‘I see,’ said the boy.
‘You do? You are a surprising four-year-old.’
‘But tell me why Camiron seeks you. You can never have... met. should he even know of you?’
‘A good question, Alexander. You have a fine mind. Caymal knows me and, after his own fashion, has regard for me. When the Merge takes place the end result is a creature - Camiron - who is both of us, and yet neither of us. The part - the greater part - that is Caymal longs to be reunited with his master. It was a sad experiment, and one that I will not repeat. And yet Camiron is an interesting beast. Just like a horse, he is both easily frightened and yet capable of great courage.’
Pushing himself to his feet, Chiron led the boy back through the alcove wall into the palace beyond. ‘Here we will be safe for a while. But even my powers cannot stand for long against Philippos.’
‘Why does he want me, Chiron?’
‘He has the powers of a god, yet he is mortal. He desires to live for ever. So far he has sired six children and has sacrificed each of them to Ahriman, the God of Darkness. But he is not yet immortal. I would imagine his priests sought you out, and you are to be the seventh victim. I can see why. You are a brilliant child, Alexander, and I feel the dark power within you. Philippos wishes to feed on that power.’
‘He can have it,’ said the youngster. ‘It is nothing but a curse to me. Tell me, how is it that I can touch you and yet you feel no pain?’
‘That is not easy to answer, young prince. The power you possess - or that possesses you - is similar to that which dominates Philippos. Yet they are different. Individual. Your demon - if you will - desires you, but he needs you to live. Therefore he lies dormant when I am close, for* he knows I am your hope for survival.’
‘You speak about my power as if it is not of me.’
‘Nor is it,’ said the magus. ‘It is a demon, a powerful demon. It has a name. Kadmilos. And he seeks to control you.’
Alexander found his mouth suddenly dry, and his hands began to tremble. ‘What will happen to me if he wins?’
‘You will become like Philippos. But that is a mountain you must climb on another day. You have great courage, Alexander, and an indomitable spirit. You may be able to hold him at bay. I will help you in any way that I can.’
‘Why?’
‘A good question, my boy, and I will answer it.’ The magus sighed. ‘A long time ago, by your reckoning - twenty years or more - I was instructed to teach another child. He too was possessed. I taught him all that I could, but it was not enough. He became the Demon King. Now there is you.’
‘But you failed with Philippos,’ Alexander pointed out.
‘You are stronger,’ Chiron told him. ‘Now tell me this, is there anyone from your world with the wit to seek you out?’
Alexander nodded. Parmenion. He will come for me. He is the greatest general and the finest warrior in Macedonia.‘
‘I will watch for him,’ said Chiron.
The Stone Circle, Time Unknown
Aristotle led the Macedonian warriors to an ancient wood in a valley so deep as to seem subterranean. Massive trees grew here, with trunks ten times thicker than the oaks of Macedonia, their branches interlaced and completely blocking the sky. The ground was ankle-deep with rotted vegetation and the warriors led their mounts for fear that a horse might catch his hoof in a hidden pothole or leaf-covered root, snapping the leg.
No birds sang in the forest and the air was cold, without hint of breeze. The trio moved silently on, Aristotle in the lead, coming at last to an open section of land. Attalus sucked in a deep breath as sunlight touched his skin, then stared around at the huge columns of stone. They were not round, nor made of blocks, but single wedges of granite, roughly hewn and three times the height of a tall man. Some had fallen, others had cracked and split. Parmenion moved to the centre of the stone circle where an altar was raised on blocks of marble. Running his fingers down the blood channels, he turned to Aristotle.
‘Who built this... temple?’
The people of Akkady. They are lost to history... gone. Their deeds like dust on the winds of time.‘
Attalus shivered. ‘I do not like this place, magus. Why are we here?’
‘This is the Gateway to that other Greece. The two of you remain here, by the altar. I will prepare the Spell of Opening.’
Aristotle strode to the outer circle and sat cross-legged on the grass, hands clasped to his breast and eyes closed.
