Dark Prince (13 page)

Parmenion swung away from the man, focusing on the king, who sat hunched on the throne, his face gray from exhaustion, his eyes dull. In the two days since the disappearance of the prince, Philip had not slept. The three thousand guards had scoured the city, searching every house, attic, and cellar. Riders had swept out into the countryside, seeking news of anyone traveling with a child or children.

But there was no sign of Alexander.

“Sire,” said Parmenion.

The king looked up. “What is it?”

“The sentries who were executed. Did they say anything?”

Philip shrugged. “They told us nonsense, an incredible fabrication. I don’t even remember it all. Something about stars … Tell him, Attalus.”

“To what point, sire? It will bring us no closer to recovering the prince. He is being held somewhere for ransom; someone will contact us.”

“Tell him anyway,” said Philip.

“They said that the corridor disappeared and a great wind swept them from their feet. All they could see were stars, and they heard the prince cry out as if from a great distance. They both swore to it; it was lunatic.”

“Perhaps so, Attalus,” said Parmenion softly, “but if your life was at stake, would you invent such a ridiculous tale?”

“Of course not. You think they were telling the truth?” Attalus chuckled and shook his head.

“I have no idea what the truth is … yet. But the guards at the gate say no one passed them. The sentries on the walls
outside reported no screams or shouts. Yet the prince is gone. Have you identified the corpse?”

“No,” answered Attalus. “He had rotted almost to nothing.”

“Have you checked the household slaves to see who might be missing?”

“What makes you think he was a slave?” asked Philip.

“All that was left was his tunic. It was poor cloth—even a servant would have worn better.”

“That is a good point,” said the king. “See to it, Attalus. Now!” he added as the warrior made to speak. Attalus, his face reddening, bowed and left the throne room.

“We must find him,” Philip told Parmenion. “We must.”

“We will, sire. I do not believe him dead. If that was the purpose, his body would have been found by now.”

Philip glanced up, his single green eye gleaming with a savage light. “When I find those responsible, they will suffer as no one has ever suffered before. I will see them die—and their families and their city. Men will talk of it for a thousand years. I swear it.”

“Let us first find him,” said Parmenion.

The king did not seem to hear him. Rubbing at his blind eye, he rose from the throne with fists clenched, knuckles ivory-white. “How could this happen?” he hissed. “To me? To Philip?” Parmenion kept silent, hoping the murderous rage would pass. In this mood Philip was always unpredictable. The Spartan had not told him of the Persian, Parzalamis, and had sworn Mothac to secrecy. No matter what Philip believed, Parmenion knew the Macedonians were not yet ready for a war against the Persian empire. Parzalamis’ body had been secretly buried on the estate, and while the slaying of the three assassins could not be kept from the king, no one knew where they had come from or who had sent them.

The wound on Parmenion’s thigh itched as he stood silently watching the king, and he idly scratched at it through the linen bandage. Philip saw the movement and smiled.

“You did well, Spartan,” he said, the tension seeping from
him. “To kill three was no mean feat. How many times have I urged you to have guards at your estate?”

“Many times, sire, and I shall listen to your advice from now on.”

Philip sank back to the throne. “I thank the gods Olympias is not here. And I hope to Zeus that we find him before news reaches Epirus. She will return like an avenging Harpy, threatening to rip my heart out with her bare hands.”

“We will find him,” promised Parmenion, forcing a confidence into his voice that he did not feel.

“I should not have killed the sentries,” said Philip. “It was foolish. You think there may be sorcery in this?”

“There is too much we do not know,” Parmenion answered. “Who was the man in the room? Why did he carry a dagger? Was his mission to kill? If it was, was he alone? As to the sentries … what did they mean about the stars? There is little sense in this, Philip. If the boy had been killed, we would have found the body. Yet why would he be taken? Ransom? Who would live to spend such wealth? Let us, for argument’s sake, assume that the Olynthians were responsible. They are not fools. They know Macedonia’s army would descend on them with fire and sword; the lands of the Chalcidice would run with blood.”

“Athens,” muttered Philip. “They would do anything to cause me pain. Athens …” Parmenion saw again the gleam in the eye and spoke swiftly.

“I do not think so,” he said softly. “Demosthenes makes great play about your tyranny and your supposed evils. His honeyed words seduce many of the lesser cities. How would he appear if named as a child killer? No. If Athens sent assassins, their victim would be you, not Alexander. What did the priestess say when you saw her?”

“Pah!” snorted the king. “She is an old fool. She walked around the boy’s room pretending to talk to the spirits. But at the end she could tell me nothing.”

“But what did she say?”

“She told me the boy’s spirit was not in Macedonia. Nor in Hades. Now you tell me how that could be true. He had not
been gone more than half a day. Even if he was carried away by an eagle, he would still have been in Macedonia when she spoke. Senile old hag! But I tell you this, she was frightened. She trembled when she entered his room.”

“You should rest,” Parmenion advised him. “Go to bed. Send for one of your wives.”

“That’s the last thing I need, my friend. They are hard-pressed to keep the glee from their eyes. My son and heir is missing—maybe dead. All they can think of is opening their legs and supplying me with another. No. I shall not rest until the truth is known.”

Attalus entered the throne room and bowed. “There is a slave missing, sire,” he said, his face ashen. “His name is Lolon; he is a sandal maker, a Methonian.”

“What do we know of him?” asked Parmenion, keeping his expression even.

“I bought him from the commander of Pelagonia some months ago. He was a good worker. The other slaves say he was a quiet man, keeping to himself. I know no more.”

“What was he doing in my son’s room?” thundered Philip. “He must have had a reason.”

“He told Melissa—one of my slave girls—that he had a family in Methone. His children were slaughtered, his wife taken from him.” Attalus cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “I think he wanted revenge.”

