“You know I’m with you, whatever comes of it. Whatever you do.”
Alexander pressed his arm, gave him a quick secret smile, and turned back to the rest.
“Whom will you send to Karia?” asked Harpalos. “I’ll go, if you want.”
Alexander strode over and clasped his hands. “No; no Macedonian; my father could make you pay. It was noble to offer, Harpalos, I’ll never forget it.” He kissed Harpalos’ cheek; he was getting very emotional. Two or three others crowded up, offering to go. This is like the theater, Hephaistion thought.
It was then that he guessed whom Alexander would send.
Thettalos came after dark, and was let in through Olympias’ private postern. She had wished to be present at the conference, but Alexander saw him alone. He went away with a gold ring on, and his head held high. Olympias, too, thanked him with the charm she could still sometimes command, and gave him a talent of silver. He replied with grace; he had had practice in making speeches when his mind was on other things.
Some seven days later, Alexander met Arridaios in the Palace courtyard. He came oftener now; the doctors advised he should mix more in company, to stir his wits. He trotted eagerly forward to meet Alexander, the old servant, now half a head shorter, bustling anxiously behind. Alexander, who bore him no more malice than an enemy’s horse or dog, returned his greeting. “How’s Phryne?” he asked. The doll was missing. “Have they taken her away?”
Arridaios grinned. There was a wet trickle in his soft black beard. “Old Phryne’s in the box. I don’t need her. They’re bringing me a real girl, from Karia.” He added, like a dull child echoing adults, an obscene boast.
Alexander looked at him with pity. “Take care of Phryne. She’s a good friend. You might want her after all.”
“Not when I’ve a wife.” He nodded down at Alexander, and added with friendly confidence, “When you’re dead I shall be King.” His keeper tugged quickly at his belt; he went on towards the stoa, singing to himself a tuneless song.
Philotas was growing concerned. He had seen looks exchanged whose meaning he would have given much to know. Again he had been left outside a secret. Half a month he had scented it, but they were all holding their tongues. Who they were, at least, he knew; they were too pleased with themselves, or too scared, to hide it.
It was an uneasy time for Philotas. Though he had lived for years on the fringe of Alexander’s set, he had always failed to reach the inmost ring. He had a good war record; impressive looks, but for rather prominent blue eyes; he was good company at supper, and in the van of fashion; his reports to the King had always been discreet, and he was certain were undetected. Why then was he not trusted? His instincts blamed Hephaistion for it.
Parmenion was badgering him for news. If he missed this, whatever it was, it would set him back, both with his father and the King. It might even have been better to have shared the exile, he could have been useful there, and now he would have been told everything. But it had been too sudden, the choice at the wedding brawl; though brave in the field, he was comfort-loving off it, and in doubtful issues he liked hot chestnuts pulled out of the fire by others.
He wanted no one reporting to Alexander, or to Hephaistion which was the same, that he had been asking dangerous questions. It therefore took him some time, picking up trifles here and there, and seeking the missing pieces where he would least be noticed, before he learned the truth.
It had been agreed that Thettalos was too conspicuous to report, himself, upon his mission. He sent a confidential messenger from Corinth, announcing his success.
Pixodoros had known something, though not enough, about Arridaios; Philip was too old a hand to think a lasting treaty could be won by downright fraud. When, therefore, the satrap learned that at no more cost he could exchange the ass for the racehorse, he was enchanted. In the audience room at Halikarnassos, with its columns of serpentine, Persian wall-tiles and Greek chairs, the daughter was modestly paraded; no one had been at the trouble of telling Arridaios that she was eight years old. Thettalos expressed a proxy’s rapture. The marriage, of course, would have to be by proxy too; but once performed, the bridegroom’s kin would have to accept it. It only remained to choose someone of proper standing, and send him off.
For the better part of a day, in Alexander’s presence and out of it, nothing else was talked of among his friends. When others were about, they endeavored to speak darkly. But that day gave Philotas the last link in his chain.
There was nothing King Philip did better than to act when he was ready, and keep quiet meantime. He wanted no clamor and no rallying-cries; enough harm had been done already. Seldom in his life had he been so angry; this time he was angry cold sober.
The day passed without event. Night came; Alexander went to his room. When he was certainly alone, which meant when Hephaistion left, a guard was put on it. The window was twenty feet up, but there was a guard under that as well.
He knew nothing of it till morning. The men had been chosen with care; they answered no questions. He waited, fasting, till noon.
There was a dagger under his pillow. In the royal house of Macedon, this was as natural as wearing clothes. He slung it on inside his chiton. If food had been brought him, he would have left it; poison was not a fighting death. He waited for the footsteps.
When at last they came, he heard the guard presenting arms. It was not, then, the executioner. He felt no relief; he knew the tread.
Philip came in, with Philotas following.
“I need a witness,” said the King. “This man will do.”
Out of his sight, behind his shoulder, Philotas gave Alexander a look of shocked concern, mixed with dazed bewilderment. His hand sketched a little gesture, offering in the unknown trouble his helpless loyalty.
Alexander half-perceived it; but the King’s presence filled the room. His big mouth was set in his broad face; his thick brows, which had always an outward tilt, flared up from his frown like a hawk’s spread wings. Force came from him like heat. Alexander planted his feet and waited; he felt the dagger with the nerves under his skin.
“I knew,” said his father, “that you were as headstrong as a wild pig, and as vain as a Corinth whore. Treacherous I knew you could be, as long as you listened to your mother. But one thing I didn’t reckon on, that you were a fool.”
At “treacherous” Alexander had caught his breath; he began to speak.
“Be quiet!” said the King. “How dare you open your mouth? How dared you meddle in my business with your insolence and your ignorant childish spite, you blundering, brainsick fool?”
“It was to hear this,” said Alexander into the pause, “that you brought Philotas?” A jar had gone through him, like a wound one does not yet feel.
“No,” said the King menacingly. “You can wait for that. You have lost me Karia. Can’t you see it, you fool? Before God, since you think so much of yourself, you might have thought better this time. Do you want to be a Persian hanger-on? Do you want to pick up a horde of barbarian marriage-kin, who’ll hang about you when war begins, selling the enemy our plans and bargaining for your head? Well, if so your luck’s out, for I’ll see you to Hades first, you’d be less hindrance there. And after this, do you think Pixodoros will accept Arridaios? Not unless he’s a greater fool than you, and small chance of that. I thought I could spare Arridaios better. Well, I was a fool, I deserve to beget fools.” He drew a heavy breath. “I have no luck with my sons.”
Alexander stood quiet. Even the dagger on his ribs hardly moved against them. Presently he said, “If I am your son, then you have wronged my mother.” He spoke without much expression; he was taken up with inward things.