Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
GLOSSARY
PART I - FUNERAL GAMES
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
PART II - HIGH GROUND
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
PART III - LAND OF WOLVES
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
PART IV - TREE OF LIFE
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
PART V - ACHILLES’ CHOICE
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
PART VI - THE BEACON
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
EPILOGUE
HISTORICAL NOTE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Acknowledgements
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Also by Christian Cameron
Tyrant
Washington and Caesar
Tyrant: Storm of Arrows
CHRISTIAN CAMERON
www.orionbooks.co.uk
An Orion ebook
First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Orion Books,
an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House, 5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Christian Cameron 2009
The moral right of Christian Cameron to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the
prior permission of both the copyright owner and
the above publisher of this book.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, except for those already
in the public domain, and any resemblance to actual persons
living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library.
ISBN (Hardback) 978 0 7528 9054 8
eISBN : 978 1 4091 0686 9
Maps drawn by Steven Sandford.
www.orionbooks.co.uk
This ebook produced by Jouve, France
For Sarah
ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, χαλεπᾶν δὲ λῦσον
ἐκ μερὶμναν ὄσσα δέ μοι τέλεσσαι
θῦμοσ ἰμμέρρει, τέλεσον, σὺ δ’ αὔτα
σύμμαχοσ ἔσσο.
Sappho, Hymn to Aphrodite
GLOSSARY
Airyanãm (Avestan) Noble, heroic.
Aspis (Classical Greek) A large round shield, deeply dished, commonly carried by Greek (but not Macedonian) hoplites.
Baqça (Siberian) Shaman, mage, dream-shaper.
Daimon (Classical Greek) Spirit.
Epilektoi (Classical Greek) The chosen men of the city or of the phalanx; elite soldiers.
Eudaimia (Classical Greek) Well-being. Literally, ‘well-spirited’. See daimon, above.
Gamelia (Classical Greek) A Greek holiday.
Gorytos (Classical Greek and possibly Scythian) The open-topped quiver carried by the Scythians, often highly decorated.
Hipparch (Classical Greek) The commander of the cavalry.
Hippeis (Classical Greek) Militarily, the cavalry of a Greek army. Generally, the cavalry class, synonymous with ‘knights’. Usually the richest men in a city.
Hoplite (Classical Greek) A Greek soldier, the heavy infantry who carry an aspis (the big round shield) and fight in the phalanx. They represent the middle class of free men in most cities, and while sometimes they seem like medieval knights in their outlook, they are also like town militia, and made up of craftsmen and small farmers. In the early Classical period, a man with as little as twelve acres under cultivation could be expected to own the aspis and serve as a hoplite.
Hyperetes (Classical Greek) The Hipparch’s trumpeter, servant, or supporter. Perhaps a sort of NCO.
Kopis (Classical Greek) A bent, bladed knife or sword, rather like a modern Ghurka knife. They appear commonly in Greek art, and even some small eating knives were apparently made to this pattern.
Machaira (Classical Greek) The heavy Greek cavalry sword, longer and stronger than the short infantry sword. Meant to give a longer reach on horseback, and not useful in the phalanx. The word could also be used for any knife.
Parasang (Classical Greek from Persian) About 30 stades. See below.
Phalanx (Classical Greek) The infantry formation used by Greek hoplites in warfare, eight to ten deep and as wide as circumstance allowed. Greek commanders experimented with deeper and shallower formations, but the phalanx was solid and very difficult to break, presenting the enemy with a veritable wall of spear points and shields, whether the Macedonian style with pikes or the Greek style with spears. Also, phalanx can refer to the body of fighting men. A Macedonian phalanx was deeper, with longer spears called sarissas, which we assume to be like the pikes used in more recent times.Members of a phalanx, especially a Macedonian phalanx, are sometimes called Phalangites.
Pous (Classical Greek) About one foot.
Phylarch (Classical Greek) The commander of one file of hoplites. Could be as many as sixteen men.
Psiloi (Classical Greek) Light infantry skirmishers, usually men with bows and slings, or perhaps javelins, or even rocks. In Greek city-state warfare, the psiloi were supplied by the poorest free men, those who could not afford the financial burden of hoplite armour and daily training in the gymnasium.
Sastar (Avestan) Tyrannical. A tyrant.
Stade (Classical Greek) About 1/8 of a mile. The distance run in a ‘stadium’. 178 metres. Sometimes written as Stadia or Stades by me. 30 Stadia make a Parasang.
Taxeis (Classical Greek) The sections of a Macedonian phalanx. Can refer to any group, but often used as a ‘company’ or a ‘battalion’. My taxeis has between five hundred and two thousand men, depending on losses and detachments. Roughly synonymous with phalanx above, although a phalanx may be composed a dozen taxeis in a great battle.
