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

Автор книги: Christian Cameron

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Cleitus had thus far played carefully, but this stung him, and he leaped from his couch. ‘Saved your useless life, ingrate!’ he roared.

Never tell the truth to the powerful.

Lysimachus rolled off his couch. Hephaestion got a hand on the king, and Lysimachus and Perdiccas both got between the king and Cleitus.

Alexander, in the hands of Lysimachus, leaned forward, his face red, and yelled, ‘Your sword couldn’t have kept a child alive! Name me a victory youhave won? Any of you? Of the lot of you, I’m the only one who can fight and win.’

I’d got hold of Cleitus by then. I could see what was coming, and I was damned if I was going to allow Cleitus to lose his position in the army. But I couldn’t get anyone to help me and I couldn’t shut him up – a problem I’d had since childhood, to be frank.

‘You know who you remind me of ?’ Cleitus shouted. ‘Philip. Your fucking drunk father. It is a shameful thing, for you – the King of fucking Macedon – to humiliate your own men – who have followed you across the world – in the midst of these enemies and foreign traitors!’ Cleitus spat. ‘You insult your best men – who have been unfortunate – while jackals laugh at them, who have never faced an enemy sword!’

Alexander turned to Perdiccas. ‘I have never before heard cowardice described as misfortune,’ he said, intending to be heard. ‘Although now that I hear it so described, I suppose it is the bitterest misfortune a man can endure!’

Cleitus got a hand free from me. I was trying to get anyone to help, but the men closest to the king on couches were sycophants, flatterers, vultures – not men who would help me, even if they had the courage to try.

‘Was I a coward at the Granicus? If my sword hadn’t been by you, you would have been dead there and twenty other places.’ Cleitus slammed his elbow into my stomach to get me off him, but I was ready – I rolled with the blow and got an arm around his neck.

‘It is by our blood, our wounds, that you have risen so high!’ Cleitus called. ‘You think that youdid this, Alexander? You think that youwon those victories? Your hubris disgusts every manhere. Your father built this army – your father Philip. You pretend that a god is your father! It’s a lie! You are a man!’

‘That’s how you talk about me behind my back, isn’t it!’ Alexander said, quite clearly. And he wasn’t looking at Cleitus. He was looking at me. Perdiccas later told me that Alexander looked at him, too.

I believe it. I think, by then, the king wanted us all gone. All the boys of his childhood. All the ones who knew that he was a man, and not a god.

Alexander turned back to Cleitus, suddenly icy and calm. ‘I know the things you say behind my back,’ he said. He turned slowly, and pointed with his free hand – Lysimachus still had his left – at Cleitus. ‘You and your friends cause all the bad blood between my Macedonians and my Persians. Don’t imagine you are going to get away with it!’

Cleitus stood straight. Something in Alexander’s tone sobered him for a moment. ‘Get away with it?’ he asked. ‘We’re dying for you every day, Alexander. And the ones who live get to bow down like sodomites and show their arses like these Persian fucks! While you wander around in a white dress and a diadem like a play-actor!’

Alexander turned to Eumenes, who had joined the men trying to restrain him. ‘Don’t you feel that the Macedonians are like beasts? Any Greek is like a god by comparison.’

Cleitus punched me in the eye. It hurt, and he was about to launch himself at the king, so I swung hard and hit him in the head.

Alexander picked up an apple – it was the first thing under his hand – and threw it at Cleitus, hitting him in the face.

I think Cleitus confused the two blows. Either way, he went off his head, drink and pain combining to make him bellow like a bull. But by then Marsyas had his other arm, together with Philip the Red.

We began to drag him, step by step, from the tent.

Perdiccas got the king in a choke hold, and Leonatus – the king’s friend – took the king’s sword from its scabbard and hurled it across the tent as Alexander reached for it. He went for the knife he always wore around his neck, but Lysimachus beat him to it – the king was so enraged he was ready to knife the men who had hold of him. As he wrestled with three men, his inhuman strength bearing all threeof them down, he shouted, ‘It is a plot! To me! They are trying to murder me! Sound the alarm!’

His hyperetes refused. He had his trumpet, and he shook his head, eyes narrowed – like a proper Macedonian, he could make his own decisions about the king’s state. He wasn’t a slave. And when one of the Persian vultures grabbed for the trumpet to blow it – to sound the alarm, and summon the hypaspitoi – the king’s hyperetes bashed the Persian with the trumpet and put him down.

