Dark Prince (64 page)

“Why are we here, sir?” asked Ptolemy, averting his eyes from the dead Persian.

Parmenion did not answer. Across the field some Macedonian
and Thracian soldiers were still looting the dead, and above the battleground flocks of dark birds were circling, crying out in their hunger.

“How many lie here, do you think?” the Spartan asked.

“Thousands,” answered Perdiccas, a tall, slender young cavalryman who had arrived in Asia with Alexander.

“Somewhere near sixteen thousand,” Parmenion told him. To the far left Macedonian work parties were digging a mass grave for their fallen comrades. “How many did we lose?” continued the general, looking at Ptolemy. The young man shrugged and spread his hands.

Parmenion’s face darkened. “You should know,” he told him. “You should know exactly. When you ride into battle, your life depends on your comrades. They must be confident that you care for them. Can you understand that? They will fight all the better for a caring commander. We lost eight hundred and seventeen Macedonians, four hundred and eleven Thracians, and two hundred and fifteen allied Greeks.”

The general walked on, and, mystified, the officers followed. Here the bodies lay in groups, hundreds one upon another. “The last stand of the royal infantry,” said Parmenion. “With the army fleeing around them, they stood their ground … to the death. Brave men. Proud men. Do them honor in thought and word.”

“Why should we do the enemy honor?” asked Perdiccas. “What purpose does it serve?”

“Who will rule this land now?” said Parmenion.

“We shall.”

“And in years to come the sons of these brave men will be your subjects. They will join your armies, march under your banners. But will they be loyal? Will you be able to trust them? It might be wise, Perdiccas, to honor their fathers now in order to win the love of their children later.”

Parmenion knew he had not convinced them, but the walk among the slain had become a ritual, a necessary ordeal—more, he realized, for himself than for the young men he forced to accompany him.

Silently he strode from the battlefield, back along the line
of the river, to where the horses were tethered, then he mounted and led his small company on to the former Persian camp.

The victory had been swift and terrifying.

The Persian army of around forty-five thousand men had fortified the far bank of the Granicus River, cavalry on left and right, mercenary infantry and royal guards—and the general Memnon—at the center. By all the rules of engagement it should have produced a stalemate. But Parmenion had secretly sent men ahead to gauge the depths of the river. It had been a dry season, and the water was only hip-deep, slow-moving and sluggish.

Alexander had led the companion cavalry in a charge on the enemy’s left flank. Parmenion had ordered Philotas and his Thessalian horsemen to attack on the right. The shocked Persians were slow to react, and by the time Parmenion sounded the general advance, their lines were already sundered. Only the mercenary infantry and the royal guard offered any stout resistance, the other units—and Memnon, the enemy leader—fleeing the field. It was a battle for less than an hour, a massacre for a further two.

Sixteen thousand Persians had died before the sun reached its zenith.

The conquest of Persia was under way. Alexander’s legend had begun.

That night Alexander held his victory banquet in the tent of a dead Persian general. He had brought with him to Asia a Greek writer and poet named Callisthenes, a skeletal figure with a wispy black beard and an unnaturally large head that had long since outgrown the attempts of hair to cover it. Parmenion did not like the man but was forced to admit he had great skill as a saga poet, his voice rich and deep, his timing impeccable.

During the feast he performed an improvised work after the style of Homer, in which he sang of Alexander’s exploits. This was greeted by tremendous applause. The young king, it seemed, had personally slain two thousand of the half a million Persians facing him, while Zeus, the father of the gods,
stretched his mighty hand across the sky, opening the clouds to look down on this mightiest of mortals.

Callisthenes sang of Athena, goddess of war, appearing to Alexander and offering him immortality on the eve of the battle, and of the young king refusing the honor since he had not yet earned it.

Parmenion found the song stirring to the point of nausea, but the younger men clapped and cheered at each exaggerated point. Finally Callisthenes told of the moment when Alexander’s generals had counseled against him crossing the “swirling torrent of the Granicus” and the young king gave the answer that he “would be ashamed if, after crossing the Hellespont, he allowed the petty stream of the Granicus to stand in his way.”

Hephaistion, who was sitting beside Parmenion, leaned in close. “That is not the way it was,” he whispered.

