Closer they came to the camp-fire. The ears of Parmenion’s stallion pricked up and he whinnied, the sound being answered from the trees beyond the fire.
‘It is them,’ said Parmenion. ‘That was Bucephalus. He and Paxus were stable companions.’
‘What if they come at us with swords?’ Attalus asked.
‘We die,’ answered Parmenion, ‘for I’ll not fight Alexander.’
The clouds broke and the moon shone bright upon the snow-covered land, the nearby river glinting like polished iron. Parmenion rode to the camp-fire and dismounted. Alexander sat cross-legged before the flames, but he rose as the general approached.
‘A cold night,’ remarked the prince, looking past Parmenion at Attalus.
‘Yes, sir,’ the swordsman agreed. ‘A cold night following hot words.’
‘What do you wish to say to me, Attalus?’
The swordsman cleared his throat. ‘I have come... to...’ he licked his lips. ‘I have come to apologize,’ he said, the words flowing out swiftly as if their taste was acid upon his tongue. ‘I don’t know why I made that toast. I was drunk. I was as shocked as you were, and I would do anything to withdraw the words.’
‘My father sent you to say this?’
‘No, it was my choice.’
Alexander nodded and turned to Parmenion. ‘And you, my friend, what have you to tell me?’
‘Philip is deeply sorry. He loves you, Alexander; he wants you home.’
‘He loves me? There is a thought! I have not seen much evidence of such love in a long time. How do I know that I do not ride back to Pella in time for my own murder?’
‘You have my word,’ said Parmenion simply. ‘Now, will you not ask your Companions to join us? They must be frozen stiff waiting in the woods.’
‘They will remain where I order them,’ said the prince, cloaking the refusal with a smile. ‘Let us sit down by the fire and talk for a while.’
Alexander added more fuel and the three men sat while Parmenion outlined Philip’s regret and sadness. Finally the Spartan opened the pouch at his side, producing the necklet. ‘When the King touched this, all his thoughts and fears concerning you vanished. You understand why? The magic of the necklet cut through the spells that were weaving about him.’
Alexander gazed down at the necklet. ‘You are saying he has been bewitched?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Then perhaps he should wear it?’
‘You do not want it back?’
‘I have no need of it; it served its purpose. Obviously the Dark God has chosen another vessel. I am free of him.’
‘What harm would it do to wear it once more?’ asked Parmenion softly.
‘No harm at all - save that I do not wish to. Now, you say my father is anxious to welcome me home and that I should trust you. Therefore I shall. For you have always been my friend, Parmenion, and the man I most admire - save for Philip. Will you ride with me to the King?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Attalus cleared his throat once more. ‘Am I forgiven?’ he asked.
‘Why would I not forgive you, Attalus? Your actions have brought about a change I have been longing for through these many years. I am grateful to you.’
‘What change is that?’ asked Parmenion sharply.
‘The return of my father’s love,’ answered Alexander smoothly. ‘Now let us ride.’
The City of Aigai
Aida dismissed the Whisperers , for they had served their purpose and the Dark Lady was exultant. She had felt the moment when Philip ripped the necklet from Alexander, experiencing a surge of emotion wonderfully similar to a sexual climax.
Now she knelt in the darkened cellar beneath the house with the bodies of her two recent lovers stretched out on the cold floor, blood drying on their chests.
Aida smiled and, reaching out to the nearest body, traced a bloody line with her finger from the chest wound to the belly. Throughout history there had been many forms of payment - the Akkadians using crystal, the Hittites iron, the Persians gold. But for the demonic forces beyond the ken of mortals there was only one currency. Blood. The source of life.
Aida closed her eyes. ‘Morpheus!’ she called. ‘Euclistes!’
Even now the assassins would be approaching Pella, and it was vital that the palace guards were removed from the fray.
She called again and the darkness in the room deepened, the cold increasing. Aida felt their presence and whispered the words of power. Then the demons vanished and with them went the bodies of the slain. Not even a single spot of blood remained on the marble floor.
