‘Yes, I did,’ Parmenion answered, ‘and down there will be some of the men I trained, and the sons of others I knew. It makes my heart sick. But I have chosen to serve your father and they have chosen to become his enemies.’ The Spartan shrugged and walked away.
The battle had been fierce, the Sacred Band holding the Macedonian phalanxes, but at last Philip had led a successful cavalry charge against the enemy left, scattering the Corinthians and splitting the enemy force.
Alexander saw again the javelin that speared the heart of the King’s horse and watched, with his mind’s eye, his father being thrown to the ground. Enemy soldiers rushed towards him. Alexander had kicked Bucephalus into a run and led a wild charge to the King’s aid. Philip was wounded in both arms, but Alexander had reached him in time, stretching out his hand and pulling his father up behind him. Bucephalus had carried them both to safety.
It was the last time Alexander could remember his father embracing him...
The prince sighed. He was almost at the meeting place, and just crossing the Street of Potters, when three men appeared from the shadows. Alexander paused in his stride, eyes narrowing.
The men, all dressed in dark tunics, spread out, knives gleaming in their hands. Alexander backed away, drawing his own blade as he did so.
‘We just want the necklet, young prince,’ said the leader, a burly man with a silver-streaked black beard. ‘We mean you no harm.’
‘Then come and take it,’ Alexander told him.
‘Is a piece of gold worth your life?’ asked another man, this one leaner and wolf-like.
‘It’s certainly worth more than yours,’ Alexander retorted.
‘Don’t make us kill you!’ pleaded the leader. Alexander took several steps back, then his shoulders touched the wall of the building behind him. His mouth was dry, and he knew he could not kill all three without suffering serious injury. For a moment only he was tempted to give them the necklet, then he remembered the touch of death and the terrible loneliness of his childhood. No, it would be better to die. His gaze flickered to the lean man; he would be the deadly one, swift as a striking snake. They moved in closer, coming from left, right and centre. Alexander tensed, ready to leap to his right.
‘Put up the blades,’ said a deep voice. The men froze, the leader turning his head to see a tall man in a black cloak standing behind them with a glittering sword in his hand.
‘What if we do?’ the leader asked.
‘Then you walk away,’ said the newcomer reasonably.
‘Very well,’ muttered the robber, easing himself to the right, his men following him. Once clear of the action, the three attackers turned and disappeared into the shadows.
‘My thanks to you,’ said Alexander, but his knife remained in his hand.
The man chuckled. ‘I am Hephaistion. The lord Parmenion asked me to watch over you. Come, I will take you to him.’
‘Lead the way, my friend. I will be right behind you.’
Mothac’s house was in the poorer quarter of Pella, where he could meet and hold interviews with his many agents. The building was two-storeyed and surrounded by high walls. There was no garden but to the rear of the property, facing east, was a small courtyard half-covered by a roof of vines. There was only one andron, windowless and unadorned, in which three couches and several small tables were set. It was in this room that Mothac spoke with his spies, for they could not be overheard from outside.
‘What is happening to my father?’ asked Alexander as Parmenion ushered the prince inside.
The general shook his head and shrugged. ‘I cannot say with certainty.’ The Spartan stretched out his lean frame on a long couch, and Alexander saw the weariness in the older man. It surprised him for Parmenion had always been his hero, seemingly inexhaustible. Now he looked like any man in his sixties, grey-haired and lined, his pale blue eyes showing dark rings. It saddened the prince and he looked away. ‘Sometimes,’ continued the Spartan, ‘a man will find that his dreams were more magical before they were realized. I think that might be one answer.’
‘I don’t understand you. He is the most powerful King in Greece. He has everything he ever desired.’
‘Exactly my point.’ The general sighed. ‘When first I met him in Thebes he was but a child, facing with courage the prospect of assassination. He never wanted to be King. But then his brother was slain in battle and Macedonia faced ruin. Philip took the crown to save the nation. Soon after that he began to dream of greatness - not for himself but for the kingdom, and the future of his unborn son. He wanted nothing more than to build for you.’
‘But he has done that,’ said Alexander.
