General Attalus, summoned by King Philip, strode
along the cobbled road toward the citadel that rose like an
island, being built on an immense embankment in the marsh. A
water-filled moat surrounded the citadel—the largest in the
Balkan peninsula, covering fifteen acres. It comprised two
groups of buildings, sharing a uniform facade with a
monumental central gateway and raised Doric colonnade. A
single wooden bridge spanned the stagnant moat. The guards
presented their arms as Attalus passed the sentry box.
The main walkway led the general to
the palace that loomed like a massive impenetrable castle. The
king’s aide-de-camp stood in front of a waiting room. The
floor displayed the great mosaics, composed of large pebbles
of different colors. The first one, called the Lion Hunt,
depicted two male figures who, brandishing swords, attacked a
lion with dark mane and erect tail. The second mosaic showed
Dionysus riding a panther. The god of wine, depicted as a
flabby young man, held a thyrsus twined with a grape vine. His
effeminate body provided a striking contrast to the lithe and
powerful panther.
After waiting a
short while, the aide-de-camp guided General Attalus to the
imperial chamber. Sitting in a throne, King Philip appeared
like a deeply troubled man surrounded by his guards and court
officials.
When the General
straightened up his spine and saluted, the king gestured all
the attendants to leave. Once the aide-de-camp closed the
massive wooden door, General Attalus faced the king alone.
“General, have a seat.” With a sulky
look, Philip finger-pointed at a nearby chair, in which the
queen usually sat down.
“Another
battle?”
“No, there won’t be any more
battles.”
“What seems to be the
problem, sire?”
“Olympias.”
“Oh? What about her?”
“I’m pretty sure, you’ve heard some rumors
about her.”
“Yes, but I don’t believe
those silly talks.”
“Well, some of
gossips could be true.”
“Like what,
King?”
“She might have indulged in
adultery.”
“Adultery? With whom?”
“Pausanias.”
“Captain of the Royal Guards?”
“That’s right. He’s in charge of Olympias.”
“But he has …”
“What?”
“He has a lover … I mean, a young
officer.”
“Does he prefer boys?”
“Yes, I heard, his lover is
Sublieutenant Pelion. He’s a good-looking, brave, yet
considerate man. King, do you have a concrete evidence for the
adultery?”
“No, nothing concrete, but
I knew, both of them spent long hours in her chamber.”
“It’s because of his duties, I
suppose.”
“But I can’t find any good
reason for them to stay together alone in her room.” The king
grimaced. “Anyway, adultery isn’t the main point.”
“What else, then?”
“Her
attitudes—that’s the point. You know, General, other wives are
fairly easy to handle. Most of them are obedient, and never
meddled into politics. But Olympias is quite different. She’s
stubborn, hot-tempered, self-centered, and acting like an
Amazon. She even organized her own female squad. She brought
in a Spartan woman.”
“Dorgina?”
“That’s right. Olympias is crazy
about anything Spartan. She even tries to brainwash Alexander,
turning him into a Spartan warrior.”
“What is she trying to do?”
“She’s
apparently creating her own troops—men and women. To begin
with, she befriended Pausanias and set up her own faction in
my guards.”
“I doubt.”
| “Last night, she even
told me, I’m not Alex’s father. I’ve never doubted it
before, but come to think of it, Alex doesn’t look like
me at all.” |
With his brows knitted, Philip gazed at General Attalus
who swallowed hard in consternation.
“Olympias has been rebellious lately. At first, I thought she
was jealous since I sleep with Meda quite often these days.
She even threatened me, not only by her fiery temper but by
taking part in the wild orgy of Dionysian rites.”
“My Goodness.”
“I’ve
laid my plans quite well, and won so many wars, but overlooked
one tiny spot—Olympias. I didn’t know that she would become
this much of a problem. If worse comes to worst, I might be
ruined, not by the defeats in the field but by mishandling my
wife.”
“But she cannot do anything if
she acts alone, can she?”
“I
suspect—his brother is behind all this.”
“King Alexander of Epirus?”
Philip nodded firmly.