I had Cleitus clear of the tent by then, and I wrestled him out into the cooler night air, and Marsyas, whose wounds were suddenly bleeding again – Cleitus was struggling as hard as the king – kicked Cleitus in the balls.

Cleitus bellowed again, and flattened Marsyas with one blow, breaking his nose. And I missed my hold, and Cleitus stumbled back into the tent, where the king was shouting ‘Turn out the guard!’ at the top of his lungs and Perdiccas was trying to get a hand over his mouth.

I was right behind Cleitus. He got all the way into the command tent, and drew himself up. ‘Alas!’ he roared. ‘What evil government is come to Hellas?’

The hypaspitoi surged in through the doors, and it was over – I could tell just looking at the men coming in, in full armour, that they had been warned. Their faces were set, and they didn’t move to surround the king – rather, they moved to prevent any further violence. Alexander sagged against his captors.

Cleitus held his arms wide. ‘When the public sets up a war trophy, do the men who sweated get the credit? Oh, no – some strategos takes all the prestige!’ He was quoting from Euripides’ Andromache. ‘Who, waving his spear, one among thousands, did one man’s work, but receives a world of praise. Such self-important “fathers of their country” think they are better than other men. They are worth nothing!’

Alexander ripped his arms free from Perdiccas and Leonatus. And in one step, he had the spear – a short longche – from the hypaspist closest to him, and he plunged it to the socket through Cleitus, who was, of course, wearing no armour.

I saw the spear-point come through his back.

His mouth opened.

I’m told his eyes never left the king’s face.

And he died.

Coenus, Perdiccas and I were exiled a few weeks later to chase Spitamenes. That’s not how it was put to us, but that was the truth of it. Leonatus had already been sent away.

The king mourned for three days, until the weasel Anaxarchus told him that as he was a god, he was above the law. He justified the king’s actions, and the king accepted his word and moved on.

So much for his closest friend, the man who had stood by him since infancy.

After Cleitus died, we – the former inner circle – knew that no man was safe. Philotas, to some extent, had it coming – Parmenio had always been the king’s rival. But Cleitus was merely blunt – his loyalty had never been questioned, and without him, the king would have died. Several times.

I wanted no more of it. When I was sent to find and defeat Spitamenes, I went happily.

And we caught him. He had three thousand Dahae cavalry and several hundred of his Persian adherents, but the forts kept us informed by beacon, and too many villagers had had enough – or perhaps they were more scared of us than they were of Spitamenes. We cornered him in a deep valley, and while Perdiccas took his taxeis up the hillside to block their retreat, Coenus and I charged home. We broke the Dahae easily enough – they didn’t want our kind of fight – and most of the Persians surrendered. They had had enough.

In a matter of weeks, we had Spitamenes’ head. And that was the end of his revolt. Overnight, a man who had held us longer than Memnon orDarius was gone, killed by his own wife, and we were, at last, masters of Sogdiana.

I was between Coenus and Perdiccas, riding slowly, because our column was tired and because we were done and our men weren’t in the mood to be hurried.

I took a breath, enjoying the mountain air for the first time in two years. ‘I think . . .’ I said, and Perdiccas grinned.

‘Do you?’ he asked. ‘I thought I smelled something.’

I punched him. ‘I think we have to make him go home now,’ I said.

Perdiccas nodded, the happy look wiped from his face. ‘Do you think – if we get him home . . .’

Coenus laughed. It was a desperate laugh.

I turned. ‘We can get him home,’ I said. ‘If we work at it.’

Coenus wiped his eyes for a moment. ‘We’re not going home,’ he said. ‘We’re invading India. In the spring.’

I was still in charge of the army’s food and supplies, and I hadn’t heard a word of it. But then, I’d been out of favour half a year.

In fact, it was another year before we marched on India. The king was careful about the reconquest of Sogdiana, and he developed a lust of heroic proportions (the only kind of lust he ever had, really) for the daughter of one of the Sogdian chieftains – Roxanne – or so he claimed. She probably saved a lot of lives with her superb face and lush, velvety skin.

We received drafts from home, and Alexander mustered our veterans – as many as he could. And he began to bring foreign officers closer in – he tried to appoint Cyrus to command half of the Hetaeroi in place of Cleitus, and Hephaestion talked him out of it.

I was scarcely paying attention. With the Prodromoi and all the intelligence I could muster, I was trying to figure out how to feed the army when it marched east, to India. The king arrested Callisthenes on a trumped-up charge, and I can’t pretend I’d ever loved him, although he was better than the lickspittle Anaxarchus. Alexander tried – repeatedly – to induce us to perform the proskynesis. Leonatus mocked any man who did, and Polyperchon was arrested in Alexander’s presence for direct refusal. And again, Hephaestion went to the king and begged him to relent.

