Dark Prince (50 page)

Aristotle leapt back in sudden surprise and fear. “It had to be done, sire!” he said.

“Why did you take my memory?”

“That is hard to explain, but if you will give me the chance, I will tell all.”

“I for one would like to hear it,” said Parmenion softly.

Philip folded his hands across his chest. “Come then,
magus
, for I like a good tale,” he hissed, his eyes still angry.

Aristotle settled himself down with the others before him in a semicircle. “I am called Aristotle,” he began.

“We know that, damn you! Get on with it,” stormed Philip, and the
magus
raised a hand for silence.

“In my own way, my lord, if you please. I am now Aristotle, but once I was Chiron and I lived here with the people of the enchantment. This is where I first met Parmenion, and Helm, the warrior with no memory, and Attalus the swordsman. Here in this world I also saw, for the first time, the golden child Iskander. And—as you have just seen—I passed through this gateway with the exodus of the children of the Titans. For you it is but moments. But for me it is four centuries since I left this realm.”

“What happened to you then?” asked Parmenion.

“I explored many lands, through many centuries. I found other gates, paths between worlds. I journeyed far. But I longed for human company, and so at last I came to Asia and then Greece—and heard once more of Parmenion. And I realized I had traveled a great circle in time: I had arrived at a point
before
he passed through to Achaea. This was a great problem for me. Could I interfere? Had I already interfered? Of course I had, for when Parmenion first came to Achaea, he told Chiron that a sorcerer in another world had sent him. That man, he said, looked just like me. And I realized, too, that I was caught in a dangerous web. I had to re-create everything
as it was or else risk changing the past and perhaps destroying myself. Such a paradox, my friends. I sent Parmenion and Attalus through; then I sought you out, sire. I could not know what adventures would befall you all, for my memories of this time were blurred by my existence as Camiron. You see my dilemma? I could tell you nothing, for you knew nothing when first I met you. I longed to come with you, to help you, but I could not. Some laws are immutable. It is not possible to pass through a gateway into a time, or a place, where you already exist. No man can meet himself. So all I could do was wait and hope and pray that events would fashion themselves as they had before.”

“For a while there,” said Philip, “I almost had a grip on what you were saying. But understanding you is like trying to catch a trout with your fingers.”

“I appreciate your difficulty,” Aristotle told him. “For you these adventures were new, but for me they were part of my history. They had already happened. I had to rely on what I knew as Chiron. All he knew was that a warrior called Helm appeared on the battlefield and killed Philippos and that this man was the king of Makedon in another world. Chiron … I … also knew that this king had been robbed of his memory. So when faced with the problem from the other end of time, I merely re-created the circumstances.”

“That’s what I mean!” snorted Philip. “Just as I begin to understand, it all slips away. But answer me this: Whose idea was it—originally—to take away my memories and abduct me?”

“It is a circle, sire. Therefore, it has no beginning and no end. There is no one to blame.”

“No one to … Listen to me,
magus
, I am a king, and there is always someone for a king to blame. That is the way of the world. You came into my palace and—without a by your leave, sire—abducted me. Give me one good reason why I should not strike your head from your shoulders.”

Aristotle spread his hands and smiled. “The only answer I can think of, sire, is that were you to try it, I would turn you into a lizard and tread on you.”

Philip was silent for a moment, then he turned to Parmenion. “I’d say that sounds like a good reason.”

“I agree, sire.”

“I like you,
magus
,” said the king, “but you owe me a debt. How will you pay it?”

“How would you like it paid, sire?”

“Come with us to Pella as tutor to my son.”

Aristotle laughed. “I would have asked for that as a gift,” he said, “and willingly accept it as a penance.”

“Good! Now take us home.”

“Parmenion has not yet said farewell to his queen,” pointed out Aristotle, his smile fading. “And she is waiting at the foot of the hill.”

Parmenion sighed, pushed himself to his feet, and walked down toward the trees. He found Derae sitting on a fallen tree, and she stood as he approached.

“You would have left without seeing me, without saying good-bye?”

“Yes. It was the coward’s way, I know, but I felt I could not bear to say the words. You have spoken with Leonidas?”

“He told me everything. Am I like her?”

He nodded. “In every way.”

“So it was not me you loved,” she said sadly.

“It was you,” he assured her. “At first it was an image, a memory. But the woman I made love to was you. The woman I love
is
you.”

“Yet you cannot stay?”

“No. I must look after Alexander. It is my duty and my life. Will you forgive me?”

She nodded and stepped into his embrace. Kissing him once on the cheek, she pushed him gently from her. “Go, then,” she said. “Go now—and swiftly. I know that you will return one day. I know of your secret, Parmenion. I know the reason why you must travel with Alexander. But your destiny is here, and one day you will come back. And I shall be waiting here, just as you see me. I shall be here.”

“I cannot promise that,” he said, “though I desire it with all my heart.”

“You do not have to. Last night I had a dream. A gray-bearded sorcerer appeared to me and told me to be here tonight. He said you would leave, returning to your own world. But he also said that he would do his best to send you back to me. I will wait.”

Parmenion said nothing. Backing away several steps, he spun on his heel and strode up the hill.

Aristotle was waiting, and as the Spartan came alongside him, the
magus
lifted his arm.

