322 B. C.
THE ARMY OF KING PHILIP was encamped in the Pisidian hills. Perdikkas, blood-spattered and smeared with ash, was picking his way down a stony path strewn with dead men and abandoned weapons. Above him, circling a cloud of stinking smoke, vultures and kites made exploring swoops, their numbers thickening as news of the banquet spread. The Macedonians, prompter than the birds, scavenged the charred ruins of Isaura.
Spared by Alexander because they had surrendered without a fight, the Isaurians had been left with orders to pull down the robber fort from which they had plagued their neighbors, and to live peaceably. In his long absence they had murdered his satrap and fallen back into old ways. This time, from bad consciences or from having less trust in Perdikkas than in Alexander, they had defended their craggy nest to the bitter end. When their outworks fell, they had locked into their houses their goods, their wives and children, set timber and thatch alight, and to the hellish music of the fires had hurled themselves on the Macedonian spears.
Some fifteen years of war had made Perdikkas almost nightmare-proof; in a few days he would be dining out on the story; but with the stench of burnt flesh still hanging in the air he had had enough for today, and had welcomed the news that a courier awaited him in his camp below. His brother Alketas, a hard man and his second in command, would oversee the raking of the cinders for half-melted silver and gold. His helmet was scorching hot; he took it off and wiped his sweating forehead.
From the royal tent of dyed and emblazoned leather, Philip came out and ran towards him. “Did we win?” he asked.
He was armed in cuirass and greaves, a thing he had insisted on. In Alexander’s day, when he had followed the army much as now, he had worn civil dress; but now that he was King, he knew what was due to him. He had in fact been eager to fight; but, used to obedience, had not insisted, since Alexander had never let him do it. “You’re all bleeding,” he said. “You ought to see a doctor.”
“It’s a bath I need.” When alone with his sovereign, Perdikkas dispensed with formality. He told him as much as it was good for him to know, went to his own tent, cleaned himself, put on a robe, and ordered the courier brought.
This person was a surprise. The letter he brought was reticent and formal; he himself had much to say. A hardy grizzled man in his early sixties, with a missing thumb lost at Gaugamela, he was a minor Macedonian nobleman, and not so much a messenger as an envoy.
With elation, tinged by well-founded misgiving, Perdikkas reread the letter to gain time for thought. TO PERDIKKAS, REGENT OF THE ASIAN KINGDOMS, FROM KLEOPATRA, DAUGHTER OF PHILIP AND SISTER OF ALEXANDER, GREETING. After the usual well-wishings, the letter glanced at their cousinship, recalled his distinguished services to Alexander, and proposed a conference, to discuss matters concerning the well-being of all the Macedonians. These matters were not specified. The last sentence disclosed that the Queen had set out already from Dodona.
The envoy, affecting negligence, was toying with his wine-cup. Perdikkas coughed. “Am I to hope that if I should beg the honor of the lady Kleopatra’s hand, my suit would be graciously received?”
The envoy gave a reassuring smile. “So far, the Kings have been elected only by the Macedonians in Asia. Those in the homeland might like their own chance to choose.”
Perdikkas had had a grueling and hideous, even though successful, day. He had come back for a bath, a rest and a drink, not to be offered at short notice the throne of Macedon. Presently he said, with a certain dryness, “Such happiness was beyond my hopes. I feared she might still be mourning Leonnatos.”
The veteran, whom Perdikkas’ steward had refreshed while he was waiting, settled into his chair. The wine was strong, with no more than a splash of water, Perdikkas having felt he needed it. The diplomat gave way visibly to the soldier.
“I can tell you, sir, why he was her first choice, for what it’s worth. She remembered him from her childhood at home. He climbed a tree once, to get down her cat for her, when he was a boy. You know what women are.”
“And in the end I believe they did not meet?”
“No. When he crossed from Asia to fight the southern Greeks, he’d only time to raise his troops in Macedon and ride on down. Bad luck that he fell before our victory.”
“A pity that his troops were so cut up. I hear he fought while he could stand. A brave man; but hardly the stuff of kings?”
“She was well out of it,” said the soldier bluntly. “All her friends tell her so. It was a fancy; she soon got over grieving. Lucky for her she has the chance to think better now.” He tipped back his cup; Perdikkas refilled it. “If she had seen you, sir, at Gaugamela …”
This word of power diverted them into reminiscence. When they came back to business, Perdikkas said, “I suppose the truth is, she wants to get away from Olympias.”
The envoy, flushed and relaxed, planked down his cup and leaned his arm on the table. “Sir. Let me tell you, between ourselves, that woman is a Gorgon. She’s eaten that poor girl piece by piece, till she’s hardly mistress of her house, let alone the kingdom. Not that she lacks spirit; but left as she is, without a man to stand by her, there’s no fighting Olympias. She has the Molossians treating her like a queen. She is a queen. She looks like a queen; she has the will of a king. And she’s Alexander’s mother.”
“Ah. Yes … So Kleopatra has a mind to leave her Dodona, and make a bid for Macedon?”
“She’s Philip’s daughter.”
Perdikkas, who had been thinking quickly, said, “She has a son by the late King.” He had no wish to be caretaker for a stepson.
“He’ll inherit at home, his granddam will see to that. Now Macedon … No woman has ever reigned in Macedon. But Philip’s daughter, married to a royal kinsman who’s ruled like a king already …” Abruptly, remembering something, he hitched at his belt-purse, and brought out a flat package wrapped in embroidered wool. “She sent you this, seeing it’s a long time since you had a sight of her.”
The portrait was painted with skill, in encaustic wax on wood. Even allowing for convention, which smoothed away personality like a blemish, it could be seen that she was Philip’s daughter. The strong hair, the thick upswept eyebrows, the resolute square face, had defeated the artist’s well-meant insipidity. Perdikkas thought, Two years younger than Alexander—about thirty-one, now. “A queenly and gracious lady,” he said aloud. “A dowry in herself, kingdom or no.” He found more of this kind to say, while he played for time. Danger was great; ambition also. Alexander had taught him long ago to assess, decide, and act.
“Well,” he said, “this is serious business. She needs something more than a yes. Let me sleep on this. When you dine with us tonight, I’ll tell them all you brought a letter from Olympias. She’s forever writing.”
“I have brought one. She approves, as you may well suppose.”
Perdikkas set the thick roll aside, summoned the steward to find his guest a lodging, and, left alone, sat with his elbows on the rough camp-table and his head between his hands.
Here he was found by his brother Alketas, whose servants carried two rattling sacks filled with stained, smoked gold, cups and arm-rings and necklaces and coin; the Isaurians had been successful robbers. The slaves gone, he showed Perdikkas the loot, and was annoyed by his abstraction. “Not squeamish?” he said. “You were there in India, when the men thought the Mallians had killed Alexander. You should have a strong stomach after that.”