Fire From Heaven (43 page)

The tall one bent towards him with awkward kindness; she moved like a farm animal, and smelled like one. ‘Yes, yes, only the god will see. But the lots are in two jars; one for the gods to be propitiated; the other for Yes or No. Which shall we set out?’

‘Yes or no.’

The old one still clutched a fold of his cloak in her tiny fist, with the assurance of a child whose beauty makes it welcome. Suddenly she piped up, from down near his waist, ‘Take care with your wish. Take care.’

He bent down over her, and asked softly, ‘Why, Mother?’

‘Why? Because the god will grant it.’

He put his hand on her head, a little shell of bone in a woollen clout, and, caressing it, looked over her at the black depths of the oak. The other two looked at one another. Neither spoke.

He said, ‘I am ready.’

They went off into a low-roofed sanctuary house beside their dwelling, the old one trotting behind squeaking muddled orders, like any great-grandmother who has got into a kitchen to annoy the women at work. They could all be heard bustling and grumbling, as at some inn caught unready by a guest who cannot be turned away.

The huge ancient branches stretched above him, splintering the pale sun. The central trunk was folded and ribbed with age; into its fissures small votives had been thrust by worshippers, in times so remote that the bark had almost engulfed them. A part was crumbled with rot, and worm-holed. Summer would reveal what bare winter hid, that some of the main limbs were dead. Its first root had thrust from the acorn while Homer was still alive; it was near its time.

From around its massive centre, where the boughs forked, came a sleepy cooing and moaning; in hollows, and little cotes nailed here and there, the sacred doves were huddled, couple by couple, fluffed-up and pressed together against the cold. As he came near, one gave from its hidden darkness a loud ‘Roo-co-coo!’

The women came out, the tall one with a low wooden table, the round one with an ancient jar, painted black on red. They set the jar on the table under the tree. The old one put into his hands a strip of soft lead, and a bronze stylos.

He laid the strip on an old stone altar, and wrote firmly: the deep letters shone silvery in the dull lead. GOD AND GOOD LUCK. ALEXANDER ASKS ZEUS OF THE SANCTUARY, AND DIONE , WILL THE THING I HAVE IN MY MIND COME TO PASS? Having folded the strip in three, so that the words were hidden, he dropped it in the jar. He had learned what to do, before he came.

The tall woman stood by the table, and lifted her arms. There was a priestess painted on the jar, standing just so. The invocation was in the jargon of some foreign tongue, corrupted long since by time and ignorance; the vowels were drawn out, to mimic a dove. Presently one replied; there was a low murmuring, all round the heart of the tree.

Alexander stood watching, his mind upon his wish. The tall priestess put her hand in the jar, and was beginning to grope about, when the old one came up and twitched her cloak, scolding as shrilly as a monkey. ‘It was promised me,’ she chattered. ‘Promised me.’ The other stood back, her eyes startled, stealing a glance at him; the round one clucked, but did nothing. The old woman pushed back her robe from her stick-thin arm, like a housewife pot-scouring, and thrust it inside. There was a rat?tling of the small oak tablets on which the lots were carved.

Through these delays, Alexander stood waiting, his eyes fixed on the jar. The black-painted priestess stood in her stiff archaic posture, showing her lifted palms. At her feet, twined round the leg of her painted table, was a painted snake.

It was drawn with skill and vigour, its head thrust upward. The table-leg was short, like a low bed’s, it would climb up easily. It was a house-snake, which knew a secret. While the old woman muttered and scratched about, he frowned at it, trying to trace back, into the darkness from which it had crept forth, a sense of some ancient anger, some enormous wound, some mortal insult unavenged. Images formed. He faced again a giant enemy. The steam of his breath dispersed in the cold air; through a long pause no new breath followed, then a sound escaped him, bitten off into silence. His fingers and teeth had clenched themselves. His memories opened and bled.

The old woman straightened up. In her grimy claw she held the folded lead, and two wooden lots. The others hurried to her; the law was to bring out one lot, that lying nearest to the lead; they hissed at her, like nurses at a child who does an unseemly thing in ignorance. She lifted her head - her backbone was past straightening - and in a younger, commanding voice said, ‘Stand back! I know what I have to do.’ For a moment it could be seen that she had once been beautiful.

