by Mary Renault
If either one had given signs of hidden fire, the army would have been his own; it was like a pack of powerful dogs missing a master’s voice. But on both alike their office sat uneasily; both alike were anxious to avoid all occasion for disorder, all look of rivalry or of forming factions. Both went about their duties with sober competence.
Thus the drama dragged, the action sagged; the audience fidgeted, coughed and yawned, began fingering its apple-cores and half-bitten onions and crusts, but was not quite ready yet to throw them at the actors. The play was a gift to any talented supporting player who had the wit to steal it. Eurydike, waiting in the wings, felt the theater pausing and knew that her cue had come.
Had Peithon had about him the wily veterans of his old command, some gnarled and canny phalanx-leader would have come to his tent and said, “Sir, with respect. That young wife of King Philip’s is going about among the men and making trouble … Oh, not that kind of trouble, she’s a lady and knows it too; but …” But Peithon’s crafty old veterans had marched with Krateros, carrying the gold with which Alexander had paid them off. It was Eurydike who had her allies and her faithful spies.
Her chief problem was Philip. On the one hand he was indispensable; on the other, he could not safely be produced for more than minutes. To receive men without him would invite scandal; with him, disaster.
And yet, she thought, my blood is as good and better. What is he but the bastard of a younger son, even if his father did seize the throne? My father was the rightful King; what’s more, I was born in wedlock. Why should I hold back?
She picked up her faction first from soldiers who already knew her; her saviors on the Sardis road, the men who had guarded the tent in Egypt; some of the walking wounded who had survived the battle on the Nile. Soon many found pretexts to approach her wagon on the march, give a respectful greeting, and ask if she or the King had need of anything. She had taught Philip, if he was riding beside her, to smile and salute and go a short way ahead. Thus sanctioned by her husband, the ensuing talk was relieved of any awkwardness.
Soon, by devious ways known to soldiers not keenly scrutinized, the King had his own unofficial guard, and his wife commanded it. It was proud of itself, and its unrostered numbers grew.
The march dragged on, at foot-pace with all its followers. A young officer of her troop, remembering Alexander (they were all prone to this, and she had learned better than to check them), told how he used to leave the sluggish column and go hunting with his friends. The idea delighted her. One or other of them would ask leave to ride out for the day and join the column at sunset, taking a few comrades; a common indulgence in a peaceful area. She would get into her men’s clothes and, asking no one’s leave, go with them.
Of course the news got round; but it did her no harm. She was played into her role by now, fed by her audience. A confiding gallant boy, a girl receiving gratefully their protection and support, a queen who was wholly Macedonian; in all these parts they loved her.
In upland pastures, sharing a breakfast of barley-cake and thin wine, she would tell them stories of the royal house, from her great-grandfather Amyntas down; of his gallant sons, Perdikkas and Philip, both kings and both her grandfathers, fighting the Illyrians on the border when Perdikkas fell. “And because of Philip’s valor they made him King. My father was a child and could not help them; so they passed him by. He never questioned the people’s will, he was always loyal; but when Philip was murdered, false friends accused him falsely, and the Assembly put him to death.”
They hung on her words. All of them in their youth had heard old garbled tales around the family fire; but now they were getting the real truth, straight from a queen of the royal line; they were proud, impressed and deeply grateful. Her chastity, so evident to them, so natural to her as to be unconsidered, awed them. Each one of them would boast of her notice to a dozen envious comrades when the wineskin went round at night.
She talked, too, of Philip. He had been delicate, she said, in youth; when he grew strong, Alexander was in the full tide of his victories, and his brother felt abashed beside him. Now, he would be glad no longer to be ruled by guardians, but himself to be the guardian of the Macedonians, whose good he had at heart. But because of his modesty, Perdikkas had usurped his rights; and the new guardians did not know him, or care to know.
Philip was pleased, when he rode through the camp, to be so often and so warmly greeted. He would salute and smile; soon she advanced his instruction. He learned to say, “Thank you for your loyalty,” and was happy to see how much the soldiers liked it.