‘I know. But along the way something happened to the man. He no longer builds for you but for himself. And the older he becomes the more he regards you, your youth and your talent, as a threat. I was with him in Thrace when news of the Triballian revolt came through. He was ready to march home, for he knew the strength of the tribesmen, their courage and their skills. Any campaign against them would take months of careful planning. Then came word of your stunning victory. You outflanked them, outthought them and won the war in eighteen days. That was magnificent. I was proud of you. So, I think, was he. But it only showed him how close you are to being ready to rule.’
Alexander shook his head. ‘I cannot win, can I? I try to please him by excelling, but that makes him fear me. How should I act, Parmenion? Would it be better if I were retarded, like my half-brother Arridaeus? What can I do?’
‘I think you should leave Pella,’ advised the Spartan.
‘Leave?’ Alexander was silent for a moment. He looked into Parmenion’s face, but for the first time in all the years he had known him the Spartan refused to meet his eyes. ‘He means to kill me?’ he whispered. ‘Is that what you are saying?’
The general’s face was grim as, at last, he looked into Alexander’s eyes. ‘I believe so. Day by day he convinces himself - or is convinced - of your imminent treachery. He gathers information about you, and the words of your friends. Someone within your group is reporting to him. I cannot find out who.’
‘One of my friends?’ asked Alexander, shocked.
‘Yes - or rather, someone who professes to friendship.’
‘Believe me, Parmenion, I have never spoken against my father or criticized a single action. Not even to my friends. Anyone who speaks against me is lying or twisting the truth.’
‘I know that, boy! I know that better than anyone. But we must find a way to make Philip realize it. It would be safer for you to leave the city. Then I can do my best to convince the King.’
‘I cannot do it,’ said Alexander. ‘I am the heir to the throne and I am innocent. I will not run.’
‘You think only guilty men die?’ Parmenion snapped. ‘You believe innocence is a shield to turn away a blade? Where was the shield tonight when the assassins came? Had it not been for Hephaistion you would have been killed.’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Alexander, ‘but they were not assassins. They wanted the necklet.’
Parmenion said nothing, but his face lost its colour and he moved across the room to a table where a flagon of wine and two shallow cups had been left. He did not offer the prince a drink, but filled a cup and drained it swiftly. ‘I should have guessed,’ he said softly.
‘What?’
‘Aristotle leaving. It bothered me at the time. Now I know why.
Many years ago - just before you were born - I went on a journey... a perilous journey. He accompanied me. But when it seemed that all was lost, he fled. As Chiron, he did much the same. You remember? When we came close to the Forest of Gorgon he became the centaur, returning to his own form only when the danger was past.‘
‘He told me of that; he said he was frightened.’
‘Yes. There is to him an edge of cowardice he cannot resist. I have always seen it in him - and I do not blame him for it. It is his nature, and he tries hard to overcome it. But it is there nonetheless. Now he has run away again,
and tonight someone tried to steal the necklet.’
‘They could just have been robbers, surely?’
‘Yes,’ Parmenion admitted, ‘they could. But I doubt it. Three men in a deserted street. What were they doing? Hoping some rich merchant would walk by after midnight? And the necklet is not readily visible, especially at night, nor does it look particularly valuable. No. Ever since we returned from Achaea I have lived in fear, waiting for the return of the Dark God.’ The general refilled the wine-cup and moved back to the couch. ‘I am no mystic, Alexander, but I can feel his presence.’
‘He is gone from me,’ argued the prince. ‘We defeated him.’
‘No, not gone... waiting. You were always to be his vessel. All that protects you is the necklet.’
‘They did not get it,’ Alexander pointed out.
‘This time! But there will now be other attempts. They must feel the time is right.’
‘Twice in the last year I have almost lost the necklet,’ said Alexander. ‘In the battle against the Triballians an arrow struck my breastplate, the shaft snapping and the head tearing two of the gold links. I had it repaired. The goldsmith could not understand why I refused to take it off while he soldered the gold; he burned me twice. Then, while hunting, a jackdaw swooped down upon me, its talons hooking into the links. I struck the bird with my hand and it lost its grip upon the gold. But as it flew away the clasp snapped open. I managed to hold it in place while I refastened it.’
