Lion of Macedon (44 page)

“I think so, but it would take all my power.”

“What if I asked you to prune all the roses in the world so that only one bush produced one perfect flower?”

“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 toward 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 toward the lion.

MACEDONIA, SUMMER, 359 B.C.

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 them all, it was the hunt that 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 flocks, 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 were 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 disemboweling 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 or 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 reveled 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 that he would not die alone. This monster would walk beside him on the road to Hades.

Behind him he heard the sound of hoof beats, 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 center gave
way. Perdiccas tried to countercharge, but the enemy was expecting it. The cavalry was cut to pieces, the king’s head placed on a lance. We lost over four thousand 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 a 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 four thousand 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?”

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 had reached out and taken 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 a 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 traveling 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 B.C.

“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.