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 then raced 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 running to see to him.
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.
The crowd was terrified.
Phokion was angry. It showed in his posture – the old warrior was stiff, hips set, ready to fight.
I did my duty, kept them in place and watched as Antipater cleared the theatre a bench at a time. Olympias and her ladies were already gone. They had never entered the theatre, and neither had Cleopatra.
Every foreign contingent was sent to their lodgings with a pair of guards – mostly royal companions – with orders to make sure that not so much as a slave got away until Antipater ordered them released.
I wrapped myself in my role and saw to it that the companions did their work. Slaves came and took the king’s corpse. No one pretended he was still alive.
That meant that Alexander was king.
We cleared the last of the seats, and for a moment, it was just me and Cleitus, way up at the top, watching the Theban embassy moved forcefully down the ramps.
‘Alexander is king!’ Cleitus said.
I nodded.
‘Pausanias killed the king,’ he said.
I nodded.
Cleitus caught my eye. ‘We know better, don’t we?’ he said bitterly.
I remember that moment well. Because I shrugged. ‘Philip was going to ruin us,’ I said. It was in every man’s heart – Philip had turned to hubris and self-indulgence. And in Macedon, when the king slips, you find a new king.
Cleitus thought for a long time. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Poor Alexander,’ he added.
And that’s all we ever said on the subject, except one night in Asia. And that was years and parasanges later, and I’ll tell that tale when I come to it.
TEN
You might have thought that having lost his father – whether he actively schemed at Philip’s murder or just sat back and let it happen – Alexander might have either suffered remorse, or at least enjoyed the fruits of success.
In fact, the next months are a blur to me, and I can’t pretend I remember them well. This is the problem with my secret history, lad – we never spoke of these things at the time, and I can’t really remember the exact order in which things happened.
On the afternoon of Philip’s murder, Antipater ordered the palace locked down, and all the former pages were in armour, as I said – we cleared the theatre, and then we came to a sort of shocked halt.
Antipater was there. And he started issuing orders. For us, the most important order was that we were now the first squadron of the royal companions. He ordered me to set the watch bill, and he took Philip the Red and more than half of us to clear the palace, and all of the dead king’s royal companions were put under what amounted to house arrest in their barracks and stables.
They went without a murmur, which saved everyone a bloodbath.
Perdiccas rode back covered with blood and told me – and then Alexander – that he had killed Pausanias with his spear – that the man had had a pair of horses waiting, so he had accomplices.
In the morning, I had been certain that Alexander had contrived the murder himself, or Olympias had done it, but by afternoon, my cynical observations were shaken, mostly because both Olympias and Alexander were behaving so . . . naturally. They were acting as if they were afraid that the plotters were after them. And the precautions they took were real.
I put a whole troop of the former pages – from now on I’ll just call them the Hetaeroi – on guard at the palace. I led them myself. Black Cleitus stood at Alexander’s side, and Hephaestion stood behind him, both in full armour.
Aeropus’s son, Alexander of Lyncestis, came in just after the sun touched the roof of the Royal Tomb. That part I remember. I was in armour, and he rode right into the palace courtyard, leaving a strong force of men at arms at the gate. I met him. He was the de facto ruler of the highland party, and he had some claim to the throne – distant, but in Macedon perfectly acceptable.
I had a pair of archers watching him with arrows on their bowstrings.
‘My lord,’ I said formally.
He slid from his horse. ‘Ptolemy,’ he said, with a nod. We weren’t friends, but we had enough in common that, in a crisis, we had some basis for trust. ‘I wish to surrender to the king. Will he spare me?’
I remember thinking, What the fuck’s going on? I shook my head. ‘I can’t say,’ I said. ‘I give you my word I won’t have you killed out of hand, but . . . if you conspired at Philip’s murder, I can’t save you.’ I couldn’t understand why he had come in or surrendered himself, and my suspicious nature made me wonder if there wasn’t a surprise attack coming at me. I stepped back.
‘Eyes on the walls!’ I said. ‘Watch those men in the alley – watch everything.’ There’s good leadership. Laugh if you like, boy.
Alexander the Highlander was as pale as a woman’s new-washed chiton. ‘I think my brothers had something to do with it,’ he said.
And then Antipater appeared. He was everywhere that day.
‘Ah, Ptolemy,’ he said, as if we’d made an appointment to talk. ‘Is that my useless son-in-law you have there?’
In fact, Alexander the Highlander was married to Antipater’s daughter.
It occurred to me that Antipater had just spent two full weeks at Alexander the Highlander’s estates.
