by Mary Renault
“You have been to Egypt?” Arybbas asked, surprised.
“Since my service with Alexander ended, I have traveled a little to pass my time. He spoke so much of Alexandria, I wished to see it for myself … You, sir, of course, were there at its foundation.”
He said no more, leaving Arybbas to ask questions. To these he replied obligingly, leaving loose ends which prompted further questions. These led to a modest confession that he had been granted an audience with the Satrap.
“As it happened, though officers and friends of Alexander had come from most of nearer Asia to join his army, I was the only one from Babylon, so he asked for news. He had heard, he said, that Alexander’s bier was to be a marvel, and asked who had been charged with it. When he knew, he exclaimed that Alexander himself could wish for no one better. ‘If only,’ he said, ‘Arybbas could be here to adorn the Founder’s temple.’ … Perhaps, sir, that is indiscreet of me.” Fleetingly, like a reflection upon water, appeared the smile which had entranced two kings. “But I don’t think that he would mind.”
They talked for some time, Arybbas having found his curiosity about Alexandria sharpened. Riding back to his house, he was aware he had been delicately probed; but he did not pursue this thought. If he knew what Ptolemy wanted, it might be his duty to divulge it; and this, he suspected, might be to his disadvantage.
In the thick-walled palace of red stone on the red-rock citadel of Sardis, Kleopatra and her women were settled in modest comfort by the standards of nearer Asia; in luxury by those of Epiros. Perdikkas had had the royal apartments refurbished and redraped, and staffed with well-trained slaves.
To Nikaia his bride, during their brief honeymoon, he had explained the arrival of the Molossian Queen by saying she was in flight from her mother, who had usurped her power and threatened her life; a daughter of Antipatros’ would believe anything of Olympias. After some ceremonious festivities suited to her rank, he had despatched the lady to an estate of his nearby, on the grounds that war continued and he would soon be taking the field. Returning to Sardis, he resumed his courtship of Kleopatra. His visits and costly gifts had all the conventions of betrothal.
Kleopatra had enjoyed her journey; the family restlessness had not passed her by. The sight of new horizons had consoled her even for leaving her son behind. His grandmother would treat him like a son of her own whom she could train for kingship. When she herself was married and living in Macedon, she could see him often.
She had assessed Perdikkas more as a colleague than a husband. He was a dominating man, and she had sounded him for signs that he would overrule and bully her. It seemed, however, he had the sense to know that without her support he could neither get nor keep the regency. Later, depending on how he behaved, she might help him to the throne. He would be a hard king; but after Antipatros a soft one would be despised.
With a certain detachment, she imagined him in bed with her, but doubted it would be of much importance to either of them once she had produced an heir. Clearly, it would be more valuable and more lasting to make a friend of him than a lover; this she was already doing with some success.
On this day of early spring he was to take the midday meal with her. Both preferred the informality of noon and the chance of undisturbed talk. The single dish would be good; he had found her a Karian cook. She studied his tastes against the time when they would be married. She did not mean to deal hardly with Antipatros’ poor plain little girl, as her mother had done with rivals; Nikaia could go back safe to her family. The Persian wife from Susa had done so long ago.
He arrived on foot from his quarters at the other end of the rambling palace, whose buildings clambered about the rock. He had dressed for her with a jeweled shoulder-brooch and a splendid arm-ring clasped with gold gryphon heads. His sword-belt was set with plaques of Persian cloisonné. Yes, she thought, he would make a convincing king.
He liked to talk of his wars under Alexander, and she to listen; only fragmented news had reached Epiros, and he had seen the whole. But before they had reached the wine, her eunuch chamberlain coughed at the door. A despatch had arrived for His Excellency’s urgent attention.
“From Eumenes,” he said as he broke the seal. He spoke rather too easily, aware that Eumenes called nothing urgent without good cause.
