Fragments from Macedon
(ruled 359-336 B.C.)
Pella in Macedon. the town of his birth. How long ago? In years, not all that many. In experience, aeons. A town changed. To the north, rocky outcrops pile ever higher until, in the distance, they merge into blueness, crowned with snow, veils of cloud around the highest. A white waterfall, static by virtue of distance, falls into a lake and makes no disturbance to the still water. The houses, stone-built, the temples, columns and porticoes, honey-yellow in the summer sunshine. Greek in style, he accepts, but still with a hint of Macedonian roughness - what the Greeks would call 'barbarian'.
Philip laughs. And where are the Greeks now? Where are the countries that surround Macedon and which, in his father's and brothers' times had so harassed and despoiled his own land. Where is Hellas? Where Thrace? Where Illyria? Under his command, that's where. And now here he is poised to attack the might of the Persian Empire, whose pride reaches up to the Hellespont.
And it all might have been so different. To think that a third son of a minor state king should achieve the throne, and now be about to make that final step which, the Fates being willing, will make him ruler of the world.
Tomorrow, the titular heads of the Greek states, will gather in the amphitheatre, with him as Commander-in Chief, under the gaze of the statues of the twelve high gods and there, with his troops around him, he will march in front of his people. They will see. So much for the one they call, Philip the Barbarian.
A thought strikes him. In Athens the custom is for the ruler to march unaccompanied, trusting in the love of the people. He decides he will do that, wearing a white robe, as white as the snow-capped mountains of Macedon. He will bask in the love of his people. It seems a marvellous idea.
And then will start the real business, the overthrow of Persia.
But perhaps the Fates have other plans, Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos, the three sisters who shape every man's life. Clotho spins the thread, Lachesis measures it with her rod, Atropos snips it with her shears.
Philip, as a young man in Thebes, serious beyond his years, black hair cut short over his forehead, thick eyebrows shading dark, almost black eyes, His forehead juts, his nose is severe and, even at his young age, harsh lines cut into his cheeks giving him a austere look. Only his lips, thick and sensual, suggest that there is a pleasure-seeking, lascivious side to his character. He is hostage for his eldest brother's peace. Though they acknowledge him as prince, he is regarded more as a nuisance than as a royal visitor.
Thebes is so much further south than his native land that the lush fields and warming sunshine that sweetens the grape and plumps the olive are almost a shock - so different from Macedon where the wind comes from the north, from the mountains where, except for the height of summer, it is always cold. He finds the Greek houses too comfortable for his taste, the pillars too slim and attenuated, the food over refined.
Even the Greek morality smacks of the hypocritical.
There is the case of the slave boy and how Philip had him, pinching his rounded buttocks until they are pink, catching hold of his cock until it grows hard and long, and then in the cleft of his groin frotting himself against the boy's pubes until he comes, milk white pearls of semen on the young white flesh. And the boy himself crying out and trying to restrain his cries as he has his own orgasm. Not that Philip minds that. He approves of everyone enjoying the experience.
Of course his Hellene hosts (captors he thought of them) disapprove when they learn, as learn they soon do. Nothing is private in the slaves' quarters. The boy disappears and Philip can see the movement of his hosts' critical lips, masters and slaves both, as they sneeringly form the one single deprecating word - 'barbarian'.
But there in Thebes, though chafing at the indignity of being a hostage, he learns their customs, learns of their sneering disapproval of his own country - and grows to hate it, but he also learns of their military prowess, sees the training they give to their troops and this forms an even greater impression in his mind than the effete comfort of his captors - or even the pert bottom and slender loins of a slave-boy.
Until eventually Lachesis spins the thread and his time is up and he can return.
When I get back home - and now here he is - back home and things have already changed.
Atropos has been active with her shears.
By this time his father and his eldest brother, Alexander II, are dead and more deaths are to come. His only remaining brother, Perdiccas, falls in the disastrous campaign to free north-western part of their country from the Illyrians. He was just one of the 4,000 Macedonian soldiers who were slaughtered in the battle along the Axos river. One other obstacle stands between Philip and the throne, Perdiccas' infant son, Amyntas, but Philip is made Regent and king in everything but name.
