Dark Prince (65 page)

She had held his hand and told his fortune. Her perfume had been strong, and she had talked of glory. Her skin was whiter than ivory. He remembered reaching out, as if in a daze, and cupping his palm to her breast. Her fingers had stroked his thigh, and she had moved in to him, her lips upon his.

But after that …? There was no memory. Aida later told him that she and Olympias had murdered Philip’s widow and the child. It was necessary, she had assured him. Alexander had not believed her, but he had done nothing to punish the women.

For then, as now, he had woken in his bed with dried blood on his hands and face.

It had seemed to Parmenion that there was no further room for pain in his heart and soul. The death of Derae and the murder of Philip had lashed his emotions with whips of fire, leaving him spent and numb. Yet now he knew he was wrong. The killing of Mothac had opened another searing wound, and the aging Spartan was overcome with grief.

There were no tears, but the
strategos
was lost and desolate.

He sat in his tent with his sons Philotas, Nicci, and Hector,
the body of Mothac laid out on a narrow pallet bed. Parmenion sat beside the corpse, holding Mothac’s still-warm dead hand.

“Come away for a while, Father,” said Nicci, moving to stand beside Parmenion. The Spartan looked up and nodded, but he did not move. Instead his gaze swung to his children: Philo, tall and slender, the image of his father; Nicci, shorter, dark-haired and stocky; and the youngest, Hector, so like his mother, fair of face and with wide, innocent eyes. They were men now, their childhood lost to him.

“I was your age, Hector,” said Parmenion, “when first Mothac came to my service. He was a loyal friend. I pray you will all know such friendship in your lives.”

“He was a good man,” agreed Philo. Parmenion scanned his face for any sign of mockery, but there was nothing to see save regret.

“I have been a poor father to you all,” said Parmenion suddenly, the words surprising him. “You deserved far more. Mothac never ceased to nag me for my shortcomings. I wish … I wish …” He stumbled to silence, then took a deep breath and sighed. “But then there is nothing to gain by wishing to change the past. Let me say this: I am proud of you all.” He looked to Philo. “We have had our … disagreements, but you have done well. I saw you at the Granicus, rallying your men and leading the charge alongside Alexander. And I still remember the race you won against the champions of Greece—a run of skill and heart. Whatever else there is between us, Philotas, I want you to know that my heart swelled when I saw that race.” He turned to Nicci and Hector. “Both of you have needed to fight to overcome the handicap of being sons of the Lion of Macedon. Always more was expected of you. But not once have I heard you complain, and I know that the men who serve under you respect you both. I am growing old now, and I cannot turn back the years and live my life differently. But here … now … let me say that I love you all. And I ask your forgiveness.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Father,” said Hector, stepping into his father’s embrace. Nicci moved to Parmenion’s left,
putting his arm around his father’s shoulder. Only Philo remained apart from them. Walking to Mothac’s body, he laid his hand on the dead man’s chest.

Philo said nothing and did not look at his father, but his face was trembling and he stood with head bowed. Then, without a word, he spun on his heel and strode from the tent.

“Do not think badly of him,” said Nicci. “Most of his life he has wanted nothing more than to win your love. Give him time.”

“I think our time has run out,” answered Parmenion sadly.

Mothac was buried in the shadows of the Ida mountains in a hollow surrounded by tall trees.

And the army moved on toward the south.

THE ISSUS, AUTUMN 333
B.C.

With a boldness few of his enemies could have expected, Alexander marched the allied army along the southern coastline of Asia Minor, through Mysia, Lydia, and Caria. Many of the Greek cities immediately opened their gates, welcoming the victorious Macedonians as liberators and friends, and Alexander accepted their tributes with a show of great humility.

It contrasted with the savagery he unleashed on the towns and cities that tried to oppose him.

The Ionian city of Miletus was stormed by the king’s Thracian mercenaries, and appalling tales of murder, rape, and slaughter swept east across the Persian empire and west to the cities of Greece. Even Alexander’s enemies could scarcely believe the scale of the atrocities.

It was even whispered that the Macedonian king himself was present, dressed as a common soldier and urging the Thracian savages to even greater depths of depravity.

When Alexander heard of it, he flew into a towering rage and an immediate inquiry was launched, headed by an Athenian general. Miletian survivors were questioned and brought to the Macedonian camp. The Thracians were ordered to stand in file while the survivors walked among them, pointing out soldiers alleged to have taken part in the atrocities. By dusk on the fifth day of the inquiry some seventy Thracians had been executed.

The swiftness of Alexander’s justice earned him credit among the allies, and the Macedonian army moved on.

By the spring of the following year Alexander had reached the southern satrap of Cilicia on the coastline of the Sea of Cyprus. No Persian army had come against him, and Darius’ general, Memnon, had moved his offensive to the sea, sailing through the Aegean with a force of three hundred warships, destroying Macedonian supply ships and raiding the coastal cities that had declared support for Alexander.

In the captured port of Aphrodesia Parmenion watched the unloading of three Greek ships that had broken through the Persian blockade. The first, an Athenian trireme, carried supplies of coin desperately needed to pay the troops. Alexander had decreed that there should be no plunder of the liberated lands. All goods would be paid for, and any soldier found guilty of looting or theft would be instantly executed. This was good policy, for it meant that the king could continue to be seen as a liberator and not an invader. But it carried with it a serious problem. If soldiers had to pay for food or clothing or women, then they needed coin, and that was in short supply.

Three gold shipments so far had been intercepted by the Persian fleet, and no Macedonian had received pay for more than three months. Disquiet was growing, and morale was low.

Parmenion counted the chests as they were carried from the ship and loaded on ox carts, then mounted his stallion and led the convoy to the city treasury. Here he watched the unloading of the carts and left Ptolemy and Hector to supervise the storing of the treasure in the vaults below the palace.

