“The others!” I yelled and started scrabbling up the boulders that separated us from Ptolemaios, Harpalos, and Nearkos.
They were still on their horses, although Nearkos’ mount was bleeding in half a dozen places. We roared down on the hill men, slashing and killing until they tried to escape our fearful swords, but Harpalos rode down two of them as they ran in blind panic along the canyon trail. Alexandros pulled down another who was scrambling up the rocks and took his head off with a single blow. I saw one climbing madly up the cliff face. I took half an instant to calculate the throw, then flung my sword at him. It struck him squarely between the shoulder blades. He screamed and fell face-first at my feet with a wet thump, the sword sticking out of his back.
Turning, I saw that Hephaistion held the last of the hill men by the hair. He could not have been more than thirteen: dirty, clothed in rags, on his knees, eyes bulging at the bloody sword Hephaistion held in his other hand. His mouth was wide open but no sound came from it. He was petrified with fear, looking at his death inches away.
“Wait,” Alexandros commanded. “These dogs have taken Ox-Head. I want him to lead us to their village.”
The boy did as he was told. We wound through the narrow pass, out onto a wider trail, and then up a rocky hillside where sheep had cropped the grass almost to its roots. Beyond the second row of hills, nested in the cup of a wooded valley, was the boy’s village.
All the way there, Alexandros raged and fumed about Ox-Head. “Steal him from me, will they? I’ll roast them alive, each and every one of them. They’ll curse the day they were born. If they don’t return Ox-Head to me I’ll kill them all with my own hands!”
I saw that his hands were shaking: the aftermath of battle. He had nearly been killed, although he actually suffered nothing more serious than a few nicks and bruises and a bad fright.
We must have made a grim sight, six bloodied warriors, three of us on foot. I had given Alexandros my mount to ride. Nearkos walked beside me, slim and small, silent and dark as a shadow, leading his bleeding horse with one hand, his sword in the other.
The village elders came out to meet us, trembling visibly. A pair of half-naked boys, silent and round-eyed, led Ox-Head and Hephaistion’s mount toward us.
The elders stopped a few paces before us, dithering and jittering, glancing uneasily at us and each other.
Before they worked up the courage to say anything, Alexandros spoke. “Where are your young men?”
The elders looked back and forth among themselves.
“Well?” Alexandros demanded.
One of the elders was completely bald, but had a white beard that ran halfway down his chest. His fellows nudged him forward.
“Our young men, lord, are dead. You have killed them all.”
Alexandros snorted. “Don’t lie to me, grandfather! We allowed ten or more of them to escape. I want to see them. Now! Else I will burn your miserable village to the ground and sell your women and children into slavery.”
“But, brave sir—”
“Now!”
“Sir, they have run away. They fear your wrath and they have hidden themselves in the hills.”
“Send your boys to find them. Have your women prepare a meal for us. See to it!”
They jumped to his command. It struck me that half a dozen men could be swarmed under if the whole village attacked us at once. But they were cowed, terrified. The boys scampered out toward the hills. The women bustled around their cook fires. The elders led us to their village’s central green, where a feast was prepared for us.
By nightfall, seventeen young men stood sullenly before Alexandros, firelight flickering on their grimy, frightened faces. Several of them wore blood-soaked bandages on their arms or legs.
We had eaten a decent meal of roast lamb. The local wine was thin and bitter; Alexandros had made certain that we drank no more than one cup apiece.
Now he strutted up and down before the failed ambushers, fists on his hips, firelight glinting off the jeweled pommel of his sheathed sword. The meal seemed to have taken the edge off his rage. That, and the fact that Ox-Head had been returned unharmed.
Turning on the white-bearded village leader, Alexandros demanded, “What retribution should I exact on men who tried to kill me?”
The old man had recovered some of his courage, too. “You have already slain enough men to keep our village in mourning for the rest of the year, young lord.”
“Is that your answer?”
He bowed his head. “You may take whatever vengeance you desire, my master.”
“I will take, then, these young men.”
“You would slay them all?” Beyond the fire’s dancing shadows I sensed a stir among the villagers.
“I will not slay any of them. They will join my army and fight against my enemies.”
His army! I wondered what Philip would say to that.
“But, sir,” said the old man, “if you take all of them we will have no one to tend the sheep, no one to defend our village from the marauders of the next valley.”
“You would prefer that I hang them, here and now?”
“Hang me,” said the old man, trying to draw himself up straight. “I am the leader of these people. I am responsible for their crime.”
Alexandros stared at the white-beard. Then he broke into a wide grin. “You’re right, old man. Your village has been punished enough.” He turned to the waiting younger men. “Go back to your homes. And thank the gods that you have a man of courage leading your village.”
The old man sank to his knees. “Thank you, brave lord! Thank you for your mercy.”
Alexandros pulled him up to his feet. “There is one thing that I want you to do, however.”
“What is it, lord?”
“Raise a statue to me and place it here, on this spot, as a reminder to your people to cease their thieving ways.”
“I will have it done, lord. But I don’t know your name.”
“Alexandros of Macedon.”
“The son of Philip?” The whole village gasped.
Alexandros’ smile vanished. “The son of Zeus,” he answered.
When we returned to the main body of the army we received more bad news. The Athenians had already marched their army to Thebes and now the two armies, together with other allies from among the smaller cities nearby, stood ready to block our path to Thebes and Attica.
“Can we maneuver around them?” Alexandros suggested. “Take Thebes while they stand in the field waiting for us to appear from the north?”
Philip’s one good eye widened. “Clever thinking, son.”
We were huddled in Philip’s tent, bent over a folding table that bore a map of the area. Alexandros stood across the table from Philip, who was flanked by Parmenio and Antipatros. Antigonos the One-Eyed stood beside Alexandros; Ptolemaios and the other Companions crowded behind them. I was at the tent’s entrance flap.
“Can you find a route that the whole army could pass over without being detected by the enemy?” Philip asked Alexandros.
Barely glancing at the map, Alexandros replied, “No, not the whole army. We would be seen and reported on, no matter which route we took.”
Philip nodded.
“But,” Alexandros went on, “a smaller group of men, a striking force of cavalry with a phalanx or two of hoplites, could swing around the enemy army and take Thebes while they’re still in the field awaiting your advance.”
Parmenio blurted, “That’s foolhardy! A small force could never take the city by storm and wouldn’t be able to lay siege to it.”
“We would have the advantage of surprise,” Alexandros shot back.
“D’you expect the Theban garrison to drop dead of shock at the sight of you?” Parmenio quipped.
No one laughed. The tent fell deathly silent.
Philip broke the silence. “If you could take the city it would be a great advantage to us. But it would not eliminate the army that faces us. They’d still be there, and we’d still have to deal with them.”
“And we’d be weaker,” said Antipatros, “because your striking force would no longer be with the main body of our army.”
Alexandros said nothing. He simply stared down at the map, his face red with suppressed anger.
“Do you understand the situation?” Philip asked gently. “We must defeat their army in the field. Seizing Thebes won’t accomplish that.”
“I understand,” Alexandros said tightly, without looking up.
“The question, then,” said Antigonos, “is where do we fight them?”
“And how many of them are there? What’s their order of battle? Who’s leading them?” Parmenio was full of questions.
“We’ll get some information along those lines shortly,” said Philip.
“From spies?” Antipatros asked.