God of War: The Epic Story of Alexander the Great Read online

  For all the members of the SGA

  1980–1987

  Have you any idea

  What we’re like to fight against?

  Our sort make their dinner

  Off sharp swords

  We swallow blazing torches

  For a savoury snack!

  Then, by way of dessert,

  They bring us, not nuts, but broken arrows, and splintered spear shafts.

  For pillows we have our shields and breastplates,

  Arrows and slings lie under our feet, and for wreaths we wear catapults

  Mnesimachus, Philip

  GLOSSARY

  Airyanãm (Avestan) – Noble, heroic.

  Aspis (Classical Greek) – A large round shield, deeply dished, commonly carried by Greek (but not Macedonian) hoplites.

  Baqca (Siberian) – Shaman, mage, dream-shaper.

  Chiton (Classical Greek) – A garment like a tunic, made from a single piece of fabric folded in half and pinned down the side, then pinned again at the neck and shoulders and belted above the hips. A men’s chiton might be worn long or short. Worn very short, or made of a small piece of cloth, it was sometimes called a chitoniskos. Our guess is that most chitons were made from a piece of cloth roughly 60 x 90 inches, and then belted or roped to fit, long or short. Pins, pleating, and belting could be simple or elaborate. Most of these garments would, in Greece, have been made of wool. In the East, linen might have been preferred.

  Chlamys (Classical Greek) – A garment like a cloak, made from a single piece of fabric woven tightly and perhaps even boiled. The chlamys was usually pinned at the neck and worn as a cloak, but could also be thrown over the shoulder and pinned under the right or left arm and worn as a garment. Free men are sometimes shown naked with a chlamys, but rarely shown in a chiton without a chlamys – the chlamys, not the chiton, was the essential garment, or so it appears. Men and women both wear the chlamys, although differently. Again, a 60 x 90 inch piece of cloth seems to drape correctly and have the right lines and length.

  Daimon (Classical Greek) – Spirit.

  Ephebe (Classical Greek) – A new hoplite; a young man just training to join the forces of his city.

  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.

  Hetaera (Classical Greek) – A female companion. Usually a courtesan.

  Hetaeroi (Classical Greek) – Literally, male companions. In Alexander’s army, the Royal Companions, or Guard Cavalry.

  Himation (Classical Greek) – A heavy garment consisting of a single piece of cloth at least 120 x 60 inches, draped over the body and one shoulder, worn by both men and women.

  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 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.

  Hoplomachos (Classical Greek) – A man who taught fighting in armour.

  Hypaspitoi (Classical Greek) – In the archaic, a squire, or possibly a servant, who fought ‘under the shield’. A shield bearer. In the army of Alexander, an elite corps of infantry – Alexander’s bodyguard.

  Hyperetes (Classical Greek) – The Hipparch’s trumpeter, servant, or supporter. Perhaps a sort of non-commissioned officer.

  Kithara (Classical Greek) – A musical instrument like a lyre.

  Kline (Classical Greek) – A couch or bed on which Hellenic men and women took meals and perhaps slept as well.

  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) – any knife or sword. Sometimes used for the heavy Greek cavalry sword, longer and stronger than the short infantry sword. It was meant to give a longer reach on horseback, and not useful in the phalanx.

  Pezhetaeroi (Classical Greek) – The ‘Foot Companions’ of Philip and Alexander – the phalangites of the infantry taxeis.

  Parasang (Classical Greek from Persian) – About thirty 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 that we assume to be like the pikes used in more recent times. Members of a phalanx, especially a Macedonian phalanx, are sometimes called Phalangites.

  Phylarch (Classical Greek) – The commander of one file of hoplites. It could be as many as sixteen men.

  Porne (Classical Greek) – A prostitute.

  Pous (Classical Greek) – Measurement; About one foot.

  Prodromoi (Classical Greek) – Scouts; those who run before or run first.

  Psiloi (Classical Greek) – Light infantry skirmishers, usually men with bows and slings, or perhaps javelins, or even thrown 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 meters. Sometimes written as Stadia or Stades by me. Thirty 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 500 and 2,000 men, depending on losses and detachments. Roughly synonymous with phalanx above, although a phalanx may be composed of 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.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I am an author, not a linguist – a novelist, and not fully an historian. Despite this caveat, I do the best I can to research everything from clothing to phalanx formations as I go, and sometimes I disagree with the accepted wisdom of either academe or the armchair generals who write colourful coffee table books on these subjects.

