Текст книги "God of War -The Story of Alexander the Great"

Автор книги: Christian Cameron

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‘I had a wonderful time,’ I admitted.

‘I think she likes you,’ Graccus said, following my eyes. ‘But I admit, with Thaïs, it’s often hard to tell. She’s not like any other hetaera I’ve ever known.’

‘No,’ I said. I’d only known one, and she’d been . . . complicated. I looked at Thaïs again, and she had her head back, veiled, laughing.

I embraced my host, gathered Myndas from the kitchen, drunker than me, and started the long walk home.

That was the first of a long series of symposia, and while I don’t recall every one of them, I loved them as a whole. I found that I loved to talk – I loved to mix the wine, when invited. I went to the agora and purchased spices, and carried them in a small box of tortoiseshell. I still have it. I sent wine to friends – I was a rich man, even by Athenian standards.

With the permission of Eumenes, I used his andron and gave my own symposium. I invited Aristotle – he was far away, in Mytilene, and didn’t come, but it amused me to invite him. I invited Alexander and Hephaestion, Cleitus and Nearchus, Kineas and Diodorus, Graccus and Niceas, Demetrios and Lykeles and half a dozen other young men I’d come to know.

I agonised over the arrangements – no help from Eumenes or Kineas, who, for aristocrats, were surprisingly uninterested. Eumenes decried the expense, and Kineas just laughed.

‘A flash of good wine, a bowl to mix it, some bread and some friends,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to it.’

I glowered at him. ‘I want it to go as well as Graccus’s parties,’ I said.

Kineas shrugged. ‘That’s all Graccus has – wine, bread. A good sunset and the right men.’

‘Flute girls, actors, music, a hetaera, perfect fish . . .’ I said.

Kineas laughed. ‘Frippery,’ he said. ‘The guests make the evening.’

‘Thanks, Socrates,’ I said. ‘Go away and leave me to my barbarian worries.’

Diodorus was more help. ‘Get that girl,’ he said. ‘The hetaera. Everyone says she gives the best symposia in Athens. I’ve never been invited. Offer her money.’

‘She went to Graccus’s house for nothing,’ I said primly.

‘Are you Graccus?’ Diodorus said. ‘She’s a hetaera. Offer her money.’

In fact, I had no need to approach her, because a week later, after a state dinner where we discussed – in surprising detail – the logistics of the crusade against Persia with Phokion and a dozen of the leading men of Athens, Alexander took me to her house. Alexandertook me to her house. He walked through the front door as if he owned the place.

‘Never known a woman like her,’ he said. ‘Brilliant. Earthy.’ He shrugged. He was lightly drunk.

Hephaestion wasn’t jealous, so it wasn’t sex. Or wasn’t just sex.

At any rate, I don’t know what I expected – a brothel? An andron writ large? But Thaïs’s house was a house – the house of a prosperous woman – and she sat at a large loom, weaving. She rose and bowed to Alexander, and he took her hands, kissed them and went straight to a kline with Hephaestion.

There were other men there – and other women.

She had no veil on, and she was beautiful. All eyes and cheekbones. And breasts. And legs.

‘The Macedonian,’ she said to me, quietly. ‘I wondered if I had offended you.’

I must have looked surprised. ‘How so?’

‘I invited you to come,’ she said. ‘You didn’t.’

I shook my head. ‘I never received any such invitation,’ I said. ‘I would most certainly have come.’

She nodded. ‘Eumenes probably destroyed it.’ She bit her lip. ‘He’s very . . . old-fashioned.’

I found myself smiling. ‘I’m giving a symposium,’ I said without preamble.

She looked up at me – she was back at her loom. ‘Splendid!’ she said, with a little too much emphasis.

‘I want your advice. Your help.’ I blurted this. She smiled and looked elsewhere.

‘Advice?’ she said.

‘I want it to be perfect,’ I said.

She smiled. ‘It’s all in the guest list,’ she said.

‘That’s what Eumenes says,’ I shot back.

