‘Why did you create the lion?’
The magus shrugged. ‘I like to make a dramatic entrance.’ But there was no smile and his voice was subdued.
‘Why have you come?’
‘It was time.’
Parmenion nodded, though he did not understand. ‘Alexander is losing his battle with the Dark God,’ he said, ‘and I am powerless to save him. He no longer listens to me, and the messages from his court are all of murder and madness. Can you help him?’
Aristotle did not answer at once, but reached out and laid his hand on Parmenion’s arm. ‘No, my friend. The Dark God’s power is far greater than mine.’
‘Alexander is my son. My flesh, my blood, my guilt. His evil is upon my hands. I should have killed him years ago.’
‘No,’ said Aristotle. ‘The drama is not yet played out. I took the liberty of fetching this from your rooms.’ The magus held out a small pouch of soft hide.
‘It is useless now,’ said Parmenion.
‘Take it anyway.’
The Spartan tucked the pouch into his belt. ‘You said it was time. So what is to happen?’
Aristotle leaned back, turning his face to stare up towards the house.
‘Three men are dismounting at the main entrance. Soon you will see them striding down this path. Kadmilos - the Dark God - sent them. You understand?’
Parmenion took a deep breath and his eyes narrowed. ‘I am to die,’ he said.
A door opened at the rear of the house and three men began the long walk down the path by the glittering stream. Parmenion stood and turned to Aristotle.
But the magus had disappeared...
Parmenion walked slowly towards the three men. He did not know them by name, but had seen them with Alexander. Two were Parthians, dressed in oiled black leather tunics and long riding-boots, their dark hair cropped short to the skull. The third was a high-born Persian who had entered the King’s service. The Spartan smiled as he saw that the man carried a sealed scroll.
‘We have a message for you, sir,’ called the Persian, increasing his pace. He wore loose-fitting silk troos and an embroidered shirt, beneath a cape of soft leather which hung down over his right arm.
‘Then deliver it,’ Parmenion told him. As the Persian came closer, Parmenion could smell the sweet, perfumed oil which coated his dark tightly-curled hair. He offered the scroll with his left hand, but as the Spartan reached for it the man’s right hand emerged from beneath the cape. In it was a slender dagger. Parmenion had been waiting for the move and, sidestepping, he slapped the man’s arm aside and drove his own dagger home into the assassin’s chest. The Persian gasped and stumbled to his knees. The two Parthians leapt at Parmenion with swords drawn. The Spartan threw himself at them, but they were young men, swift of reflex, and he no longer had the advantage of surprise. A sword clove into his left shoulder, snapping the bone of his arm. Spinning, he hurled his dagger at the swordsman, the blade slicing home into the man’s throat to tear open the jugular.
Something struck Parmenion in the lower back. It felt like the kick of a horse and there was no sensation of a cut or stab, but he knew that a sword-blade had plunged into him. Anger flared, for his warrior’s heart could not bear the thought of dying without at least ensuring that his killer joined him on the path to Hades. Pain roared through him as the assassin wrenched the blade clear. The Spartan staggered forward and fell to the path, rolling to his back.
The Parthian loomed over him. Parmenion’s fingers closed over a rock and, as the swordsman prepared himself for the death strike, the Spartan’s hand flashed forward, the rock cracking against his assailant’s brow. The man staggered back, the skin above his right eye split.
With a curse he ran at the wounded Spartan, but Parmenion’s leg lashed out to sweep the Parthian from his feet. The man fell heavily, losing his grip on his sword. Parmenion rolled to his belly and struggled to rise. But for once his strength was not equal to his will and he fell.
He heard the Parthian climb to his feet and felt the sudden pain of the sword-blade as it pierced his back, gouging into his lung. A boot cracked against his head, then a rough hand tipped him to his back.
‘I am going to cut your throat... slowly,’ hissed the Parthian. Dropping his sword the assassin drew a curved dagger with a serrated edge, laying it against the skin of the Spartan’s neck.
A shadow fell across the killer. The man looked up... in time to see the short sword that hammered into his temple. He was catapulted across Parmenion’s body and fell face-first into the stream, where his blood mingled with the water that rippled over the crystals.
