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 down 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 travelling 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.'
'I do not think that was true,' said Hephaistion.
By dusk the trireme was sailing east on the busy trade lane to Cyprus, a stiff breeze billowing the great sail, the oars drawn in, the oarsmen resting at their seats on the three rowing decks. Hephaistion sat on a canvas-topped chair at the stern, eyes locked to the land sliding slowly by them.
First Caria, then Lycia, once so hostile but now merely small outposts of the Empire of Alexander.
He remembered the ceaseless forced marches under Parmenion four years ago as the Macedonian advance troops sought to avoid major clashes with the Persian forces. How right the Spartan had been. Had he fought the Persians and won, then Darius would undoubtedly have gathered an even larger force and Alexander would have arrived in Asia to find himself confronted by an irresistible enemy. The lands of the Persian Empire were more vast than Hephaistion could ever have imagined, its people more numerous than the sand grains of the beaches he could see to the north.
Even now, after almost six years of war and Alexander's winning of the crown, there were still battles to fight -
against the Sogdianians of the north, the Indians of the east and the Scythian tribesmen of the Caspian Sea.
Parmenion had marched a second Macedonian army to the east, winning two battles against superior numbers.
Hephaistion smiled. Even close to seventy years of age, the Spartan was still a mighty general. He had outlived two of his sons: Hector had died at the Battle of the Issus three years ago, while Nicci had been slain at Arbela fighting alongside his King.
Only Philotas remained.
'What are you thinking?' asked Callis, his huge arms resting on the tiller.
Hephaistion glanced up. 'I was watching the land. It seems so peaceful from here.'
'Yes,' agreed the sailor. 'All the world looks better from the sea. I think Poseidon's realm makes us humble. It is so vast and powerful and our ambitions are so petty alongside it. It highlights our limits.'
'You think we have limits? Alexander would not agree.'
Callis chuckled. 'Can Alexander sculpt a rose or shape a cloud? Can he tame an angry sea? No. We live for a little while, scurrying here and there, then we are gone. But the sea remains: strong, beautiful, eternal.'
'Are all seamen philosophers?' Hephaistion asked.
The captain laughed aloud. 'We are when the sea surrounds us. On land we rut like mangy dogs, and we drink until we piss red wine. What war will you be fighting when you get back?'
Hephaistion shrugged. 'Wherever the King sends me.'
'What will he do when he runs out of enemies?'
'Does a man ever run out of enemies?'
Susa, Persia, 330 BC
The moment had come, as he had long known it would, and Philotas felt a sudden coldness in his heart. His father had been right all along. His mouth was dry, but he did not touch the wine set before him. Today he wanted his head clear.
Alexander was still speaking, his officers gathered around him in the throne-hall at the palace of Susa. One hundred men, warriors, strong and courageous, yet they kept their gaze to the marble floor, not wishing to look up into the painted eyes of the King.
Not so Philotas, who stood with head held high watching Alexander. Gold ochre stained the King's upper lids and his lips were the colour of blood. The high conical crown of Darius, gold and ivory, sat upon his head, and he was dressed in the loose-fitting silken robes of a Persian emperor.
How had it come to this, Philotas wondered?
Alexander had conquered the Persians, drawing the defeated army into the ranks of his own forces and appointing Persian generals and satraps. The Empire was his. He had even married Darius' daughter, Roxanne, to legitimize his claim to the crown.
And what a sham that was, for not once had he called her to his bed.
Philotas' gaze flickered over the listening officers, whose faces showed their tensions and their fears. Once more Alexander was talking about treachery amongst them, promising to root out the disloyal. Only yesterday some sixty Macedonian soldiers had been flogged to death for what the King called mutiny. Their crime? They had asked when they could go home. They had joined the army to liberate the cities of Asia Minor, not to march across the world at the whim of a power-crazed King.
Five days before that, Alexander had had a vision: his officers were set to kill him. The vision told him who they were, and six men were garrotted — one of them Theoparlis, the general of the Shield Bearers. Philotas had not liked the man, but his loyalty was legendary.
Ever since Hephaistion's departure the King had been acting strangely, given to sudden rages followed by long silences. At first the generals had affected to ignore the signs. Alexander had long been known to possess unusual Talents, though always before such behaviour had been short-lived. But now it seemed that a new Alexander had emerged, cold and terrifying.
In the beginning the officers had talked among themselves of this transformation, but after the killings began there grew among the Macedonians such a fear that even friends no longer met privately in case they should be accused of plotting against the emperor.
But three days ago had come the final lunacy.
Parmenion and the Second Army had at last taken the city of Elam. More accurately, the ruling council of the city had negotiated a surrender. Parmenion sent the city's treasury — some 80,000 talents of silver — to Alexander at Susa.
Alexander's reply had been to order the killing of every man, woman and child in Elam.
Parmenion had received the order with disbelief and had sent a rider to question its authenticity.
Philotas had been summoned to the palace along with Ptolemy, Cassander and Craterus. They had arrived to find Alexander standing over the body of the messenger.
'I am surrounded by traitors,' Alexander declared. 'Parmenion has refused to obey the orders of his emperor.'
Philotas gazed down on the body of the messenger, a young boy of no more than fifteen. The lad's sword was still in its scabbard, but Alexander's dagger was buried in his heart.
'You have always spoken against your father, Philo,' said Alexander. 'I should have listened to you earlier. In his dotage he has turned against me. Against meV
'What has he done, sire?' Ptolemy asked.
'He has refused to punish Elam for its rebellion.'
Philotas felt himself growing cold, a numbness spreading through him. All his life he had believed that one day he would be a king — the knowledge sure, set in stone, based on the promise of the only person who had ever loved him, his mother Phaedra. But, during the last year, the stone of belief had slowly crumbled, the cold breeze of reality whispering against it, scattering his hopes, destroying his dreams. Lacking the charisma of a Philip or Alexander, or the intellect of a Parmenion, he could not even inspire the troops he led into battle. Self-knowledge came late to him, but at last even Philotas had come to recognize his mother's folly.
No kingdom. No glory. His father had been right: he had built his future upon a foundation of mist. What now, he wondered? If he remained silent, then Parmenion would be slain and he, Philotas, would remain as a general of the King. If not, he would be taken and murdered. . and Parmenion would still be killed. His mouth was dry, his heartbeat irregular. To die or not to die? What kind of a choice was this for a young man, he wondered? 'Well, Philo?' asked Alexander.