  And ultimately, errors are my fault. If you find a historical error, please let me know!

  One thing I have tried to avoid is altering history as we know it to suit a timetable or plotline. The history of the Wars of Alexander is difficult enough without my altering it. In addition, as you write about a period you love (and I have fallen pretty hard for this one)
you learn more. Once I learn more, words may change or change their usage. As an example, in Tyrant, I used Xenophon’s Cavalry Commander as my guide to almost everything. Xenophon calls the ideal weapon a machaira. Subsequent study has revealed that Greeks were pretty lax about their sword nomenclature (actually, everyone is, except martial arts enthusiasts) and so Kineas’s Aegyptian machaira was probably called a kopis. So in the second book, I call it a kopis without apology. Other words may change – certainly my notion of the internal mechanics of the hoplite phalanx have changed. The more you learn…

  A note about history. I’m always amused when a fan (or a non-fan) writes to tell me that I got a campaign or battle ‘wrong.’ Friends – and I hope we’re still friends when I say this – we know less about the wars of Alexander than we do about the surface of Mars or the historical life of Jesus. I read Greek, I look at the evidence, and then I make the call. I’ve been to most of these places, and I can read a map. While I’m deeply fallible, I am also a pretty good soldier and I’m prepared to make my own decisions in light of the evidence about everything from numbers to the course of a battle. I may well be “wrong,” but unless someone produces a time-machine, there’s no proving it. Our only real source on Alexander lived five hundred years later. That’s like calling me an eye-witness of Agincourt. Be wary of reading a campaign history or an Osprey book and assuming from the confident prose that we know. We don’t know. We stumble around in the dark and make guesses.

  And that said, military historians are, by and large, the poorest historians out there, by virtue of studying the violent reactions of cultures without studying the cultures themselves. War and military matters are cultural artefacts, just like religion and philosophy and fashion, and to try to take them out of context is impossible. Hoplites didn’t carry the aspis because it was the ideal technology for the phalanx. I’ll bet they carried it because it was the ideal technology for the culture, from the breeding of oxen to the making of the bowl, to the way they stacked in wagons. Men only fight a few days a year if that, but they live and breathe and run and forage and gamble and get dysentery 365 days a year, and their kit has to be good on all those days too. The history of war is a dull litany of man’s inhumanity to man and woman, but history itself is the tale of the human race from birth until now. It’s a darn good story, and worth repeating. History matters.

  Why does history matter? I should spare you this rant, after all if you’re reading this part of the book, chances are you’re a history buff at least, possibly a serious amateur historian, maybe a professional slumming in my novels. But just for the record, a week after I finished the final page proofs of this book, I happened to read a Facebook post by a Holocaust denier. I’m still mad. It’s not just the tom-fool anti-Semitism, it’s the anti-history. A person who denies the Holocaust happened is denying that history exists; that research and careful documentation, eye-witness accounts and government archives have any meaning. In this kind of relativism, there is no truth. Pontius Pilate wins. And historical fiction is just fantasy without magic.

  Well, I happen to believe that the past really happened. And that the more we know about it, the more we are empowered to deal with the present.

  Finally, yes, I kill a lot of characters. War kills. Violence and lives of violence have consequences, then as now. And despite the drama of war, childbirth probably killed women of warrior age about twice as fast as it killed active warriors, so when we get right down to who’s tough . . .

  Enjoy!

  Contents

  PART I: The Garden of Midas

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  PART II: The Path to the Throne

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  PART III: Asia

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  PART IV: King of Kings

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  PART I

  The Garden of Midas

  PROLOGUE

  Satyrus had been in Alexandria only a few days when Leon took him to the Royal Palace to meet the King of Aegypt. After Antigonus and Eumenes and four months with a mercenary army, Satyrus should not have been nervous, but he was – Ptolemy was the greatest king in the circle of the earth, and his court kept great state, as befitted the ruler of a land that had recorded history going back five thousand years into the past, whose ancient gods still held sway over most of the Nile valley.

  Ptolemy wore the crown of Lower Aegypt on his head, and a strange, un-Greek cowl that went with it, over a chiton of pure Tyrian purple. His sandals were white and gold. In his hand was the ankh – the sceptre of Aegypt. Leon’s hundreds of parental admonishments fled – Satyrus could scarcely remember how to bow.