Arybbas, going about, once or twice noticed these greetings, but saw no harm in them and did not report them to Peithon. Peithon for his part was paying the price for his own resentment of Perdikkas’ overbearing ways. On the march to Egypt he had shrugged his shoulders and lost interest in administration. By the time catastrophe had prompted them to kill Perdikkas, Peithon was out of touch with the men. Mutiny had made them truculent; all he wanted was to get the army in one piece to the rendezvous with Antipatros. Once an Assembly could be mustered there, a permanent guardian could be elected. He would stand down with relief.
Discipline, meantime, he left to the junior officers, who in turn thought it wiser to take things easily. Eurydike’s faction grew and fermented. When the army made camp at Triparadisos, the brew was ready.
Triparadisos—Three Parks—was in north Syria, the creation of some past Persian satrap who must have wished to emulate the Great King himself. Its small river had been channeled into pools and cascades and fountains, with marble bridges and whimsical stepping-stones of obsidian and porphyry. Rhododendron and azalea jeweled the gentle hills; specimen trees of great rarity and beauty, brought here by ox-train in a solid bed of their native earth, made laced or spreading patterns against a springlike sky. There were glades starred with lilies, whose green perspectives were overlooked by summerhouses with fretted screens, designed for harem ladies; and hunting-lodges of cedar-wood for the satrap and his guests.
During the years of war, the deer had been mostly poached, the peacocks eaten, and a good deal of timber felled; but to restless weary soldiers it was Elysium. Here was the ideal rest-camp in which to await Antipatros, reported a few days’ march away.
The generals ensconced themselves in the chief hunting-lodge, built on a central eminence and commanding long man-made vistas. In the glades and clearings the army camped, bathing in the sparkling streams, cutting the trees for cook-fires, snaring conies and liming birds for the pot.
Arybbas found it delightful, and went off on long rambling rides with a dear friend. Peithon so much outranked him that it seemed more graceful, as well as much more pleasant, to leave discipline to him.
Peithon, who thought him a lightweight, scarcely missed him, but thought uneasily that Alexander would have found the men something to do. Games very likely, with prizes big enough to keep them on their toes for a few days’ practice … He considered talking to Seleukos; but Seleukos, who thought he had a better claim to the guardianship than Arybbas, had been sulking lately. Well, thought Peithon, better leave it alone.
Philip and Eurydike were lodged in the summerhouse of the old satrap’s chief wife. By now she had the remount officer among her partisans; a good horse was always hers for the asking. She rode about her business, wearing her man’s tunic now all day. Peithon and Arybbas saw from their knoll, if they happened to look out, only a distant horseman like any other.
By now, most of the camp knew what was going on. Not everyone approved; but Philip was King, there was no getting past that; and no one loved either guardian well enough to risk the dangerous task of talebearing. No matter, the doubtful thought; any day now Antipatros would arrive.
As it happened, however, an inland cloudburst had brought the river Orontes down in flood, across Antipatros’ line of march. Seeing no pressing need for haste in peaceful country, and preferring to keep his eighty-year-old bones dry, he made camp on rising ground and awaited the s
inking of the waters.
In Triparadisos the weather was fresh and fine. Bright and early one day, when the dew lay on the spring lilies in crystal globes, and the birds were singing high in the fifty-year-old trees, Peithon was wakened by an aide who rushed into his room half dressed, still tying his girdle. “Sir, the men …”
His voice was drowned by a trumpet-call which brought Peithon to his feet, naked and staring. It was the royal fanfare which announced a king.
Arybbas came running in, a robe thrown around him. “It must be Antipatros. Some fool of a herald …”
“No,” said Peithon. “Listen.” He peered through the little window. “What in the Furies’ name …? Get dressed! Get armed!”
It was quick work for Alexander’s veterans. They came out on the verandah from which the satrap had aimed his arrows at driven game. The broad glade before them was filled with soldiers. At their head, mounted, were Philip and Eurydike. The trumpeter stood by them, looking defiant, and full of the importance of a man who is making history.
