Fire From Heaven (49 page)

‘None so distinguished. Fame sweetens vengeanceÉWell, well, since we are speaking of fame, I will let you into a little secret. My principal wants to be first with the news in Athens, even before the news arrives. Between ourselves, he plans to have had a vision. Later, when Macedon has sunk back to its tribal barbarism -’ He caught the Euboian’s angry eye, and said hastily, ‘That is, has passed to a King who is prepared to stay at home - then he can proclaim to a grateful Greece his share in the liberation. Meantime, when one remembers his long battle against tyranny, can one grudge him this small reward?’

‘What risk is he taking?’ shouted the Illyrian suddenly. Though the hammers below were noisy, it startled the others into angry gestures, which he ignored. ‘Here’s a man risking death to avenge his honour. And only Demosthenes must choose the time, so that he can prophesy in the Agora.’

The three diplomats exchanged looks of scandal and disgust. Who but a backwoodsman of Lynkestis would have sent this rude clansman to such a conference? There was no knowing what he might say next, so they broke up the meeting. All that mattered had been determined.

Each left the building separately, with a little time between. The last left were the Chian and the Euboian. The Chian said, ‘Can you be sure your man will do his part?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the Euboian. ‘We know how to manage that.’

Ê

‘You were there? You yourself heard it?’ The spring night blew chilly in the hills of Macedon. The torches smoked with the window-draught, 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 forego 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 honour, 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?’

Ê

‘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 jewelled 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 theatre, 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 lastÉ 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.

Ê

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 vapour 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 awai?ted 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 favourable answer had been expected; the god had much to thank King Philip for. But it was only to greatly honoured ones, the courtiers murmured, that Two-Tongued Apollo spoke with so clear a voice.

Ê

‘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.

‘Surely that does not surprise you? Such things have a way of being seen, and remembered later. You may rest assured that you will be watched over like a friend; subject of course to a good appearance. Look. I have brought you something which will set your mind at rest.’ He opened his hand.

Pausanias, peering, said, ‘One ring is much like another.’

‘Look well at this one. Tonight, at supper, you will be able to look again.’

‘Yes,’ Pausanias said. ‘With that I would be satisfied.’

Ê

‘Why,’ Hephaistion exclaimed, ‘you’re wearing your lion ring. Where was it? We looked everywhere.’

‘Simon found it in my clothes-chest. I must have run my hand through the clothes, and dragged it off.’

‘I looked there myself.’

‘ I suppose it lodged in a fold.’

‘You don’t think he stole it, and then took fright?’

‘Simon? He’d have more sense, everyone knows it’s mine. It’s a lucky day, it seems.’

He meant that Eurydike had just been delivered of her child; it was another girl.

‘May God fulfil the good omen,’ Hephaistion said.

They went down to supper. Alexander paused to greet Pausanias by the entry. From so grim-faced a man, it was always a small triumph to win a smile.

Ê

It was the dark before dawn. The old theatre at Aigai glowed with cressets and flambeaux. Small torches flitted like fireflies, as stewards guided guests to their places on the cushioned benches. The light breeze from the mountain forests picked up the smells of burning pine-resin and packed humanity.

Down in the round orchestra were set in a circle the twelve altars of the Olympians. Fires glowed on them, sweetened with incense, lighting up the robes of their heirophants, and the strong bodies of the sacrifices with their shining cleavers. From the fields beyond came the lowing and bleating of the victims, restless at the stir and torchlight, wreathed already in their garlands. Above the rest rose the bellow of King Zeus’ white bull with his gilded horns.

On the stage, its ornate setting still dim with dusk, the King’s throne was set, flanked with state chairs for his new son-in-law, and his son.

In the upper tiers were the athletes, the charioteers, the singers and musicians who would compete in the Games when the coming rite had hallowed them. With these, and the multitude of the King’s invited guests, the small theatre was packed full. The soldiers and peasants, the tribesmen ridden in from the hills to see th?e show, trampled and stirred on the dusky hillside around the scooped shell of the theatre, or thronged the processional way. Voices rose and fell and shifted, like waves on a shingle beach. The pine-trees, standing black in the eastward glimmer, creaked under their load of boys.

The old rough road to the theatre had been levelled and widened for the great procession. Laid by the mountain dews, the dust smelled sweet in the sharp daybreak air. Soldiers detailed to clear the route came with torches; the jostling was good-humoured, shover and shoved being often fellow-tribesmen. The torches were extinguished in the lift of a cloudless clear summer dawn.

As pink touched the peaks beyond the Aigai ledge, the splendours of the parade way glimmered into view; the tall scarlet masts with their gilt finials of lion or eagle, the long streaming banners; the festoons of flowers and ribboned ivy; the triumphal arch carved and painted with the Exploits of Herakles, and topped with a Victory holding out her gilded bays. On either side of her stood two live golden-haired boys robed as Muses, with trumpets in their hands.

In the castle forecourt on the ancient stone acropolis, Philip stood in a purple cloak clasped with gold, crowned with a golden laurel-wreath. His head was turned into the light early breeze. Bird-song, the tweeting and twanging of instruments tuning-up, voices of spectators and of marshals giving orders, came to him jacked by the bass roar of the Aigai falls. His gaze traversed the plain that stretched east to Pella and the dawn-mirroring sea. His pasture lay lush and green before him; his rivals’ horns were broken. His wide nostrils snuffed the rich friendly air.

Behind him, in a scarlet tunic and jewelled sword-belt, Alexander stood beside the bridegroom. His bright hair, freshly washed and combed, was crowned with a garland of summer flowers. Half the states of Greece had sent the King wrought-gold wreaths as gifts of honour; but none had been passed to him.

Round the forecourt were ranged the men of the royal bodyguard, ready to form the escort. Pausanias, their commander, was pacing about before the lines. Those in his path would dress ranks anxiously, or fidget with their equipment; then stand easier, aware that he had not looked at them.

On the north rampart, among her women, was the bride, just risen from her marriage bed. She had had no pleasure in it; but she had been ready for worse. He had been decent, not very drunk, much aware of her youth and maidenhood, and not really old. She no longer feared him. Craning over the rough stone parapet, she saw the long snake of the procession forming along the walls. Beside her, her mother stared down into the courtyard; her lips were moving, a faint murmur of breath came out. Kleopatra did not try to hear the words. She felt the sorcery, like heat from a covered fire. But it was time to set out for the theatre, their litters were ready. Soon she would be on her wedding journey; such things would no longer matter. Even if Olympias came to Epiros, Alexandros would know how to deal with it. It was something after all, to have a husband.