David Gemmell

(Lion Of Macedon Serie, Book 2)

Dark Prince Book One, 352 BC.

Pella, Macedonia, Summer The goldenhaired child sat alone, as he usually did, and wondered whether his fat her would die today. Some distance aw ay, across t he royal gar dens, his nurse was talking to the two sent ries who guarded him during the hours of daylight. The soldiers, grim-eyed warriors, did not look at him and shifted nervously if he approached.

Alexander was used to this reaction. Even at four he understood it.

He remembered with sadness the day three weeks ago when his father, garbed for war, had walked along this same garden path, his cuirass gleaming in the sunlight. It was so beautiful that Alexander had reached out to touch the gleaming plates of iron, edged wit h gold, the six golden lions on the breast. But as his hand came forward Philip had moved swiftly back.

‘Don’t touch me, boy!’ he snapped.

‘I would not hurt you, Father,’ whispered the prince, staring up at t he black-bearded face, with its blind right eye like a huge opal beneath the savagely scarred brow.

‘I came to say goodbye,’ muttered Philip, ‘and to tell you to be good.

Learn your lessons well.’

‘Will you win?’ the child asked.

‘Win or die, boy,’ answ ered the King, kneeling to face his son. He appeared to relax, though his expression remained stern. ‘There are those who think I cannot win. They remember Onom archus defeated me when last we met. But his voice dropped to a w hisper, ‘when the arrow tore into my eye at the siege of Methone they said I would die. When the fever struck me down in Thrace men swore my heart stopped beating. But I am Macedon, Alexander, and I do not die easily.’

‘I don’t want you to die. I love you,’ said the child.

For a m om ent only Philip’s face soft ened, his arm rising as if t o reach out t o his son. But t he m om ent passed and t he King st ood. ‘Be good, ‘ he said. ‘I will think of you.’

The sound of children’s laught er brought Alexander’s thought s back t o the present. Beyond the garden walls he could hear the palace children playing. Sighing, he wondered what game they were enjoying. Hunt the Turtle perhaps, or Hecate’s Touch. He watched them som et im es from the window of his room. One child would be chosen as Hecate, Goddess of Death, and would chase the ot hers, seeking out t heir hiding-places, to touch them and make them slaves. The game would go on until all the children had been found and enslaved by Death.

Alexander shivered in the sunshine. No one would ask him to play such a game. He looked down at his small hands.

He had not meant t he hound t o die; he had loved the pup. And he had tried so hard, concent rat ing alw ays, so t hat w henever he st roked t he dog his m ind w as calm. But one day t he playful hound had leapt at him, knocking him from his feet. In that moment Alexander’s hand had snaked out, light ly slapping t he beast on t he neck. The hound collapsed inst ant ly, eyes glazing, legs t w it ching. I t had died w it hin seconds, but w hat w as w orse it had decom posed w it hin m inut es, t he stench filling the garden.

‘It was not my fault,’ the child wanted to say. But he knew that it was; knew that he was cursed.

Birds began t o sing in t he t all t rees and Alexander sm iled as he looked up at t hem. Closing his green eyes t he boy allow ed t he bird-song t o flow int o him, filling his m ind, m erging w it h his ow n t hought s. The songs began t o have m eanings t hen, t hat he could j ust decipher. No w ords but feelings, fears, t iny anger s. The birds w ere screeching warnings to one another.

Alexander looked up and sang: ‘My tree! My tree! Get away! Get away!

My tree! My tree! I will kill you if you stay!’

‘Children should not sing of killing,’ said his nurse st ernly, appr oaching where he sat but halting, as ever, out of reach.

‘That is what the birds are singing,’ he told her.

‘You should come inside now, the sun is very hot.’

‘The children are st ill playing beyond t he w all,’ he ar gued. ‘And I like to sit here.’

‘You w ill do as y ou are t old, young prince! ‘ she snapped. His eyes blazed and he could alm ost hear t he dar k voice w it hin him self w hispering: ‘Hurt her! Kill her! ‘ He sw allow ed hard, quelling t he rising tide of anger.

‘I w ill com e,’ he said soft ly. Rising t o his feet he w alked t ow ards her, but she st epped quickly aside t o let him pass, follow ing him slow ly as he ret urned t o his ow n room s. Wait ing unt il she had gone, Alexander slipped out int o t he corridor and r an t o his m ot her’s apart m ent s, pushing open the door to peek inside.

Olym pias w as alone and she sm iled as he ent ered, opening her arm s to him. He ran forward and embraced her, pushing his face against the soft flesh of her bosom. There w as never anyone, he knew, so beautiful as his mother, and he clung to her fiercely.

‘You ar e very hot,’ said Olym pias, pushing back his golden hair and st roking his brow. Filling a cup w it h cool w at er she passed it t o him, watching as he drank greedily.

‘Did your lessons go well today?’ she asked.

‘There w ere no lessons, Mot her. St agr a is ill. I f I had a pony, w ould it die?’

He saw t he pain on her face as pulling him t o her she pat t ed his back.

‘You are not a dem on, Alexander. You hav e great gift s; you w ill be a great man.’

‘But would the pony die?’

‘I t hink t hat it m ight,’ she adm it t ed. ‘But w hen you are older you w ill know how to control the Talent. Be patient.’

‘I don’t w ant t o kill anyt hing. Yest erday I m ade a bird fly t o m y hand.

It sat for a long time before flying away. It didn’t die. Truly!’

‘When your fat her ret urns t o Pella w e w ill all go t o t he sea, and sail on boats. You will like that. The breeze is cool, and we will swim.’

‘I s he com ing back?’ Alexander asked. ‘Som e people say he w ill die against t he Phocians. They say his luck is finished, t hat t he gods have deserted him.’

‘Hush!’ she whispered. ‘It is not wise to voice such thoughts. Philip is a great warrior - and he has Parmenion.’

‘The Phocians beat him before, t w o years ago,’ said t he boy. ‘Tw o t housand Macedonians dead. And now t he At henians raid our coast line and the Thracians have turned against us.’

She nodded and sighed. ‘You hear too much, Alexander.’

‘I don’t want him to die even though he doesn’t like me.’

‘You m ust not say t hat! Ev er! ‘ she cried, seizing his shoulders and shaking him hard. ‘Never! He loves you. You are his son. His heir.’

‘You are hurting me,’ he whispered, tears in his eyes.

‘I am sorry,’ she t old him, draw ing him int o her arm s. ‘There is so much I wish I could tell you; explain to you. But you are very young.’

‘I would understand,’ he assured her.

‘I know. That is why I cannot tell you.’

For a w hile t hey sat in silence, Alexander w arm and sleepy in his m ot her’s arm s. ‘I can see t hem now,’ he said dream ily. ‘There is a plain covered w it h flow ers of purple and yellow. And t here is Fat her in his golden arm our. He is st anding beside t he gr ey gelding, Achea. And t here are t he enem y. Oh, Mot her, t here are t housands of t hem. I can see t heir shields. Look! There is t he sign of Spart a, and t here t he Ow l of At hens and I don’t k now t hat one, but I can see t he em blem s of Pherai and Corinth so many. How can Father beat them all?’

‘I don’t know,’ whispered Olympias. ‘What is happening now?’

‘The battle begins,’ answered the child.

The Crocus Field, Summer Philip of Macedon rubbed at t he scar above his blinded r ight eye and st ared out over t he Phocian bat t le-lines half a m ile ahead. More t han 20,000 infantry were massed on the plain, 1,000 cavalry behind and to t he right of t he m ain force. He t ransferred his gaze t o t he Macedonian lines, w here 15,000 foot - soldiers w ait ed in form at ion at t he cent re, his 3,000 cavalry to the left and right.

Ever yw here t here w ere flow ers grow ing, som e pur ple and yellow, ot hers w hit e and pink, and hi t hat m om ent it seem ed t o t he King alm ost inconceivable t hat w it hin m inut es hundreds - perhaps thousands - of men would lay down their lives, their blood soaking into t he eart h. And he felt, w it h sudden r egret, it w as alm ost as great a crim e against t he gods of beaut y t hat t hese flow ers w ould soon be t ram pled int o t he dust beneat h t he pale grass of t he Grecian Plain.

‘Don’t be foolish,’ he t old him self. ‘You chose t his bat t leground.’ I t w as flat and m ade for cavalry and Philip now com m anded t he Thessalian lancers, the finest horse-soldiers in Greece.

Tw o days ago, during a light ning m arch across t he shallow s of t he River Penios, t he Macedonian arm y surprised t he defender s of t he port cit y of Pagasai. The cit y had fallen w it hin t hree hours. By sunset t he Macedonians manning the ramparts had seen a fleet of Athenian battle t rirem es sailing serenely across t he gulf. But w it h Pagasai t aken t he t rirem es had now here t o dock, and t he soldiers t hey carried w ere lost t o t he enem y cause. The nearest shallow bay w as a day’s sailing and four days’ m arch dist ant, and by t he t im e t he At henian soldiers had come ashore the battle would be over.

Now, with the rear secured against an Athenian attack, Philip felt more confident of t he com ing bat t le. There w as now here t his t im e for Onom archus t o hide his giant cat apult s; no st eep, t ree-shrouded m ount ains from w hich he could send deat h fr om t he skies. No, t his bat t le w ould be fought m an against m an, arm y against arm y. Philip st ill rem em bered w it h sick horror t he huge boulders raining dow n on t he Macedonians, could st ill hear t he aw ful cries of t he crushed and dying.

But today it would be different. Today the odds were more even.

And he had Parmenion

Glancing t o his left Philip sought out t he Spart an, w at ching him ride along t he flank, t alking t o t he riders, calm ing t he younger m en and lifting the spirits of the veterans.

A m om ent ary anger t ouched Philip. The Spart an had com e t o Macedonia’s aid seven years ago, w hen t he nat ion w as beset by enem ies on all sides. His st rat egic skills had been vit al t hen and he had t rained Philip’s fledgling arm y, t urning t hem from farm ers and peasants into the most feared fighting force in the civilized world.

‘I loved you t hen,’ t hought Philip, rem em bering t he heady day s of vict ory over t he I llyrians t o t he w est, t he Paionians t o t he nort h. Cit y after city had fallen to Macedonia as her strength grew. But always the vict ories belonged t o Parm enion, t he strategos, t he m an w hose bat t le plans had w on vict ories for a quart er of a cent ury, in Thebes, in Phrygia, in Cappadocia and Egypt.

Philip shaded his good eye and st rained t o see t he Phocian cent re, w here Onom archus w ould be st anding w it h his bodyguard. But t he dist ance w as t oo great, t he sun gleam ing from t oo m any breast plat es, shields and helms for him to pick out his enemy.

‘What I w ould not give t o have your neck under m y blade,’ he whispered.

‘Did you speak, sire?’ asked At t alus, t he King’s Cham pion. Philip turned to the coldeyed man beside him.

‘Yes - but only to myself. It is time. Order the advance!’

Philip st rode t o t he grey gelding, t aking hold of t he m ane and vault ing t o t he beast ‘s back. The gelding w hinnied and reared, but Philip’s pow erful legs w ere locked t o t he barrel of it s belly. ‘St eady! ‘ said t he King, his voice soot hing. A y oung soldier ran forw ard carrying Philip’s high-crest ed helm of iron. I t w as polished unt il it shone like silver and t he King t ook it in his hands, gazing dow n at t he burnished face of t he goddess At hena w hich decorat ed t he forehead. ‘Be w it h m e t oday, lady,’ he said, placing t he helm et upon his head. Anot her m an lift ed Philip’s round shield and t he King slid his left arm t hrough t he leat her straps, settling it in place on his forearm.

The first four regim ent s, 11,000 m en, began t he slow m arch t ow ards the enemy.

Philip glanced t o w here Parm enion w ait ed on t he left w it h 2,000 cavalry and two regiments of reserves. The Spartan waved to his King, then transferred his gaze to the battlefield.

Philip’s heart was hammering now. He could still taste the bitterness of defeat w hen last he had m et Onom archus. I t w as a day like t his one - brilliant sunshine, a cloudless sky - w hen t he Macedonians had marched against the enemy. Only then there were mountains on either side, and t hey had cont ained hidden siegeengines w hich hurled huge boulders dow n upon t he Macedonians, sm ashing t heir form at ion, crushing bones and dest roying lives. Then t he enem y cavalry charged and the Macedonians had fled the field.

Long w ould Philip rem em ber t hat day. For six years he had seem ed invincible, vict ory follow ing vict ory as if divinely ordained. And one t errible hour had changed everyt hing. Macedonian discipline had reassert ed it self by t he evening and t he arm y had re-form ed in t im e for a fighting retreat. But, for the first time in his life, Philip had failed.

What w as m ore galling even t han defeat w as t he fact t hat Parm enion w as not present at t he bat t le. He w as leading a force int o t he nort hwest to put down an Illyrian insurrection.

For six years t he King had been forced t o share his vict ories w it h his general, but the one defeat was his - and his alone.

Now Philip shook him self clear of t he m em ories. ‘Send out t he Cret an archers,’ he shout ed t o At t alus. The King’s Cham pion t urned his horse and galloped dow n t o w here t he 500 archers w ere aw ait ing orders.

Light ly arm oured in bak ed leat her chest - guards, t he Cret ans set off at a run to line up behind the advancing regiments.

Two hundred paces to the right of Philip’s position the Second General, Ant ipat er, w as w ait ing w it h 1,000 cavalrym en. Philip t ugged on t he gelding’s reins and rode t o t ake his posit ion alongside him in t he front line. The horsem en, m ost ly Macedonian noblem en, cheered as he approached and he rewarded them with a wave.

Draw ing his sw ord he led t he cavalry forw ard at a w alk, angling t o t he right of the advancing Macedonian infantry.

‘Now they come!’ yelled Antipater, pointing to the Phocian cavalry. The enemy horsemen, spears levelled, were charging towards them.

‘Macedon! ‘ bellow ed Philip, kicking t he gelding int o a gallop, all his fears vanishing as the Macedonians thundered across the plain.

*

Parm enion’s pale blue eyes narr ow ed as he scanned t he bat t lefield. He could see Philip and his Com panion Cavalry charging on t he right, com ing abreast now of t he m arching regim ent s of Macedonian infant ry, w it h t heir shields locked, t heir eight een-foot, ironpointed sarissas aim ed at t he enem y ranks, t he Cret an archers behind t hem sending v olley aft er volley of shaft s int o t he sky t o rain dow n on t he Phocian centre.

All was going according to plan, yet the Spartan was uneasy.

The King w as t he Suprem e Com m ander of all Macedonia’s forces, but Philip insist ed alw ays on riding int o bat t le w it h his m en, risking deat h alongside t hem, leading t hem from t he front. His courage w as bot h a blessing and a curse, Parmenion knew. With the King in their midst the Macedonians fought har der, yet w ere Philip t o fall panic w ould sw eep through the ranks faster than a summer fire over dry grass.

As alw ays, w it h Philip at t he heart of t he fight ing Parm enion t ook charge of t he bat t le st rat egy, w at ching for signs of w eakness, clues t o the shifting changes in the fortunes of war.

Behind him the Thessalian cavalrymen awaited his orders, while before him t he Fift h Regim ent of infant ry w ere st anding calm ly, w at ching t he bat t le. Parm enion rem oved his w hit e-crest ed helm, pushing his fingers t hrough his sw eat - drenched, short - cropped brow n hair. Only one thought dominated his mind.

What was the Phocian planning?

Onomarchus was no ordinary general. During the past two years, since t aking charge of t he Phocian forces, he had m oved his arm ies around cent ral Greece w it h consum m at e skill, t aking key cit ies in cent ral Greece and sacking t he Boeot ian st ronghold of Orchom enus. He w as a w ily and inst inct ive leader, r espect ed by t hose w ho served him. But, more importantly to Parmenion, the man’s strategy invariably relied on at t ack. Yet here his infant ry regim ent s w ere posit ioned defensively, only his cavalry sweeping forward.

Som et hing w as w rong. Parm enion could feel it. Shading his eyes he scanned t he bat t lefield once m ore. Here t he Crocian Plain w as virt ually flat, save for a low line of hills to the far right and a small wooded area a half-m ile t o t he left. There w as no danger from t he rear, now t hat Pagasai had been t aken. So t hen, he t hought again, w hat is t he Phocian’s battle plan?

Parm enion’s concent rat ion w as broken as t he Macedonian w ar-cry w ent up and t he r egim ent s br oke int o a r un, t he gleam ing sarissas hammering int o t he Phocian ranks. Now t he scream s of t he w ounded and dying could be heard faint ly abov e t he clashing of shields.

Parmenion turned to the rider beside him, a handsome young man in a red-crested helm.

‘Nicanor, take five sections and ride towards the woods. Halt some two bow-lengt hs back from t he t rees and send in scout s. I f t he w oods are clear, t urn again and w at ch for any signal from m e. I f not, st op any hostile force from linking with Onomarchus. You understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ answ ered Nicanor, salut ing. Parm enion w ait ed as t he 500 riders cant ered out t ow ards t he w oods, t hen sw ung his gaze t o t he hills.

The Macedonian form at ion w ould not have been har d t o predict - infant ry at t he cent re, cavalry on eit her w ing. Onom archus m ust have known.

The infant ry w ere now locked t oget her, t he Macedonians in t ight phalanx form at ions sixt een ranks deep, one hundred and fift y shields w ide. The First Regim ent - t rie King’s Guar ds, com m anded by Theoparlis - had pierced the Phocian lines.

‘Not t oo far! ‘ w hispered Parm enion. ‘Sw ing t he line and w ait for support! ‘ I t w as vit al t hat t he four regim ent s st ayed in close cont act; once separat ed t hey could be env eloped by t he enem y’s gr eat er numbers. But the Spartan relaxed as he saw the King’s Guards holding firm on t he left, t he right driving forw ard, t he phalanx half w heeling, forcing back t he Phocians. The Second Regim ent had alm ost linked w it h t hem. Parm enion sw it ched his concent rat ion t o t he Third Regim ent. I t w as com ing under heavy pressure and had ceased t o move forward, the fighting line beginning to bend back.

‘Coenus! ‘ yelled Parm enion. A broad-shoulder ed w arrior at t he cent re of the reserve regiment looked up and saluted. ‘Support the Third,’ the general shouted.

The 2,500-st rong Fift h Regim ent began t o m ove. They did not run but held t o t heir form at ion, slow ly crossing t he field. ‘Good m an,’ t hought Parm enion. Wit h em ot ions height ened by fear and excit em ent, it w as all t oo easy for a com m ander t o lead his m en in an early charge, or run t hem hard t o reach t he bat t le. Coenus w as a st eady officer, cool under pressure. He knew t hat his heavily arm oured m en w ould need all their strength when the fighting began - and not before.

Suddenly, on t he left, t he Macedonian line bulged and br oke.

Parm enion sw ore as he saw an enem y regim ent burst clear of t he cent re, t heir shields t ight ly locked. He did not need t o see t he em blem s on t he enem y shields t o know from w hich cit y t hey cam e: t hey w ere Spart ans, m agnificent fight ing m en feared acr oss t he w orld.

The Third Regim ent gave w ay before t hem and t he Spart ans m oved out to encircle the Guards.

But Coenus and t he Fift h w ere alm ost upon t hem. The sarissas sw ept dow n and t he phalanx charged. Suddenly out flanked t he Spart ans fell back, t he Macedonians regaining t heir form at ion. Sat isfied t he im m ediat e danger w as past, Parm enion sw ung his black st allion and cantered towards the right, the Thessalians streaming after him.

The King and his Com panions w ere locked in a deadly st ruggle w it h t he Phocian cavalry, but Parm enion could see t he Macedonians w ere slow ly pushing t he enem y back. Glancing t o t he left he saw Nicanor and his 500 halted before the wood, the scouts riding into the trees.

Sum m oning a rider from his right Parm enion sent him t o Nicanor w it h fresh orders, should t he w oods pr ove t o be clear, t hen t ur ned his attention to the hills.

I f Onom archus had planned any surprise st rat egy, t hen it w as from here it m ust com e. Ret urning his gaze t o t he cent re, he saw Coenus and t he Fift h had blocked t he Spart an advance and w ere bat t ling t o link w it h Theoparlis and t he Guards. The Third Regim ent had m erged with the Fourth and were once more cleaving at the Phocian lines.

Parm enion had t w o choices now. He could gallop in t o aid t he King, or sw ing his line t o hit t he enem y from t he left. Touching heels t o t he st allion he rode fur t her along t he right flank. A rider det ached him self from t he bat t le and galloped t o w here Parm enion w ait ed; t he m an had several shallow w ounds on his arm s, and his face w as gashed on t he right cheek.

‘The King orders y ou t o support t he right. The enem y are alm ost beaten.’

The Spart an nodded and t urned t o Berin, t he haw k-faced Thessalian prince. ‘Take five hundred m en and sw ing out t o t he right before linking with Philip.’

Berin nodded, called out his orders and - his m en fanning out behind him - cant ered acr oss t he bat t lefield. The w ounded m essenger m oved closer t o Parm enion. ‘The King or dered all t he reserves int o act ion,’ he whispered.

‘You hav e done w ell, young m an,’ said Parm enion. ‘Now ride back t o cam p and let t he sur geon see t o t hose w ounds. They are not deep but you are losing a great deal of blood.’

‘But, sir’

‘Do as you are bid,’ said Parm enion, t urning aw ay from t he m an. As t he m essenger rode aw ay a second Thessalian com m ander guided his mount alongside the general. ‘What are we to do, sir?’ he asked.

‘We wait,’ Parmenion answered.

*

Philip of Macedon, his sw ord dripping blood, sw ung his horse’s head and risked a glance t o t he rear. Berin and his 500 Thessalians had circled to the right and charged in on the flanks of the Phocian cavalry, but Parm enion st ill w ait ed. Philip cursed. A Phocian rider, breaking t hrough t he Macedonian out er line, sw ept t ow ards him w it h lance levelled. Philip sw ayed left, t he iron point slashing t o his right and plunging int o his gelding’s side. The beast reared in pain but, ev en w hile clinging t o it s back, Philip’s sword sliced out in a reverse cut w hich t or e under t he Phocian’s curv ed helm et t o rip open his t hroat.

Maddened w it h pain Philip’s gelding reared again, t hen fell. The King leapt clear of t he beast ‘s back, but a flailing hoof cracked against his hip and hurled him from his feet.

Seeing t he King fall, t he Phocians m ount ed a count ercharge. Philip rolled t o his feet, hurled aside his shield and ran at t he first rider. The m an’s lance st abbed out, glancing from t he King’s breast plat e. Philip leapt, dragging the lancer from his horse and stabbing him twice in the belly and groin. Leaving t he dying m an he ran t o t he horse, t aking hold of t he m ane and vault ing t o it s back. But now he w as surrounded by Phocian warriors.

A spear opened a long gash in Philip’s right t high, and a sw ord-blade glanced from his bronze w rist - guard t o slice a cut on his left forearm.

The King blocked a lunging sw ord, cleaving his ow n blade t hrough t he man’s ribs.

Berin, At t alus and a score of riders at t acked t he Phocians, forcing them back from the King.

The enemy cavalry were split, the Macedonians surging forward now to engage t he enem y infant ry. I n t he br ief respit e Philip saw his enem y, Onom archus, st anding at t he cent re of t he foot - soldiers, ur ging t hem on. ‘To m e! ‘ yelled Philip, his voice rising abov e t he clashing sw ords.

The Macedonians gat hered around him and t he King kicked his horse into a run, charging at the first line of shields.

The Phocian line bent in on it self and alm ost broke, but Onom ar chus ordered a second r egim ent forw ard t o block t he charge and Philip w as pushed back. A lance plunged int o his horse, skew ering t he heart. The beast collapsed, but once more Philip jumped clear.

‘Where are you, Parmenion?’ he bellowed.

*

The Spart an general could feel t he increasing anxiet y in t he m en behind him. Like all w arriors, t hey knew t hat t he balance of a bat t le could sw ing in a m at t er of m om ent s. This one w as t eet ering. I f Philip’s cavalry could be pushed back, Onom archus w ould use t he gr eat er st rengt h of his infant ry t o split t he Macedonian cent re and st ill achieve victory.

Parm enion looked t o t he left. A hidden force of foot - soldiers had charged from t he w oods, but Nicanor and his 500 w ere engaging t hem. From here it w as im possible t o gauge t he num bers of m en Nicanor and his t roops w ere bat t ling t o hold, and t he Spart an sent a further 200 men to his aid.

‘Look! ‘ shout ed one of his Thessalians, point ing t o t he line of hills on the right.

Hundreds of cavalrym en had appear ed on t he crest. Philip and his Companion cavalry were caught now between hammer and anvil.

The Phocians charged

Parm enion’s arm sw ept up. ‘For w ard for Macedon! ‘ he shout ed.

Draw ing his sw ord t he Spart an kicked his st allion int o a gallop, heading for t he Phocian flank. Behind him t he rem aining 800 Thessalians drew t heir curved cavalry sabres and, scream ing t heir war-cries, hurtled after him.

The t w o forces crashed t oget her on t he hillside abov e t he sur ging mass of warriors righting for control of the centre ground.

Onom archus, seeing his cavalry int ercept ed, scream ed out fresh orders t o his m en, w ho valiant ly t ried t o form a shield-w all around him. But t he Macedonians w ere pushing now on t hree sides:

Theoparlis and t he Guar ds at t he front; Coenus and t he Fift h forcing t he Spart ans back on t he left; and t he King, cut t ing and slashing a bloody pathway on the right.

Bodies lay everyw here, being t ram pled underfoot by t he heavily arm oured phalanxes, and no longer could a single bloom be seen on the churned earth of the battle site.

But Philip had long since ceased t o t hink of t he beaut y of flow ers.

Mount ed on his t hird horse he forced a pat h bet w een t he Phocian shields, hacking his blade dow n int o a w arrior’s face, seeing t he m an disappear beneat h t he hooves of t he Macedonian cavalry. Onom archus w as close now and t he Phocian leader hurled a j avelin w hich flew over Philip’s head.

Suddenly t he Phocians, sensing defeat w as im m inent, broke and fled in all direct ions. Onom archus - his dream s of conquest in ruins - drew his sw ord and w ait ed for deat h. Theoparlis and t he Guards crashed t hrough t he last line of defence and, as Onom archus t urned t o m eet t he at t ack, a sarissa clove t hrough his leat her kilt, sm ashing his hip and ripping the giant artery at the groin.

Wit h t he Phocian leader dead and his arm y fleeing in panic, t he m ercenary unit s and t he cont ingent s from At hens, Corint h and Spart a began a fighting retreat across the Crocus Field.

Philip dism ount ed before his dead enem y, hacking Onom archus’ head from his shoulders and t hrust ing t he severed neck on t o t he point of a sarissa, which he held high in the air for all men to see.

The bat t le w as over, t he vict ory Philip’s. A great w eariness set t led on t he King. His bones ached, his sw ord-arm w as on fire. Let t ing t he sarissa fall, he pulled his helm et from his head and sank t o t he eart h st aring ar ound t he bat t lefield. Hundreds of m en and scores of horses lay dead, t he num bers grow ing even now as t he Macedonian cavalry hunt ed dow n t he fleeing Phocians. Parm enion rode t o w here Philip sat.

Dismounting, he bowed to the King.

‘A great victory, sire,’ he said softly.

‘Yes,’ agr eed Philip as his one good eye looked up int o t he Spar t an’s face. ‘Why did you not come when I sent for you?’

Ot her m en - At t alus, Berin, Nicanor and several officers - w ere close by, and t hey looked t o t he Spart an, aw ait ing his answ er. ‘You asked m e t o w at ch over t he bat t le, sire. I believed Onom archus w ould have men in reserve - as indeed he did.’

‘Dam n y ou! ‘ Philip roared, sur ging t o his feet. ‘When t he King gives an order it is obeyed! You understand that simple fact?’

‘Indeed I do,’ replied the Spartan, his pale eyes gleaming.

‘Sire,’ put in Nicanor, ‘had Parm enion com e t o you earlier y ou w ould have been trapped.’

‘Be silent! ‘ t hundered Philip. Once m or e he t urned t o Par m enion. ‘I w ill not have a man serve me who does not obey my orders.’

‘That is a pr oblem easily solved, sire,’ said Parm enion coldly. Bow ing once he t urned and, t aking his st allion’s reins, st alked from t he battlefield.

*

Philip’s anger did not abat e during t he long aft ernoon. His w ounds, t hough shallow, w ere painful, his m ood dark. He knew he had been unfair t o Parm enion, yet in a st range w ay it only increased his irrit at ion. The m an w as alw ays so right. The King’s w ounds w ere bound w it h w ine-soaked bandages and despit e t he rem onst rat ions of the bald surgeon, Bernios, Philip supervised the removal of all severely w ounded Macedonians t o a hospit al area out side Pagasai befor e retiring in the early evening to the captured palace at the centre of the deserted city. From here he watched the executions of the 600 Phocian prisoners capt ured by t he cavalry. The killings lift ed his m ood.

Onom archus had been a st rong enem y, a rallying point for all t hose w ho feared Macedonia. Wit hout him t he roads t o cent ral Greece w ere now open.

At dusk Philip m ade his w ay t o t he andron, a large room w it h nine couches. The w alls w ere covered w it h m urals by t he Theban art ist, Nat iles; t hey w ere m ost ly hunt ing scenes, horsem en chasing dow n several lions, but Philip w as im pressed by t he art ist ry and t he vivid colours used. The paint er w as obviously a m an w ho underst ood t he hunt. His horses w ere real, t he lions lean and deadly, t he at t it udes of the hunters reflecting both courage and fear. Philip decided to send for t he m an once t his cam paign w as over. Such scenes w ould look spectacular in the palace at Pella.

One by one Philip’s officers arrived w it h det ails of t he day’s losses.

Theoparlis, com m ander of t he Guards, had suffered 110 dead and 70 w ounded. Ant ipat er report ed 84 dead am ong t he Com panion cavalry.

In all the Macedonians had lost 307 killed, with 227 wounded.

The Phocians had been virt ually annihilat ed. Tw o t housand had been slain on t he bat t lefield, w it h at least anot her t housand drow ning as t hey fled from t he beaches, t rying in vain t o sw im t o t he w ait ing Athenian triremes.

This last new s cheered Philip considerably. St ret ching his pow erful fram e on t he silk-covered couch he drained his fift h cup of w ine, feeling his t ension evaporat e. Glancing at his officers, he chuckled. ‘A good day, m y friends,’ he said, sit t ing up and refilling his cup from a golden pit cher. But t he m ood w as som bre and no one j oined him in a t oast. ‘What is t he m at t er w it h you all? I s t his how t o celebr at e a victory?’

Theoparlis st ood, bow ing aw kw ardly. He w as a burly m an, blackbear ded and dark-eyed. ‘I f y ou w ill excuse m e, sire,’ he said, his voice deep w it h t he burr of t he nort hern m ount ains, ‘I w ish t o see t o m y men.’

‘Of course,’ answ ered Philip. Nicanor rose next, t hen Coenus and Antipater. Within minutes only Attalus remained.

‘What in Hecat e’s nam e is w rong w it h t hem?’ enquired t he King, rubbing at his blinded eye.

At t alus cleared his t hroat and sipped his w ine before answ ering, t hen his cold eyes met Philip’s gaze. ‘They want to see Parmenion before he leaves Pagasai,’ Attalus told him.

Philip put dow n his w ine-cup and leaned back against t he cushioned couch. ‘I was too harsh,’ he said.

‘Not at all, sire,’ vent ured At t alus. ‘You gave an order and it w as disobeyed. Now you may have to give another.’

Philip st ared at his Cham pion and sighed. ‘Ah, At t alus,’ he said soft ly’Once an assassin alw ays an assassin, eh? You t hink I should fear t he man who has kept Macedonia safe all these years?’

At t alus sm iled, show ing t om bst one t eet h. ‘That is for you t o decide, Philip,’ he w hispered. The King’s eye cont inued t o st are at t he Cham pion, rem em bering t heir first m eet ing in Thebes ninet een y ears before w hen At t alus w as in t he pay of Philip’s uncle, t he King Ptolem aos. The assassin had - for w hat ever reason - saved Philip’s life t hen and had ser ved him fait hfully ever since. But he w as a cold, friendless man.

‘I shall not have Parm enion killed,’ said Philip. ‘Go and ask him t o come to me.’

‘You think that he will?’

Philip shrugged. ‘Ask anyway.’

At t alus st ood and bow ed, leaving Philip alone w it h t he pit cher of w ine.

The King w andered t o t he w indow. From her e he could st ill see t he t w elve At henian t rirem es at anchor in t he gulf, m oonlight glint ing from t heir polished hulls. Sleek, beaut iful craft, yet deadly in bat t le, w it h t hree banks of oars t o propel t hem at t he speed of galloping horses so t hat t he bronze ram s at t he prow s could sm ash t o shar ds t he t im bers of lesser ships.

‘One day,’ thought Philip, ‘I too will have a fleet to match them.’

His blind eye began t o t hrob painfully and he t urned aw ay from t he w indow, pouring y et anot her cup of w ine. Slum ping t o t he couch, he drank slowly and waited for his First General.

‘Is it just envy, Parmenion?’ he said aloud. ‘I loved you once. But I was younger t hen and y ou w ere like a God of War - invincible, unbeat able.

But now?’ The sound of footsteps came to him and he stood, waiting at the centre of the room.

Parm enion ent ered, follow ed by At t alus. Philip m oved t o t he assassin, laying his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Leave us, my friend,’ he said.

‘As you wish, sire,’ answered Attalus, his eyes bleak.

As t he door closed Philip t urned. Parm enion w as st anding st iffly, his arm our put aside, a pale blue t unic covering his slim fram e, a grey riding-cloak hanging from his shoulders. Philip gazed int o t he t all Spartan’s blue eyes.

‘How is it, Parmenion, that you look so young? You seem no more than a man approaching thirty, and yet you are what fifty?’

‘Forty-eight, sire.’

‘Is there some special food you eat?’

‘You wanted to see me, sire?’

‘You are angry w it h m e, yes?’ said t he King, forcing a sm ile. ‘Well, I can underst and t hat. Join m e in som e w ine. Go on.’ For a m om ent it seem ed t he Spart an w ould refuse, but he picked up t he pit cher and filled a cup. ‘Now sit down and talk to me.’

‘What w ould you have m e say, sire? You gave m e t w o orders. To obey t he one, I had t o disobey t he ot her. When you are fight ing it is I w ho lead t he arm y. You m ade t his clear t o m e. Take w hat ever act ion is necessary, you said. What do you w ant of m e, Philip? I t is a long ride to Pella.’

‘I do not w ant t o lose your friendship,’ said Philip, ‘but you are m aking t his hard for m e. I spoke in hast e. Does t hat sat isfy your Spart an pride?’

Parmenion sighed, his tension sliding from him. ‘You will never lose my friendship, Philip. But som et hing has com e bet w een us t hese last t w o years. What have I done to offend you?’

The King scrat ched his black bear d. ‘How m any vict ories are m ine?’ he asked.

‘I do not understand. They are all yours.’

Philip nodded. ‘Yet in Spart a t hey t ell all w ho w ill list en t hat it is a renegade Spanan w ho leads Macedonia t o glory. I n At hens t hey say, Where would Philip be without Parmenion? Where would I be?’

‘I see,’ said Parm enion, m eet ing t he King’s gaze. ‘There is not hing I can do about this, Philip. Four years ago your horse won the Olympics.

You were not riding him, yet he was still your horse and you took pride in t hat. I am a strategos - t hat is m y calling and m y life. You are a king - a fight ing king. A Bat t le King. The soldiers fight t he harder because you are alongside t hem. They love you. Who can say how many battles might have been lost without you?’

‘But t he only bat t le I have led alone ended in defeat,’ Philip point ed out.

‘And w ould have done so w het her I w as t here or not,’ Parm enion assured him. ‘Your Paionian scout s w ere com placent; t hey did not search t he m ount ains as t hey should. But t here is som et hing else, is there not?’

The King ret urned t o t he w indow, st aring once m ore at t he dist ant triremes. He was silent for a long while, then at last he spoke.

‘My son is fond of you,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Som et im es in his nightmares the nurse tells me he calls your name. Then all is well. It is said that you can hug him - and feel no pain. Is this true?’

‘Yes,’ whispered the Spartan.

‘The child is possessed, Parm enion. Eit her t hat or he is a dem on. I cannot touch him - 1 have tried; it is like hot coals burning on my skin.

Why is it that you can hold him?’

‘I don’t know.’

The King gave a harsh laugh, t hen t urned t o face his general. ‘All of m y bat t les w ere for him. I w ant ed a kingdom he could be proud of. I w ant ed I w ant ed so m uch. You rem em ber w hen w e w ent t o Sam ot hrace? Yes? I loved Olym pias t hen m ore t han life. Now w e cannot sit in t he sam e room for t w ent y heart beat s w it hout angry w ords. And look at m e. When w e m et I w as fift een and you w ere a warrior grow n, w hat t w ent y-nine? Now I have grey in m y bear d.

My face is scarred, m y eye a pus-filled ball of const ant pain. And for what, Parmenion?’

‘You have m ade Macedonia st rong, Philip,’ said Parm enion, rising. ‘And all your dreams should be within reach. What more do you want?’

‘I want a son I can hold. A son I can teach to ride, without fearing that t he horse w ill t opple and die, rot t ing before m y eyes. I rem em ber not hing of t he night on Sam ot hrace w hen I sired him. I t hink sometimes he is not my son at all.’

Parmenion’s face lost all colour, but Philip was not looking at him.

‘Of course he is your son,’ said Parm enion, keeping t he fear from his voice. ‘Who else could be the father?’

‘Som e dem on sent from Hades. I w ill m arry again soon; I w ill have an heir one day. You know, w hen Alexander w as bor n t hey say his first sound w as a grow l, like a beast. The m idw ife alm ost dropped him.

They say also that when his eyes first opened they were slitted, like an Egy pt ian cat. I don’t k now t he t r ut h of it. All I know is t hat I lov e t he boy and y et I cannot t ouch him. But enough of t his! Are w e st ill friends?’

‘I will always be your friend, Philip. I swear it.’

‘Then let’s get drunk and talk of better days,’ ordered the King.

*

Out side t he door At t alus felt his anger rising. Silent ly he m oved aw ay dow n t he t orchlit corridor and out int o t he night, t he cool breeze only fanning the flames of his hatred.

How could Philip not see what a danger the Spartan presented? Attalus hawked and spat, but still his mouth tasted of bile.

Parm enion. Alw ays Parm enion. The officers adore him, t he soldiers are in aw e of him. Can you not see w hat is happening, Philip? You are losing y our kingdom t o t his foreign m ercenary. At t alus halt ed in t he shadows of a loom ing t em ple and t urned. I could w ait here, he t hought, his fingers curling round t he hilt of his dagger. I could st ep out behind him, ram m ing t he blade int o his back, t w ist ing it, ripping open his heart.

But if Philip found out Be pat ient, he caut ioned him self. The arrogant w horeson w ill bring about his ow n dow nfall, w it h all his m isguided concept s of honest y and honour. No King w ant s honest y.

Oh, t hey all t alk of it! ‘Give m e an honest m an,’ t hey say. ‘We w ant no craw ling lackeys.’ Horse-dung! What t hey w ant ed w as adorat ion and agreement. No, Parmenion would not last.

And com e t he blessed day w hen he fell from favour it w ould be At t alus t o w hom Philip w ould t urn, first t o dispose of t he loat hsom e Spart an and then to replace him as First General of Macedonia.

The strategos! What w as so difficult about w inning a bat t le? St rike at t he enem y w it h t he force of a st orm, crushing t he cent re and killing the enemy king or general. But Parmenion had fooled them all, making t hem believe t here w as som e w ondrous m yst ery. And w hy? Because he w as a cow ard, seeking alw ays t o hang back from t he bat t le it self, keeping him self out of harm ‘s w ay. None of t hem could see it. Blind fools!

At t alus drew his dagger, enj oying t he silver gleam of m oonlight upon the blade. ‘One day,’ he whispered, ‘this will kill you, Spartan.’

The Temple, Asia Minor, Summer Derae w as w eary, alm ost at t he point of exhaust ion, w hen t he last supplicant w as carried int o t he Room of Healing. The t w o m en laid t he child on t he alt ar bed and st epped back, respect fully keeping t heir eyes from t he face of t he blind Healer. Derae t ook a deep breat h, calm ing herself, t hen laid her hands on t he child’s brow, her spirit sw im m ing int o t he girl’s bloodst ream, flow ing w it h it, feeling t he heart beat w eak and flut t ering. The inj ury w as at t he base of t he spine - the vertebrae cracked, nerve endings crushed, muscles wasting.

Wit h infinit e care Derae healed t he bone, elim inat ing adhesions, relieving t he pressure on t he sw ollen nerve point s, forcing blood t o flow over the injured tissue.

Draw ing herself back int o her body, t he priest ess sighed and sw ayed.

I nst ant ly a m an leapt forw ard t o assist her, his hand brushing against her arm.

‘Leave me be!’ she snapped, pulling away from him.

‘I am sorry, lady,’ he w hispered. Waving her hand, she sm iled in his direction.

‘Forgive me, Laertes. I am tired.’

‘How did you know my name?’ the man asked, his voice hushed. Derae laughed then.

‘I heal t he blind and no one quest ions m y Gift. The lam e w alk and people say, Ah, but she is a Healer. But so sim ple a m at t er as know ing an unspoken nam e, and t here is aw e. You t ouched m e, Laertes. And in touching me gave up all your secrets. But fear not, you are a good man. Your daughter was kicked by a horse, yes?’

‘Yes, lady.’

‘The blow inj ured t he bones of her back. I have t aken aw ay t he pain and t om orrow, w hen I have rest ed, I w ill heal her. You m ay st ay here this evening. My servants will bring you food.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I have m oney ‘ Waving him t o silence Derae walked away, her step sure. Two female servants pulled open the altar room doors as she approached, a t hird t aking her arm in t he corridor beyond and leading the blind Healer to her room.

Once inside, Derae sipped cool w at er and lay dow n on t he narrow pallet bed. So m any sick, so m any inj ured each day t he queues beyond t he Tem ple grew. At t im es t here w ere fight s, and m any of those who finally reached her had been forced to bribe their way to the alt ar room. Oft en during t he last few years Derae had t ried t o put a st op t o t he pract ice. But, even w it h her pow ers, she could not fight hum an nat ure. The people beyond t he Tem ple w alls had a need only she could sat isfy. And, w here t here w as need, t here w as profit t o be m ade. Now a Greek m ercenary called Pallas had t hirt y m en cam ped before t he Tem ple. And he organized t he queues, selling t okens of admission to the supplicants, establishing some order to the chaos.

Unable t o t hw art him fully, Derae had dem anded he allow five poor people a day to be led to her, against ten of the richer. He had tried to t rick her on t he first day, and she had refused t o see anyone. Now t he syst em w orked. Pallas hired servant s, cooks, m aids, gardeners, t o t end t o Derae’s needs. But even t his irrit at ed her, for she knew he m erely w ant ed her t im e spent earning him m oney by healing t he sick, and not engaged in useless pursuit s like gardening, w hich she loved, or cooking or cleaning. And yet, despit e t he m ot ive, it did m ean t hat m ore people w ere being cured. Should I be gr at eful t o him, she wondered? No. Greed was his inspiration, gold his joy.

She pushed all t hought s of him from her m ind. Closing her blind eyes, Derae float ed clear of her body. There w as freedom here, w it h t he flight of Spirit; there was even joy in the form of a transient happiness free of care. While her body rest ed Derae flew across t he Therm aic Gulf, high above t he t rident - shaped lands of t he Chalcidice and on across t he Pierian m ount ains t o Thessaly, her spirit called t here by t he lover of her youth.

So long ago now, she realized. Thirt y years had passed since she and Parm enion lay t oget her in Xenophon’s sum m er hom e, lost in t he exuberance of their youthful passion.

She found him in t he capt ured cit y of Pagasai, w alking from t he palace. His st ep w as unst eady and she saw t hat he had been drinking.

But m ore t han t his, she sensed t he sadness w it hin him. Once Derae had believed t hey w ould spend t heir lives t oget her, w illingly locked into love, chained by desires that were not all of the flesh. Not all?

She rem em bered his gent le t ouch, t he heat of his body upon hers, t he soft ness of his skin, t he pow er in t he m uscles beneat h, t he w arm t h of his smile, the love in his eyes Despair whispered across her soul.

She w as now an ageing priest ess in a far-off t em ple, he a gener al in Macedonia’s t rium phant ar m y. Worse, he had believed her dead for these last thirty years.

Sorrow follow ed t he t ouch of despair, but she put it aside and m oved closer to him, feeling the warmth of his spirit.

‘I alw ays loved you,’ she t old him. ‘Not hing ever changed t hat. And I will watch over you as long as I live.’

But he could not hear her. A cold breeze t ouched her spirit and, w it h a sudden r ush of fear, she knew she w as not alone. Soaring high int o t he sky she clot hed her spirit body in arm our of light, a sw ord of w hit e fire burning in her hand.

‘Show yourself! ‘ she com m anded. A m an’s form m at erialized close by.

He w as t all, w it h short - cropped grey hair and a beard curled in t he Persian m anner. He sm iled and opened his arm s. ‘I t is I, Arist ot le,’ he said.

‘Why do you spy on me?’ she asked.

‘I cam e t o see you at t he Tem ple, but it is guarded by m oney-hungry mercenaries who would not allow me to enter. And we must talk.’

‘What is t here t o t alk about? The child w as born, t he Chaos Spirit is within him, and all the futures show he will bring torment to the world.

I had hoped t o aid him, t o help him ret ain his hum anit y. But I cannot.

The Dark God is stronger than I.’

Aristotle shook his head. ‘Not so. Your reasoning is flawed, Derae. Now how can I come to you?’

She sighed. ‘There is a sm all side gat e in t he w est ern w all. Be t here at midnight; I will open the gate. Now leave me in peace for a while.’

‘As you wish,’ he answered. And vanished.

Alone once m ore, Derae follow ed Parm enion t o t he field hospit al, w at ching as he m oved am ong t he w ounded m en, discussing t heir inj uries w it h t he lit t le surgeon, Bernios. But she could not find t he peace she sought and took to the night sky, floating beneath the stars.

I t had been four y ears since t he magus w ho called him self Arist ot le had com e t o t he Tem ple. His visit had led t o t ragedy. Toget her Derae and t he magus had sent Parm enion’s spirit int o t he v ault s of Hades t o save t he soul of t he unborn Alexander. But it had all been for not hing.

The Chaos Spirit had m erged w it h t he soul of t he child, and Derae’s closest friend - t he reform ed w arrior Leucion - had been t orn t o pieces by demons sent to destroy her.

Ret urning t o t he Tem ple, she rose from t he bed and w ashed in cold w at er, rubbing her body w it h perfum ed leaves. She did not allow her spirit eyes t o gaze upon her ageing fram e, could not bear t o see herself as she now was - her hair silver, body thin and wasted, breasts sagging. Dressing in a clean full-length chiton of dark green, she sat by t he w indow w ait ing for m idnight. Out side t he Tem ple t he cam pfires were burning, scores of them. Some supplicants would wait half a year t o see t he Healer. Many w ould die before t hey could redeem t heir t okens. Once, before t he arrival of Pallas, she had t ried t o w alk am ong t he sick, healing as m any as she could. But she had been m obbed, knocked t o t he ground, saved only by her friend and servant Leucion w ho had beat en t he crow ds back w it h a club. Derae st ill m ourned t he w arrior w ho had died defending her helpless body against t he dem ons sent to destroy her.

She pictured his face - the long silver hair tied at the nape of the neck, the arrogant walk, the easy smile.

‘I miss you,’ she whispered.

Just befor e m idnight, guided by her spirit sight, she crept dow n t o t he w est ern gat e, sliding back t he bolt. Arist ot le st epped inside. Locking t he gat e, she t ook him back t o her room w here t he magus poured him self som e w at er and sat on t he narrow bed. ‘Do y ou m ind if I light a lantern?’ he asked.

‘The blind have no need of lanterns. But I will fetch you one.’

‘Do not concern yourself, lady.’ Reaching out he t ook a silver w inecup, holding it high. The m et al t w ist ed, folding in on it self t o form a spout from w hich a flam e flickered and grew, bat hing t he r oom in light. ‘You are not looking w ell, Derae,’ he said. ‘Your dut ies are leaving you overtired.’

‘Come to the point of your visit,’ she told him coldly.

‘No,’ he answ ered. ‘First w e m ust t alk of t he m any fut ures. Has it occurred t o you t hat t here is a cont radict ion in our t ravels t hrough time?’

‘If you mean that the futures we see can change, of course it has.’

He sm iled and shook his head. ‘But do t hey change? That is t he question.’

‘Of course t hey do. I rem em ber old Tam is t elling m e she saw her ow n deat hs in m any fut ures. I n one, she said, she fell from a horse, even though riding was abhorrent to her.’

‘Exact ly m y point,’ said Arist ot le. ‘Now, let m e explain: Tam is saw herself falling from a horse. But t hat is not how she died. So t hen - who fell from the horse?’

Derae sat dow n on a cushioned chair, her spirit eyes locked t o t he magus ‘ face. ‘Tam is,’ she answ ered. ‘But t he fut ures w ere changed by events in the past.’

‘But t hat is w here t he cont radict ion lies,’ he t old her. ‘We are not t alking of prophet ic visions here, Derae. You and I - and Tam is once - can travel to the many futures, observing them. What we are seeing is happening somewhere. All the futures are real.’

‘How can t hey all be real?’ she m ocked. ‘Tam is died but once - as w ill

I.’

‘I do not have all t he answ ers, m y dear, but I know t his: t here are m any w orlds, t housands, all akin t o ours. Perhaps every t im e a m an m akes a decision he creat es a new w orld. I don’t k now. What I do know is t hat it is folly t o exam ine all t hese alt ernat e w orlds and base our act ions upon event s in t hem. I t oo have seen Alexander drag t he w orld dow n int o blood and chaos. I have seen him kill Philip and seize t he t hrone. I have seen him dead as a child, from plague, from a dogbite, from an assassin’s blade. But, do you not see, none of it matters?

None of t he fut ures are ours. They are m erely echoes, reflect ions, indications of what might be.’

Derae w as silent, considering his w ords. ‘I t is an int erest ing concept. I will think on it. Now, to the point of your visit?’

Arist ot le lay back on t he bed, his eyes w at ching t he flickering shadows on t he low ceiling. ‘The point - as alw ays - concerns t he boy in t his w orld. You and I t ook Parm enion int o Hades, w here t he child’s soul m erged w it h t he Spirit of Chaos. We t ook it t o be a defeat. But it m ay not prove to be so.’

‘A curious kind of victory,’ sneered Derae. ‘The boy carries a great evil.

I t is grow ing w it hin him w orse t han any cancer, and he does not have the strength to fight it.’

‘He had t he st rengt h t o st op it dest roying Parm enion in t he Void,’

Aristotle pointed out. ‘But let us not argue; let us instead think of ways of helping the child.’

Derae shook her head. ‘I long ago learned t he folly of seeking t o change t he fut ure. Had I k now n t hen w hat I know now, t here w ould have been no Demon Prince.’

‘I t hink t hat t here w ould, lady,’ said Arist ot le soft ly, ‘but it does not m at t er. The child is no different from t he m any w ho are brought t o you each day - only he is not crippled in t he flesh, he is t orm ent ed in t he spirit. Neit her of us has t he pow er t o cast out t he dem on. But together - and w it h t he boy ‘s help - w e m ight yet ret ur n t he Dar k God to the Underworld.’

Derae laughed t hen, t he sound full of bit t erness. ‘I heal w ounds, magus. I am not equipped to battle Kadmilos. Nor do I wish to.’

‘What do you wish, lady?’

‘I wish to be left alone,’ she said.

‘No! ‘ he t hundered, rising t o his feet. ‘I w ill not accept t hat from a woman of Sparta! What has happened to you, Derae? You are no lamb w ait ing for t he slaught er. You are from a race of w arriors. You fought the Dark Lady on Samothrace. Where is your spirit?’

Derae sighed. ‘You seek t o m ake m e angry,’ she w hispered. ‘You w ill not succeed. Look at m e, Arist ot le. I am get t ing old. I live here, and I heal the sick. I will do that until I die. Once I had a dream. I have it no longer. Now leave me in peace.’

‘I can giv e you back your y out h,’ he said, his voice coaxing, his eyes bright with promise.

For a m om ent she st ood silent ly, observing him w it hout expression.

‘So,’ she said, at last, ‘it was you. When I healed Parm enion of his cancer, I w at ched him grow young before m y eyes. I t hought it w as the healing.’

‘You can be young also. You can find your dream again.’

‘You are a m agus - and yet a fool,’ she t old him, her voice flat, her t one t ired. ‘Parm enion is m arried; he has t hree children. There is no place for m e now. We m ay be able t o m eddle in t he fut ures - but t he past is iron.’

Arist ot le st ood and m oved t o t he door. There he t urned as if t o speak, but shook his head and w alked aw ay int o t he darkness of t he Tem ple corridor.

Derae list ened unt il his foot st eps faded, t hen sank t o t he bed, Aristotle’s promise echoing in her mind: I can make you young again.’

He w as wrong, she knew. Oh, he could w ork his m agic on her body, st rengt hening her m uscles, t ight ening her skin. But yout h w as a st at e of m ind. No one, god or m an, could give her back her innocence, t he j oy of discovery, t he beaut y of first love. Wit hout t hat, w hat value would there be in a young and supple body?

She felt the rush of tears and saw again the young Parmenion standing alone against t he r aiders w ho had abduct ed her; lived once m ore t he moment when he first held her.

‘I love you,’ she whispered.

And she wept.

*

Before allow ing her self t he luxury of sleep, Derae t raced t he lines of t hree prot ect ive spells on t he w alls, door and w indow of her room.

They w ould not st op a seeress w it h t he pow er of Aida, but any disruption to the spells would wake Derae in time to protect herself.

I t w as alm ost five years since t he last at t ack, w hen Leucion had died defending her against t he dem ons sent by t he sorceress. Since t hen Derae had heard lit t le of Aida. The Dark Lady had left her palace in Sam ot hrace and j our neyed back t o t he m ainland - t ravelling, according t o rum our, t o t he nort hern edges of t he Persian em pire, there to await Alexander’s coming-of- age. Derae shivered.

The child of Chaos, soon t o be a dest royer such as t he eart h had seldom witnessed.

Her t hought s t urned t o Parm enion and she clim bed on t o t he bed, covering herself w it h a t hin sheet of w hit e linen. The night w as w arm and close, t he m erest breat h of br eeze drift ing in t hrough t he open w indow. Seeking t he sanct uary of sleep, Der ae pict ured Parm enion as he had been all t hose years ago - t he bit t er young m an, despised by his fellow s, w ho had found love in t he t ranquil hills of Olym pia.

Mom ent by m om ent she savoured t he heady j oys of t heir five days together, stopping her memories short of that awful morning when her fat her had dragged her from t he house and sent her in sham e back t o Spart a. Slow ly, dream ily, she drift ed int o a new dream w here st range beasts - half-horse half-man - ran t hrough forest t rails, and dryads, beaut iful and bew it ching, sat by spark ling st ream s. Here w as peace.

Here was joy.

But the dream moved on and she saw an army marching, cities ablaze, t housands slain. The w arriors w ore black cloaks and arm our, and carried round shields emblazoned with a huge sunburst.

At t he cent re of t he hor de r ode a w arrior in a black cuirass edged w it h gold. He w as black-bearded and handsom e, and she recognized him inst ant ly. Yet t here w as som et hing about him t hat w as st range, different. Floating close to him, she saw that his right eye was made of gold, seem ingly m olt en, and she felt t he black t ouch of his spirit reaching out like ice and flame to freeze and burn.

Recoiling she t ried t o flee, seeking t he peace of t he enchant ed w ood w here t he cent aurs roam ed. But she could not escape and a new vision flowed before her spirit eyes.

She saw a palace, grim and shadow - haunt ed, and a child w eeping in a sm all room. The King cam e t o him t here. Derae t ried t o block her ears and eyes t o t he scene. To no avail. The m an approached t he w eeping child, and in his hand was a long, curved dagger.

‘Father, please!’ the child begged.

Derae scream ed as t he knife clove t hr ough t he boy ‘s chest. The scene shimmered and she saw the King leave the room, his mouth and beard streaming with blood.

‘Am I im m ort al now?’ he asked a shaven-headed priest w ho w ait ed outside the room.

The m an bow ed, his hooded eyes av oiding t he gaze of his King. ‘You have added perhaps t w ent y years t o your life-span, sire. But t his w as not the Golden Child.’

‘Then find him! ‘ roared t he King, blood spraying from his lips and staining the man’s pale robes.

The invisible chains holding Derae t o t he scene fell aw ay and t he Healer fled, coming awake in her darkened room.

‘You saw?’ asked Aristotle, his voice soft.

‘So, it w as your doing,’ she answ ered, sit t ing up and reaching for a goblet of water from the table beside the bed.

‘I sent you t here,’ he adm it t ed, ‘but w hat you saw w as real. There are m any sides t o Chaos, Derae, in m any w orlds. I n t he Greece you saw there is already a Demon King.’

‘Why did you show it to me? What purpose did it serve?’

Arist ot le rose and w alked t o t he w indow, st aring out over t he m oonlit sea. ‘You recognized the King?’

‘Of course.’

‘He has m urdered all his children in a bid t o achieve im m ort alit y. Now he seeks a child of legend, Iskander.’

‘What has this to do with me? Speak swiftly, magus, for I am tired.’

‘The enchant m ent in t he w orld you saw is fading, t he cent aurs and ot her creat ures of beaut y dying w it h it. They believe t hat a child w ill com e, a Golden Child, and t hat he w ill save t hem all. The King seeks t hat golden child; he believes t hat by eat ing his hear t he w ill gain im m ort alit y. Perhaps he is right.’ Arist ot le shrugged. ‘There are m any w ays of ext ending a life. How ever, even t hat is not t he point. His priest s can form sm all gat ew ays bet w een w orlds, and now t hey are searching for that special boy. They think they have found him.’

‘Alexander?’ whispered Derae. ‘They will take Alexander?’

‘They will try.’

‘And remove him from our world? Surely that is to be desired?’

Arist ot le’s eyes narrow ed. ‘You t hink it desirable t hat anot her child should have his heart cut from his body?’

‘I do not t hink I like you,’ w hispered Derae. ‘You are not doing t his for the Source, or even to fight Chaos.’

‘No,’ he adm it t ed. ‘I t is for m e alone. My ow n life is in peril. Will you help me?’

‘I will think on it,’ she replied. ‘Now leave me in peace.’

Pella, Macedonia, Summer Alexander lift ed his hand and st ared at t he blue and grey bird perched in the lowest branches of the tall cypress tree. The tiny creature fluffed out it s feat hers and cocked it s head t o one side, regarding t he goldenhaired child.

‘Com e t o m e,’ t he boy w hispered. The bird hopped along t he branch, then took to the air, swooping over the child’s head. Alexander waited, statue-st ill, his concent rat ion int ense. Wit h his eyes closed he could follow t he bird’s flight up over t he garden w all, circling back t o t he palace and dow n, ever closer t o t he out st ret ched arm. Tw ice t he finch sped by him, but t he t hird t im e it s t iny t alons sought purchase on his index finger. Alexander opened his eyes and gazed dow n at t he creat ure. ‘We ar e friends t hen?’ he asked, his voice gent le. Once m ore t he bird cocked it s head and Alexander could feel it s t ension and it s fear. Slow ly he reached ov er w it h his left hand t o st roke t he finch’s back.

Suddenly he felt t he sur ge of killing pow er sw elling w it hin him, his heart beat increasing, his arm beginning t o t rem ble. Holding it back, desperat ely he began t o count aloud. But as he reached seven he felt the awful flow of death along his arm.

‘Fly!’ he commanded. The finch soared into the air.

Alexander sank t o t he grass, t he lust for deat h depart ing as sw ift ly as it had com e. ‘I w ill not give in,’ he w hispered. ‘I w ill reach t en - and then twenty. And one day I will stop it for ever.’

Never, came the dark voice of his heart. You will never defeat me. You are mine. Now and always.

Alexander shook his head and st ood, forcing t he voice aw ay, deeper and deeper inside. The sun w as beginning t o dr op t ow ards t he dist ant m ount ains and t he boy m ov ed int o t he cool shadow s of t he w est ern w all. From here he could see t he sent ries at t he gat e, t heir arm our bright, t heir bronze helm s gleam ing like gold. Tall m en, st ern of eye, proud, angry because they had been left behind when the King rode to battle.

The guards st iffened t o at t ent ion, lift ing t heir lances t o t he ver t ical.

Excit em ent flared in t he boy as t he sent ries salut ed som eone bey ond the gate. Alexander began to run along the path.

Parm enion! ‘ he cried, his highpit ched voice dist urbing scores of birds in the trees. Parmenion!’

*

The general ret urned t he salut e and w alked int o t he gardens, sm iling as he saw t he four-year- old running t ow ards him w it h arm s out st ret ched. The Spart an knelt and t he boy t hrew him self int o his arms.

‘We won, didn’t we, Parmenion! We crushed the Phocians!’

‘We did indeed, young prince. Now be careful you don’t scrat ch yourself on m y ar m our.’ Det aching t he boy’s arm s from around his neck, Parm enion loosened t he leat her t hongs on t he gilded ear-guards of his helm et, pulling it loose and laying it on t he grass. Alexander sat dow n beside t he helm, brushing his sm all fingers across t he w hit e horsehair crest.

‘Fat her fought like a lion. I k now, I w at ched it. He at t acked t he enem y flank, and had t hr ee horses killed under him. Then he cut t he head from the traitor, Onomarchus.’

‘Yes, he did all that. But he will tell you himself when he comes home.’

‘No,’ said Alexander soft ly, shaking his head. ‘He w on’t t ell m e. He doesn’t speak to me often. He doesn’t like me. Because I kill things.’

Parmenion reached out, drawing the boy close and ruffling his hair. ‘He loves you, Alexander, I prom ise you. But, if it pleases you, I w ill t ell you of the battle.’

‘I know about the battle. Truly. But Father should beware of neck cuts.

Wit h his blind eye he needs t o sw ing his head m ore t han a w arrior should, and t hat bares t he veins of t he t hroat. He needs t o have a collar made, of leather and bronze.’

Parm enion nodded. ‘You ar e very w ise. Com e, let us go inside. I am thirsty from the journey and the sun is too hot.’

‘Can I ride your shoulders? Can I?’

The Spart an rose sm oot hly and, t aking t he prince by t he arm s, sw ung him high. The boy squealed w it h excit em ent as he set t led int o place.

Parm enion scooped up his helm and w alked back t ow ards t he palace.

The guards salut ed once m ore, t he prince’s nursem aids dropping t o t heir knees as he passed. ‘I feel like a King,’ shout ed Alexander. ‘I am taller than any man!’

Olym pias cam e out int o t he garden, her servant s behind her. The Spart an t ook a deep br eat h as he saw her. Wit h her t ight ly-curled red hair and her green eyes, she w as t he im age of t he Derae he had loved so m any years before. The Queen w as dressed in a sea-green gow n of Asian silk, held in place at the shoulder by a brooch of gold shaped like a sunburst. She laughed aloud as she saw t he Spart an general and his burden. Parm enion bow ed, Alexander scream ing w it h m ock fear as he almost came loose.

‘Greetings, lady. I bring you your son.’

Olym pias st epped forw ard, kissing Parm enion’s cheek. ‘Alw ays t he w elcom e visit or,’ she t old him. Turning t o her servant s, she or dered w ine and fruit for her guest and ushered him int o her apart m ent s.

Ever yw here t here w ere fine silk hangings, brocaded couches, cushioned chairs, and t he w alls w ere beaut ifully paint ed w it h Hom eric scenes. Parm enion lift ed Alexander and low ered him t o a couch, but the boy scrambled clear and took hold of the general’s hand.

‘Look, Mot her. I can hold Parm enion’s hand. There is no pain, is t here, Parmenion?’

‘No pain,’ he answered.

‘He saved Fat her ‘s life. He led t he count ercharge against t he Phocian cavalry. They couldn’t fool you, could they, Parmenion?’

‘No,’ the Spartan agreed.

Tw o fem ale servant s helped Parm enion from his breast plat e and a t hird brought him a goblet of w ine m ixed w it h cool w at er. Yet anot her girl ent ered, bearing a bow l of fruit w hich she placed in front of him before bowing and running from the room.

The Spart an w ait ed unt il t he servant s had been dism issed and t hen raised his goblet t o t he Queen. ‘Your beaut y im prov es w it h every year,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘The compliment is a pretty one, my friend, but let us talk of more serious matters. Are you out of favour with Philip?’

‘The King says not,’ he told her.

‘But that is not an answer.’

‘No.’

‘He is jealous of you,’ said Alexander softly.

The Queen’s eyes w idened in surprise. ‘You should not speak of matters you do not underst and,’ she chided. ‘You are t oo young t o know w hat t he King t hinks.’ Alexander m et her gaze but said not hing, and t he Queen looked back at t he general. ‘You w ill not leave us, w ill you?’

Parm enion shook his head. ‘Wher e w ould I go, lady? My fam ily are here. I w ill spend t he aut um n at m y est at es; Mot hac t ells m e t here is much to do.’

‘How is Phaedra? Have you seen her?’ asked Olym pias, keeping her voice neutral.

Parm enion shrugged. ‘Not yet. She w as w ell w hen last I saw her. The birth of Hector was troublesome and she was weak for a while.’

‘And the other boys?’

The Spart an chuckled t hen. ‘Philot as is alw ays get t ing int o t rouble, but his m ot her spoils him, giving w ay in everyt hing. Nicci is m ore gent le; he is only two, but he follows Philo everywhere. He adores him.’

‘Phaedra is very lucky,’ said Olympias. ‘She must be so happy.’

Parm enion dr ained his w at ered w ine and st ood. ‘I should be r iding home,’ he said.

‘No! No!’ cried Alexander. ‘You promised to tell me of the battle.’

‘A promise should always be kept,’ said the Queen.

‘I ndeed it should,’ t he gener al agreed. ‘So, young prince, ask m e your questions.’

‘How many Macedonian casualties were there?’

Leaning forw ard, Parm enion r uffled t he child’s golden hair. ‘Your quest ions fly like arrow s t o t heir t arget, Alexander. We lost j ust over three hundred men, with around two hundred badly wounded.’

‘We should have m ore sur geons,’ said t he boy. ‘The dead should not outnumber the wounded.’

‘Most of t he dead com e from t he early casualt ies,’ t he Spart an t old him. ‘They bleed t o deat h during t he bat t le - before t he surgeons can get t o t hem. But you are correct in t hat w e need m ore skilled physicians. I will speak to your father.’

‘When I am King we will not suffer such losses,’ the boy promised. ‘Will you be my general, Parmenion?’

‘I m ay be a lit t le old by t hen, m y prince. Your fat her is st ill a young man - and a mighty warrior.’

‘I will be mightier still,’ promised the child.

*

The m eet ing w it h t he Queen and her son dist urbed Par m enion as he rode north towards his vast estates on the Emathian Plain. The boy, as all m en knew, w as possessed, and Parm enion rem em bered w it h bot h fear and pride t he bat t le for t he child’s soul in t he Valley of Hades five years before.

I t w as a t im e of m iracles. Parm enion, dying of a cancer in t he br ain, had fallen into a coma - only t o open his eyes t o a w orld of night m are, grey, soulless, t w ist ed and barren. Here he had been m et by t he magus, Aristotle, and together with the dead sorceress Tamis had tried to save the soul of the unborn Alexander.

Conceived on t he m yst ic isle of Sam ot hrace, t he child w as int ended t o be t he hum an vessel of t he Dark God, Kadm ilos, dest ined t o br ing chaos and t err or t o t he w orld. A sm all vict ory had been w on in t he Valley of t he Dam ned. The child’s soul had not been dest royed by t he evil, but had merged with it, Light and Dark in a constant war.

Poor Alexander, t hought Parm enion. A brilliant child, beaut iful and sensitive, yet host to the Spirit of Chaos.

‘Will you be my general, Parmenion?’

Parm enion had longed t o say, ‘Yes, m y prince, I w ill lead your arm ies across the world.’

But, w hat if t he Dark God w on? What if t he prince of beaut y becam e the prince of demons?

The bay gelding crest ed t he last hill before t he est at e and Parm enion drew rein and sat, st aring dow n at his hom e. The w hit e st one of t he great house shone in t he sunlight, t he groves of cypress t rees around it st anding like sent ries. Aw ay t o t he left lay t he sm aller houses of t he servant s and farm - w orkers and t o t he right, t he st ables, paddocks and pastures to house Parmenion’s growing herd of war-horses.

The general shaded his eyes, scanning the grounds of the great house.

There w as Phaedra, sit t ing by t he fount ain w it h Philo and Nicci beside her, lit t le Hect or in her ar m s. Parm enion’s heart sank. Sw inging his horse to the east he rode down onto the plain, skirting the great house and angling towards the stable buildings.

*

Mot hac sat in t he hay st roking t he m are’s long neck, w hispering w ords of comfort. She grunted and struggled to stand. Mothac rose with her.

‘No m ovem ent yet,’ said his assist ant, Croni, a w iry Thessalian w ho stood at the rear waiting to assist the birth of the foal.

‘Good girl,’ Mot hac w hispered t o t he m are. ‘You’ll do right. This is not t he first, eh, Larina? Three fine st allions you have bor ne.’ St roking t he m are’s face and neck, he r an his hands along her back and m oved alongside the Thessalian.

The m are had been in labour now for several hours and w as w eary t o t he point of exhaust ion. The old Theban k new it w as unusual for a birth to be so delayed. Most mares foaled swiftly with few problems.

Alw ays in t he past Larina had delivered w it h speed, her foals st rong.

But t his t im e t hey had covered her w it h t he Thracian st allion, Tit an, a huge beast of more than seventeen hands.

The m are gr unt ed once m ore and lay dow n. Pushing Croni aside, Mot hac gent ly eased his hand inside her, his fingers feeling for t he water-sac.

‘Be careful, m ast er,’ w hispered t he Thessalian. Mot hac grunt ed and swore at the man, who chuckled and shook his head.

‘Yes! It’s coming. I can feel the feet.’

‘Front or back?’ asked Croni nervously. A breech birt h, bot h m en knew, would likely see the foal born dead.

‘I can’t t ell. But it ‘s m oving. Wait! I can feel t he head. By Zeus, it ‘s big.’ Easing his hand back Mot hac st ood and st ret ched. For t he last t w o years his spine had been st eadily st iffening, his shoulders becom ing art hrit ic and painful. ‘Fet ch som e gr ease, Croni. I fear t he foal is tearing her apart.’

The Thessalian ran back t o t he m ain house, reappearing m inut es lat er w it h a t ub of anim al fat, m ost ly used for t he paint ing of hoov es, t o prevent sand-cracks and splitting. Mothac took the tub and smelt it.

‘This is no good,’ he grunt ed. ‘I t ‘s alm ost rancid. Get som e olive oil - and be quick about it!’

‘Yes, master.’

He ret urned w it h a large j ug in w hich Mot hac dipped his hands, sm earing t he oil inside t he m are, around t he head and hooves of t he foal. The mare strained once more and the foetal sac moved closer.

‘That’s it, Larina, my pet,’ said Mothac. ‘A little more now.’

The t w o m en w ait ed beside t he m are for som e t im e before t he sac appeared, pale and semi-translucent. The foal’s front legs could just be seen within the membrane.

‘Shall I help her, master?’ Croni asked.

‘Not yet. Give her time; she’s an old hand at this by now.’

The mare grunted and the sac moved further into view - then stopped.

Bright blood spout ed over t he m em brane, dripping t o t he hay. The m are w as sw eat ing freely now, and in som e dist ress as Mot hac m ov ed t o t he rear and gent ly t ook hold of t he foal’s front legs, easing t hem t ow ards him. At any t im e now t he m em branes w ould burst, and it w as vit al t he foal’s head should be clear, ot herw ise it w ould suffocat e.

Mot hac pulled gent ly w hile t he Thessalian m oved t o t he m are’s head, talking to her, his voice low, coaxing and soft.

Wit h a convulsive surge t he sac cam e clear, dropping t o t he hay.

Mothac peeled away the membranes from around the foal’s mouth and nost rils, w iping t he body w it h fresh hay. The new - born w as a j et - black m ale, t he im age of it s sire dow n t o t he w hit e st arburst on it s brow. I t lifted its head and shivered violently.

‘Aya! ‘ ex ult ed Croni. ‘You have a son, Larina! A horse for a king! And such a size! Never have I seen a bigger foal.’

Wit hin m inut es t he foal t ried t o st and and Mot hac helped it t o it s feet, guiding it t ow ards t he m are. Larina, t hough ex haust ed, also rose, and aft er several unsuccessful at t em pt s t he new - born found t he t eat and began to feed.

Mothac patted the mare and walked out into the sunshine, washing his hands and arm s in a bucket of w at er. The sun w as high and he picked up his felt hat, covering the sensitive skin of his bald head.

He w as t ired, but he felt at peace w it h t he w orld. Foaling alw ays brought t his feeling - t he beaut y of birt h, t he onw ard m ovem ent of life.

Croni m oved alongside him. ‘There is great loss of blood, m ast er. The mare may die.’

Mot hac looked dow n at t he lit t le m an, not ing his concern. ‘St ay w it h her. I f she is st ill bleeding in t w o hours, com e and find m e. I shall be in the western pasture.’

‘Yes, m ast er,’ answ ered Croni. The Thessalian gazed up at t he hills.

‘Look, master, the lord is home once more.’

Glancing up, Mot hac saw t he rider. He w as st ill t oo far aw ay t o be recognized by t he old Theban, but t he horse w as Parm enion’s second mount, a spirited bay gelding with a white face.

Mot hac sighed and shook his head. ‘You should have gone hom e first, Parmenion,’ he thought sadly.

*

‘Anot her vict ory for t he Lion of Macedon,’ said Mot hac, pouring Parmenion a goblet of wine.

‘Yes,’ answ ered t he general, st ret ching his lean fram e out on t he couch. ‘How goes it here?’

‘Wit h t he horses? Tw ent y-six foals. The last is a beaut y. Larina’s, t he son of t he Thracian st allion. Pure black he is, Parm enion, and w hat a size! Would you like to see him?’

‘Not now, my friend. I am tired.’

The t hick-set Theban sat opposit e his friend, filling his ow n goblet and sipping the contents. ‘Why did you not go home?’

‘I shall. I wanted first to see how the farm fared.’

‘I have t o clear enough horse-dung all day,’ snapped Mot hac. ‘Don’t bring it into my house.’

Parm enion loosened t he t hongs of his riding-boot s, pulling t hem clear.

‘So t et chy, m y friend! May be it is for t he j oy of your com pany. What difference does it make, Mothac? These are my estates and I go where I will. I am tired. Do you object then to my staying the night?’

‘You k now t hat I do not. But you have a w ife and fam ily w ait ing for you - and beds far more comfortable than any that I can offer.’

‘Com fort, I find, is m ore t o do w it h t he spirit t han t he soft ness of beds,’ said t he Spart an. ‘I am com fort able her e. You ar e get t ing m ore irritable these days, Mothac. What is wrong with you?’

‘Age, m y boy,’ answ ered t he Theban, cont rolling his t em per. ‘But if you don’t w ant t o t alk t o m e I w on’t press you. I w ill see you t his evening.’

Mot hac found his anger grow ing as he w alked from t he house and up t he long hill t o t he w est ern past ure. For m ore t han t hirt y years he had served Parmenion, as both servant and friend, but these last five years had seen t he Spar t an becom e m ore dist ant, m ore secret ive. He had w arned him against m arrying Phaedra. At sevent een t he child w as t oo young, even for t he ever-yout hful Spart an, and t here w as som et hing about her a coldness t hat radiat ed from her eyes. Mot hac rem em bered, w it h an affect ion bor n of hindsight, Parm enion’s Theban lover - t he form er w hore, Thet is. Now t here w as a w om an! St rong, confident, loving! But, like his own beloved Elea, she was dead.

He paused at t he brow of t he hill, w at ching t he w orkers clear t he dung from t he first past ure. I t w as not a t ask his Thessalians enj oyed, but it helped cont rol t he w orm s w hich infest ed t he horses. While grazing, a horse w ould eat t he w orm larvae in t he grass. These w ould breed in t he st om ach and develop int o egg-laying w orm s, t he new eggs being passed in t he droppings. Aft er a w hile all past ures w ould be cont am inat ed, causing st unt ed grow t h, or even deat hs, am ong t he young foals. Mot hac had learned t his t w o years before fr om a Persian horse-trader, and ever since had ordered his men to clear the pastures daily.

At first t he Thessalians had been har d t o convince. Superb horsem en, t hey did not t ake w ell t o such m enial t asks. But w hen t he w or m infest at ions w ere seen t o fade and t he foals grew st ronger, t he t ribesm en had t aken t o t he w ork w it h a vengeance. St rangely, it also helped t o m ake Mot hac m ore popular am ong t hem. They had found it har d t o w ork for a m an w ho rarely rode and, w hen he did, displayed none of t he t alent s for hor sem anship so prized am ong t heir people.

But Mot hac’s skills lay in t raining and rearing, healing w ounds and curing diseases. For t hese t alent s t he riders grew t o respect him, viewing even his irascible nature with fondness.

Mot hac w andered on t o t he t raining field w here young horses learned t o follow t he subt le signals of a rider, cut t ing left and right, dar t ing int o t he charge, sw erving and com ing t o a dead halt t o allow t he rider to release an arrow.

This w as w ork t he horsem en loved. I n t he evenings t hey w ould sit around com m unal cam p-fires discussing t he m erit s of each horse, arguing long into the night.

The t raining w as being concluded w hen Mot hac appr oached t he field.

The youngst er, Or sin, w as t aking a t w o-year- old black m are over t he j um ps. Mot hac leaned on a fence-post and w at ched. Orsin had rare t alent, even am ong Thessalians, and he sailed t he m are over each jump, turning her smoothly to face the next. Seeing Mothac, he waved and vaulted from the mare’s back.

‘Ola, master!’ he called. ‘You wish to ride?’

‘Not today, boy. How are they faring?’

The youngst er ran t o t he fence and clam bered over it. On t he ground t he boy w as ungainly t o t he point of clum siness. ‘There w ill be six of the stallions to geld, master. They are too high-spirited.’

‘Give their names to Croni. When will the new pasture be ready?’

‘Tomorrow. Croni says the lord is home. How did the stallion behave in battle?’

‘I have not had t im e t o ask him. But I w ill. There is a Persian t rader due in t he next few days.Heseeks five st allions - t he best w e have. He is due to come to me at the house, but I don’t doubt he will ride out to check t he horses before announcing him self. Wat ch out for him. I do not w ant him t o see t he new Thracian st ock, so t ake t hem t o t he High Fields.’

‘Yes, m ast er. But w hat of Tit an? There is a horse even I w ould be glad to see the back of.’

‘He stays,’ said Mothac. ‘The lord Parmenion likes him.’

‘He is evil, that one. He will see his rider dead, I think.’

‘The lord Parmenion has a way with horses.’

‘Aya! I would like to see him ride Titan. He will fall very hard.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Mot hac, ‘but on t he day you w ould be w ise t o consider placing a different bet. Now finish your groom ing - and remember what I said about the Persian.’

Parm enion w as m ildly drunk, and at ease for t he first t im e in m ont hs.

The w ide doors of t he andron w ere open t o t he nort h w inds and a gent le breeze filt ered t hrough t he hangings, leaving t he room pleasant ly cool. I t w as not a large room, w it h only t hree couches, and t he w alls w ere bare of or nam ent or paint ings. Mot hac liked t o live sim ply and never ent ert ained, yet t here w as a w arm t h about his hom e that Parmenion missed when away from the estate.

‘Are you happy?’ asked the Spartan suddenly.

‘Are you talking to me or yourself?’ Mothac countered.

‘By the gods, you are sharp tonight. I was talking to you.’

‘Happy enough. This is life, Parmenion. I watch things grow, the barley and t he grain, t he horses and t he cat t le. I t m akes m e part of t he land.

Yes, I am content.’

Parm enion nodded, his expression grave. ‘That m ust be a good feeling.’ He grinned and sat up. ‘Do you st ill m iss Persia and t he palace?’

‘No. This is m y hom e.’ The Theban leaned forw ard, gripping t he Spart an’s shoulder. ‘We hav e been friends for a lifet im e, Parm enion.

Can you not tell me what is troubling you?’

Parm enion’s hand cam e up t o grip Mot hac’s arm. ‘I t is because w e are friends t hat I do not. Five years ago I had a cancer in m y brain. That w as healed. But now t here is a different kind of cancer in m y heart - no, not a real one, m y friend,’ he said sw ift ly, seeing t he concern in t he old Theban’s eyes. ‘But I dare not t alk of it - even t o you - for it w ould put a heavy burden on you. Tr ust m e in t his, Mot hac. You ar e m y dearest friend and I w ould die for you. But do not ask m e t o share my my sorrow.’

Mothac said nothing for a moment, then he refilled their goblets. ‘Then let us get drunk and talk nonsense,’ he said, forcing a smile.

‘That would be good. What duties have you set yourself for tomorrow?’

‘I have two lame horses I will be taking to the lake. Swimming helps to st rengt hen t heir m uscles. Aft er t hat I shall be horse-t rading w it h a Persian named Parzalamis.’

‘I will see you by the lake at noon,’ said the Spartan.

The t w o m en w alked out int o t he night and Mot hac saw a lant er n burning in t he foaling st able. Cursing soft ly he w alked across t o t he building, Parm enion follow ing. I nside Croni, Orsin and t hree ot her Thessalians w ere sit t ing round t he body of t he m are, Larina. The pure black foal was lying beside its dead mother.

‘Why did you not call m e?’ t hundered Mot hac. Croni st ood and bow ed low.

‘The bleeding stopped, master. She only collapsed a short while ago.’

‘We must get the foal another milk mare.’

‘Terias has gone to fetch one, master,’ Orsin told him.

Mot hac m oved past t he dark - haired boy and knelt by t he m are, laying his huge hand on her neck. ‘You were a fine dam, Larina. The best,’ he said.

Croni sidled forw ard. ‘I t is t he curse of Tit an,’ he said. ‘He is a dem on beast, and the son will be the same.’

‘Nonsense! ‘ said Parm enion, his voice harsh. ‘Have Tit an in t he riding circle tomorrow. I shall tame him.’

‘Yes, lord,’ answered Croni miserably. ‘It will be as you say.’

Tur ning on his heel Parm enion st rode from t he st able. Mot hac caught up w it h him, grabbing his arm. ‘You should not have said t hat,’ he. w hispered. ‘The Thessalians know t heir horseflesh. The beast is insane - and so are you if you attempt to ride him.’

‘I hav e said w hat I w ill do,’ Parm enion m ut t ered. ‘I have not seen a horse I cannot ride.’

‘I hope you can say that tomorrow,’ grunted Mothac.

*

The great house w as silent as Parm enion rode t hrough t he cypress grove t ow ards t he m ain doors. Not a light show ed at any w indow, yet as he reached t he front of t he house his m anservant, Peris, ran forward to take the gelding’s reins.

Parmenion leapt t o t he gr ound. ‘Well m et, Peris, does not hing escape your attention?’ he asked, smiling.

The servant bow ed. ‘I saw you t his aft ernoon, lord, on t he hillt op. I have been w ait ing for you. There is cold m eat and cheese in t he andron, and som e pom egranat es. Eissa m ade cakes t his aft ernoon. I will have some brought to you if you desire it.’

‘Thank you. How is the arm?’

Peris lift ed t he leat her-covered st um p at t he end of his right arm. ‘I t is healing w ell, lord. There is lit t le pain now, but w hat t here is seem s t o com e from t he fingers - as if t hey ar e st ill t here. But - as you said - 1 am becoming more skilful with my left.’

Parm enion pat t ed t he m an’s shoulder. ‘I m issed you at t he Crocus Field. I felt almost unsafe.’

Peris nodded, his dark eyes gleam ing in t he m oonlight. ‘I w ould like t o have been t here, lord.’ Then he sm iled and glanced dow n at his sw elling belly. ‘But, even had I t he use of bot h hands, I fear no horse would carry me.’

‘Too many of Eissa’s honeycakes,’ said the general. ‘It was good of you to wait up for me.’

‘I t w as less t han not hing, lord,’ replied Peris, bow ing, his plum p face reddening.

Parm enion w alked on int o t he house. I n t he andron at t he rear t w o lanterns were burning, casting a soft glow over the room. It was large, boast ing t w ent y couches and t hirt y chairs, and L-shaped. When Parm enion ent ert ained guest s t he full room w as used, but now t he lant erns glow ed only in t he alcove by t he large doorw ay t o t he w est - facing gardens. The general moved out onto the patio, breathing in the scent of t he honey suckle gr ow ing by t he w all. The house w as peaceful and only at t im es like t his did he enj oy being here. The t hought w as depressing.

He heard a m ovem ent behind him and t ur ned, expect ing t o see t he crippled Peris.

‘Welcom e hom e, husband,’ said Phaedra. He bow ed st iffly. His w ife w as w earing a robe of shim m ering blue t hat clung t o her slender fram e, her golden hair pulled back from her face and bound with silver w ire int o a pony-t ail t hat hung t o her narrow w aist. Parm enion looked into her cold blue eyes and stiffened.

‘I will not be here for long, lady,’ he told her.

‘Long enough to see your son, I would hope.’

‘Sons,’ he corrected her.

‘There is only one for me,’ she said, her face expressionless. ‘Philotas - he who will be great; the greatest of all.’

‘Do not say that!’ he hissed. ‘It is not true! You hear me?’

She laughed t hen, t he sound chilling. ‘I lost m y pow ers w hen I gave m yself t o you, general, but I w ill never for get t he vision I saw w hen first you t ouched m e. Your first - born w ill rule t he w orld. I know it. And he is Philotas.’

Parm enion felt his m out h go dry. ‘You are a fool, w om an,’ he said at last. ‘A fool t o believe it, and doubly foolish t o say it aloud. Think on t his: if Philip or Olym pias hear of your vision, w ill t hey not seek t o have the child slain?’

All colour drained from her face. ‘How w ould t hey hear?’ she whispered.

‘Who is list ening now?’ he asked. ‘How do you know w hich servant may be walking in the gardens, or sitting within earshot?’

‘You are just trying to frighten me.’

‘I ndeed I am, Phaedra. For t hey w ould not only kill t he babe but t he mother, brothers and father. And who would blame them?’

‘You w ill prot ect him. You ar e t he Lion of Macedon, t he m ost pow erful man in the kingdom,’ she said brightly.

‘Go to bed, woman,’ he told her, his voice weary.

‘Will you be joining me, husband?’

He w ant ed t o t ell her no, but alw ays t he sight of her body aroused him.

‘Yes. Soon.’ Her sm ile w as t rium phant and he sw ung aw ay from it, list ening t o t he soft sound of her foot falls as she left t he r oom. For som e t im e he sat in silence, his heart heavy, t hen he r ose and m oved t hrough t o t he upper nursery w here his children slept. Hect or w as lying on his side in his crib, sucking his t iny t hum b. Nicci, as alw ays, had climbed into bed with Philo and the two slept with arms entwined.

Parm enion gazed at his eldest son. ‘What is she raising y ou t o be?’ he wondered.

He knew - had k now n for years - t hat Phaedra regar ded him w it h cont em pt. The know ledge hurt, but t he great er pain w as in t he lie t hat bound t hem t oget her. She had been a seeress and she had seen a golden fut ure. But she had m isread it. Parm enion could not t ell her of her m ist ake, or even risk put t ing her aside; for Phaedra, in her vengeance, could cause incalculable harm. She had been t he closest friend of Olympias, who had known of her virgin powers. If she went to t he Queen and t old her of t he vision Parm enion felt t he sw ell of panic w it hin him. No, at all cost s t he secret m ust be kept. The only final answer w ould be t o kill Phaedra and t his he w ould not, could not, do.

‘Oh, Philo,’ w hispered Parm enion, st roking his son’s head, ‘I hope you w ill be st rong enough t o w it hst and y our m ot her’s am bit ions for you.’

The boy stirred and moaned in his sleep.

And Parmenion left the room, drawn by lust to a woman he despised.

*

Parm enion aw oke in t he hour before daw n. Silent ly rising from t he large bed, careful not t o w ake Phaedra, he padded across t he scat t ered rugs t hat covered t he t im bered floor. Back in his ow n room s he w ashed him self dow n w it h cold w at er and t hen rubbed oil int o t he skin of his arms and chest, scraping it clear with an ivory knife.

Dressing in a sim ple chiton t unic, he w alked dow n t o t he gardens. The birds still slept in the trees and not a sound disturbed the silent beauty of t he pre-daw n. The sky w as dark grey, st reaked w it h clouds, but in t he east t he colour w as light er as Apollo and his fiery chariot grew ever closer. Parm enion breat hed deeply, filling his lungs, before gent ly stretching the muscles of his thighs, groin and calves.

The garden gat e lay open as he loped out in t o t he count ryside. His muscles still felt stiff and his calves were beginning to burn long before he reached t he crest of t he first hill. I t had been im possible t o run during t he m ont hs of t he Phocian cam paign, and now his body com plained bit t erly. I gnoring t he discom fort he increased his pace, sweat gleaming on his face as the miles flowed by beneath him.

He had never underst ood t he m iracle of his healing, t he t ight ening of his skin, t he st rengt h of yout h once m ore surging t hrough his body, but he did not need t o underst and it t o glory in it. He had never found any act ivit y t o m at ch t he const ant j oy of running - t he per fect com m union, bet w een m ind and body, t he freeing of inhibit ion, t he cleansing of spirit. When he ran his m ind w as free and he could t hink through his problems, finding solutions with an ease that still surprised him.

Today he w as considering t he Thracian st allion, Tit an. He had cost a great deal of m oney and yet he w as - by Persian st andards - cheap.

His pedigree w as incredible, sired by t he finest prize st allion in Persia and born t o t he fast est m are ever t o w in t he Olym pics. Tw o of his brot hers had been sold for fort unes beyond t he r each of all but t he richest kings, yet Parm enion had acquired him for a m ere 2,000 drachms.

Since t hen t he st allion had k illed t w o ot her hor ses and m aim ed one of his handlers, and now w as kept apar t from t he m ain herd in a past ure ringed by a fence the height of a tall man.

Parm enion knew how foolhardy it w as t o boast of riding him, but all ot her m et hods had failed. The Thessalians did not believe in ‘breaking’ t heir horses in t he Thracian m anner, loading t hem w it h heav y w eight s and r unning t hem unt il t hey w ere near ex haust ion before put t ing a rider on t heir backs. This m et hod, said his m en, could break a hor se’s spirit. It was always important, the Thessalians believed, to establish a bond bet w een m ount and m an. But for a w ar-horse and his rider such a bond w as vit al. When t rust w as st rong, m ost horses w ould w illingly allow riders upon their backs.

Not so w it h Tit an. Three handlers had been hurt by him, j agged bit es or kicks cracking lim bs. But on t he last occasion he had t hrow n and t hen st om ped t he legs and back of a young Thessalian, w ho now had no feeling below t he w aist and w as confined t o his bed in t he com m unal barracks. There, before long, according t o Bernios, he would die.

Parm enion loped on along t he line of t he hills, his m ind concent rat ing on t he day ahead. The Thessalians believed Tit an t o be dem onpossessed. Perhaps he w as, but Parm enion doubt ed it. Wild, yes; unt am ed, cert ainly. But possessed? What profit w ould t here be for a demon trapped inside a horse at pasture? No. There had to be a better explanation - even if he had not yet discovered it.

He ran unt il t he daw n st reaked t he sky w it h crim son, t hen halt ed t o w at ch t he t ransient splendour of diam ond st ars shining in a blue sky, slow ly fading unt il only t he Nort h St ar rem ained, t iny and defiant against the arrival of the sun. Then that too was gone.

The breeze w as cool upon t he hillt op and his sw eat - drenched body shivered. Narrow ing his eyes he gazed over t he lands t hat w ere now his, hundreds of m iles of t he Em at hian plain, grassland, w oods, hills and st ream s. No m an could see it all from one place, but from t his hillt op he looked dow n on t he seven past ures w here his herds gr azed.

Six hundred horses were kept here, and beyond the line of the eastern hills t here w ere cat t le and goat s, five villages, t w o t ow ns and a sm all forest t hat surrendered fine t im ber w hich w as eagerly sought by t he shipbuilders of Rhodes and Crete.

‘You are a rich m an now,’ he said aloud, rem em bering t he days of povert y back in Spart a w hen his t unic w as t hreadbare, his sandals as t hin as parchm ent. Sw inging round he st ared back at t he great house w it h it s high pillars, it s t w ent y large guest - room s. From here he could see t he st at ues adorning t he landscaped gardens and t he score of smaller buildings housing slaves and servants.

A m an ought t o be happy w it h all t his, he adm onished him self, but his heart sank with the thought.

Picking up his pace again, he ran on t ow ards t he st ables and past ures, his eyes scanning t he hills, picking out t he giant form of Tit an alone in his past ure. The horse w as running also, but st opped t o w at ch him.

Parm enion’s scalp prickled as he ran alongside t he fence under Tit an’s baleful glare. The st allion’s dom ain w as not large, som e eight y paces long and fift y w ide, t he fence st urdily const ruct ed of t hick t im bers. Not a horse alive could leap such an obst acle but even so, w hen Tit an cant ered t ow ards him Parm enion inv olunt arily m oved t o his right t o put m ore dist ance bet w een him self and t he fence. This m om ent ary fear infuriated him, fuelling his determination to conquer the giant.

He saw Mot hac t alking t o t he slender Croni and t he boy Orsin at t he far gat e, and m ore t han t w ent y Thessalians had gat hered t o w at ch t he com ing cont est. One of t he m en clam bered up on t o t he fence, but Tit an raced across his past ure, rearing t o st rike out at t he m an w ho t hrew him self backw ards t o safet y, m uch t o t he am usem ent of his fellows.

‘I t is not a good day for such a ride,’ Mot hac t old Parm enion. ‘Ther e was rain in the night and the ground is soft.’

Parm enion sm iled. The old Theban w as t rying t o give him an easy w ay out. ‘I t w as but a sm at t ering,’ said Parm enion. ‘Com e, let us be starting our day. Which of you brave fellows will rope the beast?’

Mot hac shook his head, his concern obvious. ‘All right, m y boys, let ‘s be seeing some Thessalian skills!’

Several of t he m en gat her ed up long, coiled r opes. There w as no hum our evident now - t heir faces w ere set, t heir eyes hard. Tw o m en ran t o t he right, keeping close t o t he fence, w aving t he coils and calling t o Tit an w ho charged at t hem, t he fence-post s rat t ling as he st ruck. To t he left, unnot iced by t he enraged beast, Orsin and Croni clim bed int o t he past ure, angling out behind t he black st allion.

Suddenly t he beast sw ung and dart ed at Orsin. Croni’s rope sailed over t he st allion’s great head, j erking t ight as he reared t o st rike t he youngst er. Feeling t he rope bit e int o his neck, Tit an t urned t o charge Croni. Now it w as Orsin w ho t hrew a loop ov er t he st allion’s head and neck, hauling it t ight. I nst ant ly t he ot her Thessalians clam bered over t he fence, ready t o help, but Tit an st ood st ock-st ill, his great fram e trembling.

The huge head slow ly t urned, his m alevolent gaze fixing on Parm enion as he jumped down into the pasture.

‘He know s,’ t hought Parm enion, w it h a sudden rush of fear. ‘He is waiting for me!’

The Spart an m oved t ow ards t he horse, alw ays keeping in it s line of vision unt il he st ood beside t he neck and head. Carefully his hand reached up to the top rope, loosening it and lifting it clear.

‘Steady, boy,’ he whispered. ‘Your master speaks. Steady, boy.’

St ill t he st allion w ait ed, like a black st at ue. Parm enion eased his fingers under t he second rope, sliding it up along t he neck, over t he ears and dow n t he long nose, w ait ing for t he lunging bit e t hat could tear away his fingers.

It did not come.

St roking t he t rem bling flanks, Parm enion t ook hold of t he black m ane, vaulting smoothly to the stallion’s back.

Tit an reared as t he Spart an’s w eight cam e dow n, but Parm enion locked his legs t o t he horse’s body, holding his posit ion. Tit an leapt high in t he air, com ing dow n on all four hooves w it h bone-crunching force, dipping his head and dragging his rider forw ard. Then he bucked. But Parm enion w as ready for t he m anoeuvr e, leaning back and holding to his point of balance.

The black st allion set off at a run, t hen rolled t o his back, desperat e t o dislodge and crush his t orm ent or. Par m enion j um ped t o t he ground as t he st allion rolled, leaping over t he belly and flailing hooves, and springing once m ore t o Tit an’s back as t he horse lunged t o his feet.

The Thessalians cheered the move.

The giant st allion galloped around t he past ure, t w ist ing, leaping, bucking and rearing, but he could not dislodge the hated man upon his back.

Finally Tit an char ged t ow ar ds t he fence. I t w as a m ov e t he Spart an had not ant icipat ed, and inst inct ively he knew t he st allion’s int ent. He w ould gallop t ow ards t he t im bers and t hen sw ing his flanks t o crash against t he w ood, sm ashing t he bones of Parm enion’s leg t o shar ds, crippling t he Spart an for life. Parm enion had only one hope - t o leap clear - but if he did so the stallion would turn on him.

Seeing t he danger t he youngst er Orsin clam bered over t he fence and leapt int o t he paddock, shout ing at t he t op of his voice and w aving his coiled rope around his head. The m ov e disconcert ed t he st allion, w ho swerved and found himself running head-first at the timbers.

‘Sw eet Zeus, he’ll kill us bot h! ‘ t hought Parm enion as Tit an t hunder ed towards the wooden wall.

But at t he last m om ent Tit an bunched his m uscles, sailing high in t he air, clearing t he fence w it h ease and galloping across t he hills. The horse herd grazing t here scat t ered before him. Never had Parm enion know n such speed, t he w ind scream ing in his ears, t he ground m oving by below him like a green blur.

‘Turn, m y beaut y! ‘ he yelled. ‘Turn and show m e your st rengt h.’ As if t he st allion under st ood him he sw ung w ide and t hundered back towards the pasture.

Mot hac and Croni w ere pulling open t he gat e, but perversely Tit an sw erved once m or e, galloping st raight at t he highest point of t he fence.

‘Sw eet Hera be w it h m e! ‘ prayed t he Spart an, for here t he highest bar of t he fence w as alm ost seven feet high. The st allion slow ed, bunched his muscles and leapt, rear hooves clattering against the wood.

As Titan landed Parmenion swung his right leg clear and jumped to the ground. I m m ediat ely t he st allion t urned on him, rearing above him w it h hooves lashing dow n. The Spart an rolled and cam e up r unning, diving bet w een t he fence bars and landing head-first in a pat ch of churned eart h. The Thessalians roared w it h laught er as Parm enion staggered to his feet.

‘I t hink,’ said t he Spart an, w it h a grin, ‘he m ay t ake a lit t le breaking yet. But what a horse!’

‘Look out! ‘ yelled Croni. Tit an char ged t he fence once m ore, leaping it w it hout breaking st ride. Parm enion dived out of t he w ay, but t he stallion swung, seeking him out. When Croni ran forward with his rope, Tit an saw him and sw erved t ow ards t he Thessalian, his huge shoulder crashing int o t he lit t le m an and punching him from his feet. Before anyone could m ov e Tit an reared above t he Thessalian, his front hooves ham m ering dow n int o Croni’s face. The skull dissolved, t he head collapsing in a sickening spr ay of blood and brains. Orsin m anaged t o get a rope ov er t he st allion, but t w ice m ore t he hooves sm ashed dow n int o t he lim p body on t he grass. Tit an felt t he noose set t le on his neck and j erked har d, t ugging Orsin from his feet.

I gnoring t he boy he t hundered t ow ards Parm enion. The Spart an t hrew him self t o his left but, as if ant icipat ing t he m ove, Tit an reared high, his blood-spat t ered hooves plunging dow n. Parm enion dived again, t his t im e t o his right, his back st riking a fence-post. Tit an loom ed above him.

Suddenly t he st allion’s neck arched back, an arrow j ut t ing from his skull.

‘No! ‘ scream ed Par m enion. ‘No! ‘ But a second shaft buried it self deep in Tit an’s flank, piercing t he heart. The st allion sank t o his knees, t hen toppled to his side.

Parm enion r ose on unst eady legs, st aring dow n at t he dead colossus.

Then he swung to see Mothac lay aside the bow.

‘He was a demon,’ the Theban said softly. ‘No question.’

‘I could have tamed him,’ said Parmenion, his voice cold with rage.

‘You would have been dead, lord,’ put in the boy Orsin. ‘As dead as my uncle, Croni. And, by all the gods, you rode him. And greatly.’

‘There will never be his like again,’ Parmenion whispered.

‘There is the foal,’ said Orsin. ‘He will be bigger than his sire.’

Movem ent by Tit an’s dead eye caught Parm enion’s at t ent ion. Thick w hit e m aggot s w ere craw ling from under t he lid and slit hering dow n t he horse’s face, like obscene t ears. ‘There are your dem ons,’ said Parm enion. ‘His brain m ust have been alive w it h t hem. Gods, t hey were driving him mad!’

But t he Thessalians w ere no longer in earshot. They had gat her ed around the body of their friend Croni, lifting him and carrying him back towards the main house.

*

The deat h of t he st allion left Parm enion’s spirit s low. Never had he seen a finer horse, nor one w it h such an indom it able spirit. But w orse than this, the slaying of Titan made him think of the child, Alexander.

Here w as anot her beaut iful creat ure, possessed by evil. I nt elligent - perhaps brilliant - and yet cursed by a hidden m alevolence. An aw ful im age leapt t o his m ind: t he child lying dead w it h fat, pale m aggot s crawling across his lifeless eyes.

Forcing t he vision from his t hought s, he t oiled alongside t he m en as t hey cleared t he fields, helping t hem rope t he young horses, get t ing them accustomed to the needs of Man.

Tow ards m idday t he Spart an w ander ed out t o t he lake w here Mot hac w as exercising lam e or inj ured m ount s. The m en had built a float ing raft of t im bers w hich w as anchored at t he cent re of a sm all lake, a bow shot ‘s lengt h from t he w at er’s edge. A horse w ould be led out int o t he w at er, w here he w ould sw im behind t he boat leading him unt il t he raft w as reached. Once t here t he lead rope w ould be t hrow n up t o Mot hac w ho w ould encourage t he horse t o sw im around t he raft. The exercise built up a horse’s st rengt h and endurance, w hile put t ing no st rain on inj ured m uscles or ligam ent s. Mot hac, his bald head cov ered by an enormous felt hat, was walking the perimeter of the raft, leading a bay mare who struggled in the water alongside.

Rem oving his t unic Parm enion w aded out int o t he cold w at er, sw im m ing slow ly t ow ards t he r aft, his arm s m oving in long, lazy st rokes. The cool of t he lake w as refreshing, but his m ind w as full of awful images: maggots and eyes, beauty and decay.

Hauling himself up to the raft he sat naked in the sunshine, feeling the cool breeze against his w et body. Mot hac sum m oned t he boat, throwing the lead rope to the oarsman.

‘That ‘s enough for t oday,’ he shout ed. The oarsm an nodded and led t he m are back t o dry land. The old Theban sat beside Parm enion, offering him a jug of water.

‘That hat looks ridiculous,’ remarked Parmenion.

Mot hac grinned and pulled t he floppy hat from his head. ‘I t ‘s com fort able,’ he said, w iping sw eat from t he rim and covering his bald dome once more.

