Aristotle spread his hands and smiled. ‘The only answer I can think of, sire, is that were you to try it I would turn you into a lizard and tread on you.’
Philip was silent for a moment, then he turned to Parmenion. ‘I’d say that sounds like a good reason.’
‘I agree, sire.’
‘I like you, magus,’ said the King, ‘but you owe me a debt. How will you pay it?’
‘How would you like it paid, sire?’
‘Come with us to Pella, as tutor to my son.’
Aristotle laughed. ‘I would have asked for that as a gift,’ he said, ‘and willingly accept it as a penance.’
‘Good! Now take us home.’
‘Parmenion has not yet said farewell to his Queen,’ pointed out Aristotle, his smile fading. ‘And she is waiting at the foot of the hill.’
Parmenion sighed, pushed himself to his feet and walked down towards the trees. He found Derae sitting on a fallen tree and she stood as he approached.
‘You would have left without seeing me, without saying goodbye?’
‘Yes. It was the coward’s way, I know, but I felt I could not bear to say the words. You have spoken with Leonidas?’
‘He told me everything. Am I like her?’
He nodded. ‘In every way.’
‘So it was not me you loved,’ she said sadly.
‘It was you,’ he assured her. ‘At first it was an image, a memory. But the woman I made love to was you. The woman I love is you.’
‘Yet you cannot stay?’
‘No. I must look after Alexander. It is my duty and my life. Will you forgive me?’
She nodded and stepped into his embrace. Kissing him once on the cheek, she pushed him gently from her. ‘Go then,’ she said. ‘Go now - and swiftly. I know that you will return one day. I know of your secret, Parmenion. I know the reason why you must travel with Alexander. But your destiny is here and one day you will come back. And I shall be waiting here, just as you see me. I shall be here.’
‘I cannot promise that,’ he said, ‘though I desire it with all my heart.’
‘You do not have to. Last night I had a dream. A grey-bearded sorcerer appeared to me and told me to be here tonight. He said you would leave, returning to your own world. But he also said that he would do his best to send you back to me. I will wait.’
Parmenion said nothing. Backing away several steps, he spun on his heel and strode up the hill.
Aristotle was waiting, and as the Spartan came alongside him the magus lifted his arm.
The Gateway shimmered once more...
Book Four
The City of Mieza, 337 BC
The man called Aristotle sat alone in the deserted gardens of the school building, gazing towards the north, watching the storm-clouds loom above the rearing Bora Mountains. A cold breeze blew and he shivered, drawing his grey woollen cloak more tightly about his frame.
Glancing back towards the house he saw his wife, Pythias, gathering herbs in the small cultivated patch of earth by the kitchen. It would soon be time to leave, putting behind him the last fourteen years - saying farewell to Mieza, to Macedonia, to Greece.
He sighed. Immortality was a burden and yet, like the narcotics of Egypt, wholly addictive. To be relieved of the prospect of death only heightened the fear of dying. The longer he lived the more bored he became, the more he longed for the peace of the grave, the more terrified he became at the thought of it.
And the memories...
So many... Three thousand years ago he had almost gone mad with them. But Pendarric had saved him, teaching him to use the Stones more wisely. Each life of his past had been reduced to a single key word, locked in his mind. The Makedones years had become Iskander. Merely by summoning the word to conscious thought he could see again the Golden Child and the shining Gateway, and all the years that preceded it. But now he was reaching the point where even the keys shone in his mind like stars, thousands upon thousands.
What is there that is new, he wondered?
The answer came swift as a stab in the heart.
There is nothing that is new under the sun. All is vanity.
He smiled and unlocked the key to the life he had shared with the Philosopher. Golden days. A time when there were still discoveries to be made, surprises to be enjoyed.
Why are you so melancholy, he asked himself? Around the bench where he sat were a dozen seats, empty now, but not long ago they were occupied by the sons of Macedonian nobles - young men full of hope, nurturing dreams. And - always at their centre, a bright shining sun in their lives - there was Alexander.
Now you have it, he realized.
Alexander.