‘He’s right,’ she said. She was looking around the room. There were eight couches, all full. ‘I am working right now,’ she said. ‘If you were to come back tomorrow afternoon, we might actually talk.’

Alexander raised a wine cup. ‘You are not your sparkling self tonight, Thaïs. Too busy weaving?’

She rose to her feet. ‘I was thinking about Persia,’ she said.

Alexander looked puzzled – as if a pig had just said a line of Homer. Women did not, as a rule, think about Persia. It was odd—he could see her as a woman—even as an intelligent woman. But as someone who could understand politics? Never! Which, of course, makes her later role all the more delicious.

‘What about Persia?’ he asked.

‘I was wondering how old I will be before you destroy it utterly,’ she said.

All talk in the room ceased.

Alexander looked at her with wonder. ‘Are you a sibyl? An oracle?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I am a woman who wants revenge. I cannot get that revenge myself. But I long to see it.’

‘Revenge?’ he asked. Odd – he was so good at leading men. His questions showed how little he saw in her.

‘A woman may crave revenge as well as a man,’ she said. ‘Look at Medea.’

‘For what does a pretty girl like you crave revenge?’ he asked.

‘Ask me another evening,’ she said. ‘Tonight, I think I will dance.’

There was suddenly something angry and dangerous about her. I couldn’t watch. So I took my leave. Alexander didn’t even see me go.

Antipater was waiting outside on the portico, and we walked towards our homes together.

‘He’s besotted with her,’ Antipater said.

That’s not what I’d seen.

‘He enjoys her company, and the privacy,’ I said.

‘He’s been making some dangerous statements,’ Antipater said. ‘I know that you’ve been enjoying Athens, but I need you to spend more time with him. And keep him from getting into trouble.’

I stopped walking and looked at him. ‘Trouble?’ I asked.

‘He keeps talking about what he’ll do when he’s king,’ Antipater said.

I shrugged.

‘Philip does not like to be reminded that there may be a time when he is notking,’ he said.

‘Alexander’s the heir,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t even have a rival.’

Antipater thumped his stick on the pavement. ‘That may change,’ he said. ‘Listen, boy. Your pater and I were guest friends. You’ve been a good soldier for me, a good subordinate. Can I trust you?’

I didn’t want this, any more than I had wanted the moment in which I had earned Attalus’s enmity. Didn’t want to take sides.

‘I am a loyal man,’ I said. ‘To the king and to Alexander.’

Antipater nodded. ‘Philip has put up statues at Delphi,’ he said, ‘as if he was a god.’

I shrugged. The things men do, when they achieve power. Look at me!

‘He’s said things . . . that lead me to wonder.’ Antipater looked away. ‘Never mind. Let’s get Athens on board for the war with Persia and hurry home, and all will be well.’

To be honest, I was so excited to have an afternoon tryst with a famous hetaera that I simply gripped his hand, went home and went to bed.

Next day, Isocrates met with Antipater and together they wrote out the basic tenets of the Pan Hellenic Alliance. Philip and his heirs to be hegemons of the Hellenic League and Strategos Autokrator, or supreme commander of allied forces. In the afternoon, Alexander went to the Academy and asked Xenocrates, the heir of Plato, Aristotle’s rival, to write him a treatise on good kingship.

I winced. I was there.

Xenocrates was bowing and scraping. All of Athens was there to see the two of them together, and all of Athens heard the Crown Prince of Macedon say, ‘I need a primer to keep me from the sort of acts of tyranny with which my father burdens his people.’

And there was Alcimachus, watching it all.

I had missed weeks of this, off enjoying my own life and my own friends. The Athenians were good hosts, and they gave Alexander something he’d never had before – an audience of his own, a willing, responsive, intelligent audience. He couldn’t help but respond. He couldn’t help but respond as the kind of prince he sensed they wanted him to be – a liberal, educated promise of a better tomorrow. A hero.

I slipped away before cockshut time and arrived at Thaïs’s door. The slave there took my chlamys and sandals, washed my feet and led me to her. She was reading.

‘How was Xenocrates?’ she asked.

