'I shall not have Parmenion killed,' said Philip. 'Go and ask him to come to me.'
'You think that he will?'
Philip shrugged. 'Ask anyway.'
Attalus stood and bowed, leaving Philip alone with the pitcher of wine. The King wandered to the window. From here he could still see the twelve Athenian triremes at anchor in the gulf, moonlight glinting from their polished hulls. Sleek, beautiful craft, yet deadly in battle, with three banks of oars to propel them at the speed of galloping horses so that the bronze rams at the prows could smash to shards the timbers of lesser ships.
'One day,' thought Philip, 'I too will have a fleet to match them.'
His blind eye began to throb painfully and he turned away from the window, pouring yet another cup of wine.
Slumping to the couch, he drank slowly and waited for his First General.
'Is it just envy, Parmenion?' he said aloud. 'I loved you once. But I was younger then and you were like a God of War
— invincible, unbeatable. But now?' The sound of footsteps came to him and he stood, waiting at the centre of the room.
Parmenion entered, followed by Attalus. Philip moved to the assassin, laying his hand on the man's shoulder. 'Leave us, my friend,' he said.
'As you wish, sire,' answered Attalus, his eyes bleak.
As the door closed Philip turned. Parmenion was standing stiffly, his armour put aside, a pale blue tunic covering his slim frame, a grey riding-cloak hanging from his shoulders. Philip gazed into the tall Spartan's blue eyes.
'How is it, Parmenion, that you look so young? You seem no more than a man approaching thirty, and yet you are what. . fifty?'
'Forty-eight, sire.'
'Is there some special food you eat?'
'You wanted to see me, sire?'
'You are angry with me, yes?' said the King, forcing a smile. 'Well, I can understand that. Join me in some wine. Go on.' For a moment it seemed the Spartan would refuse, but he picked up the pitcher and filled a cup. 'Now sit down and talk to me.'
'What would you have me say, sire? You gave me two orders. To obey the one, I had to disobey the other. When you are fighting it is I who lead the army. You made this clear to me. "Take whatever action is necessary", you said.
What do you want of me, Philip? It is a long ride to Pella.'
'I do not want to lose your friendship,' said Philip, 'but you are making this hard for me. I spoke in haste. Does that satisfy your Spartan pride?'
Parmenion sighed, his tension sliding from him. 'You will never lose my friendship, Philip. But something has come between us these last two years. What have I done to offend you?'
The King scratched his black beard. 'How many victories are mine?' he asked.
'I do not understand. They are all yours.'
Philip nodded. 'Yet in Sparta they tell all who will listen that it is a renegade Spanan who leads Macedonia to glory.
In Athens they say, "Where would Philip be without Parmenion?" Where would I be?'
'I see,' said Parmenion, meeting the King's gaze. 'There is nothing I can do about this, Philip. Four years ago your horse won the Olympics. You were not riding him, yet he was still your horse and you took pride in that. I am a strategos — that is my calling and my life. You are a king — a fighting king. A Battle King. The soldiers fight the harder because you are alongside them. They love you. Who can say how many battles might have been lost without you?'
'But the only battle I have led alone ended in defeat,' Philip pointed out.
'And would have done so whether I was there or not,' Parmenion assured him. 'Your Paionian scouts were complacent; they did not search the mountains as they should. But there is something else, is there not?'
The King returned to the window, staring once more at the distant triremes. He was silent for a long while, then at last he spoke.
'My son is fond of you,' he said, his voice low. 'Sometimes in his nightmares the nurse tells me he calls your name.
Then all is well. It is said that you can hug him — and feel no pain. Is this true?'
'Yes,' whispered the Spartan.
'The child is possessed, Parmenion. Either that or he is a demon. I cannot touch him -1 have tried; it is like hot coals burning on my skin. Why is it that you can hold him?'
'I don't know.'
The King gave a harsh laugh, then turned to face his general. 'All of my battles were for him. I wanted a kingdom he could be proud of. I wanted… I wanted so much. You remember when we went to Samothrace? Yes? I loved Olympias then more than life. Now we cannot sit in the same room for twenty heartbeats without angry words. And look at me. When we met I was fifteen and you were a warrior grown, what. . twenty-nine? Now I have grey in my beard. My face is scarred, my eye a pus-filled ball of constant pain. And for what, Parmenion?'
'You have made Macedonia strong, Philip,' said Parmenion, rising. 'And all your dreams should be within reach.
What more do you want?'
'I want a son I can hold. A son I can teach to ride, without fearing that the horse will topple and die, rotting before my eyes. I remember nothing of the night on Samothrace when I sired him. I think sometimes he is not my son at all.'
Parmenion's face lost all colour, but Philip was not looking at him.
'Of course he is your son,' said Parmenion, keeping the fear from his voice. 'Who else could be the father?'
'Some demon sent from Hades. I will marry again soon; I will have an heir one day. You know, when Alexander was born they say his first sound was a growl, like a beast. The midwife almost dropped him. They say also that when his eyes first opened they were slitted, like an Egyptian cat. I don't know the truth of it. All I know is that I love the boy.
. and yet I cannot touch him. But enough of this! Are we still friends?'
'I will always be your friend, Philip. I swear it.'
'Then let's get drunk and talk of better days,' ordered the King.
Outside the door Attalus felt his anger rising. Silently he moved away down the torchlit corridor and out into the night, the cool breeze only fanning the flames of his hatred.
How could Philip not see what a danger the Spartan presented? Attalus hawked and spat, but still his mouth tasted of bile.
Parmenion. Always Parmenion. The officers adore him, the soldiers are in awe of him. Can you not see what is happening, Philip? You are losing your kingdom to this foreign mercenary. Attalus halted in the shadows of a looming temple and turned. I could wait here, he thought, his fingers curling round the hilt of his dagger. I could step out behind him, ramming the blade into his back, twisting it, ripping open his heart.
But if Philip found out… Be patient, he cautioned himself. The arrogant whoreson will bring about his own downfall, with all his misguided concepts of honesty and honour. No King wants honesty. Oh, they all talk of it!
'Give me an honest man,' they say. 'We want no crawling lackeys.' Horse-dung! What they wanted was adoration and agreement. No, Parmenion would not last.
And come the blessed day when he fell from favour it would be Attalus to whom Philip would turn, first to dispose of the loathsome Spartan and then to replace him as First General of Macedonia.
The strategos! What was so difficult about winning a battle? Strike at the enemy with the force of a storm, crushing the centre and killing the enemy king or general. But Parmenion had fooled them all, making them believe there was some wondrous mystery. And why? Because he was a coward, seeking always to hang back from the battle itself, keeping himself out of harm's way. None of them could see it. Blind fools!