Aristotle rose and wandered to the northern gate, pushing it open and walking out into the foothills of Mount Bermion. Throughout the ages he had seen men, great men, men of wisdom, men of war, secure in their arrogance, dismissive of the past. Yet the past held all the answers to life’s mysteries and each successive generation unknowingly locked them away. Then searched for them in the unborn futures.
I had high hopes for you, Alexander, he thought. You have a fine mind, perhaps the most brilliant since the Philosopher ruled in Jerusalem. Certainly you rival Pendarric in the days when he reigned over Atlantis.
Yet what is it that calls you? Wisdom? The pursuit of knowledge? No. You hear the trumpets of war, you seek the Whore of Conquest. Even with the Chaos Spirit locked outside you, still you are a man, and men will always lust for glory.
And the others will follow you. He pictured them, their young faces bright with longing for a future they knew to be rich with promise: Ptolemy, Nearchos, Philotas, Nicci, Derdas and the others. Like all young men, they revelled in their strength and were scornful of the deeds of their fathers.
Aristotle stopped by a trickling stream, sitting with his back to a boulder out of the wind. A hawk swooped out of the sky, dropping like a stone, his talons ripping into a young rabbit just emerging from its burrow into the dusk. The captured beast did not struggle as the bird swept back into the air, it hung limply in the hawk’s grip. Aristotle’s spirit reached out to touch the creature. It was dead.
‘A curse on all hawks,’ he said aloud.
‘He has mouths to feed,’ said a voice. Aristotle looked up and smiled at the tall figure moving through the shadows of the trees to sit beside him. The man settled himself, wincing as his arthritic knee refused to bend.
‘I thought I’d find you here,’ said Parmenion, removing his helm and running his hand through his sweat-soaked iron-grey hair. ‘Philip wants you to come to Pella for the wedding.’
Aristotle shook his head. ‘I shall not be there, Parmenion.’
‘Philip will not be best pleased ’
‘His anger is immaterial to me. I shall be walking the Dragon Paths to other worlds.’
‘And Pythias?’
‘I will leave her money. She will not mourn my passing; she kept my bed warm, but there is little love between us.’ He looked deeply into Parmenion’s face, seeing the sharply chiselled lines, the dark smudges below the bright blue eyes. ‘You look tired, my friend.’
Parmenion shrugged. ‘I am sixty-three years old. I expect to be tired after a long campaign.’
‘Surely you can rest now? Since Philip crushed the Athenians and Thebans at Chaironeia he has become, in all but name, the Lord of Greece. Where now are his enemies?’
‘Everywhere,’ replied Parmenion, with a wry smile.
‘I accept that,’ said Aristotle, returning the smile, ‘but I meant where are the enemies that can cause him harm? There are no armies left for him to conquer. He rules from Thrace to Epirus, from Paionia to Thessaly. Everyone pays him homage - even Athens. I hear they erected a statue to him after Chaironeia. Unbelievable!’
‘Not really. The Athenians expected us to march on their city and ransack it. Instead Philip returned their dead with full military honours and sued for peace. Their relief was immense.’
‘Why did he spare them? Athens
has been a thorn in his side for years.’
Parmenion shrugged. ‘Philip has always remembered the deeds of his twin in Makedon. He was determined never to repeat such evils. But also he has a greater dream: he looks to extend his realm to the east.’
‘Where else can he go? He cannot take on the might of Persia.’
‘He has no choice. Macedonia now has a huge army - cavalry, siege-engineers, mercenaries. All need feeding, payment. Where else can he go? The Great King rules over a hundred nations, all rich.’
‘And that is your answer,’ said the magus. ‘One hundred nations, all with armies. The Great King could put a million men in the field against you.’
‘I know,’ said Parmenion wearily.
Aristotle pushed himself to his feet, extending his hand to haul Parmenion upright. The Spartan’s knee cracked painfully and he stretched his leg. ‘I am better from the back of a horse these days,’ he said.
‘Come, let us go home. You and I shall have a farewell drink.’
Long into the night the two men sat talking in the small andron at the rear of the schoolhouse. A brazier of coals burned at the centre of the room, and several lanterns flickered on the walls. The room was warm, the night wind rattling the shutters on the single window.