‘Better ask, “How was Alexander?”’ I said.

‘He does like an audience,’ she said. ‘And he’s never learned to control his mouth.’

‘He’s the very essence of self-control,’ I said. ‘Just not right now, apparently.’

She nodded. ‘Your symposium,’ she prompted.

‘I have my guest list. I want advice on wines, slaves, entertainment. And I’d like you to come.’ I didn’t even trip over that last.

She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t. Not in Eumenes’ home. He disapproves of me, and by having me there you would offend him. You are far too well bred for that.’

I felt crushed. She was absolutely correct. And I hadn’t seen it at all.

She had a stylus and a wax tablet, and she wrote quickly. ‘I’m quite sure that your evening will be splendid anyway – but here are the six wines currently most fashionable. Don’t bother trying to buy them – you can’t. But my steward will send a jar of each. I’m writing the names so that you know what you’re serving. The “Dark Horse” is really a Plataean wine from Boeotia, common as dirt, but I like it and it’s become rather a fashion.’ She grinned around her stylus. ‘Please don’t tell – I’m making a fortune reselling it. There’s a pair of women – they do not do sex – who play kithara superbly. Many houses won’t have them because they have political leanings. Women are supposed to be above – or below – such stuff. They’re sisters. You will need Eumenes’ permission, but if he gives it – well, singing for Alexander will make them. And I’d like to see them made. Do you mind my using you like this?’ She smiled at me.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Good. Because as I’m doing you a favour, I’m remorseless in collecting in return. My steward will ask for money for the wine – I assume you can pay?’ She smiled. ‘Friends need to be honest about money,’ she said.

‘I am probably the richest man you know,’ I said.

‘Excellent, then. All the better. I prefer men to be young, attractive, valiant and rich.’ She smiled again. She was smiling a great deal.

‘Well, so far I’m rich,’ I said.

‘You are not unattractive,’ she said. ‘I am in favour of your nose.’

Best compliment anyone ever paid me – half in delivery, and half in the words – the twinkle in her eye worth another half. My own desire to be handsome, revealed.

I blushed. For a Macedonian royal page to blush – well, you work it out. ‘You’re just saying that because I liked your nose first,’ I said.

She laughed. And laughed. ‘I like you, Macedonian. You’ll need food – you’re not having a dinner, are you?’

‘I was thinking—’ I began.

‘Don’t. Graccus gets away with it because of the view and the very intimate company he invites. You have to get these philosopher boys to settle down with your Macedonians – just because you like them all doesn’t mean they’ll like each other. Keep it shorter. After dinner. Less smelly, less to clean up. They’ll arrive sober, because it is Eumenes’ house. I think you’ll be golden. But serve Lesbian rolls – barley rolls, I’ll send you the recipe – and have almonds in honey. Again, I’ll – oh, Aphrodite, I’ll just have cook send you some.’ She smiled. ‘When people taste them, they’ll know they’re mine. And that will please some and raise other eyebrows.’ She got the little furrow between her own eyebrows. ‘Really, I’m taking over. Don’t let me. It’s your party, not one of mine.’

‘I’m delighted,’ I said. ‘You know, my lady, sometimes there are advantages to being a foreign barbarian.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘Well, I don’t know whether I’m supposed to offer you money for your advice,’ I said. ‘But since I’m a foreigner, I doubt you’ll be insulted.’

She chewed a finger for a moment. ‘No – I’ll make money from your wine and your almonds. And everything in life is not a moneymaking proposition.’

‘Perhaps you might view me, as a rich foreigner, as a long-term investment?’ I asked.

She looked up, and I realised that I hadn’t really looked into her eyes until that moment.

‘When the day comes, kill a Persian for me,’ she said. ‘That’s all you owe me.’

Well, well. I was too well bred to ask, so I found myself out on the street with Myndas, wondering why she hated Persia.

