Dark Prince (9 page)

Suddenly the stallion’s neck arched back, an arrow jutting from his skull.

“No!” screamed Parmenion. “No!” But a second shaft buried itself deep in Titan’s flank, piercing the heart. The stallion sank to his knees, then toppled to his side.

Parmenion rose on unsteady legs, staring down at the dead colossus. Then he swung to see Mothac lay aside the bow.

“He was a demon,” the Theban said softly. “No question.”

“I could have tamed him,” said Parmenion, his voice cold with rage.

“You would have been dead, lord,” put in the boy Orsin. “As dead as my uncle Croni. And by all the gods, you rode him. And greatly.”

“There will never be his like again,” Parmenion whispered.

“There is the foal,” said Orsin. “He will be bigger than his sire.”

Movement by Titan’s dead eye caught Parmenion’s attention. Thick white maggots were crawling from under the lid and slithering down the horse’s face like obscene tears. “There are your demons,” said Parmenion. “His brain must have been alive with them. Gods, they were driving him mad!”

But the Thessalians were no longer in earshot. They had gathered around the corpse of their friend Croni, lifting him and carrying him back toward the main house.

The death of the stallion left Parmenion’s spirits low. Never had he seen a finer horse or one with such an indomitable spirit. But worse than this, the slaying of Titan made him think of the child Alexander.

Here was another beautiful creature possessed by evil. Intelligent—perhaps brilliant—and yet cursed by a hidden malevolence. An awful image leapt to his mind: the child lying dead with fat, pale maggots crawling across his lifeless eyes.

Forcing the vision from his thoughts, he toiled alongside
the men as they cleared the fields, helping them rope the young horses, getting them accustomed to the needs of man.

Toward midday the Spartan wandered out to the lake where Mothac was exercising lame or injured mounts. The men had built a floating raft of timbers that was anchored at the center of a small lake, a bowshot’s length from the water’s edge. A horse would be led out into the water, where he would swim behind the boat leading him until the raft was reached. Once there, the lead rope would be thrown up to Mothac, who would encourage the horse to swim around the raft. The exercise built up a horse’s strength and endurance while putting no strain on injured muscles or ligaments. Mothac, his bald head covered by an enormous felt hat, was walking the perimeter of the raft, leading a bay mare that struggled in the water alongside.

Removing his tunic, Parmenion waded out into the cold water, swimming slowly toward the raft, his arms moving in long, lazy strokes. The cool of the lake was refreshing, but his mind was full of awful images: maggots and eyes, beauty and decay.

Hauling himself up onto the raft, he sat naked in the sunshine, feeling the cool breeze against his wet body. Mothac summoned the boat, throwing the lead rope to the oarsman.

“That’s enough for today,” he shouted. The oarsman nodded and led the mare back to dry land. The old Theban sat beside Parmenion, offering him a jug of water.

“That hat looks ridiculous,” remarked Parmenion.

Mothac grinned and pulled the floppy hat from his head. “It’s comfortable,” he said, wiping sweat from the rim and covering his bald dome once more.

Parmenion sighed. “It’s a shame he had to die,” he said.

“The horse or the man?” snapped Mothac.

Parmenion smiled ruefully. “I was talking of the horse. Though you are correct; I should have been thinking of the man. But Titan must have been in great pain; those maggots were eating his brain. I find it obscene that such a magnificent beast should have been brought low by such vile creatures.”

“He was only a horse,” said Mothac. “But I shall miss Croni. He had a family in Thessaly. How much shall I send?”

“Whatever you think fit. How have the men taken his death?”

“He was popular,” Mothac answered. “But they are hard men. You impressed them with your ride.” He chuckled suddenly. “By Heracles, you impressed me!”

“I will never see another horse like him,” said Parmenion sadly.

“I think you might. The foal is the image of his sire. And he will be big—he has a head like a bull.”

