Dark Prince (61 page)

“Her powers are very great. You must be on your guard at all times.”

“I will be,” he said wearily. “But tell me: is there a way to defeat the chaos spirit? Can you kill the demon without harming Alexander?”

“No,” she answered, “he cannot be killed. And even when Alexander dies, he will live on; once the host body is destroyed, consumed by fire or devoured by worms or carrion birds, he will be free once more.”

“But if we hold him back, will he not tire of trying to possess Alexander? Surely it would be simpler to find another human and capture his soul.”

“He cannot do that,” she answered. “That night in Samothrace where you …” Pausing for a moment, she squeezed his hand and gave a gentle, almost apologetic smile, then went on. “Where Alexander was conceived was not chosen at random. It was a special, unholy time. Great spells were cast, and the blood of innocence was spilt. The purpose of it all was to bond the conceived child to the evil of Kadmilos. The child became the gateway through which the beast could pass. As long as Alexander lives, he will be linked to Kadmilos. Equally, the Dark God cannot leave Alexander; they are chained together for as long as the body survives.”

“Then there is no hope?”

“There is always hope, my dear,” she told him. “Evil does not exist alone. There are balances.”

Her voice faded, and for a moment only, he thought she had died. All thoughts of the Dark God fled from his mind. Gripping her hand, he called her name. Her blind eyes opened, and she gave a weak smile.

“Let us not talk of this anymore,” he whispered. “Tell me of your years here. Let me share them with you.”

He sat and listened as the sun faded from the sky, unaware that his officers had arrived and were standing silently by the doorway. They did not intrude on his obvious grief.

Finally, as the first stars of evening were appearing in the sky, Derae drew in a deep shuddering breath.

And was gone …

No good-byes, no tearful farewell. One moment she was alive, the next her soul had departed.

As her breathing stopped, Parmenion fell back, and there came over the room a sense of peace that none present would ever forget. It was warm and comforting, uplifting and filled with love, touching heart and mind and soul.

Ptolemy moved forward and embraced his general. The others followed.

And with great gentleness they led the weeping Spartan back to the gardens where his war-horse waited.

GREATER PHRYGIA, 336
B.C.

In the weeks that followed, Parmenion threw all his energies into the planning of the campaign, working from before dawn to after dusk and exhausting even his younger officers. He checked the supplies, ordered cartographers to map the countryside, organized food wagons, sent riders to watch for the Athenian supply ships, and arranged billets, pushing himself to his limits.

Attalus tried to reason with him, begging him to slow down, but the Spartan would not be opposed. Ignoring all advice, he pressed on. In the past he had been aided by Mothac, whose organizational skills had been breathtaking. But now he felt he could trust no one. An army soon to number thirty thousand would be moving across the Hellespont. Horses would require safe pasture, and the men would need meat, cereal, and water. Battles, in the main, could almost take care of themselves, but keeping men ready for war was an art in itself. A four-ox cart could carry thirty barrels of water across a desert, but the oxen needed to drink, and after ten days there would be only fifteen barrels left. Such were the problems in which Parmenion immersed himself to cloak his soul from the pain of Derae’s death.

Then there were the squabbles and fights that flared within an army made up of such ancient enemies as Paionians, Illyrians, Macedonians, Athenians, and Thracians. Blood feuds were reported daily, and many men were slain in duels. Parmenion and Attalus were often called upon to judge the survivors
of such combats, and it irked the Spartan to sentence good fighters to death.

But even these considerations were better than the constant, acid thought that Derae had been alive all these years and now had been taken from him for good.

In the midafternoon of his fifth day in this outpost of the Persian Empire, scouts brought word of a group of Macedonian officers who had landed from an Athenian ship. There was no sign yet of Philip, and Parmenion cursed inwardly.

The Persians had fled before the invading force, and many of the Greek cities had invited the Macedonians to liberate them. Yet Parmenion could not spread the advance army so thin that a counterattack would crush it, and he was forced to wait for the arrival of the king and the rest of the army. This delay, he knew, would soon lead to a weakening of resolve in the cities, and many would withdraw their support.

The Spartan had commandeered a house in the captured city of Cabalia, and this he shared with Attalus. The swordsman had been in a fine mood since the invasion and enjoyed sharing the command. In the main the two men got on well, Attalus leaving what he regarded as the minutiae to Parmenion while he rode out every day hunting or scouting the land ahead.

The old warrior had even become popular with the troops, for he never hesitated to ride at the front of the battle line and had distinguished himself in the first clashes with the Persian army.

Parmenion pushed the papers across the broad desk and stretched his back. He was tired, bone-weary. It had not been hard to march into Asia, but a long campaign called for more stamina, nerve, and sustained concentration than he had needed for longer than he cared to remember.

Three years was the timetable he had given Philip. Three years to control Asia Minor and make the land safe. Three years and sixty thousand troops. This was no small undertaking, and at sixty-four, Parmenion wondered whether he would live out the campaign.

There were so many problems to overcome, foremost
among which was food for the army. They had brought supplies for thirty days when they had crossed the Hellespont, and two-thirds had already been consumed. Foraging parties were bringing in what could be found locally, but Parmenion was anxious for the supply ships to reach the designated—and defended—bays. Philip had a mere 160 ships. Should the Persian fleet move into the Aegean Sea, the Macedonian vessels would be outnumbered three to one and the land-based army could be starved into submission or withdrawal.

But even with food supplies assured, there was still the problem of the Persian army. Given time, the new king, Darius, could raise an army of almost a million. This was unlikely, Parmenion knew, but even if he chose only to conscript warriors from central Persia, the Macedonians would face more than 120,000 well-armed, disciplined men. Among these were almost forty thousand trained slingers and archers. Even when Philip arrived with reinforcements, the Macedonians would have only around one thousand bowmen.

