Authors: David Gemmell
Shadows. You are jumping at shadows. Slipping the dagger back into its sheath, he walked on. Once he would have used his talent to search those shadows, but ever since Parmenion had clipped the golden necklet to his throat, his powers had vanished. A small price to pay for the peace he had enjoyed since the Dark God had been banished from his body.
No one who had not endured his sense of solitude as a child could possibly have understood the joy he had known since his return from the world of Achaea. To touch and not to kill, to embrace without fear and feel the warmth of another body against his own. So many simple pleasures. To sit, no longer alone, at the center of a group of children, to ride, and to laugh, and to share.
Reaching up, he touched the cold gold of the necklet.
He moved on, cutting across the Street of Tanners and on to the wider Avenue of the Stallion, keeping close to the shadows and listening for sounds of pursuit.
How could it have come to this? he wondered. Slinking through the midnight streets for a secret meeting. The return from Achaea had been full of joy. Philip’s good humor had lasted for months, and even when away on his constant campaigns in Thrace or the Chalcidice, the king had continued to send messages to his son at Mieza. Where had it gone wrong?
Could it have been the horse?
He remembered the day, five years before, when Parmenion had first brought Bucephalus to the king. The festival of Artemis had been celebrated for the previous four days, and Philip was relaxed and mildly drunk when the Thessalian handler had walked the huge black stallion onto the parade ground. Alexander’s breath had caught in his throat. Seventeen hands high, the stallion was the most wondrous sight, powerful of shoulder and proud of eye. The king had sobered instantly. He was not lame then, and he had leapt from the dais to approach the beast.
“Never,” said Philip, “have I seen such a horse.”
“His sire was Titan,” Parmenion told him. “I rode him only once and have never forgotten it.”
“I will give you five talents of silver for him,” the king announced.
“He is not for sale, sire, not even to you. He is a gift for Alexander.”
“This is no horse for a child. This is a war-horse.” Philip reached up to stroke the sleek black neck, his hand trembling. “Ten talents, Parmenion. He can have another horse.”
The fifteen-year-old Alexander gazed up at the Spartan, saw his cheeks redden, his mouth tightening. “You cannot buy another man’s gift, my lord. I have several other war-horses I would be pleased to offer you.”
“I want this one!” declared the king, his voice deepening as his anger rose.
“No,” said Parmenion. The word was spoken softly, but there was no doubting the strength of feeling behind it.
Philip took a deep breath and swung to see Alexander watching him. “If he can ride the stallion, he may have him,” said Philip, striding back to the dais.
“Thank you, Parmenion,” whispered Alexander, moving forward to stand alongside the stallion. “But how will I mount such a beast? I would need to carry steps.”
“Stroke his nose and blow gently into his nostril, then step back,” advised the Spartan. Alexander obeyed the instruction and was both amazed and delighted when Bucephalus knelt before him. Taking hold of the black mane, he vaulted to the horse’s back. Instantly Bucephalus rose.
“Aia!”
shouted Alexander, touching heels to the stallion’s flanks. Bucephalus broke into a run, and the prince had never forgotten the intense exhilaration of that first ride—the incredible speed, the awesome power.
But his father’s fury had lasted for days, and even when it faded, an edge remained.
Alexander was not unduly troubled by it, for he knew the king was concerned with the coming war against Thebes and Athens, two enemies of fierce reputation. It was the Athenians who two hundred years before had destroyed a massive Persian army at the Battle of Marathon, and the Thebans who three decades before had ended Spartan domination at the Battle of Leuctra. Now united against Philip, they posed the greatest threat ever faced by the Macedonian king.
Stopping at a public fountain, Alexander drank a little water, taking time to cast furtive glances at the buildings around him. There was no sign of the man in the black cloak … if ever there was such a man, thought the prince with a wry smile. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, followed closely by a trident of lightning. The wind began to blow harder, but as yet there was no rain.
There had been lightning the night before Charoneia, he remembered.
He had stood with Parmenion on the high ground overlooking the enemy camp. Almost thirty thousand men: the
battle-hardened warriors of the sacred band, Corinthian cavalry, Athenian
hoplites
, peltasts, javeliners.