Aida rose and trembled with excitement. Tonight the new era would be born. Tonight the King would die.
Pella, Winter 337 BC
Unable to sleep, Philip rolled from the bed, walking out on to the balcony. He shivered as the winter wind touched his naked body but remained where he was, enjoying its caress. I have been such a fool, he thought, recalling his treatment of his son. How could a man be so wise in the ways of the world, he wondered, yet so blinded to the values of his own flesh and blood?
For years Philip had schemed and plotted to rule Greece, organizing an army of agents and subversives in all the major cities, outwitting the likes of Demosthenes and Aischines in Athens and the most brilliant minds of Sparta, Thebes and Corinth. Yet here in Macedonia he had perhaps lost the love of his son by misreading the young man’s intentions.
It was galling.
He shivered again and returned to his room, wrapping himself in a warm, hooded cloak of sheepskin before returning to the balcony.
His mind fled back over the years, seeing himself once more a hostage in Thebes, waiting for his own death. Unhappy days of solitude and introspection. And he remembered the sick sense of horror when he had heard of his brother’s death in the battle against the Illyrians and had seen the shape of his own destiny. He had never wanted to be King. But what choice was there? His country was surrounded by enemies, the army crushed, the future dark with the promise of despair.
He gazed out over the sleeping city to the low hills beyond. In little more than twenty years he had made Macedonia great, putting the nation beyond the reach of any enemy.
Philip sighed. His leg was throbbing and he sat down on a narrow chair, rubbing at the scar above the old wound. His bones ached and the constant pain of his blind eye nagged at him. He needed a drink.
Rising, he swung to enter the royal bedroom and stared, surprised, at the thin white mist that was seeping under the bedroom door. At first he thought it was smoke, but it clung to the floor, rolling out to fill the room. Philip backed away to the edge of the balcony. The mist followed but, once outside, the night winds dispersed it.
But inside the room it flowed over the rugs and chairs and up over the bed in which Cleopatra lay sleeping. As he watched the mist slowly faded, becoming at first translucent and then almost transparent. Finally it disappeared altogether. Philip stepped back into the room, crossing swiftly to where Cleopatra lay. His fingers touched the pulse at her neck. She was sleeping deeply; he tried to rouse her, but could get no response
Concerned now, he limped across the room, pulling open the door to summon the guards. Both men were slumped in the corridor with their spears beside them.
Fear swept into the King’s heart as, throwing aside the cloak, he moved to the rear chambers. On a wooden frame hung his armour and shield and he swiftly buckled on breastplate and a bronze-reinforced leather kilt. Dragging his sword from its scabbard, he returned to the outer room.
All was silence. His mouth was dry as he stood in the doorway listening. How many assassins would there be?
Don’t think of that, he cautioned himself, for there lies defeat and despair.
His thoughts turned to Cleopatra and the child she carried. Was she safe? Or also a target for the killers? Crossing to the bed he lifted her clear and lowered her to the floor, covering her with a blanket and easing her body under the bed and out of sight.
You are alone, he realized. For the first time in twenty years you have no army to call upon. Anger touched him then, building to a cold fury.
Once more he moved to the doorway, listening. To his right was the stairway leading to the great hall and the lower androns, to his left the corridors of the women’s quarters. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out over the sleeping guards. A curtain to his left flickered and a dark-robed assassin leapt from hiding. Philip spun, his sword plunging through the man’s chest and ripping into his heart. Dragging the blade clear, he whirled round as a second swordsman, hooded and masked, ran at him from the left. Philip blocked a savage cut, then hammered his shoulder into the man, knocking him to the floor. From behind he could hear the padding of many feet upon the rugs. Philip leapt over the fallen man and ran for the staircase. A thrown knife thudded against his breastplate, ricocheting up and slicing the skin behind his ear.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he halted. Three more guards were down, stretched out in a drugged sleep. Snatching up a fallen spear, the King turned to see seven men racing towards him along the corridor. Philip waited. As they closed upon him his arm went back, the muscles bunching, then swept forward, the spear flashing into the chest of the first man and punching through to emerge by the spine. Blood gushed from the assassin’s mouth and he stumbled. Philip did not wait for the others to reach him but ran down the stairs, taking them three at a time, trying to keep the weight on his good leg.
