Alexander's spirit reeled from the shock. There was no doubting the vision. For years he had practised 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 BC
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 grey 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 grey, then belted on his dagger before walking down to the long gardens behind the house.
Dew lay upon the leaves and the morning was chill as he strolled the winding paths, halting by a ribbon of a stream that gushed over a bed of coloured 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 recalclass="underline" 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 recalclass="underline" Phrygia, Cappadocia, Pisidia, Cilicia, Syria, Mesopotamia, Persia, Parthia. .
The stream opened out on to 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 towards the eastern wall. There were alcoves there, fitted with carved wooden seats.
In the furthest of these Parmenion seated himself, looking back across the pond and up towards 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 grey 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 towards 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 towards 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 high-born 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 troos and an embroidered shirt, beneath a cape of soft leather which hung down over his right arm.
'Then deliver it,' Parmenion told him. As the Persian came closer, Parmenion could smell the sweet, perfumed oil which 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, he 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 clove 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.