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But Olympias, after just a week in camp, threw herself at my feet one evening.
‘Please, Pater!’ she begged. Young Eurydike, our daughter, followed Olympias the way an acolyte follows a priest, because the young priestess was on the very threshold of adulthood and thus the ultimate object of Eurydike’s ambition. At any rate, when Olympias threw herself at what had once been a beautiful pair of Boeotian boots rather than a cracked and tangled mare’s nest of leather repairs, my daughter Eurydike threw herself down next to the older girl.
I tried to calm them both. Olympias’s tears seemed dramatic, and Eurydike’s were completely false – to me. Shows how little I knew about being a parent.
‘Please send me home!’ Olympias begged. ‘I hate it here! The Virgin Goddess will desert me here! There are no olive trees – no grass – men – all men . . .’ She wept.
My younger daughter beat the floor of my tent – a local rug, as I remember – and wept, too.
I thought this might pass, but Olympias was at it, day and night, and Thaïs was beside herself. Bella undertook most of Eurydike’s care, but Bella had no authority with this lovely young girl with the assurance of a well-bred Athenian aristocrat.
Thaïs lay next to me – it must have been a week after the first outburst. ‘The obvious answer is to marry her to someone,’ she said. But she shook her head against my chest. ‘She does not want to marry. And my life started with a marriage I did not want.’
I stared at the lamp burning above me in the roof of the tent, where it hung from a chain, suspended from the cross-beam. ‘She desires to be a priestess,’ I said.
‘And a virgin,’ Thaïs said. She said it with a sob that was half-laugh and half-cry. ‘She called me a porne – a prostitute.’
Yes. Children. Even the adopted kind.
The army had marched three thousand stades south from Sousia and Hyrkania, and Alexander gave them a rest while we poured scouts into the east and tried to find routes into Bactria that we could scout, hold open and supply.
I was busy stockpiling food – the harvest was coming in, all over the empire – when I realised that Cleitus’s arrival meant that Parmenio’s command had been stripped of troops. That struck me as odd – he was the satrap of Persia, at the centre of the vast web of the old empire, and while the ‘Persian’ satraps all seemed to be in revolt, Parmenio held the centre.
That night, I was again cuddling up to my intelligence chief, and I said – by way of small talk – that I wondered why Alexander had taken all the new Lydian and Thracian troops as well as all the taxeis under Parmenio’s command.
Even as I said it – my hand reaching for one of Thaïs’s breasts – I realised why Alexander had done it.
Thaïs frowned at me and moved my hand. ‘Parmenio’s days are numbered,’ she said.
‘You’ve said that before,’ I accused her.
She shrugged, which was very attractive, given the circumstances. ‘Perhaps. But in the past, he was a threat. Since Aegypt, he has offered no threat. After Arabela, he couldn’t have toppled the king with Zeus by his side.’ She turned her head. ‘I have no love for him. But there is something . . . poisonous about Macedon. And Athens. Why ca
Two day later, Philotas rejoined the army, having buried his brother.
He was a difficult man – given to dressing like a king, flaunting his riches and his father’s political power, and far, far too addicted to telling us that he and his father had made the king who he was.
He was also a brilliant officer, who could control a cavalry reco
Cyrus hated him, and he hated Cyrus, which made Eumenes’ job of ru
The day he returned to the army, I was coming in from the east with Cyrus, and Philotas had discovered that I commanded the Hetaeroi in his absence and came to find me.
He waved. ‘Ptolemy,’ he said. ‘Tell your Persian butt-boy to fuck off, and we’ll talk.’
I put my hand on Cyrus’s bridle. ‘Cyrus is my deputy,’ I said. ‘He serves the king.’
Philotas grunted. ‘Any way he can, I bet. He understand Greek? Hey, Persian, sod off, understand me?’
Cyrus’s face grew darker.
‘You are a fool, Philotas,’ I said. ‘Go and see the king.’
‘When I’m ready. I see you have mycommand.’ He spat.
I raised a hand. ‘Let’s try this again,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry Nicanor died. Has his shade gone to Elysium? Did you bring me Polystratus?’
Philotas looked away. Then he turned his horse and rode away without another word.
I went to the king, but he was with Bagoas.
I went to Hephaestion. ‘What’s happening with Philotas?’ I asked. ‘He wants his command back. I’m perfectly ready to give it up. I have all the grain to get in.’ I gave a bitter laugh. ‘The wily Odysseus, reduced to tracking grain shipments.’
‘The mighty Patroclus, reduced to writing orders for Achilles,’ he said. He had four papyrus rolls open. ‘You know that fucking Zopryon has managed to go and lose an entire army? To the Scythians?’ Hephaestion shook his head. ‘It defies belief.’ He raised his head and put his stylus down. ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss Philotas.’
An hour later, as I sat by lamplight with Polystratus, Ochrid and four slave scribes, Black Cleitus came to the door. We had a long, warm embrace.
‘Missed you,’ I managed to say. I remember being proud of myself for getting it out. He gri
He gave me two papyrus scrolls. By then, all orders came out in Persian and in Greek. I read the Greek.
‘Go and get Cyrus. Get all the troop commanders.’ I shook my head. Polystratus, who hadn’t seen his tent in four weeks, shook his head back and ran for the officers, and my new hyperetes, Theophilus, a Paeonian gentleman who had come to us with the Illyrian reinforcements, sounded ‘All Officers’.
I was ordered to turn out the whole force of the Hetaeroi; Macedonian, Greek and Iranian – almost four thousand cavalrymen. And they were angry at being hauled from their sacks of straw and angrier when they found that we were marching east on a pointless two-day patrol. A four-thousand-man patrol? Leaving in the dark?
We marched an hour later, and we slept hard and ate worse, because even the army’s logistics chief ca
Just before noon on the third day, I led them back into camp.
Cleitus met me at the edge of camp.
Philotas had been arrested for treason.
Alexander arraigned him in front of the whole army. When Philotas was brought out, he shredded the accusation. I heard him. It was all nonsense – that Parmenio had plotted to sell them all to Bessus. There were boys involved, and sex – there’s sex in any plot that Macedonians make – but the charges as laid were absurd, and Philotas, in his flat drawl, mocked them, and the king.
Alexander grew angry.
Hephaestion took him away.
Craterus then shocked me by making a speech reminding the army of what a snob Philotas was, and how often he’d done petty things to get his way. It turned the assembly into an ugly popularity contest.
For Craterus, it was an excellent speech.
And now I could see why I’d been sent away, and why I’d had with me every man in the army who might have stood with Philotas to prevent his arrest.
I’d been used.
That night, I lay with Thaïs and listened to a man being tortured. He was being tortured in a house not far from mine, and his screams rose and fell, not unlike the sounds of a woman giving birth, if the same woman might have had to bear six or seven children in one night. Thaïs held me hard – so hard her fingernails left marks on me.