The Conqueror and the Rose

Chapter XXIV - Closure

*** Above graphic: Alexander and Aristotle 

We all run towards something. Perhaps it is for our ambition, perhaps it is for a loved one, or perhaps it is for the sake of an empire. But somewhere in the middle of that race, all of us question whether what we are running towards is worth it. We question what is the meaning of our existence if what we were running for were to turn out to be false.

Somewhere along the way, we realize that what we thought was so noble may not even be noble at all, that what we thought was for the sake of others was actually for the sake of ourselves, and that our thoughts of saving the world may have actually been acts of fake heroism for the sake of our consciences. With this we realize that no one is good.

In the empty court of Macedonia, Polyperchon stood still, as if time itself had frozen. He was as still as the statue he was gazing at. This particular statue had a handsome face, with wide eyes and a serious brow, but the lips were indented in such a way that it created a sense of amusement in the expression. He had curly, unruly hair, and from his broad shoulders hung the Macedonian-style cloak he had so often worn into his successful battles. It was the statue of Alexander.

"I am sorry, Roxana," Polyperchon whispered. "But it seems that the age of Alexander is over. I have tried to defend the Macedonian royal house with all that I had, but it has become clear that the royals have no place in the world of the Diadochi. You have become a relict of an ancient time, just as I had been in the stubborn process of becoming. Alas, it is unfair that I have a choice to move on and you do not. But what can I do? Roxana? What can I do?" He shook his head.

"A new era is beckoning to me, and I have decided to step into its embrace." And having said this to himself, Polyperchon briskly walked out of the room.

"Send this message to Cassander," he spoke to his messenger, "I accept his terms."

Inside her chamber, Olympias was gazing at herself before the mirror. She was not young anymore. But she was still beautiful. Only, there was a certain malice in her dark eyes that she could not get rid of. Years of fighting had done this to her. First to secure her beloved son, Alexander's throne, now to secure his son, Alexander IV's inheritance to it. If this was not because of love, she did not know what it was. Yes, as a mother, this had all been done for the sake of love. There were no regrets.

"Tell me," Olympias said to the maid beside her, smoothing out the creases of her lavish linen dress, "Which hairband befits me more, the golden one, or the purple?"

"I do not know, my lady," said the maid, "It is not clothes nor ornaments that gives one beauty. True beauty is when one is able to bring out the beauty of anything they come to pass. And anything you wear becomes you." Olympias smiled, amused at the maid's flattery.

Another maid briskly came to Olympias' side. "Please, this is not the time to be thinking of ornaments. I heard that Cassander and his army-" She stopped speaking, seeing that Olympias had put up her hand. Her demeanour had instantly frozen to ice. Suddenly she looked ready to murder someone, and she was very capable of doing so.

"I am sorry my lady."

At that moment, there was a banging from outside. Olympias deliberately relaxed her posture. She knew what was at the door, and there was nothing Olympias feared except not knowing what would happen. But the maids looked on fearfully. If Olympias were to die, there was nothing that would ensure their safety. The door burst open showing an entire procession of soldiers who had come for one woman.

"Come outside!" One of them shouted. Olympias slowly stood up. Her maidservants supported her on each side, and she leaned on them. Turning around, she stared squarely at the soldiers who had come for her, eyeing them carefully. She scoffed at how they had not yet entered the chamber. They couldn't. How could they, when it belonged to the daughter, sister, wife, mother, and grandmother of kings? But one bold soldier briskly marched forwards. He had a spear in his hand, and he held it against Olympias' smooth white throat. Olympias closed her eyes.