He frowned and bit his lip. “There’s always some will go too far once they begin. They’ll be after Perdikkas’ people. Don’t be afraid, lady; they won’t harm the Kings’.”
She was startled by a strong voice just beside her. “If they come here, I’ll kill them.”
Philip had found his ceremonial spear, and was fiercely grasping it. The ornate blade was pointed. It took her a little time to coax it from his hands.
Ptolemy arrived in the camp next day.
He had been informed of Perdikkas’ death as soon as it took place—some said before—and arrived with a cavalcade which, though impressive, had no appearance of threat. Relying on his informants, he chose to present himself as a man of honor trusting in his peers.
He was warmly welcomed, even cheered. The soldiers saw in this intrepid confidence a touch of Alexander. Peithon, Seleukos and Peukestes met and escorted him.
He had brought Arybbas, riding at his right hand. The bier of Alexander had been installed at Memphis, to await the completion of his tomb; Perdikkas from across the fatal river might almost have caught the gleam of its gold crest. Its architect now gave the generals a friendly salute. After the briefest pause they returned it; things had to be lived with as they were.
Ptolemy’s terms had been agreed beforehand. The first of them was that he should address the army, to answer Perdikkas’ accusation of treason. The generals had little choice. He had offered a gentleman’s undertaking not to incite their own troops against them. The need for this reassurance spoke, after all, for itself.
The engineers, working at speed, had run up a rostrum. As Alexander had accustomed them to do, they put it near the royal quarters. Eurydike took it at first for a scaffold, and asked who was being put to death. They told her that Ptolemy was to make a speech.
Philip, who had been arranging his stones in an elaborate spiral, looked up alertly. “Is Ptolemy coming? Has he brought me a present?”
“No, he is only coming to talk to the soldiers.”
“He always brings me a present.” He fondled a memorable lump of yellow crystal from central Asia.
Eurydike was staring at the tall dais, deep in thought. Now Perdikkas was dead, the only appointed guardian of the Kings was the distant Krateros, campaigning somewhere in Syria against Eumenes. There was no Regent of Asia, either. Was this the moment destiny had appointed? “Men of Macedon, I claim the right to govern in my own name.” She could teach him that, and afterwards speak herself, as she had done last night. Why not?
“Philip. Put that away now.” Carefully she gave him his words. He was not to interrupt Ptolemy’s speech; she would tell him when to begin.
A ring of soldiers cordoned the royal quarters. It was only to protect them from the crush of the Assembly; but it gave space, one could step out and be heard. She rehearsed her speech in her head.
Ptolemy, flanked by Peithon and Arybbas, mounted the steps to the rostrum, welcomed with cheers.
Eurydike was astounded. She had heard cheers already that day, but it had never occurred to her that they could be in honor of the recent enemy. She had heard of Ptolemy—he was, after all, a kind of left-handed kinsman—but had never seen him. She was young, still, in the history of Alexander’s army.
However often told by Perdikkas that he was a traitor, the troops knew Ptolemy as a well-liked man, and one who led from the front. From the start, none of them had really wanted to go to war with him; when they met disasters, there had been no bracing hatred of the enemy to stiffen their morale. Now they hailed him as a revenant from better days, and heard him eagerly.
He began with an epitaphion for the dead. He mourned as they did the loss of brave former comrades, against whom it would have grieved him to lift his spear. Many had been cast up on his side of the river, whom, had they lived, he would have been proud to enroll under his command. They had had their due rites and he had brought their ashes. Not a few, he was glad to say, had reached shore alive. He had brought them back; they were here now at Assembly.
The rescued men led the cheering. All had been freed without ransom; all had enlisted with Ptolemy.
And now, he said, he would speak of him who, while he lived, had united all Macedonians in pride, victory and glory. Moving many to tears, he told them of Alexander’s wish to return to the land of Ammon. (Surely, thought Ptolemy, he would have said so if he could have spoken at the last.) For doing Alexander right, he had been accused of treason, though he had never lifted sword against the Kings; and this by a man who had himself been reaching for the throne. He had come here to submit himself to the judgment of the Macedonians. Here he stood. What was their verdict to be?
