From the second courier’s letter, it was clear that Philip was now dealing direct with his southern agents, who had reported the Amphissians still harbored their former government and ignored remonstrances; the opposition dared not return. Kottyphos, the League general, had written to the King in confidence: if the League were forced into action, would Philip be prepared to undertake the war?
With this came a second letter, bound up and double-sealed, addressed to Alexander as Regent. It commended his good government; and informed him that though Philip hoped soon to be fit for the journey home; affairs could not wait so long. He wanted the whole home army mobilized for action; but no one must suspect that his plans led southward; Antipatros alone could share the knowledge. Some other pretext must be sought. There had been tribal musterings in Illyria; it should be given out that the western border was threatened, and the troops were standing by for that. Terse notes on training and staffing were closed with fatherly blessings.
Like a caged bird set free, Alexander flew into action. As he ranged about in search of good country for maneuvers, he could be heard singing to the beat of Oxhead’s hooves. If some girl he had loved for years, Antipatros thought, had suddenly been promised him, he could not have glowed more brilliantly.
War councils were called; the professional soldiers conferred with the tribal lords who commanded their own levies. Olympias asked Alexander what kept him so often away, and why he looked so full of business. He answered that he hoped soon to see action against the Illyrians on the border.
“I have been waiting to speak to you, Alexander. I hear that after Kallixeina the Thessalian entertained you all one evening, you made her a present and never sent again for her. These women are artists, Alexander; a hetaira of that standing has her pride. What will she think of you?”
He turned round, for a moment quite bewildered. He had forgotten the existence of such a person. “Do you think,” he said staring, “that I’ve time now to be playing about with girls?”
She tapped with her fingers on her gilded chair-arm. “You will be eighteen this summer. People may be saying you do not care for them.”
He stared at the Sack of Troy, the flames and blood and the shrieking women flung back across warriors’ shoulders, waving their arms. After a moment he said, “I shall find them something else to talk about.”
“You have always time for Hephaistion,” she said.
“He thinks of my work, and helps.”
“What work? You tell me nothing. Philip sent you a secret letter; you did not even tell me. What did he say?”
With cool precision, without a pause, he gave her the tale about the Illyrian war. She saw, and was shaken by, the cold resentment in his eyes.
“You are lying to me,” she said.
“If you think so, why ask?”
“I am sure you told Hephaistion everything.”
Lest Hephaistion should suffer for the truth, he answered, “No.”
“People talk. Hear it now from me, if you do not know. Why do you shave, like a Greek?”
“Am I not Greek, then? This is news, you should have told me sooner.”
Like two wrestlers who in their grapple reel towards a cliff, and let go in a common fear, they paused and swerved.
“Your friends are known by it, the women point at them. Hephaistion, Ptolemy, Harpalos…”
He laughed. “Ask Harpalos why they point.”
She was angered by his endurance, when instinct told her she was drawing blood. “Soon your father will be making you a marriage. It is time you showed him it is a husband he has to offer, and not a wife.”
After a moment’s stillness he walked forward, very slowly, and lightly as a golden cat, till he stood straight before her looking down. She opened her mouth, then closed it; little by little she shrank back into her thronelike chair, till its high back held her and she could retreat no further. Judging this with his eyes, he then said softly, “You will never say that to me again.”
She was still there, and had not moved, when she heard Oxhead’s gallop thudding away.
For two days he did not come near her; her orders to deny him her door were wasted. Then came a feast; each found a gift from the other. The breach was healed; except that neither spoke of it, or asked forgiveness.
He forgot it, when the news came in from Illyria. Word having spread that King Philip was arming against them, the tribes, which had been settling, were in ferment from the border to the western sea.
“I expected no less,” said Antipatros in private to Alexander. “The price of a good lie is that it gets believed.”
“One thing’s certain, we can’t afford to undeceive them. So they’ll be over the border any day. Let me think about this; tomorrow I’ll tell you what troops I need to take.”
Antipatros saved his breath; he was learning when to do so.
Alexander knew what forces he wanted; what most concerned him was how to avoid, without suspicion, committing too many troops to the work they were supposed to be standing by for. Soon fact supplied a pretext. Since the Phokian war, the Thermopylai fort had been held by a Macedonian garrison. It had just been “relieved,” in strength and without agreement, by a force of Thebans. Thebes, they explained, had to protect herself from the Sacred League, which, by attacking her allies the Amphissians, was clearly threatening her. This seizure was as near a hostile act as a formal ally could compass. It would be natural, now, to leave a good holding force at home.
The Illyrians were lighting war-fires. Alexander got out his father’s old maps and records; questioned veterans about the terrain, which was mountainous and cleft with gorges, and tested his men in marches across country. From one such day he got back at fall of dusk, bathed, greeted friends, had dinner, and, ready for sleep, went straight up to his room. He threw off his clothes at once; with the cold draft from the window came a warm drift of scent. The tall standing lamp shone in his eyes. He stepped past it. On the bed a young girl was sitting.
He stared at her in silence; she gasped and looked down, as if the last thing she had looked for here was an unclothed man. Then slowly she got to her feet, unclasped her hands to let them fall at her sides, and raised her head.
“I am here,” she said like a child repeating lessons, “because I have fallen in love with you. Please don’t send me away.”
He walked steadily across to her. The first shock had passed; one must not be seen to hesitate. This one was not like the painted jeweled hetairas with their easy charm, the patina of much handling. She was about fifteen, a fair-skinned girl, with fine flaxen hair falling unbound over her shoulders. Her face was heart-shaped, her eyes dark blue, her small breasts firm and pointed; the dress of snow-white byssos showed the pink nipples through. Her mouth was unpainted, fresh as flowers. Before he reached her, he felt her steeped in fear.
“How did you get in?” he asked. “There’s a guard outside.”
She clasped her hands again. “I—I have been trying a long time to come to you. I took the first chance I saw.” Her fear shivered like a curtain round her, it almost stirred the air.
He had expected no answer to the purpose. He touched her hair, which felt like thin silk clothing her; she was shaking like the bass string of a kithara lately struck. Not passion, fear. He took her shoulders between his hands and felt her a little calmed, like a scared dog. It was because of him, not of him, she was afraid.
They were young; their innocence and their knowledge spoke together, without their will. He stood holding her between his hands, no longer heeding her, listening. He heard nothing; yet the whole room seemed to breathe.
He kissed her lips, she was just the right height for him. Then he said crisply, “The guard must have gone to sleep. If he let you in, let’s make sure there is no one else here.”