A group of pages plotted to kill the king. But, in the best tradition of Philip’s court, they fell out among themselves – sex and dominance were involved. Alexander had them executed, and used the incident to justify moving against the Macedonian faction, which had been ‘proved’ disloyal, and after the fact he implicated Callisthenes in the plot and executed him.

He had become quite dangerous to be around.

I avoided him. I spent the year riding as far east as Taxila, the ruler of which was already an ally. I was laying in stores for thirty thousand men. I had given up on getting the king home. I was willing to get him into a war.

THIRTY-SIX

When we sat on the stone bench in the Gardens of Midas, Aristotle taught us about the shape of the world, and the shape of the universe. He taught us ethics and morals and ideals of rulership, and I dare say he was wrong about a great many things. After all, he was chiefly responsible for Alexander.

I like to think that he did better with me. For one thing, he felt free to correct me more often.

But I am dithering.

One of the things that Aristotle had quite horribly wrong was the geography of the East. And it is odd, when you are a grown man, the commander of armies, the lord of millions, how mistakes learned in your youth continue to shape your thinking, despite some intellectual awareness that all is not quite right. I knew a man once – a Persian slave who was freed in Athens. He had adopted Greek ways – he abjured the worship of Ahuru Mazda, and worshipped Zeus and Apollo. But he always turned to the sun to pray in the morning, regardless of circumstance.

Or put another way, all of us make the peasant signs for luck, for aversion of evil, even long after we accept that they are nothing but superstition.

And who does not remember their first lover with a sudden bolt of lust?

Hah! How would you know? But you will.

The point is, Alexander’s confusion about the shape of the world had profound consequences. And he continued to make strategic decisions based on those confusions, despite a constant stream of scouting reports and intelligence reports provided by trustworthy agents and edited by his staff. He believed that if we crossed the Jaxartes and travelled north, we would come to the Euxine. I knew better – but then I had met Kineas and Philokles, and they had comefrom the Euxine.

Likewise, Alexander believed, when we were relaxing at Persepolis, that Cyrus’s former province of India marked the edge of the world – that beyond the land of elephants and spices lay the ocean, and beyond that the rim of the world.

By the time we crossed the Kush, I knew better, and Craterus knew better, and Ariston certainly knew better. But Alexander either didn’t read our reports, or didn’t understand them – little possibility of that – or didn’t care.

He planned an invasion based on any number of false assumptions. He assumed that India was roughly the size of Bactria, and that it had a finite end – at the ocean.

As was often the case, his views communicated themselves to the army. And he reputedly said – I was not there – that India was the last, because it had been part of Cyrus’s empire, and Alexander felt that if he reconquered all of the mighty Cyrus’s possessions, he would be accepted by the Persians as a legitimate ruler.

And he was right.

We had most of the great nobles of the empire serving in the army by the time we crossed the passes. Alexander reorganised the army againat Alexandria-the-Farthest, our base in the endless mountains of Bactria at the head of the Khyber. This time, he put a squadron of Persian noble cavalry with every squadron of Hetaeroi. I got one of these pairs, with Cyrus and his retinue now promoted to command the other – we had been the experiment from the first, which, to be honest, I’d always suspected. I liked Persians – I was used as a test case for everything from acceptable rations (Greeks and Persians won’t always feel the same way about food) to matters of sex and cleanliness.

The Persian cavalry was excellent. Thaïs told me in a letter that Alexander had also recruited thirty thousand Persian and Mede youths as infantry, and they were receiving training. He used the old Kardakes system, and it ran well enough.

Before we departed Alexandria, we received drafts from home – recruits from Macedon and Greek mercenaries, as well as some Lydians and Phrygians. The Macedonians looked outlandish to all of us, in their clean white wool chitons, bare necks (we all wore the local scarves) and wide-eyed innocence – and these were men who had survived to march out to us from Macedon, so they were hardly new. By the time we headed south, we had almost sixty thousand men for the invasion of India – but fewer than fifteen thousand of them were Macedonians. We were, to all intents and purposes, a Persian army.

And Alexander was a Persian king, with a court, a harem he never visited, and priests, augurs and other useless mouths I had to feed. He wanted an audience for the conquest of one more province.

