Dark Prince (52 page)

“You are dead!” screamed Philip, backing away
.

“Yes,” the Makedones king agreed
.

“Get away from me!”

“Is that any way to treat a brother?” asked Philippos, drawing his own sword and advancing. Philip leapt to meet him, their blades clashing together, and his sword slashed across his opponent’s neck to open a jagged wound that spouted blood. Philippos was hurled to the right, twisting to fall facedown on the ground. Slowly he rose to his knees with his back to his enemy. Philip waited. The demon king stood and slowly turned. Philip cried out. Gone was the bearded face that mirrored his own. Now Philippos had golden hair, sea-green eyes, and a face of surpassing beauty
.

“Alexander?”

“Yes, Father, Alexander,” said the demon king, smiling and advancing with sword extended
.

“Do not make me kill you! Please!”

“You could not kill me, Father. No. But I shall slay you.”

Dark horns sprouted from Alexander’s temples, circling back over his ears. His eyes changed color from sea-green to yellow, the pupils slitted. Philip gripped his sword and waited as the demon before him moved slowly to the attack. He tried a swift lunge to the throat, but his arm was heavy, his movements slow, and he watched in sick horror as Alexander’s sword parried his own and rose up gleaming and sharp, the blade slicing into his throat and up through his mouth, stabbing into his brain like a tongue of fire …

Philip awoke and cried out. The woman beside him stirred but did not wake as the king sat up. His head was pounding, his body drenched in sweat. The old wound in his leg throbbed painfully, but he pushed himself from the bed and limped across to the nearest couch. The wine pitcher on the small table was empty. Philip cursed and slumped down on the couch, holding the pitcher in his lap.

The dream was always the same. He could never defeat Alexander.

I should have killed him at birth, he thought. A cold breeze whispered across the room, and Philip shivered and returned to his bed. Beside him Cleopatra slept on. Tenderly he stroked her hair. So beautiful, so young. His hand moved down to rest on her belly, still flat and taut despite the three months of the pregnancy. In her was a son. Not demon-possessed, not born of darkness and sorcery, but a true son, one who would grow to love his father, not plan his murder.

How could you do this to me, Alexander? I loved you. I would have risked anything for you.

At first Philip had ignored the reports that Attalus drew to his attention: the fawning remarks of Alexander’s companions, the criticisms leveled at the king and his generals. But as the months passed, Philip became more and more convinced
that Alexander would not be content until he sat on the throne.

The Triballian campaign showed that. Does he think I am a fool? Oh, yes, he crushed the enemy, forcing them to pay tribute. But in whose name did he demand it? Not for Philip. Not for Macedon. No, in the name of Alexander.

Arrogant whelp! Of course you beat the Triballians, for you had my army behind you. My army!

But is it mine? How they cheered the golden prince at Charoniea, carrying him shoulder-high around the camp. And after the Triballian victory, when he awarded every warrior ten gold pieces, they gave him the salute of kings, swords beating against shields.

Is it still mine?

Of course it is, for I have Parmenion. Yes, the Spartan will always be loyal.

Philip smiled and lay back, resting his head on the soft, satin-covered cushion. The Lion of Macedon is with me, he thought, and drifted once more into sleep.

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 …

The bath had been designed and built by Philip, using only the finest marble. It took six slaves more than an hour to fill it with heated, perfumed water, and a dozen men could sit on the sunken seats or swim across the center. The king had constructed it after the second Thracian campaign, when his right leg had been smashed and the bones had knitted badly, leaving him with an exaggerated limp and constant pain. Only when immersed in warm water did the limb cease to throb, and Philip had taken to holding meetings in the bath with his officers around him.

Today only Parmenion was present, and the two men sat side by side as slaves added boiling water, keeping the temperature high. Crimson flowers floated on the surface, their
scent strong, and Parmenion felt the tension and weariness of his long ride ebbing away.

“He is gone, then,” said the king. “I shall miss him.”

“He sent you his best regards, my lord.”

Philip chuckled. “You remember when he threatened to turn me into a lizard?”

“Yes. You took it well, as I recall.”

