“But the Athenians hate the Thebans.”
“He would like them to hate us more. A war pact with Thebes is what any man of sense would work for, in his place. With the Thebans he may succeed; the Great King has sent him a fortune to buy support against us. It’s the Athenians will give him trouble; that feud’s too old.”
Alexander sat in thought. Presently he said, “It’s four generations now since they threw back the Persians; and we Medized, as the Thebans did. If the Great King crossed now from Asia, they’d be intriguing and impeaching one another, while we turned him back in Thrace.”
“Men change in less time than that. We have come up in one generation, thanks to your father.”
“And he’s still only forty-three. Well, I shall go out and take some exercise, in case he should leave me anything to do.”
On his way to change, he met his mother, who asked the news. He went with her to her room, and told her as much as he thought good. The room was warm, soft and full of color; bright firelight danced on the pictured flames of Troy. His eyes turned to the hearth, he stared unnoticed at the loose stone he had explored in childhood. She found him withdrawn, and accused him of weak compliance with Antipatros, who would stop at nothing to do her harm. This happened often, and he passed it off with the usual answers.
Leaving, he met Kleopatra on the stairs. Now at fourteen she was more like Philip than ever, square-faced, with strong curly hair; but her eyes were not his, they were sad as an unloved dog’s. His half-wives had borne him prettier girls; she was plain at the age when, for him, it mattered most; and for her mother she wore the mask of the enemy. Alexander said, “Come with me, I want to speak to you.”
In the nursery they had been struggling rivals. Now he was above the battle. She longed for, yet feared, his notice, feeling unequal to anything it could mean. It was unheard of for him to confer with her. “Come in the garden,” he said, and, when she shivered and crossed her arms, gave her his cloak. They stood in a leafless rose-plot by the Queen’s postern, close against the wall. Old snow lay in the hollows and between the clods. He had spoken to her quietly, he had not wished to frighten her, she saw that in herself she was unimportant; but she was afraid.
“Listen,” he said. “You know what happened to Father at Byzantion?” She nodded. “It was the dogs betrayed him. The dogs, and the sickle moon.”
He saw the dread in her sad eyes, but read no guilt in it. Neither of Olympias’ children looked for innocence in one another. “You understand me. You know the rites I mean. Did you…see anything done?”
She shook her head dumbly; if she told, it would come out in one of their dreadful love-quarrels. His eyes searched her like the winter wind; but her fear hid everything. Suddenly he became gentle and grave, and took her hand through the folds of cloak. “I won’t tell that you told me. By Herakles. I could never break that oath.” He looked round at the garden shrine. “Tell me, you must. I must know.”
Her hidden hand shifted in his. “Only the same as other times, when nothing came of it. If there was more, I didn’t see it. Truly, Alexander, that’s all I know.”
“Yes, yes, I believe you,” he said impatiently; then grasped at her hand again. “Don’t let her do it. She hasn’t the right, now. I saved him at Perinthos. He’d be dead now, but for me.”
“Why did you?” Much could be left unsaid between them. Her eyes dwelt on the face that was not Philip’s, the rough-cut, shining hair.
“It would have been disgraceful not to.” He paused, seeking, she thought, some words that would serve for her. “Don’t cry,” he said, and passed a fingertip gently under her eyes. “That’s all I wanted to know. You couldn’t help it.”
He began to lead her in; but paused at the doorway, and looked about them. “If she wants to send him a doctor, medicines, sweets, anything, you must let me know. I charge you with it. If you don’t, it will rest on you.”
He saw her face pale with shock. Her surprise, not her distress, arrested him. “Oh, Alexander! No! Those things you spoke of, they’ve never worked, she must know it. But they’re terrible, and when—when she can’t contain her soul, they purge it. That’s all they are.”
He looked at her almost with tenderness, and slowly shook his head. “She meant them.” He gave her one of his secret looks. “I remember,” he said softly.
He saw her sad dog’s eyes, flinching from this new burden. “But that’s long ago. I expect it’s as you say. You’re a good girl.” He kissed her cheek, and squeezed her shoulders as he took back his cloak. From the doorway she watched him go shining off through the dead garden.
Winter dragged on. In Thrace the King mended slowly, and could sign letters with the shake of an old man. He had understood the news from Delphi, and directed that Antipatros should support, discreetly, the Amphissian war. The Thebans, though pledged to Macedon, had been doubtful allies, intriguing with the Persians; they were expendable at need. He foresaw the League states voting for the war, each hoping that its burden would be borne by others; Macedon should stand by, without officiousness, in friendly willingness to assume the tiresome duty. It would put the key to the south into his hand.
Soon after midwinter, the Council voted for war. Each state offered only a token force; none would yield leadership to a rival city. Kottyphos, a Thessalian, being President of the Council, had flung in his lap command of this awkward army. Thessalians, whom Philip had rescued from tribal anarchy, remained mostly grateful. There was small doubt where Kottyphos would turn in his hour of need.
“It has begun,” said Alexander to his friends, as they sluiced down under the fountain by the stadium. “If one only knew how long.”
Ptolemy, pushing his head out of his towel, remarked, “Women say a watched pot never boils.” Alexander, dedicated to constant readiness, had been working them hard; Ptolemy had a new mistress, of whom he would have liked to be seeing more.
“They say too,” Hephaistion countered, “that when you take your eye off it, it boils over.” Ptolemy looked at him with irritation; it was well for him, he was getting enough of what he wanted.
He was getting, at least, what he would not have changed for any other human lot; and the world could know it. The rest was his secret; he came to what terms he could with it. Pride, chastity, restraint, devotion to higher things; with such words he made tolerable to himself his meetings with a soul-rooted reluctance, too deep to suffer questioning. Perhaps Olympias’ witchcraft had scarred her child; perhaps his father’s example. Or, thought Hephaistion, perhaps it was that in this one thing he did not want the mastery, and all the rest of his nature was at war with it; he had trusted his very life much sooner and more willingly. Once in the dark he had murmured in Macedonian, “You are the first and the last,” and his voice might have been charged with ecstasy or intolerable grief. Most of the time, however, he was candid, close, without evasions; he simply did not think it very important. One might have supposed that the true act of love was to lie together and talk.
He talked of man and fate; of words heard in dreams from speaking serpents; of the management of cavalry against infantry and archers; he quoted Homer on heroes, Aristotle on the Universal Mind, and Solon on love; he talked of Persian tactics and the Thracian battle-mind; about his dog that had died, about the beauty of friendship. He plotted the march of Xenophon’s Ten Thousand, stage by stage from Babylon to the sea. He retailed the backstairs gossip of the Palace, the staff room and the phalanx, and confided the most secret policies of both his parents. He considered the nature of the soul in life and death, and that of the gods; he talked of Herakles and Dionysos, and how Longing can achieve all things.