The gateway shimmered once more …

BOOK FOUR

THE CITY OF MIEZA, 337
B.C.

The man called Aristotle sat alone in the deserted gardens of the school building, gazing toward the north, watching the storm clouds loom above the rearing Bora mountains. A cold breeze blew, and he shivered, drawing his gray woolen cloak more tightly about his frame.

Glancing back toward the house, he saw his wife, Pythias, gathering herbs in the small cultivated patch of earth by the kitchen. It would soon be time to leave, putting behind him the last fourteen years—saying farewell to Mieza, to Macedonia, to Greece.

He sighed. Immortality was a burden and yet, like the narcotics of Egypt, wholly addictive. To be relieved of the prospect of death only heightened the fear of dying. The longer he lived, the more bored he became, the more he longed for the peace of the grave, the more terrified he became at the thought of it.

And the memories …

So many … Three thousand years earlier he had almost gone mad with them. But Pendarric had saved him, teaching him to use the stones more wisely. Each life of his past had been reduced to a single key word, locked in his mind. The Makedones years had become Iskander. Merely by summoning the word to conscious thought, he could see again the golden child and the shining gateway and all the years that preceded it. But now he was reaching the point where even
the keys shone in his mind like stars, thousands upon thousands.

What is there that is new? he wondered.

The answer came swift as a stab in the heart.

There is nothing that is new under the sun. All is vanity
.

He smiled and unlocked the key to the life he had shared with the philosopher. Golden days. A time when there were still discoveries to be made, surprises to be enjoyed.

Why are you so melancholy? he asked himself. Around the bench where he sat were a dozen seats, empty now, but not long ago they had been occupied by the sons of Macedonian nobles—young men full of hope, nurturing dreams. And—always at their center, a bright shining sun in their lives—there was Alexander.

Now you have it, he realized.

Alexander.

Aristotle rose and wandered to the northern gate, pushing it open and walking out into the foothills of Mount Bermion. Throughout the ages he had seen men, great men, men of wisdom, men of war, secure in their arrogance, dismissive of the past. Yet the past held all the answers to life’s mysteries, and each successive generation unknowingly locked them away. Then searched for them in the unborn futures.

I had high hopes for you, Alexander, he thought. You have a fine mind, perhaps the most brilliant since the philosopher ruled in Jerusalem. Certainly you rival Pendarric in the days when he reigned over Atlantis.

Yet what is it that calls you? Wisdom? The pursuit of knowledge? No. You hear the trumpets of war, you seek the whore of conquest. Even with the chaos spirit locked outside you, still you are a man, and men will always lust for glory.

And the others will follow you. He pictured them, their young faces bright with longing for a future they knew to be rich with promise: Ptolemy, Nearchos, Philotas, Nicci, Derdas, and the others. Like all young men, they reveled in their strength and were scornful of the deeds of their fathers.

Aristotle stopped by a trickling stream, sitting with his back to a boulder out of the wind. A hawk swooped out of the
sky, dropping like a stone, his talons ripping into a young rabbit just emerging from its burrow into the dusk. The captured beast did not struggle as the bird swept back into the air; it hung limply in the hawk’s grip. Aristotle’s spirit reached out to touch the creature. It was dead.

“A curse on all hawks,” he said aloud.

“He has mouths to feed,” said a voice. Aristotle looked up and smiled at the tall figure moving through the shadows of the trees to sit beside him. The man settled himself, wincing as his arthritic knee refused to bend.

“I thought I’d find you here,” said Parmenion, removing his helm and running his hand through his sweat-soaked iron-gray hair. “Philip wants you to come to Pella for the wedding.”

Aristotle shook his head. “I shall not be there, Parmenion.

“Philip will not be best pleased.”

“His anger is immaterial to me. I shall be walking the dragon paths to other worlds.”

“And Pythias?”

“I will leave her money. She will not mourn my passing; she kept my bed warm, but there is little love between us.” He looked deeply into Parmenion’s face, seeing the sharply chiseled lines, the dark smudges below the bright blue eyes. “You look tired, my friend.”

Parmenion shrugged. “I am sixty-three years old. I expect to be tired after a long campaign.”

“Surely you can rest now. Since Philip crushed the Athenians and Thebans at Chaeronea he has become in all but name the lord of Greece. Where now are his enemies?”

“Everywhere,” replied Parmenion with a wry smile.

“I accept that,” said Aristotle, returning the smile, “but I meant where are the enemies that can cause him harm? There are no armies left for him to conquer. He rules from Thrace to Epirus, from Paionia to Thessaly. Everyone pays him homage, even Athens. I hear they erected a statue to him after Charoniea. Unbelievable!”

“Not really. The Athenians expected us to march on their city and ransack it. Instead Philip returned their dead with
full military honors and sued for peace. Their relief was immense.”

“Why did he spare them? Athens has been a thorn in his side for years.”

Parmenion shrugged. “Philip has always remembered the deeds of his twin in Makedon. He was determined never to repeat such evils. But also he has a greater dream: he looks to extend his realm to the east.”

“Where else can he go? He cannot take on the might of Persia.”

“He has no choice. Macedonia now has a huge army: cavalry, siege engineers, mercenaries. All need feeding, payment. Where else can he go? The great king rules over a hundred nations, all rich.”