Dark Prince (62 page)

“Who? Who did it?”

“Pausanius,” answered Hephaistion. “He nursed his hatred, though he masked it well, but he never forgave Philip for refusing him justice against Attalus.”

“But why was the king not guarded?”

“He ordered the royal guard to walk some thirty paces behind him, saying he did not wish to be seen as a tyrant who needed protection in his own realm. He died instantly.”

“Sweet Hera! I cannot believe it! Not sorcery, not assassins, not armies could stop Philip. And you tell me he was cut down by a spurned lover?”

“Yes, sir. Alexander is king now. He will be here as soon as the troubles in Greece are put behind him. But he ordered us to kill Attalus as soon as we arrived.”

Parmenion gazed down at the dead man, then dropped his sword and moved to a couch, slumping down with his head in his hands. “What is happening in Macedonia?” he managed to ask.

Hephaistion sat beside him. “There was almost civil war, but Alexander moved swiftly to eliminate his enemies. Amyntas was slain, as was Cleopatra and her new child, followed by some thirty nobles.”

“He began his reign by murdering a baby? I see.” Parmenion straightened, his eyes cold, his face a mask. He stood, gathered his sword, and slammed it back into its sheath. “See that the body is removed and the blood cleaned from the carpets. Then get out of my house!”

Hephaistion reddened. “Alexander asked me to take Attalus’ place. I had thought to use his rooms.”

“Then you thought wrong, boy!” said Parmenion. “There was a time when I believed you had the seeds of greatness within you, but now I see you for what you are: a murderer for hire. You will go far, but you will not share my company—nor my friendship. Do we understand one another?”

“We do,” replied Hephaistion, tight-lipped.

“Good.” The Spartan swung toward the others, his gaze raking over them; then he glanced down at the body on the floor. “He was a man,” said Parmenion. “He had many dark sides to his nature, but he stood by his king loyally. Many years ago he risked his life to save Alexander. Well, you brought him his reward. Tomorrow we will have a funeral for him, with all honors. Do I hear an objection?”

“I have—” Cassander began.

“Shut your mouth!” roared Parmenion.

“We obeyed the orders of our king,” said Cleitus, his face red and his eyes angry.

“As did he,” Parmenion retorted, pointing to the corpse. “Let us hope you do not enjoy the same benefits!”

Without another word Parmenion strode from the room.
Several servants were standing grouped in the corridor outside. “Do not be alarmed,” he told them. “The killing is over. Remove the body and prepare it for burial.”

A young girl stepped forward, her head bowed. “There is a man, lord; he came some while ago. He said he is a friend to you and that you would want to see him in private.”

“Did he give a name?”

“He said he was Mothac. He is an old man, and I took him to your rooms. Did I do right?”

“You did. But tell no one he is here.”

Mothac sat quietly in the soft glow of the lamplight, his eyes staring at nothing, unfocused, his gaze turned inward. His emotions were exhausted now, and even the memory of the flames and the ruins could not stir fresh sadness within him.

What are you doing here? he asked himself. The answer was swift in coming:
Where else could I go?

The old Theban heard footsteps in the corridor and rose from the couch, his mouth dry.

Parmenion entered but said nothing. The Spartan simply filled two goblets with watered wine and passed one to Mothac. The Theban drank it swiftly. “Everything is destroyed,” he said, slumping back to his seat.

Parmenion sat beside him. “Tell me.”

“Thebes is in ruins: every house, every hall, every statue. There is nothing left.”

Parmenion sat silently, his face expressionless. “We rose against the invader,” continued Mothac, “but we could not retake the Cadmea. The Macedonians closed the inner gates against us. Yet we had them trapped there, at the center of the city, and for a while we thought we would be free. But Athens refused to acknowledge us, and we could get no aid from the other cities. Even Sparta refused to send soldiers. Then Alexander came with an army. We realized we could not fight him and offered peace, but his soldiers stormed the city. The killing was terrible to see—men, women, children cut down—for there was nowhere to run. Thousands died; the rest were taken into captivity to be sold as slaves. Alexander himself
ordered the razing of the city, and the siege engineers moved in. Every statue, every column was toppled and smashed to dust. There is no Thebes now … it is all gone.”

“How did you escape?”

“I hid in a cellar, but they found me. I was dragged out and hauled before an officer. Luckily it was Coenus, and he recognized me. He gave me money and a fast horse, so I rode to Athens and booked passage on a ship to Asia. Why did Alexander do it? Why destroy the city?”

“I cannot answer that, my friend. But I am glad you are safe.”

“I am so tired,” whispered Mothac. “I have not slept well since the … the destruction. I keep hearing the screams, seeing the blood. What was it all for, Parmenion?”

The Spartan put his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Rest here. We will talk in the morning.” Taking Mothac’s arm, he led the Theban to the wide bed. “Sleep now.”

Obediently, Mothac stretched out and his eyes closed. Within seconds he was fast asleep. But the dreams came again, and he groaned, tears seeping from his closed eyelids.

Parmenion left the room and wandered down to the moonlit gardens, the words of Tamis echoing from the corridors of time. The old seeress had come to him in Thebes four decades earlier, just before he led the attack on the Spartanheld Cadmea.

“You stand, Parmenion, at a crossroads. There is a road leading to sunlight and laughter and a road leading to pain and despair. The city of Thebes is in your hands, like a small toy. On the road to sunlight the city will grow, but on the other road it will be broken, crushed into dust and forgotten …”
She had advised him to travel to Troy, but he had ignored her, believing her to be a Spartan spy.

Yet had he followed her advice, he would have found Derae and they would have lived their lives together in peace and harmony. There would have been no Macedonian army, and he would never have sired Alexander.