  The great king of all Aegypt leaned forward on his ivory throne. ‘Kineas’s son?’ he asked Leon.

  ‘Yes, great king,’ Leon answered.

  ‘Has the look. The nose. The chin. The arrogance.’ Ptolemy smiled at the boy. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, lad.’

  Satyrus found his voice. ‘She’s not dead!’ he insisted. The loss of his mother had affected him more than even his sister. Rumour had her murdered on the banks of the Tanais river, but it was still possible that rumour was wrong.

  Ptolemy smiled a sad smile. ‘Will you stay at my court, lad? Until you grow a little? And I’ll put a good sword in your hand and send you out to reclaim your own.’

  Satyrus bowed. ‘I will serve you, lord, even as my uncles Diodorus and Leon serve you.’

  Gabius, the king’s intelligencer, brought a stool and sent most of the courtiers out. And he and the king asked Satyrus questions – hundreds of questions – about Antigonus and about how Eumenes died, about the mountains south of Heraklea and about the coast of the Euxine – on and on, battles and deserts and everything Satyrus had seen in his busy young life.

  But he was served rich cheese and pomegranate juice and crisp bread with honey. And neither the king nor the intelligencer was rude, or forceful. Merely thorough.

  Sometimes Leon had to answer, or had to coax the answer from his ward, but Satyrus had lived with soldiers for two campaigns, and he knew what was expected of him. He explained as best he could the source of Antigonus’s elephants, the horse breeds of the steppe and a hundred other details, while a dozen Aegyptian priests and a pair of Greek scholars wrote his words down on papyrus.

  When they were done, the king leaned forward again, and put a gold ring into the boy’s hand – a snake with his tail in his own mouth.

  ‘This is the sign of my people – my secret household,’ Ptolemy said. ‘Wear it in good health. And whenever you need me – well, your uncle knows how to find me. You are a remarkable young man – your father’s son. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  Leon shook his head.

  But Satyrus couldn’t restrain himself. ‘You knew . . . Alexander?’ he asked.

  Ptolemy sat up as if a spark from the fire had struck bare skin. But he grinned. ‘Aye, lad. I knew Alexander.’

  ‘Would you . . . tell me what he was like?’ The boy stepped forward, and the guards by the throne rustled, but Ptolemy put out a hand.

  The King of Aegypt rose, and every officer left in the
great hall froze.

  ‘Come with me, boy,’ he said.

  Together, the King of Aegypt and the adolescent boy walked out of the great hall of the palace. A dozen bodyguards fell in behind them. Leon and Gabias came with them, bringing up the rear of a fast-moving column that crossed the palace in deserted corridors or past scurrying slaves.

  They entered a tunnel behind the royal residence. Ptolemy was silent, so Satyrus did his best not to ask questions. The one look he’d caught from Leon told him that his guardian was angry.

  They climbed steps from the tunnel into a sombre hall, almost as big as the throne room. The walls were of red stone, lit by the last light of the sun through a round hole in the middle of the low dome above them.

  The hole of the dome was covered in crystal or glass. Satyrus stared like a peasant.

  In the midst of the hall was a dais as tall as a grown man’s knees, and on it was a bier – a closed sarcophagus in solid gold, with chiselled features and ram’s horns in ivory.

  Satyrus fell on his knees. ‘Alexander,’ he said.

  The King of Aegypt went to the bier and opened a cabinet set in the side of the dais. There were twenty-four holes – neat boxes made of cedar with silver nails. They held scrolls.

  ‘I kept a military journal, from our first campaign together to our last,’ Ptolemy said. He took one of the scrolls – the first – from its box, and handed it to Satyrus. Satyrus opened it, still on his knees. In the first hand’s-breadth of parchment, he saw water marks, mud, a grass stain, and a bloody handprint.

  Satyrus wanted to raise the parchment to his lips – his awe was religious.

  ‘Of course,’ Ptolemy said with the impish grin of a much younger man, ‘it’s a tissue of lies.’

  Gabias laughed. Leon smiled. Satyrus felt his stomach fall.

  ‘He was like a god, but he was the vainest man who ever walked the bowl of the earth and he couldn’t abide a word of criticism after the first few years.’ Ptolemy shrugged. ‘I loved him. I know what love is, youngster, and I don’t toss that word around. He was like a god. But he’d have had me killed if I had written everything just as it happened. The way he killed most of his friends.’