God of War: The Epic Story of Alexander the Great

leader. He was standing in the courtyard of his billet, bragging to his friends.

Some of my best men. Six foot or taller, every man. Loyal as anything.

I had Polystratus and my grooms. ‘Take him,’ I said.

He didn’t even struggle until it was too late. All the way to the gallows tree he shrieked that he was a Macedonian, not a barbarian. His cries brought many men out of billets, and many Agrianians out of their fields. They watched him dragged to the tree, impassively.

Alectus came and stood in front of them. He nodded to me.

I did not nod back.

I ordered Philip son of Cleon – that was my phylarch’s name – to have a noose put around his neck.

I had almost a thousand men around me by then, and the Macedonians, as is our way, were vocal in their disapproval.

A rock hit Poseidon.

I had had other plans, but my hand was forced. The noose was tied to the tree, so I reached out and swatted the horse under my phylarch with my naked sword blade, and the horse reared and bolted, scattering the crowd, and before his fellow Macedonians could get organised, Philip son of Cleon’s neck snapped and he was dead.

And that got me silence.

‘Gentlemen,’ I said. It was silent. ‘One law. For every man in the army. No crime against your fellow soldiers will be tolerated. You are one corps – one regiment. It is the will of the king. In a few hours, we will march to war. If you are angered, save it for the enemy.’

Then I sent for the phylarchs and Prince Alectus.

‘When we march tomorrow,’ I said, ‘we will not march as separate companies. There will be four Macedonians and four Agrianians in every file, and they will alternate – Macedonian, Agrianian, Macedonian. And across the ranks – the same. See to it.’

My senior phylarch, yet another man named Philip – Philip son of Agelaus, known to most of us as Philip Longsword – spat. ‘Can’t be done. Take me all night just to write it down.’

‘Best get to work, then,’ I said.

There are some real advantages to being a rich aristocrat. He couldn’t stare me down. Social class rescued me, and eventually he knuckled under with a muttered ‘Yes, m’lord’.

Alectus merely nodded.

‘Don’t be fools!’ I said. ‘You two don’t know the king and I do. He’ll kill every one of you – me too – rather than give up on this experiment. So find a way to work together, or we’ll all hang one by one.’

If I expected that to have an immediate effect, I was disappointed. They both glared at each other and at me, and they left my tent without exchanging a word.

All night, I wanted to go and see what they were doing. At one point, Polystratus had to grab me by the collar and order me into my camp-bed.

The Hetaeroi marched first, in the morning, and we were just forming, and the whole army was waiting on us. And every man in the army knew what had happened.

In retrospect, I gambled heavily on Alectus.

He and Philip Longsword stood at the head of the parade, and called men by name – one by one.

It took an hour. More. We had just slightly fewer than eleven hundred men, and it took so much time to call their names that all the other taxeis were formed and ready to march.

And when we’d formed our phalanx, what a hodge-podge we looked. No order, no uniformity of equipment or even uniformity of chaos – which is what the barbarians had. Instead, we looked like the dregs of the army, not the elite.

But we were formed. I ordered them to march by files from the right, and off they went up the road.

I found the king at my elbow. ‘My apologies . . .’ I began.

Alexander gave me his golden smile. ‘Not bad,’ he said. He nodded and rode away.

I remember that day particularly well, because I rode for a while and then dismounted and took an aspis from one of the hypaspists.

You hardly see them any more, the big round shields of the older men. They were better men – better trained, the Greek way, in gymnasiums, and those perfect bodies you see in statues and on funerary urns had a purpose, which was to carry a greater weight of shield and armour than we lesser men today. It was Philip’s notion – Philip the king, I mean – to arm his bodyguard in the old way.

You can’t just take farmers and tell them to carry the aspis. Well – you can if your farmers consciously train to carry it. But Macedonian farmers aren’t the heroes of Marathon, who were somewhere between aristocrats and our small farmers, with the muscles of working men allied to the leisure time of gentlemen. But by making the hypaspitoi full-time soldiers who served all year round and trained every day, Philip made it possible to maintain a body of professional hoplites like the men he’d trained with in Thebes when he was a hostage there.

Alexander wanted the same – but he wanted to add the aggressive spirit and woodcraft of those Agrianians. On the first day, we had a lot of big men of two races who hated each other and were miserably undertrained in carrying the weight of the damned shield. And only the front-rankers had armour.

Two hours into the march, my left shoulder was so badly bruised that I had my fancy red military chlamys tied in a ball to pad it, and I was sheathed in sweat and it was all I could do to put one foot in front of another. Men were falling out – both Agrianians and Macedonians.

I knew what I had to do. This is what the pages train you for. This moment. But it hurts, and all that pain – boy, do you know that pain gets worse as you get older? The fear of pain – the expectation of pain?

At any rate, I stepped out of the file and ran back along the ranks to the very back of the hypaspistoi. I didn’t know the men by name or even by sight yet, but I guessed there were at least a dozen men already gone from the ranks. I also noticed that the pezhetaeroi behind us were marching in their chitons, with slaves carrying their helmets, small shields, pikes and armour.

I felt like an idiot. Cavalrymen generally wear their kit, and I was a cavalryman. Of course foot soldiers marched with slaves carrying their kit.

On the other hand . . .

There was Polystratus, riding and leading my Poseidon. He looked amused. I hated him.

‘Get your sorry arse back along the column and find my stragglers,’ I barked.

‘Yes, O master,’ he intoned. ‘You could ride and do it yourself.’

I made a rude sign at him, sighed and ran back up the column. ‘You tired? Anyone want to run with me?’ I bellowed, and men looked up from their misery.

‘I’m going to run the next five stades. And then I’m going to rest. You can walk the next five stades and then keep walking, or you can run with me.’ I repeated this over and over as I ran from the back of the column to the front.

At the front, I took my place in the lead file – a much more comfortable place to march, let me tell you, than the middle files, where the dust clogs your scarf and turns to a kind of mud with your breath.

In my head I started playing with tunes. I could play the lyre, badly, but I could sing well enough to be welcome at an Athenian symposium, and I knew a few songs. Nothing worked for me just then, so I grunted at my file leaders.

‘Ready to run?’ I asked.

Sullen stares of hate.

Command. So much fun.

‘On me,’ I said, and off I went at a fast trot.

Let’s be brief. We ran five stades. We caught up to the Hetaeroi cavalry in front. By then, we were strung out along three stades of dirt road, because a lot of my hypaspitoi were breaking down under the weight of the shields – ungainly brutes.

But we made it, and I led the files off the road into a broad field – a fallow farm field. I dropped the aspis off my shoulder and, without meaning to, fell to the ground. Then I got to my feet, by which time most of the hypaspitoi who were still with me were lying on their backs, staring at the sun in the sky.

‘Hypaspitoi!’ I shouted.

Groans. Silence.