‘We must be on our guard, my boy,’ said Parmenion. ‘Now, if you will not leave Pella, will you at least allow me one request?’
‘Of course. You have but to ask.’
‘Keep Hephaistion with you. He is the best of my young officers. He has a keen eye and a good brain; he will guard your back. Take him into your counsel, introduce him as a new Companion. Given time, he will find the traitor.’
Alexander smiled ruefully. ‘You know, it is hardly accurate to describe a man who reports to the King as a traitor. Indeed, this could be seen as treason: the King’s general and the King’s son in a secret meeting.’
‘There are those who would see it so,’ agreed Parmenion. ‘But you and I know it is not true.’
‘Answer me this, Parmenion: Where will you stand if my father goes against me?’
‘By his side,’ answered the Spartan, ‘for I am pledged to serve him and I will never betray him.’
‘And if he should kill me?’
‘Then I will leave his service and depart from Macedonia. But we must ensure that it does not come to that. He must be made to see that you are loyal.’
‘I would not harm him - not even to save my own life.’
‘I know,’ said Parmenion, rising and embracing the younger man. ‘It is time for you to go. Hephaistion is waiting by the front gate.’
The Summer Palace, Aigai
Olympias knelt before the Lady of Samothrace, bowing her head to receive the blessing.
Aida leaned forward. ‘You are a Queen now. You should not kneel to me,’ she said.
‘A Queen?’ responded Olympias bitterly. To a man with seven wives?‘
‘You are the mother of his son, the heir. Nothing can take that away from you.’
‘You think not?’ asked Olympias, rising and sitting beside the black-clad Aida on the satin-covered couch. ‘Cleopatra will bear him a son. I know this, he brags of it constantly. And he has grown to hate Alexander. What am I to do?’
Aida put her arm around the Queen, drawing her close and kissing her brow. ‘Your son will be King,’ she told her, holding her voice to a whisper and flicking a glance at the open window. Who knew what spies lurked close by? Her spirit snaked out, but there was no one within hearing distance.
‘I used to believe that, Aida. Truly. And I was so happy on Samothrace before the wedding. I thought that Philip was the greatest King in all the world. My happiness was complete. But there has always been something between us, an uneasy... I don’t know how to describe it. Only on that first night did we ever achieve the union you taught me to expect. Now he can scarce look at me without his face darkening in anger. Did he never love me?’
Aida shrugged. ‘Who can say what is in a man’s mind? Their brains hang between their legs. What is important is what we do now. You know you were chosen to bear a special child, a king of kings, a god. You have fulfilled that part of your destiny. Rejoice in that, sister! And leave your fears in my care.’
‘You can help Alexander?’
‘I can do many things,’ she answered. ‘But tell me of your son. What kind of man has he become?’ The Queen drew back, her face suddenly radiant, and she began to speak of Alexander’s triumphs, his goodness, his strength and his pride.
Aida sat patiently, assuming an expression of rapt fascination, smiling occasionally, even clapping her hands in delight at various points. Her boredom was almost at the point of exasperation when Olympias’ voice trailed away. ‘I am talking too much,’ said the Queen.
‘Not at all,’ put in Aida swiftly. ‘He sounds wonderful - everything we ever dreamed of. I saw him today, walking with a group of young men. He is very handsome. But I noticed that he was wearing a necklet and it interested me. The workmanship is very old. Where did he come by it?’
‘It was a gift, many years ago. He wears it always.’
‘I would like to see it. Can you bring it to me?’
Olympias shook her head. ‘I am sorry, I cannot. You see, there was a time when he seemed... possessed. The necklet protects him. He cannot remove it.’
‘Nonsense! He was a gifted child with powers too strong to contain. But he is a man now.’
‘No,’ said Olympias. ‘I will not risk that.’
‘You do not trust me?’ asked Aida, her face showing exactly the right amount of hurt.
