Again the crowd roared with approval, stamping and clapping, cheering, whistling, waving scarves to show their enthusiasm.
And in the midst of the uproar the assassins struck.
I had been standing beside Alexandros and his four Companions, all of us dressed in plain homespun chitons and leather jerkins. None of us wore anything rich or conspicuous; Alexandros’ fingers were bare, and the short swords we carried were plain and undecorated.
While Demosthenes spoke the crowd surged forward slightly, as if eager to be closer to their idol. A few men pushed between me and Hephaistion, who was standing directly beside Alexandros on one side. Alexandros had his arm upon the taller Hephaistion’s shoulder, helping himself to stand tip-toe. Another man wedged himself between me and the young men. I turned and saw that three more were now standing just behind Ptolemaios and lanky Harpalos. Nearkos was too short for me to see in the crowd that was pressing around us.
But I could see Alexandros’ golden mane easily enough, and realized that it stood as an easy identification for anyone who wanted to find him. As the crowd broke into its thunderous ovation one of the rough-clad men who had pushed up to us stepped sideways, behind Alexandros. I saw his hand go to his belt and I knew he was going to thrust a dagger into Alexandros’ back.
“Behind you!” I shouted in the Macedonian dialect, bellowing as loud as I could over the roar of the crowd. I tried to plunge through the men separating us but suddenly my arms were pinned behind me and a swarthy short man with a scar halfway down his face was shoving a dagger at my belly.
My senses went into overdrive and the world around me slowed to a dreamlike lethargy. I kicked at the scar-faced man’s leg as I twisted my body sideways, spoiling his aim enough so that I took his dagger in my side instead of straight-on. I felt it go in and slice through me as my body instantly dampened the pain messages along my nerves and clamped down on the severed blood vessels.
My kick knocked the scar-faced knife wielder backward a step. I stamped on the foot of the man pinning my right arm as hard as I could and yanked my arm free while I saw that Hephaistion had shoved the other assassin from Alexandros’ back, but now the boys were surrounded by at least a dozen armed men.
I punched the man holding my left arm between the eyes. As he collapsed I swung my right arm back and smashed the other one with my elbow. With my freed left hand I hit scar-face, still trying to recover his balance, squarely in the jaw and he went down, blood spurting from his mouth. Then I leaped into the ring of knife-wielding men who had surrounded Alexandros.
The fight ended as quickly as it started. They broke and turned tail, disappearing into the crowd. By the time a local constable came up, frowning and officious, it was all over. Hephaistion had been nicked in the arm; I had been sliced in my side but I was consciously willing the muscles beneath my skin to hold the wound tightly together, and the blood was already coagulating.
The constable wanted to know our names and what the fight was about.
“They were cutpurses, obviously,” I said. “And stupid ones at that, since there isn’t one purse among the five of us.”
He scowled at me, then glanced back and forth among the youths. “Names,” he demanded. “I must have your names and places of residence.”
Alexandros, red-faced with fury, blurted, “I am Alexandros, son of Philip of Macedon. And if this is the way your noble city treats its guests, then my father is far too lenient with you.”
With that he strode off, his Companions around him. I followed them, leaving the constable standing there dumbfounded.
“It was a deliberate assassination attempt. Deliberate!” Alexandros raged all the way back to Aeschines’ house. “They tried to kill me.”
“But who sent them?” Hephaistion asked. Alexandros had torn a strip from his own chiton and tenderly wrapped the scratch on his friend’s forearm.