[4]

The Keys of the Kingdom

AS SOON as Philip's body had been removed from the arena, and some degree of order restored, Antipater, with admirable speed, presented Alexander before the Macedonian army, which at once acclaimed him king.¹ Among the first barons to render the new monarch homage was his name-sake, Alexander of Lyncestis, one of the three sons of Aëropus. It is sometimes assumed by scholars that Aëropus' sons themselves had a plausible claim to the throne. Such a view has lately been challenged,² with very compelling arguments. It is far from certain whether these Lyncestian brothers were in fact of royal stock; they may have simply belonged to the aristocracy. Even if they were, the remote mountain canton of Lyncestis was unlikely to provide any claimant who outranked the surviving male Argeads; and except for one brief usurpation (that by Ptolemy of Alorus: see above, p. 14) the Argead dynasty had ruled at Pella since the beginning of the fifth century.

The Lyncestian Alexander and his two brothers, then, were not prima facie serious rivals for the throne. On the other hand, one crucial passage in Plutarch (Moral. 327C) links them unequivocally with a man who most certainly was: after Philip's death ‘all Macedonia was festering beneath the surface, looking to Amyntas and to the sons of Aëropus’. This was Philip's cousin Amyntas, the son of his elder brother Perdiccas, whom shortly before his death he had married to Cynane, his daughter by Audata of Illyria. Amyntas was not only an Argead with good credentials for the role of pretender, but in all likelihood actively intriguing, with Boeotian assistance, for an eventual take-over.³ Such a plot would naturally attract out-kingdom support; and here, it would seem, is where the sons of Aëropus came in, rather than as claimants in their own right.⁴

That Amyntas was responsible for Philip's murder is, though not altogether impossible, fundamentally unlikely. Until Philip's death he seems to have lived quietly and happily enough at court. What probably made him seem a danger in Alexander's eyes was his marriage to Cynane. If Philip could, however late in the day, look on Amyntas as a second-string heir to the throne, then so could others. The sons of Aëropus were known to be his friends and associates. Any purges Alexander carried out before leaving Europe, whether of Cleopatra's relatives or of his own, were specifically aimed at eliminating the danger of sedition, and in particular of rival claimants to the throne.⁵ As soon as Philip was assassinated, Alexander of Lyncestis (who seems to have been a good judge of men, and knew his Alexander) at once saw how vulnerable his own position was. Without a moment's delay, he ‘put on his cuirass and accompanied Alexander into the palace’.

This proved a wise precaution, since the king lost no time in arraigning the Lyncestian's two brothers on a charge of conspiracy. (They were afterwards executed at Philip's graveside.) By so doing, Alexander not only threw the blame for his father's death elsewhere, but got rid of two known supporters of Amyntas. The third brother's swiftness to swear allegiance suggests that he may have been tipped off in advance. He happened to be Antipater's son-in-law, and Antipater at this juncture was crucial to Alexander's plans. This may explain why he did not dispose of the Lyncestian until some years later. Nor, in fact, did he immediately move against the two main candidates for the crown: Amyntas himself and Cleopatra's baby son Caranus. It would have made the worst possible impression, both at home and abroad if Alexander had carried out a dynastic purge almost before his father's body was cold. For the moment therefore, he left both Amyntas and Caranus untouched: a calculated risk, since though Amyntas may not have plotted a coup hitherto, he had every conceivable incentive for doing so now — if only to save his own neck.⁶

Alexander's next move was to address ‘the Macedonian people’ — or as many of them as he could assemble in Aegae. He assured them that ‘the king was changed only in name and that the state would be run on principles no less effective than those of his father's administration’ — a somewhat ambiguous promise. He also announced the abolition of all public duties for the individual except that of military service. In other words, Macedonian citizens were to be exempt from direct taxation — a clear bid for popular backing. Having dealt with his own people, Alexander held an audience for the foreign embassies. It was essential to secure their recognition and support: his status as hegemon of the league depended on it. However, he need not have worried. After hearing his carefully affable speech, those delegates present acclaimed him without demur. By way of strengthening his position still further, he now recalled all his close friends from exile (see above, p. 101), and appointed them to key posts in the new administration.⁷

He had every reason to act quickly. The news of Philip's death triggered off a general wave of insurrection, not only among the Greek states, but also in tribal frontier areas such as Thrace. Some cities (including Argos and Sparta) saw this as an ideal opportunity to recover their lost freedom. In Ambracia and Thebes Philip's garrisons were driven out. The Thebans and Arcadians (who had not, we may assume, sent representatives to Aegae) openly refused to recognize Alexander's overlordship. His kingdom was ‘exposed to great jealousies, dire hatreds, and dangers on every side’.⁸Perhaps now, but more probably in spring 335, when Alexander went north on his campaign to the Danube, Amyntas son of Perdiccas (together with another Amyntas, Antiochus' son) slipped away from Pella to establish contact with various rebel factions in Boeotia. Epigraphical evidence testifies to their presence in Oropus and Lebadea; they must also have visited Thebes.⁹

But the most active hostility — despite those earlier flowery protestations of allegiance — came from Athens. Demosthenes, who received private intelligence reports on affairs in Macedonia,¹⁰ learnt of Philip's death before the official messenger arrived. He thereupon declared publicly that he had had a dream in which the gods promised some great blessing to his city. When the nature of this ‘blessing’ became known, the Athenians reacted with almost hysterical enthusiasm. Having just voted Philip a statue, and sworn to surrender any man who plotted against him, they now decreed a day of public thanksgiving, and emulated Olympias by awarding a gold crown to the king's assassin.

On this occasion Demosthenes, whose daughter had died less than a week before, put aside his mourning garb and appeared in white robes, wearing a garland — a gesture which did not endear him to respectable conservatives in Athens. Nevertheless, his uncompromising anti-Macedonian policy won him considerable support. He had been watching every move in the factional struggle at Pella, and knew precisely where Alexander's weakest point lay. If Athens wanted to topple the new Macedonian king, her best hope lay in an alliance with the aristocratic junta that had backed Cleopatra. The assembly, persuaded by his arguments, gave him permission to communicate privately with Parmenio and Attalus in Asia Minor. Demosthenes at once wrote urging them to declare war on Alexander (‘a stripling,’ he declared airily, ‘a mere booby’) and promising full Athenian support if they did so.

Attalus, as one might expect, jumped at this proposal; and it is highly improbable that he did so without the approval and backing of his father-in-law Parmenio. Alexander's well-timed coup — if such it was — had laid all their dynastic plans in ruins; they would have been less than human (and very much out of character as Macedonians) had they failed to grasp at any opportunity of launching a counter-revolution. The third commander, Amyntas, had even stronger motives for joining an anti-Alexander faction.¹¹ His father Arrhabaeus, son of Aëropus, had been one of Alexander's first victims, executed on the very same day as Philip's death (see above, p. 112); this relationship further suggests that the High Command in Asia Minor, through Arrhabaeus' son, was in touch with the Boeotian rebels, and regarded Amyntas son of Perdiccas as a potential ally, perhaps even as a serious alternative to Alexander. No one, at this juncture, could have seriously held out much hope for Cleopatra and her baby while they — and Olympias — remained in Pella. Besides, to establish Caranus as king would have meant a long regency, something every faction was desperate to avoid. Whether Alexander of Lyncestis was also involved in this conspiratorial network is hard to determine; but in the light of subsequent events, and bearing in mind the fact that Parmenio's fellow-general Amyntas was his brother, it seems very likely.

