by Mary Renault
“Then we divide the army?” His voice was neutral; a Greek among Macedonians had said enough.
“Needs must. You shall go north, and refuse Antipatros the Hellespont. I will settle with Ptolemy, and settle for good … But before we march, we must have this accursed wedding. The men won’t move else. I know them too well.”
Later that day, Perdikkas spent an hour reasoning with Kleopatra. In the end, with flattery, cold logic, appeal, and as much charm as he could conjure, he persuaded her to act as Eurydike’s matron of honor. The troops were set on the marriage; it must be done with a good grace. Any grudging would be remembered against them both, which they could not afford.
“The girl was a child at nurse,” he said, “when they murdered Philip. I doubt even Amyntas was more than on the fringe of it. I was there when he was tried.”
“Yes, I daresay. But it is all disgusting. Has she no shame at all? Well, you have dangers enough without my making more for you. If Alexander was willing to give it countenance, I suppose I can do the same.”
Eumenes did not await the feast. He marched at once to meet the forces of Antipatros and Krateros (another of his sons-in-law); leading the Macedonians with their loose and dubious loyalty to the alien Greek. For Eumenes, that was an old story. Perdikkas, whose business was less urgent, stayed on another week to give his troops their show.
Two days before the wedding, a flustered maid announced to Eurydike in her inner room—built for the chief wife of old Kroisos—that the Queen of the Epirotes had come to visit her.
Kleopatra arrived in state. Olympias had not stinted her since she left home; meanness had never been one of her sins. Her daughter came dressed like a queen, and with queenly gifts: a broad gold necklace, a roll of Karian embroidery stitched with lapis and gold. For a moment, Eurydike was overwhelmed. But Kynna had trained her in manners as well as war; she achieved a kind of naive dignity which moved Kleopatra against her will. She remembered her own wedding, to an uncle old enough to be her father, at seventeen.
The compliments paid, the formal sweet cakes tasted, she went dutifully over the wedding ritual. It was a dry business, since there could be no question of the sly feminine jokes traditional at such a conference. Careful correctness resulted. Kleopatra’s sense of duty nagged at her. This grave guarded girl, left alone in the world at fifteen; what did she know? Kleopatra smoothed her gown over her knees, and looked up from her ringed fingers.
“When you met the King”—how allude to so disgraceful an occasion?—“did you have time to talk with him? Perhaps you saw he is a little young for his years?”
Eurydike’s straight eyes met hers, deciding that she meant well and must be answered civilly. “Yes. Alexander told my mother so; and I see it is so.”
This was promising. “Then, when you are married, what do you mean to do? Perdikkas would give you an escort to your kin in Macedon.”
Eurydike thought, It is not quite a command, because it cannot be one. She answered quietly, “The King has a right that I should be his friend, if he needs a friend. I will stay for a while and see.”
Next day, such ladies of standing as Sardis could supply—wives of senior officers and administrators, with a few timid ornate Lydians—paid their respects. Later, in the quiet afternoon, sacred since Kroisos’ day to the siesta, came a different caller. A twittering maid announced a messenger from the household of the bridegroom.
Old Konon, when shown in, eyed the attendants meaningly. She sent them out, and asked what message he brought.
“Well, madam … to wish you health and joy, and God speed the happy day.” Delivered of this set speech, he swallowed audibly. What could be coming? Eurydike, dreading the unknown, looked withdrawn and sullen. Konon, his nervousness increased, marshaled his words. “Madam, he’s taken a real liking to you, that’s sure. He’s forever talking of Cousin Eurydike, and setting out his pretty things to show you … But, madam, I’ve cared for him man and boy, and I know his ways, which he sets store by, seeing he was ill-used before I came. If you please, madam, don’t turn me off. You’ll not find me taking liberties or putting myself forward. If you’ll just keep me on trial, to see if I suit; I won’t ask more.”
So that was all! In her relief she could have embraced him; but of course one must not show it. “Did I not see you with the King? Your name is Konon, is it not? Yes, you will be welcome to stay on. Please tell the King so, if he should ask.”
