God of War: The Epic Story of Alexander the Great (29 page)

Pella.

Philip had changed. I saw it in his body language as soon as we arrived at the palace. He didn’t quite turn his back on Alexander, but he was distant, cold and very, very businesslike.

I didn’t even hear the exchange, it was so brief. Alexander asked where his mother was, and Philip replied that he had no idea.

So little information. And yet, all the information we should have needed.

I had a home to go to – a house that did not hold Nike. But that’s where my horse would be stabled, now, and my armour stowed. So I waited by the gate for dismissal, observing. Noting that Attalus stood with the king, and commanded the grooms as if he were the king himself. Our eyes met, and he smiled.

I felt a chill.

Alexander came over in person – uncharacteristic. ‘You can go home,’ he said.

Hephaestion was at his shoulder.

‘Take care, my prince,’ I said. ‘Something is wrong.’

‘Agreed,’ Alexander said. ‘I think my mother is in exile. I will dine at your house tonight, I think.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said. ‘Without Nike . . .’

Alexander smiled – a sad smile he’d learned in Athens. ‘I know you miss her,’ he said. ‘Now go.’

I had the feeling that Alexander was afraid.

That made my fingers cold.

I rode around the corner of my street and found that my house was burned. To the ground. The houses on either side were burned, too.

Gone.

Ten minutes of increasingly angry knocking at doors – Polystratus helped – revealed that no one knew
anything
, to a suspicious degree.

Polystratus grew more agitated.

‘I need to go home,’ he said.

We had Nearchus and Cleitus with us. Cleomenes was on duty.

‘Let’s go together,’ I said. We all loosened our swords in our scabbards, and we rode fast.

Polystratus’s farm was . . . gone. The house was erased. His fields were under tillage.

We rode to find the headman.

He hid in his house. His wife burst into tears, but barred the door.

And then, while we sat there, Diomedes appeared with a dozen outriders – Thracians. All well mounted and all armed.

‘Looking for something?’ the king’s catamite asked sweetly. ‘Lost something you value?’

Polystratus looked at me. It was up to me – we weren’t in Athens, and peasants don’t talk to lords in Pella.

‘We’re looking for Polystratus’s wife,’ I said pleasantly enough. ‘We didn’t expect to find her moved.’

Diomedes smiled. ‘I thought you might come looking. So I came out to help.’ His grin covered his face. ‘She’s been apprehended by the law, and she’s back at work with her rightful owner. I’m sure that you didn’t know that she was an escaped slave.’

Polystratus choked.

I looked at him.

‘The law seized the farm as penalty for the crime of hiding an escaped slave,’ Diomedes continued. ‘And now that the felon has returned, I have a royal warrant for his arrest.’ He held out a scroll.

I reached to take it, but Diomedes swished it away. Somehow this juvenile act enraged me where everything else had merely made me cold.

Diomedes leaned in close. ‘Perhaps this time you’ll notice when we cut you, you fuck. Because we will cut you until you cease to exist. No one pisses on Attalus and lives.’

I had no idea what he was talking about. But I knew that my friends could take his Thracians. On the other hand, he was the royal’s favourite.

I looked back at Polystratus. ‘Is this true?’ I asked, but I could see on his face that it was. ‘You stupid fuck – why didn’t you tell me? I’d have bought her freedom.’

Polystratus bit his lip. I remember that it was odd to have the boot on the other foot. He was the older man, the adviser – Nestor to my Odysseus. Suddenly he was the supplicant.

Polystratus had been at my shoulder for a year, and I owed him . . . everything. And I had seen Kineas and Niceas, remember. Polystratus was not a peasant. He was a man. My man. Who had helped save me from myself.

I turned back, seized the scroll with one hand and tipped Diomedes into the winter mud by the simple expedient of reaching down, grabbing his foot and flipping him up. I pulled my spear from the bucket at my shoulder with my free hand, pointed it at his chest and looked at the Thracians.

‘Move, and I’ll have the lot of you sold as slaves.’ I said it in their language, and I meant it.

The street was mucky, full of winter rain and ordure, pigs’ guts and cow manure.

The Thracians rustled, and my friends had their swords in their hands.

I flipped the scroll open one-handed and read enough of the royal warrant to know that Diomedes was full of shit. I knew the laws – better than most men. I put the point of my boar spear against Diomedes’ chest. Every movement of my horse pushed it a little farther into his skin. ‘Just lie there,’ I said. I read the document to the end.