In Homeric
times, Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, settled in Epirus
with Andromache, the widow of Hector. Olympias used to tell
her son about this story, and Alexander believed that he had
descended from Achilles. In fact, through all his campaigns,
Alexander carried with him a copy of Homer’s
Iliad
annotated by Aristotle, and developed a personal sense of
identification with Achilles. It was Olympias who infected him
at an impressionable age with notions of his own
divinity—something more than a king.
Located by the mountainous coast of the Ionian Sea and seamed
by narrow valleys funneling out of forbidding gorges, the
Molossian kingdom in Epirus had few open stretches. In her
girlhood, Olympias could feel that she sat on top of the whole
Greece, perched on the crown of the rugged mass of schist,
limestone and marble. But she felt so poor.
One of lesser states with barren lands, the kings of
Epirus had married off their daughters to form alliances with
neighboring stronger states to survive, but they had never
given up an ambition to gain fertile lands if an opportunity
knocked at the door. Well aware of this historical situation,
Olympias married Philip II, the youngest of three brothers of
Macedonia.
“King,” asked General
Attalus, “what do you want me to do?”
“You’ve got a niece, right?”
“Yes.
Cleopatra. She’s eighteen.”
“I want
to marry her.”
“You want to marry my
niece?” The general rolled his eyes. “But why?”
“It’s a warning for the king of Epirus. At the
moment, Alex is the only heir to Macedonia. But if Cleopatra
will give birth to a boy, I could hand my reign over to the
purely Macedonian-blooded heir.”
“Are
you disowning the Crown Prince?”
“It’s a possibility, isn’t it? This is the only way, I can
think of right now, to let them give up their foolish plan to
take over Macedonia, if they have any.”
General Attalus knitted his brows as Philip gazed at
him with a self-contented smile.
Receiving a message earlier from
Dorgina through her maid, Captain Pausanias dropped in at her
chamber, not far from the royal chamber of Olympias, who had
just stepped out of the palace for a shopping tour.
Dorgina wore a Doric chiton—a long simple tunic
covering both back and front, usually sewn up at the side.
Occasionally, women closed the side with a decorated seam.
Dorgina, however, put it on, open, without even a girdle at
her waist. Wearing a chiton likewise, her young maid showed up
with a tray. Probably, she belonged to the female squad he had
seen a couple of days ago since she appeared well-suntanned.
When she bent, placing a mug of wine on the table, the front
of her chiton hung down apart from her shapely body, revealing
her well-rounded breasts and her flat belly—let alone her
fluffy triangular patch between the thighs. Pausanias
swallowed hard.
“Captain, this is the
way Spartan women wear the chiton.”
“Even outside?”
“Yes. But not here in
Pella. We wear this only inside the palace. I know, a long
time ago, some women put it on just like us and scandalized
the whole town.”
“By the way, where
is the queen?”
“She went to the
agora.”
“Shopping?”
“No, she likes to look around for something new.”
“So, how can I help you?”
“The queen told me to talk with you about
Sparta.”
“Why?”
“She wants you to get familiarized with the Spartan way
of life.”
“I know, the queen is quite
fascinated by Sparta, but Sparta is in decline, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, but it used to be quite
strong. The queen wants you to become a competent general who
understands the gist of the Spartan valor. She really likes
you, regarding you as one of the most able officers around,
and she wants you to help her in the future.”
Flattered, Captain Pausanias looked into the
charming blue eyes of an Amazon-like woman.
“She needs my help?”
“Yes,
definitely.”
“But how can I help the
queen?”
Dorgina gave a signal to the
maid, and waited till she closed the door and left.
“Captain, this is between you and me.” She
leaned closer. “I don’t want you to tell this to anybody
else.”
The captain swallowed hard
again and gazed at the captivating yet mysterious woman.
“As you know, I’m from Sparta, and
I’ve been watching things happening in and around Pella. Based
on what I’ve seen in Sparta, I can sense, soon or later, a
certain devastating event will take place.”
“Devastating event? Like what?”
