Dark Prince (53 page)

At the rear of the officers’ tent was the paddock where the
horses were tethered. A servant brought him his mount, and he rode slowly back through the city to his town house. Phaedra was not due until the next day, which gave him at least a few more hours of relative contentment.

He found Mothac in the small study to the rear of the house. The old Theban was poring over reports from Asia, and there were papers and scrolls scattered across the wide desk.

“Anything new?” asked Parmenion, removing his ceremonial helmet and laying it carefully on the bench beside him.

“New? It is all new,” answered Mothac. “And yet as old as the balls of Zeus. Treachery, double dealing, compromise. New names, ancient vices. But I must say, I do love diplomacy.” He lifted a scroll and grinned. “I have a letter here from a man named Dupias, assuring me that he is an ardent supporter of Philip. Through his good offices we can be assured of a fine reception in Tyre, should the Persian army be overcome by the ‘valiant Macedonians.’ ”

“It sounds promising,” said Parmenion.

“True, and yet I have a report from another source that Dupias is in the pay of the Persians.”

“Even better. We can use him to feed Darius false information.”

“Yes. Life is wonderfully complex. I can remember the boring old days when all that counted was the strength of a man’s sword arm and the justice of his cause.”

“No, you can’t,” Parmenion told him. “It just seems that way. The past is all bright colors. The shades of gray have vanished. This is how it has always been. If you walk from here to the guards’ barracks and talk to those earnest young men, they will tell you of the justice of their cause and boast of the strength of their sword arms. Their eyes will shine with glory. It is the way of young men.”

Mothac sighed. “I know that. I was trying to be light-hearted. What is the matter with you?”

Parmenion shrugged. “It is all going sour, Mothac. I think Philip is preparing to assassinate Alexander.”

“What? I can’t believe that!”

“He told me yesterday that he does not intend to take the prince with him on the Persian expedition. He will have a role in Macedonia. What does that suggest?”

The old Theban ran his fingers over his bald dome, scratching the skin of his crown. “Philip is too canny to leave a potential enemy behind him, but to kill his own son? Are you sure?”

“I am sure.”

“What will you do?”

“I have no idea. I am meeting the prince tonight; I will advise him to leave Pella.”

“What is wrong with Philip?” asked Mothac. “The boy loves him; there is no question of that. You know how many spies report to me, but none has ever suggested that Alexander would betray his father.”

“Unfortunately, that is not true of his followers,” put in Parmenion. “I have seen the reports of comments by Philo and Nearchos, Ptolemy and Cassander. The young men worship Alexander. And then there is Pausanius—an ugly business.”

“He brought it on himself,” muttered Mothac. “Pausanius is a fool. Philip has always enjoyed the attention of young men, but none of them last in his affections. The boy was too pushy.”

“That may be true,” Parmenion admitted, “but he is still a highborn Macedonian, and his punishment was cruel and ill advised.”

Mothac said nothing. How could he argue? Pausanius had enjoyed the king’s devotion and, while the favorite, had made an enemy of Attalus, making him the butt of many jokes and jibes. Attalus had waited for the youngster to fall from favor and had then ordered Pausanius to be soundly thrashed and abused by soldiers from his personal guard.

The humiliation was intense, for the young noble had been left, naked and tied, on a stall in the marketplace. The incident had many repercussions. The young men who followed Alexander were all friendly to Pausanius and saw his treatment as unjust. The older nobles at court were cheered by his
humiliation, seeing it as a timely and salutary lesson for a youth they considered a loudmouthed braggart.

It was also well known that Pausanius was a close friend to Alexander. Soon after his ordeal the noble approached the prince, asking for justice against Attalus; Alexander took his plea to the king in open court, but Philip dismissed it, calling the incident a “prank” that should be forgotten.

But in the months that followed few forgot it, for it highlighted the extent to which Attalus’ star had risen in the Macedonian court, and many men now walked warily or openly courted the company of the onetime assassin.

“Cruel it may have been,” said Mothac at last, “but it should not concern you. Attalus no longer fears you. You are not on his list of enemies, and that is how it should stay. You may be the foremost general of Macedonia, Parmenion, but Attalus is stronger now than he has ever been. Enmity between you will leave you dead.”

“We will not become enemies,” said Parmenion, “unless he plans harm to Alexander.”

“If he does, it will be on the king’s order,” warned Mothac, his voice a whisper.

“I know,” the Spartan answered.

THE TEMPLE, ASIA MINOR

The temple grounds were overgrown; most of the roses were long since dead, strangled by wide-leafed ivy or masked from the sun by the overhanging branches of the many trees. Grass was growing between the paving stones, pushing up with the slow strength of nature, distorting the paths and making the footing treacherous.

The fountains were silent now, the water stagnant. But Derae did not care. She no longer had the strength to walk the gardens and rarely left the room behind the altar. Only two servants remained, both women she had healed long ago, before her powers had faded.

No longer were there ragged tents beyond the temple, filled to overflowing with the diseased, the lame, and the crippled. No one needed tokens now to see the healer.

Shallow cuts she could seal, and minor infections would still vanish at her touch. But no longer could she bring sight to the blind or draw the cancers from the lungs and bellies of the dying.

Now it was she who suffered, her limbs racked with arthritic pain, her joints swollen. If she moved slowly, supporting herself on two sticks, she could just reach the temple doorway, there to sit in the afternoon sunshine. But she needed help to return to her room when dusk and the cool breeze of evening stiffened her limbs.

Derae sat on the marble bench with deep cushions around her, the afternoon sun warm on her face, and recalled the days
when her power was at its height, when the blind saw again and the crippled were made strong.

She was lost in her memories when Camfitha came to her.

