Dark Prince (55 page)

“We must be on our guard, my boy,” said Parmenion. “Now, if you will not leave Pella, will you at least allow me one request?”

“Of course. You have but to ask.”

“Keep Hephaistion with you. He is the best of my young
officers. He has a keen eye and a good brain; he will guard your back. Take him into your counsel, introduce him as a new companion. Given time, he will find the traitor.”

Alexander smiled ruefully. “You know, it is hardly accurate to describe a man who reports to the king as a traitor. Indeed, this could be seen as treason: the king’s general and the king’s son in a secret meeting.”

“There are those who would see it so,” agreed Parmenion. “But you and I know it is not true.”

“Answer me this, Parmenion: Where will you stand if my father goes against me?”

“By his side,” answered the Spartan, “for I am pledged to serve him, and I will never betray him.”

“And if he should kill me?”

“Then I will leave his service and depart from Macedonia. But we must ensure that it does not come to that. He must be made to see that you are loyal.”

“I would not harm him—not even to save my own life.”

“I know,” said Parmenion, rising and embracing the younger man. “It is time for you to go. Hephaistion is waiting by the front gate.”

THE SUMMER PALACE, AIGAI

Olympias knelt before the lady of Samothrace, bowing her head to receive the blessing. Aida leaned forward. “You are a queen now. You should not kneel to me,” she said.

“A queen?” responded Olympias bitterly. “To a man with seven wives?”

“You are the mother of his son, the heir. Nothing can take that away from you.”

“You think not?” asked Olympias, rising and sitting beside the black-clad Aida on the satin-covered couch. “Cleopatra will bear him a son. I know this; he brags of it constantly. And he has grown to hate Alexander. What am I to do?”

Aida put her arm around the queen, drawing her close and kissing her brow. “Your son will be king,” she told her, holding her voice to a whisper and flicking a glance at the open window. Who knew what spies lurked close by? Her spirit snaked out, but there was no one within hearing distance.

“I used to believe that, Aida. Truly. And I was so happy on Samothrace before the wedding. I thought that Philip was the greatest king in all the world. My happiness was complete. But there has always been something between us, an uneasy … I don’t know how to describe it. Only on that first night did we ever achieve the union you taught me to expect. Now he can scarcely look at me without his face darkening in anger. Did he never love me?”

Aida shrugged. “Who can say what is in a man’s mind? Their brains hang between their legs. What is important is
what we do now. You know you were chosen to bear a special child, a king of kings, a god. You have fulfilled that part of your destiny. Rejoice in that, Sister! And leave your fears in my care.”

“You can help Alexander?”

“I can do many things,” she answered. “But tell me of your son. What kind of man has he become?” The queen drew back, her face suddenly radiant, and began to speak of Alexander’s triumphs, his goodness, his strength, and his pride.

Aida sat patiently, assuming an expression of rapt fascination, smiling occasionally, even clapping her hands in delight at various points. Her boredom was almost at the point of exasperation when Olympias’ voice trailed away. “I am talking too much,” said the queen.

“Not at all,” put in Aida swiftly. “He sounds wonderful—everything we ever dreamed of. I saw him today, walking with a group of young men. He is very handsome. But I noticed that he was wearing a necklet, and it interested me. The workmanship is very old. Where did he come by it?”

“It was a gift many years ago. He wears it always.”

“I would like to see it. Can you bring it to me?”

Olympias shook her head. “I am sorry, I cannot. You see, there was a time when he seemed … possessed. The necklet protects him. He cannot remove it.”

“Nonsense! He was a gifted child with powers too strong to contain. But he is a man now.”

“No,” said Olympias. “I will not risk that.”

“You do not trust me?” asked Aida, her face showing exactly the right amount of hurt.

“Oh, no!” replied Olympias, taking Aida’s hand, “of course I trust you. It is just … I fear that the darkness that was once within him could return and destroy him.”