Eurydike spoke. She was wearing her man’s tunic, and all her armor except her helmet. She was uplifted, glowing; her skin was clear and transparent; her hair shone; the vitality of great daring flowed through her and rayed out of her. She did not know, nor would have wished to know, that Alexander had glowed like this on his great days; but her followers knew it.
Young, clear and hard, her voice carried as far as Ptolemy’s bass had done in Egypt. “In the name of King Philip son of Philip! Perdikkas his guardian is dead. He has no need of new guardians. He is of age, thirty years old, and able to reign for himself. He claims his throne!”
Beside her, Philip threw up his hand. His shout, startlingly loud, unfamiliar to all his hearers, boomed out. “Macedonians! Do you take me for your King?”
The cheers came crashing back, making the birds beat up from the tree-tops. “Long live King Philip! Long Live Queen Eurydike!”
A galloping horse thudded over to the lodge. The rider threw his bridle to a scared slave and strode up to the verandah. Seleukos, whose courage was legendary and who knew it, was having no one say he had skulked in his quarters during a mutiny. He was a well-liked general. In his presence, incipient shouts of “Death to the guardians!” sank away. The cheers for Philip went on.
Through the din, Seleukos bawled in Peithon’s ear, “They’re not all here. Play for time. Call for a full Assembly.”
It was true that about a third of the men looked to have stayed away. Peithon stepped forward; shouts sank to muttering. “Very well. You’re free Macedonians, you have your rights. But remember, Antipatros’ men are only a few miles off, and they have their rights. This touches all the citizens.”
There was a surge of discontent. They were keyed-up, impatient. It needed only Eurydike’s “No! Now!” to set them off again.
Something made her look around. Philip was drawing his sword.
She had had to let him wear it if he was to look like a man, let alone a king. In another moment, by the look of his eyes, he would be charging at the lodge. For an instant she hesitated. Would they follow him …? But he would be helpless in combat, all would be lost. “Let’s kill them!” he said eagerly. “We can kill them, look.”
“No. Put it back.” He did so, obedient though regretful. “Now call out to the men, ‘Let Peithon speak.’”
He was at once obeyed. Never before had he so impressed the soldiers. Peithon knew he could do no more. “I hear you,” he said. “Yes, you can call Assembly. Don’t blame me when the Regent comes and it’s all to be done again. Herald, you down there. Come up here and sound.”
The Assembly was held in the glade before the hunting-lodge. The men who had stayed aloof answered the summons; there were rather more than Eurydike had thought. But the glow of success was on her when, with Philip, she mounted the verandah which was to serve as rostrum. Smiling she looked around the cheering faces. The silent ones she could do without well enough.
At the far end of the platform, Peithon was talking quietly to Seleukos. She ran over in her mind what she meant to say.
Peithon came up to her. “You shall have the last word. A woman’s privilege.” He was sure of himself, she thought. Well, let him learn.
He stepped forward briskly to the front of the platform. He got a few boos, but soon the sound died down. This was Assembly, and ancient custom held.
“Macedonians!” His crisp bark cut through the last murmurs. “In Egypt, in full Assembly, you appointed me and Arybbas as guardians of the Kings. It seems that you’ve changed your minds, never mind why. So be it. We accept. No need to put it to the vote; we are both agreed. We resign the guardianship.”
There was complete, stunned silence. They were like men in a tug-of-war when the other team lets go. Peithon made the most of it.
“Yes, we resign. But, the office of guardian stands. That office was decreed in full Assembly when Alexander died. Remember, you have two kings, one of them too young yet to speak for himself. If you vote Philip to rule in his own right, you appoint him guardian of Alexander’s son, till he comes of age. Before you vote, consider all these things.”
“Yes! Yes!” They were like the audience at a play when the actors are slow to enter. Eurydike saw it. It was for her that they were waiting; and she was ready.
“Here, then,” said Peithon, “is Philip son of Philip, who claims his right to rule. King Philip, come here.” Meekly, with a look of faint surprise, Philip joined him at the head of the central steps. “The King,” said Peithon, falling back a pace, “will now address you and state his case.”