“None of it is the way it was,” answered the general, “but it sounds very fine to the young and foolish.”

The feast continued long into the night, and, bored, Parmenion made his way back to his own tent. Mothac was still awake, sitting stretched out on a huge padded Persian chair. The Theban had been drinking.

“A wonderful day,” he said as Parmenion entered. “Another nation ripe for conquest. More cities to be burned and razed.” His face was flushed, his eyes bleary and red-rimmed.

Parmenion said nothing. Adding fuel to the brazier, he stripped himself of his ceremonial armor and stretched out on a long couch.

“Has the god-king grown tired of hearing stories about himself?” asked Mothac.

“Speak more quietly, my friend,” Parmenion advised.

“Why?” asked Mothac, sitting upright and spilling his wine. “I have lived for more than seventy years. What can he do to me? Kill me? I wish I’d died ten years ago. You know, after the razing of Thebes I could not even find the grave of my Elea. My sweet Elea!”

“You will find her. She does not rest with the cloak of her body.”

Mothac wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “What are we doing here, Parmenion? Why don’t we go home to Macedonia? Raise horses and leave this slaughter to the young men? What do we achieve here? More death, destruction.”

“I am what I am,” replied the Spartan. “It is all I have left.”

“You should not serve him. He is not like Philip, fighting to save his nation. He is a killer. He will build nothing, Parmenion; he will ride across the world as a destroyer.”

“I do not believe that. He is capable of greatness.”

“Why are your eyes so blind to his evil? What hold does he have on you?”

“Enough of this!” roared Parmenion. “You are a drunken old man, full of bitterness and despair. I’ll hear no more of it!”

“Drunk I may be, but I am not fooled by him.” Pushing himself to his feet, Mothac stumbled from the tent.

The old Theban sucked in great gulps of the cool night air and wandered away from the camp, out to a low range of hills to the south. He sat down against the hillside and lay back, trying to focus on the stars, but they swam around, making him feel nauseous. Rolling to his side, he retched violently. His head began to pound, and he sat up, the screwed-up parchment falling from his hand.

He picked it up, smoothing it out. Perhaps if he showed it to Parmenion? No, it would serve no purpose, he knew. The report would be disbelieved. Parmenion was truly blind to any criticism of the young king.

The moon was bright, and Mothac read once more the report from his agent in Pella. Much of it concerned the new elite, Antipater, left in charge of the army at home, with Olympias ruling as queen. It also spoke of unrest in the western regions. But the last section spoke of the murder of Cleopatra and her baby son.

A palace servant had talked of the double killing and was then murdered himself. All the slain man’s friends and the families of those friends were removed from Pella and executed.

But the story survived, whispered among Alexander’s enemies. It was surely too appalling to be true, wrote Mothac’s agent. Alexander was said to have gone to Cleopatra’s apartments and strangled her with a silver wire. Then he took the babe to the rooms of a foreign witch woman from Samothrace, where, in order to ensure the success of his bid for the throne, he sacrificed the child to an unknown god and then ate the babe’s heart.

Sober now, Mothac stared at the parchment. A chill breeze blew at his back, and he shivered.

“It is time to die,” hissed a cold voice. A searing pain clamped around Mothac’s heart with fingers of fire. The old man struggled to rise, but the agony was too great, and he sank back to the grass, the parchment fluttering from his fingers.

As it touched the ground, the document burst into flames, writhing on the grass with dark smoke billowing from it.

Rolling to his belly, Mothac tried to crawl, but a powerful hand grasped his shoulder and turned him to his back. He looked up and saw a pair of yellow, slitted eyes and felt the long dagger slide under his breastbone.

Then all pain left him, and the grass was cool against his neck. He remembered a day in a Thebes of long ago when he had sat by a trickling stream with Elea beside him, her head resting on his shoulder.

The colors were bright, the green of the cypress trees above him, the dazzling blue of the sky, the statues in the garden seemingly carved from virgin snow. Life had been beautiful that day, and the future was brimming with the promise of further joy.

“Elea …” he whispered.