Alexander knelt by the stricken Spartan, lifting him into his arms.
‘I am sorry. Oh gods, I am so sorry,’ he said, tears falling from his eyes.
Parmenion’s head sagged against the young man’s chest and he could hear Alexander’s heartbeat, loud and strong. Lifting his arm, the Spartan pulled the pouch clear from his belt and pushed it towards the King. Alexander took it and tipped the contents on his palm; the gold necklet glittered in the sunshine.
‘Put... it... on,’ pleaded Parmenion. Alexander lowered him back to the ground and took the necklet in trembling fingers, looping it over his head and struggling with the clasp. At last it sat proud, gleaming and perfect.
Aristotle appeared alongside the two men. ‘Help me to carry Parmenion to the eastern wall,’ he said.
‘Why? We should get a surgeon,’ said Alexander.
The magus shook his head. ‘No surgeon could save him. But I can. His time here is done, Alexander.’
‘Where will you take him?’
‘To one of my homes. I shall heal him, do not fear for that. But we must hurry.’
Together they carried the unconscious Parmenion to the white lion, laying him down on the grass beside the statue. The stone beast reared up upon its hind legs, growing, widening, until it loomed above them like a monster of legend. The belly shimmered and disappeared, and through it Alexander could see a large room with a vaulted window, opening on to a night-dark sky ablaze with stars.
Once more they lifted the Spartan, carrying him to a wide bed and laying him upon it. Aristotle took a golden stone from the pouch at his side, placing it on the Spartan’s chest. All breathing ceased.
‘Is he dead?’ Alexander asked.
‘No. Now you must return to your own world. But know this, Alexander, that the magic of the necklet is finite. It may last ten years, but more likely the power will fade before then. Be warned.’
‘What will happen to Parmenion?’
‘It is no longer your concern, boy. Go now!’
Alexander backed away and found himself standing in the sunlit garden staring back into the moonlit room within the statue. Slowly the image faded and the lion shrank, the great head coming level with the King - the jaws open, the teeth long and sharp. Then it sank to the earth and slowly crumbled, the stone peeling away like snowflakes, drifting on the breeze.
Behind him he heard the sound of running feet and turned to see Craterus and Ptolemy, followed by a score of warriors from the Royal Guard.
‘Where is Parmenion, sire?’ Ptolemy asked.
‘The Lion of Macedon is gone from the world,’ answered Alexander.
Babylon, Summer 323 BC
Seven years of constant battles had taken their toll on Alexander. The young man who had left Macedonia was now a scarred warrior of thirty-two, who moved with difficulty following a wound to his right lung and the slashing by a hand-axe of the tendons in his left calf.
His victories stretched across the Empire, from India in the east to Scythia in the north, from Egypt in the south to the northern Caspian Sea. He was a living legend throughout the world - adored by his troops, feared by the many enemies he had forced back from the frontiers of his new realm.
Yet, as he stood on this bright summer morning by the window of his palace rooms, he thought nothing of his reputation.
‘Are you still set on this course, sire?’
asked Ptolemy, moving forward to embrace his King.
‘I have no choice, my friend.’
‘We could seek the help of wizards - there are some in Babylon said to be most powerful.’
Alexander shook his head. ‘I have travelled far to find a way to fight the Beast. All are agreed that I cannot defeat him. He is immortal, everlasting. And the power of the necklet is fading fast. Do you want to see the old Alexander return?’
‘No, my lord. But... I wish Hephaistion were here. He would be able to advise you better than I.’
Alexander did not answer, but swung his head to stare from the window. It was the death of his beloved Hephaistion which had decided him upon this course of action. The Macedonian - the most trusted of the King’s officers - had been found dead in his bed, apparently choked to death. Of the night in question, twelve weeks before, Alexander could remember nothing.
The surgeons had found a chicken-bone wedged in Hephaistion’s throat, and it appeared that the officer had died while dining alone.
Alexander wanted to believe it. Desperately. For Hephaistion, above all his friends, had helped him during the seven years since Aristotle had taken Parmenion. As the power of the necklet faded, it was Hephaistion whose constant love and friendship had been the rock to which Alexander had clung when the Beast had been clawing at him, dragging him down.
