Dark Prince (69 page)

There were robbers in the hills, savage tribesmen who looted many of the trade caravans from the east, but Alexander did not think of them as he rode. Instead he pictured the Spartan, remembering his gallantry in the lands of the enchantment and his quiet counsel in the years that followed. Now there were assassins on their way to kill him.

Sent by me!

No, not by me. Never by me!

How could I have been so foolish? thought Alexander. The moment his father had torn the necklet from his throat he had
felt the surging force of the Dark God. But he had believed he could control the evil, holding it back, using it when necessary. Now he knew that even that belief had been merely one more example of the cunning of Kadmilos.

Kadmilos! Even as he thought the name of the beast, he could feel the claws of power pulling at his spirit, drawing him down, the dizziness beginning …

“No!” he shouted. “Not this time!”

“You are mine,”
came the whispering voice from deep within him.

“Never!”

“Always,”
came the response.
“Look on, Alexander—and despair!”

The hidden doors of his memory opened, and he saw again the murder of Philip, but worse than this he saw himself the night before, speaking with Pausanius and urging him to seek revenge. “When I am king,” he heard himself saying, “your rewards will be great indeed.”

“Poor, naïve Pausanius,”
whispered the voice in his mind.
“How surprised he was when you leapt across the body of the fallen king and plunged your sword into his chest.”

Alexander’s spirit reeled from the shock. There was no doubting the vision. For years he had practiced self-deceit, never daring to search for the truth. Other images swarmed into his mind: the death and mutilation of Philip’s wife and son, the killing of Cleitus and Mothac, the murder of Theoparlis … loyal, trusting Theoparlis.

The king cried out as he rode, and the demon within him laughed and rose.

“No,” said Alexander again, quelling the emotions of hatred and fear, hauling himself clear of self-reproach and guilt. “Those deeds were yours, not mine.” His concentration deepened, and he pushed the demon back.

“You cannot resist me for long,”
Kadmilos told him.
“You will sleep, and I will rise.”

It was true, but Alexander did not allow the fear to dominate his thinking. The cowardice of Kadmilos—his spirit fleeing as the point of Philo’s dagger touched the skin of
Alexander’s throat—had given the king one last chance at redemption, and his thoughts were of Parmenion as he rode.

The great stallion galloped on, seemingly tireless, the drumming of his hooves echoing through the hills.

“Father Zeus,” prayed Alexander, “let me be in time!”

THE CITY OF ELAM, 330
B.C.

Parmenion awoke from a dream-filled sleep and sat up, pushing back the thin sweat-soaked sheet. The sky beyond the narrow window was streaked with gray as he climbed from the bed and padded across to the small table where last night’s pitcher of wine still stood. It was almost empty, but he poured the dregs into a goblet and drained it.

He was about to return to his bed when he turned and caught sight of his naked body reflected in a mirror of polished brass. His hair was white now and thin, his face lean and sharp, the hawk nose more prominent than ever. Only the pale blue eyes were the same. He sighed and dressed in a simple
chiton
of silver-gray, then belted on his dagger before walking down to the long gardens behind the house.

Dew lay upon the leaves, and the morning was chilly as he strolled the winding paths, halting by a ribbon of a stream that gushed over a bed of colored crystals.

Seventy years, fifty of them as a general.

He shivered and walked on.

Parmenion. The Death of Nations. So many he could no longer find their names within his memory. The early days were the easiest to recall: the fall of Spartan power, the defeat of Illyria, Paionia, and Thrace. The sack of the Chalcidice, the overthrow of Thebes …

But the last few years had seen the destruction of dynasties too many to recall: Phrygia, Cappadocia, Pisidia, Cilicia, Syria, Mesopotamia, Persia, Parthia …

The stream opened out onto a wide pond around which statues had been set. A leopard, beautifully crafted and vividly painted, stood at the edge of the pool, leaning its head forward as if to drink. A little distance away stood a striped horse, and beyond that several deer. All still, motionless, frozen in time.

The sun broke through in the east, the warmth touching the Spartan but not lifting his spirits. He walked on toward the eastern wall. There were alcoves there, fitted with carved wooden seats.

In the farthest of these Parmenion seated himself, looking back across the pond and up toward the great house with its rearing columns and red-tiled roof.

Some ten paces to his left sat a stone lion. Unlike the other animals in the garden, he was not painted; his great albino head was cocked to one side, as if listening, and the muscles of his flanks were magnificently rendered. Parmenion found the statue to be among the best he had ever seen, wondering why he had never noticed it before.

As the Spartan stared, the lion suddenly moved. Slowly and with great grace it stood and stretched its muscles of marble. Parmenion blinked and focused on the statue. The lion was still again, returning to its former position with head cocked.

“I am back,” said a soft voice. Parmenion turned his head and was not surprised to see Aristotle sitting beside him on the wooden bench. The man had not changed. In fact, he seemed if anything a little younger, his gray beard streaked now with auburn hairs.

“Why did you create the lion?”

The
magus
shrugged. “I like to make a dramatic entrance.” But there was no smile, and his voice was subdued.

“Why have you come?”

“It was time.”

Parmenion nodded, though he did not understand. “Alexander is losing his battle with the Dark God,” he said, “and I am powerless to save him. He no longer listens to me, and the
messages from his court are all of murder and madness. Can you help him?”

Aristotle did not answer at once but reached out and laid his hand on Parmenion’s arm. “No, my friend. The Dark God’s power is far greater than mine.”

“Alexander is my son. My flesh, my blood, my guilt. His evil is upon my hands. I should have killed him years ago.”

“No,” said Aristotle. “The drama is not yet played out. I took the liberty of fetching this from your rooms.” The
magus
held out a small pouch of soft hide.

