Alexander rejoined Hephaistion. They rode on in silence till the rock-hewn walls of the fort, a grim relic of the lawless years, came in sight round a bluff. A group of horsemen appeared from the gate, to meet them.
Alexander said, “If Pausanias is sullen, don’t fall out with him.”
“No. I know.”
“Even kings have no right to wrong men and then forget it.”
“I don’t fancy,” said Hephaistion, who had been giving it thought, “that he does forget. You need to bear in mind how many blood-feuds the King has settled, in his reign. Think of Thessaly; the Lynkestids. My father says, when Perdikkas died there wasn’t a house or tribe in Macedon without one at least. You know Leonnatos and I should be at feud, his great-grandfather killed mine, I must have told you that. The King often asks our fathers to supper the same night, to prove all’s well; they don’t mind it now.”
“But that was old family business, not their own.”
“It’s the King’s way, Pausanias must know it. That removes the affront.”
And when they reached the fort, he did indeed go about his duties as usual. It was his office to keep the door while the King was feasting, not to sit down with the host. His meal would be served him later.
The King’s train was hospitably looked after; he himself with his son and a few chief friends were led to the inner rooms. The fort was ruder, and little later, than the castle at Aigai, which was as old as Macedon itself. The Attalids were an ancient clan. Within, the rooms had been well decked out with Persian hangings and inlaid chairs. In supreme compliment to the honored guests, the ladies came in, to be presented and offer sweets.
Alexander, whose eye had been drawn off by a Persian archer on the tapestry, heard his father say, “I never knew, Attalos, that you’d another daughter.”
“Nor had I, King, till lately. The gods, who took away my brother, gave her to us. This is Eurydike, poor Bion’s child.”
“Poor indeed,” said Philip, “to watch over such a child and die before her wedding.”
Attalos said easily, “We don’t yet think of that; we’re too pleased with our new daughter to let her go.”
At the first sound of his father’s voice, Alexander had turned like a house-dog at a stealthy footfall. The girl stood before Philip, with a polished silver sweet-bowl in her right hand. He had taken her left in his, as a kinsman might have done, and now released it, perhaps because he had seen her blush. She had a family look of Attalos, but with his defects all turned to graces: for gaunt cheeks, delicate hollows under fine bones; for straw hair, gold; he was lanky, she was willowy. Philip spoke some praise of her dead father; she made a little reverence, met his eyes and dropped hers; then went on with her silver bowl to Alexander. Her sweet bland smile fixed for a moment; she had looked before he was ready.
Next day, their departure was delayed till noon, Attalos having revealed that it was a feast-day for some local river-nymphs, and the women would be singing. They came with their garlands; the girl’s voice was light, childish, but true. The clear water of the nymphs’ spring was tasted and praised.
When they set out, the heat of the day was well advanced. A few miles on, Pausanias left the column. Another officer, seeing him go down towards a stream, called after him to wait a mile or two more for better water; here it got staled by cattle. He pretended not to hear, filled his cupped hands and drained them thirstily. He had neither eaten nor drunk, all the while he was at the house of Attalos.
Alexander stood with Olympias under Zeuxis’ painting of the sack of Troy. Above her, Queen Hekabe rent her garments; behind his head spread like a crimson nimbus the blood of Priam and Astyanax. Winter firelight leaped in the painted flames, and drew hollows in the living faces.
Olympias’ eyes were ringed with black, and her face was lined like a woman’s ten years older. Alexander’s mouth looked dry and set; he too had been sleepless, but showed it less.
“Mother. Why send for me again? All’s said and you know it. What was true yesterday is true today. I shall have to go.”
“Expediency Expediency. He has made a Greek of you. If he kills us for defying him, good, let him kill us. Let us die with our pride.”
“You know he’d not kill us. We should be where our enemies want, that’s all. If I go to this wedding, if I give it countenance, everyone can see I rate it with all the rest, the Thracians and Illyrian girls and the other nobodies. Father knows that; can’t you see that’s why he asked me? He did it to save our faces.”
“What? When you drink to my disgrace?”
“Would I do so? Accept, since it’s true, that he won’t forgo this girl. Very welclass="underline" she’s a Macedonian, the family’s as old as ours; of course they stand out for marriage. That’s why they threw her in his way, I knew it the first moment. Attalos has won this action. If we play into his hands, he’ll win the war.”
“They will only think you are taking your father’s part against me, to keep his favor.”
“They know me better.” This thought had tormented him half the night.
“Feasting with his whore’s kindred.”
“A virgin of fifteen. She’s only the bait, like the kid in a wolf-trap. Oh, she’ll do her part, she’s one of them; but in a year or two he’ll have seen a younger one. It’s Attalos who will use the time. Keep your mind on him.”
“That we should come to this!” Though she spoke with bitter reproach, he took it as assent, having had enough.
In his room he found Hephaistion waiting. Here, too, most things had been said. For some time they sat side by side on the bed in silence. At length Hephaistion said, “You will know your friends.”
“I know them now.”
“The King’s own friends should advise him. Can’t Parmenion do it?”
“He tried, Philotas tells me…I know what Parmenion thinks. What I can’t tell Mother is that I understand it.”
Hephaistion, after a long wait, said, “Yes?”
“Since Father was sixteen, he’s been in love with one who’ll never have him. He’s sent her flowers, she’s thrown them out on the midden; he’s sung at her window, she’s emptied the chamber-pot on his head; he’s offered for her hand, she’s flaunted with his rivals. At last he couldn’t stand more, and struck her; but he couldn’t bear to see her lie at his feet, so he picked her up again. Then, though he’d mastered her, he was ashamed to go to her door; he sent me instead. Well, I went; and when all’s done she’s an old painted whore. And I pity him. I never thought I’d see the day, but it’s true, I pity him. He deserves better. This girl here, I wish she were a dancer or a flute-player, or a boy for that matter; then we’d be out of trouble. But since she’s what he wants…”
“And that’s why you’re going?”
“Oh, I can find better reasons. But that’s why.”
The wedding feast was held at Attalos’ town house just outside Pella. He had just refurbished it, and not by halves; the columns were twined with gilded garlands, and statues of inlaid bronze had been shipped in from Samos. Nothing had been left out which could show that this marriage of the King’s was unlike all others, except the first. As Alexander entered with his friends, and they looked about them, all their eyes exchanged one thought. This was the mansion for a King’s father-in-law, not the uncle of a concubine.
The bride sat throned among the splendors of her dowry and the groom’s gifts; Macedon kept up older customs than the south. Gold and silver cups, rolls of fine weaving, trinkets and necklaces spread out on linen coverlets, inlaid tables on which stood caskets of spices and phials of scent, filled the bridal dais. Robed in saffron and crowned with white roses, she sat looking down at her folded hands. The guests called ritual blessings on her; her aunt beside her spoke thanks on her behalf.