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 heartbeat, loud and strong.
Lifting his arm, the Spartan pulled the pouch clear from his belt and pushed it towards the King. Alexander took it and tipped the contents on 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 to 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 upon 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 on to a night-dark sky ablaze with stars.
Once more they lifted the Spartan, carrying him to a wide bed and laying him upon 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 BC
Seven years of constant battles had taken their toll on Alexander. The young man who had left Macedonia was now a scarred warrior of thirty-two, who moved with difficulty following a wound to his right lung and the slashing by a hand-axe of the tendons in his left calf.
His victories stretched across the Empire, from India in the east to Scythia in the north, from Egypt in the south to the northern Caspian Sea. He was a living legend throughout the world — adored by his troops, feared by the many enemies he had forced back from the frontiers of his new realm.
Yet, as he stood on this bright summer morning by the window of his palace rooms, he thought nothing of his reputation.
'Are you still set on this course, sire?' asked Ptolemy, moving forward to embrace his King.
'I have no choice, my friend.'
'We could seek the help of wizards — there are some in Babylon said to be most powerful.'
Alexander shook his head. 'I have travelled far to find a way to fight the Beast. All are agreed that I cannot defeat him. He is immortal, everlasting. And the power of the necklet is fading fast. Do you want to see the old Alexander return?'
'No, my lord. But… I wish Hephaistion were here. He would be able to advise you better than I.'
Alexander did not answer, but swung his head to stare from the window. It was the death of his beloved Hephaistion which had decided him upon this course of action. The Macedonian — the most trusted of the King's officers — had been found dead in his bed, apparently choked to death. Of the night in question, twelve weeks before, Alexander could remember nothing.
The surgeons had found a chicken-bone wedged in Hephaistion's throat, and it appeared that the officer had died while dining alone.
Alexander wanted to believe it. Desperately. For Hephaistion, above all his friends, had helped him during the seven years since Aristotle had taken Parmenion. As the power of the necklet faded, it was Hephaistion whose constant love and friendship had been the rock to which Alexander had clung when the Beast had been clawing at him, dragging him down.
Now Hephaistion was gone and the final battle was here.
'You will do as I bid — no matter what?' he asked Ptolemy.
'Oh my life I promise it.'
'No one must lay their hands upon. . it.'
'Nor shall they.'
'You must go to Egypt. Make the land your own. Hold it against all the others.'
'There may be no war, sire. We are all friends.'
Alexander laughed. 'You are friends now,'' he said. 'Leave me, Ptolemy. And tell no one what I plan.'
'It will be as you say.'
The general bowed once and turned to leave. Then suddenly he swung back to Alexander, embracing him and kissing his cheek. No more was said and, tears in his eyes, the officer left the room, pulling shut the door behind him.
Alexander walked to the table and filled a goblet with the wine he had prepared earlier. Without hesitation he lifted it to his lips and drank. Then moving to a bronze mirror on the far wall, he examined the necklet. There was little gold showing now; the interlaced wires had become black as jet.
'Just a little longer,' he whispered.
His servants found him lying on his bed at dusk. At first they moved around him, thinking him sleeping, but after a while one of them moved to his side, touching his shoulder.
'My lord! Sire!' There was no answer.
In panic they ran from the room, summoning Perdiccas, Cassander, Ptolemy and the other generals. A surgeon was called — a slim, wiry Corinthian named Sopeithes. He it was who found the pulse still beating at Alexander's throat.
While no one was watching him, Ptolemy took the goblet containing the dregs of the drugged wine and hid it in the folds of his cloak.
'He is not dead,' said the surgeon, 'but his heart is very weak. He must be bled.'
Three times during the next five days a vein in the King's arm was opened, but at no time did he regain consciousness.