“Think on this, my dear. Without the necklet he will be so powerful, no man will ever be able to kill him.”

“You think Philip would …? No, I cannot believe that.”

“You have never heard of a king killing his son? Strange. It is not a rare occurrence in Persia.”

“And here,” Olympias agreed. “But Philip is not that kind of man. When he became king upon his brother’s death in battle, he spared the life of his brother’s son, Amyntas. That surprised many, for Amyntas was the natural heir.”

“And where is he now?”

“Amyntas? He serves in the king’s bodyguard. He is ferociously loyal to Philip; he has no desire to be king.”

“Not now, perhaps, but what if Philip were to die?”

“Alexander would be king.”

“And is Amyntas loyal to Alexander?”

Olympias frowned and looked away. “No, they are not friends.”

“And Amyntas is a trueborn Macedonian,” put in Aida softly. “Is that not so?”

“Why are you trying to frighten me? Amyntas is no danger.”

“There is peril everywhere,” snapped Aida. “I have been here but three days, and the whole court talks of nothing apart from the succession. The family of Attalus dream that Cleopatra’s child will be king. Others swear allegiance to Amyntas. Still more talk of Arridaeus.”

“But he is retarded; he drools and cannot walk a straight line.”

“Yet he is Philip’s son, and there are those who would seek to rule through him. Antipater, perhaps.”

“Stop this!” shouted Olympias. “Do you see enemies everywhere?”

“Everywhere,” agreed Aida, her tone soft. “I have lived for many, many years. Treachery, I find, is second nature to man. Alexander has many friends and many enemies. But that is not important. The real secret is being able to tell which is which.”

“You understand the mysteries, Aida. Can you see where the peril lies?”

“There is one great enemy who must be slain,” answered the dark lady, her eyes holding to Olympias’ gaze.

“Who?” whispered Olympias.

“You know the answer. I need not speak the name.” Aida’s slender hand dipped into a deep pocket in her dark gown,
then came clear holding a round golden coin, which she lifted between thumb and forefinger. “It is a good likeness, don’t you think?” asked the sorceress, flipping the coin into Olympias’ lap.

The queen stared down at the golden, silhouetted head of Philip of Macedon.

Hephaistion stretched out his long legs, lifting them over the carved footrest at the end of the couch. His head was aching with the noise from the revelers, and he merely sipped at the heavily watered wine in the golden Persian goblet. At the far end of the room Ptolemy was wrestling with Cassander, and several tables had been upturned, throwing fruit and sweetmeats to the floor. The two men slipped and slithered on them, their clothes stained with fruit juice. Hephaistion looked away. Philotas and Alexander were playing a Persian game involving dice and counters of gold and silver. Elsewhere other companions of the prince were either gambling or lying in a drunken sleep on the many couches.

Hephaistion was bored. A soldier since the age of fifteen, he loved the wild, open country, sleeping beneath the stars, rising with the dawn, following the horns of war. But this? Soft cushions, sweet wines, mind-numbing games …

He sat up, his gaze drifting to where Philotas sat hunched over the table. So like his father in looks, he thought, yet so different. It was interesting to compare them. They even walked alike with shoulders back and eyes aware, the movements sure and catlike. But Parmenion merely showed confidence, whereas Philo exuded arrogance. When the older man smiled, men warmed to him, but with Philo it seemed he was mocking. Subtle differences, thought Hephaistion, but telling.

He stretched his back and stood. Approaching the table where Alexander sat, he bowed and asked for leave to depart.

Alexander looked up and grinned. “Sleep well, my friend,” he said.

Hephaistion moved out into the torchlit corridor, nodding to the guards who stood at attention as he passed. The gardens
were cool, the night breeze refreshing. He sucked in a deep breath and then, with a glance behind him, stepped into the shadows of the trees by the eastern gate. There was a marble bench there, hidden from the path by overhanging vegetation, and he sat down to wait.

