Christian Cameron - God of War - The Epic Story of Alexander the Great

We had almost four hundred bales of goods, every bale wrapped in cowhide, with a layer of tallow, and then a couple of layers of linen canvas. When we had eaten, with all the mess groups in circles by their fires, and the officers all together – Marsyas and Cleomenes, the senior phylarchs, with the addition of Leosthenes, and Thaïs sitting with us as if the presence of a woman at a camp dinner was the most natural thing in the world – I took a sharp knife and started to open the bales.

By luck, I got the helmets first. They were Attic in style, as I had requested – but with a brim over the eyes, a close-fit skull and hinged cheek-plates that adapted to the shape of the face. They were good bronze, and every helmet had a crest box and a horsehair crest.

There might have been fifty men in the taxeis with better helmets than these, but I doubted it, and I started to give them out, starting with phylarchs, then demi-phylarchs, file closers, and on and on, so that senior men got them first – I had no idea how many there might be, and as this was the work of seventy or eighty armourers, I couldn’t make head or tail of all the bills of lading.

The officers joined me, and soon we had men formed in files, and we had all the bales open – men took their new thoraces, their new sandals, their new chitons. The helmets were magnificent, but the sandal-boots came in for the most comment.

It was a fine occasion, and we went to our tents late and full of good wine, and Thaïs and I cuddled and kissed and fell asleep. I imagine I told her that I had missed her a thousand times. She laughed.

That was her way.

Just before she fell asleep, she put a hand on mine. ‘You know that Darius’s wife is pregnant,’ she said, as if this was the sort of thing we discussed every day.

I was half asleep. It took me a moment to realise that Darius’s wife was in a tent not far from me, not in Babylon with the King of Kings. And that only one man could have made her pregnant.

But it didn’t really seem that important.

Maybe Harpalus was right. Maybe I am a clod.

Alexander arranged games. He put money and effort into them, and we had tracks and fields marked out in advance, and marvellous prizes – magnificent cloaks, gold cups, whole panoplies of fine armour.

I ordered my men to store their new equipment. The new chitons were fitted, sewn to shape and put away. There was some grumbling, but I promised we’d have a promotion parade before we marched and wear it all. Games are hard on equipment, and I wanted them to go out in their old gear. I fought with spear and shield in my battered helmet, and Alexander, while commenting on my skill, managed to take note of the helmet.

‘You are, I think, one of the richest men in the army,’ he said. ‘Treat yourself to a new helmet.’

Thaïs had brought it from Athens, and it sat on my camp bed – thickly plated in gold over iron and bronze, the same Attic design as my men’s helmets, but with blue and gilt over the whole outer face; the cheek-plates on springs, the brim a little more peaked and with a pair of bull’s horns flanking the rich crest.

I wasn’t sure what I thought of the horns.

Thaïs shook her head. ‘For the bull. See?’ She smiled. ‘I spent four days in the Chalcidean’s shop, making sure that the engraving was as I wanted it.’ Indeed, the entire cycle of the bull was on the helmet, and a depiction of Zeus enthroned on Olympus, but with bull’s horns.

I loved it for her, as I thought that it was a little more gaudy than I needed. But the thorax matched, with white leather pturges.

I like fine gear. What soldier does not?

She’d brought me a dozen spears, each finer than the last, all fine steel work with long heads and long sockets, elegant saurouters, some with pierced work, some gilt, and all with fine silk tassels at the base of the socket – to keep the blood off your hands.

As I say, I fought in the hoplitomachos. I was the only one of the taxiarchs to do so, although they were all excellent fighters. Perdiccas was always my match. Craterus, ten years older than I, was faster than most men.

It was odd, because despite the prizes, many of the contestants were mercenaries and professionals, and few of our hypaspitoi or our pezhetaeroi chose to match themselves. I suppose it was not so odd. We were the best fighters in the world, but few of our farm boys had the formal gymnasium training in wrestling and pankration that was the essential underpinning to being a truly formidable single fighter.

In the second pool of fighters, I faced Draco of Pella. He was one of ours. In fact, he was a pezhetaeros of my own taxeis, and, despite his youth, a canny, thoughtful fighter with long arms and a heavy hand. When his spearhead struck my shield, he cut pieces from the cover, or took chips from the rim, or bent the bronze. But I got past his spearhead and threw him to the ground and rested my saurouter on his thigh and he grinned at me.

And while I helped him up, I promoted him to phylarch.

I faced Leosthenes, as well, and he bested me. I never saw the blow that clipped my old helmet and tore my crest away. I had never faced a man so fast.

We put the judges in a quandary, because I had more wins than anyone in the competition except Leosthenes, but we were in the same pool. Or the judges were loath to disqualify a taxiarch and friend of the king. These things happen.

Either way, we both went on to the last round on the third day. I was elated because one of my many Philips had won the garland for the stade sprint, bringing honour to the regiment, and another man, an Ionian, had placed second in the wrestling to Kineas’s friend Diodorus. Kineas won the boxing easily, as the sport was not well known in Macedon. I lost the pankration fairly early, as the competition was worthy of the Olympics or the Nemean Games. There were big, well-trained men, such as Demetrios of Halicarnassus, and he dropped me on my head about as fast as I could tell it, although, like a good comrade, he held my feet so I didn’t injure my neck.

Alexander came and watched the final bouts of the hoplitomachos. Many men I knew were there, such as Kineas, wearing his garland, and Diodorus, wearing his.

The herald assigned every one of us a little metal badge, each one of which had a sign of one of the gods on it. I drew Zeus.

I prayed to Zeus-Apis. That’s how far my change had gone. Before, I would have prayed to Herakles before any contest, or perhaps Poseidon.

Zeus-Apis denied my prayer, which was that I not face Leosthenes.

We were matched immediately.

Let me tell you how you fight a man who is better and faster than you are.

You take your stance well out of reach of his spear, and you manipulate the measure – the distance – to mislead your opponent into making one of his lightning-fast attacks while still out of range.

We circled for so long that men started to hoot and call suggestions.

Leosthenes knew perfectly well what I was about, and he tried to push me, but I kept circling, using the angle of my movement to keep my distance while never getting backed against the wands that marked the edges of the competition area.

Round and round.

Had he been an impatient man, I’d have had him.

Leosthenes the Athenian was never impatient.

Let me add that we fought with bated spears, twice the height of a man. They hurt when they hit, but they didn’t punch through flesh.

I grew impatient.

Not the sign of an expert fighter, but I am a taxiarch, not a champion.

I shortened my grip, sliding my hand to the centre of my weapon, and I stepped in.

Leosthenes’ strike came like a levin-bolt, and I didn’t raise my shield. Instead, I caught it on my spear, near the tip, turned it into my shield and leaped forward.