(Final
Scene of Rise, from Hephaistion's POV)
Hephaistion waited in line with men he didn’t
know well, archaic Illyrian helm tucked in his left arm, shield
braced against his left knee. Today, he wasn’t riding. Philippos
had recently promoted him to the Pezhetairoi, the crack infantry
considered the king’s personal guard in combat. Rather than be
composed of regional units, Philippos chose men based on two
things: size, and skill with a sword. Hephaistion possessed both,
so perhaps he should’ve seen the appointment coming, but being
removed from the prince’s cavalry agema had surprised him.
He was fairly sure nothing personal hid behind the change—after
all, he’d placed seventh in personal combat at the last
Hetairedeia—but couldn’t suppress a niggling doubt.
Alexandros was somewhere behind with his uncle and father.
Hephaistion had seen them all walk by with torch bearers earlier,
but had made no attempt to catch the prince’s attention. Somewhere
ahead, sheep and oxen bleated or lowed. The priests would lead
them at the head of the parade.
Despite the early hour, sun unrisen yet, muggy air turned his
muscle cuirass stifling. He missed the lighter linothorax for
cavalry, but Pezhetairoi were typically heavily armored. He had a
full-sized hoplite shield too. Around him, men joked with each
other. His natural reticence combined with his status as the
prince’s lover led to a certain exclusion, but it had been the
same in the Pages so he was accustomed to it.
Strutting like a cockerel, Pausanias, now a Pezhetairos
sub-officer, came by, calling the men to suit up for inspection.
He moved up and down the lines, checking fastenings, the burnish
of bronze, the precise tilt of a man’s chin. He paused longer than
usual in front of Hephaistion as if looking extra hard for a flaw,
but all he could say was, “That’s a ridiculous old helm. You pull
it out of the family tomb? Get a new one.”
“I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” Hephaistion replied.
Pausanias got right in his face. “Why not?”
“The prince gave it to me.”
Behind him, he heard somebody snort, probably enjoying
Hephaistion’s tweaking of Pausanias. Hephaistion wasn’t entirely
sure why Pausanias nursed a special loathing for him, but
suspected it owed to the fact he coveted Hephaistion’s place in
the prince’s shadow, and bed. If he generally avoided rubbing
other’s noses in his unique status, in part because he preferred
to earn his place, with Pausanias, he took pleasure in such
reminders.
Now, Pausanias simply pursed his lips and moved on with his
inspection before returning to the dekas of Pezhetairoi
who’d bring up the rear of the parade behind the king.
“He’s looking a bit…unsettled this morning,” the man beside
Hephaistion said. Ariston of Lynkestis. Unlike Hephaistion, he was
a commoner, but in this unit, that didn’t matter. He still had
seniority.
“I thought ‘unsettled’ was his normal expression,” Hephaistion
replied, setting down his shield again. The blasted thing was
heavy, even made of ash. His had a bronze rim, the central area
painted with a stallion’s head, gold on black.
“The son of a billy-goat has no fucking right to command me,” said
a man behind. Meleagros. “I’ve been in this unit five fucking
years. He’s been in it five months.”
“King’s keeping him quiet, after what Attalos did to him,” Ariston
replied.
“He deserved worse, the cocksucker.”
Hephaistion twisted his neck to eye Meleagros, who seemed to have
remembered who stood in front of him. But that only caused him to
double-down.
“No self-respecting man should want to keep playing the boy after
his beard comes in.” Was that a bit too deliberate in
Hephaistion’s hearing? “The king was right to put him aside and
punish the little shit after what he did to Hippostratos.”
“But it’s all right that Attalos had him gang-raped?” Hephaistion
asked.
“He got that boy killed!”
Hephaistion sighed; Meleagros was correct.
“He’s not exactly your friend,” Ariston added. “Why’re you
defending him?”
“I’m not. He’s a bastard. But Attalos is no better; he’s a
climber. Parmenion had better watch his back in Asia.”
“Parmenion? Attalos’d be out of his mind to go after Parmenion!”
“And he wasn’t, for implying the prince isn’t Philippos’s son?”
“The queen does have a bad reputation.”
“Not for affairs outside the marriage bed.” Why, Hephaistion
thought, did he have to defend, back-to-back, two people he
detested? “Have you taken a good look at the prince’s nose?
Or his build? Ignore his coloring, ignore the eyes. He’s
Philippos’s son or I’m a centaur.”
“Kid has a point,” said Meleagros. “Attalos is a scheming son of a
snake. He’ll say anything to get ahead.”