“Fine days, Parmenion. Days of strength. I miss them.”

The Spartan glanced at his king. Philip was beginning to show signs of age: his black hair and beard speckled with silver, the skin pouching below his eyes. But his grin was still infectious, and his power alarming.

“Have we made contact with the Asian cities?” asked Philip.

“Yes. Mothac is receiving reports. We will be welcomed in all the Greek cities of Asia Minor, but the supply lines will be stretched. Thirty thousand men need a great deal of feeding.”

“The Athenian fleet will supply us,” said Philip dismissively. “What do you hear about the new Persian king?”

“He is a diplomat and a warrior. I knew him years ago; it was through him that I lost my commission and came to Macedonia. He is arrogant but not unintelligent. He will not rush at us; he will send his satraps against us at first and try to foment rebellion behind us. Already he has made contact with Sparta and Thebes, and his agents are in Athens and Corinth.”

Philip leaned forward, splashing his face and beard with perfumed water. “This time it will avail them nothing. There is no army to tackle us—not even Sparta. No one could act alone.”

“Attacking Persia is a major enterprise,” said Parmenion. “I hope you are not taking it too lightly.”

“Do not concern yourself with that fear, Parmenion. I have dreamed about this for nearly twenty years, but always I knew the dangers. Almost half a century ago Agisaleus of Sparta invaded Persia. What happened? He scored military successes but was summoned home when Thebes rose against him. It is the Persian way. With their limitless gold and our
greed, they have kept us at each other’s throats for centuries. That’s why I waited so long, ensuring that Greece would be safe behind us. Now the Persians have no leverage here.”

“What command will you give Alexander?” asked the Spartan.

Philip’s expression hardened. “None. He will stay behind.”

“To rule in your absence?”

“No. Antipater shall be my regent.”

“I do not understand, sire. Alexander has proved his competence.”

“It is not his competence that concerns me—it is his loyalty. He plots against me, Parmenion. Before long he will seek to overthrow me, led no doubt in his treachery by his Epirite whore of a mother. They must think me foolish or perhaps blind in both eyes. Happily I still have friends who report to me.”

“I have never seen any sign of treachery,” said Parmenion.

“Truly? And would you tell me if you did?”

“How could you doubt that I would?”

Philip rose from the bath and limped across the marble floor. Two servants brought him warmed towels; throwing one around his waist, the king used the other to rub dry his hair and beard. Parmenion followed him. “What is happening to you, Philip? How can you doubt your son’s devotion? Twice he has saved your life, and never once have I heard him speak against you. What poison has Attalus been speaking, for I feel his presence in this?”

“You think I have no other spies than Attalus?” retorted the king. “I have many. Alexander gave a banquet for his friends last month where he made a speech. You know what he said? ‘What will my father leave me to conquer?’ He wishes me dead!”

“That depends on how you read the sentiment. I take it he was speaking of his pride in your achievements.”

“And what of your own son, Philotas? He is constantly speaking about your and—by implication—my failures: the sieges of Perinthos and Byzantium. He used the word ‘stupidity.’ About me!”

“Stupid people are always the first to use such words. He is not bright, sire, but Alexander always rebukes him. And as for the sieges, well, we hardly covered ourselves with glory. We took neither city. Perhaps we were … less than brilliant.”

“Why do you always speak up for Alexander?” roared Philip. “Have I no right to expect your loyalty?”

“Every right,” responded Parmenion. “And should I ever see a single shred of evidence that you are betrayed, I will report it to you. More than that, I will kill any man—any man—who seeks to bring you down.”

Philip took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Then he smiled and relaxed. “I know. But you are too trusting, Spartan. You still think of the golden child. Well, he’s a man now, with his own ambitions. But enough of that. What do you think of my new bride?”

“She is very beautiful, sire.”

“Yes, and sweet-natured. You know, once I thought I loved Olympias, but I am convinced now that I was bewitched. I see her as she truly is—a vile harridan, foul of temper and vipertongued. But Cleopatra is everything I could have wished for. She has given me true happiness. And soon I will have another son, one born of love.”

