The King was slowly lifted towards the creature’s cavernous maw, its fangs dripping saliva on his chest. Alexander ran forward but then stopped, his sword-arm swinging back like a javeliner. His hand flashed forward, the iron blade slicing through the air. Just as the fangs were about to close on Philip the sword punched home through the demon’s eye. As its neck arched back, Philip thrust his dagger into the stretched, scaly skin of the throat. Black blood bubbled from the wound and the snake arms went into spasm, dropping the King to the mosaic floor where he landed heavily and lay winded. Parmenion ran in, hacking and cutting at the creature as Alexander moved to the King, pulling him back across the centre of the room.
Smoke billowed from the demon’s wounds, filling the andron and choking the lungs of the warriors.
‘Get back!’ Parmenion shouted.
Attalus joined Alexander and together the two men lifted Philip, carrying him out into the corridor. Parmenion joined them and together the trio carried the wounded King out of the palace, laying him down between the twin pillars of the doorway.
‘Fetch a surgeon,’ ordered Parmenion, but Attalus knelt by the King, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.
‘He must not die!’ the swordsman whispered.
Parmenion shook him roughly. ‘Nor will he! Now fetch a surgeon!’
‘Yes... Yes,’ muttered Attalus, pushing himself to his feet and running to the Guards Barracks.
‘The wounds are deep,’ said Alexander, ‘but I do not think they are mortal. Already the gash in the thigh is clotting.’
‘He is a tough man.’ The moon emerged from behind the clouds, bright silver light bathing the palace entrance. ‘Look at that!’ whispered Parmenion, pointing to Philip’s iron breastplate. The metal was twisted and bent where the snake arms had coiled around it. Swiftly the two men unbuckled the armour, pulling it clear; then with a dagger Alexander slit Philip’s chiton tunic. The King’s upper body was covered in bruises. Parmenion pressed a finger to Philip’s ribs. ‘One at least is cracked,’ he announced.
The King stirred, his eyes opening. ‘Alexander?’ he whispered.
‘I am here, Father.’
‘Thank... the... gods. Will you forgive me?’
‘There is nothing to forgive. Parmenion says you have suffered under a Dark Enchantment. All is well now. We are together.’
Philip struggled to rise, but Parmenion gently pushed him back. ‘Wait for the surgeon.’
‘A pox on all surgeons!’ snorted Philip. Parmenion shook his head, but helped the King to a sitting position.
‘What was that thing?’
‘Euclistes,’ answered Alexander. ‘Once a Titan, but now a servant to all with the power to call upon him.’
‘How do you know of him?’ Parmenion asked.
The prince smiled. ‘I had a fine teacher. Aristotle told us many tales of the damned.’
‘You saved my life again, boy,’ said Philip, reaching out and gripping his son’s arm. ‘Three times now.’ Suddenly the King chuckled. ‘You know, I think I might just live for ever. Gods, if eight assassins and a beast like that cannot kill me, then what can?’
Aigai, Summer 336 BC
Philip awoke to the brightness of the summer sunshine streaming through the open window. He stretched and rose from the bed, listening to the sounds of bird-song from the garden below his rooms. The scent of flowers filled the air and he felt almost young again.
He padded to a long bronze mirror, standing before it and gazing at his reflection. No longer was he overweight; the muscles of his belly stood out ridged and firm, and his black beard and tightly curled hair shone with health. The scars on his hip and thigh had faded now to faint white lines against his bronzed skin. ‘I am in my prime,’ he told his reflection. He had seldom felt better. The wound in his leg rarely troubled him now, and the pain from his blinded eye was but a memory.
Servants brought him his white tunic and ceremonial cloak and he dressed and dismissed them before wandering out to the balcony. The sky was wondrously blue, not a cloud in sight. High above the palace a golden eagle banked and glided on the warm air currents.
It was a good day to be alive!
Last evening Cleopatra had delivered him a son - a healthy, bawling babe with jet-black hair. Philip had raised him high, carrying him to the window and holding him up for the troops and crowds outside to see. Their cheers had almost made the palace tremble. Today they would celebrate his birth in true Macedonian style with marches, games, parades and performances from the finest actors in Greece. It would be a day to remember - and not just for the arrival of a new prince.