But Philip is a military man, a man of blood. Even then, whilst still not much more than an adolescent, he is black-haired and beetle-browed, a scowl more likely on his face than a smile and a soldier's, rather than an ambassador's vocabulary.
Over the years he takes it on himself to reorganise the army, forming what will turn out to be the dreaded phalanx of group of soldiers with 20 feet long spears which can kill before an enemy came within arm's length. The people realise that it needs a strong man to be on the throne and Philip supersedes the infant Amyntas as King of Macedon.
His primary method of creating alliances and strengthening loyalties, though, is through marriages, and it is said that he was prouder of his diplomatic manoeuvres then of his military victories. First he marries the Illyrian princess Audata, thus sealing an alliance with the Illyrians, then he marries Phila, the princess of the Macedonian canton of Elimea, with which he strengthens the internal Macedonian unity. In 357 BC he marries princess Olympias from the neighbouring country of Epirus. A year later Olympias produces a son. They name him Alexander after his dead uncle.
Lachesis spins a new thread.
The years pass and Alexander's thread grows.
Olympias winds a snake round her bare arms. Both appear to enjoy the experience. Perhaps the warmth of her body appeals to the animal. Certainly its dry skin rasping against hers has an almost aphrodisiacal effect on her. She is the daughter of the King of Epirus. She is also a temple prostitute in the service of Dionysus. She lifts the snake so that its head is opposite her face, its unblinking, jasper eyes stare into her agate coloured ones. The snake's forked tongue flickers as it scents her own animal smell. Her eyes close and she moves the snake sensuously between her breasts and then down her body to the fork of her legs.
There is a sound from the next room. An older woman holding the hand of a young boy comes in. The boy has bright curls. They are so blond that they almost seem to glow with what light there is in the darkened room. His eyes are blue and his mouth a perfect rosy bow. He smiles as he sees Olympias and approaches her but draws back when he sees the snake writhing between her palms.
"There's no need to be frightened," says Olympias. "This is a relative of your father."
The older woman looks severe. "Stop that foolishness, Olympias," she says. "You know full well that king Philip is the boy's father."
Olympias laughs. "That randy old goat. You think I'd allow him into the sacred receptacle of Dionysus." Though she doesn't meet the older woman's eyes.
"Isn't the king my father then?" asks the boy. Having overcome his fear, he seems fascinated by the snake and they stare into each other's eyes, the boy's as unblinking as those of the lidless reptile.
Olympias throws back her head as if she intended to laugh but she makes no sound and the snake hisses at the sudden movement. "Zeus is your father, boy," she says at length. "The All-high, great god, Zeus. He came to me in the night in the likeness of a snake and there in the bed, he - "
"Stop it," says the older woman. "Have you no shame, Olympias? Before your innocent son. Such language. And blasphemy too. Anyway, last time you said it was the god, Apollo."
"Believe me," she says to the boy. "Your father was Zeus." Her slightly unfocused eyes sharpen and she fixes the boy with a stare, as hypnotic as the snake's.
"Am I to disown king Philip as my father?" asks the boy.
Instantly Olympias' eyes change yet again. Now they are shrewd. "Say nothing yourself," she says. "If Philip should reject you then what chance have you of becoming king yourself? But - " she turns to the older woman, " - look at him, Timarete. How could that black-headed, black-hearted man be the father of this godling?" and she turns Alexander into the light which plays around his head like a halo.
Lachesis measure with her rod and Clotho spins the thread.
Philip's army surrounds Methone, the Greek town on the Thermaic Gulf in Macedonia. The wars and diplomatic alliances have proved successful so that Macedon's borders are more or less secure but this town stands out against the might and force of Philip's army.
Time after time the king has despatched squadrons against the walls but each time they have been beaten back by flocks of arrows which have caused many casualties.
