Dark Prince (60 page)

“What was that thing?”

“Euclistes,” answered Alexander. “Once a Titan but now a servant to all with the power to call upon him.”

“How do you know of him?” Parmenion asked.

The prince smiled. “I had a fine teacher. Aristotle told us many tales of the damned.”

“You saved my life again, boy,” said Philip, reaching out and gripping his son’s arm. “Three times now.” Suddenly the king chuckled. “You know, I think I might just live forever. Gods, if eight assassins and a beast like that cannot kill me, then what can?”

AIGAI, SUMMER 336
B.C.

Philip awoke to the brightness of the summer sunshine streaming through the open window. He stretched and rose from the bed, listening to the sounds of birdsong from the garden below his rooms. The scent of flowers filled the air, and he felt almost young again.

He padded to a long bronze mirror, standing before it and gazing at his reflection. No longer was he overweight; the muscles of his belly stood out ridged and firm, and his black beard and tightly curled hair shone with health. The scars on his hip and thigh had faded now to faint white lines against his bronzed skin. “I am in my prime,” he told his reflection. He had seldom felt better. The wound in his leg rarely troubled him now, and the pain from his blinded eye was but a memory.

Servants brought him his white tunic and ceremonial cloak, and he dressed and dismissed them before wandering out to the balcony. The sky was wondrously blue, not a cloud in sight. High above the palace a golden eagle banked and glided on the warm air currents.

It was a good day to be alive!

The previous evening Cleopatra had delivered him a son, a healthy, bawling babe with jet-black hair. Philip had raised him high, carrying him to the window and holding him up for the troops and crowds outside to see. Their cheers had almost made the palace tremble. Today they would celebrate his birth in true Macedonian style with marches, games, parades,
and performances from the finest actors in Greece. It would be a day to remember, and not just for the arrival of a new prince.

At midnight Philip had received word from Parmenion. The forward troops had crossed the Hellespont into Persia unopposed. Several of the Asian Greek cities, including Ephesus, had risen against the Persian overlords. Philip’s dreams were all coming true.

Twenty years of planning, scheming, battling, and plotting—and here it was: the culmination of all he had fought for. Athens had finally agreed to Philip becoming the leader of Greece. All the city-states had followed her lead save Sparta, but Sparta no longer counted. The Greek army had invaded Persia, and soon Philip would join them. Then they would free all the Greek cities of Asia, and the Persian king, Darius, would pay a fortune in tribute to prevent Macedon’s army from marching farther into his empire.

Philip laughed aloud, the sound rippling out over the gardens.

In the five months since the demon had almost slain him, the king had rediscovered the joys of living. Olympias’ face appeared before his mind’s eye, and he scowled, but not even thoughts of her could dampen his mood.

A servant entered and announced that Alexander was waiting outside.

“Well, bring him in, man!” ordered Philip.

Alexander was dressed in the black and silver armor of the royal guard, a white-plumed helm on his head. He bowed and smiled. “You look splendid, Father. White suits you.”

“I feel good. It will be a fine day.”

“Indeed it will. The crowds are already gathering, and the procession is ready.”

“As am I,” Philip announced. Together the two men strode from the palace. Outside the great gates the marchers were preparing themselves. There were horsemen from all the provinces and troops from every district. There were actors and singers, poets, jugglers, tumblers.

Two white bulls garlanded with flowers were led out at the
start, gifts for Zeus, the father of the gods. They were followed by twenty carts bearing carved wooden statues of Artemis, Apollo, Ares, Aphrodite, and all the gods of Greece.

A crown of golden oak leaves upon his head, Philip walked at the center of the procession, flanked by the royal guard with Alexander at their head. Behind them came ambassadors from the city-states of Athens, Corinth, Thebes, and even Sparta, plus representatives from Boeotia, Pherae, Euboea, Thrace, Illyria, and Paionia.

Philip glanced back over his right shoulder at the towering distant mountains, then forward again to the great sweep of the Emathian plain. Macedonia. His land!

Unlike Pella, where the king’s palace stood at the center of the city, here in this ancient capital it was built on the top of a high hill, with the city spread out below white and glistening. In the distance Philip could see the amphitheater where he would address his people, and from the foot of the hill to the entrance the crowds lining the route.

Handlers urged the white bulls forward, and they began the long descent to the plain, passing on the left the disguised tombs of Macedonia’s kings, buried deep beneath the hillsides with tall trees growing above them. Lying here were Philip’s ancestors, their riches hidden from the prying eyes of would-be thieves.

One day I will lie in such a place, he thought. And shivered, despite the sunshine.

The procession stretched for almost a quarter of a mile, and the crowds on either side of the avenue threw flowers under the feet of the walkers. Philip waved to his people, acknowledging their cheers, feeling the power of their love wash over him.

“Long live the king!” someone shouted, and the cry was taken up all along the route.

His leg began to ache, but they were close now to the amphitheater, where two thousand Macedonians and other dignitaries waited to see their king and listen to his words of future glories. None of them yet knew of the success Parmenion
and Attalus had enjoyed in the invasion of Persia, and Philip shivered with anticipation, his speech prepared.

