Morale was low as Parmenion and Hephaistion marched the beleaguered army along the Ionian coast, making fortress camp in a bay close to the isle of Lesbos. Hastily-built ramparts were thrown up and the Macedonians settled down to a well-earned rest as the sun sank into the Aegean. Supplies were short and the men gathered around their camp-fires to eat their rations: one strip of jerked beef and a section of stale bread per man.
Hephaistion doffed his helm and ducked under the canvas flap that formed the doorway to Parmenion’s tent. The old general and his Theban friend, Mothac, were sitting on the ground poring over maps and scrolls.
Parmenion glanced up. ‘Are the scouts out?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ answered Hephaistion.
Parmenion nodded and returned to the map. ‘Tomorrow we strike through Mysia. There are several small cities there; they will buy us off with food and coin.’
‘The men are getting tired of running,’ Hephaistion snapped. ‘Why can we not stand and show the Persians the strength of Macedonian spears?’
‘Because we have not the power,’ retorted Parmenion. ‘Memnon now has close to fifty thousand warriors, highly trained and well armed. We would risk being crushed.’
‘I do not believe that.’
‘Believe what you will.’
Hephaistion crouched down beside the Spartan. ‘Listen to me, sir, the men are becoming downhearted. We must have a victory.’
Parmenion’s cold blue eyes locked to Hephaistion’s gaze. ‘You think I do not want a victory? Gods, man! I would give my right arm for one. But look at the terrain,’ he said, gesturing at the goatskin map. ‘Once we accept battle the Persians will envelop our flanks, cutting off any retreat. Then we would be lost. I know this is not easy for a young man like yourself to accept, but we have fewer than a thousand cavalry and only a few hundred bowmen. We could not hold them. But what we can do is keep the enemy on the march, allowing Alexander an unopposed crossing of the Dardanelles with the main army. Then we will have the battle you dream of.’
‘So speaks the Lion of Macedon!’ muttered Hephaistion with a sneer. ‘There was a time when the very mention of your name would send the enemy into flight. But all men grow old.’
Parmenion smiled. ‘If fortunate we grow wiser with age, child. And the yapping of puppies bothers us not at all.’
The Spartan returned his attention to the map and Hephaistion, swallowing his fury, left the tent. For an hour or more he patrolled the camp, checking on sentries, talking to the men, then he climbed the winding path of the eastern cliff and stood in the moonlight gazing east over the fabled lands of the Persian Empire. Such wealth for the taking! Such glory to be won! Beyond Ionia was Phrygia, rich in metals, silver, gold and iron. Beyond that Cappadocia, Armenia, Mesopotamia. And then the heartlands of the Empire: Babylonia, Media and Persia itself.
The annual revenue of Macedonia was 800 talents of silver - a vast fortune. But, so it was said, in Babylon there was a minor treasury containing 240,000 talents of gold.
Hephaistion trembled at the thought of such riches. There were cities of gold and statues of purest silver. There were gems the size of a man’s head. Persia! Even the fabled Midas, whose touch transformed all to gold, could not in a single lifetime have created Persia’s wealth.
The moon was bright when Hephaistion saw the rider galloping his mount across the narrow plain. The man was wearing the wide-brimmed leather hat sported by the Paionian scouts and Hephaistion waved and shouted to attract his attention. The rider saw him and veered his pony to climb the hillside.
‘What news?’ Hephaistion asked the scout.
‘The King is at Troy, sir,’ answered the rider.
Hephaistion punched the air with delight. ‘You are sure?’ There had been many false reports of Alexander’s arrival.
‘I saw the army myself. He has with him more than thirty thousand men.’
‘Then it has begun!’ shouted Hephaistion exultantly.
The Ida Mountains, 334 BC
The two armies met on a plain in the shadows of the towering Ida ! Mountains. Hephaistion, riding alongside Parmenion, saw the tents of the Macedonians strung out like pearls upon a necklace, white against the green of the flatlands.