“Does this make you sad?” whispered Alexander. “I mean, did you not help form the sacred band?”
“Yes, I did,” Parmenion answered, “and down there will be some of the men I trained and the sons of others I knew. It makes my heart sick. But I have chosen to serve your father, and they have chosen to become his enemies.” The Spartan shrugged and walked away.
The battle had been fierce, the sacred band holding the Macedonian phalanxes, but at last Philip had led a successful cavalry charge against the enemy left, scattering the Corinthians and splitting the enemy force.
Alexander saw again the javelin that had speared the heart of the king’s horse and watched, with his mind’s eye, his father being thrown to the ground. Enemy soldiers had rushed toward him. Alexander had kicked Bucephalus into a run and led a wild charge to the king’s aid. Philip was wounded in both arms, but Alexander had reached him in time, stretching out his hand and pulling his father up behind him. Bucephalus had carried them both to safety.
It was the last time Alexander could remember his father embracing him.
The prince sighed. He was almost at the meeting place and just crossing the Street of Potters, when three men appeared from the shadows. Alexander paused in his stride, eyes narrowing.
The men, all dressed in dark tunics, spread out, knives gleaming in their hands. Alexander backed away, drawing his own blade as he did so.
“We just want the necklet, young prince,” said the leader, a burly man with a silver-streaked black beard. “We mean you no harm.”
“Then come and take it,” Alexander told him.
“Is a piece of gold worth your life?” asked another man, this one leaner and wolflike.
“It’s certainly worth more than yours,” Alexander retorted.
“Don’t make us kill you!” pleaded the leader. Alexander
took several steps back, then his shoulders touched the wall of the building behind him. His mouth was dry, and he knew he could not kill all three without suffering serious injury. For a moment only he was tempted to give them the necklet, then he remembered the touch of death and the terrible loneliness of his childhood. No, it would be better to die. His gaze flickered to the lean man; he would be the deadly one, swift as a striking snake. They moved in closer, coming from left, right, and center. Alexander tensed, ready to leap to his right.
“Put up the blades,” said a deep voice. The men froze, the leader turning his head to see a tall man in a black cloak standing behind them with a glittering sword in his hand.
“What if we do?” the leader asked.
“Then you walk away,” said the newcomer reasonably.
“Very well,” muttered the robber, easing himself to the right, his men following him. Once clear of the action, the three attackers turned and disappeared into the shadows.
“My thanks to you,” said Alexander, but his knife remained in his hand.
The man chuckled. “I am Hephaistion. The lord Parmenion asked me to watch over you. Come, I will take you to him.”
“Lead the way, my friend. I will be right behind you.”
Mothac’s house was in the poorer quarter of Pella, where he could meet and hold interviews with his many agents. The building was two-storied and surrounded by high walls. There was no garden, but to the rear of the property, facing east, was a small courtyard half-covered by a roof of vines. There was only one
andron
, windowless and unadorned, in which three couches and several small tables were set. It was in this room that Mothac spoke with his spies, for they could not be overheard from outside.
“What is happening to my father?” asked Alexander as Parmenion ushered the prince inside.
The general shook his head and shrugged. “I cannot say with certainty.” The Spartan stretched out his lean frame on a long couch, and Alexander saw the weariness in the older
man. It surprised him, for Parmenion had always been his hero, seemingly inexhaustible. Now he looked like any man in his sixties, gray-haired and lined, his pale blue eyes showing dark rings. It saddened the prince, and he looked away. “Sometimes,” continued the Spartan, “a man will find that his dreams were more magical before they were realized. I think that might be one answer.”
“I don’t understand you. He is the most powerful king in Greece. He has everything he ever desired.”
“Exactly my point.” The general sighed. “When first I met him in Thebes, he was but a child, facing with courage the prospect of assassination. He never wanted to be king. But then his brother was slain in battle, and Macedonia faced ruin. Philip took the crown to save the nation. Soon after that he began to dream of greatness, not for himself but for the kingdom and the future of his unborn son. He wanted nothing more than to build for you.”