As he read, she saw his weathered tan go sallow, and sent out the slave who was serving them. Like most men of his time, he sounded the words he read (it was thought remarkable in Alexander to have suppressed this reflex); but his jaw had set; she heard only an angry mutter. Seeing his face at the end, she guessed that he would look like this in war. “What is it?” she said.
“Antigonos has fled to Greece.”
Antigonos … while he stared before him, she remembered that this was the Satrap of Phrygia, nicknamed One-Eye. “Was he not under arrest for treason? I suppose he was afraid.”
He gave a snort like a horse’s. “He, afraid? He has gone to betray me to Antipatros.”
She saw that he wanted only to be thinking ahead; but there was more here than she had been told, and she had a right to know. “What was the treason? Why was he being held?”
He answered savagely, “To stop his mouth. I found out that he knew.”
She took this in without trouble; she was not a daughter of Macedon for nothing. My father, she thought, would not have done it; nor Alexander. In the old days … must we go back to that? She only said, “How did he come to know?”
“Ask the rats in the wall. He was the last man I’d have confided in. He was always close with Antipatros. He must have smelled something and sent a spy. It’s all one now, the harm’s done.”
She nodded; there was no need to spell it out. They must be married with royal ceremony before attempting Macedon. There was no time now; Antipatros would be marching north from Aitolia the moment he got the news. A scrambled wedding would bring them nothing but scandal. She thought, This will mean war.
He swung himself down from his dining-couch and began to stride the room; she had a stray thought that they might as well be married already. Wheeling round, he said, “And I still have to deal with those accursed women.”
“What women?” She let her voice sharpen; he was keeping too much, lately, to himself. “You’ve said nothing of women; who are they?”
He made a sound, compounded of impatience and embarrassment. “No. It was hardly fitting; but I should have told you. Philip, your brother ♥”
“Pray, don’t call that wittol my brother!” She had never shared Alexander’s tolerance of Philinna’s son. Her only passage of arms with Perdikkas had taken place when he had wanted to install the King in the palace, as became his rank. “If he comes, I go.” He had seen in her face a flash of Alexander’s will. Philip had stayed in the royal tent; he was used to it, and had no thought of any other arrangement. “What has he to do with women, in God’s name?”
“Alexander betrothed him to Adeia, your cousin Amyntas’ daughter. He even granted her the royal name of Eurydike, which she’s made a point of using. I don’t know what he meant by it. Shortly before he died, Philip took a turn for the better. Alexander seemed pleased. You’d not know, it’s too long since you saw either of them. Alexander took him along in the first place to keep him safe out of the way, in case someone should use him in Macedon. Also, as he told me one night when he was drunk, because Olympias might have killed him if he was left behind. But he got a kind of fondness for him, after taking care of him all those years. He was glad to see him looking more like a man, and let him be seen with him, helping at the sacrifices and so on. Half the army saw it, that’s why we’ve the trouble we have today. But there were no plans for any wedding. If he’d not fallen ill, he’d have marched to Arabia within the month. In the end, I expect, the marriage would have been by proxy.”
“He never told me!” For a moment her face was an injured child’s; a long story was there, if Perdikkas had cared to read it.
“That was on account of your mother. He was afr
aid, if she knew, she’d do the girl an injury.”
“I see,” said Olympias’ daughter, without surprise. “But he should never have done it. Of course we must free her now, poor child.” He did not answer. In a new voice of authority, she said, “Perdikkas, these are my kin. It is for me to say.”
“Madam, I know.” He spoke with studied respect; he could well afford it. “But you have misunderstood. Antipatros canceled the contract with my agreement, some months ago. In his absence, without his leave, her mother Kynna has brought the girl to Asia. They are demanding that the marriage shall proceed.”
His exasperation spoke for his truth. “Shameless!” she cried. “There you see the barbarian blood!” It might almost have been Olympias speaking.
“Indeed. They are true Illyrians. I hear that they traveled as far as Abdera dressed as men, and carrying arms.”
“What will you do with them? I can have no dealings with such creatures.”