Leaving the lead on the table, she came towards him, both hands held out, a lot in each. Opening the right, she said, ‘For the wish in your mind.’ She opened the left, saying, ‘And for the wish in your heart.’

Each of the little black wood-blocks was carved with ‘Yes’.

King Philip’s newest wife had had her firstborn. It was a girl.

The downcast midwife brought it from the lying-in room. He took in his hands, with ritual signs of approval, the little red crumpled thing, brought naked to prove it free from blemish. Attalos, who had been haunting the house since the birth-waters broke, craned over, his face red and crumpled too; he must have hoped against hope till he saw the sex for himself. His pale blue eyes followed it with hatred as it was carried back; he would as soon have thrown it in the lake like an unwanted bitch-pup, Philip thought. Often it made him feel foolish that he seemed to sire five girls for every boy; but this time he had heard the news with deep relief.

Eurydike was all he liked in a girl, sensual without looseness, eager to please without fuss, never making scenes. Gladly, any day, he would have put her in Olympias’ place. He had half-thought, even, of having the witch put out of the way for good; it would solve all problems, she had blood-guilt enough on her hands to make it a rough justice, and there were people to be hired as skilled in such matters as she. But however well it was managed, the boy would know. Nothing would hide it from him: he would pluck the truth from air. And then?

And now? Well, this girl-child gave breathing-space. Attalos had told him a dozen times that their family ran to boys. Now let him keep quiet awhile. Philip put off decision, as he had been doing these ten months.

His plans for the war in Asia went forward smoothly. Weapons were made and stored, levies came in, horses were broke for cavalry; gold and silver flowed out like water, to contractors, to paymasters, to agents and client rulers. The troops drilled and manoeuvred, ready and disciplined, swapping legends about the fabled wealth of Asia and the vast ransoms of captive satraps. But a gloss had gone, a resonance, a crackle and spark, a smile on the face of danger.

There were also rubs more palpable. A savage brawl, which would beget half a dozen blood-feuds, had broken out in a Pella wine-shop, between cavalry of Attalos’ tribal levy, and those of a corps lately re-named Nikanor’s Horse, though no one who valued his life would call it this in hearing of its men. Philip sent for the chief offenders; they glared at each other and were evasive till the? youngest, heir of an ancient house that had helped a dozen kings in or out and well remembered it, lifted his shaven chin and said defiantly, ‘Well, sir, they were slandering your son.’

Philip told them to look after their own households, and leave his to him. Attalos’ men, who had hoped to hear him say, ‘I have no son yet,’ went grieved away. Soon after, he sent out yet another spy, to learn what was going on in Illyria.

To Epiros he sent none; he knew where he was, there. He had had a letter he perfectly understood; the protest of a man of honour, carried just as far as honour required. One could almost see the drawn line. He replied with equal nicety. The Queen had left him from self-will and sullen temper, having suffered no legal injuries. (He was on good ground here; not every Epirote royal house had been monogamous.) She had turned his son against him; the young man’s present exile was her fault alone. The letter contained no mortal insults. It would be understood in its turn. But what was happening in Illyria?

Some few of the young men had ridden home from Epiros, bringing a letter.

Alexander to Philip King of the Macedonians, greeting. I send back to you and to their fathers these men, my friends. They are guilty of no wrong. In kindness they escorted the Queen and me into Epiros; this done, we required no more of them. When the Queen, my mother, is restored to her rights and dignity, we will return. Till then I shall do as I think good, asking no man’s leave.

Greet for me the soldiers I led at Chaironeia, and those who served under me in Thrace. And do not forget the man who was saved by my shield, when the Argives mutinied before Perinthos. You know his name. Farewell.

In his private reading-cell, Philip crumpled the letter and threw it down; then, bending stiffly with his lame leg, picked it up, flattened out the creases, and locked it away.

One after another, the spies from the west brought in uneasy news, never facts one could grip on. The names of the small close band were always there. Ptolemy: ah, if I could have bride-bedded his mother it would have been a different tale. Nearchos: a good sea-officer, due for promotion if he’d had sense. Harpalos: I never trusted that limping fox, but the boy would have him. ErigyiosÉ LaomedonÉ Hephaistion, well, as soon part a man from his shadow. Philip brooded a moment, in the sad resenting envy of the man who believes himself always to have sought the perfect love, not owning that he has grudged the price.