At midnight Philip had received word from Parmenion. The forward troops had crossed the Hellespont into Persia unopposed. Several of the Asian Greek cities, including Ephesus, had risen against the Persian overlords. Philip’s dreams were all coming true.
Twenty years of planning, scheming, battling and plotting - and here it was: the culmination of all he had fought for. Athens had finally agreed to Philip becoming the Leader of Greece. All the city states had followed her lead, save Sparta; but Sparta no longer counted. The Greek army had invaded Persia and soon Philip would join them. Then they would free all the Greek cities of Asia and the Persian King, Darius, would pay a fortune in tribute to prevent Macedon’s army from marching further into his empire.
Philip laughed aloud, the sound rippling out over the gardens.
In the five months since the demon almost slew him, the King had rediscovered the joys of living. Olympias’ face appeared before his mind’s eye and he scowled, but not even thoughts of her could dampen his mood.
A servant entered and announced that Alexander was waiting outside.
‘Well, bring him in, man!’ ordered Philip.
Alexander was dressed in the black and silver armour of the Royal Guard, a white-plumed helm on his head. He bowed and smiled. ‘You look splendid, Father. White suits you.’
‘I feel good. It will be a fine day.’
‘Indeed it will. The crowds are already gathering and the procession is ready.’
‘As am I,’ Philip announced. Together the two men strode from the palace. Outside the great gates the marchers were preparing themselves. There were horsemen from all the provinces and troops from every district. There were actors and singers, poets, jugglers, tumblers.
Two white bulls garlanded with flowers were led out at the start, gifts for Zeus the Father of the Gods. They were followed by twenty carts bearing carved wooden statues of Artemis, Apollo, Ares, Aphrodite and all the gods of Greece.
A crown of golden oak leaves upon his head, Philip walked at the centre of the procession, flanked by the Royal Guard with Alexander at their head. Behind them came ambassadors from the city states of Athens, Corinth, Thebes and even Sparta, plus representatives from Boeotia, Pherae, Euboea, Thrace, Illyria and Paionia.
Philip glanced back over his right shoulder at the towering distant mountains, then forward again to the great sweep of the Emathian Plain. Macedonia. His land!
Unlike Pella, where the King’s palace stood at the centre of the city, here in this ancient capital it was built on the top of a high hill, with the city spread out below white and glistening. In the distance Philip could see the amphitheatre where he would address his people, and from the foot of the hill to the entrance the crowds lining the route.
Handlers urged the white bulls forward and they began the long descent to the plain, passing on the left the disguised tombs of Macedonia’s Kings, buried deep beneath the hillsides with tall trees growing above them. Lying here were Philip’s ancestors, their riches hidden from the prying eyes of would-be thieves.
One day I will lie in such a place, he thought. And shivered, despite the sunshine.
The procession stretched for almost a quarter of a mile, and the crowds on either side of the avenue threw flowers under the feet of the walkers. Philip waved to his people, acknowledging their cheers, feeling the power of their love wash over him.
‘Long live the King!’ someone shouted, and the cry was taken up all along the route.
His leg began to ache, but they were close now to the amphitheatre where 2,000 Macedonians, and other dignitaries, waited to see their King and listen to his words of future glories. None of them yet knew of the success Parmenion and Attalus had enjoyed in the invasion of Persia, and Philip shivered with anticipation, his speech prepared.
‘Fellow Macedonians, we stand at the gates of a new era. The power of the Persians is finished, the dawn of freedom awaits...’
The procession cut off to the left, ready to enter the arena from the wide gates. Philip and his Royal Guard moved to the right, to the low tunnel leading to the royal dais. In the shadows of the tunnel he paused, looking back at the armed men guarding him.
‘I do not wish to enter here surrounded by swords,’ he said. ‘It will make me appear as a tyrant. I shall go in first; you follow me some thirty paces back.’
‘As you wish, Father,’ Alexander agreed.
