Dark Prince (44 page)

Parmenion moved up alongside her. “Does it feel good to be a wanton?” he asked.

“Wonderful,” she admitted. “But promise never to tell me how you learned that skill.”

“I promise.”

“I’ve changed my mind. Tell me.”

“I swear upon my soul that I have never in this world done it before.”

“That cannot be true.”

“I swear it. You are the first woman in all Achaea to be so abused by me.”

Raising herself on one elbow, she looked down at his face. Then she smiled. “I believe you,” she said slowly, “but there is something you are not telling me.”

“Are you a seeress, then?” he asked, forcing a smile to hide his sudden discomfort.

“Tamis told me I had talent but it was undeveloped. What are you hiding?”

“At this moment,” he answered, gazing down at his naked body, “I would appear to be hiding nothing.”

“I shall look,” she announced. Rolling to her knees, she kissed his belly, her head moving down.

“Oh, no!” he said, reaching for her. “You can’t! It’s not seemly.”

Her laughter echoed around the room. “Not seemly? A kiss that is fit for a queen should not be spurned by a king!”

He was willing to argue, but only for the one moment before her lips touched him, her mouth sliding over him. Then his arguments died.

Later, as they sat on a couch sipping watered wine, they heard footsteps in the corridor beyond the main room. Derae rose and walked back into the bedroom, while Parmenion gathered his sword and opened the door. Two sentries stood outside, Leonidas with them.

“What is going on?” Parmenion asked.

“Philippos is marching through the night. He seeks to surprise us. Two of our scouts have just come in: The Makedones will be within sight of the city by noon tomorrow.”

“We will be ready for him,” promised Parmenion.

“Yes. Is my sister still with you?”

“She is.”

“May I come in?”

“No, my friend. This … last night … is for us. You understand?”

“I think I do. But the wisdom of it may seem less sure in the morning.”

“My life is full of many regrets, but even if I die tomorrow, this night will not be one of them.”

“I was not thinking of you,” said Leonidas.

The truth of the soldier’s words struck Parmenion like a blow. Had he not made love to Derae, then her memories of him would have been of a cold-natured king who felt nothing for her, her sorrow at his passing minimal.

Whether he enjoyed the glory of victory or death and defeat, Parmenion would vanish from her life, for he had made his promise to Leonidas. For five days he would be king, or until the battle was resolved.

Then he would lose Derae again.

Leonidas saw the look of despair on the king’s face and reached out. “I am sorry, my friend,” he whispered. Parmenion said nothing. Stepping back, he pushed shut the door and stood in the darkness of his rooms.

“Who was it?” called Derae. He walked into the bedroom and lay down beside her.

“It was Leonidas. The Makedones will be here tomorrow.”

“You will defeat them,” she said sleepily. He stroked her hair and drew the sheet across them both.

He was still awake with the dawn when he heard Priastes enter the outer room. Parmenion rose silently and walked from the bedroom, softly closing the door behind him. Priastes, in breastplate, helm, and greaves, bowed as the king made his entrance, and Parmenion smiled.

“You look ferocious,” he said.

Priastes chuckled. “Once I was a man to be feared. There is still something left of that man, as the Makedones will find. Now, what armor shall you wear?”

“A simple cuirass with greaves and wrist guards. I will be fighting on foot. And find me an unadorned helm.”

“You do not wish to stand out in the battle?” asked Priastes, surprised.

Parmenion paused. The old man was right. Always before, Parmenion had been a general serving either a monarch or a satrap or a city. Yet here he was the king, and men were preparing to fight and die for him. It was their right to see their lord in action, and more than that, it was Parmenion’s duty. Morale was a fragile creature, and on many occasions the Spartan had seen Philip turn the course of a battle merely by his presence in golden armor and high-plumed helm. Men watched him ride into danger, and their hearts swelled with pride.

“You are quite correct, Priastes,” he said at last. “Fetch the brightest, gaudiest armor I possess.”

