Even now, after almost six years of war and Alexander’s winning of the crown, there were still battles to fight - against the Sogdianians of the north, the Indians of the east and the Scythian tribesmen of the Caspian Sea.
Parmenion had marched a second Macedonian army to the east, winning two battles against superior numbers. Hephaistion smiled. Even close to seventy years of age, the Spartan was still a mighty general. He had outlived two of his sons: Hector had died at the Battle of the Issus three years ago, while Nicci had been slain at Arbela fighting alongside his King.
Only Philotas remained.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Callis, his huge arms resting on the tiller.
Hephaistion glanced up. ‘I was watching the land. It seems so peaceful from here.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the sailor. ‘All the world looks better from the sea. I think Poseidon’s realm makes us humble. It is so vast and powerful and our ambitions are so petty alongside it. It highlights our limits.’
‘You think we have limits? Alexander would not agree.’
Callis chuckled. ‘Can Alexander sculpt a rose or shape a cloud? Can he tame an angry sea? No. We live for a little while, scurrying here and there, then we are gone. But the sea remains: strong, beautiful, eternal.’
‘Are all seamen philosophers?’ Hephaistion asked.
The captain laughed aloud. ‘We are when the sea surrounds us. On land we rut like mangy dogs, and we drink until we piss red wine. What war will you be fighting when you get back?’
Hephaistion shrugged. ‘Wherever the King sends me.’
‘What will he do when he runs out of enemies?’
‘Does a man ever run out of enemies?’
Susa, Persia, 330 BC
The moment had come, as he had long known it would, and Philotas felt a sudden coldness in his heart. His father had been right all along. His mouth was dry, but he did not touch the wine set before him. Today he wanted his head clear.
Alexander was still speaking, his officers gathered around him in the throne-hall at the palace of Susa. One hundred men, warriors, strong and courageous, yet they kept their gaze to the marble floor, not wishing to look up into the painted eyes of the King.
Not so Philotas, who stood with head held high watching Alexander. Gold ochre stained the King’s upper lids and his lips were the colour of blood. The high conical crown of Darius, gold and ivory, sat upon his head, and he was dressed in the loose-fitting silken robes of a Persian emperor.
How had it come to this, Philotas wondered?
Alexander had conquered the Persians, drawing the defeated army into the ranks of his own forces and appointing Persian generals and satraps. The Empire was his. He had even married Darius’ daughter, Roxanne, to legitimize his claim to the crown.
And what a sham that was, for not once had he called her to his bed.
Philotas’ gaze flickered over the listening officers, whose faces showed their tensions and their fears. Once more Alexander was talking about treachery amongst them, promising to root out the disloyal. Only yesterday some sixty Macedonian soldiers had been flogged to death for what the King called mutiny. Their crime? They had asked when they could go home. They had joined the army to liberate the cities of Asia Minor, not to march across the world at the whim of a power-crazed King.
Five days before that, Alexander had had a vision: his officers were set to kill him. The vision told him who they were, and six men were garrotted - one of them Theoparlis, the general of the Shield Bearers. Philotas had not liked the man, but his loyalty was legendary.
Ever since Hephaistion’s departure the King had been acting strangely, given to sudden rages followed by long silences. At first the generals had affected to ignore the signs. Alexander had long been known to possess unusual Talents, though always before such behaviour had been short-lived. But now it seemed that a new Alexander had emerged, cold and terrifying.
In the beginning the officers had talked among themselves of this transformation, but after the killings began there grew among the Macedonians such a fear that even friends no longer met privately in case they should be accused of plotting against the emperor.
But three days ago had come the final lunacy.
Parmenion and the Second Army had at last taken the city of Elam. More accurately, the ruling council of the city had negotiated a surrender. Parmenion sent the city’s treasury - some 80,000 talents of silver - to Alexander at Susa. Alexander’s reply had been to order the killing of every man, woman and child in Elam.
Parmenion had received the order with disbelief and had sent a rider to question its authenticity.