“It is useless now,” said Parmenion.

“Take it anyway.”

The Spartan tucked the pouch into his belt. “You said it was time. So what is to happen?”

Aristotle leaned back, turning his face to stare up toward the house. “Three men are dismounting at the main entrance. Soon you will see them striding down this path. Kadmilos—the Dark God—sent them. You understand?”

Parmenion took a deep breath, and his eyes narrowed. “I am to die,” he said.

A door opened at the rear of the house, and three men began the long walk down the path by the glittering stream. Parmenion stood and turned to Aristotle.

But the
magus
had disappeared …

Parmenion walked slowly toward the three men. He did not know them by name but had seen them with Alexander. Two were Parthians, dressed in oiled black leather tunics and long riding boots, their dark hair cropped short to the skull. The third was a highborn Persian who had entered the king’s service. The Spartan smiled as he saw that the man carried a sealed scroll.

“We have a message for you, sir,” called the Persian, increasing his pace. He wore loose-fitting silk trews and an embroidered shirt beneath a cape of soft leather that hung down over his right arm.

“Then deliver it,” Parmenion told him. As the Persian came closer, Parmenion could smell the sweet perfumed oil that
coated his dark tightly curled hair. He offered the scroll with his left hand, but as the Spartan reached for it, the man’s right hand emerged from beneath the cape. In it was a slender dagger. Parmenion had been waiting for the move and, sidestepping, slapped the man’s arm aside and drove his own dagger home into the assassin’s chest. The Persian gasped and stumbled to his knees. The two Parthians leapt at Parmenion with swords drawn. The Spartan threw himself at them, but they were young men, swift of reflex, and he no longer had the advantage of surprise. A sword cleaved into his left shoulder, snapping the bone of his arm. Spinning, he hurled his dagger at the swordsman, the blade slicing home into the man’s throat to tear open the jugular.

Something struck Parmenion in the lower back. It felt like the kick of a horse and there was no sensation of a cut or stab, but he knew that a sword blade had plunged into him. Anger flared, for his warrior’s heart could not bear the thought of dying without at least ensuring that his killer joined him on the path to Hades. Pain roared through him as the assassin wrenched the blade clear. The Spartan staggered forward and fell to the path, rolling to his back.

The Parthian loomed over him. Parmenion’s fingers closed over a rock, and as the swordsman prepared himself for the death strike, the Spartan’s hand flashed forward, the rock cracking against his assailant’s brow. The man staggered back, the skin above his right eye split.

With a curse he ran at the wounded Spartan, but Parmenion’s leg lashed out to sweep the Parthian from his feet. The man fell heavily, losing his grip on his sword. Parmenion rolled to his belly and struggled to rise. But for once his strength was not equal to his will, and he fell.

He heard the Parthian climb to his feet and felt the sudden pain of the sword blade as it pierced his back, gouging into his lung. A boot cracked against his head, then a rough hand tipped him to his back.

“I am going to cut your throat … slowly,” hissed the Parthian. Dropping his sword, the assassin drew a curved
dagger with a serrated edge, laying it against the skin of the Spartan’s neck.

A shadow fell across the killer. The man looked up in time to see the short sword that hammered into his temple. He was catapulted across Parmenion’s body and fell face-first into the stream, where his blood mingled with the water that rippled over the crystals.

Alexander knelt by the stricken Spartan, lifting him into his arms.

“I am sorry. Oh, gods, I am so sorry,” he said, tears falling from his eyes.

Parmenion’s head sagged against the young man’s chest, and he could hear Alexander’s heart beat loud and strong. Lifting his arm, the Spartan pulled the pouch clear from his belt and pushed it toward the king. Alexander took it and tipped the contents to his palm; the gold necklet glittered in the sunshine.

“Put … it … on,” pleaded Parmenion. Alexander lowered him back to the ground and took the necklet in trembling fingers, looping it over his head and struggling with the clasp. At last it sat proud, gleaming, and perfect.

Aristotle appeared alongside the two men. “Help me carry Parmenion to the eastern wall,” he said.

“Why? We should get a surgeon,” said Alexander.

The
magus
shook his head. “No surgeon could save him. But I can. His time here is done, Alexander.”

“Where will you take him?”

“To one of my homes. I shall heal him, do not fear for that. But we must hurry.”

Together they carried the unconscious Parmenion to the white lion, laying him down on the grass beside the statue. The stone beast reared up on its hind legs, growing, widening, until it loomed above them like a monster of legend. The belly shimmered and disappeared, and through it Alexander could see a large room with a vaulted window, opening onto a night-dark sky ablaze with stars.

Once more they lifted the Spartan, carrying him to a wide bed and laying him on it. Aristotle took a golden stone from
the pouch at his side, placing it on the Spartan’s chest. All breathing ceased.

“Is he dead?” Alexander asked.

“No. Now you must return to your own world. But know this, Alexander, that the magic of the necklet is finite. It may last ten years, but more likely the power will fade before then. Be warned.”

“What will happen to Parmenion?”

“It is no longer your concern, boy. Go now!”

Alexander backed away and found himself standing in the sunlit garden staring back into the moonlit room within the statue. Slowly the image faded and the lion shrank, the great head coming level with the king—the jaws open, the teeth long and sharp. Then it sank to the earth and slowly crumbled, the stone peeling away like snowflakes, drifting on the breeze.

Behind him he heard the sound of running feet and turned to see Craterus and Ptolemy, followed by a score of warriors from the royal guard.

“Where is Parmenion, sire?” Ptolemy asked.

“The Lion of Macedon is gone from the world,” answered Alexander.

BABYLON, SUMMER 323
B.C.