‘Are you content?’ asked Aristotle suddenly. Parmenion smiled, but did not answer. ‘Do you wish you had remained in Achaea?’
‘Of course. But it is foolish to dwell on past mistakes.’
Aristotle nodded. ‘You are wise in that. How is Philotas?’
Parmenion’s face darkened. ‘The same. We rarely speak now. His arrogance is all-consuming and yet he fawns on Alexander like a table slave. I try not to allow myself to become angry. It is not easy for the son of a general; he feels the need to prove himself better than his father.’
‘He has great ambition,’ said Aristotle softly.
‘His mother fed him thoughts of glory from his birth. I should have stopped it long ago.’
‘His ambition may bring you down one day,’ Aristotle warned. ‘He dreams of becoming King.’
‘It will never happen. He has neither the wit nor the strength.’
‘I know. I taught him for thirteen years. He will be an able captain, though. He might yet distinguish himself.’
‘He did well in the Triballian campaign, but the glory was Alexander’s. Philotas must have found that hard to bear.’
‘He was not the only one.’
Parmenion shook his head. ‘Do not believe all you hear, magus. Philip is not jealous of his son. He loves him and is proud of his achievements. So am I.’
‘It is said that Philip’s new bride is already pregnant - and that she will bear him a son. That will be hard for Alexander to take.’
‘Why so?’ queried Parmenion. ‘Alexander is eighteen and the heir to the throne. Nothing will change that.’
‘Come now, strategos, do not let your allegiance blind you. Use your mind. He is marrying Cleopatra, a high-born Macedonian. All his other wives are foreigners. She is the ward of Attalus. You do not think that many of the Macedonian nobles will see the child as the first true-born heir? You yourself are a mix-blood. Alexander’s mother is an Epirote, which makes him a half-breed.’
‘I do not wish to talk of this!’ snapped Parmenion.
Aristotle sighed and lay back on his couch. ‘Then we shall not. We will finish our wine and say our farewells.’
In the darkness just before dawn Aristotle, dressed for travel in a long tunic and heavy cloak, moved silently into the room where Parmenion slept. The Spartan was deeply asleep and the magus moved to the bedside. From the pouch at his hip Aristotle took a small golden stone, touching it to Parmenion’s right knee. The Spartan stirred and groaned softly, but did not wake. The power of the Stone flowed into the sleeping man, the iron grey of his hair darkening slightly, the chiselled lines of his face becoming more shallow.
‘One gift, my friend,’ whispered Aristotle, ‘but not the last. One day I will return.’
He backed away to the door and walked from his house, returning to the stream in the foothills and a shallow cave partly hidden by thick bushes. The new sun rose in glory and Aristotle paused to drink in the beauty of its light upon the verdant countryside.
‘Why are you leaving now?’ he asked himself. The answer leapt to his mind, sharp and bitter. The days of blood were coming and the Dark God was reasserting himself. He could feel the Spirit’s presence hanging over the land like an unseen mist, swirling in the hearts of men, flowing into their minds, whispering in their ears.
Did Parmenion think the necklet could protect the boy for long? It was but metal, enhanced with the power of Sipstrassi Stone. It could be removed, torn from his neck with a single tug. And then?
The Dark God would return.
Will return, he corrected himself. Nothing will stop him.
You are running away, he realized: hiding from the great battle to come.
‘I want to live,’ he said aloud. ‘I have done my part. Better to be a live dog than a dead lion.’ But he was not convinced.
With a last glance over the Macedonian countryside he stepped inside the cave.
And was seen no more in the land of Greece.
Pella, Summer 337 BC
Alexander sat back, occasionally touching his lips to his wine-cup but swallowing little as he listened to his Companions discussing the forthcoming Persian campaign. As always, it was Philotas who had the most to say. Alexander found it bizarre that a son could look so much like his father, yet enjoy so few of his sire’s talents. Philotas was tall and slender, a fine runner and a good cavalry officer, but his grasp on the subtleties of strategy was tenuous at best. Yet, like so many men of limited talent, his main ability was in mastering the art of hindsight, always seeing where others had made mistakes.
