to raise his troops in Macedon and ride on down. Bad luck that he fell before our victory.”
“A pity that his troops were so cut up. I hear he fought while he could stand. A brave man; but hardly the stuff of kings?”
“She was well out of it,” said the soldier bluntly. “All her friends tell her so. It was a fancy; she soon got over grieving. Lucky for her she has the chance to think better now.” He tipped back his cup; Perdikkas refilled it. “If she had seen you, sir, at Gaugamela …”
This word of power diverted them into reminiscence. When they came back to business, Perdikkas said, “I suppose the truth is, she wants to get away from Olympias.”
The envoy, flushed and relaxed, planked down his cup and leaned his arm on the table. “Sir. Let me tell you, between ourselves, that woman is a Gorgon. She’s eaten that poor girl piece by piece, till she’s hardly mistress of her house, let alone the kingdom. Not that she lacks spirit; but left as she is, without a man to stand by her, there’s no fighting Olympias. She has the Molossians treating her like a queen. She is a queen. She looks like a queen; she has the will of a king. And she’s Alexander’s mother.”
“Ah. Yes … So Kleopatra has a mind to leave her Dodona, and make a bid for Macedon?”
“She’s Philip’s daughter.”
Perdikkas, who had been thinking quickly, said, “She has a son by the late King.” He had no wish to be caretaker for a stepson.
“He’ll inherit at home, his granddam will see to that. Now Macedon … No woman has ever reigned in Macedon. But Philip’s daughter, married to a royal kinsman who’s ruled like a king already …” Abruptly, remembering something, he hitched at his belt-purse, and brought out a flat package wrapped in embroidered wool. “She sent you this, seeing it’s a long time since you had a sight of her.”
The portrait was painted with skill, in encaustic wax on wood. Even allowing for convention, which smoothed away personality like a blemish, it could be seen that she was Philip’s daughter. The strong hair, the thick upswept eyebrows, the resolute square face, had defeated the artist’s well-meant insipidity. Perdikkas thought, Two years younger than Alexander—about thirty-one, now. “A queenly and gracious lady,” he said aloud. “A dowry in herself, kingdom or no.” He found more of this kind to say, while he played for time. Danger was great; ambition also. Alexander had taught him long ago to assess, decide, and act.
“Well,” he said, “this is serious business. She needs something more than a yes. Let me sleep on this. When you dine with us tonight, I’ll tell them all you brought a letter from Olympias. She’s forever writing.”
“I have brought one. She approves, as you may well suppose.”
Perdikkas set the thick roll aside, summoned the steward to find his guest a lodging, and, left alone, sat with his elbows on the rough camp-table and his head between his hands.
Here he was found by his brother Alketas, whose servants carried two rattling sacks filled with stained, smoked gold, cups and arm-rings and necklaces and coin; the Isaurians had been successful robbers. The slaves gone, he showed Perdikkas the loot, and was annoyed by his abstraction. “Not squeamish?” he said. “You were there in India, when the men thought the Mallians had killed Alexander. You should have a strong stomach after that.”
Perdikkas looked at him in irritation. “We’ll talk later. Is Eumenes back in camp? Find him, he can bath and eat later, I have to see him now.”
Eumenes appeared quite shortly, washed, combed and changed. He had been in his tent, dictating his memoir of the day’s events to Hieronymos, a young scholar who, under his patronage, was writing a chronicle of the times. His light compact body was toughened and tanned from the campaign; soon he would be riding north to get his satrapy of Kappadokia in order. He greeted Perdikkas with a calm alert expectancy, sat down, and read the letter Perdikkas handed him. At the end, he allowed himself a slight lift of the brows.
Looking up from the scroll, he said, “What is she offering? The regency or the throne?” Perdikkas understood him perfectly. He meant, Which do you plan to take?
“The regency. Or would I be talking to you now?”
“Leonnatos did,” Eumenes reminded him. “And then decided that I knew too much.” He had, in fact, barely escaped with his life, having affirmed his loyalty to Alexander’s son.
“Leonnatos was a fool. The Macedonians would have cut his throat; and they’d cut mine if I disinherited Alexander’s boy. If they elect him when he comes of age, so be it. But he’s the Bactrian’s son; by that time, they may not be so fond of him. Then we’ll see. Meantime, I’ll have been King in all but name for fifteen years or so, and I shan’t complain.”