The names never varied; the news always did. They were at Kossos’ fort; at the castle of Kleitos, who was as near a High King as Illyria would stomach; they were on the Lynkestid border. They were on the coast, said to be asking after ships for Korkyra, for Italy, for Sicily, even for Egypt. They had been sighted in the ranges beside Epiros. They were rumoured to be buying arms, to be hiring spearmen, to be training an army in some forest lair. Whenever Philip needed to dispose his troops for the war in Asia, one of these alarms would come in, and he must spare a regiment for the border. Without doubt, the boy was in touch with friends in Macedon. On paper, the King’s war plans remained unaltered; but his generals could feel him hanging fire, awaiting the next report.

Ê

In a castle perched on a craggy headland by a wooded Illyrian bay, Alexander stared up at the night-shrouded, smoke-black rafters. He had spent the day hunting, like the day before. His bed was of rushes, full of fleas, in the guest-corner of the hall; here, among dogs crunching the bones from old suppers, the bachelors of the household slept. His head ached. A draught of clean air blew from the doorway; the moonlit sky looked bright there. He got up and threw his blanket round him. It was soiled and torn; his good one had been stolen some months before, about the time of his birthday. In a nomad camp near the border, he had turned nineteen.

He steered past sleeping bodies, stumbling on one, which grunted curses. Outside on the bare crag ran a narrow ra?mpart. The cliff plunged straight to the sea; far down, moon-gleaming foam crawled round the boulders. He knew the footsteps behind and did not turn. Hephaistion leaned on the wall beside him.

‘What is it? Couldn’t you sleep?’

‘I woke,’ Alexander said.

‘Have you got the gripes again?’

‘It stinks in there.’

‘Why do you drink that dog-piss? I’d sooner go to bed sober.’

Alexander gave him a look like a silent growl. His arm propped on the wall was scored by the claws of a dying leopard. All day he had been in movement; now he was still, looking down the giddy drop to the sea.

At last he said, ‘We can’t keep it up much longer.’

Hephaistion frowned at the night. He was glad, however, to be told; it was being asked he had most dreaded. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I doubt we can.’

Alexander picked some stone chips from the wall-top, and pitched them down at the shimmering sea. No ripple showed, no sound returned from the depth, even when they struck rock. Hephaistion did nothing. He offered his presence, as his omens had directed him.

‘Even a fox,’ said Alexander presently, ‘runs through all its tricks in time. And the second time round, the nets are waiting.’

‘You’ve often had luck from the gods.’

‘Time’s running out,’ Alexander said. ‘It’s a feel one gets in war. You remember Polydoros with his dozen men, trying to hold that fort in the Chersonese. All those helmets propped on the walls; moved, too, now and again. I was fooled into sending for reinforcements, two days, remember? Then a catapult knocked off a helmet and showed the stake. It was bound to happen; his time ran out. Mine will run out when some Illyrian chief crosses the border on his own account, for cattle, or a feud, and Philip hears I wasn’t leading. I’ll never fool him after that, he knows me too well.’

‘You could still lead a raid, it’s not too late to change your mind. If you pushed a little way in, and withdrew from strengthÉ. With all he has to do, it’s not likely he’ll come in person.’

‘How can I know that? No, I had a warningÉ a kind of warningÉ at Dodona.’

Hephaistion stored away this news in silence. It was the most Alexander had ever told him of it.

‘Alexander. Your father wants you back. I know it. You should believe me. I’ve known it all along.’

‘Good. Then he can do right by my mother.’

‘No, not only for the war in Asia. You don’t want to hear this, but he loves you. You may not like the way it takes him. The gods have many faces, Euripides says.’

Alexander laid his hands on the broken stone, and turned on his friend his entire attention. ‘Euripides wrote for actors. Masks, you can say; yes, masks. Some pretty, some not. But one face. Only one.’

A meteor flared down with a yellow-green glowing head and fading red trail, and plunged into the distant sea. Hephaistion put happiness briskly by, like a cup drunk down in haste. ‘It’s an omen for you. You must decide tonight. You know; you came out to do it.’

‘I woke up, and the place stank like a midden.’ A tuft of pale wallflower had rooted itself among the stones; he fingered it unseeingly. Like a great weight thrown suddenly on his shoulder, Hephaistion felt an awareness of being leaned upon, of being needed for more than love. It brought no joy; it was like glimpsing the first mark of a deadly sickness. Rust; he can bear anything but rust.

