“When you met the King”—how allude to so disgraceful an occasion?—“did you have time to talk with him? Perhaps you saw he is a little young for his years?”
Eurydike’s straight eyes met hers, deciding that she meant well and must be answered civilly. “Yes. Alexander told my mother so; and I see it is so.”
This was promising. “Then, when you are married, what do you mean to do? Perdikkas would give you an escort to your kin in Macedon.”
Eurydike thought, It is not quite a command, because it cannot be one. She answered quietly, “The King has a right that I should be his friend, if he needs a friend. I will stay for a while and see.”
Next day, such ladies of standing as Sardis could supply—wives of senior officers and administrators, with a few timid ornate Lydians—paid their respects. Later, in the quiet afternoon, sacred since Kroisos’ day to the siesta, came a different caller. A twittering maid announced a messenger from the household of the bridegroom.
Old Konon, when shown in, eyed the attendants meaningly. She sent them out, and asked what message he brought.
“Well, madam … to wish you health and joy, and God speed the happy day.” Delivered of this set speech, he swallowed audibly. What could be coming? Eurydike, dreading the unknown, looked withdrawn and sullen. Konon, his nervousness increased, marshaled his words. “Madam, he’s taken a real liking to you, that’s sure. He’s forever talking of Cousin Eurydike, and setting out his pretty things to show you … But, madam, I’ve cared for him man and boy, and I know his ways, which he sets store by, seeing he was ill-used before I came. If you please, madam, don’t turn me off. You’ll not find me taking liberties or putting myself forward. If you’ll just keep me on trial, to see if I suit; I won’t ask more.”
So that was all! In her relief she could have embraced him; but of course one must not show it. “Did I not see you with the King? Your name is Konon, is it not? Yes, you will be welcome to stay on. Please tell the King so, if he should ask.”
“He’s never thought to ask, madam. It would have put him in a terrible taking.” They eyed each other, a little relaxed, still cautious. Konon was reaching for words, even for the little that could be said at all. “Madam, he’s not used to big feasts, not without Alexander giving him the lead and seeing him through it. I daresay they told you, he has a bad turn sometimes. Don’t be afraid, if you just leave him to me, he’ll soon be right again.”
Eurydike said she would. Echoing silence engulfed them. Konon swallowed again. The poor girl would give anything to know what he didn’t know how to tell her—her groom had no notion that the act of sex could be performed with a second party. At length, turning crimson, he managed, “Madam, he thinks the world of you. But he’ll not trouble you. It wouldn’t be his way.”
She was not too naive to understand him. With as much dignity as she could summon, she said, “Thank you, Konon. I am sure the King and I will agree together, You have leave to go.”
Philip woke early on his wedding morning. Konon had promised that he could wear the purple robe with the great red star. Besides, he was going to be married to Cousin Eurydike. She would be allowed to stay with him, and he could see her whenever he liked. Perdikkas himself had said so.
That morning, the bath-water came in a big silver ewer, carried by two well-dressed young men who stayed to pour it over him, wishing him good luck. This, Konon explained, was because he was a bridegroom. He saw the young men exchange a grin across him; but such things often happened.
A good many people were singing and laughing outside the door. He was no longer in his familiar tent, but had a room in the palace; he did not mind, he had been allowed to bring all his stones. Konon explained that there was no room in the tent for a lady, while here she could stay next door.
The young men helped him put on the beautiful robe; then he was taken by Perdikkas to sacrifice at the little temple of Zeus at the top of the hill. Alexander had built it there, where fire had fallen from heaven. Perdikkas told him when to throw incense on the burning meat, and what to say to the god. He got everything right, and the people sang for him; but nobody praised him afterwards, as Alexander used to do.
Perdikkas, indeed, had had trouble enough to plan a convincing ceremony. Thanks to Alketas, the bride had no family to give the marriage feast. He was grateful to Kleopatra for consenting to hold the torch of welcome in the bridal chamber. But what mattered most, because the troops would see it, was the wedding procession.
Then, to compound his troubles, at midday two forerunners announced the approach of the lady Roxane. Since this affair, he had entirely forgotten having sent for her, and had not even asked her to the wedding.
Lodgings were hastily prepared; her closed litter was carried up through the city. The Sardians crowded to see; the soldiers gave a few restrained greetings. They had never approved of Alexander’s foreign marriages; but now he was dead, a kind of aura clung to her. Besides, she was the mother of his son. The child was with her. A Macedonian queen would have held him up for them to see; but Bactrian ladies did not show themselves in public. The child was teething and fretful, and could be heard whimpering as the litter passed.
Dressed in his wedding robe, and putting a good face on it, Perdikkas greeted her and invited her to the feast; prepared, he said, at short notice owing to the imminence of war.
“You told me nothing of it!” she said angrily. “Who is this peasant girl you have found for him? If the King is to marry, he should have married me.”
“Among Macedonians,” said Perdikkas frostily, “a dead king’s heir does not inherit his harem. And the lady is granddaughter to two kings.”
A crisis of precedence new arose. Alexander and his officers had married their foreign wives by the local rites; Roxane, ignorant of Macedonian custom, could not be brought to see that Kleopatra was taking a mother’s place and could not be removed from it. “But I,” she cried, “am the mother of Alexander’s son!”
“So,” said Perdikkas, very nearly shouting, “you are the kinswoman of the bridegroom. I will send someone to explain the rite to you. See to it that your part is properly done, if you want your son accepted by the soldiers. Don’t forget they have the right to disinherit him.”
This sobered her. He had changed, she thought; grown colder, harsher, more overbearing. He had not forgiven Stateira’s death, it seemed. She was unaware that others had noticed a change as well.
Philip had looked forward all day to the wedding ride. It did not disappoint him. Not since the time he rode an elephant had he enjoyed himself so much.
He wore the purple robe, and a gold diadem. Eurydike beside him had a yellow dress, and a yellow veil flung back from a wreath of gold flowers. He had thought they would have the car all to themselves, and had been displeased when Perdikkas got up on the other side. Eurydike was married to him, and Perdikkas could not marry her as well. Hastily people had explained that Perdikkas was best man; but it was Cousin Eurydike he listened to. Now he was married, he felt much less frightened of Perdikkas; he had been on the point of pushing him out of the car.
Drawn by white mules, they drove along the processional Sacred Way, which bent and turned to bring it downhill without stairs. It was adorned with old statues and shrines, Lydian, Persian, Greek. Flags and garlands were everywhere; as the sun sank they were starting to light the torches. People were standing and cheering all the way, climbing up on the house-roofs.
The tasseled, sequin-netted mules were led by soldiers wearing scarlet cloaks and wreaths. Behind and in front, musicians played Lydian airs on flutes and pipes, shook sistra with their little tinkling bells, and clanged great cymbals. Auspicious cries in mingled tongues rose like waves. The sunset glow faded, the torches came out like stars. Full of it all, Philip turned and said, “Are you happy, Cousin Eurydike?”