'Why? You have a horse. I cannot be far from home.'
'You could not be further. This is not Greece, but a land called Achaea. And here the great power is Philippos, Lord of the Makedones _ the Demon King. It was he who stood upon this hillside, his priests calling you from your home.
It is he who hunts you even now. And, though my power temporarily blocked the magic of his golden eye, no, Alexander, I cannot take you home.'
'I am lost then?' whispered the boy. 'I will never see my father again?'
'Let us not leap to conclusions,' advised Chiron, but his grey eyes avoided Alexander's gaze.
'Why would this. . Philippos want me?'
'I… am not sure,' replied Chiron.
Alexander looked at him sharply. 'I think you are… not telling me the truth.'
'You are quite right, young prince. And let us leave it that way for the moment. We will sleep now, and tomorrow I will take you to my home. There we can think and plan.'
The child looked into the grey eyes of the man, not knowing whether to trust him nor how to arrive at a decision concerning him. Chiron had fed him and clothed him, offering him no harm, but this in itself gave no indication of his longer-term plans. The fire was warm and Alexander lay down beside it to think. .
And slept.
He was awoken by the man's hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him, and it was some moments before he realized that the killing power he had come to dread had not touched the grey-haired magus.
'We must leave — and swiftly,' said Chiron. 'The Makedones are back!'
'How do you know?' asked Alexander sleepily.
'Caymal kept watch for us,' the magus answered. 'Now listen to me, this is most important. You are about to meet another friend. He will surprise you, but you will trust him. You must. Tell him that Chiron wants him to go home.
Tell him the Makedones are upon us and he must run — not fight. You understand?'
'Where are you going?' asked the boy fearfully.
'Nowhere,' answered Chiron, handing his bow and quiver to the prince. 'Watch and learn.' Rising swiftly, he ran to the stallion and turned to face the boy. The stallion's great head rested on the man's shoulder, and the two stood as still as statues. Alexander blinked, and it seemed that a heat-haze danced over man and horse. Chiron's chest swelled, his head thickening, beard darkening. Great bands of muscle writhed over his chest, while his legs stretched and twisted, his feet shrivelling into hooves.
Alexander sat transfixed as horse and magus became one. Gone was the stallion's head. Now the torso of a man reared up from the shoulders of the stallion. The centaur stamped his front hoof and reared, then, seeing the boy, trotted forward.
'Who are you?' boomed a voice deep as distant thunder. Alexander stood looking into the distorted face. Nothing of Chiron remained. The eyes were wide-set and brown, the mouth full, the beard chestnut-coloured and straight.
'I am Alexander — and I have a message from Chiron,' he said.
'You are very small. And I am hungry.'
'Chiron told me to warn you that the Makedones are near.'
Leaning back his head the centaur gave a great cry, a mixture of rage and anger. He saw the bow in the boy's hand and reached out.
'Give to me. I will kill Makedones.'
'Chiron also said that you are to go home. He needs you. You must not fight the Makedones.'
The centaur moved closer, dipping his torso until he looked over the prince. 'You are friend to Chiron?'
'Yes.'
'Then I will not kill you. Now give me the bow, and I will go home.'
'Chiron said for you to take me with you,' lied the boy swiftly, handing him the bow and quiver.
The centaur nodded. 'You may ride me, Human, but if you fall Camiron shall not stop for you.'
Reaching out, he swung Alexander to his back and cantered from the clearing. The boy slipped and almost fell. 'Hold to my mane,' called Camiron. Alexander looked up. Long hair grew from the centaur's spine and he took hold of it with both hands. The centaur broke into a run, and then a gallop, coming clear of the tree-line and thundering into the open.
Directly ahead of them were some fifty cavalrymen. Camiron dug in his front hooves, skidding to a stop that almost dislodged the prince. The riders saw them and fanned out in a wide circle to trap them. Camiron notched an arrow to his bow. 'I kill Makedones,' he said.
'No!' shouted Alexander. 'Home. Go home. Chiron needs you!'
The centaur grunted and leapt to the gallop. An arrow sliced the air by his head. At full run Camiron loosed his own shaft; it hammered into a warrior's chest, toppling him from his mount. More arrows flew at them and one slashed through the muscles of Camiron's hip. He shouted in pain and rage, but continued to run.
They were almost encircled now and Alexander felt a growing sense of despair. Just as it seemed they would be run down the centaur swerved and cut to the right, loosing an arrow into a second rider. The man fell, and for a brief moment a gap appeared in the Makedones' line. Swift as a storm wind Camiron leapt through it, his hooves thundering on the plain as he swept clear of the riders, who streamed after them.
The centaur increased his speed, his laughter carrying back to the warriors who screamed curses after him.
'I fool them!' shouted Camiron. 'The greatest am I.'
'Yes,' agreed Alexander, clinging to the mane. 'You are great. How far is home?'
'Long way for you to walk,' said the centaur. 'Not far for Camiron to run. Are you truly friend to Chiron?'
'Yes, I told you.'
'It better be truth,' the centaur told him. 'If Chiron is not there — I will kill you, Human, and dine on your marrow.'
The Thracian Border, Macedonia
Parmenion reined in the gelding and swung to look back over the hills towards the distant River Axios. He could no longer see the rider, but he knew without a shred of doubt that he was still being followed. The Spartan found this irksome, but not as yet worrying.
He had spotted him on his second day from Pella, a distant dot on the horizon, and had changed his course, veering north-east before cutting back to the main trail. From a heavily wooded hill-top Parmenion had then watched the rider also change direction.
The distance was too great for identification. All Parmenion could see was that the man wore a burnished helm and breastplate and was riding a tall, dappled grey. The Spartan rode on, wary now for Thrace was close and he wished no confrontation with the border guards.
The land stretched ahead in a series of folds, gulleys and hollows, thinly wooded and undulating. There were shallow streams here, sparkling in the sunlight, offspring of the great River Nestos that flowed through the land to merge with the sea north of the island of Thasos.
Parmenion guided the chestnut gelding into a small wood and dismounted by a stream. The gelding stood quietly with ears pricked, nostrils quivering with the sweet smell of mountain water. Parmenion removed the lionskin chabraque from the horse's back and rubbed him down with a handful of dry grass. Mothac had urged him to take the stallion Bessus, but instead the Spartan had chosen the chestnut. The beast was sure-footed and sound of temperament, having no great speed but enormous levels of stamina. Parmenion stroked the gelding's face and led him to water. There was no need to hobble the chestnut and the Spartan strolled to a nearby boulder and sat listening to the rushing water and the bird-song from the trees.
Six years before, he had travelled this route heading west into Macedonia and had met the magus, Aristotle.
'Seek me out when you have need,' Aristotle had told him. Well, thought Parmenion, the need could not be greater.
Untying the chinstraps of his baked leather helm Parmenion pulled it clear, running his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. Despite the imminence of winter the weather remained hot and dry and he could feel sweat trickling down his back under the leather breastplate.