Dark Prince (4 page)

At dusk Philip made his way to the
andron
, a large room
with nine couches. The walls were covered with murals by the Theban artist Natiles; they were mostly hunting scenes, horsemen chasing down several lions, but Philip was impressed by the artistry and the vivid colors used. The painter was obviously a man who understood the hunt. His horses were real, the lions lean and deadly, the attitudes of the hunters reflecting both courage and fear. Philip decided to send for the man once this campaign was over. Such scenes would look spectacular in the palace at Pella.

One by one Philip’s officers arrived with details of the day’s losses. Theoparlis, commander of the guards, had suffered 110 dead and 270 wounded. Antipater reported 84 dead among the companion cavalry. In all the Macedonians had lost 307 killed, with 227 wounded.

The Phocians had been virtually annihilated. Two thousand had been slain on the battlefield, with at least another thousand drowning as they fled from the beaches, trying in vain to swim to the waiting Athenian triremes.

This last news cheered Philip considerably. Stretching his powerful frame on the silk-covered couch, he drained his fifth cup of wine, feeling his tension evaporate. Glancing at his officers, he chuckled. “A good day, my friends,” he said, sitting up and refilling his cup from a golden pitcher. But the mood was somber, and no one joined him in a toast. “What is the matter with you all? Is this how to celebrate a victory?”

Theoparlis stood, bowing awkwardly. He was a burly man, black-bearded and dark-eyed. “If you will excuse me, sire,” he said, his voice deep with the burr of the northern mountains, “I wish to see to my men.”

“Of course,” answered Philip. Nicanor rose next, then Coenus and Antipater. Within minutes only Attalus remained.

“What in Hecate’s name is wrong with them?” inquired the king, rubbing at his blinded eye.

Attalus cleared his throat and sipped his wine before answering; then his cold eyes met Philip’s gaze. “They want to see Parmenion before he leaves Pagasai,” Attalus told him.

Philip put down his wine cup and leaned back age joined him in a toast. “I was too harsh,” he said.

“Not at all, sire,” ventured Attalus. “You gave an order, and it was disobeyed. Now you may have to give another.”

Philip stared at his champion and sighed. “Ah, Attalus,” he said softly. “Once an assassin, always an assassin, eh? You think I should fear the man who has kept Macedonia safe all these years?”

Attalus smiled, showing tombstone teeth. “That is for you to decide, Philip,” he whispered. The king’s eye continued to stare at the champion, remembering their first meeting in Thebes nineteen years before, when Attalus was in the pay of Philip’s uncle, King Ptolemais. The assassin had—for whatever reason—saved Philip’s life then and had served him faithfully ever since. But he was a cold, friendless man.

“I shall not have Parmenion killed,” said Philip. “Go and ask him to come to me.”

“You think that he will?”

Philip shrugged. “Ask anyway.”

Attalus stood and bowed, leaving Philip alone with the pitcher of wine. The king wandered to the window. From there he could still see the twelve Athenian triremes at anchor in the gulf, moonlight glinting from their polished hulls. Sleek, beautiful craft, yet deadly in battle, with three banks of oars to propel them at the speed of galloping horses so that the bronze rams at the prows could smash to shards the timbers of lesser ships.

One day, thought Philip, I, too, will have a fleet to match them.

His blind eye began to throb painfully, and he turned away from the window, pouring yet another cup of wine. Slumping to the couch, he drank slowly and waited for his first general.

“Is it just envy, Parmenion?” he said aloud. “I loved you once. But I was younger then, and you were like a god of war—invincible, unbeatable. But now?” The sound of footsteps came to him, and he stood, waiting at the center of the room.

Parmenion entered, followed by Attalus. Philip moved to the assassin, laying his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Leave us, my friend,” he said.

“As you wish, sire,” answered Attalus, his eyes bleak.

As the door closed, Philip turned. Parmenion was standing stiffly, his armor put aside, a pale blue tunic covering his slim frame, a gray riding cloak hanging from his shoulders. Philip gazed into the tall Spartan’s blue eyes.

