Dark Prince (51 page)

“And that is your answer,” said the
magus
. “One hundred nations, all with armies. The great king could put a million men in the field against you.”

“I know,” said Parmenion wearily.

Aristotle pushed himself to his feet, extending his hand to haul Parmenion upright. The Spartan’s knee cracked painfully, and he stretched his leg. “I am better from the lack of a horse these days,” he said.

“Come, let us go home. You and I shall have a farewell drink.”

Long into the night the two men sat talking in the small
andron
at the rear of the schoolhouse. A brazier of coals burned at the center of the room, and several lanterns flickered on the walls. The room was warm, the night wind rattling the shutters on the single window.

“Are you content?” asked Aristotle suddenly. Parmenion smiled but did not answer. “Do you wish you had remained in Achaea?”

“Of course. But it is foolish to dwell on past mistakes.”

Aristotle nodded. “You are wise in that. How is Philotas?”

Parmenion’s face darkened. “The same. We rarely speak now. His arrogance is all-consuming, and yet he fawns on Alexander like a table slave. I try not to allow myself to become
angry. It is not easy for the son of a general; he feels the need to prove himself better than his father.”

“He has great ambition,” said Aristotle softly.

“His mother fed him thoughts of glory from his birth. I should have stopped it long ago.”

“His ambition may bring you down one day,” Aristotle warned. “He dreams of becoming king.”

“It will never happen. He has neither the wit nor the strength.”

“I know. I taught him for thirteen years. He will be an able captain, though. He might yet distinguish himself.”

“He did well in the Triballian campaign, but the glory was Alexander’s. Philotas must have found that hard to bear.”

“He was not the only one.”

Parmenion shook his head. “Do not believe all you hear,
magus
. Philip is not jealous of his son. He loves him and is proud of his achievements. So am I.”

“It is said that Philip’s new bride is already pregnant and that she will bear him a son. That will be hard for Alexander to take.”

“Why so?” queried Parmenion. “Alexander is eighteen and the heir to the throne. Nothing will change that.”

“Come now,
strategos
, do not let your allegiance blind you. Use your mind. He is marrying Cleopatra, a highborn Macedonian. All his other wives are foreigners. She is the ward of Attalus. You do not think that many of the Macedonian nobles will see the child as the first trueborn heir? You yourself are a mix-blood. Alexander’s mother is an Epirite, which makes him a half-breed.”

“I do not wish to talk of this!” snapped Parmenion.

Aristotle sighed and lay back on his couch. “Then we shall not. We will finish our wine and say our farewells.”

In the darkness just before dawn Aristotle, dressed for travel in a long tunic and heavy cloak, moved silently into the room where Parmenion slept. The Spartan was deeply asleep and the
magus
moved to the bedside. From the pouch at his hip Aristotle took a small golden stone, touching it to Parmenion’s right knee. The Spartan stirred and groaned softly
but did not wake. The power of the stone flowed into the sleeping man, the iron-gray of his hair darkening slightly, the chiseled lines of his face becoming more shallow.

“One gift, my friend,” whispered Aristotle, “but not the last. One day I will return.”

He backed away to the door and walked from his house, returning to the stream in the foothills and a shallow cave partly hidden by thick bushes. The new sun rose in glory, and Aristotle paused to drink in the beauty of its light on the verdant countryside.

Why are you leaving now? he asked himself. The answer leapt to his mind, sharp and bitter. The days of blood were coming, and the Dark God was reasserting himself. He could feel the spirit’s presence hanging over the land like an unseen mist, swirling in the hearts of men, flowing into their minds, whispering in their ears.

Did Parmenion think the necklet could protect the boy for long? It was but metal, enhanced with the power of Sipstrassi stone. It could be removed, torn from his neck with a single tug. And then?

The Dark God would return.

Will
return, he corrected himself. Nothing will stop him.

You are running away, he realized: hiding from the great battle to come.

“I want to live,” he said aloud. “I have done my part. Better to be a live dog than a dead lion.” But he was not convinced.

With a last glance over the Macedonian countryside, he stepped inside the cave.

And was seen no more in the land of Greece.

PELLA, SUMMER 337
B.C.

Alexander sat back, occasionally touching his lips to his wine cup but swallowing little as he listened to his companions discussing the forthcoming Persian campaign. As always, it was Philotas who had the most to say. Alexander found it bizarre that a son could look so much like his father yet enjoy so few of his sire’s talents. Philotas was tall and slender, a fine runner and a good cavalry officer, but his grasp on the subtleties of strategy was tenuous at best. Yet, he was like so many men of limited talent in that his main ability was in mastering the art of hindsight, of always seeing where others had made mistakes.

“As at Charoniea,” Philo was telling the others, “my father should never have allowed the left to swing so wide. Had it not been for Alexander’s charge, Philip would have been slain.”

Alexander smiled and said nothing. It did no harm whatever to have his comrades see him as a young god of war, but the truth—as always—was not as simple.

“We will each be kings,” Ptolemy declared. “I shall have a golden throne and a thousand concubines.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with them,” said Nearchos, chuckling. Alexander laughed with the rest at Ptolemy’s discomfort. Ptolemy was the youngest of the companions, and his good nature was legendary.

“I would have great pleasure in finding out,” put in Ptolemy, grinning.

“If you are all to be kings,” said Alexander, “what will be left for me?”

“You will be the king of kings, naturally,” Ptolemy told him. “You will rule the world, and we will be your satraps.”

“And kill all your enemies,” Philotas added.

“An interesting thought. What happens when I have no more enemies?”

“A great man always has enemies,” said Ptolemy. “What would be the point of being great if that were not so? How dull it would be.”

“I take it,” said Nearchos, “that you are already building up a stock of enemies.”

