He found Mothac in the small study to the rear of the house. The old Theban was poring over reports from Asia, and there were papers and scrolls scattered across the wide desk.
‘Anything new?’ asked Parmenion, removing his ceremonial helmet and laying it carefully on the bench beside him.
‘New? It is all new,’ answered Mothac. ‘And yet as old as the balls of Zeus. Treachery, double-dealing, compromise. New names, ancient vices. But I must say, I do love diplomacy.’ He lifted a scroll and grinned. ‘I have a letter here from a man named Dupias, assuring me that he is an ardent supporter of Philip. Through his good offices we can be assured of a fine reception in Tyre, should the Persian army be overcome by the “valiant Macedonians”.’
‘It sounds promising,’ said Parmenion.
‘True, and yet I have a report from another source that Dupias is in the pay of the Persians.’
‘Even better. We can use him to feed Darius false information.’
‘Yes. Life is wonderfully complex. I can remember the boring old days when all that counted was the strength of a man’s sword-arm and the justice of his cause.’
‘No, you can’t,’ Parmenion told him. ‘It just seems that way. The past is all bright colours. The shades of grey have vanished. This is how it has always been. If you walk from here to the Guards Barracks and talk to those earnest young men, they will tell you of the justice of their cause and boast of the strength of their sword-arms. Their eyes will shine with glory. It is the way of young men.’
Mothac sighed. ‘I know that. I was trying to be light-hearted. What is the matter with you?’
Parmenion shrugged. ‘It is all going sour, Mothac. I think Philip is preparing to assassinate Alexander.’
‘What? I can’t believe that!’
‘He told me yesterday that he does not intend to take the prince with him on the Persian expedition. He will have a role in Macedonia. What does that suggest?’
The old Theban ran his fingers over his bald dome, scratching the skin of his crown. ‘Philip is too canny to leave a potential enemy behind him - but to kill his own son? Are you sure?’
‘I am sure.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I have no idea. I am meeting the prince tonight; I will advise him to leave Pella.’
‘What is wrong with Philip?’ asked Mothac. ‘The boy loves him, there is no question of that. You know how many spies report to me, but none has ever suggested that Alexander would betray his father.’
‘Unfortunately that is not true of his followers,’ put in Parmenion. ‘I have seen the reports of comments by Philo and Nearchos, Ptolemy and Cassander. The young men worship Alexander. And then there is Pausanius - an ugly business.’
‘He brought it on himself,’ muttered Mothac. ‘Pausanius is a fool. Philip has always enjoyed the attention of young men, but none of them last in his affections. The boy was too pushy.’
‘That may be true,’ Parmenion admitted, ‘but he is still a high-born Macedonian, and his punishment was cruel and ill-advised.’
Mothac said nothing. How could he argue? Pausanius had enjoyed the King’s devotion and while the favourite had made an enemy of Attalus - making him the butt of many jokes and jibes. Attalus had waited for the youngster to fall from favour, and had then ordered Pausanius. to be soundly thrashed and abused by soldiers from his personal guard.
The humiliation was intense, for the young noble had been left, naked and tied, on a stall in the market-place. The incident had many repercussions. The young men who followed Alexander were all friendly to Pausanius, and saw his treatment as unjust. The older nobles at court were cheered by his humiliation, seeing it as a timely and salutary lesson for a youth they considered a loud-mouthed braggart.
It was also well known that Pausanius was a close friend to Alexander. Soon after his ordeal the noble approached the prince, asking for justice against Attalus; Alexander took his plea to the King in open court, but Philip dismissed it, calling the incident a ‘prank’ that should be forgotten.
But in the months that followed few forgot it, for it highlighted the extent to which Attalus’ star had risen in the Macedonian court, and many men now walked warily, or openly courted the company of the one-time assassin.
‘Cruel it may have been,’ said Mothac at last, ‘but it should not concern you. Attalus no longer fears you. You are not on his list of enemies - and that is how it should stay. You may be the foremost general of Macedonia, Parmenion, but Attalus is stronger now than he has ever been. Enmity between you will leave you dead.’
‘We will not become enemies,’ said Parmenion, ‘unless he plans harm to Alexander.’
‘If he does, it will be on the King’s order,’ warned Mothac, his voice a whisper.
‘I know,’ the Spartan answered.
The Temple, Asia Minor
The Temple grounds were overgrown; most of the roses were long since dead, strangled by wide-leafed ivy, or masked from the sun by the overhanging branches of the many trees. Grass was growing between the paving stones, pushing up with the slow strength of nature, distorting the paths and making the footing treacherous.
The fountains were silent now, the water stagnant. But Derae did not care. She no longer had the strength to walk the gardens and rarely left the room behind the altar. Only two servants remained, both women she had healed long ago before her powers had faded.
No longer were there ragged tents beyond the Temple, filled to overflowing with the diseased, the lame and the crippled. No one needed tokens now to see the Healer.
Shallow cuts she could seal, minor infections would still vanish at her touch. But no longer could she bring sight to the blind, nor draw the cancers from the lungs and bellies of the dying.
Now it was she who suffered, her limbs racked with arthritic pain, her joints swollen. If she moved slowly, supporting herself on two sticks, she could just reach the Temple doorway, there to sit in the afternoon sunshine. But she needed help to return to her room when dusk and the cool breeze of evening stiffened her limbs.
Derae sat on the marble bench with deep cushions around her, the afte