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

They also claimed to rule an empire greater than ours, stretching all the way to Thule. I was derisive, but Alexander was fascinated.

They flattered him, lauding his victories over the Thracians, although they made it clear they’d smacked the Thracians pretty hard themselves.

Alexander nodded after listening patiently. ‘Are you, then, the overlords of these Thracian tribes?’ he asked.

The most noble-looking of the men, wearing a sword worth ten of my farms, shrugged. He spoke through a woman interpreter. She didn’t look like the rest of them – she was smaller and darker and very pretty, rather than displaying the normal somewhat ethereal beauty of the Keltoi. She smiled a great deal, too. She listened to him and then turned to the king.

‘He says – we are kings and lords to the Triballi, when we will it. Never the Getae,’ she added.

Alexander nodded. ‘I am now the lord of the Triballi and the Getae,’ he said.

All the Keltoi laughed.

Alexander snapped at her. ‘What are they laughing at?’

One of the Keltoi women pointed at the sky and said something and they all laughed again.

The interpreter looked as if she was afraid. The smiles were gone.

‘What did she say?’ Alexander demanded.

‘Nothing, lord,’ she said.

Alexander shook his head. ‘I demand to know!’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘She asked if you were also lord of the clouds.’

The Keltoi woman spoke again, with vehemence.

Alexander ignored her and turned back to the richest man. ‘Are you here to swear your allegiance to me?’ he asked.

There was much talk. Then the interpreter said, ‘They say – no.’ She shrugged.

Alexander pointed at his army. We, as an army, were not at our most impressive, as most of the infantry were busy loading spear-won wagons with spear-won loot, wool and hangings and carpets and furs and some gold.

‘You should fear my army, which I can march anywhere in the world,’ Alexander said.

The Keltoi talked among themselves, and then the interpreter shook her head and expostulated.

‘I think they are saying we should sod off,’ I muttered to Marsyas.

Marsyas grinned. In some strange way, it was entertaining to watch these rich barbarians be utterly unimpressed with us.

Finally, the dark woman stood in front of Alexander with her shoulders square as if she was ready to resist torture. ‘They say that if you brought an army this small to their lands, they might ignore it. If you brought a real army, they would bury it under the weight of their chariot wheels and the hooves of their horses and the steel of their swords. They say that you have no idea what is north of the Danube, while they know where Pella is and where Athens is. And Rome and Carthage, too, they say. And the queen asks – would you like to swear fealty to her? She says she will be a gentle overlord.’

I burst into laughter. I couldn’t stop myself. I slapped my thighs and roared, and Alexander looked at me. His anger dissipated, and he joined me. He laughed, and Perdiccas and Hephaestion laughed, and Marsyas laughed.

And all the Keltoi laughed.

Somehow it reminded me of the visit to Diogenes.

FOURTEEN

We marched back over the Shipka Pass with our herds and our loot, and forty days’ worth of messages caught up with us all at once, and all the news was bad. The whole western border of Macedon was in arms – the Illyrians had risen, and were coming at us, to a man. Cleitus of Illyria – don’t blame me if everyone has the same name – had fifteen thousand men, and he had made a federation with two of the wilder northern tribes – the Autaratians and the Taulantians. According to our intelligence, the two northern tribes were coming down on our route of march.

Let me add that the best of our intelligence was from Thaïs. Thaïs had a stream of couriers, now – letters from Athens, letters from Pella, messages from the Triballians behind us.

‘It keeps me busy,’ she said. ‘It’s really no different from organising a party.’

I had to laugh. We were good at tactical intelligence collection – the Prodromoi and the hypaspitoi and the new Agrianian Psiloi were all excellent scouts, and they collected information and passed it back by couriers with professional competence, but at the next level we were still barbarians. Philip had some excellent sources, but they had all been intensely personal – his own friends in Athens and Sparta and Thebes and Persepolis, who sent him news. Alexander didn’t run his life that way, and we had to have new sources.

I hadn’t even seen the need. But Thaïs lived in the world of exchange of news. She bought news when she was a hetaera – now she merely bought more. And ran some of the sources herself.

Langarus, the King of the Agrianians, met us at the foot of the Shipka Pass. He’d covered our rear for two months, and now he was nervous. He had about four thousand men, and superb men at that – but the Illyrian actions meant that his neighbours might just choose to plunder him on their way to Macedon.

He was, I have to say, a fantastic ally. He stayed and watched that pass while his own crops burned. I’m not sure another ally so loyal existed in all the bowl of the world.

I read all Thaïs’s news during a long afternoon while the tent flapped in the early autumn wind, and then I took a stack of scrolls, tally sticks and small notes on papyrus to Alexander. He was sitting with Langarus and Perdiccas and a new man, who was introduced to me as Nicanor, son of Parmenio. He’d come from Asia to take command of the hypaspitoi, and to represent his father.

He glanced at me as I came in and then went back to talking to the king.

Alexander heard him out – he was discussing a point about Asia, of course. And then his eyes met mine.

‘It’s worse than it looks,’ I said. ‘I think the Illyrians are getting support from within Macedon.’ I started to synopsise the reporting, but Nicanor (as yet unintroduced) cut me off.

‘I’ll read them when I have time,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’

I looked at him. And laughed. It was becoming my new way of dealing with everything. ‘And you are?’

‘Your new strategos,’ he said. ‘I am Nicanor son of Parmenio.’

Alexander shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Nicanor,’ he said. ‘I have promised your father that you can command the hypaspitoi, but you will not be strategos. I’ll command myself.’

‘With all due respect,’ Nicanor said, ‘this is a time of real peril – not a time for boyish heroics. Pater sent me to put down the Illyrians. Riding about hunting Thracian refugees is not going to help you beat the Illyrians. Lord.’

I didn’t have to force a laugh. I could see this would be entertaining, and I sat down.

Nicanor turned and looked at me. ‘Who the fuck are you to sit down in the presence of your king?’ he asked.

Alexander settled his shoulders against the tent wall and smiled gently.

So be it. ‘I’m Ptolemy,’ I said. ‘If it has escaped your notice – I’m the largest landowner in Macedon after the king. I’m somatophylakes to the king. I grew up with him. And I have no idea who you are.’

‘Your insolence is astounding,’ Nicanor said.

I turned to Alexander. ‘May I smack him around, lord?’ I asked.

Alexander shook his head. ‘No. But Nicanor, most of the men in this army have earned their rank, through years of hard campaigning. To them, you are a newcomer and you will have to prove yourself. You will command the hypaspitoi under my supervision and direct orders until I say otherwise.’

Nicanor turned red and then white and then red. ‘Lord,’ he said. He took a deep breath. ‘You have been ill advised, if you imagine that you and your boys are ready to face the Illyrians in a campaign.’