Alexander, however, as Demosthenes and others found to their cost, was a sharper operator than any of them when it came to political in-fighting. He had seen at once that his greatest potential opposition must inevitably come from the High Command in Asia Minor, above all from his implacable enemy Attalus. Amyntas, too, had small reason to love him; Parmenio, on the other hand, was a wily old opportunist who, if offered a tempting enough bait, might well change his allegiance. Alexander therefore chose a trusted friend named Hecataeus, and sent him, with a small picked force, to Parmenio's headquarters: ostensibly as a liaison officer, in fact as an agent provocateur. Hecataeus' secret orders were ‘to bring back Attalus alive if he could, but if not, to assassinate him as quickly as possible’. What his special instructions were as regards Parmenio we shall see shortly. ‘So he crossed over into Asia,’ says Diodorus, ‘joined Parmenio and Attalus, and awaited an opportunity to carry out his mission.’¹²

Demosthenes, meanwhile, had also persuaded the Athenian government to make overtures to Darius; but here — for the moment at least — he met with little success. The Great King had no intention of wasting good Persian darics on Athens when the power-struggle in Macedonia would achieve all he wanted at no cost to himself. He therefore sent back what Aeschines afterwards described as ‘a most barbarous and insolent letter’, at the close of which he wrote: ‘I will not give you gold; stop asking me for it; you will not get it.’ Events soon made him change his mind.¹³

Alexander's Macedonian counsellors, led by Antipater, were all urging him to tread warily. The international situation, they said, was critical, and might well explode at any moment. Their advice was that he should leave the Greek states severely alone, and make an effort to conciliate the barbarian tribes by concessions and diplomacy. To this Alexander replied, with some force, that if he showed the least sign of weakness or compromise, his enemies would all fall on him at once. He intended, he told them, to deal with the situation by a display of ‘courage and audacity’. It was not a suggestion; it was a flat statement, and a highly characteristic one.¹⁴ De l'audace, toujours de l'audace, encore de l'audace: all through his life this was to be Alexander's guiding star, and his first major demonstration of it has a breathtaking quality which he may have subsequently equalled, but never surpassed.

At the head of a picked corps, the young king rode south from Pella, taking the coast road through Methone and Pydna into Thessaly. When he reached the Vale of Tempe, between Olympus and Ossa, he found the pass strongly defended. The Thessalians told him to halt his army while they made up their minds whether or not they should admit him. Alexander, with dangerous politeness, agreed — and at once set his field-engineers cutting steps up the steep seaward side of Mt Ossa. (Traces of these steps, known as ‘Alexander's ladder’, still survive.) Before the Thessalians realized what was happening, he had crossed the mountains and was down in the plain behind them. With their flank thus neatly turned, they chose to negotiate rather than fight. Alexander — having made his point — was all charm and friendliness. He reminded them of the benefits they had enjoyed from Philip's overlordship. He emphasized the fact that he himself was related, through Heracles and the Aeacids, to one of their leading families. ‘By kindly words and by rich promises as well’ — his father's reliable formula — he persuaded the Thessalian League to appoint him Archon, or head, of their federation for life, as Philip had been before him. They also placed a strong contingent of cavalry at his disposal,¹⁵ and agreed to pay taxes to the Macedonian treasury, which Philip had left so dangerously depleted.

Any ordinary commander would have called a short halt at this point, to be fêted by the nobility of Larissa and to establish his position more securely. But Alexander never wasted time on inessentials. Before Greece learnt of his outflanking stratagem at Tempe, he had already reached the Hot Gates (Thermopylae). Here, relying on his father's ancient privileges, he convened a meeting of the Amphictyonic Council, which at once endorsed his status as hegemon of the league. The council, like the Vatican, had no big battalions behind it; but it enjoyed considerable religious and moral prestige. Few ancient statesmen or generals were more acutely aware than Alexander of the advantages to be got from good publicity.

While he was still at the Hot Gates, some rather flustered envoys arrived from Ambracia in southern Epirus — the first of many such panic-stricken missions. Alexander received them courteously, and ‘convinced them that they had been only a little premature in grasping the independence that he was on the point of giving them voluntarily’.¹⁶ Alexander may well have had doubts about his uncle and namesake (now also his brother-in-law): a few independent cities in Epirus would help to limit the Molossianking's ambitions. Philip had used the same technique in Boeotia, as a curb on the power of Thebes. But the main message was clear enough: cooperation would pay off. Quite a few cities took the hint.

Thebes itself, not surprisingly, was Alexander's next concern. As the most powerful and important city in central Greece, its reliability was of paramount importance; and the Thebans' stubborn opposition to Macedonia could hardly be called encouraging. They had expelled Philip's garrison, and refused to acknowledge Alexander. They were also, in all likelihood, already in secret communication with Alexander's cousin Amyntas, son of Perdiccas (see above, p. 111), though whether Alexander himself yet realized this cannot be determined: prima facie it would seem most improbable. At all events, he decided to see how far a show of force would overawe them. Startled Theban citizens woke up one morning to find a Macedonian army, in full battle array, encamped before the Cadmea. Alexander's ultimatum was simple: all he asked was recognition as hegemon of the league. If he got it, no more would be said about the expulsion of his father's troops, though they would, of course, be reinstated. Otherwise … The Thebans looked down at those grim Macedonian veterans, and capitulated without further argument. Recognition cost them little; a more propitious time for direct action would come in due course, and premature defiance, at this point, was stark lunacy.

Their action caused something of a panic in Athens, which lay a bare forty miles beyond Thebes. Demosthenes' sneering picture of Alexander as a young poltroon, ‘content to saunter around in Pella and keep watch over the omens’,^a was now seen to be perilously wide of the mark. The Athenians, anticipating a siege, brought in their property from the surrounding countryside, and began to repair the city-walls. However, when Alexander offered them the same ultimatum as he had presented to Thebes, they accepted his terms with alacrity. An Athenian embassy was at once sent north, bearing profuse apologies for so regrettable a delay in acknowledging the king's official status. Among the envoys was Demosthenes himself, very ill at ease about his mission, and small wonder. Quite apart from his public comments on Alexander (which no self-respecting young man could be expected to take kindly) there were those damning letters he had written to Attalus and Parmenio. By now they might well have fallen into Alexander's hands. On top of all this, Demosthenes had already opened private — and, it was said, highly profitable — negotiations with the Great King. With all this in mind he lost his nerve, and turned back home when he had got no farther than Cithaeron.¹⁷

His natural fears about Attalus were all too well justified. Despite the fact that the Macedonian general ‘actually had set his hand to revolt and had agreed with the Athenians to undertake joint action against Alexander’, the news of the king's whirlwind advance through Greece, followed by Athens' craven surrender, made him change his mind with some speed. A neat volte-face, he calculated, might yet save him. He had kept all Demosthenes' correspondence, and this he now dispatched to Alexander, with many protestations of loyalty. He could have spared himself the trouble. Quite a few people did, in fact, change sides during those early months and get away with it; but Attalus — the man who had publicly insulted Alexander's birth, the uncle of his mother's rival and successor — could expect no mercy, now or ever. That he did not realize this himself was a fatal error of judgement. Besides, by now Hecataeus, in accordance with Alexander's instructions, had come to a private understanding with Parmenio, and (it would seem) with Amyntas as well. It was this double switch of allegiance that finally sealed Attalus' fate.

The old Macedonian marshal — he was now in his mid sixties — needed little persuasion to change sides. Alexander's masterly display of generalship, followed by the ignominious collapse of all Athenian resistance, made it quite clear that toppling this new king would be no easy matter. Parmenio had not survived so long under Philip without learning a thing or two about life in the political jungle. He therefore decided to cut his losses and back the winning side. His support at this stage was worth a good deal, and he made up his mind to exact a high price for it. What he had to offer, in effect, was the support of most, if not all, of the lowland barons: a move which would leave Amyntas, son of Perdiccas — or any other potential rival — dependent on a coalition of the out-kingdoms and rebellious Greek cities such as Thebes. If Parmenio swung his followers over en bloc behind the new king, who could hope to challenge Alexander's position?

Alexander was hard-pressed for time, and could not afford to haggle over Parmenio's terms. This cost him dear later. When the Macedonian army at last crossed into Asia, almost every key command was held by one of Parmenio's sons, brothers, or other kinsmen: it took Alexander six long years to break the stranglehold exerted by this formidable clique. In return for such major concessions, however, Parmenio had to make one sacrifice: Attalus. Here Alexander proved adamant. Perhaps the sacrifice was not really so great: a son-in-law could, after all, be replaced. A few days later Attalus was quietly liquidated — certainly with Parmenio's connivance, and in all likelihood at his express command. The third general, Amyntas, sized up this re-alignment of forces with a coolly realistic eye, and decided to forget about the execution of his father. He, too, made his peace with Alexander, who afterwards appointed him to various relatively minor commands, including that of the Scouts (skopoi) before the Granicus.¹⁸

In two brief months Alexander had achieved more than anyone would have dreamed possible at the time of Philip's death. Without a blow being struck, he had won recognition from Thessaly, the Amphictyonic Council, Thebes, and Athens. The murder ofAttalus and the transference of Parmenio's allegiance had largely insured him against any attempt at a counter-revolution by the Macedonian nobility. Now the time had come to have his position endorsed in more general terms. He therefore summoned a meeting of the Hellenic League at Corinth. To this were invited (if ‘invited’ is the right word) not only the existing delegates, but also representatives from such states as had so far refused to acknowledge his overlordship.¹⁹

The response was all that he could have wished. His actions had thoroughly frightened the Greeks, and their envoys came flocking into Corinth with more haste than dignity. The Megarians went so far as to offer him honorary citizenship; and when (perhaps with Athens' example in mind) he ‘made fun of their eagerness, they told him that up to that time they had conferred citizenship upon Heracles only and now upon himself’. Someone at Megara had gauged Alexander's temperament to a nicety. He accepted the honour. A young man who would only run against kings could hardly refuse to share citizenship with a demigod — and his own ancestor into the bargain. Only the Spartans held aloof. The traditions of their country, they informed the king, did not allow them to serve under a foreign leader. (So much for Macedonia's pretensions to Hellenism.) Alexander did not press the point. He could have coerced Sparta easily enough; but in the circumstances this would have been naked despotism. The one thing he needed at the moment was to secure Greek cooperation by strict adherence to constitutional procedure. If he left them the outward semblance of autonomy, the cowed member-states would probably be satisfied.