“There is a carriage coming, mistress. It is black but adorned with gold. It must be some great lady. Soldiers ride before and behind, and the carriage is drawn by six black stallions. It could be the queen.”

“Let us hope she has but a chill,” answered Derae sleepily.

Camfitha settled her plump form alongside the slender old woman. “Shall I help you into the altar room?”

“No, dear. I shall wait here. Bring some fresh water from the well, and some fruit. The travelers will be thirsty and in need of refreshment.”

“It will be dusk soon. I will fetch you a shawl.”

Derae listened as Camfitha hurried away, her heavy steps echoing in the hallway. She remembered the lithe child Camfitha had been, slim and beautiful but with a twisted leg and a crippled foot. Derae had healed the limb, and Camfitha had sworn to serve her always.

“Do not be foolish, child. Go from here. Find a good man and bear him strong sons.”

But Camfitha had refused. And oh, how grateful Derae had been.

The sound of horses’ hooves on the flagstones jerked her mind to the present. She was too tired now to use what remained of her talent to look upon the newcomers. But there seemed to be at least a dozen horsemen; she could smell the lather on the mounts, mixed with the sweet, smoky aroma of worn leather.

The carriage had halted before the narrow gate, and she heard the door being opened, the steps pulled out and thudding against the ground.

Suddenly a cold touch of fear swept through her as if an icy wind had whispered across the ruined garden; she shivered. She heard the soldiers move away, but there followed a soft rustling, like a snake moving through dry grass and dead leaves. A sweet perfume filled the air, and the rustling drew
closer. Derae identified it then as the swishing of a woman’s gown.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“An old enemy,” said a cold voice.

Derae’s mind swept back to her first meeting with the dark lady and their clash of souls, the spears of lightning and the cries of the undead. Then she saw again her journey to Samothrace and her efforts to prevent the conception of the chaos spirit.

“Aida?”

“The very same. And I do mean the same. My body is still young, Derae, not old and withered, not rotting on my bones.”

“I daresay the same cannot be said for your soul.”

Aida laughed, the sound full of humor. “The dying dog can still bite, I see. Will you not ask me why I came?”

“To kill me?”

“Kill you? No, no, Derae. You will die soon without my help. I have watched you for these last thirteen years, reveling in your fading powers. But kill you? Why would I do that? Without you my precious boy could never have been born.”

“Your precious boy was defeated, cast out,” said Derae. “Alexander is now a strong, fine young man.”

“Of course he is,” Aida agreed. “He is as I need him to be. I am a patient woman. The time was not right for the Dark God to become flesh. But now? Now is his time.”

“Empty words cannot frighten me,” Derae told her.

“Nor should they. But I am on my way to Pella for the wedding of Philip to Cleopatra. And once I am there, my words will seem less empty. You think a golden necklet will protect Alexander? A trifling ornament? It could have been removed at any time during these fourteen years, but it was necessary for the boy to become a man, to build his friendships, to prepare the way for the one to come.” Aida laughed again, and this time the sound was cruel. “You will see him in his glory, Derae. And you will know the ultimate despair.”

“It will not be,” said Derae, her words sounding hollow and unconvincing. “Parmenion will stop you.”

“He, too, grows old. His day is past. And Aristotle has run away to distant worlds and other times. There is no one left to stop me.”

“Why did you come here?”

“To torment you,” said Aida brightly. “To bring you pain. To let you know that the day of the Dark God is dawning. Nothing will stop him.”

“Even if you are right, it will only be for a short time. Alexander is not immortal. One day he will die.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But what will it matter? Once his flesh has been devoured by carrion birds, or eaten by worms, or consumed by fire, the chaos spirit will be free once more and his disciples will find another suitable vessel for him. He is immortal.”

“Why do you serve him, Aida? He brings only pain and suffering, hatred and despair.”

“Why? How can you ask that? You sit there decaying even as I watch, while I am still youthful, thanks to his blessing. I am rich, with many slaves and soldiers. My body enjoys all the pleasures known and many that are not known. What other master could give me all this?”

Now it was Derae’s turn to smile. “Such worthless treasures. You are welcome to them.”

“Worthless? I concede you have more experience of worthlessness than I,” hissed Aida. “You only ever knew one lover. I have known thousands, both men and women—yes, and demons. I have been pleasured in ways you could not dream of.”

“Nor would I wish to. And you are wrong, Aida: You have never known a lover, for you are incapable of love. You have no conception of its meaning. You came to torment me? You failed. For once I hated you, and now I feel only pity. You have brought me a gift … and I thank you for it.”

“Then here is another,” whispered Aida, rising. “Parmenion will be slain by his son, Alexander. Cold iron will be thrust into his flesh. Everything you ever dreamed of will come to nothing. Ponder on that, you blind hag!”

Derae said nothing but sat very still as the dark lady
walked away. She heard the carriage door open, listened as the steps were withdrawn, and heard the whip crack, the horses whinnying.

“Have they gone, then?” asked Camfitha, laying the silver tray on the marble bench.

“Yes, they have gone.”

“Was it the queen?”

“No. It was just a woman I once knew.”

Lightning speared the sky as Alexander walked from the palace, heading west along the wide, deserted avenue toward the marketplace. There were few people on the streets as midnight approached, but he was sure he was being followed. Twice he thought he caught glimpses of a tall man wearing a black cloak, but when he turned, there was no one in sight.

Two prostitutes hailed him as he crossed the
agora
square, but he smiled and shook his head. “A special price for you, handsome one,” called the younger of the two, but he spread his hands.

“No coin,” he answered, and they turned from him, walking away arm in arm.

A flicker of movement came from his left, and he spun with dagger in hand. There was no one there. Lightning flashed, and black shadows danced from the giant pillars of the temple of Zeus. Alexander shook his head.