“But he has done that,” said Alexander.
“I know. But along the way something happened to the man. He no longer builds for you but for himself. And the older he becomes, the more he regards you, your youth and your talent, as a threat. I was with him in Thrace when news of the Triballian revolt came through. He was ready to march home, for he knew the strength of the tribesmen, their courage and their skills. Any campaign against them would take months of careful planning. Then came word of your stunning victory. You outflanked them, outthought them, and won the war in eighteen days. That was magnificent. I was proud of you. So, I think, was he. But it only showed him how close you are to being ready to rule.”
Alexander shook his head. “I cannot win, can I? I try to please him by excelling, but that makes him fear me. How should I act, Parmenion? Would it be better if I were retarded like my half brother Arridaeus? What can I do?”
“I think you should leave Pella,” advised the Spartan.
“Leave?” Alexander was silent for a moment. He looked into Parmenion’s face, but for the first time in all the years he had known him the Spartan refused to meet his eyes. “He
means to kill me?” he whispered. “Is that what you are saying?”
The general’s face was grim as, at last, he looked into Alexander’s eyes. “I believe so. Day by day he convinces himself—or is convinced—of your imminent treachery. He gathers information about you and the words of your friends. Someone within your group is reporting to him. I cannot find out who.”
“One of my friends?” asked Alexander, shocked.
“Yes, or, rather, someone who professes friendship.”
“Believe me, Parmenion, I have never spoken against my father or criticized a single action. Not even to my friends. Anyone who speaks against me is lying or twisting the truth.”
“I know that, boy! I know that better than anyone. But we must find a way to make Philip realize it. It would be safer for you to leave the city. Then I can do my best to convince the king.”
“I cannot do it,” said Alexander. “I am the heir to the throne, and I am innocent. I will not run.”
“You think only guilty men die?” Parmenion snapped. “You believe innocence is a shield to turn away a blade? Where was the shield tonight when the assassins came? Had it not been for Hephaistion, you would have been killed.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Alexander, “but they were not assassins. They wanted the necklet.”
Parmenion said nothing, but his face lost its color and he moved across the room to a table where a flagon of wine and two shallow cups had been left. He did not offer the prince a drink but filled a cup and drained it swiftly. “I should have guessed,” he said softly.
“What?”
“Aristotle leaving. It bothered me at the time. Now I know why. Many years ago—just before you were born—I went on a journey … a perilous journey. He accompanied me. But when it seemed that all was lost, he fled. As Chiron, he did much the same. You remember? When we came close to the forest of Gorgon, he became the centaur, returning to his own form only when the danger was past.”
“He told me of that; he said he was frightened.”
“Yes. There is to him an edge of cowardice he cannot resist. I have always seen it in him, and I do not blame him for it. It is his nature, and he tried hard to overcome it. But it is there nonetheless. Now he has run away again, and tonight someone tried to steal the necklet.”
“They could just have been robbers, surely.”
“Yes,” Parmenion admitted, “they could. But I doubt it. Three men in a deserted street. What were they doing? Hoping some rich merchant would walk by after midnight? And the necklet is not readily visible, especially at night, nor does it look particularly valuable. No. Ever since we returned from Achaea I have lived in fear, waiting for the return of the Dark God.” The general refilled the wine cup and moved back to the couch. “I am no mystic, Alexander, but I can feel his presence.”
“He is gone from me,” argued the prince. “We defeated him.”
“No, not gone … waiting. You were always to be his vessel. All that protects you is the necklet.”
“They did not get it,” Alexander pointed out.
“This
time! But there will now be other attempts. They must feel the time is right.”
“Twice in the last year I have almost lost the necklet,” said Alexander. “In the battle against the Triballians an arrow struck my breastplate, the shaft snapping and the head tearing two of the gold links. I had it repaired. The goldsmith could not understand why I refused to take it off while he soldered the gold; he burned me twice. Then, while hunting, a jackdaw swooped down upon me, its talons hooking into the links. I struck the bird with my hand, and it lost its grip on the gold. But as it flew away, the clasp snapped open. I managed to hold it in place while I refastened it.”