The old man laughed. “That would be the golden helm with the white horsehair plume and the ivory-embossed cheek guards. It is a work of great beauty, yet still strongly made. You will shine like the sun and fill Apollo with jealousy.”

“It is never wise to make the gods jealous.”

“Ah, but then, Apollo is better-looking than you. He will not mind that your armor is bright.”

Within the hour, as the sun cleared the mountains, Parmenion—after meeting with Cleander and the city’s defense council—strode out through the palace gates to be greeted by Leonidas, Timasion, Learchus, and the officers. All bowed as he approached, and Parmenion felt his cheeks reddening. The helm was everything Priastes had described, and the armor was blinding in the sunlight, beaten gold overlaying iron and bronze. Even the wrist guards and greaves were embossed with ivory and silver, and the white cloak he wore was interwoven with silver strands that made it glitter in the dawn light.

The soldiers saw him and drew their swords, clattering the blades against their shields in an incredible cacophony of
sound. Lifting his hand, he returned their salute, his gaze sweeping over the massed ranks filling Leaving Street.

Leonidas approached him, a wide smile on his face. “Is now the time to outline your plans?” he asked.

Parmenion nodded and called the officers to him. The necklet of Tamis was cool against his throat, and he spoke quietly, watching their reactions. They listened in silence, but it was Leonidas who tried to ask the first question.

“What if …?”

Parmenion raised his hand. “No, my friend. No ‘what ifs.’ What if the sun turns to fire? What if the oceans rise from their bowls? There is no time now for such thoughts. I have seen the demon king in action, and we have only one chance of victory. It is vital, therefore, that his infantry attack the Spartans, leaving the slaves—at first—alone. If we can make him do that, we have a chance. Without it there is none. Now prepare your regiments and let us march.”

He glanced at the faces of the men around him. None of them was content with his strategy, yet even here in this other Greece, Spartan discipline was paramount. They saluted and moved away.

Parmenion strode out to the head of the columns with Leonidas beside him. “I pray to the gods you are right, Parmenion,” the warrior whispered.

“Let us hope they hear you,” he answered.

The vanguard was clear of the city when the three horsemen came galloping from the south. Attalus and Helm rode side by side with the Minotaur Brontes just behind them, sitting awkwardly on his mount.

Attalus reined in alongside Parmenion and leapt to the ground. “There will be no aid from the south,” said the swordsman, his eyes drawn to the splendid armor.

“I expected none. Walk beside me.”

Brontes and Helm both dismounted, letting the horses walk free. Man and Minotaur joined the king. “Welcome, my friends,” said Parmenion, holding out his hand first to Brontes.

“I am sorry that my brothers of the enchantment would not
ride with you, Parmenion,” Brontes told him, “but they will have no part in what they see as the wars of men. It might have been that I could have persuaded them, but when I told them you had offered the new enchantment to Gorgon, their minds were further set against you. Had you not befriended that demon, you might even now have had a second army.”

“Without Gorgon, Alexander would not have reached the gateway,” pointed out Parmenion. “But that is no longer important. We stand alone, and there is sometimes strength in that.” The Spartan turned to Helm. “I thought you would have stayed with Iskander. Is he not the key to your memories?”

“He told me to come,” answered the bronze-faced warrior. “He said my answer lies with you.”

“And what of you, Attalus?” asked Parmenion. “You have no need to be here.”

“I have grown used to your company … sire. And I have no wish to miss the coming battle. The demon king has hunted me across this world. Now I will hunt him.”

Parmenion smiled. “We will hunt him together.”

THE FIELD OF BLOOD

Philippos sat upon his battle stallion and thought of his enemy, directing the gaze of his golden eye toward the distant figure of the garishly armored Spartan king.

It galled him that the man had a protective amulet, not because he feared his pitiful strategies but merely because he always enjoyed the fear and rising panic that swelled from the emotions of an enemy facing defeat.