Xiphos (Classical Greek) A straight-bladed infantry sword, usually carried by hoplites or psiloi. Classical Greek art, especially red-figure ware, shows many hoplites wearing them, but only a handful have been recovered and there’s much debate about the shape and use. They seem very like a Roman gladius.
329 BC
The conqueror of Asia stalked into his tent and tossed his golden helmet at the armour stand by the camp bed. It hit the wooden post with a bronze clang. The servants froze.
‘Where the fuck are my recruits?’ he yelled. ‘Antipater promised me eight thousand new infantry. He sent three thousand Thracians and some mutinous Greeks! I want my Macedonians!’
Members of his staff followed him into the tent, led by Hephaestion. Hephaestion was not afraid of his royal master, cert
ainly not his master’s temper tantrums, and his bronze-haired head was high. He was smiling.
Behind him, Eumenes and Callisthenes were more hesitant.
Alexander scratched his head with both hands, trying to get the sweat and the dirt out of his hair. ‘Don’t stand in the doorway like sheep. Come in or get the fuck out.’
Hephaestion handed him a cup of wine, poured another for himself. ‘Drink, friend,’ he said.
Alexander drank. ‘It’s not fair. If people would just do as they were told...’
Hephaestion raised an eyebrow, and they both laughed. Just like that.
Alexander swirled the wine in his cup and looked at Eumenes. ‘Did he say why?’
Eumenes - shorter, not godlike in any way - accepted a goblet from Hephaestion, who rarely served anyone but the Great King himself, and met his lord’s eyes. They were mismatched, blue and brown, the blue eye ringed in black and opened just a little too wide. Eumenes sometimes thought that his master was a god, and other times that he was mad. Either way, Eumenes, a brave man and veteran of a dozen hard fights, disliked meeting Alexander’s eyes.
Eumenes of Cardia was a Greek and not a Macedonian, which made the bearing of bad tidings all the harder. Men competed to bring Alexander good news. When the news was bad, men conspired to avoid being the goat. Eumenes, the foreigner, the smaller man, was the goat.
‘Lord,’ he said carefully, ‘would you like to read the letter, or shall I tell you what I think?’ In the right mood, Alexander craved straight talk. Eumenes lacked Hephaestion’s touch with his lord, but they had an emergency and he needed Alexander to act like a king.
‘Just tell me,’ Alexander shot back.
Eumenes looked at Hephaestion and received no sign at all. ‘Reading between the lines, I would say that Antipater sent an army to conquer the Euxine cities - and perhaps the Sakje tribes.’
‘Sakje?’ Alexander asked.
‘The Western Scyths,’ Callisthenes answered.
‘Amazons?’ Alexander asked.
Callisthenes snorted contemptuously. Alexander whirled on him. ‘Why are you here, sir?’ he asked.
Callisthenes raised an eyebrow. ‘Because you can’t tell the difference between a Scythian and an Amazon.’
Alexander seemed pleased with this remark. He flung himself on a couch. Hephaestion came and lay with him. Servants brought food and more wine.
‘So Antipater made a campaign against the Scythians,’ he said.
‘Not in person. He sent Zopryon.’
‘Shit for brains,’ Alexander said. ‘I assume he cocked it up?’
Eumenes nodded. ‘I think that’s where we lost our missing recruits.’
Alexander snorted. ‘They’re off chasing Amazons, eh?’
Eumenes shook his head. ‘No, lord. If I’m right, and my sources are firm on this point, all our recruits are dead.’
Alexander rolled off the couch and stood. ‘Zeus Ammon my father. Zopryon lost a whole taxeis?’
‘Zopryon lost a whole army, lord.’ Eumenes waited for the explosion. ‘And died himself.’
Alexander stood rigid by the couch. Hephaestion reached out and put a hand on his hip, but Alexander struck the hand away. Hephaestion frowned.
‘They almost defeated my father. Philip, my father. He was wounded - wounded badly.’ Alexander was speaking very softly.
Eumenes could remember it. He nodded. ‘Yes, lord.’
‘And Darius - these Sakje defeated Darius.’ Alexander’s face was immobile. He stood like a schoolboy reciting for his tutor.
Callisthenes shrugged. ‘Not so much defeated as avoided, if Herodotus is to be believed. They made Darius look like an ass, though.’
Alexander glared at him.
Callisthenes raised a shaggy eyebrow. ‘Of course, it took Athens to defeat Darius.’
Alexander’s face burned as the blood rushed to his cheeks. ‘Athens checked Darius. Sparta checked Xerxes. I conquered Asia. Macedon. Not Athens and not Sparta.’
The philosopher glared at Alexander, who met his look and held it. Long seconds passed. Then the philosopher shrugged again. ‘As you say,’ Callisthenes said, with a nod.
A tense silence filled the tent. Outside, the new recruits could be heard being shepherded to their quarters in the sprawling camp - a camp so big and so well built that men already called it a city.
Alexander sat on the couch again. ‘And Cyrus,’ he said, as if continuing an earlier conversation.
