Lion of Macedon (41 page)

Then Leonidas sat on the pallet bed and drained his wine at a single swallow. “What is it that we do to one another?” asked the Spartan. “You won the games fairly. I said it then, and I will say it now. I never asked those boys to beat you. Indeed, I did not know it was happening. And I wish that you had married Derae. But events propel us, Parmenion. Our souls are but leaves in a storm, and only the gods know where we will come to rest. We are enemies, you and I; the Fates have decreed that. But you are a man of courage, and you fight like a Spartan. I salute your victory.” He stood and returned the empty goblet. “What will you do now?”

“I shall leave Thebes and travel. I will see the world, Leonidas.”

“As a soldier?”

“It is all that I have—all that I know.”

“Farewell, then, Parmenion. If we meet again, I will do my utmost to kill you.”

“I know. May the gods walk with you, Leonidas.”

“And with you … 
strategos.”

Tamis was confused as her spirit eyes watched Parmenion return the legendary sword. That was not how it was meant to happen. The hatred between the two men should have been strengthened—all the futures showed it so. For a moment only her confusion threatened to become panic, but she brushed her doubts aside. What did it matter? Three of the chosen were dead. Only one remained.

And with him there was time. All kinds of accidents could befall a fourteen-year-old hostage living in Thebes.

Surely he would prove less of a threat than Cleombrotus, the mighty battle king of the Spartans. The boy was not even
from a civilized city, born and bred as he was in the forests and hills of Macedonia.

He would probably be murdered like his father. Such was the fate of those close to the throne in backward nations, the king eliminating all possible rivals.

No, Tamis decided, there was nothing to fear from Philip of Macedon.

BOOK THREE

THEBES, AUTUMN, 371 B.C.

Philip of Macedon watched the cheering crowds as the flower-garlanded heroes of Leuctra marched through the streets. It had been an unbelievable victory. Never before had the Spartan army been defeated in such a manner. It was both impossible and somehow wonderful, even to a Macedonian. Philip could understand the irrepressible joy of the multitudes for they were celebrating an event few of them had believed credible: the Spartans crushed by a smaller force.

There was music from the streets, and Philip longed to leave the silent house and join them, to dance and forget his own private torments.

But Pammenes had told him to wait for a visitor.

The Theban had been unable to meet his eyes, shifting nervously as he spoke. Fear and anger had flared in Philip at that moment, but he masked both emotions until Pammenes had left. Moving back from the window, Philip poured himself a goblet of water and considered the problem.

He had heard nothing from his brother Perdiccas for two months, so the present fear was hardly new. Perdiccas was three years older than Philip and therefore closer to the throne. He would be the first to die. So Philip wrote to him constantly, and to his cousins and nieces, asking about the royal horse herds, inquiring after the health of relatives. When the letters from Perdiccas stopped, Philip’s sleepless nights had begun, as he waited for the day of the assassin.
Now it was here. They would not kill him while he was in Thebes, he reassured himself, for that would be bad manners. Idly he touched the dagger at his belt. Little use that would be. Though strong, Philip was a mere fourteen years old and no match for any but the clumsiest adult warrior. And they would send no one clumsy.

“What shall I do, Crosi?” he asked the ghost of the old man. There was no answer, but whispering the name aloud helped ease his tension. He remembered the night of the knives, the old man moving silently into his bedroom with a short sword in his hand. Philip had been ten then. Crosi had led him to a shadowed corner of the room, ordering him to hide behind a couch.

“What is happening?” Philip asked.

“Blood and death,” replied the old man. “But I will protect you, boy. Have no fear.”

Philip had believed him. At ten a child had faith in the fully grown. Crosi had sat on the couch, sword in hand, and they had waited until the dawn. No one came.

Philip had crouched in the cold, wrapped in a blanket, too frightened to ask the nature of the peril. As the sun cleared the distant Crousian mountains, Crosi had relaxed.

“Come out, boy,” he said, taking Philip’s hand and drawing him forth. He put his arms around the prince and hugged him briefly. “Last night,” he said, “your father died. Ptolemaos now rules in Macedonia.”

“But … Father is so strong! He can’t be dead!”

“No man can withstand a dagger in the heart, Philip.”

“Who did it? And why?”

“These are questions I will not answer, boy. But for now—I hope—your danger is past.””

“Uncle Ptolemaos will look after me,” said Philip, but even at ten he saw the angry look in Crosi’s eyes just before the old man stood and turned away. He did not fully understand it then, but now he remembered it clearly. Now he knew the answers, though no one had ever voiced them.

Ptolemaos had killed King Amyntas. Uncle Ptolemaos,
who within three months had married Philip’s mother, Eurydice, and buried her a year later beside her murdered husband. Philip’s parents had been cold toward their youngest son, but even so the boy had loved them, worshiping his father and doing all in his power to please him.