“Yes. I’ve started with you, you lowborn dolt!”

Nearchos’ laughter rippled out, swift and infectious. “Me? Is that wise? Do you no longer wish me to speak well of you to my sister?”

“A good point,” said Ptolemy, rubbing his chin. “You are correct. It is not an opportune time to have you for an enemy. It will have to be Philo, then: he’ll be my first enemy.”

“Enough of this talk,” put in Alexander. “You are all a little drunk. Get off home with you! I intend to be riding at dawn. It is said there is a lioness raiding the herds of cattle and goats at a small village north of the city. It should be a fine hunt.”

“I shall kill the beast with my bare hands,” said Nearchos, rising and flexing his muscles. Like his father, Theoparlis, he had enormous breadth of shoulder and a barrel chest.

“If that doesn’t work, you could try breathing on him,” pointed out Ptolemy. “Put all those onions to good use.”

Nearchos leapt at the slender youngster but tripped and fell over a small table laden with sweetmeats. As he scrambled to his feet, chasing the younger man out into the royal gardens, Philotas turned to Alexander and bowed.

“Until tomorrow, sire,” he said softly.

“It is not fitting to call me sire. I am not a king,” said Alexander, his tone mild.

“Not yet,” said Parmenion’s eldest son, bowing once more before striding from the room.

At last only Craterus was left. Older than the others, almost
twenty, he was a quiet, introverted man, but he seemed at ease in the ribald meetings of the companions.

“Something troubling you?” asked Alexander.

“Your ankle is still swollen from the fall, and you are limping badly. Is this the right time to hunt lions?”

Alexander clapped the taller man on the shoulder. “It will be better by morning, and I shall strap it well. But that is not the reason you have waited to see me.”

Craterus shrugged and smiled. “No. I am uneasy, my lord. There is a lot of talk at court about the king’s marriage and the child Cleopatra carries.”

The smile left Alexander’s face. “This should not concern you. It does not concern me. My father already has six wives.”

“Not like this one.”

“Do not take this any further, Craterus,” warned the prince. “There are some things that should not be said.”

“Very well. As always, I shall obey you. But know this: If you need me, I will be beside you.”

“All the royal pages give oaths to serve the king. The king is Philip,” Alexander pointed out.

“That may be. But I serve Alexander.”

The prince moved close to his friend, looking up into the man’s deep-set dark eyes. “It is comments like that which lead to the death of princes. You understand me? I will never lead a rebellion against Philip. Never! If I wished him dead, I would have let him be slain at Charoniea, when his horse was killed under him. Now say no more of this. There is nothing to fear, Craterus. Nothing.”

The companion bowed and departed, pulling shut the door behind him. Alexander wandered back to the center of the room, lifting his wine cup and sipping the contents. He had made the one cup last all evening, disliking the effect of alcohol on his system.

“You should listen to him, my son,” said Olympias, moving into the room from the shadows of the outer corridor.

“It is normally considered courteous, Mother, to announce your presence.”

“Are you angry with me?”

He shook his head and smiled. Stepping in close, Olympias kissed his cheek. Her red-gold hair was touched with silver now, but her face was still youthful and her body slender. “Why is everyone seeing danger in the shadows?” asked Alexander. “It is only a wedding.”

“She is the ward of Attalus … and Attalus hates you.”

“He risked his life to save me once. I shall not forget that.”

“That was
then!
” she said, her eyes flashing. “Now he poisons Philip’s mind against you. Why can you not see it?”

“I choose not to. Philip built this realm from nothing. Beset on all sides, he alone made Macedonia feared and respected. What have I done? I took an army into the north and subdued the Triballians. How does that compare with the king who conquered Thrace, Illyria, the Chalcidice, Thessaly, Paionia—and crushed the combined armies of Athens and Thebes?” He laughed and gently took hold of his mother’s shoulders. “Do you understand what I am saying? He owes me nothing. If he chooses to make his new son the heir, what right have I to oppose him?”

“Right?” she stormed, pulling away from him. “You are the heir, the firstborn son. It is your destiny to rule. But think on this, Alexander: If you are dispossessed, there will be those who will seek your death. You will not be fighting for a crown alone but for your life.”

“No,” he told her. “Philip would never order my death any more than I would countenance killing him. But all this talk is dangerous. The words fall like sparks on dry grass, and I will not have them spoken around me.”

“You are altogether too trusting,” she told him. “But there is someone coming to Pella who may be able to convince you.”

“Who?”

“The lady of Samothrace. Her name is Aida, and she is a seeress of great power. She can tell you of your destiny.”

Alexander said nothing, but he turned away from his mother and strode toward the door. “You will see her?” called Olympias.

“No, I will not,” answered Alexander, his voice cold. “Can none of you see what you are doing? When Philotas calls me sire, when Craterus says he puts me above my father, when you seek to turn me against Philip—you are all only increasing any danger there might be. You keep this Aida away from me.”

“But it is all for you—because we care!” Olympias shouted. Alexander did not reply but walked out into the moonlit gardens and away from the palace.

The grass was growing crimson, dripping blood to the parched earth beneath it. The sky was the color of ash, gray and lifeless. Not a bird flew; no breath of wind disturbed the plain. Philip knelt and touched his hand to the crimson stems, and blood smeared across his skin. He rose, trembling, noticing for the first time the bodies that lay all about him. Thousands upon thousands of corpses, the grass growing around them, from them, through them. He shuddered. A man was lying on his back with weeds growing from beneath his eyelids
.

“What is this place?” shouted Philip. The sound died even as it left his lips
.

“You are not comfortable here?”

He spun on his heel, sword snaking into his hand. Before him, dressed in armor of black and gold, stood Philippos, the demon king
.