Lion of Macedon (51 page)

Just before dusk on the third day Philip led his troop up a high hill, cresting it as the sun was sinking behind the western peaks of Mount Bermion. The sky was heavy with broken gray clouds, and beyond them sunlight turned the heavens to purple and crimson. Philip hauled on his reins and stared out over the rolling grasslands, the forests and the mountains, shading his eyes against the setting sun.

“Why are we stopping, sire?” asked Nicanor, but Philip ignored him, his keen gaze swinging to the east, past the proud, rearing peaks of Mount Messapion and on to the mighty Cercine mountains, stone giants with beards of snow and cloaks of timber.

Around the king the men waited. Philip dismounted and walked to the hill’s crest. The wind blew at his cloak, the
night cold whispering against his bare arms, but the beauty of the land was upon him, and he felt nothing but the spell of the sunset.

Nicanor approached him, laying his hand on the king’s shoulder. “Are you well, Philip?” he asked softly.

“Look upon it, my friend,” said Philip. “Long after we are dust, the land will still be here, these mountains and forests, the plains and the hills.”

“They are all yours. Everything you see belongs to you.”

“No. That is folly. I am the steward, no more than that. But that is enough, Nicanor. This is a proud land. I can feel it seeping into my bones. I will not see it conquered—not in my lifetime.”

Striding to his horse, he took hold of its mane and vaulted to its back. “Ride on!” he ordered.

Six days of easy traveling brought them to the foothills of the Messapion range, where they camped in a hollow surrounded by trees.

“Tell me more about the governor, Elyphion,” Philip ordered Attalus. “I want to be prepared tomorrow.”

Attalus spread out his cloak and lay alongside the fire. “He’s fat, very fat. He dresses always in blue. He has three wives but spends most of his time with young boy slaves. He has been governor for eleven years. He has a palace that rivals any in Pella, even yours. He is a collector of statues and works of art, most of them Persian.”

Philip grunted. “My gold supplies dry up, but he collects works of art and builds a palace! I think I am beginning to know the man. What of the mines themselves? How are they run?”

“How would I know, sire? I have never seen one.”

“You will tomorrow,” Philip assured him.

“What a fascinating prospect,” muttered Attalus. Philip laughed and thumped him on the shoulder.

“Aren’t you interested in where our gold comes from?”

“No,” admitted Attalus, “only that it comes.”

“What of you, Nicanor? Do you wish to see the mines?”

“If you command it, sire. But what is there to see? Men grubbing in the earth like moles. Darkness and stench. And as they go deeper, the constant danger of a roof fall. I want to be buried when I am dead, not before.”

Philip shook his head. “Then I give you leave to seek the fleshpots of Crousia. Antipater will accompany me.”

“A singular honor for him,” Attalus sneered.

“It is always an honor to walk with the king,” said Antipater, masking his anger, though his dark eyes remained fixed on Attalus.

“You do not like me, do you?” asked Attalus, sitting up and returning the soldier’s stare.

“I neither like you nor dislike you, Attalus. In fact, I think of you rarely.”

“Be careful how you speak to me!” Attalus snapped. “I make a bad enemy.”

“Be silent, the pair of you!” stormed Philip. “You think we do not have enough trouble? When Macedonia is free, then—perhaps—I will allow you to declare your enmity. Perhaps. But know this, if either of you fights, I will have the winner executed. If you cannot be friends for my sake, then at least suffer one another. You understand me?”

“I wish for no enmity, sire,” said Attalus.

“Nor I,” added Antipater.

Philip settled down in his blankets, his head resting on his folded lionskin shabraque, and gazed at the bright stars—so distant, so far from all the troubles of the world. He closed his eyes and slipped into sleep.

He was walking on a grass-covered hillside under a silver moon when he saw the woman sitting beneath a spreading oak. He looked around, surprised that he was alone. When he approached her and bowed, she looked up, pushing back the dark hood of her cloak. Her face was pale and beautiful, her eyes dark and yet luminous
.

“Welcome, great King,” she whispered. He sat beside her
.

“I am not great, woman. But I am a king.”

“You will be great—that is the promise of Aida; the gods have decreed it. But there is something you need, Philip. There is a talisman you must acquire.”

“Where do I find it?”

“It will find you. Look!” She pointed down the hill to where a small stream was sparkling in the moonlight. There sat a second woman. “Go to her—and know the joys of the universe.”

Philip was about to ask a question when the dark woman vanished. He stood and walked to the stream. The woman there was little more than a girl, her figure slim, her breasts small and round. Her hair was red, like reflected firelight, her eyes green as jewels. When he knelt beside her, she reached out and stroked his beard, her hand dropping to his chest and stroking his belly. He realized he was naked, as she was, and passion flooded him. He pulled her down to the grass, kissing her face and neck, his hand caressing her inner thigh. He could feel his heart pounding
.

“Love me!” she whispered. “Love me!”

He entered her, and so exquisite was his pleasure that his orgasm was instant. Incredibly, though, he stayed erect, his passion seeming inexhaustible. He felt her trembling beneath him, moaning and crying out. He rolled from her, but she would not let him go, stroking him with gentle fingers, caressing him with soft lips. Finally he groaned and rolled to his back, where he lay with his arms around her
.

“Who are you?” he asked her. “I must know. I must have you.”

“You will see me again, Philip. With you I will have a child, the son of a king.”

“Where can I find you?”

“The time is not yet. I will meet you two years from now on the Island of Mysteries. There we will be wed; there your son will be conceived.”