Parmenion sighed. ‘It’s a shame he had to die,’ he said.

‘The horse or the man?’ snapped Mothac.

Parm enion sm iled ruefully. ‘I w as t alking of t he horse. Though you are correct, I should have been t hinking of t he m an. But Tit an m ust have been in great pain; t hose m aggot s w ere eat ing his brain. I find it obscene t hat such a m agnificent beast should have been brought low by such vile creatures.’

‘He w as only a horse,’ said Mot hac. ‘But I shall m iss Croni. He had a family in Thessaly. How much shall I send?’

‘Whatever you think fit. How have the men taken his death?’

‘He w as popular,’ Mot hac answ ered. ‘But t hey are hard m en. You im pressed t hem w it h your ride.’ He chuckled suddenly. ‘By Heracles, you impressed me!’

‘I will never see another horse like him,’ said Parmenion sadly.

‘I t hink y ou m ight. The foal is t he im age of his sire. And he w ill be big - he has a head like a bull.’

‘I saw him in t he st ables last night - w it h his dead m ot her. Not a good omen for the son of Titan - his first act in life to kill his dam.’

‘Now you are sounding like a Thessalian,’ Mothac admonished him. The Theban drank deeply from t he w at er-j ug and leaned back on his powerful forearms. ‘What is wrong between you and Philip?’

Parm enion shrugged. ‘He is a King is search of a glory he does not w ish t o share. I cannot say I blam e him for t hat. And he has t he lickspittle Attalus to whisper poison in his ear.’

Mot hac nodded. ‘I never liked t he m an. But t hen I nev er liked Philip much either. What will you do?’

The Spart an sm iled. ‘What is t here t o do? I w ill fight Philip’s bat t les until he decides he has no more need of me. Then I will come here and grow old with my sons around me.’

Mot hac grunt ed and sw ore. ‘You w ould be a fool t o believe t hat - and you are no fool. I f you left Philip, every cit y in Greece w ould vie for your serv ices. Wit hin a season you w ould be leading an arm y. And, since t here is only one great enem y, you w ould be leading it against Philip. No, Parm enion, w hen Philip decides he needs you no longer it will be Attalus who delivers the dismissal - with an assassin’s knife.’

Parmenion’s pale blue eyes grew cold. ‘He will need to be very good.’

‘And he is,’ warned Mothac.

‘This is a gloomy conversation,’ Parmenion muttered, rising to his feet.

‘Has the King invited you to the victory parade?’ Mothac persisted.

‘No. But then he knows I do not enjoy such events.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mot hac, unconvinced. ‘So, w here w ill t he next w ar be fought? Will you march on the cities of the Chalcidice, or down through Boeotia to sack Athens?’

‘That is for t he King t o decide,’ answ ered Parm enion, his gaze st raying to the eastern mountains. The look was not lost on the Theban.

‘Then it is to be Thrace,’ he said, his voice low.

‘You see too much, my friend. I thank the gods you also have a careful tongue.’

‘Where will his ambition end?’

‘I don’t k now. More t o t he point, he does not know. He is not t he m an I once knew, Mot hac; he is driven now. He had hundreds of Phocians execut ed aft er t he Crocus Field, and it w as said he st ood and laughed as t hey died. Yet before w e left Macedonia I w at ched him j udge several cases at court. I k new, on t his part icular day, t hat he w ant ed t o hunt and w as hoping t o conclude by early aft ernoon. At last he declared an end t o t he proceedings, t elling t he pet it ioners t o com e back on anot her day. But as he left t he j udge’s chair an old w om an with a petition came close to him, calling out for justice. He turned and said, No t im e, w om an. She j ust st ood t here for a m om ent and t hen, as he walked on, shouted: Then you’ve no time to be King! Everyone close by held t heir breat hs. Was she t o be execut ed? Or flogged? Or imprisoned? You know what he did? He cancelled the hunt and listened to her case for the rest of the day. He even judged it in her favour.’

Mot hac rose and w aved for t he boat t o com e out t o t hem. ‘I did not say he was not a great man, Parmenion. I merely pointed out that I do not like him, and I do not t r ust him. Neit her should you. One day he will order your death. Jealousy breeds fear, and fear sires hatred.’

‘No one lives for ever,’ replied Parmenion uneasily.

Pella, Macedonia, Autumn ‘I shall walk ahead of the Guards. My people will see me,’ said Philip.

‘Madness! ‘ snapped At t alus. ‘What m or e can I say t o you? There are killers in Pella, j ust w ait ing for t he opport unit y t o com e at you. Why are you set on this course?’

‘Because I am the King!’ thundered Philip.

At t alus sat back on t he couch st aring sullenly at his m onarch. ‘You t hink,’ he asked finally, ‘t hat you ar e a god? That cold iron cannot penetrate your body, cannot slice your heart?’

Philip sm iled and r elaxed. ‘No delusions, At t alus. How could I?’ he added, t ouching t he scar above his blinded right eye. ‘But if I cannot w alk in t he st reet s of m y ow n capit al, t hen m y enem ies have t ruly won. You will be there. I trust you to protect me.’

At t alus looked int o t he King’s face, seeing no com prom ise t here, and recalled the first time they had met, in Thebes nineteen years ago. The King had been m erely a boy t hen, a fright ened boy w ait ing for t he assassin’s blade. Yet in his eyes had been t he sam e fierce glow. His uncle t he King, Pt olem aos, had t ried t o hav e him quiet ly poisoned, but t he boy out w it t ed him, saving his brot her Perdiccas and killing Pt olem aos as he lay in his bed. This he had achieved as a t hirt eenyear-old. Now, at t hirt y-t w o, Philip had unit ed Macedonia, creat ing a nation to be feared.

But such pride w as double-edged, At t alus knew, bringing either greatness or an early grave. Macedonian spies in the Chalcidean city of Olynt hos report ed t hat an elit e group of assassins had been hired t o end t he t hreat of Philip of Macedon. I t t ook no genius t o realize t hey w ould st rike at t he Fest ival of Thanksgiving w hen t he King, dr essed only in t unic and cloak, w alked unarm ed am ong t he crow ds t o t he Temple of Zeus.

‘Think of Alexander,’ ur ged At t alus. ‘I f you are slain, t hen he w ill be in great peril. You have no ot her heirs, w hich m eans t he nobles w ill fight amongst themselves to succeed you. Alexander would be killed.’

For a m om ent only Philip w avered, st roking his t hick black beard and st aring from t he w ide w indow. But w hen he t urned back At t alus knew t he cause w as lost. ‘I w ill w alk am ong m y people. Now, have enough flowers been distributed along the route?’

‘Yes, sire,’ answered Attalus wearily.

‘I w ant t hem st rew n before m y feet. I t w ill look good; it w ill im press the ambassadors. They must see that Macedonia is with me.’

‘Macedonia is with you - regardless of whether they throw flowers.’

‘Yes, yes. But it m ust be seen. The At henians are st irring up m ore t rouble. They do not have t he finance t o m ount a cam paign t hem selves, but t hey are w orking har d on t he Olynt hians. I do not desire a war - yet - with the Chalcidean League. Now how do I look?’

At t alus cur bed his t em per and gazed at t he King. Of m edium height, he w as broad-shouldered and pow erful, his black t ight ly curled hair and bear d shining like a pant her’s pelt, t he t aw ny flecks in his single green eye highlight ed by t he crow n of golden laurel leaves. His t unic was summer blue, his cloak night black.

‘You look splendid - a King of legend. Let us hope you look as fine at the end of the day.’

Philip chuckled. ‘Alw ays so gloom y, At t alus. Have I not m ade you rich?

Are you even now not content?’

‘I will be content when the day is over.’

‘I w ill see you in t he court yard,’ said Philip. ‘Rem em ber, no m ore t han ten Guards to walk behind me.’

Alone now, Philip moved back to the long table, spreading the goatskin map across t he surface. For t oo long t he great cit ies, At hens, Spart a and lat t erly Thebes, had fought t o r ule Greece; t heir ow n enm it ies causing w ar aft er bloody w ar. At hens against Spart a, Spart a against Thebes, Thebes against At hens, w it h all t he m inor st at es sucked in.

Endless perm ut at ions of broken alliances, changing sides, shift ing fortunes.

Macedonia had been covertly ruled by all three at different times.

Philip knew t he endless w ars w ere self-perpet uat ing, for t he hundreds of cit ies and t ow ns of nort her n Greece all paid hom age t o different m ast ers. Any disput e bet w een such cit ies could - and w ould - draw in t he m aj or pow ers. I n Macedonia alone, w hen Philip cam e t o pow er, t here w ere m ore t han t w ent y supposedly independent cit ies w ho offered no allegiance t o t he t hrone. I nst ead t hey form ed alliances w it h Spart a, At hens, or Thebes, each cit y boast ing it s ow n sm all arm y or m ilit ia force. Many of t hem w ere coast al set t lem ent s, w hich m eant safe landing for an invading arm y. One by one, during t he seven y ears since he becam e King, Philip had t aken t hese cit adels, som et im es by force - as at Methone, where the population had been sold into slavery - but more often by coercion, bribery, or simply a careful blending of all three which men called diplomacy.

The plan w as essent ially sim ple: rem ove all t hreat s from w it hin t he kingdom by stealth or war.

He had est ablished an early t reat y w it h At hens, w hich enabled him t o concent rat e on crushing his enem ies in t he w est and nort h. Now he had for ged st rong links w it h Thessaly in t he sout h by dest roying t he Phocian army, which had ravaged central Greece.

But t he st orm - clouds st ill gat hered. Philip’s arm y had sw ept int o t he independent cit y of Am phipolis on his east ern border - a cit y At hens covet ed. The shock invasion w as not w it hout it s crit ics - including Pannenion.

‘You prom ised At hens you w ould let t hem rule t he cit y,’ t he general had pointed out.

‘Not so. I t old t hem I did not see it as Macedonian. There is a difference.’

‘A sm all one,’ replied Pannenion. ‘You let t hem believe you m eant t hem t o t ake cont r ol. I t w ill m ean w ar w it h At hens. Are w e ready for it?’

‘I t is a sm all risk, m y friend. The At henians are not rich enough t o w age a full w ar at t his dist ance. And I cannot allow Am phipolis t o be a secret base for Athens.’

Parmenion had laughed then. ‘There is no one else here, Philip. You do not need t o t ake such a high t one. Am phipolis is rich; she cont rols t he t rade rout es t o Thrace, and all of t he sout hern reaches of t he River Strymon. You are running short of coin, and the army must be paid.’

‘There is t hat,’ answ ered Philip, his grin infect ious. ‘By t he w ay, t he arm y is not yet large enough. I w ant you t o t rain m e t en t housand more men.’

The sm ile vanished from t he Spart an’s face. ‘You already have m ore t han enough t o secure t he realm. From w here w ill com e t he danger?

Thrace is divided, t he t hree kings w arring am ong t hem selves; t he Paionians are finished, and t he I llyrians w ill never rise t o t heir form er glory. You are building an arm y now of conquest - not defence. What is it you want, Philip?’

‘I w ant t en t housand m ore m en. And before you ask anot her quest ion, m y Spart an friend, w as it not you w ho once advised m e t o keep m y plans m ore secret? Very w ell, I am follow ing your advice. No one but Philip shall know. And was it not also my strategos who lectured me on the nature of empire? We remain strong, he said, only while we grow.’

‘I ndeed he did, sire,’ adm it t ed Parm enion, ‘but as w it h all st rat egies t here is t he quest ion of scale. Arm ies m ust be supplied, lines of com m unicat ion need t o be open and sw ift. Your great est advant age over At hens is t hat your com m ands are inst ant ly obeyed, w hereas t he At henians m ust gat her t heir assem bly and argue for days, som et im es weeks. And, unlike the Persians, we are not geared for empire.’

‘Then we must learn, Parmenion, for the days of Macedon are here.’

Now Philip stared down at the map, his keen mind judging the areas of great est danger. Parm enion had been right. The t aking of Am phipolis and ot her independent cit adels had st ruck fear int o t he heart s of his neighbours, w ho w ere busy enlist ing m ercenaries, hoplites from Thebes, javeliners from Thrace, archers from Crete.

And At hens, in t he dist ant sout h, had declared w ar, sending agent s t o all nort hern realm s and cit ies urging t hem t o st and against t he Macedonian aggressor. Now t hat t he Phocians w ere crushed t he gam e w as becom ing com plex, for no single enem y w ould dare raise his head above the ramparts and no single battle could solve Philip’s dilemma.

His enem ies w ould w ait for a sign of w eakness - t hen st rike t oget her, com ing from east, w est and sout h. I f he m oved against any one foe t he ot her s w ould fall upon his back, causing a w ar on t w o or m ore fronts.

The great est im m ediat e danger lay t o t he east, from Olynt hos, t he leader of the Chalcidean League of cities. Philip’s finger traced over the trident-shaped lands of t he Chalcidice. Bet w een t hem t he cit ies could raise 20,000 hoplites arm ed w it h spear, sw ord and shield, m ore t han 3,000 cavalry and, perhaps, a furt her 7,000 - m aybe 8,000 - j aveliners. A w ar w it h Olynt hos w ould be cost ly and danger ous.

Whoever w on w ould be so w eakened t hey w ould fall t o t he next aggressor. That w as w hy t he Olynt hians w ere relying on t he assassins they had sent to Pella.

The King hear d t he sounds of t he Guards m arching int o t he court yard below his window. ‘Walk with care today, Philip,’ he warned himself.

*

At t alus gat hered t he t en m em bers of t he Royal Guar d, inspect ing t heir bronze br east plat es and helm s, t heir scabbards and greaves. They shone like bur nished gold. Moving behind t he lines, he glanced at t heir black cloaks. Not a trace of dust or grime showed. Satisfied, he walked back to stand before them.

‘Be aw are,’ he said slow ly, ‘t hat t he King is always in danger. Always.

I t does not m at t er t hat he w alks in t he heart of his realm. I t is im m at erial t hat t he people love him. He has enem ies. As you m arch behind him, keep your eyes on t he crow d. Do not look at t he King.

Wat ch for any sudden m ovem ent. I s t hat underst ood?’ The m en nodded.

‘May I speak, sir?’ asked a man to his right.

‘Of course.’

‘Are you speaking in general t erm s, or is t here a part icular t hreat today?’

At t alus looked closely at t he m an, t rying t o rem em ber his nam e. ‘As I said, t he King is alw ays in danger. But it is a good quest ion. Be vigilant.’

Taking his place at the centre, he waited for the King. The route would t ake t hem along t he m ain Avenue of Alexandros, t hrough t he m arket - place and on t o t he Tem ple of Zeus. A w alk of no m ore t han a t housand paces, perhaps less, but t he crow d w ould be pressing in.

At t alus had st at ioned soldiers along t he line of t he parade, but t hey w ould be st ret ched t o keep back t he t housands of cit izens. Philip’s popularit y w as high and t hat m ade for great danger on a day such as t his, for t he people w ould be excitable - st raining t o t ouch him, pushing against t he t hin line of soldiers. Sw eat dripped int o At t alus’ eyes. A t rained assassin him self, he knew how easy it w as t o kill a m an no m at t er how w ell prot ect ed. At no t im e w ould Philip be m ore t han five paces from t he t hr ong. A sudden dash, t he flash of a knife, the spurting of royal blood

For t he hundredt h t im e he pict ured t he rout e, t he w hit e-walled buildings and narrow alleyways.

Where w ould you m ake t he at t em pt? he asked him self again. Not at t he st art w hen t he guards w ould be at t heir m ost alert, but t ow ards t he end. Not near t he t em ple, w here open ground w ould prevent t he assassins’ escape. No. The at t ack w ould com e close t o t he m arket - place w it h it s scores of alleyw ays. Tw o hundr ed paces of sheer t error awaited him.

Damn you, Philip!

The King w alked from t he palace doors, t he t en guards beat ing t heir fists upon their breastplates in greeting. Attalus was slow to follow, his mind preoccupied. ‘I see you, Coenus,’ said Philip, sm iling at t he m an w hose nam e At t alus had been st ruggling t o rem em ber. ‘And y ou, Diron. I w ould have t hought you’d have had enough of m y com pany.’

One by one Philip greet ed each of t he m en. I t never ceased t o am aze At t alus how t he King m em orized t he nam es of t he m en under his com m and. Coenus - now At t alus rem em bered him. He had been prom ot ed by t he w horeson Parm enion t o com m and t he reserve phalanx at the Crocus Field.

‘Are we ready?’ asked the King.

‘Yes, sir,’ Attalus answered.

Tw o soldiers opened t he gat es and Philip st rode from t he palace grounds t o be greet ed by a t hundr ous roar from t he cit izens beyond.

At t alus kept close behind him. Brushing t he sw eat from his eyes, he scanned the crowd. There were hundreds waiting here on both sides of the avenue. Flowers of every kind rained in on the King as he waved to his people. At t he cross sect ion t he m ain parade w as w ait ing: cavalrym en from Thessaly, am bassadors from Thebes, Corint h, Pherai, Olynt hos and Thrace. Behind t hem w ere j uggler s and acrobat s, j est ers and act or s in m asks of gleam ing bronze. At t he rear of t he parade t w o w hit e bulls, garlanded w it h flow ers, w ere led on t heir last w alk t o t he sacrificial altar of Zeus.

Philip marched to the head of the parade and began the walk along the Avenue of Alexandros.

At t alus, hand on his sw ord-hilt, saw t he crow d surge forw ard against t he t hin line of soldiers on eit her side w ho fought t o keep t he w ay open. Philip w alked on, w aving and sm iling. A sm all boy dashed from t he left, running up t o t he King. At t alus’ sw ord w as half draw n. He slam m ed it back int o it s scabbard as Philip swept t he child from his feet and stopped as the boy gave him a pomegranate.

‘Where is your mother?’ Philip asked him. The child pointed to the right and t he King w alked t he boy back, handing him t o a w om an in t he crowd.

Attalus cursed. One thrust now and it was all over

But Philip m oved back int o t he cent re of t he av enue and cont inued on his way at the head of the parade.

As t hey approached t he m arket - place, At t alus’ gaze flickered left and right over t he crow d, w at ching faces, looking for signs of t ension. St ill the flowers came, the avenue carpeted with myriad colours.

Suddenly t he crow d surged again. Three m en br oke clear, running towards the King.

Knives flashed in the sunlight, as Attalus sprinted forward.

A long dagger plunged into the King’s side.

‘No! ‘ scream ed At t alus. Philip st agger ed, his hand sw eeping aside his cloak and com ing up w it h a hidden sw ord. The blade sm ashed t hr ough the first assassin’s neck. A second knife lunged for t he King’s t hr oat, but Philip par ried t he blow, sending a reverse cut t hat opened t he m an’s arm from elbow t o shoulder. At t alus killed t he t hird m an as he tried to stab Philip in the back.

The crow d w ere scream ing now. As Philip adv anced on t he w ounded assassin, the man flung himself to his knees.

‘Spare me. I will tell you all!’ he pleaded.

‘You hav e not hing of w ort h t o say,’ said t he King, his sw ord plunging between the man’s collar-bones.

‘Get a surgeon! ‘ yelled At t alus, m oving alongside Philip and t aking his arm.

‘No!’ countermanded the King. ‘It is not necessary.’

‘But I saw him stab you.’

Philip m ade a fist and t apped at his t unic. A m et allic ring sounded.

‘There is a breastplate beneath it,’ he said. ‘I may be reckless, Attalus, but I am not stupid. Let the parade continue,’ he bellowed.

Lat er t hat night as t he King relaxed in his cham bers, grow ing st eadily m ore dr unk, At t alus asked t he quest ion t hat had been gnaw ing at him all day.

‘Why did you kill t he last assassin? He could have nam ed t he people who hired him.’

‘I t w ould have achieved not hing. We bot h know t he m en cam e from Olynt hos. I f such new s becam e public I w ould be forced int o a w ar w it h t he Chalcideans; t he people w ould dem and it. But it w as a good day, was it not? A good day to be alive?’

‘I enjoyed it not at all,’ snapped Attalus. ‘I aged ten years out there.’

Philip chuckled. ‘All life is a gam e, m y friend. We cannot hide. The gods use us as t hey w ill, t hen discard us. Today m y people saw t heir King; t hey w at ched him m arch, t hey saw him fight and conquer. Their pride w as fed. So, t hen, t he Olynt hians only helped m y cause. I feel grat eful t o t hem - and t o you for prot ect ing m y back. I t r ust you, At t alus, and I like you. You m ake m e feel com fort able - and safe. You remember that first day in Thebes? When I held my knife to my breast and offered you the chance to ram it home?’

‘Who could forget it?’ answ ered At t alus. The young prince, fearing At t alus had been sent t o kill him, gav e him t he chance in an alleyw ay w here t here w ere no w it nesses. And At t alus had been t em pt ed. At t he t im e he served King Pt olem aos, and Philip w as but a boy t he King desired dead. Yet he had not st ruck t he blow and st ill did not k now why.

‘What are you thinking?’ asked Philip.

At t alus j erked his m ind t o t he present. ‘I w as re-living t hat day, and t he j our ney back t o Macedonia. Why do you t rust m e, Philip? I know myself, and all my failings. I would not trust me - so why do you?’

The sm ile left t he King’s face as, leaning forw ard, he gripped At t alus’ shoulder. ‘Do not question it,’ he advised. ‘Enjoy it. Few men ever earn a King’s t rust, or his friendship. You have bot h. I t does not m at t er w hy. Perhaps I see in you a qualit y you have not yet found. But, w ere I beset by enem ies, you ar e t he m an I w ould m ost w ant by m y side.

Let t hat be enough.’ The King drained his w ine, refilling t he cup. He stood - st aggered - and w andered t o t he w indow, st aring out t o t he west.

At t alus sighed. Exhaust ed by t he t ension of t he day, he t ook his leave and w alked slow ly back t o his ow n room s in t he new barracks. His servants had lit lanterns in the andron and bedchamber. Attalus untied the thongs of his breastplate, removed it and sank to a couch.

‘You are a fool to trust me, Philip,’ he whispered.

Too t ired t o clim b t he st airs t o his bed, he lay back on t he couch and slept.

*

‘An im pressive herd, m y dear Mot hac. How is it t hat a Theban develops such a t alent for horses?’ The Per sian st roked his golden beard and leaned back in his chair.

‘I listen and I learn, noble Parzalamis. Is the wine to your taste?’

The Persian sm iled t hinly, but his pale eyes show ed no t race of hum our. ‘Of course - it is from m y count ry, and I w ould guess at least ten years old. Am I correct?’

‘It would surprise me if you weren’t.’

‘A kind com plim ent,’ said Parzalam is, rising from t he chair and w alking t o t he open doorw ay w here he st ood looking out over t he w est ern hills. Mothac remained on the couch, but his gaze followed the silk-clad Persian. Such clot hes, he t hought! What w as t he point of such luxury?

Parzalam is w ore loose t rousers of blue silk, edged w it h silver w ire w hich in t urn held sm all pearls. His shirt w as also silk, but t he colour of fresh cream, t he chest and back em broidered w it h gold t hread form ing t he head of a griffyn, part - eagle par t - lion. He had no cloak, but his heavy coat of em broidered w ool had been flung carelessly across a couch. Mot hac’s gaze m oved dow n t o t he m an’s boot s. They were of a skin he had never seen, scaled and uneven, yet with a sheen that made a man want to reach out and touch them.

Parzalam is sw ung and w alked back t o his seat. Rich Persian perfum e wafted to Mothac as the man crossed the room and he chuckled. ‘What amuses you?’ asked his guest, his expression hardening.

‘Not am usem ent - em barrassm ent,’ said Mot hac sw ift ly. ‘Happy as I am t o see you, your m agnificence m akes m y hom e feel like a pig-sty.

Suddenly I see all t he cracks in t he w all, and not ice t hat t he doorframe has warped.’

The Persian relaxed. ‘You are a clever m an, Theban. Your t ongue m oves fast er t han a cheet ah. So, I have bought your horses and now let us move to more serious matters. What are Philip’s plans?’

Sw inging his legs from t he couch, Mot hac refilled his goblet.

‘Parm enion assures m e he is st ill securing his borders against his enemies. The Great King has nothing to fear.’

‘The Great King fears not hing! ‘ snapped Parzalam is. ‘He is m erely interested in his vassal king.’

‘Vassal?’ queried Mot hac. ‘As I underst and it, Philip sends no t ribut e t o Susa.’

‘The point is im m at erial. All Macedonia is part of t he Great King’s empire. Indeed, the same can be said for all of Greece. Athens, Sparta and Thebes all accept the sovereignty of Persia.’

‘I f Macedonia is indeed a v assal,’ said Mot hac, choosing his w ords carefully, ‘t hen sur ely it is st range t hat t he Phocians paid t heir arm y w it h Persian gold w hen all m en knew t he arm y w ould m arch against Philip.’

‘Not at all,’ answ ered Parzalam is. ‘The general Onom archus t ravelled t o Susa and knelt before t he Great King, offering his allegiance t o t he em pire. For t his he w as rew arded. And let us not forget it w as Philip who marched against the Phocians, not the reverse. And I am unhappy w it h t his idea of securing borders. Where does it st op? Philip already cont rols I llyria and Paionia. Now t he Thessalians have m ade him t heir King. His bor ders grow w it h every season. What next? The Chalcidice?

Thrace? Asia?’

‘Not Asia,’ said Mot hac. ‘And Parm enion m aint ains t he Chalcidice is safe for the time being. Therefore it is Thrace.’

‘What does he w ant?’ hissed Parzalam is. ‘How m uch t errit ory can any one man hold?’

‘An interesting question from a servant of the Great King.’

‘The Great King is divinely blessed. He is not t o be confused w it h a barbarian w arrior. Thrace, you say? Very w ell, I w ill bear t hat int elligence t o Susa.’ Parzalam is leaned back, st aring at t he low ceiling. ‘Now t ell m e of t he King’s son.’ The quest ion w as asked in a t one alt oget her t oo relaxed and Mot hac let it hang in t he air for a moment.

‘He is said t o be a brilliant child,’ t he Theban answ ered. ‘When barely four he could read and write, and even debate with his elders.’

‘Yet he is possessed,’ said Parzalam is. Mot hac could feel t he t ension in the man’s voice.

‘You see a four-year- old child as a threat?’

‘Yes - not of course t o Persia, w hich is beyond fear, but t o t he st abilit y of Greece. You lived for m any years in Persia and no doubt cam e t o understand t he t r ue religion. There is Light w hich, as Zoroast er inform ed us, is t he root of all life, and t here is Darkness, in w hich not hing grow s. Our w ise m en say t hat t his Alexander is a child of Darkness. You have heard this?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Mot hac, shift ing uncom fort ably under t he Persian’s gaze.

‘Some talk of him being a demon. Parmenion does not believe it.’

‘And you?’

‘I have seen t he child only once but, yes, I could believe it. I t ouched his shoulder w hen he cam e t oo close t o a st allion. The t ouch burned m e. I could feel it for weeks.’

‘He must not live,’ whispered Parzalamis.

I ‘ll have no part in t his,’ answ ered Mot hac, rising and w alking t o t he door. St epping out side int o t he gat hering t w ilight he looked around.

There w as no one in sight and he ret urned t o t he r oom. The light w as failing and Mot hac lit t hree lant erns. ‘I t w ould be m adness t o kill t he child. Philip’s anger would be colossal.’

‘That is t rue. But w e m ust consider w here best such anger could be direct ed. I n At hens t he orat or Dem ost henes speaks out against Philip w it h great vehem ence. I f t he assassin w ere t o be in t he pay of At hens then Philip would march south, yes?’

‘Nothing would stop him,’ agreed the Theban.

‘And it is w ell know n t hat cent ral Greece is a burial ground for ambition. All the great generals have fallen there.’

‘How will the deed be done?’

‘The m at t er is already in hand. A Met honian slave nam ed Lolon w ill kill the child; he has been bribed to do so by two Athenians in our service.

He w ill be t aken alive, of course, and w ill confess t hat he w as hired on the instructions of Demosthenes, for he believes such to be the case.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘The t w o At henians have been t old t o flee nort h from Pella. I t w ill not be ex pect ed. You w ill hide t hem here for som e w eeks. Aft er t hat t hey can make their way to Olynthus.’

‘You ask a great deal,’ Mothac told him.

‘I agree, my dear Mothac, but then - as you know - we pay very well.’

Parm enion sat in t he w est ern alcove of his andron, ey es fixed on a honey-bee as it set t led on a flow ering yellow rose. The bloom slow ly bent as the bee shuffled inside seeking pollen.

‘Is that all he said?’ asked the Spartan.

‘Is it not enough?’ Mothac countered.

Parm enion sighed and st ood, st ret ching his back. I t had t aken t hree years t o infilt rat e Mot hac int o t he Persian spy syst em, and at last it w as beginning t o j ust ify t he effort. At first t hey had been w ary of him, know ing him t o be Parm enion’s friend. Then slow ly, as his inform at ion proved accurat e, t hey had begun t o t rust him m ore. But t his sudden sharing of such a pow erful secret w ould need som e serious considerat ion. ‘I w ill have t he servant w at ched, and put ext ra guards in the garden beneath Alexander’s window.’

‘But you must tell the King,’ put in Mothac.

‘No, t hat w ould not be w ise. There is great fear in Persia t hat - ultimately - Philip w ill lead his forces int o Asia. I t is m aking t hem reckless. The at t ack on Philip at t he Fest ival - t he Olynt hians w ould never at t em pt anyt hing so rash. No, it w as t he Persians, and I don’t think it wise to tell Philip. But equally I do not want Parzalamis to know that you are no traitor.’

‘Why is that so important?’ asked the Theban.

Parm enion grinned. ‘I do not w ish t o find you w it h a knife bet w een your ribs. And there is no doubt in my mind that Persia will one day be t he enem y. I t is t he richest kingdom in t he w orld - and Philip spends recklessly. Despit e t he m ines and cit ies w e have capt ured t here is st ill not enough w ealt h in Macedonia t o pay for t he arm y. No, Persia is t he ult im at e prize, t herefore it is vit al t o m aint ain cont act w it h Parzalam is.

But how do we save the prince - without compromising you?’

‘The Met honian servant could have an accident - break his neck?’ offered Mothac.

Parm enion shook his head. ‘Too obvious. And t he At henians - whose nam es w e do not know - w ould only hire som eone else. I t is a t horny problem. But I will work on it.’

‘He gave no indicat ion of how soon Lolon w ill st rike. I t could be tonight!’ said Mothac.

‘Yes,’ answ ered Parm enion, holding his voice even, not allow ing a flicker of em ot ion t o bet ray his concern. ‘I w ill ride for Pella t om orrow.

Now, tell me, how is Titan’s foal?’

‘Suckling well with a milk mare. He is strong. He will survive.’

‘Good. Now you should get home and rest. I need to think.’

Mot hac st ood. ‘This gam e is grow ing in com plexit y, m y friend. I am not comfortable with it.’

‘Nor I. But kingdoms are at stake and nothing remains simple.’

When t he Theban had gone Parm enion st rolled in t he gardens, halt ing at t he m arble fount ain. There w ere t hree st at ues at t he cent re repr esent ing Aphrodit e, Goddess of Love, At hena, Goddess of Wisdom and War, and Hera, t he Queen of t he Gods. I n t heir m idst st ood a handsome youth holding an apple.

‘Kingdoms are at stake and nothing remains simple.’

The yout h w as Paris, a Prince of Tr oy, and t he t hree goddesses had com m anded him t o present t he golden apple t o t he m ost beaut iful am ong t hem. Parm enion gazed at t he yout h’s st one face, reading t he em ot ion t he sculpt or had so exquisit ely carved t here. I t w as t he look of t he lost. I f he gave t he apple t o one t hen t he ot hers w ould hat e him, not resting until they saw him dead.

‘Kingdoms are at stake and nothing remains simple.’

Paris had present ed t he prize t o Aphrodit e, and she had rew arded him by m aking t he m ost beaut iful w om an in t he w orld love him. His happiness w as com plet e. But t he w om an w as Helen, w ife of Menelaus, King of Spart a, and At hena, allied w it h Hera, conspired t o bring a Greek arm y seeking vengeance. Paris saw his cit y conquered, his family slain, and was himself stabbed to death as Troy burned.

Foolish boy, t hought Parm enion. He should have ignored beaut y and present ed it t o t he st rongest. How could Paris have believed t hat Love alone could save him? Pushing such t hought s from his m ind he st ayed by t he fount ain pool unt il dusk, concent rat ing on t he pr oblem set by Parzalamis.

Servant s brought him food and w ine w hich he left unt ouched on t he m arble bench w here he sat beneat h a flow ering t ree t hat offered shade from the setting sun. As the hours passed he was no nearer to a solution and this galled him.

Loosen y our m ind, he t old him self. Think back t o your days w it h Xenophon, and the advice the Athenian general offered so freely.

‘I f a problem cannot be t ackled by a front al assault,’ Xenophon had said, ‘then try a flank attack.’ Parmenion smiled at the memory.

Very w ell, he t hought. Let us exam ine all t hat w e know. The Persians w ish t o kill Alexander. They gave Mot hac t w o reasons. First ly t heir m agi believe him t o be possessed. Secondly, if At hens could be im plicat ed in t he child’s m urder, it w ould set Philip on t he r oad t o revenge. What facts do I possess, he asked himself?

The name of the assassin.

He sat upright. Why w ould Parzalam is have revealed t he nam e? Why not j ust t ell Mot hac t hat a servant had been bribed? I t w ould be safer t hat w ay. A m ist ake, per haps? No, Parzalam is w as t oo w ily t o fall vict im t o a loose t ongue. The answ er w as suddenly chillingly obvious - t hey w ere st ill t est ing Mot hac. Parzalam is did not need a hiding-place for t he At henians. What he needed w as t o know w het her his finest Macedonian spy could be t rust ed. Yet t o t ell him of t he assassinat ion at t em pt w as perilous indeed, for if new s cam e t o Philip he w ould certainly go to war with Persia.

Therefor e Parzalam is m ust have t aken st eps t o prev ent t he information reaching the Macedonian King.

I t w as as if sunlight had speared t hr ough t he clouds of Parm enion’s t roubled t hought s. Mot hac w ould have been m ust have been follow ed. Once t hey had seen him rushing t o Parm enion, t hey w ould know he had betrayed them.

The unar m ed Spar t an lurched t o his feet. Parzalam is w ould have only one opt ion now. Elim inat e t he danger. Kill Mot hac and t he m an t o whom he had confided the secret.

With a whispered curse he started to run back towards the house.

A figure leapt from t he shadow s, m oonlight gleam ing on an upraised knife-blade. Parm enion ducked and ham m ered his left fist int o t he m an’s face, hurling him off balance. A second at t acker grabbed him from behind, but Parm enion dropped t o one k nee, t aking hold of t he assassin’s arm and pit ching him int o his com rade. A t hir d m an ran at him w it h a short st abbing sw ord in his hand. Surging t o his feet Parm enion sw ayed left, t he blade slashing past his hip. His fist cannoned against t he assassin’s chin, st aggering him. The ot her m en had regained t heir feet and w ere adv ancing. Parm enion backed aw ay.

They cam e at him in a rush. Wit h a savage scream t he Spart an launched him self feet first int o t heir m idst, sm ashing one of t he at t ackers from his feet. The sw ord cut a shallow w ound in his t high, a knife sliced his scalp. Parm enion rolled t o his left. The sw ord-blade clanged against t he st one of t he pat h, sending up a show er of sparks.

Parm enion’s right leg sw ept out, k nocking t he sw ordsm an t o t he ground. The Spart an’s hand fell against a large st one, w hich he t hrew int o t he advancing knifem an’s face. Blood spurt ing from his crushed nose t he m an cried out, dropping his knife. Parm enion dived for it and rolled to his feet.

The sw ordsm an aim ed a w ild cut at his head. Parm enion ducked once m ore and t hen st epped inside, ram m ing t he knife int o t he m an’s belly and ripping it up t hrough t he lungs. As t he assassin scream ed and fell, his com rades t urned t o r un. Parm enion’s arm sw ept up, t he bloodcovered knife slicing t hrough t he air t o plunge int o one assassin’s back. The m an st um bled but ran on. Scooping up t he fallen sw ord, t he Spart an gave chase. The fleeing w arriors ran t o t he w est ern gat e, w here t heir m ount s w ere t et hered. The first m an vault ed t o his horse but his w ounded com rade, blood st ream ing dow n his back, could not sum m on t he st rengt h t o m ount. ‘Help m e, Danis! ‘ he begged. I gnoring him, his companion kicked his horse into a gallop.

Parm enion raced t hrough t he gat ew ay and hacked t he sw ord t hrough t he w ounded at t acker’s neck. Seizing t he reins of t he assassin’s horse, he swung himself to the beast’s back and set off after the third man.

The fleeing rider had a good st art, but he w as no horsem an and st eadily Parm enion gained. His m ount, a sw ay-backed dun gelding, w as not qualit y but he had st aying pow er and slow ly Parm enion closed t he dist ance. His erst w hile at t acker, a slim bear ded m an, cast a nerv ous glance over his shoulder as t he horses t hundered up t he hillside heading east. Suddenly t he assassin’s horse st um bled, pit ching his rider t o t he eart h. The m an hit hard, but pushed him self t o his feet and st art ed t o run. Parm enion galloped his horse alongside t he m an, t he flat of t he sw ord-blade rapping his skull and t oppling him t o t he ground.

Reining in t he gelding, Parm enion leapt dow n. His w ould-be killer backed away.

‘Speak swiftly,’ said the Spartan. ‘Your life depends on it.’

The m an’s face hardened. I ‘ll t ell you not hing, you Spart an scum - bucket.’

‘Unwise,’ said Parmenion, plunging the sword into the man’s belly. The w arrior died w it hout a sound, t oppling face-first t o t he grass.

Parm enion rem ount ed and galloped t he gelding dow n past t he paddocks and stables, leaping to the ground outside Mothac’s house.

The Theban w alked out t o greet him. His face w as ashen and a dagger j ut t ed from his shoulder. ‘I t hink y ou should forget about keeping contact with Parzalamis,’ Mothac grunted.

Parm enion w alked int o t he house w here t he Persian w as lying on t he floor, his head twisted at an impossible angle.

‘He w as w ait ing for m e,’ said Mot hac, ‘but I don’t t hink he ex pect ed an old m an t o be so st rong. And like so m any of his ilk he w ant ed t o t alk before he fought, t o m ake m e feel fear, t o force m e t o beg, perhaps.

He knew of m y m eet ing w it h you; he called m e a t rait or. I t hink he was truly offended by my duplicity.’

‘We must get that knife out,’ Parmenion said.

‘No time, my friend. Before we fought he taunted me with the fact that t he assassinat ion of Alexander is set for t onight. Take Bessus - he’s the fastest we have.’

Parm enion ran t o t he st able. But even as t he st allion galloped clear of the buildings, the Spartan felt an icy terror.

There was no way he could reach the capital in time

Pella, Macedonia, Autumn Alexander ‘s dream s w ere t roubled. He saw a dark m ount ainside and a stone altar around which black-robed priests were chanting, calling out a name, summoning

‘Iskander! Iskander!’

The voices w ere sibilant, like st orm w inds t hrough w int er branches, and he felt a terrible pull on his chest. Fear swept through him.

‘They are calling m e,’ he realized, and his dream eyes fixed on t he sharp knives they carried and the blood channels carved into the altar.

A figure m oved forw ard, t he m oonlight shining on his face. Alexander alm ost scream ed t hen, for t he m an w as his fat her, Philip, dressed for war in a cuirass the boy had never seen.

‘Well?’ asked the King. ‘Where is the child?’

‘He will come, sire,’ answered the chief priest. ‘I promise you.’

The King t urned and Alexander saw t hat his blind eye w as no longer like an opal. Now it shone pure gold and seem ed t o burn w it h a yellow fire.

‘I see him.! ‘ yelled t he King, point ing direct ly at Alexander. ‘But he is so faint!’

‘Come to us, Iskander!’ the priests chanted.

The pull grew stronger.

‘No!’ screamed the child.

And w ok e in his bed, his body t rem bling, sw eat covering his t iny frame.

*

Lolon crept int o t he royal gar dens, keeping t o t he shadow s of t he trees, ever watchful for the sentries. His hand strayed to the dagger at his side, taking comfort from the cold hilt. The child was possessed, he rem inded him self. I t w as not like killing a real child. Not as t he Macedonians had done to his own two sons back at Methone, when the t roops poured t hrough t he breached w all, killing all w ho st ood in t heir w ay. The m ercenaries guar ding t he w alls had been t he first t o die, alongside t he cit y m ilit ia. But t hen it w as t he cit izens - cut dow n as they fled, the women raped, the children butchered.

The survivors had been herded t oget her in t he m ain square. Lolon had t ried t o prot ect his w ife, Casa, and his sons. But w hat could he do against arm ed m en? They dragged Casa and t he ot her w om en aw ay, killing the children and making a mound of their tiny bodies. Then they m arched t he m en nort h, t he w om en east, w here t he ships w ait ed t o take them to the slave markets of Asia.

The cit y had been dest royed, razed ut t erly, every surv iving m an and woman sold into slavery.

Lolon felt t he w eight of his heart ache and sank t o t he soft ground, t ears w elling in his eyes. He had never been rich. A m aker of sandals, he ek ed out a living, oft en going hungry him self so t hat Casa and t he children could eat. But t he Macedonians had com e w it h t heir siegeengines, their long spears and their stabbing swords.

There w as no place in t he t yrant ‘s heart for an independent cit y w it hin Macedonia. Oh, no! Bend the knee or die.

I wish they’d given me the chance to bend the knee, thought Lolon.

But now - t hanks t o t he At henians - he had a chance t o repay t he t yrant in blood. A sim ple t hrust w it h t he knife and t he Dem on Prince would die. Then Philip would know the anguish of loss.

Lolon’s mouth was dry and the cool night breeze made him shiver.

He had been m arched first t o Pelagonia in t he nort h-w est, w here t he new slaves w ere put t o w ork building a line of fort resses along t he bor ders of I llyria. For a year Lolon had t oiled in t he st one quar ries. He had spent his evenings m aking sandals for ot her slaves before his handiw ork w as observed by a Macedonian officer. Aft er t hat he w as rem oved from t he w ork-force and given a bet t er billet, w it h w arm blankets and good food. And he made sandals, boots and shoes for the soldiers.

I n Met hone his w ork had been considered fair, but am ong t he bar baric Macedonians he w as an art ist. I n t rut h his t alent did sw ell, and he w as sold on at great profit - t o t he household of At t alus, t he King’s Champion.

I t w as t hen t hat t he At henians had com e t o him. He had been w alking in t he m arket - place, ordering leat her and hide, and had st opped for a cool drink.

‘Surely I know y ou, friend,’ cam e a voice, and Lolon t urned. The speaker w as a short, st out m an, bald and beardless. Lolon did not rem em ber him, but glanced dow n at t he m an’s sandals. These he knew; he had m ade t hem t w o year s before - a m ont h befor e t he Macedonians came.

‘Yes, I remember you,’ he answered dully.

As t he w eeks passed he saw t he m an, Gorinus, m ore oft en, at first talking of bet t er days, and t hen - t he floodgat es of his bit t erness giving w ay - speaking of his hat red. Gorinus had been a good list ener, becoming a friend.

One m orning, as t hey m et in t he m arket - place, Gorinus int roduced a second m an and t hey t ook Lolon t o a sm all house behind t he agora.

Here t he plot w as hat ched: kill t he dem on child, said Gorinus, and then come with us to Athens.

At first he had r efused, but t hey fed his bit t erness, rem inding him of how t he Macedonians had killed t he children of Met hone, t aking t he youngest by their ankles and dashing their brains to the walls.

‘Yes! Yes!’ cried Lolon. ‘I will have my revenge!’

Now he cow ered beneat h t he t rees, st aring up at Alexander ‘s w indow.

Easing him self from t he shadow s, he ran t o t he w all, his heart beat ing w ildly. Slipping t hrough a side door int o t he corridor beyond he m oved carefully in t he darkness, clim bing t he st airs, st opping every few st eps t o list en for t he sent ries. There w as no guard on Alexander’s door, t he Athenians had assured him, but two warriors were stationed at the end of the corridor.

Reaching t he t op of t he st airs, he glanced out. The soldiers w ere st anding som e t w ent y paces aw ay, t alking in hushed voices, t heir w hispers carrying t o t he w ait ing assassin. They w ere discussing a com ing horserace. Neit her w as looking in Lolon’s direct ion. Sw ift ly he crossed t he corridor, pushing his back against t he door t o Alexander’s room.

Slowly he drew the dagger.

*

Alexander sw ung his legs from t he bed and j um ped t o t he floor, t he dream st ill st rong in his m ind, his golden hair lank w it h sw eat.

Moonlight st ream ed t hrough t he open w indow of his room, bat hing t he ceiling with a pale, white light.

He could still hear the voices, like whispering echoes in his mind.

‘Iskander! Iskander! Come to us!’

‘No,’ he w hispered, sit t ing dow n at t he cent re of a goat skin rug and pressing his hands t o his ears. ‘No, I w on’t! You are dream s. You are not real!’

The rug w as w arm and he lay dow n upon it, st aring up at t he m oonlit ceiling.

Som et hing w as w rong in t he room. He gazed around, t he dream forgot t en, but could see not hing am iss. His t oy soldiers w ere st ill scat t ered about t he floor, w it h his sm all siegeengines. His books and draw ings w ere on t he t iny t able. Alexander st ood and w alked t o t he w indow, clim bing up on t he bench seat below it so t hat he could look out int o t he gar dens. Leaning out on t he sill he gazed dow n at t he moon.

The gardens had disappear ed and st ars shone all around t he palace, abov e and below, t o left and right. I n t he dist ance t here w ere no m ount ains, no plains or hills, no valleys and w oods. Only t he dark of an all-consuming sky.

The boy ‘s fear w as forgot t en, lost as he w as in t he w onder of t his m iracle. He did not oft en w ake in t he night. Perhaps it w as alw ays t his w ay, but no one had bot hered t o t ell him. The m oon w as an incredible sight, no longer a silver disc but a scarred and pit t ed shield t hat had seen m any bat t les. Alexander could see t he m arks of arrow s and stones upon the surface, the dents and cuts.

And t he st ars w ere different also, perfect ly round, like a slinger’s st ones, glow ing, pulsing. I n t he dist ance he saw a m ovem ent, a flashing light, a dragon w it h a t ail of fire t hen it w as gone. Behind him t he door opened, but he w as aw are of not hing but t he beaut y of this colossal night.

*

Lolon saw t he boy at t he w indow. Soft ly closing t he door, he swallowed hard and advanced across the room. His foot came down on a w ooden soldier, w hich broke w it h a loud crack. The prince glanced round.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘isn’t it wonderful? The stars are everywhere.’

Lolon drew his dagger, but the boy had turned back to the window and was leaning out over the void.

One thrust and it would be over. Lolon tensed, aiming the dagger point at the small back. He was no older than Lolon’s youngest

Don’t t hink t hat w ay, he caut ioned him self. Think of rev enge! Think of the pain you will cause the tyrant!

Suddenly Alexander cried out and fell forw ard, losing his grip on t he sill. Wit hout t hinking Lolon’s hand snaked out, grabbing t he prince by t he leg and hauling him back. A t errible, soul-searing pain sw ept t hrough t he slave and he st aggered, clut ching his chest. The agony coalesced int o a burning ball in his heart and he sank t o his knees, gasping for air.

I ‘m sorry! I ‘m sorr y! I ‘m sorry! ‘ w ailed Alexander, t he st ars forgot t en.

Lolon began t o t rem ble, t hen pit ched face-first t o t he floor. I ‘ll get help,’ shout ed t he prince, running t o t he door and pulling it open. But t here w as no corridor, no st one w alls, no fam iliar hangings. The door opened on t o t he vault of t he night, huge, dark and irresist ible. The boy t eet ered on t he edge of t he abyss, his balance failing him. Wit h a last despairing cry he fell tumbling among the stars.

The voices cam e roaring back t o him as he hurt led t hrough t he sky, and he heard a shout of t rium ph from t he priest: ‘He is com ing! The Golden Child is coming! ‘

Alexander scream ed and saw again t he face of t he m an w ho looked like his fat her - a m alevolent grin on his bearded face, his golden eye gleaming like a ball of fire.

The Temple, Asia Minor The m an’s heart w as w eak, t he valves hard and inelast ic. His lungs w ere huge now, dist ort ing his rib-cage, and he could m ove only a few paces before ex haust ion forced him t o rest. Derae sat beside his bed, her hand resting on his chest, and gazed down into his tired eyes.

‘I can do not hing for y ou,’ she said sadly, w at ching t he light of hope fade from his eyes.

‘Just give me a few more days,’ he begged, his voice weak.

‘Not even that,’ she told him, taking his hand.

Beside t he bed his w ife began t o w eep. ‘So soon t hen?’ he whispered.

Derae nodded and his head sagged back to the pillow.

‘Please help him! ‘ begged t he w ailing w om an, t hrow ing herself t o her knees before the Healer.

The m an on t he bed t ensed suddenly, his face dark ening. His m out h opened but no w ords cam e fort h, only a long, br oken sigh. ‘No! ‘ screamed the woman. ‘No!’

Derae eased herself to her feet and walked slowly from the altar room, waving away the servants who moved to assist her. The corridors were cold and she shivered as she made her way to her room.

A man stepped into her path. ‘They have taken him,’ said Aristotle.

Derae closed her eyes. ‘I am t ired. I can be of lit t le use t o you. Go aw ay.’ Pushing past him, she forced her w eary body on. Behind her Arist ot le dipped his hand int o t he pouch at his side, lift ing clear a golden stone.

Derae w alked on, her m ind locked t o t he m erchant w hose deat h she could not prevent. She t ook a deep breat h. The air felt good in her lungs, refreshing, invigorat ing. How st range, she t hought, as her w eariness evaporat ed. She felt bet t er t han she had in years and rem em bered how cool it w as in t he sea, how good t o run dow n t o t he beach and wade out into the crystal-clear waters, feeling the sun warm on her back.

Suddenly she laughed. I t w as t oo long since she had last left t he temple to walk the cliff path. And she was hungry. Ravenous!

Pushing open t he door t o her room, she w andered t o t he w indow. How clear t he air, she t hought as she st ared out ov er t he sea. Whit e gulls circled t he cliffs and she could see each bird as it w heeled and div ed.

Even t he clouds w ere sharply denned. Then she realized she w as not using her spirit eyes. Her blindness had gone. Glancing dow n, she looked at her hands. The skin w as sm oot h and unlined. Anger flared in her and she sw ung t o face t he magus w ho st ood, silent ly, in t he doorway.

‘How dare you!’ she thundered. ‘How dare you do this to me!’

‘I need y ou,’ he r esponded, m oving int o t he r oom and pushing shut t he door behind him. ‘And w hat is so t errible about yout h, Der ae?

What is it you fear?’

‘I fear not hing! ‘ she st orm ed, ‘unless it be t he suffering I cannot heal.

Did you see t he m an t hey carried in? He w as a prince; he w as kind, caring. But his heart had rot t ed w it hin him, m oving far beyond m y capacity to heal. That is what I fear - living long enough to see another thousand like him. You think I want to be young again? Why? For what purpose? Ever yt hing I ever desired has been denied m e. Why should I want to live any longer?’

Aristotle moved further into the room, his face reflecting his sorrow.

‘I f you w ish t hen I w ill ret urn your body t o it s form er glory? But first will you help me? Will you aid Parmenion?’

Derae m oved t o t he m irror and st ared at her yout hful reflect ion. A deep sigh came from her and she nodded. ‘I will go. But first you must change my face. He must not know me - you understand?’

‘It will be as you say,’ he promised.

*

‘I think it was rash to execute the sentries,’ said Parmenion, struggling to hold his temper.

‘And w hat w ould you have done, Spart an?’ sneered At t alus. ‘Prom ot ed them, perhaps?’

Parm enion sw ung aw ay from t he m an, focusing on t he King w ho sat hunched on the throne, his face grey from exhaustion, his eyes dull. In t he t w o days since t he disappearance of t he prince, Philip had not slept. The 3,000 Guards had scoured t he cit y, searching every house, at t ic and cellar. Riders had sw ept out int o t he count r y side, seeking news of anyone travelling with a child or children.

But there was no sign of Alexander.

‘Sire,’ said Parmenion.

The King looked up. ‘What is it?’

‘The sentries who were executed. Did they say anything?’

Philip shrugged. ‘They t old us nonsense, an incredible fabricat ion. I don’t even rem em ber it all. Som et hing about st ars Tell him, Attalus.’

‘To w hat point, sire? I t w ill bring us no closer t o recovering t he prince.

He is being held somewhere for ransom; someone will contact us.’

‘Tell him anyway,’ said Philip.

‘They said t hat t he corridor disappeared and a great w ind sw ept t hem from t heir feet. All t hey could see w ere st ars, and t hey hear d t he prince cry out as if from a great distance. They both swore to it; it was lunatic.’

‘Perhaps so, At t alus,’ said Parm enion soft ly, ‘but if your life w as at stake would you invent such a ridiculous tale?’

‘Of course not. You t hink t hey w ere t elling t he t rut h?’ At t alus chuckled and shook his head.

‘I have no idea w hat t he t r ut h is yet. But t he guards at t he gat e say no one passed t hem. The sent ries on t he w alls out side report ed no scream s or shout s. Yet t he prince is gone. Have you ident ified t he corpse?’

‘No,’ answered Attalus. ‘He had rotted almost to nothing.’

‘Have you checked the household slaves to see who might be missing?’

‘What makes you think he was a slave?’ asked Philip.

‘All t hat w as left w as his t unic. I t w as poor clot h - even a servant would have worn better.’

‘That is a good point,’ said t he King. ‘See t o it, At t alus. Now! ‘ he added, as t he w arrior m ade t o speak. At t alus, his face reddening, bowed and left the throne-room.

‘We must find him,’ Philip told Parmenion. ‘We must.’

‘We w ill, sire. I do not believe him dead. I f t hat w as t he purpose, his body would have been found by now.’

Philip glanced up, his single green ey e gleam ing w it h a savage light.

‘When I find t hose responsible t hey w ill suffer as no one has ever suffered before. I w ill see t hem die - and t heir fam ilies, and t heir cit y.

Men will talk of it for a thousand years. I swear it.’

‘Let us first find him,’ said Parmenion.

The King did not seem t o hear him. Rubbing at his blind eye he rose from t he t hrone w it h fist s clenched, k nuckles ivory-w hit e. ‘How could t his happen?’ he hissed. ‘To m e? To Philip?’ Parm enion kept silent, hoping the murderous rage would pass. In this mood Philip was always unpredict able. The Spart an had not t old him of t he Persian, Parzalam is, and had sw orn Mot hac t o secrecy. No m at t er w hat Philip believed, Parm enion knew t he Macedonians w ere not yet ready for a w ar against t he Persian em pire. Parzalam is’ body had been secret ly buried on the estate, and while the slaying of the three assassins could not be kept from t he King, no one knew w here t hey cam e from nor who had sent them.

The w ound on Parm enion’s t high it ched as he st ood silent ly w at ching t he King, and he idly scrat ched at it t hrough t he linen bandage. Philip saw the movement - and smiled.

‘You did w ell, Spart an,’ he said, t he t ension seeping from him. ‘To kill t hree w as no m ean feat. How m any t im es have I urged you t o have guards at your estate?’

‘Many times, sire, and I shall listen to your advice from now on.’

Philip sank back t o t he t hrone. ‘I t hank t he gods Olym pias is not here.

And I hope t o Zeus t hat w e find him before new s reaches Epirus. She will return like an avenging Harpy, threatening to rip my heart out with her bare hands.’

‘We w ill find him,’ prom ised Parm enion, forcing a confidence int o his voice that he did not feel.

‘I should not have killed t he sent ries,’ said Philip. ‘I t w as foolish. You think there may be sorcery in this?’

There is t oo m uch w e do not know,’ Parm enion answ ered. ‘Who w as t he m an in t he room? Why did he carry a dagger? Was his m ission t o kill? If it was, was he alone? As to the sentries what did they mean about the stars? There is little sense in this, Philip. If the boy had been killed w e w ould have found t he body. Yet, w hy w ould he be t aken?

Ransom? Who w ould live t o spend such w ealt h? Let us, for ar gum ent ‘s sake, assume that the Olynthians were responsible. They are not fools.

They know Macedonia’s arm y w ould descend on t hem w it h fire and sword; the lands of the Chalcidice would run with blood.’

‘At hens,’ m ut t ered Philip. ‘They w ould do anyt hing t o cause m e pain.

At hens’ Parm enion saw again t he gleam in t he eye, and spok e swiftly.

‘I do not t hink so,’ he said soft ly. ‘Dem ost henes m akes great play about your tyranny and y our supposed evils. His honey ed w ords seduce m any of t he lesser cit ies. How w ould he appear if nam ed as a child killer? No. I f At hens sent assassins t heir vict im w ould be you, not Alexander. What did the priestess say when you saw her? Pah! ‘ snort ed t he King. ‘She is an old fool. She w alked ar ound t he boy ‘s room pret ending t o t alk t o t he spirit s. But, at t he end, she could tell me nothing.’

‘But what did she say?’

‘She t old m e t he boy’s spirit w as not in Macedonia. Nor in Hades. Now you t ell m e how t hat could be t rue. He had not been gone m ore t han half a day. Even if he was carried away by an eagle he would still have been in Macedonia w hen she spoke. Senile old hag! But I t ell you t his, she was frightened. She trembled when she entered his room.’

‘You should rest,’ Parm enion advised him. ‘Go t o bed. Send for one of your wives.’

‘That ‘s t he last t hing I need, m y friend. They ar e hard-pressed t o keep t he glee from t heir eyes. My son and heir is m issing-m aybe dead. All t hey can t hink of is opening t heir legs and supplying m e w it h anot her.

No. I shall not rest until the truth is known.’

Attalus ent ered t he t hrone-room and bow ed. ‘There is a slave m issing, sire,’ he said, his face ashen. ‘His name is Lolon; he is a sandal-maker, a Methonian.’

‘What do w e know of him?’ asked Par m enion, keeping his expression even.

‘I bought him from t he com m ander of Pelagonia som e m ont hs ago. He w as a good w orker. The ot her slaves say he w as a quiet m an, keeping to himself. I know no more.’

‘What w as he doing in m y son’s room?’ t hundered Philip. ‘He m ust have had a reason.’

‘He t old Melissa - one of m y slave-girls - t hat he had a fam ily in Met hone. His children w ere slaught ered, his w ife t aken from him.’

At t alus cleared his t hroat and sw allow ed hard. ‘I t hink he w ant ed revenge.’

Philip surged from the throne. ‘He must have had accomplices - or else w here is t he boy? How m any ot her Met honians have you brought int o the palace?’

‘There ar e none, sire. And I did not k now he w as Met honian, I sw ear it!’

‘At t alus is not at fault, sire,’ said Parm enion. ‘We have st orm ed m any cit ies and flooded t he land w it h slaves. That is w hy t he price per m an is only fort y drachm s against t w o hundred t hree years ago. Alm ost every slave in Pella would have reason to hate you.’

‘I care not hing for t heir hat e! ‘ snapped Philip. ‘But you are right, Parmenion, At t alus is blam eless.’ Turning t o his Cham pion, he pat t ed the man’s shoulder. ‘Forgive my anger, my friend.’

‘There is nothing to forgive, sire,’ answered Attalus, bowing.

Lat er, as Parm enion sat alone in one of t he fort y palace guest - rooms, Attalus cam e t o him. ‘Why did you speak for m e?’ he dem anded. ‘I am no friend to you - nor desire to be.’

Parm enion gazed int o t he m an’s cold eyes, seeing t he t ension t here and in t he t ight lines of his hat chet face, t he grim gash of his alm ost lipless m out h. ‘I t is not a quest ion of friendship, At t alus,’ he said, ‘m erely of t rut h. Now I do not enj oy your com pany and, if you have nothing else to say, be so kind as to leave me in peace.’

But t he m an did not leave. Walking furt her int o t he room, he sat in a high-backed chair and pour ed a goblet of w at ered w ine, sipping it slow ly. ‘This is good,’ he said. ‘Do you t hink t he st ory about t he st ars is important?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted the Spartan, ‘but I intend to find out.’

‘And how will you accomplish this?’

‘When first I cam e t o Macedonia I m et a magus - a m an of great pow er. I w ill seek him out. I f t here is sorcery involved, he w ill know of it-and its source.’

‘And where will you find this man of magic?’

‘Sitting upon a rock,’ the Spartan answered.

The Empire of Makedon Alexander opened his eyes and shivered, feeling cold m ud beneat h his rain-soaked body. He had fallen, scream ing and lost, t hrough t he st arfilled sky, losing consciousness as bright light s and m yriad colour s blazed across his eyes. Now t here w ere no colours, only a bonenumbing coldness and the dark of a mountain night.

He w as about t o m ove w hen he heard t he voices and inst inct ively he crouched dow n, st aring at t he shadow - haunt ed t ree-line from w here the voices came.

‘I sw ear t o you, sire, t he child is here. The Spell t ook him and dr ew him to this hillside. I did warn you that it might not be precisely to this spot. But he must be within a hundred paces in any direction.’

‘Find him - or I’ll feed your heart to the Vores.’

Alexander shivered again - t hough t his t im e not from t he cold. The second voice was like his father’s, though deeper and more chilling. He could not yet see t he speak ers but he knew t hey w ere com ing closer.

There w er e bushes near by and t he child crept int o t hem, hunching his naked body down.

The glit t ering light of m any t orches flickered in t he t rees and Alexander saw t he m an w it h t he golden eye w alk out on t o t he mountainside, the darkrobed priest alongside him. Behind him came a score of w arriors holding t orches aloft, scanning t he undergr ow t h, searching, pushing aside the bracken with long lances.

The leaf-covered soil w as dam p and soft beneat h t he boy and he dug his fingers deep into it, rolling silently to his back and pulling earth and rot t ed veget at ion over his legs and chest. He could feel sm all insect s scurrying in panic over his skin, and a soft w orm slid over his left calf.

I gnoring t he discom fort, he sm eared m ud on his face and hair and waited, heart beating wildly, for the searchers.

‘One thousand drachms to the man who finds him!’ called the King.

‘Aya!’ roared the men, raising their torches in salute.

From w here he lay, Alexander could see t he legs and feet of t he searchers as t hey neared him. They w ere barefoot, but t heir calves w ere prot ect ed by greaves of bronze, show ing int ricat e designs. But each one t hat he saw had a cent ral m ot if, a st ylized sunburst. This surprised t he child, for t he sunburst w as t he sym bol of Macedonia and yet t he arm our t he m en w ore w as neit her Macedonian nor Phrygian - t he breast plat es m ore elaborat e, t he helm s bearing raven’s w ings, rather than the horsehair plumes sported by his father’s soldiers.

Even through his fear, Alexander was puzzled. These soldiers were like none he had ever seen, in life or in paintings or murals.

An enorm ous clap of t hunder sounded, light ning forking across t he sky.

A lance-point sliced through the bush above him, the branches parting.

Then the lance pulled clear and the man moved on.

Alexander st ayed w here he w as unt il all sounds ar ound him faded aw ay. At last, as t he rain st opped, he m oved his frozen body, craw ling from the shelter of the bush and standing on the mountainside.

Glancing up, he gazed at t he st ars in t he now clear sky - realizing w it h a sharp st ab of fear t hat he knew t hem not at all. Where w as t he Bow m an, and t he Great Wolf, t he Spear Carrier and t he Eart h Mot her?

Seeking out t he Nort h St ar he scanned t he heavens. Not hing w as remotely familiar.

The searchers had m oved dow n t he m ount ain behind him and t he boy decided to walk in the opposite direction.

The trees were shrouded in darkness, but Alexander swallowed his fear and m oved on, deeper int o t he w ood. Aft er a lit t le w hile he saw t he altar of his dream, gaunt and stark in a small clearing, broken columns of stone around it. It was here that they had tried to summon him.

The clearing w as desert ed, but under a spreading oak a sm all fire st ill sm ouldered. Alexander ran t o it, kneeling dow n and blow ing flam es t o life. He searched for dry w ood, but t here w as none and he sat by t he dying blaze, holding his trembling hands to the fading heat.

‘Where is t his place?’ he w hispered. ‘How can I get hom e?’ Tears welled and he felt the beginning of panic. ‘I will not cry,’ he said. ‘I am the son of a King.’

Gat hering w et t w igs, he laid t hem in t he hot ashes at t he edge of t he fire t o dry, t hen r ose and began t o scout t he area. He needed fuel for the fire; w it hout it he could die in t his cold. The alt ar yielded not hing and he w alked furt her int o t he w ood. Here t he dar kness w as deeper, t he t ree branches int erlaced like a gr eat dom ed r oof. But t he gr ound w as dryer underfoot, and Alexander found several broken branches which he gathered in his arms before returning to the fire.

Pat ient ly he w orked at t he sm all blaze, careful not t o sm ot her it, feeding sm all t w igs t o t he dancing fingers of flam e unt il at last his trembling body began to feel the growing heat.

Three t im es he ret urned t o t he heart of t he w ood, gat hering fuel, building up a st ore w hich he hoped w ould last t he night. On his fourt h j ourney he t hought he heard a sound in t he darkness and paused. At first t here w as silence, t hen cam e a st ealt hy padding t hat filled him w it h t error. Dropping t he w ood he ran for his fire, sprint ing across t he clearing and crouching beside t he blaze, seizing a burning branch and hoisting it above his head.

From t he w oods cam e a hunt ing pack of grey w olves, padding out to circle him - yellow eyes gleam ing, fangs bared. They w ere huge beast s, t aller even t han t he w ar-hounds of his fat her, and he had no weapon save the burning branch.

He could feel t heir hunger beat ing upon his m ind, com ing at him in w aves. They feared t he fire, but t heir em pt y bellies w ere fuelling t heir courage.

Alexander st ood very st ill and closed his eyes, reaching out w it h his Talent, sliding t hrough t he haze of hunger and fury, seeking t he pack leader, touching his soul fire and merging with his memories. The child saw a birt h in a dar k cave, t um bling t ussles w it h brot her s and sist ers, m ore bit t er fight s and bat t les as he grew - scars and pain, long hunt s, victories.

At last t he boy opened his eyes. ‘You and I are one,’ he t old t he great, grey w olf. The beast cocked it s head and advanced on him. Alexander ret ur ned t he branch t o t he fire and w ait ed w hile t he w olf cam e closer, his j aw s level w it h t he boy ‘s face. Reaching out slow ly, Alexander stroked the grizzled head and the matted fur of its neck.

Puzzled, the other wolves moved uneasily around the clearing.

The boy let his m ind w ander furt her, scouring t he m ount ainside and t he w oods beyond unt il at last he felt t he beat ing of anot her hear t - a doe sleeping. Alexander shared t he im age w it h t he w olf-leader and pointed to the south.

The w olf padded silent ly aw ay, t he pack follow ing. Alexander sank t o his knees by the fire - tired, frightened, yet exultant.

‘I am the son of a King,’ he said aloud, ‘and I conquered my fear.’

‘A fine job you made of it,’ said a voice from behind him. Alexander did not m ove. ‘Do not fear m e, lad,’ said t he m an, m oving out int o t he boy ‘s range of vision and squat t ing by t he fire. ‘I am not your enem y.’

The new com er w as not t all, his hair short - cropped and grey, his bear d tightly curled. He w as w earing a kilt of leat her and a bow w as slung across his broad shoulders. A horse m oved out int o t he clearing; it w ore no chabraque or bridle but cam e close t o t he m an, nuzzling his back. ‘Be at ease, Caym al,’ he w hispered, st rok ing t he st allion’s nose.

‘The w olves are gone. The y oung prince dism issed t hem in search of a doe.’

‘Why did I not sense your presence?’ asked Alexander. ‘And w hy did the wolves not pick up your scent?’

‘The two answers are one: I did not wish to be found.’

‘You are a magus, then?’

‘I am m any t hings,’ t he m an t old him. ‘But despit e all m y virt ues I have one irrit at ing vice: I am by nat ure curious, and I find t his current situation irresistibly intriguing. How old are you, boy?’

‘Four.’

The man nodded. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘I am,’ admitted Alexander. ‘But I see you have no food.’

The new com er laughed and dipped his hand int o a leat her pouch by his side. The pouch w as sm all, yet - impossibly - t he m an drew from it a woollen tunic which he tossed to the boy. ‘What we see is not always t he com plet e t rut h,’ he said. ‘Put on t he t unic.’ Alexander st ood, lift ing t he garm ent over his head and set t ling it int o place. I t w as a perfect fit, t he m at erial soft and w arm, edged w it h leat her. When he sat dow n again the man was turning an iron spit over the flames, on which meat was sizzling.

‘I am Chiron,’ said the man. ‘Welcome to my woods.’

‘I am Alexander,’ r esponded t he boy, t he sm ell of t he roast ing m eat filling his senses.

‘And the son of a King. Which King would that be, Alexander?’

‘My father is Philip, King of Macedonia.’

‘Wonderful!’ said Chiron. ‘And how did you come here?’

The prince told him of the dream and the night of stars followed by the long fall int o dark ness. Chiron sat silent ly as t he boy t alked, t hen questioned him about Macedonia and Pella.

‘But surely you k now of m y fat her,’ said Alexander, surprised. ‘He is the greatest King in all of Greece.’

‘Greece? How int erest ing. Let us eat.’ Chiron lift ed t he m eat from t he spit, pulling it apar t and handing a sect ion t o t he boy. Alexander t ook it gingerly, expecting the hot fat to burn his fingers. But although wellcooked the food was only warm, and he devoured it swiftly.

‘Will you take me to my father?’ he asked when the meal was finished.

‘He will reward you well.’

‘I am afraid, my boy, that what you ask is beyond even my powers.’

‘Why? You have a horse. I cannot be far from home.’

‘You could not be furt her. This is not Greece, but a land called Achaea.

And here t he great pow er is Philippos, Lord of t he Makedones _ t he Dem on King. I t w as he w ho st ood upon t his hillside, his priest s calling you from your hom e. I t is he w ho hunt s you even now. And, t hough m y pow er t em porarily blocked t he m agic of his golden eye, no, Alexander, I cannot take you home.’

‘I am lost then?’ whispered the boy. ‘I will never see my father again?’

‘Let us not leap t o conclusions,’ advised Chiron, but his grey eyes avoided Alexander’s gaze.

‘Why would this Philippos want me?’

‘I am not sure,’ replied Chiron.

Alexander looked at him shar ply. ‘I t hink you ar e not t elling m e t he truth.’

‘You are quit e right, young prince. And let us leave it t hat w ay for t he moment. We will sleep now, and tomorrow I will take you to my home.

There we can think and plan.’

The child looked int o t he grey eyes of t he m an, not k now ing w het her to trust him nor how to arrive at a decision concerning him. Chiron had fed him and clot hed him, offering him no harm, but t his in it self gave no indicat ion of his longer-t erm plans. The fire w as w arm and Alexander lay down beside it to think

And slept.

He w as aw oken by t he m an’s hand on his shoulder, gent ly shaking him, and it w as som e m om ent s before he r ealized t hat t he k illing power he had come to dread had not touched the grey-haired magus.

‘We must leave - and swiftly,’ said Chiron. ‘The Makedones are back!’

‘How do you know?’ asked Alexander sleepily.

‘Caym al kept w at ch for us,’ t he magus answ ered. ‘Now list en t o m e, t his is m ost im port ant. You are about t o m eet anot her friend. He w ill surprise you, but you w ill t rust him. You m ust. Tell him t hat Chiron w ant s him t o go hom e. Tell him t he Makedones are upon us and he must run - not fight. You understand?’

‘Where are you going?’ asked the boy fearfully.

‘Nowhere,’ answered Chiron, handing his bow and quiver to the prince.

‘Wat ch and learn.’ Rising sw ift ly, he r an t o t he st allion and t ur ned t o face t he boy. The st allion’s great head rest ed on t he m an’s shoulder, and t he t w o st ood as st ill as st at ues. Alexander blinked, and it seem ed t hat a heat - haze danced ov er m an and horse. Chiron’s chest sw elled, his head t hickening, beard dark ening. Great bands of m uscle w rit hed over his chest, w hile his legs st ret ched and t w ist ed, his feet shrivelling into hooves.

Alexander sat t ransfixed as horse and magus becam e one. Gone w as t he st allion’s head. Now t he t orso of a m an reared up from t he shoulders of t he st allion. The cent aur st am ped his front hoof and reared, then, seeing the boy, trotted forward.

‘Who are you?’ boom ed a voice deep as dist ant t hunder. Alexander st ood looking int o t he dist ort ed face. Not hing of Chiron rem ained. The eyes w ere w ide-set and brow n, t he m out h full, t he beard chest nut - coloured and straight.

‘I am Alexander - and I have a message from Chiron,’ he said.

‘You are very small. And I am hungry.’

‘Chiron told me to warn you that the Makedones are near.’

Leaning back his head t he cent aur gave a great cry, a m ixt ure of rage and anger. He saw the bow in the boy’s hand and reached out.

‘Give to me. I will kill Makedones.’

‘Chiron also said that you are to go home. He needs you. You must not fight the Makedones.’

The cent aur m oved closer, dipping his t orso unt il he looked over t he prince. ‘You are friend to Chiron?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I will not kill you. Now give me the bow, and I will go home.’

‘Chiron said for you t o t ake m e w it h you,’ lied t he boy sw ift ly, handing him the bow and quiver.

The centaur nodded. ‘You may ride me, Human, but if you fall Camiron shall not stop for you.’

Reaching out, he sw ung Alexander t o his back and cant ered from t he clearing. The boy slipped and alm ost fell. ‘Hold t o m y m ane,’ called Cam iron. Alexander looked up. Long hair grew from t he cent aur ‘s spine and he t ook hold of it w it h bot h hands. The cent aur broke int o a run, and t hen a gallop, com ing clear of t he t ree-line and t hunder ing into the open.

Direct ly ahead of t hem w ere som e fift y cavalrym en. Cam iron dug in his front hooves, skidding t o a st op t hat alm ost dislodged t he prince.

The rider s saw t hem and fanned out in a w ide circle t o t rap t hem.

Camiron notched an arrow to his bow. ‘I kill Makedones,’ he said.

‘No!’ shouted Alexander. ‘Home. Go home. Chiron needs you!’

The cent aur grunt ed and leapt t o t he gallop. An arrow sliced t he air by his head. At full run Cam iron loosed his ow n shaft; it ham m ered int o a warrior’s chest, t oppling him from his m ount. More arrow s flew at t hem and one slashed t hrough t he m uscles of Cam iron’s hip. He shouted in pain and rage, but continued to run.

They w ere alm ost encircled now and Alexander felt a gr ow ing sense of despair. Just as it seem ed t hey w ould be r un dow n t he cent aur swerved and cut to the right, loosing an arrow into a second rider. The m an fell, and for a brief m om ent a gap appeared in t he Makedones’ line. Sw ift as a st orm w ind Cam iron leapt t hrough it, his hooves thundering on t he plain as he sw ept clear of t he riders, w ho st ream ed after them.

The cent aur increased his speed, his laught er carrying back t o t he warriors who screamed curses after him.

‘I fool them!’ shouted Camiron. ‘The greatest am I.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Alexander, clinging t o t he m ane. ‘You are great. How far is home?’

‘Long w ay for you t o w alk,’ said t he cent aur. ‘Not far for Cam iron t o run. Are you truly friend to Chiron?’

‘Yes, I told you.’

‘I t bet t er be t r ut h,’ t he cent aur t old him. ‘I f Chiron is not t here - I will kill you, Human, and dine on your marrow.’

The Thracian Border, Macedonia Parm enion reined in t he gelding and sw ung t o look back over t he hills t ow ards t he dist ant River Axios. He could no longer see t he rider, but he knew w it hout a shred of doubt t hat he w as st ill being follow ed. The Spartan found this irksome, but not as yet worrying.

He had spot t ed him on his second day from Pella, a dist ant dot on t he horizon, and had changed his course, veering north-east before cutting back t o t he m ain t rail. From a heavily w ooded hill-t op Parm enion had then watched the rider also change direction.

The dist ance w as t oo great for ident ificat ion. All Parm enion could see w as t hat t he m an w ore a burnished helm and breast plat e and w as riding a t all, dappled grey. The Spart an rode on, w ary now for Thrace was close and he wished no confrontation with the border guards.

The land st ret ched ahead in a series of folds, gulleys and hollow s, t hinly w ooded and undulat ing. Ther e w ere shallow st ream s here, sparkling in t he sunlight, offspring of t he great River Nest os t hat flow ed t hrough t he land t o m erge w it h t he sea nort h of t he island of Thasos.

Parm enion guided t he chest nut gelding int o a sm all w ood and dism ount ed by a st ream. The gelding st ood quiet ly w it h ears pricked, nost rils quivering w it h t he sw eet sm ell of m ount ain w at er. Parm enion rem oved t he lionskin chabraque from t he horse’s back and rubbed him dow n w it h a handful of dry grass. Mot hac had ur ged him t o t ake t he st allion Bessus, but inst ead t he Spart an had chosen t he chest nut. The beast w as sure-foot ed and sound of t em peram ent, having no great speed but enor m ous levels of st am ina. Parm enion st rok ed t he gelding’s face and led him t o w at er. There w as no need t o hobble t he chestnut and the Spartan strolled to a nearby boulder and sat listening to the rushing water and the bird-song from the trees.

Six years before, he had t ravelled t his rout e heading w est int o Macedonia and had met the magus, Aristotle.

‘Seek m e out w hen y ou have need,’ Arist ot le had t old him. Well, t hought Parm enion, t he need could not be great er. Unt ying t he chinstraps of his baked leather helm Parmenion pulled it clear, running his fingers t hrough his sw eat - soaked hair. Despit e t he im m inence of w int er t he w eat her rem ained hot and dry and he could feel sw eat trickling down his back under the leather breastplate.

Phaedra could not underst and w hy he had clot hed him self like a poor m ercenary. Worse st ill, she had asked openly w hy he should em bark on such a quest at all.

‘You ar e t he real pow er in Macedonia,’ she w hispered. ‘You could seize the throne. The army would follow you - and then Philo would have the fut ure t he gods or dained for him. Why should y ou care w hat happens to the demon child?’

He had not answ ered her. Set t ling his chabraque over t he gelding, he had ridden from the great house without a backward glance.

Skirt ing t he villages on his est at e, his first st op had been in a sm all t ow n in t he shadow s of t he Krousian Mount ains. Here he bought supplies, dried m eat and fr uit, grain for t he gelding. The t ow n w as expanding - new buildings being erect ed on t he out skirt s, evidence of Macedonia’s gr ow ing w ealt h. Many of t he new set t lers w ere m ercenaries, buying land w it h t heir w ages from Philip’s cam paigns.

Ot hers w ere crippled ex-soldiers w ho had ear ned good pensions from t he King’s service. The t ow n bust led w it h act ivit y and Parm enion had been glad t o ride from it, heading for t he sanct uary and peace of t he countryside.

Now, as he sat by the stream, he considered again the problems facing him. He had no idea w here Alexander w as being held - nor w hy - and his hopes w ere rest ing on t he pr om ise of a magus he had m et in t he flesh only once. And w hat if t he Persians had sm uggled Alexander out of Macedonia? Suppose he w as being held host age in Susa? How could one m an hope t o r escue him? And if he did w ould not Philip, hungry for revenge, t ake his arm ies east int o t he heart of t he Persian kingdom?

These som bre t hought s flut t ered around Parm enion’s m ind like irrit at ing m ot hs and angrily he brushed t hem aside, rem em bering Xenophon’s advice: ‘When asked t o m ove a m ount ain, do not look upon it s size. Merely move the first rock.’

The first rock was to find Aristotle.

Allow ing t he gelding t o rest, Parm enion w alked t o t he crest of t he hill and st ared out over his back-t rail, seeking t he r ider w ho w as follow ing him. But a heat - haze shim m ered over t he land and he could see no sign of movement.

Riding unt il dusk, Parm enion m ade cam p in a hollow in t he m ount ains, set t ing a sm all fire against a boulder and enj oying t he r eflect ed heat.

Tom orr ow he w ould reach t he pass w here first he had m et t he magus.

Praying that Aristotle would be there, he slept fitfully.

Tw o hours before daw n he reached t he foot hills of t he Kerkine Mount ains. The br eeze w as colder her e as he urged t he gelding up t he scree-covered slope t ow ards t he pass, and he pulled his black cloak m ore t ight ly about him. As he crest ed t he slope he saw four m ount ed m en blocking t he narr ow pass. Beyond t hem w ere t w o m ore horses.

Parm enion flicked his gaze t o t he rocks on t he left, w here t w o archers waited with arrows notched.

‘A fine day t o be riding,’ said a sw art hy w arrior on a st urdy black st allion. The m an t ouched heels t o his m ount and r ode forw ard. He w as hat chet - faced, a t hick black bear d failing t o disguise t he pockm ark s on his cheeks. His eyes w ere dark and deepset. His comrades hung back, waiting silently, hands on their swords.

‘Indeed it is,’ agreed Parmenion. ‘What do you require of me?’

‘You have ent ered Thracian lands, Macedonian, and w e require a t oll.

Be so kind as to hand over the contents of that pouch by your side.’

‘First ly,’ said Parm enion, ‘I am no Macedonian, and secondly it should t ake no great m ind t o reason t hat a m ercenary has no coin w hen he is riding towards Persia. Only when he returns.’

‘Ah, w ell,’ answ ered t he m an, sm iling, ‘you do have a fine horse. That will have to do.’

The w arrior suddenly t ensed. I nst ant ly Parm enion kicked t he gelding int o a run. Tw o arrow s slashed t hrough t he air w here t he Spart an had been. The gelding’s shoulder cannoned int o t he st allion, w ho bucked violently, throwing his rider. Drawing his sword the Spartan charged at t he rem aining m en, but t hey scat t ered before him and t hen reformed to give chase.

The pass curved t o t he right. Out of sight of his pursuers Parm enion hauled on t he reins, t urning t he gelding back t he w ay he had com e. I t w as t he last m ove t he robbers had considered. As t hey rounded t he bend, ex pect ing t o see t heir quarr y r unning aw ay from t hem, t hey found themselves instead facing a charge.

The gelding hurt led fearlessly int o t heir m idst. Parm enion hacked his blade int o one rider’s neck, spilling him t o t he gr ound w it h blood spurt ing from his open j ugular. The gelding reared, kicking out at a second man whose horse stumbled and fell.

The sw art hy leader scream ed a bat t le-cry and lunged at t he Spart an.

But Parm enion blocked t he w ild cut, sending a ripost e t hat sliced t he skin of the man’s face, tearing out his right eye.

The ot her robbers galloped clear. Parm enion dism ount ed and approached t he fallen leader. The m an w as st ruggling t o rise, his hand pressed against his ruined eye, trying in vain to stop the flow of blood.

‘You w horeson! ‘ he shout ed, lift ing his sw ord and running at Parm enion. The Spart an side-st epped, his ow n blade cleaving int o t he m an’s gr oin, and w it h a cry of anguish t he Thracian t oppled t o t he ground. Parm enion slashed his sw ord t hrough t he m an’s neck, t hen stepped over the body to gather the reins of the gelding.

‘Neatly done,’ came a familiar voice and Parmenion cursed softly.

‘What do you want here, Attalus?’

The King’s Cham pion leapt light ly dow n from t he dappled grey and w alked across t o where Parm enion w ait ed. ‘Not overj oy ed t o see m e?

Ah, w ell, t hat is I suppose underst andable. But you int rigued m e w it h your t ale of sorcerers and r ocks; I t hought it m ight am use m e t o m eet the man.’

Parm enion shook his head. ‘I w ould as soon sleep w it h a poisonous snake as entertain your company on the road. Go back to Pella.’

Attalus smiled at the insult, but there was malice in his cold eyes. ‘You are know n as a m an w ho t hinks w ell, Spart an. I respect you for t hat.

But you are not t hinking now. Suppose t his w izard can lead you t o t he child - do y ou t hink you w ill be able t o rescue him alone?

You m ay not like m e, Parm enion, but you cannot argue against t he fact that I am the finest swordsman in Macedonia.’

‘That is not at issue,’ Parmenion snapped.

Then what is?’

‘I cannot trust you,’ answered the Spartan.

‘I s t hat all? Gods, m an, w hat do you expect m e t o do - cut your t hroat w hile you sleep?’

‘Perhaps. But you will not have the opportunity for I will travel alone.’

‘I do not t hink t hat w ise,’ cam e a t hird voice and bot h m en sw ung t o see a grey-haired man sitting cross-legged on a flat-topped boulder.

‘You m ove silent ly,’ w hispered At t alus, easing his sw ord from it s scabbard.

‘I ndeed I do, young At t alus. Now put your sw ord aw ay - it w ould be bad m anners t o at t ack a m an w ho is arguing on y our behalf.’ Arist ot le looked t o Parm enion. ‘I t hink you m ay find t hat t he King’s Cham pion will be an aid t o you on t his quest. And believe m e, you w ill need help to recover the prince.’

‘Where is he held?’ asked Parmenion.

‘I n a kingdom of t he dam ned,’ answ ered t he magus. Jum ping dow n from t he boulder, he w alked back t ow ards a t ow ering r ock-face and disappeared. I gnor ing At t alus, Parm enion t ugged t he gelding’s reins and follow ed Arist ot le. As before, t he seem ingly solid w all of rock proved no m ore subst ant ial t han m ist, and m an and horse found t hem selves in a cold cavern w here gr eat st alact it es hung like dragons’ t eet h from t he dom ed roof. The gelding did not like t his dank, cold place and began t o t rem ble. Parm enion pat t ed t he beast ‘s neck, whispering soothing words. Attalus came through the wall behind him.

‘Not seen enough to amuse you?’ asked Parmenion.

‘Almost,’ the swordsman answered. ‘Where did he go?’

Parm enion point ed t o a dist ant shaft of golden sunlight and t he t w o m en headed t ow ards it, em erging at last from a w ide cave-mouth w hich overlooked a verdant valley. At t he bot t om of t he slope w as a white-w alled house, built alongside a m ount ain st ream. Mount ing t heir horses, t he t w o w arriors rode dow n t o t he house w here Arist ot le w as waiting beside a table laden with food and wine.

‘Now t o t he point of your visit,’ said Arist ot le as t he m eal w as concluded. ‘The child, Alexander, is no longer in this world.’

‘You mean he is dead?’ hissed Attalus. ‘I do not believe it!’

‘Not dead,’ said Aristotle patiently. ‘He was drawn through a portal into a parallel w orld - t hat is w hy his guards repor t ed seeing st ars in t he corridor. I n or der t o rescue him, you m ust t ravel int o t hat w orld. I can show you the way.’

‘This is nonsense,’ st orm ed At t alus, rising from t he t able. ‘Are you going to sit and listen to this horse-dung?’ he asked the Spartan.

‘Before m aking j udgem ent s,’ Parm enion t old him, ‘look about you.

Where are the mountains we rode through? Where is the River Nestos?

Can you not see that we are already in another world?’

‘I t ‘s a t rick of som e kind,’ m ut t ered At t alus, sw inging round t o st ar e at the unfamiliar horizon.

I gnoring him, Parm enion t urned back t o Arist ot le. ‘Why did t hey t ake the boy?’

Arist ot le leaned for w ard, rest ing his elbow s on t he broad t able-top.

‘There is a King t here, a m an possessed. He desires im m ort alit y. To w in such a prize he m ust devour t he heart of a special sacrifice. His priests told him of a golden child a special child.’

‘This w orld - is it like our ow n? Can w e find our w ay t hrough it?’ asked the Spartan.

‘I cannot fully answ er t hat,’ t he magus t old him. ‘There are gr eat sim ilarit ies and yet enorm ous differences. Ther e are cent aurs t here, and all t he creat ures you w ould hear of only in m yt h - w erebeast s and Harpies, gorgons and beast s of dark ness. I t is a w orld of m agic, m y friend. And yet it is Greece.’

‘The King you spoke of-he has a name?’ Philippos, King of t he Makedones. And, befor e you ask, yes, he is Philip, the image of the man you serve.’

‘This is insane,’ sneered At t alus. ‘Why do y ou sit and list en t o such gibberish?’

‘As I t old y ou before,’ said Parm enion coldly, ‘you are m ore t han w elcom e t o ret urn t o Pella. As for m yself, I w ill t ravel int o t his ot her Greece. And I will find the prince. Will you come with me, Aristotle?’

The magus shook his head and look ed aw ay. ‘I cannot not yet.

Much as I would wish it.’

‘Too dangerous for you, wizard?’ Attalus mocked.

‘Indeed it is,’ agreed Aristotle with no trace of rancour. ‘But I will come to you when I can, to lead you home. If you survive.’

Book Two, 352 BC

The Forests of Olympus The pursuing Mak edones w ere not far behind as Cam iron clim bed t he slopes of t he m ount ains. Alexander looked up at t he snow - crested peaks and shivered.

‘How high will we go?’ he called out.

‘To Chiron’s caves,’ replied the centaur, ‘on the roof of the world.’

Alexander glanced back. The Makedones w ere close enough now for him t o see t he bright sunburst em blem s on t heir black breast plat es, and t heir lance-point s glit t ering in t he sunlight. Cam iron galloped on, seem ingly t ireless, w hile t he boy held fast t o t he chest nut m ane. ‘How much further?’ shouted Alexander.

Cam iron paused in his clim b and point ed t o a forest t hat clung t o t he mountainsides like gr een m ist. There! The Makedones w ill not follow.

I f t hey do, t hey w ill die.’ Bunching t he m uscles of his hind legs t he cent aur leapt forw ard, alm ost dislodging t he boy as he galloped at great speed towards the trees.

As t hey neared t he forest four cent aurs rode out t o m eet t hem. All w ere sm aller t han Cam iron, and only t w o w ere bearded. Arm ed w it h bows, they formed a line and waited. Camiron halted before them.

‘What do you w ant here, out cast?’ asked t he leading cent aur, his beard white, his flanks golden.

‘I am riding t o Chiron’s cave,’ Cam iron answ ered diffident ly. ‘We ar e pursued by Makedones.’

‘You are not welcome here,’ said another. ‘You will bring us trouble.’

‘It is the order of Chiron,’ protested Camiron. ‘I must obey.’

‘Lickspit t le! ‘ snort ed a t hird cent aur. ‘What is t he Hum an t o you? Are you a slave to his bidding?’

‘I am no m an’s slave,’ said Cam iron, his voice deepening. Alexander could feel t he cent aur ‘s m uscles t ensing. Leaning back, t he boy lift ed his hand, catching the attention of the newcomers.

‘Would you surrender one of your own to his enemies?’ he asked.

‘Speak w hen y ou are spoken t o, Hum an! ‘ snapped t he w hit e-bearded leader.

‘No,’ replied Alexander. ‘Answ er m y quest ion - or does y our cow ardice shame you to silence?’

‘Let m e kill him, Fat her! ‘ shout ed a y oungst er, not ching an arrow t o his bow.

‘No!’ thundered White-beard. ‘Let them pass!’

‘But, Father ‘Let t hem pass, I say.’ The cent aurs m oved aside and Cam iron galloped int o t he t r ees. There w ere m ore horse people here, all arm ed w it h bow s. Alexander sw ung t o see t he Makedones t oiling up t he slope, and he heard their screams as the first volley of arrows tore into them.

But the sounds of battle faded as they rode deeper into the forest.

Cam iron w as silent as t hey m oved on, but Alexander could feel t he deep w ell of his anguish. The boy could t hink of not hing t o say and set t led dow n once m ore against t he.broad back. At last t hey cam e t o a clearing and an open cave-m out h. Cam iron t rot t ed inside and lift ed Alexander to the ground.

‘There is no sign of Chiron,’ said t he cent aur, his eyes brooding and angry.

‘May I t hank you?’ asked Alexander, m oving close t o t he beast. ‘You saved my life, and you were very courageous.’

‘I am t he bravest of t hem all,’ said Cam iron. ‘And t he st rongest,’ he added, lifting his arms and tensing the huge muscles of his biceps.

‘You are indeed,’ the boy agreed. ‘I have never seen anyone stronger.’

The cent aur sw ung his head. ‘Wher e is Chiron, boy? You said he w ould be here.’

‘No,’ said Alexander slow ly. ‘I said he asked you t o com e here - t o bring m e t o safet y. He t old m e you could be t r ust ed; he t alked of your courage.’

‘I hurt,’ said Cam iron suddenly, t ouching his hand t o t he shallow gash in his flanks. The blood had already begun t o congeal around t he wound, but it had flowed down the right foreleg, matting the hair.

‘If there is water, I will clean it for you,’ offered the boy.

‘Why is Chiron not here? Why is he never here? I need him.’ The t one w as suddenly plaint ive, w it h an edge of panic. ‘Chiron! ‘ he bellow ed, the sound echoing in the cave. ‘Chiron!’

‘He w ill com e,’ prom ised Alexander. ‘But you m ust rest. Even one as strong as you must be tired after such a ride.’

‘I am not t ired. But I am hungry,’ he said, his dark eyes fixing on t he child.

Tell m e about y ourself,’ urged Alexander. ‘I hav e never m et a cent aur, though I have heard tales of them.’

‘I don’t w ant t o speak. I w ant t o eat,’ snapped Cam iron, t urning and t rot t ing from t he cave. Alexander sat dow n on a rock. He t oo w as hungry and t ired, but he dared not sleep w hile t he unpredict able Cam iron w as close by. Aft er a w hile he decided t o explore t he cave. I t w as not deep, but t here w ere sm all alcoves t hat appeared m an-made.

Ent ering t he first, Alexander not iced t hat t he right - hand w all w as a slight ly different shade of gr ey from t he st one around it. Reaching out he tried to touch the rock - only to see his hand pass through it. Edging forw ard he passed t hrough t he w all t o find him self inside a beaut ifully furnished room, hung w it h silks, t he w alls paint ed w it h delicat e scenes from Hom er, t he w ooden horse at t he gat es of Troy, t he ship of Odysseus by t he island of Sirens, t he seeress Circe t urning m en int o swine.

Walking to a window, Alexander gazed out over a sparkling ocean.

From here he could see that the building was of white marble, supported by many columns. It was larger than his father’s palace at Pella, and infinitely more beautiful. Slowly the boy wandered from room to room. There were many libraries, hundreds of scrolls on scores of shelves, and rooms full of paintings or statues* In yet another room he found sketches of animals, birds, lions and creatures of impossible shapes, some with necks twice as long as their bodies, others with noses that hung to the ground. At last he found the kitchens. Here honey-roasted hams hung from hooks and there were barrels of apples, sacks of dried apricots, pear and peach and other fruits Alexander had never seen. Sitting down at a wide table he tried them all, then remembered the centaur. Finding a silver tray, he loaded it with fruit and meats of all kinds, carrying it back to the first room and through the insubstantial wall into the cave.

‘Where were you?’ shouted Camiron. ‘I looked for you everywhere.’

‘I w as fet ching you som e food,’ answ ered Alexander, approaching t he cent aur and offering t he t ray. Wit hout a w ord Cam iron t ook it and began st uffing t he food int o his cavernous m out h, m eat s and fruit s together. Finally he belched and threw the tray aside.

‘Better,’ he said. ‘Now I want Chiron.’

‘Why do t he ot her cent aurs not like you?’ asked Alexander, changing the subject swiftly.

Cam iron folded his legs and set t led dow n on t he cave-floor, his dark eyes fixed on t he goldenhaired boy. ‘Who says t hat t hey don’t? Who told you that?’

‘No one told me. I saw it when they rode from the forest.’

‘I am st ronger t han t hey ar e,’ t he cent aur said. ‘I don’t need t hem. I need no one.’

‘I am your friend,’ Alexander told him.

‘I need no friends,’ thundered Camiron. ‘None!’

‘But are you not lonely?’

‘No Yes. Som et im es,’ adm it t ed t he cent aur. ‘But I w ould not be if only I could rem em ber t hings. Why w as I in t he w ood w here I found you? I don’t rem em ber going t here. I am so confused som et im es. I t used not t o be like t his, I know it didn’t. Well, I t hink it didn’t. I am so tired.’

‘Sleep for a while,’ said Alexander. ‘You will feel better for some rest.’

‘Yes. Sleep,’ w hispered t he cent aur. Suddenly he looked up. ‘I f Chiron is not here in the morning, I will kill you.’

‘We will talk about that in the morning,’ said Alexander.

Cam iron nodded, his head sinking t o his chest. Wit hin m om ent s his breathing deepened. Alexander sat quiet ly w at ching t he creat ure, feeling his loneliness slow ly subside. Once m ore t he haze began around t he beast, shim m ering, changing, unt il t he hum an form of Chiron could be seen asleep on the floor beside the horse, Caymal.

Alexander m oved t o t he magus, light ly t ouching his shoulder. Chiron awoke and yawned.

‘You did w ell, boy,’ he said. ‘I knew it w as a risk leaving y ou w it h him, but you handled the situation with skill.’

‘Who is he?’ asked the prince.

‘Like all cent aurs, he is a blend of horse and m an: part ly m e, part ly Caym al. I t used t o be t hat I could cont rol him. Now he grow s st ronger and I rarely allow him life. But I had t o t ake t he risk, for Caym al alone could not have carried us both free of the Makedones.’

‘The other centaurs called him an outcast. They hate him.’

‘Ah, w ell, t hat is a longer st ory. When first I t ried t he spell of Merging, I lost cont rol of Cam iron and he rode in t o t heir village.’ Chiron sm iled and shook his head. ‘I had not considered t he t im ing of t he Change.

Caym al w as in season, and hot for t he com pany of a young m are.

Cam iron, full of alm ost childish ent husiasm, t ried t o force his at t ent ion on several of the village females. The males did not take kindly to such advances and chased him from the forest.’

‘I see,’ said the boy.

‘You do? You are a surprising four-year- old.’

‘But t ell m e w hy Cam iron seeks you. You can never have m et. should he even know of you?’

‘A good quest ion, Alexander. You hav e a fine m ind. Caym al know s m e and, aft er his ow n fashion, has regard for m e. When t he Merge t akes place t he end result is a creat ure - Cam iron - w ho is bot h of us, and yet neit her of us. The part - t he great er part - t hat is Caym al longs t o be reunit ed w it h his m ast er. I t w as a sad ex perim ent, and one t hat I w ill not repeat. And yet Cam iron is an int erest ing beast. Just like a horse, he is both easily frightened and yet capable of great courage.’

Pushing himself to his feet, Chiron led the boy back through the alcove wall into the palace beyond. ‘Here we will be safe for a while. But even my powers cannot stand for long against Philippos.’

‘Why does he want me, Chiron?’

‘He has t he pow ers of a god, yet he is m ort al. He desires t o live for ever. So far he has sired six children and has sacrificed each of t hem t o Ahrim an, t he God of Darkness. But he is not yet im m ort al. I w ould im agine his priest s sought you out, and y ou are t o be t he sevent h vict im. I can see w hy. You are a brilliant child, Alexander, and I feel the dark power within you. Philippos wishes to feed on that power.’

‘He can have it,’ said t he youngst er. ‘I t is not hing but a curse t o m e.

Tell me, how is it that I can touch you and yet you feel no pain?’

‘That is not easy to answer, young prince. The power you possess - or that possesses you - is similar to that which dominates Philippos. Yet they are different. Individual. Your demon - if you will - desires you, but he needs you to live. Therefore he lies dormant when I am close, for* he knows I am your hope for survival.’

‘You speak about my power as if it is not of me.’

‘Nor is it,’ said t he magus. ‘I t is a dem on, a pow erful dem on. I t has a name. Kadmilos. And he seeks to control you.’

Alexander found his m out h suddenly dry, and his hands began t o tremble. ‘What will happen to me if he wins?’

‘You w ill becom e like Philippos. But t hat is a m ount ain y ou m ust clim b on anot her day. You have great courage, Alexander, and an indom it able spirit. You m ay be able t o hold him at bay. I w ill help you in any way that I can.’

‘Why?’

‘A good quest ion, m y boy, and I w ill answ er it.’ The magus sighed. ‘A | ° ng t im e ago, by your reckoning - t w ent y y ears or m ore - I w as inst ruct ed t o t each anot her child. He t oo w as possessed. I t aught him all t hat I could, but it w as not enough. He becam e t he Dem on King.

Now there is you.’

‘But you failed with Philippos,’ Alexander pointed out.

‘You are st ronger,’ Chiron t old him. ‘Now t ell m e t his, is t here anyone from your world with the wit to seek you out?’

Alexander nodded. Parm enion. He w ill com e for m e. He is t he great est general and the finest warrior in Macedonia.’

‘I will watch for him,’ said Chiron.

The Stone Circle, Time Unknown Arist ot le led t he Macedonian w arriors t o an ancient w ood in a valley so deep as t o seem subt erranean. Massive t rees grew here, w it h t runks ten times thicker than the oaks of Macedonia, their branches interlaced and com plet ely blocking t he sky. The ground w as ankle-deep w it h rot t ed veget at ion and t he w arriors led t heir m ount s for fear t hat a horse m ight cat ch his hoof in a hidden pot hole or leaf-covered root, snapping the leg.

No birds sang in t he forest and t he air w as cold, w it hout hint of breeze. The t rio m oved silent ly on, Arist ot le in t he lead, com ing at last t o an open sect ion of land. At t alus sucked in a deep breat h as sunlight t ouched his skin, t hen st ared around at t he huge colum ns of st one.

They w er e not r ound, nor m ade of blocks, but single w edges of granit e, roughly hew n and t hree t im es t he height of a t all m an. Som e had fallen, ot hers had cracked and split. Parm enion m oved t o t he cent re of t he st one circle w here an alt ar w as raised on blocks of m arble. Running his finger s dow n t he blood channels, he t urned t o Aristotle.

‘Who built this temple?’

The people of Akkady. They are lost t o hist ory gone. Their deeds like dust on the winds of time.’

Attalus shivered. ‘I do not like this place, magus. Why are we here?’

‘This is the Gateway to that other Greece. The two of you remain here, by the altar. I will prepare the Spell of Opening.’

Arist ot le st rode t o t he out er circle and sat cross-legged on t he grass, hands clasped to his breast and eyes closed.

‘What excuse do you t hink he w ill give w hen no Gat ew ay opens?’ asked At t alus, forcing a sm ile. Parm enion look ed int o t he sw ordsm an’s cold blue eyes, reading the fear there.

‘Now w ould be a good t im e for you t o lead your horse from t his circle,’ he said softly.

‘You think I am frightened?’

‘Why should you not be?’ countered Parmenion. ‘I am.’

At t alus relaxed. ‘A Spart an afraid? You hide it w ell, Parm enion. How long’ Light blazed around t he circle and t he horses reared, w hinnying in t error. The w arriors t ight ened t heir grip on t he reins, calm ing t he fright ened anim als. The light faded int o a dar kness so absolut e bot h m en w ere blind. Parm enion blinked and gazed up at t he sky. Gradually, as his eyes becam e accust om ed t o t he night, he saw stars shining high in the heavens.

‘I think,’ he said, keeping his voice low, ‘that we have arrived.’

At t alus hobbled t he dappled grey and w alked t o t he edge of t he circle, st aring out over t he m ount ains and valleys t o t he sout h. ‘I k now t his place,’ he said. ‘Look t here! I s t hat not Olym pus?’ Sw inging t o t he nort h, he point ed t o t he silver ribbon of a great river. ‘And t her e, t he River Haliakmon. This is no other world, Parmenion!’

‘He said it was like Greece,’ the Spartan pointed out.

‘I still do not believe it.’

