She thought, I need only give up my bread to him. He would take it gladly if I gave it, though he will not rob me. I would surely die quickly, now. But when the time came she could not bear her hunger, and ate her share. To her surprise, she was aware that the portion had grown larger. Next day there was still more, enough to save for a frugal breakfast.
At the same time, they began to hear the voices of the guard outside. They must have been told to keep their distance—her record of subversion was well known—their comings and goings had been only measures of time. But discipline was relaxing, they talked and gossiped carelessly, weary perhaps of guarding a place without an exit. Then one night, as she lay watching through the window-hole a single star, there was a soft approach, the click of leather and metal; the opening was darkened for a moment, and when it lightened, there were two apples on the sill. The mere smell was ambrosia.
After that something came every night, and with less stealth, as if the officer of the watch were himself conniving. No one stayed to talk at the window, no doubt a hanging matter; but they talked to their relief, as if they meant to be heard. “Well, we’ve our orders, like it or not.” “Rebels or no, enough’s enough.” “And too much is hubris, which the gods don’t like.” “Aye, and by the look of it they won’t wait long.”
Well versed in the tones of mutiny, she sensed something else. These men were not plotting; they were talking openly the common talk of the streets. She thought, We are not that woman’s only victims; the people have sickened of her. What did they mean by the gods not waiting long? Can it be that Kassandros is marching north?
There had been cheese and figs in the night, and the jug had had watered wine in it. With better food her listlessness had left her. She dreamed of rescue, of the Macedonians staring with pity at their filth and wretchedness, clamoring for retribution; of her hour of triumph when, washed and robed and crowned, she resumed her throne in the audience chamber.
Kassandros’ sudden departure for the north had left confusion behind him; his forsaken allies in the Peloponnese had to face alone the Macedonians led by Polyperchon’s son. When their desperate envoys overtook his column, he only said he had business that would not wait.
Democrat Aitolians had manned Thermopylai against his passage. Such challenges had no romance for him. More practical than Xerxes, he commandeered everything that would float in the busy strait between Euboia and the mainland, and bypassed the Hot Gates by sea.
In Thessaly, Polyperchon himself awaited him, still faithful, despite Olympias, to Alexander’s son. He too was sidestepped; some troops were detached to tie him up, while the main force pressed on northeast. Skirting Olympos, they were soon on the borders of Macedon.
The coastal fortress of Dion lay ahead. Kassandros’ envoys promised an end to the unlawful tyranny of women and a return to the ancient customs. After a short conclave within, the gates were opened. Here he held court, receiving all who offered support or brought him intelligence. Many kinsmen of Olympias’ victims, or men whom she had proscribed, came to join him, full of their wrongs and clamoring for vengeance. But others came by stealth who till lately would not have come; men who had refused to fight the mother of Alexander, and who said now that no one but Alexander could have held such a woman in check. These would go back, spreading news of Kassandros’ pledges, and his claim to the regency on behalf of Roxane’s son.
One day, he remembered to ask of such a visitor, “And when they took Amyntas’ daughter, how did she die?”
The man’s face lightened. “There at least I have good news for you. She was alive when I left, and Philip too. They are treated shockingly, walled up in a wretched sty; there is a great deal of anger among the people. I’m told they were in a very poor way, till even the guards took pity on them and gave them a little comfort. If you hurry, you can save them still.”
Kassandros’ face had set in a moment’s stillness. “Shameful!” he said. “Olympias should have borne her good fortune more becomingly. Can they have lived so long?”
“You can count on that, Kassandros I had it from one of the guard.”
“Thank you for the news.” He leaned forward in his chair, and spoke with sudden animation. “Let it be known I mean to right their wrongs. They shall be restored to all their dignities. As for Olympias, I shall hand over her person to Queen Eurydike, to punish as she sees fit. Tell the people.”
“Indeed I will; they will be glad to hear. I’ll get word, if I can, to the prison. It will cheer them to have hope at last.”
He left, big with his mission. Kassandros sent for his officers, and told them he would delay his march for a few days more. It would give his friends time, he said, to gather more support.
Three mornings later, Eurydike said, “How quiet it is. I don’t even hear the guard.”
The first dawn was glimmering in the window-hole. The night had been cool, the flies were not yet awake. They had eaten well on what the night-guard had brought. The watch had changed just before dawn as usual; but the relief had been quiet, and now there was no sound of their movements. Had they deserted, mutinied? Or been called to help defend the city, which would mean Kassandros had come?
She said to Philip, “Soon we shall be free, I feel it.”
Scratching at his groin, he said, “Can I have a bath?”
“Yes, we shall have baths and good clean clothes, and beds to sleep in.”
“And I can have my stones back?”
“Yes, and some new ones too.” Often in their close quarters his nearness, his smell, the way he ate and belched and relieved himself, had been barely endurable; she would gladly have exchanged him for a dog; but she knew that she owed him justice. She must care for her mind, if she was to be fit again for ruling. So she seldom scolded him, and, if she did, gave him a kind word after. He never sulked, always forgave, or perhaps simply forgot.
“When will they let us out?” he said.
“As soon as Kassandros wins.”
“Listen. People are coming now.”
It was true, there were footsteps; three or four men by the sound. They were on the door side, where the window did not look. Their voices muttered but she could not make out their words. Then, suddenly, came a sound there was no mistaking—a blow of a pick on the wall that closed the door.
“Philip!” she cried. “They have come to rescue us!”
He whooped like a child, and peered vainly through the window. She stood up in the space under the roof-point, listening to the fall of rubble and thud of stones. The work went quickly; the wall had been a shoddy job, by men without their hearts in it. She called out, “Are you Kassandros’ men?”
There was a pause in the pick-strokes; then a thick foreign voice said, “Yes, Kassans men,” but she could tell he had not understood her. His next words, to his workmates, were not in Greek, and now she recognized the sound.
“They are Thracians,” she said to Philip. “They are slaves sent to knock down the wall. When that’s done, someone will come to unbar the door.”
Philip’s face had altered. He withdrew as far from the door as he could without falling into the privy. Old days, before the benevolent reign of Konon, were coming back to him. “Don’t let them come in,” he said.
She had begun to reassure him, when there was a laugh outside.
She stiffened. It was not the laughter of slaves, complaisant or discreet. She knew, with a crawling of the flesh, the nature of this archetypal mirth.
The last stones fell. The crossbar clattered from the door. It creaked open; the sunrise burst dazzling in.
Four Thracians stood on the threshold, staring across the rubble.