On the other hand, Alexander had no intention of letting anti-Macedonian powers such as Sparta or Arcadia make any serious trouble for him if he could help it. He therefore appointed tough collaborationist rulers in neighbouring states — Achaea, and above all Messenia — to preserve the status quo. By a flagrantly legalistic quibble, these appointments were made before the renewal of the league treaty in Alexander's name, since they violated the clause banning any forcible interference with existing governments. Even so, they caused deep resentment.²⁰

So the league duly met at Corinth, and elected Alexander hegemon in his father's place. The treaty with Macedonia was also renewed: once again in perpetuity, so that it applied to the king's descendants as well as to himself. There were no substantial alterations. The Greek states were still to be ‘free and independent’; it is not hard to imagine the delegates' feelings as they ratified that clause.²¹ But they had little choice in the matter. Nor could they very well avoid electing Alexander captain-general of the league's forces for the invasion of Persia. To encourage them, the king introduced a delegate from Ephesus who claimed to be speaking on behalf of ‘the Greeks of Asia’, and urged Alexander to undertake a war of liberation on their behalf. This appeal, he declared, carried more weight with him than did any other consideration. It sounds like a beautifully stage-managed incident.

But if the Greeks imagined that this last honour was a mere empty formality, they very soon learnt better. The new captain-general at once presented for their ratification a complex schedule ‘defining the obligations of the contracting parties in the event of a joint campaign’, and covering everything from military pay-scales — one drachma a day for the ordinary infantryman — to the regulation of grain-allowances. The Athenians, somewhat dismayed, found themselves under contract to supply Alexander with ships and naval stores. This clause was opposed by Demosthenes: he saw no guarantee, he said, that Alexander would not employ such a force against those who had furnished it. He was overruled, and Alexander got his way.²² Since the Macedonian army had escorted him to Corinth, the final issue was never really in doubt.

When the congress was over, ‘many statesmen and philosophers came to [Alexander] with their congratulations’; we can imagine the scene all too clearly. But one famous character was conspicuous by his absence: Diogenes the Cynic. Piqued and curious, Alexander eventually went out to the suburb where Diogenes lived, in his large clay tub, and approached him personally. He found the philosopher sunning himself, naked except for a loin-cloth. Diogenes, his meditations disturbed by the noise and laughter of the numerous courtiers who came flocking at the captain-general's heels, looked up at Alexander with a direct, uncomfortable gaze, but said nothing.

For once in his life, Alexander was somewhat embarrassed. He greeted Diogenes with elaborate formality, and waited. Diogenes remained silent. At last, in desperation, Alexander asked if there was anything the philosopher wanted, anything he, Alexander, could do for him? ‘Yes,’ came the famous answer, ‘stand aside; you're keeping the sun off me.’ That was the end of the interview. As they trooped back into Corinth, Alexander's followers tried to turn the episode into a joke, jeering at Diogenes and belittling his pretensions. But the captain-general silenced them with one enigmatic remark. ‘If I were not Alexander,’ he said, ‘I would be Diogenes.’²³ This shows shrewd percipience. Both men shared (and surely recognized in each other) the same quality of stubborn and alienated intransigence. But whereas Diogenes had withdrawn from the world, Alexander was bent on subjugating it: they represented the active and passive forms of an identical phenomenon. It is not surprising, in the circumstances, that their encounter should have been so abrasive.

Having obtained a full mandate from the league, Alexander wound up the congress and set out, at the head of his army, for Macedonia. On the way, however, he made a special detour to Delphi, being anxious to consult the Oracle about the outcome of hisPersian crusade. The proceedings at Corinth had taken longer than he anticipated, and by the time he reached Delphi it was late November. Now from mid November to mid February the Oracle did not function. This was a religious matter, and not even for the captain-general of the Hellenes would the priests make an exception. They should have known better. Alexander, ignoring them, sent a peremptory summons to the Pythia. She would not come: it was not lawful, she said. At this Alexander stormed in, seized her physically, and attempted to drag her into the shrine by main force. ‘Young man,’ gasped the priestess, ‘you are invincible!’ Alexander promptly released her; this, he said, was a good enough prophecy for him. (Later, the epithet ‘invincible’ — aniketos — became one of his regular titles.) As a mark of his pleasure he donated 150 gold ‘philips’ to the temple funds; not a princely sum, but by now the captain-general was embarrassingly short of ready cash.²⁴

Despite this handicap, however, Alexander refused to hurry or to skimp his preparations. He spent the winter of 336/5 giving his army an intensive training-course in mountain warfare, to prepare them for the campaign which he intended to undertake as soon as the snow was off the passes. He knew that he could not leave Europe until the Balkans had been thoroughly pacified. Though the Greek states no longer presented an immediate threat, the wild tribes to the north and west of Macedonia still had to be reckoned with. Merely to defeat them in battle would do little good. There was only one way in which the northern frontier could be permanently secured, and that was by pushing it forward a hundred miles to the Danube, through some of the roughest fighting terrain in Europe.²⁵

The campaign was, therefore, intended to serve a three-fold purpose. It would stabilize the frontiers, and thus leave Antipater — whom Alexander had earmarked for the onerous post of regent — free to concentrate on Macedonia's rebarbative Greek allies during the king's absence abroad. It would force the Thracians and Illyrians to admit that Alexander was no less formidable an opponent than his father. Finally, it would serve as a full-scale tactical exercise in preparation for the assault on Persia. With superb but calculated optimism, Alexander ordered a squadron of warships to sail from Byzantium into the Black Sea, and thence up the Danube, where they were to wait for the army at a pre-arranged rendezvous — probably near modern Ruschuk, south of Bucharest. Then he himself set out from Amphipolis by the overland route: eastward first by Neapolis (Kavalla), across the River Nestus (Mesta) and the Rhodope Mountains, then north to his father's outpost of Philippopolis (Plovdiv, in Bulgaria).

Up to this point he had been marching through friendly territory; but now came the first opposition. To reach the Danube he had to cross the main Haemus (Balkan) range, probably by the Shipka pass. The ‘autonomous’ Thracians — that is, those who remained independent of Macedonian rule — decided to hold this pass against him: a clever strategical move, since there was no easy alternative route, and Alexander would face a steep, exposed ascent to the main col. The Thracians lined up their waggons at the head of the pass, rather in the manner of a Boer laager, and waited.

One of the qualities which most clearly distinguishes Alexander from the common run of competent field-commanders is his almost uncanny ability to divine enemy tactics in advance. Some of this may have been due to his first-class intelligence service; but at times it looks more like sheer brilliant psychological intuition. Anyone else would have assumed, very reasonably on the face of it, that the Thracians intended to use their waggons as a stockade, and fight behind them. Alexander, however, knew that their favourite battle-manoeuvre was a wild broadsword charge, and instantly deduced what they planned to do. As soon as he and his men were into the narrow section of the gorge, these waggons would be sent rolling down the slope, shattering the Macedonian phalanx; and before its demoralized ranks could close again, the Thracians would charge through the broken spear-line, slashing and stabbing at close quarters, where the unwieldy sarissa was worse than useless.