The verdict was unanimous; it verged on the ecstatic. He waited, without anxiety or unbecoming confidence, till it had spent itself.
He was glad, he said, that the soldiers of Alexander held him in remembrance. He would subvert no man’s loyalty; the army of the Kings could march north with his goodwill. Meantime, he had heard that through the late misadventures the camp was short of supplies. Egypt had had a good harvest; it would be his pleasure to send some victuals in.
Rations were indeed disorganized, stale and scanty; some men had not eaten since yesterday. There was a furor of acclamation. Seleukos mounted the dais. He proposed to the Assembly that Ptolemy, whose magnanimity in victory had equaled even Alexander’s, should be appointed Regent in Asia, and guardian of the Kings.
Cries of assent were hearty and unanimous. Hands and hats waved. No Assembly had ever spoken with a clearer voice.
For a moment—all the time he had—he stood like Homer’s Achilles, this way and that dividing the swift mind. But he had made his choice, and nothing had really happened to change it. As Regent, he would have had to leave prospering friendly Egypt, where he was as good as King already; to lead his troops, who liked and trusted him, into a cutthroat scrimmage where one could trust no one—look at Perdikkas, his body hardly cold! No. He would keep his own good land, husband it, and leave it to his sons.
Gracefully but firmly, he made his speech of refusal; the satrapy of Egypt, and the building of Alexandria, were a great enough charge for such a man as himself. But since he had been honored with their vote, he would take it on himself to name two former friends of Alexander to share the office of guardian. He gestured to Peithon and Arybbas.
In the royal tent, Eurydike heard it all. Macedonian generals learned how to make their voices carry, and Ptolemy’s soundbox was resonant. She heard him end his speech with some homespun army anecdote, mysterious to her, delightful to the soldiers. With a sense of hopeless defeat she observed his height, his presence, his air of relaxed authority; an ugly, impressive man, talking to men. Philip said, “Does your face hurt you?” and she found she had covered it with her hands. “Shall I make my speech now?” he said. He began to step forward.
“No,” she said. “Another day you shall make it. There are too many strangers here.”
He went back happily to play with his toys. She turned to find Konon just behind her. He must have been standing there quietly for some time. “Thank you, madam,” he said. “I think it’s better.”
Later that day, an aide announced that Ptolemy would shortly pay his respects to the King.
He arrived soon after, saluted Eurydike briskly, and clapped Philip’s shoulders in a fraternal embrace, to his beaming pleasure. It was almost as good as Alexander coming. “Have you brought me a present?” he asked.
His face scarcely flickering, Ptolemy said heartily, “Of course I have. Not here; I had to talk to all these soldiers. You’ll get it tomorrow … Why, Konon! It’s a long time, eh? But I see you take good care of him; he looks as fit as a warhorse. Alexander used to say, ‘That was a good posting.’”
Konon saluted with glistening eyes; no one since Alexander had commended him. Ptolemy turned to go, before remembering his manners. “Cousin Eurydike, I hope that all goes well with you. Philip’s been fortunate, I see.” He paused, and took a long second lo
ok at her. In a pleasant, but different voice, he added, “A sensible wife like you will keep him out of mischief. He’s had enough in his life of people trying to use him. Even his father, if Alexander hadn’t … well, never mind. Now Alexander’s gone, he needs someone to watch out for him. Well—health and prosperity, cousin. Farewell.”
He was gone, leaving her to ask herself what had possessed her, a queen, to bow to a mere governor. He had meant to warn, not praise her. Another of Alexander’s arrogant kindred. At least she would never see him again.
Roxane received him with more formality. She still took him for her son’s new guardian, and offered the sweetmeats kept for important guests, warning him against the intrigues of the Macedonian vixen. He disillusioned her, praising Peithon and Arybbas. Where, he wondered as he nibbled his candied apricot, would she be today if Alexander were alive? Once Stateira had borne a boy, would he have put up with the Bactrian’s tantrums?