“Like a revolt.” Dorgina stared into the inquisitive
eyes of the captain. A tense silence filled the chamber.
“But who’s going to rebel?”
“I can’t tell you right now. The
queen is also worried about it.”
“So
she wants me to protect her in case such a rebellion takes
place. Is that it?”
“You’ve got it,
Captain. She really counts on you.”
“I see.”
“You are the only one, she
said, whom the queen feels quite comfortable with.” Dorgina
stared at him as if to assure him of the queen’s confidence.
“Captain, I wonder if you could live up to her trust.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Great!”
“But what’s all this
got to do with Sparta?”
“Do you know
the Spartan Code?”
“Yes, I’ve heard
of that.”
To train men to an ideal
warrior, Sparta demanded a strict code or the most rigorous
discipline even at birth—a ruthless eugenics. Not only must
every child face the father’s right to infanticide, but it
must also be brought before a state council of inspectors. A
child that appeared defective must die, thrown from a cliff of
Mount Taygetus down on the jagged rocks below.
Men and women had to consider the health and
character of those whom they thought of marrying. Sparta
punished even King Archidamus for marrying a diminutive wife.
The state encouraged husbands to lend their wives to
exceptional men so that fine children might be multiplied.
Husbands disabled by age or illness should invite young men to
help them breed a vigorous family. Lycurgus, a Spartan
lawgiver in the ninth century B.C., ridiculed jealousy and
sexual monopoly.
“The spartans become
so eager to produce better offsprings of their dogs and
horses,” said Lycurgus, “Some even pay money to procure fine
breeding, yet they keep their wives shut up. Those husbands
could be infirm, diseased, and inferior in intelligence. This
is totally absurd.”
As the Spartan
Code prevailed, the males in Sparta turned out stronger and
handsomer, their women healthier and lovelier, than the other
Greeks.
However, this result owed
more to training than to eugenic birth. King Archidamus once
said, “There is little difference at birth, presumably, but
the superiority lies with him who is reared in the severest
school.”
At the age of seven, every
Spartan boy left his family and joined the military school.
The state brought up boys under the care of a
paidonomos or manager of boys. In each class the ablest
and bravest boy became captain. The rest had to obey the
captain, to submit to the punishments he might impose upon
them, and to strive to match or better the leader in
achievement and discipline. The state educated the boys and
instilled not athletic form and skill, as at Athens, but
martial courage and worth. The boys played games in the nude,
under the eyes of elders and lovers of either sex. The older
men made it their concern to provoke quarrels among the boys,
individually and in groups, so that the boys could attain
vigor and fortitude. Any moment of cowardice brought many days
of disgrace upon them.
At twelve the
boys wore only one garment throughout the year. They did not
bathe frequently, like the lads of Athens, because water and
unguents made the body soft, while cold air and clean soil
made it hard and resistant. Even in winter, the Spartan boys
slept in the open, on a bed of rushes broken from the banks of
the Eurotas River. Until the boys turned thirty, they lived
with his company in barracks with none of the comforts of
home.
The state taught the boys how
to read and write, but barely enough to make him literate.
Books found few buyers in Sparta. Lycurgus wished children to
learn his laws not by writing but by oral transmission and
youthful practice under careful guidance. He considered it
safer to make men well-behaved by unconscious habituation than
to rely on theoretical persuasion. In a proper education in
Sparta, character became more important than intellect.
Basically, the state taught the boys, in preparation for war,
to forage in the fields, to find his own food, to steal if
required, but never to be detected since being caught in
red-handed became a crime punishable by flogging.
At thirty, a Spartan man became a full-fledged
citizen, and started to eat his main meal daily in a public
dining hall, where the food appeared simple in quality and
slightly but deliberately inadequate in amount. So, fat men
became a rarity in Sparta. Though no law regulated the size of
the stomach, the general public considered him disloyal to the
state if a man’s belly swelled indecently. The Spartans could
hardly enjoy drinking—let alone revelry that flourished in
Athens. Differences of wealth existed, but remained hidden.
