In due time the women bore her off to the house prepared for her. The procession in the wedding car had been left out, as inappropriate. Alexander, viewing the kindred, felt sure that they had hankered for it. He had thought his anger was spent, till he saw their faces watching him.
The meat from the marriage sacrifice, richly dressed, was eaten, and the kickshaws after. Though the chimney had a hood, the hot room grew smoky. He noticed he was being left alone a good deal with his own friends. He was glad to have Hephaistion next him; but it should have been a kinsman of the bride’s. Even the younger Attalids were clustered about the King.
Alexander murmured to Hephaistion, “Hurry up, Dionysos, we need you badly.”
In fact, however, when the wine came in he drank lightly, as usual, being as moderate in this as in eating. Macedon was a land of good springs with safe pure water. One need never come to table thirsty, as men did in the hot lands of Asia with their deadly streams.
But, with no hosts in hearing, he and Hephaistion allowed themselves the kind of joke guests save for the journey home. The young men of his following, jealous that he had been slighted, read their smiles, and followed their lead with less discretion. The banquet hall became tinged with a scent of faction.
Alexander, growing uneasy at it, murmured to Hephaistion, “We had better make ourselves pleasant,” and turned towards the company. When the bridegroom left the feast, they could slip away. He looked at his father; and saw he was already drunk.
His face was glazed and shining, he was bawling out old army songs with Attalos and Parmenion. Grease from the roast was streaked in his beard. He flung back to the company the immemorial jokes of defloration and prowess, showered on the bridegroom as ritually as the earlier raisins and grain. He had won his girl, he was among old friends, good fellowship prevailed, wine made his glad heart gladder. Alexander, scrupulously bathed, almost empty, and nearly sober, though not so sober as if he had eaten more, looked on in a silence which began to be felt around him.
Hephaistion, controlling his own anger, talked to neighbors to draw off notice. No decent master, he thought, would have inflicted this ordeal on a slave. He was angry, too, with himself. How had he not foreseen all this, why had he said nothing to keep Alexander away? He had held his peace, because he had a kindness for Philip, because it had seemed politic, and—he faced it now—in order to spite Olympias. Alexander had made this sacrifice, in one of those flashes of reckless magnanimity for which Hephaistion loved him. He should have been protected; some friend should have stepped in. He had been betrayed.
Through the rising noise he was saying something. “…she’s one of the clan, but she’s had no choice, she’s barely out of the nursery…”
Hephaistion looked round startled. With all he had on his mind, this was one thing he had never thought of, that Alexander could be angry for the girl.
“It’s mostly like this at weddings, you know that; it’s custom.”
“She was scared when first she met him. She kept a good face, but I could see.”
“Well, he’ll not be rough with her. It’s not like him. He’s used to women.”
“Imagine it,” murmured Alexander into his wine cup. He emptied it quickly and held it out. The boy came with the snow-cooled rhyton; soon after, attentive to his duties, he returned to fill it again.
“Save this one for the toasts,” said Hephaistion watchfully.
Parmenion rose on the King’s behalf to praise the bride, properly the office of the groom’s nearest kinsman. Alexander’s ironic smile was noticed by his friends, and returned too openly.
Parmenion had spoken at many weddings, some of them the King’s. He was correct, simple, careful and brief. Attalos, a huge ornate gold goblet in his hand, swung down from his supper couch to make the speech of bestowal. It was clear at once that he was as drunk as Philip, and not carrying it so well.
His praise of the King was rambling and wordy, clumsiness defeating fulsomeness; the climaxes were maudlin and badly timed; the applause, which was rapturous, was a tribute to the King. It grew less carefree as the speech warmed up. Parmenion had wished luck to a man and woman. Attalos was wishing it, in all but the naked words, to a King and Queen.
His supporters cheered, and knocked cups on tables. Alexander’s friends talked in undervoices meant to be heard. The uncommitted, taken by surprise, dismayed, were revealed by silence.
Philip, not too drunk to know what it meant, fixed his bloodshot black eye on Attalos, wrestling with his own fuddled slowness, thinking how to stop the man. This was Macedon; he had quieted plenty of after-dinner brawls; but he had never had to deal before with a new father-in-law, self-styled or not. The others had known their places and been grateful. His eye slewed round to his son.
“Don’t notice it,” Hephaistion was whispering. “The man’s soused, they all know it, they’ll all have forgotten by morning.” Early on in the speech he had made his way from his own supper couch to stand by Alexander’s, who, his eyes fixed on Attalos, felt hard and taut to the touch, like a catapult wound up.
Philip, looking that way, saw under the flushed brow and the gold hair smoothed for the feast, the wide staring grey eyes pass from Attalos’ face to his. Olympias’ rage; no, but that boiled quickly, this was held in. Nonsense, I’m drunk, he’s drunk, we’re all drunk, and why not? Why can’t the boy take it easy like anyone else at a feast? Let him swallow it, and behave.
Attalos was running on about the good old native blood of Macedon. He had conned his speech well; but lured on by smiling Dionysos, he knew he could now do better. In the person of this fair maiden, the dear homeland took back her King to her breast, with the blessing of the ancestral gods. “Let us pray to them,” he cried in sudden inspiration, “for a lawful, true-born heir.”
There was an outbreak of muddled noise; applause, protest, dismay, clumsy efforts to smother danger in jollity. The voices changed, and checked. Attalos, instead of drinking the toast, had clapped his other hand to his head; blood showed between his fingers. Something bright, a silver drinking-cup, was clattering along the mosaic floor. Alexander leaned forward on his supper couch, propped upon one hand. He had thrown without getting up.
Uproar began, echoing in the high hall. His voice, which had carried through the din of Cheironeia, called out, “You blackguard, are you calling me a bastard?” The young men, his friends, yelled out indignant applause. Attalos, perceiving what had hit him, made a choking sound, and hurled his heavy goblet at Alexander, who measured its course and did not trouble to move; it fell short halfway. Friends and kinsmen shouted; it began to sound like a battlefield. Philip, furious and knowing now where to vent his anger, roared over the clamor, “How dare you, boy? How dare you? Behave yourself or go home.”
Alexander hardly raised his voice. Like his cup, it struck where it was aimed.
“You filthy old goat. Will you never have any shame? All Hellas can wind your stink; what will you do in Asia? No wonder the Athenians laugh.”
For a moment, the only answer was a sound of breathing like a laboring horse’s. The red of the King’s face deepened to purple. His hand fumbled about the couch. He alone here, in the ceremonial dress of the bridegroom, had a sword.
“Son of a whore!” He swung off the couch, upsetting his taper-legged supper table. There was a crash of cups and dessert plates. He grasped his sword-hilt.
“Alexander, Alexander,” muttered Hephaistion desperately. “Come away, quick, come.” As if he had not existed, Alexander slid neatly down on the far side of the couch, grasped the wood in both hands, and waited with a cold eager smile.
Panting and limping, drawn sword in hand, Philip stumbled through the mess upon the floor towards his enemy. His foot slipped on a fruit-paring; he came down hard on the lame leg, skidded, and crashed headlong among sweets and sherds.