Now Hephaistion was gone and the final battle was here.
‘You will do as I bid - no matter what?’ he asked Ptolemy.
‘Oh my life I promise it.’
‘No one must lay their hands upon... it.’
‘Nor shall they.’
‘You must go to Egypt. Make the land your own. Hold it against all the others.’
‘There may be no war, sire. We are all friends.’
Alexander laughed. ‘You are friends now,’‘ he said. ’Leave me, Ptolemy. And tell no one what I plan.‘
‘It will be as you say.’
The general bowed once and turned to leave. Then suddenly he swung back to Alexander, embracing him and kissing his cheek. No more was said and, tears in his eyes, the officer left the room, pulling shut the door behind him.
Alexander walked to the table and filled a goblet with the wine he had prepared earlier. Without hesitation he lifted it to his lips and drank. Then moving to a bronze mirror on the far wall, he examined the necklet. There was little gold showing now; the interlaced wires had become black as jet.
‘Just a little longer,’ he whispered.
His servants found him lying on his bed at dusk. At first they moved around him, thinking him sleeping, but after a while one of them moved to his side, touching his shoulder.
‘My lord! Sire!’ There was no answer.
In panic they ran from the room, summoning Perdiccas, Cassander, Ptolemy and the other generals. A surgeon was called - a slim, wiry Corinthian named Sopeithes. He it was who found the pulse still beating at Alexander’s throat. While no one was watching him, Ptolemy took the goblet containing the dregs of the drugged wine and hid it in the folds of his cloak.
‘He is not dead,’ said the surgeon, ‘but his heart is very weak. He must be bled.’
Three times during the next five days a vein in the King’s arm was opened, but at no time did he regain consciousness.
Time slipped by, and soon it became apparent to all that Alexander was dying. Ptolemy quietly made the arrangements Alexander had ordered, then he sat by the King’s bedside.
On the twelfth night, with only Ptolemy beside him, Alexander’s voice whispered out for the last time: ‘Kadmilos.’
The Void, Time Unknown
Alexander sat at the mouth of the tunnel, a golden sword shining in his hand and casting its light upon the grey, dead soil of the Void. Some distance away, sitting upon a boulder watching him, was a twin Alexander dressed in silver armour, white hair framing his handsome face, ram’s horns curving back from his temples.
‘Poor Alexander,’ taunted Kadmilos. ‘He came to slay me. Me? He thought to use his pitiful sword against a spirit that has lived since before time. Look around you, Alexander. This is your future. No kingdoms here in this world of ash and twilight. No glory.’
‘You are a coward,’ the King told him wearily.
‘Your words are useless, Human. Even if I allowed that sword to strike me I would not die. I am eternal, the living heart of Chaos. But you, you are pitiful. Your body still lives in the world of flesh, and soon I shall take possession of it. The drugs you swallowed will not deter me. It will be a matter of moments to nullify them. Then I shall heal your ruined lung and your wasted leg.’
‘Come then,’ offered Alexander, ‘walk by me.’
Kadmilos laughed. ‘Not yet. I shall walk the path to your soul when it pleases me. Look at your sword, Alexander. See how it fades. The last lingering Enchantment of the necklet is almost gone. When it dies, your blade will die with it. You know that?’
‘I know,’ answered the King. ‘The priests of Zeus-Ammon warned me of it.’
‘Then what did you hope to achieve?’
The King shrugged. ‘A man must always fight for what he believes to be right. It is his nature.’
‘Nonsense. It is a man’s nature to lust, to long for all he cannot have, to kill, to steal, to plunder. That is why he is - and will always remain – a creature of Chaos. Look at you! By what right did you lead your armies into Persia? By what right did you impose your will upon the world? Your name will be remembered as a killer and a destroyer - one of my more glorious disciples.’
Kadmilos laughed again, the sound chilling. ‘No arguments, Alexander? Surely you can summon some small defence for your actions?’
