Dark Prince (39 page)

“Today,” said Parmenion, “we have only one question to answer: What now for Sparta?”

Leonidas bowed and backed away, the doors swinging shut behind him.

“Surely,” said Chirisophus, spreading his hands, “there is only one response. We seek terms with Philippos. We cannot now stand against him.”

“I agree,” put in Soteridas. “The Makedones king is unbeatable, as even our own
strategos
has now found.”

“It irks me to vote for such a course,” said Dexipus, a short swarthy warrior, balding and bearded, “but I do not see how we can stand against him. On numbers alone he could envelop
our flanks, forcing us into a fighting square and winning merely by using his javeliners and archers.”

“I say we fight him anyway,” roared Cleander. Parmenion was surprised that a voice of such power could emanate from so skeletal a frame; Cleander was thin to the point of emaciation, his skin yellow and his eyes rheumy. “What else can we do, my brothers? We are not dealing with an enemy king but with a demonic force. Surrender will not save us from the horrors of such a man. Better to die in battle.”

“With respect, Cleander,” said Chirisophus, “you are dying anyway. All of us regret that, but you have less to lose than others in the city—the women and the children, for example.”

“Yes, I am dying, but that is not why I say we must fight. Our children will be no more safe than the children of Kadmos. We face the full force of evil here; there can be no compromise.”

“There is a great deal of exaggeration in any war,” said Chirisophus. “Always the enemy is depicted as a beast. Philippos is a warrior king—unbeaten, invincible—but he is a man, no more than that.”

“I would disagree,” said another voice, and Parmenion swung to see the speaker. He was Lycon, the youngest of the
ephors
, a good-looking youth in his mid-twenties, dark-haired and dark-eyed. “I have met the Makedones king, and I saw what he did at Methone and Plataea. I agree with Cleander: we must fight him.”

An argument began. “Enough!!” roared Parmenion. A tall thickset man with a heavy black beard was sitting at the far end of the room, and the king turned to him. “You have not spoken yet, Timasion. Do you have nothing to offer?”

Timasion shrugged. “I am undecided, sire. My heart says fight, my head says hold. Might I ask what the omens predict?”

Soteridas rose, bowing first to the king and then to the other
ephors
. “Today,” he said, “we sacrificed a goat to All-Father Zeus. Its liver was spotted, its belly cancerous. Death and destruction will follow any attempt to make war on Philippos. The gods are against us.”

“As they were at Mantinea?” ventured Parmenion.

“Indeed, sire,” the chief priest agreed.

“It was an interesting battle,” said Parmenion. “We broke their attack and almost took their center. But even three hundred Spartans could not carry the victory. Of course, it is even more interesting to speculate what might have happened had we pushed ahead with five thousand Spartans.”

“The gods spoke against such a plan,” Soteridas pointed out.

“So you informed us. I find it curious that the gods of … Achaea … should choose to side with the demon king. But then, I am not a seer, and it is not for me to question the wisdom of Zeus. Tell me, Chirisophus, how you would appease the Makedones king and save Sparta?”

“You cannot consider this!” Cleander stormed.

“Silence!” thundered Parmenion. “I wish to hear Chirisophus. Your turn will come again, Cleander.”

Chirisophus rose and began to speak, his voice smooth, his words comforting. There would be, he said, an ambassadorial delegation to Philippos offering fraternal friendship and lasting peace. Gifts could be taken. Philippos was known as a great horseman, and Chirisophus himself would donate his prize Thracian stallions. War would thus be avoided, and Sparta would be allied to the strongest nation in the world. He spoke for some time, finally pointing out that Philippos—being a warrior king—would inevitably lead his armies north and west, seeking to conquer the Etruscans and the Achaean cities of Italia. Farther west even than this were the fabled lands of the Gauls, where buildings were constructed of gold and gems, and their kings were said to be immortal. “By suing for peace now,” Chirisophus ventured, “we will in fact rid Achaea of Philippos all the sooner. I will naturally offer myself to lead the delegation,” he added, settling himself down on his couch.

“Naturally!” snorted Cleander.

At that moment Leonidas entered the room. Parmenion, the only man facing the doors, waited for his signal. When he pointed to Chirisophus and Soteridas, Parmenion nodded.
Armed men moved into the room, walking slowly to stand behind the couches on which lay the traitors. Chirisophus swallowed hard, his face reddening.

