The path to a compromise now lay open, though it was a bizarre compact that was struck. Perdiccas and the cavalry recognized Philip, formerly Arrhidaeus, as monarch, while Meleager and the infantry agreed that Rhoxane’s child, if a son, would become a second king. Philip would have first position in this dual monarchy under the fiction that he had the ability to rule, at least more ability than a newborn baby. Meleager was added to the board of guardians administering the empire in the kings’ names, replacing Leonnatus, who was mysteriously removed. Meleager would be subordinate to Perdiccas in Asia, while Craterus and Antipater would remain joint custodians of Europe. His mutiny had bought him a sizable share of control of the empire, though he was not destined to enjoy it for long.

The crisis had been defused. By creating a joint kingship, a peculiar arrangement at odds with the very notion of monarchy, the two sides pulled back from the abyss of civil war. Infantry and cavalry were reunited into one army, though the breakdown of trust was not so easily healed. Both sides must have known, despite the appearance of an amnesty, that there were still scores to be settled, once the traditional leaders were back in power.

Several days had passed since the death of Alexander. The king’s body lay in state in the palace throne room, mute witness to the struggle that had taken place in its awesome presence. Amid the tumult, there had been no opportunity to take measures against decomposition. But miraculously, according to Plutarch and Quintus Curtius, the corpse remained uncorrupted, still radiating the beauty, strength, and fragrant smell that distinguished the king in life. Indeed the embalmers who were now at last summoned feared to treat a corpse that still seemed alive. Perhaps they were right to be afraid: a panel of experts who analyzed Alexander’s death in 1996, and who published their findings in The New England Journal of Medicine, suggested that the king did not die on June 11 but rather entered a paralytic state that closely resembled death.

The Macedonians did not customarily use embalming, an Egyptian and Babylonian practice, to treat their dead. It must have been Perdiccas who decided Alexander’s body should be emptied of organs and mummified, then placed in a golden casket filled with aromatics, so that all could continue to gaze upon their king without revulsion. He designated an officer named Arrhidaeus (a different person from Alexander’s half brother, now known by his new royal name, Philip) to oversee the construction of a magnificent hearse and to take charge of the desiccated corpse until this was built. Arrhidaeus was instructed to convey the corpse to its final destination, which was still at this point, evidently, Alexander’s chosen burial ground, the shrine of Ammon in Egypt.

For Perdiccas, the past week had been damaging but not hopelessly so. Meleager’s betrayal had caught him by surprise; he had misjudged the infantry leader, had thought him reliable and sound, indeed had sent him on the very mission that gave him control of a hostile army. Perdiccas had been watching his cavalry colleagues for disaffection, especially Ptolemy, and considering ways to deal with his absent rivals Craterus and Antipater. The rebellion of the infantry had blindsided him. But Perdiccas had quickly regained his balance. He had made the troops listen to him and accept his authority. And the other members of the high command had stuck by him; even his rival Ptolemy had remained loyal. The traditional hierarchy of the army had been restored.

The question now was how the mutineers, in particular Meleager, should be dealt with. The best model Perdiccas could look to for an answer was Alexander. Alexander too had been challenged, despite his godlike power. Men had refused to obey his orders, had stood up to him in front of others and even jeered at him. In every case, those men were now dead.

First had come Cleitus, the one they called Cleitus the Black, a nobleman and commander of high rank. He had saved Alexander’s life in the first battle against the Persians, cutting off the arm of an enemy swordsman just as it was about to strike the king’s head. Years later, when drunk at a banquet in Bactria (in what is now Uzbekistan), Cleitus had begun to grumble that Alexander owed not only his neck but also his conquests to the efforts of others; that he wore his borrowed glory too proudly, decking himself out like a Persian fop; that he was less of a man than his father, Philip. Alexander finally could take no more and reached for a weapon. The Bodyguards grabbed hold of the king and restrained him while Cleitus was hustled out of the banquet hall. But a few moments later, when the Bodyguards had relaxed their grip, Cleitus returned with more taunts on his lips. Alexander grabbed a sarissaand thrust its massive blade into Cleitus’ chest, killing him on the spot. It was a rash and unpremeditated murder but perhaps one Alexander did not regret.

Callisthenes was next, the Greek literary light who accompanied the army as court chronicler. Aristotle’s grandnephew, an esteemed intellectual, Callisthenes lent respectability to Alexander’s campaign, especially since he was usually eager to exalt it. But suddenly, about a year after Cleitus’ death, Callisthenes balked. In an impromptu speech he attacked an idea, floated by the king’s agents, that courtiers should bow down before Alexander as the Persians did before their monarchs. This was confusing man with god, Callisthenes asserted, and swapping limited monarchy for despotism. Alexander abandoned the bowing ritual but simmered over Callisthenes’ defiance. A few months later, when some of Callisthenes’ young admirers were found to have plotted against the king’s life, a snare was easily set. Callisthenes died horribly, either tortured and hanged, according to some sources, or imprisoned in a stinking cage and dragged about with the army until lice and disease did him in.

The last challenge to Alexander’s authority had been the most serious. In Opis, where Alexander announced he was discharging ten thousand veterans and bringing in Persian replacements, his troops showed open contempt, mocking his high-handedness and delusions of godhood. Alexander responded instantly and brutally. Wading into the crowd, he clapped a hand on the shoulders of those who scoffed the loudest, marking them out for summary execution. Thirteen men, veterans with long and distinguished records, died without hearing or trial, but the muttering ceased. Alexander regained control.

Now it was Perdiccas’ turn to face down a mutinous army. Clearly those who had challenged him had to pay the price and pay it in full view of others. But his power to punish was nothing like what Alexander’s had been. An immediate attack was out of the question; his authority was still too shaky, and besides, how could he succeed amid Babylon’s streets and palaces? Cavalrymen needed level plains on which charges could be mounted. And so Perdiccas, together with his fellow cavalry leaders, hatched a plan.

From its earliest days, the Macedonian army had practiced a ritual called lustration to purify itself in sight of the gods. A dog was killed and cut in two, and the halves were dragged to two sides of a field. The entire soldiery then marched between them in full armor. Sometimes a feigned battle between cavalry and infantry took place after this march was concluded. Perdiccas now ordered that such a lustration be held in the fields outside Babylon, to cleanse the armed forces of the taint of mutiny. All would gather in one place for the ritual, cavalry ranged opposite infantry.

Meleager no doubt suspected Perdiccas’ intentions, but a further stratagem secured his cooperation. Perdiccas planted agents to mutter loudly against Meleager’s elevation in the power-sharing deal. Getting wind of these grumbles, Meleager complained to Perdiccas that the malcontents must be punished. Perdiccas proposed that the upcoming lustration, when the cavalry would be deployed in an open field with full tactical advantage, would offer a good opportunity to make arrests. Meleager agreed to the plan, hoping it would result in the destruction of his opponents. In fact it was aimed at his supporters.