‘There is a child with golden hair. Have him brought to me and I will spare you and your city. He means nothing to you; he is not even of this world. He is a demon, and carries within him a seed of evil that must be destroyed.’
‘A demon, you say? Then surely he should be a friend to you, Philippos?’
‘I am a man, Parmenion,’ answered Philippos, his voice smooth and friendly, his golden eye gleaming in the pale light. ‘My deeds are my own. You should understand that. You are a warrior, and a fine general; you came the closest to defeating me. But that is all I am, Parmenion, a warrior king building an empire. Thus has it been since the dawn of time. Great men will always seek power. Look at me! Do you see a demon?’
‘I see a man who butchered his own children to try to become a god. I see a man possessed. Do not seek to sway me, Philippos. I am not to be bought.’
‘One child for a whole city? And that child not even Spartan! Are you insane or merely stupid?’
‘Your insults mean nothing to me,’ said Parmenion. ‘And you are wrong, I do not fear you. I learnt much during the battle at Man tinea. I learnt that you are a poor general, with no strategic skills. You rely always on your sorcerous eye to feed you victory, but without it you would be nothing. Within a few days you will face the might of Sparta. And you will know defeat and death. For I know how to kill you, Philippos.’
‘Now I know that you are insane. I am invulnerable and invincible. No blade, no poison known to man can kill me. Bring on your five thousand, and your army of slaves and old men. We shall see how they fare against the power of Makedon! And no false goddess will save you this time. I will order you taken alive, and I will see the skin flayed from your body.’
Parmenion laughed then. ‘Do I see fear, demon? How does it taste?’
The King shimmered, his form expanding, features twisting and stretching until his eyes were crimson slits in a mottled grey face, his mouth a huge, lipless gash rimmed by fangs. Curved ram’s horns of black pushed through the dark hair, curling to rest against the misshapen skull. The beast advanced, but Parmenion held his ground with sword extended.
‘Fear, Human?’ came a chilling voice. ‘You ask me if I know fear?’ Parmenion’s mouth was dry, but his sword was steady. The beast halted before him, towering over the slender swordsman.
‘I am the Lord of this World. It is mine. It has always been mine, for all that exists is born of Chaos. Everything. From the smallest seed to the largest star. Before there were men I walked upon this world, when the ground below my feet boiled and the air was fire. I will walk upon it when it is barren and there are no mewling sounds of humans upon the face of it. For it will be ash and dust, dark and cold. I will be here when the stars burn out. And you think to teach me fear?’
‘Not you,’ admitted Parmenion. ‘But he felt fear, else you would not have shown yourself.’
‘You are clever, Human. And do not think that I do not know you are an imposter. I watched you in the forest, and in the sea when the death Ship sank. You will fail, even as your twin failed. You cannot prevail. What is more, you know it.’
‘What I know is that you must be opposed. And you can be beaten. For your power is finite, it depends upon the men who serve you. They can die - and you can lose.’
‘As I said, you are a clever man, Parmenion. But you are doomed. The Spartan army will avail you nothing, and the slaves will scatter and flee at the first charge. Your Spartans will be surrounded and destroyed. What purpose then will your defiance serve?’
Parmenion did not answer, could not answer, but he gazed into the demon’s eyes and raised his sword. The demon shimmered and faded, but his voice whispered one last time: ‘I will see that you live to watch every man, woman and child in this city put to death. You will be the last to die. Think on it, mortal, for that is your future!’
Parmenion sank back to the bed, letting the sword drop from his hand. Despair washed over him, choking his emotions and clouding his judgement. How could he have dreamt of defeating such a creature? ‘I am with you,’ said a voice in his mind.
‘Thena?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see?’
‘I did, and I am proud of the way you stood against him. Alexander is safe; we are at the Gateway, and there are many creatures here with great powers. Philippos would need his army to capture Alexander now.’
Relief swept through the Spartan. ‘That at least is good news. Did you give Brontes my message?’