Half the danger from such a manoeuvre lay in the element of surprise; and because of Alexander's inspired foreknowledge, this advantage was now lost. He carefully briefed his men on what to expect, and what avoiding action to take. If they had room, they were to open ranks and let the waggons pass through (a defence measure subsequently employed, with great success, against Darius' scythed chariots at Gaugamela: see below, p. 293). If they found themselves in the narrowest part of the ascent, they were to kneel or lie down close together, shields overlapping above their heads, and with luck the momentum of the waggons (which were, after all, only light mountain carts) would carry them clear. On the face of it, this sounds a wildly impractical scheme. It might work for the front rank (though even here there would surely be a record number of broken legs) but what about those unfortunates immediately behind them? Sooner or later a bouncing waggon must succumb to the force of gravity, and when it does there are better places to be than underneath it. But according to Arrian (1.1.9–10), who is sober about such details, when the waggons came hurtling down as predicted, not a man was lost. Even allowing for partisan exaggeration, this is a remarkable tribute to Macedonian drill and discipline.

After the failure of the Thracians' initial stratagem, the battle itself proved an anticlimax. While Alexander's archers gave covering fire from the rocks above the right wing of the phalanx, and he himself led his corps d'élite up the western ridge, the main infantry divisions — doubtless delighted to find themselves still alive — stormed cheering to the head of the pass. The Thracians broke and ran, leaving 1,500 dead behind them, together with many women and children. The road to the Danube lay open.

A great deal of plunder was taken: this Alexander sent back to the coast under escort. Then he and his men descended the far side of the Shipka pass and pressed on across the Danube plain. There was no opposition. When the Macedonians pitched camp on the wooded banks of the Lyginus River (probably the Yantra), the Danube itself was only three days' march away. However, their movements had been watched throughout by the Triballian tribesmen who occupied this area. A large number of their warriors, together with the women and children, the Triballians now evacuated to an island in the middle of the Danube. Then, when Alexander marched on from the Lyginus, a second strong native force slipped in behind him and cut off his retreat.

The moment he got wind of this movement, the king turned back. He found the Triballians established in a wooded glen near the river, where it would be extremely hard to launch a mass attack on them. He therefore sent his archers and slingers to the entrance of the glen, apparently unsupported, while the phalanx and cavalry remained under cover. Exasperated by the arrows and bolts that now began to rain down on their ranks, the Triballians came tumbling out to teach these light-armed gadflies a lesson — and were promptly cut to pieces by the full force of the Macedonian army. Three thousand natives perished in that one murderous charge, while Alexander himself (or so it was claimed) lost only eleven cavalrymen and about forty foot-soldiers. Having given a seemingly effortless demonstration of moral and military superiority, he resumed his march. Three days later his advance scouts drew rein on the southern bank of the Danube, to find the naval squadron waiting at their rendezvous — another remarkable testament to efficient military planning.

Alexander had not chosen this meeting-place at random. It lay opposite the island where the Triballians had taken refuge; and it was this island — Peucé, or the Pine Tree — which, so Alexander claimed,²⁶ Darius I had used to help him span the Danube with a pontoon bridge, for his Scythian campaign in 514/13. Alexander had, it is clear, been studying Herodotus (as anyone planning to invade Persia undoubtedly would), and meant to emulate, indeed to surpass, Darius' achievement. Strategic requirements were always adaptable to the needs of heroic areté. As though in response to Alexander's hubris, things now, for the first time, began to go wrong. Common sense dictated that the island, with its swarms of enemy troops and refugees, should be captured before the Macedonians attempted anything else. But Peucé was rocky and precipitous, with a fast current flowing past it. Alexander's ships were too few and too small to achieve a landing in strength. After several attempts to establish a bridgehead had failed, the king wisely gave up.

Meanwhile a vast horde of Getae nomads — some four thousand horsemen, and between two and three times that number on foot — had appeared at the far side of the Danube. Yet it was now, despite their presence, that Alexander found himself seized by an ‘irresistible urge’ to cross the river. If baulked by the difficult, try the impossible. The Greek word for this urge is pothos; it recurs throughout Alexander's life as a ‘longing for things not yet within reach, for the unknown, far distant, unattained’,²⁷ and it is so used of no other person in the ancient world. Pothos, in this sense, is an individual characteristic peculiar to Alexander.

For joy of knowing what may not be known
We take the golden road to Samarkand.

Flecker's pilgrims were not only following in the great Iskander's footsteps, but doing so for identical reasons.

More prosaically, it could be argued that in this case Alexander had no alternative course open to him — except retreat, which was unthinkable. If he made a successful raid into Getae territory, moreover, there was always the chance that the island's defenders would be sufficiently impressed to come to terms with him. He therefore instructed his patrols to commandeer every dug-out canoe they could lay hands on (these were in plentiful supply along the river for fishing and transport), while the rest of the army was put to work stuffing leather tent-covers with hay, and sewing them into makeshift floats. In this way Alexander contrived to ferry 1,500 cavalry and 4,000 foot-soldiers across the Danube under cover of darkness — a far greater number than would have been possible with the fleet alone.

They landed just before dawn, at a point where the grain was standing high, and acted as camouflage for their disembarkation. The infantry led the way, ‘carrying their spears parallel with the ground and obliquely to their line of march, to flatten the grain as they advanced’. When they broke cover, Alexander took command of the cavalry, and the whole phalanx advanced in close order, on an extended front. The mere sight of this grim and disciplined spear-line, appearing as if from nowhere, struck panic into the Getae; and when the cavalry broke into a charge, the whole horde turned and fled. At first they sought refuge in their nearest settlement, some four miles away. But the advance continued, with Alexander's cavalry fanned out on the flanks to watch for ambushes: it was clear that he meant business. As the settlement was unfortified, the Getae hastily loaded women, children and provisions on to the cruppers of their horses and vanished into the steppe — an age-old nomads' trick.

Alexander did not pursue them: he knew better than to press his luck. Instead he plundered the settlement, and then destroyed it. The loot, such as it was, went back to base, while the king made sacrifice on the banks of the Danube to Zeus the Saviour,Heracles, and the river itself, for allowing the army safe passage. Then — pothos and prestige duly satisfied — he led his forces back to the southern shore, pitched camp, and waited for the barbarians to make the next move. He did not have to wait long. TheTriballians, thoroughly shaken by this display of military expertise, emerged from their island retreat and sent emissaries to seek friendship and alliance with so mighty a warrior. Other independent tribes along the Danube soon heard the story and followed suit. Itsechoes even reached the Celts of the Adriatic, and they too made polite overtures — out of curiosity rather than fear, one feels, since they dwelt far away from Alexander's field of operations.

Their envoys, however, have one very special claim to fame: they are the only people on record who found Alexander's pretensions neither awe-inspiring nor horrific, but mildly ridiculous. They were, says Arrian, ‘men of haughty demeanour and tall in proportion’. We can imagine them stroking their long moustaches and looking down with patient indulgence at this stocky, blond, dynamic little prince as he asked them, hopefully, what they were most afraid of in the world. The answer he expected, of course, was ‘You, my lord’; but the Celts had no intention of falling for so obvious a gambit. After a moment's grave reflection, they said their worst fear was that the sky might fall on their heads — although, they added, with demure insolence, ‘they put above everything else the friendship of such a man as he.’ Alexander kept a straight face (there was not much else he could do), made a treaty of friendship with the Celts, and sent them on their way. But he was heard to mutter under his breath that for barbarians they had a ludicrously high opinion of themselves.²⁸

From the Danube the Macedonians marched back over the Shipka pass, and then turned west instead of south, following the line of the Balkan range by the route which today links Lenskigrad with Sofia. This brought them out of Triballian country, and into the domains of Alexander's old friend Langarus, King of the Agrianians. Langarus himself, together with his finest household troops, had accompanied Alexander to the Danube. They did not operate as an independent auxiliary unit, but were brigaded with theGuards Division (hypaspistae) — the earliest known instance²⁹ of that military integration policy which Alexander afterwards developed more fully in Asia and India.

At this point the most alarming reports began to come in from Illyria — always a dangerous and unstable frontier area. Alexander's original plan, we may assume, was to give his troops a rest in friendly territory — they had already marched and fought for some five hundred miles, over appalling roads, in two months or less — and then to show the flag along the western marches at his leisure. Instead, he found himself thrown headlong into one of the toughest campaigns of his entire career. Cleitus, King of Illyria — son of that Bardylis whom Philip had long ago defeated so crushingly at Lake Okhrida (see above, p. 24) — was up in arms: Alexander's Danubian expedition had given him just the chance he was waiting for. To make matters worse, he had formed an alliance with another chieftain named Glaucias, the leader of the Taulantians — an uncouth and mead-swilling tribe from the Durazzo area, ancestors of the modern Albanians. Yet a third Illyrian tribe, the Autaratians, had agreed to attack Alexander on his line of march.