“And you’ll say anything against him ‘cause he got the command you
expected to get.” Ariston glanced back. “You’re a hot-head,
Meleagros. That’s why the king didn’t promote you, not to the
strike force, and not even to a sub-command of your own regiment.”
“You lying weasel—”
“My point is made.”
“Settle down up there!” came from the rear. Their unit’s real
commander, Alketas.
“Piss ass,” Meleagros muttered.
Nobody replied. Ahead, Hephaistion could hear the rumble of carts
and clatter of feet as the parade finally began to move forward.
He lifted his shield, sliding his arm through the central bronze
hoop up to his elbow and gripping the handle at the edge.
The parade moved from Aigai’s gate up towards the theatre on the
hill slope below the palace. The sky had finally lightened enough
for Hephaistion to see those lining the road, jostling for a view
and chanting Philippos’s name. Occasionally Alexandros’s name, or
that of one of the soldiers passing was shouted instead. For the
latter, probably family members. Being positioned near the middle
of the column, he was caught on all sides, unable to see much, and
would be thrilled when this was over so he could get some free
air. Something had caused the line to pause and men behind jostled
against his back before halting. “What now?” somebody muttered.
“One of the oxen tried to run away, or so they’re saying.”
That woke mutters; a balking sacrifice was a bad omen. Yet the
priests must have decided to ignore it, as the line soon moved
forward again. Philippos was unlikely to be pleased if they called
for a re-start, or, worse, a postponement because some ox got
spooked by all the noise.
No more pauses beset the column at it wended up the road to the
theatre. The roar of the crowd grew as they approached, and the
sun, lingering yet below the horizon, gave enough light to see
easily. As soldiers reached the theatre back, instead of passing
through the parados, the tunnel into the main orchestra circle,
they peeled off to find places on the hillside. It still caused a
logjam as men jostled about. Hephaistion stepped away under a pine
to pull off his helm and wipe his face. He was joined shortly by
Leonnatos, also now in the Pezhetairoi if a different unit, and
Perdikkas who sub-commanded the Orestian foot. They waited until
joined by both Marsyas and Attalos Andromenou, who’d been at Mieza
with them. Marsyas handed out cloth streamers in bright colors:
yellow, blue, green, red, orange. Hephaistion took a green one; it
was his favorite color.
The five watched the rolling statues rumble past, disappearing one
at a time into the tunnel, Zeus leading and Philippos bringing up
the rear. In the orchestra, they’d make a semicircle behind the
altar. Hephaistion wondered where the king’s statue would end up.
Would he have the audacity to take center place?
Kings and prince were approaching finally, bring up the end of the
parade, a pair of blond heads before black. Or really, grizzled
these days; Philippos had grayed significantly since his thigh
wound in Thrakē, and he still limped. But today, he looked in good
health and spirits both, waving to the crowd, square face lit from
joy. Alexandros of Makedon smiled as well, although the Epirote
king appeared muted. Hephaistion hoped that didn’t bode ill for
Kleopatra. Once she’d become formally engaged, he’d seen little of
her. He hoped they had a bit of time for geometry before she
departed for Epiros. The thought of her immanent exodus saddened
him in a way he’d not expected, but he’d come to consider her a
friend.
The two Alexandroses had drawn even with Hephaistion, who met the
prince’s gaze briefly, then Attalos passed him a yellow streamer
and he moved on. The king entered the tunnel just behind as the
dekas of Pezhetairoi—Pausanias’s own unit—formed a barrier
of shields to close the entry and keep off crowds.
On the eastern horizon, the sun perched, rays blinding. “Come on,
we should go and find seats,” Leonnatos was saying. The crowd
inside had fallen unusually quiet, perhaps in respect for the
king—or shock at the thirteenth statue. In any case, it allowed
Hephaistion to hear from within the tunnel:
“Alex . . . andros.”
He peered past the line of Pezhetairoi in time to watch the king
collapse in Alexandros’s arms, apparently pushed there by
Pausanias…who was running away?
Slamming his helmet back on his head and grabbing his shield,
Hephaistion pushed through the line of soldiers, who didn’t stop
him. He arrived at the prince’s side even as Alexandros pointed
after Pausanias, bellowing, “Get him!”
Two of the Bodyguard leapt after, as did Leonnatos, Perdikkas, and
Attalos.