‘I did. But he could not convince them to come to your aid: they are fearful of the ways of Man - and rightly so. For centuries they have been hunted and slain, betrayed and deceived. All they want now is for the Enchantment to be restored. But Brontes, Helm and Attalus are riding to join you. No others.’
‘I half expected that, but even so it is more than a disappointment.’
‘Consider something else for a moment,’ she advised. ‘Philippos could not read your mind, so at least your plans are safe from him.’
He smiled then. ‘I have only one plan, lady. One giant gamble. If it fails, we fail.’
‘Only one?’
‘There is no time for great subtlety, Thena. One throw of the dice is all we have.’
‘Then you must make it work... and you can. For you are the strategos and the hope of the world.’
Parmenion took a deep, calming breath. Thilippos may not be able to read my thoughts, but others will know of my plan on the day of battle. I will need help then. The Demon King must be distracted. If he should learn of my strategy then all will truly be lost. Is there anything you can do?‘
For a moment there was silence. ‘I will think on it,’ she promised at last.
‘It is good to hear you again,’ he told her suddenly.
‘May the Source of All Life be with you, my... friend.’
‘I would sooner have five thousand cavalry, lady.’
The day was long, hot and endlessly frustrating. The slaves, in their new breastplates and leather kilts, drove the officers training them to distraction. Scores were dismissed from service, many were injured in combat training - spraining limbs, sustaining cuts.
Parmenion moved among the toiling groups, offering words of encouragement to the officers and men, suggesting small changes in the training methods, urging the officers to have patience with their recruits. And so the day ground on.
By the afternoon Parmenion was helping the barracks youngsters to block the streets - carrying furniture from homes, filling sacks with earth and stones and hoisting them to the barricades.
‘I want javelins left on every roof along Leaving Street and the Avenue of Kings,’ he told Cleander. ‘And men with strong arms to hurl them. I want several hundred bowmen stationed at the agora, behind barricades.’
‘It will be done, sire,’ the dying man promised.
Returning to the palace at dusk, Parmenion spent two hours with Leonidas, Timasion, Cleander and a group of officers, listening to their reports on the progress of the training.
‘Within two days we will have a core of men with potential,’ said Leonidas. ‘But no more than five thousand. The rest would be useless in any major combat. I would suggest leaving them with Cleander to defend the city.’
‘Agreed,’ said Parmenion. ‘But the men not selected must not be made to feel useless. Split them into groups of twenty, each with their own leader; then have the leaders report to Cleander. In this battle morale must take the place of discipline - let us all understand that. Do not criticize a man for lack of ability with a sword, or for clumsiness. Neither should you point out to them that Spartan skill comes only with years of training. You must coax the best from them, encourage them always. If you cannot commend their skill, then commend their courage. Treat them like brothers. Any officer who finds such methods disagreeable must be returned to his regiment. I saw several men today shouting and screaming at the recruits; that must stop.’
Black-bearded Timasion leaned forward. ‘I appreciate what you a
re saying, my lord, but the truth is that no matter how hard we train the slaves they will not stand against the Makedones phalanx. Because it does take years of training for men to instantly follow a shouted command, to move smoothly into place, to change ranks. You cannot expect the slaves to learn it in a week or less.’
‘Timasion is right,’ said Lycon. ‘An army is only as strong as its weakest part. We will have no cavalry and the wings will be slaves and veterans. The veterans we can trust, but they are too old to withstand a charge - and the slaves will break.’
‘I will not argue with you, my friends,’ Parmenion told them, ‘but let me say this: To speak of defeat, or breaking, is to herald it. Once we believe that we are lost, then we are lost. The recruits are men; they will do their part. Trust me on this - and if you do not trust me, then pretend to. I want no talk of defeat or weakness. We are all warriors here, and we all understand the nature of war. Everything you say is true... but it must not be said. Ultimately battles are won or lost on the actions of a single man. One man panics and it spreads like the plague. One man holds and others hold with him. I do not want the slaves to march out with defeat in their hearts. I want them marching like men, full of belief and hope. I want them to be proud, filled with the knowledge that their Spartan overlords hold them in high esteem. I do not care if it is not true... but it must appear to be true. And then, when they have done their part and the victory is ours, it will be true.’
