Suddenly she began to wail, tearing her hair and dress, clawing and beating her bared breast. He pulled back her hands, straightened her clothes and gripped her hard by the arms. “Quiet! Don’t tell the world our business. We must think.”
She looked up with terror-stretched eyes. “What will she do? She will kill me.” The words passed without shock, between the children of Olympias; but he took her in his arms and patted her, as he might have soothed a hurt dog. “No, don’t be foolish, you know she won’t harm her own. If she killed anyone…” He broke off with a violent movement, which in the moment of making it he changed to a clumsy caress. “Be brave. Sacrifice to the gods. The gods will do something.”
“I thought,” she said sobbing, “if he’s not a bad man…I can take Melissa…at least I would get away. But with her there in the house, and after this…! I wish I were dead, I wish I were dead.”
Her disheveled hair fell against his mouth, he could taste it damp and salt. Looking past her, he saw behind a laurel bush a glimpse of scarlet, and freed an arm to beckon. The girl Melissa came out flinching. But, he thought, she could have overheard nothing she would not soon have been told. He said to Kleopatra, “Yes, I’ll see Mother. I’ll go now.”
He put his sister into the dark outstretched hands with their pink palms. Looking back on his way to the furnace he was bound for, he saw the slave-girl seated on the rim of the porphyry fountain, bending over the head of the princess crouched by her lap.
News of the betrothal spread quickly. Hephaistion considered what Alexander would think of it, and guessed right. He did not appear at supper; he was said to be with the Queen. Hephaistion, waiting in his room, had fallen asleep on the bed before the sound of the latch aroused him.
Alexander came in. His eyes looked hollow, but full of a feverish exaltation. He walked over, put out his hand and touched Hephaistion, as a man might touch a sacred object for luck or a good omen, while deeply concerned with something else. Hephaistion looked, and was silent.
“She has told me,” said Alexander.
Hephaistion did not ask, “What is it now?” He knew.
“She has told me at last.” He looked deeply at, and through Hephaistion, including him in his solitude. “She made the conjuration, and asked the god’s leave to tell me. He had always signed against it. That I never knew before.”
Hephaistion sitting on the edge of the bed, unmoving, watched Alexander with all his being. He had perceived that his being was all he had to give. Men must not be spoken to on their way up from the shades, or they might sink back again forever. This was well known.
With the verge of consciousness, Alexander was aware of the quiet body, the face made beautiful by its intentness, the still dark-grey eyes, their whites lit by the lamp. He gave a deep sigh, and rubbed his hand across his brow.
“I was present,” he said, “at the conjuration. For a long time the god did not speak, either yes or no. Then he spoke, in the form of the fire and in the—”
Suddenly he seemed aware of Hephaistion as a presence separate from his own. He sat down by him, and laid a hand on his knee. “He gave me leave to hear, if I vowed not to disclose it. It is the same with all the Mysteries. Anything of mine I would share with you, but this belongs to the god.”
No, to the witch, thought Hephaistion; that condition was made for me. But he took Alexander’s hand in both of his, and pressed it reassuringly. It felt dry and warm; it rested between his in trust, but sought no consolation.
“You must obey the god, then,” said Hephaistion; and thought, not for the first time, nor for the last, Who knows? Aristotle himself never denied that such things have been; he would not be so impious. If it was ever possible, it must be so still. But it is a great burden for the mortal part to carry. He clasped more tightly the hand he held. “Only tell me this, whether you are satisfied.”
“Yes.” He nodded at the shadows beyond the lamp. “Yes, I am satisfied.”
Suddenly his face was drained and drawn; his cheeks seemed to sink in as one looked, and his hand grew chilly. He began to shiver. Hephaistion had seen the same thing after battle, when men’s wounds got cold. This needs the same remedy, he thought. “Have you any wine in here?”
Alexander shook his head. He withdrew his hand to hide its tremor, and began to walk about.
Hephaistion said, “We both need a drink. I do. I left supper early. Come and drink with Polemon. His wife’s had a boy at last. He was looking for you in Hall. He’s always been loyal.”
This was true. That night, being happy, he grieved to see the Prince look so worn down by his troubles, and kept his cup well filled. He did grow gay, even noisy; it was a party of friends; most had fought in the charge at Cheironeia. In the end, Hephaistion just got him up to bed on his feet, and he slept on till mid-morning. About noon, Hephaistion went to see how he was getting on. He was reading at his table, with a pitcher of cold water by him.
“What book is it?” asked Hephaistion, leaning over his shoulder; he had been reading so quietly one could hardly make out the words.
He put the book quickly aside. “Herodotos. Customs of the Persians. One should understand the kind of man one is going to fight.”
The ends of the scroll, curling up together, had met at the place where he had read. A little while after, when he was out of the room, Hephaistion rolled it open.
…the transgressor’s services shall always be set against his misdeeds; only if the second are found the greater, shall the wronged party go on to punishment.
The Persians hold that no one ever yet killed his own father or mother. They are sure that if every such case were fully searched, it would be found out that the child was either a changeling, or born of adultery; for it is inconceivable, they say, that the true father should die by the hands of his child.
Hephaistion let the scroll spring back over the writing. For some time he stood looking out of the window, with his temple pressed against its frame, till Alexander, returning, smiled at the print of the carved laurel leaves stamped into his flesh.
The troops drilled for the war. Hephaistion, long eager for it to begin, now almost craved for it. Philip’s threats had angered more than frightened him; like any hostage, he was worth more alive than dead, and the Great King’s soldiers would kill him much more readily; yet here it was as if they were all being driven down the funnel of a narrowing gorge, a torrent rushing below them; war beckoned like open country, freedom, escape.
After half a month, an envoy came from Pixodoros of Karia. His daughter, he disclosed, had most unhappily fallen into a wasting sickness. It was no small part of his grief that, besides her expected loss, he must renounce the distinguished honor of a union with the royal house of Macedon. A spy, who arrived by the same ship, reported that Pixodoros had sent the new Great King, Darius, pledges of firm allegiance, and betrothed the girl to one of his most loyal satraps.
Next morning, sitting at the desk of Archelaos, with Alexander standing straight-backed before it, Philip gave this news without any comment, and looked up, waiting.
“Yes,” said Alexander evenly. “It has turned out badly. But remember, sir, Pixodoros was content with me. It was not my choice to withdraw.”
Philip frowned; yet he had felt something like relief. The boy had been too quiet just lately. This impudence was more like him, except for its restraint. One had always learned from his anger. “Are you trying to excuse yourself, even now?”
“No, sir. I just say what we both know is true.”
He had still not raised his voice. Philip, his first fury spent and the bad news long expected, did not shout back. In Macedon, insult was a killing matter, but plain speaking the subject’s right. He had taken it from simple men, even from women. Once, when after a long day in the judgment seat he had told some old crone he had no time left to hear her case, she had called out, “Then leave off being King!” and he had stayed to hear it. Now too he listened; it was his business; he was the King. It should have been more; but he put his grief behind him, almost before he knew it for what it was.