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I was shocked that Parmenio had turned against Alexander. It didn’t seem possible.
Quite a few of our old pages were missing. But Attalus had miscalculated and shown his hand before most of us went home on leave – all the men who’d gone with Alexander to Athens were still with me, and had Attalus waited a week, Alexander would have been virtually alone.
But even as things were – I say this from the distance of years – they’d plotted carefully, but they hadn’t plotted completely. It was as if – despite their intent – they couldn’t actually cross some invisible line. I still think that Philip was unable to kill his son.
Let me add – in case you don’t understand – that bastardising your relatives was an old Macedonian royal house tradition, a handy way of knocking rivals out of the succession. It happened every generation. Some bastards – or so-called bastards – stayed around and became trusted men, generals, members of the i
I briefed six bodyguards – all men Alexander had appointed somatophylakes before Athens – and then I slipped out to the stables. Polystratus had gathered the loyal grooms, and he had the horses – fifty horses. Another advantage – we had just returned from travelling, and in every case our travelling gear was still packed – in most cases, still in baggage carts.
As soon as Cleomenes came off duty, I sent him with the carts and the spare horses – up the road, to my estates, north of the city, towards the Illyrian frontier.
Polystratus stood by with our war horses.
I had all the former pages armed and armoured, in boots, ready to ride. With spears and swords – in my rooms, near Alexander’s.
I could have killed Philip that evening. The palace was not well guarded – the new companions didn’t know their business very well, and were often in awe of us, the ‘veterans’. I could have killed him, but remember, this wasn’t my first intrigue, I was truly a veteran of that court, and he was my king. I saw to my arrangements, told a lot of lies to new guardsmen to explain my movements, arranged for the loyal grooms from the stables to ride with us, sent a trio of my men with Polystratus to the house of Attalus – to fetch his wife. Her location was named in the royal warrant. In some ways, they made it easy.
But in my head, a voice was telling me over and over that we should kill the king and seize power – that ru
I wanted to send Myndas ahead of Polystratus – slaves can go places freemen ca
Myndas didn’t grin. My offer scared him spitless. He could barely speak; he had two burning red spots on his cheeks and his lips were pale in the lamplight.
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 gri
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 Thaïs 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 di
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.