Ptolemy got to his feet and looked down at the child; who looked up, from the cosseting lap, with a strange uneasy gravity, pushing his mother’s hands away.
“Yes,” he said. “He is the son of Alexander. Do not forget that his father could rule men because he had first learned to rule himself.”
Roxane caught the child to her breast and stared at him resentfully. He bowed and saw himself out. At the entrance of the tent with its precious rugs and gem-studded hanging lamps, he turned to see the boy gazing after him with wide dark eyes.
In the palace of Sardis, seated in the same room where she had entertained Perdikkas, Kleopatra confronted Antipatros, the Regent of Macedon.
Perdikkas’ death had shocked her to her roots. She had not loved him; but she had committed her life to him, and founded on him her future. Now she looked into a void. She was still trying to come to terms with her desolation when Antipatros arrived from his campaign in Kilikia.
She had known him all her life. He had been fifty when she was born. Except that his hair and beard and brows had turned from grizzle to white, he seemed unchanged, and as formidable as ever. He sat in the chair Perdikkas had often used, spear-straight, fixing her with a faded but fierce blue eye of inflexible authority.
It was his fault, she said to herself, that Olympias had come from Macedon to Dodona to make her life intolerable. It was his fault she was here. But the habit of youth still held; he was the Regent. It was she who felt in his presence like a child who has wickedly broken something old and precious, and awaits a well-earned chastisement.
He had not rebuked her; simply addressed her as someone whose deep disgrace could be taken for granted. What was there to say? It was she who had set the landslide moving. Through her, Perdikkas had rejected the Regent’s daughter, after marrying her for policy; had planned to usurp his power, loyally wielded through two kings’ reigns. She sat silent, twisting a ring on her finger, Perdikkas’ betrothal gift.
After all, she thought, trying to summon up defiance, he is not the rightful Regent. Alexander said he was too oppressive, Perdikkas told me so. By rights, Krateros should be Regent now.
Antipatros said in his slow harsh voice, “Did they tell you that Krateros is dead?”
“Krateros?” She stared, almost too dulled to feel it. “No, I had not heard.” Handsome commanding Krateros, the soldiers’ idol next to Alexander; never Persianized, Macedonian dyed in grain. She had adored him at twelve years old when he was one of her father’s squires; she had treasured a strand of horsehair left in a tree by his helmet crest. “Who killed him?”
“It would be hard to say.” He stared back under his white thatched brows. “Perhaps he might think that you did. As you know, Perdikkas sent Eumenes north to hold the straits against us. He was too late for that; we crossed, and divided our forces, and it was he who met with Eumenes. The Greek is clever. He guessed that if his own Macedonians knew whom they were to fight, they would mutiny and go over; so he kept it from them. When the cavalry met, Krateros’ horse went down. His helmet was closed, he was not recognized; the horses trampled him. When it was over they found him dying. I am told that even Eumenes wept.”
She was past tears. Hopelessness and humiliation and grief lay on her like black stones. It was grey winter with her; in silence she bore the cold.
He said drily, “Perdikkas was unfortunate.” Was it possible, she thought, that there was more to come? He sat there like a judge counting the hangman’s lashes. “Eumenes’ victory was complete. He sent a courier south to Egypt, to tell Perdikkas. If he had heard in time, he might have persuaded his men that his cause was still worth following. When it reached the camp he was dead.”
What did we do, she thought, to make the gods so angry? But she knew the annals of the throne of Macedon. She had the answer: We failed.
“And so,” Antipatros was saying, “all Eumenes got for his trouble—and he is wounded too, I hear—was to be condemned in his absence, for treason and for the death of Krateros. Perdikkas’ army condemned him in Assembly … also, when they mutinied, a mob of them murdered Atalante, Perdikkas’ sister. Perhaps you knew her.”
She had sat in this room, tall and dark like her brother; rather grave, because of his other marriage, but civilly planning for the wedding; a woman with dignity. For a moment Kleopatra shut her eyes. Then she straightened. She was Philip’s daughter. “I am sorry for it. But they say, Fate rules all.”
He said only, “And now? Will you go back to Epiros?”
It was the final stroke, and he must know it. He knew why she had left her dead husband’s land, which she had governed well. He knew that she had offered herself to Leonnatos and then Perdikkas, not in ambition but in flight. No one knew more than he about Olympias. His wronged daughter was in his house in Macedon; and Olympias’ daughter was wholly in his power. If he chose, he could pack her off like a runaway child, in custody to her mother. Rather than that she would die; or even beg.
“My mother is governing in Epiros till my son succeeds. It is her country; she is Molossian. There is no place for me in Epiros any more. If you will grant it me”—the words almost scorched her throat—“I will stay here in Sardis and live privately. You have my word I shall do nothing more to trouble you.”
He kept her waiting, not to punish her but to think. She was still worth, to any well-born adventurer, what she had been to two dead pretenders. In Epiros she would be restless and resentful. It would be wisest to have her killed. He looked, and saw her father in her face. For two reigns he had kept his oath of loyalty to absent kings; now his pride was invested in his honor. He could not do it.
“These are uncertain times. Sardis has been fought for time out of mind, and we are still at war. If I do as you ask, I cannot ensure your safety.”
“Who is safe in this world?” she said, and smiled. It was her smile that for the first time made him pity her.
The army of the Kings had struck camp in Egypt Generously victualed and politely seen off by Ptolemy, it was marching north to its rendezvous with Antipatros.
The guardians of the Kings, appointed after Alexander’s death, were now both dead within two years of it. Their office was held, at present, by Peithon and Arybbas.
In the two royal households, only Roxane had known the fallen Krateros. He had convoyed her back from India with the noncombatants, while Alexander was shortening his life in the Gedrosian desert. She had greatly preferred him to Perdikkas, and looked forward to being in his charge again. She had had a new gown made to receive him in; her mourning for Krateros had been sincere. The new guardians were both unpromising. Peithon, fiercely devoted to Alexander, had always regarded her as a campaign wife who ought to know her place. Arybbas she suspected of preferring boys. Besides, they had only visited her both together; a precaution privately agreed between them.
To Eurydike, Krateros had been only a name. She had heard of his death with relief; his fame had threatened a powerful force; more powerful, she had been quick to sense, than the present guardians could command.
Soon after the mutiny she had felt the change of air. Morale had altered. These were now men who had successfully defied their leaders; some were men who had shed blood. They had won; but their inward certainty was wounded, not strengthened, by their victory. They had been led disastrously and did not repent rebellion; but a navel-cord that had nourished them had been broken, a common trust. Without it they felt restless and bereaved.
Peithon and Arybbas had not filled up their emptiness. Peithon they knew by repute, as all the eight Bodyguards were known; but few, as it happened, had ever served with him. His quality was untested, and in the meantime they found him uninspiring. As for Arybbas, his record under Alexander had been undistinguished except in the field of art, which did not interest them.