His soldier’s eye scanned the regiments waiting ahead. He could see the six brigades of the Macedonian Foot Companions, 9,000 men standing to attention with spears held vertically. Alongside them were the 3,000 Shield Bearers, as Philip’s Guards were now known. To the left were the Athenians and Corinthians, around 7,000 allied troops whose presence gave the expedition a united Greek appearance. To the right were the massed ranks of the savage Thracians. It was difficult to see how many there were, for they did not hold to formation but jostled and pushed in a heaving mass. But there must be, Hephaistion reckoned, more than 5,000 of them.
Alexander rode out from the centre of the army: his iron armour shining like polished silver, his helm beneath its white plume glinting with gold. Even Bucephalus was armoured now, with light chain-mail tied around his neck and over his chest, silver wires braided into his black mane and tail.
Hephaistion drew rein as Alexander approached, his captains riding behind him; Cassander, Philotas, Cleitus, Coenus and Parmenion’s second son, Nicci.
The King rode directly to Parmenion and dismounted. The older man followed suit and knelt before Alexander.
‘No, no,’ said the King, stepping forward to lift the Spartan to his feet. ‘I’ll never have you kneel to me. Well met, my friend.’ Alexander embraced the taller man. ‘I want to hear all your news. But first I’ll address your men, and then we will talk in my tent.’
Parmenion bowed and the King turned back to Bucephalus. The horse knelt as he approached and he mounted and rode to the head of Parmenion’s 12,000 troops. They sent up a great cheer as he approached them, and snapped to attention. Their armour and cloaks were dust-covered and the men looked tired and drained.
‘Well, my lads,’ cried Alexander, ‘it is good to see you again! You have led the Persians a merry chase. But the running is over now; from this moment we run no longer. We take the battle to the enemy and we will crush the might of Darius beneath our Macedonian heels.’ A feeble cheer went up, but it soon died away. Alexander removed his helm, running his fingers through his sweat-drenched golden hair. ‘Each man among you will today receive a golden Philip, and I have brought a hundred barrels of Macedonian wine to remind you of home. Tonight we will celebrate your achievements with a grand feast in your honour.’
Hephaistion was stunned. 12,000 gold Philips - each one a year’s pay for a common soldier... and given so casually! A tremendous roar went up from the soldiers which startled Bucephalus, and he reared on his hind legs. Alexander calmed the stallion and cantered back to where the officers waited.
‘Now to serious matters,’ he said softly and led them back to the main camp.
Throughout the afternoon Alexander listened intently to the reports of Parmenion and Hephaistion as to the nature and organization of the Persian army. Darius had given command of the warriors to a renegade Greek named Memnon, and he, Parmenion pointed out, was a wily and skilful general. The Persians numbered some 50,000, half being cavalry from Cappadocia and Paphlagonia in the north.
‘Brilliant horsemen,’ said Hephaistion, ‘and utterly fearless.’
‘Have there been any major encounters?’ Alexander asked.
‘No,’ answered Parmenion. ‘Perhaps twenty skirmishes between outriders, but I avoided full confrontation.’
‘No wonder your troops looked so weary,’ put in Philotas. ‘They have spent the last seven months running away from the enemy.’
‘Parmenion was wise to do so,’ said Alexander. ‘Had we suffered a major defeat here, it is likely we would have lost support in Greece. That in turn would have made this current expedition almost impossible to mount.’ He swung back to Parmenion. ‘How much support can we expect from the Greek cities?’
‘Very little, sire,’ said Parmenion. ‘At
first they welcomed us, sending delegations to assure us of support. But as the months went by they lost heart. And Darius has now strengthened the garrisons in Mytilene and Ephesus.’
Hephaistion listened to the exchanges and watched Parmenion. The Spartan seemed stiff and ill-at-ease, his pale eyes never leaving Alexander’s face. But if the King noticed his general’s stare he gave no indication of it.
‘Where is the enemy now?’ Alexander asked.
‘They are camped near the town of Zeleia,’ Parmenion told him. ‘Two days’ march to the north-east.’
‘Then we shall seek them out,’ said Alexander brightly. Suddenly leaning forward, he gripped Parmenion’s shoulder. ‘Something is troubling you, my dear friend. Speak of it.’
