“And Alexandros?” I asked.
The news was awful. At the wedding feast, oily Attalos had smugly proposed a toast that Philip and his niece produce “a legitimate heir to the throne.”
Alexandros leaped to his feet. “You call me bastard?” He threw his wine cup at Attalos, opening a gash on the older man’s forehead.
Philip, seemingly stupefied with wine, staggered up from his couch. Some said he pulled a sword from one of the guards in murderous rage and wanted to kill Alexandros. Others claimed he was merely trying to get between Alexandros and Attalos to prevent a bloody fight from breaking out. The entire hall was on its feet; mayhem was in the air. Whatever Philip’s intention, his bad leg gave way and he sprawled clumsily to the wine-slicked floor.
Shaking with fury, Alexandros stared down at his father for a moment, then shouted, “This is the man who would take us across into Asia. He can’t even get himself from one bench to the other.”
Then he swept out of the hall, his Companions close behind him. Before dawn he and his mother had left Pella for Epeiros.
“He is still there?” I asked.
“So I hear. With his mother. In Epeiros.”
“It’s too bad about the Little King,” said one of the stable men. “Bad business, his falling out with his father that way.”
“But good riddance to the witch,” said another as we exchanged our horses.
They were not going to get rid her that easily, I knew.