"Ares' bollocks," shouts Philip, half blasphemy, half prayer to the god of war, "let me take this pestilential town and you can have what part of me you want - as long as it isn't my own cock and balls."
The troops shelter in the meagre shade of gnarled olive trees. Apollo's eye glares down from the heavens, reflecting from exposed rocks in blinding white flashes. From time to time a wind picks up the surface dust as fine as powder and blows it thickly into the air across miles of desert. Sometimes it blocks visibility down to half a dozen yards. It creeps up his nose and down the throat, itching unbearably and making it difficult to breathe. It gets in the ears, clogs the hair, and eyes keep weeping and smarting. Summer is the wrong time for war, complain the troops.
Philip though is determined to capture this pinprick of a hold-up. He marches up and down in front of his troops, cajoling, baiting and finally leading them once more towards the enemy walls. Unwillingly, but not wishing to appear cowardly, they follow him over the open plain, fearful of yet another deadly hail of arrows. But no whistling foretaste of death comes. Are the defenders withholding their weapons until Macedon comes close enough so that every arrow finds its mark? Have they finally run out of weapons?
Philip is sure of the latter. With a shout of triumph, he breaks into a run and the troops, heartened, follow him until they are right under the walls, hacking away at the mud-brick until a crack appears, widens, a breach. There is a puttering, desperate volley of arrows, presumably the last of the weapons and then no more.
But one arrow has found a royal mark. It strikes out the king's right eye and blood covers Philip's face. He staggers, covers his eye with his hand.
Lachesis' hand hesitates. Is she about to stop spinning? Atropos advances her shears.
Aware of the groan of dismay from his forces around him, Philip holds himself erect though of course he is blind on one side and the other eye is veiled in blood. At the moment he can feel no pain, just the frightening knowledge that he can see nothing. He feels strong hands holding him up.
"Who are you?" says the king.
"Pausanius, lord," says a voice.
"Am I completely blind?" asks the king.
Philip feels a cloth wipe the uninjured side of his face and he sees again, blearily sees a blond, curly-haired soldier, body hard with training, stiff linen cuirass, helmet, sword, spear and shield.
"Lord," says Pausanius, "should you not see a doctor?"
"I can scarcely see anyone," jokes the king, "but if I retire from the battle, who will inspire the army? If I fall, they will run. Tell me, Pausanius, how goes the battle?"
"The wall is breached, kyrie. The soldiers await your orders."
"Hold me up," says Philip, and feels the hands holding him erect, leans against the strong body. This is his soldier. He feels an overpowering love. Together they will break the siege. The king gives a great roar. "Onward," he shouts, and the army makes its final charge.
It will be thought that, for his injury and the harm done to his troops, the king will demand revenge but some days after, he grants surrendered defendants of Methone peace when they ask for it, on terms not only not rigourous, but even merciful, to the conquered.
Philip nay have lost an eye in that battle, but he has gained a lover for he takes Pausanius to his bed and the soldier remains his favourite for some time, though the relationship is often stormy.
Lachesis spins. Clotho measures. Atropos cuts - but so far not the threads of the main characters.
"Gods' bollocks. Where is Pausanius?"
The king is in a rage and when Philip of Macedon loses his temper, no one wants to be around. Slaves run, getting in each others' way, some pretending to look for the king's favourite, others just anxious to be out of the regal range. His baleful gaze, one eye only of course because the other eye is closed, the socket itself badly damaged from an arrow wound, an injury from years before, roams the emptying room.
"Stand still," roars the king.
Everyone freezes, some in almost comically rigid actions of flight. The king limps across the black and white, pebbled mosaic floor up to one unfortunate youth. The boy drops his gaze. The last thing he wants to do is meet the furious monocular glare of his monarch.
"Boy," demands the king. "Where is Pausanius?"
"I do not know, kyrie." It is a lie. Everyone knows where Pausanius is. He is at the moment lying between the legs of the king's wife, Olympias. It is not, however, something a slave boy can tell the king and expect to remain alive for longer than a few minutes.
