It was narrowing too slowly, however. The gate was not far ahead. The man with the horses had turned their heads, ready, towards the open road.
Suddenly, as if an invisible spear had struck him, Pausanias hurtled forward. An arched knotted root had caught his toe. He fell flat; then rose on hands and knees, tugging free his booted foot. But the young men were on him.
He twisted over, looking from one to another, searching. No luck. But he had faced this chance from the first. He had cleansed his honor. He dragged at his sword; someone set a foot on his arm, another trod on his corselet. He had had no time to feel the pride of it, he thought as all the iron hacked down. No time.
The man with the horses, after one glance, had unhitched the spare one, lashed his own mount, and raced away. But the stunned pause was over. Hooves drummed on the road beyond the vines. The riders spurred after him through the gates, knowing the value of the prize.
In the vineyard, the press had caught up with the leading hunters. An officer looked down at the body bleeding, like some ancient sacrifice, into the roots of the vine-stock. “You’ve finished him. You young fools! Now he can’t be questioned.”
“I never thought of it,” said Leonnatos, the drunkenness of the blood-chase leaving him. “I was afraid he’d still get away.”
“I only thought,” said Perdikkas, “of what he’d done.” He wiped his sword on the dead man’s kilt.
As they walked away, Aratos said to the others, “Well, it’s best. You know the story. If he’d talked, it could only disgrace the King.”
“What King?” said Leonnatos. “The King is dead.”
Hephaistion’s seat was halfway up the theater, near the center steps.
The friends who had waited to cheer Alexander had run round, and scrambled in by an upper gate. These were peasants’ seats as a rule; but Companions of the Prince were small fry in today’s assembly. He had missed the grand entrance of the gods. His father was seated lower down; his mother would be among the women, in the far-end block. The two Queens were already there, in the front row. He could see Kleopatra looking about at the sights, like the other girls; Olympias, it seemed, thought that beneath her. She was staring out fixedly, straight before her, towards the parodos on the other side.
It was out of Hephaistion’s sight-line; but he was well placed for the stage with its three thrones. It was magnificent; the back and wings had columns with carved capitals, supporting embroidered curtains. The music came from behind them, crowded out from the orchestra by so many gods.
He waited for Alexander, to give him another cheer; if they started it well, everyone would take it up. He would be better for that.
Here he came now, with the Epirote King. The cheer spread well through the theater. Never mind the names being the same; he would know from the sound.
He knew, and smiled. Yes, it had done him good. This was a small theater; Hephaistion had seen, when he came in, that he was not himself. In one of his dreams, a bad one, and glad to wake. What can one expect today? I’ll see him after, if I can get near him before the Games. Everything will be simpler, when we cross to Asia.
Down in the orchestra, King Philip’s effigy sat in its gilded throne, on a base swagged with laurel. The throne waiting on the stage was just the same. Cheers sounded from the road; the hidden music grew louder.
It reached a climactic flourish. There was a hiatus, the sense of a dropped cue. Suddenly, from the women’s block where the tiers curved to face the parodos, came a shrill scream.
Alexander’s head went round. His face, from which the strangeness had been passing before, altered. He jumped from his throne and went swiftly downstage where he could see out past the wings. He was running down the ramps and through the orchestra, between priests, altars and gods, before the shouting began outside. His garland fell from his flying hair.
While the audience stirred and chattered, Hephaistion leaped down the steps to the halfway gallery, and began to race along it. The friends followed promptly; they had been trained not to waste time. Around the gallery, the young men with their speed and purpose were a spectacle in themselves, suspending panic till they had passed by. They reached the end steps that led down towards the parodos. These were choked already, with bewildered foreign guests from the lower tiers. Hephaistion shoved through with the ruthlessness of battle, elbowing, shouldering, butting. A fat man fell, tripping others; the stairs were jammed; the tiers were a confusion of people scrambling up or down. In the still center of chaos, forsaken by their heirophants, the wooden gods in their circle turned all their eyes on the wooden King.
Unmoving as they, straight-backed on her carved chair of honor, ignoring her daughter clutching her arm and crying out to her, Queen Olympias sat staring out towards the parodos.
Hephaistion felt a red rage for anyone in his way. Not caring how he did it, his companions all left behind, he fought his way through to his goal.
Philip lay on his back, the hilt of the dagger standing out between his ribs. It was Celtic work, with an elaborate plaited pattern of inlaid silver. His white chiton was almost unstained; the blade sealed the wound. Alexander was bent above him, feeling for his heart. The King’s blind eye was half-closed, the other turned up at the living eyes above him. His face was set in a stare of shock, and an astonished bitterness.
Alexander touched the lid of the open eye. It gave limply with his fingers. “Father,” he said. “Father, Father.”
He put his hand to the clammy brow. The gold crown slipped off, and fell with a brittle clink on the pavement. For a moment his face fixed, as if carved in marble.
The body stirred. The mouth parted, as if to speak. Alexander started forward; he raised the head between his hands, and leaned towards it. But only air came from the corpse, loosened by some spasm of lung or belly; a belch, with a little froth of blood.
Alexander drew back. Suddenly his face and his body changed. He said, as sharply as a battle order, “The King is dead.” He got to his feet and looked about him.
Someone called out, “They caught him, Alexander, they cut him down.” The broad entry of the parodos was seen to be full of chiefs, unarmed for the feast, confusedly trying to form a protective wall.
“Alexander, we are here.” It was Alexandros of Lynkestis, pushing himself into prominence. He had found himself a panoply already. It fitted; it was his own. Alexander’s head seemed to point, in silence, as sharply as a hunting-dog’s. “Let us escort you to the citadel, Alexander; who can tell where the traitors are?”
Yes, who? thought Hephaistion; that man knows something. What was his armor ready for? Alexander was looking about the crowd; for the other brothers, Hephaistion thought. He was used to reading Alexander’s thoughts in the back of his head.
“What is this?”
The press parted. Antipatros, having forced his way through a turmoil of scared guests, had reached Macedonians who at once made way for him. He had long been appointed sole Regent of Macedon, with effect from the royal army’s leaving. Tall, garlanded, robed with restrained splendor, clad in authority, he looked about him. “Where is the King?”
Alexander answered, “Here.”
He held Antipatros’ eyes a moment, then stepped back to show the body.
Antipatros bent, and rose. “He is dead,” he said unbelievingly. “Dead.” He passed his hand over his brow. It touched his festal wreath; with a gesture of dazed convention, he dropped it on the ground. “Who—”
“Pausanias killed him.”
“Pausanias? After so long?” He stopped abruptly, discomposed by what he had said.
“Was he taken alive?” said Alexandros of Lynkestis, just too quickly.
Alexander delayed the answer, to watch his face. Then, “I want the gates of the city closed, and the walls manned. No one to leave till I give the order.” He scanned the crowd. “Alketas, your division. Post them now.”