“How is it, Parmenion, that you look so young? You seem no more than a man approaching thirty, and yet you are what … fifty?”

“Forty-eight, sire.”

“Is there some special food you eat?”

“You wanted to see me, sire?”

“You are angry with me, yes?” said the king, forcing a smile. “Well, I can understand that. Join me in some wine. Go on.” For a moment it seemed the Spartan would refuse, but he picked up the pitcher and filled a cup. “Now sit down and talk to me.”

“What would you have me say, sire? You gave me two orders. To obey the one, I had to disobey the other. When you are fighting, it is I who lead the army. You made this clear to me. ‘Take whatever action is necessary,’ you said. What do you want of me, Philip? It is a long ride to Pella.”

“I do not want to lose your friendship,” said Philip, “but you are making this hard for me. I spoke in haste. Does that satisfy your Spartan pride?”

Parmenion sighed, his tension sliding from him. “You will never lose my friendship, Philip. But something has come between us these last two years. What have I done to offend you?”

The king scratched his black beard. “How many victories are mine?” he asked.

“I do not understand. They are all yours.”

Philip nodded. “Yet in Sparta they tell all who will listen that it is a renegade Spartan who leads Macedonia to glory. In Athens they say, ‘Where would Philip be without Parmenion?’ Where
would
I be?”

“I see,” said Parmenion, meeting the king’s gaze. “There is nothing I can do about this, Philip. Four years ago your horse won the Olympics. You were not riding him, yet he was still
your horse and you took pride in that. I am a
strategos
—that is my calling and my life. You are a king—a fighting king. A battle king. The soldiers fight the harder because you are alongside them. They love you. Who can say how many battles might have been lost without you?”

“But the only battle I have led alone ended in defeat,” Philip pointed out.

“And would have done so whether I was there or not,” Parmenion assured him. “Your Paionian scouts were complacent; they did not search the mountains as they should have. But there is something else, is there not?”

The king returned to the window, staring once more at the distant triremes. He was silent for a long while, then at last he spoke.

“My son is fond of you,” he said, his voice low. “Sometimes in his nightmares the nurse tells me he calls your name. Then all is well. It is said that you can hug him and feel no pain. Is this true?”

“Yes,” whispered the Spartan.

“The child is possessed, Parmenion. Either that or he is a demon. I cannot touch him—I have tried; it is like hot coals burning on my skin. Why is it that you can hold him?”

“I don’t know.”

The king gave a harsh laugh, then turned to face his general. “All of my battles were for him. I wanted a kingdom he could be proud of. I wanted … I wanted so much. You remember when we went to Samothrace? Yes? I loved Olympias then more than life. Now we cannot sit in the same room for twenty heartbeats without angry words. And look at me. When we met, I was fifteen and you were a warrior grown, what … twenty-nine? Now I have gray in my beard. My face is scarred, my eye a pus-filled ball of constant pain. And for what, Parmenion?”

“You have made Macedonia strong, Philip,” said Parmenion, rising. “And all your dreams should be within reach. What more do you want?”

“I want a son I can hold. A son I can teach to ride without fearing that the horse will topple and die, rotting before my
eyes. I remember nothing of the night on Samothrace when I sired him. I think sometimes he is not my son at all.”

Parmenion’s face lost all color, but Philip was not looking at him.

“Of course he is your son,” said Parmenion, keeping the fear from his voice. “Who else could be the father?”

“Some demon sent from Hades. I will marry again soon; I will have an heir one day. You know, when Alexander was born, they say his first sound was a growl, like a beast. The midwife almost dropped him. They say also that when his eyes first opened, they were slitted, like an Egyptian cat. I don’t know the truth of it. All I know is that I love the boy … and yet I cannot touch him. But enough of this! Are we still friends?”

“I will always be your friend, Philip. I swear it.”