“Your name, tell me your name!”

“Tell me your name!” he shouted.

“What is it, sire?” asked Nicanor, moving to where the king lay. Philip opened his eyes and saw the stars, bright in the night sky.

“It was a dream,” he whispered. “A gift from the gods.”

Unable to return to sleep, Philip sat for the rest of the night reliving the scene of his vision. In two years, she had said, she would be on the Island of Mysteries.

Samothrace.

He had never been there—had never wished to. But now, he knew, only death would stop him from keeping that appointment.

Soon after dawn he woke the others, and they rode down into the valley of the mines. Crousia was not a large settlement; fewer than a thousand people dwelt here, and Elyphion’s palace overshadowed the town with its white pillars and elegant statues, its high pointed roof bearing a beautiful relief showing the goddess Athena rising from the brow of her father, Zeus.

The two hundred riders reined in their horses before the building, and Philip dismounted. An elderly servant emerged from an outbuilding and stood slack-jawed, staring at the army before the palace.

“You!” shouted Philip. “Take my horse.” The man stumbled forward.

“Are you … expected?” he asked, his eyes fearful.

“I would hope not,” answered Philip, tossing him the reins and striding toward the huge double doors beyond the pillars. Attalus, Nicanor, and Antipater followed him into the building, and the four men stopped in the great hallway within. Persian carpets covered the floor, statues lined the walls, and an enormous mosaic decorated the ceiling, showing the Trojan prince, Paris, with the goddesses Aphrodite, Hera, and Athena.

Philip felt almost humbled by the awesome surroundings. He noticed that his muddy boots had marked the carpet and that his hands were grime-smeared.

“Elyphion!” he bellowed, the word echoing in the marble hallway. Servants ran from hidden doorways with panic in their eyes. One, a slender boy with golden hair, cannoned into Antipater and fell to his knees. The soldier helped him to his feet.

“Don’t kill me!” the boy begged.

“No one is going to kill you,” Antipater told him. “Fetch your master. Tell him the king is here.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy began to move toward the stairs, then turned. “I am sorry sir, but … which king?”

“The king of Macedonia,” said Antipater.

An older man stepped forward and bowed to Philip. “Sire, perhaps you would like to wait in the
andron
. I shall fetch you refreshments.”

“At last,” said Philip, “a servant with his wits about him.” The group followed the man into a long room to the right. Here there were silk-covered couches, and the walls were painted with hunting scenes: riders chasing a white stag, Heracles slaying the Nemean lion, archers loosing their shafts at a huge bear. “By the gods,” said Philip, “it makes Pella look like a cattle shed. I would be envious if it weren’t for the fact that it was built with my gold.”

The servant brought them wine from Elyphion’s vineyard—red, sweet, and fortified with spirits. Philip lounged down on a couch, lifting his filthy boots to the silk and smearing mud on the cloth.

His mood was dark, and his companions said nothing as they waited. At last Elyphion appeared. Attalus had said the man was fat, but this proved an understatement—great folds of flesh hanging beneath his chin, his enormous belly pushing at the blue Persian robes he wore. His dark hair was cut short and sat atop his head like a small, badly fitting cap. He tried to bow, but the belly defeated him.

“Welcome, sire,” he said. “Had I only known of your visit, I would have prepared a sumptuous welcome.” The voice was deep and attractive, as indeed, Philip noticed, were the man’s large brown eyes.

“I came to see the mines,” Philip said.

“But why, sire? There is little for a man of breeding to see. Great gaping holes in the earth and a few tunnels full of stench. I will gladly show you the smelting houses.”

Philip’s voice dropped low, and a dangerous glint showed in his eyes. “You will show me what I wish to see,” he said slowly. “You will do this, Elyphion, because you are my servant. Now, take me to the mines.”

The king rose.

“Yes, of course, sire, I will just dress; I will not be long.”

“Attalus!” snapped Philip.

“Yes, sire?”

“If this fat fool disobeys one more instruction, take your knife and open his belly from groin to throat.”

“Yes, sire,” Attalus replied, grinning at the mortified Elyphion.

“Now, sir, the mines, I think,” said the king.

“At once … sire,” stammered Elyphion. The fat governor shouted for his carriage, and within minutes a wagon was brought to the front of the palace. Drawn by four black geldings, it resembled a giant chariot save that it had a wide cushioned seat. Elyphion settled himself in place, and a servant climbed in beside him, flicking the reins.

Despite their avowed disinterest in mining, Attalus and Nicanor rode behind Philip, unwilling to miss the king’s visit.

They rode for almost an hour until they came to a small valley where the earth had been gouged as if by a huge pick. Far below them they could see the slaves digging in the earth and others shuffling from tunnels in the hillside.

Slowly the riders descended.

Nicanor’s eyes raked the working groups. Both men and women labored here, their skeletal bodies covered in weeping sores, while around them stood guards armed with short, wicked whips. To the right a woman carrying a basket of rocks stumbled and fell, cracking her head against a boulder. She did not cry out but wearily pushed herself to her feet and stumbled on.

Ahead Philip rode to the nearest tunnel mouth and dismounted.

Elyphion climbed ponderously from the wagon. “As you ordered, sire. This is the mine.”

“Take me inside.”

“Inside?”

“Are you deaf?”

Elyphion walked slowly toward the darkness of the tunnel, halting to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Lanterns hung from the walls, but the tunnel was full of choking dust. 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 farther 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 that 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. “I don’t 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.