Philotas had been summoned to the palace along with Ptolemy, Cassander and Craterus. They had arrived to find Alexander standing over the body of the messenger.
‘I am surrounded by traitors,’ Alexander declared. ‘Parmenion has refused to obey the orders of his emperor.’
Philotas gazed down on the body of the messenger, a young boy of no more than fifteen. The lad’s sword was still in its scabbard, but Alexander’s dagger was buried in his heart.
‘You have always spoken against your father, Philo,’ said Alexander. ‘I should have listened to you earlier. In his dotage he has turned against me. Against meV
‘What has he done, sire?’ Ptolemy asked.
‘He has refused to punish Elam for its rebellion.’
Philotas felt himself growing cold, a numbness spreading through him. All his life he had believed that one day he would be a king - the knowledge sure, set in stone, based on the promise of the only person who had ever loved him, his mother Phaedra. But, during the last year, the stone of belief had slowly crumbled, the cold breeze of reality whispering against it, scattering his hopes, destroying his dreams. Lacking the charisma of a Philip or Alexander, or the intellect of a Parmenion, he could not even inspire the troops he led into battle. Self-knowledge came late to him, but at last even Philotas had come to recognize his mother’s folly.
No kingdom. No glory. His father had been right: he had built his future upon a foundation of mist. What now, he wondered? If he remained silent, then Parmenion would be slain and he, Philotas, would remain as a general of the King. If not, he would be taken and murdered... and Parmenion would still be killed. His mouth was dry, his heartbeat irregular. To die or not to die? What kind of a choice was this for a young man, he wondered? ‘Well, Philo?’ asked Alexander.
Philotas saw the King’s eyes upon him... and shivered. ‘Parmenion is no traitor,’ he answered without hesitation.
‘Then you are also against me? So be it. Take his weapons. Tomorrow he shall answer for his betrayal before his comrades.’
Craterus and Ptolemy had marched Philotas to the dungeons below the palace. They had walked in silence until Ptolemy reached out to pull shut the cell door.
‘Ptolemy!’
‘Yes, Philo?’
‘I wish to send a message to my father.’
‘I can’t. The King would kill me.’
‘I understand.’
The room was small, windowless and dark as pitch with the door bolted. Philotas felt his way to the pallet bed and stretched out upon it.
Nicci and Hector were both gone now, and tomorrow the last son of the Lion of Macedon would join them. ‘I wish I’d known you better, Father,’ said Philo, his voice quavering.
Despite his fears Philo slept, and was awakened by the sound of the bolts being drawn back on the door. A shaft of light filled the cell and the Macedonian blinked as armed men pushed their way inside.
‘Up, traitor!’ ordered a soldier, seizing Philo’s arm and hauling him from the bed. He was pushed out into the corridor and marched back to the throne-room where his fellow officers waited in judgement.
Alexander’s voice echoed in the vast hall, shrill and strident, his face flushed crimson. ‘Philotas and his father owe everything to me - and how do they repay me? They plot and they plan to supplant me. What is the penalty for such treachery?’
> ‘Death!’ cried the officers. Philotas smiled. Only a few days ago his had been one of the voices shouting for the death of Theoparlis.
Slowly Philo rose to his feet, all eyes turning to him.
‘What do you say, prisoner, before sentence is carried out?’ asked Alexander.
‘What would you have me say?’ responded Philo, his voice steady, his gaze locked to the unnaturally pale eyes of the King.
‘Do you wish to deny your villainy, or to plead for mercy?’
Philo laughed then. ‘There is not one man in this room save you who believes that Parmenion would ever plot against you. For myself I have nothing to offer by way of defence. For if a man as loyal as Theoparlis could be found guilty, then what chance does Philotas have? I have followed you and fought battles alongside you - battles that my father won for you. My two brothers died to ensure you would sit upon that throne. I should have no need to defend myself. But let it be clearly understood by all present that Parmenion is no traitor. You ordered him to take a city - and he took it. Then you ordered that every man, woman and child in that city should be put to death as an example to other rebels. That he would not do. Nor would any other decent Greek. Only a madman would order such an atrocity.’
