Empire of Ashes: A Novel of Alexander the Great (4 page)

At last he half-rose from the cushions, bucking at her from below until he finished. Olympias grasped him with her thighs like a real rider, her body first hardening and then pouring herself out around him. Then she lay to his side, one leg still slung around him.

Monarchy’s duty done, the king planted a preemptory kiss on the top of her head and moved to slip away. He was restrained by her rigid, cocked leg.

“Let me go,” he said. “I have business.”

“Tossing dice no doubt.”

“The worth of my pursuits is not for you to judge. Let me up.”

“And what about
this
business?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but was distracted by the peculiar sight of her rubbing her cheek against the royal tool. Pulling back, she revealed a coat of white lead transferred from her face to the bulb. She was smiling with childish delight at this. Her cheek now covered with a pink impasto of ochre, metal, and spunk.

“Damn you woman, what are you doing to me?”

She used her fingers to smear the rest of him with her paint. “So squeamish! See—I’ve made a statue of your best feature…”

“Chamberlain! Pheredeipnos! Fetch water!” he cried.

She propped herself up on an elbow, like a drinker at a party. “Oh Philip, why do you have such contempt for me?”

The chamberlain opened the door and entered—but was frozen in his tracks by Olympias’ withering stare. Then he retreated.

She turned back to Philip. “You are too proud, sir. Your serpent is pretty, but so is mine…”

He felt her root beneath his head and pull something from under the pillow. She was now dangling a long, colorful object in front of his face. Looking closely, he met the beaded eyes of a small snake.

“Sisyphus, salute your king,” she addressed the snake.

Sisyphus opened his mouth, revealing a blue interior and a pair of needle-thin fangs.

Philip shot to his feet, dumping Olympias on the floor. “By the gods, you should live in a cage! I should send you back to that tree in Dodona you fell from!”

“My love, wait…” she laughed. “He’s harmless, just a little baby…”

He slammed the bedroom door behind him.

An hour later, Philip was slouching beside his general Parmenion on a drinking couch. The room was small and deliberately hard to find, adjoining the back of the portico that overlooked the flats of the king’s burgeoning capital. Now deep in his cups, Philip was imagining what it would take to fill Pella’s lagoon with his very own navy.

“The Athenian contractors pay a talent and a half for each vessel, not counting pay and supplies,” Parmenion told him.

“Perhaps we might shave a little off the pay…” The prospect of cheap, boundless military capability made Philip’s eyes shine like an impatient bridegroom’s.

“Dangerous. The Athenians have motivated men at the oars, even citizens…”

Parmenion broke off. Lowering his cup, Philip saw why: Olympias had found them.

His wife was standing there clearly and unabashedly naked. She had done nothing to clean herself after their labors, her eyes caked with mineral black, her cheek still smeared with the royal seed. Philip glanced at Parmenion—the officer’s eyes were prudently lowered, but a smile played on his lips.

Philip could think of nothing to say, until he finally sighed, “Woman, you are an affliction.”

Olympias was looking up and away from them, her arms raised.

“Rejoice, O Macedon!” she cried.

The king opened his mouth to call the chamberlain, but the words died in his throat. Small objects were cascading down from between Olympias’s thighs. They were hard, round. Each was propelled from her in force, bouncing and rolling on the tiles.

“I am an oak! I have conceived in Zeus!”

Stunned, Philip could only watch as the shining, growing heap of acorns collected at the feet of his Queen.

I.

What soon gets old? Gratitude.

--Aristotle

The day broke cold on the empty square. Lying in the shadow of Hymettus, Swallow watched the autumn sun rise over the ridge. A shining wedge descended to light the plumes of stoking smoke from the factories, then the bronzed encrustations of the Acropolis. As the market stalls opened, a mantle of haze kicked up by thousands of feet settled over the town, warming him with its familiarity. Filing past him on their way into the market, his fellow Athenians (bless them!) looked down with contempt upon his prone body.

He got up when the first beams reached the pavement. Shucking his blanket, he rose to empty his bladder through his morning semi-rigidity. The market girls grimaced, turning away from his baggy, tufted nakedness, but he was long past caring if he impressed those snoots.

“Pay attention to the shoes, sister!” he yelled at one of them. “These aren’t cheap shoes!”

Relieved at last, he took up the blanket again and dressed himself. Since it was a court-day, he arranged it in what he considered formal style, wrapping it around full-length and with the fringe thrown statesman-like over his left shoulder. That done (and looking quite philosophic, he thought), he reached back and stuck his left forefinger into his anus. Rooting about, he found the silver tetradrachm he kept there for safekeeping.

“Good morning, little owl,” he hailed the coin. Let the slave girls turn their noses up at that!