‘What does it t ake t o convince you?’ asked Parm enion, shaking his head. ‘You have passed t hrough t he solid st one of a m ount ain, and m oved w it hin a heart beat from noon t o m idnight. Yet st ill you cling t o the belief that it is all trickery.’

‘We will see,’ muttered Attalus, returning to the grey and removing the hobble. ‘Let us find som ew here t o cam p. I t is t oo open here for a fire.’

The sw ordsm an vault ed t o t he grey, riding from t he circle t ow ards a wood to the south.

As t he Spart an w as about t o follow At t alus t he voice of Arist ot le w hispered int o his m ind, echoing and dist ant. ‘There is m uch I w ish I could tell you, my friend,’ said the magus, ‘but I cannot. Your presence in t his w orld is of vit al im port ance - not only for t he rescue of t he prince. I can safely give you only t w o pieces of advice: first, you should remember that the enemies of your enemy can be your friends; and second, make your way to Sparta. Treat it like a beacon of light to a ship in jeopardy. Sparta is the key!’

The voice faded and Parm enion m ount ed his horse and r ode aft er At t alus. The t w o riders m ade t heir cam p by a sm all st ream t hat m eander ed t hrough t he w ood. Hobbling t he horses t he w arriors sat in silence, enj oying t he w arm t h of t he blaze. Parm enion st ret ched out on t he gr ound, closing his eyes, his m ind w orking at t he problem facing him: how to find a single child in a strange land.

Arist ot le had k now n only t hat t he boy w as not held by t he Makedones.

Som ehow he had escaped. Yet despit e his skills t he magus could not locat e him. All he knew w as t hat t he child had appeared close t o Olympus and the Makedones still searched for him.

Wrapping himself in his cloak, Parmenion slept.

He aw oke in t he night t o hear a w hispering laught er echoing in t he w oods. Sit t ing up he looked t ow ards At t alus, but t he sw ordsm an w as asleep beside t he dead fire. Easing him self t o his feet, Parm enion t ried t o locat e t he sour ce of t he laught er. Som e dist ance aw ay he saw t w inkling light s, but t he t rees and undergrow t h prevent ed him from ident ifying t heir nat ure and source. Moving t o At t alus, he t apped t he m an’s arm. The sw ordsm an aw oke inst ant ly, rolling t o his feet w it h sw ord in hand. Gest uring him t o silence, Parm enion point ed t o t he flickering light s and began t o edge his w ay t ow ards t hem. At t alus followed him, sword still drawn.

They cam e at last t o a circular clearing w here t orches had been set in iron bracket s on t he t rees. A group of young w om en, dressed in shimmering chitons, w ere sit t ing in a circle drinking w ine from golden goblets.

One of t he w om en rose from t he circle, calling out a nam e. I nst ant ly a sm all creat ure ran forw ard, bearing a pit cher of w ine and r efilling her goblet. Parmenion felt Attalus tense beside him, for the creature was a satyr, no taller than a child - ears pointed, upper body bare of hair, his legs those of a goat, his hooves cloven.

Touching At t alus’ arm, Parm enion backed aw ay and t he m en ret urned to their camp.

‘Were they nymphs, do you think?’ asked Attalus.

Parm enion shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he adm it t ed. I t ook lit t le not e of m yt hs and legends w hen a child. Now I w ish I had st udied t hem m ore carefully.’

Suddenly t he dist ant laught er faded, t o be r eplaced by scream s, highpit ched and chilling. Draw ing t heir sw ords, t he t w o m en ran back through the trees. Parmenion was the first to burst into the clearing.

Arm ed m en w ere everyw here. Som e of t he w om en had escaped, but at least four had been bor ne t o t he ground, black-cloaked w arriors kneeling around t hem. A girl ran clear, pursued by t w o soldiers.

Parm enion leapt forw ard, slashing his sw ord t hrough t he neck of t he first m an, t hen blocking a savage cut from t he second. Hurling him self forw ard he crashed his shoulder int o his assailant, spinning him from his feet.

Hearing t he sound of clashing blades, t he ot her w arriors left t he w om en and ran t o t he at t ack. There w ere at least t en of t hem and Parmenion backed away.

‘Who in Hades are you?’ dem anded a black-bearded soldier, advancing on Parmenion with sword extended.

‘I am the name of your death,’ the Spartan answered.

The m an laughed grim ly. ‘A dem i-god, are you? Heracles rebor n, perhaps? You think to kill ten Makedones?’

‘Perhaps not,’ agreed Parm enion, as t he soldiers form ed a sem icircle around him, ‘but I’ll begin with you.’

‘Kill him!’ the man ordered.

At t hat m om ent At t alus em erged behind t he circle, st abbing one m an t hrough t he back w it h his dagger and sending a slicing cut across t he face of a second. Parm enion leapt forw ard as t he m en sw ung t o face t his new t hreat. The blackbear ded leader parried his first lunge, but t he second plunged t hrough his leat her kilt t o slice open t he art ery in his groin.

At t alus w as in t rouble, desperat ely fending off four at t ackers, t he rem aining t hree t ur ning on Parm enion. The Spart an backed aw ay once m ore, t hen sprang forw ard and left, engaging a w arrior and slashing his sw ord t ow ards t he m an’s neck; he sw ayed back and Parm enion alm ost lost his balance. A soldier ran at him. Dropping t o one knee Parm enion t hrust his sw ord int o t he m an’s belly, ripping t he blade clear as the other two closed on him.

‘Help m e, Parm enion! ‘ yelled At t alus. Diving t o his left, Parm enion rolled t o his feet and r an across t he clearing. At t alus had killed one m an and w ounded anot her, but now he w as fight ing w it h his back t o an oak tree, and there was blood on his face and arm.

‘I am w it h you! ‘ shout ed Par m enion, seeking t o dist ract t he at t ackers.

When one t urned t ow ards him, At t alus’ blade licked out, plunging int o t he m an’s t hroat. At t alus shoulder-charged t he w arriors before him, ducking as a slashing sword tore the helm from his head.

Parm enion reached his side and t he t w o Macedonians st ood back t o back against the remaining four warriors.

A deafening r oar sounded from t he t rees and t he Makedones, t err or in their eyes, fled from the clearing.

‘By Zeus, that was close,’ said Attalus.

‘It’s not over yet,’ Parmenion whispered.

Emerging from the tree-line came three colossal men, each over seven feet t all. One had t he head of a bull and w as carrying a huge doubleheaded axe. The second had a face t hat w as alm ost hum an, save t hat it boast ed a huge double-pupilled single eye in t he cent re of t he forehead; t his one carried a club int o w hich iron nails had been half ham m ered. The t hird had t he head of a lion; he carried no w eapon, but his hands ended in t alons t he lengt h of daggers. Behind t hem t he women gathered together, fear still showing in their eyes.

‘Sheathe your sword,’ ordered Parmenion.

‘You must be insane!’

‘Do it - and sw ift ly! They are here t o prot ect t he w om en. I t m ay be w e can reason with them.’

‘Dream on, Spartan,’ whispered Attalus as the demonic beasts shuffled forward, but he r et urned t he st abbing sw ord t o it s scabbard and t he t w o m en st ood before t he advancing m onst ers. The cyclops m oved closer, raising his pitted club.

‘You kill Makedones. Why?’ he asked, his voice deep, the words coming like drum-beats from his cavernous mouth.

‘They w ere at t acking t he w om en,’ Par m enion answ ered. ‘We cam e t o their aid.’

‘Why?’ asked t he m onst er again, and Parm enion looked up at t he club hovering above his head.

‘The Mak edones ar e our enem ies,’ he said, t earing his eyes from t he grisly weapon.

‘All Hum ans are our enem ies,’ replied t he cyclops. To t he right t he lion-headed m onst er squat t ed dow n ov er a dead soldier, ripping loose an arm at w hich he began t o gnaw. But all t he w hile his t aw ny eyes rem ained fixed on Parm enion. The m inot aur m oved closer on the left, dipping his horned head to look into the Spartan’s face. His voice w hispered out, surprising Parm enion, for it w as gent le, t he t one perfect. ‘Tell me, warrior, why we should not kill you.’

‘Tell me first why you should?’ Parmenion responded.

The m inot aur sat dow n, beckoning t he Spart an t o j oin him.

‘Everyw here your race dest roys us. There is no land - save one - w here our lives are safe from Hum ans. Once t his land w as ours; now w e hide in w oods and forest s. Soon t here w ill be no m ore of t he Elder races; t he sons and daught ers of t he Tit ans w ill be gone for ever. Why should I kill you? Because even if you are good and her oic your sons, and t he sons of your sons, w ill hunt dow n m y sons, and t he sons of my sons. Is that an answer?’

‘I t is a good one,’ agreed Parm enion, ‘yet it is flaw ed. Should you kill m e, t hen m y sons w ould have reason t o hat e y ou, and t hat alone w ill m ake your vision t rue. But should w e becom e friends, t hen m y sons would come to know you and look upon you with kindly eyes.’

‘When has that ever been true?’ the minotaur asked.

‘I do not know. I can only speak for m yself. But it seem s t o m e t hat if an act of rescue can result in sum m ary ex ecut ion t hen you are lit t le different from t he Makedones. Surely a son of t he Tit ans w ill show more gratitude than that?’

‘You speak w ell. And I like t he lack of fear in your eyes. And you fight w ell t oo. My nam e is Bront es. These are m y brot hers, St eropes and Arges.’

‘I am Parmenion. This is my comrade Attalus.’

‘We will not kill you,’ said Brontes. ‘Not this time. Our gift is your lives.

But if ever you w alk in our w oods again your lives w ill be forfeit.’ The minotaur pushed himself to his feet and turned to walk away.

‘Wait! ‘ called Parm enion. ‘We are seeking a child from our land w ho was abducted by the King of the Makedones. Can you help us?’

The m inot aur sw ung his great bull’s head. ‘The Makedones gave chase t o a cent aur t w o days ago. I t is said t hat t he cent aur carried a child w it h golden hair. They t rav elled sout h t o t he Woods of t he Cent aurs.

That is all I know. The w oods are forbidden t o Hum ans, save Chiron.

The horse people w ill not allow you t o pass. Nor w ill t hey speak w it h you. Your greet ing w ill be an arr ow t hrough t he heart or ey e. Be warned!’

*

At t alus’ fist slam m ed int o Parm enion’s chin, spinning him from his feet. The Spart an hit t he ground har d, t hen rolled t o his back, st aring up at t he enraged Macedonian w ho loom ed above him w it h fist s clenched, blood still seeping from the shallow gash in his cheek.

‘You m iserable w horeson! ‘ hissed At t alus. ‘What in Hades w ere you thinking of? Ten men! By Heracles, we should be dead.’

Parmenion sat up and rubbed his chin, then pushed himself to his feet.

‘I was not thinking,’ he admitted.

‘Excellent! ‘ sneered At t alus. ‘But I do not w ant t hat engraved on t he w alls of m y t om b: At t alus died because t he strategos w asn’t thinking. ‘

‘I t w ill not happen again,’ pr om ised t he Spart an, but t he sw ordsm an would not be mollified.

‘I w ant t o know w hy it happened t his t im e. I w ant t o know w hy t he First General of Macedonia rushed t o t he aid of w om en he did not know. You w ere at Met hone, Am phipolis and a dozen ot her cit ies w hen t he arm y sacked t hem. I did not see you racing t hrough t he st reet s protecting the women and children. What is so different here?’

‘Not hing,’ replied t he Spart an. ‘But you are w rong. I w as never in t hose cit ies w hen t he rapes and m urders t ook place. I organized t he at t acks, but w hen t he w alls w ere breached m y w ork w as done. I do not seek t o avoid responsibilit y for t he barbarism t hat follow ed, but it was never perpetrated in my name, nor have I ever taken part in it. As for m y act ions t oday, I accept t hey w ere inexcusable. We are here t o rescue Alexander-and I put that in jeopardy. But I have said it will not happen again. I can say no more.’

‘Well, I can - if you ever decide t o act t he rom ant ic fool do not ex pect me to be standing beside you.’

‘I did not expect it in t he first place,’ said Parm enion, his expression har dening, his eyes holding t o t he sw ordsm an’s gaze. ‘And k now t his, Attalus - if you ever strike me again I shall kill you.’

‘Enj oy y our dream s,’ replied t he sw ordsm an. ‘The day w ill never daw n when you can best me with blade or spear.’

Parm enion w as about t o speak w hen he saw several of t he w om en moving across the clearing towards them. The first to arrive bowed low before the warriors, then looked up with a shy smile. She was slim and goldenhaired, with violet eyes and a face of surpassing beauty.

‘We t hank you, lords, for your help,’ she said, her v oice sw eet and lilting, almost musical.

‘I t w as our pleasure,’ At t alus t old her. ‘What t rue m en w ould have acted differently?’

‘You are hurt,’ she said, m oving forw ard and r eaching up t o t ouch his face. ‘You m ust let us t end your w ounds. We have her bs and healing powders.’

Ignoring Parmenion the women closed around Attalus, leading him to a fallen t ree and sit t ing beside him. A young girl in a dress of shim m ering blue sat upon t he sw ordsm an’s lap, lift ing a br oad green leaf w hich she placed over t he w ound on his cheek. When she pulled t he leaf clear t he gash had vanished, t he skin appearing clean and unbroken. Anot her w om an repeat ed t he m anoeuvr e w it h t he cut on the warrior’s left forearm.

The sat yr reappear ed from t he edge of t he t rees and skipped forw ard t o Parm enion bearing a goblet of w ine. The Spart an t hanked him and sat down to drink. Smiling nervously, the satyr moved away.

The attempt to rescue the women was everything that Attalus implied: rom ant ic, st upid and, considering t he odds, suicidal, and Parm enion’s spirit s w ere low as he sat apart from t he gr oup. Thinking back he rem em bered t he quiet j oy he had felt w at ching t he w om en, and t he sudden explosive anger t hat had raced t hrough him w hen he hear d t heir scream s. I m ages leapt t o his m ind, like a w indow t hrow n open in a hidden corner of his soul, and he saw again t he children of Met hone piled carelessly one upon another in a grisly hill of the dead.

The cit y w as being prepared for dest ruct ion and Parm enion had ridden through it, overseeing t he dem olit ion. He had st opped in t he m ain market square, where wagons were drawn up to remove the bodies.

Nicanor w as riding beside him. Tur ning t o t he blond w arrior, Parmenion had asked a simple question.

‘Why?’

‘Why what, my friend?’ replied Nicanor, mystified.

‘The children. Why were they slain?’

Nicanor had shrugged. ‘The w om en go t o t he slave m arket s of Asia, t he m en t o Pelagonia t o build t he new fort resses t here. There is no price any more for young children.’

‘And that is the answer?’ whispered the general. ‘There is no price?’

‘What other answer is there?’ the warrior responded.

Parm enion rode from t he cit y w it hout a backw ard glance, det erm ined never again t o view t he aft erm at h of such vict ories. Now, here in t his enchant ed w ood, t he realizat ion st ruck him w it h sickening force t hat he w as a cow ard. As a gener al he set in m ot ion t he ev ent s t hat led t o hor ror, and had believed t hat by not allow ing him self t o w it ness t he brutality he was somehow freed from the guilt of it.

Sipping his w ine, he found t he w eight of his grief t oo pow erful t o bear and t ears spilled t o his cheeks, all sense of self-w ort h flow ing from him.

He did not know at w hich point he fell asleep, but he aw oke in a soft bed in a room with walls of interlaced vines and a ceiling of leaves.

Feeling rest ed and free of bur dens, his heart light, he pushed back t he covers and sw ung his legs from t he bed. The floor w as carpet ed w it h m oss, soft and springy below his feet as he rose. There w as no door in t he vines and he approached t hem, pushing his hands against t he hanging w all and m oving t he leaves aside. Sunlight st ream ed in, almost blinding him, and he stepped out into a wide glade bordered by oak trees. Standing still for a moment, as his eyes grew accustomed to t he light, he hear d t he sound of rushing w at er and t ur ned t o see a w at erfall gushing over w hit e m arble, filling a deep pool around w hich sat a group of w om en. Ot hers w ere sw im m ing t hrough t he cryst alclear w at er, laughing and splashing each ot her, t iny rainbow s form ing in the spray.

As Parm enion st rolled t ow ards t he group a loom ing figure m oved from his right and he saw t he m inot aur, Bront es. The creat ure bow ed clumsily, his great bull’s head dipping and rising.

‘Welcome to my home,’ he said.

‘How did I come here?’

I carried you.’

Why?’

‘You dr ank t he w ine, Hum an. I t m ade you sleep and gave you dream s.

Then more Makedones came and the Lady bade me bring you.’

‘Where is Attalus?’

‘Your com panion st ill sleeps - and w ill cont inue so t o do. Com e, t he Lady w ait s.’ The m inot aur st rode on, past t he w at erfall, angling t o t he right t hrough t he t rees and com ing at last t o anot her w all of vines.

Tw o w om en st ood by t hem, pulling t hem apart for t he m inot aur t o ent er. Parm enion follow ed, finding him self in a nat ural hall colum ned by t all cypress t rees and r oofed by flow ers. Birds of all kinds w ere flying here, sw ooping and diving high am ong t he m ult i-coloured blooms.

There w ere m any pools w it hin t he hall, surrounded by w hit e m arble boulders from w hich grew enorm ous flow ers of salm on-pink and crim son. Yellow - st oned pat hs had been set around t he pools, curving across t he m oss-covered floor of t he hall, all leading t o t he dais at t he far end.

I gnoring t he w om en and sat yrs w ho sat by t he w at er’s edge, Bront es m arched on unt il he st ood before t he dais. His brot hers, St eropes and Arges, w ere sit t ing here, but Parm enion barely glanced at t hem; his eyes w ere draw n t o t he nak ed w om an w ho sat upon a t hrone carved from a huge block of shining m arble. Her hair w as w hit e - but not t he t ired, list less colour of t he aged, m or e t he proud, unconquered w hit e of m ount ain snow. Her eyes w ere grey, her face ageless, unlined and smooth, but not young. Her body was slim, breasts small, hips boyish.

Parm enion bow ed low. The w om an rose from t he t hrone and climbed from t he dais, t aking t he Spart an’s arm and leading him deeper int o t he hall, t hen out t hrough t he vines t o a hollow in t he hills bat hed in sunshine.

‘Who are you, Lady?’ he asked, as she sat beneath a spreading oak.

‘Men hav e given m e m any nam es,’ she answ ered. ‘More t han t he st ars, I t hink. But you m ay cont inue t o call m e Lady. I like t he sound of it upon your t ongue. Now sit beside m e, Parm enion, and t ell m e of your son, Alexander.’ I t w as a m om ent befor e he realized w hat she had said, and a cold thrill of fear whispered through his soul.

‘He is t he son of m y King,’ he t old her, as he st ret ched out on t he grass beside her. ‘He has been abduct ed by Philippos. I am her e t o return him to his father.’

She smiled, but her knowing eyes held his gaze. ‘He is your child, sired during a night of Myst eries. I t is a sham e you bear - w it h m any ot her guilt s and despairs. I know you, Man, I know your t hought s and your fears. You may speak openly.’

Parm enion looked aw ay. ‘I am sorry t hat you have seen so m uch, Lady. I t grieves m e t o bring m y darkness t o t his place of beauty.’

Her fingers t ouched his face, st roking t he skin. ‘Do not concer n yourself w it h such sham e - your guilt is all t hat kept y ou alive aft er you drank m y w ine. For only t he good can know guilt and you are not evil, Parm enion. There is kindness in your hear t and great ness in your soul - w hich is m ore t han can be said for y our com panion. I hav e let him live only because you need him. But he w ill sleep on unt il you leave, and w ill never see m y land.’ Rising sm oot hly, she w alked t o t he crest of a hill and st ood st aring at t he dist ant m ount ains. Parm enion followed her and listened as she pointed out the landmarks. ‘There, far t o t he w est, are t he Pindos Mount ains, and t here, across t he plains t o t he sout h, is River Peneios. You know t hese places, for t hey exist in your ow n w orld. But furt her sout h t here are cit ies you w ill not know:

Cadm os, Thospae, Leonidae. They fight in a league against Philippos - and w ill soon fall. At hens w as dest royed during t he spring. Soon only one cit y st at e w ill st and against t he Tyrant: Spart a. When you find Alexander, take him there.’

‘First I must find him,’ said the warrior.

‘He is w it h t he magus, Chiron, and safe for t he m om ent. But Philippos w ill find him soon, and t he Wood of t he Cent aurs w ill prove no barrier to the Makedones.’

Tur ning t o him she t ook his arm, leading him back t hrough t he glades to the hall of vines.

‘Once upon a t im e,’ she said, her voice soft and sorr ow ful, ‘I could have helped you in t his quest. No longer. We are t he people of t he Enchant m ent, and w e are slow ly dying. Our m agic is failing, our sorcery faint against t he bright sw ords of t he Makedones. I give you my blessing, Parmenion. There is little else.’

‘I t is enough, Lady, and a gift I am unw ort hy of,’ he t old her, t aking her hand and kissing it. ‘But why give me even that?’

‘Our int erest s m ay yet be m ut ual. As I said, t he Enchant m ent is fading. Yet t here is a legend here t hat all of us know. I t is said t hat a golden child w ill com e am ong us, and t he land w ill shine once m ore.

Do you think Alexander is that golden child?’

‘How could I know?’

‘How indeed? Once I could see into the future - not far, but far enough t o be able t o pr ot ect m y people. Now I see only t he past and lost glories. And perhaps I t oo cling t o foolish legends. Sleep now - and awake refreshed!’

He awoke wrapped in his cloak at the camp-site, the horses grazing by t he st ream. Across from t he dead fire At t alus slept on, no signs of wounds upon his face and arms.

Parm enion st ood and w alked t hrough t he w oods t o t he clearing. There were no bodies here, but dried blood still stained the earth.

Back at the camp-site he woke Attalus.

‘I had the strangest dream,’ said the swordsman. ‘I dreamt we rescued a group of nym phs. There w as a m inot aur and and dam n, it ‘s fading now.’ At t alus rolled t o his feet and br ushed dirt from his cloak.

‘I hat e forget t ing dream s,’ he said. ‘But I rem em ber t he nym phs - w onderful w om en, beaut iful beyond descript ion. What of you? How did you sleep?’

‘Without dreams,’ answered the Spartan.

*

Derae w at ched Par m enion and At t alus ride w est, t hen st epped from t he shadow s of t he t rees t o t he cent re of t he cam p-sit e. Her hair w as no longer flam e-red but a deep brow n, close-cropped. Her face w as m ore square, her nose long, her ey es, once sea-green, now hazel beneath thick brows.

‘You are cert ainly no beaut y now,’ Arist ot le t old her, as t hey st ood in the Stone Circle following the departure of the Macedonians.

‘I w ill not need beaut y,’ she answ ered, her voice deep and alm ost husky.

She had st epped t hrough t he port al in t im e t o see Parm enion and At t alus riding int o t he w oods and had follow ed t hem, set t ling herself dow n a lit t le w ay from t heir cam p-sit e. At first she had int ended t o int roduce herself t hat sam e night but, reaching out w it h her Talent, she t ouched t he souls of bot h m en, learning t heir fears. They w ere uneasy w it h one anot her. Parm enion did not t rust t he coldeyed Macedonian w arrior, w hile At t alus had no love for t he m an he considered an arr ogant Spar t an. They needed t im e, she realized and, wrapping herself in her cloak, she slept.

She w as aw akened by t he sound of laught er and heard t he t w o Macedonians creeping t hrough t he under gr ow t h. Soaring from her body, she view ed t he scene from above and w as t he first t o see t he dark-cloaked Makedones warriors making their way through the woods towards the women.

When t he first scream s cam e, Derae sped t o Parm enion. His em ot ions w ere surging. Part of him yearned t o rescue t he m aidens, but a st ronger desire w as t o st ay safe and t hink of Alexander. I nst inct ively Derae used her pow er, filling him w it h a new sense of purpose. Even as she did so she knew it w as a m ist ake. One against t en w ould m ean t he deat h of t he m an she loved. Transferring her spirit t o At t alus, she sw ift ly read his int ent. There w as no w ay he w ould go t o Parm enion’s aid. His m ind w as locked t o a single t hought: Prot ect yourself! Wit h not hing else t o w ork on Derae m ade his fear sw ell. I f Parm enion w as t o die At t alus w ould be t rapped in t his w orld for ever, all his riches count ing for not hing. Never w ould he see his palaces and his concubines. He w ould spend his life as a m ercenary soldier in a w orld that was not his own. His anger was colossal as he drew his sword and raced to Parmenion’s aid.

The t w o w arriors fought m agnificent ly, but Derae w as sickened by t he slaught er and, w hen it w as over, w it hdrew t o her body, carrying w it h her a sense of shame.

The deat hs w ere on her conscience. She had m anipulat ed t he ev ent s, and that was contrary to all her beliefs. Long into the night she tried to rat ionalize her act ions. The Makedones w ere int ent on rape and m urder. Had she not int ervened t he w om en w ould have been abused and slain. But t heir deat hs w ould not have been your fault, she t old herself. Now the blood of the Makedones was on her hands.

What could I have done, she asked herself? What ever act ion or inact ion she had chosen w ould st ill have result ed in t ragedy, for t here had been no t im e t o influence all of t he Makedones. But you did influence t hem, she t hought. You slow ed t heir reflexes, giving Parmenion and Attalus an edge.

Filled w it h self-doubt t he Healer slept, dream ing of cent aurs and a Dem on King. I n t he m idst of her dream she w as aw oken by t he t ouch of a hand and sat up t o see a naked w hit ehaired w om an sit t ing on a fallen t ree. Behind her st ood t he m inot aur she had seen at t he clearing. The m oon w as high and a shaft of light bat hed t he w om an, making her seem almost ethereal.

‘You did well, seeress,’ the woman said. ‘You saved my children.’

‘It was wrong of me to interfere,’ Derae told her.

‘Nonsense. Your act ions saved not only m y people but t he t w o m en you follow. Had t hey not act ed as t hey did, t hen Bront es and his brothers would have slain them while they slept.’

‘Why?’ asked Derae. ‘What harm have they done you?’

‘They are Humans,’ answered the woman. ‘It is enough.’

‘What do you want of me?’

‘Your blood is of t he Enchant m ent. That is w hy you have t he Talent, parmenion also is a man of Power. You are strangers to this world, and I need to know if you come to do good or to work evil.’

‘I w ill never k now ingly help t he cause of Chaos,’ answ ered Der ae. ‘But t hat does not necessarily m ean t hat I w ill alw ays do good. For m any years I fought t he Chaos Spirit, seeking t o prevent him becom ing flesh. But I was responsible for his birth.’

‘I know. Parm enion sired I skander, and now t he Dem on King seeks him.’ The w om an w as silent for a t im e, her expr ession dist ant. Then she t urned her gaze once m ore t o t he Healer. ‘The Enchant m ent is dying. Can you help to save it?’

‘No.’

The woman nodded. ‘Neither can I. But, if the child is truly Iskander..

.’ She sighed. ‘I have no choice.’ Turning t o t he m inot aur she laid a slender hand on his huge shoulder. ‘Go w it h her, Bront es, and help where you can. If the child is not Iskander, then return to me. If he is, then do what you must to get him to the Gateway.’

‘I will, Mother,’ he answered.

The m oonlight faded, and w it h it t he w hit ehaired w om an, but t he minotaur remained. Derae reached out with her spirit - but was met by an invisible wall.

‘You do not need t o read m y t hought s,’ he t old her, his voice impossibly sweet. ‘I am no danger to you.’

‘How can t here be no danger w hen t here is so m uch hat e?’ she countered.

He did not reply.

The Wood of the Centaurs Alexander sat in t he w arm sunlight at t he m out h of t he cave, high on the m ount ain, st aring out over t he r oof of t he forest and t he plains beyond. Despit e his fear he felt w onderfully free in t he Wood of t he Cent aurs. Here he could t ouch w it hout killing and sleep w it hout dream s. Yest erday a silver-grey bird had landed on his hand, sit t ing t here w arm in t he securit y of his friendship, and not once had t he killing pow er t hreat ened t o flow. I t w as a form of bliss Alexander had never k now n. He m issed his hom e, and his m ot her and fat her, but t he longing was eased by this new-found joy.

Chiron wandered out into the open. ‘A fine day, young prince,’ he said.

‘Yes. It is beautiful. Tell me of the centaurs.’

‘What would you wish to know?’ asked the magus.

‘How do t hey survive? I k now som et hing of horses, and t he am ount t hey m ust eat and drink. Their t hroat s and st om achs are m ade for digesting grass and vast quantities of liquids. And their lungs are huge.

I cannot see how t he cent aurs can funct ion. Do t hey have t w o set s of lungs? Do t hey eat grass? And if so how do t hey m anage it, for t hey cannot bend like the neck of a horse?’

Chiron chuckled. ‘Good quest ions, Alexander. Your m ind w orks w ell.

You saw m e w it h Caym al and it is t he sam e w it h t he t rue cent aurs.

They live like m en and w om en, but t hey hav e form ed special bonds w it h t heir m ount s. They Merge in t he hours of daylight, but at dusk they separate.’

‘What happens if a horse dies? Can the centaur find another?’

‘No. I f t he horse dies t he m an - or w om an - w ill fade and pass aw ay within a day, occasionally two.’

‘Would that happen to you if Caymal died?’ Alexander asked.

‘No, for I am not a t rue cent aur. Our Merging is born of ext ernal magic. That is why Camiron feels so isolated. Lost, if you will.’

Chiron passed t he boy a chunk of sw eet bread and, for a w hile, t he com panions at e in silence. Then t he boy spoke again. ‘Where did it begin?’ he enquired.

‘What an enorm ous quest ion t hat is,’ t he magus answ ered. ‘And w ho am I t o at t em pt an answ er? The w orld once brim m ed w it h nat ural m agic, in every st one and brook, every t ree and hill. Many t housands of years ago t here w as a race of m en w ho har nessed t hat m agic. They st rode t he eart h like gods - indeed t hey w ere gods, for t hey becam e alm ost im m ort al. They w ere bright, im aginat ive, inquisit ive. And t heir children w ere t he Tit ans, giant s if t hey chose t o be, poet s if t hey w ished t o be. Tim es of w onder follow ed, but t hey are difficult t o describe - especially t o a four-year- old, albeit one as brilliant as Alexander. I w ould im agine you saw, at your ow n court, how m en and w om en seek out t he new - cloaks in different colours, dresses of different shape and design. Well, in t he Old World t he Tit ans sought out different shapes in t he cloak of life. Som e w ished t o be birds, having wings to soar into the sky. Others wished to swim in the depths of t he sea. All m anner of hy brids graced t he eart h.’ Chiron lapsed int o silence, his eyes focused on the past.

‘What happened then?’ whispered Alexander.

‘What alw ays happens, boy. Ther e w as a great w ar, a t im e of ast onishing cruelt y and carnage. A vast am ount of t he w orld’s m agic w as used up in t hat t errible confront at ion. Look ar ound you and see t he t rees. I t w ould seem im possible t hat t hey could all be cut dow n.

But if Man set s his m ind t o a m at t er he w ill achieve it, no m at t er how destructive. What I am saying is that all things are finite - even magic.

The w ar w ent on for cent uries, and now t here are only pocket s of t rue pow er. This w ood is one, but out t here in t he New World of Men t he st ones are em pt y, t he br ooks and hills devoid of m agic. So t he children of the Titans - those who survive anyway - are drawn to these few areas of Enchant m ent, held t o t hem by chains st ronger t han death.’

‘You m ake it sound so sad,’ said Alexander. ‘Will t he m agic not com e back?’

‘Perhaps. One day, like a per fect flow er, it m ight seed it self and gr ow again. But I doubt it.’ Chiron sighed. ‘And ev en if it does, Man w ill corrupt it. It is the way of all things. No, better for it to fade away.’

‘But if it does, will not the centaurs die with it?’

‘I ndeed t hey w ill, and t he nym phs and sat yrs, t he dryads and cyclopses. But so also w ill t he Vores and t he gorgons, t he hy dras and t he birds of deat h. For not all t he creat ures of Enchant m ent are benign. How ever,’ he said, rising, ‘t hat is enough of m y w orld for one day. Tell me of yours.’

They t alked on for som e t im e, but Alexander could t ell him lit t le of int erest and becam e aw are of a grow ing irrit at ion w it hin t he magus.

‘What is w rong?’ t he boy enquired at last. ‘Does m y lack of know ledge displease you?’

‘Pah! It is not you, child,’ replied Chiron, rising and walking away down the mountainside. Alexander ran after him, taking his hand.

‘Tell m e! ‘ pleaded t he prince. Chiron st opped and knelt before t he boy, his expression softening.

‘I have a dream, Alexander. I hoped y ou could help m e in m y pursuit of it. But you are very y oung and y ou k now so lit t le. I t is not your fault. I ndeed, I cannot im agine any ot her four-year- old w ho w ould know so much.’

‘What are you seeking?’

‘A w orld w it hout evil,’ answ ered Chiron sadly, ‘and ot her impossibilities. Now wait for me at the cave. I need to walk for a while, to think and to plan.’

Alexander w at ched him w alk aw ay dow n t he m ount ain t o vanish int o t he t rees, t hen t he boy clim bed up t o t he cave-m out h and sat for a while enjoying the sunshine.

Hunger at last forced him t o m ove and he w alked t hrough t he w all of illusion, ent ering t he palace beyond and m aking his w ay t o t he kit chens w here he at e honeycakes and dried fruit. He had seen no servant s here, yet t he food w as replenished every day. His int erest aroused, Alexander st rolled out int o t he palace grounds, seeking signs of life. But t here w ere no t r acks in t he soft eart h, save t hose t hat he m ade him self, and he ret urned t o t he palace w here he w andered aimlessly from room to room, bored and lonely.

For a t im e he looked at t he scrolls and books in one of t he m any library room s. But t hese w ere of lit t le int erest, inscribed as t hey w ere w it h sym bols he could not read. At last he cam e t o a sm all room, western-facing, w here he found a circular t able covered w it h a velvet clot h. At first he t hought t he t able w as cast from solid gold, but as he exam ined t he six ornat e legs he realized t hey w ere carved from w ood and overlaid w it h t hick gold-leaf. Clim bing on a chair he pulled aside t he velvet and gazed dow n on a j et - black surface, so dark it reflect ed no light, and it seem ed he w as st aring dow n int o an enorm ous w ell.

Reaching out he t ent at ively t ouched t he t able - and recoiled, as dark ripples spread across the surface, lapping at the raised perimeter.

Fascinat ed, he t ouched it again. I t w as colder t han snow and yet curiously comforting.

The surface light ened, becom ing blue. Then a cloud m oved across it.

Alexander laughed aloud. ‘There should be birds,’ he shout ed.

Obedient t o his w ishes t he scene rolled on and he saw sw ans flying in form at ion across t he sky. ‘Wonderful! ‘ he cried. ‘Now w here is t he land?’ The im age rolled once m ore, m aking t he boy dizzy so t hat he gripped t he edges of t he t able t o st eady him self. But now he saw t he forest as if from a great height, the trees clinging to the mountains like green smoke. ‘Show me Chiron!’ he commanded.

A figure loom ed int o life. I t w as t he magus sit t ing beside a st ream, flipping st ones int o t he w at er. His expression w as sorrow ful and Alexander felt a sudden stab of guilt for intruding on Chiron’s solitude.

‘Show me Philippos!’ he said.

The m irror t able dark ened and he saw an arm y cam ped before a burning cit y, dark t ent s highlight ed by t he dist ant flam es. The im age set t led on a huge t ent at t he cent re of t he cam p, m oving inside t o where the King was seated on a black throne of carved ebony.

Around him, kneeling at his feet, were darkrobed priests. One of them w as speaking, but t he boy could hear not hing. Pale shapes m oved at t he edge of t he m irror, and Alexander felt an icy t ouch of dread as creat ures of night m are crept forw ard t o surround t he King. Their skin w as fish-w hit e, t heir eyes dark and hooded, t heir heads bald, t he crow n of t he scalp raised in ridges of sharp bone. Scaled w ings grew from their shoulder-blades and their hands were hooked into talons.

‘Closer!’ ordered the boy.

A ghast ly face, in silhouet t e, filled t he m irror and Alexander could see t hat t he t eet h inside t he lipless m out h w ere point ed and sharp, rot t ing and green at t he purple gum s. Suddenly t he creat ure’s head t urned - the dark shining eyes, with their slitted pupils, staring up at the child.

‘He cannot see me,’ Alexander whispered.

The m irror ex ploded out w ards as a t aloned hand flashed up, sinking int o t he boy ‘s t unic and scoring t he flesh beneat h. The prince found him self dragged forw ard int o t he m irror and scream ed, his hands scrabbling at the scaled arm.

The killing power surged from his fingers with such power that the arm holding him was turned instantly to dust.

Throwing himself back Alexander toppled to the floor, the taloned hand st ill clinging t o his t unic. Ripping it loose, he flung it across t he floor and t hen sw ift ly gat hered t he velv et covering, hurling it over t he mirror table.

As he did so t here cam e a sound like a low groan, w hich form ed int o a terrible sentence.

‘I know where you are, child,’ came the voice of Philippos, ‘and there is no escape.’

*

Alexander sped from the room. His foot caught the edge of a flagstone and he t um bled t o t he floor, grazing his knees. Tears fell now as t his fresh pain unleashed his fears. They are com ing for m e, his m ind scream ed at him. Up t he long st airs he ran, heart beat ing w ildly, unt il at last he emerged from the cave-mouth into the sunshine.

Scanning t he skies for signs of t he scaled creat ures he sank t o a rock in the sunshine, shivering uncontrollably.

A cent aur carrying a bow and quiver t rot t ed from t he t ree-line, saw him and cant ered up t he m ount ainside. I t w as t he w hit e-bearded leader with the palomino flanks. He halted before the child.

‘Why do you cry?’ he asked, leaning forw ard t o t ouch his t hum b t o Alexander’s cheek, brushing away a tear.

‘My enem ies are com ing for m e,’ said Alexander, st ruggling t o halt t he surging panic.

‘Where is the outcast who carried you here?’

‘He is gone. I am with Chiron now.’

The cent aur nodded, his dark eyes t hought ful. ‘These enem ies you speak of, child - are they men, or of the Enchantment?’

‘They have wings and scales. They are not men.’

‘Vores,’ hissed t he cent aur. ‘Their t ouch is disease, t heir breat h is t he plague. Why does the Demon King seek you?’

‘He w ant s t o kill m e,’ t he child answ ered. ‘He w ant s t o live for ever.’

The shivering w as w orse now and sw eat bat hed his face. He felt dizzy and nauseous.

‘Are y ou I skander t hen?’ asked t he cent aur, his voice echoing from a great distance as if whispering across the vaults of Time.

‘That is w hat t hey called m e,’ answ ered Alexander. The w orld spun and he toppled from the rock to the soft grass. It felt cool against his face, but his chest w as burning and a dark m ist rolled across his mind

*

Dropping his bow and arrow s Kyt in bent his front forelegs and leaned dow n, lift ing t he child in his arm s. The sm all boy w as bur ning w it h fever. The cent aur pulled aside t he boy’s t or n t unic, cursing as he saw t he m ark s of t alons on t he slender t orso. Already pus w as seeping from t he w ounds, t he flesh around t hem puckered and unhealt hy.

Leaving his w eapons w here t hey lay Kyt in galloped dow n t he m ount ainside, cut t ing along a narr ow pat h t hrough t he t rees and splashing across a shallow stream.

Two other centaurs rode alongside him.

‘Why do you have the child?’ asked one.

‘He is I skander,’ replied Kyt in, ‘and he is dying! ‘ Wit hout w ait ing for a response he galloped on, lungs burning with the effort of the sustained pace, breat h com ing in ragged gasps. On he ran, deep int o t he heart of t he w oods. I t w as alm ost dusk w hen he ar rived at a village on t he banks of a broad river. The hom es here, perfect ly round and w indow less, w it h huge, gaping doorw ays, w ere built of w ood and st raw. Beyond t he scores of buildings w ere w ide past ures and t reeless hills, and already t here w ere horses grazing, t heir bondsm en sit t ing around fires. Kyt in felt t he Need upon him. Not yet, he caut ioned himself. Hold to the Form. Iskander needs you!

Halt ing before a roundhouse set apart from t he rest, he called out a nam e. But t here w as no reply and he st ood w ait ing, know ing she w as inside. Yet he w ould not - indeed could not - dist urb her at t his t im e, and felt w it h sick dread t he life of t he child ebbing aw ay like w at er passing through sand.

Finally an ancient pony st epped from t he large doorw ay, t ossed it s head and trotted towards the hills.

‘Gaea,’ called the centaur. ‘Come forth. I need you.’

An old w om an, support ing herself w it h a st aff, hobbled int o t he doorway. ‘I am tired,’ she said.

‘This is I skander,’ Kyt in t old her, ext ending his arm s. ‘He has been touched by a Vore.’

The old w om an’s head sank dow n t o r est on t he t ip of t he st aff. ‘Why now,’ she w hispered, ‘w hen I am so w eak?’ For a m om ent she w as silent, t hen she dr ew in a deep breat h and raised herself t o her full height ‘Bring him in, Kytin. I will do what I can.’

The cent aur eased past her, laying t he unconscious boy on a narrow pallet bed. Alexander’s lips and eyelids were blue now, and he scarcely seemed to breathe. ‘You must save him,’ urged Kytin. ‘You must!’

‘Hush, fool,’ she t old him, ‘and go t o your pr ivacy. Your flanks ar e t rem bling and t he Need is upon you. Go now, before you sham e yourself in public.’

Kyt in backed aw ay, leaving t he old w om an sit t ing on t he bed beside t he dying child. Taking his hand, she felt t he fever r aging. ‘You should have com e t o us t w ent y years ago,’ she w hispered, ‘w hen m y pow ers w ere at t heir height. Now I am old and near useless. My pony is dying and w ill not see out t he w int er. What w ould you have m e do, I skander - if you are truly Iskander?’

The boy stirred, moaning in delirium. ‘Par menion!’

‘Hush, child,’ said Gaea, her voice soot hing. Pulling open t he t unic she laid a w rinkled, bony hand upon t he fest ering scars. The heat scalded her skin and her m out h t ight ened. ‘That t he Enchant m ent should have sired such creat ur es’ she said, her voice acid and bit t er. Her hand began t o glow, t he bones st anding out like dark shadow s below t he skin as if a lant er n w as hidden under her palm. Sm oke w rit hed from t he boy ‘s chest, flow ing t hr ough her out st ret ched fingers, and t he w ounds sealed, pus oozing t o t he skin of his chest. The sm oke hung in a t ight sphere above him, dark and sw irling. ‘Begone! ‘ hissed t he old w om an. The sphere exploded and a t errible st ench filled t he roundhouse. Alexander groaned, but t he colour flow ed back t o his pale cheeks and he sighed.

Gaea st ood, st aggered and reached for her st aff. An elderly m an, stooped and bent, edged his way into the room.

‘Does he live?’ he asked, his voice t hin, w hispering t hrough r ot t ed teeth.

‘He lives, Kyaris. You br ought him in t im e. How can you be sure he is Iskander?’

The old m an m oved slow ly t o a chair by a burning brazier, sit t ing and holding his hands t o t he blaze. ‘He t old m e. And t he Tyrant seeks him, Gaea, to kill him and become immortal. Who else can he be?’

‘He could be a human child - and that is all. The Tyrant is not infallible; he has been wrong before.’

‘Not this time. I can feel it.’

‘In your bones, I suppose,’ she snapped. ‘I swear your horse has more sense t han y ou. The Vores m arked him; t hat m eans t hey k now w here he is. How long before t heir w ings are beat ing t he w ind above t his wood? Eh? How long?’

‘But if he is Iskander we must protect him. He is our hope, Gaea!’

‘Hopes! Dream s! ‘ snort ed t he old w om an. ‘They are like sm oke in t he breeze. I once dream t of I skander. But no m ore. Now I w ait for m y pony t o die, and t o leave t his w orld of blood and pain. Look at him!

How old is he? Four, five? You t hink he w ill lead us from peril? His mouth still yearns for his mother’s tits!’

Kyaris shook his head, his w ispy w hit e hair float ing like m ist against his face. ‘Once you had belief. But you are old, and your fait h has gone. Well, I t oo am old, but I st ill have hopes. I skander w ill save us.

He will restore the Enchantment. He will!’

‘Cling t o your nonsense if you w ill, old m an - but t om orr ow be ready w it h bow and spear. For t he Vor es w ill com e, and aft er t hem t he Makedones. Your stupidity will see us all destroyed.’

Kyaris st ruggled t o his feet. ‘Bet t er t o die t han t o live w it hout hope, Gaea. I have sons, and sons of my sons. I want them to see the return of the Enchantment. I will fight the Vores; they will not take the child.’

‘Find a m irror, you old fool,’ she t aunt ed him. ‘Once t he w ords of Kyaris-Kytin echoed like thunder across the world. Now you can scarce stand without support. Even Merged you cannot run far.’

‘I am sorry for you,’ he t old her. Moving t o t he bedside, he laid his hand on t he sleeping child’s brow. ‘Sleep w ell, I skander,’ he whispered.

‘Sell him to Philippos,’ she advised. ‘That would be true wisdom.’

‘There is no wisdom in despair, woman,’ he answered.

*

Parmenion and Attalus rode from the woods, angling down towards the plain and the distant, shimmering River Peneios. Clouds were bunching in t he sky, huge and rolling, prom ising a st orm, but t he w ind w as st ill w arm, t he rain holding off. At t alus eased his grey alongside Parmenion.

‘Where do we go, strategos?’

‘Across t he plain and int o t hose w oods,’ answ ered t he Spart an, point ing t o t he w est ern hills on w hich t he t r ee-line curved like t he crest of a giant helmet.

The first drops of r ain began t o fall, t hen a crack of t hunder sounded.

At t alus’ st allion reared, alm ost dislodging t he Macedonian. Light ning forked across t he sky and t he deluge began. The horses w alked now, heads bowed, the riders drenched and conversation impossible.

Glancing t o his left, At t alus saw a body lying on t he gr ass, t he legs st ripped of flesh. Beyond it w as anot her, t hen anot her. At t alus leaned t o his right, t apping Parm enion’s arm and point ing t o t he corpses. The Spart an nodded, but said not hing. For m ost of t he m orning t hey rode on t hrough t he desert ed bat t lefield and at last t he rain died aw ay, t he sun streaming through the broken clouds.

‘There w ere t housands of t hem,’ said At t alus, sw inging t o st are back over the plain. ‘They weren’t even stripped of weapons.’

Parm enion reined in t he gelding. ‘I w ould guess t he m ain bat t le w as fought t here,’ he said, indicat ing a low range of hills. ‘But - j udging by t he w ay t he corpses are gr ouped - t he left broke and t he defeat ed arm y ran w est. They w ere cut dow n by cavalry and t ried t o m ake a stand. No prisoners were taken and they were massacred to a man.’

‘A w orld not unlike our ow n,’ said At t alus, forcing a sm ile. But it faded swiftly.

‘You are w rong. This is a w ar unlike any I have seen,’ m ut t ered t he Spart an, his pale eyes scanning t he bat t lefield. ‘This is not j ust conquest; t his is but cher y. I w ould not w ish t o be part of such a conflict.’

At t alus dism ount ed and w alked t o a nearby corpse, kneeling t o lift t he dead w arrior’s shield. I t w as fashioned of w ood, reinforced by bronze, and paint ed blue. At t he cent re t w o snakes w ere depict ed, held in a man’s fist. ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ he asked, passing the shield up to Parmenion.

‘No. I t is obviously m eant t o be Heracles killing t he snak es in his crib.

It could be Theban; their shields carry the club of Heracles.’

‘I see not hing I recognize,’ said At t alus, nudging his foot under t he corpse and flicking t he body t o it s back. Picking up a dent ed helm, he turned it in his hands. It was of leather, covered by thin sheets of what appeared t o be bright br onze. There w as no crest or plum e, no cheeks-flaps t o pr ot ect t he face, m erely t w o badly-cast raven’s w ings, loosely rivet ed t o t he t em ples, and a slender m et al bar t hat dr opped vert ically from t he brow. ‘Badly m ade,’ said At t alus, ‘and t hese w ings serve no purpose,’ he added. ‘Look at t he nasal guard. I t is t oo t hin t o protect the face. The entire piece is useless - as I think he found.’

Tossing t he helm t o t he gr ound, At t alus rem ount ed. ‘These bodies have been here for w eeks, m aybe m ont hs. Why have t hey not been stripped?’

‘Perhaps there is no one left alive to strip them,’ said Parmenion.

Dark shadow s flow ed along t he grass. Parm enion gazed up t o see a score of pale shapes soaring high in t he sky, m oving w est w ard, t heir great w ings beat ing slow ly. Despit e t he height at w hich t hey flew, and t he bright ness of t he sun, t here w as no doubt as t o t heir sem i-human shape.

‘What in the name of Hecate?’ whispered Attalus.

The creat ures w ere j oined by a second group com ing from t he nort h.

Shading his eyes, Parm enion saw m ore of t he beast s flying in from south and west. ‘They are coming from all sides,’ he said.

‘They seem t o be heading for t he w oods. I t ell you, Parm enion, I do not like this world.’

‘Nor I,’ agreed t he Spart an, kneeing t he gelding int o a cant er. At t alus w as about t o follow w hen he spot t ed anot her corpse, a bow m an lying on his back, his face t orn aw ay by crow s. Dism ount ing, t he Macedonian rem oved t he m an’s leat her quiver, heft ing his short, curved bow of horn. Looping t he quiver over his shoulder, At t alus vaulted to the grey and rode after the Spartan.

I t felt good t o have a bow in his hands again. Such a fine w eapon.

Silent death, with little risk to the killer. The Spartan’s back was to him and At t alus pict ured a shaft lancing int o Parm enion’s brain. No, he t hought. There is no w ay I w ill kill him like t hat. I w ant t o see t he expr ession on his face. I w ant t o w at ch t he arr ogance and pride drain away.

And I w ill, he prom ised him self. Once w e find t he boy - and a w ay home.

*

Chiron st rolled beside t he st ream, his t hought s som bre. The w orld’s Enchant m ent w as fading fast. Now t here w ere few er t han a hundred areas across t he globe w here prim al m agic oozed from rock and t ree.

Only seven remained in Achaea.

Kneeling by t he w at er, he cupped his hands and dr ank. Philippos had been a bright, int elligent child, sw ift t o learn, sw ift er t o laugh. But t he evil w it hin him, t he Spirit of Chaos, had finally w on him, dest roying all that was human, all that had knowledge of kindness and beauty.

Sorrow descended on Chiron like a t errible w eight. His shoulders sagged and he lift ed his eyes t o t he heavens. ‘Perhaps it is t im e t o die,’ he said soft ly. ‘Perhaps I have lived t oo long.’ Rising, he w alked from t he t rees t o t he slopes of his m ount ain and began t he long clim b to the cave.

He saw Caym al grazing nearby and w aved, but t he horse did not see him. Chiron’s legs ached by t he t im e he reached t he cave and he st opped t o rest for a m om ent, draw ing t he healing st one from t he pouch at his side and holding it in his hand.

St rengt h flow ed in his lim bs and once m ore t he desire cam e t o let t he m agic st ream int o his blood, bringing him t he full pow er of yout h. But t he once golden st one w as alm ost drained of Enchant m ent and he dared not exhaust it. Dropping it back in t he pouch, he st rode t hr ough the cave and on into the palace, seeking Alexander.

The boy w as now here in sight. At first Chiron w as unw orried. The palace w as large, w it h a score of room s; all children loved t o explore and many of the rooms here contained artefacts that would fascinate a child like Alexander. But as t im e passed Chiron’s concern grew. Surely t he boy w ould have m ore sense t han t o w ander aw ay int o t he forest, he thought.

Then he cam e t o t he room of t he m irror t able and saw t he severed hand on the cold marble floor, the talons stained with blood.

‘No!’ he whispered. ‘No!’ Moving to the table, he saw that the cloth had been hastily thrown over it. With trembling hands Chiron eased it clear and found him self st aring dow n int o t he t ent of Philippos. The King w as sit t ing upon an ebony t hrone. He looked up, his golden eye gleaming in the firelight.

‘Ah, you are back, my friend,’ said the King. ‘How are you faring?’

‘Better than you, I fear,’ answered Chiron.

‘How can t hat be? I am Makedon, and m y arm ies conquer all w ho stand in my way. Better than that, I am invulnerable.’

‘You are inhuman, Philippos. There is nothing left of the boy I knew.’

The King’s laught er filled t he room. ‘Nonsense, Chiron! I am he. But, as a m an, it is necessary t o put aside childish w ays. Where am I different from the kings who ruled before me?’

‘I w ill not debat e w it h you. You are no longer hum an. Your soul is long dead; you fought a brave bat t le against t he Dar k, and it defeat ed you.

I pity you.’

‘Save your pity, Chiron,’ said the King, no trace of anger in his tone. ‘It is m isplaced. I did not suffer defeat - 1 overcam e t he Chaos Spirit and now he serves me. But you have something that I desire. Will you give it to me - or must I take it?’

Chiron shook his head. ‘You m ust t ake it if you can. But it w ill serve no purpose. The child w ill not bring you im m ort alit y. He is not Iskander; he is the son of a King in another land.’

Philippos st ood. ‘I f he is not t he One, t hen I w ill keep searching. I w ill have what I desire, Chiron. It is my destiny.’

‘There is no more to say,’ said Chiron. ‘Begone!’ His hand swept across the surface of the table and, for a moment only, the mirror shimmered into darkness. Then the face of Philippos returned.

‘You see,’ hissed t he King, ‘you no longer ev en hav e t he pow er t o dism iss m y im age. Send m e t he boy - or I w ill see your blood flow upon m y alt ar. You know t hat I can do it, Chiron. All your cent uries of life w ill be gone. You w ill be no m ore. That fright ens you, doesn’t it? I can see it in your eyes. Bring m e t he child and you w ill live. Defy m e and I will make your death last as long as your life.’

The m irror darkened. Chiron covered it and backed from t he room, running up the stairs and out through the cave.

Then he saw Kyt in’s bow and quiver lying w here t he cent aur had left them, and heard the beating of wings from the sky above him.

*

Kyt in galloped across t he sunlit clearing, rear ed, and sent an arrow flashing int o t he heart of a hovering Vore w hose w ings collapsed, it s pale form crashing t o t he grass. A black dart narrow ly m issed Kyt in’s head and t he cent aur sw ung t o send a second arr ow w inging it s w ay into his assailant’s belly.

Eleven cent aurs w ere dow n and m ore t han t hir t y Vores, but st ill t hey came - t heir great w ings flapping, t heir deadly m issiles slashing through the air.

‘Back under t he t rees! ‘ shout ed Kyt in. ‘They cannot fly t here! ‘ Sev eral cent aurs m ade a dash for t he forest, but am id t he st am ping hooves, t he beat ing of w ings and t he scream s of t he dying m any ot hers could not hear him and fought on. A Vore dropped from t he sky t o Kyt in’s back, sharp t alons cut t ing int o t he cent aur’s shoulder. The old m an bellow ed in rage and pain, bucking and flinging t he creat ure int o t he air. Its wings spread wide, halting its fall. Kytin leapt forward, his huge hands grabbing t he scraw ny neck and t w ist ing savagely, snapping t he hollow bones of the Vore’s throat.

A dart sliced int o Kyt in’s back, t he poison st ream ing int o his blood like acid. The im m inence of deat h galvanized t he cent aur. Tw ist ing and rearing he galloped t o Gaea’s hut, ducking inside t he doorw ay and st epping over t he dart - pierced body of t he old healer t o gat her up t he still-sleeping child. Kyt in’s legs alm ost buckled, but w it h a suprem e effort of w ill he raced back out int o t he daylight w it h t he boy held safe in his arm s, and t hundered t ow ards t he t rees. Tw o m ore dart s st ruck him, one piercing t he flesh beside his long spine, t he ot her glancing from his hind-quart ers. Then he w as past his at t ackers and on t o t he mountain path.

Vores soared up above t he t r ees, but t hey could not easily follow him, for the branches were interlaced like a canopy over the trail. Several of t he creat ures flew low, but t he undergr ow t h w as t hick, overhanging limbs hampering their flight.

Kyt in galloped on, t he poison spreading t hrough his lim bs. Tw ice he st um bled and alm ost fell, but drew on his reserves of st rengt h and courage, holding himself alive by the power of his dream.

I skander! He had t o rescue t he boy. The Enchant m ent had t o be saved.

He ran on deeper int o t he forest, seeking a cave, a hollow t ree - anyw here he could hide t he boy. But his eyes w ere veiled by a gr ey m ist t hat sw irled across his m ind, and so m any t hought s flit t ed by him, old m em ories, scenes of t rium ph and t ragedy. He saw again t he fight w it h Boas, t he great ride t o Cadm os, his m arriage t o Elena, t he birth of his first child

The boy awoke and struggled in his arms.

‘I t is all right, I skander,’ he t old him, his voice slurred now. ‘I w ill save you.’

‘There is blood on your chin, st aining your beard,’ said t he boy. ‘You are hurt.’

‘All will be well.’

The cent aur slow ed, his front legs buckling, Alexander t um bling from his arms and landing on his back with the breath knocked out of him.

A Vore sw ooped dow n bet w een t he high branches w it h arm s outstretched, a rope dangling from his hands. The boy tried to run, but he w as st ill w inded and t he loop dropped ov er his shoulders, pulling tight. Alexander screamed as he was pulled into the air.

An arrow plunged into the Vore’s side. Letting go the rope the creature t ried t o escape, but his w ings crashed against a branch and he somersaulted through the air before falling to his death.

Two horsemen galloped into sight and Alexander looked up.

‘Parm enion! ‘ he cried. The Spart an leapt t o t he ground and dr ew his sword. A black dart flashed t ow ards him but his sw ord-blade bat t ed it aside. Another arrow lanced through the air, bringing a screech of pain from a hovering Vore. Parm enion picked up t he boy and ran back t o the gelding.

‘No!’ shouted Alexander. ‘We mustn’t leave! My friend is hurt!’

‘Your friend is dead, boy,’ At t alus t old him, not ching anot her arr ow t o his bow. ‘Where to now, strategos? I can hear more of them coming.’

The cave,’ Alexander told them.

‘Which w ay?’ asked Parm enion, lift ing t he boy t o t he gelding and vaulting to sit behind him.

There on t he m ount ainside! ‘ shout ed Alexander, point ing t o a break in the trees.

‘Can we outrun them?’ Attalus asked.

‘I would doubt it,’ answered Parmenion. ‘But we must try.’

Urging t heir m ount s t o a run, t he Macedonians raced along t he narrow trail and out onto the mountainside.

‘Up t here! ‘ yelled Alexander. Parm enion glanced up. The black m out h of the cave was less than two hundred paces from them. Looking back, he saw the Vores closing fast. They would not reach it in time.

At t alus w as ahead; t he pow erful grey, w it h less of a load, w as surging on t ow ards t he sanct uary of t he cave. A black dart lanced int o t he stallion’s back. For a few moments the beast ran on, then its front legs gave w ay, pit ching At t alus t o t he ear t h. The sw ordsm an hit hard, but rolled t o his knees. He st ill held t he bow - but it w as snapped at t he tip. Flinging it aside, he drew his sword.

Parm enion leapt dow n beside him, slapping t he gelding’s rum p and urging t he beast t ow ards t he cave. Wit h less t o carry t he gelding sped on, Alexander clinging to his mane.

Suddenly a flash of light ning exploded int o t he hovering ranks of t he Vores, scat t ering t hem and killing m or e t han t w ent y. I n t he momentary confusion Parmenion saw their chance to escape. ‘Run!’ he yelled, turning to sprint up the mountainside.

A grey-haired m an st epped int o t heir pat h, but he did not look at t hem. I nst ead his hands w ere raised, point ing at t he skies. Blinding w hit e light leapt from his fingers, and t he air w as filled w it h t he sm ell of burning flesh and the echoing death-cries of the Vores.

Wit hout looking back, t he Macedonians scram bled int o t he cave w here Alexander w ait ed. ‘Follow m e! ‘ ordered t he boy, leading t hem t hrough the illusory wall and into the palace.

‘Can the beasts follow us here?’ asked Parmenion.

‘Chiron says no enemies can pass through the wall,’ the boy answered.

‘We’ll see,’ said Parm enion, heft ing his sw ord and w ait ing, At t alus beside him.

Chiron appeared. ‘I m ust offer you m y t hanks,’ said t he magus, smiling.

‘That’s why you sent us here,’ replied Parmenion. ‘It is good to see you again, Aristotle.’

‘I fear t here is som e m ist ake,’ t he magus t old t hem. ‘I do not know you.’

‘What gam e is t his?’ hissed At t alus, m oving forw ard t o lay his sw ord on Chiron’s shoulder, the blade resting against his throat. ‘You send us int o a w orld of m adness and now claim w e are st rangers? No j est s, magus l I am not in the mood for them.’

‘Wait! ‘ said Parm enion, st epping in and lift ing At t alus’ blade clear.

‘What is your name, friend?’

‘I am Chiron,’ t he magus t old him. ‘The nam e Arist ot le is not know n t o m e. But t his is t ruly fascinat ing. I exist - in anot her form - in your world. And in how many others, I wonder?’

‘Are you believing this?’ stormed Attalus. ‘We can see who he is!’

‘No,’ said Parm enion. ‘Look closely. He is m ore t hick-set, and Arist ot le has a sm all scar on his right t em ple. Ot her t han t hat t hey could be t w ins. But, before w e ent er int o a debat e, let us first ascert ain how safe we are here. Can the creatures enter?’

‘Not im m ediat ely,’ replied t he magus. ‘But t he Enem y has m any allies, and my power is not what it was.’

Parm enion st rolled t o t he w indow, st aring out at t he sparkling ocean.

‘Are we still in your world, magus, or is this yet another?’

‘It is the same - merely in a different place. There are seven centres of Power in Achaea. I can travel between them. This palace is on the Gulf of Malin.’

‘Malin? Malia, perhaps,’ w hispered Parm enion. ‘I s t here a pass close by, with a name similar to Thermopylae?’

‘Exactly that. Two days’ ride to the south.’

‘Then Thebes will be the closest major city.’

‘There is no city of that name,’ the magus told him.

‘The White Lady spoke of Cadmos.’

‘What White Lady?’ put in Attalus, but the other two men ignored him.

‘Yes, t her e is Cadm os, t he st rongest cit y of cent ral Achaea,’ agreed Chiron, ‘but t he Makedones have it besieged. They w ill not hold out against Philippos. What is it you plan?’

‘We must get to Sparta,’ said Parmenion.

‘Why t here?’ asked At t alus. ‘And w ho is t his Lady? Will som eone t ell me what is going on?’

‘A good quest ion, m y friend,’ said Chiron, laying his hand on t he sw ordsm an’s shoulder. ‘Let us go t o t he kit chens, w here I w ill prepare food and w e can sit and t alk. There is m uch here I also do not understand.’

Lat er, as t hey sat in t he open air, Parm enion t old At t alus of t he m eet ing w it h t he lady of t he glade, and of her advice. ‘I t w as no dream. We fought t he Makedones, and w ere t hen dr ugged. I do not know w ho t he Lady w as, but she t reat ed m e w ell and I believe her advice to be sound.’

‘I would not know about that,’ snapped Attalus, ‘since she did not have the good manners to wake me. Why you, Spartan? Am I seen as some lackey running in your footsteps?’

‘I cannot answ er your quest ions. The glade w as a place of m agic and beaut y. I do not t hink t hey desired t he presence of m en. But w e rescued the nymphs and therefore, I suppose, earned their gratitude.’

‘They show ed it well, leaving m e asleep on t he cold eart h. Well, a curse on t hem! I care not hing for t hem, nor any of t he deform ed m onst ers of t his place. I have only one quest ion: How do w e get home?’ he asked, turning to the magus.

Chiron spread his arms. ‘I do not know.’

‘Does anyone k now anyt hing here?’ st orm ed At t alus, rising and stalking out into the gardens and down the steps to the wide beach.

‘Your friend is frightened,’ said Chiron. ‘I cannot say that I blame him.’

Parm enion nodded. ‘He is a pow erful m an back in Macedonia and he needs t o feel in cont rol of his surroundings. Here, he is like a leaf in a storm.’

‘I sense you are not friends. Why did he accom pany you on t his quest?’

‘He has his ow n reasons,’ said Parm enion. ‘The first am ong t hem is t o see t hat I do not rescue Alexander alone. He w ishes t o share in t hat glory, and will risk his life to that end.’

‘And what of you, Parmenion? Are you frightened?’

‘Of course. This w orld is st range t o m e; I have no place in it. But I am a hopeful m an. I have found Alexander and, for t he m om ent, w e are safe. That is enough.’

Alexander w alked out int o t he sunshine and clam bered on t o Parm enion’s lap. ‘I knew you’d com e, Parm enion. I t old you, didn’t I, Chiron?’

‘Yes you did, young prince. You are a good judge of men.’

‘Why is Attalus here? I don’t like him.’

‘He is here t o help you,’ said Parm enion. ‘Now, w hy don’t you go dow n to the beach and make friends with him?’

‘Must I?’

‘He is your fat her’s m ost t rust ed w arrior, and Philip does not give such trust lightly. Go. Speak to him. Then make your judgements.’

‘You are just trying to get rid of me so that you can talk to Chiron.’

‘Exactly right,’ Parmenion admitted, with a broad smile.

‘Very w ell t hen,’ said t he boy, easing him self t o t he ground and walking away.

‘He’s a fine child,’ said Chiron, ‘and he loves you dearly.’

I gnoring t he com m ent, Parm enion st ood and st ret ched his back. ‘Tell me something of this world, magus. Make me feel less of a stranger.’

‘What do you wish to know?’

‘The balance of pow er. Begin w it h Philippos. When did he com e t o t he throne - and how?’

Chiron poured a goblet of w ine, sipping it before answ ering. ‘He m urdered his brot her Per dikkas t en y ears ago and seized t he crow n.

Then he led his troops into Illyria and the north, conquering their cities and st ealing t heir m ines. At hens declared w ar, as did t he cit ies of t he Trident The Trident?’

‘The lands of the Halkidike?’

‘Ah yes. The Chalcidice. Go on.’

Thilippos crushed t he arm ies of t he Trident t hree years ago, t hen conquered Thrace.’

‘What about the Persian empire?’

‘What em pire?’ asked Chiron, chuckling. ‘How could such uncout h barbarians have an empire?’

Parmenion leaned back. ‘Then who rules the lands of Asia?’

‘No one. I t is a w ilderness populat ed by nom adic t ribes w ho slaught er and kill each ot her in scores of m eaningless w ars. There are Greek cit ies on t he coast line, once ruled by At hens or Spart a, but no empire. Is there such where you come from?’

‘Yes,’ Parm enion t old him. ‘The great est t he w orld has ever seen. The Great King rules from t he borders of Thrace t o t he edge of t he w orld.

Even Greece Achaea as you call it pays hom age t o Persia. But you were telling me about the conquest of Thrace.’

Chiron nodded. ‘The arm y of Makedon m oved t hrough t he count ry like a forest fire, dest roying ever yt hing, every cit y, every t ow n. The ent ire populat ion w as sold int o slavery, or slain. Then, last year, Philippos m arched sout h int o Thessalonika. The bat t le w as fought near her e against t he com bined forces of Cadm os and At hens. They w ere crushed ut t erly. Then t he King skirt ed Cadm os and st ruck at At hens, burning t he acropolis and killing all t he cit izens save t hose w ho escaped t o sea. Now Cadm os faces his w rat h. I t w ill not st and long.

After that it will be Sparta.’

‘Why is he so invincible?’ asked Par m enion. ‘Surely it is possible t o defeat him?’

Chiron shook his head. ‘When he w as a child he w as like Achilles before him dipped int o t he River St yx. He is invulnerable t o w ounds. Unlike Achilles his m ot her did not neglect t o cover his heel.

No arrow can mark him, nor sword cut him. Then when he was twenty, and new ly crow ned, he asked a sorcerer of great pow er t o creat e for him an eye of gold, an all-seeing eye t hat w ould allow him t o read t he heart s of m en. The sorceror did as he w as bid. Philippos t ook t he eye and t hen t ore his ow n right eye from it s socket, replacing it w it h t he magical orb.

So you see, Parm enion, no one can eit her out fight him or out t hink him. He knows in advance all the plans of his enemies.’

‘What happened t o t his sorcerer of gr eat pow er? Perhaps he w ill know of a way to destroy his creation.’

‘No, my friend. I am that sorcerer, and I can help you not at all.’

*

At t alus sat on t he beach, feeling t he w arm t h of t he sun on his face, yet even t his w as not as hot as his anger. To be forced t o t ravel w it h t he loat hsom e Spart an w as bad enough, but he had ex pect ed a ride int o Thrace or t he Chalcidice in order t o rescue t he pr ince. Not t his appalling place of deformity and madness.

Pict uring t he flying creat ures, he shivered. How could a w arrior hope to combat such beasts?

Unbuckling his breastplate, he put aside his clothes and waded out into t he sea, enj oying t he sudden cool on his body. Hurling him self forw ard he ducked under t he w at er, sw im m ing w it h long easy st rokes t o surface som e w ay from t he shore. Sm all t ranslucent fishes sw am by him in glit t ering shoals and he splashed his hand in t he w at er, laughing as they scattered in all directions.

This at least was a reality he knew, and he revelled in the feeling.

At last he began t o t ire of t he sea and headed back for t he shore, pushing himself upright in the soft sand and flicking the water from his long hair.

Alexander w as w ait ing beside his arm our. ‘You sw im w ell,’ said t he boy.

At t alus sw allow ed a curse. He did not like t he child. A dem on, t hey said, barely hum an, w ho could kill at a t ouch. The sw ordsm an nodded a greeting and sat down on a rock, waiting for the sun to dry his skin.

‘Are you fright ened?’ asked t he prince, his expression disarm ingly innocent, head cocked to one side.

‘I fear not hing, m y prince,’ At t alus answ ered. ‘And any m an w ho says differently will answer to me with a blade.’

The child nodded solem nly. ‘You are v ery brave t o com e so far t o find me. I know my father will reward you.’

At t alus laughed. ‘I have t hr ee est at es and m ore w ealt h t han I can spend in a lifet im e. I need no rew ards, Prince Alexander. But I w ould give a king’s ransom to see Macedonia again.’

‘We will. Parmenion will find a way.’

At t alus bit back an angr y ret ort. ‘I t is good t o have fait h in one’s heroes,’ he said at last.

‘You do not like him, do you?’

‘I like no man - save Philip. And you see too much. Beware, Alexander, such gifts can be double-edged.’

‘Do not ever go against him,’ w arned t he prince. ‘He w ould kill you, Attalus.’

The sw ordsm an m ade no reply, but he sm iled w it h genuine hum our.

Alexander st ood silent ly for a m om ent, t hen looked up int o t he Macedonian’s eyes. ‘I know you are said t o be t he best sw ordsm an in t he land, and also m y fat her’s m ost t rust ed assassin. But know t his, if ever Parm enion dies in m yst erious circum st ances it is t o you I will come. And your death will follow soon after.’

At t alus sighed. ‘I did not ent er t his world of t he bizarre t o hear your t hreat s, boy. I cam e t o rescue you. You do not have t o like m e - w hy should you, after all? I am not a likeable man. But - should I ever have cause t o fight Parm enion - your t hreat s w ill not sw ay m e. I am m y own man and I walk my own path. Remember that.’

‘We will both remember,’ said Alexander.

‘There’s truth in that,’ the swordsman agreed.

*

‘Do not t ry t o t hink of a w ay t o defeat Philippos,’ said Chiron. ‘I t is not possible.’

‘Not hing is im possible,’ Parm enion assured him, as t he t w o m en st rolled t hrough t he palace grounds in t he last lingering light of t he fading sun.

‘You m isunderst and m e,’ cont inued Chiron. ‘There are great er issues here. Why do you think such a being of enormous power would wish to house himself in the frail human shell of a man - even a king?’

Parmenion halt ed by a st ream and sat on a w ooden bench. ‘Tell m e,’ he said.

Chiron st ret ched him self out on t he grass and sighed. ‘I t is not a simple matter. The Chaos Spirit has no natural form. He is IT is of spirit, apparent ly bot h im m ort al and et ernal. So t hen, t he real question is how he exists. Do you follow me?’

‘Not yet, magus, but I am ever the willing learner.’

‘Then let us t ake it slow ly. What is t he single great est m om ent of your life?’

‘What has t his t o do w it h anyt hing?’ asked Parm enion, suddenly uncomfortable.

‘Bear with me, warrior,’ urged Chiron.

Parm enion t ook a deep breat h. ‘Many years ago-a lifet im e, it seem s - I loved a young w om an. She m ade t he sun shine m ore bright ly. She made me live.’

‘What happened to her?’

The Spartan’s expression hardened, his blue eyes gleaming with a cold light. ‘She was taken from me and slain. Now make your point, magus, for I am losing patience.’

‘Exact ly m y point! ‘ said Chiron, pushing him self t o his feet and sit t ing beside t he Spart an. ‘I w ant you t o t hink back t o how you felt at t he m om ent you pict ured your love and your days t oget her, and t hen how t hose t hought s changed w hen t ouched w it h bit t erness. The Chaos Spirit m ay seem t o be im m ort al and et ernal, but it is not ent irely t he trut h. He needs t o feed. I do not k now if pain, anguish and hat red sired him, or whether he is the father and mother of all bitterness. In a w ay it does not m at t er. But he needs Chaos t o keep him alive. I n t he body of Philippos he strides the world, birthing oceans of hatred. Every slave, every w idow, every or phaned child w ill know hat e; t hey w ill lust for revenge. Long aft er Philippos is dust t he Makedones w ill be despised. Do you see? He cannot be beat en, for even in dest roying Philippos you only continue to feed the spirit that possesses him.’

‘What t hen do y ou suggest, t hat w e m eekly lie dow n before t he Tyrant, offering our lives with a smile and a blessing?’

‘Yes,’ answered Chiron simply, ‘for then we would be countering Chaos w it h a great er force - love. But t hat w ill never be. I t w ould t ak e a great er m an t han any I have m et w ho could answ er violence w it h forgiveness, evil with love. At best all we can do is to fight him without hatred.’

‘Why did you make the eye for Philippos?’ asked Parmenion suddenly.

‘I had a vain hope t hat he w ould use it t o see him self, t he t rue soul w it hin. He did not. I t has alw ays been a problem for m e, Parm enion, for I seek t o see t he good in every m an, hoping it w ill conquer. Yet it happens so rarely. A st rong m an w ill seek t o rule; it is his nat ure. And t o rule he w ill need t o conquer ot hers.’ Chiron sighed. ‘All our heroes are m en of violence, are t hey not? I do not k now t he nam es of such heroes in your world. But it will be the same story.’

‘Yes,’ agr eed Parm enion. ‘Achilles, Heracles, Agam em non, Odysseus.

All m en of t he sw ord. But surely if evil m en choose sw ord and lance, then good men must do the same to combat them?’

‘Would t hat it w ere t hat sim ple,’ snapped Chiron. ‘But good and evil are not so easily dist inguished. Good does not w ear golden ar m our, nor does evil alw ays dress in black. Who is t o say w here evil lies? You are a general in your ow n w orld. Did you ever sack a cit y? Kill w om en and children?’

‘Yes,’ answered Parmenion, uncomfortable now.

‘And were you serving the forces of good?’

The Spart an shook his head. ‘Your point is w ell m ade. You are a good man, Chiron. Will you come with us to Sparta?’

‘Where else w ould I go?’ answ ered t he magus sadly. Rising, he m ade as if to walk away, then turned. ‘There is a legend here - a fine legend.

I t is said t hat one day t he Enchant m ent w ill ret urn, t hat it w ill be brought back to us by a goldenhaired child of the gods. He will restore peace and harm ony, and t he w orld w ill shine again. I s t hat not a beautiful idea?’

‘Hold to it,’ advised Parmenion, his voice gentle.

‘I do. I hoped Alexander w as t he Golden One. But he t oo is cursed by Chaos. How m any ot her w or lds are t here, Parm enion? Does a version of the Dark God stalk them all?’

‘Never give in t o despair,’ t he Spart an advised. ‘Think on t his: I f you are correct, then perhaps in most of those worlds the Golden Child has already come.’

‘That is a good t hought,’ agreed Chiron. ‘And now I m ust leave you for a w hile. You are safe here - for t he m om ent. But w at ch t he sea.

Philippos will be using all his powers to locate Alexander.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to the wood. They will need me there.’

*

Parm enion found t he sorcerer’s m ood infect ious and his spirit s w ere sombre as he strolled along the line of cliffs overlooking the beach. Far below he could see At t alus and Alexander sit t ing on t he w hit e sand, deep in conversation, and he stopped for a while to watch them.

My son, he t hought suddenly, and sadness st ruck him like a blow.

Philotas, Nicci and Hector were his sons, yet his feelings for them were am bivalent. But t his boy - t his golden child - w as everyt hing t o him.

There is no profit in regret, he rem inded him self, but t he w ords, though true, offered no comfort. For this one regret lived on in his own privat e Hall of Sham e. On t he w edding night in Sam ot hrace, w hen Philip w as aw ait ing t he arrival of his bride, Parm enion had bet r ayed him. There w as no ot her w ord t o suit t he occasion. Wit h t he King lying in a drunken stupor, it was Parmenion who had donned the ceremonial fullfaced helm and cloak of Kadm ilos and w alked int o t he t orchlit room w here Olym pias lay w ait ing; Parm enion w ho had clim bed t o t he bed, pinning her arm s beneat h him; Parm enion w ho had felt her soft thighs slide over his hips

‘Enough! ‘ he said aloud, as t he m em ory br ought fresh arousal. I t w as a form of double bet rayal, and even now he could not underst and it.

His pride and pow erful sense of honour had led him t o believe t hat he w ould never bet r ay a friend. Yet he had. But w hat w as w orse, and cont inued t o t orm ent him, w as how even now, w hile his m ind reeled sick w it h t he sham e of his deed, his body cont inued t o react t o t he memory with arousal, lust and delight.

I t w as w hy he endured Philip’s anger, and his occasional t aunt s. Guilt t ied him t o t he Macedonian King w it h bonds st ronger t han love, as if by serving Philip fait hfully he could in som e w ay even t he balance, eradicate the shame.

‘You never will,’ he whispered.

Olym pias had been so m uch like Deraes, slim and beaut iful, her redgold hair glint ing in t he t orchlight. She had t ried t o rem ove t he helm, com plaining t hat t he cold m et al w as hurt ing her face, but he held her hands dow n against t he soft sheet s, ignoring her pleas. She had spent t he first part of t he night in t he Woods of t he Myst eries, inhaling t he Sacred Sm oke. Her pupils w ere enorm ously dilat ed and she lost consciousness while he lay upon her. It did not stop him.

Guilt cam e lat er w hen he crept back int o Philip’s room s, w here t he King lay naked on a couch, lost in a dr unken sleep. Pulling clear his helm, Parm enion gazed dow n on t he m an he had sw orn t o serve and felt t hen t he sharp pain of regret. He dressed t he unconscious m onarch in t he cloak and helm and carried t he King int o t he bedroom, laying him alongside Olympias.

Back in his ow n room s he had t ried t o j ust ify his act ions. The Lady Aida, in w hose palace t hey w ere guest s, had t old Philip t hat if he did not consum m at e t he w edding w it hin w hat she t erm ed t he Holy Hour, then the marriage would be annulled. Philip had laughed at that. Faced w it h a beaut iful w om an, he had never been found w ant ing, and felt no concern at the threat. Yet, as he waited through the long night, he had continued - despite Parmenion’s warnings - to drain goblet after goblet of t he heavy Sam ot hracian w ine. Philip’s capacit y for alcohol w as legendary, and it st ill surprised Parm enion how sw ift ly t he King had succumbed to its influence on this special night.

At first Parm enion t ried desperat ely t o rouse Philip, but t hen he had gazed int o t he bedroom w here Olym pias lay naked on t he broad bed.

He t ried t o convince him self t hat his first t hought had been of Philip, and t he hurt t o his pride in t he m orning w hen all of Sam ot hrace hear d of his failure in t he m arriage bed. But it w as a lie. That excuse cam e later, as he lay awake watching the dawn.

Now he lived with a constant torment, as double-edged as any dagger.

First ly he feared t he t rut h becom ing know n, and secondly he had t o endure the sight of his beloved son being raised by another.

‘I hope you are t hinking of a plan t o get us hom e,’ said At t alus, moving silently alongside the Spartan.

‘No,’ adm it t ed Par m enion, ‘m y t hought s w ere on ot her m at t ers. Did you enjoy your swim?’

‘It cooled me for a while. Where is the sorcerer?’

‘He w ill be back soon. He has gone t o see if t he cent aurs need his help.’

Alexander climbed into view, the steps on the cliff path almost too high for him. He w aved as he saw Parm enion and m oved alongside him, sit t ing close. I nst inct ively t he Spart an put his arm around t he boy.

Attalus said nothing, but Parmenion felt his gaze.

‘We m ust m ake our w ay dow n t o t he Gulf of Corint h,’ said Parm enion sw ift ly, ‘and t hen t o Spart a. We can only hope t hat Arist ot le w ill find a way to us there.’

‘Hope?’ sneered At t alus. ‘I w ould like som et hing st ronger t han t hat.

But w hy Spart a? Why not ret urn t o t he Circle of St ones and w ait? That is where he sent us. Surely that is where he will expect us to be?’

Parm enion shook his head. ‘The enem y are everyw here - and t hey have used sorcery t o locat e Alexander. We could not hope t o sur vive alone against t hem. Spart a holds out. We w ill be safe t here. And Aristotle is a magus; he will find us.’

‘I am not convinced. Why not wait here?’ argued Attalus.

‘I w ish t hat w e could, but Chiron does not believe w e are safe even here. The King’s reach is long, his pow ers great. Are you beginning t o regret your decision to accompany me?’

At t alus chuckled. ‘I began t o regret it t he m om ent w e rode from t he Circle. But I will stay the course, Spartan.’

‘I did not doubt it.’

‘Look! A ship! ‘ cried Alexander, point ing out t o sea w here a t rirem e w as sailing gr acefully int o view, it s black sail furled, it s t hree banks of oars rising and dipping int o t he sparkling blue w at er. Slow ly t he prow turned until the craft was pointing to the shore.

Closer it cam e unt il t he w at chers could see clearly t he hundred or so armed men gathering on the great deck.

‘Friendly, do you t hink?’ asked At t alus as t he ship w as beached, t he warriors clambering to the sand.

‘They are Makedones,’ said Alexander, ‘and they are coming for me.’

Then some of them will die,’ said Attalus softly.

*

‘Back into the palace,’ ordered Parmenion, sweeping Alexander into his arm s and m oving aw ay from t he cliff-edge. Far below t hem t he Makedones soldiers began t he long clim b up t he st eep pat h, sunlight glinting from spear and sword.

Parm enion ran int o t he palace kit chens w here he had put aside his breast plat e, helm and sw ord. Donning t he arm our, he lift ed Alexander and m ade his w ay sw ift ly t o t he w ide st airw ay, t aking t he st eps t w o at a time.

‘What if t hose flying creat ures are st ill on t he ot her side?’ asked Attalus as they reached the illusory wall.

‘We die,’ m ut t ered Parm enion, draw ing his sw ord and st epping t hrough t o Chiron’s cave. I t w as em pt y. Low ering Alexander t o t he ground the Spartan moved to the cave-mouth, scanning the mountainside. The dead gr ey st allion lay w here it had fallen, black crow s squabbling ov er t he carcass. Beyond t he st allion lay t he corpses of m ore t han t hirt y Vores, but t hese t he crow s avoided. Of Parm enion’s gelding there was no sign.

‘We’d be safer in t he w oods,’ said At t alus. Parm enion nodded and t he t rio crossed t he open m ount ainside, reaching t he sanct uary of t he trees without incident.

The w oods w ere unnat urally silent. No bird-song sw eet ened t he air, and not a t race of breeze dist urbed t he canopied branches above. The silence m ade bot h w arriors uneasy, but Alexander w as happy w alking beside his hero, holding Parm enion’s hand. They w alked deeper int o t he w oods, keeping t o a narrow gam e t rail t hat t w ist ed, rose and fell unt il it reached a shallow st ream w here cool m ount ain w at er rippled over white stones.

‘Do w e cross it - or follow it?’ asked At t alus, keeping his voice low.

Before Parm enion could answ er t hey hear d sound of m ovem ent from t he t rail ahead, t he snapping of dried w ood underfoot. Then cam e voices, muffled by the undergrowth..

Gat hering t he child, Parm enion backed aw ay t ow ards t he bushes, Attalus beside him. But before they could find a place in which to hide, a w arrior in a raven-w inged helm appeared on t he ot her side of t he stream.

‘Here!’ he bellowed. The child is here!’

More t han a score of dark-cloaked soldiers carrying spears and sw ords ran to join him. Attalus’ blade hissed from its scabbard.

Parm enion sw ung round. Behind t hem w as a narr ow t rack. On eit her side w ere t hick st ands of t horn bushes and bram bles. From w here he st ood t he Spart an could see no end t o t he t rack, but glancing dow n he saw cloven hoofprints of deer leading away up the slope.

The Makedones surged forward into the water, the woods echoing with their screams of triumph.

‘Run! ‘ shout ed Par m enion, holding Alexander t ight t o his chest as he set off along the track. Thorns cut into his calves and thighs as he ran, and t w ice he alm ost st um bled as dry dust shift ed beneat h his sandalled feet. The slope w as st eep, t he t rack m eandering, but at last he em erged t o a w ider t rail bordered by huge, gnarled oaks. Glancing over his shoulder he saw At t alus som e t en paces back, t he pur suing Makedones closing on him. A soldier paused in his run to hurl a spear.

‘Look out! ‘ shout ed Parm enion and At t alus sw erved left, t he w eapon slashing past him t o bury it self in t he ground in front of t he sw ordsm an. At t alus grabbed t he shaft as he ran, pulling it from t he eart h. Turning suddenly, he launched t he spear back at t he t hrow er.

The soldier t hrew him self t o t he ground, t he m issile t aking t he m an behind him full in the throat.

Spinning on his heel, At t alus raced aft er Parm enion. The Spart an ran on, seeking alw ays nar row t racks t hat w ould keep t he enem y in single file behind t hem, and as he ran his anger gr ew. There w as no st rat egy here for vict ory, no subt le plan t o sw ing a bat t le. Out num bered, t hey w ere being hunt ed t hrough an alien w ood by a deadly enem y. All t hat w as left w as t o run. But w here? For all Parm enion k new t hey w ere heading towards an even greater enemy force, or worse perils.

I t w as galling t o t he point of rage. All his life t he Spart an had survived by out t hinking and out planning his enem ies. He w as t he strategos, the general. Yet here he had been r educed t o t he level of t he panicstricken prey, running for his life.

No, he realized, not panicstricken. Never that!

In his youth he had been a distance runner, the fastest and the best in Spart a and Thebes, and now - even burdened by t he child - he knew he could out last t he Makedones. But t he problem w as w here t o run.

Glancing up at t he sky, he t ried t o est ablish his posit ion in t he w oods.

The cave w ould be t o t he left. Yet w hat pur pose w ould be served by ret ur ning t here? They could pass t he w all and escape t heir im m ediat e pursuers, only t o be caught by t he soldiers searching t he palace beyond. No, the cave was no answer.

A fallen t ree lay across his pat h and he hurdled it effort lessly. Ahead the trail forked, one path rising, the other dipping down into a shadowhaunt ed glen. A spear flashed by him. Cut t ing right, he m ade for t he glen.

Three soldiers ran int o his pat h som e t hirt y paces ahead. Cursing, he t w ist ed t o his left and leapt a low bush, scram bling up a st eep rise t o em erge in a circular clearing in a hollow ringed by cypress t rees.

Attalus came alongside, his face red from exertion, sweat glistening on his skin.

‘I can run no further,’ said the swordsman.

I gnoring him, Parm enion m oved t o a nearby t ree, lift ing Alexander t o t he low est branch. ‘Clim b int o t hat fork and crouch dow n,’ ordered t he Spart an. ‘You w ill not be seen from t he gr ound.’ The boy pushed his small body through the pine needles and lay, hidden from view.

Draw ing his sw ord, Parm enion ran back t o t he edge of t he slope and w ait ed. The first Makedones w arrior scram bled up - and scream ed as Parm enion’s blade sm ot e his neck. The soldier t um bled back am ongst his comrades.

Three m ore Makedones ent ered t he clearing from t he left and At t alus ran t o m eet t hem, blocking a sw ord-t hrust and sending a reverse cut that opened one man’s throat in a spray of crimson.

But t hen t he m ain body of t he enem y appeared, spreading out ar ound t he Macedonians. Parm enion backed aw ay, At t alus j oining him, t he spears of the Makedones closing around them in a wall of pointed iron.

‘I should have taken your advice,’ whispered Attalus.

‘Where is t he child?’ asked a sw art hy, dark-eyed w arrior w it h a pockmarked face.

At t alus chuckled. ‘I t is hard t o believe anyt hing so ugly could have learned the power of speech.’

‘Where is t he child?’ asked t he m an again, t he spear-point s m oving closer.

A spearm an t oppled forw ard, an arr ow j ut t ing from his skull. Then another screamed as a shaft pierced his thigh.

‘Dow n! ‘ shout ed Parm enion, seizing At t alus’ arm and dr opping t o t he earth.

From all sides arrow s hissed across t he open gr ound. A dead Makedones fell across Parm enion w it h t w o shaft s in his back, a t hird t hrough his eye. Everyw here t he soldiers w ere dying. Several m en t ried t o run back t o t he t rail, but t he huge form of t he m inot aur Bront es appeared, his doubleheaded axe slicing t hrough t heir breastplates and helms.

Tw o w arriors m anaged t o pass him and disappeared dow n t he slope, but t heir scream s echoed back and Parm enion w at ched as t he m inot aur’s brot hers - St eropes t he lion-headed, and Arges t he Cyclops - emerged from the trees.

A t errible silence descended on t he clearing. Parm enion eased him self clear of t he corpse t hat had fallen across him and rose, sheat hing his sw ord. Bodies lay everyw her e. From t he t rees cam e cent aurs carrying bows and quivers, their faces grim, their eyes fierce.

‘I t is good t o see you again,’ Parm enion t old Bront es as t he m inot aur approached. The great bull’s head nodded.

‘You r un w ell,’ said t he m inot aur, m ov ing past him t o t he cypress t ree w here Alexander w as hidden. Dropping his axe, t he creat ure raised his arms. ‘Come to me, Iskander!’ he called.

Alexander w riggled clear of t he branches, dropping int o t he m inot aur’s arms. ‘Are you truly Iskander?’ the beast whispered.

‘That is what I was called,’ answered the boy.

‘And you can open the Giant’s Gateway?’

‘We shall see,’ said Alexander, choosing his w ords w it h care. Wit h t he boy in his arm s, Bront es w alked back t o w here Parm enion and At t alus waited.

‘The centaurs brought word that Iskander had come. The Lady bade us prot ect him. This w e w ill do, w it h our lives if necessary. Yet it m ay not be enough. The Makedones are many, and we are few.’

‘We must get to Sparta,’ said Parmenion. ‘There the boy will be safe.’

‘The Spar t an King is said t o be a great m an,’ said Bront es. ‘He does not hunt dow n t he people of t he Enchant m ent. And t he Giant ‘s Gateway is close by. Yes, we will come with you to Sparta.’

Parmenion nodded, then swung his gaze over the centaurs. ‘How many are with us?’ he asked.

‘These twenty are all that survive.’

‘Then who is scouting the woods to watch for the enemy?’

‘No one,’ admitted Brontes.

The Spar t an w alked across t he clearing, st epping over t he corpses, unt il he st ood before a young cent aur, a deep-chest ed creat ure w it h chestnut hair and beard. ‘Who commands here?’ he asked.

‘I am Kheops, the son of Kytin-Kyaris. No one commands.’

‘Well, Kheops, I am t he guar dian of I skander, and I w ill com m and and be obeyed.’

‘We w ill not suffer t he or ders of a Hum an,’ replied Kheops, his face reddening.

‘Then leave us,’ said Parm enion soft ly, ‘and w e w ill t ry t o save Iskander alone.’

The cent aur ‘s front hooves st am ped t he eart h, a low grow l rum bling in his t hroat. Parm enion w ait ed, holding t o t he creat ure’s gaze. ‘We m ust see that Iskander lives,’ said Kheops. ‘We cannot go.’

‘Then y ou w ill obey m e,’ Parm enion t old him. ‘Send five of your fellow s t o w at ch for t he Makedones. We m ust not be surprised by them again.’

‘I t w ill be as you say,’ answ ered Kheops, as if t he w ords w ere t orn from him.

Parm enion sw ung aw ay from t he cent aur t o see Chiron m oving carefully across t he clearing, avoiding t he bloodst ains on t he eart h.

The sorcerer took Parmenion’s arm, leading him away from the others.

‘This is w rong,’ w hispered Chiron. ‘The child is not I skander. I k now it; you know it.’

Parm enion sighed. ‘What I k now, magus, is that we must reach Sparta to save Alexander. I will take all the aid I can find.’

‘But t hese creat ur es w hat of t heir hopes? Don’t y ou see, I skander is everyt hing t o t hem? He is t he prom ise t hat keeps t hem alive, t he one who will return magic to the world and end the reign of Man.’

‘What is this Giant’s Gateway?’ the Spartan asked.

‘There is a w ood a day’s ride sout h of Spart a. There, on a hill, st and two colossal pillars linked by a great lintel stone. That is the Gateway.’ To where?’

‘To now here,’ replied Chiron. ‘But t he legend says t hat I skander w ill open it, t hat he w ill grow t o t he height of t he t allest t ree and rest his hands on each pillar. Only t hen w ill t he Enchant m ent ret urn, bat hing the world. But Alexander cannot do it; he is not the Golden Child.’

‘What w ould you have m e do, magus? Lose t he only allies w e have in t his st range w orld of yours? Condem n Alexander t o deat h? No, I w ill not do it. They have made their choice. I did not force it upon them.’

‘That is not an argument you can use,’ said Chiron. ‘You know they are w rong, but you allow t hem t o cont inue in t heir err or because it suit s your purpose. What you are doing w ill, in all likelihood, condem n t hem all to death.’

‘I s t here a problem here, Chiron?’ asked Bront es, am bling forw ard t o join them.

‘Is there a problem?’ the magus enquired of Parmenion.

The Spar t an’s cold blue eyes m et his gaze. ‘No,’ he answ ered.

‘Tomorrow we will take Iskander to his destiny.’

Then he turned and saw the woman.

*

Derae t ook a deep breat h as t he Spart an t ur ned. Her legs felt w eak and boneless and her hands trembled. So close, she thought. They had t alked on Sam ot hr ace, but t hen Der ae had been hooded and veiled, her m ind locked t o t he t ask ahead. But now, as he w alked slow ly t ow ards her, she felt sixt een again - rem em bering t he soft ness of his touch, the sweetness of his breath.

‘Do you k now m e, lady?’ he asked. I t w as not t he v oice of t he y out h she had loved, but st ill t he sound sent a shiver t hrough her. Her spirit flickered out, t ouching his m ind, sensing t he em ot ions sur ging t hr ough him: curiosit y, em pat hy, and - t hough her body w as now plain and unmemorable - arousal. Swiftly she withdrew from him.

‘I know you,’ she answ ered, her voice st eady, her hazel eyes m eet ing his gaze.

He st ood for a m om ent, silent, indecisive. Bront es st rolled across t o t hem. ‘She is a friend t o t he Goddess, m y m ot her,’ said Bront es. ‘She is of the Enchantment.’

Parm enion nodded, but his gaze rem ained on t he dar k-haired w om an.

‘We m ust get aw ay from t his place,’ he said, t urning t o Bront es. ‘You know these woods. Where can we go?’

‘Do not answer,’ said Derae swiftly. ‘We are being observed.’

Brontes’ huge hand closed around the haft of the axe hanging from his belt and Parm enion sw ung t o scan t he clearing. ‘There is no one her e,’

Derae told them. ‘We are being watched from afar.’

‘By whom?’ the minotaur asked.

‘By a priest of Philippos.’

‘Can you shield us? My mother says you are a mystic.’

‘Perhaps.’ Derae sat dow n on t he grass and closed her eyes, her spirit flying free. A lance of light sw ept t ow ards her. Her hand flashed up, the lance splitting into a thousand sparks which floated around her like fireflies.

‘You w ill die,’ shout ed t he shaven-headed priest as he float ed before her.

‘We w ill all die one day,’ she answ ered. Her hands cam e up and t he fireflies st ream ed back t o t he priest, linking t o form a golden ribbon t hat w ound about his head and face t o blind him. ‘Go back t o your master,’ said Derae. The priest disappeared.

She opened her ey es and st ood. ‘He is gone,’ she t old Bront es. ‘Now you may speak freely.’

‘There ar e only t w o w ays we can t ravel t o Spart a, sout h-east t o t he Peleponnese and t hrough Korint hos, or nort h-w est t o t he sea and t ake a ship around the coast to Gytheum.’

‘What about w est?’ asked Parm enion. ‘Surely w e can cross t he Pindos Mountains and make our way to the gulf?’

‘No-t hat w ay lies deat h,’ said Bront es. ‘You cannot pass t hrough t he Forest of Gorgon. The Vores dwell there, and Gorgon himself. He is the m ost vile beast and his heart is corrupt ion. I could speak of his evil, but I sw ear m y t ongue w ould blacken and y our soul be shrivelled by w hat you hear. We m ight j ust as w ell drink poison now as consider that route.’

‘Tell me of it anyway,’ ordered the Spartan.

‘Why? It is out of the question.’

‘Because he is the strategos,’ said Derae, ‘and he needs to know.’

Brontes sighed. ‘The forest st ret ches sout h t o t he Gulf of Korint hos. I t is vast and deep, and unexplored by Man. But every hill and hollow, every dark glen, teems with the creatures of Chaos.’

Derae w at ched t he Spart an. His expression w as set and unreadable, and t his t im e she did not r each out t o read his t hought s. ‘What can you tell us, lady?’ he asked suddenly.

‘The forces of Makedon ar e all around you,’ she t old him. ‘They are coming from north, south and east. They have creatures Vores? in the sky and men, and beasts that walk like men, upon the ground.’

‘Can we skirt them?’

Derae shrugged. ‘Not w it h t w ent y cent aurs. They ar e seeking t he child. Philippos is linked t o him. Whichever rout e w e t ake w ill draw peril t o us. I have t he pow er t o shield us from t he Dem on King for a little while. But not long, Parmenion; he is too strong for me.’

‘So, we are being herded towards the west whether we wish it or no?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘I will think on it. But first let us find a place to spend the night.’

The Pindos Mountains Bront es led t he w ay t o a clust er of shallow caves, leaving Parm enion, Alexander, Chiron and At t alus in one w hile he and his brot hers t ook shelt er nearby, t he dark-haired w om an rem aining w it h t hem. The cent aurs drift ed aw ay at dusk, ret urning as m en w hen night fell. They also chose to stay in a separate cave a little to the north of the others.

Chiron w as silent as At t alus prepared a fire by t he far w all and Parm enion w alked out int o t he night t o sat isfy him self t hat t he glow did not reflect any light past t he cave ent rance. Wrapped in Parm enion’s cloak, Alexander slept peacefully by t he sm all blaze and the Spartan sat alone in the cave-mouth, watching the stars.

‘Are you m aking plans?’ asked At t alus, m oving alongside him and sitting with his back to the wall.

‘No, I was thinking about my youth.’

‘I hope it was misspent.’

‘Indeed it was,’ answered Parmenion, sighing. The night sky was clear, the moon bright, bathing the trees in silver light. A badger shuffled out into the open, then loped away into the undergrowth.

‘I t is said you w ere a cham pion in Spart a,’ said At t alus. ‘Wit h all t he rewards, why did you leave?’

Parmenion shook his head. ‘Where do these stories start? A champion?

I w as a hat ed half-breed, a m ix-blood, derided, beat en. All I carried from Spart a w as m y bruises, and a hat red t hat w as all-consum ing and ultimately self-defeating. Have you ever been in love, Attalus?’

‘No,’ admitted the Macedonian, suddenly uncomfortable.

‘I w as once. And for t hat love I br oke t he law. I slept w it h an unm arried girl of good fam ily. Because of it she w as killed, and I slew a fine m an. Worse, I brought about t he dow nfall of m y ow n cit y and w it h it t he deat h of t he only friend I had ever had. His nam e w as Herm ias, and he w as killed at Leuct ra, fight ing alongside t he King he adored.’

‘All m en die,’ said At t alus soft ly. ‘But you sur prise m e, Spart an. I t hought you w ere t he ice-cold general, t he fight ing m an w ho had never lost a bat t le. I t hought your life w as charm ed - blessed, if you like.’

Parm enion sm iled. ‘The ot her m an’s life oft en looks t hat w ay. Ther e w as a rich m erchant in Thebes. Men w ould look at him w it h envy, cursing his luck, j ealous of t he gold rings he w ore and t he huge house he built upon a hill high above t he st ench of t he cit y. But t hen t hey didn’t k now he w as once a slave, w orking in a Thracian m ine; t hat he had t oiled for t en y ears before purchasing his freedom, and t hen had w orked for anot her five t o build a sm all am ount of coin w hich he gam bled on a risky vent ure t hat m ade him rich. Do not envy m e, Attalus.’

‘I did not say I envied you,’ said the swordsman. Suddenly he grinned.

‘But I suppose t hat I do. I could never like you, Par m enion, but I respect you. Now t hat is enough of com plim ent s. How are w e going t o get to Sparta?’

Parm enion rose, st ret ching his back. ‘We’ll t ravel w est, crossing t he Pindos Mount ains, t hen m ove dow n t o t he coast, keeping t o t he high ground and forests.’

‘You are t alking of a j our ney of som e w eeks. I do not w ish t o sound defeat ist, but do y ou t hink t hat a par t y including t hree m onst ers and t w ent y cent aurs can t ravel t he lengt h of Greece - even t his Greece - without being noticed?’

‘Cent aurs are not uncom m on here,’ said Parm enion, ‘but w e w ill t ravel m ost ly by night w hen t hey appear as m en. As t o Bront es and his brot hers, I agree w it h you. But t heir st rengt h is prodigious and t hey may prove invaluable if there is trouble on the road.’

‘And you are expecting trouble, no doubt?’

‘Yes. We have one great problem t hat no am ount of t hinking w ill overcome. Philippos used sorcery to locate Alexander in another world, t herefore it seem s likely he w ill be able t o find him in t his one.

Wherever w e go - how ever w ell w e hide - t he enem y w ill alw ays be close.’

‘Drawn to the boy like flies to a cowpat?’ offered Attalus.

‘A disgust ing observat ion, t hough one t hat is close t o t he t r ut h,’ agreed t he Spart an. ‘But t he priest ess claim s she can prot ect us for a while.’

‘So t hen your plan - such as it is - ent ails leading a sm all force of halfhum an beast s across a w ar-t orn land and ar riving at a dest inat ion w here w e m ay - or m ay not - be w elcom e, in t he hope t hat Arist ot le will have the necessary power to find us and bring us home?’

‘Succinctly put. Do you have a better plan?’

‘I m ust adm it t hat not hing of brilliance springs t o m ind,’ said At t alus, ‘but t her e is som et hing else t hat concerns m e. The quest ion of Alexander. I s he t he I skander t hese creat ures have been waiting for?’

‘No.’

‘Then w hat happens w hen t he beast s find out? They are likely t o be just a little angry.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Parmenion. ‘But that is a problem for another day.’

