Phaedra could not understand why he had clothed himself like a poor mercenary. Worse still, she had asked openly why he should embark on such a quest at all.
'You are the real power in Macedonia,' she whispered. 'You could seize the throne. The army would follow you — and then Philo would have the future the gods ordained for him. Why should you care what happens to the demon child?'
He had not answered her. Settling his chabraque over the gelding, he had ridden from the great house without a backward glance.
Skirting the villages on his estate, his first stop had been in a small town in the shadows of the Krousian Mountains.
Here he bought supplies, dried meat and fruit, grain for the gelding. The town was expanding — new buildings being erected on the outskirts, evidence of Macedonia's growing wealth. Many of the new settlers were mercenaries, buying land with their wages from Philip's campaigns. Others were crippled ex-soldiers who had earned good pensions from the King's service. The town bustled with activity and Parmenion had been glad to ride from it, heading for the sanctuary and peace of the countryside.
Now, as he sat by the stream, he considered again the problems facing him. He had no idea where Alexander was being held — nor why — and his hopes were resting on the promise of a magus he had met in the flesh only once. And what if the Persians had smuggled Alexander out of Macedonia? Suppose he was being held hostage in Susa? How could one man hope to rescue him? And if he did would not Philip, hungry for revenge, take his armies east into the heart of the Persian kingdom?
These sombre thoughts fluttered around Parmenion's mind like irritating moths and angrily he brushed them aside, remembering Xenophon's advice:
'When asked to move a mountain, do not look upon its size. Merely move the first rock.'
The first rock was to find Aristotle.
Allowing the gelding to rest, Parmenion walked to the crest of the hill and stared out over his back-trail, seeking the rider who was following him. But a heat-haze shimmered over the land and he could see no sign of movement.
Riding until dusk, Parmenion made camp in a hollow in the mountains, setting a small fire against a boulder and enjoying the reflected heat. Tomorrow he would reach the pass where first he had met the magus. Praying that Aristotle would be there, he slept fitfully.
Two hours before dawn he reached the foothills of the Kerkine Mountains. The breeze was colder here as he urged the gelding up the scree-covered slope towards the pass, and he pulled his black cloak more tightly about him. As he crested the slope he saw four mounted men blocking the narrow pass. Beyond them were two more horses.
Parmenion flicked his gaze to the rocks on the left, where two archers waited with arrows notched.
'A fine day to be riding,' said a swarthy warrior on a sturdy black stallion. The man touched heels to his mount and rode forward. He was hatchet-faced, a thick black beard failing to disguise the pockmarks on his cheeks. His eyes were dark and deep-set. His comrades hung back, waiting silently, hands on their swords.
'Indeed it is,' agreed Parmenion. 'What do you require of me?'
'You have entered Thracian lands, Macedonian, and we require a toll. Be so kind as to hand over the contents of that pouch by your side.'
'Firstly,' said Parmenion, 'I am no Macedonian, and secondly it should take no great mind to reason that a mercenary has no coin when he is riding towards Persia. Only when he returns.'
'Ah, well,' answered the man, smiling, 'you do have a fine horse. That will have to do.'
The warrior suddenly tensed. Instantly Parmenion kicked the gelding into a run. Two arrows slashed through the air where the Spartan had been. The gelding's shoulder cannoned into the stallion, who bucked violently, throwing his rider. Drawing his sword the Spartan charged at the remaining men, but they scattered before him and then re-formed to give chase.
The pass curved to the right. Out of sight of his pursuers Parmenion hauled on the reins, turning the gelding back the way he had come. It was the last move the robbers had considered. As they rounded the bend, expecting to see their quarry running away from them, they found themselves instead facing a charge.
The gelding hurtled fearlessly into their midst. Parmenion hacked his blade into one rider's neck, spilling him to the ground with blood spurting from his open jugular. The gelding reared, kicking out at a second man whose horse stumbled and fell.
The swarthy leader screamed a battle-cry and lunged at the Spartan. But Parmenion blocked the wild cut, sending a riposte that sliced the skin of the man's face, tearing out his right eye.
The other robbers galloped clear. Parmenion dismounted and approached the fallen leader. The man was struggling to rise, his hand pressed against his ruined eye, trying in vain to stop the flow of blood.
'You whoreson!' he shouted, lifting his sword and running at Parmenion. The Spartan side-stepped, his own blade cleaving into the man's groin, and with a cry of anguish the Thracian toppled to the ground. Parmenion slashed his sword through the man's neck, then stepped over the body to gather the reins of the gelding.
'Neatly done,' came a familiar voice and Parmenion cursed softly.
'What do you want here, Attalus?'
The King's Champion leapt lightly down from the dappled grey and walked across to where Parmenion waited. 'Not overjoyed to see me? Ah, well, that is I suppose understandable. But you intrigued me with your tale of sorcerers and rocks; I thought it might amuse me to meet the man.'
Parmenion shook his head. 'I would as soon sleep with a poisonous snake as entertain your company on the road. Go back to Pella.'
Attalus smiled at the insult, but there was malice in his cold eyes. 'You are known as a man who thinks well, Spartan.
I respect you for that. But you are not thinking now. Suppose this. . wizard. . can lead you to the child — do you think you will be able to rescue him alone? You may not like me, Parmenion, but you cannot argue against the fact that I am the finest swordsman in Macedonia.'
'That is not at issue,' Parmenion snapped.
‘Then what is?'
'I cannot trust you,' answered the Spartan.
'Is that all? Gods, man, what do you expect me to do — cut your throat while you sleep?'
'Perhaps. But you will not have the opportunity for I will travel alone.'
'I do not think that wise,' came a third voice and both men swung to see a grey-haired man sitting cross-legged on a flat-topped boulder.
'You move silently,' whispered Attalus, easing his sword from its scabbard.
'Indeed I do, young Attalus. Now put your sword away — it would be bad manners to attack a man who is arguing on your behalf.' Aristotle looked to Parmenion. 'I think you may find that the King's Champion will be an aid to you on this quest. And believe me, you will need help to recover the prince.'
'Where is he held?' asked Parmenion.
'In a kingdom of the damned,' answered the magus. Jumping down from the boulder, he walked back towards a towering rock-face and disappeared. Ignoring Attalus, Parmenion tugged the gelding's reins and followed Aristotle.
As before, the seemingly solid wall of rock proved no more substantial than mist, and man and horse found themselves in a cold cavern where great stalactites hung like dragons' teeth from the domed roof. The gelding did not like this dank, cold place and began to tremble. Parmenion patted the beast's neck, whispering soothing words.