Parmenion found his mind reeling under the weight of all
he had learned. Derae alive … but now dead, Philip gone, Attalus murdered, Thebes in ruins.

He could almost hear the Dark God’s laughter.

“No,” he said aloud, “do not even think of that!” He sat down on a wooden bench, his mind whirling with many overlapping images: Derae, young and vibrant—old and dying; Philip laughing and drinking; the golden child Alexander in the forests of the enchantment; Attalus, tall and courageous, standing against the foe. And from deeper within his memory the slender, ascetic Epaminondas, sitting quietly in his study planning the liberation of Thebes.

So many faces, so many precious memories …

Gone now. He could not quite believe it.

How could Philip be dead?

Such vitality. Such power. One dagger thrust and the world changed! Parmenion shivered. What now, Spartan? he asked himself. Do you serve the child as you served the man? And what if the Dark God has returned? Could you kill Alexander?

He drew his sword, staring down at the blade gleaming in the moonlight, picturing it cleaving into the new king. Shuddering, he threw the weapon from him. A cool breeze rustled the undergrowth, and he stood, walking to where the sword had fallen. Stooping, he lifted it, brushing dirt from the blade.

He had seen the evils Philippos had visited upon his world. If Alexander had become such a man …

“I will kill him,” whispered Parmenion.

IONIA, SPRING 334
B.C.

But Alexander did not come to Asia, for news arrived that the tribes of Paionia and Triballia had risen again in the north of Greece, and a Macedonian expedition, led by the new king, was forced to move against them.

The campaign was brilliantly fought, leaving Alexander triumphant, but Persian gold was once more creating unrest in the southern cities led by Sparta, and the seeds of revolt flowered.

In Athens the orator Demosthenes spoke out against the Macedonians, and Alexander marched his army south, past the ruins of Thebes, using a massive show of strength to coerce the Greek cities to obedience. Though successful, it cost him time, and Parmenion was left in Asia for more than a year—short of manpower and supplies, playing a cat-and-mouse game with the Persian army.

Morale was low as Parmenion and Hephaistion marched the beleaguered army along the Ionian coast, making fortress camp in a bay close to the isle of Lesbos. Hastily built ramparts were thrown up, and the Macedonians settled down to a well-earned rest as the sun sank into the Aegean. Supplies were short, and the men gathered around their campfires to eat their rations: one strip of jerked beef and a section of stale bread per man.

Hephaistion doffed his helm and ducked under the canvas flap that formed the doorway to Parmenion’s tent. The old
general and his Theban friend, Mothac, were sitting on the ground poring over maps and scrolls.

Parmenion glanced up. “Are the scouts out?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Hephaistion.

Parmenion nodded and returned to the map. “Tomorrow we strike through Mysia. There are several small cities there; they will buy us off with food and coin.”

“The men are getting tired of running,” Hephaistion snapped. “Why can we not stand and show the Persians the strength of Macedonian spears?”

“Because we have not the power,” retorted Parmenion. “Memnon now has close to fifty thousand warriors, highly trained and well armed. We would risk being crushed.”

“I do not believe that.”

“Believe what you will.”

Hephaistion crouched down beside the Spartan. “Listen to me, sir, the men are becoming downhearted. We must have a victory.”

Parmenion’s cold blue eyes locked to Hephaistion’s gaze. “You think I do not want a victory? Gods, man! I would give my right arm for one. But look at the terrain,” he said, gesturing at the goatskin map. “Once we accept battle, the Persians will envelop our flanks, cutting off any retreat. Then we would be lost. I know this is not easy for a young man like yourself to accept, but we have fewer than a thousand cavalry and only a few hundred bowmen. We could not hold them. But what we can do is keep the enemy on the march, allowing Alexander an unopposed crossing of the Dardanelles with the main army. Then we will have the battle you dream of.”

“So speaks the Lion of Macedon!” muttered Hephaistion with a sneer. “There was a time when the very mention of your name would send the enemy into flight. But all men grow old.”

Parmenion smiled. “If fortunate, we grow wiser with age, child. And the yapping of puppies bothers us not at all.”

The Spartan returned his attention to the map, and Hephaistion, swallowing his fury, left the tent. For an hour or more he patrolled the camp, checking on sentries, talking to
the men; then he climbed the winding path of the eastern cliff and stood in the moonlight gazing east over the fabled lands of the Persian empire. Such wealth for the taking! Such glory to be won! Beyond Ionia was Phrygia, rich in metals, silver, gold, and iron. Beyond that Cappadocia, Armenia, Mesopotamia. And then the heartlands of the empire: Babylonia, Media, and Persia itself.

The annual revenue of Macedonia was eight hundred talents of silver, a vast fortune. But, so it was said, in Babylon there was a minor treasury containing 240,000 talents of gold.

Hephaistion trembled at the thought of such riches. There were cities of gold and statues of purest silver. There were gems the size of a man’s head. Persia! Even the fabled Midas, whose touch transformed all to gold, could not in a single lifetime have created Persia’s wealth.

The moon was bright when Hephaistion saw the rider galloping his mount across the narrow plain. The man was wearing the wide-brimmed leather hat sported by the Paionian scouts, and Hephaistion waved and shouted to attract his attention. The rider saw him and veered his pony to climb the hillside.

“What news?” Hephaistion asked the scout.

“The king is at Troy, sir,” answered the rider.

Hephaistion punched the air with delight. “You are sure?” There had been many false reports of Alexander’s arrival.

“I saw the army myself. He has with him more than thirty thousand men.”

“Then it has begun!” shouted Hephaistion exultantly.

THE IDA MOUNTAINS, 334
B.C.