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

That meant they’d have to murder Alexander.

Most Macedonian political murders happened at banquets. So it didn’t take Aristotle’s training to show us that Alexander couldn’t go to this wedding feast.

But he was Achilles. ‘I will not show fear,’ he said. ‘I will go to the wedding feast.’

Hephaestion took me aside. ‘He has gone mad,’ he said. ‘I cannot make him see reason.’

I knew an answer. A very Macedonian answer. But I didn’t give it voice. Killing Philip – the best king Macedon had had for generations – was the obvious solution to our troubles. But I was too loyal.

I thought about it, though. I wanted to strike at Attalus before he did me any more damage.

I wanted to go home to my estates and make sure that they were safe. But the prince came first, and he was walking rapidly up and down his room, dressed in his best Tyrian red chiton with a garland of gilded oak leaves in his hair, eyes white at the edges, skin flushed to the neck. Even the tops of his arms were blotchy with colour.

I stopped worrying about my own afairs and took over.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Cleitus, you’re on duty.’

‘I am?’ he asked. And then nodded. ‘Right.’

‘Full armour,’ I said.

Hephaestion nodded. ‘Me, too.’

‘And Nearchus and Philotas,’ I said. ‘Where’s Philotas?’

Philip the Red was there, already in armour. ‘He’s gone. To his farm. Said his pater ordered him away from court.’

That hurt. But Parmenio and Attalus were close, and they were the driving force behind the military build-up in Asia. Another thing you could see everywhere in Pella was signs of military preparations. And the army was already gone – in the Chersonese, and some of it already in Asia. Almost a third of our total fighting force. That’s where all the old mercenaries and highlanders were, no doubt – far from court, where they could be used but couldn’t exercise any power.

I was shocked that Parmenio had turned against Alexander. It didn’t seem possible.

Quite a few of our old pages were missing. But Attalus had miscalculated and shown his hand before most of us went home on leave – all the men who’d gone with Alexander to Athens were still with me, and had Attalus waited a week, Alexander would have been virtually alone.

But even as things were – I say this from the distance of years – they’d plotted carefully, but they hadn’t plotted completely. It was as if – despite their intent – they couldn’t actually cross some invisible line. I still think that Philip was unable to kill his son.

Let me add – in case you don’t understand – that bastardising your relatives was an old Macedonian royal house tradition, a handy way of knocking rivals out of the succession. It happened every generation. Some bastards – or so-called bastards – stayed around and became trusted men, generals, members of the inner circle, while some ran off to Illyria or Asia or Athens to live out their lives, or died in pointless counter-coups. Of course, outright murder of relatives was also an important part of life in the royal house.

I briefed six bodyguards – all men Alexander had appointed somatophylakes before Athens – and then I slipped out to the stables. Polystratus had gathered the loyal grooms, and he had the horses – fifty horses. Another advantage – we had just returned from travelling, and in every case our travelling gear was still packed – in most cases, still in baggage carts.

As soon as Cleomenes came off duty, I sent him with the carts and the spare horses – up the road, to my estates, north of the city, towards the Illyrian frontier.

Polystratus stood by with our war horses.

I had all the former pages armed and armoured, in boots, ready to ride. With spears and swords – in my rooms, near Alexander’s.

I could have killed Philip that evening. The palace was not well guarded – the new companions didn’t know their business very well, and were often in awe of us, the ‘veterans’. I could have killed him, but remember, this wasn’t my first intrigue, I was truly a veteran of that court, and he was my king. I saw to my arrangements, told a lot of lies to new guardsmen to explain my movements, arranged for the loyal grooms from the stables to ride with us, sent a trio of my men with Polystratus to the house of Attalus – to fetch his wife. Her location was named in the royal warrant. In some ways, they made it easy.

But in my head, a voice was telling me over and over that we should kill the king and seize power – that running for it was the end of everything.

I wanted to send Myndas ahead of Polystratus – slaves can go places freemen cannot. I promised him his freedom if he did my bidding – which was to scout the kitchens at Attalus’s house, locate Polystratus’s wife and open the back gate – the gate that would usually open for deliveries of wine or grain.

Myndas didn’t grin. My offer scared him spitless. He could barely speak; he had two burning red spots on his cheeks and his lips were pale in the lamplight.

Nichomachus glared at him. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Free me. Free us both.’

It was odd – Myndas had been born free, and Nichomachus had always been a slave. In theory Myndas should have had the backbone. ‘Do it, and I’ll free you both – though I hope you’ll stay for wages.’

Nichomachus nodded. ‘I’ll do it, lord.’

Myndas narrowed his eyes. ‘No.’ He took a breath. ‘I’ll do it. You have no idea what they’ll do to you if you are caught.’

Polystratus put his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘I’ll cut you out if I have to.’

Myndas managed a grin. ‘Better than nothing. Better hope it don’t come to that. Let’s do it.’ He turned to me. ‘If I die – I want a free man’s burial and a stele.’

The things a panicked man thinks of ! ‘Of course,’ I promised smoothly.

When all my preparations were made, I went to Alexander’s room. I hadn’t been invited to the feast, but neither had I been forbidden. I put on a good chiton and wore a sword under it, next to my skin. Men did that, at Macedonian feasts. We called it the twenty-four-inch erection.

When we entered the great hall, with fifty couches ranged around it in a broad circle around the central hearth, the only sound was the roaring of the fire. Every head turned. Alexander looked like a god – hair curly from the road, with the ram’s horns at his temples that always appeared unless he brushed them out carefully, and his chiton, his bearing, the wreath of gold oak leaves – he was a god.

I was at his heels, with Hephaestion, and we had white chitons with gold-embroidered hems on red, to frame him.

Around us, six companions in the armour we’d purchased in Athens. Helmets like the heads of lions, thorakes of alternating steel and bronze scales, red wool chitons and dark blue wool cloaks.

They stood at attention while Alexander walked to the couch of honour, the kline halfway around the circle from the king. Cleopatra’s father was on it with Diomedes.

Philip the Red and Nearchus tipped them out on the floor. We hadn’t discussed this – in fact, it had never occurred to us that Philip would slight Alexander to this degree in public. But Philip the Red acted, and we played it out.

Old Amyntas gave a scream, and ran to the king’s couch.

Uproar.

Alexander lay down, and Hephaestion joined him.

Philip rose to his feet. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he called.

Alexander remained reclining. ‘When my mother remarries,’ he shouted, ‘you will still be the guest of honour,’ and he grinned. It was a death’s-head grin, and no one answered it.

I stood for a while, watching the silent, uncomfortable feast. Then I decided that it was safe enough, and I went and lay down on the only empty couch – with Alcimachus. He was alone, and none too pleased to have me as a companion.