The child was clambering over him, clutching his clean robe with sticky hands. He had grabbed at the sweets, thrown down his first choice on the rug, and helped himself to more, with only the fondest of maternal chiding. None the less, Ptolemy took him on his knee, to see Alexander’s son who bore his name. His dark eyes were bright and quick; he knew better than his mother did that he was being appraised, and put on a little performance, bouncing and singing. His father was always a showman, thought Ptolemy; but he had a good deal to show. What will this one have?
He said, “I saw his father when he was as young as this.”
“He takes after both our houses,” said Roxane proudly. “No, Alexander, don’t offer a guest a sweet after you have bitten it … He means it for a compliment, you know.” He tried another, this time throwing it down.
Ptolemy lifted him firmly down and set him on his feet. He resented it (That’s his father, Ptolemy thought) and started to howl (And that’s his mother). It dismayed rather than surprised him to see Roxane picking him out his favorites from the dish, and feeding him in her lap. “Ah, he will have his way. Such a little king as he is already.”
Ptolemy got to his feet and looked down at the child; who looked up, from the cosseting lap, with a strange uneasy gravity, pushing his mother’s hands away.
“Yes,” he said. “He is the son of Alexander. Do not forget that his father could rule men because he had first learned to rule himself.”
Roxane caught the child to her breast and stared at him resentfully. He bowed and saw himself out. At the entrance of the tent with its precious rugs and gem-studded hanging lamps, he turned to see the boy gazing after him with wide dark eyes.
In the palace of Sardis, seated in the same room where she had entertained Perdikkas, Kleopatra confronted Antipatros, the Regent of Macedon.
Perdikkas’ death had shocked her to her roots. She had not loved him; but she had committed her life to him, and founded on him her future. Now she looked into a void. She was still trying to come to terms with her desolation when Antipatros arrived from his campaign in Kilikia.
She had known him all her life. He had been fifty when she was born. Except that his hair and beard and brows had turned from grizzle to white, he seemed unchanged, and as formidable as ever. He sat in the chair Perdikkas had often used, spear-straight, fixing her with a faded but fierce blue eye of inflexible authority.
It was his fault, she said to herself, that Olympias had come from Macedon to Dodona to make her life intolerable. It was his fault she was here. But the habit of youth still held; he was the Regent. It was she who felt in his presence like a child who has wickedly broken something old and precious, and awaits a well-earned chastisement.
He had not rebuked her; simply addressed her as someone whose deep disgrace could be taken for granted. What was there to say? It was she who had set the landslide moving. Through her, Perdikkas had rejected the Regent’s daughter, after marrying her for policy; had planned to usurp his power, loyally wielded through two kings’ reigns. She sat silent, twisting a ring on her finger, Perdikkas’ betrothal gift.
After all, she thought, trying to summon up defiance, he is not the rightful Regent. Alexander said he was too oppressive, Perdikkas told me so. By rights, Krateros should be Regent now.
Antipatros said in his slow harsh voice, “Did they tell you that Krateros is dead?”
“Krateros?” She stared, almost too dulled to feel it. “No, I had not heard.” Handsome commanding Krateros, the soldiers’ idol next to Alexander; never Persianized, Macedonian dyed in grain. She had adored him at twelve years old when he was one of her father’s squires; she had treasured a strand of horsehair left in a tree by his helmet crest. “Who killed him?”
“It would be hard to say.” He stared back under his white thatched brows. “Perhaps he might think that you did. As you know, Perdikkas sent Eumenes north to hold the straits against us. He was too late for that; we crossed, and divided our forces, and it was he who met with Eumenes. The Greek is clever. He guessed that if his own Macedonians knew whom they were to fight, they would mutiny and go over; so he kept it from them. When the cavalry met, Krateros’ horse went down. His helmet was closed, he was not recognized; the horses trampled him. When it was over they found him dying. I am told that even Eumenes wept.”
She was past tears. Hopelessness and humiliation and grief lay on her like black stones. It was grey winter with her; in silence she bore the cold.
