Lion of Macedon

Elyphion's servant, the man who had led the King to the andron, poured water on a linen cloth and gave it to his master. Elyphion held it to his face and walked further into the mine. The ground sloped ever down and the air grew thick and stale. From far ahead, they could hear the sound of metal tools hacking at rock.

A shower of dust clattered to Attalus' breastplate and the warrior glanced nervously at the timbers shoring up the roof. One of them showed a split, through which earth was filtering.

Still they walked on.

They came to the body of a young woman which had been pushed to the side of the tunnel. Dirt had covered her eyes and filled her open mouth. The tunnel roof was lower here and they walked on with heads bowed. But it dropped lower still.

Elyphion stopped. Tdon'f know what you want to see, sire,' he whimpered.

'Move on!' ordered Philip. Elyphion dropped to hands and knees and began to crawl forward. Philip turned to the others. 'Wait here,' he said, then followed the governor.

Nicanor turned to Attalus. 'Do you think we could move back just a little, to where the roof is higher? Would Philip mind, do you think?'

Sweat was streaking the grime on Attalus' face. He felt cold and full of fear; but he stood his ground and looked at Antipater. 'What do you think?' he asked.

'I… er… do not believe the King would object,' Antipater answered. The three men inched their way back to the wider tunnel, stopping where they could just see the glint of sunlight in the distance. There they waited. Nicanor could not stop himself from staring at the dead woman.

'Why did they not bury her?' he asked.

'You saw the slaves,' said Antipater. 'They've barely the strength to stand.'

'It's like a valley of the damned,' whispered Antipater. Footsteps came from the tunnel entrance and the three men moved back as a line of slaves bearing empty wicker baskets on their backs shuffled by them, heading into the gloomy depths of the mine.

'I am going back to the sunlight,' said Nicanor. 'I can't stand this.'

'The King said to wait,' Attalus reminded him. 'I like it no more than you do. But let us be patient.'

'I think I will go mad if I don't get out of here,' Nicanor replied, his voice rising in pitch.

Antipater put his arm on the young man's shoulder. 'Someone should go and tell the men that everything is all right. We have been down here a long time, and some of them may be concerned.

Wait for us outside, Nicanor.'

As Nicanor nodded and ran back towards the light, Attalus turned on Antipater. 'Who are you to countermand the King's order?' he hissed.

'The man was close to cracking. If I had not allowed him to go, he would probably have run anyway.'

'So? He would have run. What has that to do with you?'

Antipater nodded as understanding came to him. 'I see. He might have fallen from favour. Gods, Attalus, do you have no friends? Is there no one you care for?'

'Only a weak man needs friends, Antipater. And I am not weak.'

Antipater said nothing, and the two men waited in silence for what seemed an age. Finally the fat figure of Elyphion appeared, his blue robes streaked with grime. Behind him came the King, his face thunderous; he stalked from the tunnel out into the sunlight, dragging in great gulps of air, then he turned on Elyphion. The fat man stepped back a pace, seeing the fury in the King's eyes.

'What have I done, sire? Tell me? I am loyal, I swear it!'

Philip could hardly speak. 'Someone get me a drink!' he thundered, and Nicanor ran forward bearing a water skin. Philip rinsed his mouth and spat out the water. 'This is my gold-mine,' he said at last. 'Mine. Macedonia's. Tell me something, fat fool, what do you need in order to get gold from the ground?'

'Tools, sire. Picks, digging tools. . baskets.'

'And who uses these tools?'

'As you see, slaves, criminals, thieves, murderers. Men are sentenced and sent here. Women also.'

'You do not see it, do you?' roared Philip. Around them all work had ceased; the guards with their whips were no longer watching the labourers, who sank wearily to the ground, dropping their tools.

All eyes were on the unfortunate Elyphion.

'I see only that I have done my best,' whimpered Elyphion. 'The gold is not as plentiful as once it was, but is that my fault? The veins go deeper, where we cannot follow.'

Philip turned towards a guard. 'You!' he bellowed. 'Fetch everyone from the mine. Get them all into the daylight.' The man bowed and ran towards the tunnel. 'Elyphion,' said the King softly, 'I could forgive you your greed, your lust for wealth. I could even forgive your theft of my property. What I cannot forgive is your stupidity. Tools, yes. But what kind of an imbecile allows his tools to reach such a state? Starved to the borders of death, covered in sores, living without hope, how can these people work? Digging requires strength, powerful arms, a good back. For this a man needs food, good wholesome food, and wine for the spirit. Attalus!'

'Yes, sire.'

'You will take over the running of this enterprise. I will leave you with 100 soldiers. I want the slaves fed and rested for two weeks, and I will send others here. Find yourself a good foreman, and break the work-load so that each man works no longer than twelve hours.' Philip looked into the warrior's eyes and suddenly smiled. Attalus had no liking for this role and it showed. 'Also,'

concluded the King, 'you may keep one part in a hundred of all the gold mined.'

'Thank you, sire,' said Attalus, his eyes gleaming as he bowed low. 'But what of Elyphion?'

'Who is the foremost judge in Macedonia?' responded Philip.

'The King, sire.'

'Indeed he is. For his greed, I sentence Elyphion to five years working in this mine. See to it that he works well.'

Elyphion threw himself to his knees.'I beg you, sire. .'

'Get him out of my sight!' roared the King. Three soldiers dragged the weeping man away.

'What of his wives?' Nicanor asked.

'Buy them a house in Crousia and give them an allowance. The treasures are to be brought to Pella.

Where is the man's servant?'

'Here, sire. My name is Paralus.' Philip looked into the man's eyes. He was of medium height, his hair short and tightly curled, his nose hooked, his complexion dark.

'You are a Persian?'

'Phrygian, sire.'

'How long have you served Elyphion?'

'Since he bought me eleven years ago, when I was twelve.'

'How did you serve him?'

'At first I was his catamite — one of them. Then he had me trained to keep his accounts.'

'Where does he hide his gold?'

'There is a store-room beneath the palace.'

'Attalus, have the contents sent to me — less one hundredth. Now, Paralus, you have a new master.

Will you serve him well?'

The servant glanced from Attalus to the King. 'Sire, Elyphion promised me my freedom on my twenty-fifth year. He said he would then pay me for my work. Does his promise still hold true? Or do I remain a slave under this new master?'

'I give you a better promise. In three months you will be a free man. From this moment you will be paid according to the value Attalus sets on your work. Now I ask you again, will you serve us well?'

'I will, sire — and honestly.'

'Let it be so,' Philip told him.

Illyria, Autumn, 359 BC

Bardylis sat very still as the razor-sharp knife scraped away the hair beneath his braided top-knot. The skin of his scalp was loose and wrinkled, but the servant's hands were steady as the blade caressed the skin.

'One nick and I will have your hands cut off,' said Bardylis suddenly. The servant froze for a moment, then rubbed more oil into the King's face and head to soften the bristle. The knife slid over the skin above Bardylis' right ear, then the servant moved to stand in front of the King.