My symposium was splendid. The food was excellent, the wine was divine and widely commented on, and Eumenes not only allowed the two female kithara players but paid us all the compliment of attending during their performance and mixing us a very mild bowl. He was courtly to them, treating them like visiting matrons, friends of his wife, perhaps, or sisters of his friends, and they, despite being radicals of the most democratic stripe, responded in kind with the sort of well-bred courtesy he must never have expected from them. It was a war of sorts, conducted with manners, and both parties left with increased respect for the other.

And they were the finest kithara players I’ve ever heard. I remember their Sappho lyrics, a hymn to Aphrodite, and my favourite, which begins:

Some say a body of hoplites and some a squadron of cavalry, and some a fleet of ships is the most beautiful . . .

That Sappho. She’d grown up with soldiers.

The elder of the sisters gave me a clam shell as she left – a folded note on parchment that said only ‘good luck’, and a laughing face. I grinned for the rest of the evening.

Alexander was at his best. He lay on his couch with Hephaestion, or with other guests, sang songs, danced, once. He was brilliant – capping every quote, but mocking himself for it. The best I remember was the moment when he pretended to be both himself as a twelve-year-old and Aristotle, mocking the pretensions of both.

With Alexander, when he was dark or moody or absorbed in war or politics or any other passion, it was possible to forget this man – the lightning flash, we used to call it among the pages. Funny, witty, self-mocking, aware of what we thought of his flaws – wicked, too, with a turn of phrase that would have made a whore blush. It didn’t happen often – and I suspected it was as much a performance as any of the other Alexanders I knew. But when we lay on our couches roaring with laughter, unable to speak at the spectacle of Alexander/Aristotle attempting to seduce Alexander/Alexander with philosophy, with Lykeles actually rolling off the couch he was on to crash to the floor – with Kineas, always so controlled, spitting barley roll, with tears coming from his eyes, and Hephaestion pounding Antipater’s back because he’d swallowed wine the wrong way laughing too hard . . .

I was sober – I was too nervous to be drunk. And as he wound to the climax of his amazing, lewd, witty impersonation of a besotted Aristotle with an erection based entirely on his love of Philosophy, I caught his eye.

His face was wild with the exertion of the drama, and yet, as if it were a mask, I caught a glimpse of the actor within, coolly assessing his audience. The strength of his own performance.

I was standing at the wine bowl when he came to the end – clutching the serving table to keep from pitching to the floor.

Hephaestion embraced him. ‘Oh, my brother, why can’t you always be like this?’ he asked.

Alexander’s face of command slipped effortlessly back into place. ‘Like what?’ he asked. ‘I’ve heard of actors crowned, but never a comic.’ Aside, to me, at the wine bowl, he said, ‘Whenever I do that, I feel less a man afterwards. As with bedding a woman. Or too much sleep.’

He was drunk. Make what you will of his words.

At some point, Diodorus proposed that we run a race to the top of the Acropolis and back. I must have started drinking by then, because I thought it was an excellent idea. So did everyone else, so I suppose Antipater and Eumenes, the oldest men, were gone.

We stripped naked, of course.

Kineas, Diodorus, Graccus, Niceas, Nearchus, Cleitus the Black, Alexander, Hephaestion and me. Polystratus started us from Eumenes’ front gate. Every man had a torch – I forget whose idea that was.

I didn’t even know where the Acropolis was, when we started, so I followed Kineas. Kineas had a badly formed right leg – he didn’t trouble to hide it – and he wasn’t very tall. But he knew Athens, and he was probably soberer than the rest of us. Alexander was quite probably the drunkest of the lot of us, but he was a wonderful runner, and it was all I could do to keep the two of them in sight. I ran as hard as I could, and they vanished; corner after corner, I saw the tails of flame as I arrived. They’d always just turned the nextcorner.

Up and up through the town, which washes like waves of houses right to the base of the fortifications. Up and up, into a strengthening wind that blew our torches into blazing fires.

Out on to the broad stones of the Panathenaeum. Up and up and up. Now I could see them, neck and neck at the gates of the fortifications. I got a second wind, or perhaps I was not as drunk as I thought, but I caught them up on the steps below the temple to Nike.

Maybe she came to my aid, for the good of Greece. Who knows?

