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

I could see Pausanias. He paled. And his eyes slipped away to Olympias. And he gave the king an unsteady bow and crossed the long twenty or so paces to where the king’s own companions stood.

How he must have feared to cross that gap. We were his friends – they were his tormentors. Or that’s how I saw it, because he walked with his head high, but with the gait of a nervous colt.

At the head of the procession, the formal statues on their ceremonial platforms were carried by the strongest slaves – eight slaves to a god. All carved of Parian marble with hair and eyes of pure gold. Aphrodite, decently clothed, and Hera, goddess of wives and mothers; Artemis, effeminate Dionysus, Ares and Apollo and Hephaestos and the rest, and Zeus at their head, a foot taller than the other gods. And next to him, a statue of Philip.

There was a gasp, even from the royal companions.

Philip rode it out and stood like a rooster, inviting compliment.

I admired his brazenness.

The Athenians didn’t. Even Phokion, who seemed to love Philip, turned away.

But the sun was rising, and the parade was ready, and we started towards the new theatre.

And then we stopped. It is the way with parades – they start and stop, and get slower and slower.

But what came back to us was an order from the king. He asked Alexander to come and enter the theatre with him.

Something terrible happened on Alexander’s face, then. His father had shown him no love at all for more than a year – had all but cut him from the succession. But here – all of a sudden – he was invited to walk with his father in the most important ceremonial of the most important two weeks of the year.

He had a difficult time getting his face under control, and twice he looked at his mother.

Then he walked forward, and he walked with the same nervous gait that Pausanias had used.

I thanked the gods for my own mother and father, that I had not been born to the Royal House of Macedon. And I didn’t know the half of it.

As we marched into the theatre, the royal companions entered after the statues and turned to the right, forming their ranks on the sand while the priests put the statues into their niches for the duration of the games. I was bored, and my left shoulder hurt, and I wondered if I would be any good. I had entered the pankration, and I was aware that a win would help restore me to Philip’s good graces. And the pain in my shoulder was a worry.

We were behind the king, and my squadron was to form to the left as we entered the theatre, while the king went to the centre and then Olympias and her ladies would enter with Cleopatra (the king’s wife, not that other one) and her ladies. Together, because it amused Philip to make them cooperate.

As we started to enter, Philip seemed to hesitate, as if someone had called his name. My front rank appeared to fall apart. I noticed that Black Cleitus, my left file leader, was hesitating. Well, we were cavalrymen being forced to march like hoplites, but I hated to make a bad show. I turned farther and heard the noise, turned back to where Cleitus was looking, and saw Perdiccas spring out of the second rank.

Pausanias went past us, his hand all covered in blood.

Perdiccas didn’t follow Pausanias immediately. He looked out on to the sands, turned, and then raced after Pausanias, followed by two more of my men – Leonatus and Andromenes, both highlanders. They were all three close friends, a tight group made tighter by shared blood and highland custom. I roared at them to halt, but they were stubborn bastards.

And only then did I realise that there was more wrong than the loss of cohesion in my ranks.

I had thought, I guess, that Pausanias had broken down and done himself an injury and his relatives were running to see to him.

If I thought anything at all.

But somewhere in that horrible moment I realised that Alexander was kneeling in the sand by Philip, who was lying in a growing pool of red, red blood, with a Keltoi sword sticking out of his gut, the ivory chariot team racing towards the heavens.

And only then did I realise what Pausanias had done.

‘Seal the exits!’ Antipater roared at my elbow.

Antipater – who I hadn’t seen to speak to in months – was suddenly at the head of the parade.

It was the right order. I turned and shouted it at my companions, and they snapped to.

But I could see that Philip was dead. Not dying. He was already gone.

And I remember thinking that I did not have the luxury to think. I know that makes little sense – but it all came together for me. Olympias, Pausanias and Alexander. And I knew – in a heartbeat – that it would mean my life to show a wrinkle of suspicion.

So I shouted for my men to close the exits, and Antipater got the royal companions into the northern half of the theatre.

The crowd was terrified.

Phokion was angry. It showed in his posture – the old warrior was stiff, hips set, ready to fight.

I did my duty, kept them in place and watched as Antipater cleared the theatre a bench at a time. Olympias and her ladies were already gone. They had never entered the theatre, and neither had Cleopatra.

Every foreign contingent was sent to their lodgings with a pair of guards – mostly royal companions – with orders to make sure that not so much as a slave got away until Antipater ordered them released.

I wrapped myself in my role and saw to it that the companions did their work. Slaves came and took the king’s corpse. No one pretended he was still alive.

That meant that Alexander was king.

We cleared the last of the seats, and for a moment, it was just me and Cleitus, way up at the top, watching the Theban embassy moved forcefully down the ramps.

‘Alexander is king!’ Cleitus said.

I nodded.

‘Pausanias killed the king,’ he said.

I nodded.

Cleitus caught my eye. ‘We know better, don’t we?’ he said bitterly.

I remember that moment well. Because I shrugged. ‘Philip was going to ruin us,’ I said. It was in every man’s heart – Philip had turned to hubris and self-indulgence. And in Macedon, when the king slips, you find a new king.

Cleitus thought for a long time. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Poor Alexander,’ he added.

And that’s all we ever said on the subject, except one night in Asia. And that was years and parasanges later, and I’ll tell that tale when I come to it.

TEN

You might have thought that having lost his father – whether he actively schemed at Philip’s murder or just sat back and let it happen – Alexander might have either suffered remorse, or at least enjoyed the fruits of success.

In fact, the next months are a blur to me, and I can’t pretend I remember them well. This is the problem with my secret history, lad – we never spoke of these things at the time, and I can’t really remember the exact order in which things happened.

On the afternoon of Philip’s murder, Antipater ordered the palace locked down, and all the former pages were in armour, as I said – we cleared the theatre, and then we came to a sort of shocked halt.

Antipater was there. And he started issuing orders. For us, the most important order was that we were now the first squadron of the royal companions. He ordered me to set the watch bill, and he took Philip the Red and more than half of us to clear the palace, and all of the dead king’s royal companions were put under what amounted to house arrest in their barracks and stables.

They went without a murmur, which saved everyone a bloodbath.

Perdiccas rode back covered with blood and told me – and then Alexander – that he had killed Pausanias with his spear – that the man had had a pair of horses waiting, so he had accomplices.