God of War: The Epic Story of Alexander the Great

postures’. If this makes you feel queasy, try to remember that these were the men who had raped our friend.

My sword made a bloody little furrow in Diomedes’ cheek. I remember that best of all – the blood running down his cheek as he begged me to let him go.

I didn’t. I dragged him into the agora and up to the rostrum where merchants announced their wares and sometimes men accused other men of using false weights or selling bad horses.

In the middle of the agora, surrounded by Athenian merchants and Thessalian horse dealers, I stopped. It was possible that Attalus had grown powerful enough to kill me in broad daylight with fifty witnesses, but I doubted it.

I waited. Diomedes screamed. I thought of Pausanias, lying on a couch in the queen’s chambers, his face to the wall, and I twisted the bastard’s dislocated shoulder again. And again.

‘This man who is screaming like a woman dishonoured my friend,’ I shouted from the rostrum. ‘His name is Diomedes. He is the nephew of the king’s friend Attalus, and he is a faithless coward, a whore and a hermaphrodite. Aren’t you, Diomedes?’

And I rotated his shoulder, and he screamed.

Shall I leave the rest out?

But that’s how it was, in Macedon.

Eventually, the royal companions came, ‘rescued’ Diomedes and arrested me. That was the dangerous part – being walked to the palace, I wondered whether they’d let me be killed. But they were serious men, in armour, and Diomedes was a wreck of excrement and fear. He couldn’t even speak.

I was dragged before Philip, dirty, disarmed and with my hands tied behind me like a thief. Diomedes was, after all, the royal favourite.

Philip was sitting on an ivory stool, playing with his dogs. As I came in, he scratched his beard and growled, and for a moment he looked like one of his mastiffs.

‘Ptolemy,’ he grumbled. He looked deeply unhappy. ‘What the fuck have you been doing?’

I bowed. ‘Lord,’ I said, ‘Attalus is planning to murder us – the older pages. Diomedes tried to trap me in the streets. I fought back.’

Philip spat. ‘Attalus – Lord Attalus, the Commander of Asia – is plotting to murder some boys?’ He shook his head angrily.

I shrugged. ‘Do you know that he ordered Pausanias raped? By fifty men? By slaves?’ I asked.

‘I am your king, boy. You do not question me. I question you.’ Philip picked up a cup of wine, poured a libation on the floor like a farmer and drank the rest off. ‘Yes, I have heard that there was some matter involving Pausanias. But the boy always exaggerates everything.’

I shook my head and pointed towards the queen’s wing of the palace. ‘Go and see him,’ I said. ‘In this, he need say nothing. Just look at him and see if I exaggerate.’

Philip turned his head away. ‘Ptolemy,’ he began. Cleared his throat. ‘This is more complicated than you can imagine, boy.’

I raised my head and met him eye to eye. ‘Lord, your friend Attalus is trying to kill my friends – or rape them with slaves.’

‘I will deal with men who break my laws!’ Philip said. ‘You cannot take the law into your own hands!’

I shrugged. ‘If I had not ambushed Diomedes, his men would have killed me on the spot. Or worse.’

Philip gazed at a tapestry on the wall – the Rape of Europa, of all things.

I was not making any headway, and it occurred to me – for the first time, I think – that Philip could not actually accept what I was saying, because to accept it would have been to give up on a number of his cherished notions of how his court should function. Of his own power. Of his need to dispossess Alexander, although I’m not sure he ever admitted that to himself.

In fact, when you are a royal page, you are so deep in the court intrigue that it is like the blood in your body. And here, suddenly, I had to face the reality that the king himself didn’t really know what was going on.

‘Does my son plot to kill me?’ Philip asked, suddenly.

‘No,’ I said, although my heart beat so loudly that I was afraid the king would hear it in my chest.

‘Attalus says he has a plot – with that bitch his mother. Tell it to me, and I will see that you are protected and favoured.’ Philip was showing his old iron – telling me to my face that he knew that something was up.

I remember that, because up until then, I had tried to be loyal to Alexander and loyal to the old king, as well.

But in that moment, I had to choose.

I was smart enough to stay in my role – as an angry youth. I forced a sneer. ‘I’m sorry you think I look like the sort of man who informs on his friends,’ I said.

Philip grabbed my hands. ‘Look, you idiot – if Alexander tries for me and fails I’ll have to kill him. If he kills me, he’ll never manage to rule – he’s too weak, too womanish, too easily swayed. Someone like Attalus will drag him down. Tell him from me – I need the balance. So does he. Let it be as it is now.’ He released me.

I shrugged. ‘I’ll tell him,’ he said. ‘No idea what he’ll say.’

‘Does he know his own limitations?’ Philip asked the ceiling. ‘If I die, the whole thing is gone – Athens wins, and Macedon is a memory. None of the nobles will follow Alexander. He’s too . . . arrogant. Ignorant. Young.’

Philip saw his son only through a veil of his own failings. Very human, but surprising from the man who was King of Macedon. Philip couldn’t let himself imagine that Alexander could do without him.

Alexander couldn’t imagine that his father could conquer Asia without him.

I stood silent and judged them. On behalf of Macedon.

‘You will make a public apology to Diomedes at the wedding.’ He pointed at the door.

I bowed. ‘What wedding, lord?’

Philip laughed. ‘I am marrying young Cleopatra to my cousin, Alexander of Epiros. Olympias will be removed from the succession and I’ll be shot of her for ever.’ He smiled and poured more wine. ‘I’m inviting all of Greece, boy. Athens will be empty.’

I said nothing. Cleopatra was Attalus’s niece, remember. Not the same Cleopatra as Alexander’s sister, due to be married to Alexander of Epiros at Aegae. Pay attention, boy – it’s not my fault they were all inbred and had the same names.

‘And this time next year, I’ll cross into Asia. You could be with me, Ptolemy. I saw what you did at Chaeronea. You can lead. Men will follow you, despite that ugly mug you’ve got.’

Philip poured another libation. Drank more.

‘It’s like riding an unbroken horse,’ he said, after he had allowed himself a sip. ‘Sooner or later I’m going to slip and get thrown.’ He frowned. I wasn’t sure he knew I was there. ‘And then it all comes down. Fuck them all.’

I got out of the room as fast as I could.

I was one of the first at court to know of the wedding, but in a few days it was the only topic. The court was to be moved to the ancient, sacred capital at Aegae. The theatre had been rebuilt, there were two new temples and everything shone with marble, polished bronze and new gilt.

Philip was going to sponsor a set of festivities lasting fifteen days, to overawe Greece with his civilised power as much as his armies dominated their thoughts of war and violence. He had hired the best playwrights and the best poets, the best rhapsodes, the best musicians.

I’m telling this out of order, because it’s all jumbled up in my mind. I beat the living shit out of Diomedes and then, a week or so later, we rode north for Aegae and in that time, a great many things changed.

Cleopatra – the king’s fourth wife – gave birth to a son. A healthy son. Philip was openly delighted.

That night he threw a feast. All were invited – even Alexander and his men.

Pausanias rose from his bed in the queen’s wing of the palace and went to Philip to make a formal complaint. He did this before the entire court, two hundred of the most powerful men in Macedon and Thessaly, with fifty more highland noblemen of his own family to listen, most of the royal companions and every one of the pages of his own generation except me.

Alexander ordered me to stay in his rooms. He thought that Attalus would try to kill me if he saw me.

But Pausanias did something incredibly brave. He did what Attalus never imagined he’d dare to – he swore a