They all looked at him, until understanding dawned on Callisthenes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, as you say, Alexander. Cyrus lost his life fighting the Massagetae. Well to the east of here.’
‘Massagetae?’ Alexander brightened. ‘Amazons?’
‘The Massagetae are the Eastern Scythians,’ Callisthenes said. ‘Their women do fight, and they sometimes have warrior queens. They pay tribute to the King of Kings. There are Massagetae serving with Bessus and with Spitamenes. The queen of the Massagetae is Zarina.’
Alexander raised his goblet in salute to Callisthenes. ‘You do know some useful things.’ He drank, staring out of the door of his tent.
Eumenes fidgeted after the silence stretched on too long. Callisthenes didn’t fidget. He watched Alexander.
Alexander ran his fingers through Hephaestion’s hair. Then he watched a Persian boy retrieve his helmet and polish it with a cloth before hanging it on the armour stand. Alexander gave the boy a smile.
Callisthenes continued to watch him.
‘Antipater has cost us more than a few thousand recruits,’ Alexander said some minutes later. He leaned back so that his golden curls mixed with Hephaestion’s longer hair. ‘Our own legend of invincibility is worth a pair of taxeis and five hundred Companions.’
‘You are invincible,’ Hephaestion said. From another man, it would have been fawning. From Hephaestion, it was a simple statement of fact.
Alexander allowed himself a small smile. ‘I cannot be everywhere,’ he said. He rolled off the couch again and motioned to the silent slave who waited at the foot of the bed. ‘Take my armour,’ he said.
The silent man opened his breastplate and put it on the armour stand. Alexander shrugged out of his tunic and stood naked, the marks of the armour clear on his all-too human flesh.
Naked, neither tall nor especially beautiful, Alexander picked up his wine, found it empty and held it out for a refill. Slaves tripped over themselves to correct the error.
Callisthenes laughed at their eagerness and their fear. Alexander smirked. ‘Persians make such good slaves,’ he said. He drank off the whole cup and held it out again, and the pantomime was repeated. Even the Cardian had to laugh. The slaves knew they were being made game of, and that made them more afraid. Wine was spilled, and more slaves appeared to clean it up.
‘I can’t be everywhere,’ Alexander repeated. ‘And Macedon cannot afford to appear weak. These Scythians must be punished. Their victory over Zopryon must be made to look the stroke of ill-fortune that it was. When Bessus is brought to heel, we should spend a season crushing the Massagetae.’
Callisthenes sensed the dismay of the other men. ‘Alexander,’ he began carefully, ‘the Massagetae live far to the north and east, beyond the Kush. And they live on the sea of grass, which Herodotus says runs for fifty thousand stades. We will not crush them in one season.’
Alexander looked up and smiled. It was a happy smile, and it removed years of tension, war and drink from his face. ‘I can only spare them a season,’ Alexander said. ‘They’re just barbarians. Besides, I want an Amazon.’
Hephaestion struck the king playfully, and they ended up wrestling on the floor.
PART I
FUNERAL GAMES
1
The sun shone on the Borysthenes river, the rain swell moving like a horse herd and glittering like the rain-wet grass in the sun. The Sakje camp was crisp and clean after days of rain, much of the horse dung vanished into the the general mud that filled every street, the felt yurts and the wa
gons bright as if new-made. Kineas had taken the sun as a sign and risen from his bed, despite the fresh pain of his wounds and the recent fear of death.
‘You should find the stone,’ the girl said. She was eleven or twelve years old, dressed in caribou hide, with a red cloak blowing in the wind. Kineas had seen her before around the camp, a slight figure with red-brown hair and a silver-grey horse from the royal herd.
Kineas crouched down, wincing at the intense pain that shot from his hip, down his leg and through his groin. Everything hurt and most actions made him dizzy. ‘What stone?’ he asked. She had big eyes, deep blue eyes with a black rim that made her appear possessed, or mad.
‘It is a baqca thing, is it not? To find the stone?’ She shrugged, put her hands behind her and rocked her hips back and forth, back and forth, so that her hair swayed around her face. She was dirty and smelled of horse.
His Sakje didn’t run to endearments for children. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand.’
She favoured him with the look that children save for adults too slow to understand them. ‘The stone,’ she said. ‘For the king’s barrow.’ Seeing his incomprehension, she pointed at an old barrow, the kurgan of some ancient horse-lord that rose by the great bend. ‘At the peak of every barrow, the baqca places a stone. You should go and find it. My father says so.’
Kineas grinned, as much from pain as from understanding. ‘And who is your father, child?’ he asked, although even as he said the words, he knew where he had seen that long-nosed profile and the fine bones of her hands.
‘Kam Baqca was my father,’ she said, and ran away, laughing.
He knew as soon as she spoke that he had seen the stone in dreams - seen it and dismissed it. He feared his dreams now, and denied them if he could.
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