'Kingdoms are at stake and nothing remains simple.'
The youth was Paris, a Prince of Troy, and the three goddesses had commanded him to present the golden apple to the most beautiful among them. Parmenion gazed at the youth's stone face, reading the emotion the sculptor had so exquisitely carved there. It was the look of the lost. If he gave the apple to one then the others would hate him, not resting until they saw him dead.
'Kingdoms are at stake and nothing remains simple.'
Paris had presented the prize to Aphrodite, and she had rewarded him by making the most beautiful woman in the world love him. His happiness was complete. But the woman was Helen, wife of Menelaus, King of Sparta, and Athena, allied with Hera, conspired to bring a Greek army seeking vengeance. Paris saw his city conquered, his family slain, and was himself stabbed to death as Troy burned.
Foolish boy, thought Parmenion. He should have ignored beauty and presented it to the strongest. How could Paris have believed that Love alone could save him? Pushing such thoughts from his mind he stayed by the fountain pool until dusk, concentrating on the problem set by Parzalamis.
Servants brought him food and wine which he left untouched on the marble bench where he sat beneath a flowering tree that offered shade from the setting sun. As the hours passed he was no nearer to a solution and this galled him.
Loosen your mind, he told himself. Think back to your days with Xenophon, and the advice the Athenian general offered so freely.
'If a problem cannot be tackled by a frontal assault,' Xenophon had said, 'then try a flank attack.' Parmenion smiled at the memory.
Very well, he thought. Let us examine all that we know. The Persians wish to kill Alexander. They gave Mothac two reasons. Firstly their magi believe him to be possessed. Secondly, if Athens could be implicated in the child's murder, it would set Philip on the road to revenge. What facts do I possess, he asked himself?
The name of the assassin.
He sat upright. Why would Parzalamis have revealed the name? Why not just tell Mothac that a servant had been bribed? It would be safer that way. A mistake, perhaps? No, Parzalamis was too wily to fall victim to a loose tongue.
The answer was suddenly chillingly obvious — they were still testing Mothac. Parzalamis did not need a hiding-place for the Athenians. What he needed was to know whether his finest Macedonian spy could be trusted. Yet to tell him of the assassination attempt was perilous indeed, for if news came to Philip he would certainly go to war with Persia.
Therefore Parzalamis must have taken steps to prevent the information reaching the Macedonian King.
It was as if sunlight had speared through the clouds of Parmenion's troubled thoughts. Mothac would have been. .
must have been. . followed. Once they had seen him rushing to Parmenion, they would know he had betrayed them.
The unarmed Spartan lurched to his feet. Parzalamis would have only one option now. Eliminate the danger. Kill Mothac and the man to whom he had confided the secret.
With a whispered curse he started to run back towards the house.
A figure leapt from the shadows, moonlight gleaming on an upraised knife-blade. Parmenion ducked and hammered his left fist into the man's face, hurling him off balance. A second attacker grabbed him from behind, but Parmenion dropped to one knee, taking hold of the assassin's arm and pitching him into his comrade. A third man ran at him with a short stabbing sword in his hand. Surging to his feet Parmenion swayed left, the blade slashing past his hip.
His fist cannoned against the assassin's chin, staggering him. The other men had regained their feet and were advancing. Parmenion backed away. They came at him in a rush. With a savage scream the Spartan launched himself feet first into their midst, smashing one of the attackers from his feet. The sword cut a shallow wound in his thigh, a knife sliced his scalp. Parmenion rolled to his left. The sword-blade clanged against the stone of the path, sending up a shower of sparks. Parmenion's right leg swept out, knocking the swordsman to the ground. The Spartan's hand fell against a large stone, which he threw into the advancing knifeman's face. Blood spurting from his crushed nose the man cried out, dropping his knife. Parmenion dived for it and rolled to his feet.
The swordsman aimed a wild cut at his head. Parmenion ducked once more and then stepped inside, ramming the knife into the man's belly and ripping it up through the lungs. As the assassin screamed and fell, his comrades turned to run. Parmenion's arm swept up, the blood-covered knife slicing through the air to plunge into one assassin's back.
The man stumbled but ran on. Scooping up the fallen sword, the Spartan gave chase. The fleeing warriors ran to the western gate, where their mounts were tethered. The first man vaulted to his horse but his wounded comrade, blood streaming down his back, could not summon the strength to mount. 'Help me, Danis!' he begged. Ignoring him, his companion kicked his horse into a gallop.
Parmenion raced through the gateway and hacked the sword through the wounded attacker's neck. Seizing the reins of the assassin's horse, he swung himself to the beast's back and set off after the third man.
The fleeing rider had a good start, but he was no horseman and steadily Parmenion gained. His mount, a sway-backed dun gelding, was not quality but he had staying power and slowly Parmenion closed the distance. His erstwhile attacker, a slim bearded man, cast a nervous glance over his shoulder as the horses thundered up the hillside heading east. Suddenly the assassin's horse stumbled, pitching his rider to the earth. The man hit hard, but pushed himself to his feet and started to run. Parmenion galloped his horse alongside the man, the flat of the sword-blade rapping his skull and toppling him to the ground.
Reining in the gelding, Parmenion leapt down. His would-be killer backed away.
'Speak swiftly,' said the Spartan. 'Your life depends on it.'
The man's face hardened. ‘I’ll tell you nothing, you Spartan scum-bucket.'
'Unwise,' said Parmenion, plunging the sword into the man's belly. The warrior died without a sound, toppling face-first to the grass. Parmenion remounted and galloped the gelding down past the paddocks and stables, leaping to the ground outside Mothac's house.
The Theban walked out to greet him. His face was ashen and a dagger jutted from his shoulder. 'I think you should forget about keeping contact with Parzalamis,' Mothac grunted.
Parmenion walked into the house where the Persian was lying on the floor, his head twisted at an impossible angle.
'He was waiting for me,' said Mothac, 'but I don't think he expected an old man to be so strong. And like so many of his ilk he wanted to talk before he fought, to make me feel fear, to force me to beg, perhaps. He knew of my meeting with you; he called me a traitor. I think he was truly offended by my duplicity.'
'We must get that knife out,' Parmenion said.
'No time, my friend. Before we fought he taunted me with the fact that the assassination of Alexander is set for tonight. Take Bessus — he's the fastest we have.'
Parmenion ran to the stable. But even as the stallion galloped clear of the buildings, the Spartan felt an icy terror.
There was no way he could reach the capital in time. .
Pella, Macedonia, Autumn
Alexander's dreams were troubled. He saw a dark mountainside and a stone altar around which black-robed priests were chanting, calling out a name, summoning. .