‘Som et hing else t o look forw ard t o,’ gr unt ed At t alus. ‘I ‘ll say t his for you, Spartan - life in your company is seldom dull.’

*

Tow ards daw n, as he sat lost in t hought, Parm enion saw t he m onst rous figure of Bront es em erging from t he t rees at t he foot of t he m ount ainside. The creat ure w alked forw ard, t hen dropped t o his knees. Light, ghostly and pale, shimmered around him, and Parmenion w at ched, aw est ruck, as t he huge bull’s head disappeared, leaving t he features of a young man, pale-skinned, with hair the colour of polished bronze.

Looking up, t he young m an saw Parm enion and froze, holding his posit ion for som e m om ent s before sit t ing back and t urning aw ay from the Spartan’s gaze.

Parm enion st rolled out int o t he m oonlight, w alking dow n t he slope t o sit beside the former minotaur.

‘It is not considered polite to view the Change,’ said Brontes. ‘But then you are not of t his w orld and cannot be expect ed t o underst and our customs.’

‘Why do you need to assume another form?’

‘Why do you Hum ans need t o eat, or breat he? I do not k now t he answ er. I only know w hat is, and w hat is necessary. Wit hout t he Change I w ould die. And, as t he Enchant m ent lessens day by day, t he Change becom es m ore difficult, m ore fraught w it h pain. That is w hat Iskander will rectify; he will bring back the Enchantment.’

‘Unless Philippos captures him,’ pointed out Parmenion.

‘Exactly so. How do you propose escaping him?’

‘By travelling through the Forest of Gorgon.’

‘Then we are all dead.’

‘Now it is for you t o t rust m e, Bront es. I am not a m an w ho underst ands your m yst eries, or t he pow er of t he Enchant m ent, but I know the ways of war and the nature of enmity.’

‘Gorgon will kill you, Parmenion. He hates Humans even more than I.’

‘I am count ing on t hat,’ answ ered t he strategos. ‘We have a say ing, Brontes: The enemy of my enemy must be my friend.’

‘Gorgon has no friends. Not now not ever.’

You know him?’ asked Parmenion softly. ‘I do not wish to speak of it.’

*

Derae lay aw ake, her spirit float ing in t he night sky, seeking signs of hidden w at chers. But t here w ere none, and t his w orried her. Did it m ean t hat t hey feared her pow ers, or t hat t hey had som ehow found a w ay t o neut ralize t hem and w ere even now spying on t he caves? The thoughts were not comforting.

You need sleep, she t old herself, set t ling dow n and covering herself w it h t he rust - coloured cloak Arist ot le had supplied. I t w as t hick w ool, w arm at night, cool in t he heat of t he day, and she snuggled under it.

But sleep would not come.

She had not know n w hat t o expect in t his st range new w orld and had prepared herself for surprises. But Chiron had ast onished her. He w as alm ost a t w in of Arist ot le. Derae had gent ly reached out, t ouching t he m an’s m em ories, and in t he sam e m om ent he becam e aw are of her.

He did not close off his thoughts but greeted her with a mind-smile.

He w as not Arist ot le, having no m em ories of Macedonia or t he Gr eece she knew. Yet t he halls of his m em ory w ere vast, full of vanished nat ions, changed w orlds. He had w alked in Akkady and At lant is, in m any for m s - w arrior and m yst ic, dem i-god and dem on, m ade im m ort al by t he m agic of t he sam e golden st ones possessed by Aristotle.

‘Are you satisfied?’ he had asked, jerking her back to the present.

‘Yes,’ she t old him. That had been earlier in t he day w hen Bront es and his hideous brot hers had m et w it h t he cent aurs and planned t he am bush t hat saved t he t w o Macedonians. Bront es had been scout ing ahead and had seen t he chase, j udging quit e right ly w here it m ust end. Even so it was close-run and had left Derae trembling.

‘Where are you from, m y dear?’ Chiron asked her as t hey w alked from the battle site to the caves.

‘I am a priest ess - a Healer,’ she answ ered. ‘A friend ur ged m e t o come here to aid Parmenion.’

‘This friend does he look like me?’

‘Indeed he does.’

‘Curious. I w onder how m uch of our hist ory is shared? I w ould like t o meet him. Will he be following you through?’

‘I do not t hink so. Ther e is som et hing here w hich fright ens him greatly.’

Chiron chuckled. ‘There are t hings here w hich fright en m e great ly.

Have you known Parmenion for long?’

‘We have met - but briefly,’ she answered, with honesty.

‘Now t hat is a surprise. I not ice your gaze is never far from him. I s it merely that he is a handsome warrior?’

‘There are some subjects we should avoid, sir,’ she told him primly.

‘As you w ish.’ He had left her t hen and w alked back t o j oin Bront es at the rear.

As t he night w ore on Derae slept fit fully, w aking w it h t he daw n. The child Alexander peeked in at t he cave-m out h, sm iling as he saw her.

‘Good day,’ he said, m oving int o t he cave and squat t ing dow n beside her.

‘And to you, young prince. You are awake early.’

‘Yes, I don’t need much sleep. What is your name?’

‘You may call me Thena.’

‘Ah, but it isn’t your name, is it?’

‘I did not say that it was. I said that is what you may call me.’

‘Then you must call me Iskander.’

‘I shall Iskander. Are you frightened?’

‘No,’ he replied w it h a w ide grin. ‘Parm enion is here. There is no greater warrior in all of Greece - and he’s the best general too.’

‘You have much faith in him, Iskander. You must admire him greatly.’

‘After my father he is the man I love best. Where are you from?’

‘I am a Healer. I dw ell in a Tem ple across t he sea, near t he ruins of Troy.’

‘Have you always been a Healer?’

‘No. Once I w as j ust a girl, w ho dream t of m arrying t he m an she loved. But it was not to be.’

‘Why?’ The quest ion w as asked so sim ply t hat Derae laughed and reached out t o ruffle his hair. As her hand w as about t o t ouch him she felt a bur ning pain in her palm and j erked back. His face crum pled.

‘I’m sorry. It hasn’t done that for a long time; I thought I was free.’

St eeling herself she reached out again, her fingers pushing back t he golden fringe abov e his green eyes. The pain t ouched her once m ore, but she show ed not hing. ‘I t w as j ust a cram p,’ she assured him. But he shook his head.

‘You are very kind, but please do not t ouch m e. I do not w ish t o see you in pain.’

A dark shadow fell across t he cave-m out h and Parm enion ent er ed.

‘There y ou are,’ he said, kneeling dow n beside t he prince. ‘Com e, w e must prepare for the march.’

‘Her nam e is Thena,’ said Alexander. ‘She’s very nice.’ Then he scampered from the cave and Derae looked into Parmenion’s eyes.

‘You have chosen your route, strategos? ‘Yes.’ He set t led dow n beside her. ‘Are you sure w e have not m et, lady?’

‘What makes you think so?’ she countered.

‘I cannot say. Your face is not familiar to me, but I feel I know you.’

‘We have met,’ she admitted, ‘on the isle of Samothrace.’

‘You! ‘ he w hispered. ‘You w ere hooded and veiled; I t hought y ou w ere in mourning.’

‘I w as. And I am. Now,’ she said, rising sm oot hly t o her feet, ‘you said we must prepare for the march.’

‘Yes, of course. You know w here I plan t o go?’ he asked, pushing himself upright.

‘To the Forest of Gorgon.’

He sm iled t hen, his face becom ing rem arkably boyish. Derae w as forced to look away. ‘There is no other way,’ he said.

‘I know. What is your plan?’

‘We w ill w alk t o t he edge of t he forest. Bront es says it w ill t ake t hree days. I will leave the others there and make my way to Gorgon.’

‘Why must you risk this? What can you gain?’

Parmenion’s smile faded. ‘We can go no other way. In the open we will be hunt ed dow n: now here t o hide, now here t o run. The forest offers sanctuary and a chance to reach the Gulf.’

‘Brontes says the evil there is worse than the Makedones.’

‘Yes, and I believe him.’

‘Then how can you bargain with them? What can you offer?’

‘The dream of I skander: t o open t he Giant ‘s Gat ew ay and bring back the magic. Evil or not, they are still creatures of Enchantment.’

‘I will go with you,’ she said.

‘There is no need t o risk yourself. I am capable of negot iat ing w it h t he Forest Lord.’

‘Even so, I w ill accom pany you. I have m any t alent s, Parm enion. They will prove useful.’

‘I do not doubt it.’

*

For t w o days t he group m oved on, heading w est, higher int o t he m ount ains, seeking t he long pass t hat snaked dow n int o t he Forest of Gorgon spreading out below t hem in an ocean of t rees. On t he morning of the third day, as they sheltered from a sudden storm under a w ide overhang of rock, t hey hear d t he sound of hoofbeat s on t he pat h. At t alus and Parm enion drew t heir sw ords and w alked out int o the storm, followed by Brontes and Chiron.

A st allion cam e t rot t ing along t he pat h, lift ing it s great head and w hinnying as it saw t he magus. ‘Caym al! ‘ shout ed Chiron, r unning forward and stroking the horse’s neck. ‘It is good to see you, boy.’

Taking the beast’s mane, Chiron vaulted to the stallion’s back. The rain eased and t he magus rode Caym al alongside Parm enion. ‘I shall scout on ahead,’ said Chiron. ‘I will find you before nightfall.’

‘Be careful, magus, w e w ill need y ou and your m agic if t he Vores return,’ Parmenion warned him.

The st orm passed overhead, t he clouds breaking up behind it, allow ing sunshine t o bat he t he m ount ains as t he group m oved on, t he cent aurs riding ahead. Par m enion ran back up t he slope, shading his eyes and studying their back-trail.

Attalus joined him. ‘You see anything?’ the Macedonian asked.

‘I’m not sure. Look over there, beyond the pines. There is a cleft in the rocks. I thought I saw a man moving between them.’

‘I see nothing. Let’s move on.’

‘Wait! ‘ ur ged Parm enion, gr abbing At t alus’ arm and hauling him dow n.

‘Look now!’

A line of m en w as m oving dow n t he slope several m iles t o t he east, sunlight glint ing from helm s and spear-point s. Above t hem a Vore circled. ‘How many?’ Attalus whispered.

‘More t han fift y. Happily t hey are afoot and t hat m eans t hey could not come up to us before dark. Even so we must hurry.’

‘Why? They’ll have a difficult task trying to track us in the forest.’

‘First we need permission to enter the forest,’ said Parmenion.

‘From whom?’

‘The m onst ers w ho dw ell t here,’ answ ered t he Spart an, m oving back from the rim and loping down the pass.

‘Monst ers? You said not hing of m onst ers,’ shout ed At t alus, running after him.

Parm enion slow ed and grinned. ‘I like t o sur prise you, At t alus.’ The smile faded and he gripped t he ot her m an’s shoulder. ‘I m ay not com e back. I f t hat be t he case, do w hat ever you can t o bring Alexander t o Sparta.’ I’ll come with you. I’m getting used to your company.’

‘No. If we both die, what hope is there for the boy? You stay with him.’

I t w as dusk w hen t he t ravellers cam e t o t he foot of t he m ount ains.

The cent aurs rode off t o find t heir ow n privat e places w hile Bront es, St eropes and Ar ges prepared a fire in t he cent r e of a clust er of w hit e boulders. At t alus and Alexander set t led dow n beside t he blaze t o rest, w hile t he w om an Thena st rolled from t he cam p t o st and alongside t he Spartan as he studied the forest.

‘When will you go in?’ she asked.

‘I w ould prefer it t o be daw n,’ he t old her. ‘But t he Makedones are close behind and w e m ay not have t hat long. Where in Hecat e’s nam e is Chiron?’

‘I t w ould be best if w e ent ered t he forest before night fall,’ advised Thena.

Parm enion nodded. ‘Then let us be about it.’ St riding t o t he boulders, he outlined his plan to the others.

‘You ar e a m adm an,’ st orm ed Bront es. ‘I t hought you w ould realize your folly. Don’t y ou underst and? Gorgon w ill kill you - and if he doesn’t, he will betray you to Philippos.’

‘You may be correct, my friend, but our choices are limited. If I am not back by t he daw n, you m ust m ake your ow n w ay t o t he Gulf as best you can.’

Wit hout anot her w ord he sw ung on his heel and w alked across t he open ground towards the dark wall of trees.

Thena cam e alongside him. ‘Are w e being observed?’ he asked, his voice low.

‘Yes. There are several beast s in t he t rees w at ching us. They are thinking of murder,’ she said.

She felt Parmenion stiffen, his stride faltering, his hand easing towards his sword. ‘We could go back,’ she whispered.

‘These creatures,’ he said softly, ‘you can read their thoughts?’

‘Yes - such as they are.’

‘Can you talk to them?’

‘No, but I can influence them. What do you wish them to do?’

‘Take me to the Lord Gorgon.’

‘Very w ell. Count up t o t w ent y and t hen shout his nam e. That w ill give me time to work on them.’

Derae t ook several deep breat hs, calm ing herself, t hen sent her spirit int o t he t rees. The first creat ure she t ouched - part rept ile, part cat - her recoil. His t hought s w ere of blood, and rending flesh. There w as lit t le int elligence here and she m oved on, com ing at last t o a Vore w ho sat in t he highest branches of an oak, his pale eyes st aring at t he t w o hum ans. He also relished t hought s of m urder, but Derae sensed curiosity too.

‘Gorgon!’ yelled Parmenion. ‘I wish to speak to the Lord Gorgon!’

The Vore t ensed, unsure w hat t o do. Derae’s voice w hispered deep w it hin his m ind, sending up t hought s from his subconscious. ‘I m ust t ake t hem t o t he Lord. He w ill be angry if I do not. He w ill kill m e if I do not. One of these others will tell him the man called for him. He will blame me.’

Spreading his w ings, t he Vore launched him self int o t he air, gliding down to land some twenty paces from the Humans.

Derae opened her eyes and inst inct ively reached out t o t ake Parmenion’s hand.

The Vore m oved closer, it s t aloned feet uncom fort able on flat ground.

‘You wish to see the Lord?’

‘I do,’ answered Parmenion.

‘You are from Philippos?’

‘I will speak only to the Lord Gorgon,’ Parmenion said.

‘I will lead you, Human.’

The Vore sw ung round and began t o w alk clum sily t ow ards t he t rees, it s t reble-j oint ed feet m aking it st oop as it m oved. Several t im es it slipped, but its wings flashed out to steady its balance.

St ill holding Derae’s hand, Parm enion follow ed t he creat ure. ‘What ar e the others thinking?’ he whispered.

‘One of t hem plans t o leap upon you t he m om ent you reach t he shadows of the trees. Beware! But do not kill it. Leave it to me!’

Let t ing go of her hand Parm enion w alked on, gripping t he hilt of his sword. Sweat bat hed his face and his heart w as beat ing w ildly. Yet not all his thoughts were of fear. The touch of the woman’s hand had been like fire m oving t hrough his blood, lift ing him. The t rees cam e closer, dark and forbidding, no sound em erging from t he forest, no bird-song, not even the chitter of bats.

A rept ilean creat ur e sprang from an overhead branch and Parm enion leapt aside, but t he beast plum m et ed t o t he ground and lay w it hout m oving. The Vore hissed out a w arning t o t he ot her beast s nearby, t hen w alked stiff-legged t o t he unconscious creat ure. ‘I s it dead?’ he asked.

‘Sleeping,’ Derae answered.

The Vore knelt over t he body, ram m ing it s t alons t hrough t he creat ure’s neck and w renching clear t he head. ‘Now it is dead,’ he hissed, licking the blood from his claws.

Slow ly t hey w alked on t hr ough t he gat hering gloom. Derae could hear t he sounds of beast s m oving on eit her side of t hem and in t he branches above, but no further violence threatened them.

‘Sweet Hera!’ whispered Derae.

‘What is it?’

‘The Lord of the Forest the Gorgon. I touched him. Such hatred.’

‘Against whom is it directed?’

‘Everyone.’

The t rack w idened and t he Vore led t hem dow n int o a huge hollow w here a score of fires w ere lit and a m onst rous figure w ait ed, seat ed upon a t hrone of skulls. His skin w as dark green, m ot t led w it h brow n, his head enorm ous, his m out h cavernous and rim m ed w it h fangs. But upon his head, in place of hair, w rit hed a score of snakes. Parm enion walked forward and bowed.

‘Death to your enemies, sire,’ he said.

The Hills of Arcadia Far t o t he sout h, across t he Gulf of Korint hos in t he low hills of Arcadia, a bright light blazed briefly across t he m arble Tom bs of t he Heroes. It shone like a second moon, flickered and then died.

A shepherd boy saw the light and wondered if it presaged a storm, but his sheep and goat s w ere undist urbed and t her e w ere no clouds in t he night sky - the stars bright, the moon shining clear.

For a m om ent or t w o t he boy t hought about t he light, t hen pushed it from his m ind and huddled int o his cloak, sw it ching his gaze t o his flock, eyes scanning the perimeters of the pasture to seek signs of wolf or lion.

But t here w as only one w olf close by, and t he boy did not see him, for he w as nest led dow n behind a m ar ble gravest one in t he nearby hills; and he t oo saw t he light. As it flared up all around him, dazzling, terrifying, his thoughts of hunger fled before it.

The w olf w as old, banished from t he pack. Yet once he had been m ight y, a leader t o be fear ed, cunning and deadly. But never in his long life had such a light blazed around him and it left him confused, uncertain. He lay still, lifting his grizzled head to sniff the air. Here was something he knew - and feared. The scent of Man.

And close by.

The w olf did not m ove. The scent w as from his left and he slow ly turned his head, yellow eyes watching for movement.

A m an w as lying on a slab of m ar ble, his naked skin pale in t he m oonlight. He gr oaned and m oved. Only m om ent s before, t he w olf had leapt t o t hat sam e slab t o look out over t he flock, select ing his vict im. There had been no scent of Man t hen. Yet t here he w as, stretched out.

The w olf had sur vived his m any years by know ing w hen t o be caut ious and w hen t o be br ave. Men w ho appeared from t he air, am id br ight unnatural light, did not inspire courage in the old beast. And though he w as hungry he slunk aw ay t ow ards t he nort hern w oods, far from t he scent of Man.

*

Helm st irred. The st one w as cold and uncom fort able on his back and he groaned as he w oke, rolling t o his side and sw inging his pow erful legs over t he side of t he slab. Sit t ing up, he yaw ned and st ret ched.

The night was cool, but not unpleasant, and he saw a wolf loping away dow n t he hillside t ow ards t he t rees. Helm ‘s hand reached for his sword, and it was then he realized he was naked and unarmed.

‘Where is this place?’ he said aloud. ‘How did I come here?’

I n t hose first few m om ent s Helm w as not concerned. He w as a w arrior - st rong, t est ed in t he heat of m any bat t les, confident in his pow er.

But as he searched his m em ories, fear akin t o panic flared w it hin him.

He did not know how he had com e t o t his st range place, but w orse t han t his - so m uch w orse - he realized w it h a shock w hich sent his heart ham m ering w ildly t hat t he corr idors of his m em ory w ere silent and deserted.

‘Who am I?’ he whispered.

Helm. I am Helm.

‘Who is Helm?’ The nam e w as sm all com fort, for w it h it cam e no m em ories of t im es past. Looking dow n at his hands, he saw t hey w ere broad and calloused, t he fingers short and pow erful. His forearm s show ed m any scars, som e j agged, ot hers st raight cut s. Yet how he had come by them was a mystery.

Be calm, he w arned him self. Look ar ound t his place. I t w as t hen t hat he realized he lay w it hin a graveyard, full of silent st at ues and m arble t om bs. Quelling his panic, he leapt light ly from t he slab and ex plored.

Som e of t he t om bst ones had cr acked and fallen, ot hers w ere over grow n w it h w eeds. No one t ended t his place t hen, he t hought. A cool w ind hissed over t he st ones and he shivered. Where are m y clot hes, he w ondered? Surely I have not w alked across t he land naked like a field slave? A gleam of light cam e from his left. For a m om ent only he t hought a w arrior st ood t here, m oonlight gleam ing from a fullfaced helm of bronze and a gilded breast plat e. He t ensed, his hands curling int o fist s; t hen he saw t hat t here w as no silent soldier, only a suit of armour placed on a wooden frame.

He approached it warily, eyes scanning the graveyard around it.

The helm w as beaut ifully craft ed, save t hat it had no plum e or crest.

The skull w as clear, show ing no sign of t he arm ourer’s ham m er, nor a single rivet. The face-guard had been shaped int o t he feat ures of a m an, bearded and st ern of eye, w it h high curv ed br ow s and a m out h set in a t errible sm ile. The breast plat e w as also of superb design, t he shoulders padded w it h bronze-reinforced leat her, t he chest fashioned in t he shape of a st rong m an’s m usculat ure, curving pect orals and well-developed m uscles at t he solar plexus. Beneat h it w as a kilt of leat her st rips edged w it h bronze, and below t hat a pair of doeskin riding boots.

Beside t hem lay a scabbarded sw ord. Helm reached dow n and drew t he w eapon. His heart beat slow ed, confidence ret ur ning. The blade was of polished iron, double-edged and keen, the balance perfect.

The armour is mine, he realized. It has to be.

Sw ift ly he dr essed. The breast plat e w as a perfect fit, as w ere t he boot s. The kilt sat w ell on his w aist, t he sw ord scabbar d sliding easily int o a loop of bronze at his left hip. Last ly he lift ed t he helm, easing it dow n over his short - cropped hair. As it set t led int o place a searing pain flow ed over his feat ures, burning like fire. He scream ed and t ried t o pull t he helm loose, but m olt en m et al at e int o his skin, pouring int o his nostrils and mouth and anchoring itself to the bones of his face.

The pain passed.

Opening his eyes he saw t hat he had fallen t o his knees. He rose and t ried once m ore t o rem ove t he helm, but it w ould not budge. The breeze w hispered across t he graveyard - and he felt it upon his face, even as he had felt his hands w hen t hey t ried t o rem ove t he helm.

Lift ing his right hand, he t ouched t he m et al m out h. I t w as cold, yet yielding. His finger probed furt her, t ouching his t ongue; t his t oo w as metallic and yet still soft.

His face was now bronze; the helm was more than joined to his skin, it had become part of him.

‘What is happening t o m e?’ he bellow ed, his ow n voice st range in his ears.

‘Not hing is happening,’ replied a soft voice. ‘You are m erely preparing yourself for the task ahead.’

Helm sw ung, his sw ord flashing int o his hand. But t here w as no one in sight. ‘Where are you?’

‘Close by,’ came the voice. ‘Do not be alarmed, I am a friend.’

‘Show yourself, friend.’

‘That is not necessary. You are in the hills of Arcadia. Your quest lies to the north, at the Gulf of Korinthos.’

‘I am not your slave!’ stormed the warrior.

‘You do not know w hat you are, all you know is t he nam e I gave you.’

The v oice point ed out, t he t one equable, even friendly. ‘But all your answers lie ahead. You must seek out the Golden Child.’

‘And if I don’t?’

There was no reply. ‘Are you still there? Speak to me, curse you!’

But the graveyard was silent.

*

At t alus sat back, rest ing his shoulders against a boulder and surveying his com panions. Bront es w as sit t ing opposit e, his great brow n eyes st aring int o t he fire. Beside him t he lion-headed Arges w as st ret ched out, his m aned head rest ing on his hugely m uscled arm, his t aw ny eyes w at ching At t alus. The cyclops, St eropes, w as asleep, breat h hissing t hrough his fangs. At t alus t ransferred his gaze t o t he cliff pat h w here a single cent aur w at ched for signs of t he Makedones. Beside him Alexander st irred, m oaning in his sleep. At t alus glanced back at Arges; still the creature watched him.

‘Do you have t o lie t here and st are?’ At t alus asked. The lion’s m out h opened, a low growl issuing forth.

Brontes looked up from the fire. ‘He does not like you,’ he said.

I’ll lose no sleep over that,’ retorted Attalus.

‘From where does your anger come, Human?’ queried Brontes. ‘I feel it in you - a bitterness, a frustration perhaps?’

‘Leave m e in peace,’ snapped At t alus. ‘And m ake sure your hairy brot her k eeps his dist ance, or he’s likely t o w ake up w it h a lengt h of Macedonian st eel in his heart.’ And he st ret ched out on t he ground, turning his back on the brothers.

Bit t erness? Oh yes, At t alus knew w here t he seeds had been plant ed for t hat. I t had been on t he day w hen his fat her killed his m ot her. The deat h had not been easy and t he boy had list ened t o her scream s for hours. He had been young t hen, m er ely t w elve, but aft er t hat day he had never been young again. At fourt een he had crept int o his fat her’s bedcham ber w it h a razor-sharp skinning k nife, running t he blade expert ly across t he m an’s t hroat and st anding back t o w at ch t he sleeping m an w ake w it h blood bubbling int o his lungs. Oh, he had t hrashed his arm s, st ruggling t o rise, his fingers scrabbling at his t hroat as if t o bind t he slashed art eries. Bit t erness? What could t hese creatures know of his bitterness?

Unable t o sleep, At t alus rose and w alked from t he cam p. The m oon was high, the night breeze chill. He shivered and glanced up at the cliff pat h. The cent aur w as now here in sight. Uneasy now t he sw ordsm an scanned the high rocks, seeking any sign of movement.

There w as not hing, save t he breeze rust ling t he dry grass on t he sides of t he cliff. Sw ift ly he ret ur ned t o t he circle of boulders w here t he three brothers were asleep. Lightly he tapped Brontes on the shoulder.

The minotaur groaned and raised his massive head. ‘What is it?’

‘The sentry is gone. Wake your brothers!’ whispered Attalus. Moving to Alexander he lift ed t he boy t o his shoulder and set off for t he forest.

As he reached open ground there came the sound of screams from the nort h. Several ponies ran from t he rocks, but spears and arrow s sliced int o t hem. A young m an riding a pale pony alm ost got clear, but a Vore sw ooped dow n from t he night sky, a dart t hudding int o t he pony ‘s neck. The beast w ent dow n, t hrow ing t he boy clear. He rose, staggered, and fell as a second dart lanced his body.

At t alus st art ed t o run. Alexander w oke, but he did not scream or shout. His arms moved around Attalus’ neck and he held on tightly.

From behind cam e t he sound of a galloping hor se and At t alus sw ung, dragging his sw ord clear. A huge cent aur carrying a curved bow ran towards them.

‘Camiron!’ shouted Alexander. The centaur slowed.

‘Many Makedones,’ he said. ‘Too many to kill. The centaurs are dead.’

Sheat hing his sw ord, At t alus t ook hold of Cam iron’s m ane and leapt t o his back. ‘Make for t he t rees! ‘ he com m anded. Cam iron surged forw ard, alm ost unseat ing t he Macedonian, but t hen t hey w ere aw ay.

Dark-cloaked w arriors w ere closing in from t he sout h, nort h and east.

But t he w ay w est, t o t he forest, w as st ill clear. Cam iron t hundered across the open ground as arrows slashed the air around him.

A Vore sw ooped dow n from t he sky and Cam iron sw erved and reared as a dart sliced in t o t he gr ound beside him. Not ching an arrow t o his bow t he cent aur sent a shaft w inging t hrough t he air, t aking t he Vore in t he right side and piercing it s lung. The creat ure’s w ings folded and it crashed to the earth.

Cam iron broke int o a gallop and headed for t he t rees, leaving t he Makedones far behind. The forest closed around them but still Camiron ran, leaping fallen t rees and boulders, splashing across st ream s, unt il he crested a hill that led on to a small hollow circled by tall pines. Here he slowed.

‘This place no good. This is Gorgon’s Forest.’

At t alus lift ed his leg and slid t o t he ground. ‘I t ‘s safer t han w here w e w ere,’ he said, releasing Alexander. The boy sank t o t he eart h, his hands clasped to his temples.

‘Are you ill?’ At t alus asked, dropping t o his knees beside t he boy.

Alexander looked up and t he sw ordsm an found him self st aring int o yellow eyes, the pupils slitted.

‘I am w ell,’ cam e a deep v oice. At t alus recoiled and Alexander laughed, the sound hollow and cruel.

‘Do not fear me, assassin. You have always served me well.’

At t alus said not hing. At Alexander’s t em ples dark skin erupt ed, flow ing, sw elling, curling back over his ears and dow n t o his neck, form ing int o t w in ram ‘s horns, ebony-dar k and gleam ing in t he moonlight.

‘I like this place,’ said the Chaos Spirit. ‘It suits me.’

*

‘Death to your enemies, sire,’ said Parmenion, bowing low.

‘You are an enem y,’ hissed Gor gon. The Spart an st raight ened and smiled, looking into the pale eyes of the monstrosity before him.

‘I ndeed I am - for I am Hum an. But I have t he capacit y t o give you all that you desire.’

‘You can have no underst anding of w hat I desire. But speak on, for you amuse me - as your imminent death will amuse me.’

‘Long ago you w ere a w arrior,’ said Parm enion soft ly, ‘a child of t he Tit ans. You had t he abilit y t o change your shape, t o fly, or t o sw im below t he sea. But w hen t he Great War ended y ou w ere banished here, t rapped in t he last form you chose. Now t he Enchant m ent is dying, all over t he w orld. But you w ill survive, Gorgon; you k now t hat.

You will live for a thousand years, here in this place of dark magic. But one day even this forest will fall to the axes of men.’

Gorgon surged to his feet, the snakes of his hair hissing and thrashing.

‘You cam e here t o t ell m e w hat I already k now? You are no longer amusing, Human.’

‘I came to offer the answer to your dreams,’ Parmenion told him.

‘And what is my dream?’

‘Be careful, Parmenion,’ came the voice of Thena in his mind. ‘I cannot read him.’

‘You have m any dream s,’ said Parm enion. ‘You dream of revenge, you nurse your hatreds. But the one dream, the one great dream, is to see the Enchantment restored, to be free of Man.’

Gorgon sank back on t o t he t hr one of skulls. ‘And t his you can give me?’ he asked, his cavernous mouth stretching into an obscene smile.

‘Iskander can bring the dream to life.’

For a m om ent t he King w as silent, t hen he leaned for w ard, his pale eyes glit t ering. ‘You speak of t he child Philippos seeks. He has offered much for this child - many women, not plain like the one with you, but beaut iful, soft and sw eet. He prom ises t o accept m y sovereignt y over the forest. I think his is the offer I will accept.’

‘Why does he want the child so desperately?’ countered Parmenion.

‘For immortality.’

‘An immortal Human? Is that to be desired? And what else?’

‘What else is there?’

The deat h of Enchant m ent. Wit hout I skander y ou have no hope. You w ill all w it her and die. That is t he ult im at e aim of Philippos - it has t o be.’

‘And the child is Iskander?’

‘He is,’ Parmenion replied.

‘And he can lift the curse from me and my people?’

‘He can.’

‘I do not believe it. Now it is time to die, Human.’

‘I s t his all t hat you w ant?’ asked Parm enion, his arm sw eeping out t o encom pass t he clearing, ‘or have you lived so long as a m onst rosit y t hat you can no longer rem em ber w hat it w as like t o live as a god? I pity you.’

‘Save your pity!’ thundered the King. ‘Save it for yourself and the bony woman beside you!’

‘What w as your nam e?’ asked Thena suddenly, her voice clear and sweet.

‘My name? I am Gorgon.’

‘What was your name before, in the bright golden days?’

‘I I what has this to do with anything?’

‘Can you not rem em ber?’ she asked, m oving forw ard t o st and before him.

‘I rem em ber,’ he answ ered. ‘I w as Dionius.’ The King sagged back on t he t hrone, t he t aut m uscles of his shoulders relaxing. ‘I w ill t hink m ore on w hat you say. You and y our m an m ay st ay w it h us t onight; you will be safe while I consider your words.’

Thena bow ed and w alked t o Parm enion, leading him aw ay t o t he edge of the clearing.

‘What was that about his name?’ asked the Spartan.

‘His m ind w as t oo pow erful t o read, but one im age kept flickering in his t hought s w hen you spok e of t he ret urn of t he Enchant m ent. I t w as of a handsome man with clear blue eyes. I guessed it must be him.’

‘You are a good com panion t o have,’ he t old her, t aking her hand and kissing it. ‘Wise and intuitive.’

‘And bony and plain,’ she replied, with a smile.

‘Not at all,’ he whispered. ‘You are beautiful.’

Snat ching her hand from his, she pulled back. ‘Do not m ock m e, Spartan.’

‘I spoke only t he t rut h. Beaut y is m ore t han skin, flesh and bone. You have courage and spirit. And, if you doubt m y w ords, t hen read m y mind.’

‘No. I know what is there.’

‘Then why are you angry?’

‘I had a lover long ago,’ she said, t urning aw ay from him. ‘He w as young, as w as I. We did not have long t oget her, and I have m issed him for many years.’

‘What happened?’

‘I w as t aken from him, across t he sea, and held capt ive in a t em ple until I agreed to become a priestess.’

‘And he m ade no at t em pt t o find you? His love could not have been as great as yours.’

‘He thought me dead.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Parm enion, t aking her hand once m ore. ‘I know t he scars you carry; I have them too.’

‘But you are m arried now, w it h t hree children. Surely you have forgotten your first love?’

‘Never,’ he replied, his voice so soft the word was barely a sigh.

The Forest of Gorgon For m uch of t he night t he creat ures of t he forest sat around t he cam pfires. There w as no laught er or song and t hey huddled t oget her in grim silence as Gorgon sat upon t he t hrone of skulls. Thena w as asleep, her head rest ing on Parm enion’s shoulder, but t he Spart an st ayed aw ake. The silence w as unnat ural; he sensed t he creat ures were waiting for something and he remained tense and watchful as the hours passed.

Tow ards daw n t he creat ures clim bed t o t heir feet, m oving t o left and right of t he t hrone in t w o lines. Easing Thena t o t he ground, Parm enion r ose. His lim bs w ere st iff and he st ret ched t he m uscles of his back. Tension hung in t he air as Gorgon rose from t he t hrone and stared to the east.

A dozen w eird beast s em erged from t he t rees, dragging a prisoner, roped and t ied. There w as blood upon t he prisoner’s body and t he marks of many wounds. Parmenion cursed softly.

The prisoner was Brontes.

His capt ors - part - rept ile, part - cat, t heir lim bs covered in fur, t heir faces scaled - pulled Bront es bet w een t he w ait ing lines. Jagged k nives and swords hissed into the air.

‘Wait! ‘ called Parm enion, st riding out t o st and above t he bound minotaur. Brontes looked up at him, his expression unreadable. Swiftly Parm enion drew his dagger, slicing t he razor-shar p blade t hrough t he thongs binding him. ‘St ay dow n,’ or dered t he Spart an, t hen rose t o face the Forest King.

‘This is my friend - and my ally,’ he said. ‘He is under my protection.’

‘Your protection? And who protects you, Human?’

‘You do, sire - until you have reached a decision.’

‘So,’ hissed Gorgon, pacing forw ard t o st and over t he m inot aur, ‘y ou have a hum an friend now, Bront es. Do y ou r em em ber t he last one?

You don’t learn, do you?’

The m inot aur said not hing but he low ered his head, avoiding Gor gon’s gaze. Then a sound cam e from t he Forest King t hat could have been laught er. ‘He w as a prisoner on Gret a,’ he t old Parm enion. ‘The King penned him in a labyrinth below his city, feeding him on the entrails of pigs and ot her vile m eat s. One day t he King t hrew a hero int o t he labyrint h. But Bront es did not kill him, did you, br ot her? No, he befriended him and t oget her t hey escaped. I m agine Bront es’ surprise w hen t he hero ret urned hom e t o brag of his bat t le w it h t he deadly, man-eat ing m inot aur. Did he becom e King, Bront es? Yes, I believe t hat he did. And spent his days - as all kings do - hunt ing dow n t he people of the Enchantment. Thus do they build their legends.’

‘Kill me,’ said Brontes, ‘but pray do not bore me to death.’

‘Ah, but how can I kill you, Bront es? You are under t he prot ect ion of t he Hum an. How fort unat e for you.’ Suddenly Gor gon’s foot lashed out, cracking against Brontes’ jaw and hurling him to the ground.

‘How many enemies do you need, sire?’ asked Parmenion.

‘Do not try my patience, Human! This is my realm.’

‘I do not quest ion t hat, sire. But w hen t he Enchant m ent is rest ored, it w ill be rest ored for all t he children of t he Tit ans. All including m y friend Brontes.’

‘And if I kill him?’

‘Then you will need to kill me. For I will surely strike you down.’

Gorgon shook his head, t he snakes conv ulsively rising, t hen he k nelt by Bront es. ‘What are w e t o m ake of t his, brot her?’ he asked. ‘A Hum an is prepared t o die for you. How far have w e fallen t hat w e should earn t heir pit y?’ Glancing up at Parm enion he shook his head once m ore. ‘You w ill have m y answ er com e t he daw n. Enj oy t he moments before then.’

Parm enion m oved t o Bront es, helping t he m inot aur t o his feet. His chest and back show ed a score of shallow cut s and he w as bleeding freely.

‘What happened?’ asked Parm enion as he led t he m inot aur back t o where Thena slept.

‘The Mak edones sur prised us. The cent aurs are dead - as are m y brot hers. I m anaged t o reach t he forest, but t here I w as capt ured. All is lost, Parmenion.’

‘What of the boy!’

‘Your friend carried him clear - but I don’t know if they escaped.’

‘I am sorry for your br ot hers, m y friend. I should have led us all int o the forest and taken the chance.’

‘Do not blam e yourself, strategos. And I t hank you for speaking for m e. Sadly it w ill delay our deat hs only a lit t le w hile. Gorgon is playing with us, allowing hope to build. At dawn we will see his true evil.’

‘He called you brother.’

‘I do not w ish t o speak of it. I w ill sleep t hese last hours. I t w ill annoy him dreadfully.’ The m inot aur sank back t o t he grass, low ering his huge head to the ground.

‘I will tend your wounds,’ Parmenion offered.

‘No need. They w ill be healed by t he t im e w e face our doom.’ Bront es closed his eyes.

Parm enion t ouched Thena’s shoulder and she w oke inst ant ly.

‘Alexander is lost somewhere. Can you find him?’

‘I cannot soar her e. The Dark Enchant m ent is t oo st rong. What w ill you do?’

Parmenion shrugged. ‘I will use my wits to the last and, if that fails, I’ll stab the snake-headed bastard through the heart and order his men to surrender.’

‘I believe that you would,’ she said, smiling.

‘Spartan training. Never admit defeat.’

‘I t oo am Spart an,’ she said. ‘We ar e a very st upid people.’ They bot h laughed and he put his arm around her.

‘Go back to sleep,’ he advised, his smile fading. ‘I will wake you for the dawn.’

‘I f you do not obj ect, I w ould like t o sit w it h you. You can t ell m e of your life.’

‘There is nothing in my life to interest a priestess.’

‘Tell me of your first love, how you met. I would like to hear that.’

*

The horned child m oved t o t he cent re of t he clearing and gazed t hrough slit t ed eyes int o t he dar kness of t he forest. ‘Com e t o m e! ‘ he called, his voice echoing int o t he t rees. Slow ly, one by one, t he beast s cam e fort h unt il t hey form ed a huge circle around him. At t alus st ayed close t o t he cent aur, Cam iron, w ho st am ped his feet nerv ously, his brown eyes wide, almost panicstricken.

‘Stay calm,’ advised Attalus.

‘I am not frightened,’ the centaur lied.

‘Then stand still, damn you!’

‘I want to leave. I will run to the open ground. I cannot breathe here. I need Chiron; I must find him.’

‘Wait! ‘ com m anded At t alus. ‘Do not hing rash. I f you run t hey w ill drag you down. And, more importantly, me with you.’

More and m ore creat ures filed slow ly forw ard, silent ly kneeling before Alexander. The st ench w as appalling and At t ains alm ost gagged. A scaled beast pushed past him, it s rough skin grazing t he sw ordsm an’s arm. But t he beast s show ed lit t le int erest in m an or cent aur; t heir eyes were fixed on the Golden Child.

Alexander w alked back t o At t alus. ‘Lift m e t o t he cent aur’s back,’ he said. The sw ordsm an did so and Cam iron shift ed uneasily. Alexander pat t ed Cam iron’s shoulder and At t alus saw t hat his fingernails w ere now black and point ed. ‘Such a puny body,’ said t he Chaos Spirit, st aring at his hands. ‘But it w ill grow. Com e, let us find Parm enion.

Head south, Camiron.’

‘I do not wish to carry you. You are hurting me,’ said the centaur.

‘Your wishes do not concern me. But you may die here if you desire it.’

Cam iron cried out as fresh agony lanced t hrough his fram e. ‘That is t rue pain,’ said t he Chaos Spirit. ‘Now m ove-and slow ly. At t alus, you w ill w alk beside m e. My servant s can sm ell your blood. I t m akes t hem hungry. Stay close to me.’

‘Yes, my prince. But where are we going?’

‘To war and slaughter. There cannot be two kings in the forest.’

*

The sun rose slowly over the trees, but no birds sang. The creatures of Gorgon had rem ained in t w o lines before t he t hrone, unm oving, unspeaking, w ait ing for t he daw n. Parm enion st ood and st ret ched.

Thena rose w it h him. Bront es groaned and st irred as t he first rays of sunshine t ouched him. His wounds had healed in t he night; now only dried blood remained on his massive torso.

‘Now w e aw ait Gorgon’s pleasure,’ w hispered Bront es. ‘I t w ould be a kind act were you to kill the woman now.’

‘No,’ said Parmenion softly. ‘We’ll play out the game to the end.’

‘As you wish.’

The t rio w alked forw ard bet w een t he w ait ing lines and halt ed befor e the throne. Gorgon’s huge head lifted, his pale eyes glaring balefully at Parmenion.

‘I have given t hought t o your w ords, w arrior. I find t hem unconvincing.’

‘Nat urally,’ said Parm enion. ‘When one is cursed for so long, a dream is hard t o hold. So m any disappoint m ent s, so m uch bit t erness and hatred. Why should you find it easy to believe?’

‘I m ean t o kill you,’ cont inued t he King, as if he hadn’t hear d. ‘I w ill ensure your death is long in coming.’

‘Does t his m ean t hat you w ill accept t he offer of Philippos?’ asked Parmenion calmly.

‘Yes. I will find the child and deliver him to the Makedones King.’

‘I n ret urn for w hat? A few w om en? Sovereignt y over t he forest? Do you sell yourself so cheaply? Philippos grant s you w hat you already have, and y ou t ake it as a gift. What of your people here? What do t hey get? You t ur n dow n t heir chance of rem oving t he curse upon them. What is there for them?’

‘They serve me!’ bellowed Gorgon, rising from his throne. ‘They will do as I opm m and. You t hink your sw eet w ords have sw ayed t hem? Yes, w e are cursed, but t here is no I skander t o rescue us. He is a dream, an invent ion, creat ed by t hose w it hout t he courage t o live w it hout hope. But you can serve a pur pose, Hum an. Your scream s can am use us for a little while.’

The lines of m onst ers began t o m ove, curling around t he t rio. Brontes gave a low grow l and Parm enion drew his sw ord. Derae st ood st ill, her gaze resting on the Forest King, her spirit reaching out.

‘To live w it hout hope,’ she said, her voice high and clear and unafraid, ‘is not courageous. I t is t he w orst form of cow ardice. I t m eans you have given up t he st ruggle. Have you alw ays been such a m an, Dionius? Or w as t here a t im e w hen your dream s w ere golden and t he j oy of love filled your soul?’ Thr ough t he w aves of bit t erness surging from t he Forest King she saw, suddenly, t he briefest vision - a young w om an and a m an, hand in hand before t he ocean. Then t he im age was savagely cut off.

‘I never knew love!’ he roared.

‘You lie! There was Persephone!’

Gorgon reeled as if st ruck, t hen cried out, his scream high-pitched and chilling. Derae saw it all t hen, as t he gat es of Gorgon’s m em ory fell aw ay. The beaut iful young w om an and t he handsom e child of t he Titans - walking t oget her, laughing, t ouching, loving. She saw t hem in m any shapes, sea birds, dolphins and ot her exquisit e creat ures she could not nam e. But Persephone w as hum an, and not all t he Tit an’s m agic could hold back her final hours w hen t he dark plague sw ept in from the north.

Gorgon fell t o t he gr ound, beat ing at t he eart h w it h his fist s. The m onst ers of t he forest st ood back, silent and uncert ain. Slow ly Gorgon rose, the snakes hanging lank and lifeless from his scalp. From his belt he drew a long dagger, its edge serrated, and advanced on Derae.

‘Would Persephone enjoy this scene?’ she asked.

Gorgon sighed and dr opped t he k nife. ‘I w ill see t he child,’ he w hispered. ‘I f he is I skander, I w ill help you. I f he is not, t hen your screams will last an eternity.’

*

For a m om ent Parm enion st ood st ill, his gaze m oving from t he t all woman to the snake-headed monster before her. Then he sheathed his sw ord. Thena’s v oice w hispered in his m ind. ‘Do not hing and say nothing,’ she urged.

Gorgon t urned aw ay from t he scene, ret urning t o his t hrone and slumping upon it with his head in his hands.

Thena t ouched Parm enion’s arm and w alked back t o t he shade of t he t ree w here t hey had spent t he night. The Spart an follow ed her. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked. ‘Is he lying? Will he truly help us?’

‘Gorgon is not t he concern,’ she w hispered. ‘The Dem on Prince has gat hered an arm y. He is m oving t ow ards us, int ent on dest roying t he Forest King.’

‘What Demon Prince?’ asked Parmenion. ‘What are you saying?’

‘The Chaos Spirit has t aken cont rol of Alexander. He has becom e a hor ned creat ure, w it h fangs and t alons. I t is t hese w oods, Parmenion, so full of Dark Enchant m ent. They sw elled his pow er. At t alus is w it h him, and a cent aur called Cam iron. But t he Spirit now cont rols hundreds of Gorgon’s followers.’

‘I don’t underst and. How do you know t his? You said you could not release your spirit here.’

‘I can st ill reach out, t ouching t hose I know if t hey are not t oo far dist ant. I can feel t he t hought s and fears of At t alus. They w ill be here very soon.’

‘From which direction do they come?’

‘The north,’ she answered, pointing to a break in the trees.

‘Is the demon in full control of the boy?’

‘Yes.’

Parmenion sighed, then cursed softly. ‘I will go to them,’ he said.

‘The Demon Prince will kill you!’

‘I have no choice,’ he replied w earily. A Vore sw ooped dow n over t he t rees, landing before t he Forest King. Parm enion st rode back t o t he t hrone. Gorgon list ened as t he Vore spoke, t hen cam e t o his feet - eyes angry, fists clenched.

‘This child of yours comes to me for war!’ he thundered.

‘As you w ould ex pect, m y lord,’ answ ered Parm enion. ‘He does not know w het her w e are prisoners or guest s. I shall go t o him, and br ing him to you alone.’

This I skander,’ said t he King, ‘is horned and cat - eyed. The legends do not speak of this.’

‘He is a shape-changer, as you once w ere, sire. His pow ers, as you now know, are very great. Let me go to him.’

Gorgon nodded, t hen his hand st abbed out, point ing t o Thena and Brontes. ‘They stay,’ he hissed, ‘and if you lie they will suffer.’

Parm enion bow ed. ‘As you w ish, lord,’ he said, holding his voice even.

Bow ing once m ore, t he Spart an sw ung t o t he nort h and w alked from t he clearing. Once in t he cover of t he t rees he ran - long, loping, effort less st rides along t he narrow t rail, his m ind concent rat ing on t he problem ahead. How could he deal w it h a god? What argum ent s could he use?

Thena’s voice whispered once more into his brain. ‘I can feel Alexander now. He is not w holly overcom e. And t here is som et hing else t he dem on and t he boy are linked. The Chaos Spirit is not yet w hole. He is still I don’t know child-like?’

The w ords faded and t he Spart an ran on, up a hillside and on t o a w ider t rack. ‘More t o your left! ‘ cam e t he voice of Thena. ‘No m ore than two hundred paces.’

The undergrowth was too thick to change direction, and Parmenion ran back along t he w ay he had com e before t ur ning t o a new t rail. He could hear t hem now, j ust ahead. Slow ing t o a w alk t he Spart an st epped out before t hem and w ait ed, keeping his face em ot ionless despit e t he shock of seeing t he Dem on Prince sit t ing upon t he giant cent aur. Alexander ‘s face w as now a pallid gr ey, m ot t led black ram ‘s hor ns sprout ing from t he t em ples. His hair w as w hit e, t he golden eyes slit t ed beneat h heavy brow s, his m out h w as t w ist ed and w ide w it h teeth long and protruding. There was nothing left of the beautiful child.

‘Ah, m y general approaches! ‘ cam e a deep voice. ‘Welcom e, Parmenion!’

Beyond t he Prince t he m onst rous arm y w ait ed, and beside him st ood Attalus, his face a mask, his expression unreadable.

‘This is neit her your t im e nor your w orld,’ said Parm enion soft ly. ‘Give us back the boy.’

‘Serve me or die!’ answered the Chaos Spirit.

‘No, you w ill die,’ Parm enion t old him. ‘You t hink t his display of pow er can w in you a w or ld? Gorgon w ill fight you, and even if you defeat him w hat w ill you have? A pit iful forest in a w orld w here anot her Spirit rules. And t hat Spirit cont rols an arm y of count less t housands. You are playing a child’s gam e in a m an’s w orld. Now give us back the boy!’

The Dem on sw ung t o At t alus. ‘Kill him! ‘ he ordered. At t alus said not hing, but drew his sw ord and w alked t o w here Par m enion st ood waiting. Once there the Macedonian turned and faced the Demon. ‘You betray me!’ shouted the prince. ‘Then you will both die.’

‘Wait! ‘ called Parm enion. ‘Your w orld is a long w ay from here. Only I can ret ur n you t o it. Wit hout m e you w ill be t rapped here, in t he body of a child. How will you survive?’

‘I have m y arm y,’ answ ered t he Dem on, but his voice w avered as he looked upon the beasts around him.

‘You w ill conquer not hing w it h t hose,’ said Parm enion. ‘You m ight not even best the Forest King.’

‘And if I give you the boy?’

‘I will return him to his own world.’

‘How so?’ sneered the Demon. ‘By trusting Gorgon? He will kill him me.’

‘Then you m ust decide - and sw ift ly. You m ay have t his forest or a world. Decide, damn you!’

For a m om ent t he Dem on sat very st ill, his slit t ed eyes fixed on Parm enion, t hen he seem ed t o relax. ‘One day I w ill kill you bot h,’ he said, his voice echoing as if from a gr eat dist ance. The horns began t o shrink, Alexander cried out and fell from t he cent aur. Parm enion ran forw ard, lift ing t he boy and pushing back t he golden hair. There w as no sign now of the Demon, save in the fading brown patches of skin at the temples. Once more his hair was golden, his face beautiful.

‘I couldn’t stop him Parmenion,’ wailed the child. ‘I tried!’

‘You did enough. Believe m e! You did not allow him his full st rengt h.

That confused him.’

‘Look out, Parm enion! ‘ shout ed At t alus. All around t he m an and t he boy t he beast s w ere rising, t heir eyes baleful. Wit hout t he Dem on t o control them they saw only three Humans and a centaur, four enemies for the slaughter.

Parm enion surged upright, holding Alexander t ight ly t o his shoulder.

‘Back! ‘ he shout ed, but t he beast s ignored him. His sw ord snaked out as a creat ure w it h t he head of a lizard sprang forw ard. His blade slashed across its throat, hurling it back.

Suddenly an eerie w ailing filled t he air and t he creat ures fell t o t heir knees. Parmenion swung to see Gorgon striding from the forest, Thena and Brontes behind him.

A horned beast of prodigious size lift ed a huge club and ran at t he Forest King. Gorgon’s eyes glow ed. The beast st aggered - and began t o shrink, it s m uscles w ast ing aw ay. Thinner and t hinner it becam e unt il at last it fell t o t he eart h, breaking int o m any pieces. A slight wind blew, raising a cloud of dust where the beast had fallen. Not even bones were left.

Gorgon t urned t ow ards Parm enion. ‘Bring t he child t o m e! ‘ he com m anded. The Spart an’s legs w ere unst eady as he w alked t o t he King, but his sw ord w as st ill in his hand and he w as ready t o plunge it into the King’s belly at the first sign of treachery.

‘Be brave! ‘ he w hispered t o t he boy. Alexander nodded. Parm enion low ered t he prince t o t he ground and t he boy approached t he Forest King, staring up into the green snake-shrouded face.

‘Show me your power,’ said Gorgon.

‘I will show you,’ Alexander told him. ‘But at the Giant’s Gateway.’

‘Then you are truly Iskander.’

‘I am,’ Alexander answered.

*

The prince st ood silent ly w it h head cocked t o one side, his green eyes w at ching t he w rit hing snakes. ‘Are t hey real snakes?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Realit y depends upon your perspect ive,’ answ ered Gorgon, kneeling dow n and dipping his head. The snakes rose up, hissing, t heir forked tongues darting forward under sharp fangs.

The boy did not flinch. ‘They are not alive,’ he said.

‘If they bite you, you will die,’ Gorgon pointed out.

‘That does not m ake t hem real. Their eyes are blind. They cannot see, they cannot feel. They move because you order it.’

‘So does my arm - and that is real.’

‘I ndeed,’ agreed t he boy, ‘and t hat is precisely w hat t he snakes are - an ext ension of your body, like arm s or legs. They m erely look like snakes.’

‘Are you not frightened of me?’

‘I fear not hing,’ lied Alexander, st raight ening his back and lift ing his chin defiantly.

‘But you find me monstrous and ugly.’

‘I find you fascinating. Why did you choose such a countenance?’

A sound resembling laughter roared from the Forest King. ‘I chose it to inst il fear in m y enem ies. I t did so. I t st ill does so. But t hen t he w ar w as lost and t he losers w ere punished? A spell w as cast upon us, forcing us to hold our forms. You, Iskander, will wash away this spell.’

‘Are you evil?’ asked the boy.

‘Of course. We lost. The losers are alw ays evil, for it is t he vict ors w ho sing t he songs t hat becom e hist ory. And in t hese form s t hey have left us w hat choices do w e have? Look at t he Vores! Their t ouch is deat h, t heir breat h t he plague. How m any good w orks can t hey accom plish?

The vict ors left us w it h hat e and bit t erness in our heart s. They called us evil, and m ade us evil. Now w e live up t o t heir expect at ions. You believe me?’

‘It would be discourteous to admit that I did not,’ answered the boy.

‘True,’ agreed the King, ‘but I will allow you one discourtesy.’

‘Then I m ust say t hat I do disagree. Parm enion says t hat every m an has choices. I f w hat you say is t rue, t hen all ugly m en w ould be evil and all handsome men good.’

‘Well said, child,’ com m ent ed t he m inot aur, Bront es. ‘My brot her om it s to mention that he - and his allies - began the war, bringing death and slaughter to thousands.’

Gorgon rose and shook his head, the snakes hissing and writhing. ‘Just w hen it seem ed I could have an int elligent conv ersat ion Ah w ell, let us not rake over t he ashes of hist ory, Bront es. As I recall t here w ere m any t housands on bot h sides w ho died, br ot her killing br ot her. Let it end with the coming of Iskander.’

‘I do not believe you w ill ever let it end, Dionius,’ said Bront es sadly.

‘It is not in your nature.’

‘We shall see, brother. How is our mother? Does she still pine for me?’

A low grow l cam e from Bront es, his fist s clenching, t he m uscles of his shoulders bunching int o t ight ridges. ‘Do not even t hink of it,’ whispered Gorgon, his pale eyes glowing like lanterns.

‘Please do not fight,’ pleaded Alexander.

‘No one is going t o fight,’ said Parm enion, m oving bet w een Bront es and t he Forest King. ‘We are allies now, against a com m on enem y. I s that not correct, Brontes?’

‘Allies?’ hissed t he m inot aur, shaking his head. ‘I cannot bring m yself to believe so.’

‘You can,’ argued Parm enion, ‘because you m ust. This w ar you speak of w as fought eons ago. There m ust com e a t im e w hen it can be put aside. Let that time be now. Let it be here in this forest.’

‘You have no idea what he did!’ stormed Brontes.

‘No, I have not. Nor do I need to. It is the way of war to bring out both the best and the worst in the combatants. But the war is over.’

‘As long as he lives it w ill never be over,’ said Bront es, t urning aw ay and st alking back int o t he forest. Alexander sw it ched his gaze t o t he Forest King and t hought he saw a look of disappoint m ent, alm ost sadness on t he t w ist ed feat ures. Then t he grim, sardonic expression returned.

‘Your mission has not begun well, Iskander,’ said the King.

‘Nothing of worth comes easily,’ the boy answered.

‘You are a w ise child. I could alm ost like you - w ere I able t o remember what such an emotion feels like.’

‘You can rem em ber,’ said Alexander, w it h a bright sm ile. ‘And I like you too.’

*

Alexander m oved aw ay from t he Forest King and saw Cam iron st anding apart from t he m onst ers w ho filled t he clearing. The cent aur w as t rem bling, his front hooves paw ing at t he gr ound. The prince w alked t ow ards him but Cam iron, seeing him, backed aw ay several steps.

‘You hurt me,’ said the centaur, his huge eyes blinking rapidly.

‘I t w as not m e,’ said Alexander soot hingly, reaching out his hand. ‘Did it look like me?’

‘Except for t he horns,’ said Cam iron. ‘I don’t like t his place; I don’t want to be here.’

‘We will be leaving soon,’ the boy told him. ‘Will you let me ride you?’

‘Where will we go?’

‘We will find Chiron.’ I’ll never find him,’ muttered the centaur. ‘He has abandoned me. And I will always be alone.’

‘No,’ said Alexander, st epping close and t aking Cam iron’s hand. ‘You are not alone. We will be friends, you and I. Until we find Chiron.’

The cent aur bent his t orso forw ard and w hispered, ‘This is an evil place. I t has alw ays been so. I f you get on m y back, I w ill run from here like t he w ind. I can carry you t o t he far m ount ains. They w ill not catch us.’

‘There is evil everyw here, m y friend,’ Alexander t old him, ‘and w e ar e safer here than in the mountains. Trust me.’ Camiron said nothing, but fear st ill shone in his eyes and his flanks t rem bled. ‘You are m ight y Cam iron,’ said t he boy suddenly, ‘t he st rongest of cent aurs. You fear nothing. You are the fastest, the bravest, the finest of warriors.’

The cent aur nodded. ‘Yes, yes, I am all t hose t hings. I am! I am a great fighter. I am not frightened.’

‘I k now. We w ill j ourney t o t he sea and t hen t o Spart a. I w ill ride y ou and you will protect me.’

‘To the sea, yes. Will Chiron be there? Is he close?’

‘He is very close. Tell me, where were you when you awoke last?’

‘It was in a wood, close to the mountains. I heard shouts and screams.

It was the Makedones killing the centaurs. That’s when I saw you.’

‘Was anything around you when you woke?’

‘Just t rees and r ocks and a st ream, I t hink. I don’t rem em ber going there. I don’t remember things very well.’

‘The first t im e I saw you, you had a pouch of leat her on a belt. I n it there was a golden stone. But you do not have it now.’

‘A pouch? Yes t here w as. But I left it behind. The scream s st art led me. Is it important?’

‘No, I j ust w ondered w here it w as. We w ill leave soon, but first I m ust speak with Parmenion.’

The Spart an w as deep in conversat ion w it h t he priest ess Thena and At t alus, but w hen Alexander j oined t hem t he group fell silent. ‘I need to speak with you,’ said the boy.

‘Of course,’ Parmenion answered, kneeling to face the prince.

‘It is about Chiron.’

‘I think he is lost to us.’

‘No. He is t he cent aur, Cam iron.’ Sw ift ly he t old Parm enion of his first m eet ing w it h t he magus, and how he had becom e a cent aur. ‘But now Camiron has lost the magic stone. I don’t think he can change back.’

‘There is lit t le w e can do for him,’ said Parm enion, ‘save keep him w it h us. But, more importantly, how are you faring?’

Alexander looked into the Spartan’s eyes, reading the concern there. ‘I am w ell. He t ook m e by surprise. The Enchant m ent in t hese w oods is very strong - and very dark.’

‘Do you recall any of it?’

‘All of it. I n a st range w ay it w as very peaceful. I could see everyt hing and yet I w as not in com m and. I needed t o m ake no decisions. He is very st rong, Parm enion. I felt it w hen his m ind reached out and touched the beasts. He brought them to his will instantly.’

‘Can you still feel his presence?’

‘No. It is as if he is sleeping.’

‘Do you have t he st rengt h t o st op him, should he t r y t o cont rol you once more?’

‘I think so. But how can I know?’

‘Do t he best t hat you can,’ advised t he Spart an, ‘and t ell m e w hen he returns.’

‘I will. What happens now?’

‘The King is going t o lead us t o t he sea. Once t here w e w ill find a w ay t o cross t he Gulf of Korint hos Corint h. From t here w e w ill t ravel south through Arkadia to Sparta. After that I don’t know.’

‘I can open the Giant’s Gateway,’ said Alexander softly.

‘Do not think of it,’ whispered the Spartan. ‘You are not who they think you are.’

‘Oh, but I am,’ answ ered t he boy. ‘Believe m e, Parm enion, I am Iskander.’

*

For t hree days t he sm all group m oved sout h t hr ough t he forest, led by Gorgon and guided by t hree Vores w ho sw ooped and dived in t he sky abov e t he t rees, w at ching for signs of pursuit. Alexander rode Camiron, whose spirits had soared on the second morning.

‘I can rem em ber,’ Cam iron t old t he prince. ‘I t is w onderful. I w ent t o sleep and woke up in the same place.’

‘That is good,’ replied the boy distantly.

Parm enion w alked oft en beside t he Forest King, Derae and’At t alus bringing up the rear behind the centaur and his rider.

For t he first t w o days t he priest ess said lit t le t o t he sw ordsm an, w alking in silence and spending her evenings in deep conversat ion with Parmenion. But on the morning of the third day Attalus hung back from the group, allowing some thirty paces to grow between them.

‘You are walking very slowly,’ said Derae.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he told her.

‘Why? What am I to you?’

‘I need I want advice.’

Derae looked at him closely, reaching out t o t ouch his spirit, feeling t he surging, com plex em ot ions raging w it hin him. Sw ift ly she withdrew. ‘How may I help you?’

‘You are a seeress, are you not?’

‘I am.’

‘And you can see the future?’

‘There are m any fut ures, At t alus; t hey change day by day. Tell m e what troubles you.’

‘The Dem on said t hat he w ould see Parm enion and m e bot h slain. Did he speak the truth?’

Derae looked int o t he sw ordsm an’s t roubled face. ‘What w ould you do if I told you that he did?’

‘I don’t k now. All m y know n enem ies are dead; t here is safet y in t hat.

But he is t he son of t he only friend I have ever had. I could not’

His voice trailed away. ‘Will you tell me my future?’

‘No, it w ould not be w ise. You carry great hat red and bit t erness, At t alus. And t he ev ent s of your past have t w ist ed your soul. Your love for Philip is the only redeeming quality you have.’

‘Will you tell me whether the boy is a danger to me?’

For a m om ent only she hesit at ed. ‘Give m e your hand,’ she commanded. He obeyed her, offering his left, his right rest ing on his sword-hilt. Em ot ions flooded her - st rong, harsh and alm ost over pow ering. She saw his m ot her slain by his fat her, saw t he fat her m urdered by t he y oung At t alus. Then, in t he years t hat follow ed, she saw t he bit t er young m an send scores of people t o t heir deat hs, using knife or bow, sw ord or poison. At last she sighed and released his hand.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

‘You have m any enem ies,’ she t old him, her v oice low and sorrow ful.

‘You are hat ed by alm ost all w ho know you. Believe m e, assassin, at this time the prince is the least of your foes.’

‘But he will be an enemy, will he not?’

‘If he lives,’ she replied, holding to his gaze. ‘If any of us live.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, moving past her and walking on.

That night, as t he ot hers slept, Derae sat w it h Parm enion on t he brow of a hill and t old t he Spart an w hat had occurred w it h At t alus. ‘You think he will try to kill the boy?’ he asked.

‘Not im m ediat ely. But he is a sad, t w ist ed m an. There is lit t le good in him.’

‘I w ill w at ch him w it h care. But t ell m e, lady, w hy did Arist ot le send you?’

‘He thought I could help you. Have I not done so?’

‘Of course - but t hat is not w hat I m eant. Why did he send.you? Why not another?’

‘I s m y com pany so painful t o you?’ she count ered, her unease growing.

‘Not at all. You are like a cool breeze on a sum m er’s day. You m ake m y soul rest. I am not good w it h w om en, Thena. I am clum sy and short of temper.’ He chuckled. ‘The ways of your race are alien to me.’

‘You make us sound like another species.’

‘Som et im es I t hink t hat y ou are,’ he adm it t ed. ‘When I w as very young I used t o w at ch Derae run. I w ould hide on a hillt op and observe the girls in their races. Their grace made me feel ungainly and awkward - and yet the memories have a certain glow.’

‘I t is good t o t alk of fine m em ories,’ she t old him. ‘They are all t hat makes life a joy. Tell me of your family.’

‘I thought you wanted good memories,’ he snapped, looking away.

‘You do not love your wife?’

‘Love Phaedra?’ he answ ered, shaking his head. ‘She m arried m e for one purpose and I do not wish to talk of it.’

‘Then we will not.’

Suddenly he gave a w ry sm ile. ‘Why did you ask m e t hat quest ion?

You ar e a seeress, Thena; you know t he answ er already.’ The sm ile faded, his expression hardening. ‘Do you know all my secrets?’

The thought of lying flitted across her mind, but she dismissed it. ‘Yes,’ she told him softly.

He nodded. ‘I thought so. Then you know why she married me.’

‘To rid herself of the unwanted gift of prophecy.’

‘And?’ he pressed - his eyes, cold now, holding to her gaze.

‘Because her gift t old her you w ould sire a god-king t o r ule t he w orld.

She wanted that boy to be her son.’

‘And now,’ said Parm enion sorrow fully, ‘she raises poor Philot as, filling his m ind w it h t hought s of fut ure glories. I t is a t errible illusion - and I can do not hing t o st op it. I s t his t he price I m ust pay for m y betrayal?’

‘You are not an evil m an,’ she t old him, t aking his hand. ‘Do not allow one mistake to poison your feelings of self-worth.’

‘I t could all have been so different, Thena, if Derae and I had been allow ed t o w ed. Maybe t her e w ould have been no riches - but w e w ould have had a hom e and children.’ Pushing him self t o his feet, he stared out over the moonlit treetops. ‘But then there is little advantage in t rying t o reshape t he past. We didn’t m ar ry. They killed her. And I becam e Parm enion, t he Deat h of Nat ions. I can live w it h it. Com e, let us get back to the camp. Perhaps tonight I can sleep without dreams.’

*

By t he fift h day of t heir j ourney t he t rek sout h had slow ed. The Vores had flow n aw ay t he night before and not ret urned, and Gorgon seem ed t o Parm enion t o have grow n m ore caut ious, const ant ly scouting ahead, leaving the others behind. Brontes had been unusually silent for t he past t w o days, w andering aw ay from his com panions and sit t ing alone, his huge bull’s head in his hands. And At t alus w as growing surly, his pale eyes constantly flickering towards Alexander.

Parm enion felt a grow ing unease. The forest w as t hicker here, lit t le light breaking t hrough t he t hick canopy of int ert w ined branches high abov e, t he air filled w it h t he st ench of rot t ing veget at ion. But it w as not just the sickening smell or the lack of light that left the Spartan on edge; in t his place t here w as an aura of evil t hat ent ered t he m ind, touching the soul with dread.

That night, for t he first t im e, Parm enion built a fire. At t alus and Thena sat dow n beside it, t he sw ordsm an st aring gloom ily int o t he dancing flam es. Bront es m oved aw ay and sat w it h his back t o a broad oak and Parmenion followed him.

‘Are you in pain?’ asked the Spartan.

Bront es’ head cam e up. A t hin t rickle of blood w as dripping from his right nostril.

‘I need t he Change,’ w hispered Bront es. ‘But it cannot be accom plished in t his place. I f w e do not m ov e clear of t his forest in the next two days I shall die.’

‘You knew this would happen?’

‘Yes.’

‘And yet you came with us? I don’t know what to say, Brontes.’

The m inot aur shrugged. ‘I skander is all-im port ant; he m ust arrive at t he Giant ‘s Gat ew ay. Leave m e, m y friend. I t is hard t o speak t hrough the pain.’

At t hat m om ent Gorgon r et urned, easing his giant bulk t hrough t he undergrow t h. He ran across t he sm all clearing and kicked eart h upon the fire, scattering sparks that swept across Thena’s robes.

‘What in Hades are you doing?’ stormed Attalus.

‘No fires!’ hissed Gorgon.

‘Why? I s t his not your forest?’ responded t he sw ordsm an. ‘What should we fear?’

‘Everything,’ answ ered Gor gon, st alking t ow ards Parm enion. ‘The Makedones have entered the forest,’ he said, his eyes glittering. ‘There are m ore t han a t housand w arriors, split int o five groups. Tw o are behind us, two to the east and one ahead.’

‘Do they know where we are?’

‘I believe t hat t hey do. Many of t he Vores have desert ed m e and j oined t he Makedones. There is lit t le loyalt y in t his forest, Hum an. I rule because I am t he st rongest, and m y crow n is secure only so long as I am feared. But t he Vores fear Philippos m ore. So t hey should, for his power is greater than mine.’

‘When will we reach the sea?’

‘Two days - if we travel fast. Three if we are careful.’

Parmenion shook his head. ‘Brontes will not survive three days.’

Gorgon’s mouth stretched into the parody of a smile, the snakes on his head rising with fangs bared.

‘What does t hat m at t er? All t hat is im port ant is t hat I skander reaches t he Gat ew ay. And t hat is now doubt ful. This forest is m y dom ain and m y st rengt h - yet it is t axing m y pow ers t o t he lim it t o keep Philippos from finding us. The bony w om an w it h you is also nearing ex haust ion, shielding us. But we are tiring, Human. And when our magic is drained t here w ill not be a place in t his forest t o hide. Do you underst and? At t his m om ent t he priest ess and I have covered t he forest w it h a spirit m ist, and w e are hidden w it hin it. But every hour t hat passes sees t he Dem on King cut t ing aw ay at our defences. Soon it w ill be like a st orm w ind dispersing our m ist, and w e w ill st and in t he full view of t he golden eye. I cannot concern m yself w it h t he sm all problem of Bront es’ life.’ Gor gon lay dow n, closing his eyes. ‘We w ill rest for t w o hours,’ he said softly, ‘then push on through the night.’

Parm enion w alked back t o t he dead fire w here Alexander w as sleeping peacefully beside the centaur, Camiron. Removing his cloak Parmenion covered the child, pausing to stroke the boy’s head.

At t alus saw him, his eyes narr ow ing, but he m asked his feelings as Parm enion j oined him. ‘Why is t he beast so ner vous?’ asked t he Macedonian, flicking his hand towards the sleeping Gorgon.

‘A thousand Makedones have entered the forest.’

‘Only a t housand? Surely t hey w ill prove no pr oblem for t he strategos?

What w ill you do t his t im e? Sum m on t he birds from t he t rees t o our aid? Or perhaps t he t rees t hem selves w ill uproot and m arch t o your orders?’

‘Your anger is m isdirect ed,’ Parm enion point ed out. ‘I am not your enemy.’

‘Ah! A friend, I suppose? That is an amusing thought.’

Parm enion t urned aw ay t o see t he t all priest ess w at ching t hem bot h.

Her voice whispered into his mind: ‘We are being w at ched by a priest of Philippos. They have broken t hrough our defences and he is list ening t o your w ords, relaying t hem to the Demon King.’

Parm enion gav e no sign t hat he had heard her and sw ung back t o Attalus. ‘I know you find t his hard t o believe, At t alus, but, I say again, I am not your enem y. And here, in t his dread place, I am indeed your friend. We w ill st ay here for t w o m ore days, t hen st rike east - back across t he m ount ains. Once clear of t his forest you w ill feel m ore easy in your mind. It is the evil that gnaws at you. Believe me.’

‘What gnaws at me is none of your concern,’ hissed Attalus.

‘He is gone!’ pulsed Thena. ‘Gorgon drove him back.’

Parm enion leaned in close t o t he Macedonian. ‘Now you list en t o m e, t here are enem ies all around us and - if w e are t o survive - w e m ust be t oget her in spirit and st rengt h. You t hink m e your foe? Perhaps I am. But here I m ust depend on you. And you m ust t rust m e. Wit hout t hat our hopes - slender as t hey are - w ill prove t o be for not hing. We w ere bot h t hreat ened by t he Chaos Spirit. But I choose t o ignor e his w ords. He does not know t he fut ure - and I w ill alw ays be t he m ast er of m y fat e. As w ill you-for w e are m en of st rengt h. Now can I t rust you?’

‘Why ask t he quest ion? You w ould not believe m e if I t old you w hat you wanted to hear.’

‘You are wrong, Attalus. Say the words and I will believe them.’

The sw ordsm an sm iled. ‘Then you can t rust m e,’ he said. ‘Does t hat satisfy you?’

‘Yes. Now w e w ill rest for t w o hours - and t hen find a pat h w est and south.’

‘But you said’

‘I changed my mind.’

‘You cannot trust him,’ Thena pulsed, but Parmenion ignored her.

St ret ching out on t he cold ground, he closed his eyes. All around them, as he had said, t here w ere deadly enem ies, m oving in from t hree sides and guided by t he m alevolent pow er of t he Makedones King. The Spart an considered his allies: a dying m inot aur, a priest ess, a twisted assassin and a Forest King steeped in evil.

His thoughts were not hopeful, his dreams full of torment.

*

At t alus lay aw ake, his t hought s confused. The t hreat from t he dem on nagged at him, burning in his m ind w it h fingers of fire. I t w ould be so easy t o creep across t he cam p-sit e and draw his dagger across t he boy ‘s t hroat. Then t he t hreat w ould be neut r alized. And yet t he child w as t he son of Philip - t he only m an w hose friendship At t alus had ever desired.

I need no friends, he t old him self. But t he w or ds echoed in his m ind, flat and unconvincing. Life w it hout Philip w as w ort h not hing. He w as the sun, the only warmth the swordsman had known since childhood.

He need not know you slew his child. Now t his t hought w as t em pt ing.

At som e point he could lure Alexander aw ay from t he ot hers and kill him silently. Breaking Philip’s heart in the process.

As At t alus rolled t o his side t he darkness w as lift ing, t hin beam s of m oonlight piercing t he over hanging t r ees. There cam e a sound, a soft sw ishing, like a st ick cut t ing t he air, and At t alus looked up t o see a Vore gliding dow n from t he upper branches of a t all pine. The creat ur e landed lightly, moving silently towards the sleeping Alexander.

The sw ordsm an did not m ove. Wings folded, t he Vore leaned ov er t he child, reaching out

Here, thought Attalus exultantly, was deliverance!

The creat ure’s t aloned hands dropped t ow ards Alexander. At t alus’ dagger flashed t hrough t he air, glit t ering in t he m oonlight t o plunge int o t he Vore’s back. The beast let out a highpit ched shriek. One w ing flared out, but t he second w as pinned t o it s back by t he j ut t ing dagger. Gorgon surged to his feet and ran towards the Vore. The dying creat ure st um bled, pit ching face-first t o t he ground. Parm enion and t he ot her s, aw akened by t he Vore’s scream s, gat hered around t he st ill twitching corpse.

Attalus stepped past them, ripping clear his dagger.

‘Be careful,’ snapped Gor gon, ‘t he blood is poisonous. One t ouch and you w ill die.’ At t alus plunged t he blade int o t he eart h at his feet cleaning the dagger on the moss before returning it to its sheath.

Gorgon flipped t he Vore t o it s back. ‘He w as one of m ine,’ he said. ‘I t is time to leave.’

‘You saved m e,’ said Alexander, m oving alongside At t alus and gazing up into the swordsman’s face.

‘Are you surprised, my prince?’

‘Yes,’ answered the boy.

‘Are you?’ Attalus asked Parmenion.

The Spart an shook his head. ‘Why should I be? Did you not give m e your word?’

‘Spoken w ords are sm all noises t hat vanish in t he air,’ said At t alus softly. ‘Do not put your faith in words.’

‘I f t hat w ere t rue, you w ould not have int ervened,’ count ered Parmenion.

At t alus had no answ er and sw ung aw ay, his t hought s full of guilt and self-loat hing. How could you be so st upid, he railed at him self? Moving back t o his bed he gat hered t he cloak he had used for a blanket, brushing t he dirt from it and fast ening it once m ore t o his shoulders with the brooch of turkis given to him by Philip.

The ot her s w ere all preparing t o leave - save t he priest ess, w ho w as sitting quietly beneath a spreading oak.

Gorgon’s voice broke t he silence. ‘St ay close t o m e, for w here w e t ravel it is very dark and t he danger s are m any.’ But st ill Thena sat beneath the tree. Attalus walked across to her.

‘We are ready,’ he said.

‘I will not be travelling with you,’ she whispered.

‘You cannot stay here.’

‘I must.’

Parm enion j oined t hem and t he seeress looked up at t he Spart an. ‘You go on,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘I will join you when I can.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Parmenion, kneeling down beside her.

‘I must delay the Makedones - and fool the Demon King.’

‘How?’ Attalus asked.

‘Like t hat! ‘ she said, point ing back across t he cam p. At t alus and Parm enion t urned t o see t hem selves apparent ly st ill sleeping by a fire t hat now bur ned bright ly. Across t he clearing t he form of Gorgon could be seen, lying beside t he m inot aur Bront es, w hile Alexander snuggled against the sleeping centaur. ‘You must go swiftly-before the spirit of Philippos returns.’

‘I will not see you in danger,’ said Parmenion.

‘We are all in danger,’ she insisted. ‘Go now!’

At t alus could see Parm enion had m ore t o say and seized his arm. ‘No m ore foolishness, rem em ber? The boy m ust be saved. Now com e on! ‘

Parm enion pulled clear of his grip, but m oved aw ay t o st and alongside Gorgon.

‘She has great power,’ said the Forest King, gazing at his own sleeping form several paces away.

The Spart an did not answ er and Gorgon led t he w ay int o t he dept hs of t he forest; Parm enion and Bront es follow ed, At t alus bringing up t he rear just behind the centaur and the boy.

As Gorgon had said, t he t rail w as dark, and t hey m ade slow progress for t he first t w o hours. Then t he daw n light began t o seep t hr ough t he intertwined branches, though no bird-song greeted the morning and all was silent.

But t ow ards m id-m orning Gorgon, at t he front of t he sm all colum n, suddenly w aved his hand and dart ed int o t he under grow t h, m oving w it h surprising speed for all his bulk. Sw ift ly t he ot hers follow ed him, Parm enion grabbing Cam iron and pulling t he cent aur t o his side. For a m om ent t he beast ‘s hooves flailed in t he air. ‘Quiet! ‘ hissed t he Spart an. From t he nort h cam e t he sounds of m any m en t ram pling through the undergrowth. Dropping to his belly, Attalus eased back the bush before him and saw a t roop of soldiers em erging from t he t rees some thirty paces away. They were marching in single file, their spears held carelessly to their shoulders.

Aft er t hey w ere gone Gor gon rose from his hiding place and t he group set off once more, this time angling to the north.

Parmenion dropped back alongside Attalus. ‘How many did you count?’ asked the Spartan.

‘Eighty-five. You?’

‘The sam e. That m eans t here are m ore ahead of us.’ Parm enion glanced back. ‘I hope she escapes them.’

Attalus nodded, but said nothing.

*

Derae sat in t he m oonlight, her t hought s sorrow ful. This, she knew w it h calm cert aint y, w ould be her last night alive. I n order t o keep t he Makedones aw ay from Parm enion she needed t o hold t he spell, but in so doing w as forced t o rem ain in t he clearing, draw ing t he w arriors of the Demon King towards her.

The night w as cool, t he t runks of t he near by t r ees bat hed in silver. A fox m oved out int o t he clearing, draw n t o t he carcass of t he Vore.

Carefully it moved around the body and then, catching the putrid scent of the dead beast, it slunk away into the undergrowth.

Derae t ook a deep breat h. The golden st one w as w arm in her hand and she gazed dow n at it, m arvelling at it s beaut y and it s pow er.

Aristotle had given it to her as they stood in the Stone Circle.

‘Whatever you wish - within reason - the stone will supply,’ he had told her. ‘I t w ill t urn st ones t o br ead, or bread t o st one. Use it w it h care.’

The st one w as but a fragm ent of gold, veined w it h slender lines of j et.

But as she held t he spell in place t he black lines t hickened, t he pow er in the fragment fading.

‘Where did you come by it?’ she had asked the magus.

‘I n anot her age,’ he answ ered, ‘befor e t he oceans drank At lant is and the world changed.’

Closing her fist around the stone, she looked across the clearing at the sleeping im age of Parm enion. I t w as a surprising t hought t hat t hese five days in Achaea had doubled their time together.

Her t hought s sped back over t he years, her m ind’s eye pict uring t he gardens of Xenophon’s hom e near Olym pia w here she and Parm enion, uncaring of danger, had kissed and t ouched and loved. Five days: t he longest and short est five days of her life. The longest because her m em ories dw elt in t hem, seizing on every passionat e m om ent, t he shortest because of the weight of the barren years that followed.

The seeress Tam is w as t he source of all t he pain Derae had endured, yet in t rut h it w as im possible t o hat e her for it. The old w om an had been obsessed by a dream, her m ind dom inat ed by one am bit ion - t o prev ent t he birt h of t he Dark God. Walking t he pat hs of t he m any fut ures, Tam is had discovered all t he ident it ies of t he m en w ho could be used by Chaos t o sire t he dem on. What she needed w as a m an t o use as a weapon against them - a Sword of the Source.

I n order t o achieve her desire she caused Derae t o be t aken from Spart a and hurled int o t he sea off t he coast of Troy, her hands bound behind her. When Parm enion discovered her fat e it unleashed w it hin him a terrible hatred, changing his destiny and setting him on the path of revenge. All t his had been planned by Tam is, in order t hat Parmenion would become the man of destiny she longed for.

I t w ould have been bet t er, t hought Derae, had I died in t hat sea. But Tam is had rescued her, keeping her prisoner in t he Tem ple, filling her head with lies and half-truths.

And for what?

Parmenion did kill all the possible fathers save one. Himself.

‘I will not miss this life,’ she said aloud.

She shivered as fear t ouched her soul. Gazing up w it h her spirit eyes she saw t he im age of Philippos hovering in t he air above t he cam psite, his golden eye staring at her and probing her thoughts. Filling her head w it h m em ories of t he past she obscured all her fears of t he present, w hile t he pow er of t he Eye w hispered t hrough her m ind like a cold, cold breeze.

I n t he dist ance she could hear t he st ealt hy sounds of m en creeping t hrough t he forest and her fear sw elled. She licked her lips, but t here was no moisture on her tongue. Her heart began to hammer.

Just t hen she felt t he elat ion of Philippos as he gazed dow n on t he sleeping child. Anger flared in Derae and she let fall the spell, revelling in the King’s shock and disappointment as the bodies disappeared.

Rising from her body, she faced Philippos. They have escaped you,’ she said.

For a m om ent he did not reply, t hen a sm ile appeared on his handsom e, bearded face. ‘You have been clever, w it ch. But no one escapes me for long. Who are you?’

‘The enemy,’ she answered.

‘A m an is j udged by t he st rengt h of his enem ies, Derae. Where is t he boy?’

The golden eye glow ed, but Derae fled for t he sanct uary of her body, her hand closing around the golden stone and shielding her thoughts.

‘I do hope you w ill gain som e enj oy m ent from your last hours alive,’ came the voice of the King. ‘I know my men will.’

Soldiers burst clear of t he bushes surrounding t he clearing. Derae stood - and waited for death, her mind suddenly calm.

Two men ran forward to pin her arms, while a third strode out to stand before her. ‘Where are t hey?’ he asked, his right hand on her t hroat, his fingers digging into her cheeks.

‘Where y ou w ill not find t hem,’ she answ ered icily. Releasing her chin he struck her savagely with his open hand, splitting her lip.

‘I think you would be wise to tell me,’ he warned her.

‘I have nothing to say to you.’

Slow ly he drew his dagger. ‘You w ill t ell m e all I w ish t o know,’ he assured her, his voice deepening, his face flushing. ‘I f not now - t hen lat er.’ His fingers hooked int o t he neck of her t unic, t he dagger slicing t hrough t he m at erial, w hich he ripped clear t o expose her breast s and belly. Sheat hing t he blade he m oved in, his hand sliding over her skin, fingers forcing themselves between her legs.

She felt her em ot ions sw am ped by t he surging lust of t he m en all around her, then the soldier whispered an obscenity in her ear.

All her adult life Derae had follow ed t he pat h of t he Source, know ing w it h cold cert aint y t hat she w ould rat her die t han kill. But in t he m om ent he spoke all her t raining fled aw ay, t aking w it h it t he years of devot ion and dedicat ion. All t hat w as left w as t he girl from Spart a - and in her ran the blood of a warrior race.

Her head cam e up, her eyes m eet ing his. ‘Die,’ she w hispered. His eyes w idened. The st one in her hand gr ew w arm er. Suddenly he gasped and fell back w it h blood spurt ing from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth.

‘She’s a w it ch! ‘ som eone shout ed, as t he officer’s lifeless body slum ped t o t he eart h. The m en holding her t ight ened t heir grip on her upper arm s, but she raised her hands - w hich t ransform ed t hem selves int o cobras, hooded and hissing. The soldiers leapt back from her.

Spinning on her heel she point ed t he snakes at t hem. Light ning leapt from the serpents’ mouths, smashing the men from their feet.

Derae swung once more, as the remaining soldiers drew their weapons and rushed at her. A flash of brilliant light seared across t he clearing, blinding the warriors, causing them to stumble and fall.

I n t he confusion t hat follow ed Derae st rode from t he cam p-sit e and into the woods.

*

Derae m oved silent ly t ow ards t he sout h, draw ing her cloak t ight ly around her naked fram e. The t rees w ere t hinner here, t he st ars bright abov e t hem, and she brok e int o a loping r un, follow ing a pat h t hat sloped down to where a dark stream rippled over black stones.

I n t he dist ance behind her she could hear t he shout s of t he soldiers, but she knew t hey w ould not cat ch her now. They w ere blundering around in the dark, with no idea of the direction she had taken.

Com e daylight it w ould be different, w hen t hey could send t he Vores soaring above t he t rees t o hunt her in t he sunshine. But t his w as t he night - and it w as hers! She had w ait ed for t he enem y, fooled t hem and killed at least one. A savage j oy flow ed t hrough her, filling her body with strength as she ran.

Suddenly she faltered and slowed.

I killed a man!

The j oy v anished, t o be replaced by a num bing sense of hor ror. What have you become? she asked herself.

Her gaze flickered t o t he silent t rees, her spirit recoiling from t he m alevolence of t he forest. This place of evil had t ouched her, eroding all her beliefs, all the years of her dedication.

Falling t o her knees Derae prayed for forgiveness, sending her t hought s up and out int o t he void and bey ond. But she felt t hem echoing in a vast em pt iness, seem ingly unheard and cert ainly unansw ered. Wear ily she rose and w alked on t ow ard t he sout h, m aking herself one prom ise t hat she sw ore t o keep for as long as she lived. Never would she kill again.

Never.

*

On t he m orning of t he t hird day since t hey had left t he priest ess, Parm enion aw oke t o see Gorgon k neeling ov er t he sleeping form of Bront es. The m inot aur w as not m oving and Gor gon’s hand w as rest ing light ly on t he creat ure’s chest. Parm enion’s heart sank. For t he last t w o days t he m inot aur had st um bled on, unspeaking, his eyes w eary and bloodshot, his limbs leaden.

‘You can m ake it,’ Parm enion had t old him t he previous aft ernoon. But Brontes had not replied, his huge bull’s head sagging forward, his gaze locked t o t he ground at his feet. The group had m ade cam p early, for Bront es had been unable t o keep up w it h t he pace. Now Parm enion rose and moved alongside Gorgon.

‘Is he dead?’ he asked.

‘Soon,’ answ ered Gorgon. Parm enion knelt by t he m inot aur. Blood w as seeping from both nostrils and he was barely breathing.

‘What can we do?’ the Spartan asked.

‘Nothing,’ grunted Gorgon.

‘How soon will we be clear of the forest?’

‘Not for another day.’

‘In any direction?’ queried the Spartan.

Gorgon shook his head. ‘No. We could m ove direct ly east; t hen w e w ould be at t he edge of t he forest, but m aybe a day’s m arch from t he sea. I t is t he kingdom of Aet olia - close t o t he t ow n of Calydon. But t he King of Aet olia is a vassal of Philippos, and he keeps a force of over three hundred men at Calydon. They will be watching the forest.’

‘Can you carry Brontes?’

Gorgon’s huge hand snaked out, his fingers curling around Parm enion’s cloak and dragging t he Spart an forw ard. ‘Are you insane?

I have given up a kingdom for t his quest of yours. Many of m y ow n people have t urned against m e. And w hy? So t hat I can bring t he Golden Child to the Giant’s Gateway. Now you would risk it all for this? he demanded, pointing to the dying minotaur.

‘No, I w ill not risk it all. But t he m en w at ching t he forest cannot be everyw here. And t here is som et hing else, Gorgon,’ said Parm enion soft ly. ‘There is friendship. There is loyalt y. Bront es has risked his life on t his quest, saving m ine in t he process. I ow e him a debt - and I always repay.’

‘Ha! What if it was me lying there? Would you risk your life for me?’

‘Yes.’

Gorgon r elaxed his grip and sm iled, his pale eyes glow ing, his expr ession unr eadable. ‘I believe you w ould. You are a fool as Bront es is a fool. But t hen w hat is one m ore foolishness? Yes, I w ill carry him t o t he sunlight, if t hat is your w ish.’ The Forest King pushed his great hands beneat h t he m inot aur, lift ing him w it h ease and draping the body over his shoulder.

Parm enion shook t he ot hers aw ake and t hey follow ed Gorgon t o t he east. Wit hin t he hour t he t rees t hinned out and bird-song could be hear d in t he dist ance. At last t hey reached t he edge of t he forest and emerged on to a hillside overlooking a walled town.

Gorgon laid t he m inot aur on t he grass and backed aw ay. Parm enion knelt beside Bront es, his hand rest ing on t he cr eat ure’s shoulder. ‘Can you hear me, my friend?’ he whispered.

A low groan cam e from Bront es, but his eyes opened. Blood w as seeping over the lids in crimson tears.

‘Too late.’

‘No. Use whatever strength you have. Try.’

The m inot aur ‘s ey es closed as Gorgon m oved alongside Parm enion.

‘Com e aw ay. He needs privacy. The sun w ill feed him and t here is a little Enchantment left here. I can feel it burning my feet.’

Parm enion st epped back int o t he shade of t he t rees, t urning his eyes from the body on the grass.

‘Will he live?’ asked Alexander, taking Parmenion’s hand.

‘If he has the will,’ the Spartan answered.

‘I am very hungry,’ said Camiron. ‘Will we eat soon?’

‘We are all hungry,’ snapped At t alus. ‘My belly t hinks m y t hroat has been cut. So stop complaining! ‘I w ill hunt som et hing,’ announced Cam iron. Before anyone could speak t he cent aur, bow in hand, galloped dow n t he hillside, heading south-east.

‘Come back!’ yelled Parmenion, but Camiron carried on running - in full view of t he sent ries on t he w alls of Calydon. Wit hin m inut es t he gat es opened and a score of riders issued fort h, racing in pursuit of t he centaur.

‘At least t hey are heading aw ay from us,’ observed At t alus. Parm enion said not hing. Glancing back t o Bront es he saw t he body bat hed in dazzling sunlight, the minotaur’s skin glowing like gold. The great head began t o shrink, t he horns disappearing. Bront es’ right arm t w it ched and he groaned. The light faded. Parm enion and Gorgon m ov ed alongside him; once m ore he w as a goldenhaired young m an, handsome and blue-eyed.

‘Thank you,’ he said, reaching up and gripping Parmenion’s hand.

‘Give your t hanks t o Gor gon,’ answ ered t he Spart an, pulling Bront es upright. ‘He carried you here.’

‘I don’t doubt he had his own reasons,’ Brontes remarked.

‘You over w helm m e w it h your grat it ude, brot her,’ said Gorgon, t he snakes hissing on his skull and baring t heir fangs. He t urned t o Parm enion. ‘Now w e m ust m ove on - unless of course you w ish t o rescue t he cent aur. Say t he w ord, general, and I w ill surround t he city.’

Parmenion smiled. ‘That will not be necessary. Lead on!’

‘But we cannot leave Camiron behind,’ wailed Alexander.

‘We cannot help him, my prince,’ said Parmenion sadly.

A dark shadow flickered across t he grass and Gorgon glanced up. High above them a Vore circled, then flew off towards the north.

‘We have been seen,’ said Gorgon. ‘Now it will be a race to the sea.’

*

The m ar ch sout h-w est w as slow. For t he past few days t he com panions had lived on sour berries and foul-t ast ing m ushroom s, forced t o drink brackish w at er from dark pools. Parm enion’s st rength w as fading, w hile At t alus t w ice vom it ed beside t he t rail. Only Gorgon seem ed unaffect ed and t ireless, st riding on ahead w it h Alexander perched upon his shoulders.

They m ade cam p at dusk beneat h an over hang of st one, Gorgon permitting a fire which lifted the spirits of the Macedonians.

‘Once across the Gulf, how long until we reach Sparta?’ asked Attalus.

‘If we can find horses - three more days,’ Parmenion answered.

‘Why Sparta?’ put in Gorgon. ‘Why not straight to the Gateway?’

‘We are hoping to meet a friend there,’ the Spartan told him. ‘A magus of great power.’

‘He w ill need t o be - for Spart a w ill not st and for long against Philippos. Even as you ent ered t he for est m y Vores w ere t elling m e of t he Makedones’ m arch t o t he sout h. Korint hos has declared for t he Dem on King. Cadm os is overt hrow n and dest royed. Only one arm y st ands now against Philippos. And t hey cannot defeat him. Spart a m ay already have fallen before we cross the Gulf.’

‘I f t hat proves t o be t rue,’ said Parm enion, ‘t hen w e w ill m ake our way t o t he Giant ‘s Gat ew ay. But Philippos has not yet faced a Spart an army and he may find it a punishing experience.’

Tow ards m idnight, w hen t he blaze had flickered dow n t o coals, Parm enion aw oke from a light sleep t o hear t he sounds of st ealt hy movement from t he under grow t h t o his left. Draw ing his sw ord he woke Attalus, and the two men moved silently away from the fire.

The bushes part ed and Cam iron t rot t ed t ow ards t he cam p, carrying a dead doe across his shoulders. The cent aur spot t ed t he Macedonians and gave a broad sm ile. ‘I am a great hunt er,’ he said. ‘Look w hat I have!’

Gorgon st rode from t he cam p-sit e, m oving aw ay t o t he east. At t alus t ook t he doe, skinning it and hacking aw ay t he choicest sect ions w it h his sw ord. Wit hin m inut es t he air w as rich w it h t he sm ell of m eat roasting over the freshly-built fire.

‘I sw ear by Zeus I never sm elt anyt hing finer,’ w hispered At t alus, as the fat oozed into the flames.

‘You are m agnificent,’ Alexander t old t he cent aur. ‘I am very proud of you. But what happened to the men chasing you?’

‘No one is as fast as Cam iron,’ replied t he cent aur. ‘I ran t hem unt il their horses were bathed in lather, then cut back to the west. Mighty is Camiron. No rider can catch him.’

The m eat w as t ough and st ringy, but no one cared. Parm enion felt st rengt h seeping back int o his m uscles as he dev oured his t hird portion and licked the fat from his fingers.

‘You r ealize,’ r em arked At t alus, lying back replet e, ‘t hat in Macedonia w e w ould have flogged a hunt er w ho t ried t o sell us m eat as t ough as that?’

‘Yes,’ said Parmenion, ‘but was it not wonderful?’

‘Beyond description,’ the swordsman agreed.

‘I t w ould need t o be,’ m ut t ered Gor gon, st epping forw ard from t he dark ness. ‘The cent aur has left a t rail a blind m an could follow. And t he enem y are already close enough t o sm ell t he feast.’ Lift ing Alexander to his shoulders, he set off towards the south.

‘Did I do w rong?’ asked Cam iron nervously. Parm enion pat t ed t he centaur’s shoulder.

‘We needed to eat,’ he said. ‘You did well.’

‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ exclaimed Camiron, his confidence returning.

Refreshed, t he com panions w alked on t hrough t he night and by daw n had reached t he last line of hills before t he Gulf of Korint hos. The pursuers w ere close behind now and t w ice, looking back, Parm enion had seen moonlight gleaming from armour or lance-point.

As t hey cleared t he t rees Gorgon t ook hold of a j ut t ing t ree-root, ripping it clear and holding it above his head. He st ood, st at ue-still, and began to chant in a language unfamiliar to the Macedonians.

‘What is he doing?’ Parmenion asked Brontes.

‘He is draw ing on t he evil of t he forest,’ answ ered t he form er m inot aur, t urning aw ay and w alking t o t he cr est of t he hill t o gaze down on the dawn-lit sea.

Finally Gorgon ceased his chant ing and, t he root in his hand, st rode past Bront es t o begin t he long descent t o t he beach below. The ot hers follow ed him on t he sloping pat h. Cam iron found t he descent alm ost im possible, slit hering and sliding, cannoning int o Bront es and knocking him from his feet. Parm enion and At t alus m oved t o eit her side of t he centaur, taking his hands and supporting him.

At last they reached the shore. High above them the first of the enemy appeared.

‘What now?’ demanded Attalus. ‘Do we swim?’

‘No,’ answered Gorgon, lifting the tree-root above his head. Closing his eyes t he Forest King began t o chant once m ore. Parm enion glanced back up t he cliff pat h. More t han a hundred Makedones w arriors w ere slowly making their way down the treacherous slope.

Sm oke poured from t he t ree-root in Gorgon’s hand, float ing out over the sea and down into the waves. The water turned black and began to boil, yellow gases erupt ing from t he surface and flaring int o flam e.

Then a dark shape broke clear of t he w aves and an ancient t rirem e - it s hull rot t ed, it s sails rags - float ed once m or e t o t he surface of t he Gulf. Parm enion sw allow ed har d as t he ship glided in t o shore. There w ere skelet al corpses st ill seat ed at t he oars, and r ot t ed bodies lay upon t he shell-encrust ed decks. Glancing back, he saw t he Makedones were almost within bowshot.

The ship beached close in, a narrow gangplank sliding from t he upper deck to thud against the sand.

‘I f you w ant t o live, clim b aboard! ‘ yelled Gorgon, carr ying Alexander up t o t he deck. Parm enion and At t alus follow ed, t hen Cam iron cantered up the plank, his hooves slipping on the slimy wood.

The t rirem e glided back on t o t he current s of t he Gulf, leaving t he Makedones st anding, hor ror-st ruck, on t he beach. Several arrow s and spears flew at t he vessel, but m ost of t he enem y w arriors j ust st ood and st ared as t he deat h ship disappeared int o a grey m ist seeping up from the night-dark sea.

*

Derae hid behind t he t r unk of a huge oak as t he soldiers cam e int o sight. The sea w as so close, yet t he w ay w as barred. She scanned t he cliff-t ops looking for a w ay t o slip past t he Makedones, but t he warriors had spread out, seeking other paths to the beach.

I t w as galling t o have com e so far and be t hw art ed. She had m anaged t o evade t he m any pat rols searching t he forest and had em erged fr om the trees just as Parmenion and the others reached the shore.

Ducking back int o t he forest, Derae ran t ow ards t he w est unt il t he soldiers w ere far behind. Then she m oved out along t he line of t he cliffs, looking for a w ay dow n. But, som et im e in t he recent past, t he sea had finally claw ed aw ay at t he last foundat ions of t he cliff edge unt il great sect ions had sheared int o t he w at er. No pat hs w ere left.

Derae slowed to a walk, then peered over the edge, seeking handholds t hat w ould enable her t o clim b dow n. But t here w ere none t hat looked safe.

‘There is the witch!’ came a shout.

Derae spun, t o see m ore soldiers running from t he t ree-line, fanning out t o cut off her escape. Turning t o t he cliff-face, she looked dow n at t he break ers far below as t hey sw ept over part ially subm erged rocks.

Taking a deep br eat h, she loosed her cloak and st ood naked on t he clifftop.

Then she launched herself out over t he dizzying drop. Her body arched, t hen began t o fall. Thr ow ing her arm s out t o st eady herself she felt herself spinning out of control and fought to stay calm, angling her body int o a dive. The sea and t he rocks rushed t ow ards her and she fell for w hat seem ed an age. At t he last m om ent she br ought her hands t oget her, cleaving an opening int o t he w at er. The force of t he impact drove all air from her lungs, but she m issed t he rocks and plunged deep below t he w aves, st riking t he sandy seabed w it h bonecrushing force. Pushing her legs beneat h her she kicked for t he surface, her lungs close t o burst ing. Up, up she m ov ed t ow ards t he sunlight sparkling on the water above her.

I ‘m going t o die! The t hought gave her t he st rengt h of panic and she claw ed her w ay upw ards. As she cam e clear she only had t im e for one sw ift breat h before a break er ham m ered her dow n, hit t ing her body against a rock. This t im e she w as calm er and sw am under w at er, surfacing in t he sw ell and allow ing her bruised body t o float gent ly for a w hile safe from t he crashing w aves. A spear splashed int o t he w at er alongside her, follow ed by a score of arrow s. Ducking below the surface, she sw am out t o sea t ow ards a t hick w hit e m ist t hat seem ed to seep up from beneath the waves.

Then she saw the ship of the dead gliding across the water.

‘Parmenion!’ she yelled. ‘Parmenion!’

The Spar t an saw her and - incredibly - t he ghost ship slow ed, it s broken prow sw inging t ow ards her. As it neared she r eached up t o grasp an oar-blade, but it snapped, pushing her below t he w aves. She surfaced t o see Parm enion clim bing dow n over t he side of t he ship, holding t o an oarport and st ret ching his arm t ow ards her. Grasping his w rist, she felt herself lift ed from t he sea. Scrabbling for a foot hold her heel cam e dow n on a rot t ing skull w hich cracked and rolled int o t he w at er, but t hen she w as up beside Parm enion. His arm w ent around her, pulling her into a hug as he kissed her brow tenderly.

‘It is good to see you,’ he said.

‘And now you are seeing t oo m uch of m e,’ she answ ered, pulling aw ay and climbing to the deck.

Attalus removed his cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders. ‘Welcome back, lady,’ said the swordsman. ‘You are a most welcome sight.’

‘Thank you, At t alus.’ The w arm t h of his greet ing surprised her and she ret ur ned his sm ile. Parm enion clam bered over t he deck rail and w as about to speak when Gorgon’s voice rang out.

‘There is a ship to the west! A trireme!’

The com panions m oved t o t he deck r ail and st ared at t he oncom ing vessel. I t w as alm ost fort y lengt hs back, but all t hree banks of oars w ere dipping sm oot hly int o t he w at er, t he ship m oving at ram m ing speed towards them.

‘Fasinat ing craft,’ observed At t alus t o Derae. ‘See t he bronze ram j ust ahead of the prow? That can rip a ship’s hull worse than a reef.’

‘Can we outrun them?’ Parmenion asked Gorgon.

The Forest King chuckled and point ed t o t he corpses all around t hem.

‘My crew have seen better days,’ he said, ‘but we shall see.’