“No,” said Eumenes grimly. “But Antipatros will.”
Perdikkas sat back in his leather-slung camp-chair, and stretched out his long legs. “That’s the crux. Advise me. What shall I do with Nikaia?”
“A pity indeed,” said the Greek, “that Kleopatra didn’t write a few months sooner.” He sat reflecting, like a mathematician before a theorem. “You won’t need her now. But you’ve sent her the betrothal gifts. She’s the Regent’s daughter. And she’s on her way.”
“I offered for her too soon. Everything seemed in chaos; I thought I should make sure of an ally while I could … Alexander would never have tied his hands like that. He always made alliances when he could dictate the terms.” It was rarely, now, that he was self-critical; he must be disturbed, Eumenes thought. He tapped absently at the letter. Perdikkas noted that even his nails were clean.
“Antipatros puts out his daughters as a fisherman puts out lines.”
“Well, I took the bait. What now?”
“You’ve bitten at the bait. The hook’s not yet in your belly. Let us think.” His neat thin lips came together. Even on campaign, he shaved every day. Presently, looking up, he said crisply, “Take Kleopatra. Take her now. Send an escort to meet Nikaia; tell her you’re sick, wounded; be civil, but have her taken home. Act at once, before Antipatros is ready. Or he’ll hear of it, you won’t know how or when; and he’ll act before you’re ready.”
Perdikkas bit his lip. It sounded prompt and decisive; probably it was what Alexander would have done. Except that he would never have put himself in need of it. Among these doubts, a disturbing thought intruded: Eumenes hated Antipatros. The Regent had been snubbing him ever since he had been a junior secretary, advanced by Philip because of his quick mind. The old man had all the prejudices of his race against the effete, fickle, subtle men of the south. Eumenes’ loyalty, his distinguished war record, had never made any difference. Even when he was in Asia as Chief Secretary to Alexander, Antipatros had tried often to go over his head. Alexander, whom it irritated, had made a point of replying through Eumenes.
Now that Perdikkas had been counseled to burn his boats, he felt a certain flinching. He said to himself that here was an old enmity, of the kind that warps a man’s better judgment.
“Yes,” he said, affecting gratitude. “You are right. I’ll write by her env
oy tomorrow.”
“Better use word of mouth. Letters can go astray.”
“ …But I’ll tell her, I think, that I’ve already married Nikaia. It will be true by the time it reaches her. I’ll ask her to wait till I can decently get free. I’ll put the palace of Sardis at her disposal, and ask her to consider us betrothed in secret. That will give me room to maneuver.”
Seeing Eumenes looking at him in silence, he felt the need to justify himself. “If there were only Antipatros to consider … But I don’t like what I hear of Ptolemy. He’s raising too big an army down in Egypt. It only needs one satrap to make a kingdom of his province, and the empire will fall apart. We must wait a little and see what he means to do.”
A bland winter sun shone down through the columned window into Ptolemy’s small audience room. It was a handsome house, almost a small palace, built for himself by the previous administrator, whom Ptolemy had executed for oppression. The slight rise commanded a view of new straight streets and handsome public buildings, their pale unweathered stone touched up with paint and gilding. New wharves and quays fringed the harbor; hoists and scaffolding surrounded a couple of nearly finished temples ordered by Alexander. Another temple, less advanced, but promising to be the most imposing, stood near the waterfront, where it would dominate the prospect for incoming ships.
Ptolemy had had a busy but congenial morning. He had seen the chief architect, Deinokrates, about the sculpture on the temples; some engineers, who were replacing unsanitary canals with covered drains; and the heads of several homes, to whom he had restored the right to collect taxes. This, to the Egyptians who had suffered under his predecessor, meant something like a fifty percent tax reduction. A rapacious man, resolved to execute his commission and enrich himself as well, he had imposed forced levies and forced labor, extorted fortunes by threats to kill the sacred crocodiles, or to pull down villages for building-sites (which he would do in the end, when he had squeezed them dry). Moreover, he had done all this in the name of Alexander, which had so enraged Ptolemy that he had gone through the administration like a consuming fire. It had made him extremely popular, and he had remained so.