Philip surged from the throne. “He must have had accomplices—or else where is the boy? How many other Methonians have you brought into the palace?”

“There are none, sire. And I did not know he was Methonian, I swear it!”

“Attalus is not at fault, sire,” said Parmenion. “We have stormed many cities and flooded the land with slaves. That is why the price per man is only forty drachmas against two hundred three years ago. Almost every slave in Pella would have reason to hate you.”

“I care nothing for their hate!” snapped Philip. “But you are right, Parmenion, Attalus is blameless.” Turning to his
champion, he patted the man’s shoulder. “Forgive my anger, my friend.”

“There is nothing to forgive, sire,” answered Attalus, bowing.

Later, as Parmenion sat alone in one of the forty palace guest rooms, Attalus came to him. “Why did you speak for me?” he demanded. “I am no friend to you—nor desire to be.”

Parmenion gazed into the man’s cold eyes, seeing the tension there and in the tight lines of his hatched face, the grim gash of his almost lipless mouth. “It is not a question of friendship, Attalus,” he said, “merely of truth. Now, I do not enjoy your company, and if you have nothing else to say, be so kind as to leave me in peace.”

But the man did not leave. Walking farther into the room, he sat in a high-backed chair and poured a goblet of watered wine, sipping it slowly. “This is good,” he said. “Do you think the story about the stars is important?”

“I don’t know,” admitted the Spartan, “but I intend to find out.”

“And how will you accomplish this?”

“When first I came to Macedonia, I met a
magus
—a man of great power. I will seek him out. If there is sorcery involved, he will know of it—and its source.”

“And where will you find this … man of magic?”

“Sitting on a rock,” the Spartan answered.

THE EMPIRE OF MAKEDON

Alexander opened his eyes and shivered, feeling cold mud beneath his rain-soaked body. He had fallen, screaming and lost, through the star-filled sky, losing consciousness as bright lights and myriad colors blazed across his eyes. Now there were no colors, only a bone-numbing coldness and the dark of a mountain night.

He was about to move when he heard the voices, and instinctively he crouched down, staring at the shadow-haunted treeline from where the voices came.

“I swear to you, sir, the child is here. The spell took him and drew him to this hillside. I did warn you that it might not be precisely to this spot. But he must be within a hundred paces in any direction.”

“Find him or I’ll feed your heart to the Vores.”

Alexander shivered again, though this time not from the cold. The second voice was like his father’s, though deeper and more chilling. He could not yet see the speakers, but he knew they were coming closer. There were bushes nearby, and the child crept into them, hunching his naked body down.

The glittering light of many torches flickered in the trees, and Alexander saw the man with the golden eye walk out onto the mountainside, the dark-robed priest alongside him. Behind him came a score of warriors holding torches aloft, scanning the undergrowth, searching, pushing aside the bracken with long lances.

The leaf-covered soil was damp and soft beneath the boy,
and he dug his fingers deep into it, rolling silently to his back and pulling earth and rotted vegetation over his legs and chest. He could feel small insects scurrying in panic over his skin, and a soft worm slid over his left calf. Ignoring the discomfort, he smeared mud on his face and hair and waited, heart beating wildly, for the searchers.

“One thousand drachmas to the man who finds him!” called the king.

“Aya!” roared the men, raising their torches in salute.

From where he lay, Alexander could see the legs and feet of the searchers as they neared him. They were barefoot, but their calves were protected by greaves of bronze, showing intricate designs. But each one that he saw had a central motif, a stylized sunburst. This surprised the child, for the sunburst was the symbol of Macedonia and yet the armor the men wore was neither Macedonian nor Phrygian—the breastplates more elaborate, the helms bearing ravens’ wings rather than the horsehair plumes sported by his father’s soldiers.

Even through his fear, Alexander was puzzled. These soldiers were like none he had ever seen in life or in paintings or murals.

An enormous clap of thunder sounded, lightning forking across the sky.

A lance point sliced through the bush above him, the branches parting. Then the lance pulled clear, and the man moved on.

Alexander stayed where he was until all sounds around him had faded away. At last, as the rain stopped, he moved his frozen body, crawling from the shelter of the bush and standing on the mountainside.

Glancing up, he gazed at the stars in the now-clear sky, realizing with a sharp stab of fear that he knew them not at all. Where was the Bowman and the Great Wolf, the Spear Carrier and the Earth Mother? Seeking out the North Star, he scanned the heavens. Nothing was remotely familiar.

The searchers had moved down the mountain behind him, and the boy decided to walk in the opposite direction.

The trees were shrouded in darkness, but Alexander swallowed
his fear and moved on deeper into the wood. After a little while he saw the altar of his dream, gaunt and stark in a small clearing, broken columns of stone around it. It was here that they had tried to summon him.

The clearing was deserted, but under a spreading oak a small fire still smoldered. Alexander ran to it, kneeling down and blowing flames to life. He searched for dry wood, but there was none and he sat by the dying blaze, holding his trembling hands to the fading heat.

“Where is this place?” he whispered. “How can I get home?” Tears welled, and he felt the beginning of panic. “I will not cry,” he said. “I am the son of a king.”

Gathering wet twigs, he laid them in the hot ashes at the edge of the fire to dry, then rose and began to scout the area. He needed fuel for the fire; without it he could die in this cold. The altar yielded nothing, and he walked farther into the wood. Here the darkness was deeper, the tree branches interlaced like a great domed roof. But the ground was drier underfoot, and Alexander found several broken branches, which he gathered in his arms before returning to the fire.

Patiently he worked at the small blaze, careful not to smother it, feeding small twigs to the dancing fingers of flame until at last his trembling body began to feel the growing heat.