An hour passed … then another. Finally a cloaked figure left by the rear door, moving swiftly down the path. But he did not pass through the gate; instead, he cut across the garden to a second inner gateway. Hephaistion stood and, keeping to the shadows of the wall, followed the man. Hanging ivy grew thickly by the inner gate, and the scent of roses came from beyond the wall. Hephaistion slowed his walk, moving with care through the undergrowth. He could hear low voices in the small garden beyond, and he recognized them both.

“Is he talking treason yet?” Philip asked.

“Not as such, sire. But he grows more discontented day by day. I asked him tonight how he felt about the coming campaign, and he outlined his plans for the taking of a walled city. He speaks like a general, and I think he sees himself leading the army.”

Hephaistion’s eyes narrowed. That was not as it had been. He had listened to that conversation, and Alexander had merely pointed out—when pushed—that patience was needed when besieging fortified towns.

“Attalus believes,” said Philip, “that my life is in danger. Do you agree with him?”

“Hard to say with certainty, sire. But I detect a great jealousy over your recent marriage. All things are possible.”

“Thank you,” said the king. “Your loyalty does you credit. I shall not forget it.”

Hephaistion slipped deeper into the shadows and knelt behind a thick bush as the man reappeared. He waited there for some minutes, then rose and walked out into the night, making his way past the guards’ barracks to Parmenion’s house. There was a single lantern burning in the lower study, thin lines of golden light showing through the wooden shutters of the small window.

The soldier tapped at the wood, and Parmenion pushed
open the shutter, saw him, and gestured him to the side door. Once he was inside, the general offered him wine, but Hephaistion refused, accepting instead a cup of water.

“Is it Philo?” Parmenion asked.

Hephaistion nodded. There was no expression on the general’s face as he returned to the wide leather-covered chair behind the desk. “I thought so. Tell me all.”

The soldier did so, reporting the twisted facts Philotas had relayed to the king. “What does he gain, sir? The prince is his friend and the heir to the throne. Surely his future success would be assured under Alexander.”

“That is not how he views it. You have done well, Hephaistion. I am pleased with you.”

“I am sorry that the information I gained should bring you grief.”

Parmenion shook his head. “I knew it anyway, deep in my heart.” The Spartan rubbed at his eyes, then lifted a full wine cup to his lips, draining it at a single swallow.

“May I now return to my regiment, sir?” asked the soldier. “I am not suited to palace life.”

“No, I am sorry. I think Alexander is in danger, and I want you close to him for a little while longer. Will you do this for me?”

Hephaistion sighed. “You know I will refuse you nothing, sir. But please let it not be too long.”

“No more than a month. Now you should get some rest. I understand Alexander rides on a hunt tomorrow … today … at dawn.”

Hephaistion chuckled. “That will come as a welcome relief.” His smile faded. “What will you do about Philotas?”

“What I must,” Parmenion answered.

Parmenion awoke soon after dawn, but he was not refreshed by his sleep. His dreams had been full of anxiety and despair, and on waking he felt no better.

Rising from the bed, he opened the shutters of his bedroom window and stared out over the city. When men looked at
him, they saw Macedonia’s greatest general, a conqueror, a man of power. Yet today he felt old, weary, and lost.

One son, Alexander, was being betrayed by another, Philotas, while the king Parmenion loved was fast convincing himself of the necessity of murdering his heir.

This was no battlefield where the
strategos
could work one of his many miracles. This was like a web of poisoned thread, weaving its way through the city and the kingdom, corrupting where it touched. But who was the spider?

Attalus?

The man was coldhearted and ambitious, but Parmenion did not believe him capable of manipulating Philip. Yet who else stood to gain?

He summoned two of his manservants, ordering them to prepare him a bath. Only a few years before he would have first left the house for a morning run, loosening his muscles and refreshing his mind. But now his limbs were too stiff for such a reckless release of energy. There was a tray of apples by the window, and he bit into one. It was sweet and overripe, and he threw the remainder from the window.