“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 look 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.”