Alexander met his namesake in the throne room. They talked for a quarter of an hour or so, and then Alexander appeared in the courtyard – my Alexander. He looked around for a long time, his eyes locking on one former page or another, and finally his eyes came to rest on me. He looked at me for far too long. He had a scroll tube in his hand and an old cloak over his white robes from the morning.
He beckoned. As I came up to him, Ant
ipater came out on to the exedra.
‘Alexander!’ he called. His tone was peremptory.
Alexander ignored him. ‘Take twenty men. Your own retainers, or someone else’s. Go and take the sons of Aeropus, and see to it they are brought here. Do not use the Hetaeroi – do you understand?’
I understood immediately that I was being asked to do something outside the law – and something for which I was trusted.
‘Consider it done,’ I said, with a proper salute.
Alexander flashed me that awesome smile. ‘Herakles ride with you,’ he said. And then he said, ‘If I’m still king when the sun rises tomorrow, I reckon I’ll be king for a bit.’
He was scared. I’d never seen it before.
Antipater was shouting from the exedra. Alexander ignored him.
‘Ptolemy!’ Antipater shouted.
I looked up.
But before he could speak, Alexander pointed at his best and most loyal councillor. ‘Antipater,’ he said. Heads turned. ‘Which one of us is king?’
Antipater hesitated.
And the Fates wove on.
I took Polystratus and his friends – my own retainers, trusted men, every one – small men who owed everything to me, and had been in exile with me. We rode out into the countryside. The Aeropus clan’s local estates were up the valley, two hours’ ride. We were there as the sun was setting. I had briefed my troopers carefully.
We were challenged at the outer gate. But they let us in. The outer yard was full of armed men – at least as many as I had with me.
My men rode in under the arch, and Polystratus killed the gatekeeper with a single javelin throw, and we went at them. They had weapons, and they were highlanders – trained men. Violent men.
Mostly what I remember is the suddenness of it. Polystratus threw his spear, and we were fighting. There was no posturing, no yelling, no war cries.
My men had good armour and horses. That was the margin. That, and surprise. I don’t know why they let us into the courtyard, but they did. And when we went at them, at least a hand’s worth were down before the rest turned into killers. I got one of them with his hand on the release to the dog cages. Then I held the ground when three of them rushed me.
Highlanders are brave, but they are no match for a man who has trained every waking moment from age seven. I don’t even remember taking a cut. Polystratus came and helped, and then Philoi, another former slave, and then they were all dead, and we were storming the kitchen – the kitchen doors gave directly on to the courtyard, and there was no reason to wait. The cook died in his doorway, and my people went through that house like a tide of death, killing the slaves, clearing each room. We found the two brothers – Alexander the Highlander’s brothers – in the cellar.
I tied their hands behind their backs, put them on horses and then went through the house, looking for documents. I found four scroll tubes and a single scroll chest – highlanders don’t read much – and loaded them on a horse.
Then I torched the house and we rode for the palace.
No question it was an evil act. We killed a dozen slaves and twenty freemen and took two princes prisoner. I won’t even argue that I was only following orders. I will merely say – and I pray to Zeus you have time to discover this your own way – that if you will be a king, you will kill men. Are they ‘innocent’? Is one man worth the life of another?
You decide, boy. But make sure you make your own decision, because, by Zeus, it will come back on your head and in your dreams.
Midnight, and we rode into the palace precinct. Black Cleitus had the Hetaeroi. I saluted and he waved me on. My prisoners were taken to the cellars.
A great deal had happened in my absence. Apparently Antipater counselled caution and Hephaestion cautioned rashness – not for the last time, that particular pairing – and Alexander went to meet the army in person – all the foot companions and the two full taxeis of Macedonian phalangites who had accompanied the king from Pella. He met them at sunset, while I was storming the traitor’s estate, and he promised that Philip would be avenged – and that they would conquer Asia. And they cheered him, and declared him king by acclamation.
Wish I’d seen it. There used to be a painting of it in the royal palace in Pella, but I hear Cassander had it painted over. Coward.
I was exhausted, but Alexander embraced me, fed me wine, heard my somewhat laconic report. I didn’t feel it was an achievement about which I should brag.
‘You killed them all and burned the building?’ Alexander asked.
Antipater put his face in his hands. Took a deep breath through his hands. ‘We are lost,’ he said.
Alexander shook his head. ‘Well done, my friend. That’s the hydra beheaded.’
