Kleopatra was such a common name among the Macedonians that many of the nobles at court referred to the fourteen-year-old niece of Attalos by an honorary name that Philip had bestowed on her: Eurydice, the name of the supernally beautiful wife of legendary Orpheos. Orpheos had voluntarily descended into Hades to recover his dead love. I thought that Olympias would rather see Philip in hell before she would accept his marriage to Kleopatra/Eurydice.
Olympias was scheming constantly. She had driven all of Philip’s other wives out of the court, although she resolutely refused to sleep with him, according to the palace gossip. She wanted to make certain that her son, Alexandros, would be the only possible heir to Philip’s throne. That meant that there must be no new marriages and no new legitimate sons. I knew that all the tales about her powers of witchcraft were more than true, and that she could somehow command me at her whim. What she planned for me I did not know, and after that first wild night of lovemaking she did not so much as glance at me.
For his part, Philip was also scheming. A marriage into the house of Attalos would benefit the throne. So would an advantageous marriage of his daughter by Olympias, who was also named Kleopatra. Even younger than Attalos’ niece, and painfully shy, Philip’s daughter was a very valuable pawn in the game of nations.
And that game went on without cease. Ambassadors and couriers arrived at the court almost every day. From my post as one of the king’s guards I saw that Philip could be tactful, generous, flexible, patient, a good host, a firm friend, a reasonable enemy ready to make peace even when he had the upper hand. Especially when he had the upper hand.
But I began to see, also, that he was implacable in his pursuit of one goal. No matter how generous or flexible or reasonable he was, each agreement he made, each objective he sought, was aimed at making Macedonia supreme, not merely over the surrounding tribes and the port cities along the coast; Philip wanted supremacy over the major city-states to the south—Thebes, Corinth, Sparta, and especially Athens.
“Demosthenes rouses the rabble down there against us time and again,” Philip complained to a visiting Athenian merchant. “I have no reason to fight against Athens. I revere the city of Perikles and Sokrates; I honor its ancient traditions. But the Athenians think they are the lords of the earth; they are trying to strangle us by cutting us off from the sea.”
The merchant had been sent to negotiate for the year’s grain harvest that we had seized. Philip wanted Athens to cede control of Perinthos and the other port cities along the Bosporus.
“All the port cities?” gasped the Athenian. “But that, most honored king, would put your mighty hands at the throat of our people. Macedonia would be able to shut off the grain supply whenever you chose to.”
Leaning an elbow on the withered thigh of his crippled leg, Philip looked down at the white-robed merchant from his throne. “It would make us friends, Athenian,” he said. “Friends trust one another. And they do not rouse their people to make war against one another.”
“You speak of Demosthenes.”
“None other.”
The merchant tugged at his beard for a moment, then smoothed the front of his robe. At last he replied, “Athens, sir, is a democracy. In the past, our city was ruled by an oligarchy. Even earlier, by tyrants. We prefer democracy.”
Patiently, Philip said, “I have no intention of ruling Athens. All I want is for Athens to stop making war on us.”
“I shall so inform the Assembly when I return.”
“Very well.”
Philip traded the grain for a promise that Athens would no longer support Perinthos against him. Nothing was said about Byzantion.
Philip saw the merchant off with full diplomatic honors. The royal guard was lined up at the palace gate for him. Unfortunately, it was in the middle of an autumn storm, and cold driving rain made everything gray and miserable. Philip limped back to his rooms with me and three other picked guardsmen following close behind him. The cold raw weather must have bothered his bad leg intensely.
His three chief generals were waiting for him in his work room, together with slaves bearing pitchers of strong red wine. It was a smallish room, dominated by a heavy trestle table on which a large map of the Aegean coast was held down by heavy iron paperweights.
“The agreement means nothing,” Parmenio grumbled as he put down his first goblet on the edge of the sheepskin map. “The Athenians will keep their word only as long as they choose to. In the meantime they get the grain.”
“And their navy can strike anywhere along the coast, unhindered,” Antigonos pointed out.
Antipatros agreed vigorously. “You should have held onto the grain. Let them feel hungry for a while. Then they’d be more reasonable.”
Philip took a deep grateful draught of the wine. Then he said, “They’d get hungry, all right. And blame us for it. Then we’d just be proving what Demosthenes has been telling them for years: that I’m a bloodthirsty tyrant intent on conquest.”
“Tyrant,” spat Parmenio. “As if you rule all by yourself, without the Council or the elders to account to.”
But Philip was hardly listening. His mind was already spinning out the next move. I stood guard at the door until it was dark, when I was relieved. When I got to the barracks Pausanias told me that the queen had sent for me.
He eyed me suspiciously. “Why is the queen interested in you?”
I returned his gaze without blinking. “You will have to ask her, captain. She has summoned me; I didn’t ask to see her.”
He looked away, then warned, “Be careful, Orion. She plays a dangerous game.”
“Do I have any choice?”
“If she says a word against the king—even a hint of a thought against him—you must tell me.”
I admired his loyalty. “I will, captain. I am the king’s man, not the queen’s.”
Yet, as I made my way through the deepening shadows of night toward Olympias’ rooms in the palace, I knew that she could control me whenever she chose to. I was hopelessly under her spell.
To my surprise and relief, Alexandros was with her. A slave woman met me at the door to the queen’s suite of rooms and guided me to a small chamber where she sat on a cushioned chair talking earnestly with her son. Even in an ordinary wool robe she looked magnificent, copper-red hair tumbling past her shoulders, slender arms bare, lithe body taut beneath the light-blue robe.
Alexandros was pacing the small room like a caged panther. He radiated energy, all golden impatience, pent-up emotion that made his smooth handsome face seem petulant, moody.
“But I’m his only legitimate heir,” Alexandros was saying when I was ushered into the room.
Olympias acknowledged my presence with a glance and gestured for the servant who had brought me to depart. She closed the door softly behind me and I stood there, silent and immobile, waiting to be commanded.
Alexandros was no taller than my shoulder, but he was solidly built, with wide shoulders and strong limbs. His golden hair curled down the back of his neck. His eyes glowed with restless passion.
“There’s no one else,” he said to his mother. “Unless you count Arrhidaios, the idiot.”
Olympias gave him a pained smile. “You forget that the Council may elect whom it chooses. The throne does not automatically pass to you.”
“They wouldn’t dare elect anyone else!”
She shrugged. “You are still very young, in the eyes of many. They could elect Parmenio or—”
“Parmenio! That fat old man! I’d kill him!”
“—or they could appoint a regent,” Olympias continued, unshaken in the slightest by her son’s outburst, “until you are old enough to rule.”