‘Oh no!’ replied Olympias, taking Aida’s hand, ‘of course I trust you. It is just... I fear that the darkness that was once within him could return and destroy him.’
‘Think on this, my dear. Without the necklet he will be so powerful no man will ever be able to kill him.’
‘You think Philip would... ? No, I cannot believe that.’
‘You have never heard of a King killing his son? Strange. It is not a rare occurrence in Persia.’
‘Nor here,’ Olympias agreed. ‘But Philip is not that kind of man. When he became King, upon his brother’s death in battle, he spared the life of his brother’s son Amyntas. That surprised many, for Amyntas was the natural heir.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘Amyntas? He serves in the King’s bodyguard. He is ferociously loyal to Philip; he has no desire to be King.’
‘Not now, perhaps - but what if Philip were to die?’
‘Alexander would be King.’
‘And is Amyntas loyal to Alexander?’
Olympias frowned and looked away. ‘No, they are not friends.’
‘And Amyntas is a true-born Macedonian,’ put in Aida softly. ‘Is that not so?’
‘Why are you trying to frighten me? Amyntas is no danger.’
‘There is peril everywhere,’ snapped Aida. ‘I have been here but three days, and the whole court talks of nothing apart from the succession. The family of Attalus dream that Cleopatra’s child will be King. Others swear allegiance to Amyntas. Still more talk of Arridaeus.’
‘But he is retarded; he drools and cannot walk a straight line.’
‘Yet he is Philip’s son, and there are those who would seek to rule through him. Antipater, perhaps.’
‘Stop this!’ shouted Olympias. ‘Do you see enemies everywhere?’
‘Everywhere,’ agreed Aida, her tone soft. ‘I have lived for many, many years. Treachery, I find, is second nature to Man. Alexander has many friends and many enemies. But that is not important. The real secret is being able to tell which is which.’
‘You understand the Mysteries, Aida, can you see where the peril lies?’
‘There is one great enemy who must be slain,’ answe
red the Dark Lady, her eyes holding to Olympias’ gaze.
‘Who?’ whispered Olympias.
‘You know the answer. I need not speak the name.’ Aida’s slender hand dipped into a deep pocket in her dark gown, then came clear holding a round golden coin which she lifted between thumb and forefinger. ‘It is a good likeness, don’t you think?’ asked the sorceress, flipping the coin into Olympias’ lap.
The Queen stared down at the golden, silhouetted head of Philip of Macedon.
Hephaistion stretched out his long legs, lifting them over the carved foot-rest at the end of the couch. His head was aching with the noise from the revellers and he merely sipped at the heavily-watered wine in the golden Persian goblet. At the far end of the room Ptolemy was wrestling with Cassander and several tables had been upturned, throwing fruit and sweetmeats to the floor. The two men slipped and slithered on them, their clothes stained with fruit-juice. Hephaistion looked away. Philotas and Alexander were playing a Persian game involving dice and counters of gold and silver. Elsewhere other Companions of the prince were either gambling or lying in a drunken sleep on the many couches.
Hephaistion was bored. A soldier since the age of fifteen, he loved the wild, open country, sleeping beneath the stars, rising with the dawn, following the horns of war. But this? Soft cushions, sweet wines, mind-numbing games...
He sat up, his gaze drifting to where Philotas sat hunched over the table. So like his father in looks, he thought, yet so different. It was interesting to compare them. They even walked alike with shoulders back and eyes aware, the movements sure and catlike. But Parmenion merely showed confidence whereas Philo exuded arrogance. When the older man smiled men warmed to him, but with Philo it seemed he was mocking. Subtle differences, thought Hephaistion, but telling.
He stretched his back and stood. Approaching the table where Alexander sat, he bowed and asked for leave to depart.
Alexander looked up and grinned. ‘Sleep well, my friend,’ he said.
Hephaistion moved out into the torchlit corridor, nodding to the guards who stood to attention as he passed. The gardens were cool, the night breeze refreshing. He sucked in a deep breath and then, with a glance behind him, stepped into the shadows of the trees by the eastern gate. There was a marble bench here, hidden from the path by overhanging vegetation, and he sat down to wait.