Plutarch, Life of Pelopidas 32.1–35.7: Pelopidas dies at Cynoscephalae; Alexander of Pherae is killed by his wife Thebe

Accordingly, when he was come to Pharsalus, he assembled his forces and marched at once against Alexander. Alexander, also, seeing that there were only a few Thebans with Pelopidas, while his own men-at-arms were more than twice as many as the Thessalians, advanced as far as the temple of Thetis to meet him. When Pelopidas was told that the tyrant was coming up against him with a large force, All the better, he said, for there will be more for us to conquer.

At the place called Cynoscephalae, steep and lofty hills jut out into the midst of the plain, and both leaders set out to occupy these with their infantry. His horsemen, however, who were numerous and brave, Pelopidas sent against the horsemen of the enemy, and they prevailed over them and chased them out into the plain. But Alexander got possession of the hills first,

and when the Thessalian men-at-arms came up later and tried to storm difficult and lofty places, he attacked and killed the foremost of them, and the rest were so harassed with missiles that they could accomplish nothing. Accordingly, when Pelopidas saw this, he called back his horsemen and ordered them to charge upon the enemy’s infantry where it still held together, while he himself seized his shield at once and ran to join those who were fighting on the hills.

Through the rear ranks he forced his way to the front, and filled all his men with such vigour and ardour that the enemy also thought them changed men, advancing to the attack with other bodies and spirits. Two or three of their onsets the enemy repulsed, but, seeing that these too were now attacking with vigour, and that the cavalry was coming back from its pursuit, they gave way and retreated step by step.

Then Pelopidas, looking down from the heights and seeing that the whole army of the enemy, though not yet put to flight, was already becoming full of tumult and confusion, stood and looked about him in search of Alexander. And when he saw him on the right wing, marshalling and encouraging his mercenaries, he could not subject his anger to his judgement,

but, inflamed at the sight, and surrendering himself and his conduct of the enterprise to his passion, he sprang out far in front of the rest and rushed with challenging cries upon the tyrant. He, however, did not receive nor await the onset, but fled back to his guards and hid himself among them. The foremost of the mercenaries, coming to close quarters with Pelopidas, were beaten back by him; some also were smitten and slain;

but most of them fought at longer range, thrusting their spears through his armour and covering him with wounds, until the Thessalians, in distress for his safety, ran down from the hills, when he had already fallen, and the cavalry, charging up, routed the entire phalanx of the enemy, and, following on a great distance in pursuit, filled the country with their dead bodies, slaying more than three thousand of them.

Now, that the Thebans who were present at the death of Pelopidas should be disconsolate, calling him their father and saviour and teacher of the greatest and fairest blessings, was not so much to be wondered at; but the Thessalians and allies also, after exceeding in their decrees every honour that can fitly be paid to human excellence, showed still more by their grief how grateful they were to him.

For it is said that those who were in the action neither took off their breastplates nor unbridled their horses nor bound up their wounds, when they learned of his death, but, still heated and in full armour, came first to the body, and as if it still had life and sense, heaped round it the spoils of the enemy, sheared their horses’ manes, and cut off their own hair;

and when they had gone to their tents, many neither kindled a fire nor took supper, but silence and dejection reigned through all the camp, as if they had not won a great and most brilliant victory, but had been defeated by the tyrant and made his slaves.

From the cities, too, when tidings of these things reached them, came the magistrates, accompanied by youths and boys and priests, to take up the body, and they brought trophies and wreaths and suits of golden armour. And when the body was to be carried forth for burial, the most reverend of the Thessalians came and begged the Thebans for the privilege of giving it burial themselves. And one of them said: Friends and allies, we ask of you a favour which will be an honour to us in our great misfortune, and will give us consolation.

We men of Thessaly can never again escort a living Pelopidas on his way, nor pay him worthy honours of which he can be sensible; but if we may be permitted to compose and adorn his body with our own hands and give it burial, you will believe, we are persuaded, that this calamity is a greater one for Thessaly than for Thebes. For you have lost only a good commander; but we both that and freedom. For how shall we have the courage to ask another general from you, when we have not returned Pelopidas? This request the Thebans granted.