The following year had seen Philip’s boyhood washed away in the acid of intrigue and sudden death. Philip’s eldest brother, Alexander, had been found murdered at his summer home in Aigai, killed by unknown assailants. Three adult cousins died mysteriously.

Then had come the Theban demand for hostages, following a short, bitter month of conflict between the Macedonian army and a force led by Pelopidas, the great Theban warrior. The Macedonians had been crushed. Ptolemaos sent twelve hostages—including Philip—to Thebes, and for the first time in months the young prince felt safe.

They had not let Crosi come with him, and the old man had died of a fever the previous spring. Philip still mourned him and prayed that his ghost would be allowed to walk alongside him until his own assassination. Then, maybe, together they could journey into the lands of the dead.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs jerked Philip’s thoughts to the present. He stood and found his legs trembling.

A tall warrior in full armor and white-plumed helm entered the room. The man was not old, perhaps eighteen, but his eyes were pale and cold.

He bowed. “Good morning,” he said. “I am here to accompany you home, Philip.”

“Do you bring letters?” he asked, proud that his voice did not betray his terror.

“Yes, sir. I have one from your brother Perdiccas.”

“He is well?”

“He is alive, sir, though he has suffered a fever from which he is now recovering. My name is Attalus. I hope we can be friends.”

Philip nodded. “Lifelong friends, I do not doubt,” he said, his dark eyes holding to the pale snakelike gaze of the warrior.
The man blinked, and Philip smiled. “Do not concern yourself, Attalus. I do not judge you.”

“I am not here to kill you, sir,” the warrior told him. “My orders are explicit: I am to take you to the capital. Nothing more.”

“Then let us walk for a while,” said Philip suddenly, striding past the astonished Attalus. The two of them wandered out into the streets, easing their way through the crowds that gathered on the thoroughfares and onto the
agora
where Epaminondas was scheduled to speak. The general had been delayed by the throng, but the people were unconcerned. They sang and danced and drank; the strength of their happiness was almost as intoxicating as the wine. Philip felt better out here in the open, but glancing at Attalus, he saw that the same could not be said of the tall warrior. Philip took his arm and led him into a deserted side street. Once there, he drew his dagger and held the point to his own breast.

“What are you doing?” asked Attalus.

Philip took the other’s hand and held it to the hilt. “If you have to kill me, you can do it here. No one will see you, and you could say that I was slain by a Theban. It would make it so much more simple for you.”

“Listen!” hissed Attalus. “I am the king’s man. I do as he bids. Had he told me to kill you, then I would do it. But you are to return with me to Pella. How can I convince you?”

“You just did,” Philip told him, returning the dagger to its sheath. His heart was beating wildly, and he grinned. “These are dangerous days, Attalus.”

“They are certainly strange,” agreed the young man with a tight smile. His teeth were too prominent, like marker stones, thought Philip. And he has the eyes of a killer. Remembering Parmenion’s advice, he took the warrior by the arm and smiled warmly. “I like you,” he said. “So if Ptolemaos ever decides to have me killed, request that he send someone else. No man should be slain by a man he likes.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

The journey back to Pella was slow and surprisingly pleasant
as they rode along the line of the Pindos mountains, angling northeast to the city at Aigai. Attalus proved an interesting if unamusing companion, and Philip found himself admiring the man’s single-minded ambition. As they rode, he learned of events in the kingdom. The Paionians had raided from the north, but Ptolemaos had smashed their army, forcing their king to agree to a yearly tribute of two hundred talents. Macedonian joy was short-lived, however, as the Illyrian army of King Bardylis had defeated Ptolemaos two months later at a battle near the Prespa Lakes in the west. For this defeat Ptolemaos had agreed to pay Bardylis a yearly tribute of two hundred and fifty talents.

“There are too many wolves seeking their meat in too small a sheep pen,” said Attalus, and Philip nodded. It was not that northern Greece was truly small, but with Illyria, Macedonia, Paionia, and Thrace all boasting armies and countless independent cities like Olynthus and Amphipolis employing large mercenary forces, no one king could take control of the area.

Crosi used to say that northern Greece was a mercenary’s paradise. Never short of employment, he could grow rich on the proceeds of blood and violence and then buy himself a quiet farm in the more civilized south.

Everywhere Philip and Attalus rode, there were signs of the frontier nature of the north. Towns were walled, settlements stockaded, single farms or lonely houses unheard of. People gathered together, never knowing when an enemy would descend on them with hot hearts and cold iron.

“It is a land for men,” said Attalus as they journeyed high in the Pierian mountains, their cloaks drawn tightly around them against the bitterness of the north winds of autumn.

“Men need wives and children,” said Philip. “Children need education. Farmers need to be able to farm in peace. Macedonia is a rich land, with the finest timber in all of Greece. The land should yield tremendous riches. Yet it does not. For men must needs become warriors and forget the earth and its treasures. There should be a more profitable way.”