They touched the columns of the Parthenon together. I couldn’t tell you which had won.

When I came up, they were agreeing to settle it with a race back down.

They were greater than human. It’s in the eyes. It is a certain glow in the skin. I have seen it a few times, when a man rises above himself, usually in athletics or war. And they both had it, just then.

But they were courteous enough to wait for me.

And Niceas was right on my heels.

‘Don’t do it,’ Niceas panted. ‘Down is dangerous.’

Alexander’s eyes gleamed. ‘Dangerous is just fine.’

‘You could fall,’ Niceas said.

‘I’ll fly, then,’ Alexander said. ‘Kineas?’

Kineas took his hand. ‘You could run in the Olympics,’ he said.

Alexander laughed. ‘Only if they had a competition for demigods, heroes and kings,’ he said. ‘Come, before they dissuade us.’

Niceas grabbed my shoulder. ‘You stay with yours and I with mine,’ he said.

And we were off.

Alexander meant to go down the way he’d come, but as soon as we were clear of the steps by the temple to Nike – I touched the wall and said a prayer – Kineas turned on a side path down the hill.

Alexander knew tactics when he saw them. So he turned and followed.

Niceas and I were hard on them – a man can only run so fast down a cliff, even a demigod. And when the goat trail ended on a hard-packed street below a row of tiled roofs, Kineas shocked me by leaping from the hillside on to the roofs and running along the tiles as if they were a road – which they were if you don’t mind a slope to your road.

With torches. Leaping from roof to roof. Downhill, never touching the streets – down past the lower temples, past the watering fountains. Somewhere – I don’t know where, and I’d never be able to retrace the path except in a nightmare – we came to a drop of ten feet and a gulf perhaps two horse lengths wide – a side street.

Kineas didn’t hesitate, but leaped at full stride, and Alexander was with him, stride for stride.

That was the heir of Macedon, sailing through the air with a torch trailing white fire behind him.

Oh, there were gods, that night in Athens.

Another leap, and we were on Kineas’s street – I knew by the stables. We ran along the stable roof, and now Alexander lengthened his stride, and Kineas lengthened his.

At the courtyard of Eumenes’ house, they came to the end of the roofs.

Neither slackened stride.

I did.

Off the end of the stables, legs still flashing, Alexander a full body’s length ahead, the torches streaming fire . . .

A thirty-foot fall to the cobbled courtyard.

I didn’t even have time to call. Niceas did. He screamed.

And they were gone.

There was an enormous pile of straw below. And while I gather that Kineas knew that, I swear that Prince Alexander simply trusted that the gods would not let him die.

I slowed, stopped, heard no screams, looked, saw and jumped down.

Alexander rolled out of the straw, his torch out. ‘I win,’ he said, touching Eumenes’ andron door.

Kineas was laughing so hard he couldn’t get to his feet.

I went off and threw up.

Good party.

SEVEN

Pella, 337 BC

And then we were summoned home to Pella, and the party was over.

We had our treaty, and the Athenians had buried their dead with honour. My troopers stood in the pale winter sunshine as the ashes were lowered into a marble tomb, and I could not help but think that if the Athenians had put as much effort into fighting as they did to burying, we might have come off worse. Even as it was – when I looked around Athens, watched the great port of Piraeus, talked to the people – the more I looked at Athens, the more I saw to admire. I liked their pugnacious independence, and their desire to debate everything. And they were rich, and spent their money well.

I loved Kineas, and all he stood for. I was bred to war, the way a boar hound is bred to his life – little love, plenty of hardship and pain, to make sure that the object of your training never hesitates at the kill. Shed no tears – I made my life, and it’s been a glory. But Kineas, as good a soldier as any Macedonian, as events proved, was more than just a soldier. Where we had a veneer of education from Aristotle, Kineas could quote anything from Hesiod and the Iliadto the latest play of Menander. He could speak with ease of Thales or Pythagoras, and he could work out most of the problems of the new mathematics. His scholarly skills were not a veneer, and yet he could sit astride his horse like a Scythian and his spear skills – and his wrestling – were on a par with mine.