“I saw him in the stables last night with his dead mother. Not a good omen for the son of Titan—his first act in life to kill his dam.”

“Now you are sounding like a Thessalian,” Mothac admonished him. The Theban drank deeply from the water jug and leaned back on his powerful forearms. “What is wrong between you and Philip?”

Parmenion shrugged. “He is a king in search of a glory he does not wish to share. I cannot say I blame him for that. And he has the lickspittle Attalus to whisper poison in his ear.”

Mothac nodded. “I never liked the man. But then, I never liked Philip much, either. What will you do?”

The Spartan smiled. “What is there to do? I will fight Philip’s battles until he decides he has no more need of me. Then I will come here and grow old with my sons around me.”

Mothac grunted and swore. “You would be a fool to believe that—and you are no fool. If you left Philip, every city in Greece would vie for your services. Within a season you would be leading an army. And since there is only one great enemy, you would be leading it against Philip. No, Parmenion, when Philip decides he needs you no longer, it will be Attalus who delivers the dismissal—with an assassin’s knife.”

Parmenion’s pale blue eyes grew cold. “He will need to be very good.”

“And he is,” warned Mothac.

“This is a gloomy conversation,” Parmenion muttered, rising to his feet.

“Has the king invited you to the victory parade?” Mothac persisted.

“No. But then he knows I do not enjoy such events.”

“Perhaps,” said Mothac, unconvinced. “So where will the next war be fought? Will you march on the cities of the Chalcidice or down through Boeotia to sack Athens?”

“That is for the king to decide,” answered Parmenion, his gaze straying to the eastern mountains. The look was not lost on the Theban.

“Then it is to be Thrace,” he said, his voice low.

“You see too much, my friend. I thank the gods you also have a careful tongue.”

“Where will his ambition end?”

“I don’t know. More to the point, he does not know. He is not the man I once knew, Mothac; he is driven now. He had hundreds of Phocians executed after the Crocus Field, and it was said he stood and laughed as they died. Yet before we left Macedonia I watched him judge several cases at court. I knew, on this particular day, that he wanted to hunt and was hoping to conclude by early afternoon. At last he declared an end to the proceedings, telling the petitioners to come back on another day. But as he left the judge’s chair, an old woman with a petition came close to him, calling out for justice. He turned and said, ‘No time, woman.’ She just stood there for a moment and then, as he walked on, shouted: ‘Then you’ve no time to be king!’ Everyone close by held their breaths. Was she to be executed? Or flogged? Or imprisoned? You know what he did? He canceled the hunt and listened to her case for the rest of the day. He even judged it in her favor.”

Mothac rose and waved for the boat to come out to them. “I did not say he was not a great man, Parmenion. I merely pointed out that I do not like him and I do not trust him. Neither should you. One day he will order your death. Jealousy breeds fear, and fear sires hatred.”

“No one lives forever,” replied Parmenion uneasily.

PELLA, MACEDONIA, AUTUMN

“I shall walk ahead of the guards. My people will see me,” said Philip.

“Madness!” snapped Attalus. “What more can I say to you? There are killers in Pella, just waiting for the opportunity to come at you. Why are you set on this course?”

“Because I am the king!” thundered Philip.

Attalus sat back on the couch, staring sullenly at his monarch. “You think,” he asked finally, “that you are a god? That cold iron cannot penetrate your body, cannot slice your heart?”

Philip smiled and relaxed. “No delusions, Attalus. How could I?” he added, touching the scar above his blinded right eye. “But if I cannot walk in the streets of my own capital, then my enemies have truly won. You will be there. I trust you to protect me.”

Attalus looked into the king’s face, seeing no compromise there, and recalled the first time they had met, in Thebes seventeen years earlier. The king had been merely a boy then, a frightened boy waiting for the assassin’s blade. Yet in his eyes had been the same fierce glow. His uncle the king, Ptolemais, had tried to have him quietly poisoned, but the boy had outwitted him, saving his brother Perdiccas and killing Ptolemais as he lay in his bed. This he had achieved as a thirteen-year-old. Now, at thirty, Philip had united Macedonia, creating a nation to be feared.