It was Philip's early days all over again: the entire western frontier of Macedonia stood in the gravest danger. Alexander asked Langarus about these Autaratians, and was told, with cheerful optimism, that they were the feeblest, least war-like fighters in the area. This is not what we learn from one reliable ancient source,³⁰ where they are described as ‘the largest and best of the Illyrian tribes’, who had, indeed, at one time emulated Alexander himself by subduing the Triballians. However, Langarus backed his opinion by promising to deal with them himself while Alexander marched against Cleitus. The offer was gratefully accepted. How much confidence Alexander had in the Agrianian's ability to stand this attack off is another matter; but speed, now, was of the essence. Glaucias and his highlanders had not yet joined up with Cleitus, and Alexander strained every nerve to reach the latter's fortress of Pelium before they did. The exhausted Macedonian army took to the road again — if that horrendous mountain track which still linksGor Džumaja and Titov Veles can be so described — and force-marched south-west across the Paeonian ranges. Pelium itself commanded the valley of the Apsus (Devol) and the main trunk road into Macedonia. It was an all but impregnable stronghold, surrounded on three sides by thickly wooded mountains, and approached by a narrow pass, leading to a ford. The small plain before it could, all too easily, become a death-trap for any but the most skilful attacker.

Alexander achieved his initial aim: he got there before Glaucias. The Illyrian advance detachments, after some brief skirmishing, retreated within the walls of Pelium. The Macedonians found eloquent but grisly testimony to the unexpectedness of their arrival: an abandoned altar on which lay the slaughtered bodies of three boys, three girls, and three black rams. This sacrifice must actually have been in mid course when the alarm was given, and Alexander's outriders came galloping through the pass.

The king decided to blockade Pelium, and brought up his siege equipment. This was an odd tactical blunder. He had no time to waste starving Cleitus out, and with so small a task-force his chances of taking this strongly guarded and inaccessible fortress by storm were minimal. Worst of all, at any moment Glaucias would appear at the head of a relief column. In the event he did so less than twenty-four hours later, and promptly occupied the mountains in Alexander's rear. The Macedonians were now cut off, and dangerously short of supplies: a foraging party under Philotas only just escaped annihilation thanks to quick action by Alexander and the cavalry.

But if the young king was to blame for letting himself be cut off in this fashion, the ruse by which he extricated himself must stand as one of the most eccentrically brilliant stratagems in the whole history of warfare. Early next morning he formed up his entire army in the plain — apparently oblivious to the presence of the enemy — and proceeded to give an exhibition of close-order drill. The phalanx was paraded in files 120 men deep, with a squadron of 200 cavalry on either flank. By Alexander's express command, these drill-manoeuvres were carried out in total silence. It must have been an eerie and highly disconcerting spectacle. At given signals the great forest of sarissas would rise to the vertical ‘salute’ position, and then dip horizontally as for battle-order. The bristling spear-line swung now right, now left, in perfect unison. The phalanx advanced, wheeled into column and line, moved through various intricate formations as though on the parade-ground — all without a word being uttered.

The barbarians had never seen anything like it. From their positions in the surrounding hills they stared down at this weird ritual, scarcely able to believe their eyes. Then, little by little, one straggling group after another began to edge closer, half-terrified, half-enthralled. Alexander watched them, waiting for the psychological moment. Then, at last, he gave his final pre-arranged signal. The left wing of the cavalry swung into wedge formation, and charged. At the same moment, every man of the phalanx beat his spear on his shield, and from thousands of throats there went up the terrible ululating Macedonian war-cry — ‘Alalalalai!’ — echoing and reverberating from the mountains. This sudden, shattering explosion of sound, especially after the dead stillness which had preceded it, completely unnerved Glaucias' tribesmen, who fled back in wild confusion from the foothills to the safety of their fortress.³¹ Alexander and his Companion Cavalry flushed the last of them from a knoll overlooking the ford; then he ordered up theAgrianians and the archers as a covering force, while the rest of the army, led by the Guards Division, began to move across the river at the double.

The tribesmen, their first panic wearing off, suddenly realized that the Macedonians were on the point of breaking out of the trap so carefully laid for them. They rallied, and counter-attacked. Alexander, with the cavalry and his light-armed troops, held them off from the knoll long enough for his siege-catapults to be carried through the ford and set up on the further bank. The archers, meanwhile, again on the king's instructions, had taken up a defensive position in mid stream. While the final units struggled across, a covering fire of arrows and heavy stones (the catapults had a range of several hundred yards) kept Cleitus' men from engaging. Fuller (p. 226, n. 1) observes that ‘this is the first recorded use of catapults as field artillery’: yet another example of Alexander'sextraordinary inventiveness and gift for inspired improvisation. Once again he had concluded a complex and hazardous operation without losing a single man.³²

At this point any other field-commander, thankful to have extricated himself from so appalling a position, would have blessed his luck and got away as fast as possible. There was still no news from Langarus; for all Alexander knew, his lines of communication with Macedonia might already have been cut. In the circumstances he showed quite incredible sang-froid. Calculating, quite rightly, that the barbarians would assume that the Macedonian army had gone for good, he withdrew a few miles, and gave them three days in which to regain their confidence. Then he sent out a reconnaissance party. The news they brought back was just what he had expected to hear. The barbarian camp lay wide open. They had not dug a trench or built a palisade; they were not even bothering to post sentries. Their lines, moreover, were dangerously extended. Over-confidence and lack of discipline in the enemy make powerful allies for any competent general. Besides, as these early campaigns amply demonstrate, the psychological exploitation of tribal indiscipline was one of Alexander's most effective weapons.

He at once marched back, with a specially picked mobile force — including Guards, Agrianians, and archers, his regular commando brigade — and ordered the rest of the army to follow. Then, under cover of darkness, he sent in the archers and the Agrianians (aptly described as the Gurkhas of antiquity) to finish the job for him. It was a massacre pure and simple. Most of the tribesmen were still asleep, and Alexander's troops slaughtered them where they lay. Others were cut down as they tried to escape. The panic and chaos were indescribable. Cleitus, in desperation, set fire to Pelium, and fled with Glaucias to the latter's mountain stronghold near Durazzo. For the time being, at least, the Illyrian threat had been destroyed. It was not until a decade after Alexander's death (314/12) that another Macedonian king, Cassander, became entangled with Glaucias, in an attempt to take over the Durazzo littoral; and his venture proved a failure.

After this annihilating victory, Alexander's first concern was to re-establish contact with Langarus, and, if need be, to deal with the Autaratians. In the event, however, Langarus — true to his promise — had proved more than capable of dealing with them himself. A quick raid on their settlements, a little crop-burning, and they were ready enough to cry quits: it looks as though his judgement on their fighting qualities may not have been so wide of the mark after all. This danger eliminated, Langarus at once set out forPelium at the head of a relief column, and the two forces met somewhere up-country. (The most likely point is somewhere on the road between Prilep and Bitola in modern Yugoslavia: perhaps at the crossing of the Tscherna River.) It should have been a triumphant reunion; but Alexander's euphoric mood was rudely shattered by the dispatches from Greece which Langarus brought him — the first, apparently, which he had seen since the Danube campaign began. The story they told was far from reassuring.

It would, of course, have been most remarkable had the Greeks (and any Macedonian rivals who fancied their chances) not tried to capitalize on Alexander's absence during these crucial months. How far the action of various cities — Thebes and Athens in particular — were consciously coordinated, let alone part of a plan to replace Alexander on the throne of Macedonia by Amyntas, son of Perdiccas, cannot now be determined with any finality. It does, however, make very good sense of the facts available if we posit a concerted uprising, with Amyntas as its titular head in the event of victory, and the removal of Alexander (not to mention Alexander's aggressive policies) as the conspirators' prime aim. Alexander's own subsequent actions suggest very strongly that this was how he, at least, interpreted the course of events.³³

The rebels' first task, clearly, was to bring over as many waverers as possible by means of propaganda minimizing the threat which Alexander still represented. Demosthenes, in Athens, went about this task enthusiastically, and proceeded to stage-manage it with some skill. He announced in the assembly that Alexander, together with his whole expeditionary force, had been massacred by the Triballians. To make this fabrication more plausible, he produced the ‘messenger’, bandaged and bloody, who swore he had received his ‘wounds’ in the same battle, and had actually witnessed Alexander's death.³⁴ The effect of this dramatic announcement can well be imagined. If anyone had doubts about the report, he quickly suppressed them: this, after all, was just what every patriotic Greek had hoped and prayed might happen. Throughout the peninsula cities flared up in revolt. Macedonian garrisons were expelled or besieged. Even when Alexander's march from the Danube to Pelium became public knowledge, it was asserted, with equal confidence, that Demosthenes had simply got his facts a little muddled, and that the king had in fact been slain by the Illyrians.³⁵

But by far the most potentially dangerous uprising was that of Thebes. It needed careful planning: Alexander had left an extra strong garrison on the Cadmea, and had packed the Theban assembly with pro-Macedonian collaborators. The rebel leaders, however, were in touch with various political exiles — mostly at Athens — and a group of these they now smuggled into the city by night. The insurgents had their plans worked out in advance, and carried them through without a hitch. First, they seized and murdered the two senior officers of the garrison. (This not only prevented any effective counter-measures being taken by the garrison itself, but also presented the Thebans with a fait accompli: having gone so far, they could not afford to turn back.) They then summoned the assembly and called on all true Thebans to throw off the Macedonian yoke — ‘making great play,’ says Arrian dourly, ‘with the grand old words "liberty" and "free speech"’.³⁶ They did not appeal in vain.