‘What excuse do you think he will give when no Gateway opens?’ asked Attalus, forcing a smile. Parmenion looked into the swordsman’s cold blue eyes, reading the fear there.
‘Now would be a good time for you to lead your horse from this circle,’ he said softly.
‘You think I am frightened?’
‘Why should you not be?’ countered Parmenion. ‘I am.’
Attalus relaxed. ‘A Spartan afraid? You hide it well, Parmenion. How long...’ Light blazed around the circle and the horses reared, whinnying in terror. The warriors tightened their grip on the reins, calming the frightened animals. The light faded into a darkness so absolute both men were blind. Parmenion blinked and gazed up at the sky. Gradually, as his eyes became accustomed to the night, he saw stars shining high in the heavens.
‘I think,’ he said, keeping his voice low, ‘that we have arrived.’
Attalus hobbled the dappled grey and walked to the edge of the circle, staring out over the mountains and valleys to the south. ‘I know this place,’ he said. ‘Look there! Is that not Olympus?’ Swinging to the north, he pointed to the silver ribbon of a great river. ‘And there, the River Haliakmon. This is no other world, Parmenion!’
‘He said it was like Greece,’ the Spartan pointed out.
‘I still do not believe it.’
‘What does it take to convince you?’ asked Parmenion, shaking his head. ‘You have passed through the solid stone of a mountain, and moved within a heartbeat from noon to midnight. Yet still you cling to the belief that it is all trickery.’
‘We will see,’ muttered Attalus, returning to the grey and removing the hobble. ‘Let us find somewhere to camp. It is too open here for a fire.’ The swordsman vaulted to the grey, riding from the circle towards a wood to the south.
As the Spartan was about to follow Attalus the voice of Aristotle whispered into his mind, echoing and distant. ‘There is much I wish I could tell you, my friend,’ said the magus, ‘but I cannot. Your presence in this world is of vital importance - not only for the rescue of the prince. I can safely give you only two pieces of advice: first, you should remember that the enemies of your enemy can be your friends; and second, make your way to Sparta. Treat it like a beacon of light to a ship in jeopardy. Sparta is the key!’
The voice faded and Parmenion mounted his horse and rode after Attalus. The two riders made their camp by a small stream that meandered through the wood. Hobbling the horses the warriors sat in silence, enjoying the warmth of the blaze. Parmenion stretched out on the ground, closing his eyes, his mind working at the problem facing him: how to find a single child in a strange land.
Aristotle had known only that the boy was not held by the Makedones. Somehow he had escaped. Yet despite his skills the magus could not locate him. All he knew was that the child had appeared close to Olympus and the Makedones still searched for him.
Wrapping himself in his cloak, Parmenion slept.
He awoke in the night to hear a whispering laughter echoing in the woods. Sitting up he looked towards Attalus, but the swordsman was asleep beside the dead fire. Easing himself to his feet, Parmenion tried to locate the source of the laughter. Some distance away he saw twinkling lights, but the trees and undergrowth prevented him from identifying their nature and source. Moving to Attalus, he tapped the man’s arm. The swordsman awoke instantly, rolling to his feet with sword in hand. Gesturing him to silence, Parmenion pointed to the flickering lights and began to edge his way towards them. Attalus followed him, sword still drawn.
br /> They came at last to a circular clearing where torches had been set in iron brackets on the trees. A group of young women, dressed in shimmering chitons, were sitting in a circle drinking wine from golden goblets.
One of the women rose from the circle, calling out a name. Instantly a small creature ran forward, bearing a pitcher of wine and refilling her goblet. Parmenion felt Attalus tense beside him, for the creature was a satyr, no taller than a child - ears pointed, upper body bare of hair, his legs those of a goat, his hooves cloven.
Touching Attalus’ arm, Parmenion backed away and the men returned to their camp.
‘Were they nymphs, do you think?’ asked Attalus.
Parmenion shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I took little note of myths and legends when a child. Now I wish I had studied them more carefully.’
