God of War: The Epic Story of Alexander the Great

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 anything to 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 was Achilles. ‘I will not show 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.