But such pride was double-edged, Attalus knew, bringing either greatness or an early grave. Macedonian spies in the
Calcidean city of Olynthos reported that an elite group of assassins had been hired to end the threat of Philip of Macedon. It took no genius to realize they would strike at the festival of thanksgiving, when the king, dressed only in tunic and cloak, walked unarmed among the crowds to the temple of Zeus.

“Think of Alexander,” urged Attalus. “If you are slain, then he will be in great peril. You have no other heirs, which means the nobles will fight among themselves to succeed you. Alexander would be killed.”

For a moment only Philip wavered, stroking his thick black beard and staring from the wide window. But when he turned back, Attalus knew the cause was lost. “I will walk among my people. Now, have enough flowers been distributed along the route?”

“Yes, sire,” answered Attalus wearily.

“I want them strewn before my feet. It will look good; it will impress the ambassadors. They must see that Macedonia is with me.”

“Macedonia
is
with you—regardless of whether they throw flowers.”

“Yes, yes. But it must be seen. The Athenians are stirring up more trouble. They do not have the finance to mount a campaign themselves, but they are working hard on the Olynthians. I do not desire a war—yet—with the Chalcidean League. Now how do I look?”

Attalus curbed his temper and gazed at the king. Of medium height, he was broad-shouldered and powerful, his black tightly curled hair and beard shining like a panther’s pelt, the tawny flecks in his single green eye highlighted by the crown of golden laurel leaves. His tunic was summer blue, his cloak night black.

“You look splendid—a king of legend. Let us hope you look as fine at the end of the day.”

Philip chuckled. “Always so gloomy, Attalus. Have I not made you rich? Are you even now not content?”

“I will be content when the day is over.”

“I will see you in the courtyard,” said Philip. “Remember, no more than ten guards to walk behind me.”

Alone now, Philip moved back to the long table, spreading the goatskin map across the surface. For too long the great cities—Athens, Sparta, and later Thebes—had fought to rule Greece, their own enmities causing war after bloody war. Athens against Sparta, Sparta against Thebes, Thebes against Athens, with all the minor states sucked in. Endless permutations of broken alliances, changing sides, shifting fortunes.

Macedonia had been covertly ruled by all three at different times.

Philip knew the endless wars were self-perpetuating, for the hundreds of cities and towns of northern Greece all paid homage to different masters. Any dispute between such cities could—and would—draw in the major powers. In Macedonia alone, when Philip came to power, there were more than twenty supposedly independent cities that offered no allegiance to the throne. Instead they formed alliances with Sparta, Athens, or Thebes, each city boasting its own small army or militia force. Many of them were coastal settlements, which meant safe landing for an invading army. One by one, during the four years since he had become king, Philip had taken these citadels, sometimes by force—as at Methone, where the population had been sold into slavery—but more often by coercion, bribery, or simply a careful blending of all three that men called diplomacy.

The plan was essentially simple: remove all threats from within the kingdom by stealth or war.

He had established an early treaty with Athens, which enabled him to concentrate on crushing his enemies in the west and north. Now he had forged strong links with Thessaly in the south by destroying the Phocian army, which had ravaged central Greece.

But the storm clouds still gathered. Philip’s army had swept into the independent city of Amphipolis on his eastern border, a city Athens coveted. The shock invasion was not without its critics, including Parmenion.

“You promised Athens you would let them rule the city,” the general had pointed out.

“Not so. I told them I did not see it as Macedonian. There is a difference.”

“A small one,” replied Parmenion. “You let them believe you meant them to take control. It will mean war with Athens. Are we ready for it?”

“It is a small risk, my friend. The Athenians are not rich enough to wage a full war at this distance. And I cannot allow Amphipolis to be a secret base for Athens.”