‘You honestly believe we can win?’ asked Leonidas.
‘I don’t believe it - I know it! We are Spartans. They will not break us. No. They will break upon us. Their cavalry will skirt us. They will ride for the city, for they will know that every man in the ranks will see them and fear for the lives of his wife and children, his mother, his sisters. Then their infantry will attack, outnumbering us by perhaps three to one. The battle will be won or lost in the next hour.’
‘How can you be sure that the cavalry will pass us by?’ asked Lycon.
‘I saw his methods at Man tinea. Philippos is not a cavalryman; he uses his infantry for all major thrusts. And he wants the city taken. He wants it all, and he has no patience. But more important than this, he would not wish to push us back in a fighting retreat only to have us defending Sparta. He will want us isolated, the city destroyed behind us.’
‘And if you are wrong?’ put in Timasipn. ‘How then can we survive?’
Parmenion forced a smile. ‘I am not wrong, but if his cavalry do not attack the city, then Oleander will march out with all his men and join us on the field of battle. One other matter. The slaves must not be issued with red cloaks; only the Spartans must wear them.’
‘But why?’ Oleander asked. ‘Surely the object is to make the recruits feel like Spartans?’
‘I want the Spartan regiments to stand out. I want the enemy to see them clearly.’
‘It will be a day long remembered,’ muttered Timasion. ‘Five thousand Spartans against forty thousand barbarians!’
‘It will be a day the Makedones will never forget,’ promised Parmenion.
Nestus lay awake in the narrow pallet bed listening to the snoring of the other soldiers. Forty men slept in this long room, forty non-ranking Spartan soldiers, none of whom would speak to the giant. He was a man alone, and bitterness swamped him.
His own father had refused to receive him, and word of his shame had swept through the city. Friends shunned him in the streets, turning their faces away and pretending not to see him.
His mouth was dry and he rose from the bed and padded through to the empty dining area, where he poured himself a goblet of water. A cold breeze touched his bare back and he shivered.
Life had been so full of promise a mere two years before. He had loved Derae and a splendid wedding had been planned. His father had been so proud. A link with the royal house - brother-in-law to the future King. Everyone knew that Leonidas was the heir apparent, and Nestus was his closest friend. Oh, how bright the future, how golden! It even outshone his frustration at having to serve the mix-blood who had become Sparta’s First General.
Parmenion...
Now more than ever the mere thought of the name made bile rise in his throat, left his heart hammering.
The day had been burned into his memory, never to be erased: Agisaleus dead, Leonidas to be King. Summoned to see his friend at the Cattle Price Palace, he had joyed in the options before him. Was he to be promoted? Which regiment would he command in the new order? But no. He had learned that the wedding was cancelled and that his bride -his love - was to wed Parmenion, in order that the half-breed could become Sparta’s King.
‘I should have killed him then,’ whispered Nestus. He pictured his sword-blade sliding through Parmenion’s ribs, the light of life fading from the bastard’s eyes.
Slumping down at a long table, Nestus poured another goblet of water.
And what is there now, he asked himself? Death to follow his dishonour. The destruction of Sparta, the massacre of its people. His thoughts swung to Derae and he pictured her being dragged from the palace, raped and then butchered by the barbarians.
The curse of the gods was upon the city for allowing a half-breed to sit upon the throne!
The room grew colder, but Nestus scarcely noticed it.
Why should you stay? The thought leapt unbidden to his mind, shocking him with its clarity. ‘Where else could I go?’
Creta. You have friends on the island... and you have coin.
‘I couldn’t desert my friends, my family.’
They have deserted you. They shun you in the street.
‘I did wrong. I drew a sword upon the King.’
The half-blood? A man who used dark sorcery to win his throne and steal your woman?
