14
Philotas stood easily under Alexander’s glare. ‘What exactly am I supposed to have done, your majesty?’ he asked.
‘Be respectful when you speak to the king, Philotas!’ barked Hephaestion. The king’s best friend and sometime lover was dressed simply, his bronze hair unadorned, but he seemed to have grown in stature overnight and the accusation in his tone snapped like a drover’s whip.
Philotas turned his head with exaggerated lassitude, as if looking at Hephaestion was too much work for him. ‘I am respectful,’ he said. He shrugged. ‘I’m also busy.’ His eyes went back to the king’s, and the dismissal of Hephaestion and everything about him was palpable. The two men had always disliked each other. Philotas was Parmenion’s son, and the best cavalry officer in the army. His arrogance was the kind the troopers liked — an arrogance born of accomplishment. That he was handsome and well born didn’t hurt, but he hadn’t risen on his father’s name alone. He was brave, calculating and, above all, relentlessly successful. Some of the old guard said that without him, the battle at Arbela might have ended in defeat.
Hephaestion’s place rested on his relationship with the king. Keen observers, and the military court that surrounded the king of Macedon was full of such men, noted that whenever commands — fighting commands — were handed out, even the besotted Alexander passed over his friend for Philotas.
So despite two days of whispering throughout the camp, Philotas stood at ease in front of his king. ‘I’ve heard a lot of talk,’ Philotas said. ‘Am I accused of something, your majesty?’
‘You are accused of aiding in a plot to kill the king,’ Hephaestion said.
Alexander remained mute.
Philotas continued to look at the king. ‘Crap,’ he said. ‘I’m utterly loyal and everyone knows it.’
‘The plotters have betrayed you,’ Hephaestion said.
‘I don’t give a cunt hair for what your torturers dragged out of some peasant,’ Philotas said.
‘Why didn’t you come to me with Cebalinus’s accusation?’ Alexander asked. His voice sounded tired.
Philotas nodded sharply. ‘I knew this was what we were on about. Look, Alexander,’ Philotas, as a noble and a Companion, had the right to address the king familiarly, ‘you know what a bitchy fool Cebalinus can be. Like any boy-lover,’ and here Philotas smiled at Hephaestion in obvious mockery, ‘he gets all womanish and he gossips. So he heard something while he was being buggered. I heard him out. It sounded like crap. I ignored it.’
‘It wasn’t crap,’ Alexander said. ‘We have full confessions.’
‘If I was wrong,’ Philotas said, his tone conveying that he thought the whole thing a set up, ‘then I make my most profound apology. Your majesty must believe that I would never allow a plot against him to go forward. On the other hand…’ Here he paused, because he realized that his arguments were about to cross on to forbidden ground. If I reported every plot against you, we wouldn’t have an army didn’t seem like a good thing to say.
‘You seem to be comfortable with treason yourself,’ Hephaestion spat.
‘This is a lot of crap,’ Philotas said. He was losing patience. It was too stupid an accusation to be taken seriously.
‘You say in private that you saved the king at Arbela. That you and your father have won every battle — that the king is not competent to lead an army.’
For the first time, Philotas was alarmed and it showed. He raised his chin. Thinking quickly, he decided on utter honesty. ‘I may have boasted foolishly, when drunk.’ He tried to win a smile from the king. ‘It’s been known to happen with soldiers.’ When no smile was forthcoming, Philotas widened his eyes. ‘You can’t be serious. I’ll apologize to the army if you require it, your majesty — but drunken boasting is not treason.’
‘Your father has been plotting against me for years,’ Alexander said, suddenly. He sounded shrewish.
‘What?’ Philotas said. He was now alarmed. ‘No he hasn’t. Ares’ balls, Alexander, you wouldn’t even be king if it weren’t for my father!’ No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he saw that Hephaestion had played him like a lyre. He glared at the favourite. Hephaestion glared back.
‘Traitor,’ he spat.
Philotas stood tall. ‘Prove it, minion!’
Hephaestion turned to Alexander. ‘He’ll confess under torture.’
‘You can’t torture me!’ Philotas spat. ‘I’m the commander of the Companions! On the bones of Achilles, the best of the Achaeans, I swear I am no traitor! And you’ll never prove it before the assembly!’ He stood there, tall and handsome, the very image of the dashing officer.
But the assembly thought differently, two days later, when he was brought before them toothless, with much of his face gone. He looked like a traitor with his hands broken. Hephaestion said that he had confessed his own guilt, and the king said the same. No one could understand Philotas when he spoke.
They executed him.
‘Now I can clean house,’ Alexander said to Hephaestion. It was a private council, with only a few men — Eumenes and Kleisthenes and Hephaestion.
‘You have to kill Parmenion,’ Hephaestion urged. ‘When he hears-’
‘Yes, Patrocles!’ Alexander ruffled his bronze hair. ‘I know. The father must go, now that the son is proved a traitor.’
Even Kleisthenes, a sophist and a professional propagandist, was cut to the bone to hear the king call Philotas a traitor in private. The king had convinced himself — a dangerous precedent.
Eumenes the Cardian kept his face composed. ‘Spitamenes has accepted our suggestions about negotiation,’ he said. Eumenes had learned not to use words that the king might take to mean that the Macedonians were suing for peace with a rebel satrap. The truth was that Spitamenes, with the remnants of Bessus’s Persian army and the support of the Massagetae and the Dahae, was slowing up their conquest of the north to an unpalatable degree.
The king drank some more wine. ‘When Parmenion is dead, the areas to my rear will be secure,’ he said. ‘I’ll have all the time I need to conquer the rest of the world. I don’t need Spitamenes. Tell him to fuck off.’
Hephaestion laughed aloud.
Eumenes, who had laboured all winter to get negotiations on the table, took a deep breath. ‘Spitamenes is interested in religious issues, your majesty. He does not desire to be King of Kings.’ He got the bit between his teeth and spoke the truth. ‘As long as he has the Scythian tribes, he can cross the Jaxartes at will. We cannot follow him there.’
Alexander turned his head and his mad, white-rimmed eyes bored into Eumenes’ head. ‘There is nowhere my army cannot go,’ he said.
Eumenes flicked his eyes to Hephaestion, hoping that the indulgent man would remember his own self- interest.
Hephaestion swirled the wine in his cup and then leaned forward. ‘If we campaign across the Jaxartes, we’ll lose a whole campaign season from India.’
He ought to have been an actor, Eumenes thought. He wiped his brow.
Alexander threw himself back on his couch. ‘Fine. Even Achilles listened when Phoenix spoke. But I want an Amazon — better yet, a dozen. Tell Spitamenes to get me a dozen Amazons.’
This was the type of demand that could unseat a negotiation in a moment, but Eumenes knew his master’s voice. He nodded.
‘Yes, majesty,’ he said.
And Kleisthenes shuddered.
15
The first flowers bloomed through the last snow in Hyrkania, and the winds coming across the Kaspian were still cold enough for Hyperboreans and strong enough to discourage even the keenest bow-men.