‘Condemned out of his own mouth!’ roared Alexander, rising from the throne and advancing down the room. ‘By all the gods, I’ll kill you myself.’
‘As you killed Cleitus?’ Philotas shouted.
Alexander’s dagger swept towards Philo’s throat, but the Macedonian swayed to his right, the blade slashing past his face. Instinctively he struck out with his left fist, which cannoned against Alexander’s chin. The King fell back, the dagger falling from his hands. Philo swept it up and leapt upon him, bearing him to the marble floor. Alexander’s head cracked against the stone. The point of the dagger in Philo’s hand touched the skin of Alexander’s neck, and Philo bunched his muscles for the final thrust.
Alexander’s eyes changed colour, swirling back to the sea-green Philo remembered from the past.
‘What is happening, Philo?’ whispered the King, his voice soft. Philo hesitated... then a spear rammed through his unprotected back, ripping into his lungs and heart. He reared up, and a second guard drove his blade into the dying man’s chest.
Blood gushed from Philo’s mouth and he slumped to the floor beside the semi-conscious Alexander. The King rose shakily, then backed away from the corpse. ‘Where is Hephaistion? I need Hephaistion!’ he cried.
Craterus moved alongside him. ‘He is gone, sire, to Rhodes, to fetch the Lady Aida.’
‘Rhodes?’
‘Let me take you back to your rooms, sire.’
‘Yes... yes. Where is Parmenion?’
‘In Elam, sire. But do not concern yourself. He will be dead by tomorrow. I sent three of our finest swordsmen.’
Alexander groaned, but for a moment he said nothing. He could feel the Dark God fighting back inside him, storming the bastions of his mind. Yet he held on and drew in a deep breath. ‘Get me to the stables,’ he ordered Craterus.
‘The stables? Why, sire?’
‘I need to stop them, Craterus.’
‘You cannot ride out alone. You have enemies everywhere.’
The King looked up into the earnest young man’s eyes. ‘I am not insane, Craterus. But there is... a demon inside me. You understand?’
‘A demon, sire, yes. Come and rest. I will send for the surgeon.’
‘You don’t believe me? No, but then why should you? Leave me!’
Alexander pushed Craterus away and ran down the long corridor, emerging into the bright sunshine of the courtyard. Two sentries snapped to attention, but he ignored them and continued to run along the tree-lined road to the royal stables.
Bucephalus was in the eastern paddock and his great head lifted as he saw the King. ‘Come to me!’ called Alexander. The black stallion trotted to the fence and Alexander opened the gate, took hold of the black mane and swung himself to Bucephalus’ back.
There were shouts from the west and the King turned to see Craterus and several of the officers running after him.
Alexander kicked Bucephalus into a run and rode for the south-east, through the royal park and out on to the road to Elam. The city was some sixty miles away on the coast, the road petering out into rocky tracks and high hills.
There were robbers in the hills, savage tribesmen who looted many of the trade caravans from the east, but Alexander did not think of them as he rode. Instead he pictured the Spartan, remembering his gallantry in the lands of the Enchantment and his quiet counsel in the years that followed. Now there were assassins on their way to kill him.
Sent by me!
No, not by me. Never by me!
How could I have been so foolish, thought Alexander. The moment his father had torn the necklet from his throat he had felt the surging force of the Dark God. But he had believed he could control the evil, holding it back, using it when necessary. Now he knew that even that belief had been merely one more example of the cunning of Kadmilos.
Kadmilos! Even as he thought the name of the Beast he could feel the claws of power pulling at his spirit, drawing him down, the dizziness beginning...
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Not this time!’
‘You are mine,’ came the whispering voice from deep within him.
‘Never!’
‘Always,’ came the response. ‘Look on, Alexander - and despair!’