Alexander was waiting in the upper rooms, Hephaistion and Craterus with him. The king looked tired, thought Parmenion, as he entered the room and bowed. Alexander, in full armor of shining gold-embossed iron, was sitting on a high-backed chair by the wide window.

“The coin is safely stored, sire,” said Parmenion, untying the chin strap and lifting his helm from his head. His gray hair was streaked with sweat, and he moved to a nearby table, where a pitcher of watered wine had been set with six goblets around it.

“What news of Darius?” asked the king, standing and moving to where Parmenion stood.

The Spartan had reached for the pitcher, but now he paused. “The moment is coming,” he said. “Last year the great king ordered a full conscription from all the satrapies. But he was persuaded that our invasion was merely a swift incursion into Asia Minor in order to plunder the Ionian cities. Now he has realized his error. Our reports are not as complete as I would like, but it seems he is amassing an army of great size.”

“Where?” asked the king, his eyes gleaming.

“That is difficult to say. The troops are moving from all over the empire. One army is reported at Mazara, which is some three weeks to the northeast of us. Another is said to be at Tarsus, a week’s march to the east. Yet another is gathering in Syria. There may be more.”

“How many will come against us?” asked Hephaistion.

The Spartan’s mouth was dry, and he found himself longing to lift the pitcher, to feel the strength of the wine flowing in his limbs. He shook his head. “Who can say?” He reached for the wine.

“But you can guess?” Alexander insisted.

“Perhaps a quarter of a million,” Parmenion answered. Swiftly he filled a goblet and lifted it to his lips, intending only to sip at the wine, but the taste was almost overpowering, and when he replaced the goblet on the table, it was empty.

Alexander refilled it for him. “A quarter of a million? Surely not?” argued the king.

The Spartan forced himself to ignore the wine and moved to a couch at the center of the room. Rubbing his tired eyes, he sat down, leaning back against the silk-covered cushions. “Those who have never been in Asia,” he began, “find it difficult to visualize the sheer size of the empire. If a young man wanted to ride slowly around its outer borders, he would arrive back at his starting point middle-aged. Years and years of travel, through deserts and mountains, lush valleys, immense plains, jungles, and areas of wilderness that stretch on a hundred times farther than the eye can see, even from the tallest mountain.” He gazed around the room. “Look at the wine
pitcher,” he told them. “If that is Greece, then this palace is the Persian empire. It is so vast that you could not count the great king’s subjects: a hundred million … two hundred million? Even he does not know.”

“How, then, do we conquer such an empire?” Craterus asked.

“By first choosing the battleground,” answered Parmenion, “but more importantly by winning the support of its people. The empire is too vast to defeat as an
invader
. We must become a part of it. Darius took the throne by poisoning his rivals. He has already faced his own civil wars and won them. But there are many who distrust him. Macedonia was once considered a part of the empire, and we must build on that. Alexander is here not only to liberate the Greek cities, he is here to liberate the empire from the usurper.”

Hephaistion laughed. “You jest, Parmenion. How many Persians will accept that an invading Greek is a liberator?”

“More than you would believe,” said Alexander suddenly. “Think of it, my friend. In Greece we have many city-states, but we are all Greeks. Here there are hundreds of different nations. What do the Cappadocians care if it is not a Persian sitting on the throne? Or the Phrygians, or the Syrians, or the Egyptians? All they know is that the great king rules in Susa.” He turned to Parmenion. “You are correct,
strategos
, as always. But this time you have surpassed yourself.” The king brought Parmenion a fresh goblet of wine, which the Spartan accepted gratefully.

“There is still the question of the Persian army,” pointed out Craterus. “Who will lead it?”

“That is a problem,” Parmenion admitted. “Memnon is a skilled general. We defeated him at the Granicus because he was not aware of the scale of reinforcements that had arrived with Alexander. He was marginally outnumbered. But wherever this battle is fought, we will face a ten-to-one disadvantage.”

“Do not concern yourself with Memnon,” said Alexander, his voice curiously flat and emotionless. “He died two nights ago.”

“I had not heard that,” said Parmenion.

“Nor should you,” said the king. “I saw it in a vision: his heart burst like an overripe melon.”

Alexander walked to the window and stood staring out over the sea.

Hephaistion moved to his side, speaking so softly that Parmenion could not make out the words. But Alexander nodded.

“The king wishes now to be alone,” Hephaistion stated.

Parmenion rose and gathered his helm, but Alexander remained at the window. Baffled, the Spartan followed Craterus from the room.

“Is the king well?” he asked the younger man as they walked out into the sunlight.

Craterus paused before replying. “Last night he told me he was about to become a god. He was not joking, Parmenion. But then later, when I asked him about it, he denied ever saying it. He has been so … fey of late. Visions, talks with the gods. You have great experience, sir, of men and battles and long campaigns. Do you understand what is happening to him?”

“Have you spoken of this to anyone?”

“No, sir. Of course not.”

“That is wise, my boy. Say nothing, not to Hephaistion or any of your friends. Even if others discuss it in your presence, stay silent.”

Craterus’ eyes widened. “You think he is going insane?”

“No!” replied Parmenion more forcefully than he intended. “He has genuine powers. He had them as a child: the ability to see events a great distance away and other … talents. Now they have returned. But they create in him terrible pressures.”

“What do you advise?”

“I have no more advice to offer. He is marked for greatness. All we can do is support him and follow him. He is strong-willed, and I hope this … malaise … will pass.”

“But you do not think it will?”

Parmenion did not reply. Patting the young man’s shoulder, the Spartan walked away, his thoughts somber. For too long
he had pushed away the doubts, turned his eyes from the truth. Mothac had been right; he had blinded himself to the obvious.