Lion of Macedon

For a moment he thought the answer would be yes. Perdiccas' handsome face softened, but then the hard look returned to his eyes. 'No, brother. You stay in Aigai. Enjoy yourself.'

As Philip had turned to leave, Perdiccas reached out and took hold of the younger man's shoulder.

'I never forgot what you did for me,' he said.

'I know that. You do not need to say it.'

'There are some who have urged me to kill you, Philip. There are some who believe. . ah, what does it matter? I did not kill Archelaos, and he has proved no threat.'

'Do not fear for me, brother,' Philip told him. 'I have no wish to be King. But beware of Bardylis. If you lose, he will set a tribute you may find hard to pay.'

Perdiccas grinned. 'I shall not lose.'

Now Philip shook himself loose of the memory and called the rider to him. 'Where are the Illyrians now?'

'They have not advanced, sire. They stripped the dead and now they are camped four days' ride from Pella.'

'Do not call me sire, I am not the King,' snapped Philip, waving the man away.

His thoughts raged like a storm in his mind. The balance of power was everything! To the west the Illyrians, to the north the Paionians, to the east the Thracians and to the south Thebes. While each nation had a strong army, there was little danger of full-scale invasion. But now, with Macedonia's army destroyed, the land was open to any with the courage to take it. Philip thought of his enemies. First Bardylis, the cunning King of Illyria; eighty years old, maybe more, but with a mind as sharp as a timber-wolf. After him Cotys, the King of Thrace; just turned sixty, a greedy, ruthless monarch whose avaricious eyes would now turn to the Macedonian mines no more than a day's ride from his Thracian borders in the east. Then the Paionians, tribesmen from the north who lived to fight and plunder. After them the power-hungry Thebans, the pompous Athenians. The gods knew how many others!

'One fear at a time,' he cautioned himself. What if, he wondered, he did not try for the crown?

One name soared into his mind: Archelaos, his stepbrother. The hatred between them was stronger than iron, and colder than a winter blizzard. Archelaos would fight for the throne — and his first action would be to see Philip dead.

Philip called to Attalus. 'I am riding for Pella,' he told the warrior. 'It is likely that Archelaos has not yet heard the news. When he does he will also come to the capital, but he will be travelling from Cercine. Take twenty men — and see that he does not survive the journey.'

Attalus smiled grimly. 'A task I'll enjoy, for sure,' he said.

The City of Susa, Persia, Autumn, 359 BC

'It is your own fault,' said Mothac, as Parmenion paced back and forth across the room. 'Who else can you blame?'

The Spartan moved to the wide doors leading to the gardens, where he stood staring out over the terraces with their hanging blooms and trees garlanded with blossom. The scents were sweet and the view exquisite, but Parmenion turned away, his face flushed, his eyes angry.

'Blame?' "he snarled. 'Who else but that cursed Persian brat? He loses seventy men because he cannot be bothered to clear the fighting ground of boulders. Seventy! Then he had the brass balls to tell me it doesn't matter, they were only peasants.'

'He is a royal prince, Parmenion. What did you expect when you revoked his commission? Praise?

Another prize stallion?'

'Persians!' hissed Parmenion. 'I am sick of them.'

'No,' said Mothac softly. 'You are sick of Persia, my friend. And you are too canny not to have understood the consequences of dismissing Darius.'

'What are you saying? That I wanted my own commission revoked?'

'Exactly that.'

'Nonsense! We have everything here that men could desire. Look around you, Mothac. Silks, fine couches, beautiful grounds. How many Kings in Greece can boast such a palace? Slaves to obey our every desire, and more coin than we could spend in two lifetimes. You think I willingly threw this away?'

'Yes.'

'Let's get some air,' muttered the Spartan, strolling out into the gardens and along the paved walkways. Mothac followed the general into the bright sunshine, silently cursing himself for forgetting his hat of straw. During the last ten years Mothac had grown steadily more bald, a calamity he blamed totally on the harsh Persian sun.

'How could he have been so stupid?' asked Parmenion. 'He knew he could get no chariot support unless he cleared the ground. And he had 1,000 men under his command. It would have taken no more than an hour, perhaps two. But no, our fine Persian prince leaves his men sitting in the sunshine and rides into the hills to bathe in a cool stream.'

'We were finished here anyway,' pointed out the Theban. 'The Satrap Wars are all but over. What else could the Great King have asked of you? You have won his battles in Cappadocia, Phrygia, Egypt, Mesopotamia and other places with names I cannot wrap around my tongue. We don't need any more wars. Let us just sit here and enjoy our dotage. The gods know we need no more coin.'

Parmenion shook his head. 'I am not ready for dotage, Mothac my friend. I want. .' He shrugged.

'I don't know what I want. But I cannot sit idle. What are the latest offers?'

'The Satrap of Egypt requests your services to counter tribal attacks in the south.'

'Too hot,' said Parmenion.

'The Olynthians are hiring mercenaries. They would like you to lead their forces into Macedonia.'

'Macedonia again. Tempting. What else?'

'The King of the Illyrians, Bardylis, offers you employment, as does Cotys of Thrace. The Thracian offer is a good one: two talents of gold.'

'What of the Macedonian King. . Perdiccas?'

'We have heard nothing from him.'

Parmenion sat silently for a while. 'I am not anxious to return to Greece. Not yet.'

Mothac nodded, remaining silent. He knew Parmenion's thoughts had turned again to Epaminondas. The Theban hero had crushed the Spartans, taking the Theban army to the outskirts of Sparta itself where the Spartan King, Agisaleus, had barricaded the streets, refusing all challenges.

Glory days had followed for Thebes, but the Athenians — fearing Theban ambition — had allied themselves with Sparta, and bloody battle followed bloody battle for seven years.

Then, while Parmenion was at the Great Court in Susa, came news of a battle near Mantinea. The Spartans and the Athenians together had come against Epaminondas. The Theban tried to repeat the tactics of Leuctra: the massed charge. But it was only partially successful and a contingent of Athenian cavalry smashed a path to Epaminondas. The general died at the point of victory, and the man who killed him was said to be an Athenian captain named Gryllus, the son of Xenophon.

'He was a great man,' whispered Mothac.

'What? Yes. How is it you always know my thoughts?'

'We are friends, Parmenion. I fear for Thebes now: Pelopidas dead in Thessaly, Epaminondas gone.

Who is there to fight for Thebes?'

'I don't know, but I'll take no part in it. Xenophon was right. Greece will never be united and the constant battles only weaken her further.'

A slave girl ran from the house, bowing before Parmenion and then turning to Mothac. 'There is a messenger, sir. He wishes to see the general.'

'From whom does this messenger come?'

'He is a Greek, sir.' The girl bowed her head and waited.

'See that he is given wine. I shall speak to him presently,' Mothac told her.

Parmenion waited in the sunshine until Mothac returned.

'Well, what was it?'

'He was an Illyrian. Bardylis has withdrawn his offer to you. It seems that without you he crushed the Macedonian army and killed Perdiccas. It might be a good time for you to take the offer of Cotys. Thrace and Illyria will now fight over the spoils. Macedonia is finished.'