Lion of Macedon

'Find out the names and whereabouts of the dead men's families, then send 100 drachms to each. The crippled men will receive double that, and a pension of ten drachms a month.'

Antipater was surprised. 'The men will be heartened by this news,' he said.

'Yes — but that is not why it is being done. They died for Macedon, and Macedon will not forget that.'

Antipater nodded. 'I will not forget it either, sire — and neither will the warriors who ride for you.'

After the officer had gone Philip lay down on his pallet bed, covering himself with a single blanket. The Paionians were defeated, and one pretender had been despatched. But still the major enemies had to be met.

Where are you, Parmenion?

The Thracian Border, Autumn, 359 BC

Parmenion tugged lightly on the reins as he saw the man sitting on the rock ahead. 'Good day to you,' said the Spartan, glancing at the surrounding boulders, seeking out any men who might be hidden there.

'I am alone,' said the stranger, his voice agreeable, even friendly. Parmenion continued to study the nearby terrain. Satisfied the man was indeed alone his gaze flicked down on the distant River Nestus and then up towards the far blue peaks of the Kerkine mountains and the borders of Macedonia. Returning his attention to the man on the rocks, he dismounted. The stranger was not tall, but sturdily built, his hair grey, his beard curled in the Persian fashion, his eyes the colour of storm-clouds. He was wearing a long chiton of faded blue and a pair of leather sandals which showed little indication of wear. But there was no sign of a weapon of any kind, not even a small dagger.

The view is pleasant,' said Parmenion, 'but the land is desolate. How did you come here?'

'I walk different paths,' the man answered. 'You will be in Pella in seven days. I could be there this afternoon.'

'You are a magus'?'

'Not as the Persians understand it, although some of the magi will one day walk the paths I use,'

answered the man smoothly. 'Set you down for a while and dine with me.'

'Let's leave him here and ride on,' said Mothac. 'I don't like this place, it is too open. He's probably a robber.'

'I have been many things in my time, Theban, but never yet a robber. I have, though, been waiting for you, Parmenion. I thought it wise that we sat and talked — of the past, the future and the echoes of the Great Song.'

'You sound Greek,' said Parmenion, moving to his left and continuing to scan the surrounding rocks.

'Not. . exactly. . Greek,' said the man, 'but it will suffice. You accomplished great deeds in Persia; I congratulate you. Your attack on Spetzabares was brilliant. Outnumbered, you forced him to surrender, losing only 111 men in the process. Remarkable.'

'You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I know nothing of you.'

'I am a scholarly man, Parmenion. My life is devoted to study, to the pursuit of knowledge. My wish is to understand all creation. Happily I am not yet close to any real understanding.'

'Happily?'

'Of course. No man should ever completely realize his dreams. What else would there then be to live for?'

'Look!' shouted Mothac, pointing to a dust-cloud further down the mountain slopes. 'Riders!'

'They are coming to take you to Cotys,' said the man. 'Either that or to kill you. The Thracian King has no wish to see Parmenion helping the Macedonians.'

'You know a great deal,' said Parmenion softly. 'I take it you also know a way to avoid these riders?'

'Naturally,' said the man, rising smoothly to his feet. 'Follow me.'

Parmenion watched him stride towards a sheer rock-face which shimmered as he reached it. The Spartan blinked. The stranger was gone.

'He's a demon or a demi-god,' whispered Mothac. 'Let's take a chance on the riders. At least they are human.'

'Swords can cut a man faster than spells,' said Parmenion. 'I'll take my chance with the magus.'

Taking the reins of the stallion in his right hand, he led the beast towards the rock-face. As he approached the temperature dropped, the rocks seeming translucent. He walked on, passing through them, feeling weightless and disoriented.

Mothac emerged from the wall behind him, sweating heavily as he drew alongside his friend. 'What now?' the Theban whispered.

They were in a huge, subterranean cavern, enormous stalactites hanging from the domed roof. From around them came the steady, rhythmic dripping of water, and there were many dark pools shining on the cavern floor.

The stranger appeared some fifty paces ahead of them. 'This way,' he called. 'You are only half-way home.'

'Half-way to Hades more like,' muttered Mothac, drawing his sword.

The two men led their horses across the cavern floor to a wide natural opening, leading on to a lush green meadow where a small house had been built — the roof red-tiled, the walls smooth and white.

Parmenion walked on into the sunshine and stopped. The countryside was hilly and verdant, but there were no mountains to be seen in any direction and of the great River Nestus there was no sign.

Mounting their horses, the two men rode down to the house where the stranger had set a wide table with cold meats, cheeses and fruits. Pouring his guests goblets of wine, he sat in the shade of a flowering tree. 'It is not poisoned,' he said, as his guests stared at the food.

'Are you not eating?' Parmenion asked.

'I am not hungry. But think on this: a man who can make mountains disappear is unlikely to need to poison his guests.'

'A valid point," agreed Parmenion, reaching for an apple.

Mothac grabbed his hand. 'I will eat first,' said the Theban, taking the fruit and biting into it.

'Such devotion,' observed the stranger. Slowly Mothac sampled all the meats and cheeses. Finally he belched.

'Best I ever tasted,' he said. Parmenion ate sparingly, then moved to sit alongside the stranger.

'Why were you waiting for me?'

'You are one of the echoes of the Great Song, Parmenion. There have been many before you and there will be many after. But I am here to offer my help. First, though, how is it you greet my magic with such indifference? Has anyone else ever moved a mountain for you?'

'I have seen the magi turn staffs into snakes and make men float in the air. And there is a magician in Susa who can make men think they are birds, so that they flap their arms and try to fly. Perhaps the mountains are still there, but you stop us seeing them. I care not. Now what is this Great Song you speak of?'

'It is a war between dream and nightmare. An eternal war. And you are part of it. Homer sang of it, transferring the battles to Troy. Other nations sing of it in different ways, placing it in different times, through Gilgamesh and Ekodas, Paristur and Sarondel. They are all echoes. Soon we will see the birth of another legend, and the Death of Nations will be at the centre.'

'I know nothing of this, and your conversation is plagued with riddles. I must thank you for your food and your hospitality, but let us speak frankly: who are you?'

The man chuckled and leaned back against the trunk of the flowering tree. 'Straight for the heart, eh? Ever the general. Well, there's no harm in that, my Spartan friend. It has served you well over the years, has it not? Me? As I said, I am a scholar. I have never been a warrior, though I have known many. You remind me much of Leonidas the Sword King. He was a man of great prowess, and had a gift for making men great.'

'The Sword King died more than a century ago,' said Parmenion. 'Are you telling me you knew him?'

'I did not say I knew him, Parmenion. I said you reminded me of him. It was a shame he felt he had to die at Thermopylae; he could have made Sparta truly great. Still, he also was a strong echo of the Great Song, 300 men against an army of 200,000. Wondrously brave.'