From below decks cam e a t errible groaning and t he oars lift ed and dipped int o t he sw ell. At t alus looked over t he side t o see skelet al hands gripping t he rot t ed w ood. The ship picked up speed - but not enough to escape the chasing trireme.

‘Swing her left!’ bellowed Parmenion.

The corpse at t he t iller rolled t o t he right, t he deat h ship veering left.

The at t acking t rirem e slid past t hem, her row ers desperat ely dragging in t heir oars. Most w ere saved but t he deat h ship clove int o t w ent y or more, snapping them like sticks.

Arrows flashed from the decks of the trireme. Parmenion threw himself at Derae, pulling her t o t he deck. A shaft glanced from At t alus’ helm.

Then the ships drew apart once more. The mist thickened around them as the death ship glided into the ghostly cloud.

For an hour or m ore t hey sailed on in silence, list ening t o t he calls of t he enem y as t hey searched t he m ist - shrouded sea. The clouds above t hem dar kened, light ning forking across t he sky as t he sound of thunder boomed across the gulf.

Rain lashed down - the death ship was faltering, slowing.

‘My m agic is alm ost gone,’ confided Gorgon. ‘Soon she w ill break up and sink - for the second time.’

They were less than a mile from land, but the storm was against them.

The m ist fled against t he force of t he st orm w inds. As Parm enion glanced back, the trireme hove into view.

Light ning flashed once m ore, glint ing from t he bronze ram at t he prow as it clove the water towards the death ship’s hull.

*

Alexander crouched dow n on t he w indsw ept deck, holding hard t o a w ooden post as t he deat h ship rose and fell in t he sur ging st orm - t ossed sea. From here he could only see t he chasing t rirem e w hen t he huge sw ell lift ed t he pr ow. A m assive w ave hit t he deat h ship, a sect ion of t he upper deck collapsing under t he w eight of t he w at er.

Cam iron lost his gr ip on t he broken m ast and w as sw ept t ow ards t he raging sea. Alexander scream ed, but no one heard him above t he roar of the storm. Seeing Camiron in peril, Brontes threw himself across the rain-lashed deck, grabbing t he cent aur ‘s hand. For a m om ent it seem ed as if t he form er m inot aur had succeeded, but t he ship rolled and a second wave broke over them, plucking both from the deck.

Alexander t ried t o st and, hoping t o reach Parm enion at t he st ern, but he slipped and almost lost his grip on the post. Thena made her way to him, holding him tightly.

‘Cam iron is gone! ‘ w ailed t he prince. Thena nodded, but said not hing.

Another section of deck, close to the prow, sheared away into the sea.

Alexander reached out with his spirit, trying to locate Camiron.

At first t here w as not hing, but t hen his m ind w as filled w it h t he sw eet est m usic he had ever heard. Highpit ched and j oy ous, it forced all t hought s of t he cent aur from his m ind. The ship shuddered, t he rot t en w ood groaning under t he onslaught of t he st orm, but Alexander hear d not hing save t he et hereal song from below t he sea. He let t he m usic drift across his t hought s, w ait ing for his t alent t o t ranslat e it.

But it w as alm ost beyond his pow ers. Ther e w ere no w ords, m erely em ot ions, rich and sat isfying. Reaching out furt her he sought t he source, but t he sound cam e from all around him in a harm ony beyond im agining. When he had heard birds singing in t he t rees he had been able t o fast en t o each, for t hey w ere individual. But t his m usic w as different. The singers were empathically linked.

The death ship foundered, water gushing in through the open oarports.

The deck split in half, t he sea roaring ar ound t he child and t he priestess. Alexander’s hands were torn from their grip on the post.

Thena t ried t o hold on t o him but t he ship rolled, spilling t hem bot h int o t he w at er. Alexander felt t he sea close over him, but st ill t he music filled his soul.

As he sank beneat h t he w aves he felt a soft, curiously w arm body alongside him, bearing him up. His head broke clear of the surface and he sucked in a deep breath, his hands thrashing out at the water as he st ruggled t o st ay afloat. A dark grey form surfaced alongside him, a curved fin on it s back. He grabbed for t he fin, holding t o it w it h all his st rengt h. The dolphin flicked it s t ail and sw am t ow ards t he dist ant shore, the music of its song washing over the child and soothing all his fears.

*

The t rirem e’s ram sm ashed t hrough t he t im bers of t he deat h ship’s st ern, t he force of im pact hurling Parm enion from his feet. Sliding across t he rain-lashed deck he caught hold of a sect ion of rail and st ruggled t o rise. He saw Gorgon hur l t he t ree-root high int o t he air, w at ched it caught by t he st orm w inds and carried t o t he t rirem e’s deck. Locked t oget her now, t he t w o ships w allow ed in t he sw ell. The row ers on t he t rirem e t ried t o back oars, in an at t em pt t o pull aw ay from t he doom ed vessel. But t he m agic w hich kept t he deat h ship afloat w as gone and t he full w eight of t he sat urat ed t im bers dr agged down on the enemy trireme, pulling the prow down, the stern rising up from the water.

The deat h ship rolled, pit ching Parm enion t ow ards t he sea. But he clung on grim ly w it h his left hand, w hile his right scrabbled at t he fast enings of his breast plat e. He w ould never be able t o sw im w it h it s w eight upon his t orso. A m assive w ave crashed over t he decks, pulling the Spartan loose and carrying him over the side.

His helm w as ripped from his head - and st ill t he breast plat e w as in place. St aying calm Parm enion drew his dagger, cut t ing aw ay t he last t hongs holding t he arm our in place. Shrugging free of t he breast plat e, he surfaced in t im e t o see t he doom ed ships vanish beneat h t he waves.

To his right, for a m om ent, he saw At t alus desperat ely t rying t o k eep his head above w at er. Dropping his dagger Parm enion st ruck out t ow ards t he Macedonian. St ill in full arm our, At t alus sank beneat h t he w aves. Parm enion dived deep, his pow erful legs propelling him towards the drowning swordsman.

I t w as pit ch-dark, but a flash of light ning speared t he sky and, for a heart beat only, Parm enion saw t he st ill st ruggling Macedonian.

Grabbing hold of At t alus’ shoulder-guar d, Par m enion sw am for t he surface. His lungs w ere close t o burst ing as his head cam e clear.

At t alus cam e up alongside him, but sank alm ost im m ediat ely under t he w eight of his breast plat e. Parm enion dived once m ore, feeling for t he dagger At t alus w ore on his left hip. I t w as st ill in place. The Spart an drew it and saw ed at t he br east plat e t hongs. The blade w as razor-sharp and t he w et leat her part ed. At t alus ducked his head, pushing t he breast plat e up and aw ay from him. Free of it s w eight, he rose to the surface.

A w ave lift ed t he w arriors high and Parm enion saw t he dist ant shoreline. Keeping his m ovem ent s slow and preserving his st rengt h, t he Spart an angled his body t ow ards t he beach, allow ing t he current s to carry him to safety.

He did not look back for At t alus, nor allow his m ind t o dw ell on t he fat e of Alexander and t he ot hers. Alone against t he m ight of sea and storm he anchored his thoughts to a single objective.

Survival.

Book Three, 352 BC

The Cliffs of Arkadia Ekt alis sat apart from his m en under a sm all overhang of rock, w at ching t he rain on t he grey st one cascading dow n before him. He w as drier here, but t he w ind occasionally blew t he curt ain of w at er against his bare legs, w here it t rickled behind t he br onze greav es he w ore. St aring gloom ily out over t he st orm - lashed gulf, Ekt alis w ished he were back in Korinthos with his wife and sons.

He glanced t o his left w here t he rem aining t en m en of his det achm ent shelt ered in a shallow cave, t hen looked t o his right w here t he five Makedones sat in the open, watching the sea.

Ektalis felt his hatred rise like bile in his throat. Loathsome barbarians!

How such a cult ured cit y as Korint hos could form an alliance w it h t he Dem on King w as beyond him. But form it t hey had, and now he rode with the devil’s army.

I f you w ere a m an, he t old him self, you w ould have st ood against t he decision in t he agora w hen t he councillors put t he quest ion t o t he public vot e. But you did not and st ayed alive. The debat e had been heat ed. Lem an, Parsidan and Ardanas - good friends all - had spoken heroically, denouncing t he alliance. All had been m urdered w it hin a day of the meeting. Now Philippos ruled.

Ekt alis shivered as t he w ind hurled m ore rain over his drenched w hit e cloak. ‘Find the Golden Child,’ his general had told him. ‘It is the King’s order.’

He is not m y King, Ekt alis want ed t o say. But he had not. I nst ead he had salut ed, gat hered his cent ur y and set off for t he w est. The priest s first said t he boy w as in t he Forest of Gorgon. Now a m essage had been received saying he w as aboard a ship heading t ow ards t he coast.

There were ten bays where a ship could come in close to the shore and Ektalis ordered men to guard them all.

Then the five Makedones had arrived - grim, coldeyed warriors, proud and haught y. What have t hey t o be proud about, w ondered Ekt alis?

Ten y ears ago t hey w ere m at ing w it h sheep in t he barbarous hills of t heir nat ive land. They have no cult ure - no hist ory. But now t hey st rode am ong civilized m en, looking dow n upon t hem, t reat ing t hem like slaves. Treating ms like slaves, he corrected himself.

But t hen t hat is w hat w e are, he realized. Slaves t o t he dream s of a child-murdering madman.

A patch of blue appeared in the sky to the east, sunlight shining on the distant hills. For a moment only, Ektalis felt his spirits lift; then he saw the Makedones rise to their feet, one of them pointing at the shoreline.

Ektalis glanced down to see a small child emerging from the water.

His heart sank. Every one knew t he boy’s int ended fat e - t o be sacrificed to the Demon King.

The rain pet ered out, t he clouds breaking. Ek t alis m oved back t o his m en. Sending t w o of t hem t o fet ch t he soldiers from t he ot her bays, t he Korint hian led his w arriors dow n t he cliff pat h t o t he beach, following the five Makedones who had already drawn their swords.

Then cam e a sight w hich Ekt alis w ould long rem em ber. A dolphin sw am int o view, w it h a nak ed w om an alongside it holding t o it s fin. I t m oved close t o t he shore, allow ing t he w om an t o find her feet and walk through the swell.

‘I praise t hee, Poseidon, Lord of t he Deep,’ w hispered a m an alongside Ekt alis. The ot her Korint hians t ook up t he prayer. ‘Look upon us w it h favour, bless our families and our city.’

The goddess m oved forw ard, kneeling dow n beside t he boy and put t ing her arm s around him. The Makedones reached t he sand and advanced upon her.

‘St op! ‘ cried Ekt alis, but t he Makedones ignored him and he began t o run, his m en follow ing. A lean Mak edones w arrior pulled back his sword, ready to ram it into the woman’s belly. Ektalis hurled himself at the man, knocking him from his feet.

‘What in Hecat e’s nam e do you t hink you ar e doing?’ st orm ed t he Makedones officer, a t all, broad-shouldered w arrior w it h a t rident beard.

‘She is one of Poseidon’s daught ers, Canus. Did you not see her riding through the waves upon a dolphin?’

Canus shook his head. ‘You fool! She is a w it ch, t hat is all. Now st and aside.’

‘No! ‘ cried Ekt alis, draw ing his ow n sw ord. ‘She w ill not be harm ed.

Take the child, but the woman is not to be harmed.’

‘I f you go against m e in t his,’ hissed Canus, his dark eyes gleam ing, ‘then you go against my King. And that is treason.’

‘Even so,’ answered Ektalis, trying in vain to suppress his fear.

Canus saw his t error and laughed. The sound of his laught er ripped int o Ekt alis w orse t han a blade, and he felt his new - found courage melting before it.

‘Say t he w ord, capt ain, and w e’ll cut t he dogs int o pieces,’ said a Korint hian w arrior. Ekt alis w as am azed. He knew t he m en held him in low regard - as well t hey m ight, for he had never been a m an of action. Canus turned and stared at the eight Korinthians.

‘You t hink t o t hw art m e? You believe five Makedones could not kill you all? Well, t hink on t his, you w ort hless scum. My t hought s are linked t o t he High Priest, and his t o t he King. Everyt hing t hat happens here is known already. And if you persist in this, then not only you will die but all your fam ilies. You underst and?’ Canus saw t he Korint hians relax, hands m oving aw ay from sw ord-hilt s, and t ur ned back t o t he w om an.

But as he moved towards her Ektalis leapt to stand before her.

Canus lunged at the Korinthian but Ektalis parried the blade, sending a reverse cut at t he Makedones’ face. Canus sw ayed back, t he sw or d slashing harm lessly by him. Then he sprang forw ard, his sw ord plunging int o Ekt alis’ groin. The Korint hian knew he w as finished, but w it h his last st rengt h he ram m ed his blade int o Canus’ neck, slicing it up under t he j aw - line, t hrough m out h and t ongue, befor e bur ying it in Canus’ brain. The Makedonian fell forw ard, his w eight t earing t he blade from Ektalis’ grasp as the dying Korinthian fell to his knees.

The goddess m oved alongside him, pulling clear t he sw ord. But his vision was failing and he fell against her.

‘I am so sorry,’ he whispered.

*

Derae eased t he dying m an t o his back, ignoring t he r em aining Makedones. Her spirit flow ed int o him, m oving t hrough art eries and veins unt il she reached t he t errible w ound t hat had ripped int o his low er belly. As sw ift ly as she could she began t o w ork on t he severed art ery at t he gr oin, closing it, increasing by t enfold it s abilit y t o heal.

Moving on t o t he m uscle w all she first slow ed t he flow of blood, t hen brought t he t issue t oget her in a perfect j oin. The Korint hian w as w earing a leat her kilt and t his had prevent ed t he blade from m aking deep penetration. The worst wound was to the groin, but with this now sealed t he w arrior w ould live. Derae r et urned t o her body and opened her eyes.

‘The woman may live,’ said a tall Makedones, ‘but the boy is ours.’

‘Tak e him and go,’ said t he Korint hian w ho had first spoken in support of Ektalis.

‘The boy st ays,’ said anot her voice, deep and m et allic, and Derae sw ung t o see a w arrior w alk int o sight. His face w as m asked by a bronze helm, and his arm our w as bright in t he sunlight. He m oved sm oot hly across t he sand and, as he cam e closer, she saw t hat t he bronze covering his feat ures w as no m ask but living m et al; bronze lids above bronze eyes, a bronze beard and mouth.

‘Who are you?’ asked t he new Makedones leader, a hat chet - faced warrior called Plius.

‘I am Helm. And the boy is mine.’

‘Take him!’ yelled Plius. The four warriors sprang at the newcomer, but Helm ‘s sword slashed t hr ough t he t hr oat of t he first m an and cam e up t o block a w ild cut from t he second. Helm spun on his heel, ram m ing his elbow int o Plius’ face, sm ashing his nose and hurling him back int o t he pat h of t he fourt h at t acker. The bloody sw ord rose and fell - and a second Makedones died. Helm leapt at Plius, w ho t ried t o block t he deadly t hrust; but t he pain from his broken nose had part ly blinded him and Helm ‘s sw ord slid hom e in his t hroat. The last Makedones t hrew him self at Helm, but t he new com er sidest epped, slashing his sw ord t hr ough t he back of t he m an’s neck as he st um bled past. The soldier fell face-first int o t he sand and st ruggled t o rise. Helm st ruck him again, the blade almost decapitating the man.

‘The boy is mine,’ said Helm again, turning to face the Korinthians.

At t hat m om ent Ek t alis w oke and st ared up int o Derae’s face. ‘I s t his death?’ he asked.

‘No. You are healed.’

‘Thank you, goddess.’

Sm iling, she helped him t o his feet. The Korint hians m oved for w ard, gathering around the captain, mystified and amazed by his recovery.

Derae looked at t he new com er. ‘Do you m ean harm t o t he child?’ she asked.

‘No, lady,’ came the metallic voice, ‘but I need him.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘To free me from the curse of this helm.’

‘How do you know that he can do this?’

‘I was told to seek him.’

‘By whom?’

‘I do not know,’ he answered wearily. ‘I know so little.’

Derae reached into the man’s mind and saw that he spoke the truth.

There w ere no m em ories before w aking upon t he slab in t he graveyard, no hint as to his identity.

The priest ess w it hdrew, t hen called Alexander forw ard. ‘Can you help him?’ she asked.

For a moment the boy was silent. ‘This is not the time,’ he whispered.

*

Ekt alis w rapped his w hit e cloak around t he shoulders of t he naked goddess w hile t w o of t he ot her Korint hians st ripped a dead Makedones of his arm our, pulling clear his t unic and offering it t o Derae. The m en w ere silent, aw est ruck. They had seen a goddess rise from t he sea, and w at ched as t heir dead capt ain w as brought back t o life. And t hey had st ood by as an enchant ed w arrior had slain t he Makedones.

Not hing w ould ever be t he sam e for t hem again, and t hey w ait ed for Ektalis to speak to them.

He drew t hem apart from t he w arrior, t he goddess and t he child, leading his men to a cluster of rocks some fifty paces to the west.

‘You have all seen t he m iracle,’ he said. ‘I felt t he sw ord pierce m y belly. Yet t here is now no w ound. You saw Poseidon’s daught er ride the dolphin. But where does that leave us, my brothers?’

No one answ ered. No one k new. Ekt alis nodded, underst anding t heir fears. The Makedones leader, Canus, had said it all. Their t reachery was already known, their lives forfeit.

‘The Spar t ans st ill st and against t he Tyrant,’ said Ekt alis. ‘What choice do w e have, save t o j oin w it h t hem? Eit her t hat or ride t o t he nearest port and seek a ship to Aegyptus, there to sign as mercenary soldiers?’

‘What of our families?’ a young soldier asked.

‘What indeed?’ answ ered Ek t alis sadly. ‘We have no hope of seeing them unless the Tyrant is overthrown.’

‘But t he Spart ans cannot w in,’ said t he lean, bearded w aqaor w ho had first stood by Ektalis.

‘Yest erday I m ight hav e agreed w it h you, Sam is. But t oday? Today I have seen t he pow er of t he gods - and t hey are not w it h Philippos. I w as killed t oday - yet I live. I am a new m an, Sam is. I w ill never bow the knee to evil again.’

‘What of the others?’ asked Samis. ‘They didn’t see the miracles. When t hey arrive, how w ill w e persuade t hem t o follow us? What if t hey t urn against us, or deliver us to the Tyrant?’

Ekt alis nodded. ‘You are right. We m ust hide t he bodies and send t he others back to camp. No one else must know.’

Sam is suddenly sm iled. ‘This is m adness,’ he said, ‘but I ‘ll st and by you. I hat e t he cursed Mak edones - alw ays have. I f I have t o die in battle I’d sooner it was while killing those scum.’

‘Are we all agreed?’ asked Ektalis.

‘Aye,’ chorused the other seven Korinthians.

‘Then let us hide the bodies and return to the clifftop.’

*

Parm enion hauled him self clear of t he breakers and collapsed on t he beach. A w ave broke over him, dragging him back, but he dug his fingers int o t he sand, fight ing t he undert ow. Pushing him self upright he st aggered t ow ards t he shelt er of a shallow cave in t he cliff-face.

The rain lashed at his tired body and the wind howled around him. The cave was not deep, but the wind was less here and it was dry.

Slumping to the ground he looked back over the storm-lashed sea, but there was no sign of Attalus.

The rain began t o ease, t he clouds breaking. A t hin shaft of sunlight broke t hrough t o t he east, and a rainbow appeared like a huge bridge across t he Gulf. I t seem ed t hen t hat t he gr ey st orm - clouds w ere fleeing fr om t he light, and t he sky shone clear blue. Wit hin a few heart beat s t he st orm w as but a m em ory, t he sea clear and calm, t he beach and cliffs bat hed in sunlight. Parm enion st ood and w alked out t ow ards t he shoreline, his keen eyes scanning t he shim m ering w at er.

Several bodies lay on t he beach and one float ed face-dow n in a shallow pool. They were all sailors from the Makedones trireme.

What now, strategos, he asked him self? What w onderful plan can you conceive?

Hearing a sound behind him he reached for his sw ord, but t he scabbar d w as em pt y. Fist s clenched he sw ung r ound - t o see t he giant Gorgon standing with hands on hips, watching him.

‘You w ere t o give m e m y dream,’ said t he m onst er soft ly. ‘So t ell m e, where is Iskander?’

‘I am alive,’ answ ered Parm enion, gazing int o t he glow ing ey es. ‘You are alive. I f I skander lives, t hen so t oo does t he dream. I f not, t hen it is finished.’

‘I should not hav e list ened t o you,’ said Gorgon. ‘I should have killed you as I first planned. Per haps I w ill even now. That w ould give m e at least some small pleasure.’

‘No, it would not,’ said Parm enion sw ift ly. ‘For t hen y ou w ould t ruly have not hing. You have m ade your decision. You have set yourself against Philippos for good or ill. There is no t urning back for you. Now swallow your anger and let us search for the others.’

‘You w ant m e t o search t he seabed? Even now t he crabs are feast ing on t he child. He w as not I skander.’ Lift ing his serpent - fram ed head, Gorgon let out a deafening roar of anger and frust rat ion. Parm enion tensed, waiting for the beast to turn on him.

‘Now you see his t rue soul,’ said t he voice of Bront es, and Gorgon t urned t o see t he m inot aur sit t ing upon a boulder. Gone w as t he m an.

Once more he was the creature of Enchantment, horned and colossal.

‘I should have k now n you w ould ret ur n t o haunt m e, brot her,’ muttered Gorgon. ‘What words of comfort do you offer?’

‘I have not hing t o say t o you. But t he Hum an is right. Unt il w e know I skander is dead w e m ust cont inue. And I shall - even if it m eans continuing in your foul company.’

Gorgon laughed, his good hum our curiously rest ored. ‘I shall st ay t he course. But know t his, Hum an,’ he said, t urning t o Parm enion. ‘I f the child is dead, you will follow him to Hades.’

Parm enion said not hing, for in t hat m om ent t he sw eet voice of Thena flowed into his mind: ‘We ar e safe, Alexander and I. We are less t han an hour’s w alk t o t he east of you. At t ains is asleep exhaust ed in t he bay j ust t o your w est. I cannot locate the centaur.’

‘Thank you,’ said Parmenion, aloud.

‘You t hank m e for t hreat ening your deat h?’ said Gorgon. ‘You are a strange man.’

‘The child is alive,’ said Parmenion. ‘The quest goes on.’

‘How do you know this?’ Brontes asked.

Parm enion ignored t he quest ion. ‘I am very w eary. But if you are st ill st rong, Bront es, I w ould be grat eful if you could w alk t o t he next bay and bring Attalus to us. He is resting there.’

‘It is the witch woman,’ said Gorgon. ‘She is alive, is she not?’

‘Yes,’ said Parmenion, with a wide smile. ‘Alive.’

‘Is she your lover?’ enquired the Forest King.

‘No.’

‘But you would like her to be.’

Parm enion w alked aw ay, but t he w ords st ayed w it h him. His heart had leapt w hen her v oice w hispered int o his m ind, and t he w eight of his em ot ion surprised him. Put such t hought s from your head, he t old him self. She is not a priest ess of Aphr odit e selling her services for silver.

He lay dow n in t he cave, allow ing him self t o drift int o a healing sleep, but her face st ayed in his m ind and his t hought s w ere far from bat t les and enchantments, plans and strategies.

He dream t he lay in a grove of oak t rees back in Arkadia, w here t he sun was setting behind the mountains. Beside him lay Thena, her head on his shoulder, and he w as at peace. He st roked her hair and kissed her, but as he gazed lovingly at her face it shim m ered and changed, becoming Derae.

Guilt touched him then, and the dreams faded.

*

Unaw are of his t orm ent, Derae also experienced t he sur ge of j oy w hen her quest ing spirit found Parm enion alive, and now her soul flew high abov e t he w ar-t orn land of Achaea, t racing t he course of t he Gulf as it ran east towards the white-walled city of Korinthos.

Far below her she saw t he arm ies of t he Tyrant, t he phalanxes and cavalry of t he Makedones, m ercenary archers from t he islands t o t he south, warriors from Illyria and Thrace; a host geared for slaughter.

She flew t o t he sout h, seeking t he Spart a of t his st range w orld. But before she reached it she saw anot her arm y m arching t o face t he Makedones. Though few er in num ber t hey m arched proudly and her Talent reached out t o t hem. They w ere t he w arriors of Kadm os, t heir city dest royed but t heir cour age rem aining. Wit h t hem w ere soldiers from Argolis and Messenia, and rebels from At hens and Euboea. She sought out t he Spart an force, and found t o her surprise t hat only 300 were from the city.

Myst ified, she m oved on, flying furt her sout h unt il she hovered over t he t w in of t he cit y of her birt h. So m uch w as t he sam e - t he Cat t le Price Palace w as st ill t here, and t he st at ue of Zeus at t he t op of t he acropolis - but many of the streets were subtly different. The Avenue of Leaving did not boast a st at ue of At hena, t he t em ple of Aphr odit e w as now here in sight; inst ead a barr acks w as built near t he sacred lake.

Yet, t hough it w as not her hom e, st ill it w as close enough t o bring a touch of sorrow to her soul.

Sensing a presence close by she gar bed her spirit in arm our of w hit e light, a blazing shield upon her arm. A figure hooded and r obed in white appeared, the face in shadow.

‘Who are you?’ came a familiar voice.

‘Tamis?’ whispered Derae. ‘Is it you?’

‘Who else w ould it be t o guard Spart a in t his hour?’ responded t he woman. ‘But I asked for your name.’

‘I am called Thena. I am not an enemy.’

‘I know that, child. Come to my home.’

The hooded figure becam e a glow ing sphere t hat sank t ow ards t he cit y. Derae follow ed it t o a sm all house nest ling in a grove of cypress t rees close t o t he sacred lake. Ther e w ere only t w o room s here, w it h lit t le furnit ure and no r ugs. The floors w ere baked eart h, t he chairs sim ply m ade and unadorned. I n t he t iny bedroom upon a pallet bed lay an old woman, her blind eyes open, her wasted frame covered by a single thin blanket.

‘I can feel your presence,’ she said aloud, her v oice faint like a breeze whispering through dead leaves. ‘I have been waiting for you.’

Derae could find no words. This was not the Tamis she had known, the w om an w hose m eddling had caused t he birt h of t he Dark God, yet even so t he sight of t his t w in caused a m ixt ure of em ot ions Derae found hard to contain.

‘Speak t o m e, child,’ said Tam is. ‘I have w ait ed so long for you t hat I often wondered if the visions had been false.’

‘Why have you waited? What can I do for you?’

The old w om an sm iled. ‘Only t he Sour ce could answ er t hat, and I am but t he least of His follow ers. But I have seen t he Chaos Spirit abroad in the land, listened to the screams of the dying, heard the cries of the dispossessed and w idow ed. These have been hard years, Thena. Hard, lonely years. Even now, w it h your com ing, t he darkness m oves towards my city.’

‘What would you have me do?’

‘Is he with you?’

‘Of whom do you speak?’

‘The One who is to be. The strategos.’

‘Yes, he is here.’

Tam is sighed and closed her opal eyes. ‘The Spart an King is riding t o his deat h. Not hing w ill change t hat. He is a noble m an, a good m an. I have helped him t hrough t hese desperat e years. But even now t he Fat es have w orked against m e. This is t he t im e of t he Fest ival of Apollo, w hen t he priest s say no Spart an arm y can m arch, so t he King is leading t he forces of Light w it h only his personal body guard. And he will die.’

Derae said not hing. Even in her ow n w orld Spart a had suffered t hrough such st upidit ies. When t he Persian King Xerxes led his arm y int o Greece, t he Spart ans had refused t o m arch against him because of a religious festival. And then, as now it seemed, the King had led his personal body guard of 300 m en t o block t he pass of Therm opylae.

Three hundred against a quart er of a m illion! Their courage and valour had held against t he Persian horde for several days, but at t he last they were slain to a man.

‘What was your vision?’ Derae asked.

‘I saw t he strategos and t he Golden Child, and a w arrior w it h a face of bronze. And w it h t hat vision w as a rainbow and t he fleeing of a st orm.

I hoped it meant the Dark God was vanquished. But perhaps it did not.

Perhaps my hopes have been in vain.’

‘Did you t ry t o pr event t he birt h of t he Dark God?’ asked Derae, remembering the dark deeds of Tamis in the world of Greece.

‘I considered it, but it seemed folly. Was I wrong?’

‘No,’ said Derae. ‘You w ere w ise, very w ise. I w ill bring t he strategos here. But I do not know what he can achieve.’

‘You w ill underst and ver y soon, child. Very soon. May t he Source bless you.’

‘He has, in m any w ays,’ said Derae, but t here w as no response from the blind seeress.

*

Parm enion aw oke from an uneasy sleep, his m ind w hirling w it h t he m any problem s he faced. His head ached as he sat up and he sucked in a deep breat h. Alexander w as alive, and t hat in it self w as a vict ory; but t he strategos knew t hat, in bat t le as in life, only t he final vict ory counted. And all the odds favoured Philippos.

One step at a time, he cautioned himself. Brontes had not yet returned w it h At t alus and Gorgon w as sit t ing near by st aring out over t he Gulf.

Parmenion leaned his back to the cliff-face, calming his thoughts.

Thr ough m ost of his life he had been forced t o bat t le against t he odds.

I n Spart a, as a despised m ix-blood, he had fought alone against t he hat red of his fellow s. I n Thebes he had engineered a vict ory against the Spartan overlords, inflicting the first major defeat on a full Spartan arm y. I n Persia he had led t he forces of m inor sat raps and governors, always finding the path to conquest. And in Macedonia he had helped a young King, beset by enem ies, t o build a nat ion feared across t he world.

But here, in this enchanted realm, he was not a strategos or a general.

He w as a w eaponless st ranger in a w orld he scarcely underst ood.

There w ere som e sim ilarit ies. Philippos w as King of Makedon and had built an arm y t o crush all opposit ion. Spart a w as st ill t he cit y of heroes. But here m agic ruled; creat ures like Gorgon, Bront es and Cam iron w ere accept ed as a norm al part of life. Winged beast s pat rolled t he skies and t he Dem on King could read t he heart s and minds of his enemies.

How then can I defeat him, Parmenion wondered?

Chiron had said t he King w as invulnerable t o all w eapons of w ar, his body im m une t o poisons. ‘I only ev er saw him hurt once,’ t he magus had t old him. ‘He w as a child and playing w it h a sharp dagger. I t cut his finger and blood flow ed. I t healed very sw ift ly. His m ot her scolded him in m y presence, t hen t urned t o m e, offering m e t he blade. Cut him, she t old m e. At first I refused, but she insist ed. So I t ook t he dagger and gent ly ran t he edge over t he skin of his arm, but could make no impression.’

‘Then why did it cut him?’ Parmenion had asked.

‘The sorcery prot ect s him from his enem ies, but he is w it hin t he spell.

Should he choose, he could no doubt kill himself.’

Parm enion sm iled at t he m em ory. All he had t o do w as find a w ay t o defeat t he great est arm y of t his st range w orld, out t hinking a King w ho could reach his m ind and ult im at ely forcing t hat King t o t ake his ow n life.

‘Why do you smile?’ asked Gorgon.

‘Why should I not? The sun is shining.’

‘You are a curious m an, Parm enion,’ observed t he Forest King, t urning his great head t o st are out over t he w aves. Parm enion sat quiet ly, w at ching t he creat ure. The skin of Gorgon’s huge shoulders seem ed light er here in t he sunlight, t he m ot t led colours of t he forest, dark green and rust br ow n, giving w ay t o t he paler hues of sum m er grass and polished pine. The snakes hung lank and lifeless from his head and his eyes had lost their demonic glow.

‘What are you looking for?’ asked the Spartan.

‘I am not looking. I am remembering. It is more than a century since I last gazed upon t he sea. I had a house once, w it h Persephone, on t he island of Andros. We oft en cam e t o t he beach, t o sw im and t o laze.

The m em ories have been buried t oo long. Ah, but she w as a beaut y, her skin pale as m arble, even in sum m er, her eyes like t urkis, yet not cold and blue but w arm and enchant ing as t he m idsum m er sky.’

Gorgon sighed, t hen a low grow l rum bled from his m isshapen m out h.

‘Why do I talk like this? My mind is failing.’

‘You have spent too long in the forest,’ said Parmenion softly.

‘Aye, t hat is t rue. Persephone used t o sing. We w ould sit under an aw ning w at ching t he sunset over t he w aves, and she w ould sing. Yet I can rem em ber no w ords. All t hat fills m e is t he m em ory of peace and j oy. But I w as a m an t hen, and arrogant in t he w ays of yout h. I could not begin t o im agine a t im e w hen she w ould not be beside m e, sending the sun to sleep with a song.’

‘No one can take that from you, my friend. Not ever.’

‘I have no friends, Hum an,’ snapped Gorgon, surging t o his feet and w alking aw ay. Parm enion w at ched t he giant for a few m om ent s and then followed him to the shoreline.

‘I do not pretend to know your pain,’ said the Spartan, ‘and it would be t rit e t o point out t hat w e all carry scars. But I w ill do all t hat I can t o fulfil m y prom ise t o y ou. I skander t ells m e he is t he chosen one. I believe t hat, and I w ill risk m y life t o see t hat he has t he chance t o prove it. But t hat is t he great er quest, Gorgon, and for anot her day.

Today w e are a sm all group, bat t ling for survival, and friendship is not to be spurned - not even by a child of the Titans.’

‘You seek to lecture me?’ hissed Gorgon.

‘Perhaps I do. Per haps your years in t he slim e of t he dark forest have affected your perceptions.’

Gorgon nodded. ‘Perhaps t hey have,’ he conceded, his voice carrying no convict ion. Then he sm iled. ‘Or perhaps I am now w hat I alw ays was, a distorted monstrosity.’

‘If that were true, would Persephone have loved you?’

‘You do not underst and, Hum an. How could you? The w ar w as t errible and w e all com m it t ed act s w hich w ould t ur n your soul t o ashes. Ther e is no escape from t hose m em ories. My br ot her Brontes is correct - you do not know w hat I have done, w hat colossal evils are st am ped upon the pages of history in my name.’

‘Nor do I need t o,’ answ ered Parm enion, ‘for you are r ight t hat t hey w ould change m y t hought s of you. But t hat w as yest erday and what ever is hidden in t he past can rem ain t here. Today you st and on t he side of t he j ust, and seek t o save t he people of t he Enchant m ent.

And yes, if you succeed it will not wash away the evil of the past, but it will give at least some hope for a future.’

‘How can w e succeed,’ asked Gorgon, ‘w hen all t he forces of Philippos are ranged against us?’

‘We are not t alking of defeat ing Philippos in a bat t le. We are speaking of opening t he Giant ‘s Gat ew ay. I f t he Spart ans can hold t he Dem on King for a little while, we can bring Iskander to his destiny.’

Gorgon sighed. ‘I will not travel on with you, Human. Now that you are - for t he m om ent - safe I w ill ret urn t o t he forest t o gat her w hat followers remain and bring them to the Gateway.’

‘How will you bring them all across the Gulf?’

‘We w ill not cross t he Gulf. We w ill t ravel t he old pat hs, bet w een Achaea and Hades. No Human may pass them and keep his sanity. But m y people can w alk t hem. I have played m y part, Hum an. I have brought you across the sea. Now it is for you to bring Iskander to the Gateway.’

‘We will succeed or die, my lord. It is all we can do. But let us, at least, part as friends.’

‘Why is that important to you?’

‘I t is im port ant t o bot h of us,’ answ ered Par m enion, ext ending his hand.

Gorgon glanced dow n at it, t hen looked int o Parm enion’s eyes. ‘I hav e said it before, but y ou are a st range m an, and I do not rem em ber t he last t im e I t alked of friendship.’ His arm cam e up, his fingers gripping Parmenion’s hand, and they stood for a moment in silence.

Then the Forest King waded out into the sea and began to swim.

I t w as lat e aft ernoon before Bront es ret urned w it h At t alus. The swordsman’s face was bruised, his right eye swollen where a wave had dashed him against t he rocks, but he did not com plain as he sank down beside Parmenion.

‘I t w as difficult t o rouse him,’ said Bront es, ‘but he refused m y offer t o carry him.’

‘I am glad to see you alive,’ said Parmenion, gripping the Macedonian’s shoulder.

At t alus sm iled. ‘You saved m y life. I shall not forget it. The breast plat e would have killed me. What now?’

‘We will find the others and make our way south.’

‘And after that?’

‘I do not know.’

Attalus nodded. ‘No, of course not. It is just well, I am used to you, strategos. And my faith in your talents grows day by day.’

‘I cannot see w hy. Aft er all, I failed t o get t he t rees t o uproot and march with us.’

At t alus chuckled. ‘Forgive m e for t hat, Spart an, but t hat cursed forest seeped int o m y soul. By all t he gods, I sw ear it is good t o be back in the sunlight. Brontes tells me Alexander is safe?’

‘Yes,’ answ ered Parm enion. ‘And now it is t im e t o find him. But first I m ust speak w it h Bront es.’ The Spart an rose and w alked t o w here t he minotaur sat on a boulder overlooking the sea.

‘Where is my brother?’ Brontes asked.

‘Gone.’

Bront es nodded. ‘I t hought he m ight st ay t he course. But w hat can you expect from such a creature?’

‘He t old m e he w as ret urning t o gat her his forces, and t hat he w ould bring them to the Giant’s Gateway. I think that he will.’

The m inot aur lift ed his head and laughed. ‘You cannot t rust him, Parmenion. He is a creature of darkness.’

‘We shall see. But we must proceed as if we do believe him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if Gorgon does lead his beast s t ow ards t he sout h it is likely the people of the Enchantment will think he is attacking them.’

‘As he probably will,’ Brontes muttered.

‘List en t o m e: put aside your hat e. I need you t o t ravel alone t o t he w oods around t he Gat ew ay. I w ant you t o pr epare t he w ay for Gorgon.’

‘Never! He is a traitor and a killer.’

‘Then I shall see Iskander does not fulfil his destiny.’

The m inot aur st orm ed t o his feet. ‘You dare t o t hreat en m e, Hum an?’ he raged.

‘Yes,’ answered Parmenion. ‘What is wrong with you? The war is over - and he is your brother. Without his aid none of us would be alive.’

‘For his own purposes he helped us. Do not forget that!’

‘And are you any different? Did you not t hr eat en t o kill m e? You are only here because of Iskander.’

‘You don’t underst and! Gor gon killed m y children and raped m y our mother. There is no good in him. He was born in darkness and he t hrives on it. And y ou w ant m e t o prepare t he w ay? Bet t er for t he Enchant m ent t o die t han for a creat ure like him t o benefit from it s return.’

‘You do not believe t hat,’ w hispered Parm enion. ‘That is t he voice of your hat red. We are not t alking here about your grief, or your bit t erness. We are considering t he fut ure of all t he people of t he Enchant m ent. You have no right t o m ake decisions concerning t hem.

You ar e a dying r ace w it h one hope of survival: I skander. Now go t o the woods and do what must be done.’

‘You will deny us Iskander if I refuse?’

‘No,’ adm it t ed Par m enion. ‘I w ill not deny you. That w as t he v oice of my anger. Will you do as I ask?’

‘I w ill t hink on it,’ prom ised Bront es, but he looked aw ay as he spoke, avoiding Parmenion’s eyes.

The Plain of Mantinea Helm w as t he first t o see t he t w o m en em erge from t he t ree-line and w alk t ow ards t he w ait ing group. He st udied t hem as t hey approached, his hand rest ing light ly on his sw ord-hilt. The nine Korint hians all st ood, but t he goldenhaired child shout ed a nam e and began t o run towards the newcomers.

The first of t he m en leaned forw ard t o sw eep t he child int o his arm s.

He had no sword, Helm noticed, but he moved like a warrior, smoothly and alw ays in balance. The second m an w as pale-eyed, his movements cat-like and sure. The lion and the wolf, thought Helm.

The t aller m an low ered t he child t o t he ground, ruffling his hair, t hen sw ung his gaze over t he w ait ing w arriors, com ing at last t o Helm.

There was no expression in his blue eyes as he saw the face of bronze.

The Korint hians w ere w ait ing, but t he new com er st rolled direct ly t o Helm. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, t he t one easy, t he quest ion spoken w it hout a sign of arrogance yet w it h quiet aut horit y. Here, t hought Helm, is a man used to command.

‘I wish I could tell you. But I know nothing of my past, save that I was told to find the child.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘I do not know that either - but it was not to do him harm.’

‘My nam e is Parm enion. I f y ou ride w it h m e, you follow m y or der s. I f that should not suit you, then you can leave now.’

‘It suits me,’ answered Helm easily.

The m an sm iled and nodded, t hen t ur ned t o t he Korint hians, singling out Ekt alis. ‘My t hanks t o you, sir, for helping t he boy. You and your m en have risked m uch, and I applaud your courage. I see t here are enough horses for all of us, and I t hink it w ise w e m ove sout h before cont inuing our conversat ion. The enem y is closing in on us even as w e speak.’

Ekt alis nodded and gave t he order t o m ount. Parm enion w alked t o t he w om an, laying his hand on her shoulder, but Helm could not hear t he words t hat passed bet w een t hem and m oved on t o t he horses. The m ount s of t he Makedones w ere sm aller t han t he horses of t he Korint hians, but t hey w ere deep-chest ed and pow erful, reared for st am ina rat her t han speed; Helm chose a roan gelding, t aking hold of the mane and smoothly vaulting to its back.

‘You k now your horses,’ said Parm enion. ‘He is one I w ould have chosen.’

For t w o hours t he group rode in silence, angling sout h and east t hrough rolling hills, skirt ing sm all villages and t ow ns and holding t o the tree-line.

At last, as t he sun began t o set, t hey m ade cam p in a shelt ered hollow.

Parm enion called Ekt alis t o him. ‘We w ill need sent ries,’ he said, ‘one on that hillside, a second in the trees to the north.’

As Ekt alis salut ed and m ov ed aw ay, Helm grinned. The salut e had seemed natural, Parmenion accepting it as his due.

‘I think you are used to larger armies than this,’ offered Helm.

‘I am indeed,’ t he m an answ ered, his hand r est ing on t he hilt of a Makedones sword now belted at his side, ‘but this is all we have. May I see your sword?’

‘Of course,’ answ ered Helm, sliding t he blade from it s scabbar d, reversing it and passing it hilt first to the general.

‘It is a fine weapon. How did you come by it?’

‘When I awoke it was close by, along with the armour and the helm.’

‘What made you think it was yours?’

‘I cannot answ er t hat. I w as naked and alone and it fit t ed m e w ell.

Especially the helm which, as you can see, has melted over my face.’

Parm enion w as silent for a m om ent. ‘You concern’m e, w arrior,’ he said, and Helm becam e acut ely aw are t hat t he m an before him w as now holding his sw ord. ‘How do I know you w ere not sent by Philippos?’

‘You don’t,’ answered Helm. ‘But then neither do I.’

‘You fight w ell. That is good. Your slaying of t he Makedones supplied Att alus and m yself w it h w eapons, and for t hat I am grat eful. Such a deed makes it unlikely you are an enemy. Unlikely but not impossible.’

‘I accept that, Parmenion. And where does that leave us?’

‘I n m ort al peril eit her w ay,’ t he general answ ered, ret urning Helm ‘s sword and turning away.

*

By t he aft ernoon of t he follow ing day t he riders had reached t he high ground overlooking t he Plain of Mant inea - a w ide, flat area bet w een t he m ount ains, bor dering on t he kingdom of Argolis. I n t he dist ance t hey could see t w o m ight y arm ies facing one anot her. Thena dismounted and sat on a cliff-ledge, closing her eyes, her spirit soaring out over the waiting forces.

What she saw sent a shiver through her and she fled back to her body, crying out as she woke.

‘What is it?’ asked Parm enion, dism ount ing and k neeling beside her, gripping her shoulder.

‘Send t he ot hers sout h,’ she w hispered. ‘Tell t hem w e w ill j oin t hem later.’

‘Why?’

‘Tr ust m e! You are about t o w alk a different pat h and y ou m ust send them on. Swiftly now, for there is little time.’

Parm enion called At t alus t o him. ‘You m ust t ravel on w it hout m e for a w hile, m y friend. Take Alexander sout h - t o t he Gat ew ay, if necessary.

I will meet you when I can.’

‘We should stay together,’ argued Attalus.

‘There is no t im e for debat e. You m ust prot ect Alexander. Bront es has gone t o prepare t he w ay, and you w ill be safe in t he sout h. I can t ell you no more, for I know no more.’

At t alus cursed soft ly, t hen vault ed t o his m ount. ‘Look aft er yourself, Spartan,’ he called, as he led the company away to the south.

Parmenion returned to the priestess. ‘Tell me all,’ he said.

‘Wait,’ she advised. ‘The battle is beginning.’

The strategos t urned his at t ent ion t o t he t w o arm ies. At t his dist ance t hey w ere j ust like t he t iny carved m odels w it h w hich he had w on his first encount er w it h his rival, Leonidas, t hirt y-t hree years ago in anot her w orld. They appeared as t oys, glit t ering and bright, m oving across t he dust y plain. But t hey w ere not t oys. Wit hin m om ent s living, breat hing m en w ould be cut dow n, sw ords and spears slashing and cleaving t hrough flesh and bone. The arm y of Makedon, black cloaks and black banners swirling in the breeze, marched forward confidently, the cavalry to the left sweeping out to envelop the enemy flanks.

But t hen t hey w ere m et by a count ercharge, w arriors in blue cloaks and shining helm s em erging from t heir hiding-places am ong t he boulders at t he foot of t he slopes. Parm enion sm iled. This w as good strategy from the Spartan King. Straining his eyes, he could just make out t he m onarch st anding at t he cent re of t he Spart an phalanx, 300 m en in t ight form at ion six ranks deep, fift y shields w ide. I t w as a defensive form at ion and had been placed at t he cent re of t he field, w it h m ercenary divisions around it. ‘He seeks t o hold t he cent re st eady,’ said Parm enion. ‘See how t hey gat her around t he Spart ans?’

More allied cavalry rode from the right, but the Makedones swung their lines t o m eet t he char ge. I t seem ed t o Parm enion t hat t he Makedones’ defence w as m oving int o act ion ev en before t he charge, and he recalled w it h sinking heart t hat Philippos could read t he m ind of his enemy.

Even so t he char ge carried t hrough, pushing back t he enem y. The Spart an cent re sur ged forw ard and Parm enion w at ched as t he King m ount ed a fine grey st allion and rode back t o j oin t he reserve cavalry on t he left. The bat t le w as fully j oined now, a great heaving m ass of men vying for control of the field.

‘Now! ‘ w hispered Parm enion. ‘Now lead t he charge! ‘ As if t he Spart an King had hear d him Parm enion saw t he great grey horse t hunder int o t he gallop, riders st ream ing behind w it h t he sun glit t ering on t heir lance-points.

But on t he far side of t he bat t le t he allied cavalry suddenly gave w ay, panic sw eeping t heir ranks. Sw inging t heir m ount s t hey fled t he field.

The Makedones poured int o t he breach, m oving out t o surround t he allied centre. Two mercenary divisions broke and ran, leaving a gap on the Spartan right.

‘Sweet Zeus, no!’ shouted Parmenion. ‘He had it won!’

The Spart an King disengaged his cavalry from t he at t ack and led his m en in a desperat e ride across t he bat t lefield, t rying t o close t he gap, but Parm enion knew t he at t em pt w as doom ed. Panic sw ept t hr ough t he allied arm y like a gr ass fire, and all but t he Spart ans t hrew dow n their shields and ran.

The Spart an phalanx closed, becom ing a fight ing square, m oving back from t he cent re t ow ards a narrow pass in t he m ount ains. But t he King led one last desperat e charge against t he enem y cent re, alm ost reaching Philippos. Now Parmenion saw the Demon King riding forward on a giant black st allion, hacking and cut t ing his w ay t ow ards his enem y. A spear slashed int o t he grey st allion and it bolt ed, carrying t he Spart an King clear of t he act ion as he fought t o cont rol t he painmaddened beast.

Now t he King w as riding t ow ards Parm enion and Thena, pursued by a score of black-cloaked riders. Glancing back, he saw t hem and sw ung t he horse up on t o a scree slope, t he beast scram bling on t o a ledge.

There w as now here else t o go and t he Spart an King leapt from his mount as the first Makedones reached the top. The man’s horse reared as t he King ran at it, t oppling his rider, but t hen t he ot hers arrived, leaping from their horses and advancing on the lone warrior.

Parm enion’s heart ached for t he m an. He had com e so close, only t o be bet ray ed by cow ards and m en of lit t le heart. He longed t o gallop dow n t o fight alongside t he King, but a gor ge separat ed t hem and t he King w as but m om ent s from deat h - before him a score of enem ies, behind him a chasm. He fought bravely and w it h great skill, but at t he last a sw ord gashed his t hroat and he fell back, t eet ering on t he edge of t he abyss. Parm enion cried out in anguish as t he Spart an King t oppled from t he ledge, his bronze-clad body cart w heeling t hrough t he air t o crash against t he m ount ainside befor e pit ching once m ore int o space t o be dashed against t he rocks below. Parm enion gr oaned and looked away. ‘So close - so near to victory,’ he whispered.

‘I know,’ said Thena. ‘Now we must wait.’

‘For what? I have seen enough.’

‘There is more, my dear,’ she told him.

The enem y soldiers pulled baek from t he ledge, seeking a w ay t o recover t he body. But t he cliff w as t oo st eep and t hey r em ount ed t heir horses and vanished from sight.

‘Now,’ said Thena. ‘Before t hey can circle round from t he nort h, w e must get to the body.’

‘Why?’

‘There is no t im e t o explain. Trust m e.’ Rem ount ing, Thena urged her horse over t he crest of t he hill and dow n t he gent le slope t o t he valley floor. Parm enion had no w ish t o gaze upon t he ruined body of so great a warrior, but he followed the priestess on the long ride, coming at last t o t he blood-spat t ered cor pse. Thena clim bed dow n from her m ount and m oved t o t he body, gent ly rolling it t o it s back. The red-plumed helm lay close by, scarcely dent ed, but t he breast plat e w as split at t he shoulder, where a white bone could be seen jutting from dead flesh.

The m an’s face w as rem arkably unt ouched, his blue eyes open and st aring at t he sky. Parm enion m oved t o t he body and st opped, heart hammering and legs unsteady.

‘I am sorry,’ w hispered Thena, ‘but you st and befor e t he body of Parmenion, the King of Sparta.’

*

Parm enion could find no w ords as he gazed dow n at his ow n corpse.

He had observed Thena’s m agic back in t he forest w hen she had creat ed t he illusion of t he group st ill sleeping around t he cam p-fire.

Though in it s w ay t hat had been alm ost am using, causing a lift ing of t ension and fear. But t his w as real. The dead m an at his feet w as his twin, and Parmenion felt the anguish of bereavement. Worse than this, t he t ragedy brought him a sickening sense of his ow n m ort alit y. The Parm enion lying here had been a m an w it h dream s, hopes, am bit ions.

Yet he had been cut down in his prime, his body smashed, broken.

The Spartan took a deep, shuddering breath.

‘We must move him,’ said Thena, ‘before the Makedones arrive.’

‘Why?’ responded Parmenion, unwilling to touch his alter ego.

‘Because t hey m ust not know he is dead. Com e now! Lift him across your horse.’

Parm enion’s hands w ere t rem bling as he pulled t he corpse upright, draping t he body over his shoulder, t ransferring it t o t he Makedones gelding, t hen vault ing t o t he beast ‘s back. The horse w as st rong, but even so could not bear t he double w eight for long. Parm enion t urned to see Thena sitting upon a boulder.

‘Tak e m y horse t o t he w oods,’ she com m anded. ‘I w ill be t here by dusk.’

‘You cannot stay here. They will kill you.’

‘No, t hey w ill not see m e. When you reach t he w oods st rip t he body and bury it. Then put on his arm our. Go now! ‘ Parm enion t ugged t he reins and t he gelding began t o w alk aw ay t o t he w est. ‘Wait! ‘ called Thena. Gat hering up t he King’s fallen sw ord and helm, she passed them to Parmenion. ‘Now ride - for time is short.’

The ground w as rock-st rew n and hard-packed, t he gelding’s hooves leaving little sign as the Spartan rode away. Now and again he glanced back to see Thena sitting quietly, awaiting the Makedones. He tried not t o look at t he body, but his eyes w ere draw n t o it. I t w as no longer leaking blood, but t he bow els had opened and t he st ench w as st rong.

There is no dignit y in deat h, t hought Parm enion as he angled t he horse up to the tree-line and into the woods.

Once t here he follow ed Thena’s inst ruct ions, st ripping t he body, digging out a shallow grave in t he loam and r olling t he corpse int o it.

The body fell t o it s back - dead ey es st aring up at t he Spart an, dead mouth sagging open.

‘I have no coin for t he ferrym an,’ Parm enion t old t he dead King. ‘But you w ere a m an of courage and I believe you w ill find t he Elysian Fields without it.’

Sw ift ly he pushed t he dar k eart h over t he body, t hen sat back trembling.

Aft er a while he picked up t he King’s sw ord, and w as not surprised t o find it t he sam e blade he him self had w on m ore t han t hirt y years ago in anot her Spart a. I t w as t he legendary blade of Leonidas, t he Sw ord King, beautifully crafted and wondrously sharp.

Leonidas! A glorious nam e from t he past y et also t he nam e of Parm enion’s first enem y, t he brot her of Derae, in w hose nam e Parmenion had suffered taunts and beatings, hatred and dark violence.

That era had com e t o an end at Leuct ra w hen Parm enion’s bat t le plan had sm ashed t he Spart an line, killing t heir King and freeing t he cit y of Thebes from Spart an dict at orship. When t he bat t le ended, so t oo had Spartan power in Greece.

Parmenion remembered well the day he had won the sword. It was the final of t he Gener al’s Gam es w here t he young m en of Spart a, using carved m odel arm ies, engaged in bat t les of t act ics and st rat egy. The final w as cont est ed at t he house of Xenophon, t he renegade At henian general who had become a close friend of the Spartan King Agisaleus.

Agisaleus, believing his nephew Leonidas w ould w in t he final, had offered t he legendary blade as a prize. But Leonidas had not w on. He had been crushed by t he hat ed’ m ix-blood, hum iliat ed in front of his peers and his King.

And the sword came to Parmenion.

Yet at Leuct ra, w it h Spart a crushed, it had been Leonidas w ho had com e t o discuss t he recovery from t he bat t lefield of t he Spart an dead, and it was Parmenion to whom he had come.

Leonidas had been dignified in defeat, st rong and proud, and - in a m om ent he had never quit e underst ood - Parm enion had given him the sword, ending for ever their enmity.

Yet now he sat in an alien forest with the twin of the blade in his hand.

What now, he asked him self? But t he answ er w as inescapable.

Parm enion t he King had been slain, leaving his enem y t rium phant and the Spartan army leaderless.

The Demon King had won.

*

Derae w at ched unt il Parm enion w as no longer in sight, t hen she relaxed, calm ing her m ind, honing her pow ers, reaching out t o seek t he Makedones riders w ho w ere com ing t o claim t he body of t heir enemy.

They w ere st ill half a m ile dist ant and she focused on t he leader, Theoparlis - a st ocky, dark - eyed m an, st rong and fear less, his heart dark ened by bit t er m em ories of slavery and t ort ure in t he early years of his life. Derae float ed w it hin his subconscious, silent ly preparing him. Then she moved on to the others, one by one.

When at last she opened her eyes t hey w ere r iding t ow ards t he r ocks, fanning out, t heir eyes scanning t he boulders. Draw ing rein t hey dismounted and began to search.

Derae took a deep breath. Not a man had noticed her. Now she stood.

‘He is not here,’ she said soft ly. The nearest m an gasped and st aggered back. He did not see a t all, bony w om an in an ill-fitting chiton. His eyes w idened in aw e as he drank in t he sight of a r egal w arrior w om an, a doric helm pushed back on her head, a golden breast plat e adorning her t or so. An ow l sat upon her shoulder, it s bright eyes blinking in the sunlight.

The t w ent y w arriors st ood silent ly before At hena, Goddess of Wisdom and War. I n her hand w as a golden spear, and t his she raised t o point at Theoparlis. ‘Ret urn t o y our King,’ she said, her voice ringing w it h authority, ‘and tell him that Parmenion lives.’

‘He will kill us all, lady, and brand us liars,’ Theoparlis protested.

‘Draw your sw ords,’ she said soft ly. They did so. ‘Now gaze upon them.’

The blades w rit hed in t heir hands, becom ing serpent s. Wit h cries of shock and horror t he m en flung t he w eapons aside all but Theoparlis. ‘I t is st ill a sw ord,’ he said, his face w hit e, his hand trembling.

The serpent blade st iffened, t he snake disappearing. ‘I ndeed it is, Theoparlis; you ar e a st rong m an,’ said Derae. ‘But t hen t he m agic w as not w rought t o harm y ou but t o allow you t o go t o your King and convince him. Has he not t he Eye t o read a m an’s m ind? He w ill know you do not lie.’

‘How could the Spartan have survived such a fall?’ he asked.

Derae pointed to the man beside Theoparlis. ‘Take up your sword,’ she ordered. The man obeyed. ‘Draw the blade across your palm.’

‘No! ‘ shout ed t he m an, but t he sw ord rose of it s ow n accord, his left hand opening to receive it. ‘No!’ he screamed again, but the sharp iron cut into his flesh and blood welled from the wound.

‘Hold up t he hand so t hat all m ay see,’ Derae or der ed. ‘This is no illusion. Theoparlis, t ouch t he blood.’ The Makedones obeyed. ‘I s it real?’

‘Yes, lady.’

‘Now watch and learn.’

Derae closed her eyes. The cut w as shallow and even and it w as a m at t er of m om ent s t o accelerat e t he t issue bond, producing t en days of healing in as m any heart beat s. When she opened her eyes t he m en had gathered around the injured warrior and were staring at his bloodcovered hand. ‘Wipe clear the blood,’ said Derae. Using the edge of his black cloak the man did so. Only a faint scar remained.

‘Now you know how t he King survived,’ she t old t hem. ‘I healed him.

And I t ell you t his, he is beloved of t he gods. The next t im e you see him will be on the day of your deaths - if he should so choose.’

‘His army is destroyed,’ said Theoparlis.

‘You have yet to face the might of Sparta.’

‘Five thousand men cannot stand against the forces of Makedon.’

‘We shall see. Go now. Report w hat I have said t o Philippos. And t ell him the words of Athena - if he marches against Sparta he will die.’

Theoparlis bowed and backed away to his horse, his men following.

Derae let fall t he illusion, and it seem ed t o t he w arriors as if t he goddess had suddenly disappeared from view. Unnoticed, the priestess walked away to the west and the distant woods.

She found Parm enion sit t ing by t he freshly-covered gr ave. ‘You w ill take his place?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, Thena,’ he answ ered. ‘We w ere heading for Spart a because we thought it would be safe and Aristotle could meet us there.

But now? Now t he Spart ans have no w ar leader and t he Makedones could march all the way to the city.’

‘What choices are there?’

He shrugged. ‘We could make for the Gateway and allow Alexander his destiny - if such it be and hope Arist ot le is t here t o bring us hom e before the Makedones arrive.’

‘And the Demon King?’

‘He is not m y problem, Thena. This is not m y w orld.’ His w ords lacked convict ion and his gaze st rayed t o t he grave. He sighed and st ood.

‘Tell me what is right,’ he said.

‘Are y ou asking m e - or him? He w as you, Parm enion. Ask yourself w hat you w ould w ish for if t he roles w ere reversed. Would you prefer t o see your cit y conquered, your people enslaved? Or w ould you hope that your twin could achieve what you could not?’

‘You know the answer to that. But there is Alexander to consider.’

‘Yet t he sit uat ion is t he sam e as before,’ she said. ‘We need Spart a t o hold back the Makedones, to give Alexander time at the Gateway. Who bet t er t o ensure t he Spart ans can do j ust t hat t han t heir ow n Bat t le King?’

‘But I am not him. I t feels w rong, Thena. He m ay have a fam ily - a w ife, sons, daught ers. They w ill know him. And even if t hey do not, surely it is an insult to his memory?’

‘Would y ou consider it an insult t o yours if it w as he w ho fought for you?’

‘No,’ he adm it t ed. ‘Yet st ill it does not sit w ell w it h m e. And w hat of Attalus and the Korinthians? They know I am not the Spartan King.’

‘At t alus know s w hat he m ust do. But you and I m ust ride t o Spar t a.

There is much to be done, and little time, for Philippos will march upon the city within a few days.’

Suddenly Parm enion cursed. ‘Why m e?’ he shout ed. ‘I cam e here t o rescue m y son, not t o becom e em br oiled in a w ar in w hich I have no interest.’

Derae said nothing for a while, then came close to the Spartan and laid her hand on his arm. ‘You know t he answ er t o t hat, m y dear. Why you? Because you are here. Simply that. Now time is short.’

Parm enion m oved t o t he graveside. ‘I never knew you,’ he said soft ly, ‘but m en spoke w ell of you. I w ill do w hat I can for your cit y and your people.’

Sw ift ly he donned t he dent ed arm our of t he dead m onarch, st rapping the sword of Leonidas to his side. Turning to Derae, he smiled.

‘There is much to do,’ she told him.

‘Then let us begin,’ he said.

For t w o hours t hey rode sout h, t hen cut t ow ards t he east over rolling hills, st opping at dusk in a ruined and desert ed set t lem ent. Parm enion built a fire against t he st ones of a fallen w all and sat in silence st aring at the flames. Derae did not intrude on his thoughts. At last he spoke.

‘The King’s body guard w ere engaged in a fight ing ret r eat,’ he said suddenly. ‘Did they escape?’

‘I w ill find out,’ she said. Mom ent s lat er she nodded. ‘They lost m ore than a third of their number, but they are defending a narrow pass and still holding the Makedones.’

‘We m ust be w it h t hem by daw n. I f I can convince t he King’s capt ain that there is a chance, I can carry this through.’

‘Even then,’ she whispered, ‘can you win against the Demon King?’

‘I have fought in m any w ars, lady, and I hav e never lost. I do not say t his w it h arrogance, but I am t he strategos. I f t here is a w ay t o defeat Philippos I w ill find it. Or be buried like like m y brot her in an unmarked grave. I can do no more.’

‘You know t hat you need not fight t his w ar? I t is not your w orld, not your city. You could ride to the Giant’s Gateway and wait for Aristotle.’

‘No, I could not do that.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Ever since I came here I have heard nothing but good of t he Spart an King. Even t he creat ures of Enchant m ent speak w ell of him, saying he gave them lands for their own where they would not be hunt ed. He w as everyt hing I w ould w ish t o be. But our lives t ook different paths. I became a wandering mercenary, filled with bitterness and hat red, w it h w ar m y only t alent. He becam e a King - and a bet t er man.’

‘That is not so. You also are kind, noble and generous of spirit.’

‘I am the Death of Nations, Thena, not the father of one.’

‘The w om an w ho gave y ou t hat t it le w as w rong - w rong in all t hat she did. She m anipulat ed your life, causing you grief and fuelling your hatred. But you rose above that.’

‘You knew her?’ he asked, surprised.

‘I w as a disciple. I t w as part of a plan she had - a dream. You w ere t o be t he w arrior w ho w ould st and against t he Dark God. But it w as a fut ile, self-defeat ing vision, and she died know ing it. But here t here w as no bit t erness and hat red. You underst and? He w as no different from you. He was a man of courage and nobility, intelligent and caring.

But t hen so is t he Parm enion I k now.’ Her breat hing w as ragged, her colour high, and she t urned aw ay from him, lying dow n and covering herself with her cloak.

He m oved t o her, his hand t ouching her shoulder. ‘You are angry w it h me,’ he said, his voice soft, his touch gentle.

‘No,’ she t old him, ‘t here is no anger. Let m e sleep now, for I am very tired.’

She heard him move back to the fire and closed her eyes.

The Pass of Tegaea Leonidas shout ed an order and st epped back from t he line. The w arriors on eit her side of him closed ranks and w ait ed, shields held high, short st abbing sw ords ext ended. Leonidas ran several paces, then climbed to a high boulder and gazed back down the pass.

The Makedones w ere dragging aside t he corpses, preparing t he w ay for yet anot her charge. Leonidas st rained his eyes t o see t he new t roops m assing. The golden sunbur st s on t heir black breast plat es proclaim ed t hem t o be t he King’s Guar ds. So at last t hey send t he best, he t hought. But t hen t he Spart ans had held against t he I llyrians, t he Thr acians and ot her m ercenary unit s. How m any at t acks had t hey faced? Tw ent y? Thirt y? Leonidas had lost count. I t w as enough t hat t he bat t leground w as slick w it h enem y blood. Hundreds of t he Tyrant ‘s troops had fallen. Hundreds more would fall.

The pass w as narrow here, less t han sevent y paces, and t he t hree Spart an lines w ere holding t heir ground. Barely Leonidas cursed soft ly. The m oon w as high, t he skies clear, and t here w as no opport unit y t o w it hdraw in bat t le order. Yet holding t his pass w as a doom ed ent er prise, for even now t he Makedones cavalry w ould be riding t he high ridges t o cut t hem off. By m orning t he Spart ans w ould be trapped.

Leonidas w as w eary, w eighed dow n w it h t he m uscle-numbing t iredness t hat follow s defeat. The bat t le had been w on - and t hen t he cursed Kadm ians had brok en. Gut less bast ards! Anger flared again, feeding energy t o his m uscles. Yet it w as not t he fickle courage of t he Kadm ians t hat enraged him. No, t he m ain t hrust of his anger w as against t he Spart an Priest of Apollo, Sot eridas, w ho had declared t he t im ing of t he bat t le inauspicious. And t he Spart an ar m y could not march without the god’s blessing.

Now Sot eridas w ould appear t o have been proved correct. Yet Leonidas knew, as did every Spart an fight ing m an here, t hat had t he w hole arm y been present t hey w ould have cut t he Makedones t o pieces. Instead the allied army had been crushed, the King slain.

Leonidas closed his eyes. Slain He could hardly believe it.

The enemy drums beat out the signal to advance and Leonidas jumped from t he boulder, running t o t ake his place in t he front line alongside t he giant, Nest us. Blood w as flow ing from a w ound in t he w arrior’s cheek and his breastplate had been gashed.

‘Here t hey com e,’ m ut t ered Nest us, w it h a sm ile. ‘They m ust like dying.’

Leonidas said nothing.

The black-garbed Makedones bore dow n on t he Spart ans, t he sound of their war-cries echoing in the pass.

At that moment a low rumble, like distant thunder, echoed through the m ount ains. Leonidas glanced up at t he st eep rock-face t o t he left.

Several st ones clat t ered dow n, follow ed by fist - sized rocks. At t he t op of t he pass, above t he Mak edones, Leonidas saw a figure in golden arm our pushing against a boulder t hat hung precariously on a narrow ledge. The huge rock slid clear of t he ledge, alm ost dislodging t he w arrior, t hen it fell som e sixt y feet t o explode against a second ledge which tore itself from the cliff-face.

‘Avalanche! ‘ scream ed a Makedones w arrior and t he cry w as t aken up.

The enem y charge falt ered and st opped, t he leading w arriors t urning, t rying t o get back from t he pass. A m assive slab of lim est one t hundered int o t he Makedones and Leonidas saw m en disappear from sight, t heir bodies crushed beyond recognit ion. Panic sw ept t hrough t he enem y ranks as t hey fought t o escape t he rain of deat h. Anot her huge section of rock yawed out above them and fell, killing a score of warriors.

A choking dust - cloud billow ed up, t he w ind sw eeping it t o t he nort h - into the faces of the Makedones still waiting at the mouth of the pass.

Leonidas gazed up t hrough t he dust. At t he crest of t he cliff he caught a glim pse of t he w arrior in t he golden breastplate - and his spirit s soared.

‘The King!’ he shouted. The King lives!’

The figur e on t he cliff-t op w aved, point ing t o t he sout h, and Leonidas underst ood inst ant ly. The Makedones w ere in disarray, hundreds of them slain by the rock fall. Now was the time to move back.

‘By rank,’ bellowed Leonidas, ‘file six!’

Sm oot hly t he Spar t ans fell back int o colum ns and m arched in close order from the pass. His lieutenant, Learchus, moved alongside him.

‘Was that truly the King?’

‘I believe so. He started the avalanche.’

‘Zeus be praised! Then we do have a chance.’

Leonidas did not reply. A chance? All t hat w as left t o face t he Tyrant w as t he Spart an arm y - 5,000 fight ing m en, w it h no cavalry, archers or j aveliners. Ranged against t hem w ould be m ore t han 20,000 Makedones infant ry and 10,000 cavalry. The only hope w ould be a defensive bat t le, holding a ridge or a pass. And bet w een Tegaea and Spart a t here w ere only ragged hills and plains. The land w as open t o the conqueror.

Parm enion w ill find a w ay, he t hought. He w ill! That w as love and loyalty speaking, he knew, and his mood darkened.

As children t hey had been enem ies, but alw ays he had held t he y oung mix-blood in high est eem, and as t he years passed t hat est eem had given w ay t o a kind of aw e. Now t hey w ere closer t han brot hers. Yet w hat plan could even such a general as Parm enion produce t o count er the demonic skills of Philippos?

The pass w idened and as t he soldiers filed out on t o t he plain t w o riders came galloping towards them.

‘The King! ‘ som eone shout ed and t he Spart ans drew t heir blades, crashing t hem against t heir bronze shields in salut e. Leonidas ran forward as the riders approached.

‘Welcom e, sire! ‘ he called out. The King sat silent ly for a m om ent, expressionless, then he smiled.

‘It is good to see you, Leonidas.’

The voice w as cool and t here w as a t ension about him t hat Leonidas could not underst and. But t hen t hese last t w o days had been har d, and the King had suffered a bitter reverse.

‘What are your orders, sire?’

‘South to Sparta,’ said Parmenion. ‘Battle speed, for the enemy cavalry is close.’ Leonidas bow ed and t hen looked t o t he w om an. She w as st ern of count enance but her eyes w ere locked t o him. The King m ade no effort t o int roduce her, w hich sur prised Leonidas, but he said nothing and returned to the head of the column.

The m en m arched unt il t w o hour s aft er daw n; t hen t he King com m anded a halt, signalling Leonidas t o m ake cam p in a sm all w ood on t he slopes of a range of gent le hills. The Spart an soldiers m oved int o t he shelt er of t he t rees and t hen grat efully sank t o t he ground, stretching tired bodies to the grass.

Leonidas ordered sent ries t o w at ch for signs of t he enem y, t hen m ade his w ay t o w here t he King sat w it h t he w om an. ‘I had t hought you dead, sire,’ he said, sitting opposite Parmenion.

‘It was close,’ replied the King. ‘You fought well in the pass. What were our losses?’

‘Eighty-t w o died in t he bat t le on t he plain, a furt her t hirt y in t he pass it self. Epulis, Karas and Ondom enus are dead.’ The King nodded, but no expression of regret show ed. Leonidas could barely cont ain his surprise, for Ondom enus had been one of t he King’s closest companions.

‘The Mak edones cavalry,’ said t he King, ‘has reached t he pass but not follow ed in pursuit. We w ill rest here for t w o hours, t hen cont inue south.’

‘How do you know this, sire?’

The King sm iled. ‘I am sorr y, m y friend. My m ind is occupied and it has affected my manners. Let me introduce you to the seeress, Thena.

She has many talents - and saved my life during the battle.’

Leonidas bow ed his head. ‘For t hat you have m y grat it ude, m y lady.

Without the King all would be lost. Where are you from?’

‘Asia,’ Thena answ ered. Parm enion st ret ched out on t he ground, closing his eyes. ‘The King is weary,’ she continued. ‘May we walk for a while and talk?’ she asked Leonidas.

‘Of course,’ he answ ered, per plexed. The King’s behaviour w as beginning t o unset t le him. Taking Thena’s arm, he st rolled w it h her t o the edge of the woods and they sat upon a fallen log looking back over the plains.

‘The King,’ said Thena, ‘fell from a ledge, suffering a severe blow to his head.’

‘I saw the dent in his helm, lady. I am surprised he survived.’

‘He is a strong man.’

‘He is the best of men, lady.’

‘Yes, I am sure t hat he is. I have k now n him but a lit t le t im e. Tell m e of him.’

‘Surely even in Asia you have heard of Parmenion?’

‘I m eant t ell m e of t he m an. I t is said he is a m ix-blood. How did he become King?’

‘He w as t he First General of Spart a. When Agisaleus w as slain in t he Great Athenian War three years ago, the ephors elected Parmenion.’

‘But he has no links to the royal houses,’ said Thena.

‘That is not true, lady. He married well.’ Leonidas chuckled.

‘Married?’

‘My ow n house is of t he noble line, and I could have had t he t hrone.

But in t he dark days of a seem ingly lost w ar I knew w e needed a bet t er m an t han I. And Parm enion w as t hat m an. Therefore w e brought him into my family. He married my sister, Derae.’

*

The shock w as t errifying. Derae felt her heart beat quicken, her hands t rem ble. She knew t hat her face w as bet raying her, for Leonidas leaned forward.

‘Are you well, lady?’ he asked, his voice full of concern.

But she could say not hing. An alt ernat e w orld in w hich Philippos ruled and Parm enion w as King of Spart a! You fool, she t old herself. How could you have not known there would be a twin for you? ‘Please leave m e, Leonidas,’ she said, forcing a sm ile. ‘I have m uch t o think about.’ Bewildered the warrior rose, bowed and moved away.

Alone, she felt the full weight of grief descend.

‘Why are you unhappy?’ asked Tam is, and Derae j erked t o aw areness as the old woman’s spirit hovered before her.

‘I cannot t alk,’ w hispered Derae, ‘but I give you perm ission t o share my memories. All answers lie there.’

‘I would not wish to intrude on them,’ said Tamis softly.

‘You w ould not be int ruding,’ Der ae assured her. ‘I ndeed, I w ould value your counsel.’

‘Very w ell,’ Tam is replied, and Derae felt a flicker of w arm t h as Tam is m erged int o her m ind, flow ing t hrough t he t hought s of t he past. At last t he old w om an w it hdrew. ‘What w ould y ou have m e say t o you?’ she asked.

Derae shrugged. ‘I love him. It seems that all my life I have loved him.

Yet all w e had w as five days t oget her. And t he t im e here w here he does not know me. I cannot bear to see them together, I cannot.’

‘Yet it is different here,’ said Tam is gent ly. ‘Here t here w as no rescue, no five days of passion. In this world Derae loved a man called Nestus, but was forced to put him aside in order to marry Parmenion. They live together now in cold comfort without love.’

‘She does not love him? I cannot believe it.’

‘As I said, here he did not r escue her; t hey had few m eet ings befor e t he w edding. And she w as bet rot hed t o Nest us, w hom she adored. I believe she still does.’

‘Then what has it all been for?’ whispered Derae. ‘Why did t his have t o be? Why did the Tamis I knew have to interfere?’

‘She did you bot h great harm, and I do not excuse it. But had she not done so t hen m y v ision could not have been r ealized. The strategos would not have come to the aid of my world.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Let us assum e t hat your Parm enion had never becom e t he Deat h of Nat ions. How t hen could he help t he Spart a of t his w orld? He w ould never have com e here, for t here w ould hav e been no Alexander t o follow, to rescue. Do you understand?’

Derae’s m ind reeled and she shook her head. ‘Then you are saying t he Tamis of my world did right? I cannot believe that!’

The older w om an shrugged. ‘You m isunderst and m e. I n t he cont ex t of your world she was wrong, for her actions led to the birth of the Chaos Spirit and dest royed your dream s of love. But here? Here t he child may be Iskander and the hope of the Enchantment.’

‘This is beyond me, Tamis.’

‘I t com es dow n t o t his, m y dear. Ev ery act ion w e t ake has m any consequences, som e for good, som e for evil. Consider your ow n life as an ex am ple. When you w ere kidnapped as a young girl it brought you and Parm enion t oget her. An evil act ion, but t he out com e w as good.

And t hough m y nam esake w as w rong t o t ake you from Spart a, you becam e a Healer. We none of us know w here our act ions w ill lead.

That is w hy t he follow ers of t he Source m ust not use t he w eapons of evil. Everything we do must be governed by love.’

‘You think that love cannot lead to evil?’

‘Of course it can. For love creates jealousy, and jealousy hate. But love also conquers, and deeds inspired by love bring harm ony far m ore often than discord.’

‘And do we deal with Philippos with love?’ countered Derae.

‘I do not hat e him,’ answ ered Tam is. ‘I feel great pit y for him. But I did not bring Parm enion here - t hough I could have done. Nor have I used m y pow ers t o see Philippos slain - t hough t his also I could hav e done. For I do not know the will of the Source in this.’

‘That sounds like evasion,’ said Derae, ‘for you cannot escape t he sim ple point t hat m y Parm enion is here, and he is a w arrior. He w ill at t em pt t o fight Philippos, and in t hat bat t le t housands w ill be slain.

Surely that involves using the weapons of evil?’

The ot her w om an nodded. ‘Perhaps. But I cannot, of m y w ill, change t he w orld. All I can do is t o m aint ain m y ow n principles in t he face of t he w orld’s evil. When a cancer is spreading t hrough t he body and t he surgeon cut s it out, is he act ing on behalf of evil? He is hurt ing t he body and causing pain. I s t hat evil? All principles can be m ade t o look foolish in t he eyes of t he w orld’s w isdom. Once t here w as a cit y under siege.

The enem y King said t hat he w ould spare t he cit y if t he inhabit ant s took a single babe and sacrificed it to him on the battlements. Now the cit y could not hold against him and surely, it was argued, t he slaying of a single babe w ould be bet t er t han seeing all t he babes of t he cit y killed when the attacker breached the walls.’

‘What did they do?’

‘They refused.’

‘And then?’

‘They were slaughtered. No one survived.’

‘What is your point, Tamis?’

‘That is a quest ion for you t o answ er, m y dear. You t hink t hem wrong?’

‘I cannot say. But the babe they might have sacrificed died anyway.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why did they refuse?’

Tam is sighed. ‘They underst ood t hat you do not t urn aside a great evil by allow ing a sm all one t o be com m it t ed. Evil grow s, Derae. Give w ay once and you will give way again and again. Would you have killed the babe?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Not even to save the city?’

‘No.’

‘Then why do you ask why they also refused?’

‘Because I am used t o t he evil of Man and I underst and t he nat ure of selfishness and com prom ise. I am am azed t hat an ent ire cit y should exhibit such nobility of spirit.’

‘They had a great leader, my dear. His name was Epaminondas and he w as King Parm enion’s closest friend. The people loved him for his virtue. They died for him.’

‘What became of the enemy King?’

‘He marches on Sparta, Derae. For the man was Philippos.’

‘I w ill not st ay t o see it,’ said Derae. ‘I w ill t ravel sout h t o t he Giant ‘s Gat ew ay. I w ill not w at ch Parm enion w it h w it h his w ife. Nor w ill I wait to see him die.’

‘You think he will fail?’

‘How can he succeed, Tamis?’

The old woman had no answer.

*

Parm enion lay aw ake, deeply unhappy about t he subt er fuge. He knew him self t o be an im post er, and it irked him. Yet w hat choices w ere t here? Could he say t o Leonidas, ‘I am not y our king, but a w arrior from anot her w orld’? And if he did, w ould he st ill com m and t he Spartan army? He sat up and gazed around at the camp.

He could see Nest us, t he sw ordsm an he had slain for ordering Derae’s deat h. And Learchus, t he boy he had killed in Spart a on t he night of the attack on Hermias. Here and there were other men whose faces he recalled but w hose nam es w ere lost t o him, vanished in som e dim corridor of memory.

He st ood. ‘Officers t o m e,’ he called. They rose and m ov ed t o sit in a circle around him, all of t hem bow ing save t he giant Nest us.

Parm enion m et t he m an’s eyes, sensing t he host ilit y t here. Leonidas appeared from t he w oods and j oined him. Parm enion looked at his handsom e face, t he t ight ly curled hair of redgold, t he clear blue eyes.

My enemy and my friend, he thought.

‘We learned a great deal,’ said Parmenion, ‘even though the battle was lost. Philippos is not a good general.’

‘How can you say t hat?’ ask ed Nest us. ‘He has never lost.’ Ther e w as an edge in the man’s voice which was almost a sneer.

‘The golden eye gives him a pow er t o r ead t he t hought s of his adversary. Then he react s. Do you underst and? He has no need of a bat t le plan. He m erely t hw art s t he plans of ot hers unt il t hey are overcommitted. Then he strikes.’

‘How does that help us?’ queried Leonidas.

‘By telling us that strength merely disguises a weakness. If we can find a way to nullify his power, we can destroy him,’ Parmenion told him.

‘How do we do that?’ asked the slender Learchus.

‘I w ill find a w ay,’ Parm enion prom ised, w it h a confidence he did not feel. ‘Now tell me, Leonidas, how many men can we gather?’

‘Men, sire? There is only the army. Five thousand.’

Parm enion fell silent. Back in t he Spart a he knew t here w ere t he Scirit ai, w arriors from t he m ount ains t o t he nort h-w est of t he cit y. But did they exist here? ‘I f w e had t o assem ble a force t hat w as not purely Spart an,’ he said carefully, ‘where-would you look to find men?’

‘There ar e none, sire. The Messenians have sided w it h Philippos. I f w e had t im e w e could enlist t he aid of t he Cret ans-but t here is no t im e.

We stand alone.’

‘I f every m an in t he cit y w as given a sw ord, how m any w arriors w ould we count?”

‘You mean if we armed the slaves?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Fift een t housand t w ent y. But t hey are not w arriors, t hey w ould have no discipline. And aft erw ards - even if w e w on - how w ould w e dispossess them of those weapons?’

‘One step at a time, my friend. First we must win.’

‘You think the Spartarf army cannot win alone?’ asked Nestus, his dark eyes angry.

‘Given t he right t errain, t here is no force in all t he w orld t o equal us,’ said Parm enion. ‘But t ell m e, Nest us, w here is such a t errain bet w een here and Spart a? On open ground Philippos w ill surround us, his cavalry perhaps passing us by and raiding t he cit y it self. And w e cannot defend t he cit y. We m ust bring Philippos t o t he bat t lefield and hold his entire army. We cannot do that with five thousand men.’

‘Then what do we do?’ Learchus demanded.

‘As soon as w e arrive back in Spart a you w ill gat her all t he slaves, and every Spart an m an under t he age of sixt y-five and above t he age of fift een. Those slaves w ho agree t o fight alongside us w ill be offered t heir freedom. Then it w ill be up t o you t o give t hem cursory t raining.

We will have maybe five days, perhaps less.’

‘Children, old m en and slaves?’ sneered Nest us. ‘Perhaps w e should surrender now.’

‘I f you are afraid,’ said Parm enion soft ly, ‘I w ill give you perm ission t o remain at home with the women.’

All colour drained from the giant’s face. ‘You dare suggest?’

‘I dare,’ Parm enion t old him. ‘And I w ill have no faint - heart ed m an serve me.’

Nestus lurched to his feet, his sword snaking clear of its scabbard.

‘No!’ shouted Leonidas.

‘Leave him be,’ said Parm enion, rising sm oot hly but leaving his ow n sword sheathed.

‘This is m adness,’ Learchus shout ed. ‘For Hera’s sake, Nest us, put up your blade!’

‘He called me a coward! I’ll take that from no man.’

‘Wrong, y ou arrogant w horeson! ‘ snar led Parm enion. ‘You w ill t ake it from me. Now you have two choices. The first is to use that sword; the second is to kneel and ask my forgiveness. Which will it be?’

Nest us st ood st ill, aw are t hat all eyes w ere upon him. I n t hat aw ful m om ent he realized w hat he had done and t he fat e t hat aw ait ed him.

I f he slew Parm enion - as he dearly w ant ed t o - t he ot hers w ould fall upon him. But to kneel to the mix-blood! ‘You brought it on yourself!’ he shouted. ‘You insulted me!’

‘Tw o choices,’ snapped Par m enion. ‘Choose, or I ‘ll kill you w here you stand.’

For a m om ent Nest us hesit at ed, t hen he dropped t he sw ord. ‘On your knees! ‘ r oared Par m enion. The giant fell forw ard w it h head bow ed.

Parm enion ignored him, his gaze sw eeping over t he w at ching m en. ‘I s there another here who wishes to dispute my right to lead?’

‘There is no one, sire,’ said Leonidas soft ly. ‘We are yours, heart and soul.’

Parm enion sw ung back t o t he k neeling Nest us. ‘Get out of m y sight! ‘ he said. ‘From t his m om ent you w ill fight in t he front rank. You hav e no command. Never open your mouth in my presence again.’

Nestus rose, stumbling back from the group of officers.

‘That is all,’ said Parm enion. ‘Prepare t o m arch in one hour.’ Turning his back on them, he walked away into the wood.

Leonidas follow ed him. ‘That should have been done t hree y ears ago,’ he said. ‘Your patience amazes me. But tell me, Parmenion, why now?’

‘I t w as t im e. I am glad you are her e, I need t o t alk w it h you. Look at me, Leonidas, and tell me what you see.’

‘My King and my friend,’ he answered, nonplussed.

‘Look closely. Do I seem older, younger?’

‘You are the same - maybe a little tired.’

Thena approached t hem and Parm enion t urned t o her. ‘Deceit is not my way, Thena. I cannot do this.’

‘You must,’ she said.

‘I want Leonidas to know the truth.’

She met his gaze and knew, without recourse to reading his mind, that argum ent w ould be fut ile. ‘Then let m e show him,’ she pleaded. ‘Then he will see it all.’

‘As you wish.’

‘What is happening here?’ asked Leonidas. ‘What is it t hat I do not know?’

‘Sit dow n by t hat t ree and close your eyes,’ Thena com m anded. ‘All will be made known to you.’

Perplexed, Leonidas did as he w as bid, sit t ing on t he grass w it h his back t o a slender cypress t ree. Thena knelt before him and closed her eyes. Warm t h like a hot sum m er breeze flow ed t hrough his m ind and he found him self gazing dow n on t he cit y of Spart a from a great height. Yet it w as not Spart a, he realized. Ther e w ere subt le differences.

‘What is this place?’ he asked.

‘Watch and learn,’ Thena answered.

He saw t he young Parm enion, hat ed and hunt ed, saw him self and his fam ily. But not hing w as right. The years fled on and he saw a duel bet w een Parm enion and Nest us, w at ched t he freeing of a cit y, experienced the defeat of a Spartan army and the death of a King.

Leonidas was entranced.

Then he saw Philippos and anger flared w it hin him. Yet even her e t here w ere sm all changes. Philippos w as called Philip and w as possessed of no golden eye, no w it chcraft t o prot ect him. Event s flow ed by beneat h his gaze - great bat t les, vict ories, defeat s - unt il at last he saw t he kidnap of t he King’s son and t he j ourney of Parm enion to rescue him.

Derae’s voice w hispered int o his m ind. ‘Prepar e yourself, for w hat you are about to see will be painful.’

Once m or e t he bat t le lines w ere assem bled, t he Kadm ians on t he right panicking and fleeing t he field. He saw t he King’s horse bolt t ow ards the western ridges.

‘No,’ he groaned as Parm enion fell, his t hroat slashed, his dead body crashing to the rocks. ‘Oh, no!’

The m an he served and loved w as being buried now, his t w in donning his armour and helm.

His vision sw am and his eyes opened. At first he could not speak, then he shook his head. ‘You are not my King,’ he said softly.

‘No,’ admitted Parmenion.

‘But he is t he strategos,’ Thena point ed out, laying her hand on Leonidas’ arm.

He st ood, draw ing in several deep breat hs. ‘I knew som et hing w as wrong,’ he whispered.

‘I am sorry, Leonidas,’ Parmenion told him. ‘I did not wish this.’

‘I know. I saw.’

‘If you desire me to leave, I will do so,’ said Parmenion. ‘I do not relish the role of imposter.’

‘Were t he roles reversed m y King w ould say t he sam e. He w as a great m an, kind and yet st rong. That is w hy he t olerat ed Nest us. He felt he had done him harm and ow ed him a debt. What can I say? I do not know how to proceed.’

Thena st epped for w ard. ‘You have lost a friend - a dear friend. Ask yourself w hat he w ould choose. Your Parm enion is dead, m ay t he Source guide his soul. But t his Parm enion is also a strategos. What would the King do?’

For a t im e Leonidas w as silent, sw inging aw ay from t hem t o st are through t he t rees. Then he spoke. ‘You have been honest w it h m e, Parm enion. For t hat I t hank you. We w ill go t o Spart a and raise t he arm y. I do not see how w e can w in, but I w ill fight alongside you. But if w e do survive you m ust leave us. You ar e not m y brot her. I t would be wrong for you to stay.’

‘You have m y w ord on it,’ said Parm enion. ‘I s t here an oat h y ou w ish me to swear?’

‘No oat hs,’ Leonidas t old him. ‘Your w ord - like m y brot her ‘s - is promise enough.’

‘Then w e w ill cont inue w it h t his dram a,’ said Parm enion. ‘I w ill need your help. There is m uch I do not know about t his w orld and you m ust advise m e, especially w hen w e reach t he cit y. Who are t he ephors I can trust? Where are my enemies? Time is short.’

‘You believe we can defeat Philippos?’

‘I know I can nullify his sorcery. You and I w ill discuss t he st rat egy.

But it will still depend on the numbers we can raise.’

‘I w ill do all t hat you ask of m e. And y ou w ill rem ain King unt il t he battle is decided.’

Leonidas offered his hand and Parm enion t ook it. ‘Vict ory or deat h,’ said the young Spartan.

‘Victory is preferable,’ Parmenion answered.

*

The Spart an sm iled and m ov ed aw ay and Parm enion t urned t o Thena.

‘You think I was wrong to tell him?’

She shook her head. ‘No, you will need a friend in the city.’

‘I have you.’

‘No,’ she said sadly, ‘I w ill not com e t o Spart a. I shall ride sout h-west to the Giant’s Gateway.’

‘But I thought’

‘As did I. It was not to be.’

‘I will miss you, lady.’

‘And I you. Is there a message for Attalus?’

‘Yes. And for Bront es. Will you and I st ill be able t o com m une from such a distance?’

Thena nodded and st epped forw ard, t aking his hand. ‘Across w orlds,’ she promised.

They sat t oget her for alm ost an hour as Parm enion out lined his plans.

Then Leonidas returned. ‘The men are ready,’ he told them.

‘As am I,’ answered Parmenion.

The City of Sparta Word of t he defeat had reached t he cit y, and t here w ere no crow ds t o greet t he ret urning soldiers as t hey m arched in for m at ion along Leaving Street to the marble-pillared palace.

‘St ay close t o m e,’ w hispered Parm enion as t he w arriors ret urned t o t he near by barrack s and he and Leonidas ent ered t he great gat es, ‘for I have never seen t he inside of t his place and it w ould not help our cause if I were to wander off and get lost.’

Leonidas grinned. There are six andron s on t he gr ound floor and t he kitchens are ahead of you. Your quarters are up the first flight of stairs and to the right.’

Parm enion nodded and glanced at t he luridly paint ed w alls leading t o t he m arble st airs. Bat t le-scenes w ere everyw here, filling t he hall, and even t he m osaic on t he floor show ed Spart an w arriors in bat t le array.

He smiled. ‘Sparta does not change,’ he said, ‘even in another world.’

An elderly servant m oved forw ard and bow ed. ‘Priast es, w hispered Leonidas.

‘Welcom e hom e, sire,’ said Priast es. ‘I hav e prepared y ou a bat h and som e refreshm ent.’ The old m an bow ed once m ore and t urned t o t he st airs, Parm enion and Leonidas follow ing. The st airs w ere lined w it h st at ues of spear-carrying Spart an heroes from t he past, none of w hom Parm enion recognized. Priast es reached t he t op of t he flight and t urned right int o a w ide corridor, opening a door t o a ser ies of east - facing room s. Parm enion st epped inside, follow ing t he servant t hr ough t o a sm all cham ber w here a br onze-plat ed hip-bat h had been filled w it h hot, scent ed w at er. The servant unbuckled Parm enion’s breastplate and the Spartan swiftly undressed.

The bat h w as a delight, t he heat easing his t ired m uscles. Priast es poured w at ered w ine int o a golden w ine-cup, first sipping it before passing it to his King.

‘Thank you, Priast es, t hat w ill be all,’ said Parm enion, lounging dow n int o t he bat h. The m an bow ed and left. The new King scrubbed t he dust of his t ravels from his skin and t hen rose from t he bat h. Leonidas handed him a t ow el w hich Parm enion w rapped around his w aist before st rolling out t o t he balcony beyond t he m ain w indow s. A cool breeze w hispered across his w et fram e and he shivered. ‘That feels good,’ he told the Spartan warrior.

‘It is always wise to remove the smell of stale sweat and horses before greeting your wife,’ said Leonidas carefully.

‘Wife? What wife?’

Leonidas t ook a deep br eat h. When t he seeress Thena allow ed him t o see Parm enion’s life in t he ot her w orld of Greece, he had observed w it h sorrow t he loss of his love. ‘This w ill not be easy for you, Parmenion. In this world you married my sister, Derae.’

‘She is here? In the palace?’

‘Of course. But know this: she does not love you. She was to have wed Nest us, but dut y cam e first and she m arried you t o give you a link t o the throne.’

Parm enion looked dow n at his hands; t hey w ere t rem bling. ‘I don’t think I can do this,’ he whispered. ‘You cannot know’

‘I k now,’ w hispered Leonidas. ‘Believe m e, I know. But w e hav e em barked on a course from w hich t here is no t urning back. Be st rong, my friend. She will not wish to spend time with you. You will be able to avoid her. Tell yourself t hat she is not t he w om an you loved. This is a different w orld. Now,’ he said gent ly, changing t he subj ect, ‘w hat ar e your battle plans?’

Parm enion shook his head, t rying unsuccessfully t o force t hought s of Derae from his m ind. ‘We w ill not discuss t hem in det ail. Wit hout Thena here I cannot know whether we are being observed.’

‘We have our ow n seeress, Tam is. She is old, but once her pow ers were very strong. Shall I order her here?’

‘Not yet. I f she is gift ed, she w ill know of m y decept ion. No. First sum m on t he ephors. I w ill see t hem t oday. Bring her here in t he m orning. Now t ell m e, w hich of t he ephors spoke against t he bat t le with Philippos?’

‘Chirisophus and Sot eridas. They are very m uch t he leaders of t he council. Chirisophus is rich and m any m en live under his pat ronage, but Sot eridas is also t he chief priest at t he Tem ple of Apollo, and it w as his reading of t he om ens t hat prevent ed t he full arm y from marching with us.’

‘Can you find ten men with open minds and closed mouths?’

‘Of course,’ answered Leonidas. ‘But why?’

‘During t he m eet ing I w ant you t o have t he houses of Chirisophus and Soteridas searched.’

‘What do you expect them to find?’

‘I hope t o find not hing. But w e m ust consider t he possibilit y t hat one - or bot h - m ay be in t he pay of Philippos. You and your m en m ust seek links with the Makedones - letters, Makedones gold anything.’

‘It shall be as you say.’

‘And send out riders to watch for the Makedones army.’

‘Yes sire.’ The handsome Spartan bowed and backed away.

‘Leonidas!’

‘Sire?’

‘I will do my utmost to be worthy of him.’

‘I do not doubt that, my friend. And I will be beside you.’

Aft er Leonidas had gone Parm enion refilled his w ine-cup and st ood staring out over t he east ern quart er s of t he cit y. From here he could see t he m arket - place, w here t he food-sellers w ere already set t ing up t heir st alls. Several m essengers w ere running along t he narr ow st reet s, carrying new s of t rade convoys or shipm ent s t o the merchants. Beyond the palace street cleaners were sweeping away the debris of yest erday, t he sew age t hat flow ed t o t he st reet s from t he open clay pipes in every house; w hile high above t he cit y, on t he acropolis hill, the statue of Zeus gazed out over the mountains - stern, proud and forbidding.

Just under 40,000 people dw elt here, Leonidas had said, m ore t han half of t hem slaves or servant s. Parm enion’s spirit s w ere not high as he considered the coming battle.

I t w as not enough, he knew, t o m at ch t he Makedones m anpow er. His t w in had alm ost done t hat. No. Qualit y w as t he key and sur pr ise.

But how do y ou sur prise a m an w ho know s w hat you int end? Was Philippos even now reading his mind?

The thought was not comforting.

The Makedones w ere com ing, but how long before t hey reached t he cit y? They had fought one bat t le a few days ago. I t w as likely t hat Philippos w ould let his t roops rest, t o enj oy t he fruit s of vict ory, t he spoils and the plunder. Five days? Three?

He w ould not consider t he Spart ans a m aj or t hreat - not w it h only 5,000 men. And the addition of a slave army would concern him not at all.

The door behind him opened and t he scent of sw eet perfum e filled t he air. He knew inst ant ly w ho had ent er ed and t urned slow ly, his heart palpitating, his mouth suddenly dry.

Derae st ood before him, dressed in a gow n of w hit e border ed w it h gold. Her red hair w as long, draw n back from her face in int ricat e braids. Her eyes w ere green, her skin burnished gold. His breat h caught in his t hroat as she approached him. Aft er all t hese year s he was once more face to face with the woman he had loved and lost.

‘Derae!’ he whispered.

‘You sham ed Nest us,’ she said, her eyes show ing her fury, ‘and I w ill hate you for as long as you live!’

*

Parm enion could not speak, t he shock w as t oo great. He felt his legs t rem bling and backed aw ay from t he balcony. For m ore t han t hirt y years he had loved t his w om an. No, he t ried t o t ell him self, not t his Derae. But logic w as useless against t he vision before him. Her face and form had lived in his m em ory for t hree decades and t he sight of her now unmanned him.

‘Well, speak!’ she demanded.

He shook his head and lift ed t he w ine-cup, pulling his gaze from her, trying to break the spell.

‘Have you nothing to say?’

Anger t ouched him t hen, flaring sw ift ly. ‘Nest us is fort unat e t o be am ong t he living,’ he t old her. ‘And as for your hat red, lady, it w ill be short lived. I t is likely t hat w e all have but five days t o live. I f you w ish to spend those days with Nestus, go to him; you have my blessing.’

‘Your blessing? That is som et hing I have never had. I served your purpose: you w ed m e t o becom e King, you st ole m y happiness - and now you give me your blessing. Well, a curse upon it! I do not need it.’

‘Tell m e w hat you need,’ he said, ‘and, if it is w it hin m y pow er, y ou shall have it.’

‘There is nothing you can give me,’ she answered, spinning on her heel and striding towards the door.

‘Derae! ‘ he called and she st opped, but did not t urn. ‘I have alw ays loved you,’ he said. ‘Always.’

She faced him t hen, cheeks crim son and eyes blazing, but her anger died as she saw his expression. Wit hout replying she backed aw ay and fled the room.

Parmenion moved to a couch and sat, his thoughts sombre.

Soon t he old serv ant, Priast es, ret ur ned t o t he King’s quart ers and bowed.

‘What will you wear today, sire?’ he asked.

‘I will be garbed for battle,’ answered Parmenion.

‘Which breastplate do you desire?’

‘I do not care,’ he snapped. ‘You choose, Priastes. Just bring it.’

‘Yes, sire. Are you well?’ the old man asked.

‘Fine.’

‘Ah,’ said Priast es know ingly, ‘but t he Queen is angry. The w orld is falling apart, but t he Queen is angry. She is alw ays so - w hy do you not t ake anot her w ife, boy? Many kings have several w ives and she has given you no sons.’ The old m an obviously had a w arm relat ionship w it h t he King and Parm enion found t he open friendliness comforting. He answered without thinking.

‘I love the woman,’ he said.

‘You do?’ responded Priast es, ast onished. ‘Since w hen? And w hy? I ‘ll grant she has a fine body and good child-bearing hips. But, by Zeus, she has the foulest temper.’

‘How long have you been with me, Priastes?’

‘Sire?’

‘How long? Exactly?’

‘Exact ly? You gave m e m y freedom aft er t he bat t le at Orchom enus.

When w as t hat t he year of t he Griffyn? The t im e has sped by since.’

‘Yes, it has,’ agreed Parmenion, none the wiser. ‘Have I changed much in that time?’

‘No,’ said t he old m an, chuck ling, ‘you are st ill t he sam e - shy and yet arrogant, bot h a poet and a w arrior. This w ar has been hard on you, boy, you look older. Tired. Defeat does that to a man.’ I’ll try to see that it doesn’t happen again.’

‘And you’ll succeed,’ said Priastes, chuckling. ‘All the oracles said you’d die in t hat bat t le, but I didn’t believe t hem. That ‘s m y Parm enion, I said. There’s no one alive w ho can beat him. And I know you w ould have w on but for t hose Kadm ians. I hear you dealt w it h Nest us. About time. How long have I been telling you to do just that? Hmm?’

‘Too long. Now fet ch m y arm our - and t hen let m e know w hen t he ephors arrive.’

Priast es w andered aw ay int o a back room, em erging w it h a cuirass of baked black leat her, edged w it h gold, and a kilt of bronze-reinforced leather strips. ‘Will these suffice?’

‘Yes. Bring me some food while I dress.’

‘May I ask a favour, boy?’

‘Of course.’

‘Leonidas says you are asking every able-bodied m an - including slaves - to take up swords in defence of the city. Well, what about me?

I’m only seventy-three and I am still strong. I’ll stand beside you.’

‘No,’ answ ered Parm enion. ‘The older m en w ill be left t o defend t he city.’

Priast es st ood his ground, his expression har dening. ‘I w ould like t o be with you on the last day.’

Parm enion looked int o t he old m an’s grey eyes. ‘You t hink I w ill die?’ he asked softly.

‘No, no,’ answ ered Priast es, but he w ould not m eet t he King’s gaze. ‘I w ould j ust like t o be t here t o share t he glory of vict ory. I nev er had a son, Parm enion, but I ‘ve looked aft er you for nearly fift een years. And I love you, boy. You know that?’

‘I know. Then it will be as you say: you will come with me.’

‘Thank you. Now I ‘ll find som e food for you. Cakes and honey? Or would you prefer some salted meat?’

*

While Priast es fet ched t he food Parm enion dressed, t hen w andered t o t he balcony. The Parm enion of t his w orld had been a good m an, he realized, caring and pat ient. Why else w ould he allow his servant s t o address him so inform ally? Why else w ould he have t olerat ed t he insubordinat ion of Nest us? Now an old m an w ant ed not hing m ore t han t o die beside t he m an he loved. Parm enion sighed. ‘You w ere a bet t er man than I,’ he whispered, staring up at the cloud-streaked sky.

Below t he balcony and beyond t he palace w alls Spart a w as beginning t o st ir. Slaves w ere m oving t ow ards t he m ark et - place and shops w ere opening, merchants displaying their wares on trestle-tables.

So like his ow n cit y, he t hought. But here t her e w as no Xenophon and no Herm ias, he realized suddenly. His only friend in t he Spart a of his ow n w orld, Herm ias, had st ood by him w hen all ot hers felt only hatred and cont em pt for t he m ix-blood. Herm ias, w ho had died at Leuct ra, fighting on the opposite side.

‘The ephors are ready, sire,’ said Leonidas.

‘Let him eat first,’ snapped Priast es, m oving in behind t he Spart an officer.

Leonidas grinned. ‘Like a she-wolf with her young,’ he commented.

‘Wat ch your t ongue, boy, lest t his old m an cut it out for you,’ ret ort ed Priast es, set t ing a silver t ray dow n before t he King. Parm enion at e sw ift ly, washing dow n t he honeycakes w it h heavily-w at ered w ine.