Had Thebes revolted spontaneously, without external aid, the situation — from Alexander's point of view — would have been bad enough. But by now rumours, at least, of Amyntas' projected coup must have reached him; and to make matters worse, the success of the uprising was due in no small measure to arms and gold supplied by Demosthenes, with the open connivance of the Athenian government. It was Demosthenes, too, who had been mainly responsible for persuading the Theban exiles to carry out their part of the plot. When news of its success reached Athens, the assembly, in a burst of enthusiasm, voted to send Thebes military support — again, largely at Demosthenes' instigation. The insurgent cities now formed themselves into an anti-Macedonian league, and it looked as though a full-scale war of rebellion was imminent.

However, cooler heads than Demosthenes now decided that things had gone too far and too fast. Athens at this point was just beginning, under Lycurgus' shrewd administration, to build up her naval and military reserves once more.³⁷ A premature direct clash with Macedonia might well prove disastrous. The Athenian government therefore decided to wait awhile and ‘see how the war would go’ before committing troops to the defence of Thebes. Nevertheless, it was all too plain where Athens' sympathies lay, despite this diplomatic fence-sitting; and no one could doubt that the same was true, a fortiori, of Sparta and the Peloponnesian states. At any moment the whole of Greece might well go up in flames.³⁸ With the situation in Macedonia equally explosive — even if Amyntas had not yet shown his hand openly, his plans were widely known — and Pella humming with intrigue, it was plain that the sooner the king returned home, the better.³⁹

Yet nothing, it is safe to say, caused Alexander more alarm than the part which Persia was playing in this affair. The Great King had, at long last, taken cognizance of the fact that Alexander not only meant to invade Asia Minor (Parmenio's activities had already made this quite clear) but was, on present showing, singularly well equipped for such a task. Once the situation became clear, Darius reversed his earlier policy of non-intervention, and began to channel gold into Greece wherever he thought it would do most good. He did not, as yet, commit himself to anything more definite: clearly he hoped that the Greek revolt would solve his problem for him. But the mere thought of a Graeco-Persian coalition must have turned Alexander's blood cold.

Darius, through his agents, had offered the Athenian government no less than 300 gold talents as an inducement to support Thebes' bid for freedom. This offer was officially refused: its acceptance would have been no less public an affront to Macedonia than the dispatch of troops. But everyone in Athens knew quite well whose money it was that Demosthenes now began handing out to the Theban exiles. Darius had simply decided (with Athenian connivance) to operate through unofficial channels.⁴⁰ He also felt it was high time to crack down on Parmenio's advance expedition: if this force could be wiped out, Alexander's task — especially the crucial business of getting his army across the Hellespont — would become a great deal more hazardous.

Until now Parmenio had had things very much his own way. Many of the Greek coastal cities had come over to him, and those that did not were made to regret their decision. In July 335, for instance, Parmenio stormed the little town of Grynium, on the Ionian coast between Lesbos and Chios, selling its inhabitants into slavery. Alexander's liberation policy, it seemed, made no allowance for a perverse disinclination to be liberated.⁴¹ Parmenio's force, in fact, played a far more important part in Alexander's invasionplans than we might guess from our meagre sources. Its two main objectives were to keep the invasion-route open by establishing a bridgehead around it, and to soften up (by whatever means) the Greek cities of Asia Minor. It consisted of three operational brigades, covering respectively Ionia, Aeolis, and the Troad. Parmenio, besides acting as commander-in-chief, led one of these brigades himself.

To deal with this nuisance (it is doubtful whether, as yet, he rated it much higher) Darius now chose his most seasoned and professional strategist, Memnon of Rhodes. Memnon was given a picked body of 5,000 mercenaries, and a virtually free hand. He made, first, for the coast south of the Troad, where Parmenio was now besieging another small town, Pitane. But on the way an urgent message reached him from the Great King. Cyzicus, a key port in the Propontis (Sea of Marmara) was in danger of falling, had perhaps already fallen: would he go to the rescue?

Memnon's dash north has acquired some fame because, to save time, he led his troops by the shortest route — straight across the ranges of Mt Ida. He came within a hair's-breadth of saving Cyzicus, but was just too late. ‘Failing in this,’ says Diodorus, ‘he wasted its territory and collected much booty.’ But he did not leave the area without scoring one major success. His corps made a quick thrust westward to the Hellespont, and recaptured Lampsacus. Memnon's main strategy is clear enough: he meant to win control of the two likeliest crossing-points for a Macedonian army of invasion. While he himself returned south in search of Parmenio, a Persian division was called up against the brigade in the Troad (now commanded by Calas, son of Harpalus, who had taken over fromAttalus after the latter's execution). Calas fought a defensive action, found himself heavily outnumbered, and was driven back as far south as Rhoeteum, near Troy. From here he sent an urgent appeal to Parmenio. Abydos, the one first-class crossing-point still in Macedonian hands, must be held at all costs. Its garrison could not survive unaided. Parmenio instantly raised the siege of Pitane, eluded Memnon, and went racing north to the Narrows. He saved Abydos; but many of his earlier conquests were now lost.⁴²

To Darius, this intelligence from Greece and Asia Minor, though important, formed no more than one strand in the vast kaleidoscopic pattern of imperial administration. The armies and fleets he had begun to assemble⁴³ served other purposes besides that of halting a possible Macedonian invasion. Some of them were in Egypt, dealing — very efficiently — with the last native Pharaoh, and re-establishing that long-suffering country as a Persian province; while Darius himself, with what seems, in retrospect, like ironic prescience, was busy designing and building his royal tomb at Persepolis.⁴⁴ But for Alexander, far away in Illyria, the news he now learnt constituted a crisis of the first order.

He had no time, at present, to ponder on the lesson it embodied — that with a regime such as his, personal ascendancy was all, that professions of gratitude or allegiance could never be taken at their face-value, that he was committed for life to a policy of charismatic Machtpolitik. All this would come later. What he did see, instantly, was that his first and most urgent task must be to scotch the rumour of his death. Macedonian rivals and king-makers he could, and would, deal with in the traditional manner; but theseGreek rebels must be halted at once, before they had compromised themselves too deeply to turn back. Alexander did not intend to waste time and effort reducing desperate last-ditch nationalists: he had more important tasks on hand. At the same time, Greece must be given an object-lesson, and one so terrifying that all hope of achieving independence by force would be crushed for ever (a psychologically erroneous assumption, as modern resistance movements have made quite clear). There was little doubt in the king's mind as to where, and how, this lesson would be applied.

