Dark Prince (67 page)

Aida was content as she sat under the shade of an awning, her gaze resting on the glittering sea far below. The castle here was built on a towering cliff above a small village that nestled between two bays. From where she sat Aida could see only the smaller bay, a sheltered cliff-protected bowl where ships could anchor to escape the winter gales that raged across the Aegean.

A trireme was beached in the bay, its huge sail furled, its three banks of oars drawn in. It sat on the beach like a child’s toy, and Aida watched as several sailors leapt ashore and an officer began the long walk up the winding cliff path to the castle.

The sea air was fresh, and Aida drew in a deep breath. She could taste the Dark God’s power on her tongue, feel his swelling presence in the air around her, blowing on the sea breeze from Asia. She licked her lips, reveling in dreams of tomorrow.

There were those who talked of good and evil. Foolish notions. There was only strength and weakness, power and helplessness. This was at the heart of all the mysteries she had so painfully learned during her long, long life.

Earth magic could prolong life, extend strengths, earn riches for the man or woman who understood it. But earth magic required blood and sacrifice; it needed screaming souls to feed it.

This much had been understood since the first rays of the
first dawn. Throughout history the wise had known of the power of sacrifice. But only the true initiates understood the nature of the power released.

Yes, one could kill a bull and gain a particle of power. But a man? His fear just before death would swell the particle, filling it with dark energy, releasing enchantment into the air.

Aida’s dark eyes looked to the east, across the wide waters. Thousands upon thousands of men had died there a year earlier, at Arbela, slain by the ever-victorious Macedonian army. Darius the king was dead, murdered by his own disenchanted men as they retreated. Alexander was crowned king in Babylon.

Alexander, king of kings. Alexander the god …

No, she realized, not yet the god. Still the mortal fought to hold back the power living within him.

But not for much longer … She closed her eyes, her spirit soaring across the blue sea to the city of Susa, where Alexander sat on a throne of gold studded with rare gems. He was dressed now in flowing silks, a cloak of golden thread upon his shoulders.

Aida hovered unseen in the air before him. “Master!” she whispered.

There was no response, but she could feel the pulsing force of the god within him. Alexander was like a man clinging to a rock face far above the ground, his arms tired, his fingers cramping. She could sense his fear. His soul had proved stronger than Aida would have believed possible, holding the god from his destiny—and such a destiny! Once he was in full control, his powers would grow, radiating far beyond the frail human shell he inhabited. The might of chaos would then surge across the earth, drawn into every living being, every tree and rock, every lake and stream.

And then those who had served him faithfully would gain their reward: a life of eternal youth, an infinity of pleasure, an intensity of experience and sensation never before attained by those of human birth.

Soon would come the blessed day.

Each victory, each death by Alexander’s hand, added strength to the darkness within him.

Not long now, thought Aida.

Returning to her body, she leaned back on the couch, reaching for a goblet of wine. The sun was dipping now toward the west, and she felt its rays hot on her legs. Standing, she pushed the couch farther back into the shadows before stretching out again.

Soon the messenger would be here, hot and tired from walking the steep cliff path. She had written to Alexander, begging leave to come to his court, where she could offer the benefit of her sage counsel. Once there, she could speed the process, adding the necessary narcotics to his wine, lessening his will to resist.

Such joys awaited …

Her thoughts turned to the woman Derae, and she found her good mood evaporating. Old fool! She had been so dismissive, seemingly so content trapped within that frail, arthritic shell.

“How content are you now,” whispered Aida, “now that the worms feast on your flesh? You understood nothing. All your healing and your good works! You merely fed upon the enchantment of the world, giving nothing back. If we were all as you, then the enchantment would die. What would the world be then? A sprawling mass of humanity with not a shred of magic upon it.”

She shivered at the thought. A young red-haired acolyte moved before her, bowing deeply. “There is a man to see you, mistress,” she said. “An officer of Alexander.”

“Bring him to me,” ordered Aida, “and fetch wine.”

The girl backed away. Aida smoothed her gown of black silk and waited. A young man, tall and dark-bearded, stepped into view. His breastplate was black edged with gold, and he held a white-plumed helm in his left hand. His face was handsome, burnished bronze by the Asian sun, and showed not a trace of sweat from the long climb to the castle.