Dismissing Priastes, he turned to Leonidas.

‘I w ill not know t he ephors,’ he said, ‘so I w ant you t o greet t hem by name.’

‘I w ill. And t he m en I have chosen ar e already on t heir w ay t o t he hom es of Chirisophus and Sot eridas. I w ill j oin t hem once t he m eet ing is under way.’

‘I f you find anyt hing incrim inat ing, ret ur n t o t he palace and t he discussions. Do not say anything, merely point at the guilty.’

‘It will be as you say.’

‘Good. Now lead me to the meeting.’

The t w o m en w alked from t he King’s quart ers and dow n t he st at uelined st aircase t o a long corridor. Serv ant s bow ed as t hey passed, and t he sent ries in t he roy al gardens st ood t o at t ent ion as t he t w o m en st rolled across t he grounds. They cam e at last t o a set of double doors before w hich st ood t w o soldiers, arm ed w it h spear and shield. Bot h w arriors salut ed, t hen laid aside t heir spears and pushed open t he doors.

Parm enion st epped t hrough int o a huge andron. Couches w ere set around t he w alls and t he floor w as decorat ed w it h a m agnificent m osaic show ing t he god, Apollo, riding an enorm ous leopard. The god’s ey es w ere sapphires, t he leopard’s or bs fashioned from em eralds. Tw elve colum ns on each side support ed t he roof, and t he furnit ure w as inlaid w it h gold. The six ephors rose as Parm enion ent ered. Leonidas m oved am ong t hem and Parm enion list ened as he spoke their names.

‘Dexipus, I sw ear you are get t ing fat t er day by day. How long since you at t ended t he t raining ground, eh? Ah, Cleander, any new s yet of t he shipm ent? I am relying on it t o pay m y gam bling debt s

What ‘s t hat, Lycon? Nonsense, I w as j ust unlucky w it h t he dice. I w ill win it back.’

Parm enion said not hing but m oved t o t he large couch at t he nort her n w all, st ret ching him self out and list ening int ent ly t o t he conversat ion.

A m an approached him - t all and broad-shouldered, w earing a sim ple blue t unic and a belt of black leat her edged w it h silver t hread. His hair was iron-grey, his eyes astonishingly blue.

‘I am pleased to see you alive, sire,’ he said, his voice deep and cold.

Leonidas moved alongside the man. ‘We were also more than thankful, Soteridas,’ he said. ‘For had the King not caused the avalanche none of us would be here.’

‘I heard of it,’ said Sot eridas, ‘but it w as such a sm all vict ory t o set against so vast a defeat.’

‘Indeed it was,’ agreed Parm enion soft ly, locking his gaze t o t he m an’s eyes. ‘But then defeat was assured, was it not, Soteridas?’

‘What do you mean, sire?’

‘Did you not predict it? Did you not claim t he om ens w ere against us?

Now, enough idle talk, let us begin!’

Parm enion looked around t he room and Sot eridas m oved back t o sit alongside Chirisophus, a dark-haired m an w it h a pow erful, j ut t ing j aw.

He w ore r obes of shim m ering green, and a golden t ore gleam ed at his throat.

‘Today,’ said Parm enion, ‘w e have only one quest ion t o answ er: What now for Sparta?’

Leonidas bow ed and backed aw ay, t he doors sw inging shut behind him.

‘Surely,’ said Chirisophus, spreading his hands, ‘t her e is only one response? We seek t erm s w it h Philippos. We cannot now st and against him.’

‘I agree,’ put in Sot eridas. ‘The Makedones King is unbeat able - as even our own strategos has now found.’

‘I t irks m e t o vot e for such a course,’ said Dexipus, a short sw art hy w arrior, balding and bear ded, ‘but I do not see how w e can st and against him. On num bers alone he could envelop our flanks, forcing us in t o a fight ing square and w inning m erely by using his j aveliners and archers.’

‘I say we fight him anyway,’ roared Cleander. Parmenion was surprised t hat a voice of such pow er could em anat e from so skelet al a fram e;

Cleander w as t hin t o t he point of em aciat ion, his skin yellow and his eyes rheum y. ‘What else can w e do, m y brot hers? We are not dealing w it h an enem y King but w it h a dem onic force. Surr ender w ill not save us from the horrors of such a man. Better to die in battle.’

‘Wit h respect, Cleander,’ said Chirisophus, ‘you are dying anyw ay. All of us regret that, but you have less to lose than others in the city - the women and the children, for example.’

‘Yes, I am dying, but t hat is not w hy I say w e m ust fight. Our children w ill be no m ore safe t han t he children of Kadm os. We face t he full force of evil here; there can be no compromise.’

‘There is a great deal of exaggerat ion in any w ar,’ said Chirisophus.

‘Alw ays t he enem y is depict ed as a beast. Philippos is a w arrior King - unbeaten, invincible - but he is a man, no more than that.’

‘I w ould disagree,’ said anot her voice and Parm enion sw ung t o see t he speaker. He w as Lycon, t he youngest of t he ephors, a good-looking yout h in his m id-t w ent ies, dark-haired and dark-eyed. ‘I have m et t he Makedones King and I saw w hat he did at Met hone and Plat aea. I agree with Cleander: we must fight him.’

An argum ent began. ‘Enough! ‘ r oared Parm enion. A t all t hick-set m an w it h a heavy black beard w as sit t ing at t he far end of t he room and t he King t urned t o him. ‘You have not spoken yet, Tim asion. Do you have nothing to offer?’

Tim asion shrugged. ‘I am undecided, sire. My heart says fight, m y head says hold. Might I ask what the omens predict?’

Sot eridas rose, bow ing first t o t he King and t hen t o t he ot her ephors.

‘Today,’ he said, ‘w e sacrificed a goat t o All-fat her Zeus. I t s liver w as spot t ed, it s belly cancerous. Deat h and dest ruct ion w ill follow any attempt to make war on Philippos. The gods are against us.’

‘As they were at Mantinea?’ ventured Parmenion.

‘Indeed, sire,’ the chief priest agreed.

‘I t w as an int erest ing bat t le,’ said Parm enion. ‘We brok e t heir at t ack and alm ost t ook t heir cent re. But even t hree hundred Spart ans could not carry t he vict ory. Of course, it is even m ore int erest ing t o speculat e w hat m ight have happened had w e pushed ahead w it h five thousand Spartans.’

‘The gods spoke against such a plan,’ Soteridas pointed out.

‘So y ou inform ed us. I find it curious t hat t he gods of Achaea should choose t o side w it h t he Dem on King. But t hen I am not a seer, and it is not for m e t o quest ion t he w isdom of Zeus. Tell m e, Chirisophus, how you w ould appease t he Makedones King and save Sparta?’

‘You cannot consider this!’ Cleander stormed.

‘Silence! ‘ t hundered Parm enion. ‘I w ish t o hear Chirisophus. Your t urn will come again, Cleander.’

Chirisophus rose and began t o speak, his voice sm oot h, his w ords com fort ing. There w ould be, he said, an am bassadorial delegat ion t o Philippos offering frat ernal friendship and last ing peace. Gift s could be t aken. Philippos w as know n as a great horsem an and Chirisophus him self w ould donat e his prize Thr acian st allions. War w ould t hus be avoided and Spar t a w ould be allied t o t he st rongest nat ion in t he w orld. He spoke for som e t im e, finally point ing out t hat Philippos - being a w arrior King-w ould inevit ably lead his arm ies nort h and w est, seeking t o conquer t he Et ruscans and t he Achaean cit ies of I t alia.

Furt her w est even t han t his w ere t he fabled lands of t he Gauls, w here buildings w ere const ruct ed of gold and gem s, and t heir Kings w ere said t o be im m ort al. ‘By suing for peace now,’ Chirisophus vent ured, ‘w e w ill in fact rid Achaea of Philippos all t he sooner. I w ill nat urally offer myself to lead the delegation,’ he added, settling himself down on his couch.

‘Naturally!’ snorted Cleander.

At t hat m om ent Leonidas ent ered t he room. Parm enion, t he only m an facing the doors, waited for his signal. When he pointed to Chirisophus and Sot er idas, Parm enion nodded. Ar m ed m en m oved int o t he room, w alking slow ly t o st and behind t he couches on w hich lay t he t rait ors.

Chirisophus swallowed hard, his face reddening.

‘What is happening here, sire?’ Cleander asked.

‘Be pat ient,’ t he King t old him. ‘We st and at t he edge of t he abyss. A great evil st alks t he land. We had an opport unit y t o rid t he w orld of t his evil, but w e w ere t hw art ed, for t he agent s of Philippos are everyw here.’ He paused, allow ing his gaze t o r est on t he t w o t rait ors.

Parm enion felt rage m ount ing w it hin him. These m en had caused t he deat h of t he Spart an King, and t housands of ot hers on t he field of Mant inea. He w ant ed not hing m ore t han t o w alk across t he room and cleave his sw ord t hrough t heir foul heart s. Calm ing him self, he spok e again. ‘I t is t he nat ure of Darkness t o corrupt, and m en of w eak w ill, or m en of lust and greed, w ill alw ays be suscept ible. Chirisophus and Sot eridas have bet rayed t heir cit y, t heir people and t heir King. They ent ered int o secret negot iat ion w it h Philippos and t hey conspired t o see t he Dem on King vict orious at Mant inea. I do not k now w hat t hey were offered for this treachery. I do not care. They have tried to doom us all and their crimes are written in blood.’

Chirisophus pushed him self t o his feet, w hile Sot eridas sat, all colour draining from his face.

‘What I did w as for Spart a! ‘ Chirisophus insist ed. ‘There is no quest ion of t reachery. Philippos w as alw ays t he ult im at e vict or; only a fool w ould t ry t o deny him. But t hat is t he past and it is foolish t o dw ell on it. I am t he only m an w ho can save t he cit y. Philippos t rust s m e and will deal with me fairly. Without me you cannot survive. Think on that!’

‘I hav e t hought on it,’ said Parm enion. ‘Spart a w ill fight - and Spart a w ill w in. But you - and y our lickspit t le priest - w ill not live t o see it.

Leonidas!’

‘Sire?’

‘Rem ove t hese creat ures. Take t hem t o a place of execut ion. Do it at once and see their bodies are left in unmarked graves.’

Chirisophus backed aw ay from t he guards behind him and m oved out into the mosaic floor. ‘Do not be fools!’ he shouted. ‘I can save you!’

Suddenly he drew a dagger from his robe and rushed at Parmenion.

The King rolled t o his feet, his sw ord snaking from it s scabbar d and plunging t hrough t he shim m ering green robe. Chirisophus grunt ed and fell back. Parm enion t ore his sw ord clear of t he dying m an, and bright art erial blood soak ed t hrough t he green silk. Chirisophus fell t o his knees, hands clenched t o his belly, t hen his eyes glazed and he t oppled t o his side. Several soldiers dragged t he body back across t he m osaic, leaving a t rail of blood. Sot eridas rem ained w here he w as, his face void of expression, unt il t w o soldiers t ook him by t he arm s and led him away.

‘By t he gods, sire! ‘ w hispered Cleander. ‘I cannot believe it. His w as a true Spartiate family. A noble house a line of heroes.’

‘To j udge a m an purely by his blood-line is folly,’ said Parm enion. ‘I have know n t he sons of cow ards t o be valorous, and sons of t hieves w ho could be t rust ed w it h t he t reasure of nat ions. Such t reachery is not of the blood, Cleander, but of the soul.’

‘What now, lord?’ asked Leonidas.

‘Now? We prepare for war.’

*

Tw o days ride t o t he sout h-w est of t he cit y At t alus raised his arm t o halt t he com pany, t hen gazed ar ound at t he forbidding landscape - rockst rew n and j agged, t hinly w ooded and laced w it h st ream s. During t heir t ravels t hey had passed few villages in t his inhospit able land, but had st opped at several lonely farm s w here t hey had been given food and grain for the horses.

At t alus w as uneasy: t he hunt ers w ere closing in. Helm had been t he first t o spot t he pursuers, lat e t he day before, w hen t he set t ing sun had glint ed from t he lance-point s of a large cavalry unit, perhaps an hour behind t hem. Through t he heat haze At t alus had been unable t o make out individual riders, but there were at least fifty.

Ekt alis rode alongside t he Macedonian, point ing at a dust - cloud t o t he w est. ‘Riders,’ said t he Korint hian. ‘Probably Messenians. They serve the Tyrant.’

The company veered east and south, riding long into the night. But the horses were tired, and when the moonlight was lost behind unseasonal clouds At t alus w as forced t o call a halt. They m ade cold cam p in a clust er of boulders on a hillside, w here Ekt alis set sent ries and m ost of the company slept. But not Attalus.

Helm found him sitting alone, watching the trail to the north.

‘You should rest,’ the warrior advised.

‘I cannot. Thought s, plans, fears - t hey fly around m y m ind like angry wasps.’

‘How far t o t he w oods of t he Enchant m ent?’ asked Helm, m oonlight gleaming eerily from his metal face.

‘Another day - so Brontes told us.’

‘Well, we have two chances,’ said Helm, rising. ‘Succeed or die.’

‘Very comforting,’ snapped Attalus.

‘I find it so,’ answ ered Helm, sm iling and m oving back am ongst t he boulders to sleep.

Silence surrounded t he Macedonian, and a cool w ind w hispered across his face. For an hour he sat alone, m iserable and dej ect ed. Then t he sound of a w alking horse j er ked him from his reverie. Rising sm oot hly, he drew his sw ord. Why had t he sent ries not w arned t hem? The horse moved into the boulders and Thena dismounted.

At t alus sheat hed his blade and m oved t o her side. ‘Wher e is Parmenion?’ he asked.

‘In Sparta, raising an army.’

‘Why? He should be here w it h us. Let t he Spart an King fight his ow n battles.’

‘Parmenion is the Spartan King.’

‘What madness is this?’

‘I am t hirst y. Fet ch m e som e w at er and t hen w e w ill t alk,’ Thena t old him, m oving aw ay t o sit on t he hillside. He did as she asked, t hen sat beside her as she drank. Slow ly she explained t he event s leading t o Parmenion’s decision, and the problems he faced.

‘But t her e is no hope of vict ory,’ said At t alus. ‘I am no strategos, Thena, but even I know t hat t he first obj ect of bat t le is t o cont ain t he enem y flanks. I f you cannot do t hat, t hen you w ill be encircled and dest royed. Five t housand m en cannot cont ain t he arm y w e saw on t he plain.’

‘I know that,’ she answered wearily.

‘Are you saying he will die there? Why? In the name of Hecate, why?’

‘He is a man of honour.’

‘Honour? What has honour t o do w it h it? He ow es t hese people nothing. His duty is to Alexander, and to his King.’

‘But Alexander is in your care - and Parmenion trusts you.’

‘Well, a curse on him! Does he t hink he is a god t hat he can conquer any who stand in his way? Philippos will destroy him.’

Thena rubbed at her t ired eyes. ‘Parm enion w ant s you t o t ake Alexander on t o t he w oods and locat e Bront es. Once t here, w e w ill discuss a plan he has.’

‘I f t his plan involves Alexander and m e ret urning t o Macedonia, I w ill support it - but do not expect me to ride to the city or take part in any ill-fated battle against the Demon King.’

A cold wind brushed against Attains’ back and a sibilant voice made his skin craw l. ‘How w ise of you,’ it hissed. At t alus spun, his sw ord flashing int o his hand. Before him hovered a pale form, seem ingly shaped from m ist. Slow ly it hardened t o becom e a broad-shouldered m an, bearded and pow erful, w hose right eye shone like gold. Thena sat silent ly, saying not hing. ‘Ah, At t alus,’ w hispered Philippos, ‘how curious t o find y ou set against m e. Everyt hing in y our heart and soul t ells m e you are m ine. You should be m arching w it h m e. I can offer you riches, w om en, lands, em pires. And w hy do you oppose m e? For a child w ho w ill one day kill you. Give him t o m e, and his t hreat t o you will be at an end.’

‘I do not serve you,’ answered Attalus, his voice hoarse.

‘No, you serve a lesser version of m e. You follow a m an. Here you can follow a god. The idea pleases you, does it not? Yes, I can read it in your hear t. Palaces, At t alus, nat ions under your sw ay. You can be a king.’

‘His prom ises are w ort h not hing,’ said Thena, but her w ords sounded shrill and empty.

‘He know s,’ said Philippos. ‘He know s I speak t he t r ut h; he know s t hat w arriors w it h his t alent s w ill alw ays earn t he hat red and env y of lesser m en. Even Philip w ill t urn on him one day. But here - w it h m e - he can have his soul’s desire. Is that not so, Attalus?’

‘Yes,’ answered the swordsman. ‘I could serve you.’

‘Then do so. Bring t he child t o m e. Or w ait unt il m y riders arrive.

Either way I will reward you.’

The Dem on King shim m ered, his form fading. At t alus t urned t o Thena.

‘We cannot defeat him. We cannot.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Leave me alone, Thena. I need to think.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘t hat is w hat you do not need. You need t o feel. He called Philip a lesser man. Do you agree with that?’

‘I t does not m at t er w het her I agree or disagree. I n life t here is only winning and losing. Philippos is a winner.’

‘Winning and losing? Life is not a race,’ she t old him. ‘A m an w ho never loses a bat t le but ends his life alone and unloved has not w on.

What ever you m ay say t o t he cont rary, t hat is som et hing you underst and. I f you did not, you w ould not have ser ved Philip so faithfully. Be honest, Attalus, you love the man.’

‘Yes, I do,’ he shout ed, ‘and t hat m akes m e as big a fool as Parmenion. But here I could be a king!’

‘I ndeed y ou could. All you have t o do is bet ray Philip and see his son murdered.’

At t alus fell silent for a m om ent, his head bow ing. ‘I have bet r ayed men before,’ he said softly. ‘It is not so hard.’

‘Ah, but have y ou ever bet rayed a friend?’ asked Helm, m oving from the shadows.

‘I never had any friends,’ answered Attalus.

‘What about this Philip?’

At t alus sighed. ‘He t rust s m e. He know s w hat I am and w hat I have done, yet he t rust s m e. He even calls m e his friend.’ Suddenly he laughed, t he sound full of bit t erness. ‘And I am. I w ould die for t he man and I probably will.’

‘Well,’ said Helm, ‘if t he discussion is over I w ould like t o get back t o sleep.’

Attalus turned to Thena. ‘I will not betray the boy.’

She rose, m oving t o st and before him. ‘You are a bet t er m an t han you know,’ she told him.

*

Derae looked int o t he m an’s pale eyes. He shook his head. ‘I am w hat I am,’ he told her. She watched as he walked back into the boulders to lie alone. Briefly she reached out, soot hing his fears and bringing him the sanctuary of sleep.

Her spirit s w ere curiously lift ed. Philippos had been w rong. He had read At t alus, and r ead him right, yet st ill he had m ade a m ist ake. I t was the first small gap in the Demon King’s armour of invincibility. The Tyrant had failed.

Derae could scarce believe it. Of all the men who could be swayed, the bitter hat efilled At t alus should have been t he sim plest of vict im s. Yet he had r esist ed t he prom ises, even t hough t he dar k side of his character cried out to accept.

The priest ess sat dow n, rest ing her back against a boulder. I n t he m om ent t hat Philippos had appeared she had linked w it h At t alus, int ending t o st rengt hen him, t o help him. But t here had been no need.

There w as in t he Macedonian one t iny shim m ering t hread, glow ing in the darkness of his soul: his love for Philip.

From w here did it com e, Derae w ondered? At t alus w as capable of almost any evil, yet he had proved himself incorruptible. She smiled.

‘It is a fine night,’ said Helm, seating himself beside her.

‘I thought you needed sleep.’

He nodded. ‘Sleep without dreams is akin to death, lady.’

‘Have you remembered anything of your life?’

‘No.’

‘You seem very calm. I would not like to be robbed of my past.’

He sm iled, t he m et allic skin st ret ching, show ing t eet h of bronze. ‘But I do not k now w hat t hat past is, or w as. There is a kind of t ranquillit y in the lack of know ledge. Per haps I w as an evil m an. Perhaps t her e ar e deeds in my past that would shame me.’

‘I sense no evil in you, Helm.’

‘But t hen t he w orld shapes us, Thena, evil beget t ing evil. I f a m an grow s w it h hat red in his heart, t hen his act ions w ill be governed by t hat hat r ed. Like At t alus, per haps. I have no m em ories. I am unshaped.’

‘The core of you is unchanged,’ she said. ‘You rescued I skander, risking your life. And you understand friendship and loyalty.’

‘But t hen t he boy can free m e from t his spell. That gives m e a selfish reason to fight for him.’

‘My life has been long,’ said Derae, ‘longer t han t his yout hful body show s. I t is m y experience t hat evil t hrives w hen m en and w om en are weak. You are not weak. Trust me. I do not say you were a good man, or a holy one - your skill w it h t he sw ord belies t hat. But you are not evil.’

‘We shall see,’ he answered.

*

Parm enion st ood w it h Leonidas and Learchus at t he nort h ent rance t o t he t raining gr ounds, w at ching dispassionat ely as t he slaves, servant s and old m en filed past t hem. Officers m oved am ong t he m en, greeting old com rades and direct ing vet erans t o t he w est of t he area w here hundreds of sw ords, shields and spears had been piled against t he walls.

I n t he dist ance Parm enion could hear t he pounding of ham m ers as t he cit y’s arm ourers w orked feverishly t o produce m ore w eapons, arrowheads and blades, spear-points and helms.

‘How many men so far?’ asked the King.

‘Four t housand,’ answ ered Leonidas, ‘but t he t raining grounds w ill not t ake t oo m any m ore. Those here t his m orning are from t he sout h and east of t he cit y. We have asked t he volunt eers from t he nor t h and west to assemble this afternoon.’

‘How can w e j udge so m any?’ Lear chus enquired. ‘And how do w e instill discipline into them in less than two days?’

‘I w ish t o see only t w o skills im part ed t o t he slaves,’ Parm enion t old him. ‘Those w e choose m ust learn t o st and in w ide line bat t le order, and to move into close formation for an attack.’

‘But t hat w ill be of lit t le use,’ point ed out Leonidas. ‘No m at t er how good t heir form at ion at t he onset, once t he or der t o advance is given the lines will break. They will become what they are - a rabble.’

‘I k now t hat. But drill t hem in t he t w o form at ions. When t he order is given I w ant t hem t o m ove as sm oot hly int o place as t he finest of Spart an w arriors. Also find five hundred m en w ho can use bow s; w e will need them to turn back the Makedones cavalry.’

‘It will be as you order, sire,’ said Leonidas.

‘Good. I will return around mid-morning to supervise the training.’

‘Do you want me with you, sire, when you see Tamis?’ asked Leonidas.

‘No,’ he answered, with a wry smile. ‘If she is good she will understand all. If she does not, then she can be of little use to us.’

The palace w as all but desert ed w hen Parm enion r ode in t hrough t he m ain gat es. All t he m ale servants - bar Priast es - w ere at t he t raining ground. Dism ount ing by t he st ables Parm enion led t he grey m are int o a paddock and pulled clear t he leopar dskin chabraque, w hich he hung over a r ail. The m are w hinnied and galloped around t he paddock fence, t ossing her head and rearing, announcing her pr esence t o t he stallions in the small meadow beyond.

Parm enion st rolled int o t he palace, shout ing for Priast es, and t he old man came running from the upper rooms.

‘The seeress, Tamis, is expected. Bring her to my quarters.’

‘Yes, sire, but w ould it not be bet t er t o see her in t he w est er n gardens?’

‘You think my quarters unfit for a seeress?’

‘No, sire,’ answered Priastes reproachfully, ‘but the lady is very old and t he st airs very st eep. The garden w ill be cool and I w ill bring you w ine and fruit.’

Parm enion sm iled assent and w alked dow n t he long, cool corridor t o t he w est ern gardens. They w ere w ell laid out, w it h w inding pat hs and sm all fount ains built around four w illow s, t heir branches t railing in man-m ade st ream s. Several m arble seat s had been set in t he shade and here Parm enion st ret ched out his fram e, easing t he m uscles of his neck and back. He w as t ired and on edge. The night before had been spent in m eet ings - first w it h Lecnidas, t hen t he dying Oleander and t he ot her ephors. At daw n he w as st ill aw ake, discussing st rat egies with the Barracks Masters whose youngsters he had called upon. There were 2,000 boys over the age of fifteen, and for them he had a special purpose.

Now t he sun w as t w o hours short of noon and Parm enion’s eyes w ere gritty and sore, his back aching with the weight of the breastplate.

Priast es brought em broidered cushions w hich he scat t ered on t he bench, t hen ret urned w it h a st one pit cher of cooled w ine and a bow l of fruit - oranges, pom egranat es and apples - w hich he set dow n before the King.

‘You should sleep for a while,’ said the old man.

‘I will soon.’

I t w as rest ful here and he leaned back against t he soft cushions and closed his eyes t o t hink. So m any plans t o be laid, so m any stratagems to consider, so many

He aw oke in a m oonlit m eadow, refreshed and alert. He w as w it hout armour and the night breeze was pleasantly cool upon his body.

‘Welcom e, Parm enion,’ said a voice. He sat up and saw an old w om an sitting beneath a spreading oak.

‘Where are we?’ he asked.

‘I n a neut ral place, far from w ars and t he t hreat of w ar. How are you feeling?’

‘Rested. Are you the Tamis I knew, back in my own Sparta?’

‘No. But t hen you are not t he Parm enion I have know n. What can I do to aid you? I must tell you that I will not kill, nor will I help you to kill.’

‘Can you shield me from the golden eye?’

‘If that is what you wish.’

‘I must know also when we are being observed. That is vital.’

‘Your m eet ing w it h t he ephors, and t he deat hs of Chirisophus and Soteridas, were seen. As was the training this morning.’

‘Last night with Cleander?’

‘I do not know. But you m ust assum e t hat Philippos is aw are of your plans.’

‘Can he see us now?’

‘No,’ answ ered Tam is. ‘This is but a dream. Everyt hing you say here is known only to me, and you, and the Source of All Creation.’

‘Good. Where is the boy?’

‘He and his com panions are close t o t he Lands of t he Enchant m ent.

But t hey are in gr eat danger. More t han a hundred Messenian riders are waiting for them, and more follow.’

‘Can we do anything to aid them?’

‘No.’

Parmenion took a deep breath and pushed his fears for Alexander from his m ind, concent rat ing only on t he defence of Spart a. ‘I t is vit al t hat w e are not observ ed leaving t he cit y. All our hopes rest on t hat. Yet I do not w ant Philippos t o be aw are t hat his view has been restricted. You understand?’

‘No,’ Tamis admitted.

‘My st rat egy m ust needs be sim ple, for I w ill be leading a fledgling force. I am obliged to depend on Philippos for the victory. He will know t hat I have an ar m y of slaves, children and old m en, built around t he pow er of t he Spart an phalanx. His st rat egy w ill be based on t hat knowledge. My only hope our only hope is to fool him.’

‘In what way?’

‘I require him to attack my strongest point.’

‘What has this to do with the army leaving Sparta?’

‘I would sooner not say at this time, lady. I mean no offence.’

‘I underst and,’ she said soft ly. ‘You do not know m e, Parm enion, and t herefore you hold back your t rust. That is w ise. I have a gift for you t hat w ill help; you w ill find it upon your ret urn t o t he w orld of t he flesh. When it glow s w arm you w ill know you ar e being observed, and all t he t im e t hat you w ear it no evil force can ent er y our m ind, nor know of your thoughts.’

He aw oke feeling rest ed, his body free of aches and pains. Sit t ing up, he looked around and saw t he sun w as st ill w ell short of noon. Filling his w ine-cup, he sipped t he drink w hich w as st ill cool. Priast es m oved into the garden, stopping and bowing before him.

‘Sad new s, lord,’ he said. ‘Tam is w ill not be com ing. She died last night.’

Parm enion cursed soft ly and w as about t o speak w hen he felt a w arm glow at his t hroat. His hand cam e up, his fingers t ouching t he necklet he now wore.

‘Thank you, Priastes, that will be all.’

‘Can we win without her aid?’ the old man asked.

‘No,’ answ ered t he King. St anding, he st rode from t he gardens, ret ur ning t o his apart m ent s. A shining m irror of bronze w as set int o t he w all and he halt ed before it. The necklet w as of gold st rands, interwoven around a fragment of golden stone laced with black veins.

It w as st ill w arm. Parm enion saw a m ovem ent in t he m irror, a m ist y figure t hat hovered below t he paint ed ceiling, but ev en as he looked upon it the figure shimmered and disappeared.

The warmth of the necklet faded.

‘Thank you, Tamis,’ he whispered.

*

‘It is very dispiriting,’ said Leonidas as he and Learchus moved into the small andron w here Parm enion aw ait ed t hem. There w ere only five couches here, set around a raised m osaic floor bearing t he im age of t he goddess Art em is t urning t he hunt er Act aeon int o a st ag. Leonidas sat dow n. ‘So m any m en w it h so lit t le t alent,’ he observ ed. Rem oving his helm, he laid it on t he floor at his feet and sw ung up his legs t o st ret ch out on t he couch. Priast es filled t w o w inecups, passing t hem to the young officers.

‘It would take months,’ put in Learchus, with a sigh. ‘And even then..

.’

Parm enion looked at t he t w o m en and forced a sm ile. ‘You ex pect t oo m uch,’ he t old t hem. ‘This w as only t he first day. For m yself I am pleased w it h t he progress. The bow m en look pr om ising and I am impressed with the officer responsible for their training Daricles? A good man. Tomorrow it will be better.’

‘I t w ill need t o be,’ said Cleander, from t he doorw ay. ‘Our scout s report that Philippos is preparing to march.’

Parm enion rose, ushering t he ephor int o t he room. Oleander’s face was drenched in sweat, his eyes glowing with the brightness of fever.

‘Sit down, my friend,’ said Parmenion gently, leading him to a couch. ‘I see that you are suffering.’

‘The end is near,’ Cleander w hispered. ‘My surgeon t ells m e I w ill not live to see the battle. I will prove him wrong.’

‘Yes, you w ill,’ agreed Parm enion. ‘You must. For you w ill be in charge of t he cit y’s defence. The older vet er ans and t he y oungst ers w ill be under y our com m and. I w ant m ost of t he st reet s barricaded, ex cept for Leaving Street and the Avenue of Athena.’

‘But t hey lead t o t he agora,’ Learchus point ed out. ‘The enem y cav alry will simply ride to the centre of the city.’

‘Which is w here I w ant t hem,’ said Parm enion, his expression cold.

‘That is where they will die in their hundreds.’

The planning w ent on deep int o t he night, unt il at last Cleander fell asleep and t he t w o Spart an officers m ade t heir w ay t o t he Royal Barracks. Priast es covered t he sleeping Cleander w it h a w oollen blanket and Parmenion left the room and climbed to his quarters.

The m oon w as high, but despit e his w eariness t he Spar t an could not sleep. His t hought s w ere w it h At t alus and Alexander, and he w as concerned t hat Thena had not m ade cont act. Fear rose in him, but he pushed it away. One problem at a time, he warned himself.

Priast es had left a pit cher of cool w at er and som e fruit by t he bedside.

Parm enion sw ung his legs from t he bed and drank. The night air w as cool on his naked skin as he w alked t o t he balcony t o st are out over the sleeping city.

He t hought of Philip and Macedonia, of Phaedra and his sons. So far away so impossibly far away.

You cannot win, said the voice of his thoughts.

He saw again t he slaves crashing int o one anot her as t hey t ried t o follow t he shout ed orders. Three m en had been seriously inj ured during t he aft ernoon. One had t ripped and fallen on a sw ord; a second had m ov ed t he w rong w ay, colliding w it h anot her m an and falling badly, breaking his leg; a t hird had been hit in t he shoulder by a carelessly loosed arrow. Not an auspicious beginning for t he new arm y of Sparta.

He t hought of t he m en he had t rained back in Macedonia - Theoparlis, Coenus, Nicanor and im agined t hem leading t heir divisions t hrough t he gat ew ays t o st and alongside him against t he Ty rant. I ‘d give ten years of my life to see that,’ he whispered.

But t his t hought he also forced from his m ind. Concent rat e on w hat you have, he or dered him self. Five t housand of t he finest w arriors.

Spartans. No battle could be called lost while such men stood ready.

Do not try to fool yourself.

He heard the door of his room open and smelt Derae’s sweet perfume.

‘I have neither the time nor the energy to fight with you, lady,’ he said as she ent ered. Her hair w as unbraided, hanging loose t o her shoulders, and she wore only a long linen robe embroidered with gold.

‘I do not wish to fight,’ she told him. ‘How goes the training?’

He shrugged. ‘We w ill see,’ he answ ered. Having spent t he day m ot ivat ing his officers, he w as not surprised t o find he had lit t le strength left to lie.

‘Why did you say y ou loved m e?’ she asked, m oving t o st and before him on the balcony.

‘Because it was true,’ he said simply.

‘Then why have you never said it before?’

He could not reply. He m erely st ood gazing dow n at her face in t he m oonlight, drinking in t he living beaut y, scanning ever y cont our. She w as older t han t he Derae of his dream s and m em ories, yet st ill yout hful, her lips full, her skin soft. He w as alm ost unaw are of his hands m oving up t o rest gent ly on her shoulders, his fingers sliding under the robe, stroking her skin and feeling the warmth of her body.

‘No,’ she whispered, pulling back from him. ‘That is no answer.’

‘I know,’ he told her, letting fall his arms and walking past her into the room.

‘I n t w o years you have never called for m e, never asked m e t o shar e your bed. Now - wit h Spart a facing ruin - you t ell m e you love m e.

There is no sense in it.’

He sm iled t hen. ‘We are in agreem ent on t hat,’ he adm it t ed. ‘Would you like som e w ine?’ She nodded and he filled t w o golden cups, not bot hering t o add w at er. Silent ly he handed her a w ine-cup, t hen lay dow n on t he long sofa by t he balcony w all. Derae sat in a chair opposite him.

For a t im e t hey rem ained in silence, sipping t heir drinks. ‘Do you t ruly love Nestus?’ he asked.

She shook her head and smiled. ‘Once I thought I did, when my father first arranged t he m arriage. But t he m ore t im e w e spent t oget her, t he more I saw how boorish and arrogant he was.’

‘Then why did you defend him so fiercely?’

‘He was what you took from me,’ she answered. ‘You understand?’

‘I t hink so. A m arriage t o Nest us w ould at least have been consum m at ed, and you w ould have had a role t o play. I nst ead y ou w ere used by a cold-heart ed general w ho sought t o be King. What a fool I have been!’

‘Why did you never ask m e t o share your bed? Was t he t hought so painful?’

‘Let us not t alk of past bit t erness, nor past st upidit y. The m an I w as died at Mantinea; the man I am may be dead within a few days. This is t he present, Derae. This is all t her e ever is in life. This is now.’

Sw inging his legs from t he couch he st ood, holding out his hand t o her. She t ook it and he drew her t ow ards him, t hen leaned dow n and gently kissed her cheek. Suppressed passion made him tremble and he longed to tear the robe from her body and carry her to the bed. Yet he did not. He st roked t he skin of her neck and shoulder s, t hen pushed his finger s t hrough her redgold hair. She m ov ed int o him and he felt t he w arm t h of her body t hr ough t he robe. His hands slid dow n her back to rest on her hips and her head came up. Tenderly he kissed her lips.

Her arm s m oved around him, finger s t racing t he lines of t ired m uscle on his back. As she t ouched him w arm t h flow ed int o his fram e, relaxing him. ‘You have healing hands,’ he whispered.

‘Don’t speak,’ she replied, rising on t ipt oe t o kiss him again. He part ed the robe, pushing it from her shoulders to fall to the floor, then felt her breasts against his chest, the nipples hard against his skin.

He carried her t o t he bed, t hen lay beside her - his right hand st roking her flank, t racing an invisible line along t he out side of her t high.

Slow ly he reversed t he m ovem ent, t his t im e along t he inside, his hand com ing t o rest against soft, silken hair. She m oaned as his finger slid gent ly inside her. Parm enion w as alm ost bey ond conscious t hought.

Desire was everything. Not the crazed, lustful desire that had seen him bed Olym pias on t hat t errible night, but t he desire born of a lifetime of suppressed feelings and em pt y dream s. She w as here. Not dead, not w hit e bleached bones at t he bot t om of t he sea, but here! The love he had lost a lifetime ago was his again.

I m ages from t he past kaleidoscoped t hrough his brain as he rose above her, feeling her legs slide over his hips. The five glorious days in Olym pia w hen t he sun shone in glory, t he sky w as brilliant t urquoise and two young lovers ignored the world and its laws. He saw again the sm ile of t he y oung Derae, heard her laught er echoing in t he mountains.

Toget her again! His passion m ount ed and he w as suddenly, blissfully, oblivious t o his surroundings. Ther e w as no Dem on King, no arm y of t error. There w ere no Gat ew ays bet w een w orlds, no sorcerers, no futures.

The now was everything.

Derae’s back arched and she cried out again and again. But he did not st op could not st op. And w hen t he passion w as t oo great t o cont ain, and he felt as if his soul w ere flow ing from him, he lost consciousness - falling into a darkness so sweet and so fulfilling that, in his last moment of conscious thought, he never wanted to wake.

The Hills of Gytheum At t alus plunged his sw ord int o an at t acker’s chest, w renching it clear and pushing t he body back over t he boulders. A second m an clim bed int o sight, hurling a short j avelin at t he Macedonian. At t alus t hrew him self aside and t he m issile t ore int o t he back of a Korint hian w arrior fighting alongside Helm.

Recovering his balance At t alus rushed at t he j aveliner, but t he m an ducked from sight.

‘Come on, you sons of dogs!’ Attalus yelled. ‘Where are you?’

But t he Messenians pulled back from t he fort of boulders, dragging t heir w ounded w it h t hem. At t alus spun r ound, scanning t he defenders.

Three Kor int hians w ere dead, four ot hers badly w ounded. The seeress w as helping t o heal t he m ore serious inj uries, w hile Alexander sat calmly by, his young face expressionless.

At t alus w iped aw ay t he blood from a shallow cut in his forehead and moved alongside Helm. ‘How many?’ he asked.

‘Twelve we have killed, with maybe six others unable to fight again.’

‘Not enough,’ Attalus muttered.

‘We’ll kill some more soon,’ said Helm.

At t alus chuckled. ‘I am beginning t o like you. I t is a sham e w e are t o die here.’

‘We’re not dead yet,’ the warrior pointed out.

Ekt alis j oined t hem. ‘We w on’t be able t o hold t his posit ion for m uch longer. Already we are stretched.’

‘I can see that!’ snapped Attalus. ‘Are you suggesting surrender?’

‘No, I am m erely st at ing t he obvious. One m ore concert ed at t ack and they will breach the circle. Once inside we cannot hold them.’

‘You have a plan?’

‘We could m ake a run for it. Once in t he w oods t hey w ould find it har d to track us.’

At t alus clim bed t o t he nearest boulder, his gaze rest ing on t he w oods less t han a m ile dist ant. So close - and yet t he t rees m ight as w ell be grow ing across t he ocean, for m ore t han t hirt y w arriors w ere w ait ing below and their mounts were Attic stock - several hands taller than the Makedonian and Korint hian horses, and m uch fast er. ‘We w ould not m ake half t he dist ance,’ he t old Ekt alis, ‘and once on t he plain t hey would take us singly.’

‘Then we must fight and die,’ said the Korinthian.

At t alus bit back an angry response and m erely nodded. They had escaped t he first of t he rider s but been cut off by t his second group.

Helm had spot t ed t he circle of boulders and here t hey had m ade t heir stand.

But t o fail in sight of t he w oods! At t alus felt his fury rise. This w as all Parmenion’s fault. Had he remained with them none of this would have happened. But no: he had to play his hero’s game.

‘There are m ore com ing,’ said Helm and At t alus looked t o t he nort h. A dust-cloud heralded at least fifty more Messenian riders.

The sw ordsm an sw ore. ‘Let t hem all com e. What difference does it m ake? Thirt y w as t oo m any anyw ay. I t m ight as w ell be eight y - or a hundred and eighty.’ He swore again.

Below t hem t he Messenians w ait ed for t heir com rades and At t alus w at ched as t he t w o enem y officers m oved aw ay from t he m en t o discuss st rat egy. The sun w as beginning t o set, t he sky t urning flam ered over the distant mountains.

Thena approached At t alus. ‘I shall t ake Alexander t o t he w oods,’ she said, keeping her voice low.

‘They will capture you,’ he argued.

‘They w ill not see us,’ she t old him w earily. ‘I cannot do t he sam e for you and t he ot hers. My pow ers have been drained, but even at t heir height they would not have veiled such a large group.’

At t alus t urned aw ay, his em ot ions boiling w it h a m urderous rage.

‘Take him!’ he said. ‘Take him and be damned!’

For a m om ent only t he priest ess st ood her ground, t hen she backed aw ay and led Alexander t o t he horses, lift ing t he prince int o place and m ount ing behind him. The Korint hians w at ched her in silence and Helm strolled to stand beside the mount.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked softly.

‘To the woods. No one will stop me.’

‘The boy is important to me. If he is lost, I will die without a past.’

‘I know. Yet his destiny is greater than your desire.’

‘Not to me, lady.’

‘Then you m ust m ake a choice, Helm,’ she t old him, her voice neut ral, her ex pression serene. ‘You can draw your sw ord and st op m e. But t hen t he Dem on King w ill have t he child. For you cannot hold t his hill against the warriors who surround it.’

‘That is t rue enough,’ he adm it t ed. ‘Ah w ell, go in peace, lady.’ He lift ed his hand and pat t ed Alexander ‘s leg. ‘I hope you succeed in your quest, boy. I’d hate to die for nothing.’

Alexander nodded, but spoke no word.

Thena t ugged on t he reins and t he horse m oved out bet w een t he boulders, w alking slow ly dow n t he hillside. At t alus, Helm and t he Korint hians w at ched her as she rode in plain sight t ow ards t he Messenians. No one m oved t o st op her, nor show ed any sign t hat t hey could see her, and t he Mak edonian m are w alked t hrough t he enem y camp and on towards the trees.

At t alus pulled a w het st one from his hip pouch and began t o sharpen his sword.

‘Well, at least the enemy have been thwarted,’ said Helm.

‘That is great consolation to me,’ hissed Attalus.

‘Are you always this disagreeable?’ the warrior responded.

‘Only when I am about to die.’

‘I see. You don’t think we can win, then?’

Attalus swung to face the man, his fury close to madness. Then he saw t he w ide sm ile on t he m et allic face, t he m ocking look in t he bronze eyes. All t ension fled from t he Macedonian and he sm iled w it h genuine humour. ‘How about a wager?’ he offered.

‘On what?’ asked Helm.

‘That I slay the most.’

‘With what shall we wager? I have no coin.’

‘Neither have I. So let’s say a thousand gold pieces?’

‘You have already killed t hr ee t o m y t w o,’ Helm point ed out. ‘I t hink we should start even, and count them only from the next attack.’

‘It is agreed, then?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Helm.

‘They are coming!’ yelled Ektalis.

*

The priestess rode into the shadows of the trees and halted her mount.

Alexander w as silent, st iff-backed, his body rigid w it h t ension. Gent ly her Talent reached out to him.

‘Leave m e! ‘ cam e t he com m and, w it h a burst of spirit ual ener gy so pow erful t hat t he priest ess sw ayed in t he saddle and cried out. The sound of hoofbeat s cam e from all around t hem as cent aurs m oved clear of t he undergrow t h w it h bow s in t heir hands, arrow s not ched t o the strings.

‘Welcom e, I skander,’ said one w ho w as t all, w hit e-bearded and m aned, his golden skin m erged int o palom ino flanks, his t ail long and w hit er t han fleece clouds. ‘My nam e is Est ipan. Follow m e and I w ill take you to the Giant’s Gateway.’

‘No,’ answ ered Alexander. ‘You t hink I w ill rest ore t he Enchant m ent w hile m y friends and t hose w ho serve m e are dying w it hin m y sight?

You have w at ched t he bat t le on t he hill. I know t his, for m y pow er is great. You, Est ipan, w ere asked w het her it w as proper t o int ervene.

You t old your br ot her, Orases, t hat if I w ere I skander I w ould ride clear. Well, I have. Now it is for you to do my bidding.’

Est ipan reared up, his front hooves dr um m ing back int o t he eart h, his face crim son. ‘You give no orders here! ‘ he shout ed. ‘You are here t o fulfil your destiny.’

‘Not so! ‘ responded Alexander. ‘I am here t o fulfil your dest iny. But first you m ust earn m y friendship. You underst and t hat? Deeds, not w ords. Now order your follow ers t o at t ack t he Messenians. I f you do not I shall ride back to die with my friends. And I shall not come again, Estipan, t hough t he Enchant m ent dies and all her creat ures w it her away.’

The palom ino cent aur hesit at ed, w hile t he ot hers looked t o him for guidance. ‘If your power is so great,’ he said at last, ‘why have you not rescued your friends?’

‘Because I am t est ing y ou,’ hissed Alexander. ‘Enough of t his! Thena, take me back. My quest is at an end.’

‘No! If necessary I will take you by force,’ roared Estipan.

‘Think you so? Come then, coward, and feel the touch of Death!’

‘I am no coward!’

‘Deeds, not words, Estipan. Do not tell me - show me!’

Est ipan reared again. ‘Follow m e! ‘ he bellow ed, and galloped out ont o t he plain. More t han sixt y cent aurs ar m ed w it h bow s and knives rode after him. Alexander relaxed and sagged back into Thena’s arms.

‘I am so t ired,’ he w hispered, and she dism ount ed, lift ing him t o t he ground. There t he boy lay dow n, his head rest ing on his arm. Wit hin seconds he w as asleep. Thena gazed back t o t he hill. Warriors w ere sw arm ing up it, looking like ant s at t his dist ance. But t he cent aurs were closing fast.

Reaching out, she linked with Attalus. But she did not speak for he was fight ing desperat ely against several at t ackers, and she could not risk dist ract ing him. Sit t ing dow n on t he gr ass, she allow ed her spirit t o fly free and sped t o t he hillside. Only t hree m en w ere st ill alive - Helm, Ekt alis and t he Macedonian - and t hey had been pushed back t o t he western wall of boulders.

She saw Helm block a t hrust, t hen send a reverse cut t hrough a w arrior’s t hroat. ‘Seven! ‘ he shout ed. ‘You’ll never cat ch m e now.

Swordsman!’

The words mystified Thena, but she noticed Attalus smile.

Float ing higher she w at ched as t he cent aurs reached t he foot of t he hill, t heir arrow s hissing int o t he Messenians as t hey scaled t he boulders. Panicst ricken, t he enem y on t he hillside fled t o t heir m ount s. But inside t he circle of boulders t he fight w ent on. Helm w as cut on bot h arm s, and blood w as also seeping from a gash in his right t high. At t alus had suffered no new w ounds, t he cut t o his forehead having sealed in a j agged red line. Ek t alis w as unhurt, but t iring fast.

At t alus blocked a w ild slashing cut and shoulder-charged t he at t acker.

The m an w ent dow n, but At t alus slipped on t he blood-sm eared r ocks and fell w it h him. Tw o w arriors ran in t o m ake t he kill. Ekt alis hurled himself int o t heir pat h, despat ching t he first w it h a pow erful t hrust t hrough t he belly, but t he second m an’s sw ord hacked dow n t hr ough the back of Ektalis’ neck, killing him instantly.

Attalus rolled to his feet and, back to back with Helm, fought on.

A w arrior rushed at At t alus, but an arrow - point punched t hr ough his t em ple and he st aggered and fell. More shaft s hissed t hrough t he air and t he surviving Messenians scram bled back, hurling aside t heir sw ords and ret reat ing. Helm st aggered, but At t alus caught his arm, hauling him upright.

‘How many?’ Attalus asked.

‘Nine. You?’

‘Six. I owe you a thousand gold pieces.’

‘I’d settle for a drink of rich red wine and a soft, soft woman.’

A w hit e-m aned cent aur t r ot t ed across t he clearing, st epping carefully over the bodies. ‘Iskander sent us,’ he said.

At t alus gazed dow n at t he dead Ekt alis. ‘You w ere a lit t le lat e,’ he answered sombrely.

The City of Sparta Parm enion aw oke j ust before daw n. The r oom w as dark save for a silver shaft of m oonlight from t he balcony w indow. He w as alone and cold. Sit t ing up, he rubbed t he skin of his shoulder s. I t w as like w int er and he cast his eyes around t he room, seeking a blanket or a cloak. The only w arm t h he could feel w as from t he necklet at his throat.

Beyond t he shaft of m oonlight som et hing st irred and Parm enion rolled from the bed, snatching his sword from its scabbard.

‘Show yourself!’ he commanded.

A spect ral figure m oved t hrough t he m oonlight. The shock w as im m ense. Apart from t he golden eye t he m an w as Philip - hair and beard shining like a panther’s pelt, movements sure and confident. But it w as not Philip, and Parm enion recoiled from t he spirit of t he Dem on King.

‘You fear m e? That is w ise,’ t he m an said. ‘But you st and against m e, and that is foolish. I know all your actions, I know your thoughts. Your plans lie before m e. Why t hen do you persist in t his m eaningless struggle?’

‘What do you want here?’ countered Parmenion.

‘There is a child w it h golden hair. Have him br ought t o m e and I w ill spare you and y our cit y. He m eans not hing t o y ou; he is not even of t his w orld. He is a dem on, and carries w it hin him a seed of evil t hat must be destroyed.’

‘A dem on, you say? Then surely he should be a friend t o you, Philippos?’

‘I am a m an, Parm enion,’ answ ered Philippos, his voice sm oot h and friendly, his golden ey e gleam ing in t he pale light. ‘My deeds are m y ow n. You should underst and t hat. You are a w arrior, and a fine general; you cam e t he closest t o defeat ing m e. But t hat is all I am, Parm enion, a w arrior king building an em pire. Thus has it been since t he daw n of t im e. Great m en w ill alw ays seek pow er. Look at m e! Do you see a demon?’

‘I see a m an w ho but chered his ow n children t o t ry t o becom e a god. I see a m an possessed. Do not seek t o sw ay m e, Philippos. I am not t o be bought.’

‘One child for a w hole cit y? And t hat child not even Spart an! Are you insane or merely stupid?’

‘Your insult s m ean not hing t o m e,’ said Parm enion. ‘And y ou are w rong, I do not fear you. I learnt m uch during t he bat t le at Man t inea.

I learnt t hat you are a poor general, w it h no st rat egic skills. You rely alw ays on y our sorcerous eye t o feed y ou vict ory, but w it hout it you w ould be not hing. Wit hin a few days you w ill face t he m ight of Spart a.

And you w ill know defeat and deat h. For I know how t o kill you, Philippos.’

‘Now I know t hat you are insane. I am invulnerable and invincible. No blade, no poison know n t o m an can kill m e. Bring on your five t housand, and your arm y of slaves and old m en. We shall see how t hey fare against t he pow er of Mak edon! And no false goddess w ill save you t his t im e. I w ill order you t aken alive, and I w ill see t he skin flayed from your body.’

Parmenion laughed then. ‘Do I see fear, demon? How does it taste?’

The King shim m ered, his form expanding, feat ures t w ist ing and st ret ching unt il his eyes w ere crim son slit s in a m ot t led grey face, his m out h a huge, lipless gash rim m ed by fangs. Curved ram ‘s horns of black pushed t hr ough t he dark hair, curling t o rest against t he m isshapen skull. The beast advanced, but Parm enion held his ground with sword extended.

‘Fear, Hum an?’ cam e a chilling voice. ‘You ask m e if I know fear?’

Parm enion’s m out h w as dry, but his sw ord w as st eady. The beast halted before him, towering over the slender swordsman.

‘I am t he Lord of t his World. I t is m ine. I t has alw ays been m ine, for all t hat exist s is born of Chaos. Everyt hing. From t he sm allest seed t o t he largest st ar. Before t here w ere m en I w alked upon t his w orld, w hen t he ground below m y feet boiled and t he air w as fire. I w ill walk upon it w hen it is barren and t here are no m ew ling sounds of hum ans upon t he face of it. For it w ill be ash and dust, dark and cold. I w ill be here when the stars burn out. And you think to teach me fear?’

‘Not you,’ adm it t ed Parm enion. ‘But he felt fear, else you w ould not have shown yourself.’

‘You are clever, Hum an. And do not t hink t hat I do not know you are an im post er. I w at ched you in t he forest, and in t he sea w hen t he deat h Ship sank. You w ill fail, even as your t w in failed. You cannot prevail. What is more, you know it.’

‘What I know is that you must be opposed. And you can be beaten. For your power is finite, it depends upon the men who serve you. They can die - and you can lose.’

‘As I said, you are a clever m an, Parm enion. But you are doom ed. The Spart an arm y w ill avail you not hing, and t he slaves w ill scat t er and flee at t he first charge. Your Spart ans w ill be surrounded and destroyed. What purpose then will your defiance serve?’

Parmenion did not answ er, could not answ er, but he gazed int o t he dem on’s eyes and raised his sw ord. The dem on shim m ered and faded, but his voice w hispered one last t im e: ‘I w ill see t hat you live t o w at ch every m an, w om an and child in t his cit y put t o deat h. You w ill be t he last to die. Think on it, mortal, for that is your future!’

Parmenion sank back to the bed, letting the sword drop from his hand.

Despair w ashed over him, choking his em ot ions and clouding his j udgem ent. How could he have dream t of defeat ing such a creat ure? ‘I am with you,’ said a voice in his mind.

‘Thena?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see?’

‘I did, and I am proud of t he w ay you st ood against him. Alexander is safe; w e are at t he Gat ew ay, and t here are m any creat ures here w it h great pow ers. Philippos w ould need his arm y t o capt ure Alexander now.’

Relief sw ept t hrough t he Spart an. ‘That at least is good new s. Did you give Brontes my message?’

‘I did. But he could not convince t hem t o com e t o your aid: t hey are fearful of t he w ays of Man - and right ly so. For cent uries t hey have been hunted and slain, betrayed and deceived. All they want now is for t he Enchant m ent t o be rest ored. But Bront es, Helm and At t alus are riding to join you. No others.’

‘I half expected that, but even so it is more than a disappointment.’

‘Consider som et hing else for a m om ent,’ she advised. ‘Philippos could not read your mind, so at least your plans are safe from him.’

He sm iled t hen. ‘I have only one plan, lady. One giant gam ble. I f it fails, we fail.’

‘Only one?’

‘There is no t im e for gr eat subt let y, Thena. One t hrow of t he dice is all we have.’

‘Then you m ust m ake it w ork and y ou can. For you are t he strategos and the hope of the world.’

Parm enion t ook a deep, calm ing breat h. Thilippos m ay not be able t o read m y t hought s, but ot hers w ill know of m y plan on t he day of battle. I will need help then. The Demon King must be distracted. If he should learn of my strategy then all will truly be lost. Is there anything you can do?’

For a m om ent t here w as silence. ‘I w ill t hink on it,’ she prom ised at last.

‘It is good to hear you again,’ he told her suddenly.

‘May the Source of All Life be with you, my friend.’

‘I would sooner have five thousand cavalry, lady.’

*

The day w as long, hot and endlessly frust rat ing. The slaves, in t heir new breast plat es and leat her kilt s, drove t he officers t raining t hem t o dist ract ion. Scores w ere dism issed from service, m any w ere inj ured in combat training - spraining limbs, sustaining cuts.

Parm enion m oved am ong t he t oiling groups, offering w ords of encouragem ent t o t he officers and m en, suggest ing sm all changes in t he t raining m et hods, urging t he officers t o have pat ience w it h t heir recruits. And so the day ground on.

By t he aft ernoon Parm enion w as helping t he barracks youngst er s t o block t he st reet s - carrying furnit ure from hom es, filling sacks w it h earth and stones and hoisting them to the barricades.

‘I want javelins left on every roof along Leaving Street and the Avenue of Kings,’ he t old Cleander. ‘And m en w it h st rong arm s t o hurl t hem. I w ant several hundred bow m en st at ioned at t he agora, behind barricades.’

‘It will be done, sire,’ the dying man promised.

Ret urning t o t he palace at dusk, Parm enion spent t w o hours w it h Leonidas, Tim asion, Cleander and a group of officers, list ening t o t heir reports on the progress of the training.

‘Wit hin t w o days w e w ill have a core of m en w it h pot ent ial,’ said Leonidas. ‘But no m ore t han five t housand. The rest w ould be useless in any m aj or com bat. I w ould suggest leaving t hem w it h Cleander t o defend the city.’

‘Agreed,’ said Parmenion. ‘But the men not selected must not be made t o feel useless. Split t hem int o groups of t w ent y, each w it h t heir ow n leader; t hen have t he leaders report t o Cleander. I n t his bat t le m orale m ust t ake t he place of discipline - let us all underst and t hat. Do not crit icize a m an for lack of abilit y w it h a sw ord, or for clum siness.

Neit her should you point out t o t hem t hat Spart an skill com es only w it h year s of t raining. You m ust coax t he best from t hem, encourage t hem always. I f you cannot com m end t heir skill, t hen com m end t heir courage. Treat t hem like brot hers. Any officer w ho finds such m et hods disagreeable m ust be ret ur ned t o his regim ent. I saw several m en today shouting and screaming at the recruits; that must stop.’

Black-bearded Tim asion leaned forw ard. ‘I appreciat e w hat you are saying, m y lord, but t he t r ut h is t hat no m at t er how har d w e t rain t he slaves t hey w ill not st and against t he Makedones phalanx. Because it does t ake years of t raining for m en t o inst ant ly follow a shout ed com m and, t o m ove sm oot hly int o place, t o change ranks. You cannot expect the slaves to learn it in a week or less.’

‘Tim asion is right,’ said Lycon. ‘An arm y is only as st rong as it s weakest part. We will have no cavalry and the wings will be slaves and vet erans. The vet er ans w e can t rust, but t hey ar e t oo old t o w it hst and a charge - and the slaves will break.’

‘I w ill not argue w it h you, m y friends,’ Parm enion t old t hem, ‘but let m e say t his: To speak of defeat, or breaking, is t o her ald it. Once w e believe t hat w e are lost, t hen w e are lost. The recruit s are m en; t hey w ill do t heir part. Trust m e on t his - and if you do not t rust m e, t hen pret end t o. I w ant no t alk of defeat or w eakness. We are all w arriors here, and w e all underst and t he nat ure of w ar. Everyt hing you say is t rue but it m ust not be said. Ult im at ely bat t les are w on or lost on t he act ions of a single m an. One m an panics and it spreads like t he plague. One m an holds and ot hers hold w it h him. I do not w ant t he slaves t o m arch out w it h defeat in t heir heart s. I w ant t hem m arching like m en, full of belief and hope. I w ant t hem t o be proud, filled w it h t he know ledge t hat t heir Spart an ov erlords hold t hem in high est eem.

I do not care if it is not t rue but it m ust appear t o be t rue. And t hen, w hen t hey have done t heir part and t he vict ory is ours, it w ill be true.’

‘You honestly believe we can win?’ asked Leonidas.

‘I don’t believe it - 1 know it! We are Spart ans. They w ill not break us.

No. They w ill break upon us. Their cavalry w ill skirt us. They w ill ride for t he cit y, for t hey w ill know t hat every m an in t he ranks w ill see t hem and fear for t he lives of his w ife and children, his m ot her, his sist ers. Then t heir infant ry w ill at t ack, out num bering us by perhaps three to one. The battle will be won or lost in the next hour.’

‘How can you be sure that the cavalry will pass us by?’ asked Lycon.

‘I saw his m et hods at Man t inea. Philippos is not a cavalrym an; he uses his infant ry for all m aj or t hr ust s. And he w ant s t he cit y t aken. He w ant s it all, and he has no pat ience. But m ore im port ant t han t his, he w ould not w ish t o push us back in a fight ing ret reat only t o have us defending Spart a. He w ill want us isolat ed, t he cit y dest royed behind us.’

‘And if you are wrong?’ put in Timasipn. ‘How then can we survive?’

Parm enion forced a sm ile. ‘I am not w rong, but if his cavalry do not at t ack t he cit y, t hen Oleander w ill m arch out w it h all his m en and j oin us on t he field of bat t le. One ot her m at t er. The slaves m ust not be issued with red cloaks; only the Spartans must wear them.’

‘But w hy?’ Oleander asked. ‘Surely t he obj ect is t o m ake t he recruit s feel like Spartans?’

‘I w ant t he Spart an regim ent s t o st and out. I w ant t he enem y t o see them clearly.’

‘I t w ill be a day long r em em bered,’ m ut t ered Tim asion. ‘Five t housand Spartans against forty thousand barbarians!’

‘It will be a day the Makedones will never forget,’ promised Parmenion.

*

Nest us lay aw ake in t he nar row pallet bed list ening t o t he snoring of the other soldiers. Forty men slept in this long room, forty non-ranking Spart an soldiers, none of w hom w ould speak t o t he giant. He w as a man alone, and bitterness swamped him.

His ow n fat her had refused t o receive him, and w ord of his sham e had sw ept t hr ough t he cit y. Friends shunned him in t he st reet s, t urning their faces away and pretending not to see him.

His m out h w as dry and he rose from t he bed and padded t hrough t o t he em pt y dining area, w here he poured him self a goblet of w at er. A cold breeze touched his bare back and he shivered.

Life had been so full of promise a mere two years before. He had loved Derae and a splendid w edding had been planned. His fat her had been so proud. A link w it h t he royal house - brot her-in- law t o t he fut ure King. Everyone k new t hat Leonidas w as t he heir apparent, and Nestus w as his closest friend. Oh, how bright t he fut ure, how golden! I t even out shone his frust rat ion at having t o serve t he m ix-blood w ho had become Sparta’s First General.

Parmenion

Now m ore t han ever t he m ere t hought of t he nam e m ade bile rise in his throat, left his heart hammering.

The day had been burned int o his m em ory, never t o be erased:

Agisaleus dead, Leonidas t o be King. Sum m oned t o see his friend at the Cattle Price Palace, he had joyed in the options before him. Was he to be promoted? Which regiment would he command in the new order?

But no. He had learned t hat t he w edding w as cancelled and t hat his bride - his love - w as t o w ed Parm enion, in order t hat t he half-breed could become Sparta’s King.

‘I should have killed him t hen,’ w hispered Nest us. He pict ured his sword-blade sliding t hrough Parm enion’s ribs, t he light of life fading from the bastard’s eyes.

Slumping down at a long table, Nestus poured another goblet of water.

And w hat is t here now, he asked him self? Deat h t o follow his dishonour. The dest ruct ion of Spart a, t he m assacre of it s people. His t hought s sw ung t o Derae and he pict ured her being dragged from t he palace, raped and then butchered by the barbarians.

The curse of the gods was upon the city for allowing a half-breed to sit upon the throne!

The room grew colder, but Nestus scarcely noticed it.

Why should you st ay? The t hought leapt unbidden t o his m ind, shocking him with its clarity. ‘Where else could I go?’

Creta. You have friends on the island and you have coin.

‘I couldn’t desert my friends, my family.’

They have deserted you. They shun you in the street.

‘I did wrong. I drew a sword upon the King.’

The half-blood? A m an w ho used dark sorcery t o w in his t hrone and steal your woman?

Sorcery? The t hought had not occurred t o him before. Of course, t hat w as it. Leonidas had been bew it ched. What ot her reason could t her e be for a noble-born Spartan to relinquish his rights to the throne?

Kill him.

‘No. No, I couldn’t.’

Like t he heroes of old, kill t he m an w ho st ole your bride. Take back w hat is right fully yours. Derae loves you. Save her. Tak e her from t he city - to safety in Creta.

‘To safety, yes! I could rescue her. She loves me; she would come. We could be happy t here. A short ride t o Gyt heum, t hen a ship. Yes! Kill the half-blood and reclaim what is mine! Yes!’

The cold disappeared and t he room becam e clam m y and hot. The sudden change m ade Nest us shiver and he r ose, m aking his w ay back t o his bed. Silent ly he dressed in a grey chiton t unic and calf-length sandals. Then, t aking up his cloak and sw ord, he w alked from t he barracks.

His fat her’s house w as dark and quiet and he clim bed t hrough a ground-floor w indow, m oving st ealt hily t hrough t he room s unt il he cam e t o his fat her’s st udy. Here, hidden behind a carv ed oak chest, w as a niche in t he st one of t he w all; in it w ere five large leat her pouches, heavy w it h gold. Taking t w o he left t he house, m aking his w ay t o t he st ables. A groom sleeping in a bed of hay by t he door aw oke as Nest us ent ered. The giant ‘s fist crashed int o t he m an’s face, splintering his cheekbone; the groom sagged back unconscious.

Nest us put bridles and reins on t w o of t he fast est horses, t hen bound t heir hooves w it h clot h before leading t hem out int o t he m oonlit st reet and on t o t he Cat t le Price Palace. Ther e w ere only t w o sent ries at t he m ain doors, and bot h m en w ere know n t o him. Leaving t he horses t et hered out of sight beyond t he m ain w all, Nest us st rode t hrough t he great gates and approached the men.

‘What do you w ant here?’ hissed t he first. Nest us’ fist cracked against t he m an’s j aw, spinning him unconscious t o t he ground. Then he leapt at t he second, seizing him by t he t hroat and savagely w renching t he soldier from his feet. The m an’s neck snapped w it h a loud crack.

Nest us had not m eant t o kill him and he dropped t he body, st epping back horrified.

Kill t he ot her, cam e t he t hought. Nest us drew his sw ord and, w it hout hesitation, plunged it through the helpless warrior’s throat.

Pushing open t he doors of t he palace he ran inside and up t he long stairs t o t he t hird floor, m aking his w ay along t he cold corridor t o t he Queen’s apart m ent s. His heart w as beat ing fast now and his m out h w as dry. The door t o t he Queen’s room s w as aj ar and he opened it j ust enough t o slip inside. The m oon shone bright ly t hrough t he balcony w indow and t he first t hing he saw w as a shim m ering green robe t ossed carelessly t o a couch. Moving t o it he lift ed it t o his face, sm elling t he perfum e upon it. Arousal flared w it hin him and he padded t o t he bedroom w here Derae lay on t op of t he sheet s. Nest us st ood in t he door w ay gazing at her m oonlit form. The Queen w as naked and lying upon her side, her legs drawn up and her head resting on her left arm. Sw eat broke out on Nest us’ brow. Her golden skin seem ed w hit er t han ivor y in t he m oonlight, yet soft and w arm, glow ing w it h healt h.

He swallowed hard and moved to the bedside, laying his bloodcovered sw ord on t he sheet. His hand m oved t o her arm, sliding over t he skin, then down to her waist and up over the curve of her hips. She moaned in her sleep and rolled to her back.

Nest us sm iled, t hought s of fut ure j oy flashing t hr ough his m ind: a home by the sea, servants, children

She aw oke and scream ed, scram bling t o get aw ay. I nst inct ively he grabbed for her, his fingers curling int o her hair and dragging her back.

‘Stop it! It is I, Nestus. I have come for you. To rescue you!’

She ceased her st ruggles, green eyes focusing on his face. ‘What do you m ean, rescue m e? Are you m ad? I f you are found here you w ill die.’

‘I don’t care. I hav e killed t w o m en t onight and I ‘ll kill any ot hers w ho t ry t o st op m e. I have a plan, Derae. We’ll go t o Gret a. I hav e friends t here and w e w ill be happy. But first you m ust dress. There is lit t le time. I will explain all when we are on our way.’

‘You are insane!’

‘No! List en t o m e. The cit y is doom ed - not hing w ill save it. I t is our only chance at happiness. Don’t you see? We will be together.’

Glancing down, she saw the bloodied sword. ‘What have you done?’

‘What I had t o do,’ he answ ered, his hand reaching up, his fingers stroking her breast.

She pulled aw ay from him. ‘Parm enion w ill kill you for t his,’ she whispered.

‘He is alone here. And he has never seen the day when he could defeat me in combat. No one has. I am the best.’

Suddenly she rolled from t he bed. He lunged at her, but she w as clear and running for t he door. Seizing his sw ord he ran aft er her, but she had reached t he corridor and w as shout ing at t he t op of her v oice: ‘Parmenion! Parmenion!’

He sprint ed aft er her, cat ching her at t he t op of t he st airs and hauling her back by her hair. ‘You slut! You said you loved m e and now you betray me!’

‘I never loved you! ‘ she answ ered him, her hand snaking out and cracking against his cheek. Flinging her from him, he raised his sword.

‘I ‘ll kill you! ‘ he shout ed. Ducking aw ay from him she fled for t he st airs, t aking t hem t w o at a t im e. He ran aft er her but t ripped and fell headlong, his sw ord clat t ering aw ay from him. Dazed, he rose and gat hered it from w here it had fallen on an em broidered r ug at t he foot of the stairs. He swung round, seeking Derae.

‘You have your sword,’ said Parmenion softly. ‘Now use it!’

The King w as st anding naked in t he corridor, Derae behind him. ‘You will die now, mix-blood,’ Nestus told him.

Parmenion smiled and raised his own blade. Nestus ran forward, sword drawn back for the belly thrust, but Parmenion stepped aside - parrying t he blade and hooking his foot round t he char ging m an’s leg. Nest us hit t he floor hard, but rose sw ift ly. ‘Be m ore caut ious,’ advised Parmenion, his voice cold. ‘Anger makes a man careless.’ Again Nestus charged, t his t im e slashing his blade in a sw eeping cut t ow ards Parm enion’s t hr oat. The King dropped t o one knee, t he sw ord slicing t he air above his head, his ow n blade ram m ing int o Nest us’ groin. The giant scream ed. Parm enion t ore his sw ord clear and rose. Nest us st um bled forw ard several st eps and t hen slum ped t o his knees w it h blood gushing from t he severed art er y. The w arrior st ruggled t o rise, but all st rengt h w as seeping from him and he fell forw ard, his face against the cold stone of the corridor floor.

His fury seemed to flow from him with his lifeblood.

What am I doing here, he thought?

He heard t he sound of running foot st eps and a v oice shout ing: ‘Someone tried to kill the King!’

That m ust be it, he t hought. I w as here t o save t he King from his enemies.

Yes. Relieved, he closed his eyes. Fat her w ill be so proud of m e, he thought.

*

Parm enion st epped back from t he body and ushered t he naked Derae int o his room s, pushing shut t he door and let t ing t he sw ord fall t o t he floor.

‘He w as possessed,’ said Derae, m oving forw ard w it h her arm s opening t o him. He held her gent ly, his hands in t he sm all of her back, and neit her of t hem heard t he door open nor saw Leonidas ent er. The Spartan warrior said nothing for a moment, then cleared his throat.

Parm enion t urned, but did not release his hold on Der ae. ‘What is it, Leonidas?’

‘I wanted to see that you were unhurt sire.’

‘Oh, Leon, it w as aw ful,’ said Derae. ‘You should have seen his eyes. I have never known Nestus to be like that.’

‘He killed t w o sent ries,’ Leonidas t old her, his voice cool. ‘But I see t hat you are w ell, sire. I shall leave you bot h. We w ill be ready t o m arch in t he m or ning. Five days, if you recall.’ He bow ed and left t he room.

‘His m ood w as st range,’ w hispered Derae, m oving in close t o her husband. Parmenion felt the warmth of her skin against his breast. Not st range, he t hought; Leonidas has j ust seen his sist er being em braced by an imposter.

‘I love you,’ said Derae. ‘Promise me you will come back.’

‘How can I make such a promise?’ he answered huskily.

‘You just say the words. I do not believe that you will be defeated. You are Parmenion, the King of Sparta. You are my Parmenion.’

He sm iled and held her t ight ly. ‘A w ise m an once t old m e t o plan as if you were going to live for ever, but to live as if this were your last day on eart h. Let us do t hat, lady. Let us t reat t onight as if it w ere t he last.’

He led her t o his bedroom and lay dow n beside her, dr aw ing her t o him. They m ade love gent ly, slow ly, for he felt no passion - only a desperat e need t o feel her skin against his, t o be inside her, part of her. He felt himself building to a climax, but slowed and withdrew.

‘Why are you stopping?’ she asked him, reaching out to stroke the skin of his cheek.

‘I don’t want it to end. Not now, not tonight not ever.’

‘You said t hat so sadly, m y dear. There should be no sadness. Not tonight not for us.’

Her finger s slid along t he surface of his chest, over t he ridged m uscle of his belly and dow n t o his st ill erect penis, circling it. He groaned. - ‘Does t hat hurt?’ she asked him, her t one serious but her eyes mocking.

‘You are a w ant on,’ he t old her, pushing her t o her back and rolling on top of her. ‘And I shall treat you like one.’

Sliding down the bed, he bit lightly at the inside of her thigh. She cried out, opening her leg to escape him, but he turned his head - his mouth brushing across her soft pubic hair, his t ongue slipping int o her. She cried out again, but he ignor ed her. She st ruggled under him, but his hands held her firm. Then suddenly she relaxed and began t o m oan, her body arching violent ly, her legs t ensing. This t im e her cries w er e not of pain nor outrage, but arose from the shuddering, violent release of t ension t hat only or gasm can bring. Finally she slum ped back t o t he bed, her arms outstretched.

Parm enion m oved up alongside her. ‘Does it feel good t o be a wanton?’ he asked.

‘Wonderful,’ she adm it t ed. ‘But prom ise never t o t ell m e how you learned that skill.’

‘I promise.’

‘I’ve changed my mind. Tell me.’

‘I swear upon my soul that I have never in this world done it before.’

‘That cannot be true.’

‘I sw ear it. You ar e t he first w om an in all Achaea t o be so abused by me.’

Raising herself on one elbow she looked dow n at his face. Then she smiled. ‘I believe you,’ she said slowly, ‘but there is something you are not telling me.’

‘Are you a seeress t hen?’ he asked, forcing a sm ile t o hide his sudden discomfort.

Tam is t old m e I had Talent, but it w as undeveloped. What are you hiding?’

‘At t his m om ent,’ he answ ered, gazing dow n at his naked body, ‘I would appear to be hiding nothing.’

‘I shall look,’ she announced. Rolling t o her knees she kissed his belly, her head moving down.

‘Oh, no!’ he said, reaching for her. ‘You can’t! It’s not seemly.’

Her laught er echoed around t he room. ‘Not seem ly? A kiss t hat is fit for a Queen should not be spurned by a King!’

He w as w illing t o argue - but only for t he one m om ent before her lips touched him, her mouth sliding over him. Then his arguments died.

Lat er, as t hey sat on a couch sipping w at ered w ine, t hey hear d foot st eps in t he corridor beyond t he m ain room. Derae rose and w alked back int o t he bedr oom, w hile Parm enion gat hered his swor d and opened the door. Two sentries stood outside, Leonidas with them.

‘What is going on?’ Parmenion asked.

‘Philippos is m arching t hrough t he night. He seeks t o surprise us. Tw o of our scout s have j ust com e in: t he Makedones w ill be w it hin sight of the city by noon tomorrow.’

‘We will be ready for him,’ promised Parmenion.

‘Yes. Is my sister still with you?’

‘She is.’

‘May I come in?’

‘No, my friend. This last night is for us. You understand?’

‘I think I do. But the wisdom of it may seem less sure in the morning.’

‘My life is full of many regrets, but even if I die tomorrow this night will not be one of them.’

‘I was not thinking of you,’ said Leonidas.

The t rut h of t he soldier’s w ords st ruck Parm enion like a blow. Had he not m ade love t o Derae t hen her m em ories of him w ould have been of a cold-nat ured King w ho felt not hing for her, her sorrow at his passing minimal.

Whet her he enj oyed t he glory of vict ory or deat h and defeat Parm enion w ould vanish from her life, for he had m ade his prom ise t o Leonidas. For five days he w ould be King - or unt il t he bat t le w as resolved.

Then he would lose Derae again

Leonidas saw the look of despair on the King’s face and reached out. ‘I am sorry, my friend,’ he whispered. Parmenion said nothing.

St epping back, he pushed shut t he door and st ood in t he darkness of his rooms.

‘Who w as it?’ called Der ae. He w alked int o t he bedroom and lay dow n beside her.

‘It was Leonidas. The Makedones will be here tomorrow.’

‘You w ill defeat t hem,’ she said sleepily. He st roked her hair and drew the sheet across them both.

He w as st ill aw ake w it h t he daw n w hen he heard Priast es ent er t he out er room. Parm enion r ose silent ly and w alked from t he bedroom, soft ly closing t he door behind him. Priast es, in breast plat e, helm and greaves, bowed as the King made his entrance and Parmenion smiled.

‘You look ferocious,’ he said.

Priast es chuckled. ‘Once I w as a m an t o be feared. There is st ill som et hing left of t hat m an - as t he Makedones w ill find. Now w hat armour shall you wear?’

‘A sim ple cuirass w it h greaves and w rist - guards. I w ill be fight ing on foot. And find me an unadorned helm.’

‘You do not wish to stand out in the battle?’ asked Priastes, surprised.

Parm enion paused. The old m an w as right. Alw ays before, Parm enion had been a general serving eit her a m onarch or a sat rap, or a cit y. Yet here he w as t he King, and m en w ere prepar ing t o fight and die for him. It was their right to see their lord in action and, more than that, it w as Parm enion’s dut y. Mor ale w as a fragile creat ure, and on m any occasions t he Spart an had seen Philip t urn t he course of a bat t le m erely by his presence in golden arm our and high-plum ed helm. Men watched him ride into danger, and their hearts swelled with pride.

‘You are quit e correct, Priast es,’ he said at last. ‘Fet ch t he bright est, gaudiest armour I possess.’

The old m an laughed. ‘That w ould be t he golden helm w it h t he w hit e horsehair plum e and t he ivor y-em bossed cheek-guards. I t is a w ork of great beauty, yet still strongly made. You will shine like the sun and fill Apollo with.jealousy.’

‘It is never wise to make the gods jealous.’

‘Ah, but t hen Apollo is bet t erlooking t han y ou. He w ill not m ind t hat your armour is bright.’

Wit hin t he hour, as t he sun cleared t he m ount ains, Parm enion - aft er meet ing w it h Cleander and t he cit y’s defence council - st rode out t hrough t he palace gat es t o be greet ed by Leonidas, Tim asion, Learchus and t he officers. All bow ed as he appr oached and Parm enion felt his cheeks reddening. The helm w as everyt hing Priast es had described and t he arm our w as blinding in t he sunlight, beat en gold overlaying iron and bronze. Even t he w rist - guards and greaves w ere em bossed w it h ivory and silver, and t he w hit e cloak he w ore w as interwoven with silver strands which made it glitter in the dawn light.

The army saw him and drew their swords, clattering the blades against t heir shields in an incredible cacophony of sound. Lift ing his hand he ret ur ned t heir salut e, his gaze sw eeping over t he m assed ranks filling Leaving Street.

Leonidas approached him, a wide smile on his face. ‘Is now the time to outline your plans?’ he asked.

Parm enion nodded and called t he officers t o him. The necklet of Tam is w as cool against his t hroat and he spoke quiet ly, w at ching t heir reactions. They listened in silence, but it was Leonidas who tried to ask the first question.

‘What if?’

Parm enion raised his hand. ‘No, m y friend. No w hat ifs. What if t he sun turns to fire? What if the oceans rise from their bowls? There is no t im e now for such t hought s. I have seen t he Dem on King in act ion, and w e have only one chance of vict ory. I t is vit al t herefore t hat his infant ry at t ack t he Spart ans, leaving t he slaves - at first - alone. I f w e can make him do that we have a chance. Without it there is none. Now prepare your regiments and let us march.’

He glanced at t he faces of t he m en around him. None of t hem w as cont ent w it h his st rat egy yet, even here in t his ot her Greece, Spart an discipline was paramount. They saluted and moved away.

Parm enion st rode out t o t he head of t he colum ns w it h Leonidas beside him. ‘I pray t o t he gods you are right, Parm enion,’ t he w arrior whispered.

‘Let us hope they hear you,’ he answered.

The vanguard w as clear of t he cit y w hen t he t hree horsem en cam e galloping from t he sout h. At t alus and Helm rode side by side w it h t he minotaur Brontes just behind them, sitting awkwardly on his mount.

At t alus reined in alongside Parm enion and leapt t o t he ground. ‘Ther e w ill be no aid from t he sout h,’ said t he sw ordsm an, his eyes draw n t o the splendid armour.

‘I expected none. Walk beside me.’

Bront es and Helm bot h dism ount ed, let t ing t he horses w alk free. Man and m inot aur j oined t he King. ‘Welcom e, m y friends,’ said Parm enion, holding out his hand first to Brontes.

‘I am sorry t hat m y brot her s of t he Enchant m ent w ould not ride w it h you, Par m enion,’ Bront es t old him, ‘but t hey w ill have no part in w hat t hey see as t he w ars of m en. I t m ight have been t hat I could hav e persuaded t hem, but w hen I t old t hem you had offered t he new Enchant m ent t o Gorgon t heir m inds w ere furt her set against you. Had you not befriended t hat dem on, you m ight even now have had a second army.’

‘Wit hout Gorgon, Alexander w ould not have reached t he Gat ew ay,’ point ed out Parm enion. ‘But t hat is no longer im port ant. We st and alone - and t her e is som et im es st rengt h in t hat.’ The Spart an t urned to Helm. ‘I thought you would have stayed with Iskander. Is he not the key to your memories?’

‘He t old m e t o com e,’ answ ered t he bronze-faced w arrior. ‘He said m y answer lies with you.’

‘And w hat of you, At t alus?’ asked Parm enion. ‘You have no need t o be here.’

‘I have grow n used t o your com pany sire. And I have no w ish t o m iss t he com ing bat t le. The Dem on King has hunt ed m e across t his world. Now I will hunt him.’

Parmenion smiled. ‘We will hunt him together.’

The Field of Blood Philippos sat upon his bat t le st allion and t hought of his enem y, direct ing t he gaze of his Golden Eye t ow ards t he dist ant figure of t he garishly armoured Spartan King.

I t galled him t hat t he m an had a pr ot ect ive am ulet, not because he feared his pit iful st rat egies but m erely because he alw ays enj oyed t he fear and rising panic t hat sw elled from t he em ot ions of an enem y facing defeat.

He rem em bered his last m eet ing w it h Parm enion, felt again t he w ave of anger as t he Spart an had spoken of his skills w it h such cont em pt. A poor general indeed! He w as Philippos, t he great est Bat t le King t he world would ever know! ‘I do not need t he Eye t o defeat t he likes of you,’ he w hispered aloud.

And yet w hy rob oneself of t he sm all pleasures, he w ondered? What dread despairs were felt by Parmenion’s generals?

His concentration deepened as he sought out Leonidas

‘Are you cont em plat ing your deat h?’ w hispered a voice in his m ind, and Philippos j erked as if st ruck. I t w as t he w it ch-w om an w ho had pret ended t o be t he goddess At hena. Closing his hum an eye, he sought out her spirit form; she w as float ing in t he air som e t w ent y paces from him.

‘You cannot harm me, witch,’ he told her.

‘Nor w ill I need so t o do,’ she answ ered. ‘Evil has a w ay of defeat ing itself. That will happen today.’

‘Begone, w om an! I have neit her t he t im e nor t he inclinat ion t o debat e with you!’

‘Of course you have not,’ she sneer ed. ‘The Cow ard-King m ust first read his enem y’s t hought s. He is incapable of planning a bat t le for him self. Go ahead. Do not let m e dist urb you. I w ould im agine t he sight of all those farm-workers and slaves has unmanned you.’

Anot her v oice cut in, a child’s voice. ‘He is not very im pressive, is he, Thena?’ Philippos sw ung his head t o see t he slim golden-headed boy he had hunted so long.

‘I will find you, child. There is nowhere you can hide from me.

The boy looked at him, his expr ession som br e. ‘I do not t hink you shall,’ he said softly, ‘but if you do I will kill you.’

Philippos laughed t hen, t hough t he sound faded as he st ared at t he solemn face of the child. ‘Nothing can kill me! You hear me? Nothing!’

‘I can,’ w hispered t he boy, ‘w it h one t ouch. But w e are det aining you, cow ard. Shall w e ask Parm enion t o rem ove his necklet of pow er?

Would that make it easier for you to destroy the slave army?’

The cont em pt in t he child’s voice st ung t he King w it h w hips of fire and he st art ed t o reply, but t he spirit s vanished. Furious now, Philippos rode along his bat t le-lines, sum m oning his generals and priest s. The soldiers st ood silent ly as he passed, spears held vert ically, eyes on t he enemy some 800 paces ahead.

The Makedones King hauled on t he reins and t urned his horse t o st and facing south. The enemy battle-line was as he expected: the Spartans, in t heir fullfaced bronze helm s and red cloaks, holding t he low ground bet w een t w o hills; t he slaves split int o t w o groups flanking t hem on the hillsides. Behind the centre of the main force he could see bowmen and javeliners, awaiting orders.

‘How many?’ Philippos asked.

An officer m oved his horse alongside t he King. ‘Five t housand Spart ans, sire, and around t he sam e num ber of slaves. I t is hard t o see how many archers, perhaps a thousand.’

Philippos did not need t o glance back t o know t he num bers of t he Makedones. Direct ly behind him w ere t he royal guards, 6,000 st rong, st anding in bat t le order t w ent y ranks deep and 300 shields w ide, a vast black-garbed fight ing square. They w ere t he Bringers of t he St orm, for w hen t hey m arched t heir bat t le-cries rolled out like t hunder and t heir sw ords w ere deadlier t han t he light ning bolt s of Zeus.

Flanking t hem w ere t he 10,000 Regulars, pow erful fight ing m en, highly t rained, t heir helm s and breast plat es of polished iron gleam ing like silver. On t he right w ere t he 5,000 m ercenaries from Thessalia, Thracia and I llyria. Cloaks of m any colours w ere w orn by t hese w arriors and, t hough t hey had lit t le discipline, st ill t hey w ere ferocious in bat t le, having a lust for blood and deat h w hich delight ed t he Makedones King. Beyond t hem, on t he right flank, w ere t he cavalry - m ainly Korint hian, num bering 7,000. Tw ent y-eight t housand bat t lehar dened m en w ere ranged against 5,000 Spart ans and a m ot ley m ob of hastily-armed slaves and old men.

‘His strategy is pitiful,’ sneered Philippos. ‘You can see through it like a gossam er veil. He invit es us t o at t ack his cent re; t hat is w hy t he Spartans are defending the easy way, the low ground.’

‘But if w e t hrust t hem aside, lord, t he slaves will break and run and t he day w ill be ours,’ put in t he officer. ‘Sur ely w e m ust at t ack t he Spartans?’

‘You saw t hem at Mant inea. To at t ack t hem head-on is like hurling w at er against a w all. They are fine soldiers and t hey do not break easily. No. That is w hat he w ant s - t o w it hst and t he full force of an infant ry charge, t o break t he spirit of t he Makedones. Once m orale is gone the difference in numbers counts for little.’

‘What are his thoughts, sire?’

‘I neit her know nor care. Order t he Korint hians t o ride w ide of t he enem y and st rike at Spart a it self. Let us see how t heir m orale is affect ed w hen t hey see t hat t heir bat t le is fut ile. Then or der t he Regulars and t he m ercenary unit s forw ard, as if t o at t ack t he Spart an cent re. When t hey are w it hin fift y paces, sound t he char ge. Have t he m ercenaries veer t o t he left, t w o regim ent s of t he Regulars t o t he right. Storm the hillsides and scatter the slaves. The Regulars will then m ove on and t ur n t o at t ack t he Spart ans from behind, w hile t he m ercenaries w ill assail t hem from t he hillside. At t hat point I w ill order t he Guards forw ard and w e w ill have t hem encircled. But rem em ber I want Parmenion alive.’

‘Yes, sire. Alive.’

The King t urned t o his chief priest, a bald hook-nosed m an w it h deepset dark eyes. ‘How are the omens for today, Pharin?’

‘There w ill be a duel of Kings, sire, and Philippos w ill st and t rium phant with his enemy dead at his feet.’

‘But I want him alive!’

‘That will not be the way of it, sire. You will meet your enemy, blade to blade, and you will kill him.’

Pharin’s t alent w as beyond quest ion but even so t he King t urned his head, the golden eye gleaming. ‘You would not lie to me?’

‘I speak t he t rut h, sire: t his is t he w ay it w ill be. A sea of blood, a mountain of corpses, but Philippos victorious.’

‘You have never been wrong, Pharin. Not once.’

‘Nor am I now, sire.’

*

The Makedones bat t le-drum s began t o beat, t he sound drift ing across t he bat t lefield like t he heart beat of som e m yt hic beast of t error.

Parm enion felt t he fear of t he slaves around him, saw t hem glance at one another, watched them wiping sweat from their eyes or licking dry lips with dryer tongues.

‘You ar e m en of courage,’ said Parm enion suddenly, his voice carrying over t he shift ing ranks, ‘and I am pr oud t o st and here w it h you.’ The slaves closest t o him sm iled ner vously. ‘Do not let t he noise concern you. Padded st icks against st ret ched cow hide, t hat is all it is. And t hose m en w ait ing t o m arch against you are only m en like yourselves.

There is nothing special about them; they will die, as all men die.’

He fell silent; t here w as lit t le else he could say. He w as no Philip, no Bat t le King w it h am azing pow ers of orat or y. Xenophon had called it heroic leadership, t he abilit y of a single m an t o t urn fear int o courage t he w ay an arm ourer fashioned sw ord-blades from base m et al. ‘Ther e is w it hin an arm y,’ t he At henian had once said, ‘a single, invisible spirit, easily sw ayed from cow ardice t o heroism, from savager y t o discipline. The right general, or King, underst ands t his. He com es t o know t he nat ure of t his spirit; he know s t hat it bot h feeds from and gives sust enance t o t he m en of t he arm y. This spirit is t he seed of panic, yet also t he source of great ness. Som e coax t he best from it, others fill it with passion. But those who ignore it fail.’

Parm enion had alw ays fed it before t he bat t les, on t raining gr ounds and during m anoeuvres - com ing t o know t he m en under him, filling t hem w it h confidence bot h in t hem selves and t heir general. I t w as a time-consum ing pr ocess, and in t his new w orld t her e had been not enough days for him to work his quiet magic.

The enem y began t o m ove, m ercenary unit s and Regulars m arching out t o t he sound of t he dr um s, linking shields and advancing across the flat plain towards the Spartan centre.

‘Gods, but I could do w it h a piss,’ said Helm, his deep m et allic voice breaking t he sudden silence. Nervous laught er sw elled up around him and t he release of t ension w as alm ost palpable. Parm enion chuckled.

I n t hat m om ent Helm had expressed t he one condit ion know n t o all fighting men: a dry mouth and a seemingly full bladder.

His t im ing had been im peccable and Parm enion glanced at t he enchant ed w arrior beside him. Helm looked up and sm iled, one bronze eye winking. ‘Thank you,’ mouthed the King.

Parm enion cast his expert gaze over t he approaching enem y. Five regiments were advancing, some 15,000 men. A dust-cloud rose up on t he ext rem e left and t he Spart an sw ung his head t o see t he Makedones cavalry out flanking t hem. ‘Daricles! ‘ he y elled and a t all, young bow m an raised his hand. ‘Fan your archers out in case t he cavalry cut back t o at t ack t he rear.’ The m an salut ed and Parm enion returned his attention to the infantry.

So far it w as all going exact ly as he had predict ed, t he cavalry sw inging w ide - hopefully t o at t ack t he cit y - w hile t he infant ry had been left with the task of clearing the way.

Suddenly t he enem y force split, veering left and right, br eaking ranks t o charge t he flanks. War-cries erupt ed in a t errifying w all of sound, and t he pounding of feet upon t he dr y plain drow ned out t he incessant beat of the drums.

Philippos w at ched t he bat t le from his place at t he head of t he Guards.

He had observed w it h disgust t he Spart an slaves m oving int o formation - m en bum ping int o one anot her, shields being dropped - and he felt a lessening of excit em ent. Bat t les w ere usually full of savage j oy and surging em ot ions, but t his one left him dulled, alm ost bored. The chances w ere m ore t han good t hat t he slaves w ould br eak and run even before the Regulars struck.

What followed would be slaughter

Transferring his gaze t o t he red-cloaked Spart ans, he saw t hem m ove sm oot hly from offensive form at ion - a solid phalanx 250 shields w ide and t w ent y ranks deep - t o t he w ider 500-shields line. Their raised spears dropped in a perfect line t hat sent a shiver of appreciation through the Makedones King. Now these were warriors!

The Makedones broke int o a run, t he force split t ing and angling across t he field t o left and right. Philippos sm iled and peered t hrough t he rising dust t o w at ch t he dism ay in t he ranks of slaves. Arrow s and j avelins soared fr om t he Spart an flanks, plunging hom e int o t he charging Makedones. Scores fell, many more tripped over the tumbling bodies. But the charge was now unstoppable.

Excit em ent rose again in t he Makedones King and his hands began t o t rem ble. The slave line on t he right w as breaking, ev en before t he Makedones reached them.

No, not breaking!

Changing!

At first t he King could not believe w hat he w as seeing. The slaves had expert ly linked shields in t he classic Spart an at t ack phalanx and w ere advancing dow n t he hillside. I n t heir hast e t o crush t he enem y t he Makedones had br oken ranks, int ent only on sw eeping aside t hese pret end w arriors. There w ere no bat t le form at ions now, only a dark hor de racing t ow ards t he hills on eit her side. Philippos j erked his gaze to the right. Here also the slaves were advancing, in perfect formation, to meet the charge.

Madness, he t hought. But a t iny sliver of icy fear began t o grow in his mind.

Som et hing here w as w rong. Yet could it m at t er? How could slaves withstand a frontal assault?

The dust rose now, t hick and blinding. The golden eye gleam ed as t he Dem on King’s spirit soared out over t he bat t le-lines. The first Makedones w arriors reached t he slaves - only t o be cut dow n w it h consum m at e ease as sw ords clove int o t heir flesh, t he enem y shields locking like a dam against the surging Makedones tide.

Philippos looked t o t he m ain Spart an force. St ill t hey st ood t heir ground, m aking no effort t o com e t o t he aid of t he slaves on eit her flank.

Now t he charge w as falt ering, t he field lit t ered w it h Makedones dead.

The slaves cont inued t heir advance, hacking and cut t ing, t heir sw ords dripping blood. Desperat ely t he Makedones t ried t o re-form t heir lines, but the slaves gave them no opportunity.

Philippos watched the slaughter and confusion tore through him.

You fool! cam e t he voice in his m ind. Can you not see w hat is happening? ‘Leave me be!’ he screamed.

Parm enion has out w it t ed you. The slaves are t he Spart ans. They have exchanged cloaks and helm s. You have at t acked, in broken form at ion, the greatest warriors in the world! ‘What can I do?’

All is not yet lost. Send in the Guards against the Spartan centre.

‘How will that aid us?’

The Spart ans w ill have t o break off t heir at t ack and it w ill give our troops time to re-form. Do it now, or all will be lost!

Philippos j erked t o aw areness and drew his sw ord. ‘Forw ard! ‘ he shouted.

And 6,000 elit e warriors, t he pride of Makedon, grim - faced and coldeyed, heft ed t heir sw ords and shields and m arched against t he slaves who surrounded the Spartan King.

The City of Sparta Much t o his disgust, Cleander needed t o be carried t o t he roof-t op by t w o young servant s as new s reached t he cit y t hat t he enem y cavalry had been sight ed. Cleander’s ruined lungs had all but given out on him, and he had been forced t o discard even his sim ple leat her breast plat e and helm, t he w eight being t oo m uch for him. His breat hing w as ragged as t he servant s reached t he t op of t he st airs, lifting him to the roof.

A deep shuddering breat h w as follow ed by a racking cough w hich spat t ered crim son drops of blood t o t he w hit e-w ashed st one. Cleander heaved him self upright and m oved slow ly t o t he low parapet ar ound t he building. From here he could look dow n on Leaving St reet. To t he left w as t he bar ricaded agora, t he m arket st alls overt urned and blocking all exit s. To t he right he could see t he open plains and t he distant dust-cloud that heralded the enemy.

Lift ing his hand he sum m oned his m anservant, Dorian, a young Kadm ian born int o his service. The yout h carried a curved oxhorn w hich he lift ed t o his m out h, blow ing a single clear not e t hat echoed across t he cit y. Cleander ‘s gaze raked along t he roof-t ops as t he hidden j aveliners and bow m en show ed t hem selves, raising t heir hands to acknowledge the signal; then they dropped again from sight.

Sw eat dripped int o Cleander ‘s eyes and his face w as ashen below t he deep tan.

‘Lie dow n for a m om ent, sir,’ w hispered Dorian, t aking his m ast er’s arm.

‘I f I lie dow n I shall die,’ he answ ered. I nst ead he knelt by t he parapet. Pain racked his w eary oxy gen-st arved body, but he w illed him self t o go on: t he King had ent r ust ed t o him t he defence of t he cit y, and Cleander w ould be t rue t o his dut y. Once m ore he ran t hrough t he st rat egy, w ondering if any flaw s rem ained t o be discovered by the enemy. He had closed off all streets, bar the Avenue of Kings and t he parallel Leaving St r eet. Bot h led t o t he open m arket - place, w it h it s scores of alleys and side t urnings; but t hese t oo had been blocked w it h st alls and furnit ure from surr ounding hom es. He pictured the unit leaders he had selected. Some concerned him, others w orried him. But t hen t he best of t he w arriors had m arched w it h Parm enion, and it w as point less now t o fret about t he qualit y of t hose left behind.

The enem y w ere closing fast and Cleander could see sunlight glistening on helm s and lances. Ther e w ere t housands of horsem en galloping t ow ards t he cit y and fear leapt in t he Spart an’s heart. Could they hold off so many? ‘Fat her Zeus, give m e st rengt h,’ he prayed. He glanced up at Dorian.

‘Get dow n, boy, and be ready at m y signal.’ Thr ee m en now j oined t hem on t he roof-t op. Tw o carried bow s and several quivers of longshaft ed arrow s; t he t hird placed him self beside t he t w ent y ironpoint ed j avelins rest ing against t he parapet. The j aveliner heft ed t he first w eapon, t est ing it for w eight and balance. ‘Not unt il t he signal,’ warned Cleander and the man nodded and smiled.

I w as a w arrior once, t hought Cleander. Wit h helm and sw ord I w ould have been st anding alongside m y King, cut t ing dow n his enem ies and glorying in m y st rengt h and pow er. Anot her spasm of coughing t ore at his skelet al fram e. Bright light s danced befor e his eyes and he felt him self slipping sidew ays. Dorian seized him, holding him upright.

Cleander’s vision w as blurr ing, dark ness closing in on him. Wit h a suprem e effort of w ill he fought it back, concent rat ing on t he galloping cavalry. He saw t he force separat e and w at ched half of t he riders thunder towards Leaving Street.

I n t he dist ant past Spart a had boast ed a st rong w all but Lycurgus, t he legendary founder of t he w arrior creed, had t old t hem t hat a w all of m en w as st ronger t han a w all of st one, and t he cit y’s defences had been t or n dow n. Such w as t he pride of Spart a, such w as t he st rengt h of t heir arm y t hat at no t im e in t heir hist ory had an enem y ever come close enough to threaten the city.

Until now

As t he cavalry sw ept along Leaving St reet Dorian looked t o Cleander, but t he dying m an shook his head. On t hey cam e, t heir w hit e cloaks st ream ing out behind t hem. Many of t he cavalry w ere Korint hians and w ore lit t le arm our, carrying only lance or sw ord, t heir prot ect ion lying in t he speed of t heir m ount s and t he sm all buckler shields st rapped t o t heir left forearm s. Cleander w ait ed unt il t hey w ere alm ost t o t he end of Leaving St reet, t he colum n st rung out below him. ‘Now! ‘ he whispered.

A long blast blew from t he hor n and m en rose up on every roof-top, javelins slashing through the air in a dark rain of death that ripped into t he invaders’ rank s. Horses w ent dow n in t heir hundr eds, spilling riders t o t he cobbled st reet. Then bow m en began t o rak e t he survivors, who had nowhere to run. White cloaks and tunics blossomed w it h crim son st ains and t he scream s of dying m en echoed t hr ough t he cit y. Oleander w at ched t he slaught er dispassionat ely, t hen t ur ned t o see t he vanguar d of t he colum n riding int o t he agora. Here t hey w ere met with a storm of missiles.

Arm ed slaves clam bered over t he barricades and charged int o t he dem oralized invaders, dragging t hem from t heir m ount s, sharp k nives and hatchets ripping and cleaving into flesh and bone.

The rout ed cavalry fought t o escape, but t he only rout e w as back t he w ay t hey had com e and t he st reet s w ere choked w it h dead horses and men.

And the slaughter continued.

Cleander sagged back to the roof-top.

His vision dar kened, t he m en around him fading and becom ing shadow s. Then a bright figure st epped int o view, seem ing t o em erge from a glist ening m ist. Cleander rose, all pain vanishing, and looked into the eyes of the shining man before him.

‘I did not let you down, sire. The city is safe.’

‘You did w ell, cousin,’ said Parm enion, King of Spart a. Cleander gazed dow n upon his ow n frail body, lying forgot t en as t he fight ing raged on.

So t hin and w ret ched it w as such a pleasure t o be free of it. Then despair touched him. If the King was here, then

‘Did we lose, sire?’

‘Not yet. The battle continues. Come, follow me.’

‘I always have, sire. I always will. But where are we going?’

‘To t he Field of Blood, m y friend. For t here are m any Spart ans t here who will need a guide before this day is over.’

The Field of Blood Despit e t he carnage on eit her side Parm enion felt det ached from t he bat t le, his m ind focused ent irely on t he feel of t he conflict. The Makedones had suffered a t errible reverse; t heir m ercenaries, cut dow n in t heir hundreds, w ere on t he verge of panic. Som e w ere already r unning back, fleeing t he com bat. The Regulars w ere st ill fight ing hard despit e appalling losses, but t hey w ere being forced back by the savage skills of the disguised Spartans.

The bat t le w as not yet w on or lost, but balancing on a k nife-edge. He looked t o his right, w here Leonidas and Tim asion w ere leading t he assault. The Spart ans had form ed a fight ing line 200 shields w ide, and t hey w ere gradually t urning t he enem y back t ow ards t he cent re of t he field. On t he left Learchus w as no longer m aking headw ay, t he gr ound beneath his warriors covered with the bodies of the fallen.

Dust w as billow ing across t he bat t lefield as Parm enion t ransferred his gaze t o t he enem y reserves, t he elit e Makedones Guards. He blinked and narrowed his eyes.

They were advancing.

Cold fear sw ept t hrough him. Next t o t he Spart ans t hese w ere t he m ost disciplined fight ing m en of Achaea, vict ors of a score of m aj or bat t les. On t hey cam e, a solid phalanx of fight ing m en in t ight form at ion, t w ent y r anks at least. The com bined w eight of t heir charge would carry them deep into any stationary enemy line.

Parm enion silent ly sw ore. Had his t roops been t ruly Spart an he w ould now sound t he advance, m oving out t o m eet t he enem y head-on, m at ching t heir form at ion and relying on t he st rengt h of his soldiers t o w it hst and t he charge. But t hey w ere not Spar t ans: t hey w ere houseslaves, m essengers, gardeners and servant s, w it h no experience of war.

I n t hat dread m om ent a sudden realizat ion st ruck him: he had no choice. I f t hey st ood st ill t hey w ould be sw ept aside. Spart ans or no, the strategos was left with only one option.

Attack.

Curiously t his t hought sw ept aw ay all his fears, and from som e deep w ell of his being rose a savage lust for bat t le he had never before experienced.

‘Attack formation!’ he yelled.

The slaves had learned only t w o m anoeuv res during t heir few days of t raining and t his had been one, m oving sm oot hly from a w ide defensive line into a compact attacking unit.