“He’s never thought to ask, madam. It would have put him in a terrible taking.” They eyed each other, a little relaxed, still cautious. Konon was reaching for words, even for the little that could be said at all. “Madam, he’s not used to big feasts, not without Alexander giving him the lead and seeing him through it. I daresay they told you, he has a bad turn sometimes. Don’t be afraid, if you just leave him to me, he’ll soon be right again.”
Eurydike said she would. Echoing silence engulfed them. Konon swallowed again. The poor girl would give anything to know what he didn’t know how to tell her—her groom had no notion that the act of sex could be performed with a second party. At length, turning crimson, he managed, “Madam, he thinks the world of you. But he’ll not trouble you. It wouldn’t be his way.”
She was not too naive to understand him. With as much dignity as she could summon, she said, “Thank you, Konon. I am sure the King and I will agree together, You have leave to go.”
Philip woke early on his wedding morning. Konon had promised that he could wear the purple robe with the great red star. Besides, he was going to be married to Cousin Eurydike. She would be allowed to stay with him, and he could see her whenever he liked. Perdikkas himself had said so.
That morning, the bath-water came in a big silver ewer, carried by two well-dressed young men who stayed to pour it over him, wishing him good luck. This, Konon explained, was because he was a bridegroom. He saw the young men exchange a grin across him; but such things often happened.
A good many people were singing and laughing outside the door. He was no longer in his familiar tent, but had a room in the palace; he did not mind, he had been allowed to bring all his stones. Konon explained that there was no room in the tent for a lady, while here she could stay next door.
The young men helped him put on the beautiful robe; then he was taken by Perdikkas to sacrifice at the little temple of Zeus at the top of the hill. Alexander had built it there, where fire had fallen from heaven. Perdikkas told him when to throw incense on the burning meat, and what to say to the god. He got everything right, and the people sang for him; but nobody praised him afterwards, as Alexander used to do.
Perdikkas, indeed, had had trouble enough to plan a convincing ceremony. Thanks to Alketas, the bride had no family to give the marriage feast. He was grateful to Kleopatra for consenting to hold the torch of welcome in the bridal chamber. But what mattered most, because the troops would see it, was the wedding procession.
Then, to compound his troubles, at midday two forerunners announced the approach of the lady Roxane. Since this affair, he had entirely forgotten having sent for her, and had not even asked her to the wedding.
Lodgings were hastily prepared; her closed litter was carried up through the city. The Sardians crowded to see; the soldiers gave a few restrained greetings. They had never approved of Alexander’s foreign marriages; but now he was dead, a kind of aura clung to her. Besides, she was the mother of his son. The child was with her. A Macedonian queen would have held him up for them to see; but Bactrian ladies did not show themselves in public. The child was teething and fretful, and could be heard whimpering as the litter passed.
Dressed in his wedding robe, and putting a good face on it, Perdikkas greeted her and invited her to the feast; prepared, he said, at short notice owing to the imminence of war.
“You told me nothing of it!” she said angrily. “Who is this peasant girl you have found for him? If the King is to marry, he should have married me.”
“Among Macedonians,” said Perdikkas frostily,
“a dead king’s heir does not inherit his harem. And the lady is granddaughter to two kings.”
A crisis of precedence new arose. Alexander and his officers had married their foreign wives by the local rites; Roxane, ignorant of Macedonian custom, could not be brought to see that Kleopatra was taking a mother’s place and could not be removed from it. “But I,” she cried, “am the mother of Alexander’s son!”
“So,” said Perdikkas, very nearly shouting, “you are the kinswoman of the bridegroom. I will send someone to explain the rite to you. See to it that your part is properly done, if you want your son accepted by the soldiers. Don’t forget they have the right to disinherit him.”
This sobered her. He had changed, she thought; grown colder, harsher, more overbearing. He had not forgiven Stateira’s death, it seemed. She was unaware that others had noticed a change as well.
Philip had looked forward all day to the wedding ride. It did not disappoint him. Not since the time he rode an elephant had he enjoyed himself so much.
He wore the purple robe, and a gold diadem. Eurydike beside him had a yellow dress, and a yellow veil flung back from a wreath of gold flowers. He had thought they would have the car all to themselves, and had been displeased when Perdikkas got up on the other side. Eurydike was married to him, and Perdikkas could not marry her as well. Hastily people had explained that Perdikkas was best man; but it was Cousin Eurydike he listened to. Now he was married, he felt much less frightened of Perdikkas; he had been on the point of pushing him out of the car.