Hephaistion wouldn’t budge from Alexandros’s back. If unsure what
was happening, he knew it wasn’t good and tried to look in every
direction at once. Alexandros of Epiros asked, “What happened?”
but Alexandros of Makedon didn’t reply. Hephaistion glanced down
finally. The prince was bent over the king, whose face Hephaistion
could see past his shoulder.
There was no life in that face.
Alexandros seemed to realize it at the same moment as he literally
dropped the body and stared at the blood on his arms and hands.
“The king is dead,” he said, the last word lifting slightly as if
a question, not a statement. He looked up at the rest of them.
Then he stood as Antipatros pushed through to kneel by the body.
Hephaistion stared at Alexandros’s profile; his friend’s
expression was blank as his eyes flicked over the stadium full of
people shouting around them. Hephaistion tried to remember what it
felt like, in those first moments after, to lose a father. Yet
he’d known it coming, dreading that transition for months, the
shift from son to paternal orphan, the pain seeping in by
increments, expanding his heart until it grew sluggish and
burdened.
Alexandros had been ambushed.
Hephaistion could see his mind working, the muscles of his face
gradually tightening, lips thinning, eyes narrowing. The good
pupil constricted inside bright blue even as the sun finally rose
enough to blast light down into the theatre, picking him out and
firing yellow curls under a thin gold crown of oak leaves.
Here stood the king of Makedon.
Hephaistion almost dropped to a knee. Instead, he lifted his
shield and unsheathed his sword, stepping to Alexandros’s side,
watching everyone. Pausanias had killed Philippos, but did he have
accomplices? Were they standing or kneeling around the man they’d
helped to murder? Would one of them spring on Alexandros next?
Anybody who made even a suspicious move in Alexandros’s direction
would get Hephaistion’s sword in his throat.
Alexandros knelt again as the remaining Somatophylakēs wrapped the
king’s body in his own cloak. He spoke to Antipatros. “You’ve been
my father’s regent for longer than I’ve been alive. Get up on that
stage and say something. We’ve got to get these people out of here
without starting a riot.”
Nodding, Antipatros rose and ascended the platform, speaking
loudly enough to be heard by all. The bowl of the theatre picked
up his voice, amplifying it. “Please remain seated! The king has
suffered an attack and festivities will have to be postponed.
Soldiers will come around to escort you from the theatre.”
Alexandros was already pointing at officers. “Antigonos,
Polemokrates, Andromenos, Kleitos, Xenodokos: take your men and
get these people out of here in an orderly fashion, but keep them
inside city walls even if they’re camped outside it. Krateros and
Menes, use your men to close all gates into and out of Aigai, and
police the perimeter. Arrest anybody who tries to escape.
Kleandros, find my cousin and keep an eye on him, but be polite
about it.”
They snapped to follow orders, no back-talk.
Alexandros seemed finally to notice Hephaistion. “What are you
doing?”
“Protecting you,” Hephaistion replied. “Your father’s dead; you’re
his heir.”
For the first time, the straight face cracked; Alexandros’s eyes
grew wide and his lips parted slightly, as if he’d only now put
two and two together to find they made four.
Yet his attention was diverted by Perdikkas, Leonnatos, and
Attalos, hauling Pausanias’s body, run through with a spear.
“Confound it!” Alexandros exploded, cheeks flaring pink, and for a
moment, Hephaistion feared he might strike Leonnatos in a rage. He
refrained, instead glancing to the Somatophylakēs bearing away
Philippos’s body, muttering, “A failure of justice got you
killed.”
Hephaistion stared at Pausanias’s corpse, wondering what
Alexandros knew. Or was he simply inferring? Was this an
assassination, or an honor killing?
A sudden sound of metal clashing on metal startled him and he
jumped along with the prince. No, the king.
How long would it take to get used to the change in noun?
Alexandros of Lynkestis, Leonnatos’s royal cousin, had made his
way to Alexandros’s other side and now beat his spear on his
shield. The sound echoed off the hillside. Within moments, others
in the honor guard joined him, banging spears on their shields
too, until the sound deafened. It confused some guests, but the
Makedonians knew what it signified.
The king was dead. They were acclaiming a new one.
Around the amphitheatre, men sprang to their feet, beating on
whatever came to hand. “Alexandros! Alexandros! King of the
Makedonēs!”
Antipatros escorted Alexandros into the orchestra center. Sword
still in hand, Hephaistion followed, and all around, people kept
up their chant so that a great roar echoed off the hillside.
“Alexandros! Alexandros! King of the Makedonēs!”
Hephaistion wasn’t watching the crowd anymore. He was watching
Alexandros. Backlit by the sun, face transported, he glowed.