But from the height of the main pass into Taxila, any doubts the king may have had about the extent of India were dispelled. Aristotle had insisted that we would see the mighty outer ocean from the height of the Kush. Alexander kept asking men about the ocean – we knew that Scylax, the Greek explorer, had been to India by sea in the time of Marathon, and I had his book, which wasn’t especially useful, but it did name port cities in India.

We looked out from the height of the Khyber Pass and saw – India. Hill country, and folds of hills running away to the south, into a lower range of mountains at the edge of vision far away beyond the vale of the Indus.

Cavalry scouts who had been to Taxila and beyond reported that from the height of the Orminus range – the very limit of the geography of our Persian officers – you could see green fields stretching away south for five hundred stades, at least.

We were invading a country the size of Greece, at the very least, and perhaps the size of Europe. Or Asia.

I gathered the reports, and no one could tell me how big India was. I had one report from a merchant who said that to travel from one side of the country to another took more than a year. If this was true, then India was the size of Asia, and we were doomed to an eternal war.

I remember that I stopped my horse – a handsome Sakje mare that Kineas had given me and I still rode by preference – at the height of the pass. The column had been slowing and stopping all day as men paused to take in the view. I was with Perdiccas’s taxeis.

A familiar voice growled by my left foot.

‘Where’s the fewkin’ ocean, then?’ Amyntas son of Philip, phylarch of the third company of Craterus’s taxeis, was standing looking under his hand at the rolling brown hills of Tiausa.

I looked down. ‘A little farther,’ I said, the eternal staff officer.

Amyntas spat. Looked up. ‘How’s the daughter, then?’ he said.

‘Olympias will be ordained a full priestess at the Great Feast of Artemis,’ I said, and he grinned.

‘Good for her.’ He smiled wickedly. ‘And that nice priest boy?’

‘A stade away. A fine soldier.’

‘He is, at that,’ said the old bastard. ‘I see him all the time. And you, old man?’

‘Amyntas son of Philip, you dare call me old? Weren’t you at Marathon? Still alive?’ I took his hand. ‘And you are older, I think.’

He waved at the hills in the far distance. Men filed past us. And suddenly, he turned and said, ‘He’s fuckin’ insane, ain’t he? I mean, he’ll just march east until we all die – and then he’ll replace us with local sods, right? Am I right?’

Men around us were murmuring.

‘How’s Dion?’ I asked. Then I winced. I’d forgotten.

‘Dead at Arabela. Bloody flux,’ he said. ‘Told you that last year, when you held the sacrifice.’

‘And the young man? Charmides?’ I asked.

‘Dead – can’t exactly remember where. Hey, Red, where’d Charmides go to earth?’ he called out to a phylarch who was resting both hands on his spear and staring out over the earth.

‘After Marakanda?’ The man shrugged. There was a pause, and then he said, ‘I think. Aphrodite’s tits, Amyntas – he died – at . . . ?’

Amyntas shrugged. ‘Boys like him come and go so fast, we don’t bother to learn their names any more. The shit they send us from Pella – Zeus Soter, sir, are they out of men in Macedon?’ He looked at a dozen new recruits filling the two nearest files. They weren’t big men.

‘Antipater’s keeping the best for hisself,’ another man suggested. ‘Sending us thieves and urchins.’

‘I’m no thief!’ a young man protested with some spirit, and Amyntas stepped right up to him. His hand moved as if for a blow, but paused with perfect efficiency to stroke the boy’s cheek as gently as a mother.

‘No,’ he said, laughing. ‘If you were a thief, you’d have a useful skill. As it is, you’re not worth a fuck. And that’s the literaltruth.’

The boy was shaking.

‘Go easy, soldier. You need him to press his shield into your back when we fight in India.’ I smiled at the new boy.

Amyntas spat. ‘Then I’m fuckin’ dead already, sir.’ But he laughed. ‘I’m the right phylarch, now.’ The senior file leader. The man responsible for the dressing of the battalion, the order of march – a very important man indeed.

‘Congratulations,’ I said.

He smiled. ‘All the people who could do the job better are dead. That don’t say much for me.’

The column had started to move out. Sweating bearers – servants of the common soldiers – were carrying enormous bundles on their backs and heads and heavy forked sticks on their shoulders like yokes. They marched with their masters, in files in between the soldiers’ files.

The bearers picked up their packs, the soldiers took one last gulp of water or wine, and the column began to move.

‘Of the ten men in my file, when we left Macedon, I’m the only one still alive,’ Amyntas said.

Those words stuck with me, all the way down the pass.

The next night, Alexander summoned a council. It was remarkably like the old days – consciously so – and no sooner was I handed a cup of wine than I saw that he was elated, his eyes glittering, his face almost unlined, the energy glowing in his skin.

