God of War: The Epic Story of Alexander the Great

And then I headed off down the hill to find Hephaestion. Cleitus followed, begging me to come straight to the king.

‘Relax,’ I said. This is where being born a great noble with my own estates had its advantages. I could be late for the king – I could, if I had to, live comfortably despite his displeasure. So sod him.

I found Hephaestion standing in the door of the command tent under the old oak.

‘Come,’ I said.

‘I wasn’t summoned,’ he said. Shrugged.

‘I order you,’ I said. ‘On my head be it. Alexander needs us.’

Hephaestion nodded, pulled on his best cloak. ‘Thanks.’

What we found at Philip’s great tent was an orgy – an orgy of middle-aged self-congratulation and bragging, the sort of thing that writers of comedies think is only done by boys.

I’m past the age now that Philip was that night. I understand now how much worse the experience of battle is when you are older, when other men are faster, when the joy of the thing is utterly gone, when there’s nothing to war but a vague feeling of shame because your kingdom is killing all these nice young men. Oh, yes. That, and the endless pain of the body – even the hardest body. The failure of reflexes, the slowing, the dimming of vision . . .

. . . and so, when you win that victory, when you put your man down, when you bed a beautiful girl, it is a greater victory, and you brag as you did when you first did these things – from relief that you still can.

Trust me on this, boy. The only thing worse than experiencing the ageing of the body would be to not experience it – to have your body rotting somewhere in the mud.

They were loud, and they were behaving badly. When I arrived in the royal precinct, Philip had just stumbled out of the tent. He had Demosthenes dressed in a purple robe, being prodded along with a spear – a dozen other Athenian leaders were there, too, and Philip was leading them on a tour of the battlefield. He was drunk – drunk even by Macedonian standards. He had most of his cronies by him, too – Attalus was there, and Diomedes, and Philotas, Parmenio’s son, and Alcimachus, one of his somatophylakes. And over against the tent wall was Alexander. The prince was alone. I’d never seen anything like it – there were no courtiers with him. His face was the face of a statue – pale in the moonlight, and set like good mortar.

‘I’ll show you poncey Greeks how a battle is fought,’ Philip declaimed. He took a spear from the guards to help him walk, and with it, as they went out on to the field, he prodded Demosthenes.

‘Demosthenes, Demosthenes’ son, Paeonian, proposes!’ he roared, and all his cronies laughed. In fact, it was funny. Philip had one gift his son never had – a strong sense of peasant humour. He was parodying the great Athenian orator’s delivery – the way he’d rise to his feet and start in against Macedon.

Philip prodded him with the spear. ‘Philip son of Amyntas, Macedonian, imposes!’ he shouted, and the Macedonian officers roared their approval. I saw Alexander, then – caught his eye.

Just for a moment, I could see what he was thinking before the mask snapped back. He was looking at the king, and his mouth and eyes roared their contempt.

I had never seen him like this.

I got Hephaestion to his side with the same ruthlessness I’d massacred routing Athenians – I stepped on feet, used my elbows – I was richer and better born than they, and they were drunk. I elbowed a swathe through the staff and got to Alexander before he exploded, and Hephaestion actually grabbed his arms.

We started on a battlefield tour.

Battlefields are incredibly grim at night – but you know that. Dead things and things that eat dead things. And a bunch of drunken Macedonians and their prisoners.

I walked with Alexander, Hephaestion, Cleitus and Polystratus for a stade, and then, when I thought it safe, started to slip away. But Philip was wily-old, wily, and somewhere down inside, desperately angry.

‘Going to bed so soon, son of Lagus?’ He came back through his staff, locked an arm around my neck and his breath stank. ‘Drink!’

‘The surgeons told me . . .’ I began, and then Attalus pinned my arms and Diomedes poured wine down my throat. I bathed in more of it than I drank.

I was sober.

Attalus had arm-locked my left arm. He did it casually, and to cause me pain.

I got an arm up, reversed Attalus’s hold and slammed his head into the ground. If I didn’t dislocate his shoulder – well, I must have hurt it a great deal.

There comes a moment in your life when you must make an enemy. Up until that moment, I was a good boy who served my prince and did what I was told. I never played the factions. I did what my pater had done – stayed clear.

Until fucking Attalus put his arm around my throat and poured wine into me. That was it. I knew what he stood for. Knew who he was for and who he was against, and as soon as I had the leverage, I threw him over my hip and put him head down in the dirt.

‘If I want a Ganymede, I’ll choose my own. A pretty one,’ I said to Diomedes.

He tried to slam the wine bowl into my head.

Alexander got him in a head lock. The prince was completely sober and completely in control of himself. In fact, in his horrid way, he was enjoying the bad behaviour of the others. He locked Diomedes up and began to force his head down against his chest.

‘Let him go,’ Hephaestion said. ‘He’s just a little arse-cunt. Lord – let him go. Don’t do this . . .’ Hephaestion recognised, as I did not, that Alexander meant to break his neck.

All at once, Alexander released his hold and the handsome man collapsed.

Philip had walked on. The entire drama had played out in twenty heartbeats, I had made a bitter enemy and Alexander had acted to support me. Heady stuff.

Philip was already standing near the centre, where our pikemen had shattered the allies.

He was pointing dramatically to the west.

‘We’d already turned,’ he said, ‘and started to drive Athens back, when—’

‘Like fuck you had!’ said a young man with the prisoners. Your uncle Diodorus – one of the richest men there, and hence, on the guest list.

Philip whirled on him. ‘We folded the Athenian hoplites—’

Diodorus laughed. ‘Save it for an audience who weren’t actually there, King of Macedon.’

Alexander, who until then had been so completely in control of himself, laughed.

Every head turned.

A brittle silence fell, and while it stretched on and on, every one of us waited for it to be broken.

Into that moment came a mounted man, wearing a green cloak and bearing a heavy bronze staff. He came out of the dark, and Hephaestion spoke to him – at the edge of my peripheral vision.

He was a good-looking man, and he dismounted in respect, but stood as straight as an ash tree.

‘I am the Herald of Athens,’ he announced. ‘I request words with the King of Macedon.’

‘Fuck off,’ Philip said.

The herald started violently.

I thought that the king had misspoken, but he went on. ‘Fuck off – Athens is done. I’m the victor here, and if I want to send all these worthy men to my silver mines – it’s my whim. Athens is done.’

Demades – another one of the prisoners, and another famous orator – stepped up behind Diodorus, who stood with his arms crossed. ‘Philip, stop being a drunken tyrant!’

Odd that no Macedonian uttered those words. Or not so odd, given what happened. Athens had some great men.

‘Shut up,’ Philip said.

‘Fortune has cast you as Agamemnon, and you seem determined to be a drunken satyr,’ Demades said. ‘Be worthy of your victory, or be forgotten.’

Philip stood up straighter – as if he’d been slapped.

I waited for him to take his spear and gut the orator. I must say, even Demades flinched.

But Philip furrowed his brow and then, with a grand gesture, tossed his wine bowl.

‘You, sir, have the right of it,’ he said to the stunned Athenian. ‘I’m drunk, and playing the fool.’ He nodded,