Attalus drew his dagger, enjoying the silver gleam of moonlight upon the blade. 'One day,' he whispered, 'this will kill you, Spartan.'
The Temple, Asia Minor, Summer
Derae was weary, almost at the point of exhaustion, when the last supplicant was carried into the Room of Healing.
The two men laid the child on the altar bed and stepped back, respectfully keeping their eyes from the face of the blind Healer. Derae took a deep breath, calming herself, then laid her hands on the child's brow, her spirit swimming into the girl's bloodstream, flowing with it, feeling the heartbeat weak and fluttering. The injury was at the base of the spine — the vertebrae cracked, nerve endings crushed, muscles wasting.
With infinite care Derae healed the bone, eliminating adhesions, relieving the pressure on the swollen nerve points, forcing blood to flow over the injured tissue.
Drawing herself back into her body, the priestess sighed and swayed. Instantly a man leapt forward to assist her, his hand brushing against her arm.
'Leave me be!' she snapped, pulling away from him.
'I am sorry, lady,' he whispered. Waving her hand, she smiled in his direction.
'Forgive me, Laertes. I am tired.'
'How did you know my name?' the man asked, his voice hushed. Derae laughed then.
'I heal the blind and no one questions my Gift. The lame walk and people say, "Ah, but she is a Healer." But so simple a matter as knowing an unspoken name, and there is awe. You touched me, Laertes. And in touching me gave up all your secrets. But fear not, you are a good man. Your daughter was kicked by a horse, yes?'
'Yes, lady.'
'The blow injured the bones of her back. I have taken away the pain and tomorrow, when I have rested, I will heal her. You may stay here this evening. My servants will bring you food.'
'Thank you,' he said. 'I have money. . ' Waving him to silence Derae walked away, her step sure. Two female servants pulled open the altar room doors as she approached, a third taking her arm in the corridor beyond and leading the blind Healer to her room.
Once inside, Derae sipped cool water and lay down on the narrow pallet bed. So many sick, so many injured. . each day the queues beyond the Temple grew. At times there were fights, and many of those who finally reached her had been forced to bribe their way to the altar room. Often during the last few years Derae had tried to put a stop to the practice. But, even with her powers, she could not fight human nature. The people beyond the Temple walls had a need only she could satisfy. And, where there was need, there was profit to be made. Now a Greek mercenary called Pallas had thirty men camped before the Temple. And he organized the queues, selling tokens of admission to the supplicants, establishing some order to the chaos.
Unable to thwart him fully, Derae had demanded he allow five poor people a day to be led to her, against ten of the richer. He had tried to trick her on the first day, and she had refused to see anyone. Now the system worked. Pallas hired servants, cooks, maids, gardeners, to tend to Derae's needs. But even this irritated her, for she knew he merely wanted her time spent earning him money by healing the sick, and not engaged in useless pursuits like gardening, which she loved, or cooking or cleaning. And yet, despite the motive, it did mean that more people were being cured.
Should I be grateful to him, she wondered? No. Greed was his inspiration, gold his joy.
She pushed all thoughts of him from her mind. Closing her blind eyes, Derae floated clear of her body. There was freedom here, with the flight of Spirit; there was even joy in the form of a transient happiness free of care. While her body rested Derae flew across the Thermaic Gulf, high above the trident-shaped lands of the Chalcidice and on across the Pierian mountains to Thessaly, her spirit called there by the lover of her youth.
So long ago now, she realized. Thirty years had passed since she and Parmenion lay together in Xenophon's summer home, lost in the exuberance of their youthful passion.
She found him in the captured city of Pagasai, walking from the palace. His step was unsteady and she saw that he had been drinking. But more than this, she sensed the sadness within him. Once Derae had believed they would spend their lives together, willingly locked into love, chained by desires that were not all of the flesh. Not all. .?
She remembered his gentle touch, the heat of his body upon hers, the softness of his skin, the power in the muscles beneath, the warmth of his smile, the love in his eyes. . Despair whispered across her soul.
She was now an ageing priestess in a far-off temple, he a general in Macedonia's triumphant army. Worse, he had believed her dead for these last thirty years.
Sorrow followed the touch of despair, but she put it aside and moved closer to him, feeling the warmth of his spirit.
'I always loved you,' she told him. 'Nothing ever changed that. And I will watch over you as long as I live.'
But he could not hear her. A cold breeze touched her spirit and, with a sudden rush of fear, she knew she was not alone. Soaring high into the sky she clothed her spirit body in armour of light, a sword of white fire burning in her hand.
'Show yourself!' she commanded. A man's form materialized close by. He was tall, with short-cropped grey hair and a beard curled in the Persian manner. He smiled and opened his arms. 'It is I, Aristotle,' he said.
'Why do you spy on me?' she asked.
'I came to see you at the Temple, but it is guarded by money-hungry mercenaries who would not allow me to enter.
And we must talk.'
'What is there to talk about? The child was born, the Chaos Spirit is within him, and all the futures show he will bring torment to the world. I had hoped to aid him, to help him retain his humanity. But I cannot. The Dark God is stronger than I.'
Aristotle shook his head. 'Not so. Your reasoning is flawed, Derae. Now how can I come to you?'
She sighed. 'There is a small side gate in the western wall. Be there at midnight; I will open the gate. Now leave me in peace for a while.'
'As you wish,' he answered. And vanished.
Alone once more, Derae followed Parmenion to the field hospital, watching as he moved among the wounded men, discussing their injuries with the little surgeon, Bernios. But she could not find the peace she sought and took to the night sky, floating beneath the stars.
It had been four years since the magus who called himself Aristotle had come to the Temple. His visit had led to tragedy. Together Derae and the magus had sent Parmenion's spirit into the vaults of Hades to save the soul of the unborn Alexander. But it had all been for nothing. The Chaos Spirit had merged with the soul of the child, and Derae's closest friend — the reformed warrior Leucion — had been torn to pieces by demons sent to destroy her.
Returning to the Temple, she rose from the bed and washed in cold water, rubbing her body with perfumed leaves.
She did not allow her spirit eyes to gaze upon her ageing frame, could not bear to see herself as she now was — her hair silver, body thin and wasted, breasts sagging. Dressing in a clean full-length chiton of dark green, she sat by the window waiting for midnight. Outside the Temple the campfires were burning, scores of them. Some supplicants would wait half a year to see the Healer. Many would die before they could redeem their tokens. Once, before the arrival of Pallas, she had tried to walk among the sick, healing as many as she could. But she had been mobbed, knocked to the ground, saved only by her friend and servant Leucion who had beaten the crowds back with a club.