The rich and the poor wore the same simple dress—a woolen
peplos that hung straight from the shoulders without pretense
to beauty or form.
Human greed
remained, however, and found an outlet in official corruption
in its decline. Senators, ephors, envoys, generals, and kings
alike became purchasable at prices befitting their dignity.
The state specified the best age of
marriage as thirty for men and twenty for women, and regarded
celibacy as a crime. In a marriage, usually arranged by the
parents, the bridegroom supposedly carried off the bride by
force, and she pretended to resist as the word for marriage
harpadzein meant to seize.
“What happens,” asked Captain Pausanias, “if a man still
remains unmarried after thirty?”
“The state would place
several unmarried men into a dark room with an equal
number of girls, and instruct the men to pick their
mates in the darkness.”
“You must be joking.”
“No, I’m serious. The Spartans think, such an
arrangement would not be blinder than love.”
|
“Dorgina, have you married yet?”
“No,
I came to Pella before an arranged marriage.”
“Why?”
“Because I
didn’t like such a forced marriage.”
“But every girl gets married like that in Sparta, doesn’t
she?”
“That’s true. I’m a renegade,”
said Dorgina with a playful smile.
“Did you have a lover?”
“Yes, I did.
I fell in love with a certain boy.”
“What happened?”
“He died in the war
at Chaeronea.”
In 338 B.C. Philip
marched into Boeotia. Sparta refused to help, but Thebes,
feeling Philip’s fingers at its throat, sent its Sacred Band
to fight beside the Athenians. Every one of its three hundred
members died on that battlefield. The Athenians fought almost
as bravely, but they had waited too long, and didn’t match so
well-equipped an army as the Macedonians.
“I heard, Sparta didn’t take part in the war.”
“No, not officially, but they
participated in the war as a mercenary. And my boy was killed
along with the Sacred Band.”
“Oh, I’m
sorry. I was also in the war. I might’ve met him in the
battlefield.”
“He was one of the
bravest men I’ve ever known, but he was born in the wrong
state. Sparta is quite different from what it used to be. It’s
nothing but a corrupted country, now. Well, that’s life.”
Dorgina took a deep sigh as the captain watched her with a
touch of sympathy. “If he were born in Macedonia, I’m pretty
sure he would become a great general sooner or later—probably
like you.”
Flattered, Captain
Pausanias sat up straight like a proud warrior. “So you chose
Macedonia, instead of your native Sparta.”
“Yes, I’d like to realize his dream.”
“His dream?”
“Yes, I’d like to
help this country grow into a great kingdom. My boy admired
King Philip, though he fought against Macedonia. I knew he
wanted to become a great warrior like the king.”
“So, you wanted to be a wife of a great
warrior.”
“Yes, every girl in Sparta
has the same dream.”
The bride in
Sparta stayed with the parents of the bridegroom while the
bridegroom remained in his barracks and visited his wife only
clandestinely.
“They sometimes have
children,” said Dorgina, “before even the couple see their
faces by daylight.”
Love came after
marriage rather than before. Marital affection appeared
stronger in Sparta than in any other state in the Balkan
peninsula. The Spartans boasted that they enjoyed much freedom
before marriage. Many husbands shared their wives, especially
with brothers. Divorce turned out rare. In Sparta prostitution
didn’t flourish like in Athens and Corinth. The Spartan elders
punished General Lysander because he left his wife and wished
to marry a prettier woman.
“Where are
we?” said Captain Pausanias. Puzzled, he looked around.
Feeling dizzy, he slowly sat up.
“You
are in my bed.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I
shouldn’t have drunken that much of wine.”
“That’s all right. You can stay over with me tonight.”
In the center of the bedchamber
beamed an oil lamp on the stand. An orange-red flickering
flame fluttered like a tiny dancer, shedding a warm light to
every direction in the chamber. The captain felt as if he
stayed with Dorgina in a remote cave in a rocky mountain side.
The large shadow of Dorgina also appeared dancing on the wall.
Then the captain realized that Dorgina stood in the
altogether. And suddenly he felt uneasy.
