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“That’s why I can trust him. While he’s stretching out in Asia, he’ll be glad to have Polyperchon kept busy in Greece. He’ll leave me Macedon; he knows Asia will take him all his time.”

Nikanor scratched at his head; one seemed always to pick up lice on a hunting party. He caught one and dropped it in the fire. “Are you sure of the girl? She’d be as dangerous as Antigonos, if she knew how. She made trouble enough for Father, and for Perdikkas before that. But for her, Philip would be a nothing.”

“M-m,” said Kassandros reflectively. “That’s why I asked you to watch her while I’m gone. I told her nothing, of course. She’ll take our side, to keep out the barbarian’s child. She showed me that.”

“Good so far. But she’s the King’s wife and she means to be reigning Queen.”

“Yes. With her descent, I daresay I shall need to marry her.”

Nikanoi’s pale eyebrows rose. “And Philip?”

Kassandros made a simple gesture.

“I wonder,” said Nikanor thoughtfully, “if she’d consent to that.”

“Oh, I daresay not. But when it’s done, she won’t settle down with the loom and the needle, it’s not in her. She’ll marry me sure enough. Then she can behave herself. Or …” He made the gesture again.

Nikanor shrugged. “Then what about Thessalonike? I thought you’d settled for her. She’s Philip’s daughter, not his granddaughter.”

“Yes, but the blood’s only on the father’s side. Eurydike first. When I’m King I can marry both. Old Philip would have made nothing of that.”

“You’re sure of your luck,” Nikanor said uneasily.

“Yes. Ever since Babylon, I’ve known that my time has come.”

A half-month later, towards evening on a day of mist and rain, Polyperchon came to the palace, urgently demanding to see the King.

He barely waited to be announced. Philip, with Konon’s help, was still gathering up an arrangement of his stones which he had been elaborating all day. Eurydike, who had been waxing the leather of her cuirass, had no time to hide that either. She looked resentfully at Polyperchon, who bowed formally, having first saluted the King.

“I’ve nearly put it away,” said Philip apologetically. “It was a Persian paradise.”

“Sir. I must ask your presence at a council of state tomorrow.”

Philip looked at him in horror. “I won’t make a speech. I don’t want to make a speech.”

“You need not, sir; only assent when the rest have voted.”

“On what?” asked Eurydike sharply.

Polyperchon, a Macedonian in the old tradition, thought, A pity Amyntas lived long enough to beget this meddlesome bitch. “Madam. We have news that Kassandros has crossed to Asia, and that Antigonos has welcomed him.”

“What?” she said, startled. “I understood he was hunting on his estate.”

“That,” said Polyperchon grimly, “is what he wished us to understand. We may now understand that we are at war. Sir, please be ready at sunup; I will come and escort you. Madam.” He bowed, about to depart.

“Wait!” she said angrily. “With whom is Kassandros at war?”

He turned on the threshold. “With the Macedonians. They voted to obey his father, who had thought him unfit to govern them.”

“I wish to attend the council.”

Polyperchon jutted at her his grizzled beard. “I regret, madam. That is not the custom of the Macedonians. I wish you good night.” He strode out. He was furious with himself for not having had Kassandros watched; but at least he need not put up with insolence from a woman.

The council of state considered the country’s dangers and found them grave. Kassandros, it was clear, would only stay in Asia to get the forces he needed. Then he would make for Greece.

Since the last years of Philip’s reign, and all through Alexander’s, the Greek states had been governed as Macedon ordained. Democrat leaders had been exiled, the franchise confined to men of property, whose oligarch leaders had to be pro-Macedonian. Alexander had been a long way off, and Antipatros had had a free hand. Since his supporters had enriched themselves at the expense of the many exiles, there had been violent consternation when Alexander, returning from the wilderness, had ordered them brought home and their lands restored. He had summoned the Regent to report to him in Babylon; Kassandros had gone instead. When Alexander died, the Greeks had risen, but Antipatros had crushed them. The cities, therefore, were still governed by his satellites, whose support for his son would be a matter of course.

All this time, the Greek envoys were hanging about in Pella, waiting, as they had done since the funeral, to learn the policy of the new regime towards their various states. They were now hastily summoned, and handed a royal proclamation. Much had been done in Greece, it said, which Alexander had never sanctioned. They could now with the goodwill of the Kings, his heirs, restore their democratic constitutions, expel their oligarchs, or execute them if desired. All their citizen rights would be defended, in return for loyalty to the Kings.

Polyperchon, escorting Philip from the council chamber, explained these decisions to Eurydike with punctilious care. Like Nikanor, he had reflected that she had a great capacity for mischief. She should not be idly provoked.

She listened without much comment. While the council deliberated, she too had had time for thought.

“A dog came in,” said Philip as soon as his mentor had gone. “He had a great bone, a raw one. I said to them, he must have stolen it from the kitchen.”

“Yes, Philip. Quiet now, I must think.”

She had guessed right, then; when Kassandros came to see her, he had been offering her alliance. If he won this war, he would depose the child of the barbarian, assume the guardianship, enthrone Philip and herself. He had spoken to her as an equal. He would make her a queen.

“Why,” asked Philip plaintively, “do you keep walking about?”

“You must change your good robe, you will get it dirty. Konon, are you there? Please help the King.”

She paced the room with its carved windows and great painted inner wall, covered with a life-sized mural of the sack, of Troy. Agamemnon was carrying off Kassandra, shrieking, from the sanctuary; the wooden horse loomed between the gate-towers; in the foreground, at the household altar, Priam was lying in his blood; Andromache clasped to her bosom her dead child. All the background was fighting, flames and blood. It was an antique piece, the work of Zeuxis, commissioned by Archelaos when he built the palace.

About the hearth with its worn old stones clung faded aromatic odors, a fume of ancient burnings, and curious stains. It had been, for many years, the room of Queen Olympias. Much magic, people used to say, had been worked in it. Her sacred snakes had had their basket by this hearth, her spells their hiding-places. One or two were indeed still where she had left them, for she meant to return. Eurydike only knew that the room had a presence of its own.

Striding about it, she pondered her unspoken bargain with Kassandros, and for the first time thought, What then?

Only the child of the barbarian could beget a new generation. When he had been driven out, she and Philip would reign alone. Who would succeed them?

Who fitter than the grandchild of Philip and Perdikkas to carry on their line? To do that, she could put up with childbirth. For a moment she thought shrinkingly of teaching Philip; after all, there were women in every city who for a drachma put up with worse. But no, she could not. Besides, what if he should sire a fool?

If I were a man! she thought. On the hearth a bright fire of dry lichened apple-wood was burning, for winter was drawing on. The blackened stones under the fire-basket released drifts of old tainted incense in the heat. If I were a king, I could marry twice if I chose, our kings have often done so. A vivid recollection came to her of Kassandros’ powerful presence. He had offered to be her friend … But then, there was Philip.