"Find him," demands the king. He stamps heavily on the mosaic head of a Triton which is blowing a stream of water into the air.
The boy acknowledges the command with an inclination of the head then turns to go. As he moves the king notices his profile, handsome with a straight nose. Black, hyacinthine locks with almost blue highlights just cover his ears. His wears an exomis, the slave's tunic, fastened at the left shoulder leaving his right bare and tied around the waist, which scarcely conceals his youthfully lithe body. He looks clean though cleanliness is never a prerequisite for the king.
"Wait," says the king. "Perhaps I do not need him just at the moment. Come with me."
He turns and limps favouring his bad leg, the one with yet another wound, the one which will never heal. He does not wait to see if the boy is following but they both proceed towards his private apartments. This is quite an honour. The king has been known to satisfy his lust there and then in full view of everyone. The boy's head is bowed. It is an honour he would probably prefer to do without.
Lachesis spins and the threads lengthen. Clotho measures.
Drunken shouts and raucous laughter come from the king's latest wedding feast, obviously not the first because Philip has married many times before. mostly for diplomatic reasons, to strengthen strategic alliances with neighbouring countries. He wears a wedding garland on his greying, though still thick hair.
This latest wife, Cleopatra, is of course not at the feast. The king has invited Macedonian nobles, some of his own lovers, including Pausanius, even Alexander, his son from the now ex-queen, Olympias. Alexander is now a young man, proud and ambitious.
The host and his guests loll, as is the custom now, on couches arranged around the andron. In fact there are so many guests that many couches are shared, their proximity leading to horseplay and more laughter. Food has been eaten. roast goat, eaten with the fingers which were afterwards wiped on bread. Attractive young boys have brought in the wine and poured it into cups. A young girl plays on the flute and another on the lyre. Philip pours a libation to Dionysus onto the black and white mosaic floor. Whether this reminds him of his previous wife, Olympias, the temple prostitute from that same god's temple, he gives no sign. Alexander, who is on the couch on his own to the left of Philip looks solemn and his lips move, whether in a prayer or a curse isn't clear.
Philip graciously proclaims Pausanius, sharing his couch, the lord of the feast whose job it is to decide on the ratio of wine to water in the drink. He holds up his hand, thumb and forefinger touching. indicating that the wine should be undiluted. The guests shout their approval and Philip grins wolfishly, showing his teeth, the lid of his lost right eye flickering over the cavity.
They drink to the health of the king, scattering the dregs to the god. One noble drinks to the fecundity of the new wife. The guests cheer and suggestions are offered as to how Philip will take her, if he hasn't already, how tight her virginity will make her and how Philip's great member will stretch her to an enormous extent. Pausanius, who knows more about the size of the king's member, than the majority of the nobles around him, stays silent.
A young boy acrobat comes in and does things with his body that make them all applaud. There are suggestions as to what the slaves could do together. More drinking, the cups filled and emptied at speed. The girl on the lyre sings a lascivious song.
Pausanius, face flushed, curls awry drinks to a new heir. "At least," he says, "it will be a legitimate one."
He glances at Alexander, wondering if he has gone too far but is reassured by the sound of Philip's laugh from beside him. The king's hand fumbles at Pausanius' tunic, finds his manhood and squeezes it. Alexander though, is understandably not amused. Seeing the way the wind is blowing another noble, Attalus, uncle of the bride, shouts aloud, "Now legitimate sons, not bastards will be born to kings."
Alexander stands and aims his cup at Attalus. It flies spinning like a discus and, though Attalus drunkenly tries to avoid it, the ceramic vessel hits him on the temple and bursts into a hundred fragments. Stunned, Attalus collapses on to the floor. The girl stops her playing and for a moment there is an awed silence.
Philip, his garland, slipping over his forehead, gives a great shout of unsuppressed rage and staggers to his feet, swaying.
"I'm not the bastard," shouts Alexander amidst the silence. "My father was a god."
