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

Автор книги: Christian Cameron

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I made for Alexander’s rooms. He was lying on his couch, reading, with Hephaestion on a chair polishing his helmet.

‘Lord, there’s a plot,’ I said.

Alexander rolled off his bed. ‘I know there’s something.’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything for certain. But my city house has been burned, all my slaves sold. My man, Polystratus – they moved against him in law, seized his wife and sold his lands. And he’s a freeman and a veteran.’

Alexander frowned. ‘Nasty, but not a plot against me.’

‘Diomedes came out to crow,’ I said.

Alexander raised an eyebrow. ‘Attalus.’

‘Diomedes said Attalus will be king,’ I said, and Alexander snarled like a lion. Hephaestion put a hand on his shoulder.

And a frightened page came into the room. ‘The king!’ he squeaked.

Philip pushed in on the page’s heels. Behind him was Attalus, with Diomedes, still splashed with mud.

‘Ptolemy!’ Philip said.

I pointed at Diomedes. ‘Only my loyalty to you, sire, kept me from killing this dog on the road,’ I said, because a good offence is always the best defence.

‘He says—’

‘Lord, he tried to lay hands on me and admitted to destroying my property and selling my people as slaves – while I did your bidding in Athens,’ I said.

King Philip’s eyes narrowed when I spoke over him – but he listened. Remember – I represented a great family and a lot of loyal service. And a lot of tax money. And political power.

‘I wish to swear a case against him,’ I went on. ‘I withheld my hand from killing him, but I demand justice.’

Philip’s face worked. He looked at Diomedes.

‘Lies!’ Diomedes said. ‘Lord, I—’

Nearchus, at my shoulder, bowed. ‘My king, I was there. It was as Lord Ptolemy says.’

Attalus spluttered. ‘They are all pages – they’re in it together!’

Alexander stood up. ‘Attalus – I do not remember inviting you into my rooms. Please leave. Diomedes, you as well.’

Philip looked back and forth. ‘Ptolemy – no need to swear a case against Diomedes, is there? What is this, some boys’ quarrel?’ He smiled at us.

Attalus narrowed his eyes. ‘Lord Ptolemy has been telling people that he is your bastard son and has as much right to the throne as Prince Alexander.’ Attalus grinned so that the fat hid his eyes. ‘Or better,’ he drawled, ‘since he says that he can prove you are his father.’

Philip made a strangled sound.

I can go either way – rage or cold calculation. But Athena stood at my shoulder. ‘My king – Attalus is gravely mistaken. I have never made any such claim. And anyone who looks at me can see my parentage in my nose.’ I laughed.

I have learned that a laugh – an unforced laugh, or a damned good imitation – is the most disarming technique in the world. And my nose was an excellent witness.

Alexander stood at my shoulder. ‘Out, Attalus. You are not welcome here.’

‘I come and go as I please, at the king’s leave, and not for some foreign woman’s by-blow,’ Attalus said.

There it was, on the table.

Alexander’s face turned a deep blood red, and his eyes glittered.

He was so fast, when he was angry, that Attalus was lying on the floor when Philip was still reaching to stop his son.

‘What have you done, Father?’ Alexander asked.

Philip wouldn’t meet his eye. Diomedes was helping Attalus to his feet.

Alexander’s face was suddenly nearly white, and his rage burned like a new-lit fire with too much birch bark. ‘Men will not meet my eye. All my servants have been changed. My friends are under attack, and I don’t know the pages on duty. What have you done?’

Another commotion, and Philotas pushed in. ‘Alexander!’ he shouted. ‘They’ve changed the password!’

There was a scuffle in the hallway.

‘Father?’ Alexander said. It was the last time I ever heard him address the king as Father.

Philip drew himself up. ‘I have proof that you and your mother were plotting to kill me. And that you are not my son. You are a bastard child, and I am replacing you with an heir. Of my own body.’

Alexander froze.

Philip turned and strode from the room. Attalus and Diomedes went with him, and all their retainers.

Alexander sank slowly on to a chair.

‘Zeus,’ Hephaestion said.

Before an hour passed, Philip sent a messenger to apologise. As if you could apologise for bastardising your son.

In fact, he invited Alexander to his wedding banquet.

By then, we had an idea what we were up against. A quick tour of the guardrooms showed me that half of the royal companions had been replaced with lowlanders from small families. The old highland aristocrats and the mercenaries were . . . gone. Erigyus and Laodon were nowhere to be found, nor any of the other old inner-circle drinkers.

But whatever Philip had said, he had not actually done anythingto bastardise Alexander. On the other hand, a few old servants – all found in the stables; the palace itself was thoroughly cleansed– told us that ‘everyone knew’ that Alexander was illegitimate. It was in the agora and in the palace. Soldiers made jokes about it.

We’d been gone six months.

Someone had been busy.

And Philip was marrying Cleopatra – Attalus’s niece, Diomedes’ sister.

Now, Philip married a girl every year or so. And Olympias never minded. She was a broad-minded queen with interests of her own, and she befriended most of the wives and saw to it they were well treated. And she made sure they were no threat to her political power.

