“Oh yes,” said the Euboian. “We know how to manage that.”
“You were there? You yourself heard it?”
The spring night blew chilly in the hills of Macedon. The torches smoked with the window-draft, the embers of the sacred hearth faded and flickered on their old blackened stone drum. It was late. As the shadows deepened above, the stone walls seemed to lean inward, craning to hear.
The guests had departed, all but one; the slaves had been sent to bed. The host and his son had drawn three couches close round one wine table; the others, shoved aside in haste, gave the room a disordered look.
“Do you tell me,” said Pausanias again, “that you were there?” His head and shoulders were thrust forward; he had to grasp the edge of the couch to keep his balance. His eyes were bloodshot with wine; but what he had just heard had sobered him. His host’s son met his gaze; a youngish man with expressive blue eyes, and a mean mouth under his short black beard.
“The wine tripped my tongue,” he answered. “I’ll say no more.”
“I ask pardon for him,” said his father, Deinias. “What possessed you, Heirax? I tried to catch your eye.”
Pausanias turned like a speared boar. “You knew of it too?”
“I was not present,” said the host, “but people talk. I am sorry it should be here in my house that it reached your ears. Even between themselves in secret, you would think both the King and Attalos would be ashamed to boast of such a thing; much more in company. But you know, none better, what they’re like when they’ve had a skinful.”
Pausanias’ nails dug at the wood, so that the blood receded. “He took his oath before me, eight years ago, never to let it be spoken of in his presence. It was that persuaded me to forgo vengeance. He knew it, I told him so.”
“Then he was not forsworn,” said Heirax with a sour smile. “He didn’t let it be said, he said it. He thanked Attalos for the good service. When Attalos would have answered, he clapped a hand across his mouth, and they both laughed at that. Now I understand it.”
“He swore to me by the stream of Acheron,” said Pausanias, almost whispering, “that he had no foreknowledge of it.”
Deinias shook his head. “Heirax, I take back my rebuke. When so many know, it is better Pausanias hears of it first from friends.”
“He said to me”—Pausanias’ voice was thickening—“‘In a few years, when you are seen to be held in honor, they will doubt the tale; then they will forget it.’”
“So much for oaths,” said Deinias, “when men feel themselves secure.”
“Attalos is secure,” said Heirax easily. “Safe with his troops in Asia.”
Pausanias stared past them into the dulling red core upon the hearth. Speaking, it seemed, to that, he said, “Does he think it is too late?”
“If you like,” said Kleopatra to her brother, “you may see my dress.”
He followed to her room, where it hung on a T-shaped stand, fine saffron-dyed linen embroidered with jeweled flowers. She was to blame for nothing; soon they would seldom meet again; he gave her waist a pat. In spite of all, the coming pomps began to charm her; shoots of pleasure broke through, like green on a burnt hillside; she began to feel she would be a queen. “Look, Alexander.” She lifted from its cushion the bridal wreath, wheat-ears and olive sprays worked from fine gold, and walked towards the mirror.
“No! Don’t try it on. That’s very unlucky. But you will look beautiful.” She had shed most of her puppy-fat, and showed promise of some distinction.
“I hope we shall soon go up to Aigai. I want to see the decorations; when the crowds arrive, one can’t go about. Have you heard, Alexander, about the great procession to the theater, to dedicate the Games? They’re to be offered to all the twelve Olympians, and the images are to be carried—”
“Not twelve,” said Alexander drily. “Thirteen. Twelve Olympians, and divine Philip. But he’s modest, his image is going last…Listen; what’s that noise?”
They ran to the window. A party had dismounted from its mules, and was grouping formally, to approach the Palace. The men were crowned with bay, and the leader carried a branch of it.
Sliding down from the sill, Alexander said eagerly, “I must go. Those are the heralds from Delphi, with the oracle about the war.” He kissed her briskly, and turned to the doorway. In it, just entering, was his mother.
Kleopatra saw her glance pass by, and the old bitterness stirred once more. Alexander, who received the glance, knew it of old. It called him to a secret.
“I can’t stay now, Mother. The heralds are here from Delphi.” Seeing her mouth open, he added quickly, “I’ve a right to be there. We don’t want that forgotten.”
“Yes, you had better go.” She held out her hands to him, and, as he kissed her, began to whisper. He drew back saying, “Not now, I shall be late,” and loosened her hands. She said after him, “But we must talk today.”
He went without sign of hearing it. She felt Kleopatra’s watching eyes, and answered them with some small business of the wedding; there had been many such moments, over many years. Kleopatra thought of them, but held her peace. Long before Alexander could be a king, she thought, if he ever was one, she would be a queen.
In the Perseus Room, the chief diviners, the priests of Apollo and of Zeus, Antipatros, and everyone whom rank or office entitled to be there, had assembled to hear the oracle delivered. The heralds from Delphi stood before the dais. Alexander, who had run the first part of the way, made a slow entrance and stood at the right of the throne, arriving just before the King. Nowadays he had to manage such things for himself.
There was a pause of whispering expectation. This was a royal embassy. Not for the swarming petitioners about marriages and land purchases and sea journeys and offspring, who could be dealt with by drawing lots, but for this single question, the grey-haired Pythia had gone into the smoky cave below the temple, mounted the tripod beside the Navel Stone swathed in its magic nets, chewed her bitter laurel, breathed the vapor from the rock-cleft, and uttered her god-crazed mutterings before the shrewd-eyed priest who would interpret them in verse. Old fateful legends drifted like mist from mind to mind. Those of more stolid temper awaited some stock response, advice to sacrifice to the proper gods, or to dedicate a shrine.
The King limped in, was saluted, and sat down, his stiff leg pushed forward. Now he could exercise less, he had begun to put on weight; there was new solid flesh on his square frame, and Alexander, standing behind, saw that his neck had thickened.
There were the ritual exchanges. The chief herald unrolled his scroll.
“Pythian Apollo, to Philip son of Amyntas, King of the Macedonians, answers thus: Wreathed is the bull for the altar, the end fulfilled. And the slayer too is ready.”
The company pronounced the well-omened phrases prescribed for such occasions. Philip nodded to Antipatros, who nodded back with relief. Parmenion and Attalos were having trouble on the coast of Asia, but now the main force would set out with good augury. There was a satisfied hum. A favorable answer had been expected; the god had much to thank King Philip for. But it was only to greatly honored ones, the courtiers murmured, that Two-Tongued Apollo spoke with so clear a voice.
“I have put myself in his way,” Pausanias said. “But I have had no sign from him. Courteous, yes; but then he always was. From a child he knew the story. I used to see it in his eyes. But he gives no sign. Why not, if all this is true?”
Deinias shrugged and smiled. He had feared this moment. Had Pausanias been prepared to throw his life away, he could have done it eight years before. A man in love with vengeance wanted to outlive his enemy, and taste the sweet on his tongue. This Deinias had known, and it was prepared for.