Philip stepped into the shadows, his single eye fastened on the square of light ahead.
The Ruins of Troy, Winter 335 BC
Parmenion rode Paxus to the brow of the hill overlooking the broken columns of Troy. His aides came alongside him - six young men, sons of Macedon’s noble families.
That is where Achilles fought and fell,‘ whispered Perdiccas, his voice trembling.
‘Yes,’ said Parmenion, ‘where Priam the King stood fast against the armies of Greece. Where Hector was slain and where the beautiful Helen lived with the adulterer Paris. That is all that remains of the glory that once was Troy.’
‘May we ride down, sir?’ Ptolemy asked.
‘Of course. But be wary. There are many villages nearby and the inhabitants may be none too friendly.’
The nobles urged their mounts forward, galloping down the hillside towards the ruins. To the south Parmenion could see a white-walled temple and he touched heels to Paxus and cantered towards it.
There were no Persian troops within a day’s ride, and his warning to the young men had been largely unnecessary. Yet he liked his officers to be constantly on their guard.
As he approached the Temple a short, plump woman opened a side gate and walked out to meet him. Parmenion reined in the stallion and halted before her.
‘Would you be the Lion of Macedon, sir?’ she asked.
Parmenion was surprised. Fifteen thousand Macedonian soldiers were in the vicinity, and there were at least a dozen officers of his own age and height.
‘I have been called that, lady. Why do you ask?’
‘My mistress sent me to find you. She is dying.’
‘I am no Healer; I am a soldier. What did she tell you?’
‘She said I was to walk from the Temple and approach the warrior riding the grey stallion. That is all, sir. Will you come?’
Parmenion shivered, suddenly cold despite the sunshine. Something stirred in his subconscious, but he could not raise it to full awareness. He looked down at the woman. Could this be a trap? Were there soldiers or killers waiting within those white walls?
No, he decided. There was no tension in the woman before him; she was simply a servant following the orders of her mistress. Parmenion dismounted and led the stallion through the narrow gate, following a twisted path through an overgrown garden.
Still his thoughts were troubled.
What was it about this place?
It was tranquil here, harmonious and restful, but his senses were shrieking at him and he found himself growing more tense.
He halted before the main doors and tied the stallion’s reins to an overhanging tree branch. ‘Who is your mistress?’ he asked.
‘She was the Healer, sir,’ the woman answered.
It was dark within the Temple and Parmenion was led to a small room where the single window was covered with a thick, woollen curtain. An old woman lay on a narrow bed; her face was emaciated, her eyes blind. Parmenion moved to the window, drawing back the curtain. Bright sunshine filled the room.
The Spartan looked down on the brightly-lit face of the old woman and his breath caught in his throat. He staggered back, gripping the curtain to stop himself from falling. And then the memory surged up from the darkest recesses of his mind. He saw again the garden at Olympia, where he and Derae had first embraced. And he saw her lying in his bed and heard again her soft, sweet voice.
‘I dreamt I was in a temple, and all was darkness. And I said, “Where is the Lion of Macedon?” The sun shone then and I saw a general in a white-plumed helmet. He was tall and proud, and standing with the light at his back. He saw me... ’
‘Sweet Hera!’ whispered Parmenion, falling to his knees. ‘It cannot be you, Derae. It cannot!’
The old woman sighed. ‘It is I,’ she said. ‘When they threw me from the ship I did not die. I reached the shore. I waited here for years, thinking you would come for me.’
With trembling fingers Parmenion reached out and took her hand. ‘I thought you dead. I would have walked across Hades for you.’
‘I know.’
‘Why did you not get a message to me?’
‘I couldn’t. I became a Healer, a priestess. And when I found out where you were, I saw you living in Thebes with another woman.’ There was nothing he could say and he felt incapable of forcing words through the lump in his throat. He merely sat, holding her swollen, arthritic hand as she told him of the years spent at the Temple, of the spirit journeys across the seas, of saving him and Thetis from the plague in Thebes and guiding him through the underworld to save the soul of Alexander, healing Parmenion of his brain tumour and returning to him a portion of his youth. Lastly she told him of her journey, disguised as Thena, into the world of the Enchantment. This time he groaned aloud.