But I was wily Odysseus, and I wasn’t half done. I stood where I could see Alexander and his mother, who was behind his couch, and Antipater, who looked shaken.
‘I have all their correspondence,’ I said.
It was far worse than I thought. Olympias flushed and her eyes locked with mine – Alexander froze, and Antipater’s eyes flicked between Alexander and me.
‘Give it to me,’ Olympias said. ‘Have you read it?’
I looked her right in the eye – no mean feat, friend – and said, ‘No.’ But I smiled when I said it, to rob the denial of all meaning. I was playing very hard.
Alexander flicked a look at me – and then at his mother. ‘Mother?’ he asked quietly.
‘I know they are as guilty as if they held the knife themselves,’ I said. I carefully avoided mentioning that I now suspected that they weren’t alone in being guilty.
You may ask why I was working the situation so hard – eh? No? You understand, don’t you, boy? Palace revolution isn’t that alien to you, is it? All the rules were changing that night. I was determined to be a main player, and not a small one. Great things grow from small – that is how the interplay of power works. I had missed some important events – I already feared that I had been supplanted as Hetaeroi commander, and I was correct. Six hours’ absence – doing the king’s secret mission – and I was no longer commanding the Hetaeroi. You get it?
Good. I’ll move on.
Olympias came up to me. She was so small that, standing, her head came just above my shoulders. ‘Give me the scrolls,’ she said.
I sent Polystratus to the stables for them.
‘What do you think I should do with them, son of Lagus?’ she asked.
I smiled at her, an actor on a stage. ‘Why, Lady Queen, you should do whatever is best for Macedon,’ I said.
She actually smiled. ‘I like you, Ptolemy,’ she said.
Oh, I feared her. It was all I could do to look into her beautiful eyes and smile back, instead of shitting myself in fear. Because she was considering having me killed, right then and there.
It was almost too late when I realised that I was playing the wrong game. I was still playing the game of pages, whereby I could learn secrets to be the more trusted by the inner circle.
The game had changed. Alexander was king, and now he was playing for the preservation of power, and he observed no rules.
But I had not failed utterly, and Alexander embraced me again. ‘Ptolemy is one of my few friends, Mother,’ he said. ‘You want to hate him because he is as intelligent as we are. Do not. That is my express wish.’
I felt the arrow slicing down my cheek as it passed – death was that close.
Olympias met her son’s eyes, and then looked up at me. ‘If you read those letters, you are a fool. If you did not, you are a different type of fool. The correct action would have been to burn them with the house. Do you understand, young Ptolemy?’
I shrugged. I was young, foolish, vain and brave. ‘Perhaps the correct action was to make copies,’ I said.
Alexander turned and handed me a cup of wine. ‘Only if you plan to kill me and become king,’ he said. ‘And I don’t think you are in that game.’
‘Never,’ I said.
Alexander
nodded. ‘Stop playing with fire, my friend. Mother, he never read the letters. He’s baiting you.’
Damn him, he was right.
Olympias sneered. ‘Such a dangerous game,’ she said quietly. ‘I do like you, young Ptolemy.’
I went to bed, still alive, and awoke, still alive. I learned a great deal in that exchange, and I never tried to match wits with Olympias head to head again. On the other hand, I was invited to council that morning, as soon as I was dressed.
Alexander presented himself to the ambassadors, and was acclaimed hegemon as his father had been.
And then Alexander ordered Pausanias’s corpse to be spiked to a tree. In public.
Philip’s corpse was stinking – which many saw as an omen. The ambassadors and the army were already present, so we rushed the burial – his tomb was ready, had been ready since he took the wound fighting the Thracians and began to think of mortality (and immortality).
So the next morning, just two days after the murder, we marched to his tomb, the parade in the same order as the parade into the theatre had been, except that my squadron of Hetaeroi – not Cleitus’s squadron – marched first.
We got to the tomb, and the priest of Apollo poured libations and prayed and we sacrificed a bull, four black rams and the two younger sons of Aeropus. My prisoners. They were drugged, and died as quietly as the bull.
This public revenge settled the matter of murder, at least among the commons.
But among the noble factions, men saw it as a clean-up operation, and many men looked at Antipater.
And Olympias.
After that, the factions were quiet. In fact, they were silent.
We had two immediate problems after settling the local population and killing the two possible immediate rivals. They were that the Greek states would almost certainly revolt, whatever their ambassadors said – and worst of all, Attalus, bloody Attalus, and Parmenio, whichever side he chose to be on, were in Asia with the cream of the army.
God of War: The Epic Story of Alexander the Great Page 28