‘Tonight,’ he said quietly. ‘Nothing to wait for, you know it all.’

Without movement, Alexander seemed to gather himself together, to grow more compact. ‘Yes. First, I’m spending time, not using it. This I’ve never felt before. Second, there are two or three men, and I think King Kleitos is one of them, who once they’re sure they can’t use me against my father, will want to send him my head. And, thirdÉ he’s mortal, no man knows his hour. If he died, and I away over the borderÉ’

‘That, too,’ said Hephaistion calmly. ‘Well, then, as you say. You want to go home, he wants you back. You’ve exchanged mortal insults, no one will speak first. So you must find a proper go-between. Who is ?it going to be?’

Firmly now, as if it had been some time settled, Alexander said, ‘Demaratos of Corinth. He likes us both, he’ll enjoy the importance, he’ll do it well. Whom shall we send him?’

It was Harpalos, with his sad graceful limp, his dark vivid face, his quick smile and flattering grave attentiveness, who rode south. They convoyed him to the Epirote border, for fear of robbers; but he carried no letter with him. It was the essence of his mission, that no record of it should exist. He took only his mule, a change of clothing, and his golden charm.

Ê

Philip learned with pleasure that his old guest-friend Demaratos had business in the north, and would like to visit him. He was at pains to choose the supper, and hire a good sword-dancer to enliven it. Food and dancer were cleared away; they settled down to their wine. Corinth being the listening-post for all southern Greece, Philip asked at once for news. He had heard of some rub between Thebes and Sparta; what did Demaratos think?

Demaratos, a privileged guest and proud of it, fed with the expected cue, shook his distinguished iron-grey head. ‘Ah, King! That I should hear you ask if the Greeks are living in harmony! With your own house in the midst of war.’

Philip’s dark eye, not yet much engorged with wine, slewed sharply round. His trained diplomatist’s ear had picked up a certain note, a shade of preparation. He gave no sign of this. ‘That boy. He flares up at a spark, like pitch. A silly speech from a man in liquor, only worth a laugh next day if he’d kept the sense he was born with. But he runs off in a blaze to his mother; and you know her.’

Demaratos made sounds of fellow-feeling. A thousand pities, he said, that with the mother of such a jealous temper, the young man should feel his future threatened by her disgrace. He quoted faultlessly (having had them ready) some apt elegiacs of Simonides.

‘Cutting off his own nose,’ said Philip, ‘to spite his face. A boy with his gifts, the waste of it. We’d get along well enough, but for that witch. He should know better. Well, by now he’ll have paid for it. He’ll have had a bellyful of Illyrian hill-forts. But if he thinks I’llÉ’

It was not till next morning that the talking began in earnest.

Ê

Demaratos was in Epiros, the King’s most honoured guest. He would be escorting back to Pella the King’s sister and her pardoned son. Being rich already, he must chiefly be paid in kudos. King Alexandros toasted him in an heirloom gold cup, and begged him to accept it as a small memento. Olympias put out for him all her social graces; if her enemies called her vixenish, let him judge for himself. Alexander, wearing the one good chiton he had left, was most attentive; till one evening when a tired stiff old man came plodding down to Dodona on a weary mule. It was Phoinix. He had met hard weather on the pass, and almost fell from the saddle into his foster-son’s lifted arms.

Alexander demanded a hot bath, sweet oils, and a skilled bath-man; no one in Dodona, it turned out, had ever heard of such a calling. He went in to rub Phoinix down himself.

The royal bath was an antique affair of painted clay, much mended and prone to leak; there was no couch, he had had to send for one. He worked on the knotted-up thigh muscles, following their path as Aristotle had shown him, kneading and tapping as, at home, he had taught his slave to do. In Illyria, he had been doctor to all the others. Even when, knowledge or memory failing, he had relied upon omens seen in dreams, they had preferred him to the local witch-wife.

‘Ugh, aah, that’s better, that’s where it always catches me. Have you studied with Cheiron, like Achilles?’

‘No teacher like necessity. Now turn over.’

‘Those scars on your arm are new.’

‘My leopard. I had to give the skin to my host.’

‘Did the blankets reach you safely?’

‘Did you send blankets too? They’re all thieves in Illyria. I got the books; they can’t read, and by luck they weren’t short of tinder. The books were the best. They stole Oxhead, once?.’