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

‘What are you playing at?’ he hissed as I lay down.

‘What in Hades is going on?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘I thought you knew. I’ve seen you moving around all afternoon.’ He looked around. ‘Everyone says that Alexander was plotting to have Philip murdered!’

I had many suspicions about Alcimachus. He had kept us in Athens for a long time – spun out the negotiations when Athens had agreed to everything. When we were there, that suited me – I wanted every minute of Thaïs and Athens I could get. But in that moment, lying on the couch, I thought about his loyalties.

I rolled a little, so he could feel my sword.

‘Don’t make trouble, old man,’ I said.

Those were our last words.

The food was pretty bad, after Athens – too much show and not enough skill, and cold. I’d never eaten a dinner for a hundred in Athens – the largest dinner there was for about twenty. They knew a thing or two.

And then the wine began to flow.

There were toasts to the happy couple – Philip was wearing a groom’s crown, and Cleopatra, pretty as a picture and the only free woman in the room, lay on his couch in her bridal crown. I could see the old king fancied her – hard not to show what you like, when all you are wearing is a single layer of near-transparent wool. And despite the tensions of that feast, he fondled her – a maiden, and a free woman. He was the king, and a randy bastard at that, and he got away with it, but it was in poor taste, even for Macedon. She flushed with pleasure and grimaced with embarrassment by turns. And the toasts didn’t help her, poor thing – she was fourteen at most, and had probably not heard the king’s member described in such detail.

Diomedes was the worst. As the king’s current favourite, he was in the complex position of being the bride’s sister – and rival. He didn’t occupy it well, and managed to offer a toast suggesting that her womb might be good for making an heir, but little else.

I saw Alexander register this. His face grew red, and his eyes glittered.

And then Attalus rose from his couch. He was drunk – annoyed at his nephew, annoyed to have Alexander there to spoil his day of triumph. And weak men work their way to rage slowly.

‘To Cleopatra’s cunny!’ he shouted. ‘At last, Macedon will have a true heir, and not some by-blow from the mountainside!’

Alexander was off his couch. ‘Are you calling me a bastard, Attalus?’ he roared, and threw his wine cup – solid gold – with all his skill, and it hit the older man squarely on the forehead, knocking him to the floor.

Philip leaped off his couch. ‘You bastard!’ he spat, and drew a sword from under his chiton and leaped across the hearth at Alexander.

His foot caught on Attalus’s outflung arm and he sprawled – his head hit the hearth with a thud, and the sword spun off into the rushes.

Cleopatra screamed, sat up and the chiton fell from her shoulders – the randy king had loosened her pins.

Philip lay there, having knocked himself unconscious – his chiton was torn at the hips and stained with wine, and his erection stood out like a satyr’s. He looked . . . like the ruin of a man. Like a satyr, or a drunk in an alley.

Alexander stood over him. ‘This, gentlemen,’ Alexander said carefully, ‘is the King of Macedon, who says he will lead you to conquer Asia, and cannot cross from one couch to another.’

The hall was silent. I think most of them expected Alexander to do it, then – plunge his sword into his father and make himself king.

But Alexander had tears in his eyes, and he looked at me. I made a motion with my hand, and our companions surrounded the prince and escorted him from the hall – Nearchus and Cleomenes stayed behind until Hephaestion and I were clear.

Then we ran.

We needn’t have run. Philip was out cold, and Attalus under him – and until they gave the order, one or the other, there was not going to be a pursuit. I didn’t know that. I assumed they’d take Alexander if they could.

We ran into the stables, and there were horses saddled and ready – war horses, our very best. All the companions from the trip to Athens, ready for the road.

Alexander looked at them, mounted in the stable yard. He vaulted on to Bucephalus and turned his horse to face us.

‘I will never forget this night, gentlemen,’ he said. He reached out to Black Cleitus. ‘My friends.’ He used the word philoi , not Hetaeroi. Close friends and equals.

And then we rode of into the darkness.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked me. ‘Odysseus? You have a plan?’

I nodded. ‘First to my farms, north of the city,’ I said. ‘I need to warn my steward. Collect some money and some men. Then – you go to your mother.’

‘Epirus?’ Alexander said. He sighed. ‘By Zeus,’ he swore, ‘I will yet be king of Macedon.’

Philip the Red camne trotting down the column to us. ‘Your groom, Ptolemy, and some slaves.’

I rode up the column, leaving the prince. Polystratus had his wife – I didn’t stop to talk.

‘Mount!’ I yelled at them. Polystratus was bubbling with words – Myndas was glowing with pride. I had no time. ‘Mount, you fools!’

Other men’s moments of heroism may fuel their lives, but I didn’t have time to hear the tale, just then. We had horses for them, and we got them mounted – even the wife, who rode like a sack of grain, or worse.

Then we cut cross-country, right from the edge of the town – across dykes and north on the edge of the river, where there was a bridle path. Before rosy-fingered dawn strode long-legged across the murky sky, we had gone twenty stades. We were cold, wet and scared. Alexander was silent.

But we were safe. We’d crossed the river four times, with Polystratus guiding – he was elated that night, and doing better than his best. No pursuit was going to find our trail after that – not even with dogs.

Mid-morning, and we ate a cold breakfast at our horses’ heads.

‘What will I do for money?’ Alexander asked me, suddenly.

Hephaestion laughed. Opened his leather bag. ‘I don’t have onions or sausage,’ he said.

Instead, he had almost all of Alexander’s personal jewels.

Alexander kissed him. And then he kissed me. ‘I think you two have saved my life.’

I don’t remember what I answered – it was so unlike him.

Noon, and the yard of my manor house. Our horse barn could hold fifty horses – and now it had twice that. I had nobly born royal companions sleeping in the hayloft and in the smokehouse.

Heron was a prominent man now, and had a great deal to lose.

Such men can be suddenly fickle, or disloyal.

Not Heron. I never even suspected him – who betrays a hundred years of family loyalty?

‘That’s the prince!’ he hissed at me. ‘What’s happening?’

I led him outside, and then out beyond the barns. To the top of the family hill.

‘I’m going into exile,’ I said. ‘Philip is going to change the succession – bastardise Alexander. Get a new heir on Attalus’s niece.’

‘Gods!’ Heron said. ‘He’s insane!’

I had to admit that that’s about all I could think. ‘Attalus has worked for a year to poison his mind against Alexander,’ I said after a moment’s silence.

Heron shrugged. ‘Your father hated Philip,’ he said.

I nodded. I suspected as much and really, really didn’t want to know. And having the old family retainer tell me the secret of my birth was just a little too much like a Menander play. So I raised my hand. ‘Speak me no treason,’ I said. ‘I’m going with my prince. Attalus hates me – it’s a long, stupid story – and he will attack you here.’

Heron looked down at the farms. We held more than twenty great farms right here – the core of our wealth – but we had sixty more farms spread all the way across Macedon, and up into the hill country of the west. We were highlanders and lowlanders.