‘Drummers sound the beat!’ shouted the King. ‘By the step three!’

Behind t he bat t le-lines t he t en drum m ers began t o m ar k t he t im e w it h a steady, rhythmic pounding.

Parm enion eased him self int o t he t hird rank as t he m en began t o m arch forw ard t o m eet t he enem y. The first rank carried shield and sw ord, t he m en in t he second w ielding long ironpoint ed spears. Once close t o t he enem y t hese w eapons w ould be low ered, t he m en in t he front line sheathing their swords and helping to guide the spears home w hile t he w ielders, gripping t he haft s w it h bot h hands, ram m ed t hem into the opposing ranks.

Against an illdisciplined force, or t roops w it hout form at ion, such a t act ic w as oft en decisive. But, in t he m ain, close-order t roops w ould block t he spears w it h t heir shields and t he init ial st ages of com bat w ould be dow n t o t he st rengt h and w eight of t he t w o phalanxes as they clashed, like two huge bulls coming together head to head.

‘Level spears! ‘ bellow ed Parm enion and t he w eapons cam e dow n in a ragged line, but t he billow ing dust prevent ed t he enem y from seeing clearly how inexpert ly t he spears w ere brought int o posit ion.

‘Drum m ers by t he st ep four! ‘ The beat quickened, like t he t hudding of an angry heart.

‘Now w e w ill show t hem,’ said Priast es, m oving alongside his King. But Parmenion had no time to answer, for the enemy were close.

The Makedones w ere not m oving as fast as he had ex pect ed. I n fact t hey seem ed hesit ant, t heir line curving - w ider at t he flanks, concave at t he cent re. For a m om ent Parm enion w as nonplussed, t hen realization came to him.

They w ere fright ened! The Guar ds had seen w hat t hey t hought t o be slaves smashing their fighting lines, and now they believed themselves t o be facing t he finest w arriors in t he w orld. The m en at t he cent r e in t he first rank w ere holding back, fearful of t he clash. This had t he effect of com pressing t he Makedones phalanx, rank aft er rank closing and eliminating the vital fighting space between the lines.

‘Drum m ers by t he st ep five! ‘ shout ed Parm enion. The drum beat quickened, the advance gathering speed. ‘Ready spears!’

The Makedones w ere hardly m oving w hen t he Spart ans st ruck t hem.

The second rank spear-carriers t hrew t hem selves forw ard, t he iron point s of t heir w eapons ham m ering int o t he enem y. Tight ly com pressed as t hey w ere, t he Makedones could not block t hem all and t he point s plunged hom e bet w een t heir shields. ‘Wit hdraw spears! ‘ shout ed Parm enion and back cam e t he bloodcovered w eapons, only to stab forward once more.

The Makedones line buckled as hundr eds of w arriors w ent dow n. But the formation did not break.

Again and again t he spear s clove hom e, but now t he Makedones reform ed and began t o fight back. The slaves in t he front rank drew t heir sw ords and t he fight ing becam e hand-to- hand. The Spart an advance slowed.

Gaps began to appear in the front line.

Helm leapt int o one breach, slashing his sw ord across t he face of an advancing Makedones w arrior. ‘Keep close, brot hers! ‘ he shout ed. His voice carried along t he line and t he effect w as inst ant. The slaves gathered themselves, closing the gaps and fighting back.

All forward movement had ceased now and the two forces stood toe to toe, shield to shield.

Parm enion looked around him. Everyw here t he slaves w ere holding t heir ground, and his pride in t hem soared. Cold realit y t ouched t he strategos. The Makedones w ere st ill hesit ant, but soon t hey w ould become aware of the lack of skill and advance again.

And in t hat m om ent he k new how his t w in had felt at Mant inea, t he sweet taste of victory so close to his tongue.

Anot her gap opened before him. Just as he w as about t o leap forw ard t he giant form of Bront es st epped int o t he br each, a huge axe in his hand. The blade slashed dow n, cleaving t hr ough helm and br east plat e to smash a Makedones from his feet.

Tur ning, Parm enion raised his arm. ‘Rear six ranks w ide form at ion! ‘ he called. No one m oved, m en glancing one t o t he ot her, for t his w as not som et hing t hey had pract ised. Parm enion st ifled a curse. ‘Rear six ranks follow me!’ he called again, pointing to the right. The lines began to move. ‘Re-form and attack from the right!’

The m en began t o run, follow ing t he King in his golden arm our as he moved across the battle-lines. ‘Re-form in wide defensive,’ he ordered.

This t he m en underst ood, and sw ift ly t hey grouped t hem selves in t hree ranks 200 shields w ide. I n t he first rank Parm enion drew his sw ord, heft ed his shield and led t hem t ow ards t he Makedones flank.

There were no drummers now, and the dust was thick and choking.

At the last moment the Makedones saw them and tried to turn.

Parm enion knew t he slaves could not break t hrough, but he hoped t hat t he sudden sw it ch of at t ack w ould slow t he enem y as w arriors were forced to defend both front and flank.

To his left he could see the minotaur still cleaving and hacking with his axe, t he Makedones falling back before him - and Helm, fight ing now alongside Attalus in the front line.

A sword slashed for his face. Parmenion deflected it with his shield and st abbed out his ow n blade in response, but t his t oo w as blocked.

Dropping t o one knee, t he Spart an t hrust his sw ord under t he Makedones shield. The blade t ore t hrough t he m an’s leat her kilt, slicing int o his groin. Wrenching t he w eapon clear, Parm enion r ose t o block another attack.

All around him the slaves pushed forward.

But the Makedones held them off.

And the enemy line began to move inexorably forward.

*

Leonidas eased him self back from t he front line and ran sw ift ly up t he hillside, t urning t o look dow n on t he bat t le. Parm enion’s plan had w orked beaut ifully, but t he w eight of num bers w as st ill against t hem.

The Thracian m ercenaries had fled t he field, but t he Spart an could see t heir officers desperat ely t rying t o regroup t he survivors. Given t im e they would return to the battle.

Squint ing t hrough t he dust, Leonidas saw t hat Parm enion w as leading his disguised slaves against t he Guards, w hile on t he far left Learchus, hard-pressed by t he Makedonian Regulars, w as m aking lit t le headw ay.

As w it h all bat t les t he first t o fall w ere t he less skilful, t he w eak, t he slow, t he inept. Now only t he real fight ing m en rem ained, and t here w as no quest ion of t he bravery of t he Makedones. St unned and dem oralized by t he early charge, t hey w ere now show ing t heir discipline and the battle was slowly beginning to turn in their favour.

The field w as lit t ered w it h corpses, t he vast m aj orit y being t he Makedones or t heir m ercenaries, but Spart ans had fallen t oo and Leonidas ran an expert eye over his fight ing lines. He had begun w it h 2,500 men under his command; just over 2,000 remained in a phalanx 200 shields wide, ten ranks deep.

Against t hem w ere ranged som e 4,000 I llyrian irregulars in t heir red breast plat es and horned helm s. Tough, seasoned fight ers, but illdisciplined. Leonidas’ regiment was pushing them back, but the enemy were far from either panic or retreat.

Leonidas w as racked by indecision. The slaves could not w it hst and t he m ight of t he Guar ds, and Learchus on t he left needed support. Yet if Leonidas w as t o send any t r oops t o t heir aid, his ow n force w ould not be able to withstand the Illyrians.

Nevertheless a decision had to be made.

Then he saw Parm enion leading t he flank at t ack against t he Guar ds. I t w as a courageous m ove, but doom ed t o failure unless support ed. His decision made, Leonidas ran back to the battle.

‘Rear five fight ing w edge left! ‘ he shout ed. ‘For m at ion Ten! ‘ The rear five ranks of his regim ent m oved sm oot hly t o t he left, re-form ing t en ranks deep, fift y shields across, Leonidas at t he cent re w it h t w o officers on either side of him. ‘The King!’ he bellowed.

The m en in t he first rank heft ed t heir shields and began t o m arch, angling t o t he left. The I llyrians, scream ing t heir bat t le-cries, hurled themselves against the weaker right flank of the phalanx. This was the danger Leonidas had braved. Shields w ere alw ays carried on t he left arm, and w hen a regim ent sw ung t o t he left t he right side of t he phalanx w as open t o at t ack, for t he shields faced inw ards. But he had no choice. To order a sw it ch t o t he m ore st andard fight ing square w ould m ake forw ard m ovem ent alm ost im possible. The m en on t he right had only t heir sw ords t o fend off t heir at t ackers, yet st ill t hey w ere Spart ans and t he I llyrians suffered heavy losses as t hey t ried t o crash through the phalanx.

Worse w as t o com e, Leonidas knew, for as t hey fought t heir w ay forw ard t he I llyrians w ould m ove in behind t hem. He could only hope t hat Tim asion, w it h t he t roops left under his com m and, w ould see t he danger and launch a counter-attack to defend the rear.

‘At the slow run!’ shouted Leonidas. There were no drummers to sound t he beat, but t he Spart ans responded inst ant ly, t he front line sw inging furt her left. Leonidas glanced back. Tim asion had order ed his m en t o advance int o t he breach creat ed by Leonidas, and t he harrying Illyrians were now caught between two forces.

A gap opened before t he fight ing w edge and Leonidas could see Parm enion and his w arriors bat t ling t o cont ain t he Guar ds. The huge m inot aur and t he w arrior w it h t he m et al face were now surr ounded by the enemy, but giving no ground. ‘The King!’ yelled Leonidas again.

‘The King!’ came the thundrous response from the Spartans.

He saw Parmenion glance back. Immediately the King ordered his men t o pull aside, creat ing room for t he charging Spart ans t o ham m er hom e against t he Guar ds’ left. The enem y flank crum pled under t he sudden assault, t he Spart ans pushing deep int o t he Makedones square.

For t he first t im e Leonidas saw t he Dem on King at t he cent re of his regiment, a bright sword in his hand.

All w as chaos now, t he bat t le no longer t he st andard parallel lines of opposing forces. By breaking t he Spart an right Leonidas had gam bled everything on crushing the enemy centre.

But here stood the Demon King. And he was invulnerable.

*

Even in t he t hick of t he fight ing, his sw ord-arm w eary, Parm enion knew t hat t he pivot al point in t he bat t le had been reached. He could feel it, in t he sam e w ay t hat a runner senses t he presence of an unhear d rival closing behind him. The Makedones w ere fight ing furiously, but t here w as an edge of panic in t hem. For years t hey had fought and w on, and s t his bat t le w as t o have been t heir easiest vict ory. That ex pect at ion had] been cruelly crushed, and t heir m orale was now brittle and ready to] crack.

Parmenion blocked a savage thrust, slashing his own blade through his attacker’s neck in a deadly ripost e. The m an fell back, and for a m om ent Parm enion w as clear of t he act ion. He sw ung, looking t o t he left w here Learchus and his regim ent w ere once m ore m aking headw ay against t he Regulars. To t he right and rear Tim asion w as urging his men forward into the Illyrians in a bid to reach the centre of the field.

All around t he King t he slaves w ere st anding firm, t hough t heir losses were great, and Parmenion felt afresh the surging determination not to lose. These men deserved a victory.

But t here w as no place for st rat egy now. Am id t he carnage of t he bat t leground t here w as room only for st rengt h of arm, allied t o t he courage of t he hum an spirit. The Makedones fought only for conquest and plunder, w hile t he slaves w ere fight ing for t heir freedom and t he Spart ans bat t ling for cit y, hom e and honour. The difference w as significant as t he t w o arm ies, t heir form at ions broken, fought m an t o man on the blood-soaked field.

A movement on the hilltops to the south-west caught Parmenion’s eye.

The sw irling dust m ade ident ificat ion difficult at first, t hen t he King saw t he giant form of Gorgon m oving dow n t he slope. Behind him cam e hundreds of beast s from t he forest, som e rept ilean and scaled, ot hers covered in m at t ed fur. Many w ere arm ed w it h crude clubs of knot t ed oak, but m ost needed no w eapon save fang and claw. Vores circled above t hem and, at a signal from Gorgon, sw ooped dow n ov er the Makedones ranks to hurl their poison-tipped darts.

The Mak edones at t he r ear saw t he m onst ers approaching - and panicked. Throw ing aside t heir w eapons t hey fled t he bat t lefield.

Ot hers, w it h m ore courage, t ried t o link shields against t his new enemy.

The forest creat ures fell upon t he Makedones w it h t errible force, t heir t alons slicing t hrough arm our and chain-m ail, ripping flesh and snapping bones like rotten wood. Nothing could withstand them.

The Guards’ defences collapsed.

One m om ent t hey w ere an arm y, t he next a seet hing, fright ened horde desperate to escape.

Gorgon, w ielding t w o iron clubs, clove int o t heir ranks, sm ashing m en from t heir feet. His pale eyes glow ed. Warriors in his pat h scream ed and froze, t heir bodies st iffening, shrinking, cr um bling t o t he ear t h, dry and withered.

Seeing t he panic am ong t he Guards, t he I llyrians facing Tim asion’s regiment turned and fled.

Now only a t ight - knit fight ing squar e surrounded t he Dem on King.

Philippos drew his sw ord and w ait ed, secure in his invincibilit y. Gorgon broke t hrough t he shield-w all, one huge club ham m ering dow n on t he King’s shoulder. But t he w eapon bounced clear and Philippos leapt forw ard, his sw ord cleaving int o Gorgon’s chest. The Forest Lord st aggered back w it h dark blood gushing from t he w ound. Philippos advanced but Bront es hurled him self forw ard, dropping his axe and curling his huge ar m s around t he King’s fram e. The King st ruggled in his grip, t rying t o t urn his sw ord on t his new at t acker, but Bront es pinned t he King’s arm s t o his side, lift ing him from his feet. Philippos screamed but could not free himself.

The last Makedones resist ance crum pled, m en t hrow ing dow n t heir sw ords and falling t o t heir knees begging for m ercy. At first t hey w ere cut dow n despit e t heir pleas, but Parm enion’s voice rose above t he battle.

‘Enough! Let them live!’

A st range, unnat ur al quiet fell over t he bat t lefield. To t he sout h t he once invincible arm y of Makedon w as fleeing in disorder. Here at t he centre the remaining Makedones laid down their weapons.

Bront es t hrew t he Dem on King t o t he ground, dragging back t he defeat ed m onarch’s arm s and calling for t hongs t o bind him. An archer offered his spare bow st ring. Bront es t ied t he King’s t hum bs t oget her and then stood, watching Philippos struggle to his knees.

Helm st epped forw ard and st ood before Philippos, st aring dow n int o t he King’s face. Then he st aggered and seem ed about t o fall. At t alus leapt to his side, catching him.

‘Are y ou all right?’ t he Macedonian asked. Helm did not answ er and At t alus saw t he bronze face st iffen and sw ell, becom ing solid once m ore. The enchant ed w arrior lift ed his hand t o t he helm he now w ore; it was no longer part of his face.

Yet he did not remove it.

Parmenion moved swiftly to where Gorgon lay, his lifeblood draining to t he chur ned ground. Kneeling beside t he m onst er Parm enion t ook his hand, but could find no words for the dying Titan.

Gorgon’s eyes opened. ‘Surprised to see me?’ asked the Forest King.

‘Yes. But you w ere m ore t han w elcom e, m y friend. I t hink you saved us.’

‘No. They w ere ready t o crack.’ Gor gon st ruggled t o rise, but fresh blood gushed from t he aw ful w ound in his chest. ‘I cannot feel m y legs. Am I dying?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Parmenion.

Gorgon smiled. ‘Curious there is no pain. Will you promise me that my people will have their chance at the Gateway?’

‘Of course.’

‘Your friendship carries a high price. But’ The Forest Lord’s head lolled back and his body began t o t rem ble. The skin of his face seem ed t o shim m er, t he snakes receded. Parm enion rem ained w her e he w as as t he body slow ly changed, becom ing at t he point of deat h the handsome dark-haired man Gorgon had once been in life.

Weary and full of sorrow, Parmenion rose.

Bront es st um bled forw ard, kneeling by his brot her. ‘Why?’ he shout ed.

‘Why did you do t his?’ Taking hold of Gorgon’s shoulders, he began t o shake the body.

‘He cannot hear you,’ said Parmenion softly.

The m inot aur look ed up, his huge brow n eyes st ream ing w it h t ears.

‘Tell me, Parmenion, why he came?’

‘For friendship,’ answered the Spartan simply.

‘He did not understand the meaning of the word.’

‘I t hink t hat he did. Why else w ould he and his people have risked their lives? They had nothing to gain here.’

‘But my own people refused to help you. And yet this creature died for you. I do not underst and.’ Lift ing his horned head, t he minotaur screamed his torment to the skies.

The laught er of Philippos pealed out. That ‘s it! ‘ he called, ‘Wail, you pit iful m onst rosit y. I killed him. Release m e and I ‘ll kill you. I ‘ll kill all of you!’

Bront es lurched t o his feet, gat hering up his axe. Philippos laughed again. The axe-blade ham m ered int o t he King’s face, but t he skin w as not even marked.

Helm st epped forw ard, approaching Parm enion. ‘Let him loose,’ said t he w arrior. The Spart an t urned t o Helm. The voice w as no longer metallic, the helmet now separated from the skin.

‘Your m em ory has ret urned?’ Parm enion asked him, know ing t he answer.

‘It has. Let him loose. I will fight him.’

‘He cannot be killed.’

‘We shall see.’

‘Wait! ‘ w hispered Parm enion. Sw ift ly he unclasped t he necklet, st epping forw ard t o fast en it around Helm ‘s neck. ‘Now he w ill not be able to read your mind.’ The warrior nodded and moved away from the Spart an, draw ing his sw ord. Bront es looked t o Parm enion. ‘Release him.’ Bront es slashed t he axe-blade t hrough t he bindings. Philippos st aggered, t hen right ed him self and sw ung t o see Helm approaching him with sword extended.

The Demon King laughed. ‘The first to die,’ he said, gathering his blade from w here it had fallen dur ing t he st ruggle w it h Bront es. ‘Com e, let me arrange your journey to Hades.’

Helm said not hing but his advance cont inued. Philippos leapt t o m eet him, blade st abbing forw ard in a disem bow elling t hr ust. Helm parried it, sending a reverse cut t hat sliced t hrough t he skin of t he Dem on King’s bicep. Philippos j um ped back, gazing dow n in hor ror at t he blood oozing from the wound.

‘I cannot be hurt!’ he screamed. ‘I cannot!’

Helm paused and, lift ing his left hand, rem oved his helm et. Philippos reeled back, the light fading from his golden eye.

Warriors of bot h arm ies st ood t ransfixed - for facing t he Dem on King was his twin, save that his eye was not gold but the colour of opal.

‘Who are you?’ whispered Philippos.

‘Philip of Macedon,’ the warrior answered.

The Demon King tried a desperate attack, but it was easily parried and Philip’s blade plunged int o his enem y’s t hr oat. Blood bubbled from Philippos’ m out h. ‘That,’ hissed Philip, ‘is for t hreat ening m y son! And t his is for m e! ‘ The sw ord slashed in a glit t ering arc, decapit at ing t he Dem on King. The head fell t o t he left, bouncing on t he har d-packed earth. The body, spouting blood, pitched to the right.

‘Is that dead enough for you?’ asked Philip.

The aft erm at h of t he bat t le proved long and m ind-num bingly com plex.

The disarm ed Makedones w ere herded t oget her and Par m enion called t heir officers t o him. They w ere, he t old t hem, free t o ret ur n t o Makedon, t here t o elect a new King. But first t hey w ere obliged t o sw ear sacred oat hs t hat t hey w ould help t o rebuild t he ruined cit y of Kadm os. This t hey did. The baggage-t rain of t he Makedones w as capt ured, and w it h it t he enorm ous w ealt h accrued by Philippos. This w as t aken by t he Spart ans, but Parm enion prom ised one-half of it t o t he vict im s of Makedones aggression, including t w ent y gold pieces for every slave who had fought alongside him.

The sur viving slaves and half t he Spart an arm y w ere sent back t o t he cit y, w hile Bront es agreed t o lead Gorgon’s follow ers t o t he Giant ‘s Gateway, there to await Parmenion’s arrival.

Em issaries arrived from t he scat t ered I llyrians and Thracians, begging for peace t erm s. These w ere grant ed, on t he underst anding t hat t he warriors returned immediately to their homelands.

During all of t hese negot iat ions Makedones and Spar t an surgeons moved among the wounded of both sides, performing operations under torchlight.

By t he end of t he day m or e t han 11,000 enem y corpses had been counted on the battlefield, another 4,000 slain in the attack on Sparta.

The Makedones dead w ere st ripped of t heir arm our, w hile t heir living com rades dug several m ass graves. The 870 Spart an dead w ould be ret ur ned t o t he cit y for honourable funerals. Of t he slaves m ore t han 2,000 w ere dead. The Spart ans dug a special grave for t hem, and Leonidas promised that a monument would be raised above it.

Long aft er m idnight Parm enion finally ret ired t o t he t ent of Philippos, and was there joined by Philip, Attalus and Leonidas.

‘I do not underst and,’ said At t alus, as t he t hr ee m en relaxed, ‘how t he Demon King was slain. He was said to be invulnerable.’

‘Except t o self-inflict ed w ounds,’ Parm enion t old him w earily. ‘Philip w as is Philippos: t he sam e m en in different w orlds. I w ould im agine t hat t he spell prot ect ing him could not different iat e bet w een the two.’

Leonidas rose. ‘I w ill leave you friends alone t oget her,’ he said. ‘But first m ay I speak w it h you privat ely, sire?’ Parm enion nodded and followed the young Spartan from the tent.

‘I t hink I know w hat you are going t o say,’ w hispered Par m enion, ‘and I have not forgot t en m y prom ise. Will you allow m e t o ride t o Spart a one last time to say farewell to Derae?’

Leonidas shook his head. ‘You are w rong, m y friend. I am asking you t o st ay. There is so m uch t o be done now. Who else w ould be King?

Tim asion? He w ill w ant t o go t o w ar w it h Korint hos and Messenia. He w ould seek t o punish our enem ies, creat ing new hat reds. Lycon is t oo young and headstrong. There are no others.’

‘You do yourself an injustice. You would make a fine King.’

Leonidas smiled. ‘Not so, Parmenion. I am a warrior, that is enough for me. Think about what I have said. We need you here.’

The officer w alked aw ay int o t he night, past t he glit t ering t orches t hat lit t he bat t lefield. Parm enion st ood silent ly st aring out over t he plain, then a hand touched his shoulder. ‘There is much to what he says.’

Parm enion nodded. Philip t ook his arm and t he t w o m en st rolled out, avoiding the camp-fires around which the Spartan soldiers slept.

‘This w ould be a good life for you, Parm enion. Here you are rever ed as a saviour. You could build an empire.’

‘I have no w ish for em pires, sire. And I have never desired t o be a King.’ The Spartan sighed. ‘This is not my world.’

‘You k now how m uch I need you, and it w ould hurt like Hades t o lose you. But think carefully about this,’ Philip advised.

‘I shall. But tell me, how did you become Helm?’

Philip sw ore, t hen laughed. ‘The day aft er you left a m an cam e t o see m e, saying he had new s of Alexander. Since he insist ed on seeing m e alone, he w as brought t o m y cham bers. Nat urally he w as searched, but he carried no w eapons. I n fact, apart from his clot hes he had only a sm all leat her pouch cont aining a st one veined w it h gold. A lucky charm, he said. He ent ered t he r oom - and t hat is t he last I rem em ber. I aw oke in a graveyard. Can you believe t hat? How he spirit ed m e here I do not know. Nor do I know w hy he t ook aw ay m y memory and turned my face to metal.’

‘I w ould guess t hat t he m an w as Arist ot le,’ said Parm enion, ‘and I cannot say why he left you with no knowledge of your identity, but the m et al face w as a gr eat prot ect ion. Had y ou been r ecognized as Philippos your life would have been short indeed.’

‘Philippos,’ w hispered t he Macedonian, let t ing t he nam e hang in t he air. ‘Was he t ruly m e? Do you t hink I could be like him? A dest royer, a demon?’

‘No, sire. He was possessed. Driven by a spirit of Darkness.’

‘Even so, his arm y sw ept across t he w orld m uch as m ine has in t he past. I t is not a good feeling t o see such savagery from t he side of t he victims.’ Perhaps it is,’ argued Parmenion.

Philip chuckled. ‘Maybe,’ he agreed. ‘When we get home I shall rethink m y plans. Diplom acy shall be t he key. I shall convince t he At henians, t he Spart ans and t he Thebans t o m ake m e t he leader of Greece. Only t hen w ill I carry t he w ar int o Persia. I shall never be a Philippos, Parmenion. Never.”

‘I do not doubt that, sire. It would never occur to me that you would.’

‘Stop calling me sire. Here you are the King and I am the soldier.’

‘Old habits die hard Philip.’

The Macedonian looked int o Parm enion’s eyes. ‘I w ill not forget w hat you hav e done for m e, and for m y son. You are a good friend, Parm enion; t he best a m an could have.’ Unfast ening t he necklet w hich had prot ect ed his t hought s from t he Dem on King he clasped it ar ound Parmenion’s neck once more.

Suddenly uncom fort able, Parm enion said not hing and t he King laughed, clapping him hard upon t he shoulder. ‘You alw ays w ere uneasy with compliments, Spartan. Come, let us celebrate your victory and get drunk together.’

But w hen t hey ret urned t o t he t ent At t alus w as asleep upon a couch and, aft er only a single goblet of w ine each, consum ed in com fort able silence, Philip also declared him self w eary and set t led dow n on t he floor to sleep.

For a w hile Parm enion lay aw ake, his t hought s j um bled, a series of alm ost kaleidoscopic im ages t um bling t hr ough his m ind. Derae, Phaedra, Thena, Alexander, Leonidas Tw o w orlds and a choice of lives. A king or a general. Derae or Phaedra? The lat t er he did not love, but she had borne his children and duty demanded he return.

To the pit with duty, he thought! Have I no right to happiness?

But t hen he t hought of Alexander and t he beast w it hin him. Anot her Philippos w ait ing t o w reak his evil on t he w orld. ‘I cannot st ay,’ he whispered.

And a deep sorrow flowed through him.

The Giant’s Gateway Alexander sat alone at the edge of a small tree-lined lake, gazing up at t he hillt op t o his left. Upon it, silhouet t ed in t he m oonlight, st ood t he t w in pillars of t he Giant ‘s Gat ew ay, and upon t hem w as a m arble lint el st one deeply et ched w it h w rit ings of a form and language Alexander had never seen.

Three t im es t hat day t he boy had been draw n t o t he st ones, w alking around and bet w een t he pillars t rying t o m ak e sense of t heir hidden m essages. The colum ns t hem selves w ere ornat ely carved and, save for t he m ost subt le differences, ident ical. There w as a sunburst surrounded by eight een spheres on t he left colum n; on t he right t here w ere ninet een spheres. At t he base of each w as a curious carving of w hat appeared t o be t he foot print of a beast w it h four t alons, and higher above it the outline of a crab, or spider, or even a three-headed monster. It was hard to tell what had been intended by the sculptor.

Alexander picked up a st one and skim m ed it across t he surface of t he lake. The Gat ew ay haunt ed his t hinking and he lay back on t he soft grass seeking t he clue he needed. On each pillar, facing inw ard, w as a jutting stone - like fingers pointing at one another. According to legend t he giant w ho creat ed t he Gat ew ay had r eached out from bet w een t he pillars, taking hold of both stones. Then he had vanished.

But Alexander could not copy such an action. As he held the first stone and stretched out his arm, he was still some six feet from touching the second stone.

Doubt crept int o his m ind. Are you t ruly I skander? He had believed he w ould need only t o see t he Gat ew ay in or der for it s secret s t o be revealed.

‘What am I to do?’ he asked the night.

‘What ev er you can,’ cam e a fam iliar voice, and Alexander sw ung t o see Chiron walking down the hillside.

‘You are alive! ‘ shout ed Alexander, pushing him self t o his feet and running t o m eet t he magus. Chiron k nelt t o gr eet him, t aking t he boy in his arms.

‘Yes, I am alive. And glad to be human once more.’

‘But you - Camiron - fell overboard during the storm. I could not locate you. I feared you dead.’

‘Cam iron m anaged t o reach t he shoreline and from t here, lost and confused, headed sout h, com ing at last t o t he w oods. Here t here w ere those who knew him - me - and had t he pow er t o reverse t he Change.

I shall never again be tempted into shape-changing.’

‘Why did you risk it at all so near to Gorgon’s Forest?’

The magus looked aw ay, t hen sm iled ruefully. ‘I had not int ended t he Change. But I w as fright ened, Alexander. Sim ply t hat. The Makedones w ere com ing. Parm enion had decided t o w alk int o t he dem on-haunted dept hs of t he m ost evil place in Achaea.’ He shrugged. ‘I fell asleep, but m y dream s w ere all born of t error. Cam iron at least could out run his enem ies - but w hat I could not have guessed w as t hat t he cent aur w ould discard t he st one of pow er leaving m e t rapped. I t hink in some way he knew that this was his only chance of true life.’

‘Poor Cam iron. He w as so happy t o w ake every m orning w it h his memories intact.’

Chiron sm iled and sat dow n beside t he boy. ‘He could not hav e lived, Alexander. Cent aurs cannot absorb food w hile t heir bodies are m erged. He did not know it, but he w as st arving t o deat h w hen at last he came here. He had no real hope of independent life.’

‘I shall miss him,’ said Alexander.

‘And I shall not,’ t he magus t old him. ‘But let us ret urn t o your problem. What have you discovered about the Gateway?’

‘Lit t le or not hing. The carvings upon t he pillars are not quit e ident ical, but t hat could be considered hum an error - t hough som ehow I doubt it. The j ut t ing st ones are handles of som e kind but, as w it h t he m yt h, it would take a giant to grip them together.’

‘Yet that is the secret,’ said Chiron. ‘The writings inscribed on the lintel are Akkadian, derived from an ancient At lant ean alphabet of fort y-two characters. The Akkadians reduced the alphabet to twenty-nine.’

‘You can read it?’

‘Of course.’

‘What does it say?’

‘Not hing now of int erest. I t t ells how t he pillars w ere first brought here, list s t he nam es of t he Senior Magus, and t he current King in w hose nam e it w as erect ed, and says t hat t he Gat ew ay w as built in the thousandth year of the Akkadian Empire. That is all.’

‘I had expected more,’ said Alexander, disappointed.

Chiron laughed. ‘Like a list of inst ruct ions? I don’t believe t hat instructions w ere needed in t hose days. The Gat ew ay w as alw ays open.’

‘Then how did it radiate Enchantment?’

‘I do not believe it ever did.’

‘What? You mean I cannot restore the magic to this realm?’

‘I fear not.’

‘Then what can I do?’

‘The Gat ew ays-and t here are m any of t hem - allow ed t ravel bet w een nat ions, w orlds, t im es. I n t he far east t hey are called lung m ei, t he Dragon Pat hs. I n t he w est t hey are know n as t he Dream Gat es, and in the cold, bitter north they are named the Paths of the Gods.’

‘How does t hat help m e, if I cannot use t hem t o ret urn t he Enchantment?’

‘If a horse is too weak to travel to water, then what does the rider do?’

‘He brings water to the horse,’ Alexander replied.

‘Exact ly. You cannot bring t he Enchant m ent t o Achaea. You m ust t hen allow t he people of t he w oods t o pass t hrough t he Gat ew ay t o a w orld where Enchantment is still strong.’

‘Then I must open the Gate?’

‘I believe that is your destiny.’

‘How will I know where to send them?’

Chiron shrugged. ‘I cannot answer that.’

Alexander rose and began t he slow w alk up t he hillside. Chiron followed him and together they examined the pillars anew.

‘This sect ion here, w hat is it?’ asked Alexander, running his fingers over the curving lines that made up the bestial footprint.

‘That is a m ap of Achaea. See, here is Spart a and here t he Gulf of Korinthos.’

‘I do see! The crab t hen is t he Chalcidice, w hat you call t he lands of t he Trident.’ Moving t o t he right - hand pillar, he t raced t he second m ap. ‘And t his is t he sam e - except t hat t he Gulf is m ore narrow. And look, her e t he lands of t he Trident are changed also, t he prongs linked.’

Returning to the first pillar, he looked in amazement at the map. ‘Wait!

Now there is no Gulf of Korinthos. What is happening here, Chiron?’

‘As you t ouch t hem t hey change,’ w hispered t he magus. ‘Now t he one on t he right is not Achaea at all. All t he islands have linked t o t he mainland.’

As t hey w at ched t he m aps began t o w rit he and change fast er and fast er, in a bew ildering series, as if an invisible hand w as draw ing charcoal lines across the stone.

Alexander m oved closer t o t he left - hand pillar, reaching out and t ouching his finger t o a sm all indent at ion at t he cent re of t he low er m ap. The m ovem ent of lines st opped im m ediat ely. Slow ly t he shift ing maps on the right-hand pillar also slowed and froze.

Chiron leaned back, hands on hips. ‘That is at least an answ er in part,’ he said. ‘This w as how t hey set up t he Gat ew ay. One m ap m ust be of t his w orld, t he second set s up t he dest inat ion point. I do not believe it is a t im e port al. I have seen t hose and t hey are m uch larger, full circles of st one. Yet it is m ore com plex t han ot her Ak kadian Gat ew ays used t o t ravel t he lengt h of t he em pire. This m ust be one of t he legendary Six Gateways to alternate worlds.’

‘Where are the others?’

‘One you have already t ravelled: Philippos drew you t hrough it. Ther e is anot her I know of in t he east, but t he pillars w ere sm ashed by superst it ious t ribesm en. The ot hers? I don’t know. Below t he sea, perhaps, w it h lost At lant is. Or under t he new ice at t he far edges of the world?’

‘How can I open the Gateway?’ Alexander asked.

‘I don’t know,’ adm it t ed Chiron, m oving bet w een t he pillars and exam ining t he st one handles. ‘The Guar dians of t he Gat es possessed st ones of Sipst rassi, nugget s of pow er. I t oo have several, but m y st ore of t hem is far aw ay and t herefore of no use t o us. But one t hing is cert ain - t his Gat ew ay w as once aligned t o ot her port als. At som e point in time these alignments were severed.’

They exam ined t he Gat ew ay for anot her hour, but w eariness overt ook Alexander and he lay dow n bet w een t he pillars t o sleep. He dream t of Pella and his fat her’s palace, and of Parm enion. The dream w as full of anxiet y and fear, for a dark m ist hovered at t he edge of his vision and alw ays he refused t o t urn his head and look at it. I t hung t here, never moving, black and forbidding.

At last Alexander could bear it no m ore and he spun t o find him self gazing on a m irror w it hin a fram e of sm oke. His ow n reflect ion gazed back at him.

‘You are not me,’ he said.

‘You are not me,’ the mirror replied, then the image laughed and horns erupt ed from it s t em ples t o curl back over it s ears. ‘You cannot open t he Gat ew ay w it hout m e,’ said t he Chaos Spirit. ‘You k now t hat, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Alexander admitted.

‘What will you offer me to help you?’

‘Nothing,’ said the boy.

‘Not hing? The people of t he Enchant m ent w ill t ear you t o pieces if you fail them.’

‘Exact ly,’ said Alexander, his voice grow ing in confidence. ‘Only you can prevent it.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Come, you do not need m e t o answ er t hat. Where are you w it hout me?’

‘I t w ould not kill m e,’ t he Spirit t old him. ‘I t w ould m erely m ean m ore waiting until another vessel is ready.’

‘But you are impatient,’ the boy pointed out.

‘That is t rue,’ adm it t ed t he Spirit. ‘But I ask again, w hat w ill you give me?’

‘We w ill st rike no bargains,’ said Alexander. ‘I t is enough t hat w e return to our own world, there to continue whatever battles await.’

‘I will have you, you know,’ the Spirit whispered. ‘Just as my brother in t his realm had Philippos. Ah, w hat j oys aw ait, Alexander. And you w ill share t hem. You should not hat e m e; I am here t o bring y ou your heart’s desire.’

‘At the moment my desire is to be rid of this place.’

‘Then it shall be so. You have seen t he pillars and t he m aps upon t hem. But look t o t he upperm ost carvings. They are st ar m aps. You m ust align t hese, as w ell as t hose of t he eart h below. When t he original set t ings are duplicat ed, t he Gat e w ill glow int o life. Think of it like a m an st anding bet w een t w o m irrors, each facing aw ay from him.

As t hey t urn t here w ill com e a point w here he is perfect ly reflect ed in bot h. When t his happens, t he Gat ew ays w ill draw t oget her and becom e one. Then t he second w orld w ill be open t o t he creatures here.’

‘But t hat m ight send t hem t o our w orld. I don’t w ant t hat. They w ould suffer t here as t hey suffer here. I ndeed it w ould be w orse, for at least t he people here have know n of t hem alw ays. I n Gr eece t hey w ould be feared, hated and slaughtered.’

‘Once t hey exist ed - even in Greece. How else did you com e by your fables? And as for despair - t hat is a feeling t hey w ill know w herever t hey are,’ t he Chaos Spirit explained. ‘I t is t heir nat ure, for t hey are incom plet e. The old gods used t hem - creat ed t hem - for t heir ow n pleasures. They are like left - over t oys, Alexander. The w ar w as everyt hing t o t hem. Winning it w as t he deat h of t hem. How ever, w e shall help t hem, brot her, you and I. We w ill find t hem a w orld w her e they can fight anew.’

‘You can do this?’ Alexander asked.

‘We can do it,’ answ ered t he Spirit. Toget her w e can do anyt hing.

Never forget that. Now let us begin.’

Alexander aw oke. Chiron lay beside him, asleep and snoring. The prince rose and gazed up at t he left - hand pillar. ‘Clim b it,’ ordered t he Chaos Spirit.

I t w as not difficult, for t he carvings m ade good hand-and foot - holds.

Alexander scaled the pillar, traversing to the front. Just above his head w as a carved spher e surrounded by sm aller globes. ‘Touch your hand t o t he cent ral st one,’ said t he Spirit. Alexander did so and, like t he m aps earlier, t he st ones began t o shim m er and m ove. ‘I t is realigning itself,’ said the Spirit. ‘Now climb the second pillar.’

Alexander did so, but did not reach out w hen or dered. ‘What is t he matter, brother?’ the Spirit asked.

‘How can I t rust you? For all I know you w ill send t hese creat ures t o a world of doom and dread.’

‘I ndeed I w ould,’ adm it t ed t he Spirit. ‘But you are I skander, t he promised one. You will not send them there.’

‘I do not understand you.’

‘Your com ing w as foret old, young prince. The Gat ew ay has been waiting for you. The alignments are already set, awaiting you. Can you not see? In this you are merely an instrument of destiny. The last man t o pass t hese Gat es deliberat ely m isaligned t hem. Only your hand can make the magic flow.’

Yet st ill Alexander did not m ove. ‘What m ore can I say t o you?’ ask ed the Spirit. ‘Tell me how I can convince you.’

The prince did not reply. Slow ly his hand reached out t o t ouch t he st one globe. The pillar began t o vibrat e, alm ost shaking Alexander loose. Sw ift ly he clim bed dow n, st epping back from t he Gat ew ay. The grey st one began t o shine, and a st range sm ell like burning leaves filled the air, acrid and unpleasant.

Chiron aw oke and scram bled t o his feet, m oving back t o j oin Alexander. ‘You solved the mystery?’

‘I believe so.’

The st ones shone m ore brilliant ly now, silver in t he m oonlight, t he m aps and carved script glow ing w it h flam es t hat licked out from t he cut s in t he st one. The globes w ere also aflam e, like m iniat ure suns, and the hillside was bathed in light.

The Gat ew ay it self began t o shim m er, and t hrough it could be seen a plain bet w een m ount ains and a dist ant forest lit by glorious sunshine.

Alexander st epped forw ard, int ending t o pass t hrough t he Gat ew ay, but Chiron’s hand gripped his shoulder. ‘No,’ w hispered t he magus. ‘I t is not yet open.’

The creat ures of t he Enchant m ent m oved out from t he t ree-line.

Alexander turned to look at them. They were moving slowly, their eyes gazing in aw e upon t he gleam ing port al. This m om ent, he knew, had been in t heir dream s for cent uries. For t hem, t his w as t he culm inat ion of all t heir hopes. I n a great half-circle t hey spread out at t he foot of t he hill: cent aurs, dryads, nym phs, t all m en w it h huge w ings grow ing from t heir shoulders, dark - skinned Vores, rept iles, m inot aurs; a seething, silent mass, edging forward.

The sunlight of anot her w or ld bat hed t he scene in gold, shining upon t he faces of t he host. And no one spoke. Not a sound cam e from t he creatures of the Enchantment.

Alexander ‘s m out h w as dry, and he felt t he w eight of t heir expect at ion like a boulder upon his heart.

Closing his eyes, he sought out Thena; she w as sit t ing alone at t he centre of the woods. Alexander felt her sorrow, but then it was as if an iron mask had fallen into place, shielding her.

‘What do you require of me?’ she asked him.

‘I need you to make a journey,’ he told her. Her spirit flowed from her.

Keeping his eyes closed, his concent rat ion t ot al, he w at ched w it h his spirit as t he seeress passed t hrough t he shim m ering Gat ew ay. She returned within moments.

‘It is a world of savagery and pain,’ she told him.

Once m ore Alexander clim bed t he right - hand pillar, t ouching his fingers to the stones.

Now t he Gat ew ay changed colour again, t his t im e shining like polished gold. The view between the pillars altered, becoming a pale blue ocean lapping against a beach of w hit e-gold sand. ‘Travel t here,’ Alexander told Thena.

‘There is no need,’ her spirit told him. ‘I can feel the Enchantment. It is pure and born of joy.’

*

The w oods w ere silent as Parm enion, Philip and At t alus rode bet w een t he t rees. The m oon w as high, her silver light bat hing t he w oods and glist ening from st ream and rock. But t here w as no sign of life as t he trio rode ever deeper.

Thena’s v oice echoed in Parm enion’s m ind. ‘Keep m oving sout h unt il you reach a waterfall, then turn west.’

They rode for j ust under an hour, em er ging at last int o a w ide clearing filled w it h creat ures of t he Enchant m ent: cent aurs, cyclopes, w inged men and women, dryads and fauns. Parmenion dismounted and bowed as the white-haired goddess approached him. Her naked body gleamed in t he m oonlight, but t here w as not hing about her t hat aroused t he Spart an. Et hereal and exquisit e she seem ed, far beyond t he lust s of a mortal man.

‘Welcom e, Parm enion,’ she said. ‘Your road has been long and perilous.’

‘Yet we are here, Lady,’ he answered. ‘Where is the boy?’

‘He is examining the Gateway. Tell me how my son died.’

‘Among friends,’ Parmenion told her.

She nodded and sm iled. ‘That is good t o k now. At least a spark of nobility remained in him.’

‘More than that, I think.’

‘I n a t housand years he befriended no one. What special qualit y do you possess?’

‘None that I know of.’

The goddess m oved aw ay from him, facing Philip. ‘Lit t le did I expect ever t o speak t o one w it h your face, sir. Even now I can scarce bring myself to look upon you.’

‘I am not Philippos.’

‘I know that. You fought well.’

‘I t w as not hard t o kill him. All his life he had been invincible, and therefore had no need to learn basic defence.’

‘You are a King in your own land?’ I am.’

‘And do you also bring despair and terror to your neighbours?’

‘I do,’ he adm it t ed. ‘I t is t he nat ur e of Greece, Lady. We are alw ays at w ar. But soon w e w ill be as one nat ion; t hen w e w ill cease t o kill each other.’

‘Under your rule, of course?’

‘Of course,’ he agreed.

‘Not hing changes,’ she said sadly, m oving on t o At t alus. ‘And y ou, sir, what have you learned from your visit to this realm?’

The swordsman shrugged. ‘Little I did not know.’

‘I s t hat r eally t rue? Have y ou not at least seen yourself in a different light?’

Attalus smiled. ‘I know who I am, what I am. I have no illusions.’

‘But you faced t he Dem on King and did not buckle. Did t hat not m ake you proud?’

‘No. I came too close to giving in. There is no pride in that.’

‘You are wrong, Attalus. You cam e here w it h hat red and bit t erness, and you will leave much of it behind when you depart. Is that not so?’

‘Yes,’ he admitted.

The goddess moved back to Parmenion, taking his arm and leading him aw ay int o t he t rees. ‘You found love here, Human,’ she said. ‘Will you leave it behind you?’

‘I will, for I must,’ the Spartan told her.

‘Your guilt still haunts you, then?’

‘It does. I must see that Alexander lives. The demon is still within him, as it w as w it h Philippos. He will need a t rue friend - som eone w ho cares, someone who loves him.’

‘I ndeed he w ill.’ She st opped t hen and t urned t o look up int o Parmenion’s face. ‘You know that he will one day kill you?’

‘All men die, and no future is written in stone.’

‘Not so. Not for you. Alexander w ill kill you, Par m enion. I t is w rit t en in t he st ars, it is carried in w hispers upon t he w ind, it is carved in t he stone eternal. You cannot escape it.’

‘We shall see,’ he told her, his mouth suddenly dry.

‘You are a good m an,’ she said, aft er a w hile, ‘and you w ill carry m y blessing with you. There is little power in it any more, but a blessing is always better than a curse.’

‘I ndeed it is,’ t he Spart an replied. ‘Are all our fut ures set in t his st one eternal?’

‘No. Only yours and Alexander’s. And now it is t im e t o seek t he Gateway, to leave this tortured realm. Come - and bid us farewell.’

*

Parm enion st ood alongside Philip at t he cent re of t he vast, silent t hrong w ait ing before t he Gat ew ay. High above t hem t he m oon shone clear and bright, t he st ars gleam ing like gem s on sable. But beyond the Gateway all was sunshine which lit the hillside with golden light.

‘The magus l’ said Philip suddenly, point ing t o Chiron. ‘That ‘s t he sorcerer who cast the spell upon me!’

‘I t hink not, sire,’ Parm enion t old him. ‘That is Chiron. He is of t his world.’

‘If I see any more twins I shall go insane,’ muttered Philip.

Alexander w alked back to t he pillars, taking hold of the j ut t ing st one on the right and stretching out his hand towards the other stone. For a moment only he stood, t hen his head fell back, dark sm oke oozing from his nost rils and m out h t o flow down over his chest and along his arm. The sm oke t ook shape, becom ing anot her Alexander - horned and yellow - eyed, a bizarre and deform ed m irror im age. Holding t o Alexander ‘s hand, t he Chaos Spirit reached out and took hold of t he second stone.

I n t hat inst ant light ning forked bet w een t he pillars. Alexander w as flung forward to the ground, the Chaos Spirit hurled into the air.

The voice of Tamis echoed in Parmenion’s mind. ‘The necklet! Put it on the boy!’

Parm enion ran for w ard, kneeling by t he unconscious prince. Glancing up, he saw t he sm oke form of t he Chaos Spirit float ing dow n t ow ards t hem. Unclipping t he necklet he fast ened it around Alexander ‘s neck.

The smoke covered the child but then a cool breeze blew, dispersing it.

Alexander opened his eyes. ‘Is the Gate open?’ he asked.

Parmenion looked up. ‘Yes,’ he answered. The first of the centaurs was moving between the pillars.

Alexander st ruggled t o rise. ‘I cannot sense t he Dar k God,’ he whispered.

‘He is not w it hin you,’ Parm enion t old him. ‘You ar e w earing now a necklet of great pow er. No evil can ent er y our m ind as long as it remains in place.’

Philip m oved alongside t hem t o kneel by his son. ‘You did w ell, boy,’ said t he Macedonian King, reaching out. Alexander em braced his father and Philip rose, holding the boy to his chest.

Parm enion sighed and st ood. The creat ures of t he Enchant m ent w ere slowing filing through the Gateway into a new world.

The w hit ehaired goddess approached him. ‘What ever else t he fut ure holds, Parmenion, be proud of this day.’

‘I shall, Lady.’

Wit h a sm ile she t urned and w alked t hrough t he Gat e. At last only Chiron and Bront es w ere left and t he magus w alked t o Parm enion, ext ending his hand. ‘Sadly I m issed m ost of your j our ney,’ he said, ‘and was of little help to you.’

‘You did enough,’ Parm enion assured him. ‘You rescued us from t he Vores on t hat first day and, as Cam iron, you carried Alexander t o safety in the Forest of Gorgon. What will you do now?’

‘I shall pass the Gateway and see what the new world offers. But there are many gates, Parmenion, and I feel we will meet again.’

‘I will look forward to it.’

Chiron bade farew ell t o Alexander and Philip w hile t he m inot aur approached Parmenion.

‘I shall not forget you, Human,’ said Brontes.

‘Nor I you.’

‘You gave m y brot her a chance of redem pt ion; I believe t hat he t ook it. For that alone I will always be grateful. May the gods walk with you, Parmenion.’

‘And w it h you,’ said t he Spart an, as Bront es m oved aw ay bet w een t he pillars.

As Bront es passed t hrough t he Gat e t he pillars shim m ered once m ore, darkening to the grey of cold stone and the world beyond flickered and was gone.

Attalus approached Parmenion. ‘What now, strategos?’ he asked.

The Spar t an shrugged, all ener gy leaving him. Moving t o a nearby t ree, he sat w it h his back t o t he t r unk. I n a few short days he had t ravelled half-w ay across a st range land, fought a m aj or bat t le and know n, albeit briefly, t he life of a King. Now his body w as num b w it h fatigue, his mind confused and weary.

He heard Thena’s soft foot falls and sm iled as she sat beside him.

‘What now?’ he asked, echoing Attalus’ enquiry.

‘We wait for Aristotle,’ she said. ‘Did you enjoy being King?’

‘Yes,’ he adm it t ed. ‘I found m y love t here. Der ae.’ He sighed and t ears began t o w ell in his eyes. Clearing his t hroat, he look ed aw ay for a moment.

‘You could stay,’ Thena whispered.

‘No. My dest iny is beyond t his w orld. I m ust rem ain w it h Alexander.

What will you do?’

‘Return to my Temple. I am a Healer and there are those who need my skills.’

‘You sound sad, lady. You should not be,’ he t old her, reaching out t o take her hand.

‘Life is full of sorrow,’ she replied, ‘and yet it is still life. You are a good m an. I hope you find happiness.’ She rose and w alked aw ay dow n t he hillside and into the trees.

Arist ot le’s voice w hispered int o her m ind, echoing as if from a vast distance: ‘Have the creatures passed the Gateway?’

‘Yes.’

‘All of them? Every one?’

‘Yes, all of them. Including your twin.’

‘Then help me come through to where you are.’

‘How?’

‘Hold to my voice. Picture me. The Sipstrassi will do the rest.’

Derae felt a pull on her spirit and w as alm ost t orn from her body.

Crying out she resist ed t he force, but pain ripped t hrough her and she cried out again. As suddenly as it had com e it vanished and a m ist y figure form ed before her, slow ly becom ing Arist ot le. The magus st aggered and fell t o his knees, his fingers convulsively digging int o the solid earth beneath him.

‘That was a hard journey,’ he said. ‘You did well, Derae.’

‘Send me back,’ she said softly, ‘and in my own form.’

‘But you wish to keep your youth, surely?’ he asked, rising.

‘No,’ answered Thena-Derae, ‘I wish to be as I was.’

He shook his head in disbelief but raised his hand hi w hich a golden st one shone bright ly. Her dark hair becam e again silver, shot w it h fading red, t he skin of her face sagging int o m iddle age, her eyes clouded and once m ore blind. ‘How could you w ant t his?’ w hispered Aristotle.

‘It is who I am,’ she answered. ‘Now send me back.’

‘You have said your farewells?’

‘I have said all that can be said.’

Arist ot le lift ed his hand. The golden st one gleam ed and soft light covered the priestess. When it faded, she was gone.

He made his way up the hillside to where the others waited.

‘Chiron!’ shouted Alexander. ‘You came back!’

‘Yes, I did,’ answered the magus. ‘I have come to take you home.’

‘Which one is this?’ asked Philip stonily.

‘This, I believe, is Aristotle,’ said Parmenion with a grin.

‘Are you sure?’

‘What do you think, Attalus?’

‘I agree. This is Aristotle, sire.’

‘Good,’ said Philip. He t ook a deep br eat h. ‘You w horeson! ‘ he r oar ed, advancing on the magus.

Arist ot le leapt back in sudden surprise and fear. ‘I t had t o be done, sire!’ he said.

‘Why did you take my memory?’

‘That is hard t o ex plain but, if you w ill give m e t he chance, I w ill t ell all.’

‘I for one would like to hear it,’ said Parmenion softly.

Philip folded his hands across his chest. ‘Com e t hen, magus, for I like a good tale,’ he hissed, his eyes still angry.

Arist ot le set t led him self dow n w it h t he ot hers before him in a semicircle. ‘I am called Aristotle’ he began.

‘We know t hat, dam n you! Get on w it h it,’ st orm ed Philip and t he magus raised a hand for silence.

‘In my own way, my lord, if you please. I am now Aristotle - but once I w as Chiron and I lived here w it h t he people of t he Enchant m ent. This is w here I first m et Parm enion, and Helm, t he w arrior w it h no memory, and Attalus the swordsman. Here in this world I also saw, for the first time, the Golden Child Iskander. And - as you have just seen - 1 passed t hrough t his Gat ew ay w it h t he exodus of t he children of t he Titans. For you it is but moments. But for me it is four centuries since I left this realm.’

‘What happened to you then?’ asked Parmenion.

‘I explored m any lands, t hr ough m any cent uries. I found ot her gat es, pat hs bet w een w orlds. I j our neyed far. But I longed for hum an com pany and so, at last, I cam e t o Asia and t hen Greece - and hear d once more of Parmenion. And I realized I had travelled a great circle in Tim e: I had arrived at a point before he passed t hrough t o Achaea.

This w as a great problem for m e. Could I int erfere? Had I already int erfered? Of course I had, for w hen Parm enion first cam e t o Achaea he t old Chiron t hat a sorcerer in anot her w orld had sent him. That m an, he said, looked j ust like m e. And I realized t oo t hat I w as caught in a dangerous web. I had to recreate everything as it was, or else risk changing t he past - and perhaps dest roying m yself. Such a paradox, m y friends. I sent Parm enion and At t alus t hrough; t hen I sought you out, sire. I could not know w hat advent ures w ould befall you all, for m y m em ories of t his t im e w ere blurred by m y exist ence as Cam iron.

You see m y dilem m a? I could t ell you not hing - for you knew not hing w hen first I m et you. I longed t o com e w it h you, t o help you, but I could not. Some laws are immutable. It is not possible to pass through a Gat ew ay int o a t im e, or a place, w here you already exist. No m an can m eet him self. So all I could do w as w ait, and hope and pray t hat events would fashion themselves as they had before.’

‘For a w hile t here,’ said Philip, ‘I alm ost had a grip on w hat you w ere saying. But underst anding y ou is like t rying t o cat ch a t r out w it h your fingers.’

‘I appreciat e your difficult y,’ Arist ot le t old him. ‘For you t hese adventures w ere new, but for m e t hey w ere part of m y hist ory. They had already happened. I had t o rely on w hat I knew as Chiron. All he knew w as t hat a w arrior called Helm appeared on t he bat t lefield and killed Philippos, and t hat t his m an w as t he King of Makedon in anot her w orld. Chiron I also knew t hat t his King had been robbed of his m em ory. So w hen faced w it h t he problem from t he ot her end of Tim e, I merely recreated the circumstances.’

That ‘s w hat I m ean! ‘ snort ed Philip. ‘Just as I begin t o underst and, it all slips aw ay. But answ er m e t his, w hose idea w as it - originally - t o take away my memories and abduct me?’

‘I t is a circle, sire. Therefor e it has no beginning and no end. There is no one to blame.’

‘No one t o List en t o m e, magus, I am a King, and t here is alw ays som eone for a King t o blam e. That is t he w ay of t he w orld. You cam e int o m y palace and - w it hout a by-your- leave, sire - abduct ed m e.

Give m e one good reason w hy I should not st rike your head from your shoulders.’

Arist ot le spread his hands and sm iled. ‘The only answ er I can t hink of, sire, is t hat w ere you t o t ry it I w ould t urn y ou int o a lizard and t read on you.’

Philip w as silent for a m om ent, t hen he t urned t o Parm enion. I ‘d say that sounds like a good reason.’

‘I agree, sire.’

‘I like you, magus,’ said t he King, ‘but you ow e m e a debt. How w ill you pay it?’

‘How would you like it paid, sire?’

‘Come with us to Pella, as tutor to my son.’

Arist ot le laughed. ‘I w ould have asked for t hat as a gift,’ he said, ‘and willingly accept it as a penance.’

‘Good! Now take us home.’

‘Parm enion has not yet said farew ell t o his Queen,’ point ed out Aristotle, his smile fading. ‘And she is waiting at the foot of the hill.’

Parm enion sighed, pushed him self t o his feet and w alked dow n t ow ards t he t rees. He found Derae sit t ing on a fallen t ree and she stood as he approached.

‘You would have left without seeing me, without saying goodbye?’

‘Yes. It was the coward’s way, I know, but I felt I could not bear to say the words. You have spoken with Leonidas?’

‘He told me everything. Am I like her?’

He nodded. ‘In every way.’

‘So it was not me you loved,’ she said sadly.

‘I t w as you,’ he assured her. ‘At first it w as an im age, a m em ory. But the woman I made love to was you. The woman I love is you.’

‘Yet you cannot stay?’

‘No. I m ust look aft er Alexander. I t is m y dut y and m y life. Will you forgive me?’

She nodded and st epped int o his em brace. Kissing him once on t he cheek, she pushed him gent ly from her. ‘Go t hen,’ she said. ‘Go now - and swiftly. I know that you will return one day. I know of your secret, Parm enion. I know t he reason w hy you m ust t ravel w it h Alexander.

But your dest iny is here and one day you w ill com e back. And I shall be waiting here, just as you see me. I shall be here.’

‘I cannot promise that,’ he said, ‘though I desire it with all my heart.’

‘You do not have t o. Last night I had a dream. A grey-bearded sorcerer appeared t o m e and t old m e t o be here t onight. He said you w ould leave, ret ur ning t o y our ow n w orld. But he also said t hat he would do his best to send you back to me. I will wait.’

Parm enion said not hing. Backing aw ay several st eps, he spun on his heel and strode up the hill.

Arist ot le w as w ait ing, and as t he Spart an cam e alongside him t he magus lifted his arm.

The Gateway shimmered once more

Book Four The City of Mieza, 337 BC The m an called Arist ot le sat alone in t he desert ed gardens of t he school building, gazing t ow ards t he nort h, w at ching t he st orm - clouds loom above t he rearing Bora Mount ains. A cold breeze blew and he shivered, drawing his grey woollen cloak more tightly about his frame.

Glancing back t ow ards t he house he saw his w ife, Pyt hias, gat hering her bs in t he sm all cult ivat ed pat ch of eart h by t he kit chen. I t w ould soon be t im e t o leave, put t ing behind him t he last fourt een years - saying farewell to Mieza, to Macedonia, to Greece.

He sighed. I m m or t alit y w as a bur den and yet, like t he narcot ics of Egy pt, w holly addict ive. To be relieved of t he prospect of deat h only height ened t he fear of dying. The longer he lived t he m ore bored he becam e, t he m ore he longed for t he peace of t he gr ave, t he m ore terrified he became at the thought of it.

And the memories

So m any Three t housand years ago he had alm ost gone m ad w it h t hem. But Pendarric had sav ed him, t eaching him t o use t he St ones m ore w isely. Each life of his past had been reduced t o a single key w ord, locked in his m ind. The Makedones years had becom e I skander.

Merely by sum m oning t he w ord t o conscious t hought he could see again the Golden Child and the shining Gateway, and all the years that preceded it. But now he w as reaching t he point w here even t he k eys shone in his mind like stars, thousands upon thousands.

What is there that is new, he wondered?

The answer came swift as a stab in the heart.

There is nothing that is new under the sun. All is vanity.

He sm iled and unlocked t he key t o t he life he had shared w it h t he Philosopher. Golden days. A t im e w hen t here w ere st ill discoveries t o be made, surprises to be enjoyed.

Why are you so m elancholy, he asked him self? Around t he bench w here he sat w ere a dozen seat s, em pt y now, but not long ago t hey w ere occupied by t he sons of Macedonian nobles - young m en full of hope, nur t uring dream s. And - alw ays at t heir cent re, a bright shining sun in their lives - there was Alexander.

Now you have it, he realized.

Alexander.

Arist ot le rose and w andered t o t he nort her n gat e, pushing it open and w alking out int o t he foot hills of Mount Berm ion. Throughout t he ages he had seen m en, great m en, m en of w isdom, m en of w ar, secure in t heir arrogance, dism issive of t he past. Yet t he past held all t he answ ers t o life’s m yst eries and each successive generat ion unk now ingly locked t hem aw ay. Then searched for t hem in t he unborn futures.

I had high hopes for you, Alexander, he t hought. You have a fine m ind, perhaps t he m ost brilliant since t he Philosopher ruled in Jerusalem. Cert ainly y ou rival Pendar ric in t he days w hen he reigned over Atlantis.

Yet w hat is it t hat calls you? Wisdom? The pursuit of know ledge? No.

You hear t he t rum pet s of w ar, you seek t he Whore of Conquest. Even w it h t he Chaos Spirit locked out side you, st ill you are a m an, and m en will always lust for glory.

And t he ot hers w ill follow you. He pict ured t hem, t heir young faces bright w it h longing for a fut ure t hey knew t o be rich w it h prom ise:

Pt olem y, Nearchos, Philot as, Nicci, Derdas and t he ot hers. Like all young m en, t hey revelled in t heir st rengt h and w ere scornful of t he deeds of their fathers.

Arist ot le st opped by a t rickling st ream, sit t ing w it h his back t o a boulder out of t he w ind. A haw k sw ooped out of t he sky, dropping like a st one, his t alons ripping int o a young rabbit j ust em erging from it s burrow int o t he dusk. The capt ur ed beast did not st ruggle as t he bird sw ept back int o t he air, it hung lim ply in t he haw k’s grip. Arist ot le’s spirit reached out to touch the creature. It was dead.

‘A curse on all hawks,’ he said aloud.

‘He has mouths to feed,’ said a voice. Aristotle looked up and smiled at t he t all figure m oving t hrough t he shadow s of t he t rees t o sit beside him. The m an set t led him self, w incing as his art hrit ic knee refused t o bend.

‘I t hought I ‘d find you here,’ said Parm enion, rem oving his helm and running his hand t hrough his sw eat - soaked iron-grey hair. ‘Philip wants you to come to Pella for the wedding.’

Aristotle shook his head. ‘I shall not be there, Parmenion.’

‘Philip will not be best pleased ‘

‘His anger is im m at erial t o m e. I shall be w alking t he Dragon Pat hs t o other worlds.’

‘And Pythias?’

‘I w ill leave her m oney. She w ill not m ourn m y passing; she k ept m y bed w arm, but t here is lit t le love bet w een us.’ He looked deeply int o Parm enion’s face, seeing t he sharply chiselled lines, t he dark sm udges below the bright blue eyes. ‘You look tired, my friend.’

Parm enion shrugged. ‘I am sixt y-t hree years old. I expect t o be t ired after a long campaign.’

‘Surely you can rest now? Since Philip crushed t he At henians and Thebans at Chaironeia he has becom e, in all but nam e, t he Lord of Greece. Where now are his enemies?’

‘Everywhere,’ replied Parmenion, with a wry smile.

‘I accept t hat,’ said Arist ot le, ret urning t he sm ile, ‘but I m eant w here are the enemies that can cause him harm? There are no armies left for him t o conquer. He rules from Thrace t o Epirus, from Paionia t o Thessaly. Every one pays him hom age - even At hens. I hear t hey erected a statue to him after Chaironeia. Unbelievable!’

‘Not really. The At henians expect ed us t o m arch on t heir cit y and ransack it. I nst ead Philip ret urned t heir dead w it h full m ilit ary honours and sued for peace. Their relief was immense.’

‘Why did he spare t hem? At hens has been a t horn in his side for years.’

Parm enion shrugged. ‘Philip has alw ays rem em bered t he deeds of his t w in in Makedon. He w as det erm ined never t o repeat such evils. But also he has a greater dream: he looks to extend his realm to the east.’

‘Where else can he go? He cannot take on the might of Persia.’

‘He has no choice. Macedonia now has a huge arm y - cavalry, siegeengineers, m ercenaries. All need feeding, paym ent. Where else can he go? The Great King rules over a hundred nations, all rich.’

‘And t hat is your answ er,’ said t he magus. ‘One hundred nat ions, all w it h arm ies. The Great King could put a m illion m en in t he field against you.’

‘I know,’ said Parmenion wearily.

Arist ot le pushed him self t o his feet, ext ending his hand t o haul Parm enion upright. The Spart an’s knee cracked painfully and he stretched his leg. ‘I am better from the back of a horse these days,’ he said.

‘Come, let us go home. You and I shall have a farewell drink.’

Long int o t he night t he t w o m en sat t alking in t he sm all andron at t he rear of t he schoolhouse. A brazier of coals burned at t he cent re of t he room, and several lanterns flickered on the walls. The room was warm, the night wind rattling the shutters on the single window.

‘Are you cont ent?’ asked Arist ot le suddenly. Parm enion sm iled, but did not answer. ‘Do you wish you had remained in Achaea?’

‘Of course. But it is foolish to dwell on past mistakes.’

Aristotle nodded. ‘You are wise in that. How is Philotas?’

Parm enion’s face dark ened. ‘The sam e. We rarely speak now. His arrogance is all-consum ing and yet he faw ns on Alexander like a t able slave. I t ry not t o allow m yself t o becom e angry. I t is not easy for t he son of a general; he feels t he need t o prov e him self bet t er t han his father.’

‘He has great ambition,’ said Aristotle softly.

‘His m ot her fed him t hought s of glory from his birt h. I should have stopped it long ago.’

‘His am bit ion m ay bring you dow n one day,’ Arist ot le w arned. ‘He dreams of becoming King.’

‘It will never happen. He has neither the wit nor the strength.’

‘I know. I t aught him for t hirt een y ears. He w ill be an able capt ain, though. He might yet distinguish himself.’

‘He did w ell in t he Triballian cam paign, but t he glory w as Alexander’s.

Philotas must have found that hard to bear.’

‘He was not the only one.’

Parm enion shook his head. ‘Do not believe all you hear, magus. Philip is not j ealous of his son. He loves him and is proud of his achievements. So am I.’

‘I t is said t hat Philip’s new bride is already pregnant - and t hat she w ill bear him a son. That will be hard for Alexander to take.’

‘Why so?’ queried Parm enion. ‘Alexander is eight een and t he heir t o the throne. Nothing will change that.’

‘Com e now, strategos, do not let your allegiance blind you. Use your m ind. He is m arrying Cleopat ra, a high-born Macedonian. All his ot her w ives are foreigners. She is t he w ard of At t alus. You do not t hink t hat m any of t he Macedonian nobles w ill see t he child as t he first t rue-born heir? You yourself are a m ix-blood. Alexander ‘s m ot her is an Epirot e, which makes him a half-breed.’

‘I do not wish to talk of this!’ snapped Parmenion.

Arist ot le sighed and lay back on his couch. ‘Then w e shall not. We w ill finish our wine and say our farewells.’

I n t he dar kness j ust before daw n Arist ot le, dressed for t ravel in a long tunic and heav y cloak, m oved silent ly int o t he room w here Parm enion slept. The Spart an w as deeply asleep and t he magus m oved t o t he bedside. From t he pouch at his hip Arist ot le t ook a sm all golden st one, touching it to Parmenion’s right knee. The Spartan stirred and groaned soft ly, but did not w ake. The pow er of t he St one flow ed int o t he sleeping m an, t he iron grey of his hair darkening slight ly, t he chiselled lines of his face becoming more shallow.

‘One gift, m y friend,’ w hispered Arist ot le, ‘but not t he last. One day I will return.’

He backed aw ay t o t he door and w alked from his house, ret urning t o t he st ream in t he foot hills and a shallow cave part ly hidden by t hick bushes. The new sun rose in glory and Arist ot le paused t o drink in t he beauty of its light upon the verdant countryside.

‘Why are you leaving now?’ he asked him self. The answ er leapt t o his m ind, sharp and bit t er. The days of blood w ere com ing and t he Dark God w as reassert ing him self. He could feel t he Spirit ‘s presence hanging over t he land like an unseen m ist, sw irling in t he heart s of men, flowing into their minds, whispering in their ears.

Did Parm enion t hink t he necklet could prot ect t he boy for long? I t w as but m et al, enhanced w it h t he pow er of Sipst rassi St one. I t could be removed, torn from his neck with a single tug. And then?

The Dark God would return.

Will return, he corrected himself. Nothing will stop him.

You are running aw ay, he realized: hiding from t he great bat t le t o come.

‘I want to live,’ he said aloud. ‘I have done my part. Better to be a live dog than a dead lion.’ But he was not convinced.

Wit h a last glance over t he Macedonian count ryside he st epped inside the cave.

And was seen no more in the land of Greece.

Pella, Summer 337 BC Alexander sat back, occasionally t ouching his lips t o his w ine-cup but sw allow ing lit t le as he list ened t o his Com panions discussing t he fort hcom ing Persian cam paign. As alw ays, it w as Philot as w ho had t he m ost t o say. Alexander found it bizarre t hat a son could look so m uch like his fat her, yet enj oy so few of his sire’s t alent s. Philot as w as t all and slender, a fine runner and a good cavalry officer, but his grasp on t he subt let ies of st rat egy w as t enuous at best. Yet, like so m any m en of lim it ed t alent, his m ain abilit y w as in m ast ering t he art of hindsight, always seeing where others had made mistakes.

‘As at Chaironeia,’ Philo was telling the others, ‘my father should never have allow ed t he left t o sw ing so w ide. Had it not been for Alexander’s charge, Philip would have been slain.’

Alexander sm iled and said not hing. I t did no harm w hat ever t o have his comrades see him as a young god of war, but the truth - as always - was not as simple.

‘We will each be kings,’ Ptolemy declared. ‘I shall have a golden throne and a thousand concubines.’

‘You w ouldn’t k now w hat t o do w it h t hem,’ said Nearchos, chuckling.

Alexander laughed w it h t he rest at Pt olem y’s discom fort. The youngest of the Companions, Rolemy’s good nature was legendary.

‘I would have great pleasure in finding out,’ put in Ptolemy, grinning.

‘If you are all to be kings,’ said Alexander, ‘what will be left for me?’

‘You w ill be t he King of Kings, nat ur ally,’ Pt olem y t old him. ‘You w ill rule the world and we will be your satraps.’

‘And kill all your enemies,’ Philotas added.

‘An interesting thought. What happens when I have no more enemies?’

‘A gr eat m an alw ays has enem ies,’ said Pt olem y. ‘What w ould be t he point of being great if that were not so? How dull it would be.’

‘I t ake it,’ asked Nearchos, ‘t hat you are already building up a st ock of enemies?’

‘Yes. I’ve started with you, you low-born dolt!’

Nearchos’ laught er rippled out, sw ift and infect ious. ‘Me? I s t hat w ise?

Do you no longer wish me to speak well of you to my sister?’

‘A good point,’ said Pt olem y, rubbing his chin. ‘You are correct. I t is not an opport une t im e t o have you for an enem y. I t w ill have t o be Philo then: he’ll be my first enemy.’

‘Enough of t his t alk,’ put in Alexander. ‘You are all a lit t le drunk. Get off hom e w it h you! I int end t o be riding at daw n. I t is said t here is a lioness raiding t he cat t le and goat herds at a sm all village nort h of t he city. It should be a fine hunt.’

‘I shall kill t he beast w it h m y bare hands,’ said Nearchos, rising and flexing his m uscles. Like his fat her, Theoparlis, he had enorm ous breadth of shoulder and a barrel chest.

‘I f t hat doesn’t w ork, you could t ry breat hing on him,’ point ed out Ptolemy. ‘Put all those onions to good use.’

Nearchos leapt at t he slender y oungst er, but t ripped and fell over a small t able laden w it h sw eet m eat s. As he scram bled t o his feet, chasing the younger man out into the royal gardens, Philotas turned to Alexander and bowed.

‘Until tomorrow, sire,’ he said softly.

‘I t is not fit t ing t o call m e sire. I am not a King,’ said Alexander, his tone mild.

‘Not yet,’ said Parm enion’s eldest son, bow ing once m ore befor e striding from the room.

At last only Craterus was left. Older than the others, almost twenty, he w as a quiet, int rovert ed m an, but he seem ed at ease in t he ribald meetings of the Companions.

‘Something troubling you?’ asked Alexander.

‘Your ankle is st ill sw ollen from t he fall and you are lim ping badly. I s this the right time to hunt lions?’

Alexander clapped t he t aller m an on t he shoulder. ‘I t w ill be bet t er by m orning, and I shall st rap it w ell. But t hat is not t he reason you have waited to see me.’

Crat erus shrugged and sm iled. ‘No. I am uneasy, m y lord. There is a lot of t alk at court about t he King’s m arriage and t he child Cleopat ra carries.’

The sm ile left Alexander’s face. ‘This should not concern you. I t does not concern me. My father already has six wives.’

‘Not like this one.’

‘Do not t ake t his any furt her, Crat erus,’ w arned t he prince. ‘There are some things that should not be said.’

‘Very well. As always I shall obey you. But know this - if you need me I will be beside you.’

‘All t he royal pages give oat hs t o serve t he King. The King is Philip,’

Alexander pointed out.

‘That is as maybe. But I serve Alexander.’

The prince m oved close t o his friend, looking up int o t he m an’s deepset dark eyes. ‘I t is com m ent s like t hat w hich lead t o t he deat h of princes. You underst and m e? I w ill never lead a rebellion against Philip. Never! I f I w ished him dead I w ould have let him be slain at Chaironeia, w hen his horse w as killed under him. Now say no m ore of this. There is nothing to fear, Craterus. Nothing.’

The Com panion bow ed and depart ed, pulling shut t he door behind him. Alexander w andered back t o t he cent re of t he room, lift ing his wine-cup and sipping t he cont ent s. He had m ade t he one cup last all evening, disliking the effect of alcohol on his system.

‘You should list en t o him, m y son,’ said Olym pias, m oving int o t he room from the shadows of the outer corridor.

‘I t is norm ally considered court eous, Mot her, t o announce your presence.’

‘Are you angry with me?’

He shook his head and sm iled. St epping in close Olym pias kissed his cheek. Her redgold hair was touched with silver now, but her face was st ill yout hful and her body slender. ‘Why is ever yone seeing danger in the shadows?’ asked Alexander. ‘It is only a wedding.’

‘She is the ward of Attalus and Attalus hates you.’

‘He risked his life to save me once. I shall not forget that.’

‘That w as t henV she said, her eyes flashing. ‘Now he poisons Philip’s mind against you. Why can you not see it?’

‘I choose not to. Philip built this realm from nothing. Beset on all sides, he alone m ade Macedonia feared and respect ed. What have I done? I t ook an arm y int o t he nort h and subdued t he Triballians. How does t hat 1 com pare w it h t he King w ho conquered Thrace, I llyria, t he Chalcidice, Thessaly, Paionia - and crushed t he com bined arm ies of At hens and Thebes?’ He laughed and gent ly t ook hold of his m ot her ‘s shoulders. ‘Do y ou underst and w hat I am saying? He ow es m e nothing. If he chooses to make his new son the heir, what right have I to oppose him?’

‘Right?’ she st orm ed, pulling aw ay from him. ‘You ar e t he heir - t he first-born son. It is your destiny to rule. But think on this, Alexander: if you are dispossessed there will be those who will seek your death. You will not be fighting for a crown alone, but for your life.’

‘No,’ he told her. ‘Philip would never order my death - any more than I w ould count enance killing him. But all t his t alk is dangerous. The w ords fall like sparks on dry grass and I w ill not have t hem spok en around me.’

‘You are alt oget her t oo t r ust ing,’ she t old him. ‘But t her e is som eone coming to Pella who may be able to convince you.’

‘Who?’

‘The Lady of Sam ot hrace. Her nam e is Aida and she is a seeress of great power. She can tell you of your destiny.’

Alexander said not hing, but he t urned aw ay from his m ot her and strode towards the door. ‘You will see her?’ called Olympias.

‘No, I w ill not,’ answ ered Alexander, his voice cold. ‘Can none of you see w hat you ar e doing? When Philot as calls m e sire, w hen Crat erus says he put s m e above m y fat her, w hen you seek t o t urn m e against Philip - you are all only increasing any danger there might be. You keep this Aida away from me.’

‘But it is all for you - because w e care! ‘ Olym pias shout ed. Alexander did not reply, but w alked out int o t he m oonlit gar dens and aw ay from the palace.

*

The grass w as grow ing crim son, dripping blood t o t he parched eart h beneat h it. The sky w as t he colour of ash, grey and lifeless. Not a bird flew, no breat h of w ind dist urbed t he plain. Philip knelt and t ouched his hand t o t he crim son st em s and blood sm eared across his skin. He rose, t rem bling, not icing for t he first t im e t he bodies t hat lay all about him. Thousands upon t housands of corpses, t he grass grow ing ar ound t hem, from t hem, t hrough t hem. He shuddered. A m an w as lying on his back with weeds growing from beneath his eyelids.

‘What is t his place?’ shout ed Philip. The sound died even as it left his lips.

‘You are not comfortable here?’

He spun on his heel, sw ord snaking int o his hand. Befor e him, dr essed in armour of black and gold, stood Philippos, the Demon King.

‘You are dead!’ screamed Philip, backing away.

‘Yes,’ the Makedones King agreed.

‘Get away from me!’

‘I s t hat any w ay t o t reat a brot her?’ asked Philippos, draw ing his ow n sw ord and advancing. Philip leapt t o m eet him, t heir blades clashing toget her, and his sw ord slashed across his opponent ‘s neck t o open a j agged w ound t hat spout ed blood. Philippos w as hurled t o t he right, t w ist ing t o fall face-dow n on t he ground. Slow ly he rose t o his knees w it h his back t o his enem y. Philip w ait ed. The Dem on King st ood and slow ly t urned. Philip cried out. Gone w as t he bearded face t hat mirrored his own. Now Philippos had golden hair, sea-green eyes and a face of surpassing beauty.

‘Alexander?’

‘Yes, Fat her, Alexander,’ said t he Dem on King, sm iling and advancing with sword extended.

‘Do not make me kill you! Please!’

‘You could not kill me, Father. No. But I shall slay you.’

Dark horns sprout ed from Alexander ‘s t em ples, circling back over his ears. His eyes changed colour from sea-green t o yellow, t he pupils slit t ed. Philip gripped his sw ord and w ait ed as t he dem on before him moved slowly to the attack; he tried a swift lunge to the throat, but his arm was heavy, his movements slow, and he watched in sick horror as Alexander ‘s sw ord parried his ow n and rose up gleam ing and sharp, t he blade slicing int o his t hroat and up t hrough his m out h, st abbing into his brain like a tongue of fire

Philip aw oke and cried out. The w om an beside him st irred but did not w ake as t he King sat up. His head w as pounding, his body drenched in sw eat. The old w ound in his leg t hrobbed painfully, but he pushed himself from the bed and limped across to the nearest couch. The wine pit cher upon t he sm all t able w as em pt y. Philip cursed and slum ped down upon the couch, holding the pitcher in his lap.

The dream was always the same. He could never defeat Alexander.

‘I should have killed him at birth,’ he thought. A cold breeze whispered across t he room and Philip shivered and r et urned t o his bed. Beside him Cleopat ra slept on. Tenderly he st roked her hair. So beaut iful, so young. His hand moved down to rest upon her belly - still flat and taut, despit e t he t hree m ont hs of t he pregnancy. I n her w as a son. Not demon-possessed, not bor n of dark ness and sorcery, but a t rue son - one who would grow to love his father, not plan his murder.

How could you do t his t o m e, Alexander? I loved you. I w ould hav e risked anything for you.

At first Philip had ignored the reports that Attalus drew to his attention - t he faw ning rem arks of Alexander’s Com panions, t he crit icism s levelled at t he King and his generals. But as t he m ont hs passed Philip becam e m ore and m ore convinced t hat Alexander w ould not be content until he sat upon the throne.

The Triballian cam paign show ed t hat. Does he t hink I am a fool? Oh yes, he crushed t he enem y, forcing t hem t o pay t ribut e. But in w hose nam e did he dem and it? Not for Philip. Not for Macedon. No, in t he name of Alexander.

Arrogant w help! Of course you beat t he Triballians, for you had m y army behind you. My army!

But is it m ine? How t hey cheered t he golden prince at Chaironeia, carrying him shoulder-high around t he cam p. And aft er t he Triballian victory, when he awarded every warrior ten gold pieces, they gave him the salute of kings, swords beating against shields.

Is it still mine?

Of course it is, for I have Parm enion. Yes, t he Spart an w ill alw ays be loyal.

Philip sm iled and lay back, rest ing his head upon t he soft, sat incovered cushion. The Lion of Macedon is w it h m e, he t hought, and drifted once more into sleep.

The grass w as grow ing crim son, dripping blood t o t he parched eart h beneat h it. The sky w as t he colour of ash, grey and lifeless. Not a bird flew, no breath of wind disturbed the plain

The bat h had been designed and built by Philip, using only t he finest m arble. I t t ook six slaves m ore t han an hour t o fill it w it h heat ed, perfum ed w at er, and a dozen m en could sit on t he sunken seat s or sw im across t he cent re. The King had const ruct ed it aft er t he second Thracian cam paign, w hen his right leg had been sm ashed and t he bones had knit t ed badly, leaving him w it h an exaggerat ed lim p and const ant pain. Only im m ersed in w arm w at er did t he lim b cease t o t hrob, and Philip had t aken t o holding m eet ings in t he bat h w it h his officers around him.

Today only Parm enion w as present and t he t w o m en sat side by side as slaves added boiling w at er, keeping t he t em perat ure high. Crim son flow ers float ed on t he surface, t heir scent st rong, and Parm enion felt the tension and weariness of his long ride ebbing away.

‘He is gone then,’ said the King. ‘I shall miss him.’

‘He sent you his best regards, my lord.’

Philip chuckled. ‘You rem em ber w hen he t hreat ened t o t urn m e int o a lizard?’

‘Yes. You took it well, as I recall.’

‘Fine days, Parmenion. Days of strength. I miss them.’

The Spart an glanced at his King. Philip w as beginning t o show signs of age - his black hair and bear d speckled w it h silver, t he skin pouching below his eyes. But his grin was still infectious and his power alarming.

‘Have we made contact with the Asian cities?’ asked Philip.

‘Yes. Mot hac is receiving report s. We w ill be w elcom ed in all t he Greek cit ies of Asia Minor, but t he supply lines w ill be st ret ched. Thirt y thousand men need a great deal of feeding.’

The At henian fleet w ill supply us,’ said Philip dism issively. ‘What do you hear about the new Persian King?’

‘He is a diplom at and a w arrior. I knew him years ago; it w as t hrough him t hat I lost m y com m ission and cam e t o Macedonia. He is arrogant but not unint elligent. He w ill not rush at us; he w ill send his sat raps against us at first and t ry t o fom ent rebellion behind us. Already he has m ade cont act w it h Spart a and Thebes, and his agent s are in Athens and Corinth.’

Philip leaned forw ard, splashing his face and bear d w it h perfum ed w at er. ‘This t im e it w ill avail t hem not hing. There is no arm y t o t ackle us - not even Sparta. No one could act alone.’

‘At t acking Persia is a m aj or ent erprise,’ said Parm enion. ‘I hope you are not taking it too lightly?’

‘Do not concern y ourself w it h t hat fear, Parm enion. I have dream t about t his for nearly t w ent y years, but alw ays I knew t he dangers.

Alm ost half a cent ury ago Agisaleus of Spart a invaded Persia. What happened? He scored m ilit ary successes but w as sum m oned hom e w hen Thebes rose against him. I t is t he Persian w ay. Wit h t heir lim it less gold and our greed, t hey have kept us at each ot her’s t hroat s for cent ur ies. That ‘s w hy I w ait ed so long, ensuring t hat Greece w ould be safe behind us. Now the Persians have no leverage here.’

‘What command will you give Alexander?’ asked the Spartan.

Philip’s expression hardened. ‘None. He will stay behind.’

‘To rule in your absence?’

‘No. Antipater shall be my Regent.’

‘I do not understand, sire. Alexander has proved his competence.’

‘I t is not his com pet ence t hat concerns m e - it is his loyalt y. He plot s against m e, Parm enion. Before long he w ill seek t o overt hrow m e-led no doubt in his t reachery by his Epirot e w hore of a m ot her. They m ust t hink m e foolish, or per haps blind in bot h eyes. Happily I st ill hav e friends who report to me.’

‘I have never seen any sign of treachery,’ said Parmenion.

‘Truly? And would you tell me if you did?’

‘How could you doubt that I would?’

Philip rose from t he bat h and lim ped across t he m ar ble floor. Tw o servant s brought him w arm ed t ow els; t hr ow ing one around his w aist, t he King used t he ot her t o rub dry his hair and beard. Parm enion follow ed him. ‘What is happening t o you, Philip? How can you doubt your son’s devot ion? Tw ice he has saved your life, and never once have I heard him speak against you. What poison has At t alus been speaking - for I feel his presence in this?’

‘You t hink I have no ot her spies t han At t alus?’ ret ort ed t he King. ‘I have many. Alexander gave a banquet for his friends last month where he made a speech. You know what he said? What will my father leave me to conquer? He wishes me dead!’

‘That depends on how you read t he sent im ent. I t ake it he w as speaking of his pride in your achievements.’

‘And w hat of your ow n son, Philot as? He is const ant ly speaking about your and - by im plication - m y failures: t he sieges of Perint hos and Byzantion. He used the word stupidity. About me!’

‘St upid people are alw ays t he first t o use such w ords. He is not bright, sire, but Alexander alw ays rebukes him. And as for t he sieges, w ell, w e hardly covered ourselves w it h glory. We t ook neit her cit y. Perhaps we were less than brilliant.’

‘Why do y ou alw ays speak up for Alexander?’ roared Philip. ‘Have I no right to expect your loyalty?’

‘Every right,’ responded Par m enion. ‘And should I ever see a single shred of evidence t hat you are bet rayed I w ill report it t o you. More t han t hat, I w ill kill any m an - any m an - w ho seeks t o bring you down.’

Philip t ook a deep breat h and slow ly let it out. Then he sm iled and relaxed. ‘I know. But y ou ar e t oo t rust ing, Spart an. You st ill t hink of t he Golden Child. Well, he’s a m an now, w it h his ow n am bit ions. But enough of that - what do you think of my new bride?’

‘She is very beautiful, sire.’

‘Yes - and sw eet - nat ured. You k now, once I t hought I lov ed Olym pias, but I am convinced now t hat I w as bew it ched. I see her as she t ruly is - a vile harridan, foul of t em per and viper-t ongued. But Cleopat ra is everyt hing I could have w ished for. She has given m e t r ue happiness.

And soon I will have another son, one born of love.’

‘Yes, sire,’ said Parmenion, trying to hold the sadness from his voice.

*

The w edding fest ivit ies w ere scheduled t o last for eight days and no one in Pella could rem em ber any fest ival like it. Free w ine w as dist ribut ed t o ev ery household, w hile all m en over t he age of fift een received a specially st ruck gold coin bearing t he head of Philip, w it h Cleopat ra’s port rait on t he reverse. The coin represent ed half a year’s w ages t o t he poor er servant s and land w orkers, and t he celebrat ions were loud, raucous and unforgettable.

An at hlet ics com pet it ion had been under w ay for t w elve days, it s size and scope rivalling t he Gam es of Olym pia, and t he cit y w as packed t o overflow ing as cit izens from surrounding areas and guest s from all over t he count ry arrived for t he w edding. All t he cham pions of Greece w ere present at t he Gam es and t he King present ed t o each w inner a crow n of laurel leaves m ade from finest gold. There w ere only t w o Macedonian vict ors: Philot as w on t he m iddle-dist ance race, and Alexander rode Bucephalus t o vict ory against horsem en from Thrace, Athens, Sparta, Thessaly and Corinth.

The 10,000 crow d sent up a t hundrous roar as Alexander crossed t he line on t he giant black st allion, his nearest com pet it or som e t w ent y lengt hs back. The prince cant ered Bucephalus in a long circuit of t he st adium, acknow ledging t he cheers, finally halt ing before t he royal dais w here Philip sat w it h Cleopat ra beside him, flanked by his generals Parmenion, Antipater, Attalus and Cleitus.

‘A fine victory,’ said Cleitus, gazing admiringly at the young rider.

‘Anyone w ould have w on on t hat horse,’ m ut t ered Philip, pushing him self t o his feet. Lift ing t he golden laurel crow n from t he t able beside him, he handed it t o Parm enion. ‘Go,’ he said, ‘present t he winner with his prize.’

The crow d fell silent as t he general w alked out t o t he prince. Ever yone knew t he King should have present ed t he prize and a confused murmuring began in the stands. Alexander lifted his leg and leapt from Bucephalus’ back, bow ing his head t o receive t he laurel crow n. As it w as placed upon his head he gave a w ide grin and w aved t o t he crowd, earning another ovation.

With the smile still in place he whispered to Parmenion: ‘What is wrong with my father? Have I done something to displease him?’

‘We will talk later,’ Parmenion replied.

‘I shall come to your home.’

‘No, t hat w ould not be w ise. Mot hac has a sm all house in t he w estern quart er, near t he Tem ple of Healing. Be at t he rear of t he Tem ple at midnight. I will see you there. Be sure you are not followed.’

St ill sm iling, Alexander t ook hold of Bucephalus’ m ane and vault ed t o t he beast ‘s back. Parm enion ret urned t o t he dais and, as he m ount ed t he st eps, caught sight of At t alus w at ching t he prince riding t ow ards the exit gates.

The years had not been kind to the swordsman. His hair was white and t hinning, his face lean and skelet al, w it h deep lines carved int o his cheeks, t he skin of his t hroat loose and w rinkled. Yet he w as barely sixt y. At t alus saw Parm enion w at ching him and sm iled. The Spart an nodded in reply, t hen t ook his place at t he King’s side as t he boxing bouts began.

Parm enion w ait ed for anot her hour, t hen he asked leave of t he King and w alked back from t he dais, m oving t o t he huge t ent s erect ed out side t he st adium w here food and drink w as being served.

Ever yt hing w as free and m any of t he cit y’s poor w ere congregat ing here, drinking t hem selves int o a st upor. The Spart an m oved slow ly through the crowds towards the Officers’ Tent.

He saw Philot as t alking w it h t he youngst er Pt olem y and t he som bre Craterus. The youths spotted him and Philotas broke away from them.

‘I ran well,’ said Philo. ‘Did you see me?’

‘I did. Your timing was impeccable.’

‘Am I as fast as you were?’

‘I w ould say fast er,’ Parm enion adm it t ed. ‘I nev er had a finishing burst of speed. I thought for a moment the Spartan would take you, but you destroyed him from the final bend.’

For a m om ent Philo st ood as if shocked by t he com plim ent, t hen his face soft ened.‘Thank you, Fat her. It hank you. Will you j oin us for a drink?’

‘No, I am tired. I think I will go home.’

The young m an’s disappoint m ent w as sincere, but it w as replaced alm ost inst ant ly by t he guar ded, cynical look Parm enion had com e t o know so w ell. ‘Yes, of course,’ said Philo. ‘I should have know n bet t er t han t o ask you t o spend t im e w it h m e. I t is not possible t o break t he habit s built up during a lifet im e.’ And he sw ung aw ay, ret urning t o his companions.

Parm enion cursed soft ly and m oved on. He should have st ayed, and guilt t ouched him. Philo w as right: he had never had t im e for t he boy, nor for any of his sons save one. Alexander.

At t he rear of t he Officers’ Tent w as t he paddock w here t he horses w ere t et hered. A servant br ought him his m ount and he rode slow ly back t hrough t he cit y t o his t ow n house. Phaedra w as not due unt il t om orrow, w hich gave him at least a few m ore hours of relat ive contentment.

He found Mot hac in t he sm all st udy t o t he rear of t he house. The old Theban w as poring over report s from Asia, and t here w er e papers and scrolls scattered across the wide desk.

‘Anyt hing new?’ asked Parm enion, rem oving his cerem onial helm et and laying it carefully on the bench beside him.

‘New? I t is all new,’ answ ered Mot hac. ‘And yet as old as t he balls of Zeus. Treachery, double-dealing, com prom ise. New nam es, ancient vices. But I m ust say, I do love diplom acy.’ He lift ed a scroll and grinned. ‘I have a let t er here from a m an nam ed Dupias, assuring m e t hat he is an ardent support er of Philip. Through his good offices w e can be assured of a fine recept ion in Tyre, should t he Persian arm y be overcome by the valiant Macedonians.’

‘It sounds promising,’ said Parmenion.

‘True, and yet I have a report from anot her source t hat Dupias is in the pay of the Persians.’

‘Even better. We can use him to feed Darius false information.’

‘Yes. Life is w onderfully com plex. I can rem em ber t he boring old days w hen all t hat count ed w as t he st rengt h of a m an’s sw ord-arm and t he justice of his cause.’

‘No, you can’t,’ Parm enion t old him. ‘I t j ust seem s t hat w ay. The past is all bright colours. The shades of grey have v anished. This is how it has alw ays been. I f you w alk from here t o t he Guards Barracks and t alk t o t hose earnest young m en, t hey w ill t ell you of t he j ust ice of t heir cause and boast of t he st rengt h of t heir sw ord-arm s. Their eyes will shine with glory. It is the way of young men.’

Mot hac sighed. ‘I k now t hat. I w as t rying t o be light-heart ed. What is the matter with you?’

Parm enion shrugged. ‘I t is all going sour, Mot hac. I t hink Philip is preparing to assassinate Alexander.’

‘What? I can’t believe that!’

‘He t old m e yest erday t hat he does not int end t o t ake t he prince w it h him on t he Persian expedit ion. He w ill have a r ole in Macedonia. What does that suggest?’

The old Theban ran his fingers over his bald dom e, scrat ching t he skin of his crown. ‘Philip is too canny to leave a potential enemy behind him - but to kill his own son? Are you sure?’

‘I am sure.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I have no idea. I am m eet ing t he prince t onight; I w ill advise him t o leave Pella.’

‘What is w rong w it h Philip?’ asked Mot hac. ‘The boy loves him, t here is no quest ion of t hat. You know how m any spies report t o m e, but none has ever suggested that Alexander would betray his father.’

‘Unfort unat ely t hat is not t rue of his follow ers,’ put in Parm enion. ‘I have seen t he report s of com m ent s by Philo and Near chos, Pt olem y and Cassander. The young m en w orship Alexander. And t hen t here is Pausanius - an ugly business.’

‘He brought it on himself,’ muttered Mothac. ‘Pausanius is a fool. Philip has alw ays enj oyed t he at t ent ion of young m en, but none of t hem last in his affections. The boy was too pushy.’

‘That m ay be t rue,’ Parm enion adm it t ed, ‘but he is st ill a high-born Macedonian, and his punishment was cruel and ill-advised.’

Mot hac said not hing. How could he argue? Pausanius had enj oyed t he King’s devot ion and w hile t he favourit e had m ade an enem y of At t alus - m aking him t he but t of m any j ok es and j ibes. At t alus had w ait ed for t he youngst er t o fall from favour, and had t hen or dered Pausanius. t o be soundly thrashed and abused by soldiers from his personal guard.

The hum iliat ion w as int ense, for t he young noble had been left, naked and t ied, on a st all in t he m arket - place. The incident had m any repercussions. The young m en w ho follow ed Alexander w ere all friendly t o Pausanius, and saw his t reat m ent as unj ust. The older nobles at court w ere cheered by his hum iliat ion, seeing it as a t im ely and salut ary lesson for a yout h t hey considered a loud-mouthed braggart.

I t w as also w ell know n t hat Pausanius w as a close friend t o Alexander.

Soon aft er his ordeal t he noble approached t he prince, asking for j ust ice against At t alus; Alexander t ook his plea t o t he King in open court, but Philip dism issed it, calling t he incident a ‘pr ank’ t hat should be forgotten.

But in t he m ont hs t hat follow ed few forgot it, for it highlight ed t he ext ent t o w hich At t alus’ st ar had risen in t he Macedonian court, and m any m en now w alked w arily, or openly court ed t he com pany of t he one-time assassin.

‘Cruel it m ay hav e been,’ said Mot hac at last, ‘but it should not concern you. At t alus no longer fears you. You are not on his list of enemies - and t hat is how it should st ay. You m ay be t he forem ost general of Macedonia, Parm enion, but At t alus is st ronger now t han he has ever been. Enmity between you will leave you dead.’

‘We w ill not becom e enem ies,’ said Parm enion, ‘unless he plans harm to Alexander.’

‘I f he does, it w ill be on t he King’s or der,’ w arned Mot hac, his voice a whisper.

‘I know,’ the Spartan answered.

The Temple, Asia Minor The Tem ple grounds w ere over grow n; m ost of t he roses w ere long since dead, st rangled by w ide-leafed ivy, or m asked from t he sun by t he over hanging branches of t he m any t rees. Grass w as grow ing bet w een t he paving st ones, pushing up w it h t he slow st rengt h of nature, distorting the paths and making the footing treacherous.

The fount ains w ere silent now, t he w at er st agnant. But Derae did not care. She no longer had t he st rengt h t o w alk t he gardens and rarely left t he room behind t he alt ar. Only t w o servant s rem ained, bot h women she had healed long ago before her powers had faded.

No longer w ere t here ragged t ent s beyond t he Tem ple, filled t o overflow ing w it h t he diseased, t he lam e and t he crippled. No one needed tokens now to see the Healer.

Shallow cut s she could seal, m inor infect ions w ould st ill vanish at her t ouch. But no longer could she bring sight t o t he blind, nor draw t he cancers from the lungs and bellies of the dying.

Now it w as she w ho suffered, her lim bs racked w it h art hrit ic pain, her j oint s sw ollen. I f she m ov ed slow ly, support ing herself on t w o st icks, she could j ust reach t he Tem ple doorw ay, t here t o sit in t he aft ernoon sunshine. But she needed help t o ret urn t o her room w hen dusk and the cool breeze of evening stiffened her limbs.

Derae sat on t he m arble bench w it h deep cushions around her, t he aft ernoon sun w arm on her face, and recalled t he days w hen her pow er w as at it s height, w hen t he blind saw again and t he crippled were made strong.

She was lost in her memories when Camfitha came to her.

‘There is a carriage com ing, m ist ress. I t is black, but adorned w it h gold. I t m ust be som e great lady. Soldiers ride before and behind and the carriage is drawn by six black stallions. It could be the Queen.’

‘Let us hope she has but a chill,’ answered Derae sleepily.

Cam fit ha set t led her plum p form alongside t he slender old w om an.

‘Shall I help you into the altar room?’

‘No, dear. I shall w ait here. Bring som e fresh w at er from t he w ell, and some fruit. The travellers will be thirsty and in need of refreshment.’

‘It will be dusk soon. I will fetch you a shawl.’

Derae list ened as Cam fit ha hurried aw ay, her heavy st eps echoing in t he hallw ay. She rem em bered t he lit he child Cam fit ha had been - slim and beaut iful, but w it h a t w ist ed leg and a crippled foot. Derae had healed the limb, and Camfitha had sworn to serve her always.

‘Do not be foolish, child. Go from here. Find a good m an and bear him strong sons.’

But Camfitha had refused. And oh, how grateful Derae had been.

The sound of horses’ hooves on t he flagst ones j erked her m ind t o t he present. She w as t oo t ired now t o use w hat rem ained of her Talent t o look upon t he new com ers. But t here seem ed t o be at least a dozen horsem en; she could sm ell t he lat her on t he m ount s, m ixed w it h t he sweet, smoky aroma of worn leather.

The carriage had halt ed before t he narr ow gat e and she hear d t he door being opened, t he st eps pulled out and t hudding against t he ground.

Suddenly a cold t ouch of fear sw ept t hrough her, as if an icy w ind had w hispered across t he r uined gar den; she shivered. She heard t he soldiers m ove aw ay, but t here follow ed a soft rust ling, like a snake m oving t hrough dr y gr ass and dead leaves. A sw eet perfum e filled t he air and t he r ust ling drew closer. Derae ident ified it t hen as t he swishing of a woman’s gown.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘An old enemy,’ said a cold voice.

Derae’s m ind sw ept back t o her first m eet ing w it h t he Dark Lady and t heir clash of souls, t he spears of light ning and t he cries of t he Undead. Then she saw again her j ourney t o Sam ot hrace and her efforts to prevent the conception of the Chaos Spirit.

‘Aida?’

‘The v ery sam e. And I do m ean t he sam e. My body is st ill young, Derae - not old and withered, not rotting on my bones.’

‘I dare say the same cannot be said for your soul.’

Aida laughed, t he sound full of hum our. ‘The dying dog can st ill bit e, I see. Will you not ask me why I came?’

‘To kill me?’

‘Kill you? No, no, Derae. You w ill die soon w it hout m y help. I hav e w at ched you for t hese last years, revelling in your fading pow ers. But kill you? Why w ould I do t hat? Wit hout you m y precious boy could never have been born.’

‘Your precious boy w as defeat ed, cast out, said Derae. ‘Alexander is now a strong, fine young man.’

‘Of course he is,’ Aida agreed. ‘He is as I need him t o be. I am a pat ient w om an. The t im e w as not right for t he Dark God t o becom e flesh. But now? Now is his time.’

‘Empty words cannot frighten me,’ Derae told her.

‘Nor should t hey. But I am on m y w ay t o Pella, for t he w edding of Philip t o Cleopat ra. And once I am t here m y w ords w ill seem less em pt y. You t hink a golden necklet w ill prot ect Alexander? A t r ifling ornam ent? I t could have been rem oved at any t im e during t hese t hirt een years, but it w as necessary for t he boy t o becom e a m an, t o build his friendships, t o prepare t he w ay for t he One t o com e.’ Aida laughed again, and t his t im e t he sound w as cruel. ‘You w ill see him in his glory, Derae. And you will know the ultimate despair.’

‘I t w ill not be,’ said Derae, her w ords sounding hollow and unconvincing. ‘Parmenion will stop you.’

‘He t oo grow s old. His day is past. And Arist ot le has run aw ay t odistant worlds and other times. There is no one left to stop me.’

‘Why did you come here?’

‘To t orm ent y ou,’ said Aida bright ly. To bring you pain. To let you know that the Day of the Dark God is dawning. Nothing will stop him.’

‘Even if you are right, it w ill only be for a short t im e. Alexander is not immortal. One day he will die.’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. But what will it matter? Once his flesh has been devour ed by carrion birds, or eat en by w orm s, or consum ed by fire, t he Chaos Spirit w ill be free once m ore and his disciples w ill find another suitable vessel for him. He is immortal.’

‘Why do you serv e him, Aida? He brings only pain and suffering, hatred and despair.’

‘Why? How can you ask t hat? You sit t here decaying ev en as I w at ch, w hile I am st ill yout hful, t hanks t o his blessing. I am rich, w it h m any slaves and soldiers. My body enj oys all t he pleasures know n - and many that are not known. What other master could give me all this?’

Now it w as Derae’s t urn t o sm ile. ‘Such w ort hless t reasures. You are welcome to them.’

‘Wort hless? I concede you have m or e experience of w ort hlessness t han I,’ hissed Aida. ‘You only ever knew one lover. I have k now n t housands, bot h m en and w om en - yes, and dem ons. I have been pleasured in ways you could not dream of.’