‘As at Chaironeia,’ Philo was telling the others, ‘my father should never have allowed the left to swing so wide. Had it not been for Alexander’s charge, Philip would have been slain.’
Alexander smiled and said nothing. It did no harm whatever to have his comrades see him as a young god of war, but the truth - as always - was not as simple.
‘We will each be kings,’ Ptolemy declared. ‘I shall have a golden throne and a thousand concubines.’
‘You wouldn’t know what to do with them,’ said Nearchos, chuckling. Alexander laughed with the rest at Ptolemy’s discomfort. The youngest of the Companions, Rolemy’s good nature was legendary.
‘I would have great pleasure in finding out,’ put in Ptolemy, grinning.
‘If you are all to be kings,’ said Alexander, ‘what will be left for me?’
‘You will be the King of Kings, naturally,’ Ptolemy told him. ‘You will rule the world and we will be your satraps.’
‘And kill all your enemies,’ Philotas added.
‘An interesting thought. What happens when I have no more enemies?’
‘A great man always has enemies,’ said Ptolemy. ‘What would be the point of being great if that were not so? How dull it would be.’
‘I take it,’ asked Nearchos, ‘that you are already building up a stock of enemies?’
‘Yes. I’ve started with you, you low-born dolt!’
Nearchos’ laughter rippled out, swift and infectious. ‘Me? Is that wise? Do you no longer wish me to speak well of you to my sister?’
‘A good point,’ said Ptolemy, rubbing his chin. ‘You are correct. It is not an opportune time to have you for an enemy. It will have to be Philo then: he’ll be my first enemy.’
‘Enough of this talk,’ put in Alexander. ‘You are all a little drunk. Get off home with you! I intend to be riding at dawn. It is said there is a lioness raiding the cattle and goatherds at a small village north of the city. It should be a fine hunt.’
‘I shall kill the beast with my bare hands,’ said Nearchos, rising and flexing his muscles. Like his father, Theoparlis, he had enormous breadth of shoulder and a barrel chest.
&n
bsp; ‘If that doesn’t work, you could try breathing on him,’ pointed out Ptolemy. ‘Put all those onions to good use.’
Nearchos leapt at the slender youngster, but tripped and fell over a small table laden with sweetmeats. As he scrambled to his feet, chasing the younger man out into the royal gardens, Philotas turned to Alexander and bowed.
‘Until tomorrow, sire,’ he said softly.
‘It is not fitting to call me sire. I am not a King,’ said Alexander, his tone mild.
‘Not yet,’ said Parmenion’s eldest son, bowing once more before striding from the room.
At last only Craterus was left. Older than the others, almost twenty, he was a quiet, introverted man, but he seemed at ease in the ribald meetings of the Companions.
‘Something troubling you?’ asked Alexander.
‘Your ankle is still swollen from the fall and you are limping badly. Is this the right time to hunt lions?’
Alexander clapped the taller man on the shoulder. ‘It will be better by morning, and I shall strap it well. But that is not the reason you have waited to see me.’
Craterus shrugged and smiled. ‘No. I am uneasy, my lord. There is a lot of talk at court about the King’s marriage and the child Cleopatra carries.’
The smile left Alexander’s face. ‘This should not concern you. It does not concern me. My father already has six wives.’
‘Not like this one.’
‘Do not take this any further, Craterus,’ warned the prince. ‘There are some things that should not be said.’
‘Very well. As always I shall obey you. But know this - if you need me I will be beside you.’
‘All the royal pages give oaths to serve the King. The King is Philip,’ Alexander pointed out.
‘That is as maybe. But I serve Alexander.’
The prince moved close to his friend, looking up into the man’s deep-set dark eyes. ‘It is comments like that which lead to the death of princes. You understand me? I will never lead a rebellion against Philip. Never! If I wished him dead I would have let him be slain at Chaironeia, when his horse was killed under him. Now say no more of this. There is nothing to fear, Craterus. Nothing.’