He remembered his last meeting with Parmenion, felt again the wave of anger as the Spartan had spoken of his skills with such contempt. A poor general, indeed! He was Philippos, the greatest battle king the world would ever know!

“I do not need the eye to defeat the likes of you,” he whispered aloud. And yet … why rob oneself of the small pleasures? he wondered. What dread despairs were felt by Parmenion’s generals?

His concentration deepened as he sought out Leonidas.

“Are you contemplating your death?” whispered a voice in his mind, and Philippos jerked as if struck. It was the witch woman who had pretended to be the goddess Athena. Closing his human eye, he sought out her spirit form; she was floating in the air some twenty paces from him.

“You cannot harm me, witch,” he told her.

“Nor will I need to do so,” she answered. “Evil has a way of defeating itself. That will happen today.”

“Begone, woman! I have neither the time nor the inclination to debate with you!”

“Of course you have not,” she sneered. “The coward king must first read his enemy’s thoughts. He is incapable of planning a battle for himself. Go ahead. Do not let me disturb you. I would imagine the sight of all those farm workers and slaves has unmanned you.”

Another voice cut in, a child’s voice. “He is not very impressive, is he, Thena?” Philippos swung his head to see the slim golden-headed boy he had hunted so long.

“I will find you, child. There is nowhere you can hide from me.”

The boy looked at him, his expression somber. “I do not think you shall,” he said softly, “but if you do, I will kill you.”

Philippos laughed then, though the sound faded as he stared at the solemn face of the child. “Nothing can kill me! You hear me? Nothing!”

“I can,” whispered the boy, “with one touch. But we are detaining you, coward. Shall we ask Parmenion to remove his necklet of power? Would that make it easier for you to destroy the slave army?”

The contempt in the child’s voice stung the king with whips of fire, and he started to reply, but the spirits vanished. Furious now, Philippos rode along his battle lines, summoning his generals and priests. The soldiers stood silently as he passed, spears held vertically, eyes on the enemy some eight hundred paces ahead.

The Makedones king hauled on the reins and turned his horse to stand facing south. The enemy battle line was as he had expected: the Spartans, in their full-faced bronze helms and red cloaks, holding the low ground between two hills, the slaves split into two groups flanking them on the hillsides. Behind the center of the main force he could see bowmen and javeliners, awaiting orders.

“How many?” Philippos asked.

An officer moved his horse alongside the king. “Five thousand Spartans, sire, and around the same number of slaves. It is hard to see how many archers, perhaps a thousand.”

Philippos did not need to glance back to know the numbers of the Makedones. Directly behind him were the royal guards,
six thousand strong, standing in battle order twenty ranks deep and three hundred shields wide, a vast black-garbed fighting square. They were the bringers of the storm, for when they marched, their battle cries rolled out like thunder and their swords were deadlier than the lightning bolts of Zeus. Flanking them were the ten thousand regulars, powerful fighting men, highly trained, their helms and breastplates of polished iron gleaming like silver. On the right were the five thousand mercenaries from Thessalia, Thracia, and Illyria. Cloaks of many colors were worn by these warriors, and though they had little discipline, still they were ferocious in battle, having a lust for blood and death that delighted the Makedones king. Beyond them, on the right flank, were the cavalry, mainly Korinthian, numbering seven thousand. Twenty-eight thousand battle-hardened men were ranged against five thousand Spartans and a motley mob of hastily armed slaves and old men.

“His strategy is pitiful,” sneered Philippos. “You can see through it like a gossamer veil. He invites us to attack his center; that is why the Spartans are defending the easy way, the low ground.”

“But if we thrust them aside, lord, the slaves will break and run and the day will be ours,” put in the officer. “Surely we must attack the Spartans.”

“You saw them at Mantinea. To attack them head-on is like hurling water against a wall. They are fine soldiers, and they do not break easily. No. That is what he wants—to withstand the full force of an infantry charge, to break the spirit of the Makedones. Once morale is gone, the difference in numbers counts for little.”