That is too much for Philip. Arms outstretched like a furious bear he staggers towards Alexander, murder in his eye but he is too drunk, his injured leg gives from under him and he falls sprawling onto the floor.
Alexander laughs. "Behold your King," he says and prudently makes his exit.
Pausanius strides along the road that leads to the house of Attalus. He still has the lithe grace of an athlete and wears the shortest of tunics which reveal his long, well-muscled legs of which he is inordinately proud. Short his tunic may be but it it bears no resemblance to the skimpy exomis of the slave for Pausanius' is decorated with gold embroidery as merits the catamite of the king - and indeed, though few know of this, the confidante of ex-queen Olympias and her son, Alexander. Both these latter are, at the moment exiled from Pella, after the fracas at the wedding feast, but Pausanius knows that these family spats, though on occasion violent, are often of short duration, and no doubt both Olympias and Alexander will be back in favour before too long.
Pausanius has a young slave boy in tow and two attendants though they are mainly for show as he considers himself above the need for protection here.
They reach the house and one of the attendants raps loudly on the bronze door knocker. It is opened by a slave who ushers Pausanius into a courtyard with a statue of Aphrodite in the centre. Pausanius notices with a degree of disapproval that the goddess' nose is chipped. He looks up to the first floor where the gynaikeon is and where two women peer down from behind a pillar. Pausanius sees them and waves and the women withdraw giggling.
Attalus appears and welcomes Pausanius. The slave escorts Pausanius' attendants and his boy into the servants' quarters at the back of the house.
Attalus ushers his guest into the andron where the other guests are already couched and well lubricated with wine. Pausanius feels a little affronted that they should have started before his arrival. The buzz of conversation dies for a moment as Pausanius enters then resumes at a higher level, almost as if they have been talking about him. For a moment Pausanius has a rather uncomfortable thought. Have they been talking about him, and if so, why? Certainly Pausanius has taken the place of Attalus in Philip's affections, but he has never realised that Attalus bears a grudge.
"Here's Pausanius," announces Attalus, "the King's catamite. We are honoured by his presence."
It sounds as if Attalus is making a joke. The other guests appear to think so for they roar with laughter but, it seems to Pausanius, that there is a sinister ring to it. It surely isn't the replacing by Pausanius in Philip's bed, or couch, or wherever he decides to satisfy his lust, though the position is one of influence and that may be a cause of ill will.
Attalus still has a relic of Alexander's accurate hit with the cup on his forehead. From time to time he fingers it gently as if either it still hurts or the memory of his humiliation pains him.
"Ah, Pausanius," asks Diodorus, a bald-headed noble with lips twisted into a sly smile, "still hot from Philip's embraces?"
"In a pretty dress, embroidered by Olympias herself perhaps?" adds Hermicrates, another guest.
"You're turning into a woman," said Attalus. "Perhaps you should join the woman upstairs in the gynaikeon."
This annoys Pausanius. "Only if you want your wife and daughters to be right royally fucked," he says, before he can stop himself.
This is an insult that Attalus cannot ignore, or perhaps he has been aiming for just such a situation. "Perhaps it's you who get fucked, Pausanius," he says.
Almost as if it is planned, the guests cheer and advance on Pausanius. He backs away but is surrounded. One guests grabs his arms and another two take hold of his ankles. He is bent over a couch and his legs stretched wide apart. Someone twitches the hem of his tunic so that his arse is exposed. Another cheer goes up. Cries of "Pretty bum", "Look at his legs", "He's winking at me", "Olive oil for lubrication. eh lads. Don't want to rub our pricks raw."
Pausanius twists and turns but in vain. He feels the coolness of olive oil dripped onto his arsehole, the stiffness of a prickhead at his entry and then the long hardness filling his bowel. He has of course been fucked before but usually only one per session, or at the most two - the king is soon satisfied and prefers to sleep alone. Now prick after insatiable prick enters him, pushes in and out, some for longer than others, then explodes and withdraws. Pausanius groans, struggles but eventually accepts the inevitable. Finally it is Attalus' turn. As he fucks Pausanius, he whispers in his ear. "So, little Pausanius, you think you can usurp my influence with the king, do you. Just remember you have been used by all of us so no more high-flown airs, eh, little Pausanius. And if this gets out, you'll be the laughing stock of all Greece."