‘Why did you not show yourself to me?’
‘I think I would have - but then you found the other... me.’ His tears fell then and she felt a soft, warm droplet touch her hand. ‘Oh, my dear, do not be sad. I have had a wonderful life, healing many. And I have watched you and watched over you. I feel no sorrow. I have treasured our days together, holding them warm and glowing in my memories.’
‘Don’t die!’ he pleaded. ‘Please don’t die!’
She forced a weak smile. ‘That is beyond my powers to grant,’ she said. ‘But I did not send Camfitha to find you so that you should suffer. I needed to warn you. The Lady of Samothrace... Aida, you remember?’
‘Yes.’
‘She is in Macedonia. She intends to rob Alexander of his necklet of power, but she must be stopped. Without the necklet the Dark God will win.’
‘I know. Do not concern yourself. I will protect Alexander.’
‘Her powers are very great. You must be on your guard at all times.’
‘I will be,’ he said wearily. ‘But tell me: is there a way to defeat the Chaos Spirit? Can you kill the demon without harming Alexander?’
‘No,’ she answered, ‘he cannot be killed. And even when Alexander dies he will live on - once the host body is destroyed, consumed by fire or devoured by worms or carrion birds, he will be free once more.’
‘But if we hold him back will he not tire of trying to possess Alexander? Surely it would be simpler to find another human and capture his soul?’
‘He cannot do that,’ she answered. ‘That night in Samothrace where you...’ Pausing for a moment, she squeezed his hand and gave a gentle, almost apologetic smile, then went on,‘... where Alexander was conceived was not chosen at random. It was a special, unholy time. Great spells were cast, the blood of innocence was spilt. The purpose of it all was to bond the conceived child to the evil of Kadmilos. The child became the Gateway through which the Beast could pass. As long as Alexander lives, he will be linked to Kadmilos. Equally the Dark God cannot leave Alexander; they are chained together for as long as the body survives.’
‘Then there is no hope?’
‘There is always hope, my dear,’ she told him. ‘Evil does not
exist alone. There are balances.’
Her voice faded and, for a moment only, he thought she had died. All thoughts of the Dark God fled from his mind. Gripping her hand, he called her name. Her blind eyes opened and she gave a weak smile.
‘Let us not talk of this any more,’ he whispered. ‘Tell me of your years here. Let me share them with you.’
He sat and listened as the sun faded from the sky, unaware that his officers had arrived and were standing silently by the doorway. They did not intrude on his obvious grief.
Finally, as the first stars of evening were appearing in the sky, Derae drew in a deep shuddering breath.
And was gone...
No goodbyes, no tearful farewell. One moment she was alive, the next her soul had departed.
As her breathing stopped Parmenion fell back, and there came over the room a sense of peace that none present would ever forget. It was warm and comforting, uplifting and filled with love, touching heart and mind and soul.
Ptolemy moved forward and embraced his general. The others followed.
And with great gentleness they led the weeping Spartan back to the gardens where his war-horse waited.
Greater Phrygia, 336 BC
In the weeks that followed Parmenion threw all his energies into the planning of the campaign, working from before dawn to after dusk and exhausting even his younger officers. He checked the supplies, ordered cartographers to map the countryside, organized food wagons, sent riders to watch for the Athenian supply ships and arranged billets, pushing himself to his limits.
Attalus tried to reason with him, begging him to slow down, but the Spartan would not be opposed. Ignoring all advice, he pressed on. In the past he had been aided by Mothac, whose organizational skills had been breathtaking. But now he felt he could trust no one. An army soon to number 30,000 would be moving across the Hellespont. Horses would require safe pasture, the men would need meat, cereal and water. Battles, in the main, could almost take care of themselves, but keeping men ready for war was an art in itself. A four-ox cart could carry thirty barrels of water across a desert, but the oxen needed to drink and after ten days there would be only fifteen barrels left. Such were the problems in which Parmenion immersed himself to cloak his soul from the pain of Derae’s death.