Half-way down he stumbled, pitching forward and losing his grip on his sword. He hit hard, rolling to the foot of the stairs and striking his head on the base of a statue. Half-stunned, he struggled to rise. His sword was ten steps above him, but there was no chance to recover it, for the six remaining assassins were almost upon him.
Glancing to his right, he saw the bodies of two sentries and ran towards them. An assassin leapt to his back, a wiry arm encircling the King’s throat, but Philip ducked his head, twisted on his heel and threw the man into the path of his fellows. His vision blurred, Philip staggered on towards the fallen guards, desperate to lay his hands upon a weapon. A thrown knife slashed into his leg, but he ignored the pain and threw himself full-length to fall across the body of a guard. He just had time to grab for a sword before the assassins were upon him. Rolling, he thrust the blade upwards, lancing it through a man’s groin. A booted foot cracked against his temple and a knife plunged into his thigh. With a roaring battle-cry Philip came to his knees and launched himself at the killers. The sword was knocked from his right hand, but his left caught an assassin by the throat - the man stabbed out at the King, but the blade was blocked by Philip’s breastplate. The King’s fingers dug into the man’s neck, closing like an iron trap around his windpipe; a sword lanced into his hip, just below the breastplate, and he cried out, releasing his hold on the assassin’s throat. The man staggered back, gasping for breath. Philip’s fist cracked against another man’s chin and, for a moment only, he had space. Lurching to his left the King staggered towards an open doorway - the assassins sprang after him but he reached the empty room and slammed shut the door, dropping the narrow bar into place.
The assassins hurled themselves at the door, which creaked and tore at its hinges.
Knowing they would not be thwarted for long, Philip swung round, seeking a weapon. But the room was the lower, small andron. Windowless, it boasted only six satin-covered couches, a row of tables and an iron brazier filled with glowing coals. Earlier that evening he had sat here with Cleopatra calmly discussing their future.
A door panel cracked open and the King moved into the centre of the room, blood gushing from the wounds in his leg and hip. The entire door sundered and the five remaining assassins pushed inside. Philip ran to the brazier as they advanced. One assailant, bolder than the rest, charged at the King, but he swept up the brazier to hurl it into the man’s face. Hot coals struck the assassin’s mask, falling into his hood and down behind the neck of his dark tunic. He screamed as smoke and flames billowed up around him, and the smell of scorched flesh filled the air. The man fell, hair and beard alight, and writhed screaming as flames engulfed him.
The four remaining killers edged forward to encircle the King.
Weaponless and wounded, Philip waited for death.
But the assassins suddenly froze and the King saw their eyes widen in fear and shock. One by one they backed away from him, turning to flee from the room.
Philip could scarce believe his luck. Then a cold breeze whispered against the back of his neck and he turned.
The far wall shimmered, then darkened - a huge, bloated shape forming from floor to ceiling. A head emerged, gross and distorted, lidless eyes peering into the room. The mouth was rimmed with long fangs, curved like sabres. The King blinked, unable to believe what his eyes were seeing. It must be a nightmare, he thought, but the pain from the wounds in his leg and hip were all too real.
With a whispered curse Philip started to run towards the door - just in time to see it slam shut, bars of fire dancing across it. He swung back to the monster. The creature had no arms, but in their place huge snakes grew: heads the size of wine barrels, fangs as long as swords. A sibilant hissing came from the snakes and they writhed towards the King.
Backing away, Philip came to the corpse of the assassin he had struck with the brazier and, stooping, lifted the man’s knife. It seemed but a tiny weapon against the monstrosity emerging from the wall.
The creature came clear at last and stood on its huge fur-covered legs, its head touching the high ceiling, its eyes focused on the man before it. The snake arms swept out.