I mention this, because Kineas and his friends did something to me and my friends. I’m not sure – it was like some sort of beneficial spell, but after Athens my friends wanted more than cheap wine and fast sex. Because we knew that there was more to want.

And Pella, when we arrived, looked like a tinselled crown next to the solid gold of Athens. Alexander felt it keenly – perhaps even more keenly than Nearchus or Cleomenes.

We came over the last rise, to the point in the pass where outlying farms give way to the public buildings of the city. Except that Pella was no city, after Athens, but a provincial town. Attica had three or four towns the size of Pella. Amphilopolis, our major seaport (once an Athenian colony), was as large as Pella.

Alexander pulled his palfrey up short. He was riding between me and Hephaestion. He looked back and forth between us, and the look on his face was strained – almost like a mask of rage.

‘I feel like I have been a god on Olympus, and now I’m being forced to go back to being a pig in the sty,’ he said, and gave an uncharacteristically savage jerk to his reins.

Hephaestion raised an eyebrow. We were never truly close, but Athens deepened our alliance – I didn’t threaten him, and he admitted that I was part of the family. Together, we’d learned – through fifty symposia and a dozen dinner parties – to manage Alexander’s moods.

‘Storms at sea,’ he said.

I winked – thinking that it would all pass soon enough – and we rode down into the city.

The pigsty.

Pella was small, dirty and provincial. Want to understand what kind of society you live in? Look at a prostitute. In Athens, most of the prostitutes were self-owning – many were freemen and -women. They had houses and a guild. It’s rotten life, but they were clean and free. The first thing I saw in Pella was a very young girl – maybe fourteen – wearing nothing but a man’s chiton, begging for clients on the road. Her lip was split and she had two black eyes.

Pella.

Philip had changed. I saw it in his body language as soon as we arrived at the palace. He didn’t quite turn his back on Alexander, but he was distant, cold and very, very businesslike.

I didn’t even hear the exchange, it was so brief. Alexander asked where his mother was, and Philip replied that he had no idea.

So little information. And yet, all the information we should have needed.

I had a home to go to – a house that did not hold Nike. But that’s where my horse would be stabled, now, and my armour stowed. So I waited by the gate for dismissal, observing. Noting that Attalus stood with the king, and commanded the grooms as if he were the king himself. Our eyes met, and he smiled.

I felt a chill.

Alexander came over in person – uncharacteristic. ‘You can go home,’ he said.

Hephaestion was at his shoulder.

‘Take care, my prince,’ I said. ‘Something is wrong.’

‘Agreed,’ Alexander said. ‘I think my mother is in exile. I will dine at your house tonight, I think.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said. ‘Without Nike . . .’

Alexander smiled – a sad smile he’d learned in Athens. ‘I know you miss her,’ he said. ‘Now go.’

I had the feeling that Alexander was afraid.

That made my fingers cold.

I rode around the corner of my street and found that my house was burned. To the ground. The houses on either side were burned, too.

Gone.

Ten minutes of increasingly angry knocking at doors – Polystratus helped – revealed that no one knew anything, to a suspicious degree.

Polystratus grew more agitated.

‘I need to go home,’ he said.

We had Nearchus and Cleitus with us. Cleomenes was on duty.

‘Let’s go together,’ I said. We all loosened our swords in our scabbards, and we rode fast.

Polystratus’s farm was . . . gone. The house was erased. His fields were under tillage.

We rode to find the headman.

He hid in his house. His wife burst into tears, but barred the door.

And then, while we sat there, Diomedes appeared with a dozen outriders – Thracians. All well mounted and all armed.

‘Looking for something?’ the king’s catamite asked sweetly. ‘Lost something you value?’

Polystratus looked at me. It was up to me – we weren’t in Athens, and peasants don’t talk to lords in Pella.

‘We’re looking for Polystratus’s wife,’ I said pleasantly enough. ‘We didn’t expect to find her moved.’

