The bibliography is divided into segments based on the primary focus of the works listed, and these foci have been roughly organized so as to follow the sequence of the narrative. It is my hope that this system will partly take the place of the annotations that would be found in a more scholarly treatment. Readers can see at a glance the secondary works on which I have most relied, without wading through a mass of notes. The subdivisions will be a help to those following up on specific interests, but an inconvenience to those looking for complete citations of works referred to in the notes; such readers might have to look in two or three sections in order to find a single item. I hope, however, that the rubrics of these sections will make the task easier.

Finally, I have taken the unusual step of providing Web addresses in the bibliography for translations of the ancient sources, rather than citing the more scholarly texts I have used myself. Many of these texts are hard to find outside university libraries, and a crucial one, Arrian’s Events After Alexander, cannot be found in any book at all (except in Greek). Though the online translations are not all they could be, they are taken from reputable published books in the public domain. All translations from Greek and Latin that appear in this book are my own.

Note on Pronunciations

Readers should feel no fear in pronouncing proper names, since there are few ways they can go far wrong. The evolution of these names from Greek to Latin to English means that there is often more than one valid way to sound them out. The vowel combination aeis pronounced by some to rhyme with “buy,” by others “bay,” and still others “bee”; the first is more authentic but all are possible. Many classicists are eclectic, choosing whichever sounds right in a particular word. My own preference is for the “eye” sound in both syllables of Aegae, the ancient capital of the Macedonian state.

Some consonants also offer more than one possibility. Ccan be sounded soft, like s, or hard, like k.Most English speakers follow our own language and allow it to be soft before the vowel i(as in Phocion) and before some e’s. Likewise the letter gbecomes soft (like j) before ebut is hard elsewhere; this will help distinguish Antigonus, hard, from Antigenes, soft, two names that are otherwise maddeningly similar.

The syllable -esat the end of a name is always sounded “eez,” so that Eumenesand Demadeshave three syllables (with the first one stressed). A final eis either “ee” or “ay” but is always voiced as a syllable. The Greek language had no silent vowels, and no silent consonants either: in Ptolemythe initial Pis usually dropped by English speakers, but those courageous enough to sound it will be saying the name as the Greeks did.

The issue of syllabic stress sometimes causes stress for readers. A good rule to follow is that in four-syllable names —Antigonus, Leosthenes, Hyperides—the emphasis usually falls on the second syllable. Alexanderof course breaks this rule, as he broke all the others.

Acknowledgments

My colleagues in the field of ancient history have generously shared their expertise in replies to my insistent questions. I would especially thank Edward Anson, Liz Baynham, Gene Borza, Brian Bosworth, Elizabeth Carney, Waldemar Heckel, Judson Herrman, and Ian Worthington. Others were equally generous in sharing photographs or artwork, especially Frank Holt, Andrew Stewart, and Stella Miller-Collett. All of these scholars made a relative newcomer like me feel welcome in their bailiwick, as did Robin Waterfield, who kindly steered me toward new or obscure publications in the field we were simultaneously working on. Robin also shared with me the typescript of his forthcoming book, though it did not arrive in time for me to consult it as I finished my own.

I am grateful for the generous support I received at various stages of this project from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities. My home institution, Bard College, allowed me to reserve a portion of my time for writing and research even in the midst of a hectic teaching schedule. This book could never have gotten started without the help of two good friends: Daniel Mendelsohn, who brainstormed with me over many an Indian dinner, and Dan Akst, who did likewise over Japanese lunches. Readers who encouraged it along the way also deserve my thanks: Jim Ottaway above all, whose sharp pencil improved every page, but also Ken Marcuse, Jake Nabel, Eve Romm, and Alex Zane. Paul Cartledge, a beacon of inspiration to me and many others, read the manuscript and saved it from errors, though I take responsibility for any that remain.

I am fortunate to have worked on this book with an editor, Vicky Wilson, who made me feel it deserved our best efforts. I have learned from Vicky, with whom I share a love of cycling, that good historical narrative should be like a good road bike: streamlined and stripped of all excess weight. I would also like to thank Vicky’s gracious assistant, Carmen Johnson, for help organizing the manuscript and the illustrations. Other people to whom I owe thanks are: my agent, Glen Hartley; my cartographer, Kelly Sandefer of Beehive Mapping; Ingrid Magillis, who secured rights and permissions for the illustrations; copyeditor Ingrid Sterner; Laurie Nash, Evelyn Krueger, and Jane Hryshko of Bard College; Sara Roemer and Jessica Shapiro of the Institute for the Study of the Ancient World; and, for technological help and advice, my brother-in-law Victor Liu.

My wife, Tanya Marcuse, has contributed more than a mere acknowledgment could express. Sharing a life with this wise and loving woman has helped me see what is important in the study of the ancient world, and in all things.

The book is dedicated to my mother and stepfather, Sydney and Victor Reed, in hopes it will bring them even a fraction of the joy they bring to each other.

INTRODUCTION

The Opening of the Tombs

Vergina (Northern Greece)

1977–79

“Be as calm as possible,” Manolis Andronikos told his assistants as he slowly widened a hole leading down into darkness. It was the afternoon of November 8, 1977, outside the northern Greek village of Vergina, and he was about to make the most spectacular discovery of modern Aegean archaeology.

Andronikos had been digging for twenty-five years in the Great Tumulus at Vergina, a mound of sand, earth, and gravel more than forty feet high, and had moved thousands of tons of it to find what was beneath. He was convinced he was on the site of Aegae, the ancient capital of the Macedonian nation and the burial place of its kings. Now, after nearly giving up on another fruitless season, he had uncovered the walls of two structures beneath an unexplored portion of the mound. One had turned out to be a looted chamber tomb, its floor strewn with human remains scattered by ancient robbers, its walls adorned with magnificent paintings. Next to that first tomb, below twenty-three feet of earth, Andronikos had uncovered the top of a second building and was preparing to climb down a ladder into the chamber below.

As he disappeared through the opening, he made a stunning announcement to his assistants. “Everything is intact!” he exclaimed as his flashlight caught the glint of silver and the dull green of oxidized bronze. Dozens of precious objects, any one of which would have repaid a year’s excavation, revealed themselves in the beam of Andronikos’ light. Armor and weaponry, the indispensable gear of the Macedonian warrior, stood propped against walls and in corners; finely wrought drinking vessels lay in heaps. At the center of the room Andronikos found a hollow marble chamber covered with a lid; when this was later opened, the excavators were astonished to discover an exquisite gold box containing the cremated bones of an adult male. A similar gold box, this one holding the remains of a woman in her twenties, was found in a small antechamber adjoining the main room.