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‘To Zeus, god of kings,’ he said.
I had never heard him invoke Zeus so directly.
I must have opened my mouth, because Alexander held up a hand. ‘Ask me nothing. I do not wish to speak, or play a game. I do not even wish to be alive, just now. Please leave me.’
Startled, I took the empty wine cup from him and went to withdraw.
‘Stop,’ Alexander said. ‘I owe you my thanks, Ptolemy. Your attack on Diomedes was brilliant.’
I bowed. ‘It almost went badly. I didn’t plan for everything . . .’
Alexander managed a grim smile. ‘Stop, you sound too much like the cook who always apologises for flaws in the di
It hadn’t occurred to me that my brilliant and lucky attack on Diomedes had been part of a larger plan. ‘The queen pla
Alexander shook his head. ‘You have my thanks,’ he said. ‘Now go away, before I say something I will regret.’
The next day, I had the whole corps of former pages on alert, and Hephaestion said that Alexander hadn’t slept all night. It wasn’t my duty day, but we were all to march in the parade – the ambassadors and all the nobles, led by Philip in a gleaming white chiton and gold sandals. It sounded like bad theatre to me, but we polished our best armour. Those of us who had been to Athens looked like gods. The rest merely looked like Macedonians.
Olympias appeared in white and gold, her dark hair piled in golden combs and strings of pearls on her head like a temple to Nike, who adorned her head at the pi
But if anyone there looked like a god come to earth, it was she, not he.
He bent down to speak to her, where she stood surrounded by her women. She laughed at him, and he kissed her – just a peck on the cheek. And she laughed again, caught his head and pulled him down – not in an embrace, as I expected, but to whisper in his ear.
He nodded.
I was standing at the head of the former pages. Technically, we were all royal companions, but everyone sill called us ‘pages’.
‘Ptolemy,’ he said.
I bowed.
‘I wish to take Pausanias back into my personal guard,’ he said, and held out his hand.
Pausanias was standing close behind me. I hadn’t realised that he was there.
Philip smiled at him. In that smile, I read that he – a great king – was being magnanimous, and stating – as he could, because he was king – that whatever had happened, he would take Pausanias as a bodyguard. I’ll remind you that he was a forgiving man, when he was sober, and he assumed that the honour would wipe away the stains, and Pausanias – older and wiser – would rise to the occasion.
I could see Pausanias. He paled. And his eyes slipped away to Olympias. And he gave the king an unsteady bow and crossed the long twenty or so paces to where the king’s own companions stood.
How he must have feared to cross that gap. We were his friends – they were his tormentors. Or that’s how I saw it, because he walked with his head high, but with the gait of a nervous colt.
At the head of the procession, the formal statues on their ceremonial platforms were carried by the strongest slaves – eight slaves to a god. All carved of Parian marble with hair and eyes of pure gold. Aphrodite, decently clothed, and Hera, goddess of wives and mothers; Artemis, effeminate Dionysus, Ares and Apollo and Hephaestos and the rest, and Zeus at their head, a foot taller than the other gods. And next to him, a statue of Philip.
There was a gasp, even from the royal companions.
Philip rode it out and stood like a rooster, inviting compliment.
I admired his braze
The Athenians didn’t. Even Phokion, who seemed to love Philip, turned away.
But the sun was rising, and the parade was ready, and we started towards the new theatre.
And then we stopped. It is the way with parades – they start and stop, and get slower and slower.
But what came back to us was an order from the king. He asked Alexander to come and enter the theatre with him.
Something terrible happened on Alexander’s face, then. His father had shown him no love at all for more than a year – had all but cut him from the succession. But here – all of a sudden – he was invited to walk with his father in the most important ceremonial of the most important two weeks of the year.
He had a difficult time getting his face under control, and twice he looked at his mother.
Then he walked forward, and he walked with the same nervous gait that Pausanias had used.
I thanked the gods for my own mother and father, that I had not been born to the Royal House of Macedon. And I didn’t know the half of it.
As we marched into the theatre, the royal companions entered after the statues and turned to the right, forming their ranks on the sand while the priests put the statues into their niches for the duration of the games. I was bored, and my left shoulder hurt, and I wondered if I would be any good. I had entered the pankration, and I was aware that a win would help restore me to Philip’s good graces. And the pain in my shoulder was a worry.
We were behind the king, and my squadron was to form to the left as we entered the theatre, while the king went to the centre and then Olympias and her ladies would enter with Cleopatra (the king’s wife, not that other one) and her ladies. Together, because it amused Philip to make them cooperate.
As we started to enter, Philip seemed to hesitate, as if someone had called his name. My front rank appeared to fall apart. I noticed that Black Cleitus, my left file leader, was hesitating. Well, we were cavalrymen being forced to march like hoplites, but I hated to make a bad show. I turned farther and heard the noise, turned back to where Cleitus was looking, and saw Perdiccas spring out of the second rank.
Pausanias went past us, his hand all covered in blood.
Perdiccas didn’t follow Pausanias immediately. He looked out on to the sands, turned, and thenraced after Pausanias, followed by two more of my men – Leonatus and Andromenes, both highlanders. They were all three close friends, a tight group made tighter by shared blood and highland custom. I roared at them to halt, but they were stubborn bastards.
And only then did I realise that there was more wrong than the loss of cohesion in my ranks.
I had thought, I guess, that Pausanias had broken down and done himself an injury and his relatives were ru
If I thought anything at all.
But somewhere in that horrible moment I realised that Alexander was kneeling in the sand by Philip, who was lying in a growing pool of red, red blood, with a Keltoi sword sticking out of his gut, the ivory chariot team racing towards the heavens.
And only then did I realise what Pausanias had done.
‘Seal the exits!’ Antipater roared at my elbow.
Antipater – who I hadn’t seen to speak to in months – was suddenly at the head of the parade.
It was the right order. I turned and shouted it at my companions, and they snapped to.
But I could see that Philip was dead. Not dying. He was already gone.
And I remember thinking that I did not have the luxury to think. I know that makes little sense – but it all came together for me. Olympias, Pausanias and Alexander. And I knew – in a heartbeat – that it would mean my life to show a wrinkle of suspicion.
So I shouted for my men to close the exits, and Antipater got the royal companions into the northern half of the theatre.