He bowed. “I am Hephaistion, lady. I am sent by Alexander to bring you to his court.”

She looked into his dark eyes and disliked him immediately. Though she despised men, Aida had come to rely on their adoration. But Hephaistion was unaffected by her beauty. It irked her, but she did not show it. Instead she offered the young man a dazzling smile.

“I am honored,” she said, “that the great king should invite me to Susa.”

Hephaistion nodded. “Your home here is beautiful,” he said. “May we walk the walls?”

Aida disliked strong sunlight, but Hephaistion was known as Alexander’s closest friend and she had no wish to offend him. “Of course,” she told him. Taking up a black wide-brimmed hat, she stood and led him to the northern wall. From there they could see the wider of the two bays of Lindos and watch the gulls swooping and diving above the small fishing boats returning from the sea.

“The king is troubled,” said Hephaistion. “He believes you can be of great help to him.”

“Troubled? In what manner?”

Hephaistion sat back on the parapet. “There are two Alexanders,” he said softly. “One I love, the other I fear. The first is a kindly friend, understanding and caring. The second is a ruthless and terrifying killer.”

“You are speaking very frankly, Hephiastion. Is that wise?”

“Oh, I think so, my lady. You see, he told me about your stay in Pella and the … aid you gave him.”

“Aid?” she asked, nonplussed.

“How you helped him take the throne.”

“I see.”

“I think you do,” said Hephaistion softly, his dark eyes holding to her gaze. “When the king received your letter, he asked me to come to you … to thank you for all you have done for him. He gave me two instructions. The two differed, but I am becoming used to that.”

“What were these instructions?”

“Firstly, as I have said, he asked me to bring you to him.”

“And the second?”

“Well, that brings me to a problem. Perhaps you could help me with it.”

“If I can,” she told him.

“As I told you, there are two Alexanders, and each of them gave me separate instructions. Whose should I follow? The friend … or the one I fear?”

“It is always wise,” said Aida carefully, “to respond with caution to orders from men one fears. The friend can be forgiving. The other will not.”

Hephaistion nodded. “You are very wise, lady.” Leaning forward, he took her arm and lifted her to sit on the parapet wall. “Wise and beautiful. I shall take your advice.”

“Then our relationship has begun well,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Indeed it has,” he agreed, “and ended well.”

“Ended?” Aida’s mouth was dry, and she felt the beginnings of fear.

“Yes, lady,” he whispered. “For you see, my friend asked me to bring you to him. The other Alexander told me to kill you.”

“That cannot be. I am his loyal servant; I always have been. He would not order my death. You are mistaken, Hephaistion. Now let me down. I have had enough of this nonsense.”

“Perhaps you are right,” he told her. “It is so hard sometimes to tell them apart. But in Pella you helped him kill a child; you even convinced him he should eat its heart. I don’t believe my king has need of your counsel.”

“Listen to me—” she began. But Hephaistion’s hand took hold of her legs, tipping her back into space.

Aida felt herself slide clear of the wall.

Far below her the jagged rocks waited, and her screams echoed over the village.

Hephaistion leaned over the parapet to watch Aida fall, her body spiraling down, her shrieks carried away on the wind. It seemed to the Macedonian that she looked like a huge crow, her black robes fluttering like broken wings. He watched her strike the rocks, heard her screams cut off, then saw a flock of
gulls descend upon her, their white forms slowly masking the black robes.

Stepping back, he took a deep breath. He had never killed a woman before, but he felt no regrets. Her evil had been almost palpable, and he had been sullied by touching her.

He had told her the truth, in part at least. Alexander had admitted to fearing her and wishing her dead, yet later, his voice cold, he had ordered her brought to court. During the two years since the bloody slaughter at the Issus, Alexander had spoken often of his fears, of the dark force eating away at the center of his soul. Hephaistion knew more of the king’s secrets than any man—even Parmenion, who now commanded a second Macedonian army and rarely saw Alexander.