Left without an avenue of retreat, the King advanced on the enemy.
Parmenion’s mount, the grey Paxus, found itself hard pressed to keep up with Bucephalus, who cantered on ahead tirelessly, and the Spartan did not push him. Paxus was a thoroughbred of the same blood-line as Titan, Bucephalus’ sire, but there was no comparison between the stallions. Though fast, Paxus could not match the awesome speed of the black, nor his stamina.
Yet still Parmenion had to hold back on the reins, for Paxus dearly wanted to run, to take on his rival. The general’s thoughts were sombre as he rode behind Alexander. The prince had dismissed his Companions, assuring them of his safety and - disgruntled and unsure - they had ridden away. But it was not their unease that bothered Parmenion. It was Hephaistion. The young officer had approached them from the south, spoken quietly to Alexander and then angled his mount away to the south-west. He did not speak to Parmenion and avoided the general’s gaze.
Parmenion was hurt, though his face did not show it. He had been surprised when Hephaistion was not present at the camp-site, and now he knew that the young man’s loyalty was no longer his for the asking. Youth will always call upon youth, he told himself, but the hurt remained.
The moon was high when the trio rode into Pella. The mounts of both Parmenion and Attalus were lathered and tired, but Bucephalus’ black flanks merely gleamed. Alexander waited while the others came alongside and grinned at Parmenion. ‘Never was a prince given a greater gift,’ he said, patting the stallion’s sleek, dark neck.
At the stables a sleepy groom, hearing hoofbeats on the flagstones, wandered out into the night, bowing as he saw the prince. ‘Give him a good rub-down,’ ordered Alexander as he dismounted. The prince seemed in good humour as he walked towards the palace - but then he stopped in mid-stride, his eyes narrowing.
‘What is wrong?’ Attalus asked.
Parmenion saw instantly what was troubling the prince. ‘There are no sentries,’ hissed the general. Drawing his sword, Parmenion ran towards the huge bronze-reinforced oak doors beneath the twin columns at the front of the palace. As he reached them he saw a fallen spear in the shadows and his heart began to hammer. ‘The King!’ he shouted, hurling himself at the door on the left. It slammed open and the Spartan ran inside.
Lamps flickered on the walls and by their dim light he saw the sentries lying flat upon the floor. A shadow moved to his right a
nd four armed men emerged from the lower andron; they were clad in dark chitons and leggings, their faces hooded and masked. Seeing the Spartan they ran at him, long knives in their hands, and Parmenion leapt to meet them. Veering, three of the assassins tried to make a break for the doorway, but Alexander and Attalus moved into their path.
Parmenion swayed aside from a vicious thrust, sending his own blade slashing down into the outstretched arm. The iron edge bit deep, smashing bone and severing arteries. Screaming, the knifeman fell back. Parmenion stepped forward to plunge his sword into the man’s chest.
Behind him Alexander despatched another assassin with a thrust to the belly, while Attalus grappled with a third. The fourth man ran out into the night. Attalus’ sword was knocked from his hand, then a fist cracked against his chin and he sagged against the wall. Alexander moved in behind the attacker and, just as the man’s knife rose above Attalus’ throat, the prince’s blade clove into the killer’s back.
Attalus staggered as the man fell, then stooped to gather his sword.
Parmenion had started to climb the stairs when a weird, unearthly cry came from the lower andron. Alexander was first to the door, which seemed to be locked. The prince hurled himself against it, but it did not move despite the fact that the hinges were torn loose.
Nothing seemed to be holding the door in place, yet it stood as strong as iron.
Alexander stepped back and stared for a moment at the wood. Then he raised his sword.
‘That will not cut...’ began Parmenion.
The sword slashed down and the door seemed to explode inwards, shards and splinters flying into the room. Alexander leapt inside, with the two officers following him. All three froze as they saw the huge demon at the far end of the andron, the King advancing upon it.
Snake arms slashed out to circle the King’s waist and drag him from his feet. Alexander and Parmenion sprang forward. Attalus, horror-struck, found he could not move.