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 Thais 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
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!’
