Lion of Macedon (60 page)

Olympias yawned and stretched. Running her fingers through her flame-red hair, she sat up and smiled at Phaedra. “Where are we?”

“Soon we will reach the plain,” answered Phaedra. “There we will be met by the king’s escort.”

“I am hot and thirsty,” Olympias complained, “and this awful wagon is making me feel sick.”

Phaedra stood, opening the flap on the roof of the cabin and calling out to the driver. He hauled on the reins, and Olympias stepped down into the sunlight. Immediately the Epirite captain of the guard dismounted, bringing a water skin and filling a silver cup. Olympias smiled. “Thank you, Herkon, you are most kind.”

Phaedra watched the young man blush. She did not need to touch him to know his thoughts. As she stepped down alongside Olympias, the vision struck her again, this time with awesome power. She saw horsemen thundering down the slopes, the wagon overturned, Herkon dead, his throat slashed open.…

She screamed and fainted.

She awoke to see a man bending over her, dabbing at her face with a water-soaked cloth. “They are coming,” she whispered.

“Who is coming? What are you talking about?” Herkon asked.

The air was suddenly filled with the thunder of hoofbeats. For a moment only Phaedra thought the vision had returned, but then Herkon lunged to his feet, his cavalry saber hissing from its scabbard.

From the slopes of the mountains came hundreds of riders, bright cloaks streaming behind them like rainbow banners.

“Illyrians!” shouted Herkon, running for his horse. The fifty soldiers of Epirus drew their weapons—then the attackers were upon them. Olympias ran to where Phaedra lay, dragging the girl back under the wagon. Dust rose in choking clouds. Olympias covered her mouth with a linen kerchief, and the two women huddled together, listening to the clash of weapons and the screams of the dying. A horse reared close to the wagon, the rider falling headfirst to the ground, his face striking the wheel.

It was Herkon, his throat open, his dead eyes gazing at Olympias, who turned away her head.

The battle seemed to rage for hours, but at last the dust began to settle. Shapes could be seen, men moving among the wounded Epirites and killing them with sharp daggers. Olympias drew a slender knife from the hidden sheath high on her thigh and waited. Phaedra closed her eyes, unable to bear the terror any longer.

“Look what we have here!” called a warrior, squatting down to look under the wagon. Dropping to his knees, he crawled toward the women, his hand reaching out. Olympias plunged the knife into his eye, and he dropped without a sound, his head pinning the dagger firmly in the socket. Olympias struggled in vain to free it. But then a group of warriors took hold of the wagon, overturning it. Olympias rose, her green eyes angry, her chin held high.

“You will die for this,” she promised them.

“No one will die,” said a tall handsome warrior with blond hair and a braided forked beard. “But Philip of Macedon will pay a fine price to get you back. If you are kind to me, Princess, it may be that your short stay with us will be pleasant.”

Olympias’ eyes swept the group, her contempt apparent. Then she glanced beyond them to the eastern hills. A line of riders appeared, and at their center rode a warrior on a huge gray horse. The man wore armor of gleaming bronze and a helm with a white horsehair plume.

“I think you will find,” she said slowly, “that Philip of Macedon has already set the price—and it is you who will pay.”

“Arcetas! Look!” shouted a man, pointing to the stationary riders. Arcetas swore. He scanned the Macedonian line, counting no more than seventy cavalrymen.

“To horse!” he bellowed. “They are too few to stop us. Cut them down!”

The Illyrians mounted and galloped toward the waiting Macedonians.

“Watch, Phaedra,” whispered Olympias, dropping down beside the terrified seeress. “Watch how my husband fights!” Phaedra opened her eyes to see the sunlight gleam from the bronze breastplate of the Macedonian on the giant gray. He drew his sword, holding it high.

And the Macedonians hurtled down to meet the charge, the gray rider forming the point of a wedge that cleaved the Illyrian ranks, splitting them, destroying their momentum. Olympias saw the fork-bearded Arcetas straining to reach the gray rider. Dust swirled, but still she could just make out the fight that followed as their swords clashed. There was no question in Olympias’ mind as to the outcome, no fear for the safety of the gray rider. She merely waited for the inevitable and leapt with joy as the gleaming sword swept through Arcetas’ neck, his head lolling, blood fountaining into the air.