“Then let’s get drunk and talk of better days,” ordered the king.

Outside the door Attalus felt his anger rising. Silently he moved away down the torchlit corridor and out into the night, the cool breeze only fanning the flames of his hatred.

How could Philip not see what a danger the Spartan presented? Attalus hawked and spit, but still his mouth tasted of bile.

Parmenion. Always Parmenion. The officers adore him, the soldiers are in awe of him. Can you not see what is happening, Philip? You are losing your kingdom to this foreign mercenary. Attalus halted in the shadows of a looming temple and turned. I could wait here, he thought, his fingers curling round the hilt of his dagger. I could step out behind him, ramming the blade into his back, twisting it, ripping open his heart.

But if Philip found out … Be patient, he cautioned himself. The arrogant whoreson will bring about his own downfall with all his misguided concepts of honesty and honor. No king wants honesty. Oh, they all talk of it! “Give me an honest man,” they say. “We want no crawling lackeys.” Horse dung!
What they want is adoration and agreement. No, Parmenion would not last.

And come the blessed day when he fell from favor, it would be Attalus to whom Philip would turn, first to dispose of the loathsome Spartan and then to replace him as first general of Macedonia.

The
strategos!
What was so difficult about winning a battle? Strike at the enemy with the force of a storm, crushing the center and killing the enemy king or general. But Parmenion had fooled them all, making them believe there was some wondrous mystery. And why? Because he was a coward, seeking always to hang back from the battle itself, keeping himself out of harm’s way. None of them could see it. Blind fools!

Attalus drew his dagger, enjoying the silver gleam of moonlight on the blade. “One day,” he whispered, “this will kill you, Spartan.”

THE TEMPLE, ASIA MINOR, SUMMER

Derae was weary almost to the point of exhaustion when the last supplicant was carried into the room of healing. The two men laid the child on the altar bed and stepped back, respectfully keeping their eyes from the face of the blind healer. Derae took a deep breath, calming herself, then laid her hands on the child’s brow, her spirit swimming into the girl’s bloodstream, flowing with it, feeling the heartbeat weak and fluttering. The injury was at the base of the spine—the vertebrae cracked, nerve endings crushed, muscles wasting.

With infinite care Derae healed the bone, eliminating adhesions, relieving the pressure on the swollen nerve points, forcing blood to flow over the injured tissue.

Drawing herself back into her body, the priestess sighed and swayed. Instantly a man leapt forward to assist her, his hand brushing against her arm.

“Leave me be!” she snapped, pulling away from him.

“I am sorry, lady,” he whispered. Waving her hand, she smiled in his direction.

“Forgive me, Laertes. I am tired.”

“How did you know my name?” the man asked, his voice hushed. Derae laughed then.

“I heal the blind, and no one questions my gift. The lame walk, and people say, ‘Ah, but she is a healer.’ But so simple a matter as knowing an unspoken name, and there is awe. You touched me, Laertes. And in touching me gave up all your secrets.
But fear not, you are a good man. Your daughter was kicked by a horse, yes?”

“Yes, lady.”

“The blow injured the bones of her back. I have taken away the pain, and tomorrow, when I have rested, I will heal her. You may stay here this evening. My servants will bring you food.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I have money …” Waving him to silence, Derae walked away, her step sure. Two female servants pulled open the altar room doors as she approached, a third taking her arm in the corridor beyond and leading the blind healer to her room.

Once inside, Derae sipped cool water and lay down on the narrow pallet bed. So many sick, so many injured … each day the lines beyond the temple grew. At times there were fights, and many of those who finally reached her had been forced to bribe their way to the altar room. Often during the last few years Derae had tried to put a stop to the practice. But even with her powers, she could not fight human nature. The people beyond the temple walls had a need only she could satisfy. And where there was need, there was profit to be made. Now a Greek mercenary called Pallas had thirty men camped before the temple. And he organized the lines, selling tokens of admission to the supplicants, establishing some order to the chaos.