And thus the Dionysian orgy ends.
Eventually, crying with humiliation, sore beyond anything he had felt before, he is deposited outside the front door. He lies there with aching and leaking bum before his attendants and little slave are also shown out. They help Pausanius up and take him home, avoiding meeting his gaze.
When Pausanius recovers he hobbles his way to see Philip. Guards stop him as he tries to enter into the king's private apartments.
"What are you doing?" splutters Pausanius. "Don't you know who I am?"
"Of course we do, sir, but the king is - er - occupied at the moment. His orders are that he is not to be interrupted."
Pausanius sits - gingerly - on a chair to wait. He hurts, he is angry, he is humiliated. He wonders whom Philip is seeing. Obviously someone very important. Could it be from the court of Persia? He asks an attendant but gets no answer, unless, possibly a trace of a smirking smile is an answer.
At last the door opens. Pausanius expects an impressive figure to emerge but instead a slave boy comes out, his tunic torn. Pausanius is furious. He grabs hold of the boy's shoulder. "What's your name, boy?" he asks gruffly.
The boy though is not dismayed. It is as if he knows he is protected by the king's favour.
"Clitus."
Pausanius decides now is not the time to take care of this upstart boy. He sweeps into the king's chamber. Philip is lying on his bed. He looks satiated. He has not even bothered to put his tunic in order. Pausanius understands the situation immediately.
"Ah Pausanius," says the king. "Too late, I'm afraid. But hang around. I'll recover in a while." He shouts for wine and an attendant hurries in with an amphora and cups.
"He's very good," says Philip. "He shows more affection than you, Pausanius."
"Lord," says Pausanius. "I have a complaint."
"Don't worry. You'll still be the favourite. The boy is only a diversion."
Pausanius feels he is being patronised. "Clitus is not the problem," he says.
"Is that his name?" says Philip. "So what is your complaint?"
"Lord, I have been attacked." He tells his story, expressing his hurt and humiliation as best he can. He even goes to the length of showing the king his ravaged extremity.
The king listens, drinking from time to time. His face at first shows he is bored, but then as Pausanius explains the attack and rape at Attalus' house, Philip's expression changes. His lips curve upwards, he smiles, he laughs, he roars drumming his clenched fists against the bed.
"Lord," complains Pausanius, "it is not funny. I was abused, many times. I was hurt, I was humiliated."
But Philip's hilarity is not contained. Tears are squeezed from his eyes. He tries to pull himself together. "Can't you see the funny side?" he manages to ask, but then his laughter rings out again. "Attalus and you. My two catamites fucking like rabbits . . ."
Pausanius is affronted. He has not been the only one who played the bottom when he and Philip fucked. And he has not been fucking with Attalus. He was fucked by Attalus - and Diodorus, and Hermicrates and the gods know how many others. He lost count along the way.
Pausanius straightens himself into a semblance of dignity covering himself with his chiton. Ignoring protocol, he turns his back on the king and goes out, Philip's guffaws following him. through the palace.
Philip's rages are famously intense but of short duration. Alexander's and Olympias' banishment is rescinded before too long and they return to court, older though possibly not wiser. Other nobles treat them with constraint for a while as it isn't considered too sensible to consort with those not currently in favour. Cleopatra, Philip's new wife is the queen currently around whom the court revolves. Pausanius, though, again finds Olympias' company congenial though he doesn't make his friendship with this faction obvious.
His visits to the temple of Dionysus and its priestess are secret and often at night. Older now, her son, Alexander a grown man, Olympias is jealous of the growing influence of Cleopatra and her uncle Attalus, and the corresponding lessening of Alexander's importance.