“Fellow Macedonians, we stand at the dawn of a new era. The power of the Persians is finished, the dawn of freedom awaits …”

The procession cut off to the left, ready to enter the arena from the wide gates. Philip and his royal guard moved to the right, to the low tunnel leading to the royal dais. In the shadows of the tunnel he paused, looking back at the armed men guarding him.

“I do not wish to enter here surrounded by swords,” he said. “It will make me appear as a tyrant. I shall go in first; you follow me some thirty paces back.”

“As you wish, Father,” Alexander agreed.

Philip stepped into the shadows, his single eye fastened on the square of light ahead.

THE RUINS OF TROY, WINTER 335
B.C.

Parmenion rode Paxus to the brow of the hill overlooking the broken columns of Troy. His aides came alongside him: six young men, sons of Macedon’s noble families.

“That is where Achilles fought and fell,” whispered Perdiccas, his voice trembling.

“Yes,” said Parmenion, “where Priam the king stood fast against the armies of Greece. Where Hector was slain and where the beautiful Helen lived with the adulterer Paris. That is all that remains of the glory that once was Troy.”

“May we ride down, sir?” Ptolemy asked.

“Of course. But be wary. There are many villages nearby, and the inhabitants may be none too friendly.”

The nobles urged their mounts forward, galloping down the hillside toward the ruins. To the south Parmenion could see a white-walled temple, and he touched heels to Paxus and cantered toward it.

There were no Persian troops within a day’s ride, and his warning to the young men had been largely unnecessary. Yet he liked his officers to be constantly on their guard.

As he approached the temple, a short, plump woman opened a side gate and walked out to meet him. Parmenion reined in the stallion and halted before her.

“Would you be the Lion of Macedon, sir?” she asked.

Parmenion was surprised. Fifteen thousand Macedonian soldiers were in the vicinity, and there were at least a dozen officers of his own age and height.

“I have been called that, lady. Why do you ask?”

“My mistress sent me to find you. She is dying.”

“I am no healer; I am a soldier. What did she tell you?”

“She said I was to walk from the temple and approach the warrior riding the gray stallion. That is all, sir. Will you come?”

Parmenion shivered, suddenly cold despite the sunshine. Something stirred in his subconscious, but he could not raise it to full awareness. He looked down at the woman. Could this be a trap? Were there soldiers or killers waiting within those white walls?

No, he decided. There was no tension in the woman before him; she was simply a servant following the orders of her mistress. Parmenion dismounted and led the stallion through the narrow gate, following a twisted path through an overgrown garden.

Still his thoughts were troubled.

What is it about this place?

It was tranquil there, harmonious and restful, but his senses were shrieking at him, and he found himself growing more tense.

He halted before the main doors and tied the stallion’s reins to an overhanging tree branch. “Who is your mistress?” he asked.

“She was the healer, sir,” the woman answered.

It was dark within the temple, and Parmenion was led to a small room where the single window was covered with a thick woolen curtain. An old woman lay on a narrow bed; her face was emaciated, her eyes blind. Parmenion moved to the window, drawing back the curtain. Bright sunshine filled the room.

The Spartan looked down on the brightly lit face of the old woman, and his breath caught in his throat. He staggered back, gripping the curtain to stop himself from falling. And then the memory surged up from the darkest recesses of his mind. He saw again the garden at Olympia where he and Derae had first embraced. And he saw her lying in his bed and heard again her soft, sweet voice.

“I dreamed I was in a temple, and all was darkness. And I said, ‘Where is the Lion of Macedon?’ The sun shone then, and I saw a general in a white-plumed helmet. He was tall and proud, standing with the light at his back. He saw me …”

“Sweet Hera!” whispered Parmenion, falling to his knees. “It cannot be you, Derae. It cannot!”

The old woman sighed. “It is I,” she said. “When they threw me from the ship, I did not die. I reached the shore. I waited here for years, thinking you would come for me.”

With trembling fingers Parmenion reached out and took her hand. “I thought you dead. I would have walked across Hades for you.”

“I know.”

“Why did you not get a message to me?”

“I couldn’t. I became a healer, a priestess. And when I found out where you were, I saw you living in Thebes with another woman.” There was nothing he could say, and he felt incapable of forcing words through the lump in his throat. He merely sat, holding her swollen, arthritic hand as she told him of the years spent at the temple, of the spirit journeys across the seas, of saving him and Thetis from the plague in Thebes and guiding him through the underworld to save the soul of Alexander, healing Parmenion of his brain tumor and returning to him a portion of his youth. Lastly she told him of her journey, disguised as Thena, into the world of the enchantment. This time he groaned aloud.

“Why did you not show yourself to me?”

“I think I would have, but then you found the other … me.” His tears fell then, and she felt a soft, warm droplet touch her hand. “Oh, my dear, do not be sad. I have had a wonderful life, healing many. And I have watched you and watched over you. I feel no sorrow. I have treasured our days together, holding them warm and glowing in my memories.”

“Don’t die!” he pleaded. “Please don’t die!”

She forced a weak smile. “That is beyond my powers to grant,” she said. “But I did not send Camfitha to find you so that you should suffer. I needed to warn you. The lady of Samothrace … Aida, you remember?”

“Yes.”

“She is in Macedonia. She intends to rob Alexander of his necklet of power, but she must be stopped. Without the necklet the Dark God will win.”

“I know. Do not concern yourself. I will protect Alexander.”