Cleopatra was different, and Olympias had already been exiled.

The more closely I looked, the more it appeared that Philip – or someone else – had decided to rid himself of the highlanders and all the non-Macedonians, starting with Olympias. And to change the succession.

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 wasAchilles. ‘I will notshow 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.

‘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 andlowlanders.

I could read his mind. ‘You can’t defend it,’ I said.

He nodded.

‘I’ll need money,’ I said. ‘Other than that – feel free to betray me.’

‘Betray you?’ he asked.

‘Seize the lands in your own name,’ I said. ‘Tell Attalus to sod off, you are the boss here, now. I’ll wager you gold against iron he’ll make an accommodation rather than sending raids.’

Heron made a face. ‘Men will spit on my shadow,’ he said.

I shrugged. ‘Not for long,’ I said. ‘I have no heir, and if Alexander fails – well, it’s all yours anyway. But I’ll need money and horses. I’m going to take every horse you have, and all the coin, and all the men who can fight.’

Heron shook his head. ‘I need ten fighters and horses and armour for them.’

That was good sense. I couldn’t strip him bare – even for the week until he could get reinforcements from the outlying farms.

He scratched his jaw. ‘Going to take the prince to Epirus?’ he asked.

‘Zeus! Is it that obvious?’ I said.

Heron nodded. ‘Best place for him. His mother will protect him. Get him an army, if required.’ He scratched again. ‘Take twenty men and forty horses. Make up the difference at the northern farms – strip them, not me. And use them as stopping points. And while you’re at it, take the slaves and send all the farmers here for protection. Then I don’t have any hostages up there.’

‘And all the farmers know that you are secretly loyal to me.’ I saw right through him.

He shrugged. ‘Yes. No one in the family is going to believe I’m a traitor.’

‘Attalus will believe.’ I hoped it would at least slow him down. He was going to have other fish to bake over the next few months. I had to hope that, or I was going to return to find my people butchered and my estates burned or worse.

Loyalty is the most valuable thing in the world. You do not spit on it. When a loyal man says he wants something – especially when he wants his reputation protected – you had better listen.

Besides, I liked his idea of closing the northern farms – most of which were pretty marginal, spear-won properties still subsisting on frontier rations. And most of our best fighters were up there. And Heron was right – I could ride right through them.

We were the size of a small army when we rode out the next morning – fifty royal companions, more than a hundred retainers and grooms, ten baggage carts, grain, pork, jars of wine, casks of silver. But we were getting away clean, and any idea of pursuit was a day late. We slept in the open that night, and on one of my northern farms the next.

I think it was three days into our exile that we were all sleeping on the floor of the ‘hall’ of my poorest farm – a timber hall shorter in length than my great hall at home was wide. Our companions were packed in like salted anchovies from the coast. I sent twenty grooms ahead under Polystratus with all the slaves from the northern farms, to clear the road over the mountains, buy food and prepare the way.

It was pouring rain. Some of the slaves were weeping – their lives were hard already, and being driven out into the winter was pretty cruel. Of course, they didn’t know the half of it. If Attalus came here . . .

But the women wept. The rain fell. And Prince Alexander was sleeping on the floor of a frontier farm. He was between me and Hephaestion. I was lying there in my cloak, listening to the rain, and thinking – I remember this very well – of Thaïs. Not Nike. Such is the power of lust and time. I was imagining . . . well, never you mind.

Alexander was weeping.

I’d never heard him weep before.

So I tore myself from Taïs’s imagined embraces. ‘My lord?’

‘Go away,’ he whispered.

Hephaestion was sound asleep and no help.

‘Lord, we’re almost to the mountains and safety,’ I said.

‘Thanks,’ he said. Dismissively.

‘Lord—’

‘Fuck off,’ he hissed.

I rolled over, so that we were eye to eye. Once, I’d have let him go. But we had put too much behind us – together. ‘Talk to me,’ I whispered.

‘I’m going to die some fat old fuck at someone else’s court!’ he said. ‘I’ll wash up in Asia or Athens, and men will point at me and say – there’s the victor of Chaeronea. What happened to him? FuckPhilip! Maybe he isn’t my father. I should have killed him while he lay there. Then I’d be king. Now I will be no one.’

Well – what do you say to that? Eh?

‘You know what exiles are like? Hatching useless plots, to feel alive? Fondling slaves, because no free person will be with them? They become like family retainers, or old slaves – drones, feeding off the fat of the house and contributing nothing, with no excellence, no arete – nothing to offer.’ Alexander knew what he was talking about, because there were generations of exiles around the fringes of the Macedonian court – Persians, Athenians, even a Spartan. And we’d seen more of them in Athens. Thracians, Persians, even a Scythian prince from the far north.

His voice was thick with unshed tears.

I reached out, squeezed his shoulder hard – and said, ‘You don’t sound like Achilles, to me.’

Macedonians aren’t big on gentle.

He froze as if I’d stuck a dagger into him.

His breath shuddered in and out a few times. Then it steadied down.

I went to sleep.

In the morning, nothing more was said. Except that the man who vaulted into the saddle was the man who led the cavalry charge at Chaeronea.