God of War: The Epic Story of Alexander the Great

That was new.

I was done in when the sky started to get lighter. I was leading my light riding horse, saving Poseidon for the battle. My legs were like hot lead, and my ankles had twisted and twisted going over the rocks, and my feet were soaked and I had thick crap between my toes, because in the dark you can’t see where the worst puddles are.

Nicanor halted just behind me. He was the first man in the hypaspists, and I was shepherding the rear of my vanguard.

‘He’s either insane, or brilliant,’ Nicanor said. ‘And if you try for me right now, I have a sword in my hand.’

I looked back at him. He wasn’t afraid of me. None of Parmenio’s sons were yellow. ‘It wasn’t personal,’ I said. ‘You had it coming. If you obey the king and join with us, the king will accept you.’

‘Hmm,’ Nicanor said. ‘If the king pulls this off, I may be convinced.’ He shook his head. ‘My pater’s going to take even more convincing, though.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. It was. I knew the king didn’t want conflict with Parmenio’s faction. He wanted them to join him, and he was winning Nicanor over. He was, after all, the most charming man ever born, like one of the very gods when he chose.

‘But I owe you for the shoulder, and no mistake,’ he added.

‘Think of Pausanias’s fate with Attalus, and count yourself lucky,’ I said.

We were never friends.

An hour after first light, the Prodromoi reported that the whole enemy army was down in the valley in our old camp, and that they had no guards, no earthworks, no fortifications and no ambushes.

Alexander detached the Hetaeroi, the Agrianians and the archers to hit them immediately, while the hypaspitoi formed in close order on the knoll. Messengers were sent back for the pezhetaeroi, to hurry them along. They’d fallen behind in the dark.

We didn’t wait for them, and they were never required.

We fell on them when most of them were still in their blankets. The Agrianians went in first, and then the archers came in from the west, and they were silent and grim. I never saw them, and Illyrians died – throats slit, spears in bellies – without waking. By the time the alarm was given the ‘battle’ was over. My Hetaeroi charged the camp on horseback, and we were the least effective part of the raid. And the raid turned into the ‘battle’, because the Illyrians lost their nerve – Cleitus lost his nerve and ran for his fortress, and the silent Agrianian killers ripped his retinue to shreds.

It was horrible work, and we did it without much thought – I wasn’t in a single ‘fight’ and my life was never at risk. I killed men who were running, and I killed men who were sleeping, and I killed a great many men who were simply cowering away from my lance-point with empty eyes.

And then we were done.

It was noon before the pezhetaeroi caught up. They’d taken a wrong turn in the mountains. By then we’d recovered our slaves and camp servants, taken a horde of prisoners and we were mostly asleep. Except that we had sentries, and order.

I was awakened from a brief and exhausted sleep to find the King of Macedon standing over me.

‘Something wrong?’ I murmured, or something equally banal.

His eyes sparkled, and he seemed to be bursting with energy. ‘Everyone’s asleep!’ he said. By which he meant Hephaestion.

I got up and dusted the pine needles off my chiton. ‘Everyone’s exhausted,’ I said.

Ochrid got up when I got up. He raised a bronze kettle and an eyebrow.

I nodded. Ochrid was an essential part of my life – he knew I wanted something, and he made hot wine and water with spices without interrupting my conversation.

‘That was the best battle,’ Alexander said, out of nowhere. He was all but bouncing up and down. ‘Did you see – did you see me? I was with the Agrianians. I was the first man into the camp.’

I hadn’t seen him. It had been dark, and I’d been worried about everything from enemy alertness to my retreat route if it all went wrong.

‘I was the first into camp and I killed a sentry. Alectus said I did it perfectly.’ He grinned.

These moods were delicate and easy to puncture, and the blackness that followed was worth avoiding.

‘Well done, lord. Killing a sentry is the most dangerous task, and deserving of the highest honour.’

‘That’s just what Alectus said!’ Alexander’s smile grew wider. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d understand. You don’t always.’

I shrugged. I was looking around for help. This was Hephaestion’s job, not mine. ‘I don’t always agree with you, lord.’

Alexander looked away. ‘I’m supposed to admire that in you, but to tell the truth, I’m not sure you are ever right. Sometimes I think you disagree just to be contrary.’

That was scary talk. ‘Lord, I try to keep you in touch with the common men.’

He nodded. ‘I know you think so, Ptolemy. But I understand them perfectly. They are cattle – but glorious cattle, and I know how to make them rise above themselves. You want them to stay comfortable, down in the mud.’

I want to keep them from cutting your throat, you arrogant popinjay. Demosthenes isn’t all wrong, either. I can remember thinking that.

‘It’s all right, Ptolemy. You’re the best of my generals – but you can’t be expected to understand everything I can see.’ He put a hand on my back – too tentatively, not quite the right physical contact, the way a certain kind of boy touches girls – not enough firmness, not enough confidence.

He could conquer the world, but he wasn’t all that good with people. Unless they wanted to worship him, in which case he was perfect.

I remember giving him a cynical smile. ‘I do my best to keep up,’ I said. I pointed at Nicanor to change the subject. ‘Parmenio’s son is coming around.’

Alexander nodded. Ochrid brought us cups of warm, spiced wine, and Alexander took his and nodded gratefully. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

Alexander never noticed slaves. It was a sign.

Ochrid almost stumbled. ‘My pleasure, lord,’ he said.

Alexander beamed at him. Then turned back to me. ‘He’s a good man, your . . . what’s his name?’

Ochrid had been serving Alexander for three years. ‘Ochrid, my lord.’

Alexander nodded. ‘Nicanor will come around in time, but only until his father is here, and then something will have to be done.’ He shrugged. ‘You know that Attalus handed me all his treasonable correspondence – all Parmenio’s, all Demosthenes’ – before I had him killed. Yes?’

I had not known, but I had had my suspicions.

‘Parmenio was in the plot up to the hilt,’ Alexander said.

Now, I was no fan of Attalus, and I had little time for Parmenio, but my contrary streak was aching to point out to Alexander that before he killed his father, he’d been the plotter, and they were the faithful servants of the king. Luckily, I didn’t mention it.

I looked around to make sure no one was listening. ‘I think we’re facing an organised opposition right now,’ I said. ‘Thais believes—’

Alexander nodded. ‘I know what Thais believes,’ he said.

‘Do you have any news from Greece?’ I asked.

Alexander shook his head. ‘Thebes has already been taught her lesson. They won’t rise again.’

I felt like a conspirator. ‘They would if they thought that someone else was going to be King of Macedon,’ I said.

‘Amyntas?’ Alexander asked. ‘Or Caranus?’

I shrugged. ‘If you like.’ Amyntas son of Perdiccas was the heir apparent by virtue of being the last legitimate claimant to the throne left alive. He had ties to Attalus and to Parmenio – marriage ties, family ties, office-holding ties and landownership ties.

Caranus – I hope you are keeping track – was Cleopatra’s son by Philip, Alexander’s father. He was two years old and unlikely to make trouble for a would-be dynast, meaning that he was the perfect candidate to figurehead a rebellion.