Eurydike stood frozen. The sky had fallen on her, and she had not seen that it was inevitable from the first.
She was crushed by the shock of her own folly. She sought no excuse, did not remind herself that she was only just turned sixteen. In her own mind she was a king, a warrior. She had blundered, and that was all.
Philip gazed around him, smiling vaguely. He was greeted with friendly, encouraging cheers. They all knew he was a man of few words, and over-modest. “Long live Philip!” they called. “Philip for King!”
Philip’s head went up. He knew quite well what the meeting was about, Eurydike had told him. But she had told him, too, never to say a word she had not taught him first. He shot an anxious look at her, to see if she would talk instead; but she was looking straight before her. Instead, the voice of Arybbas just behind him, smooth and insistent, said, “Sir, speak to the soldiers. They are all waiting.”
“Come on Philip!” they shouted. “Silence for the King!” He waved his hand at them; they hushed each other to hear.
“Thank you for your loyalty.” That was safe, he knew; yes, they all liked it. Good. “I want to be King. I’m old enough to be King. Alexander told me not to, but he’s dead.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “Alexander let me hold the incense. He told Hephaistion, I heard him, he said I’m not as slow as I’m made out to be.” There were indeterminate noises. He added, reassuringly, “If I don’t know what to do, Eurydike will tell me.”
There was a moment’s stupefied pause, then confused uproar. They turned on one another, abusive, expostulating, wrangling. “I told you, now you see.” “He spoke to me like any man, only yesterday.” “He has the falling sickness, it takes men so.” “Well, he told us the truth, you can give him that.”
Eurydike stood as if bound to the execution post. Gladly she would have been dispersed in air. Everywhere, repeated as the joke was relished, she heard, “Eurydike will tell me what to do.” Encouraged by his reception, Philip was still speaking. “When I’m King, I shall always ride an elephant.”
Behind him, Peithon and Arybbas looked complacently at each other.
Something in the laughter began to give Philip doubts. It reminded him of the dreadful wedding night. He remembered the magic phrase, “Thank you for your loyalty”; but they did not cheer, only laughed louder. Should he run away, would he be caught? He turned on Eurydike a face of panic appeal.
At first she moved like an automaton, carried by her pride. She gave the smug guardians a single look of scorn. Without a glance at the buzzing crowd below, she went on to Philip and took him by the hand. With ineffable relief and trust he turned to her. “Was the speech right?” he said.
Holding up her head, for a moment she faced the crowd before she answered him. “Yes, Philip. But it is finished now. Come, we can sit down.”
She led him to the benches by the wall, where once the satrap and his guests had sat with their wine to await the huntsman’s call.
The Assembly continued without them.
It was involved and fretful. The factions had collapsed into absurdity. A few hundred voices urged Peithon and Arybbas to resume their charge, meeting a vigorous refusal. Seleukos in turn declined. While lesser names were being tossed about, a courier rode in. He announced that Antipatios with his army was crossing the Orontes, and would arrive within two days.
Peithon, giving out this news, reminded the men that ever since Perdikkas’ death both the Kings had been on their way to Macedon, where they belonged. Who, then, was more fitted than the Regent to be their guardian, now Krateros was dead? Sullenly they settled for this solution, since no one had a better one.
Quietly, during the debate, Eurydike had led her husband away. Over their midday meal he repeated his speech to Konon, who praised it and avoided meeting her eyes.
She hardly heard them. Beaten to her knees, faced with surrender, she felt her blood remembering its sources. The shade of Alexander taunted her; he, at sixteen, had held Macedon as Regent, and fought a victorious war. The fire of her ambition smoldered still under its embers. Why had she been humbled? Not for reaching too high, but too low. I was mocked, she thought, because I did not dare enough. From now on, I will claim my rights for myself.
At evening, when the sun sank over Asia and the first smoke rose, she put on her man’s tunic, called for her horse, and rode out among the watch-fires.
Two days later, riding ahead of the Regent and his army, Antigonos One-Eye reached the camp at Triparadisos.