"Is Cleopatra pregnant?" she demands of Pausanius. She has given up her obsession with snakes. Now she lolls on silken sheets, the oil lamps flickering, their soft light hiding the wrinkles of her face, the loose flesh under her chin. Her eyes though have an unearthly gleam, maybe because of her all-consuming fury against her ex-husband, maybe because of the drugs which, rumour has it, she takes all the time.
"She has a son," says Pausanius.
Olympias sighs. Yet another barrier against Alexcander.
Pausanius complains of the way he has been treated and this time he finds a sympathetic ear.
She whispers, "The man is evil. His pride and arrogance need to be ended."
"Ended?" asks Pausanius. Regicide is not an act he has considered.
Olympias stretches luxuriously, her clothes making a susurration against the silk bed covering. She parts her legs. Pausanius smells the musky scent which is part her own aroma, part the perfumed oils she rubs into her skin. His head buzzes, and he feels himself drawn against her body. She pulls up her dress so that it is above her waist. Underneath she is naked. Pausanius feels himself hardening. She grasps his erect penis and guides him in. Warm flesh accepts his hardness.
As he fucks her, she whispers in his ear. Though Pausanius tries to ignore the insidious murmur, it becomes one with his rhythmic movements. At his orgasm, he shouts, "Yes. Yes. Yes."
Olympias smiles in triumph. "Dionysus will be with us," she says, fervour glowing in her eyes,
Alexander observes the scene from the shadows outside the doorway. He has seen Pausanius arse cheeks rising and falling, the crack between them opening and closing, revealing and then concealing the hole between.
Philip of Macedon stands in the amphitheatre at Pella, the seats around three sides full, tier piling on tier with the top forming a horizon of its own, the stone mellow in the sunlight. All Greece is there, Thrace, Illyria, Epirus, Hellas, by virtue of conquest or diplomacy. Only Sparta is lacking but then Sparta scarcely counts. The King, centre stage, is dressed in a snow-white cloak which billows around him in the breeze. He stands alone, his bodyguard by his express orders held away from him. They follow only at a distance, since he wants to show publicly that he is protected by the goodwill of all the Greeks, and has no need of a guard or spearmen.
The crowd cheers, perhaps some more willingly than others but the sound grows and is magnified by the architectural bowl of the theatre. Behind the king, on thrones, the statues of the twelve high gods sit as if also to applaud the accomplishments of the king. The temple of Dionysus, god of both wine and ecstatic mysteries, is to the south of the theatre. The priestess/prostitute of Dionysus, Olympias, sits at the side and observes closely. She appears excited, her breaths almost gasps.
While the guards keep their distance on one side, Pausanius sees from the other that the king is left alone. He rushes towards him, slightly from behind and for a moment the king does not notice him. When he does, Philip turns, an angry frown on his face. He assumes that Pausanius has come to honour him in person. "Now is not the time," he says.
But Pausanius is not diverted. He clutches the king. From the audience, it looks like an embrace but in Pausanius' left hand is a knife. It pierces the king's ribs and into his heart and the king falls. The bodyguard rush on stage, three towards the king, the rest after the assassin.
Atropos raises her shears . . .
Pausanius turns and makes for the side where he has left horses prepared for flight. He is nearly there when he trips on a vine growing through a crack in the stonework. He falls. Instantly the bodyguard are on him. They stab him again and again with their swords.
"God's bollocks," says Philip to himself as he dies on the stone floor. "Where is Alexander when I need him?"
. . . and cuts the thread.
The wind lifts the white cloak and for a moment it looks as if the dead king is trying to get up, after all he has escaped death many times, but this is once too many and his cloak is his shroud, red blood staining the whiteness.
Olympias whispers, "You are king now, Alexander." as they take off Philip's body.
"What about Cleopatra and her young son?" asks Alexander.
"I will take care of them," says Olympias.
She is as good as her word and soon there is no competition.
The way is clear for Alexander to conquer the world.
Date started: 30, Friday January, 2004 Page number: Words: 5,607 Today's date: 27, Saturday March, 2004 7:38 pm