His first move was to dispatch a fast courier to Pella, to spread the news of his imminent return. Besides more routine instructions for Antipater, this courier also carried a private (and probably coded) letter to Olympias — the one person in the world whomAlexander could still trust absolutely. What he asked her to arrange was the immediate liquidation of his two dynastic rivals: Amyntas, son of Perdiccas, and Cleopatra's baby son Caranus. How far this purge was to include Amyntas' known friends and supporters is doubtful. Amyntas, son of Antiochus, seems to have had no difficulty in fleeing the country; he made straight for Asia Minor, where he became one of Darius' mercenary commanders. He also (or so Arrian asserts) took with him a letter to the Great King from Alexander of Lyncestis. Its specific contents are unknown, but may be assumed to have been treasonable, since Darius responded by offering the Lyncestian 1,000 talents, plus full support in a bid for the throne of Macedonia, provided he would assassinate its present occupant.⁴⁵ If there is any truth in this assertion, Alexander can hardly have known about it at the time, since he soon afterwards appointed the Lyncestian to a responsible military command. His position as Antipater's son-in-law could protect him so far, but not, one would have thought, against arraignment for high treason.⁴⁶

Olympias carried out Alexander's instructions faithfully, as he knew she would. (Among other honours which he heaped on Langarus, before they parted, was the hand in marriage of his half-sister Cynane, at that time still Amyntas' wife: a nice touch of macabre humour.)⁴⁷ Indeed, the queen mother went rather beyond her brief. She dispatched not only Caranus, but also his little sister Europa, probably — accounts differ — by pushing them both face-down into a red-hot charcoal brazier. Finally, she forced their wretched mother to hang herself: not that by now poor Cleopatra can have needed much encouragement. When Alexander heard about this he was furious, and small wonder.⁴⁸ Dynastic murder as such had some justification and precedent: but neither Cleopatra nor Europa represented any possible threat to the throne, and Olympias' treatment of them had been dictated by pure spiteful vindictiveness. Alexander's enemies would lose no time in turning it into extremely unpleasant propaganda. When he used the iron hand, the king preferred to be strictly within his constitutional rights — as the events of the next few weeks were to demonstrate in no uncertain fashion.

Having thus settled one urgent piece of business, Alexander struck camp and marched at a cracking pace which shook even Philip's veterans. He struck south-east from Lake Okhrida, ‘by way of Eordaea and Elimiotis and the mountain ranges of Tymphaeaand Paravaea’. There is, on this description, only one possible route he can have taken: the rough and precipitous mountain trail which still runs from Bilisht in southern Albania over the northern Greek ranges, by way of Kastoria and Grevená, finally debouching in the Thessalian plain near Trikkala. Most travellers, then as now, preferred to enter Greece by the Métsovo pass, from the west — and even this is pretty rough going: modern Greeks still refer to it as the ‘Accursed Pass’. But Alexander was in a hurry.

Within seven days he had brought his army safely down to Pelinna, a few miles east of Trikkala. From here he swept on to Lamia, was through the Hot Gates before the rumour of his coming had reached the south, and — less than a fortnight after setting out — bivouacked at Onchestus in Boeotia. He had marched nearly 250 miles, at an average speed of eighteen miles a day. More remarkable still, his time was no better on the flat than it had been in the mountains; anyone who has ever walked from Kastoria to Trikkala will know what a remarkable feat this represents.

Twenty miles beyond Onchestus lay his ultimate destination: Thebes.⁴⁹

The leaders of the revolt — who only learnt that a Macedonian army had passed Thermopylae by the time it lay one day's march from Thebes — could not accept the fact that it was Alexander with whom they had to deal. Alexander, they insisted, with touching faith in Demosthenes' propaganda, was dead. This must be a force under Antipater. When further reports came in, all telling the same story, they still refused to credit them. If the army was led by any Alexander, it was undoubtedly Alexander of Lyncestis — an interesting assumption, which tends to confirm other evidence pointing towards his complicity in the revolt (see above, p. 111). But twenty-four hours later, when Macedonian troops lay entrenched outside the city-walls, no further wishful thinking was possible. Alexander lived and reigned indeed; the only decision, a vital one, left for the rebels was whether to hold out or sue for terms.

Alexander himself is unlikely to have anticipated much serious trouble. It was not so long since a show of force had cowed Thebes into instant submission (see above, p. 118). He had with him a force of over 30,000 men, the cream of Philip's veterans, a superb fighting force scarcely ever defeated in the field: the Thebans would not, surely, be rash enough to challenge them unaided. Besides, as usual he was quite ready to be accommodating provided he got what he wanted without trouble. All his interests were now concentrated on the Persian expedition, and he had not the least desire to waste time and energy coercing recalcitrant Greek city-states. If an example had to be made, he would make it; but it seems probable that his temper had cooled somewhat since leaving Illyria, and his sense of expediency was well to the fore again. As he doubtless reminded them, the Thebans could offer a perfectly acceptable diplomatic excuse for their actions. If Alexander had, in fact, been dead as they believed, the league treaty would at once have become null and void (since he left no issue), and their bid for independence would thus have been quite legitimate. They had acted in good faith; if they now returned to their allegiance, the whole episode could be forgotten, without loss of face on either side.⁵⁰

The Thebans, however, proved unexpectedly stubborn. Their reaction to this overture was not a flag of truce, but a lightning raid on Alexander's outposts, during which quite a few Macedonians lost their lives. Next day the king moved his forces round to the south side of the city, and took up a position outside the Electra Gate, on the road to Athens. This brought him within hailing-distance of his beleaguered garrison, since here the Cadmea rock abutted directly on the city-walls. But still he held off, hoping he might yet force a settlement.

When Alexander's approach was first confirmed, the Theban government had prepared a draft resolution — unanimously approved by the assembly — that they should ‘fight it out for their political freedom’. Now the assembly met once more, and this time opinion was by no means unanimous. There was a strong movement — ‘from all who had their city's interests most at heart,’ says Arrian, that Greek ex-governor of a Roman province — to abandon further resistance, and seek terms. But those most directly responsible for the rising, in particular the returned exiles, held out against any compromise. They put no trust in Alexander's fine guarantees. Their ringleaders had killed two Macedonian officers; many of them were also actively involved with the revived Boeotianconfederacy. Such men could scarcely hope to get away with their lives once Alexander laid hands on them.

Besides, they had breathed the heady air of freedom, and did not intend to give it up without a struggle. Indeed, there was always the chance that they might not have to give it up at all. Thebes was well-provisioned, her walls in good repair, her heavy infantry among the best in Greece. The Cadmea had been isolated by a strong double stockade, so that the Macedonian garrison would find it almost impossible to link up with their countrymen outside the walls. The assembly voted to stand by its earlier resolution.

Alexander saw now what his course must be. It was at this point, Diodorus tells us, that he ‘decided to destroy the city utterly and by this act of terror take the heart out of anyone else who might venture to rise against him’. But first, to clarify his own position, and in hope of sowing dissension among the Thebans, he issued a final proclamation. Any individual who so wished might still come over to him, and participate in the Greek ‘common peace’ ( koiné eirené). If the two main ringleaders of the revolt were surrendered, he would offer a general amnesty to the rest. This was a clever move. It served to remind the world that Thebes, technically speaking, had rebelled, not against Alexander of Macedon, but against the Hellenic League. By the same token, Alexander himself was acting not as an arbitrary despot, but with impeccable constitutional propriety. He was the league's duly elected captain-general, executing the league's commands. Not a few member-states had old scores to settle with Thebes, and Alexander would not lack for a quorum to back him.

The Thebans, of course, knew this as well as anyone, and their next move deliberately blew Alexander's polite fiction sky-high, in the most public possible manner. By so doing they sealed their own fate. From the highest tower of Thebes, their herald made a counter-demand and a counter-offer. They would, he announced, be willing to negotiate with Alexander — if the Macedonians first surrendered Antipater and Philotas. After this little pleasantry, he went on to proclaim ‘that anyone who wished to join the Great King and Thebes in freeing the Greeks and destroying the tyrant of Greece should come over to them’.⁵¹

The venomous conciseness of this indictment was calculated to flick Alexander on the raw; and the reference to a Persian entente, which might just conceivably be true, could hardly help striking home. If the Thebans' main object was to provoke the king into discarding his holier-than-thou mask, they succeeded all too well. The word ‘tyrant’ stung Alexander — no one likes hearing unwelcome home truths about himself, least of all a general whose men are within earshot — and he flew into one of his famous rages. From now on, he swore, he would ‘pursue the Thebans with the extremity of punishment’. He was as good as his word. The siege-engines were brought up, and the palisades breached. The Theban army fought a magnificent action outside the walls, and came within an ace of putting Alexander's troops to flight, even when the king threw in his reserves. But at the crucial moment, Alexander saw that one postern-gate had been deserted by its guards. He at once sent a brigade under Perdiccas to get inside the city and make contact with the beleaguered garrison. This task Perdiccas successfully accomplished, though he himself sustained a severe wound during the action.

