Eurydike heard, dismayed, defiant shouts change to an indeterminate grumbling. Antigonos, who had ignored her, seemed to see her for the first time.
“Young lady,” he said, “take your husband back to his quarters, and look after him. It’s a wife he needs, not a female general. Go about your work, and leave me to mine. I learned it from your grandfather before ever you were born.”
There was a wavering pause; the edges of the press began to fall away, the center to loosen. Eurydike cried out, “We will have our rights!” and some voices took it up, but not enough. The hateful giant had beaten her, and she did not know even his name.
Back in the tent, Konon told her. While she considered her next move, the smell of food reminded her that her young stomach was hungry. She waited till Philip had done—she hated to see him eating—and sat down to her meal.
Somewhere outside, a high imperious voice was arguing with the guard. Konon, who was pouring her wine, looked up. A youth came in; stunningly handsome, and hardly as old as herself. With his perfect features and clustering short gold curls, he could have posed for a Hermes to any sculptor. Like Hermes he entered lightly, and stood poised before her, fixing her with the gaze of a scornful god.
“I am Demetrios, son of Antigonos.” He sounded, too, like a deity announcing himself at the opening of a play. “I am here to warn you, Eurydike. It is not my custom to make war on women. But if you harm a hair of my father’s head, your life shall pay for it. That is all. Farewell.”
He was gone, as he had come, through the disorganized army; his speed, his youth and arrogance cleaving his way.
She stared after this first antagonist of her own age. Konon snorted. “The insolent young dog! Who let him in? ‘Not my custom to make war on women’! Who is he used to make war on, I’d like to know? His father should take a strap to him.”
Eurydike ate quickly and went out. The visitation had spurred her flagging purpose. Antigonos was a force of nature with which she could not contend; but he was one man alone. The troops were still mutinous and ripe for revolt. She dared not assemble them, which would bring him down on her again; but she went among them, reminding them that Antipatros, who was coming, was not the rightful Regent, that he feared being displaced by a rightful King. If he was allowed, he would seek out Philip and herself and all the best of their followers, to be put to death.
Antigonos, meanwhile, had sent one of his suite to meet the Regent and warn him to prepare for trouble. But the Regent and his escort had come by short-cuts over the hills; the messenger missed his way, arriving late at the tail-end of the column. There he was told that the old man had gone ahead with his bodyguard, long before noon.
Sitting straight on his easy-pacing charger, his stiff legs aching on the saddle-cloth, his face set in the harsh stare which was his mask for the pains and infirmities of age, the Regent rode to Triparadisos. His doctor had urged him to go by litter. But so had his son Kassandros, back in Macedon; who was only waiting to insist that his failing strength called for a deputy—naturally, himself. Antipatros neither trusted nor much liked his eldest son. Here in Syria, since Perdikkas’ death anything might have happened; and he meant to arrive, the gods and physic helping him, looking like a man to be obeyed.
The main gate into the park was dignified with great columns topped with stone lotuses. Antipatros took the good road which duly led him there.
Noises came from beyond; but to his annoyed surprise no escort was there to meet him. He told his herald to announce him with a trumpet blast.
In the lodge, the generals knew, with dismay, that his main force could not have come so quickly. Their envoy had missed him. Almost at once a rising commotion was heard; and a squadron leader, who had not joined the revolt, came galloping up. “Sir! The Regent’s here with no more than fifty horse, and the rebels are mobbing him.”
They ran for their helmets—the rest of their armor was on—and shouted for their horses. Neither Peithon nor Arybbas had ever lacked personal courage; they reached for their javelins briskly. Antigonos said, “No, not you two. If you come they’ll fall on all of us. Stay here, get anyone you can find and hold the lodge. Come, Seleukos. We’ll go and talk to them.”
As Seleukos mounted, vaulting upon his spear, Antigonos on his tall horse beside him, he felt for a moment the old elation of the golden years. It was welcome after the squalid affair in Egypt, from which he did not yet feel clean. When, though, in those years had he ever felt in danger from his own men?
The Regent had reached an age when discomfort and fatigue bothered him more than danger. Expecting nothing worse than disaffection, he had come in a light riding tunic and straw sun-hat, armed only with his sword. Seleukos and Antigonos, galloping down between huge cedars and deodars and spreading planes, saw the tight knot of the bodyguard sway in the press around it, the broad-brimmed hat fly off among the helmets, the vulnerable gleam of silver hair.
“Try not to draw blood,” called Antigonos to Seleukos. “They’ll kill us then.” With a bellow of “Halt, there!” he shoved down into the press.
Their firmness, their fame, Antigonos’ great height and overwhelming presence, got them through to the Regent, glaring under his white brows like an ancient eagle beset by crows, and grasping his old sword. “What’s this, what’s this?” he said. Antigonos gave him a brief salute (did he think there was time to chat? the old man must be failing at last) and addressed the soldiers.
Had they no shame? They claimed to respect the King; had they no respect for Philip his great father, the maker of their nation, who had appointed this man and trusted him? He had never been deposed by Alexander, only summoned for a conference while a deputy relieved him … Antigonos when he chose could persuade as well as dominate. The crowd sullenly parted; the Regent and his rescuers rode up to the lodge.
Eurydike had been preparing her speech for the coming Assembly, and knew nothing of the fracas till it was over. It shocked her that followers of hers might have butchered this ancient man. It offended her poetic image of war. Besides, they should be under her control and seen to be so. Only Athenian demagogues made speeches while others fought.
An hour before sunset, Antipatros’ main force arrived. She heard, rumbling on into the dusk, the horse and foot filing into the parks, the shouting and creaking of the supply trains, the bustle of camp slaves pitching tents, the rattle of stacked arms, the whinnying of horses scenting their kind; and, lasting long after, the hubbub of men in animated talk, exchanging news and rumors and opinions. It was the sound of the agora, the wineshop, the gymnasium, the forum; age-long leitmotif of the lands by the Middle Sea.
After sundown, a few of her following came, to say they had been arguing her cause with Antipatros’ men; one or two had cuts and bruises. But these had been little fights, stopped quickly by authority. She read the omens of discipline restored, and not wholly unwelcome. When a senior officer of the Regent’s staff came to the tent, they all, to a man, saluted.
He announced that a full Assembly would be held next day, to decide the kingdom’s affairs. King Philip would no doubt wish to attend it.
Philip had been building himself a little fort on the floor, and trying to man it with some ants who persisted in deserting. Hearing the message, he said anxiously, “Must I make a speech?”
“That, sir, is as you wish,” the envoy said impassively. He turned to Eurydike. “Daughter of Amyntas, Antipatios sends you greeting. He says that though it is not the custom of the Macedonians for women to address Assembly, you have his leave to do so. When he himself has spoken, they will decide if they wish to hear you.”
“Tell him I shall be there.”
When he had gone, Philip said eagerly, “He promised I needn’t make a speech if I didn’t want to. Please don’t make me.”