“They will be dealt with. I have no time; I must meet with Eumenes, before Antipatros crosses to Asia. Krateros will be sure to join him, which is much worse. The men love Krateros … My brother will have to meet them, and keep them from making mischief.”
Presently he left to make his dispositions. One of these was to send to Ephesos, summoning Roxane and her child. He had known better than to quarter the Bactrian on the daughter of Philip and Olympias; besides, if she knew of their plans she would probably have him poisoned. But now it was time to move, and she must follow the army. At least, he thought, she was used to that.
On the high road to the Syrian coast, flashing in the sun and ringing all its bells, the bier of Alexander trundled towards Issos. The sixty-four mules drew it, four yoke-poles hitching each four teams of four. The mules wore gold wreaths, and little gold bells on their cheeks. Their tinkling, and the deep clear chime of the bells upon the bier, mingled with the shouts of the muleteers.
In the shrine, between the gold columns and the shimmering golden nets, the sarcophagos lay draped with its purple pall. On it was displayed Alexander’s panoply of arms, his helmet of white iron, his jeweled sword-belt, his sword and shield and greaves. The cuirass was the parade one; the one he had used in battle was too worn and hacked to match the splendors around.
When the iron-bound felloes of the gold-sheathed wheels jolted on rough ground, the bier only swayed gently; there were hidden springs above the axles. Alexander would come whole to his tomb. Veterans in the escort said to each other that if he had been anywhere near as careful of his body while he was alive, he would be with them yet.
All along the road sightseers stood in expectant clusters, awaiting the sound of the distant bells. The fame of the bier had far outstripped its progress. Peasants had walked a day from mountain hamlets, and slept in the open to await it; riders on horses or mules or asses kept along by it for miles, unwilling to relinquish it. Boys ran themselves to a standstill, dropping like spent dogs when the escort struck camp at night, creeping to the cook-fires to beg a crust, and listening half in dreams to the soldiers’ tales.
At each town on the way, sacrifices were offered to the deified Alexander; the local bard would extol his deeds, inventing marvels when his store of history failed. Arybbas presided calmly over these solemnities. He had had Ptolemy’s letter, and knew what he would do.
Save for his one visit to Arybbas’ tent, Bagoas made himself imperceptible. By day he rode among the changing sightseers; at night he slept among the Persian soldiers who formed the rear guard. They all knew who he was, and no one troubled him. He was keeping-faith with his lord, as a true follower of Mithra ought. They respected his pious pilgrimage, and thought no more of it.
Kynna and her daughter had traveled as armed men, sleeping in their baggage-cart with their retainers in the open round them, till they could take ship from Abdera. There the people were Greek, there was plenty of merchant shipping, and the only question asked was whether they could pay. Kynna, who could deceive no one at close quarters, resumed female dress; Eurydike traveled as her son.
The ship carried hides on deck; the retainers found them a grateful bed at night, but their smell made Eurydike sick at the first flurry of wind. At last, they sailed into the green sheltering arms of the long gulf of Smyrna. From now on, their progress must be very different.
Smyrna consisted of ancient ruins, an old village, and a brand-new town refounded by Alexander, whom the harbor had impressed. The traffic had grown with his conquests, and it was now a busy port. Here they would be seen and spoken of; though Babylon was still far off, they must think about appearances. The old man who acted as their major-domo—he remembered Amyntas’ father—went before them to seek good lodgings, and hire transport for the long journey overland.
He returned with startling news. The journey to the east was not required of them. Perdikkas, and King Philip with him, were no further off than Sardis, some fifty miles.
They felt a shock, as people do when a distant crisis leaps up close; then told each other that luck was speeding them. Eurydike went ashore with a long cloak over her tunic, and, in the lodging, assumed himation and robe.
They must travel at once with public consequence, a king’s betrothed traveling to her bridal. They should of course have been met at the port by a kinsman or friend of the groom; but the greater their state, the less they would be questioned. They could afford lavishness for so short a journey; Amyntas’ estates had never been confiscated, their quiet life had not been due to poverty.