Drawn by white mules, they drove along the processional Sacred Way, which bent and turned to bring it downhill without stairs. It was adorned with old statues and shrines, Lydian, Persian, Greek. Flags and garlands were everywhere; as the sun sank they were starting to light the torches. People were standing and cheering all the way, climbing up on the house-roofs.
The tasseled, sequin-netted mules were led by soldiers wearing scarlet cloaks and wreaths. Behind and in front, musicians played Lydian airs on flutes and pipes, shook sistra with their little tinkling bells, and clanged great cymbals. Auspicious cries in mingled tongues rose like waves. The sunset glow faded, the torches came out like stars. Full of it all, Philip turned and said, “Are you happy, Cousin Eurydike?”
“Very happy.” Indeed, she had imagined nothing to compare with it. Unlike her groom, she had never before tasted the pomps of Asia. The music, the shouts of acclamation, elated her like wine. This was her element, and till now she had never known it. Not for nothing was she the daughter of Amyntas, a king’s son who, when a crown was offered him, could not forbear to reach for it. “And now,” she said, “you must not call me cousin any more. A wife is more important than a cousin.”
The wedding feast was set out in the great hall, with a dais for the women in their chairs of honor, a flower-decked throne for the bride. Her gifts and her dowry were displayed on stands around her. With wondering and distanced eyes, she saw again the jewels and cups and vases, the bolts of fine dyed wool, which Kynna had brought with cherishing care from Macedon. Only one piece was missing, the silver casket which now held her calcined bones.
Kleopatra led her to the King’s high table to take her piece of the bride-loaf, sliced with his sword. It was clear that he had never handled a sword before; but he hacked a piece off bravely, broke it in two when told, and, as she tasted hers—the central rite of the wedding—asked her if it was nice, because his own piece was not sweet enough.
Back on her dais, she listened to a hymn by a choir of maidens; Lydians mostly, mangling the words, a few Greek daughters trying hard to be heard. Then she became aware that the women round her were murmuring together, stirring with little fidgets of preparation. With a sudden clutch in her midriff, she knew that when the song ended, they would lead her to the nuptial chamber.
All through the ride, nearly all through the feast, she had overleaped this moment, throwing her mind ahead to next month, next year, or living in the present only.
“Have you had instruction?”
She looked round with a start. The voice, with a strong foreign accent, came from just beside her. Not till this morning had she met the widow of Alexander. She had bowed to a small jeweled woman, stiff with embroideries of gold and pearl, rubies like pigeons’ eggs hanging from her ears. Her surface had been so stunning that she had seemed hardly human, a kind of splendid adornment for the feast. Now, Eurydike met the gaze of two large black eyes, their whites brilliantly clear between eyelids dark with kohl, fixed on her in concentrated malice.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“So, truly? I had heard your mother was a man, as well as your father. To look at you, one might think so.”
Eurydike gazed back, fascinated as the prey by the predator. Roxane, bright as a little shrike, leaned out from her chair of honor. “If you know all you should, you will be able to teach your husband.” Her rubies flashed; the song, rising to its climax, did not cover her rising voice. “To Alexander he was like a dog under his table. He trained him to heel, then sent him back to the kennel. It is my son who is King.”
The song was over. Along the dais there were agitated rustlings.
Kleopatra rose to her feet, as she had seen Olympias do it. The others stood up with her. After a moment Roxane followed, staring defiantly. In the formal, studied Greek of her father’s court, looking down from her Macedonian height at the little Bactrian, she said, “Let us remember where we are. And who we are, if we can. Ladies, come. The torches. Io, Hymen! Joy to the bride!”
“Look!” said Philip to Perdikkas, who had the place of honor beside him. “Cousin Eurydike is going away!” He scrambled anxiously to his feet.
“Not now!” Grabbing him by his purple robe, Perdikkas thumped him back on his supper-couch. With savage geniality he added, “She is changing her dress. We will take you to see her presently.”