The moment the Thebans learnt that their city-walls had been penetrated, they lost heart. Alexander counter-attacked; they wavered, broke, and fled in a wild stampede. The Electra Gate was jammed with retreating troops, all desperate to get through. The cavalry followed. Dozens of men were trampled underfoot; the great archway rang with screams and curses and the thudding of hooves. Before the ground could be cleared, or the gates shut and barred, Alexander's veterans were pouring into Thebes. There followed a period of savage street-fighting, which finally degenerated into wholesale butchery. Some of the Theban cavalry broke back and escaped across the plain; but for the most part Thebes' defenders fought and died where they stood, using broken spear-hafts or their bare hands, asking no quarter and certainly getting none. Women and old men were dragged from sanctuary and ‘subjected to outrage without limit’. Every house was ransacked, every temple plundered. The dead lay thick along the winding alleys. Each corner had its piles of loot, its piteously wailing children.

This bloodbath was by no means the unaided work of Alexander's Macedonians. Many others whom Thebes in the past had subjected to her own imperious rule — Thespians, Plataeans, the men of Orchomenus: Boeotians all themselves — now took their fearful revenge on the conquered city. By nightfall over 6,000 Thebans had been slaughtered, and something like 30,000 taken prisoner, for the loss of 500 Macedonian and allied troops. Much of the surrounding countryside was also looted and burnt.⁵² It was not until the following morning that Alexander finally restored order, but when he did he lost no time about it. A decree was issued banning any further indiscriminate butchery of Theban citizens: they were worth more as slaves, and the Macedonian treasury badly needed an infusion of hard cash. Both sides recovered and buried their dead, the Theban hoplites being placed together in a great common tomb by the Electra Gate.⁵³ Then Alexander summoned a special meeting of the league council — or such amenable delegates as he could lay hands on at short notice — to determine the city's ultimate fate.

Again, the official responsibility for this decision did not lie with him: he could, and did, claim that he was merely executing the league's verdict. However, most of the available delegates had their own reasons for disliking the Thebans, and could be relied upon to pronounce a suitably harsh sentence. We may take it for granted that the penalties they thought fit to impose were an accurate reflection of Alexander's known wishes. Had he felt it politic to allow Thebes a reprieve, that reprieve would have been forthcoming. In the event, the majority wanted Thebes totally destroyed. Thebes, it was emphasized, had fought on the wrong side in the Persian Wars. The Plataeans recalled their own sufferings at Theban hands; but Medism was the crime to which these delegates returned again and again.

No one, of course, had forgotten the Theban herald's ominous words: these sedulous trimmers knew very well what lay uppermost in the king's mind. A dignified and cogent appeal by the one Theban prisoner permitted, for form's sake, to address the council was dismissed out of hand. Then the final voting took place. The delegates' decision was ‘to raze the city, to sell the captives, to outlaw the Theban exiles from all Greece, and to allow no Greek to offer shelter to a Theban'. The Cadmea was to retain its garrison, while Thebes' domains were parcelled out among those same Boeotian cities that had encompassed her downfall. The seven-gated city of history and legend, where Oedipus had ruled and Teiresias prophesied, was now, on the authority of a puppet commission, to be blotted from the face of the earth. The sentence was carried out immediately (September 335).⁵⁴

His main objective attained, Alexander was more than willing to make individual concessions — especially if they cost him little, and enhanced his reputation for chivalry, piety, or love of culture. From the general order for mass-enslavement he exempted all priests, any citizens who could prove that they had voted against the revolt, or were guest-friends of Macedonians (including the family which had acted as host to Philip when he was a hostage), and, lastly, the descendants of Pindar the lyric poet. He likewise spared these persons' houses from destruction, together with all shrines and temples. Some statues of artistic celebrities seem to have survived as well: a refugee hid his ready cash in the hollow cloak of one such image, and recovered it intact thirty years later, when the city was being rebuilt.

There was also the celebrated case of the Theban general's widow who appeared before Alexander charged with murder. The officer who had taken over her house first got drunk, then raped her, then demanded her gold and silver. With some presence of mind she said she had hidden all her valuables at the bottom of a dry well in the garden. Down scrambled the Macedonian, still drunk, in his shirt; whereupon the lady, assisted by her maids, dropped rocks on him till he was dead. Alexander, far from punishing her, gave her her freedom, and ‘issued orders to his officers that they should take good care no such insult was again offered to a noted house’. The italicized words are worth pondering. Alexander, as we shall see, always handled the aristocracy of any occupied area with extreme tact. If they were prepared to collaborate, they could run the administration for him; if not, they could be more nuisance than the rest of the country put together. The moral was clear enough.⁵⁵

No previous disaster of this sort had ever struck the Greek world with quite such horror and amazement as the annihilation of Thebes.⁵⁶ The Sicilian catastrophe of 413 took place overseas, and Athens herself survived it. Plataea was a small town, Melos an insignificant island. The Spartan defeat at Leuctra in 371 was a matter of prestige, not of extermination. But Thebes, one of the most ancient and distinguished city-states in all Greece, had been totally destroyed, and her population subjected to the dreadful fate known as andrapodismós — wholesale deportation and enslavement. It was, we may note, a by no means unprofitable operation. From the sale of prisoners the Macedonian treasury realized 440 talents, or, on average, 88 drachmas per head.^{57 b}

The immediate effect of his action was all Alexander could have desired. There was a general rush by the Greek city-states to exculpate themselves and beg forgiveness for their ‘errors’. The Athenians, fearing the same fate as Thebes, broke off their celebration of the Mysteries at Eleusis; once more the city was crowded with refugees pouring in from Attica. Demades, the collaborationist politician (see above, pp. 77 ff.), persuaded the assembly to pick ten men of known Macedonian sympathies, and send them as ambassadors ‘to assure [Alexander], somewhat unseasonably, that the Athenian people rejoiced to see him safely returned from Illyria and the Triballians, and thoroughly approved his punishment of the Thebans for their revolt’. This declaration may have amused the king, but it certainly did not impress him. He was polite enough to the envoys; but what they brought back to Athens was a curt letter requesting the surrender of ten Athenian generals and politicians ‘who had opposed his interest’. Most prominent among these were Lycurgus, the freebooting condottiere Charidemus, and Demosthenes. No one doubted what their fate would be if they went.

A stormy debate took place in the assembly. Phocion — rather optimistically, one feels — urged the few to lay down their lives for the many. Demosthenes retorted with a parable about sheep abandoning their watch-dogs to the ‘Macedonian arch-wolf’. ‘In surrendering us,’ he cried, ‘you unwittingly surrender yourselves, all of you.’ In the end Demades (primed, it is said, with five talents from Demosthenes and his fellow-victims) volunteered to lead a second embassy to Pella, with the object of begging them off.

By now Alexander's temper had cooled somewhat, and his long-term strategic sense reasserted itself. He made it quite clear to Demades that he held Athens no less responsible than Thebes for the latter's rebellion. He also reminded him that harbouring Theban refugees was in itself a flagrant violation of the league's decree. Having rubbed these points home (in order to leave no possible suspicion in Demades' mind that he might be climbing down — which of course he was) Alexander declared himself, with great magnanimity, willing to forgive and forget. He removed all the names from his black-list save that of Charidemus, a licensed privateer whom Demosthenes, for one, was not sorry to see go; and even in this one case he merely asked that the Athenians banish him. He also rescinded the order concerning Theban refugees.

Demades returned home in triumph, to be rewarded by a grateful assembly with a bronze statue, and free meals in the Prytaneum (City Hall) for life. Indeed, he deserved them. He had sized up the situation with an uncommonly shrewd eye, and had called Alexander's bluff. Like his father, the king had no intention of embarking on a long and dangerous siege when there were more important things to be done.⁵⁸ The concessions he made, moreover, were substantial ones. Charidemus went straight to the Great King, as Alexander must have known he would; so did several other Athenians of note. They did not obtain a military alliance from Darius — the one thing Alexander feared above all else — but they did get massive funds with which to back the growing resistance movement inside Greece itself.⁵⁹

If Alexander expected any gratitude in return for his clemency, he was badly mistaken. In the long run his treatment of Thebes proved one of the worst psychological errors he ever made. Had he spared the city he might, eventually, have reached some genuine accommodation with the Greek states. Now that was out of the question. After their first shocked terror had worn off, the attitude of the Greeks towards Alexander hardened into a bitter and implacable hatred. Outwardly they collaborated, with cynical obsequiousness. But they never forgave him. In public, for the time being, all was quiet. Macedonian notables received honorary citizenships, and garrison commanders were greeted with smiles on the street. A great deal of fulsome and flattering rubbish was turned out by the hack writers. But in private, grim-faced young men fingered their swords and looked forward to the day of liberty and revenge. If Athens and Sparta had ever managed to bridge their differences and achieve a genuine entente, this story might well have had a very different ending.