It was Hephaistion in whom Alexander confided and Hephaistion who recognized when the Dark God was close to the ascendant. The king’s voice would grow cold, his eyes distant. Then he was chilling …

As on the night in the captured city of Persepolis when he had led a drunken mob of torch bearers to destroy one of the great wonders of the world, the beautifully carved wooden temple to Ahura Mazda containing the works of the prophet Zoroaster. Hephaistion had stood by, stunned, as Alexander hurled oil over the oxhides on which the words of the prophet were written in gold.

Twenty thousand hides, the most treasured possession of the Persian people, destroyed in one night of debauchery, billowing flames clawing at wooden carvings that had lasted for centuries under a Persian sun.

Alexander remembered nothing of it the following morning.

Then had come the night of the spear.

A late-night feast had ended with the cavalry general Cleitus asking the king why he had taken to wearing Persian robes and insisting on the Persian practice of forcing his subjects to prostrate themselves before him, kissing the ground at his feet.

Alexander was embarrassed by the question, for there were several Persians present and Hephaistion knew that though
the king did not like the ritual, he was endeavoring to act like a Persian monarch, honoring their customs. But he had never asked his Macedonian officers—or any Greek—to prostrate themselves before him.

Cleitus was drunk and unhappy at being asked to sit away from the king’s right hand, his place being taken by a Persian general.

Hephaistion had tried to pull Cleitus away from the table, urging him to return to his tent and sleep off his drunkenness, but the old cavalryman had pushed him away and stumbled toward the king, shouting: “I served your father, you arrogant puppy, and I never had to kiss his feet. Damned if I’ll kiss yours!”

Hephaistion saw Alexander stiffen and watched in sick horror as his eyes grew pale. Never before had the transformation happened publicly, and he ran toward the king, desperate to get him away from the revelers. But he was too late. Alexander stepped back, seized a spear from a guard, and thrust the iron blade through Cleitus’ belly. Blood gushed instantly from the old man’s mouth, and he fell back, the spear tearing loose from the wound. For several moments the stricken man writhed on the floor, screaming. Then, with a gurgling, choking cry he died.

A stunned silence followed.

Alexander blinked and staggered as Hephaistion reached his side, taking his arm. “What have I done?” whispered Alexander. “Sweet Zeus!” Turning the spear on himself, he tried to fall on the blade, but Hephaistion wrestled it from him. Two guards came to his aid, and the weeping king was helped from the tent.

The following day, his hair covered with ash, Alexander led the funeral procession behind Cleitus’ body. Instead of following the Macedonian custom of burning the corpse and placing the bones in a ceremonial casket of gold, he had ordered Egyptian embalmers to preserve the body, intending to have it placed in a crystal case and displayed in a specially built tomb of marble.

The king’s grief was obvious to all, and the soldiers, who
loved Alexander, forgave him swiftly. But his officers, having seen him murder a loyal brother, were silent, and Hephaistion knew their thoughts: Who will be next?

The embalming of Cleitus was a memory Hephaistion would never forget.

A slender Egyptian moved to the body, carrying a box of cedar wood from which he produced a long, narrow spike, bent and forked at the tip.

“What is he doing?” Hephaistion asked the king.

Alexander’s reply was detached, his voice distant and cool. “He must remove the internal matter of the skull to prevent it rotting. So that the face is unmarked, he will insert the spike in the nostril and hook it into the brain, dragging it out.”

“I need to know no more,” snapped Hephaistion, turning and rushing from the room.

Later he made Alexander promise that if he, Hephaistion, ever fell in battle, he was to be buried in the Macedonian way.

The gulls moved away from the broken body on the rocks below, and Hephaistion stepped back from the parapet and walked from the cliff-top castle on the long winding path to the small bay. The trireme’s captain—a short, stocky Rhodian called Callis—met him on the beach.

“Will she be long?” he asked. “The tide is turning, and we need to sail within the hour.”

“She will not be traveling with us, Captain. Sadly, the lady Aida is dead.”

“What a wasted journey,” said Callis, cursing. “Ah, well, it will be a relief to the men. No sailor likes a woman aboard. And they say she was a witch who could foresee the future.”