Suddenly the distant laughter faded, to be replaced by screams, high-pitched and chilling. Drawing their swords, the two men ran back through the trees. Parmenion was the first to burst into the clearing.
Armed men were everywhere. Some of the women had escaped, but at least four had been borne to the ground, black-cloaked warriors kneeling around them. A girl ran clear, pursued by two soldiers. Parmenion leapt forward, slashing his sword through the neck of the first man, then blocking a savage cut from the second. Hurling himself forward he crashed his shoulder into his assailant, spinning him from his feet.
Hearing the sound of clashing blades, the other warriors left the women and ran to the attack. There were at least ten of them and Parmenion backed away.
‘Who in Hades are you?’ demanded a black-bearded soldier, advancing on Parmenion with sword extended.
‘I am the name of your death,’ the Spartan answered.
The man laughed grimly. ‘A demi-god, are you? Heracles reborn, perhaps? You think to kill ten Makedones?’
‘Perhaps not,’ agreed Parmenion, as the soldiers formed a semi-circle around him, ‘but I’ll begin with you.’
‘Kill him!’ the man ordered.
At that moment Attalus emerged behind the circle, stabbing one man through the back with his dagger and sending a slicing cut across the face of a second. Parmenion leapt forward as the men swung to face this new threat. The black-bearded leader parried his first lunge, but the second plunged through his leather kilt to slice open the artery in his groin.
Attalus was in trouble, desperately fending off four attackers, the remaining three turning on Parmenion. The Spartan backed away once more, then sprang forward and left, engaging a warrior and slashing his sword towards the man’s neck; he swayed back and Parmenion almost lost his balance. A soldier ran at him. Dropping to one knee Parmenion thrust his sword into the man’s belly, ripping the blade clear as the other two closed on him.
‘Help me, Parmenion!’ yelled Attalus. Diving to his left, Parmenion rolled to his feet and ran across the clearing. Attalus had killed one man and wounded another, but now he was fighting with his back to an oak tree, and there was blood on his face and arm.
‘I am with you!’ shouted Parmenion, seeking to distract the attackers. When one turned towards him, Attalus’ blade licked out, plunging into the man’s throat. Attalus shoulder-charged the warriors before him, ducking as a slashing sword tore the helm from his head.
Parmenion reached his side and the two Macedonians stood back to back against the remaining four warriors.
A deafening roar sounded from the trees and the Makedones, terror in their eyes, fled from the clearing.
‘By Zeus, that was close,’ said Attalus.
‘It’s not over yet,’ Parmenion whispered.
Emerging from the tree-line came three colossal men, each over seven feet tall. One had the head of a bull and was carrying a huge double-headed axe. The second had a face that was almost human, save that it boasted a huge double-pupilled single eye in the centre of the forehead; this one carried a club into which iron nails had been half hammered. The third had the head of a lion; he carried no weapon, but his hands ended in talons the length of daggers. Behind them the women gathered together, fear still showing in their eyes.
‘Sheathe your sword,’ ordered Parmenion.
‘You must be insane!’
‘Do it - and swiftly! They are here to protect the women. It may be we can reason with them.’
‘Dream on, Spartan,’ whispered Attalus as the demonic beasts shuffled forward, but he returned the stabbing sword to its scabbard and the two men stood before the advancing monsters. The cyclops moved closer, raising his pitted club.
‘You... kill... Makedones. Why?’ he asked, his voice deep, the words coming like drum-beats from his cavernous mouth.
‘They were attacking the women,’ Parmenion answered. ‘We came to their aid.’
‘Why?’ asked the monster again, and Parmenion looked up at the club hovering above his head.
‘The Makedones are our enemies,’ he said, tearing his eyes from the grisly weapon.
‘All... Humans... are... our... enemies,’ replied the cyclops. To the right the lion-headed monster squatted down over a dead soldier, ripping loose an arm at which he began to gnaw. But all the while his tawny eyes remained fixed on Parmenion. The minotaur moved closer on the left, dipping his horned head to look into the Spartan’s face. His voice whispered out, surprising Parmenion, for it was gentle, the tone perfect. ‘Tell me, warrior, why we should not kill you.’