Alexander rose slowly from the depths of a dark dream and drifted up toward consciousness, becoming aware of the silk sheet covering his naked frame. It was luxurious and soft, clinging to his skin, warm and comforting. He rolled to his back and noticed that his hand seemed to be coated with mud, the fingers stuck together. Opening his eyes, he sat up. The
dawn light was bathing the outer wall of the tent, and he lifted his hand to rub sleep from his eyes. He stopped, and his heart began to hammer. Hand and arm were covered with dried blood, as was the bed. He cried out and dragged back the sheet, searching his body for a wound. Hephaistion ran into the tent, sword in hand. “What is it, sire?”

“I have been stabbed,” replied Alexander, on the verge of panic, his hands probing the skin of his body. Hephaistion dropped his blade and moved to the bedside, eyes scanning the king’s naked torso.

“There is no cut, sire.”

“There must be! Look at the blood!”

But there was no wound. By the doorway of the tent lay a dagger, the blade crusted with congealed blood. Hephaistion scooped it into his hand. “It is your dagger,” he said, “but the blood is not yours.”

Alexander padded across to the far wall, where a pitcher of water had been left on a small table. Swiftly the king washed himself clean, still searching for a cut or gash. He swung on Hephaistion. “What is happening to me?”

“I don’t understand you, sire,” answered the young officer.

“Last night … the feast. When did I leave?”

“Just before dawn. You had drunk a great deal and were staggering. But you refused my offer of a helping hand.”

Alexander returned to the bed and sat with his head in his hands. “The blood must have come from somewhere!”

“Yes, sire,” said Hephaistion softly.

“Am I going insane?”

“No! Of course not!” Hephaistion crossed the room, putting his arm around the king’s shoulder. “You are the king, the greatest king who ever lived. You are blessed by the gods. Do not voice such thoughts.”

“Blessed? Let us hope so.” Alexander took a deep breath.

“You said you would talk to me, sire, about Parmenion.”

“I did?”

“Yes. But now that he has won such a victory, I doubt you’ll want him to join Attalus.”

“What are you talking about? Is this a dream?”

“No, sire, you remember … several nights ago? We discussed Parmenion, and you said it might be necessary to kill him.”

“I would never say such a thing. He is my oldest friend; he risked his life for me … many times. Why do you say this?”

“I must have misunderstood, sire. You were talking about allowing him a long rest, like Attalus. I thought …”

“You thought wrong! You hear me?”

“Yes, sire. I am sorry.”

Men began shouting outside the tent, and Hephaistion turned, moving swiftly out into the sunshine. Alexander remained slumped on the bed, trying to remember what had happened after the feast. He could picture the laughter and the jests and Cleitus, the old cavalryman, dancing on a table. But he could not recall leaving the feast or coming to his bed.

Hephaistion returned and walked slowly across the tent, his face grave.

“What is happening out there?” asked the king.

Hephaistion sat down but said nothing, his eyes not meeting Alexander’s gaze.

“What is it, man?”

“Parmenion’s friend, the Theban Mothac … he has been murdered.” Hephaistion glanced up. “Stabbed, sire … many times.”

Alexander’s mouth was dry. “It wasn’t me. I loved that old man. He taught me to ride; he used to lift me up on his shoulders. It wasn’t me!”

“Of course it wasn’t, sire. Someone must have come into the tent while you were sleeping and smeared blood upon you.”

“Yes … yes. No one must know, Hephaistion. Otherwise stories will start to spread … you know, like in Pella about the child.”

“I know, sire. No one will hear of it, I promise you.”

“I must see Parmenion. He will be distraught. Mothac was with him back in Thebes when Parmenion freed them, destroying
the power of the Spartans. My father was there … did you know that?”

“Yes, sire. I will call your servants, and they will fetch your clothes.”

Picking up the blood-covered dagger, Hephaistion dipped it into the murky red water of the pitcher, washing the weapon clean. Then he moved to the bed, dragging clear the blood-covered sheet and rolling it into a tight bundle.

“Why would anyone do this to me, Hephaistion?”

“I cannot answer that, sire. But I will double the guard around your tent.”

Carrying the blood-soaked sheet, the young officer backed away, and Alexander sat silently staring down at his hands. Why can I not remember? he thought. Just like in Pella after he had seen the woman Aida.