The guests in hearing, even the elegant young Lydian servers who had picked up a bit of Greek, made stifled noises. Perdikkas, lowering his voice, said, “Now listen to the speeches, and when they look at you, smile. We are going to drink your health.”
Philip pushed forward his wine-cup, an engraved gold Achaemenid treasure from the Persian occupation. Konon, standing behind his chair, got it quickly back from a too-zealous server, and filled it from a jug of watered wine, in the strength given to Greek children. He looked incongruous among the graceful Lydians and well-born Macedonian pages waiting at table.
Perdikkas rose to make the best man’s speech, recalling the groom’s heroic ancestry, the exploits of his grandfather whose name he had auspiciously assumed; the lineage of his mother, the noble lady of horse-loving Larissa. His compliments to the bride were adequate, though rather vague. Philip, who had been occupied in feeding someone’s curly white poodle which had been sitting under the table, looked up in time to acknowledge the cheers with an obedient grin.
A harmless person, a distant royal connection, responded for the bride, uttering bland platitudes about her beauty, virtue and high descent. Once more the health was given, and honored with ritual shouts. It was the time for serious drinking.
Goblets were emptied and briskly filled, faces reddened under tilting wreaths, voices grew louder. Captains still in their thirties argued and bragged about past wars and women; Alexander had died young with young men all about him. For the older men, a real Macedonian wedding brought back the feasts of their youth. Nostalgically, they roared out the time-honored phallic jokes remembered from their family bridals.
The noble pages had slipped out to get their share. Presently one said, “Poor fellow. Old Konon might let him have a mouthful he can taste, at his own wedding. It might put heart in him,” He and a friend came up behind Philip’s couch. “Konon, Ariston over there told me to say he pledges you.” Konon beamed, and looked about for his well-wisher; Perdikkas was talking to the guest on his other side. The second page filled up the royal cup with neat wine. Philip tasted his new drink, liked it, and tilted back
his cup. By the time Konon noticed and angrily diluted it, he had had more than half.
Some of the men started to sing a skolion. It was not yet lewder than a wedding feast allowed, but Perdikkas pulled himself together. He had known all along that this could not be a long drinking-bout. A little time yet could be allowed for hospitality, but soon he must break it up. He stopped drinking, to keep alert.
Philip felt a surge of well-being, strength and gaiety. He banged the table in time with the skolion, singing loudly, “I’m married, married, married to Eurydike!” The white poodle pawed at his leg; he picked it up and put it on the table, where it ran about, scattering cups, fruit and flowers, till someone hurled it off, when it fled yelping. Everyone laughed; some men far gone in drink bawled ancient encouragements to first-night prowess.
Philip gazed at them with blurred eyes, in which lurked a dim anxiety and suspicion. His purple robe felt too hot, in the stew of torch-warmed humanity. He heaved at it, trying to take it off.
Perdikkas saw that it was high time. He called for a torch, and gave the signal to conduct the bridegroom.
Eurydike lay in the great perfumed bed, in her night-robe of fine mussel-silk, the brideswomen gathered round her. They talked among themselves; at first they had dutifully included her, but none of them knew her, and the wait for the men was always tedious; the more since coy jokes were barred. Mostly the floor was held by Roxane, who described the far more splendid ceremonies of Alexander’s day, and patronized Kleopatra.
Solitary in the little crowd, with its warm smell of female flesh, of the herbs and cedar-wood of clothes-chests, essence of orange and of rose, Eurydike heard the rising sounds of the men’s revelry. It was warm, but her feet felt icy cold in the linen sheets. They had slept in wool at home. The room was huge, it had been King Kroisos’ bedchamber; the walls were patterned in colored marbles, and the floor was porphyry. A Persian lamp-cluster of gilt lotuses hung over the bed, bathing her in light; would anyone put it out? She had an overpowering memory of Philip’s physical presence, his strong stocky limbs, his rather sweetish smell. The little she had eaten lay in her like lead. Supposing she was sick on the bed. If her mother were only here! The full sense of her loss came home to her; she felt, terrified, a surge of approaching tears. But if Kynna were here, she would be ashamed to see her cry in the presence of an enemy. She pulled in her stomach muscles, and forced back the first sob in silence.