“That is the price, you whoreson!” she shouted.

The Illyrians broke and fled, the Macedonians re-forming their lines and galloping after them. But the rider on the gray, followed by three officers, approached the women.

“Philip!” called Olympias, running to meet him.

“No, my lady,” he answered, removing his helm. “It is I, Parmenion.”

They found a camping site in a grove of trees close to the River Haliacmon. Parmenion went to the wounded men, who had been placed away from the main group lest their cries during surgery upset the women. The Macedonian had lost seventeen men in the battle, with seven hurt. The crushed Illyrians had suffered more than eighty dead. Parmenion knelt by a young soldier who had lost three fingers of his right hand. The boy’s face was gray with shock and pain and shone with sweat.

“I am useless now,” he whispered. “What shall I do?”

“The gods gave you two hands, Peris; you must learn to use the left. It is not so bad. You are not a foot soldier, so you will not need to worry about forming the line. You are a cavalryman—aye, and a good one. You have too much courage to let such a small wound overcome you.”

“I am no good with my left, General.”

“We will work on it, you and I.”

Parmenion moved on to the next man, but he had bled to death. The general covered the dead man’s face with a cloak and moved on.

The surgeon, Bernios, rose to greet him as he finished his rounds. “We did well,” said Bernios, wiping the sweat from his bald head with a bloodstained towel.

“Had we been an hour earlier, there would have been no battle,” replied Parmenion. “That would have been better, my friend.”

“Indeed it would, General. But—” The man shrugged and spread his hands. “—it could have been considerably worse.
We might have been an hour later, and then the king’s new bride would have been stolen from him. I believe Philip would have been mildly aggrieved.”

Parmenion smiled. Slapping the surgeon on the shoulder, he returned to the main camp. The women’s quarters had been set back into the trees, where they could enjoy privacy, while the fifty-one surviving soldiers sat around four campfires. Parmenion called to Nicanor, signaling the young man to follow him.

“Are there scouts out?” asked the general.

“Yes, sir. Six men patrolling the hills. Three others are stationed north, west, and east of the woods.”

“Good. You fought well today. The king will be proud of you.”

“The king long since ceased to care about me,” answered Nicanor with a shy smile. “But I truly do not mind, Parmenion. Do not concern yourself for me. I was his favorite for a time. Now there are others. I am getting old, you see. I am twenty-seven now.” Nicanor shrugged. “But Olympias is very beautiful, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” answered Parmenion too abruptly. Nicanor looked up sharply, but Parmenion turned away. “See to their needs,” he said over his shoulder as he walked to his blankets.

The younger man took up a wineskin, which he carried back to the queen’s campfire. Olympias was sitting on some cushions brought from the carriage; the girl he took to be her maid was tending the blaze.

“I have some wine for you, ladies,” said Nicanor, bowing deeply.

Olympias flashed him a dazzling smile. “And you are, sir?” she asked.

“Nicanor. I am Parmenion’s first captain.”

“Join us, Nicanor,” ordered the queen. He filled their wine cups, added water, then folded his cloak to make a seat. “Why is Parmenion not here?” Olympias asked.

“He is … er … weary, my lady. He did not sleep much last night. He was concerned to be here on time. He
feared … well, he feared the Illyrians might raid, and he was right. He usually is; it is most galling.”

“And yet you like him?”

“Oh, yes, my lady. He is a fine general, the best in the world. He has built Philip’s army into a force to strike fear into the hearts of all our enemies.”

“But he is not Macedonian,” Olympias pointed out.

“Half-Macedonian,” replied Nicanor. “He was raised in Sparta.”

“Perhaps, then, we should forgive his bad manners in not attending us. Spartans are not renowned for their courtesies.”

“I do not believe he meant to be discourteous,” Nicanor said. “Far from it. He ordered me to see to your needs. I believe he felt you would sooner rest and recover from your ordeal than endure his company.”

Olympias smiled and, reaching out, touched Nicanor’s arm. “You are a good friend to your general and a powerful advocate. I shall forgive him instantly. And now, Nicanor, I would like to rest.”

The young man rose and bowed once more before gathering up his cloak and walking back through the trees.

“You are shameless,” said Phaedra. “You quite dazzled the poor man.”