“What is happening here, sire?” Cleander asked.

“Be patient,” the king told him. “We stand at the edge of the abyss. A great evil stalks the land. We had an opportunity to rid the world of this evil, but we were thwarted, for the agents of Philippos are everywhere.” He paused, allowing his gaze to rest on the two traitors. Parmenion felt rage mounting within him. These men had caused the death of the Spartan king and thousands of others on the field of Mantinea. He wanted nothing more than to walk across the room and cleave his sword through their foul hearts. Calming himself, he spoke again. “It is the nature of darkness to corrupt, and men of weak will, or men of lust and greed, will always be susceptible. Chirisophus and Soteridas have betrayed their city, their people, and their king. They entered into secret negotiation with Philippos, and they conspired to see the demon king victorious at Mantinea. I do not know what they were offered for this treachery. I do not care. They have tried to doom us all, and their crimes are written in blood.”

Chirisophus pushed himself to his feet, while Soteridas sat, all color draining from his face.

“What I did was for Sparta!” Chirisophus insisted. “There is no question of treachery. Philippos was always the ultimate victor; only a fool would try to deny him. But that is the past, and it is foolish to dwell on it. I am the only man who can save the city. Philippos trusts me and will deal with me fairly. Without me you cannot survive. Think on that!”

“I have thought on it,” said Parmenion. “Sparta will fight—and Sparta will win. But you and your lickspittle priest will not live to see it. Leonidas!”

“Sire?”

“Remove these … creatures. Take them to a place of execution. Do it at once and see their bodies are left in unmarked graves.”

Chirisophus backed away from the guards behind him and
moved out onto the mosaic floor. “Do not be fools!” he shouted. “I can save you!”

Suddenly he drew a dagger from his robe and rushed at Parmenion. The king rolled to his feet, his sword snaking from its scabbard and plunging through the shimmering green robe. Chirisophus grunted and fell back. Parmenion tore his sword clear of the dying man, and bright arterial blood soaked through the green silk. Chirisophus fell to his knees, hands clenched to his belly, then his eyes glazed and he toppled to his side. Several soldiers dragged the body back across the mosaic, leaving a trail of blood. Soteridas remained where he was, his face void of expression, until two soldiers took him by the arms and led him away.

“By the gods, sire!” whispered Cleander. “I cannot believe it. His was a true Spartiate family. A noble house … a line of heroes.”

“To judge a man purely by his bloodline is folly,” said Parmenion. “I have known the sons of cowards to be valorous and sons of thieves who could be trusted with the treasure of nations. Such treachery is not of the blood, Cleander, but of the soul.”

“What now, lord?” asked Leonidas.

“Now? We prepare for war.”

Two days’ ride to the southwest of the city Attalus raised his arm to halt the company, then gazed around at the forbidding landscape—rock-strewn and jagged, thinly wooded and laced with streams. During their travels they had passed few villages in this inhospitable land but had stopped at several lonely farms where they had been given food and grain for the horses.

Attalus was uneasy: the hunters were closing in. Helm had been the first to spot the pursuers, late the day before, when the setting sun had glinted from the lance points of a large cavalry unit perhaps an hour behind them. Through the heat haze Attalus had been unable to make out individual riders, but there were at least fifty.

Ektalis rode alongside the Macedonian, pointing at a dust
cloud to the west. “Riders,” said the Korinthian. “Probably Messenians. They serve the tyrant.”

The company veered east and south, riding long into the night. But the horses were tired, and when the moonlight was lost behind unseasonal clouds, Attalus was forced to call a halt. They made cold camp in a cluster of boulders on a hillside, where Ektalis set sentries and most of the company slept. But not Attalus.

Helm found him sitting alone, watching the trail to the north.

“You should rest,” the warrior advised.

“I cannot. Thoughts, plans, fears—they fly around my mind like angry wasps.”

“How far to the woods of the enchantment?” asked Helm, moonlight gleaming eerily from his metal face.

“Another day, so Brontes told us.”

“Well, we have two chances,” said Helm, rising. “Succeed or die.”

“Very comforting,” snapped Attalus.