‘Tell me first why you should?’ Parmenion responded.
The minotaur sat down, beckoning the Spartan to join him. ‘Everywhere your race destroys us. There is no land - save one - where our lives are safe from Humans. Once this land was ours; now we hide in woods and forests. Soon there will be no more of the Elder races; the sons and daughters of the Titans will be gone for ever. Why should I kill you? Because even if you are good and heroic your sons, and the sons of your sons, will hunt down my sons, and the sons of my sons. Is that an answer?’
‘It is a good one,’ agreed Parmenion, ‘yet it is flawed. Should you kill me, then my sons would have reason to hate you, and that alone will make your vision true. But should we become friends, then my sons would come to know you and look upon you with kindly eyes.’
‘When has that ever been true?’ the minotaur asked.
‘I do not know. I can only speak for myself. But it seems to me that if an act of rescue can result in summary execution then you are little different from the Makedones. Surely a son of the Titans will show more gratitude than that?’
‘You speak well. And I like the lack of fear in your eyes. And you fight well too. My name is Brontes. These are my brothers, Steropes and Arges.’
‘I am Parmenion. This is my... comrade Attalus.’
‘We will not kill you,’ said Brontes. ‘Not this time. Our gift is your lives. But if ever you walk in our woods again your lives will be forfeit.’ The minotaur pushed himself to his feet and turned to walk away.
‘Wait!’ called Parmenion. ‘We are seeking a child from our land who was abducted by the King of the Makedones. Can you help us?’
The minotaur swung his great bull’s head. ‘The Makedones gave chase to a centaur two days ago. It is said that the centaur carried a child with golden hair. They travelled south to the Woods of the Centaurs. That is all I know. The woods are forbidden to Humans, save Chiron. The horse people will not allow you to pass. Nor will they speak with you. Your greeting will be an arrow through the heart or eye. Be warned!’
Attalus’ fist slammed into Parmenion’s chin, spinning him from his feet. The Spartan hit the ground hard, then rolled to his back, staring up at the enraged Macedonian who loomed above him with fists clenched, blood still seeping from the shallow gash in his cheek.
‘You miserable whoreson!’ hissed Attalus. ‘What in Hades were you thinking of? Ten men! By Heracles, we should be dead.’
Parmenion sat up and rubbed his chin, then pushed himself to his feet. ‘I was not thinking,’ he admitted.
‘Excellent!’ sneered Atta
lus. ‘But I do not want that engraved on the walls of my tomb: “Attalus died because the strategos wasn’t thinking.” ’
‘It will not happen again,’ promised the Spartan, but the swordsman would not be mollified.
‘I want to know why it happened this time. I want to know why the First General of Macedonia rushed to the aid of women he did not know. You were at Methone, Amphipolis and a dozen other cities when the army sacked them. I did not see you racing through the streets protecting the women and children. What is so different here?’
‘Nothing,’ replied the Spartan. ‘But you are wrong. I was never in those cities when the rapes and murders took place. I organized the attacks, but when the walls were breached my work was done. I do not seek to avoid responsibility for the barbarism that followed, but it was never perpetrated in my name, nor have I ever taken part in it. As for my actions today, I accept they were inexcusable. We are here to rescue Alexander - and I put that in jeopardy. But I have said it will not happen again. I can say no more.’
‘Well, I can - if you ever decide to act the romantic fool do not expect me to be standing beside you.’
‘I did not expect it in the first place,’ said Parmenion, his expression hardening, his eyes holding to the swordsman’s gaze. ‘And know this, Attalus - if you ever strike me again I shall kill you.’
‘Enjoy your dreams,’ replied the swordsman. ‘The day will never dawn when you can best me with blade or spear.’
Parmenion was about to speak when he saw several of the women moving across the clearing towards them. The first to arrive bowed low before the warriors, then looked up with a shy smile. She was slim and golden-haired, with violet eyes and a face of surpassing beauty.