Philip’s lower lip thrust out. “Don’t tempt me,” he said. “I brought her back for your sake. She’s your mother; I’m trying to remember it. Don’t tempt me before a witness.”
In the background, Philotas shifted his tall bulk, and gave a quiet, sympathetic cough.
“And now,” said Philip, “attend to me; I am coming to business. First: I am sending an envoy to Karia. He can carry a formal letter from me, refusing my consent to your betrothal, and one from you withdrawing. Or, if you won’t write, he can carry one from me telling Pixodoros he is welcome to you, but he’ll be getting no son of mine. If that’s your choice, tell me now. No? Very well. Then, second: I don’t ask you to control your mother, you couldn’t do it. I don’t ask you to bring her intrigues to me, I’ve never asked it, I don’t ask now. But while you are here in Macedon as my heir, which is while I choose and no longer, you will keep your hands out of her plots. If you meddle in them again, you can go back where you have been, and stay there. To help keep you out of mischief, the young fools you’ve embroiled so far can go looking for trouble outside the kingdom. Today they are settling their affairs. When they are gone, you may leave this room.”
Alexander heard in silence. He had long prepared his mind for torture, lest he should somehow be taken alive in war. But it was his body he had thought of.
“Well?” said the King. “Don’t you want to know who they are?”
He answered, “You may suppose so.”
“Ptolemy: I have no luck with my sons. Harpalos: a sleek greedy fox, I could have bought him if he were worth it. Niarchos: his Cretan kin may have joy of him. Erigyios and Laomedon…” The names came slowly. He was watching the face before him whiten. It was time the boy learned once for all who was the master. Let him wait.
Gladly as Philotas would have removed Hephaistion, he had not named him; neither justice nor kindness, but an ineradicable fear, had held his hand. The King for his part had never thought Hephaistion dangerous in himself. Though it was certain that, at the pinch, there was nothing he would not do for Alexander, he was worth taking a risk on. This was the one pardon which would disoblige Olympias. It had another use, besides.
“Concerning Hephaistion son of Amyntor,” he said, taking his time, “I have considered that matter by itself.” He paused again, while something within him, between contempt and deep secret envy, thought, The man does not live I could feel that for, or the woman either. “You will not pretend, I take it, that he was not told your plans, or that he refused assent to them.”
In the distant voice of great pain, Alexander said, “He disagreed, but I overbore him.”
“So? Well, be that as it may, I take into account that placed as he is, he could not escape blame either by keeping your counsel or revealing it.” His voice was dry, putting Hephaistion where he belonged. “Therefore, at present I have exempted him from exile. If he gives you more good advice, you will do well to take it, both for your own sake and for his. For I am saying this before a witness, in case you should dispute it later: if you are found again in treasonable conspiracy, I shall consider him a party to it, both by knowledge and consent. I shall accuse him before the Assembly of the Macedonians, and ask them for his death.”
Alexander answered, “I have heard you. You need not have brought a witness.”
“Very well. Tomorrow, if your friends have taken themselves off, I will dismiss the guard. Today you can give thought to your life. It is more than time.”
He turned. The guard outside presented arms. Philotas, leaving after him, had meant to look back at Alexander with discreet support and a meaning indignation. But at the last, he went out with averted face.
Days passed; Alexander, now he was about again, found his following well sifted. It can cost too much to be in fashion, even for the young. The chaff was all winnowed out now. The solid grain remained. He took note of these faithful ones; they were never forgotten.
A few days later, he was sent for to the small audience room. The message only said that the King required his presence.
Philip was in his chair of state, with an officer of justice, some clerks, and a number of litigants waiting audience. Without speaking, he motioned his son to a seat below the dais, and went on dictating a letter.
Alexander stood a moment, then sat down. Philip said to the guard at the door, “They can bring him in.”
A four-man guard brought in Thettalos. His hands and his legs were fettered. He walked forward with the heavy shuffling gait imposed by the leg-irons. His wrists had raw bloody sores, from the rubbing of the bracelets.
He was unshaven and unkempt, but he kept his head well up. His bow to the King was not more, nor less, respectful than if he had been a guest. He made another to Alexander; his eyes held no reproach.
“So you are here,” said the King grimly. “If you were an honest man, you would have come to give account of your embassy. And if you were a wise one, you would have run further than to Corinth.”
Thettalos inclined his head. “So it seems, King. But I like to fulfill my contracts.”
“It is a pity, then, that your sponsors will be disappointed. You will give your last show in Pella. And you will give it alone.”
Alexander stood up. Everyone looked at him; they could see now why he was there.
“Yes,” said the King. “Let Thettalos see you. He owes his death to you.”
Alexander said in a high taut voice, “He is an artist of Dionysos, his person is sacred.”
“He should have kept to his art.” Philip nodded to the officer of justice, who began to write something.
“He’s a Thessalian,” Alexander said.
“He is a citizen of Athens these twenty years. After the peace was signed he has acted as my enemy. He has no rights, and he knows it.”
Thettalos looked, with an almost imperceptible shake of the head, at Alexander; but his eyes were fixed on the King.
“If he has his deserts,” Philip said, “he will hang tomorrow. If he wants clemency, he must ask me for it. And so must you.”
Alexander stood rigid, holding an indrawn breath. Everyone’s eyes were on him. He took a step towards the throne.
With a clank, Thettalos advanced one weighted foot. It brought him into the pose of heroic fortitude beloved of audiences. Every eye was drawn his way.
“Let me answer for it all. One should not exceed one’s instructions. I was officious in Karia. Rather than your son, I will ask Sophokles to be my pleader.” He brought both hands forward in a classic movement which also, to the best advantage, displayed his sores. There was a faint shocked murmur. He had been oftener crowned than any Olympic victor, and Greeks who had scarcely seen a theater knew his name. In his resonant voice which could have reached an audience of twenty thousand, now pitched perfectly to the room, he delivered his supplication.
The lines were fairly appropriate; not that it mattered. It was an exhibition piece. Its real meaning was, “Oh, yes, I know who you are. And you know who I am. Isn’t it time to end the comedy?”
Philip narrowed a hard black eye. The message was understood. He was quite startled to see his son, blazing with controlled emotion, come out and stand by the actor’s side.
“Certainly, sir, I will ask clemency for Thettalos. It would be far more shameful not to. He has risked his life for me; I shall not grudge him a little of my pride. Please pardon him; all the fault was mine. And you, Thettalos, please forgive me.”
Thettalos with his fettered hands made a gesture more exquisite than words. Applause, though unheard, hung in the air.
Philip nodded at Thettalos, like a man who has fulfilled his purpose. “Very well. I hope this has taught you not to hide behind the god when you are making mischief. This time you are pardoned; don’t presume on it. Take him away, and strike off his chains. I will hear the other business presently.” He went out. He needed time to recover his temper, lest he make mistakes. Between them, they had nearly managed to make a fool of him. Yet they had had no time to concert it. A couple of tragedians, cueing one another to steal his scene.