He embraced me as soon as I had a cup of wine. ‘I have missed you, Ptolemy!’ he said.

An odd remark, if you consider that I briefed him twice a week on matters related to food and logistics – and more often still about geography and intelligence. But it is true, we had had little enough to say to each other as men since before Marakanda.

‘I’m right here,’ I said, or something equally inane – but Alexander, on his way to his next embrace, stopped, and looked back. Perhaps I’d put more emotion into my statement than I meant.

‘You sound bitter, Ptolemy.’ Alexander’s eyes met mine, and they were brimful of power. Not madness. Just will.

I shook my head.

Alexander greeted Perdiccas, Lysimachus, Coenus. But he made a point of coming back and standing by me.

‘Listen, then!’ he said, and the babble of gossip stopped.

It was years since I’d seen him look so well rested – and so happy.

‘India,’ he said. ‘Our last campaign together,’ he added, with a smile in my direction. ‘I suppose there will be some hill tribes to subdue. But this is Cyrus’s last conquest – and I know you all want me to go home.’

It took my breath away – that he said it right out, without whining, or crying, or killing someone.

And yet, the cynic in my soul whispered that a wine-bibber is always telling his wife he’ll quit, too.

But it made me happy. Of course, the wine-bibber’s wife is happy, too. For a little while.

He looked around, and my feelings were exposed on every face – even men like Craterus. Relief. Quiet joy, or merely exhaustion.

He nodded, as if he’d been talking to someone else. ‘But I have one favour to ask,’ he said. Nodded again. ‘I want you all to be at your very best. You think you are tired and far from home?’ He looked around. ‘We are living in myth. We are the cutting edge of an epic. We are the heroes of the Iliad. When we march home to Babylon and Pella, we will be leaving behind this– the existence that is greater than the merely mortal. If this is my last great campaign – make it your best. Eh?’

I don’t think his words reached Craterus. But Perdiccas met my eye. We were both smiling.

Alexander never gave speeches. Or when he did, they sounded a little forced.

Coenus was smiling, and Lysimachus, and Seleucus, now commanding the hypaspitoi.

‘I’m going to send Perdiccas and Hephaestion down the Indus, to pick off the cities on the river. Craterus, you and I and Seleucus will go north on the Choaspes. The rendezvous is Gandaris. The Raja of Taxila is our ally – Ptolemy is in contact with him already, and we have depots marked on your itineraries. The order of march is here. Any questions?’

People asked questions – Seleucus especially. He always did.

When they ran out of questions, Alexander looked around. He had set himself a Herculean task, and that put him on the plane of the gods. He was happy. He was also not wearing the diadem, not wearing a white robe. He was in a plain chitoniskos, dressed like any Macedonian aristocrat after a day of war, or hunting. First among equals.

‘Anything more?’ he asked. He looked around.

He was beaming.

‘Let’s go and conquer India, then,’ he said.

While Hephaestion took the main army straight downriver – straight being a remarkable thing to say of the upper Indus – and Alexander went off into the trackless wooded mountains of the Chaispes, I had a different role – as the linchpin between the two columns. I had my squadrons and Philip the Red with me, and together we kept the two columns in contact. I had the Paoenians and most of the Prodromoi and Ariston to command them, and all the Agrianians, who we’d mounted on mules, and Strako’s Angeloi, who’d been expanded with locals into a small squadron. It was one of my favourite commands – the perfect instrument for the job. We could cover hundreds of stades of ground – at one point I had men along both banks of the Indus all the way down to the plains below Taxila – or combine to fight. And the preponderance of scouts allowed me to gather information for the future while supporting the king and Hephaestion. And my central location allowed me to control supplies to both columns. I was in constant contact with Eumenes. Information flowed, logistics were put in place.

We were a superb instrument of war. Even if that meant we ate men’s souls.

From a purely military standpoint, the oddest thing about the Taxila campaign was that the Raja had already made submission, and his city provided us with supplies and convoys of grain, which came from in front. The usual problem of supply is bringing it up from the rear, and supplying our army over the Hindu Kush would have been brutal. But from the front – I never experienced anything like it – all I had to do was move my cavalry and cover the convoys.

Alexander plunged into the mountains with a fervor that verged on the reckless, and got an arrow in his arm leading the first assault on a hill town a week later. I arrived a few days after, with a convoy of wine and olive oil all the way from Syria – a convoy that hadcome over the Hindu Kush. Greek and Macedonian soldiers need wine and olive oil. Without them, they will function, but they won’t like it. With them, they may go without food, but they will fight.