True, he favored the northwest corner of the market to spend the night because it caught the first sunshine of the morning, and the crossroad altar gave some privacy from the road. Equally important, though, was that it was a good spot from which to tell the mood of the day. After years of observation, he could read much from the atmosphere in the very first moments of the morning. The speed and disposition of human bodies, their numbers, the presence of magistrates—all were clues.

By the throngs that were already pouring in, momentous events seemed afoot. Macedonians, notable for their capes and their taste for vulgar displays of gold in public, were much in evidence. Cadets were filing from their barracks on the slope of the Acropolis, fanning out toward the gates of the city. Shoppers seemed weighted down with more than one day’s burden of groceries. Their demeanor, he saw, was very anxious.

There was a wine-seller’s stall east of the Sacred Way that opened early. The place sold most of its good product, the Chian dry whites and Thasian blacks, in bulk to provisioners coming in from long distances. The proprietor would also mix up a three-measure jug of local stuff for an obol, which was good enough to take the edge off the morning chill. The only thing to beware was his use of dirty water—Swallow had once tucked into a cup of sweet Attic that had been mixed with effluvia from the tannery next door.

He was on his second cup when his friend Deuteros saluted him.

“Swallow! Have you heard the news?”

“Antipater is banging your wife?”

Deuteros gave a weak smile and pulled out the little cup he kept under his clothes. Swallow poured out two fingers’ worth for him.

“Big trial today. It’s listed right in the middle of the dais. And it’s not just some crappy inheritance case…”

Deuteros downed the wine, looked around nervously. Swallow had been going to the courts with him for years, shared the cup with him countless times, and yet never known him to show the slightest effect of drink. He was always sober, always with that subtly hunted look. The reason may have had to do with marrying a girl far too personable and pretty. While this seemed enviable to Swallow (and, indeed, would to most men), Deuteros had contrived to be out of the house virtually all the time since his marriage. Even then, he still seemed to be keeping a permanent watch on the streets, as if expecting to see his wife humiliate him by going out in public.

Swallow poured out another two fingers. “Tell me why I’m buying you drinks, Deuteros, when you live in a nice house up on the hill?”

“The defendant is Machon.”

“Alexander’s boy?”

“The same. And the prosecutor is Aeschines.”

“What, he’s back?”

“Apparently. The charges are ‘betrayal of the public trust’ and ‘impiety’—or something.”

“Sounds like Aeschines. But he must be very long in the tooth by now. And to come back from such a long way…”

As his friend was standing and thinking and not drinking, Deuteros tipped more wine from Swallow’s cup into his own.

“A trial like that has big stakes. What, to try somebody from Alexander’s staff, with his regent’s army breathing down our necks? It’s stupid if you ask me, dear Deuteros. Antipater could bring his rabble right down here. What can the old man have in his mind?”

The other issued a resonant snort through his nose as he drank.

“Or maybe that’s the whole point,” Swallow went on. “If Machon ran afoul of the Boy, maybe Aeschines thinks his indictment will keep us in Antipater’s good graces. It seems like a big risk to me, anyway. Nothing can stop those Macedonian dogs! Just to be safe, we should probably vote ‘guilty’ if we get on the jury, right?”

Deuteros looked around furtively. “You asking me?”

“Who else is standing here?”

“Sure, guilty—I guess.”

“There he stands, an adept of Themis herself!” Swallow laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Athenian justice is safe with men like you, Deuteros!”

They made their way across to the courthouse. There already seemed to be a throng of men milling outside, though only a few could have been eligible for service. The spectators’ box would be filled today.

“Good luck!” said Swallow loudly, and then leaning in to Deuteros’s ear, whispered, “Remember the verdict.”

They parted, each proceeding to the entryway designated for his tribe: Swallow to ‘Kekrops,’ Deuteros to ‘Erechtheus.’ Just inside, the former dropped his juryman’s tag in the box. The archon’s assistant immediately fished the tag out, scrutinizing the name.

“You again! The state can’t afford your civic-mindedness—unless we start charging you the cost of fumigating the place!”

“I resent that,” Swallow replied, adjusting his blanket in a manner reminiscent of one of Demosthenes’ dramatic pauses. This got a big laugh from the other jury candidates.

“Get out of my sight!” the secretary cried, dropping the tag back in the box.

Before the allotment began, Swallow encountered someone he’d find less welcome on the jury than little Deuteros. Eteocles of Kikynna saw him at the same moment, registering his recognition with a scowl. At that, of course, Swallow had to go over to welcome him.

“My dear Eteocles! It’s no surprise to see you here, for this event. And not alone, it seems!”

Eteocles was standing with two other well-kitted nobles, all sweetly redolent of leather and horseflesh. Neither of them would even look at Swallow. With proper reverse snobbery, Swallow despised anyone who rode in on a horse—the conveyance of the old guard, tyranny-loving, fish-feasting, sympotic leisured prickocracy.