“Yes, sire,” said Parmenion, trying to hold the sadness from his voice.

The wedding festivities were scheduled to last for eight days, and no one in Pella could remember any festival like it. Free wine was distributed to every household, while all men over the age of fifteen received a specially struck gold coin bearing the head of Philip, with Cleopatra’s portrait on the reverse. The coin represented half a year’s wages to the poorer servants and land workers, and the celebrations were loud, raucous, and unforgettable.

An athletic competition had been under way for twelve days, its size and scope rivaling the games of Olympia, and the city was packed to overflowing as citizens from surrounding areas and guests from all over the country arrived for the wedding. All the champions of Greece were present at the
games, and the king presented to each winner a crown of laurel leaves made from finest gold. There were only two Macedonian victors: Philotas won the middle-distance race, and Alexander rode Bucephalus to victory against horsemen from Thrace, Athens, Sparta, Thessaly, and Corinth.

The ten thousand in the crowd sent up a thunderous roar as Alexander crossed the line on the giant black stallion, his nearest competitor some twenty lengths back. The prince cantered Bucephalus in a long circuit of the stadium, acknowledging the cheers, finally halting before the royal dais, where Philip sat with Cleopatra beside him, flanked by his generals Parmenion, Antipater, Attalus, and Cleitus.

“A fine victory,” said Cleitus, gazing admiringly at the young rider.

“Anyone would have won on that horse,” muttered Philip, pushing himself to his feet. Lifting the golden laurel crown from the table beside him, he handed it to Parmenion. “Go,” he said, “present the winner with his prize.”

The crowd fell silent as the general walked out to the prince. Everyone knew the king should have presented the prize, and a confused murmuring began in the stands. Alexander lifted his leg and leapt from Bucephalus’ back, bowing his head to receive the laurel crown. As it was placed upon his head, he gave a wide grin and waved to the crowd, earning another ovation.

With the smile still in place, he whispered to Parmenion, “What is wrong with my father? Have I done something to displease him?”

“We will talk later,” Parmenion replied.

“I shall come to your home.”

“No, that would not be wise. Mothac has a small house in the western quarter, near the temple of healing. Be at the rear of the temple at midnight. I will see you there. Be sure you are not followed.”

Still smiling, Alexander took hold of Bucephalus’ mane and vaulted to the beast’s back. Parmenion returned to the dais and, as he mounted the steps, caught sight of Attalus watching the prince riding toward the exit gates.

The years had not been kind to the swordsman. His hair was white and thinning, his face lean and skeletal, with deep lines carved into his cheeks, the skin of his throat loose and wrinkled. Yet he was barely sixty. Attalus saw Parmenion watching him and smiled. The Spartan nodded in reply, then took his place at the king’s side as the boxing bouts began.

Parmenion waited for another hour, then he asked leave of the king and walked back from the dais, moving to the huge tents erected outside the stadium where food and drink were being served. Everything was free, and many of the city’s poor were congregating there, drinking themselves into a stupor. The Spartan moved slowly through the crowds toward the officers’ tent.

He saw Philotas talking with the youngster Ptolemy and the somber Craterus. The youths spotted him, and Philotas broke away from them.

“I ran well,” said Philo. “Did you see me?”

“I did. Your timing was impeccable.”

“Am I as fast as you were?”

“I would say faster,” Parmenion admitted. “I never had a finishing burst of speed. I thought for a moment the Spartan would take you, but you destroyed him from the final bend.”

For a moment Philo stood as if shocked by the compliment, then his face softened. “Thank you, Father. I … thank you. Will you join us for a drink?”

“No, I am tired. I think I will go home.”

The young man’s disappointment was sincere, but it was replaced almost instantly by the guarded, cynical look Parmenion had come to know so well. “Yes, of course,” said Philo. “I should have known better than to ask you to spend time with me. It is not possible to break the habits built up during a lifetime.” And he swung away, returning to his companions.

Parmenion cursed softly and moved on. He should have stayed, and guilt touched him. Philo was right: he had never had time for the boy or for any of his sons save one. Alexander.