‘It is nothing, sire, I assure you. I am merely tired.’
‘Then you shall rest, and we will meet again tomorrow morning,’ said Alexander, rising.
Hephaistion remained behind when the others had gone and Alexander took him by the arm, leading him out into the moonlight to walk around the camp.
‘What is wrong with Parmenion?’ asked the King.
‘As I wrote you, sire, he was angry at the slaying of Attalus and he spoke against the killing of Cleopatra and the babe. Also he was soon joined by the Theban, Mothac, who I understand witnessed the destruction of his city. Something changed in Parmenion then. He is not the same man. Perhaps it is just his age... I don’t know. Except on matters of discipline or strategy, we rarely speak.’
‘You think I can no longer trust Parmenion?’
‘I do not think he is... yet... considering treachery,’ answered Hephaistion carefully. ‘But there is a great bitterness inside him.’
‘I need him, Hephaistion - perhaps not for much longer. But I need him now. He knows the Persians and their methods. And whatever else he may - or may not - be, he is still the greatest general of this age.’
‘He was once, sire. I am not sure about now; he is old and tired.’
‘If that proves to be true,’ whispered Alexander, ‘then you shall see he joins Attalus for a very long rest.’
Parmenion drained his third goblet of mead wine and poured another. He knew he was drinking too much, but over the last few months only alcohol could dull the ache he felt, only wine could lift the weight from his soul. In his dreams he saw Philip and Attalus, young again and full of hope for the future. He saw the Sparta of the Enchantment, and held again the youthful Derae.
On waking he would groan and reach for the wine. So far his skills had not been affected - or had they? Could he have done more to thwart Memnon? Could he have defeated the Persian army?
‘I don’t know,’ he said aloud. ‘I don’t care.’ There was an iron brazier at the centre of the tent, glowing coals taking the chill from the night air and casting dark, dancing shadows on the canvas walls. Parmenion drew up a padded leather-topped stool and sat before the fire, staring into the tiny caverns within the flames.
‘Do you wish to be alone?’ asked Alexander, ducking under the tent-flap and approaching the seated man.
Parmenion did not rise. He shook his head. ‘It does not matter. I am alone. Now and always,’ he answered.
Alexander seated himself opposite the Spartan and sat silently for several minutes, scanning Parmenion’s face. Then he reached out to take the general’s hand. ‘Talk to me,’ he urged. ‘There is something dark inside you. Let us shine a light on it.’
‘Inside me?’ responded Parmenion, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Have I slain any babies of late? Have I ordered the murder of a loyal general? Have I removed from the face of Greece a city rich in history and legend?’
‘I see,’ said the King softly. ‘You are angry with me. But you judge me too harshly, Parmenion; I have only done what you taught me to do. All those quiet lessons in strategy in the sunshine at Mieza and on your estates. Well, what would you have done? Thebes rose against us. Athens sent messages of support, but sat back to wait and watch what the boy-king would do. Sparta sent an army north, five thousand men camped at Megara. Every southern city was ready to break their treaties with Macedonia, for they were treaties made with Philip - the warrior-king. Not with the boy, Alexander. Persian agents were everywhere, showering the Great King’s gold upon any who would declare enmity to Macedon. Philip could have cowed them - but he would have had the weight of his reputation behind him. The boy had no reputation save for victories against “crude tribesmen”.’ Alexander shook his head, his expression sorrowful. ‘I was negotiating with the Thebans, trying to find a peaceful way to end the deadlock. But there was an incident near a postern gate in the southern wall, when a group of young Thebans attacked a scouting party of Macedonians led by Perdiccas. The Theban army then issued out, storming our camp. We routed them swiftly and entered the city, at which point our besieged garrison in the Cadmea opened their gates and attacked from within. You have seen the fall of cities, Parmenion - warriors everywhere, small skirmishes, running battles. There is no order. And yes, the slaughter was great. It took hours to stop it, to restore discipline.
‘The following day I ordered the destruction of the city and marched the army south. The Spartans retreated. The Athenians sent emissaries pledging their loyal support. The razing of Thebes was like an earth tremor, destroying the foundations of rebellion. But it hurt me, Parmenion. The glory that was Thebes, the home of Hector’s tomb, the works and statues of Praxiteles. You think it did not hurt me?’