The hidden doors of his memory opened and he saw again the murder of Philip, but worse than this he saw himself the night before, speaking with Pausanius and urging him to seek revenge. ‘When I am King,’ he heard himself saying, ‘your rewards will be great indeed.’
‘Poor, naive Pausanius,’ whispered the voice in his mind. ‘How surprised he was when you leapt across the body of the fallen King and plunged your sword into his chest.’
Alexander’s spirit reeled from the shock. There was no doubting the vision. For years he had practised self-deceit, never daring to search for the truth. Other images swarmed into his mind - the death and mutilation of Philip’s wife and son, the killing of Cleitus and Mothac, the murder of Theoparlis... loyal, trusting Theoparlis.
The King cried out as he rode and the demon within him laughed and rose.
‘No,’ said Alexander again, quelling the emotions of hatred and fear, hauling himself clear of self-reproach and guilt. ‘Those deeds were yours, not mine.’ His concentration deepened and he pushed the demon back.
‘You cannot resist me for long,’ Kadmilos told him. ‘You will sleep, and I will rise.’
It was true, but Alexander did not allow the fear to dominate his thinking. The cowardice of Kadmilos - his spirit fleeing as the point of Philo’s dagger touched the skin of Alexander’s throat - had given the King one last chance at redemption, and his thoughts were of Parmenion as he rode.
The great stallion galloped on, seemingly tireless, the drumming of his hooves echoing through the hills.
‘Father Zeus,’ prayed Alexander, ‘let me be in time!’
The City of Elam, 330 BC
Parmenion awoke from a dream-filled sleep and sat up, pushing back the thin sweat-soaked sheet. The sky beyond the narrow window was streaked with grey as he climbed from the bed and padded across to the small table where last night’s pitcher of wine still stood. It was almost empty, but he poured the dregs into a goblet and drained it.
He was about to return to his bed when he turned and caught sight of his naked body reflected in a mirror of polished brass. His hair was white now, and thin, his face lean and sharp, the hawk-nose more prominent than ever. Only the pale blue eyes were the same. He sighed and dressed in a simple chiton of silver grey, then belted on his dagger before walking down to the long gardens behind the house.
Dew lay upon the leaves and the morning was chill as he strolled the winding paths, halting by a ribbon of a stream that gushed over a bed of coloured crystals.
Seventy years - fifty of them as a
general.
He shivered and walked on.
Parmenion. The Death of Nations. So many he could no longer find their names within his memory. The early days were the easiest to recall: the fall of Spartan power, the defeat of Illyria, Paionia and Thrace. The sack of the Chalcidice, the overthrow of Thebes...
But the last few years had seen the destruction of dynasties too many to recall: Phrygia, Cappadocia, Pisidia, Cilicia, Syria, Mesopotamia, Persia, Parthia....
The stream opened out on to a wide pond around which statues had been set. A leopard, beautifully crafted and vividly painted, stood at the edge of the pool leaning its head forward as if to drink. A little distance away stood a striped horse, and beyond that several deer. All still, motionless, frozen in time.
The sun broke through in the east, the warmth touching the Spartan but not lifting his spirits. He walked on towards the eastern wall. There were alcoves there, fitted with carved wooden seats.
In the furthest of these Parmenion seated himself, looking back across the pond and up towards the great house with its rearing columns and red-tiled roof.
Some ten paces to his left sat a stone lion. Unlike the other animals in the garden, he was not painted; his great albino head was cocked to one side, as if listening, and the muscles of his flanks were magnificently rendered. Parmenion found the statue to be among the best he had ever seen, wondering why he had never noticed it before.
As the Spartan stared the lion suddenly moved. Slowly and with great grace it stood, and stretched its muscles of marble. Parmenion blinked and focused on the statue. The lion was still again, returning to its former position with head cocked.
‘I am back,’ said a soft voice. Parmenion turned his head and was not surprised to see Aristotle sitting beside him on the wooden bench. The man had not changed. In fact he seemed if anything a little younger, his grey beard streaked now with auburn hairs.