“I find it so,” answered Helm, smiling and moving back among the boulders to sleep.

Silence surrounded the Macedonian, and a cool wind whispered across his face. For an hour he sat alone, miserable and dejected. Then the sound of a walking horse jerked him from his reverie. Rising smoothly, he drew his sword. Why had the sentries not warned them? The horse moved into the boulders, and Thena dismounted.

Attalus sheathed his blade and moved to her side. “Where is Parmenion?” he asked.

“In Sparta, raising an army.”

“Why? He should be here with us. Let the Spartan king fight his own battles.”

“Parmenion
is
the Spartan king.”

“What madness is this?”

“I am thirsty. Fetch me some water, and then we will talk,” Thena told him, moving away to sit on the hillside. He did as she asked, then sat beside her as she drank. Slowly she explained
the events leading to Parmenion’s decision and the problems he faced.

“But there is no hope of victory,” said Attalus. “I am no
strategos
, Thena, but even I know that the first object of battle is to contain the enemy flanks. If you cannot do that, then you will be encircled and destroyed. Five thousand men cannot contain the army we saw on the plain.”

“I know that,” she answered wearily.

“Are you saying he will die there? Why? In the name of Hecate, why?”

“He is a man of honor.”

“Honor? What has honor to do with it? He owes these people nothing. His duty is to Alexander and to his king.”

“But Alexander is in your care, and Parmenion trusts you.”

“Well, a curse on him! Does he think he is a god that he can conquer any who stand in his way? Philippos will destroy him.”

Thena rubbed at her tired eyes. “Parmenion wants you to take Alexander on to the woods and locate Brontes. Once there, we will discuss a plan he has.”

“If this plan involves Alexander and me returning to Macedonia, I will support it, but do not expect me to ride to the city or take part in any ill-fated battle against the demon king.”

A cold wind brushed against Attalus’ back, and a sibilant voice made his skin crawl. “How wise of you,” it hissed. Attalus spun, his sword flashing into his hand. Before him hovered a pale form, seemingly shaped from mist. Slowly it hardened to become a broad-shouldered man, bearded and powerful, whose right eye shone like gold. Thena sat silently, saying nothing. “Ah, Attalus,” whispered Philippos, “how curious to find you set against me. Everything in your heart and soul tells me you are mine. You should be marching with me. I can offer you riches, women, lands, empires. And why do you oppose me? For a child who will one day kill you. Give him to me, and his threat to you will be at an end.”

“I do not serve you,” answered Attalus, his voice hoarse.

“No, you serve a lesser version of me. You follow a man. Here you can follow a god. The idea pleases you, does it not?
Yes, I can read it in your heart. Palaces, Attalus, nations under your sway. You can be a king.”

“His promises are worth nothing,” said Thena, but her words sounded shrill and empty.

“He knows,” said Philippos. “He knows I speak the truth; he knows that warriors with his talents will always earn the hatred and envy of lesser men. Even Philip will turn on him one day. But here—with me—he can have his soul’s desire. Is that not so, Attalus?”

“Yes,” answered the swordsman. “I could serve you.”

“Then do so. Bring the child to me. Or wait until my riders arrive. Either way I will reward you.”

The demon king shimmered, his form fading. Attalus turned to Thena. “We cannot defeat him. We cannot.”

“What will you do?”

“Leave me alone, Thena. I need to think.”

“No,” she said, “that is what you do
not
need. You need to feel. He called Philip a lesser man. Do you agree with that?”

“It does not matter whether I agree or disagree. In life there is only winning and losing. Philippos is a winner.”

“Winning and losing? Life is not a race,” she told him. “A man who never loses a battle but ends his life alone and unloved has not won. Whatever you may say to the contrary, that is something you understand. If you did not, you would not have served Philip so faithfully. Be honest, Attalus, you love the man.”

“Yes, I do,” he shouted, “and that makes me as big a fool as Parmenion. But here I could be a king!”

“Indeed you could. All you have to do is betray Philip and see his son murdered.”

Attalus fell silent for a moment, his head bowing. “I have betrayed men before,” he said softly. “It is not so hard.”

“Ah, but have you ever betrayed a friend?” asked Helm, moving from the shadows.

“I never had any friends,” answered Attalus.

“What about this … Philip?”