At any rate, he was lying on a kline, reading one of my reports and eating grapes. He looked up and made a face.

‘Ptolemy!’ he said.

I had to grin. It was good to be liked and valued. Again.

‘I brought you wine,’ I said. ‘Good wine. There’s some Lesbian stuff and some Chian.’ I handed him a small amphora. ‘And this. Antipater sent it.’

Alexander raised an eyebrow.

‘What happened?’ I asked, pointing at the heavy bandage on his sword arm.

‘Hephaestion will scold me,’ he said. He rolled his eyes. ‘I led an assault and I got shot.’ He shrugged. ‘It was fun. And it is just a scratch.’ He sat up on his bed. ‘I don’t mean to make a scene, Ptolemy, but take that amphora out and smash it on a rock.’

I made a face. ‘I’ll take it and drink it,’ I said.

He turned. ‘Do not,’ he said. ‘It’s sure to be poisoned, and you are one of my few remaining friends.’

I was? Who knew? I was tempted to say as much, but instead, I shook my head. ‘Antipater?’ I asked.

‘I’m sure of it,’ he said. He shrugged, winced when he moved his right shoulder. Lay back. ‘Thaïs says so,’ he went on.

That was the first I had heard that Thaïs was continuing to provide the king with information. We exchanged our own letters.

I had freed the Circassian. Cleitus’s death had that good effect – I never bedded her. Funny – when I told Thaïs the story, she shook her head, touched my face and said I was a fool.

Am I a fool? I am what I am. And I suppose that Alexander would say the same.

I stayed with him for two days, while his siege engines pounded a high stone keep to flinders and Seleucus stormed it. Then we moved on, and Alexander’s shoulder was better, and at the next big stone keep – they seemed to grow on the mountains like mushrooms – Alexander insisted on leading the assault. Again.

‘I’ll go with you,’ I said.

Alexander nodded. ‘Of course you will,’ he said.

They should have surrendered. Mind you, no bandit chief on the wheel of the earth could have imagined that the Great King, King of Kings, would drag eighty war engines through the Hindu Kush and over the Khyber Pass simply to break the tyranny of the chiefs in the Swat hills.

‘This region has raided Taxila and the plains for generations,’ Alexander said as the men behind us fidgeted in the pre-dawn mist. ‘I intend to crush the warlords and break the war bands down into manageable sizes.’

I made a face. I assumed he couldn’t see me in the dark.

But we hadgrown up together, and he shook his head. ‘You’re thinking that it is a lot of trouble,’ he said. I saw his teeth gleam. ‘But it is worth doing well. War is a craft like any other – but you know that – you put the food in my army’s gullet.’

‘I try,’ I said. It was nice to have him talking. ‘What about the chiefs and their retinues?’

‘Shed no tears for them. Ask any peasant in the valley what it’s like to live under – literally under – these bandits.’ He sounded passionate. Interesting.

‘These people don’t even know who we are,’ I pointed out.

‘They will before morning,’ the king said.

We crept up the hill in the last darkness. We put ten ladders up against the wall, and then, far too late to save themselves, the defenders threw lit torches into the ditch and began to loose arrows at us.

Alexander was wearing greaves, but one of the arrows caught him in the ankle and he almost fell off the ladder. I pinned him against it. Then, because going down was out of the question, we went up.

He was the first on the wall, and he moved like the athlete he was, and his sword rose and fell and stabbed the way a skilled seamstress’s needle moves, with perfect economy. I was only heartbeats behind him, and still he had killed or mortally wounded three men before I had my feet over the parapet.

There was a rush along the top of the wall, and it came at my side. I turned, put my shield into my attackers and my aspis all but filled the catwalk. They pushed me back, and I cut under the shield – and then back over. My opponents were being pushed forward by their mates. I scored across one man’s thigh under my shield and raked another’s nose – no kills, but they flinched, and I backed up a full step and then pushed, caught one man off balance and he fell off the wall.

I couldn’t risk a glance, but I did wonder where in Hades the king was.

Behind me, I could hear him. He bellowed, ‘Spear! Throw it!’

I had my right thumb in the hollow of my blade – a nasty technique I’d been taught by a hoplomachos, a Keltoi trick, and one I used when I had to fight at night. With your thumb pressed into the blade, your blade becomes the perfect companion to a circular shield. Your hand and elbow allow the blade to travel around the edge – parrying and striking in the same action.