Diomedes smiled. ‘I thought you might come looking. So I came out to help.’ His grin covered his face. ‘She’s been apprehended by the law, and she’s back at work with her rightful owner. I’m sure that you didn’t know that she was an escaped slave.’

Polystratus choked.

I looked at him.

‘The law seized the farm as penalty for the crime of hiding an escaped slave,’ Diomedes continued. ‘And now that the felon has returned, I have a royal warrant for his arrest.’ He held out a scroll.

I reached to take it, but Diomedes swished it away. Somehow this juvenile act enraged me where everything else had merely made me cold.

Diomedes leaned in close. ‘Perhaps this time you’ll notice when we cut you, you fuck. Because we will cut you until you cease to exist. No one pisses on Attalus and lives.’

I had no idea what he was talking about. But I knew that my friends could take his Thracians. On the other hand, he was the royal’s favourite.

I looked back at Polystratus. ‘Is this true?’ I asked, but I could see on his face that it was. ‘You stupid fuck – why didn’t you tell me? I’d have bought her freedom.’

Polystratus bit his lip. I remember that it was odd to have the boot on the other foot. He was the older man, the adviser – Nestor to my Odysseus. Suddenly he was the supplicant.

Polystratus had been at my shoulder for a year, and I owed him . . . everything. And I had seen Kineas and Niceas, remember. Polystratus was not a peasant. He was a man. My man. Who had helped save me from myself.

I turned back, seized the scroll with one hand and tipped Diomedes into the winter mud by the simple expedient of reaching down, grabbing his foot and flipping him up. I pulled my spear from the bucket at my shoulder with my free hand, pointed it at his chest and looked at the Thracians.

‘Move, and I’ll have the lot of you sold as slaves.’ I said it in their language, and I meant it.

The street was mucky, full of winter rain and ordure, pigs’ guts and cow manure.

The Thracians rustled, and my friends had their swords in their hands.

I flipped the scroll open one-handed and read enough of the royal warrant to know that Diomedes was full of shit. I knew the laws – better than most men. I put the point of my boar spear against Diomedes’ chest. Every movement of my horse pushed it a little farther into his skin. ‘Just lie there,’ I said. I read the document to the end.

‘Nothing here about arresting my man,’ I said. ‘Nor anything naming you as an officer of the court.’ I smiled down into the mud. ‘So you’re a brigand with a band of Thracians.’

‘You stupid fuck,’ he said. ‘The king will have you killed.’

‘I doubt you’re that good in bed,’ I said. ‘Get up.’

He got to his feet, backed away.

I was beginning to see where his insinuations led, even as he scrambled to remount his horse.

‘You burned my city house?’ I said. Had I been Achilles, I would have killed him then and there. But I am not Achilles. I’m Odysseus, and things were falling into place, like the pins and cogs of one of the astrological machines I’d seen in Athens.

‘Oh, very good,’ he hissed. ‘At last, you begin to see.’ He was mounted, and in the middle of his Thracians. I regretted letting him up. ‘We’ll kill your people. And you. Attalus is going to rule Macedon. You are going to suck my cock.’

‘You are a dumb bastard,’ I said, because thanks to that outburst, I could see the whole thing.

He turned and rode away, and the Thracians surrounded him. He was already hectoring them for their cowardice, but hired muscle is never the equal of determined freemen.

Well – actually that’s not true. Hired muscle often wins. But in the long run . . .

Attalus was planning to be king. What had he put into Philip’s head?

‘Back to the palace,’ I said.

We rode hard. We crossed the fields at a trot, staying on the field dividers to keep out of the mud, and we were back on the streets of Pella well before Diomedes.

Into the foreyard of the palace.

I turned to Polystratus. ‘We’ll find your girl. For now – get ready to move. Stable the horses, but stay close.’

With Nearchus and Black Cleitus at my shoulder, I entered the palace through the stables and moved along the main corridor. Of course we had the passwords, but I could feel the eyes of the companions on my back.

On the other hand, I was an officer, the head of one of the great families. If I chose to use it, I had a great deal of power. I thought that perhaps Attalus had underestimated me.