Parmenion believed that despite his awesome skills, Philip had never truly understood the Persian empire and its composition.

The great king ruled from Phrygia in the west to the distant lands of the Hindu Kush, from fertile farmland to arid desert, from ice-covered forests to impenetrable jungle. But it was the method of his rule that made conquest of the empire so difficult. Satraps and vassal kings were mostly autonomous, raising their own armies and setting local taxes. Even if Philip were to crush Darius, he would still have a score of powerful enemies to face, each of them capable of bringing to the field an army greater than Macedon’s.

Two million square miles of territory, one hundred different nations. All of Philip’s past triumphs would count for nothing against such odds!

The sun was dipping into the west when the Spartan strode through the camp, stopping to examine the picket lines and the guards who patrolled the horse paddocks. He found one young sentry sitting quietly eating bread and cheese, his helmet
and sword beside him. As the boy saw the general, he scrambled to his feet.

“I am sorry, sir. I have not had an opportunity to eat today.”

“It is difficult to eat with your throat ripped open,” Parmenion told him. “This is an enemy land, and you have few friends here.”

“I know, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“That is true. Next time I find you slacking, I shall open your throat myself.”

“Thank you, sir … I mean …”

“I know what you mean,” grunted the Spartan, moving away.

They were all so young now, beardless children playing a game of war.

For an hour or more he wandered the camp outside the city, then returned to the house. It was white-walled with beautiful statues lining the walks and gardens, and the rooms were large, the windows tall and wide. The floors were not crafted with mosaics but covered with rugs and carpets, deep and soft beneath the feet. Huge paintings adorned the inner walls, depicting the gods of the Persians, the mighty Ahura Mazda, the wise lord, and the minor daevas that served him.

A slave girl brought the general a pitcher of mead, wine made from honey. He accepted a goblet, then dismissed her. As dusk approached, another girl moved in, lighting the copper lamps that hung on the walls. The room was soon bathed in a soft golden glow, and the Spartan removed his breastplate and greaves, settling down with his mead on a wide couch.

Attalus found him there in the early evening. The swordsman was dressed in a long gray
chiton
, his white hair held in place by a black leather band edged with silver.

“A productive day?” asked Attalus.

The Spartan shrugged. “Perhaps. I wish Philip were here: many of the cities would receive us now with cheers and welcome banquets. If we leave it much longer, their backbones will start to melt. They will hear of the great king’s preparations for war and will bar their gates against us.”

“You are still in that dark mood, I see,” said Attalus. “It
comes from drinking that Persian goat’s piss. Good Greek wine is what you need,” he added, filling a golden wine cup and draining half the contents in a single swallow.

“I am no longer in a dark mood,” said Parmenion slowly, “but our spies report that the great king is building an army the like of which has not been seen since Xerxes invaded Greece. Messengers are traveling all over the empire: Cappadocia, Pisidia, Syria, Pontica, Egypt, Mesopotamia … Can you imagine how many men will come against us?”

“We will defeat them,” said Attalus, settling down and stretching out his legs.

“Just like that?”

“Of course,
strategos
. You will think of a great plan for victory, and we will all sleep soundly in our beds.”

Parmenion chuckled. “You should have started drinking years ago. It agrees with you.”

“It is never too late to learn,” Attalus said. “However, I am in agreement with you. I can’t wait to see Philip; it has been too long. The last I heard was six months ago, when Cleopatra was waiting to give birth to her son and the king was planning the celebrations. It will be good to see him.”

Attalus laughed. “There was a time, Spartan, when I wished you dead. Now I find you good company. Perhaps I’m getting old.”

Before Parmenion could reply, a servant announced the arrival of the messengers from Pella. Parmenion rose and walked out to the center of the room to meet them.

The first to enter was Hephaistion, followed by Cassander and the cavalry general, Cleitus. Hephaistion bowed, but his face was set and tension showed in his eyes.

“A difficult journey?” ventured Parmenion.

“We have letters from the king,” answered Hephaistion stiffly, approaching Parmenion. Cassander and Cleitus advanced toward Attalus. Cleitus held a tightly rolled scroll of papyrus, which he offered to the swordsman.

Parmenion had received such messages on hundreds of occasions. Yet there was a terrible tension in the air, and the Spartan’s senses were aroused. His gaze flickered to Cleitus;
the cavalryman was proffering a sealed scroll to Attalus, but his right hand was inching toward the dagger at his hip. Cassander also was moving to Attalus’ left, his right hand hidden beneath his cloak. In that one awful moment Parmenion knew what was to come.

“Attalus!” he cried. Hephaistion leapt on the Spartan, pinning his arms, and although Parmenion struggled, the younger man was too strong. The two officers drew their swords and rushed at Attalus. The old man stood stock-still, too shocked to move. An iron blade cleaved his belly, and he cried out. A second sword slashed into his neck, opening a terrible wound. Attalus’ knees buckled. Swords and knives slashed into his body even as he fell, and he was dead before he struck the floor.

Hephaistion loosened his grip on Parmenion, who staggered back, his hand trembling as he drew his sword.

“Come then, you traitors!” he yelled. “Finish your work!”

“It is finished, sir,” said Hephaistion, his face gray under the tan. “That is what the king ordered.”

“I do not believe it! You have just killed Philip’s best friend.”

“I know, sir. But Philip is dead.”

The words struck Parmenion like poisoned arrows and he reeled back. “Dead?
Dead?”

“He was murdered as he entered the amphitheater where he was to celebrate the birth of his son. The killer was hiding in the shadows, and he stabbed Philip through the heart.”