26
312 BC
Stratokles had plenty of time to be
disgusted with himself.
The worst of it was that he had been wrong.
He, the great political philosopher, had backed the wrong horse as
surely as Demosthenes had with Alexander. It wasn’t that Demetrios
the Golden was incompetent. He was ruthless and he had strokes of
brilliance, and his will was strong. It was simply that he was too
young and too inflexible to command an army. His own brilliance and
beauty clouded his judgment. He assumed himself to be a child of
the gods and behaved accordingly. And even when events proved him
wrong, he couldn’t be seen to change his mind.
Stratokles watched as the golden boy’s strategy
unravelled, and he shook his head quietly. He didn’t need spies to
tell him how badly their cavalry was losing the foraging war - he
saw the wounded, the empty saddles, the disgust of the Saka and
Mede nobles.
On the other hand, his networks - his carefully
paid webs of informers and messengers - hung together, and he had
at least two reports a day on the treason of Ptolemy’s Macedonians.
The Foot Companions - the elite of Ptolemy’s army - would change
sides as soon as the fighting started. The deal was done. When they
changed sides, every Macedonian on the field would know who the
winner was - and the golden boy would owe his throne to a wily
Athenian and his web of informers.
‘If he was a wrestler,’ Stratokles commented to his
one-time kidnap victim, ‘Demetrios would be at the edge of the
sand, with one foot on the line, down two falls to one.’
‘Hmm,’ Amastris said. ‘Why did you bring me
here?’
‘I thought more highly of the boy and his father
than either deserves,’ Stratokles answered. Having begun on a path
of scrupulous honesty, he didn’t deviate. ‘It might be said that I
erred.’
Amastris nodded. ‘Except?’
Stratokles spread his palms. ‘Ah, despoina, there
are some things even you are not yet ready to hear. You have other
loyalties. Let us say that I have the means to save the golden boy
from his folly.’
‘And thus render him deeper in your debt than would
have been the case if he had been as competent as you imagined him
to be.’ Amastris settled on to her cushions and smiled at him. She
had no problems looking at his face.
‘You are a superb student,’ he said, and she glowed
at his praise.
Stratokles had always devised plans in layers, so
that when one layer failed, he had a reserve - sometimes two or
three. He looked at his new student of statecraft, and he thought
lovingly of his new reserve.
In Demetrios’s camp palace - a set of tents as big
as Xerxes’ captured tents in Athens - he had a young hostage. A
glowering, handsome boy who claimed to have had Alexander himself
for a father. Herakles.
In Macedon, Herakles was a rumour. Now that
Stratokles had laid eyes on him, it was hard not to plot. Difficult
to keep himself from imagining what he could accomplish for Athens
- for the world - if he had Alexander’s heir and this brilliant
girl.
He looked at her again and knew that she was not
for him. But neither was the satrapy of Phrygia. Suddenly it seemed
like a limited ambition - a wasted life. He didn’t need to be lord
of a rich province. Instead, he could stand behind the throne of
the earth, the trusted advisor, the hands - gentle hands - on the
reins of state. Athens would be the richest city in the world, and
he would have a statue in bronze on the Acropolis.
‘You have seen the man that calls himself
Herakles?’ Stratokles said to his student.
She allowed herself a smile. ‘Yes.’
‘He is the son of Alexander. He may well prove to
be the most important player on this board.’ Stratokles stroked his
beard.
‘He’s younger than my Satyrus, and has no
experience of anything but being a hostage.’ Amastris waved for a
cup of wine.
‘His experience is not the issue,’ Stratokles said.
‘His blood is the issue.’
‘Ahh!’ she replied.
‘A child of yours by him - Alexander’s grandson -
could guarantee the future of Heraklea for ever,’ Stratokles said
carefully.
She didn’t blush. Instead, she smiled demurely and
shook her head. ‘Or make my city a target for every adventurer with
an army,’ she said. ‘And my child. And me.’
‘Ahh!’ Stratokles responded, and they both
laughed.
Nonetheless, he sent for his Lucius, and gave him
some exacting instructions.
So - while Stratokles had plenty of time to be
disgusted with himself, he was not. He was too busy plotting.