‘Nothing here about arresting my man,’ I said. ‘Nor anything naming you as an officer of the court.’ I smiled down into the mud. ‘So you’re a brigand with a band of Thracians.’

‘You stupid
fuck
,’ he said. ‘The king will have you killed.’

‘I doubt you’re that good in bed,’ I said. ‘Get up.’

He got to his feet, backed away.

I was beginning to see where his insinuations led, even as he scrambled to remount his horse.

‘You burned my city house?’ I said. Had I been Achilles, I would have killed him then and there. But I am not Achilles. I’m Odysseus, and things were falling into place, like the pins and cogs of one of the astrological machines I’d seen in Athens.

‘Oh, very good,’ he hissed. ‘At last, you begin to see.’ He was mounted, and in the middle of his Thracians. I regretted letting him up. ‘We’ll kill your people. And you. Attalus is going to rule Macedon. You are going to suck my cock.’

‘You are a dumb bastard,’ I said, because thanks to that outburst, I could see the whole thing.

He turned and rode away, and the Thracians surrounded him. He was already hectoring them for their cowardice, but hired muscle is never the equal of determined freemen.

Well – actually that’s not true. Hired muscle often wins. But in the long run . . .

Attalus was planning to be king. What had he put into Philip’s head?

‘Back to the palace,’ I said.

We rode hard. We crossed the fields at a trot, staying on the field dividers to keep out of the mud, and we were back on the streets of Pella well before Diomedes.

Into the foreyard of the palace.

I turned to Polystratus. ‘We’ll find your girl. For now – get ready to move. Stable the horses, but stay close.’

With Nearchus and Black Cleitus at my shoulder, I entered the palace through the stables and moved along the main corridor. Of course we had the passwords, but I could feel the eyes of the companions on my back.

On the other hand, I was an officer, the head of one of the great families. If I chose to use it, I had a great deal of power. I thought that perhaps Attalus had underestimated me.

I made for Alexander’s rooms. He was lying on his couch, reading, with Hephaestion on a chair polishing his helmet.

‘Lord, there’s a plot,’ I said.

Alexander rolled off his bed. ‘I know there’s something.’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything for certain. But my city house has been burned, all my slaves sold. My man, Polystratus – they moved against him in law, seized his wife and sold his lands. And he’s a freeman and a veteran.’

Alexander frowned. ‘Nasty, but not a plot against me.’

‘Diomedes came out to crow,’ I said.

Alexander raised an eyebrow. ‘Attalus.’

‘Diomedes said Attalus will be king,’ I said, and Alexander snarled like a lion. Hephaestion put a hand on his shoulder.

And a frightened page came into the room. ‘The king!’ he squeaked.

Philip pushed in on the page’s heels. Behind him was Attalus, with Diomedes, still splashed with mud.

‘Ptolemy!’ Philip said.

I pointed at Diomedes. ‘Only my loyalty to you, sire, kept me from killing this dog on the road,’ I said, because a good offence is always the best defence.

‘He says—’

‘Lord, he tried to lay hands on me and admitted to destroying my property and selling my people as slaves – while I did your bidding in Athens,’ I said.

King Philip’s eyes narrowed when I spoke over him – but he listened. Remember – I represented a great family and a lot of loyal service. And a lot of tax money. And political power.

‘I wish to swear a case against him,’ I went on. ‘I withheld my hand from killing him, but I demand justice.’

Philip’s face worked. He looked at Diomedes.

‘Lies!’ Diomedes said. ‘Lord, I—’

Nearchus, at my shoulder, bowed. ‘My king, I was there. It was as Lord Ptolemy says.’

Attalus spluttered. ‘They are all pages – they’re in it together!’

Alexander stood up. ‘Attalus – I do not remember inviting you into my rooms. Please leave. Diomedes, you as well.’

Philip looked back and forth. ‘Ptolemy – no need to swear a case against Diomedes, is there? What is this, some boys’ quarrel?’ He smiled at us.

Attalus narrowed his eyes. ‘Lord Ptolemy has been telling people that he is your bastard son and has as much right to the throne as Prince Alexander.’ Attalus grinned so that the fat hid his eyes. ‘Or better,’ he drawled, ‘since he says that he can prove you are his father.’

Philip made a strangled sound.

I can go either way – rage or cold calculation. But Athena stood at my shoulder. ‘My king – Attalus is gravely mistaken. I have never made any such claim. And anyone who looks at me can see my parentage in my nose.’ I laughed.

I have learned that a laugh – an unforced laugh, or a damned good imitation – is the most disarming technique in the world. And my nose was an excellent witness.

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?’