Olympias let the smile fade from her face. “This is a foreign land,” she said softly. “I will need friends here. Why did Parmenion not come?”

“Perhaps it was as the officer said, that he was weary.”

“No. He would not meet my eyes when he rode up. Still, what does it matter? We are safe. The future is bright.”

“Do you love Philip?” asked Phaedra suddenly.

“Love? He is my husband, the father of the child I carry. What has love to do with it? And anyway, I have met him only once—on the night of the wedding in Samothrace seven months ago.”

“What was it like on the Isle of Mysteries when he made love to you?”

Olympias leaned back, smiling at the memory. “The first
time was magical, strange … but in the morning it was as it always is. The man ruts and grunts, sighs and sleeps.” She yawned. “Fetch me my blankets, Phaedra. And some more cushions. I will sleep now.”

“You should sleep in the carriage. You will be warmer.”

“I want to see the stars,” answered Olympias. “I want to watch the Huntress.”

Olympias lay down, her mind lazily drifting back to Samothrace and the night of the mysteries. The women, scores of them, had danced in the grove, drinking, laughing, chewing the sacred herbs that brought visions, bright colorful dreams. The torch-lit procession then filed to the palace, and Olympias remembered them carrying her to Philip’s bed.

She had waited, her mind spinning, the colors supernaturally bright … red hangings, yellow silks, golden cups.

And he had come to her—his face, as ritual demanded, hidden by the helm of chaos. She had felt the metal against her cheek, felt his body cover her like a fire-warmed cloak.

Wrapped in her blankets, the new Queen of Macedonia slept beneath the stars.

Parmenion lay awake staring at the same stars, recalling the same night. His sense of shame was strong, painful almost. There were many deeds in his life that had left him with sorrow, others that had caused scars to both body and spirit. But shame was new to the Spartan.

The night had been like this one, stars like gems on sable, the air clean and fresh. Philip was drunk as he waited for his bride; he had collapsed on a couch just as the women brought his new wife to his bedchamber.

Parmenion had glanced through a gap in the curtains to see Olympias, naked, her body glistening, waiting … waiting.

He tried to tell himself that it was vital that the wedding be consummated on this night, reminded himself that Philip had told him exactly that.

“If I do not perform within the sacred hour, the wedding will be canceled. Can you believe that, Parmenion?”

But that was not why the Spartan had donned the ancient helm. He had looked upon the naked woman—and he had wanted her, as he had desired no one since his love had been stolen from him a quarter of a century before. He had made love to her, and when she slept, he went to Philip, dressing the unconscious king in the helm and cloak and carrying him to her bed.

You betrayed the king you swore to serve. How will you redeem yourself?

The night was chilly, and Parmenion rose. Wrapping his black woolen cloak tightly around his shoulders, he strolled out to where the sentries kept watch.

“I’m awake, sir,” said the first man. In the darkness Parmenion did not recognize him.

“I did not doubt it,” the general told him. “You are a soldier of Macedon.” He wandered from the woods and down to the banks of the Haliacmon. The water was dark as the Styx but glimmering in the starlight. He sat on a boulder and thought of Derae.

Five days of love—fierce, passionate love. Then they had taken her from him, carrying her to the shores of Asia, where they hurled her into the sea to drown, her hands tied behind her. A sacrifice to the gods, for the protection of Sparta.

And how Sparta had needed protection! Parmenion remembered the battle at Leuctra, where his strategic genius had seen the fall of the Spartan army, the crushing of Sparta’s dreams.

“You are Parmenion, the Death of Nations,” the old seeress had told him. How right she was. Last year he had led the Macedonians against the Illyrian king, Bardylis, devastating his army. The old king had died within seven months of the defeat, his country in ruins.

Looking up at the stars, Parmenion pictured Derae’s face, her flame-gold hair, her green eyes. “What am I without you?” he whispered.

“Talking to yourself, General?” said a voice from close by. A young soldier moved from the shadows of the riverbank.

“It happens when a man gets old,” Parmenion told him.
The moon emerged from behind the clouds, and the Spartan recognized Cleiton, a young soldier from eastern Macedonia who had joined the army the previous autumn.

“It is a quiet night, sir,” said Cleiton. “Were you praying?”

“After a fashion. I was thinking about a girl I used to know.”