“I think, I’d better get going now.” When he stood up,
however, the captain found himself, to his surprise and
embarrassment, stark-naked. Pulling up the bed sheet in a
haste, he covered his body.
“Where is
my tunic?”
“Captain, you can stay
with me tonight.”
“No, I don’t think
so.” In jitters, the captain sat down on the bed and watched
Dorgina with an imploring gaze. “I’d better go. Please let me
have my tunic.”
With a motherly
smile, Dorgina stood like a statue and watched the captain for
a while.
“I must get back to my
quarters.”
While he kept on imploring
her, Dorgina pulled up a stool and sat down on it, as if she
stayed alone in her chamber. As she poured scented oil onto
her palm from a small flask, a whiff of sweet fragrance wafted
around and tickled his nostrils. She then spread it over her
chest and shoulders, even her face. Her blonde hair tied up at
the nape of her neck, Dorgina slowly rubbed her slender neck
with both hands, looking up at the ceiling.
At a loss for what else to do, Captain Pausanias simply
watched Dorgina in awe. Then he thought he had been in more or
less the same situation before. No, that can’t be true. But
I’ve seen this woman before—he wondered. When was it? Oh,
yes—I was five or six. In my mother’s room, I was watching her
preparing for the night. She was naked waist up, spreading a
scented oil over her creamy-white breasts and upper arms just
like that. I kept watching as if I saw a quite different woman
in my mother, who after a while turned around and smiled at
me. “Son, you must get back to your nanny’s room.”
At that time, Dorgina turned to the captain and
smiled just as his mother had once smiled in her room. He
naturally expected her to say, “Captain, now, you must get
back to your quarter.”
To his
disappointment at first, then to his embarrassment, Dorgina
said nothing. She simply stood up and applied the oil onto her
flat, yet pleasingly-undulating, belly in front of his eyes,
which instinctively got attracted to the fluffy mound between
her eye-catching thighs. How badly did I want to see this part
of secret flesh on my mother? The captain looked up at Dorgina
as if he became an insecure five-year-old. Dorgina smiled at
him radiantly as if to say, “Son, if you want to watch me, you
can stay.”
“Can I?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Can you
show me?”
Dorgina smiled like a fond
mother.
“Are you sure? I thought, you
hated to do that—’cause you’ve never showed me.”
The captain didn’t know how long both eyes met
while he kept talking in silence what to do. Then her slender
hand slipped down and covered the honey-brown patch softly. As
he swallowed down his sticky saliva, Dorgina gently caressed
the fatty mound. Captain Pausanias dreamily watched as her
hand petted her playful kitten.
In the summer of 337 B.C. all the
dignitaries in Macedonia gathered at the palace in Pella to
celebrate Philip’s seventh marriage. The envoys from Greek
states also visited the capital for this occasion. His new
bride turned out an eighteen-year-old niece of General
Attalus, Cleopatra, who happened to have the same name as
Philip’s own daughter, and, coincidentally, the same age.
The marriage ceremony and reception
turned out the most splendid event in the century. The
citizens in Pella had also enjoyed the following week-long
feast with free wine and food provided by the palace.
At the end of the previous year,
Philip had asked all the Greek states of the mainland and
islands to send their delegates to Corinth to discuss matters
of common interest. As a result of this
synedrion or
assembly of the Greek states, the delegates had formed their
states—except Sparta—into a federation modeled on the Boeotian
League, and Philip outlined his plans for the liberation of
Asia from the Persian shackle. The Greeks unanimously chose
Philip as commander in the campaign. Each state pledged Philip
men and arms, and promised that no Greek anywhere should fight
against him.
The citizens of Pella
and the Greek envoys could see a bright future while they
watched a merry procession of dancers and musicians parading
along the streets.
Though Philip had
many wives, Olympias had dominated Philip’s marriage life and
acted as his queen while other wives had remained like his
concubines. Nonetheless, he insisted that he treat all the
wives equally because such a treatment would benefit his
inter-state diplomacy.