When, two days later, they set out, their train was an imposing one. Thoas the major-domo, who had purchased them maids and porters, reported that according to people here they should have a eunuch chamberlain. Kynna, much outraged, replied that they were Greek, as was her daughter’s bridegroom, and they had not crossed to Asia to adopt the disgusting customs of the barbarians. Alexander, she had heard, had been given too much that way.
The faithful Thoas, transacting all this business, made no secret of his ladies’ rank, or of their purpose. It was no spy, but the eternal gossip of travelers on the road, that ran ahead of them with the news to Sardis.
The field of Issos still yielded up old weapons and old bones. Here, where Darius had first fled from Alexander’s spear leaving mother and wife and children to await the victor, two armies sacrificed a milk-white bull before the golden bier. Ptolemy and Arybbas poured incense side by side. The escort had been much moved by Ptolemy’s address, affirming the divine hero’s wish that his body return to his father Ammon.
Each of Arybbas’ men had been given a hundred drachmas, a bounty worthy even of Alexander. Arybbas himself had received, in private, a talent of silver, and in public the rank of general in the Satrap’s army, whither all his Macedonian troops had agreed to follow him. There was a feast at night in Alexander’s honor; a whole spit-roast sheep and an amphora of wine to each campfire. Next morning, satrap and general riding either side the bier, the funeral cortege turned south towards the Nile.
Bagoas, whose name had been proclaimed in no citation, followed behind the rear guard. The other Persians had gone home; but the troops from Egypt made the column a very long one, and he was far, now, from the bier. When he topped a rise, he could just see its glittering crest. But he rode contented. His task was done, his god was served; and there would still be his fame to tend in his chosen city. A Greek might have seen in him the serenity of the initiate, fresh from a celebration of his mystery.
Kynna’s caravan was within a day’s journey from Sardis. They were not hurrying; they meant to arrive there next morning before the heat began. Its fame had reached even Macedon for wealth and luxury; the bride of a king must not be outshone by his subjects. Overnight they would prepare their entry.
Along the road, the stony heights were topped with old forts, newly repaired by Alexander to command the passes. They passed rock-slabs carved with symbols, and inscriptions in unknown writing. The travelers who passed them making for the port were all barbarians, strange to sight an
d smell; Phoenicians with blue-dyed beards, Karians with heavy earrings dragging down their lobes; a train of Negro carriers bare to the waist, their blackness strange and terrible to a northern eye used only to the red-haired slaves from Thrace; sometimes a trousered Persian, the legendary ogre of Greek children, with embroidered hat and curved sword.
To Eurydike all was adventure and delight. She thought with envy of world-wandering Alexander and his men. Kynna, beside her under the striped awning, kept a cheerful countenance, but felt her spirits flag. The alien speech of the passers-by, the inscrutable monuments, the unknown landscape, the vanishing of all she had pictured in advance, were draining her of certainty. Those black-veiled women, carrying burdens beside the donkeys their menfolk rode, if they knew her purpose would think her mad. The two-wheeled cart jolted over stones, her head was aching. She had known that the world was vast, that Alexander in ten years had never reached the end of it; but at home in her native hills it had no meaning. Now, on the mere threshold of the illimitable east, she felt like a desolation its indifferent strangeness.
Eurydike, who had been admiring the defenses of the forts and pointing out their chain of beacons, said, “Is it true, do you think, that Sardis is three times as big as Pella?”
“I daresay. Pella is only two generations old; Sardis ten maybe, or even more.” The thought oppressed her. She looked at the girl in her careless confidence, and thought, I brought her here from home, where she could have lived out her life in quiet. She has no one but me to turn to. Well, I am healthy and still young.
Night would soon fall. An outrider brought news that they were within ten miles of Sardis. Soon they must find a camping-place. A rocky turn shut off the westering sun, and the road grew dusky. The slope above them, dark against a reddening sky, was scattered with great boulders. Somewhere among them a man’s voice called, “Now!”