Those funeral rites were never surpassed in splendour, in the opinion of those who do not think splendour to consist in ivory, gold, and purple, like Philistus, who tells in wondering strains about the funeral of Dionysius, which formed the pompous conclusion of the great tragedy of his tyranny.

Alexander the Great, too, when Hephaestion died, not only sheared the manes of his horses and mules, but actually took away the battlements of the city-walls, in order that the cities might seem to be in mourning, assuming a shorn and dishevelled appearance instead of their former beauty. These honours, however, were dictated by despots, were performed under strong compulsion, and were attended with envy of those who received them and hatred of those who enforced them; they were a manifestation of no gratitude or esteem whatever, but of barbaric pomp and luxury and vain-glory, on the part of men who lavished their superfluous wealth on vain and sorry practices.

But that a man who was a commoner, dying in a strange country, in the absence of wife, children, and kinsmen, none asking and none compelling it, should be escorted and carried forth and crowned by so many peoples and cities eager to show him honour, rightly seemed to argue him supremely fortunate.

For the death of men in the hour of their triumph is not, as Aesop used to say, most grievous, but most blessed, since it puts in safe keeping their enjoyment of their blessings and leaves no room for change of fortune. Therefore the Spartan’s advice was better, who, when he greeted Diagoras, the Olympian victor, who had lived to see his sons crowned at Olympia, yes, and the sons of his sons and daughters, said; Die now, Diagoras; thou canst not ascend to Olympus.

But one would not deign, I think, to compare all the Olympian and Pythian victories put together with one of the struggles of Pelopidas; these were many, and he made them successfully, and after living most of his life in fame and honour, at last, while boeotarch for the thirteenth time, performing a deed of high valour which aimed at a tyrant’s life, he died in defence of the freedom of Thessaly.

The death of Pelopidas brought great grief to his allies, but even greater gain. For the Thebans, when they learned of it, delayed not their vengeance, but speedily made an expedition with seven thousand men-at-arms and seven hundred horsemen, under the command of Malcitas and Diogeiton.

They found Alexander weakened and robbed of his forces, and compelled him to restore to the Thessalians the cities he had taken from them, to withdraw his garrisons and set free the Magnesians and the Achaeans of Phthiotis, and to take oath that he would follow the lead of the Thebans against any enemies according to their bidding. The Thebans, then, were satisfied with this; but the gods soon afterwards avenged Pelopidas, as I shall now relate.

To begin with, Thebe, the tyrant’s wife, as I have said, had been taught by Pelopidas not to fear the outward splendour and array of Alexander, since these depended wholly on his armed guards; and now, in her dread of his faithlessness and her hatred of his cruelty, she conspired with her three brothers, Tisiphonus, Pytholaüs, and Lycophron, and made an attempt upon his life, as follows.

The rest of the tyrant’s house was guarded by sentries at night, but the bed-chamber, where he and his wife were wont to sleep, was an upper room, and in front of it a chained dog kept guard, which would attack everyone except his master and mistress and the one servant who fed him. When, therefore, Thebe was about to make her attempt, she kept her brothers hidden all day in a room hard by,

and at night, as she was wont, went in alone to Alexander. She found him already asleep, and after a little, coming out again, ordered the servant to take the dog outdoors, for his master wanted to sleep undisturbed; and to keep the stairs from creaking as the young men came up, she covered them with wool.

Then, after bringing her brothers safely up, with their swords, and stationing them in front of the door, she went in herself, and taking down the sword that hung over her husband’s head, showed it to them as a sign that he was fast asleep. Finding the young men terrified and reluctant, she upbraided them, and swore in a rage that she would wake Alexander herself and tell him of the plot, and so led them, ashamed and fearful too, inside, and placed them round the bed, to which she brought the lamp.

Then one of them clutched the tyrant’s feet and held them down, another dragged his head back by the hair, and the third ran him through with his sword. The swiftness of it made his death a milder one, perhaps, than was his due; but since he was the only, or the first, tyrant to die at the hands of his own wife, and since his body was outraged after death, being cast out and trodden under foot by the Pheraeans, he may be thought to have suffered what his lawless deeds deserved.