Sorcery? The thought had not occurred to him before. Of course, that was it. Leonidas had been bewitched. What other reason could there be for a noble-born Spartan to relinquish his rights to the throne?
Kill him.
‘No. No, I couldn’t.’
Like the heroes of old, kill the man who stole your bride. Take back what is rightfully yours. Derae loves you. Save her. Take her from the city - to safety in Creta.
‘To safety, yes! I could rescue her. She loves me; she would come. We could be happy there. A short ride to Gytheum, then a ship. Yes! Kill the half-blood and reclaim what is mine! Yes!’
The cold disappeared and the room became clammy and hot. The sudden change made Nestus shiver and he rose, making his way back to his bed. Silently he dressed in a grey chiton tunic and calf-length sandals. Then, taking up his cloak and sword, he walked from the barracks.
His father’s house was dark and quiet and he climbed through a ground-floor window, moving stealthily through the rooms until he came to his father’s study. Here, hidden behind a carved oak chest, was a niche in the stone of the wall; in it were five large leather pouches, heavy with gold. Taking two he left the house, making his way to the stables. A groom sleeping in a bed of hay by the door awoke as Nestus entered. The giant’s fist crashed into the man’s face, splintering his cheekbone; the groom sagged back unconscious.
Nestus put bridles and reins on two of the fastest horses, then bound their hooves with cloth before leading them out into the moonlit street and on to the Cattle Price Palace. There were only two sentries at the main doors, and both men were known to him. Leaving the horses tethered out of sight beyond the main wall, Nestus strode through the great gates and approached the men.
‘What do you want here?’ hissed the first. Nestus’ fist cracked against the man’s jaw, spinning him unconscious to the ground. Then he leapt at the second, seizing him by the throat and savagely wrenching the soldier from his feet. The man’s neck snapped with a loud crack. Nestus had not meant to kill him and he dropped the body, stepping back horrified.
Kill the other, came the thought. Nestus drew his sword and, without hesitation, plunged it through the helpless warrior’s throat.
Pushing open the doors of the palace he
ran inside and up the long stairs to the third floor, making his way along the cold corridor to the Queen’s apartments. His heart was beating fast now and his mouth was dry. The door to the Queen’s rooms was ajar and he opened it just enough to slip inside. The moon shone brightly through the balcony window and the first thing he saw was a shimmering green robe tossed carelessly to a couch. Moving to it he lifted it to his face, smelling the perfume upon it. Arousal flared within him and he padded to the bedroom where Derae lay on top of the sheets. Nestus stood in the doorway gazing at her moonlit form. The Queen was naked and lying upon her side, her legs drawn up and her head resting on her left arm. Sweat broke out on Nestus’ brow. Her golden skin seemed whiter than ivory in the moonlight, yet soft and warm, glowing with health. He swallowed hard and moved to the bedside, laying his blood-covered sword on the sheet. His hand moved to her arm, sliding over the skin, then down to her waist and up over the curve of her hips. She moaned in her sleep and rolled to her back.
Nestus smiled, thoughts of future joy flashing through his mind: a home by the sea, servants, children...
She awoke and screamed, scrambling to get away. Instinctively he grabbed for her, his fingers curling into her hair and dragging her back.
‘Stop it! It is I, Nestus. I have come for you. To rescue you!’
She ceased her struggles, green eyes focusing on his face. ‘What do you mean, rescue me? Are you mad? If you are found here you will die.’
‘I don’t care. I have killed two men tonight and I’ll kill any others who try to stop me. I have a plan, Derae. We’ll go to Greta. I have friends there and we will be happy. But first you must dress. There is little time. I will explain all when we are on our way.’
‘You are insane!’
‘No! Listen to me. The city is doomed - nothing will save it. It is our only chance at happiness. Don’t you see? We will be together.’
Glancing down, she saw the bloodied sword. ‘What have you done?’
‘What I had to do,’ he answered, his hand reaching up, his fingers stroking her breast.