When Philip
took Cleopatra as his seventh wife, this young wife gave
Olympias a big blow, not because the new bride appeared more
charming but because she sensed a conspiracy by which Philip
and General Attalus could get rid of the Molossian blood from
the Argead Dynasty.
“Dorgina, let’s
have a Dionysian party.”
“I know how
badly you want to cheer up your spirits, but the king banned
it, didn’t he?”
“Nobody can issue
such an unreasonable decree.”
“But
the king is almighty.”
“Are you
afraid of him?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I am not. Let’s go.”
“I wish I could, but I don’t want to lose my
life yet.”
“I didn’t know you’re such
a coward.” Olympias glared at Dorgina.
“I am not.” Dorgina protested like a brave Amazon. “I
though, you wanted me to help you accomplish your mission.”
“Yes, of course,” said Olympias.
“Then, don’t you think it’s a good
idea to stay away from any trouble.”
“Dorgina, I hate to sit still and see another wife of his have
a good time. Anyhow, our party is a camouflage.”
“Queen, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what
you’re talking about.”
| The Dionysian cult
remained strong in Macedonia. The God Dionysus visited
Mount Bermion in disguise as a preacher. He hypnotized
the women in Mieza into pious ecstasy.
|
The
women in Mieza would go up into the hills nearby to worship
him with wild dances. Those women clothed themselves with the
skins of animals, girdled themselves with dead snakes, crowned
themselves with ivy, and suckled the young of wolves and deer.
King Merops opposed the cult, considering it as hostile to
reason, morals and order, then imprisoned its preacher. But
the god in the preacher asserted himself, opened the prison
walls, and used his miraculous power to hypnotize the young
ruler. Under the spell King Merops dressed himself as a woman,
climbed the hills, and joined the revelers, who discovered
that the newcomer disguised himself as a woman. A mob of the
orgiastic women tore him limb from limb. Among the revelers
rejoiced his own mother, drunk in ecstasy, carried the young
king’s severed head in her hands, thinking it the head of a
lion, and sang a song of triumph over it. When she came to her
senses, the mother saw the head of her son in disbelief.
“Men won’t approach us while we enjoy
ourselves in a Dionysian rite,” said Olympias.
“I see. But the king banned it. How could you
possibly change the king’s mind?”
“Just leave it with me.”
Then
Olympias strode into Philip’s royal chamber.
“No, I don’t want any woman to take part in such an
orgy. It’s hostile to reason, morals and order.”
“You sounds like King Merops.”
“King who?”
“Never mind. By
the way, darling, do you know about King Archelaus, one of
your ancestors?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of
the name. What about him?”
“Seventy-five years ago, Euripides was indicted on a charge of
impiety. Soon afterward another suit followed, involving much
of the poet’s fortune. Both accusations failed, but public
resentment remained. So he had no friends in Athens. Even his
wife turned against him.”
“So what?”
“Then seventy years ago, King
Archelaus heard of the unhappy poet, and invited Euripides to
Pella as his guest.”
“How do you
know?”
“I admire the Athenian culture
like you do.” Olympias smirked. “I learned some history
lately.”
Philip cleared his throat.
“I don’t like a roundabout talk. Get to the point.”
“Here in Pella, under the protection of King
Archelaus, Euripides found peace and comfort. Mind you, the
king had no fears for the orthodoxy of his people at that
time. Euripides wrote the almost idyllic
Iphigenia in
Aulis and the profound religious play,
The
Bacchae.”
“Probably, you’re
saying, it has something to do with Dionysus.”
“Yes, darling, you’ve just said. The play was
composed to be performed in the Macedonian mountains, which it
described in lyrics of unfailing power. It was intended to be
played in Pella, where the Dionysian cult was especially
strong, and still is.”
“So, what do
you want me to do? You want to see the play?”
“The thing is, even the Athenians could hardly
understand Euripides, but King Archelaus—your great
granduncle—understood him. Darling, a Dionysian rite is a
religious tradition. I’m proud that the Argead Dynasty had
such a great man in the past. I wish you could understand all
that.”
Philip grimaced while rubbing
his chin.
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