'What are you saying, Tamis?'
'Go to Macedonia, my dear. I will sit and watch the roses grow.'
Derae soared above the temple and fled west, passing over the mountains of Thrace and the plains of the great rivers Nestus, Strymon and Axios. Floating in a clear blue sky she relaxed her mind, closing her spirit eyes and riding the rhythms of power as they pulsed from the land below. She felt herself drawn south, over the sea and down towards a mountain range. Lower and lower she flew. Below her a group of horsemen were pursuing a lion. It ran into the rocks and then, out of sight of the pursuers, turned and prepared itself for the charge. One of the hunters, a handsome dark-bearded young man, had pulled ahead of the group. He galloped his horse into the rocks and leapt to the ground, a light hunting spear in his hand. The lion charged but the hunter did not panic or run. Dropping to one knee, he gripped his spear firmly and waited for the beast to charge.
Derae sped like an arrow towards the lion.
Macedonia, Summer, 359 BC
Philip dragged his horse to a standstill as he saw the lion lope into the rocks. The joy of the hunt was on him, the intoxicating spirit of danger proving — as always — stronger than wine. He leapt lightly to the ground, his short stabbing spear held firmly in his right hand, the iron point honed to razor sharpness.
The years since the assassination of Ptolemaos had been good to Philip. No longer a slim young boy, the prince was now broad-shouldered and powerful with a trimmed black beard, glossy as the pelt of a panther, adorning his face. At twenty-three Philip of Macedon was in his prime.
When Perdiccas took the throne Philip had known peace for the first time in years. He had moved south of the capital to the royal estates beyond the ancient capital of Aigai, and there had indulged in all the pleasures enjoyed by Macedonian nobles — hunting, drinking, whoring. But, of mem all, it was the hunt which most fired his blood. Bears, wolves, deer, wild oxen, boars and leopards — Macedonia was alive with game.
But the lion was growing scarce. Now a shaggy male had moved down from the mountains, attacking the sheep Socks, killing goats and cattle. For five days they had tracked it, losing the spoor only to find it again, moving always south. It seemed as if the beast was drawing them ever closer to Mount Olympus, the home of the gods.
Philip glanced south at the distant mountain. 'Be with me, father Zeus!' he whispered as he moved slowly into the rocks. He should have waited for his companions, but — as ever — Philip was anxious to make the kill, to be the first to strike.
The noon sun beat down on the prince's back as he inched his way forward. Lions did not like to be moving in the heat, he knew, preferring to find a shady spot to sleep. And this one had recently killed a large sheep, gorging himself on the fat-filled flesh. Philip hefted his spear. The point would have to enter behind the lion's shoulder, driving deep into his lungs and heart. Even then a single sweep of its paw could crush a man's ribs, the talons disembowelling the spearman.
Philip glanced back, seeing that Attalus and the others were still some distance away. The pale-eyed assassin would be furious if Philip made the kill without him. He chuckled. Attalus was already angry, for Perdiccas had taken the army west to challenge Bardylis, leaving him behind.
Despite the assassin's aid eleven years earlier, Perdiccas had never trusted him nor allowed him to rise to prominence; he was still a mere Captain of the Guard.
A low growl came from ahead, beyond the boulders. The sound was deep and rumbling. Fear touched Philip with fingers of fire, and he revelled in it as at the caress of a beautiful woman.
'Come to me,' he whispered.
The lion charged from the rocks. It was huge, seeming to Philip larger than a pony. There was no time to run to the side and deliver the killing thrust.
Philip dropped to one knee and grounded the haft of the spear, the point aimed at the lion's throat. It would not stop him, he realized. The haft would snap under the impact, then the fangs would tear at his face. Instantly he knew the day of his death was upon him, yet he stayed calm, determined he would not die alone. This monster would walk beside him on the road to Hades.
Behind him he heard the sound of hoofbeats, but his friends were too late to save him.
'Come on!' he roared at the lion. 'Come and die with me!'
Suddenly the beast twisted — as if in pain — the charge faltering. Its huge head lifted and a terrifying roar rent the air… And the monster halted, inches ahead of the iron spear-point.
Philip could smell the beast's rancid breath and found himself staring at the fangs, long and curved like Persian daggers. He looked up into the beast's tawny eyes.
Time ceased, the moment lingering.
Philip slowly stood and then reached out, touching the spear-point to the lion's mane. The beast blinked but did not move. Philip sensed Nicanor behind him, drawing an arrow from his quiver.
'Let no one loose a shaft,' said the prince, his voice soft and low.
The lion moved forward, its pelt rubbing against Philip's leg; then it turned and ambled away into the rocks.
Attalus ran to the prince. 'I never saw anything like it,' he whispered.
Philip shivered. 'Nor I.'
'Do we give chase?'
'I do not think so, my friend. And I have lost all appetite for the hunt.' He glanced back to where the lion had been.
'Was it an omen of some kind? Was it really a lion?' Attalus asked.
'If it was a god, he had appalling breath,' answered Philip, glancing nervously at the distant peaks of Mount Olympus.
The huntsmen took a leisurely route back to Philip's summer home twenty miles south of the city of Aigai. They were almost there when the rider came galloping from the north and rode alongside Philip. His horse was lathered and close to exhaustion.
'The King is dead,' he said, 'the army destroyed.'
'Perdiccas dead? I do not believe it,' cried Attalus. The rider ignored him and looked to Philip.
'The King advanced on the Illyrians, but our centre gave way. Perdiccas tried to counter-charge, but the enemy were expecting it. The cavalry were cut to pieces, the King's head placed on a lance. We lost over 4,000 men.'
Philip had never been close to his brother, but neither were they enemies. The younger man had admired the King for his prowess as statesman and warrior. What now, he wondered? The King's son was only two years old and the army — whatever was left of it — would never agree to a babe being crowned, not with the nation under threat. He rode away from the men and dismounted; sitting on a boulder, he stared out to sea. He had never wanted to be King, had never desired anything more from life than to be able to hunt, and drink, and make love. Perdiccas understood that, which was why he had never considered having Philip assassinated.
For his part Philip mostly avoided affairs of state. He had warned Perdiccas of the perils of attacking the Illyrians, but such battles were common and very rarely decisive; the losers would agree to pay large sums in tribute to the victors, and then life would go on. But for the King to fall on the battlefield, along with 4,000 Macedonians! It was a tragedy of awesome proportions.
The balance of power in northern Greece was delicate at the best of times, and with this catastrophe it would be thrown into turmoil.
Perdiccas had proved a good King, popular and strong. But he was obsessed with the desire to crush Bardylis and nothing Philip had said would sway him.
'Send for Parmenion,' Philip had urged.
'I need no half-blood Spartan,' Perdiccas had replied.
'Would you like me to ride with you?'