Perdikkas looked at him in irritation. “We’ll talk later. Is Eumenes back in camp? Find him, he can bath and eat later, I have to see him now.”
Eumenes appeared quite shortly, washed, combed and changed. He had been in his tent, dictating his memoir of the day’s events to Hieronymos, a young scholar who, under his patronage, was writing a chronicle of the times. His light compact body was toughened and tanned from the campaign; soon he would be riding north to get his satrapy of Kappadokia in order. He greeted Perdikkas with a calm alert expectancy, sat down, and read the letter Perdikkas handed him. At the end, he allowed himself a slight lift of the brows.
Looking up from the scroll, he said, “What is she offering? The regency or the throne?” Perdikkas understood him perfectly. He meant, Which do you plan to take?
“The regency. Or would I be talking to you now?”
“Leonnatos did,” Eumenes reminded him. “And then decided that I knew too much.” He had, in fact, barely escaped with his life, having affirmed his loyalty to Alexander’s son.
“Leonnatos was a fool. The Macedonians would have cut his throat; and they’d cut mine if I disinherited Alexander’s boy. If they elect him when he comes of age, so be it. But he’s the Bactrian’s son; by that time, they may not be so fond of him. Then we’ll see. Meantime, I’ll have been King in all but name for fifteen years or so, and I shan’t complain.”
“No,” said Eumenes grimly. “But Antipatros will.”
Perdikkas sat back in his leather-slung camp-chair, and stretched out his long legs. “That’s the crux. Advise me. What shall I do with Nikaia?”
“A pity indeed,” said the Greek, “that Kleopatra didn’t write a few months sooner.” He sat reflecting, like a mathematician before a theorem. “You won’t need her now. But you’ve sent her the betrothal gifts. She’s the Regent’s daughter. And she’s on her way.”
“I offered for her too soon. Everything seemed in chaos; I thought I should make sure of an ally while I could … Alexander would never have tied his hands like that. He always made alliances when he could dictate the terms.” It was rarely, now, that he was self-critical; he must be disturbed, Eumenes thought. He tapped absently at the letter. Perdikkas noted that even his nails were clean.
“Antipatros puts out his daughters as a fisherman puts out lines.”
“Well, I took the bait. What now?”
“You’ve bitten at the bait. The hook’s not yet in your belly. Let us think.” His neat thin lips came together. Even on campaign, he shaved every day. Presently, looking up, he said crisply, “Take Kleopatra. Take her now. Send an escort to meet Nikaia; tell her you’re sick, wounded; be civil, but have her taken home. Act at once, before Antipatros is ready. Or he’ll hear of it, you won’t know how or when; and he’ll act before you’re ready.”
Perdikkas bit his lip. It sounded prompt and decisive; probably it was what Alexander would have done. Except that he would never have put himself in need of it. Among these doubts, a disturbing thought intruded: Eumenes hated Antipatros. The Regent had been snubbing him ever since he had been a junior secretary, advanced by Philip because of his quick mind. The old man had all the prejudices of his race against the effete, fickle, subtle men of the south. Eumenes’ loyalty, his distinguished war record, had never made any difference. Even when he was in Asia as Chief Secretary to Alexander, Antipatros had tried often to go over his head. Alexander, whom it irritated, had made a point of replying through Eumenes.
Now that Perdikkas had been counseled to burn his boats, he felt a certain flinching. He said to himself that here was an old enmity, of the kind that warps a man’s better judgment.
“Yes,” he said, affecting gratitude. “You are right. I’ll write by her envoy tomorrow.”
“Better use word of mouth. Letters can go astray.”
“ …But I’ll tell her, I think, that I’ve already married Nikaia. It will be true by the time it reaches her. I’ll ask her to wait till I can decently get free. I’ll put the palace of Sardis at her disposal, and ask her to consider us betrothed in secret. That will give me room to maneuver.”
Seeing Eumenes looking at him in silence, he felt the need to justify himself. “If there were only Antipatros to consider … But I don’t like what I hear of Ptolemy. He’s raising too big an army down in Egypt. It only needs one satrap to make a kingdom of his province, and the empire will fall apart. We must wait a little and see what he means to do.”
A bland winter sun shone down through the columned window into Ptolemy’s small audience room. It was a handsome house, almost a small palace, built for himself by the previous administrator, whom Ptolemy had executed for oppression. The slight rise commanded a view of new straight streets and handsome public buildings, their pale unweathered stone touched up with paint and gilding. New wharves and quays fringed the harbor; hoists and scaffolding surrounded a couple of nearly finished temples ordered by Alexander. Another temple, less advanced, but promising to be the most imposing, stood near the waterfront, where it would dominate the prospect for incoming ships.
Ptolemy had had a busy but congenial morning. He had seen the chief architect, Deinokrates, about the sculpture on the temples; some engineers, who were replacing unsanitary canals with covered drains; and the heads of several homes, to whom he had restored the right to collect taxes. This, to the Egyptians who had suffered under his predecessor, meant something like a fifty percent tax reduction. A rapacious man, resolved to execute his commission and enrich himself as well, he had imposed forced levies and forced labor, extorted fortunes by threats to kill the sacred crocodiles, or to pull down villages for building-sites (which he would do in the end, when he had squeezed them dry). Moreover, he had done all this in the name of Alexander, which had so enraged Ptolemy that he had gone through the administration like a consuming fire. It had made him extremely popular, and he had remained so.
He was now busy recruiting. Perdikkas had only allowed him two thousand men when he took over the satrapy. He had found, when he got there, its garrison almost mutinous, the men’s pay in arrears while the interest was being skimmed off it. Things were different now. Ptolemy had not been the most brilliant of Alexander’s commanders; but he was reliable, resourceful, brave and loyal, all things Alexander valued; and, above all, he was good at looking after his men. He had fought under Philip before Alexander had his first command; the pupil of two great masters, he had learned from both. Trusted, sufficiently feared, and liked, he was apt with small touches of personal concern. Before his first year was out, thousands of active veterans settled in Alexandria were begging to re-enlist; by now, volunteers were arriving by land and sea.
He had not allowed this to inflate ambition. He knew his limits, and had no wish for the stresses of boundless power. He had what he had wanted, was content with it and meant to keep it; with luck, to add a little more. His men were well paid and fed; they were also well trained.
“Why, Menandros!” he said warmly as the last applicant came in. “I thought you were in Syria. Well, this is an easier climb than the Birdless Rock. You got here without a rope.”
The veteran, recognized at sight as a hero of that renowned assault, grinned with delight, feeling that after an uncertain year he had arrived where he belonged. The interview was happy. Ptolemy decided to take a break in his inner sanctum. His chamberlain, an Egyptian of great discretion, scratched at the door.
“My lord,” he murmured, “the eunuch of whom you spoke has come from Babylon.”
The broken nose in Ptolemy’s craggy face pointed like a hound’s at a breast-high scent. “I’ll see him here,” he said.
He waited in the pleasant, cool, Greek-furnished room. Bagoas was shown in.