Lion of Macedon (52 page)

“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 around 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 toward 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 favor. 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 spit 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 laborers, 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 toward a guard. “You!” he bellowed. “Fetch everyone from the mine. Get them all into the daylight.” The man bowed and ran toward 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 one hundred 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 storeroom 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 B.C.

Bardylis sat very still as the razor-sharp knife scraped away the hair beneath his braided topknot. 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.

“Move your head back, sire,” he said. Bardylis looked up at the man and offered his neck. The knife continued its work until at last the servant stepped back.

Bardylis stroked the skin of his face and head. “You did well, Boli,” he told the man. “Now tell me, why did my threat not unnerve you?”

The man shrugged. “I don’t know, lord.”

“Then I shall tell you,” said Bardylis, smiling. “It is because you decided that if you made a single nick, you would cut my throat and then run for your life.”

Boli’s eyes widened, and Bardylis saw that the truth had hit home. He gave a dry chuckle and pushed himself to his feet. “Do not let it concern you.”

“If you knew that, lord, then why did you threaten me?”

“A little danger adds spice to life, and—by the balls of
Zeus—when you reach eighty-three, you need a lot of spice. Send in Grigery.”

Bardylis wandered to a bronze mirror and gazed at his reflection, hating the sagging skin of his face, the spindly limbs, and the thin, white hairs of his long mustache. There were times when he wished he had not been quite so skillful at recognizing traitors. Perhaps, he thought idly, I should have let Bichlys kill me. His son had been a fine warrior, tall and proud, but he had reached fifty years and still his father ruled the Dardanoi. The rebellion had been short-lived, his army had been crushed, and Bardylis had watched his son being slowly strangled to death.

He turned away from the mirror as the man who had killed his son entered. Grigery was tall, wide-shouldered, and slim-hipped. Though he boasted the shaved skull and braided topknot of the Dardanoi, he had grown neither beard nor mustache, his clean-shaven face pale and handsome after the fashion of the southern Greeks.

Grigery bowed. “Good morning, sire. I trust you are well.”

“Yes, I am, but the definition of well has a different meaning for the old. Is the Macedonian here?”

“He is, sire. But he brought with him only four men.”

“Four? What, could he not find twenty Macedonians with the courage to enter Illyria?”

Grigery chuckled. “I would imagine not.”

“Who are the four?”

“One is a common soldier named Theoparlis; another is the king’s lover, Nicanor; the third is a soldier called Antipater—he it was who led the charge against the Paiones. The last is a mercenary named Parmenion.”

“I know that name,” said Bardylis. “I offered him employment.”

“He served the great king in Persia, I understand. He was also a friend to the Theban Epaminondas.”

“More than that,” said Bardylis. “Leuctra. The Spartan defeat. What other news is there?”

“Little of import, sire. Neoptelemus has agreed to increase his tribute. But then, you expected that.”

“Of course. Now that his army is destroyed, he has little choice.”

“He also offered one of his daughters in marriage, sire.”

“The man’s a fool. Much as I would wish it otherwise, my interest in women perished a decade ago. Still, let us turn to matters of greater importance; I want Philip well treated while he is here—but also he must be made to realize who is the master now.”

“How should I engineer this, lord?”

“Be polite to the king but—out of his sight—goad his followers. It would be interesting to force one of them to challenge you. I would then of course have no option but to allow a duel to go ahead. You would then kill the man.”

“Which one, sire?”

“Not Nicanor. I want the king mildly humbled, not aroused to fury. Fury leads to stupidity. Let it be the soldier, Theoparlis. And have Parmenion brought to my chambers tonight, but do not allow Philip to know of the invitation.”

“You will employ him?”

“Why not? That would be a secondary blow to the Macedonian. Tell me, what do you make of Philip?”

“He seems anxious to please. However, it is difficult to judge the man. He has a great deal of charm and uses it well. He has cool eyes, and I would be wary of him in combat. But as to his nature … I have no idea.”

“His brother was headstrong but a dynamic man,” said Bardylis. “It interests me why Perdiccas let Philip live. Either he was considered no threat or Perdiccas was a fool. Similarly, why has Philip not slain the son of Perdiccas? They are an intriguing family.”

“He was not slow to kill his own stepbrother,” Grigery pointed out.

“I know.” Bardylis sighed and returned to his throne. “Ah, if I was sure he would be a threat, he would not leave here
alive. But a husband for Audata is not a prize I had thought to find. Invite him here for a private meeting. Bring him in an hour.”

After Grigery had left, Bardylis summoned Audata to him. She was a tall, bony woman with a prominent nose, but though Bardylis knew many considered her ugly, he himself could see only the child he had loved since birth. She entered the room and hugged him.

“Have you seen him?” asked Bardylis, holding his daughter’s hands.

“Yes. He is handsome, though I fear he is shorter than I.”

“I want you to be happy,” he told her. “And I still do not know if this is wise.”

“I am twenty-seven years old, Father. Do not concern yourself over me.”

“You speak as if twenty-seven were ancient. You still have time to bear healthy sons and watch them grow. I want that for you. I want you to know the joy I had while you were growing.”

“Whatever pleases you,” she said. They sat and talked until Grigery returned and announced Philip. Audata left swiftly but waited outside the throne room, watching the scene through the partly closed door.

Bardylis stood before the throne as Philip entered. The Macedonian walked forward and then knelt at Bardylis’ feet, taking his hand and kissing it.

“A king should not kneel to another king,” chided Bardylis.

“But a son should honor his new father,” replied Philip, rising to his feet.

“A good point,” agreed the Illyrian, waving Grigery away. “Come and sit with me; there is much we have to discuss.”

Parmenion added the sylphium leaves to the boiling water, stirring it with his dagger blade. “What is it?” asked the Illyrian servant who had brought the water.

“Herbs from Macedonia. It makes a refreshing drink. My thanks to you.”

Parmenion moved to a couch and sat down, waiting for the infusion to cool. Mothac had been furious when he had heard he was being left behind and had fussed around Parmenion like an old woman. “You will take the sylphium before going to bed each evening? You will not forget?”

“Of course I will not forget.”

“You forgot in Egypt that time. Three days it was, when I was sick with a fever.”

“I had other matters to worry about. We were being besieged at the time.”

Mothac grunted, remaining unconvinced. “You have enough for five days, six at the very outside.”

“I will be careful, Mother. I promise you.”

“That’s right! Mock! We are talking about your life, Parmenion. Just remember.”

Parmenion swung his legs to the couch and relaxed, sipping the cooling drink. Like many of the southern Greeks, the Illyrians drank from shallow dishes. Only in Thebes had the Persian goblets found a natural second home. He finished the sylphium and settled back, his muscles weary from the long ride. The king had left his two hundred companions near Mount Babouna in the south, promising to return within five days. They had been met by Grigery and one hundred Illyrian cavalrymen. It was a tense ride to the palace of Bardylis, and Parmenion was weary hours before they sighted the long, single-storyed building. It was unadorned by statues, and there were no gardens, merely stables for the king’s horses, but the rooms they had been given were comfortable, and each man had been assigned a servant.