He said drily, “Perdikkas was unfortunate.” Was it possible, she thought, that there was more to come? He sat there like a judge counting the hangman’s lashes. “Eumenes’ victory was complete. He sent a courier south to Egypt, to tell Perdikkas. If he had heard in time, he might have persuaded his men that his cause was still worth following. When it reached the camp he was dead.”
What did we do, she thought, to make the gods so angry? But she knew the annals of the throne of Macedon. She had the answer: We failed.
“And so,” Antipatros was saying, “all Eumenes got for his trouble—and he is wounded too, I hear—was to be condemned in his absence, for treason and for the death of Krateros. Perdikkas’ army condemned him in Assembly … also, when they mutinied, a mob of them murdered Atalante, Perdikkas’ sister. Perhaps you knew her.”
She had sat in this room, tall and dark like her brother; rather grave, because of his other marriage, but civilly planning for the wedding; a woman with dignity. For a moment Kleopatra shut her eyes. Then she straightened. She was Philip’s daughter. “I am sorry for it. But they say, Fate rules all.”
He said only, “And now? Will you go back to Epiros?”
It was the final stroke, and he must know it. He knew why she had left her dead husband’s land, which she had governed well. He knew that she had offered herself to Leonnatos and then Perdikkas, not in ambition but in flight. No one knew more than he about Olympias. His wronged daughter was in his house in Macedon; and Olympias’ daughter was wholly in his power. If he chose, he could pack her off like a runaway child, in custody to her mother. Rather than that she would die; or even beg.
“My mother is governing in Epiros till my son succeeds. It is her country; she is Molossian. There is no place for me in Epiros any more. If you will grant it me”—the words almost scorched her throat—“I will stay here in Sardis and live privately. You have my word I shall do nothing more to trouble you.”
He kept her waiting, not to punish her but to think. She was still worth, to any well-born adventurer, what she had been to two dead pretenders. In Epiros she would be restless and resentful. It would be wisest to have her killed. He looked, and saw her father in her face. For two reigns he had kept his oath of loyalty to absent kings; now his pride was invested in his honor. He could not do it.
“These are uncertain times. Sardis has been fought for time out of mind, and we are still at war. If I do as you ask, I cannot ensure your safety.”
“Who is safe in this world?” she said, and smiled. It was her smile that for the first time made him pity her.
The ar
my of the Kings had struck camp in Egypt Generously victualed and politely seen off by Ptolemy, it was marching north to its rendezvous with Antipatros.
The guardians of the Kings, appointed after Alexander’s death, were now both dead within two years of it. Their office was held, at present, by Peithon and Arybbas.
In the two royal households, only Roxane had known the fallen Krateros. He had convoyed her back from India with the noncombatants, while Alexander was shortening his life in the Gedrosian desert. She had greatly preferred him to Perdikkas, and looked forward to being in his charge again. She had had a new gown made to receive him in; her mourning for Krateros had been sincere. The new guardians were both unpromising. Peithon, fiercely devoted to Alexander, had always regarded her as a campaign wife who ought to know her place. Arybbas she suspected of preferring boys. Besides, they had only visited her both together; a precaution privately agreed between them.
To Eurydike, Krateros had been only a name. She had heard of his death with relief; his fame had threatened a powerful force; more powerful, she had been quick to sense, than the present guardians could command.
Soon after the mutiny she had felt the change of air. Morale had altered. These were now men who had successfully defied their leaders; some were men who had shed blood. They had won; but their inward certainty was wounded, not strengthened, by their victory. They had been led disastrously and did not repent rebellion; but a navel-cord that had nourished them had been broken, a common trust. Without it they felt restless and bereaved.
Peithon and Arybbas had not filled up their emptiness. Peithon they knew by repute, as all the eight Bodyguards were known; but few, as it happened, had ever served with him. His quality was untested, and in the meantime they found him uninspiring. As for Arybbas, his record under Alexander had been undistinguished except in the field of art, which did not interest them.