The general looked up, saw what appeared to be anguish on the young man’s face and sighed. ‘And Attalus? Did that hurt you?’
‘No,’ admitted Alexander, ‘but you know I had no choice. He hated me and feared me. For years he tried to poison Philip’s mind against me: he was my father’s man, he would never be mine. But I tell you this, had he been living in retirement on his estates I would have let him live. But he was not. He was in Asia in joint command of an army - an army he might have tried to turn against me.’
Parmenion could not argue with the truth of that. Philip himself had come to power after having organized the murder of possible rivals. But there was one last, lingering boil to be lanced. ‘What of the babe?’ he asked.
‘That was a terrible deed - and none of my doing. I am ashamed to tell you that I believe it was my mother, aided by a friend of hers from Samothrace - Aida. The night after my father’s murder the two women went to Cleopatra, who was later found strangled with a length of braided silver wire. Olympias denied it - but who else could it have been? It was a ghastly way for my reign to begin - the murder of my infant brother.’
‘You had no part in it?’
‘Did you think that I would?’ Alexander was genuinely shocked and the Spartan read the sincerity in his eyes.
Parmenion felt as if an awesome weight had slid from his shoulders. Reaching out, he embraced the younger man, and there were tears in his eyes. ‘I cannot tell you how relieved I am,’ he said. ‘The killing of the child has haunted me. I thought...’
‘You thought the Dark God had taken control of me?’
Parmenion nodded. Alexander reached down, drawing a slender dagger from his belt. Taking Parmenion’s hand, he pressed the hilt of the dagger into his palm. The Spartan’s fingers closed around the weapon and Alexander leaned his body forward so that the point of the dagger touched his chest.
‘If you doubt me, then kill me,’ he told Parmenion.
The Spartan looked into the young man’s eyes, seeking any sign of the Beast from the Enchantment. But there was nothing. All he could see was the handsome young man his son had become. Letting slip the knife, he shook his head. ‘I see only a King,’ he said.
Alexander chuckled. ‘By all the gods, it’s good to see you again, Parmenion! Do you remember the day we sat in the palace at Pella, discussing your victory at the Crocus Field? I asked you then if you would one day be my general. You recall?’
‘Yes, you were about four years old. I said I might be a little old by the time you became King. And
indeed I am.’
‘Well, now I ask you again: Will the Lion of Macedon lead my army to victory?’
‘If the gods are willing, sire, he will.’
The River Granicus, 334 BC
Bodies lay everywhere, and the mud-churned banks of the Granicus were slippery with blood. Parmenion removed his helm, passing it to Ptolemy who took it in trembling hands. The Spartan looked into the youngster’s unnaturally pale face, saw the sheen of cold sweat upon his cheeks. ‘Are you enjoying the glory?’ he asked.
Ptolemy swallowed hard. ‘It was a great victory, sir,’ he answered.
‘Follow me,’ the general ordered. Parmenion and his six aides walked slowly across the battlefield, stepping over the bloated corpses of the Persian slain. Dark clouds of crows and ravens rose from the bodies, their raucous cries harsh upon the ears. Parmenion halted beside the mutilated corpse of a young Persian noble, dressed in silk and satin. The fingers of his left hand had been cut away, then discarded once the gold rings had been stripped from them. His face was grey, his eyes torn out by carrion birds. He would have been no older than Ptolemy. In the midday heat the body had swelled with the gases of death and the stench was terrible. ‘He dreamed of glory,’ said Parmenion harshly, turning on his officers. ‘Yesterday he rode a fine horse and sought to destroy the enemies of his King. He probably has a young wife at home, perhaps a son. Handsome, is he not?’
‘Why are we here, sir?’ asked Ptolemy, averting his eyes from the dead Persian.
Parmenion did not answer. Across the field some Macedonian and Thracian soldiers were still looting the dead, and above the battleground flocks of dark birds were circling, crying out in their hunger.
‘How many lie here, do you think?’ the Spartan asked.