For the hundredth time he pictured the route, the white-walled buildings and narrow alleyways.
Where would you make the attempt? he asked himself again. Not at the start when the guards would be at their most alert, but towards the end. Not near the temple, where open ground would prevent the assassins' escape. No. The attack would come close to the market-place with its scores of alleyways. Two hundred paces of sheer terror awaited him.
Damn you, Philip!
The King walked from the palace doors, the ten guards beating their fists upon their breastplates in greeting. Attalus was slow to follow, his mind preoccupied. 'I see you, Coenus,' said Philip, smiling at the man whose name Attalus had been struggling to remember. 'And you, Diron. I would have thought you'd have had enough of my company.'
One by one Philip greeted each of the men. It never ceased to amaze Attalus how the King memorized the names of the men under his command. Coenus — now Attalus remembered him. He had been promoted by the whoreson Parmenion to command the reserve phalanx at the Crocus Field.
'Are we ready?' asked the King.
'Yes, sir,' Attalus answered.
Two soldiers opened the gates and Philip strode from the palace grounds to be greeted by a thundrous roar from the citizens beyond. Attalus kept close behind him. Brushing the sweat from his eyes, he scanned the crowd. There were hundreds waiting here on both sides of the avenue. Flowers of every kind rained in on the King as he waved to his people. At the cross section the main parade was waiting: cavalrymen from Thessaly, ambassadors from Thebes, Corinth, Pherai, Olynthos and Thrace. Behind them were jugglers and acrobats, jesters and actors in masks of gleaming bronze. At the rear of the parade two white bulls, garlanded with flowers, were led on their last walk to the sacrificial altar of Zeus.
Philip marched to the head of the parade and began the walk along the Avenue of Alexandros.
Attalus, hand on his sword-hilt, saw the crowd surge forward against the thin line of soldiers on either side who fought to keep the way open. Philip walked on, waving and smiling. A small boy dashed from the left, running up to the King. Attalus' sword was half drawn. He slammed it back into its scabbard as Philip swept the child from his feet and stopped as the boy gave him a pomegranate.
'Where is your mother?' Philip asked him. The child pointed to the right and the King walked the boy back, handing him to a woman in the crowd.
Attalus cursed. One thrust now and it was all over…
But Philip moved back into the centre of the avenue and continued on his way at the head of the parade.
As they approached the market-place, Attalus' gaze flickered left and right over the crowd, watching faces, looking for signs of tension. Still the flowers came, the avenue carpeted with myriad colours.
Suddenly the crowd surged again. Three men broke clear, running towards the King.
Knives flashed in the sunlight, as Attalus sprinted forward.
A long dagger plunged into the King's side.
'No!' screamed Attalus. Philip staggered, his hand sweeping aside his cloak and coming up with a hidden sword. The blade smashed through the first assassin's neck. A second knife lunged for the King's throat, but Philip parried the blow, sending a reverse cut that opened the man's arm from elbow to shoulder. Attalus killed the third man as he tried to stab Philip in the back.
The crowd were screaming now. As Philip advanced on the wounded assassin, the man flung himself to his knees.
'Spare me. I will tell you all!' he pleaded.
'You have nothing of worth to say,' said the King, his sword plunging between the man's collar-bones.
'Get a surgeon!' yelled Attalus, moving alongside Philip and taking his arm.
'No!' countermanded the King. 'It is not necessary.'
'But I saw him stab you.'
Philip made a fist and tapped at his tunic. A metallic ring sounded. 'There is a breastplate beneath it,' he said. 'I may be reckless, Attalus, but I am not stupid. Let the parade continue,' he bellowed.
Later that night as the King relaxed in his chambers, growing steadily more drunk, Attalus asked the question that had been gnawing at him all day.
'Why did you kill the last assassin? He could have named the people who hired him.'
'It would have achieved nothing. We both know the men came from Olynthos. If such news became public I would be forced into a war with the Chalcideans; the people would demand it. But it was a good day, was it not? A good day to be alive?'
'I enjoyed it not at all,' snapped Attalus. 'I aged ten years out there.'
Philip chuckled. 'All life is a game, my friend. We cannot hide. The gods use us as they will, then discard us. Today my people saw their King; they watched him march, they saw him fight and conquer. Their pride was fed. So, then, the Olynthians only helped my cause. I feel grateful to them — and to you for protecting my back. I trust you, Attalus, and I like you. You make me feel comfortable — and safe. You remember that first day in Thebes? When I held my knife to my breast and offered you the chance to ram it home?'
'Who could forget it?' answered Attalus. The young prince, fearing Attalus had been sent to kill him, gave him the chance in an alleyway where there were no witnesses. And Attalus had been tempted. At the time he served King Ptolemaos, and Philip was but a boy the King desired dead. Yet he had not struck the blow. . and still did not know why.
'What are you thinking?' asked Philip.
Attalus jerked his mind to the present. 'I was re-living that day, and the journey back to Macedonia. Why do you trust me, Philip? I know myself, and all my failings. I would not trust me — so why do you?'
The smile left the King's face as, leaning forward, he gripped Attalus' shoulder. 'Do not question it,' he advised.
'Enjoy it. Few men ever earn a King's trust, or his friendship. You have both. It does not matter why. Perhaps I see in you a quality you have not yet found. But, were I beset by enemies, you are the man I would most want by my side.
Let that be enough.' The King drained his wine, refilling the cup. He stood — staggered — and wandered to the window, staring out to the west.
Attalus sighed. Exhausted by the tension of the day, he took his leave and walked slowly back to his own rooms in the new barracks. His servants had lit lanterns in the andron and bedchamber. Attalus untied the thongs of his breastplate, removed it and sank to a couch.
'You are a fool to trust me, Philip,' he whispered.
Too tired to climb the stairs to his bed, he lay back on the couch and slept.
'An impressive herd, my dear Mothac. How is it that a Theban develops such a talent for horses?' The Persian stroked his golden beard and leaned back in his chair.
'I listen and I learn, noble Parzalamis. Is the wine to your taste?'
The Persian smiled thinly, but his pale eyes showed no trace of humour. 'Of course — it is from my country, and I would guess at least ten years old. Am I correct?'
'It would surprise me if you weren't.'
'A kind compliment,' said Parzalamis, rising from the chair and walking to the open doorway where he stood looking out over the western hills. Mothac remained on the couch, but his gaze followed the silk-clad Persian. Such clothes, he thought! What was the point of such luxury? Parzalamis wore loose trousers of blue silk, edged with silver wire which in turn held small pearls. His shirt was also silk, but the colour of fresh cream, the chest and back embroidered with gold thread forming the head of a griffyn, part-eagle part-lion. He had no cloak, but his heavy coat of embroidered wool had been flung carelessly across a couch. Mothac's gaze moved down to the man's boots. They were of a skin he had never seen, scaled and uneven, yet with a sheen that made a man want to reach out and touch them.