Lion of Macedon

'It does not please me,' said Philip. 'It is a fact of life that people die. My first wife, Phila, died only a year after our wedding. I adored her; on the night she died I wanted to cut my throat and follow her to Hades. But I didn't — and now I am about to meet a woman of dreams.'

'I am pleased for you,' said Parmenion coldly. 'But we are different men, you and I.'

'Not so different,' Philip put in. 'But you wear armour, both on your body and on your spirit. I am younger than you, my friend, but in this I am as a father to a frightened son. You need a wife, you need sons^of your own. Do not concern yourself about love. Your father, whoever he was, gave you as his gift to the world. You are his immortality. In turn your sons will do that for you.

Now, I will preach no more. I shall bathe, and then I shall send for that sweet-limbed young girl.

You, I suspect, will walk around the palace grounds examining natural defences and seeking out hidden assassins.'

Parmenion laughed then, the sound rich and full of good humour. 'You know me too well, young Father.'

'I know you enough to like you, and that's a rare thing,' said Philip.

The Spartan wandered out to the palace gardens and beyond to the hillsides overlooking the bay. He saw a flock of sheep and a young boy guarding them. The boy waved. Parmenion smiled at him and walked on, following a dry-stone wall that curved up to a high hill-top. He was drawn towards a grove of trees, their branches weighed down by pink and white blooms, where he sat in the shade and dozed.

He awoke to see a woman walking towards him, tall and slender. He stood, his eyes narrowing to see her face. For a moment only, it seemed to him that her hair had changed colour. At first it appeared to be the colour of Same, flecked with silver, but as he looked again it was dark. It must have been a trick of the light, he thought. He bowed to her as she approached. At first sight her robes were black as the night, but as she moved the folds caught the light, shimmering into the rich blue of the ocean. Her face was veiled, a sign of the recently bereaved.

'Welcome, stranger,' she said, her voice both curiously familiar and strangely exciting.

'Is this your land, lady?'

'No. All that you see belongs to the Lady Aida. I too am a stranger. Where are you from?'

'Macedonia,' he told her.

'And before that?'

'Sparta and Thebes.'

'You are a soldier then?'

'Is it so obvious?' he asked, for he was dressed in only a pale blue chiton and sandals.

'Your shins are lighter in colour than your thighs, and I would guess they are normally shielded by greaves. Similarly, your brow is not the deep brown of your face.'

'You are very observant.' He tried to focus on the face below the veil, but gave up. The eyes as he saw them seemed to be opaque, like opals. 'Will you sit with me awhile?' he asked her suddenly, surprising himself.

'It is pleasant here,' she said softly. 'I will bide with you for a little while. What brings you to Samothrace?'

'I have a friend — he is here to meet his bride. Where are you from?'

'I live across the sea in Asia, but I travel often^ It is long since I was in Sparta. When was it you lived there?'

'Through my childhood.'

'Is your wife a Spartan?'

'I have no wife.'

'Do you not like women?'

'Of course,' he answered swiftly. 'I have no male lovers either. I… had a wife. Her name was Thetis. She died.'

'Was she your great love?' the woman enquired.

'No,' he admitted, 'but she was a good woman — loyal, loving, brave. But why must we speak of me?

Are you in mourning? Or can you remove your veil?'

'I am in mourning. What is your name, soldier?'

'My friends call me Savra,' he said, unwilling for her to hear the name being whispered in cities across the world.

'Be happy, Savra,' she said, rising gracefully.

'Must you go? I… I am enjoying our conversation,' he said lamely.

'Yes, I must go.'

He stood and reached out his hand. For a moment she hung back, then touched his fingers. Parmenion felt his pulse racing, and longed to reach up and draw aside the veil. Lifting her hand to his lips he kissed it, then reluctantly released her.

She walked away without a word and Parmenion slumped back to sit on the ground, amazed by his response to the stranger. Perhaps the conversation with Philip had touched a deep chord in him, he thought. She had disappeared now beyond the hillside. Swiftly he ran to catch a final glimpse of her.

She was walking towards the distant woods, and as the sunlight touched her it seemed once more that her hair was red-gold.

* * *

The beginnings of cramp in his left arm awoke Philip an hour after dawn. He glanced down at the blonde acolyte whose head rested on his bicep and gently eased his arm loose. Someone stirred to his right. A second girl, dark-haired and pretty, opened her eyes and smiled up at him.

'Did you sleep well, my lord?' she asked, her fingers sliding slowly over his belly.

'Wonderfully,' he told her, his hand seizing her wrist. 'But now I would like the answers to some questions.'

'Can the questions not wait?' she whispered, rolling to face him.

'They cannot,' he told her sternly. 'Who owns this palace?'

'The Lady Aida.'

'I do not know the name.'

'She is the High Priestess of the Mysteries,' said the girl.

'Well, darling one, tell her I wish to see her.'

'Yes, lord.' The girl threw back the sheet and stood. Philip gazed at her long back and slim waist, his eyes drawn to her rounded hips and perfect buttocks.

'Now!' he said, more powerfully than he intended. 'Go nowl'

The blonde girl awoke and yawned. 'Out!' roared Philip. 'And get someone to send in a pitcher of cool water.' After they had gone the King rose, squeezed his eyes shut against the hammering in his head and dragged open the curtains on the wide window.

Sunlight lanced his brain and he turned away from it, cursing. The wine had been strong, but it was the dark seeds that he remembered so vividly. The girls carried them in small silver boxes, and had offered them to Philip after the first bout of love-making. They dried the tongue, but fired the mind and body. Colours seemed impossibly bright while touch, taste and hearing were all enhanced. Philip's strength had surged — along with his appetites.

But now his head pounded, his body feeling weak. The latter sensation was not one he enjoyed.

Dressing in a clean chiton of dark green, he sat on a couch and waited for the water. The dark-haired girl brought it and he drank greedily. She offered him the silver box, opening the hinged lid to display the dark, shrivelled seeds.

'They will restore your strength,' she promised.

He was sorely tempted, but waved her away. 'What of the High Priestess?' he asked.

'She will be here at noon, lord. I will tell her of your request.'

'How many other guests are there in the palace?'

'Only one at the moment, the Lady Olympias.'

'Olympias? Where is she from?'

'Epirus, lord. She is the daughter of the King.'

'I'll see her then,' said Philip.

The girl looked shocked — and then frightened. 'No, lord, that is forbidden. She is undergoing the Rite of Union. No man may see her before the appointed night — especially her betrothed. The gods would strike him blind!'

'Send Parmenion to me.'

'He is not in the palace, lord. He was seen running in the hills just after dawn.'

'Then tell him when he returns,' snapped Philip. 'Now leave me alone!'

After she had gone the King felt momentary regret for treating her shabbily, but so great was his irritation that the feeling soon passed.