There was a blare of archaic horns, and cries of “May the King live!”
Philip paced on a white horse, in his purple cloak and gold crown. Half a length behind, at either side, rode his son-in-law and his son.
The peasants made good-luck phallic signs at the bridegroom, and wished him offspring. But by the arch, a troop of young men, who had been waiting with filled lungs, yelled all together, “Alexander!”
He turned his head smiling, and looked at them with love. Long after, when they were generals and satraps, they would boast of it to silence envy.
The rear of the bodyguard came after; then, finishing the procession, the victims for the sacrifice, one for each god, led by the bull with a garland around his dewlaps, and gold foil on his horns.
The sun floated up from its nets of light; everything glittered; the sea, the dewy grass, crystal cobwebs on yellow broom; the jewels, the gilding, the cool gleam of the burnished bronze.
The gods had entered the theater. Through the tall gateway of the parodos, the cars drove round the orchestra one by one; the guests applauded; the resplendent images were lifted off, and put on bases near their altars. The thirteenth deity, who claimed no shrine but owned the precinct, was set down in the middle.
Outside in the road, the King made a sign. Pausanias barked an order. The van of the Royal Guard wheeled smartly left and right, and fell back on the rear guard, behind the King.
The theater was some hundred yards away. The chiefs, looking back, saw the Guard retire. The King, it seemed, had entrusted himself to them for this last lap of his progress. Pleased by the compliment, they opened their ranks for him.
Noticed only by his own men, who thought it none of their business, Pausanias strode on towards the parodos.
Philip saw the chiefs waiting. He walked his horse up to them, from the standing ranks of the Guard, and leaned down smiling. “Go on in, my friends. I shall come after.”
They began moving; but one elderly laird stood planted by his bridle, and said with Macedonian forthrightness, “No guard, King? In all this crowd?”
Philip leaned down and clapped his shoulder. He had been hoping someone would say it. “My people are guard enough. Let all these foreigners see it. Thanks for your kindness, Areus; but go on in.”
As the chiefs went forward, he slowed his horse, falling back between the bridegroom and Alexander. From the crowd each side came a buzz of friendly voices. Ahead was the theater, packed with friends. His broad mouth smiled; he had looked forward to this moment of public proof. An elected King, whom these southerners had dared call tyrant; let them see for themselves if he needed the tyrant’s square of spearmen. Let them tell Demosthenes, he thought.
He reined up and beckoned. Two servants came up to the younger men, and stood ready to hold their horses. “You now, my sons.”
Alexander, who had been watching the chiefs go in, looked sharply round. “Are we not to go with you?”
“No,” Philip said crisply. “Weren’t you told? I go in alone.”
The bridegroom looked away, to hide his embarrassment. Were they going to bicker over precedence now, before everyone? The last of the chiefs was going through out of sight. He could not walk over by himself.
Sitting upright on Oxhead’s scarlet saddlecloth, Alexander looked along the stretch of empty road, empty in sunlight; wide, trampled, wheel-rutted, hoof-marked; ringing with emptiness. At its end, in the triangle of deep shadow thrown by the parodos, was a gleam of armor, a line of red cloak. If Pausanias was there, he must have his orders?
Oxhead pricked up his ears. His eye, bright as onyx, looked sideways; Alexander touched his neck with a finger; he stood like bronze. The bridegroom fidgeted. Why would the youth not move? There were times when one could understand the rumors. It was something about the eyes. There had been a day at Dodona; a bitter wind, a fall of snow lying, he wore a sheepskin cloak…
“Get down then,” said Philip impatiently. “Your brother-in-law is waiting.”
Alexander glanced again at the dark gateway. He pressed with his knee, bringing Oxhead nearer, and looked with deep concentration into Philip’s face.
“It is too far,” he said quietly. “It’s better if I go with you.”
Philip raised his brows under his gold garland. It was clear enough now what the lad was after. Well, he had not earned it yet; let him not push for it. “That is my business. I will be judge of what is best.”
The deep-shadowed eyes reached for his. He felt invaded. From any subject, it was an affront to stare at the King.
“It is too far,” said the high clear voice, inexpressive, steady. “Let me go in with you, and I will pledge my life for yours…I swear it to you by Herakles.”
Faint, curious murmurs began to be heard among the bystanders, aware of something unplanned. Philip, though growing angry, was careful of his face. Keeping down his voice, he said sharply, “That is enough. We are not going to the theater to act in tragedy. When I need you I will tell you so. Obey my orders.”
Alexander’s eyes ceased their quest. His presence left them; they were as empty as clear grey glass. “Very well, sir,” he said. He dismounted; Alexandros followed with relief.
Pausanias in the tall gateway saluted as they came. Alexander returned it in passing, while he spoke to Alexandros. They ascended the short ramp to the stage, acknowledged the acclamations, and took their seats.
Outside, Philip touched his rein. With a stately gait, his well-trained charger went forward, undisturbed by noise. The people knew what the King was doing, admired it, and took care he heard. His anger passed; he had something better to think of. If the boy had chosen some more fitting time…
He rode on, acknowledging the cheers. He would sooner have walked, but his limp robbed it of dignity. Already, through the twenty-foot-high parodos, he could glimpse the orchestra with its ring of gods. The music had struck up for him.
From the stone gateway a soldier stepped forward, to help him down and take his horse. It was Pausanias. In honor of the day, he must have posted himself to this page’s service. How long ago…It was a signal of reconcilement. At last he was ready to forget. A charming gesture. In the old days, he had had a gift for such acts of grace.
Philip slid stiffly down, smiled, and began to speak. Pausanias’ left hand took his arm in a tightening grip. Their looks met. Pausanias brought out his right hand from his cloak, so swiftly that Philip never saw the dagger, except in Pausanias’ eyes.
The guard up the road saw the King fall, and Pausanias stoop over him. His lame foot must have stumbled, the men thought, and Pausanias been clumsy. Suddenly Pausanias straightened up, and began to run.
He had been eight years in the Guard, and for five of them commanded it. A farmer among the crowd was the first to call out, “He’s killed the King!” As if given leave to credit their senses, with confused shouts the soldiers rushed towards the theater.
An officer reached the body, stared at it, pointed wildly, and yelled, “After him!” A stream of men poured round the corner, behind the backstage buildings. The King’s well-trained charger stood stolidly by the parodos. No one had thought fast enough to dare the outrage of mounting it.
A piece of land behind the theater, sacred to Dionysos its guardian god, had been farmed by the priests with vines. The thick black old stocks were dappled with young shoots and bright green leaves. On the earth glinted Pausanias’ helmet, flung away as he ran; his red cloak draped a vine-prop. He raced over the rough clods towards the old stone wall and its open gateway. Beyond it, a mounted man with a spare horse was waiting.
Pausanias was in hard training, and not yet thirty. But in the hunt were youths not yet twenty, who had learned mountain warfare with Alexander; they had trained still harder. Three or four drew out in front. The gap began to narrow.