‘I have no need of defence,’ answered the King. ‘I lived in a world governed by war. Those who did not conquer were themselves conquered. But I fought my enemies on the battlefield, soldier against soldier, and I risked my life as they risked theirs. I carry no shame for any action of mine.’
‘Oh, well said,’ sneered Kadmilos. ‘Will you deny the surging passions aroused when you marched into battle, the lust for slaughter and death in your own heart?’
‘No, you are wrong,’ replied Alexander. ‘I never lusted for slaughter. Battle, yes, I will admit to that. Pitting my strength and my will against my enemies - that gave me pleasure. But you it was who gained the most satisfaction from random butchery.’
Kadmilos stood. ‘Your conversation is dull, Human, and I see your sword is now but a miserable shadow. Therefore we must end this meeting. Your mortal form awaits me.’
Alexander looked down at the fading sword, and even as he gazed upon it the weapon vanished from his hand.
‘Enjoy your despair,’ hissed Kadmilos, his form swelling, changing, becoming a dark cloud that flowed over Alexander, swirling into the tunnel and on towards the flickering light in the far distance.
The Void was empty now, save for a floating mist that seeped across the barren rocks. Alexander sighed, his heart heavy.
A figure moved from the mist, and the King saw it was Aristotle. The magus smiled and reached out to take Alexander’s hand.
‘Come, my boy, I cannot stay here long. But there is time enough to lead you to the Elysian Fields where your friends await.’
‘Did I win? Did I hold him for long enough?’
‘We will talk as we travel,’ the magus answered.
The Spirit of Chaos surged into the body of Alexander. The eyes were open and through them Kadmilos could see a high, painted ceiling. He tried to move, but found the body paralysed. This was of small concern and he turned his powers inward, seeking out the poison soaked into the veins and nerves of the frail human form.
Foolish mortal, he thought, to believe that such a narcotic could foil the ambitions of a god. Swiftly he started to eradicate the drug. Feeling began to seep back into the body. He felt a cool breeze from a window to the left and a dull ache from the wounded leg. Ignoring the poison, he switched his attention to the injured limb, rebuilding the wasted
muscle.
That was better! Pain of any kind was anathema to Kadmilos.
Returning to the poison, he cleaned it from lungs and belly.
Soon, he thought. Soon I shall awake.
He heard people in the room, but still the paralysis gripped the body. Footsteps sounded and he saw a shadow move into his range of vision. A dark-skinned man loomed over him.
‘The eyes are incredible,’ said the man. ‘Truly he was blessed by the gods. It is a pity we cannot save them.’
‘Are you ready to begin?’ came the voice of Ptolemy.
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Then do so.’
Into Kadmilos’ vision came a hand, holding a long spike forked at the tip.
‘No!’ screamed the Dark God, soundlessly.
The spike pressed hard into the opening of the left nostril, then drove up into the brain.
A City by the Sea, Time Unknown
Parmenion stared out over the harbour where great ships, larger than any he had seen, were docked, with curiously clad men moving about their enormous decks. Switching his gaze to the buildings surrounding the wharves, he marvelled at their complex design, the great arches supporting huge, domed roofs. Below in the narrow cobbled street he could hear what he imagined to be shopkeepers and stall-holders shouting about their wares. But the language was unknown to him.
He turned as Aristotle entered. The magus had another name here, and another appearance. His hair was long and white, a wispy beard grew from his chin, and he wore a long coat of velvet and trousers of embroidered wool.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked the magus.
Parmenion swung away from the window. Against the far wall was a mirror of silvered glass and the brilliance of its reflection still stunned the Spartan, though he had looked upon it many times during his five days in Aristotle’s home.
He was healed of his wounds and the image in the mirror showed a young man in the prime of health - tall, slender, with a full life ahead of him. The clothes he wore were comfortable, but unnecessarily fussy he thought. The voluminous white shirt, with its puffed-out sleeves slashed with sky-blue silk, looked very fine, but the material was not strong. One day in the harsh Persian sun or the bitter rains of Phrygia, and the garment would be worthless, as indeed would be the ridiculous skin-tight leggings. And as for the boots! They were raised at the heel, making walking difficult and uncomfortable.