‘Nor w ould I w ish t o. And you are w rong, Aida: you have never k now n a lover, for you ar e incapable of love. You hav e no concept ion of it s m eaning. You cam e t o t orm ent m e? You failed. For once I hat ed you, and now I feel only pit y. You have brought m e a gift and I t hank you for it.’

‘Then her e is anot her,’ w hispered Aida, rising. Parm enion w ill be slain by his son, Alexander. Cold iron will be thrust into his flesh. Everything you ever dream ed of w ill com e t o not hing. Ponder on t hat, you blind hag!’

Derae said not hing, but sat very st ill as t he Dark Lady w alked aw ay.

She hear d t he carriage door open, list ened as t he st eps w ere withdrawn and heard the whip crack, the horses whinnying.

‘Have t hey gone t hen?’ asked Cam fit ha, laying t he silver t ray on t he marble bench.

‘Yes, they have gone.’

‘Was it the Queen?’

‘No. It was just a woman I once knew.’

*

Light ning speared t he sky as Alexander w alked from t he palace, heading w est along t he w ide, desert ed avenue t ow ards t he m arket place. There w ere few people on t he st reet s as m idnight approached, but he w as sure he w as being follow ed. Tw ice he t hought he caught glim pses of a t all m an w earing a black cloak, but w hen he turned there was no one in sight. t w q pr ost it ut es hailed him as he crossed t he agor a square, but he sm iled and shook his head. ‘A special price for you, handsom e one,’ called the younger of the two, but he spread his hands.

‘No coin,’ he answered and they turned from him, walking away arm in arm.

A flicker of m ovem ent cam e from his left and he spun w it h dagger in hand. There w as no one t here. Light ning flashed, black shadow s danced fr om t he giant pillars of t he Tem ple of Zeus. Alexander shook his head.

Shadow s. You are j um ping at shadow s. Slipping t he dagger back int o its sheath he walked on. Once he would have used his Talent to search t hose shadow s, but ever since Parm enion had clipped t he golden necklet t o his t hroat his pow ers had v anished. A sm all price t o pay for t he peace he had enj oyed since t he Dark God w as banished from his body.

No one w ho had not endur ed his sense of solit ude as a child could possibly underst and t he j oy he had know n since his ret urn from t he w orld of Achaea. To t ouch and not t o kill, t o em brace w it hout fear and feel t he w arm t h of anot her body against his ow n. So m any sim ple pleasures. To sit, no longer alone, at t he cent r e of a gr oup of children, to ride, and to laugh, and to share.

Reaching up, he touched the cold gold of the necklet.

He moved on, cutting across the Street of Tanners and on to the wider Avenue of t he St allion, keeping close t o t he shadow s and list ening for sounds of pursuit.

How could it have com e t o t his, he w ondered? Slinking t hrough t he m idnight st reet s for a secret m eet ing. The ret urn from Achaea had been full of j oy. Philip’s good-hum our had last ed for m ont hs, and even w hen aw ay on his const ant cam paigns in Thrace or t he Chalcidice t he King had cont inued t o send m essages t o his son at Mieza. Where had it gone wrong?

Could it have been the horse?

He rem em bered t he day, five years before, w hen Parm enion had first brought Bucephalus t o t he King. The Fest ival of Art em is had been celebrat ed for t he previous four days, and Philip w as relaxed and m ildly dr unk w hen t he Thessalian handler w alked t he huge black st allion on t o t he parade ground. Alexander’s breat h had caught in his t hroat. Sevent een hands high, t he st allion w as t he m ost w ondrous sight, pow erful of shoulder and proud of eye. The King had sobered inst ant ly. He w as not lam e t hen and he had leapt from t he dais t o approach the beast.

‘Never,’ said Philip, ‘have I seen such a horse.’

‘His sire w as Tit an,’ Parm enion t old him. ‘I rode him only once and have never forgotten it.’

‘I will give you five talents of silver for him,’ the King announced.

‘He is not for sale, sire, not even to you. He is a gift for Alexander.’

‘This is no horse for a child. This is a w ar-horse.’ Philip reached up t o st roke t he sleek black neck, his hand t rem bling. ‘Ten t alent s, Parmenion. He can have another horse.’

The fift eenyear-old Alexander gazed up at t he Spart an, saw his cheeks redden, his m out h t ight ening. ‘You cannot buy anot her m an’s gift, m y lord. I have several ot her w ar-horses I w ould be pleased t o offer you.’

‘I w ant t his one! ‘ declared t he King, his voice deepening as his anger rose.

‘No,’ said Parm enion. The w ord w as spoken soft ly, but t here w as no doubting the strength of feeling behind it.

Philip t ook a deep breat h and sw ung t o see Alexander w at ching him.

‘I f he can ride t he st allion, he m ay have him,’ said Philip, st riding back to the dais.

‘Thank you, Parm enion,’ w hispered Alexander, m oving forw ard t o st and alongside t he st allion. ‘But how w ill I m ount such a beast? I would need to carry steps.’

‘St roke his nose and blow gent ly int o his nost ril, t hen st ep back,’ advised t he Spart an. Alexander obeyed t he inst ruct ion and w as bot h am azed and delight ed w hen Bucephalus knelt before him. Taking hold of t he black m ane, he vault ed t o t he horse’s back. I nst ant ly Bucephalus rose.

‘Aia! ‘ shout ed Alexander, t ouching heels t o t he st allion’s flanks.

Bucephalus broke int o a run, and t he prince had never forgot t en t he int ense exhilarat ion of t hat first ride - t he incredible speed, the awesome power.

But his fat her ‘s fury had last ed for days, and even w hen it faded an edge remained.

Alexander w as not unduly t roubled by it, for he knew t he King w as concerned w it h t he com ing w ar against Thebes and At hens, t w o enem ies of fierce reput at ion. I t w as t he At henians w ho t w o hundred years before had dest royed a m assive Persian arm y at t he Bat t le of Marathon, and the Thebans who three decades ago had ended Spartan dom inat ion at t he Bat t le of Leuct ra. Now unit ed against Philip, t hey posed the greatest threat ever faced by the Macedonian King.

St opping at a public fount ain Alexander drank a lit t le w at er, t aking t im e t o cast furt ive glances at t he buildings around him. There w as no sign of t he m an in t he black cloak if ever t here w as such a m an, t hought t he prince w it h a w ry sm ile. A low rum ble of t hunder sounded in t he dist ance, follow ed closely by a t rident of light ning. The w ind began to blow harder, but as yet there was no rain.

There had been lightning the night before Chaironeia, he remembered.

He had st ood w it h Parm enion on t he high ground overlooking t he enem y cam p. Alm ost 30,000 m en: t he bat t le-hardened w arriors of t he Sacred Band, Corint hian cavalry, At henian hoplites, pelt ast s, javeliners.

‘Does t his m ake you sad?’ w hispered Alexander. ‘I m ean, did you not help to form the Sacred Band?’

‘Yes, I did,’ Parm enion answ ered, ‘and dow n t here w ill be som e of the m en I t rained, and t he sons of ot hers I k new. I t m akes m y heart sick.

But I have chosen t o serve your fat her and t hey have chosen t o become his enemies.’ The Spartan shrugged and walked away.

The bat t le had been fierce, t he Sacred Band holding t he Macedonian phalanxes, but at last Philip had led a successful cavalry charge against t he enem y left, scat t ering t he Corint hians and split t ing t he enemy force.

Alexander saw again t he j av elin t hat speared t he heart of t he King’s horse and watched, with his mind’s ey e, his fat her being t hrow n t o t he ground. Enem y soldiers rushed t ow ards him. Alexander had kicked Bucephalus int o a run and led a w ild charge t o t he King’s aid. Philip w as w ounded in bot h arm s, but Alexander had reached him in t im e, st ret ching out his hand and pulling his fat her up behind him.

Bucephalus had carried them both to safety.

I t w as t he last t im e Alexander could r em em ber his fat her em bracing him

The prince sighed. He w as alm ost at t he m eet ing place, and j ust crossing t he St reet of Pot t ers, w hen t hree m en appeared from t he shadows. Alexander paused in his stride, eyes narrowing.

The m en, all dressed in dark t unics, spread out, knives gleam ing in t heir hands. Alexander backed aw ay, draw ing his ow n blade as he did so.

‘We j ust w ant t he necklet, young prince,’ said t he leader, a burly m an with a silver-streaked black beard. ‘We mean you no harm.’

‘Then come and take it,’ Alexander told him.

‘Is a piece of gold worth your life?’ asked another man, this one leaner and wolf-like.

‘It’s certainly worth more than yours,’ Alexander retorted.

‘Don’t m ake us kill you! ‘ pleaded t he leader. Alexander t ook several st eps back, t hen his shoulders t ouched t he w all of t he building behind him. His m out h w as dry, and he knew he could not k ill all t hree without suffering serious injury. For a moment only he was tempted to give t hem t he necklet, t hen he rem em bered t he t ouch of deat h and t he t er rible loneliness of his childhood. No, it w ould be bet t er t o die.

His gaze flickered t o t he lean m an; he w ould be t he deadly one, sw ift as a st riking snake. They m oved in closer, com ing from left, right and centre. Alexander tensed, ready to leap to his right.

‘Put up t he blades,’ said a deep voice. The m en froze, t he leader t urning his head t o see a t all m an in a black cloak st anding behind them with a glittering sword in his hand.

‘What if we do?’ the leader asked.

‘Then you walk away,’ said the newcomer reasonably.

‘Very w ell,’ m ut t ered t he robber, easing him self t o t he right, his m en follow ing him. Once clear of t he act ion, t he t hree at t ackers t urned and disappeared into the shadows.

‘My thanks to you,’ said Alexander, but his knife remained in his hand.

The man chuckled. ‘I am Hephaistion. The lord Parmenion asked me to watch over you. Come, I will take you to him.’

‘Lead the way, my friend. I will be right behind you.’

*

Mot hac’s house w as in t he poorer quart er of Pella, w here he could m eet and hold int erview s w it h his m any agent s. The building w as t w ost oreyed and surrounded by high w alls. There w as no garden but t o the rear of t he propert y, facing east, w as a sm all court yard halfcovered by a roof of vines. There w as only one andron, w indow less and unadorned, in w hich t hree couches and several sm all t ables w ere set. I t w as in t his room t hat Mot hac spoke w it h his spies, for t hey could not be overheard from outside.

‘What is happening t o m y fat her?’ asked Alexander as Parm enion ushered the prince inside.

The general shook his head and shrugged. ‘I cannot say w it h cert aint y.’ The Spart an st ret ched out his lean fram e on a long couch, and Alexander saw the weariness in the older man. It surprised him for Parm enion had alw ays been his hero, seem ingly inexhaust ible. Now he looked like any m an in his sixt ies, grey-haired and lined, his pale blue eyes show ing dark rings. I t saddened t he prince and he looked aw ay.

‘Som et im es,’ cont inued t he Spart an, ‘a m an w ill find t hat his dream s w ere m ore m agical before t hey w ere realized. I t hink t hat m ight be one answer.’

‘I don’t underst and you. He is t he m ost pow erful King in Greece. He has everything he ever desired.’

‘Exactly my point.’ The general sighed. ‘When first I met him in Thebes he w as but a child, facing w it h courage t he pr ospect of assassinat ion.

He never w ant ed t o be King. But t hen his brot her w as slain in bat t le and Macedonia faced ruin. Philip t ook t he crow n t o save t he nat ion.

Soon aft er t hat he began t o dream of great ness - not for him self but for t he kingdom, and t he fut ure of his unbor n son. He w ant ed not hing more than to build for you.’

‘But he has done that,’ said Alexander.

‘I know. But along t he w ay som et hing happened t o t he m an. He no longer builds for you but for him self. And t he older he becom es t he m ore he regards y ou, your yout h and your t alent, as a t hreat. I w as w it h him in Thrace w hen new s of t he Triballian revolt cam e t hrough.

He w as ready t o m arch hom e, for he k new t he st rengt h of t he t ribesm en, t heir courage and t heir skills. Any cam paign against t hem w ould t ake m ont hs of careful planning. Then cam e w ord of your st unning vict ory. You out flanked t hem, out t hought t hem and w on t he w ar in eight een day s. That w as m agnificent. I w as proud of you. So, I t hink, w as he. But it only show ed him how close you are t o being ready to rule.’

Alexander shook his head. ‘I cannot w in, can I? I t ry t o please him by excelling, but t hat m akes him fear m e. How should I act, Parm enion?

Would it be bet t er if I w ere ret arded, like m y half-brot her Arridaeus?

What can I do?’

‘I think you should leave Pella,’ advised the Spartan.

‘Leave?’ Alexander w as silent for a m om ent. He looked int o Parm enion’s face, but for t he first t im e in all t he years he had know n him t he Spart an r efused t o m eet his eyes. ‘He m eans t o kill m e?’ he w hispered. ‘Is that what you are saying?’

The general’s face w as grim as, at last, he looked int o Alexander’s eyes. ‘I believe so. Day by day he convinces him self-or is convinced - of your im m inent t reachery. He gat hers inform at ion about you, and t he w ords of your friends. Som eone w it hin your group is report ing t o him. I cannot find out who.’

‘One of my friends?’ asked Alexander, shocked.

‘Yes - or rather, someone who professes to friendship.’

‘Believe m e, Parm enion, I have never spok en against m y fat her or crit icized a single act ion. Not even t o m y friends. Anyone w ho speaks against me is lying or twisting the truth.’

‘I k now t hat, boy! I know t hat bet t er t han anyone. But w e m ust find a w ay t o m ake Philip realize it. I t w ould be safer for y ou t o leave t he city. Then I can do my best to convince the King.’

‘I cannot do it,’ said Alexander. ‘I am t he heir t o t he t hr one and I am innocent. I will not run.’

‘You t hink only guilt y m en die?’ Parm enion snapped. ‘You believe innocence is a shield t o t urn aw ay a blade? Where w as t he shield t onight w hen t he assassins cam e? Had it not been for Hephaist ion you would have been killed.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Alexander, ‘but t hey w ere not assassins. They wanted the necklet.’

Parm enion said not hing, but his face lost it s colour and he m oved across t he room t o a t able w here a flagon of w ine and t w o shallow cups had been left. He did not offer t he prince a drink, but filled a cup and drained it swiftly. ‘I should have guessed,’ he said softly.

‘What?’

‘Aristotle leaving. It bothered me at the time. Now I know why.

Many years ago - j ust before you w ere born - 1 w ent on a j our ney a perilous journey. He accompanied me. But when it seemed that all was lost, he fled. As Chiron, he did m uch t he sam e. You rem em ber? When w e cam e close t o t he Forest of Gorgon he becam e t he cent aur, returning to his own form only when the danger was past.’

‘He told me of that; he said he was frightened.’

‘Yes. There is t o him an edge of cow ardice he cannot resist. I have alw ays seen it in him - and I do not blam e him for it. I t is his nat ure, and he t ries hard t o overcom e it. But it is t here nonet heless. Now he has run away again, and tonight someone tried to steal the necklet.’

‘They could just have been robbers, surely?’

‘Yes,’ Parm enion adm it t ed, ‘t hey could. But I doubt it. Three m en in a desert ed st reet. What w ere t hey doing? Hoping som e rich m erchant w ould w alk by aft er m idnight? And t he necklet is not readily visible, especially at night, nor does it look part icularly valuable. No. Ever since w e ret ur ned from Achaea I have lived in fear, w ait ing for t he ret ur n of t he Dar k God.’ The general refilled t he w ine-cup and m ov ed back t o t he couch. ‘I am no m yst ic, Alexander, but I can feel his presence.’

‘He is gone from me,’ argued the prince. ‘We defeated him.’

‘No, not gone w ait ing. You w ere alw ays t o be his vessel. All t hat protects you is the necklet.’

‘They did not get it,’ Alexander pointed out.

‘This t im e! But t here w ill now be ot her at t em pt s. They m ust feel t he time is right.’

‘Tw ice in t he last year I hav e alm ost lost t he necklet,’ said Alexander.

‘I n t he bat t le against t he Triballians an arrow st ruck m y breast plat e, t he shaft snapping and t he head t earing t w o of t he gold links. I had it repaired. The goldsm it h could not underst and w hy I refused t o t ake it off w hile he soldered t he gold; he burned m e t w ice. Then, w hile hunting, a jackdaw swooped down upon me, its talons hooking into the links. I st ruck t he bird w it h m y hand and it lost it s grip upon t he gold.

But as it flew aw ay t he clasp snapped open. I m anaged t o hold it in place while I refastened it.’

‘We m ust be on our guard, m y boy,’ said Parm enion. ‘Now, if you w ill not leave Pella, will you at least allow me one request?’

‘Of course. You have but to ask.’

‘Keep Hephaist ion w it h you. He is t he best of m y young officers. He has a keen eye and a good brain; he w ill guar d your back. Take him int o your counsel, int roduce him as a new Com panion. Given t im e, he will find the traitor.’

Alexander sm iled ruefully. ‘You know, it is hardly accurat e t o describe a m an w ho report s t o t he King as a t rait or. I ndeed, t his could be seen as treason: the King’s general and the King’s son in a secret meeting.’

‘There are those who would see it so,’ agreed Parmenion. ‘But you and I know it is not true.’

‘Answ er m e t his, Parm enion: Where w ill you st and if m y fat her goes against me?’

‘By his side,’ answ ered t he Spart an, ‘for I am pledged t o serve him and I will never betray him.’

‘And if he should kill me?’

‘Then I w ill leave his service and depart from Macedonia. But w e m ust ensure that it does not come to that. He must be made to see that you are loyal.’

‘I would not harm him - not even to save my own life.’

‘I k now,’ said Parm enion, rising and em bracing t he younger m an. ‘I t is time for you to go. Hephaistion is waiting by the front gate.’

The Summer Palace, Aigai Olym pias knelt before t he Lady of Sam ot hrace, bow ing her head t o receive the blessing.

Aida leaned forw ard. ‘You ar e a Queen now. You should not kneel t o me,’ she said.

‘A Queen?’ responded Olympias bitterly. To a man with seven wives?’

‘You are t he m ot her of his son, t he heir. Not hing can t ake t hat aw ay from you.’

‘You t hink not?’ asked Olym pias, rising and sit t ing beside t he blackclad Aida on t he sat incovered couch. ‘Cleopat ra w ill bear him a son. I know t his, he br ags of it const ant ly. And he has grow n t o hat e Alexander. What am I to do?’

Aida put her arm around t he Queen, draw ing her close and kissing her brow. ‘Your son w ill be King,’ she t old her, holding her v oice t o a w hisper and flicking a glance at t he open w indow. Who knew w hat spies lurked close by? Her spirit snaked out, but t her e w as no one within hearing distance.

‘I used to believe that, Aida. Truly. And I was so happy on Samothrace before t he w edding. I t hought t hat Philip w as t he great est King in all t he w orld. My happiness was com plet e. But t here has alw ays been som et hing bet w een us, an uneasy I don’t k now how t o describe it.

Only on t hat first night did w e ever achieve t he union you t aught m e t o expect. Now he can scarce look at m e w it hout his face darkening in anger. Did he never love me?’

Aida shrugged. ‘Who can say w hat is in a m an’s m ind? Their brains hang bet w een t heir legs. What is im port ant is w hat w e do now. You know you w ere chosen t o bear a special child, a king of k ings, a god.

You have fulfilled t hat part of your dest iny. Rej oice in t hat, sist er! And leave your fears in my care.’

‘You can help Alexander?’

‘I can do m any t hings,’ she answ ered. ‘But t ell m e of your son. What kind of m an has he becom e?’ The Queen drew back, her face suddenly radiant, and she began t o speak of Alexander’s t rium phs, his goodness, his strength and his pride.

Aida sat pat ient ly, assum ing an ex pr ession of rapt fascinat ion, sm iling occasionally, even clapping her hands in delight at various point s. Her boredom w as alm ost at t he point of exasperat ion w hen Olym pias’ voice trailed away. ‘I am talking too much,’ said the Queen.

‘Not at all,’ put in Aida sw ift ly. ‘He sounds w onderful - everyt hing w e ever dream ed of. I saw him t oday, w alking w it h a group of young m en. He is very handsom e. But I not iced t hat he w as w earing a necklet and it int erest ed m e. The w orkm anship is very old. Where did he come by it?’

‘It was a gift, many years ago. He wears it always.’

‘I would like to see it. Can you bring it to me?’

Olym pias shook her head. ‘I am sorry, I cannot. You see, t here w as a t im e w hen he seem ed possessed. The necklet prot ect s him. He cannot remove it.’

‘Nonsense! He w as a gift ed child w it h pow ers t oo st rong t o cont ain.

But he is a man now.’

‘No,’ said Olympias. ‘I will not risk that.’

‘You do not t rust m e?’ asked Aida, her face show ing exact ly t he right amount of hurt.

‘Oh no! ‘ r eplied Olym pias, t aking Aida’s hand, ‘of course I t rust you. I t is j ust I fear t hat t he darkness t hat w as once w it hin him could return and destroy him.’

‘Think on t his, m y dear. Wit hout t he necklet he w ill be so pow erful no man will ever be able to kill him.’

‘You think Philip would? No, I cannot believe that.’

‘You have never heard of a King killing his son? St range. I t is not a rare occurrence in Persia.’

‘Nor here,’ Olym pias agreed. ‘But Philip is not t hat kind of m an. When he becam e King, upon his brot her’s deat h in bat t le, he spared t he life of his brot her’s son Am ynt as. That surprised m any, for Am ynt as w as the natural heir.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘Amyntas? He serves in the King’s bodyguard. He is ferociously loyal to Philip; he has no desire to be King.’

‘Not now, perhaps - but what if Philip were to die?’

‘Alexander would be King.’

‘And is Amyntas loyal to Alexander?’

Olympias frowned and looked away. ‘No, they are not friends.’

‘And Am ynt as is a t rue-born Macedonian,’ put in Aida soft ly. ‘I s t hat not so?’

‘Why are you trying to frighten me? Amyntas is no danger.’

‘There is peril everyw here,’ snapped Aida. ‘I have been here but t hree days, and t he w hole court t alks of not hing apar t from t he succession.

The fam ily of At t alus dream t hat Cleopat ra’s child w ill be King. Ot hers swear allegiance to Amyntas. Still more talk of Arridaeus.’

‘But he is retarded; he drools and cannot walk a straight line.’

‘Yet he is Philip’s son, and t here are t hose w ho w ould seek t o rule through him. Antipater, perhaps.’

‘Stop this!’ shouted Olympias. ‘Do you see enemies everywhere?’

‘Everywhere,’ agreed Aida, her t one soft. ‘I have lived for m any, m any years. Treachery, I find, is second nat ure t o Man. Alexander has m any friends and many enemies. But that is not important. The real secret is being able to tell which is which.’

‘You understand the Mysteries, Aida, can you see where the peril lies?’

‘There is one great enem y w ho m ust be slain,’ answ ered t he Dark Lady, her eyes holding to Olympias’ gaze.

‘Who?’ whispered Olympias.

‘You k now t he answ er. I need not speak t he nam e.’ Aida’s slender hand dipped int o a deep pocket in her dark gow n, t hen cam e clear holding a round golden coin w hich she lift ed bet w een t hum b and forefinger. ‘It is a good likeness, don’t you think?’ asked the sorceress, flipping the coin into Olympias’ lap.

The Queen st ared dow n at t he golden, silhouet t ed head of Philip of Macedon.

*

Hephaist ion st ret ched out his long legs, lift ing t hem over t he carved foot-rest at t he end of t he couch. His head w as aching w it h t he noise from the revellers and he merely sipped at the heavily-watered wine in t he golden Persian goblet. At t he far end of t he room Pt olem y w as w rest ling w it h Cassander and several t ables had been upt urned, t hrow ing fruit and sw eet m eat s t o t he floor. The t w o m en slipped and slit hered on t hem, t heir clot hes st ained w it h fruit - j uice. Hephaist ion looked aw ay. Philot as and Alexander w ere playing a Persian gam e involving dice and count ers of gold and silver. Elsew here ot her Com panions of t he prince w ere eit her gam bling or lying in a drunk en sleep on the many couches.

Hephaist ion w as bored. A soldier since t he age of fift een, he loved t he w ild, open count ry, sleeping beneat h t he st ars, rising w it h t he daw n, following the horns of war. But this? Soft cushions, sweet wines, mindnumbing games

He sat up, his gaze drift ing t o w here Philot as sat hunched over t he t able. So like his fat her in looks, he t hought, y et so different. I t w as int erest ing t o com pare t hem. They even w alked alike w it h shoulders back and eyes aw are, t he m ovem ent s sure and cat like. But Parmenion m erely show ed confidence w hereas Philo exuded arr ogance. When t he older man smiled men warmed to him, but with Philo it seemed he was mocking. Subtle differences, thought Hephaistion, but telling.

He st ret ched his back and st ood. Approaching t he t able w here Alexander sat, he bowed and asked for leave to depart.

Alexander looked up and grinned. ‘Sleep well, my friend,’ he said.

Hephaistion moved out into the torchlit corridor, nodding to the guards w ho st ood t o at t ent ion as he passed. The gardens w ere cool, t he night breeze refreshing. He sucked in a deep breat h and t hen, w it h a glance behind him, stepped into the shadows of the trees by the eastern gate.

There w as a m arble bench here, hidden from t he pat h by overhanging vegetation, and he sat down to wait.

An hour passed t hen anot her. Finally a cloaked figure left by t he rear door, m oving sw ift ly dow n t he pat h. But he did not pass t hrough t he gat e; inst ead he cut across t he garden t o a second inner gat ew ay.

Hephaist ion st ood and, keeping t o t he shadow s of t he w all, follow ed the 1 man. Hanging ivy grew thickly by the inner gate and the scent of roses came from beyond the wall. Hephaistion slowed his walk, moving w it h care t hrough t he under grow t h. He could hear low voices in t he small garden beyond and he recognized them both.

‘Is he talking treason yet?’ Philip asked.

‘Not as such, sire. But he grow s m ore discont ent ed day by day. I asked him t onight how he felt about t he com ing cam paign and he out lined his plans for t he t aking of a w alled cit y. He speaks like a general, and I think he sees himself leading the army.’

Hephaist ion’s eyes narr ow ed. That w as not as it had been. He had list ened t o t hat conversat ion and Alexander had m erely point ed out - w hen pushed - t hat pat ience w as needed w hen besieging fort ified towns.

‘At t alus believes,’ said Philip, ‘t hat m y life is in danger. Do you agr ee with him?’

‘Hard t o say w it h cert aint y, sire. But I det ect a great j ealousy over your recent marriage. All things are possible.’

‘Thank you,’ said t he King. ‘Your loyalt y does you credit - 1 shall not forget it.’

Hephaist ion slipped deeper int o t he shadow s and knelt behind a t hick bush as t he m an r eappeared. He w ait ed t here for som e m inut es t hen rose and w alked out int o t he night, m aking his w ay past t he Guards Barracks t o Parm enion’s house. Ther e w as a single lant ern bur ning in t he low er st udy, t hin lines of golden light show ing t hrough t he w ooden shutters of the small window.

The soldier t apped at t he w ood and Parm enion pushed open t he shut t er, saw him and gest ured him t o t he side door. Once inside t he general offered him w ine but Hephaist ion refused, accept ing inst ead a cup of water.

‘Is it Philo?’ Parmenion asked.

Hephaist ion nodded. There w as no expression on t he general’s face as he ret urned t o t he w ide leat her-covered chair behind t he desk. ‘I thought so. Tell me all.’

The soldier did so, report ing t he t w ist ed fact s Philot as had relayed t o t he King. ‘What does he gain, sir? The prince is his friend and t he heir t o t he t hrone. Surely his fut ure success w ould be assured under Alexander?’

‘That is not how he view s it. You have done w ell, Hephaist ion. I am pleased with you.’

‘I am sorry that the information I gained should bring you grief.’

Parm enion shook his head. ‘I knew it anyw ay - deep in m y heart.’ The Spart an r ubbed at his eyes, t hen lift ed a full w ine-cup t o his lips, draining it at a single swallow.

‘May I now ret urn t o m y regim ent, sir?’ asked t he soldier. ‘I am not suited to palace life.’

‘No, I am sorry. I t hink Alexander is in danger and I w ant you close t o him for a little while longer. Will you do this for me?’

Hephaistion sighed. ‘You know I will refuse you nothing, sir. But please let it not be too long.’

‘No m ore t han a m ont h. Now you should get som e rest. I underst and Alexander rides on a hunt tomorrow today at dawn.’

Hephaist ion chuckled. ‘That w ill com e as a w elcom e relief.’ His sm ile faded. ‘What will you do about Philotas?’

‘What I must,’ Parmenion answered.

*

Parm enion aw oke soon aft er daw n, but he w as not refreshed by his sleep. His dream s had been full of anxiet y and despair, and on w aking he felt no better.

Rising from t he bed, he opened t he shut t ers of his bedroom w indow and st ared out ov er t he cit y. When m en looked at him t hey saw Macedonia’s great est general, a conqueror, a m an of pow er. Yet t oday he felt old, weary and lost.

One son, Alexander, w as being bet r ayed by anot her, Philot as, w hile t he King Parm enion loved w as fast convincing him self of t he necessit y of murdering his heir.

This was no battlefield where the strategos could work one of his many m iracles. This w as like a w eb of poisoned t hread, w eaving it s w ay t hrough t he cit y and t he kingdom, corr upt ing w here it t ouched. But who was the spider?

Attalus?

The m an w as cold-heart ed and am bit ious, but Parm enion did not believe him capable of manipulating Philip. Yet who else stood to gain?

He sum m oned t w o of his m anservant s, ordering t hem t o prepare him a bath. Only a few years before he would have first left the house for a m orning run, loosening his m uscles and refreshing his m ind. But now his lim bs w ere t oo st iff for such reckless release of energy. There w as a t ray of apples by t he w indow and he bit int o one. I t w as sw eet and overripe and he threw the remainder from the window.

Who was the spider?

There w ere no easy answ ers. The King w as m iddle-aged now and it w as nat ural for young m en t o t urn t heir eyes t o a successor. There w ere m any w ho favoured Alexander, but ot hers w ould be happier w it h t he half-w it Arridaeus, w hile st ill m ore rem em bered t hat Am ynt as w as the son of Perdiccas, the King before Philip.

But Parmenion pushed such thoughts from his mind. He knew Amyntas w ell; t he boy had no desire for t he crow n, and less apt it ude. He w as easygoing and friendly, a capable officer, but w it h lit t le im aginat ion or initiative.

No, the answer lay with Philip and his increasing mistrust of Alexander.

Philot as w as feeding him lies and half-t rut hs, but he had neit her t he wit nor the natural cunning to build such a web.

Parm enion lazed in t he deep bat h for an hour, w rest ling w it h t he problem, but w as no nearer a solut ion w hen Mot hac arrived t o discuss the messages from agents in Asia Minor.

‘The Great King has st rengt hened his forces in t he w est and sent t roops t o t he Greek cit ies of t he coast. But not m any. Maybe t hree thousand. Curious,’ said the old Theban.

‘Persia is vast,’ said Parm enion. ‘He could gat her an im m ense arm y in lit t le m ore t han a m ont h. No, he is j ust let t ing us know t hat he know s.

What news from Thebes?’

‘There’s been t he usual unrest. No one likes having a for eign garrison in the Cadmea. You should remember that!’

‘I do,’ Parm enion agreed, r em em bering his days in t he cit y, w hen a Spartan force occupied the fortress at the centre of Thebes.

‘There is som e t alk in t he cit y of Persian gold for t he hiring of a mercenary army to retake the Cadmea.’

‘I don’t doubt the money is there,’ said Parmenion. ‘The Great King will be t hrow ing gold in every direct ion: Spart a, At hens, Corint h, Pherae.

But this time the Persians will fail. There will be no revolt behind us.’

‘Do not be t oo sure,’ m ut t ered Mot hac. ‘Thebes has freed herself of conquerors before.’

‘There w as Epam inondas t hen, and Pelopidas. And Spart a w as t he enem y. The sit uat ion is different now. Spart a w as forced t o t read w arily for fear of st art ing anot her w ar w it h At hens. Now Thebes w ould st and alone, and she is no m at ch for even one-fift h of t he Macedonian army.’

Mot hac gr unt ed and shook his head angrily. ‘Spoken like a Macedonian! Well, I am Theban and I do not agree. The Sacred Band is being reformed. The city will be free again.’

Parm enion rose from t he bat h, w rapping a t hick t ow el around his w aist. The old day s are gone, Mot hac; you know t hat. Thebes w ill be free - but only when Philip decides he can trust the Thebans.’

‘Such ar r ogance,’ hissed Mot hac. ‘You w ere t he m an w ho freed Thebes. Not Epam inondas. You! You helped us ret ake t he Cadm ea and t hen cam e up w it h t he plan t o crush t he Spart an ar m y. Don’t you remember? Why is it so different now? How do you know there is not a young Parmenion even now in Thebes, plotting and planning?’

‘I am sur e t hat t here is,’ answ ered Parm enion w it h a sigh. ‘But t he Spart an arm y w as never m ore t han five t housand st rong, and t hey were spread thin. Philip can call upon forty-five thousand Macedonians, and half again t hat num ber of m ercenaries. He has a forest of siegeengines, catapults, moving towers. It is not the same.’

‘I would expect you to take that view,’ said Mothac, his face crimson.

‘I am sorry, m y friend, w hat else can I say?’ asked Parm enion, approaching t he old m an and laying his hand on Mot hac’s broad shoulder. But the Theban shrugged it away.

‘There ar e som e m at t ers bet t er left undiscussed,’ m ut t ered Mot hac.

‘Let us cont inue w it h ot her problem s.’ He scooped up his papers and began t o leaf t hrough t hem. Then he st opped, his bald head sagging forward, and Parmenion saw there were tears in his eyes.

‘What is it? What ‘s w rong?’ Parm enion asked, m oving t o sit alongside him.

‘They are all going to die,’ said Mothac, his voice shaking.

‘Who? Who is going to die?’

‘The y oung m en of m y cit y. They w ill rise, sw ords in t heir hands. And they will be cut down.’

Underst anding flow ed int o Parm enion’s m ind. ‘You have been helping them to organize?’

The old man nodded. ‘It is my city.’

‘You know when they plan to attack the Cadmea?’

‘No, but it will be soon.’

‘I t need not end in bloodshed, Mot hac. I w ill send anot her t w o regim ent s int o Boeot ia and t hat w ill give t hem pause. But prom ise m e you will sever your connections with the rebels. Promise me!’

‘I cannot prom ise t hat! You underst and? Ever yt hing I do here m akes m e a t rait or. Ever since Chaironeia, w hen you crushed t he Theban arm y. I should have left you t hen. I should hav e gone hom e. Now I will!’

‘No,’ said Parm enion, ‘don’t leave. You are m y oldest friend and I need you.’

‘You don’t need m e,’ said t he old m an sadly. ‘You don’t need anyt hing.

You are t he strategos, t he Deat h of Nat ions. I am get t ing old, Parm enion. I shall go hom e t o Thebes. I w ill die in t he cit y of m y birt h and be buried alongside my love.’

Mothac rose and walked, stiff-backed, from the room.

City of Aigai, Midwinter 337 BC They had m any nam es and m any uses, but t o Aida t hey w ere t he Whisperers. The Persians had w orshipped t hem as m inor dem ons or daevas; t he ancient peoples of Akkady and At lant is believed t hem t o be t he souls of t hose w ho had died evil. Even t he Greek s knew t hem, in a corrupted form, as Harpies.

Now t hey gat her ed around Aida like sm all w isps of m ist, barely sent ient but pulsing w it h dark em ot ions, exuding t he det rit us of evil, despair, melancholy, gloom, mistrust, jealousy and hatred.

The cellar w as colder t han t he heart of a w int er lake, but Aida st eeled herself against it, sit t ing at t he cent re as t he sm oky form s hovered about her.

The house w as set apart from t he cit y, a form er count r y hom e for a m inor Macedonian noble w ho had died in t he Thracian w ars. Aida had purchased it from his w idow, for it had a num ber of advant ages. Not only w as it secluded but t her e w as a garden hidden behind a high w all where her acolytes could dispose of the bodies of the sacrifices - those unfort unat es w hose blood had been needed t o keep t he Whisperers strong.

She reached out her hand, sum m oning t he first of t he ghost ly shapes.

It flowed over her fingers and immediately images formed in her mind.

She saw Philip slum ped on his t hrone, his t hought s dark and m elancholy, and she laughed aloud. How sim ple it w as t o t w ist t he m inds of m en! Sum m oning a second form, she w at ched At t alus plotting and scheming.

One by one she received her im age r eport s before sending t he Whisperers back t o t heir hum an host s. Then, at last, t he cold began t o seep int o her bones and she rose and left t he room, clim bing t he dark stairs that led to the lower gardens.

All w as w ell and Aida w as deeply sat isfied. Soon Philip w ould face his doom, and t he Lady of Sam ot hrace w ould be on hand t o guide his son t o t he t hrone. Such a handsom e boy! Oh, how she w ould aid him, supplying such j oy s and t hen, w hile he w as asleep, she w ould rem ove the necklet and open the gates of his soul.

Aida shivered w it h exquisit e pleasure. All her life she had dream ed of t his com ing day, as had her m ot her before her. Her m ot her’s hopes - and w orse, her spirit and her w ill t o live - had been crushed by Tam is.

But there is no one now to thwart me, she thought.

Soon Philip of Macedon w ould be dead, slain in his palace w hile he slept.

Arousal st irred in her and she sum m oned t w o of her guards. Most ly she found t he t ouch of m en dist ast eful, but on occasions such as t his t here w as a sat isfact ion in using t hem t hat bordered on pleasure. I t w as alw ays height ened w hen she knew her lovers w ere about t o die.

As t heir yout h and st rengt h w as expended on her, she gloried in t heir coming demise.

The t w o m en w ere handsom e and t all, m ercenaries from Asia Minor.

They sm iled as t hey appr oached her and began t o rem ove t heir clothing.

The first reached her, arrogant ly laying his hand on her breast, pulling clear the dark robe she wore.

Tomorrow, she thought, your soul will be shrieking on its way to Hades

Pella, Midwinter Philip w as drunk and in high good hum our. Around him w ere his friends and generals - t w ent y m en w ho had served t he King w ell over t he last t w o decades - and t hey w ere celebrat ing t he last night of t he w edding fest ival. Philip leaned back in his chair, his gaze m oving from man to man.

Parm enion, Ant ipat er, Cleit us, At t alus, Theopar lis, Coenus m en t o m arch t he m ount ains w it h. St rong, loyal, fearless. A m ovem ent at t he far end of the table caught his eye. Alexander was smiling at some jest made by the youngster, Ptolemy.

Philip’s good humour evaporated. The joke was probably about him.

But he shrugged t he t hought aw ay. Tonight w as a celebrat ion and nothing would be allowed to mar it.

Servant s cleared aw ay t he last of t he food plat es and j ugglers cam e forw ard t o ent ert ain t he King. They w ere Medes, w it h curled beards and flow ing clot hes of silk and sat in. Each of t he t hree carried six sw ords w hich t hey began t o hurl int o t he air, one by one, unt il it seem ed t hat t he blades w ere alive, spinning and gleam ing like m et al birds above the throwers. The Medes moved apart and now the swords sliced t hr ough t he air bet w een t hem, scarcely seem ing t o t ouch t he hands of t he t hrow ers so fast did t hey m ove. Philip w as fascinat ed by t he skill and w ondered, idly, if t he m en w ere as t alent ed w hen it cam e to using the blades in battle. According to Mothac’s reports the Persian king had 3,000 Medean warriors in his army.

At last t he display finished and Philip led t he cheers. Several of Alexander ‘s com panions clapped t heir hands, w hich m ade t he King frow n. I t w as becom ing t he cust om t o show appreciat ion by slapping t he palm s t oget her, but for cent uries such clapping had been considered an insult. I t had originat ed in t he t heat re, used by t he crow d t o drow n out bad act ors and forcing t hem t o leave t he st age.

Then t he At henians began t o use clapping at t he end of a perform ance to signify approbation. Philip did not like such changes.

The j ugglers w ere replaced by a k nife-thrower of exquisit e skill. Seven t arget s w ere set up and t he m an, a slim Thessalian, found t he cent re of each while blindfolded. Philip rewarded him with a gold coin.

There follow ed four acrobat s, slim Thracian boys, and a saga poet w ho sang of Heracles and his labours. Thr ough it all Philip’s cup w as never empty.

Tow ards m idnight several of t he older officers, Parm enion am ong t hem, asked leave of t he King and ret urned t o t heir hom es. But Philip, Attalus, Alexander and a dozen others remained, drinking and talking.

Most w ere drunk, Philip not ed, especially At t alus w ho rarely consum ed alcohol. His pale eyes w ere bleary, but he w as sm iling blissfully, w hich brought a chuckle from the King who clapped him on the shoulder.

‘You should drink m ore oft en, m y friend. You are alt oget her t oo solemn.’

‘I ndeed I should,’ At t alus replied, enunciat ing t he w ords w it h great care and t ot al concent rat ion. ‘I t is an ext raor dinarily fine feeling,’ he concluded, standing and performing an exaggerated bow.

Philip flicked a glance at Alexander. The boy w as cold sober, nursing t he sam e cup of w ine he had or dered som e t w o hours before. ‘What ‘s the matter with you?’ he roared. ‘The wine not to your liking?’

‘It is very good, Father.’

‘Then drink it!’

‘I shall - in my own time,’ responded the prince.

‘Drink it now!’ the King ordered. Alexander raised the goblet in a toast, t hen drained it at a single sw allow. Philip sum m oned a servant. ‘The prince has an em pt y cup. St and by him and see t hat it does not become empty again.’

The m an bow ed and carried a pit cher t o t he end of t he t able, posit ioning him self behind Alexander. Sat isfied w it h t he young m an’s discom fit ure Philip sw ung back t o At t alus, but t he sw ordsm an had fallen asleep on the table with his head resting on his arms.

‘What’s this?’ shouted Philip. ‘Is the King to be left to celebrate alone?’

Attalus stirred. ‘I am dying,’ he whispered.

‘You need some wine,’ said Philip, hauling the drunken man to his feet.

‘Give us a toast, Attalus!’

‘A toast! A toast!’ roared the revellers.

At t alus shook his head and lift ed his w ine-cup, slopping half t he cont ent s t o t he t able. ‘To Philip, m y w ard Cleopat ra and t o t heir unborn son.’ The sw ordsm an saw Alexander and sm iled. ‘Here’s t o a legitimate heir!’ he said, raising his cup.

A st unned silence fell upon t he revellers. Alexander’s face lost all colour and he pushed him self t o his feet. ‘What does t hat m ake m e?’ he demanded.

Attalus blinked. He could not believe that he had used the words. They seem ed t o spring t o his lips unbidden. But once said t hey could not be w it hdraw n. ‘Do you hear m e, you m urderous w horeson?’ Alexander shouted. ‘Answer me!’

‘Be silent! ‘ bellow ed Philip, surging t o his feet. ‘What right have y ou t o interrupt a toast?’

‘I w ill not be silent,’ responded Alexander. ‘I have t aken your insult s long enough. But t his is not t o be borne. I care not hing for t he succession - you can leave your crown to a goat for all I care - but any m an w ho quest ions t he legit im acy of m y birt h w ill answ er for it. I w ill not sit by and allow m y m ot her t o be called a w hore by a m an w ho claw ed his w ay t o em inence over t he bodies of m en he has poisoned or stabbed in the back.’

‘You’ve said enough, boy! ‘ Philip pushed back his chair and rushed at Alexander, but his foot cracked against a st ool and he st um bled as he reached him. His crippled leg gave w ay beneat h him and he began t o fall. His left hand flashed out, reaching for Alexander, but his fingers only hooked int o t he necklet gleam ing at t he prince’s t hroat. I t t ore clear inst ant ly and Philip crashed int o t he t able, st riking his head on a chair as he fell.

Alexander st aggered, t hen right ed him self. There w as no sound in t he hall now, and t he lam ps flickered as a chill breeze sw ept t hrough t he open windows.

The prince looked dow n at t he fallen m an. ‘There he lies,’ he said, his voice deep and uncannily cold. ‘The m an w ho w ould st ride across t he world cannot even cross a room.’

Alexander backed aw ay t ow ards t he door, Pt olem y and Cr at erus following him. The prince spun on his heel and strode from the hall.

*

Parm enion did not hear t he ham m ering on t he m ain doors, for t he feast had left him exhaust ed and he had slum ped int o a deep, dream less sleep. The past days had been full of gloom and heart ache, with the departure of Mothac and the arrival of the shrill Phaedra.

A servant silent ly ent ered his room, gent ly shaking t he general’s shoulder. Parm enion aw oke. ‘What is it?’ he m um bled, glancing through the open window at the still dark sky.

‘The King sends for you, sir. It is urgent.’

Parm enion sat up, rubbing his eyes. Sw inging his legs from t he bed, he w ait ed w hile t he servant brought him a clean chiton and a fur-lined hooded coat. The w int er w as draw ing in and now t here w as a chill t o the night air.

Dressed at last, he w alked dow nst airs and saw Philot as, cloaked and ready to accompany him.

‘Do you know what’s happening?’ he asked his son.

‘Alexander has fled t he cit y,’ answ ered Philo. ‘There w ere heat ed words after you left.’

Parm enion cursed inw ardly and st rode from t he house, Philo follow ing him. The younger m an increased his pace and cam e alongside Parmenion.

‘There could be civil war,’ said Philo. Parmenion glanced at his son, but said not hing. ‘Crat erus, Pt olem y and Cassander have all gone w it h Alexander,’ t he y ounger m an cont inued. ‘And t hat officer of yours, Hephaist ion. I nev er t rust ed him. How m uch of t he arm y do you t hink will desert to the prince?’

Parm enion paused and t urned on his son. ‘There w ill be no civil w ar,’ he said, his voice colder t han t he night air. ‘No m at t er how hard you may push for it, Philo.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The words are not hard to understand,’ snapped Parmenion. ‘You have carried your lies and your t w ist ed half-t rut hs t o t he King, and you - and w hoever you serve - are responsible for t onight ‘s event s. But there will be no war. Now get away from me!’

Parm enion sw ung aw ay from his son and m arched on t ow ards t he palace, but Philo ran alongside, grabbing his father’s arm.

‘How dare you t r eat m e like a t rait or! ‘ st orm ed t he yout h, his eyes blazing with anger. ‘I serve the King loyally.’

Parm enion looked int o his son’s face and t ook a deep breat h. ‘I t is not your fault,’ he said at last, his voice echoing his sorrow. ‘Your m ot her w as once a seeress, albeit not a good one. She becam e convinced you w ere t o be a great King. And w hen you w ere t oo young t o underst and she filled your m ind w it h t hought s of fut ure glories. She w as w rong.

List en t o m e now: she w as w rong. Everyt hing you st rive for w ill only see you slain.’

Philo st epped back. ‘You hav e alw ays hat ed m e,’ he said. ‘Not hing I have ev er done has earned your praise. But Mot her’s vision w as not w rong. I know it; I can feel it w it hin m e. I have a dest iny t hat w ill dw arf all your achievem ent s. Not hing w ill st op m e! ‘ The younger m an backed away still further, then stalked off into the night.

Parm enion sighed, t he w eight of his years seem ing suddenly int olerable. He shivered and w alked on t o t he palace. Despit e t he lat eness of t he hour servant s and slaves st ill m oved t hrough t he halls and corridors and he w as led t o t he t hrone-room w here Philip w ait ed w it h At t alus. The sw ordsm an w as sober now. He nodded t o t he Spartan, but said nothing as Philip outlined the events of the evening.

‘You cast doubts on his legitimacy?’ asked Parmenion, swinging to face Attalus. ‘I can’t believe it!’

‘I don’t k now w hy I said it. I sw ear t o Zeus t he w ords j ust leapt from my mouth. I was drunk. But if I could take them back, I would.’

‘This has all gone too far,’ said Parmenion, turning back to the King.

‘I know,’ said Philip soft ly, sit t ing slum ped on his t hrone. ‘Suddenly I see everyt hing different ly: I t is like t he sun em erging follow ing a st orm. I cannot believe I have t reat ed him so badly. He is m y son!

When I fell I st ruck m y head and w as dazed for a w hile. But w hen m y senses returned it was as if I was looking through another man’s eyes.

All m y fears w ere gone and I felt free. I w ent looking for him t o apologize, to beg his forgiveness. But he was gone.’

‘I will find him, sire,’ Parmenion promised. ‘All will be well again.’

‘He saved m y life. Tw ice,’ w hispered Philip. ‘How could I t hink he wanted me dead?’

‘I don’t k now, sire. But I am glad you now see him for w hat he is, a fine young man who worships you.’

‘You m ust find him, Parm enion.’ Philip pushed him self t o his feet and limped towards the taller man. ‘Return this to him, for I know it means much.’ Extending his hand, he opened his fingers.

The Spart an looked dow n - and felt as if a knife had been t hr ust int o him, cold iron t o t he heart. The necklet glist ened in t he lam p-light and Parmenion took it with a trembling hand.

‘How did you come by it?’

‘As I fell, I reached out. My fingers hooked into it.’

I n t hat m om ent Parm enion realized j ust w hy t he King’s paranoia had disappeared. The m agic of t he necklet prevent ed any evil from entering the heart or mind of the wearer.

But what had its loss meant to Alexander? ‘I will ride at once, sire,’ he said.

‘Do you know where he has gone?’

‘No, but I know where to look.’

‘I will come with you,’ said Attalus.

‘I do not think that would be wise,’ the Spartan told him.

‘Wise or not, I will apologize to his face.’

‘He may kill you - and I would not blame him.’

‘Then I will die,’ said Attalus. ‘Come, let us go.’

The River Axios, Winter 337 BC Sleet had begun t o fall, icy needles t hat penet r at ed t he t hickest cloak, and t he w at ers of t he nearby river - sw ollen by incessant rain over t he last few w eeks - sur ged angrily against t he bank. Hephaist ion built a fire against a fallen log and t he Com panions gat hered around it, huddled into their cloaks.

‘Where shall w e go?’ asked Pt olem y, holding out his slender hands t o t he flickering flam es. Alexander did not reply. He seem ed lost in thought.

‘West to Epirus,’ said Craterus. ‘We all have friends there.’

‘Why not nort h-w est int o Pelagonia?’ put in Cassander. ‘The arm y t here ar e t he m en w e rew arded aft er t he Triballian cam paign. They would rise in Alexander’s name.’

Hephaist ion looked t o t he prince, but st ill Alexander gave no indicat ion that he was listening. Hephaistion added fuel to the fire and leaned his back against a rock, closing his mind to the cold.

I t had been a night like t his w hen first he had m et Parm enion t en years ago, w it h sleet t urning t o snow on t he high ground. Only t hen there had been the sound of the hunting dogs howling in the night, the st am ping of hoov es as t he hunt ers searched for t he runaw ay boy.

Hephaist ion had been t hirt een years old, living w it h his w idow ed m ot her on a sm all farm in t he Kerkine Mount ains. Early one m orning Paionian t ribesm en from t he nort h had raided int o Macedonia, sw eeping dow n from t he high passes, killing farm ers and sacking t w o towns. Outriding scouts had come to their farm. They had tried to rape his m ot her, but she fought so hard t hat t hey had killed her, stabbing her t hrough t he heart. The young Hephaist ion slew t he killer w it h a hand-axe and t hen ran for his life int o t he w oods. The scout s had w ardogs w it h t hem and t hese had raced aft er him. Despit e t he cold t he boy had w aded t hrough sw ollen st ream s, t hrow ing t hem off t he scent for a while. But as midnight approached the dogs had closed in.

Hephaistion shivered as he recalled what had happened. He had picked up a shar p rock and w as crouched w ait ing. The dogs, t w o huge beast s w it h slavering j aw s, had bounded int o t he clearing, closely follow ed by the six scouts on their painted ponies.

On a shout ed com m and from t he leader - a slim, w iry m an w earing a yellow cloak - t he dogs halt ed befor e t he boy. Hephaist ion had backed away to a boulder, the rock in his hand.

‘See the dogs, child,’ said the leader, his voice guttural and cruel. ‘In a few m om ent s I w ill order t hem t o rip you t o pieces. See how t hey stand, as if leashed? They are well trained.’ Hephaistion could not keep his eyes from t he hounds. Their lips w ere draw n back over heavy m uzzles, show ing long, shar p, rending fangs. I n his t error t he boy’s bladder had given w ay and t he six riders had laughed aloud at his shame.

A t all m an in bright arm our st epped from behind t he rocks, a short, st abbing sw ord in his hand. The dogs how led and charged but t he w arrior m oved sw ift ly in front of t he boy, his sw ord sw eeping out and dow n, half decapit at ing t he first hound and skew ering t he heart of t he second.

The act ion had been so sw ift t hat t he m en had not m oved. But t he leader, seeing his w ar-dogs slain, dragged clear his sw ord and k icked his horse forw ard. Arrow s sliced t hrough t he night air. The first shaft t ook t he leader behind t he ear, punching t hrough t o his brain. He t oppled sidew ays from his m ount. The ot her Paionians t ried t o escape, but t he arrow s cam e from all sides. Wit hin a few heart beat s all six men and four of the horses were dead or dying.

Hephaist ion dropped t he rock and t urned t o t he t all w arrior, w ho w as wiping blood from his blade.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he m anaged t o say. The m an sheat hed his sw ord and knelt before him, his eyes seemingly grey in the moonlight.

‘You did w ell, boy,’ he said, reaching out t o grip Hephaist ion’s shoulders. ‘You stood your ground like a warrior.’

The boy shook his head, tears beginning to flow. ‘I wet myself in fear.’

‘And yet you neit her ran, nor begged for your life. Do not be asham ed of a m om ent ary w eakness of t he bladder. Com e, let us go som ew here warm and find you some dry clothing.’

‘Who are you, sir?’

‘I am Parmenion,’ answered the man, rising to his feet.

‘The Lion of Macedon!’

‘The very same.’

‘You saved my life. I shall not forget it.’

The general had sm iled and m oved aw ay int o t he cent re of t he clearing, w here Macedonian archers w ere st ripping t he corpses. A young officer led Parm enion’s horse for w ard and t he general sm oot hly vault ed t o it s back. Then he held out a hand t o Hephaist ion. ‘Com e, ride with me!’

Hephaistion smiled at the memory.

‘He is coming,’ said Alexander suddenly.

‘Who?’ asked Ptolemy.

‘Parmenion. Attalus is with him.’

The youngst er st ood, st aring sout h t hrough t he sleet. ‘I see no one, Alexander.’

‘They will be here within the hour,’ said Alexander, almost dreamily.

‘How do you know?’ asked Craterus.

‘A vision from the gods,’ the prince answered.

‘If it is a true vision, how could Parmenion know where to find us?’

‘How indeed?’ responded Alexander, his sea-green eyes gleam ing as they focused on Hephaistion.

‘I left a m essage for him, t elling him w e had headed nort h,’ said t he officer.

‘What?’ roared Craterus. ‘You are a traitor then!’

‘Be quiet, m y friend,’ said Alexander, his voice soft and alm ost gent le.

‘Let Hephaistion speak.’

‘The general asked m e t o w at ch over t he prince, t o see t hat no harm befell him. I have done t hat. But Parm enion is Alexander’s only t rue friend am ong t he elders. I felt it vit al t hat he should know w here t o look for us.’

‘And y et he brings At t alus w it h him,’ put in Pt olem y. ‘How do you read that situation?’

Hephaist ion slow ly placed t w o t hick branches on t he gut t ering fire. ‘I trust Parmenion,’ he said at last.

‘As do I,’ said Alexander, m oving across t he fire t o sit beside t he officer. ‘But can I trust you, soldier?’

‘Yes,’ Hephaistion told him, meeting his gaze.

Alexander smiled. ‘Do you have dreams, Hephaistion? Ambitions?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘My dream s w ill t ake us all across t he w orld. Will you follow m e t o glory?’ His voice w as soot hing, alm ost seduct ive, and Hephaist ion felt him self drift ing, visions filling his head of great arm ies m arching, t all cit ies bur ning, rivers of gold flow ing before his eyes, rivers of blood swirling around his feet. ‘Will you follow me?’ asked Alexander again.

‘Yes, sire. To the ends of the earth.’

‘And maybe beyond?’ the prince whispered.

‘Wherever you command.’

‘Good,’ said Alexander, clapping t he y oung m an on t he shoulder. ‘Now let us wait for our visitors.’

*

The sleet t urned t o snow, icy flakes t hat st ung as t hey t ouched exposed skin. Crat erus, Pt olem y and Cassander began t o st rip branches from surrounding trees, trying in vain to build a small shelter but being constantly thwarted by the gusting winds.

Alexander sat silent ly by t he t iny fire, snow set t ling on his cloak and hair as his eyes gazed int o t he flickering flam es. Hephaist ion shivered, draw ing his ow n w oollen cloak m ore t ight ly about him. The prince’s m ood w orried him: Alexander seem ed in an eldrit ch st at e, uncaring of danger, seemingly comfortable even within this sudden blizzard.

The cold seeped int o Hephaist ion’s bones and he rubbed his hands together, blowing hot air to his palms.

‘This is more to your liking, is it not?’ asked Alexander suddenly.

‘My lord?’

‘The cold, t he nak ed sky, enem ies at hand. You are a soldier - a warrior.’

‘I like it a lit t le w arm er t han t his,’ Hephaist ion answ ered, forcing a smile.

‘You prowled my rooms like a caged lion, never at ease.’

‘I was doing as the lord Parmenion ordered.’

‘Yes, of course. You worship him.’

‘Not w orship, m y prince. I have m uch t o t hank him for. Aft er m y m ot her w as killed I w as forced t o sell our farm at auct ion, in order t o pay t he fees at t he m ilit ary academ y. When I cam e of age t he deeds to the farm were returned to me. Parmenion had bought it.’

‘He is a kindly m an - and I underst and he saved y ou from Paionian raiders?’

‘Yes. How did you know of it? Did he tell you?’

‘No,’ said Alexander, ‘but I like t o k now all about t he m en w ho follow me. Why do you think Attalus is with him?’

Hephaist ion spread his hands. ‘I am a soldier, not a strategos. How many men are with them? Did your vision show you?’

‘They are alone.’

Hephaist ion w as t ruly surprised. ‘That seem s unlikely, sir. At t alus has many enemies and should rightly now judge you among them.’

Alexander leaned in close. ‘Wher e w ill you st and if I go against Attalus?’

‘By your side!’

‘And against Philip?’

‘The same answer. But do not ask me to fight Parmenion.’

‘You would be with him?’

‘No - that is why I do not want you to ask me.’

Alexander nodded, but said not hing. Sw inging his head he saw his t hree Com panions huddling under a rough-built shelt er, but a sudden gust of w ind t oppled it over t hem. The prince’s laught er rippled out.

‘These are the men who would conquer the world for me,’ he said.

They struggled clear of the wreckage and gathered around the fire. ‘Do you not feel t he cold?’ Pt olem y asked Alexander. The prince grinned.

‘It cannot touch me.’

The Com panions began t o j oke about Alexander’s new - found pow ers and Hephaist ion leaned back against t he rock, closing his ears t o t heir bant er, let t ing it w ash over him like t he backgr ound noise of t he river, blending in with the shrieking of the wind.

He w as bot h am azed and angry at his exchange w it h t he prince: am azed because of t he surprising w ay he had pledged him self t o follow him, angr y at him self for his easy bet rayal of Parm enion. That he had grow n t o like and respect Alexander w as underst andable: t he prince w as a m an of honour and courage. But Hephaist ion had never guessed how deep t his respect had becom e, and underst ood now t hat it bordered on love. Alexander w as t he sun and Hephaist ion felt w arm in his company. But do you not love Parmenion, he asked himself? The answ er was sw ift in com ing. Of course, but it w as love bor n of debt, and debts can always be repaid.

The snow eased, t he w ind dying aw ay. The fire crackled and grew, dancing t ongues of flam e licking at t he w ood. Hephaist ion opened his cloak, allowing the warmth to bathe his upper body.

Alexander w as looking at him. ‘Our guest s are alm ost upon us,’ said t he prince. ‘I w ant you t o ride out behind t hem and scout for any larger force that might be following.’

Hephaistion’s mouth was suddenly dry as he stood and bowed. ‘As you command,’ he answered.

And here it w as, t he m om ent of bet rayal. I f t he Com panions slew Parm enion and At t alus, it w ould m ean civil w ar. But Alexander had given Hephaist ion a w ay out. He w ould not be present w hen t he killing began. The officer felt nauseous as he strode to his mount.

But he rode away without a backward glance.

Parm enion saw t he dist ant cam p-fire and reined in his m ount. The light appeared like a flickering candle and, at t his dist ance, it w as not possible to make out the men around it.

‘You think that’s them?’ asked Attalus, riding alongside.

‘It is likely,’ the general answered. ‘But it is possible they are a band of robbers.’

At t alus chuckled. ‘Would t hey be a m at ch for t he t w o great est swordsmen in Macedonia?’

Parm enion sm iled. ‘Once upon a t im e, m y friend. I fear age has withered our skills a fraction.’

‘Speak for yourself, Spartan. I am as fast now as ever.’

Parm enion glanced at t he w hit ehaired sw ordsm an, surprised at t he convict ion in his voice. He act ually believed t he w ords he spoke. The Spartan offered no argument, but heeled his horse forward.

Closer t hey cam e t o t he cam p-fire. The ears of Parm enion’s st allion pricked up and he w hinnied, t he sound being answ ered from t he t rees beyond the fire.

‘It is them,’ said Parmenion. ‘That was Bucephalus. He and Paxus were stable companions.’

‘What if they come at us with swords?’ Attalus asked.

‘We die,’ answered Parmenion, ‘for I’ll not fight Alexander.’

The clouds broke and t he m oon shone bright upon t he snow - covered land, the nearby river glinting like polished iron. Parmenion rode to the camp-fire and dism ount ed. Alexander sat cross-legged before t he flames, but he rose as the general approached.

‘A cold night,’ remarked the prince, looking past Parmenion at Attalus.

‘Yes, sir,’ the swordsman agreed. ‘A cold night following hot words.’

‘What do you wish to say to me, Attalus?’

The sw ordsm an cleared his t hroat. ‘I have com e t o’ he licked his lips. ‘I have com e t o apologize,’ he said, t he w ords flow ing out sw ift ly as if t heir t ast e w as acid upon his t ongue. ‘I don’t know w hy I m ade t hat t oast. I w as drunk. I w as as shocked as you w ere, and I would do anything to withdraw the words.’

‘My father sent you to say this?’

‘No, it was my choice.’

Alexander nodded and turned to Parmenion. ‘And you, my friend, what have you to tell me?’

‘Philip is deeply sorry. He loves you, Alexander; he wants you home.’

‘He loves m e? There is a t hought! I have not seen m uch evidence of such love in a long time. How do I know that I do not ride back to Pella in time for my own murder?’

‘You have m y w ord,’ said Parm enion sim ply. ‘Now, w ill you not ask your Com panions t o j oin us? They m ust be frozen st iff w ait ing in t he woods.’

‘They w ill rem ain w here I order t hem,’ said t he prince, cloaking t he refusal with a smile. ‘Let us sit down by the fire and talk for a while.’

Alexander added m ore fuel and t he t hree m en sat w hile Parm enion out lined Philip’s regret and sadness. Finally t he Spart an opened t he pouch at his side, producing t he necklet. ‘When t he King t ouched t his, all his t hought s and fears concerning y ou vanished. You underst and w hy? The m agic of t he necklet cut t hrough t he spells t hat w ere weaving about him.’

Alexander gazed dow n at t he necklet. ‘You ar e saying he has been bewitched?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then perhaps he should wear it?’

‘You do not want it back?’

‘I hav e no need of it; it served it s purpose. Obviously t he Dark God has chosen another vessel. I am free of him.’

‘What harm would it do to wear it once more?’ asked Parmenion softly.

‘No harm at all - save t hat I do not w ish t o. Now, you say m y fat her is anxious t o w elcom e m e hom e and t hat I should t rust you. Ther efore I shall. For you have alw ays been m y friend, Parm enion, and t he m an I most admire - save for Philip. Will you ride with me to the King?’

‘Of course, sir.’

Attalus cleared his throat once more. ‘Am I forgiven?’ he asked.

‘Why w ould I not forgive you, At t alus? Your act ions have brought about a change I have been longing for t hrough t hese m any years. I am grateful to you.’

‘What change is that?’ asked Parmenion sharply.

‘The ret urn of m y fat her ‘s love,’ answ ered Alexander sm oot hly. ‘Now let us ride.’

The City of Aigai Aida dism issed t he Whisperers, for t hey had ser ved t heir purpose and t he Dark Lady w as exult ant. She had felt t he m om ent w hen Philip ripped t he necklet from Alexander, experiencing a sur ge of em ot ion wonderfully similar to a sexual climax.

Now she knelt in t he dar kened cellar beneat h t he house w it h t he bodies of her t w o recent lovers st ret ched out on t he cold floor, blood drying on their chests.

Aida smiled and, reaching out to the nearest body, traced a bloody line w it h her finger from t he chest w ound t o t he belly. Throughout hist ory t here had been m any form s of paym ent - t he Akkadians using cryst al, t he Hit t it es iron, t he Persians gold. But for t he dem onic forces beyond t he ken of m ort als t here w as only one currency. Blood. The source of life.

Aida closed her eyes. ‘Morpheus!’ she called. ‘Euclistes!’

Even now t he assassins w ould be approaching Pella, and it w as vit al that the palace guards were removed from the fray.

She called again and t he darkness in t he room deepened, t he cold increasing. Aida felt t heir presence and w hispered t he w ords of pow er.

Then the demons vanished and with them went the bodies of the slain.

Not even a single spot of blood remained on the marble floor.

Aida rose and trembled with excitement. Tonight the new era would be born. Tonight the King would die.

Pella, Winter 337 BC Unable t o sleep, Philip rolled from t he bed, w alking out on t o t he balcony. He shivered as t he w int er w ind t ouched his naked body but rem ained w here he w as, enj oying it s caress. I have been such a fool, he t hought, recalling his t reat m ent of his son. How could a m an be so w ise in t he w ays of t he w orld, he w ondered, yet so blinded t o t he values of his own flesh and blood?

For years Philip had schemed and plotted to rule Greece, organizing an arm y of agent s and subversives in all t he m aj or cit ies, out w it t ing t he likes of Dem ost henes and Aischines in At hens and t he m ost brilliant m inds of Spart a, Thebes and Corint h. Yet here in Macedonia he had perhaps lost t he love of his son by m isreading t he young m an’s intentions.

It was galling.

He shivered again and ret ur ned t o his room, w rapping him self in a warm, hooded cloak of sheepskin before returning to the balcony.

His mind fled back over the years, seeing himself once more a hostage in Thebes, w ait ing for his ow n deat h. Unhappy days of solit ude and int rospect ion. And he rem em bered t he sick sense of horror w hen he had heard of his brot her’s deat h in t he bat t le against t he I llyrians and had seen t he shape of his ow n dest iny. He had never w ant ed t o be King. But w hat choice w as t here? His count ry w as surr ounded by enem ies, t he arm y crushed, t he fut ure dark w it h t he prom ise of despair.

He gazed out over t he sleeping cit y t o t he low hills beyond. I n little m ore t han t w ent y years he had m ade Macedonia great, put t ing t he nation beyond the reach of any enemy.

Philip sighed. His leg w as t hrobbing and he sat dow n on a narrow chair, rubbing at t he scar above t he old w ound. His bones ached and the constant pain of his blind eye nagged at him. He needed a drink.

Rising, he sw ung t o ent er t he royal bedroom and st ared, surprised, at t he t hin w hit e m ist t hat w as seeping under t he bedroom door. At first he t hought it w as sm oke, but it clung t o t he floor, rolling out t o fill t he room. Philip backed aw ay t o t he edge of t he balcony. The m ist followed but, once outside, the night winds dispersed it.

But inside t he room it flow ed over t he rugs and chairs and up ov er t he bed in w hich Cleopat ra lay sleeping. As he w at ched t he m ist slow ly faded, becom ing at first t ranslucent and t hen alm ost t ransparent.

Finally it disappear ed alt oget her. Philip st epped back int o t he room, crossing sw ift ly t o w here Cleopat ra lay. His fingers t ouched t he pulse at her neck. She w as sleeping deeply; he t ried t o rouse her, but could get no response Concerned now, he lim ped across t he room, pulling open t he door t o sum m on t he guar ds. Bot h m en w ere slum ped in t he corridor w it h t heir spears beside them.

Fear sw ept int o t he King’s heart as, t hrow ing aside t he cloak, he moved to the rear chambers. On a wooden frame hung his armour and shield and he sw ift ly buckled on breast plat e and a bronze-reinforced leat her kilt. Dragging his sw ord from it s scabbard, he r et urned t o t he outer room.

All w as silence. His m out h w as dry as he st ood in t he doorw ay listening. How many assassins would there be?

Don’t t hink of t hat, he caut ioned him self, for t here lies defeat and despair.

His t hought s t urned t o Cleopat ra and t he child she carried. Was she safe? Or also a t arget for t he killers? Crossing t o t he bed he lift ed her clear and low ered her t o t he floor, covering her w it h a blanket and easing her body under the bed and out of sight.

You are alone, he realized. For t he first t im e in t w ent y years you have no army to call upon. Anger touched him then, building to a cold fury.

Once m or e he m oved t o t he doorw ay, list ening. To his right w as t he stairway leading to the great hall and the lower andron s, to his left the corridors of t he w om en’s quart ers. Taking a deep breat h, he st epped out over t he sleeping guards. A curt ain t o his left flickered and a darkrobed assassin leapt from hiding. Philip spun, his sw ord plunging t hrough t he m an’s chest and ripping int o his heart. Dragging t he blade clear, he w hirled round as a second sw ordsm an, hooded and m asked, ran at him from t he left. Philip blocked a savage cut, t hen ham m ered his shoulder int o t he m an, knocking him t o t he floor. From behind he could hear t he padding of m any feet upon t he rugs. Philip leapt over t he fallen m an and ran for t he st aircase. A t hrow n k nife t hudded against his breast plat e, ricochet ing up and slicing t he skin behind his ear.

Reaching t he t op of t he st airs, he halt ed. Three m ore guards w ere dow n, st ret ched out in a drugged sleep. Snat ching up a fallen spear, t he King t urned t o see seven m en racing t ow ards him along t he corridor. Philip waited. As they closed upon him his arm went back, the m uscles bunching, t hen sw ept forw ard, t he spear flashing int o t he chest of t he first m an and punching t hrough t o em erge by t he spine.

Blood gushed from t he assassin’s m out h and he st um bled. Philip did not w ait for t he ot hers t o reach him but ran dow n t he st airs, t aking them three at a time, trying to keep the weight on his good leg.

Half-way down he stumbled, pitching forward and losing his grip on his sw ord. He hit har d, r olling t o t he foot of t he st airs and st riking his head on t he base of a st at ue. Half-st unned, he st ruggled t o rise. His sword was ten steps above him, but there was no chance to recover it, for the six remaining assassins were almost upon him.

Glancing t o his right, he saw t he bodies of t w o sent ries and ran t ow ards t hem. An assassin leapt t o his back, a w iry arm encircling t he King’s throat, but Philip ducked his head, twisted on his heel and threw t he m an int o t he pat h of his fellow s. His vision blurred, Philip st aggered on t ow ards t he fallen guards, desperat e t o lay his hands upon a weapon. A thrown knife slashed into his leg, but he ignored the pain and t hrew him self full-lengt h t o fall across t he body of a guar d.

He j ust had t im e t o grab for a sw ord before t he assassins w ere upon him. Rolling, he t hrust t he blade upw ards, lancing it t hrough a m an’s groin. A boot ed foot cracked against his t em ple and a knife plunged int o his t high. Wit h a roaring bat t le-cry Philip cam e t o his knees and launched him self at t he killers. The sw ord w as knocked fr om his right hand, but his left caught an assassin by t he t hroat - t he m an st abbed out at t he King, but t he blade w as blocked by Philip’s breast plat e. The King’s fingers dug into the man’s neck, closing like an iron trap around his w indpipe; a sw ord lanced int o his hip, j ust below t he br east plat e, and he cried out, releasing his hold on t he assassin’s t hroat. The m an st aggered back, gasping for breat h. Philip’s fist cracked against anot her m an’s chin and, for a m om ent only, he had space. Lurching t o his left t he King st aggered t ow ards an open doorw ay - t he assassins sprang aft er him but he reached t he em pt y room and slam m ed shut the door, dropping the narrow bar into place.

The assassins hurled t hem selves at t he door, w hich creaked and t or e at its hinges.

Know ing t hey w ould not be t hw art ed for long, Philip sw ung round, seeking a w eapon. But t he room w as t he low er, sm all andron.

Windowless, it boast ed only six sat incovered couches, a row of t ables and an iron brazier filled w it h glow ing coals. Earlier t hat evening he had sat here with Cleopatra calmly discussing their future.

A door panel cracked open and t he King m oved int o t he cent re of t he room, blood gushing from t he w ounds in his leg and hip. The ent ire door sundered and t he five rem aining assassins pushed inside. Philip ran t o t he brazier as t hey advanced. One assailant, bolder t han t he rest, charged at t he King, but he sw ept up t he br azier t o hurl it int o t he m an’s face. Hot coals st ruck t he assassin’s m ask, falling int o his hood and dow n behind t he neck of his dark t unic. He scream ed as sm oke and flam es billow ed up around him, and t he sm ell of scorched flesh filled t he air. The m an fell, hair and beard alight, and w rit hed screaming as flames engulfed him.

The four remaining killers edged forward to encircle the King.

Weaponless and wounded, Philip waited for death.

But t he assassins suddenly froze and t he King saw t heir eyes w iden in fear and shock. One by one t hey backed aw ay from him, t urning t o flee from the room.

Philip could scarce believe his luck. Then a cold breeze w hispered against the back of his neck and he turned.

The far w all shim m ered, t hen dark ened - a huge, bloat ed shape form ing from floor t o ceiling. A head em erged, gross and dist ort ed, lidless eyes peering int o t he room. The m out h w as rim m ed w it h long fangs, curved like sabres. The King blinked, unable t o believe w hat his eyes w ere seeing. I t m ust be a night m are, he t hought, but t he pain from the wounds in his leg and hip were all too real.

Wit h a w hispered curse Philip st art ed t o run t ow ards t he door - j ust in t im e t o see it slam shut, bars of fire dancing across it. He sw ung back t o t he m onst er. The creat ure had no arm s, but in t heir place huge snakes gr ew: heads t he size of w ine barr els, fangs as long as sw ords.

A sibilant hissing cam e from t he snakes and t hey w rit hed t ow ards t he King.

Backing aw ay, Philip cam e t o t he corpse of t he assassin he had st ruck w it h t he brazier and, st ooping, lift ed t he m an’s knife. I t seem ed but a tiny weapon against the monstrosity emerging from the wall.

The creature came clear at last and stood on its huge fur-covered legs, it s head t ouching t he high ceiling, it s eyes focused on t he m an before it. The snake arms swept out.

Left without an avenue of retreat, the King advanced on the enemy.

Parm enion’s m ount, t he grey Paxus, found it self hard pressed t o keep up with Bucephalus, who cantered on ahead tirelessly, and the Spartan did not push him. Paxus w as a t horoughbred of t he sam e blood-line as Tit an, Bucephalus’ sire, but t here w as no com parison bet w een t he st allions. Though fast, Paxus could not m at ch t he aw esom e speed of the black, nor his stamina.

Yet st ill Parm enion had t o hold back on t he r eins, for Paxus dearly w ant ed t o run, t o t ake on his rival. The general’s t hought s w ere som bre as he rode behind Alexander. The prince had dism issed his Com panions, assuring t hem of his safet y and - disgrunt led and unsure - t hey had ridden aw ay. But it w as not t heir unease t hat bot hered Parm enion. I t w as Hephaist ion. The young officer had approached t hem from t he sout h, spok en quiet ly t o Alexander and t hen angled his m ount aw ay t o t he sout h-w est. He did not speak t o Parm enion and avoided the general’s gaze.

Parm enion w as hurt, t hough his face did not show it. He had been surprised when Hephaistion was not present at the camp-site, and now he knew that the young man’s loyalty was no longer his for the asking.

Yout h w ill alw ays call upon y out h, he t old him self, but t he hurt remained.

The m oon w as high w hen t he t rio rode int o Pella. The m ount s of bot h Parm enion and At t alus w ere lat hered and t ired, but Bucephalus’ black flanks m erely gleam ed. Alexander w ait ed w hile t he ot hers cam e alongside and grinned at Parm enion. ‘Never w as a prince given a greater gift,’ he said, patting the stallion’s sleek, dark neck.

At t he st ables a sleepy gr oom, hearing hoofbeat s on t he flagst ones, w andered out int o t he night, bow ing as he saw t he prince. ‘Give him a good rub-dow n,’ ordered Alexander as he dism ount ed. The prince seem ed in good hum our as he w alked t ow ards t he palace - but t hen he stopped in mid-stride, his eyes narrowing.

‘What is wrong?’ Attalus asked.

Parm enion saw inst ant ly w hat w as t roubling t he prince. ‘There ar e no sent ries,’ hissed t he general. Draw ing his sw ord, Parm enion ran t ow ards t he huge bronze-reinforced oak doors beneat h t he t w in columns at the front of the palace. As he reached them he saw a fallen spear in t he shadow s and his heart began t o ham m er. ‘The King! ‘ he shout ed, hurling him self at t he door on t he left. I t slam m ed open and the Spartan ran inside.

Lam ps flickered on t he w alls and by t heir dim light he saw t he sent r ies lying flat upon t he floor. A shadow m oved t o his right and four arm ed m en em erged from t he low er andron; t hey w ere clad in dark chiton s and leggings, their faces hooded and masked. Seeing the Spartan they ran at him, long knives in t heir hands, and Parm enion leapt t o m eet t hem. Veering, t hr ee of t he assassins t ried t o m ake a break for t he doorway, but Alexander and Attalus moved into their path.

Parm enion sw ayed aside from a vicious t hrust, sending his ow n blade slashing dow n int o t he out st ret ched arm. The iron edge bit deep, sm ashing bone and severing art eries. Scream ing, t he k nifem an fell back. Parm enion st epped for w ard t o plunge his sw ord int o t he m an’s chest.

Behind him Alexander despat ched anot her assassin w it h a t hrust t o t he belly, w hile At t alus grappled w it h a t hird. The fourt h m an ran out int o t he night. At t alus’ sw ord w as knocked from his hand, t hen a fist cracked against his chin and he sagged against t he w all. Alexander moved in behind t he at t acker and, j ust as t he m an’s knife rose abov e Attalus’ throat, the prince’s blade clove into the killer’s back.

Attalus staggered as the man fell, then stooped to gather his sword.

Parm enion had st art ed t o clim b t he st airs w hen a w eird, uneart hly cry cam e from t he low er andron. Alexander w as first t o t he door, w hich seem ed t o be locked. The prince hurled him self against it, but it did not move despite the fact that the hinges were torn loose.

Not hing seem ed t o be holding t he door in place, yet it st ood as st rong as iron.

Alexander st epped back and st ared for a m om ent at t he w ood. Then he raised his sword.

‘That will not cut’ began Parmenion.

The sw ord slashed dow n and t he door seem ed t o explode inw ards, shards and splint ers flying int o t he room. Alexander leapt inside, w it h t he t w o officers follow ing him. All t hree froze as t hey saw t he huge demon at the far end of the andron, the King advancing upon it.

Snake ar m s slashed out t o circle t he King’s w aist and drag him from his feet. Alexander and Parm enion sprang for w ard. At t alus, horrorstruck, found he could not move.

The King w as slow ly lift ed t ow ards t he creat ure’s cavernous m aw, it s fangs dripping saliva on his chest. Alexander ran forw ard but t hen st opped, his sw ord-arm sw inging back like a j aveliner. His hand flashed forw ard, t he iron blade slicing t hr ough t he air. Just as t he fangs w ere about t o close on Philip t he sw ord punched hom e t hr ough t he dem on’s eye. As it s neck arched back, Philip t hr ust his dagger int o t he st ret ched, scaly skin of t he t hroat. Black blood bubbled from t he w ound and t he snake arm s w ent int o spasm, dropping t he King t o t he m osaic floor w her e he landed heavily and lay w inded. Parm enion ran in, hacking and cut t ing at t he creat ure as Alexander m oved t o t he King, pulling him back across the centre of the room.

Sm oke billow ed from t he dem on’s w ounds, filling t he andron and choking the lungs of the warriors.

‘Get back!’ Parmenion shouted.

At t alus j oined Alexander and t oget her t he t w o m en lift ed Philip, carrying him out int o t he corridor. Parm enion j oined t hem and t oget her t he t rio carried t he w ounded King out of t he palace, laying him down between the twin pillars of the doorway.

‘Fet ch a surgeon,’ or dered Parm enion, but At t alus knelt by t he King, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.

‘He must not die!’ the swordsman whispered.

Parmenion shook him roughly. ‘Nor will he! Now fetch a surgeon!’

‘Yes Yes,’ m ut t ered At t alus, pushing him self t o his feet and running to the Guards Barracks.

‘The w ounds are deep,’ said Alexander, ‘but I do not t hink t hey are mortal. Already the gash in the thigh is clotting.’

‘He is a tough man.’ The moon emerged from behind the clouds, bright silver light bat hing t he palace ent rance. ‘Look at t hat! ‘ w hispered Parm enion, point ing t o Philip’s iron br east plat e. The m et al w as t w ist ed and bent w here t he snake arm s had coiled around it. Sw ift ly t he t w o m en unbuckled t he arm our, pulling it clear; t hen w it h a dagger Alexander slit Philip’s chiton t unic. The King’s upper body w as covered in bruises. Parm enion pressed a finger t o Philip’s ribs. ‘One at least is cracked,’ he announced.

The King stirred, his eyes opening. ‘Alexander?’ he whispered.

‘I am here, Father.’

‘Thank the gods. Will you forgive me?’

‘There is nothing to forgive. Parmenion says you have suffered under a Dark Enchantment. All is well now. We are together.’

Philip st ruggled t o r ise, but Parm enion gent ly pushed him back. ‘Wait for the surgeon.’

‘A pox on all surgeons! ‘ snor t ed Philip. Parm enion shook his head, but helped the King to a sitting position.

‘What was that thing?’

‘Euclistes,’ answered Alexander. ‘Once a Titan, but now a servant to all with the power to call upon him.’

‘How do you know of him?’ Parmenion asked.

The prince sm iled. ‘I had a fine t eacher. Arist ot le t old us m any t ales of the damned.’

‘You saved m y life again, boy,’ said Philip, reaching out and gripping his son’s arm. ‘Three t im es now.’ Suddenly t he King chuckled. ‘You know, I t hink I m ight j ust live for ever. Gods, if eight assassins and a beast like that cannot kill me, then what can?’

Aigai, Summer 336 BC Philip aw oke t o t he bright ness of t he sum m er sunshine st ream ing t hrough t he open w indow. He st ret ched and rose from t he bed, list ening t o t he sounds of bird-song from t he garden below his room s.

The scent of flowers filled the air and he felt almost young again.

He padded to a long bronze mirror, standing before it and gazing at his reflection. No longer was he overweight; the muscles of his belly stood out ridged and firm, and his black beard and t ight ly curled hair shone w it h healt h. The scars on his hip and t high had faded now t o faint w hit e lines against his bronzed skin. ‘I am in m y prim e,’ he t old his reflect ion. He had seldom felt bet t er. The w ound in his leg rarely t roubled him now, and t he pain from his blinded eye w as but a memory.

Servant s brought him his w hit e t unic and cerem onial cloak and he dressed and dism issed t hem before w andering out t o t he balcony. The sky was wondrously blue, not a cloud in sight. High above the palace a golden eagle banked and glided on the warm air currents.

It was a good day to be alive!

Last evening Cleopat ra had delivered him a son - a healt hy, baw ling babe w it h j et - black hair. Philip had raised him high, carrying him t o t he w indow and holding him up for t he t roops and crow ds out side t o see. Their cheers had alm ost m ade t he palace t rem ble. Today t hey w ould celebrat e his birt h in t rue Macedonian st yle w it h m arches, gam es, parades and perform ances from t he finest act ors in Greece. I t w ould be a day t o rem em ber - and not j ust for t he arr ival of a new prince.

At m idnight Philip had received w ord from Parm enion. The forw ard t roops had crossed t he Hellespont int o Persia unopposed. Several of t he Asian Greek cit ies, including Ephesus, had risen against t he Persian overlords. Philip’s dreams were all coming true.

Tw ent y years of planning, schem ing, bat t ling and plot t ing-and here it w as: t he culm inat ion of all he had fought for. At hens had finally agreed t o Philip becom ing t he Leader of Greece. All t he cit y st at es had follow ed her lead, save Spart a; but Spart a no longer count ed. The Greek ar m y had invaded Persia and soon Philip w ould j oin t hem. Then t hey w ould free all t he Greek cit ies of Asia and t he Persian King, Darius, w ould pay a fort une in t ribut e t o prevent Macedon’s arm y from marching further into his empire.

Philip laughed aloud, the sound rippling out over the gardens.

I n t he five m ont hs since t he dem on alm ost slew him, t he King had rediscovered t he j oys of living. Olym pias’ face appeared befor e his m ind’s eye and he scow led, but not even t hought s of her could dampen his mood.

A servant entered and announced that Alexander was waiting outside.

‘Well, bring him in, man!’ ordered Philip.

Alexander w as dressed in t he black and silver arm our of t he Royal Guar d, a w hit e-plum ed helm on his head. He bow ed and sm iled. ‘You look splendid, Father. White suits you.’

‘I feel good. It will be a fine day.’

‘I ndeed it w ill. The crow ds are already gat hering and t he procession is ready.’

‘As am I,’ Philip announced. Toget her t he t w o m en st rode from t he palace. Out side t he great gat es t he m archers w ere preparing t hem selves. There w ere horsem en from all t he provinces and t roops from every dist rict. There w ere act ors and singers, poet s, j ugglers, tumblers.

Tw o w hit e bulls garlanded w it h flow ers w ere led out at t he st art, gift s for Zeus t he Fat her of t he Gods. They w ere follow ed by t w ent y cart s bearing carved wooden statues of Artemis, Apollo, Ares, Aphrodite and all the gods of Greece.

A crow n of golden oak leaves upon his head, Philip walked at t he centre of the procession, flanked by the Royal Guard with Alexander at t heir head. Behind t hem cam e am bassadors from t he cit y st at es of At hens, Corint h, Thebes and even Spart a, plus represent at ives from Boeotia, Pherae, Euboea, Thrace, Illyria and Paionia.

Philip glanced back over his right shoulder at t he t ow ering dist ant m ount ains, t hen forw ard again t o t he great sw eep of t he Em at hian Plain. Macedonia. His land!

Unlike Pella, w here t he King’s palace st ood at t he cent r e of t he cit y, here in t his ancient capit al it w as built on t he t op of a high hill, w it h t he cit y spread out below w hit e and glist ening. I n t he dist ance Philip could see t he am phit heat re w here he w ould address his people, and from the foot of the hill to the entrance the crowds lining the route.

Handlers urged t he w hit e bulls forw ard and t hey began t he long descent t o t he plain, passing on t he left t he disguised t om bs of Macedonia’s Kings, buried deep beneat h t he hillsides w it h t all t rees grow ing abov e t hem. Lying here w ere Philip’s ancest ors, t heir riches hidden from the prying eyes of would-be thieves.

One day I w ill lie in such a place, he t hought. And shivered, despit e the sunshine.

The procession st ret ched for alm ost a quart er of a m ile, and t he crow ds on eit her side of t he avenue t hrew flow ers under t he feet of t he w alkers. Philip w aved t o his people, acknow ledging t heir cheers, feeling the power of their love wash over him.

‘Long live t he King! ‘ som eone shout ed, and t he cry w as t aken up all along the route.

His leg began t o ache, but t hey w ere close now t o t he am phit heat re w here 2,000 Macedonians, and ot her dignit aries, w ait ed t o see t heir King and list en t o his w ords of fut ure glories. None of t hem yet knew of t he success Parm enion and At t alus had enj oyed in t he invasion of Persia, and Philip shivered with anticipation, his speech prepared.

‘Fellow Macedonians, we stand at the gates of a new era. The power of the Persians is finished, the dawn of freedom awaits’

The procession cut off t o t he left, ready t o ent er t he ar ena from t he w ide gat es. Philip and his Royal Guard m oved t o t he right, t o t he low t unnel leading t o t he royal dais. I n t he shadow s of t he t unnel he paused, looking back at the armed men guarding him.

‘I do not w ish t o ent er her e surrounded by sw ords,’ he said. ‘I t w ill m ake m e appear as a t yrant. I shall go in first; you follow m e som e thirty paces back.’

‘As you wish, Father,’ Alexander agreed.

Philip st epped int o t he shadow s, his single eye fast ened on t he squar e of light ahead.

The Ruins of Troy, Winter 335 BC Parm enion rode Paxus t o t he brow of t he hill overlooking t he br oken colum ns of Troy. His aides cam e alongside him - six young m en, sons of Macedon’s noble families.

That is w here Achilles fought and fell,’ w hispered Perdiccas, his voice trembling.

‘Yes,’ said Parm enion, ‘w here Priam t he King st ood fast against t he arm ies of Greece. Where Hect or w as slain and w here t he beaut iful Helen lived w it h t he adult erer Paris. That is all t hat rem ains of t he glory that once was Troy.’

‘May we ride down, sir?’ Ptolemy asked.

‘Of course. But be w ary. There ar e m any villages nearby and t he inhabitants may be none too friendly.’

The nobles urged t heir m ount s forw ard, galloping dow n t he hillside t ow ards t he ruins. To t he sout h Parm enion could see a w hit e-walled temple and he touched heels to Paxus and cantered towards it.

There w ere no Persian t roops w it hin a day ‘s ride, and his w arning t o t he young m en had been largely unnecessary. Yet he liked his officers to be constantly on their guard.

As he approached t he Tem ple a short, plum p w om an opened a side gat e and w alked out t o m eet him. Parm enion reined in t he st allion and halted before her.

‘Would you be the Lion of Macedon, sir?’ she asked.

Parm enion w as surprised. Fift een t housand Macedonian soldiers w ere in t he vicinit y, and t here w ere at least a dozen officers of his ow n age and height.

‘I have been called that, lady. Why do you ask?’

‘My mistress sent me to find you. She is dying.’

‘I am no Healer; I am a soldier. What did she tell you?’

‘She said I w as t o w alk from t he Tem ple and approach t he w arrior riding the grey stallion. That is all, sir. Will you come?’

Parm enion shivered, suddenly cold despit e t he sunshine. Som et hing st irred in his subconscious, but he could not raise it t o full aw areness.

He looked dow n at t he w om an. Could t his be a t r ap? Were t here soldiers or killers waiting within those white walls?

No, he decided. There w as no t ension in t he w om an before him; she w as sim ply a servant follow ing t he orders of her m ist ress. Parm enion dism ount ed and led t he st allion t hrough t he narrow gat e, follow ing a twisted path through an overgrown garden.

Still his thoughts were troubled.

What was it about this place?

I t w as t ranquil here, harm onious and r est ful, but his senses w ere shrieking at him and he found himself growing more tense.

He halt ed before t he m ain doors and t ied t he st allion’s reins t o an overhanging tree branch. ‘Who is your mistress?’ he asked.

‘She was the Healer, sir,’ the woman answered.

I t w as dark w it hin t he Tem ple and Parm enion w as led t o a sm all room w here t he single w indow w as covered w it h a t hick, w oollen curt ain. An old w om an lay on a narrow bed; her face w as em aciat ed, her eyes blind. Parm enion m oved t o t he w indow, draw ing back t he cur t ain.

Bright sunshine filled the room.

The Spartan looked down on the brightly-lit face of the old woman and his breath caught in his throat. He staggered back, gripping the curtain t o st op him self from falling. And t hen t he m em ory surged up from t he dark est recesses of his m ind. He saw again t he gar den at Olym pia, w here he and Der ae had first em braced. And he saw her lying in his bed and heard again her soft, sweet voice.

‘I dream t I w as in a t em ple, and all w as darkness. And I said, Where is t he Lion of Macedon? The sun shone t hen and I saw a general in a white-plum ed helm et. He w as t all and proud, and st anding w it h t he light at his back. He saw me ‘

‘Sw eet Hera! ‘ w hispered Par m enion, falling t o his knees. ‘I t cannot be you, Derae. It cannot!’

The old w om an sighed. ‘I t is I,’ she said. ‘When t hey t hrew m e from t he ship I did not die. I r eached t he shore. I w ait ed here for y ears, thinking you would come for me.’

Wit h t rem bling fingers Parm enion reached out and t ook her hand. ‘I thought you dead. I would have walked across Hades for you.’

‘I know.’

‘Why did you not get a message to me?’

‘I couldn’t. I becam e a Healer, a priest ess. And w hen I found out where you w ere, I saw you living in Thebes w it h anot her w om an.’

There w as not hing he could say and he felt incapable of forcing w ords t hrough t he lum p in his t hroat. He m erely sat, holding her sw ollen, art hrit ic hand as she t old him of t he years spent at t he Tem ple, of t he spirit j ourneys across t he seas, of saving him and Thet is from t he plague in Thebes and guiding him t hr ough t he underw orld t o save t he soul of Alexander, healing Parmenion of his brain tumour and returning t o him a port ion of his yout h. Last ly she t old him of her j ourney, disguised as Thena, int o t he w orld of t he Enchant m ent. This t im e he groaned aloud.

‘Why did you not show yourself to me?’

‘I think I would have - but then you found the other me.’ His tears fell t hen and she felt a soft, w arm droplet t ouch her hand. ‘Oh, m y dear, do not be sad. I have had a w onderful life, healing m any. And I have w at ched you and w at ched over you. I feel no sorrow. I have t reasured our days t oget her, holding t hem w arm and glow ing in m y memories.’

‘Don’t die!’ he pleaded. ‘Please don’t die!’

She forced a w eak sm ile. ‘That is beyond m y pow ers t o grant,’ she said. ‘But I did not send Camfitha to find you so that you should suffer.

I needed t o w arn you. The Lady of Sam ot hrace Aida, you remember?’

‘Yes.’

‘She is in Macedonia. She int ends t o rob Alexander of his necklet of power, but she must be stopped. Without the necklet the Dark God will win.’

‘I know. Do not concern yourself. I will protect Alexander.’

‘Her powers are very great. You must be on your guard at all times.’

‘I w ill be,’ he said w earily. ‘But t ell m e: is t here a w ay t o defeat t he Chaos Spirit? Can you kill the demon without harming Alexander?’

‘No,’ she answ ered, ‘he cannot be killed. And even w hen Alexander dies he will live on - once the host body is destroyed, consumed by fire or devoured by worms or carrion birds, he will be free once more.’

‘But if we hold him back will he not tire of trying to possess Alexander?

Surely it w ould be sim pler t o find anot her hum an and capt ur e his soul?’

‘He cannot do t hat,’ she answ ered. ‘That night in Sam ot hrace w here you’ Pausing for a m om ent, she squeezed his hand and gave a gent le, alm ost apologet ic sm ile, t hen w ent on,’ where Alexander w as conceived w as not chosen at random. I t w as a special, unholy t im e. Great spells w ere cast, t he blood of innocence w as spilt. The purpose of it all w as t o bond t he conceived child t o t he evil of Kadm ilos. The child becam e t he Gat ew ay t hrough w hich t he Beast could pass. As long as Alexander lives, he w ill be linked t o Kadm ilos.

Equally t he Dar k God cannot leave Alexander; t hey are chained together for as long as the body survives.’

‘Then there is no hope?’

‘There is alw ays hope, m y dear,’ she t old him. ‘Evil does not exist alone. There are balances.’

Her voice faded and, for a m om ent only, he t hought she had died. All t hought s of t he Dark God fled from his m ind. Gripping her hand, he called her name. Her blind eyes opened and she gave a weak smile.

‘Let us not t alk of t his any m ore,’ he w hispered. ‘Tell m e of your years here. Let me share them with you.’

He sat and list ened as t he sun faded from t he sky, unaw are t hat his officers had arrived and w ere st anding silent ly by t he doorw ay. They did not intrude on his obvious grief.

Finally, as t he first st ars of evening w ere appearing in t he sky, Derae drew in a deep shuddering breath.

And was gone

No goodbyes, no t earful farew ell. One m om ent she w as alive, t he next her soul had departed.

As her br eat hing st opped Parm enion fell back, and t here cam e over the room a sense of peace that none present would ever forget. It was w arm and com fort ing, uplift ing and filled w it h love, t ouching heart and mind and soul.

Pt olem y m oved forw ard and em braced his general. The ot hers followed.

And w it h great gent leness t hey led t he w eeping Spart an back t o t he gardens where his war-horse waited.

Greater Phrygia, 336 BC I n t he w eeks t hat follow ed Parm enion t hrew all his energies int o t he planning of t he cam paign, w orking from before daw n t o aft er dusk and exhaust ing ev en his younger officers. He checked t he supplies, ordered cartographers to map the countryside, organized food wagons, sent riders to watch for the Athenian supply ships and arranged billets, pushing himself to his limits.

At t alus t ried t o reason w it h him, begging him t o slow dow n, but t he Spart an w ould not be opposed. I gnoring all adv ice, he pressed on. I n t he past he had been aided by Mot hac, w hose organizat ional skills had been breat ht aking. But now he felt he could t rust no one. An arm y soon t o num ber 30,000 w ould be m oving across t he Hellespont.

Horses would require safe past ure, t he m en w ould need m eat, cereal and w at er. Bat t les, in t he m ain, could alm ost t ake care of t hem selves, but keeping m en ready for w ar w as an art in it self. A four-ox cart could carry t hirt y barrels of w at er across a desert, but t he oxen needed t o drink and aft er t en days t here w ould be only fift een barrels left. Such w ere t he pr oblem s in w hich Parm enion im m ersed him self t o cloak his soul from the pain of Derae’s death.

Then t her e w ere t he squabbles and fight s t hat flared w it hin an arm y m ade up of such ancient enem ies as Paionians, I llyrians, Macedonians, At henians and Thracians. Blood feuds w ere report ed daily, and m any men were slain in duels. Parmenion and Attalus were often called upon t o j udge t he survivors of such com bat s and it irked t he Spart an t o sentence good fighters to death.

But even t hese considerat ions w ere bet t er t han t he const ant, acid t hought t hat Derae had been alive all t hese years and now had been taken from him for good.

In t he m id-aft ernoon of his fift h w eek in t his out post of t he Persian Em pire, scout s brought w ord of a group of Macedonian officers w ho had landed from an At henian ship. There w as no sign yet of Philip and Parmenion cursed inwardly.

The Persians had fled before t he inv ading force, and m any of t he Greek cit ies had invit ed t he Macedonians t o liberat e t hem. Yet Parm enion could not spread t he advance arm y so t hin t hat a count erat t ack w ould crush it, and he w as forced t o w ait for t he arrival of t he King and t he rest of t he arm y. This delay, he k new, w ould soon lead t o a w eakening of resolve in t he cit ies, and m any w ould w it hdraw their support.

The Spart an had com m andeered a house in t he capt ured cit y of Cabalia, and t his he shared w it h At t alus. The sw ordsm an had been in fine mood since the invasion and enjoyed sharing the command. In the main the two men got on well, Attalus leaving what he regarded as the m inut iae t o Parm enion, w hile he rode out every day hunt ing or scouting the land ahead.

The old warrior had even become popular with the troops, for he never hesit at ed t o ride at t he front of t he bat t le-line and had dist inguished himself in the first clashes with the Persian army.

Parm enion pushed t he paper s across t he br oad desk and st ret ched his back. He w as t ired. Bone-w eary. I t had not been har d t o m arch int o Asia, but a long cam paign called for m ore st am ina, nerve and sust ained concent rat ion t han he had needed for longer t han he cared to remember.

Three years w as t he t im et able he had given Philip. Three year s t o cont rol Asia Minor and m ak e t he land safe. Three year s and 60,000 t roops. This w as no sm all undert aking and, at sixt y-four, Parm enion wondered whether he would live out the campaign.

There w ere so m any problem s t o overcom e, forem ost am ong w hich was food for t he ar m y. They had br ought supplies for t hirt y days w hen t hey crossed t he Hellespont, and t w o-t hirds had already been consum ed. Foraging part ies w ere bringing in w hat could be found locally, but Parm enion w as anxious for t he supply ships t o reach t he designated - and defended - bays. Philip had a mere 160 ships. Should t he Persian fleet m ove int o t he Aegean Sea, t he Macedonian v essels w ould be out num bered t hree t o one, and t he land-based arm y could be starved into submission or withdrawal.

But even w it h food supplies assured, t here w as st ill t he problem of t he Persian arm y. Given t im e t he new King, Darius, could raise an arm y of alm ost a m illion. This w as unlikely, Parm enion knew, but even if he chose only t o conscript w arriors from cent ral Persia t he Macedonians w ould face m ore t han 120,000 w ell-arm ed, disciplined m en. Am ong t hese w ere alm ost 40,000 t rained slingers and archers. Even w hen Philip arrived w it h reinforcem ent s, t he Macedonians w ould have only around 1,000 bowmen.

Parm enion believed t hat despit e his aw esom e skills Philip had never truly understood the Persian Empire and its composition.

The Great King ruled from Phry gia in t he w est t o t he dist ant lands of t he Hindu Kush, from fert ile farm land t o arid desert, from ice-covered forest s t o unpenet r able j ungle. But it w as t he m et hod of his rule t hat m ade conquest of t he em pire so difficult. Sat raps and vassal kings w ere m ost ly aut onom ous, raising t heir ow n arm ies and set t ing local taxes. Even if Philip were to crush Darius he would still have a score of powerful enemies to face, each of them capable of bringing to the field an army greater than Macedon’s.

Two million square miles of territory, one hundred different nations. All of Philip’s past triumphs would count for nothing against such odds!

The sun w as dipping int o t he w est w hen t he Spart an st rode t hrough t he cam p, st opping t o exam ine t he picket - lines and t he guar ds w ho pat rolled t he hor se paddocks. He found one young sent ry sit t ing quiet ly eat ing bread and cheese, his helm et and sw ord beside him. As the boy saw the general he scrambled to his feet.

‘I am sorry, sir. I have not had an opportunity to eat today.’

‘I t is difficult t o eat w it h your t hroat ripped open,’ Parm enion t old him.

‘This is an enemy land and you have few friends here.’

‘I know, sir. It won’t happen again.’

‘That is t rue. Next t im e I find you slacking I shall open y our t hroat myself.’

‘Thank you, sir I mean’

‘I know what you mean,’ grunted the Spartan, moving away.

They were all so young now, beardless children playing a game of war.

For an hour or m ore he w andered t he cam p out side t he cit y, t hen ret ur ned t o t he house. I t w as w hit e-w alled, w it h beaut iful st at ues lining t he w alks and gardens, and t he room s w ere large, t he w indow s t all and w ide. The floors w ere not craft ed w it h m osaics but cov ered w it h rugs and carpet s, deep and soft beneat h t he feet. Huge paint ings adorned the inner walls, depicting the gods of the Persians, the mighty Ahura Mazda, the Wise Lord, and the minor daevas that served him.

A slave-girl brought t he general a pit cher of m ead w ine m ade from honey. He accept ed a goblet, t hen dism issed her. As dusk appr oached anot her girl m oved in, light ing t he copper lam ps t hat hung on t he w alls. The room w as soon bat hed in a soft golden glow and t he Spart an rem oved his breast plat e and greaves, set t ling dow n w it h his mead on a wide couch.

At t alus found him t here in t he early evening. The sw ordsm an w as dressed in a long grey chiton, his w hit e hair held in place by a black leather band edged with silver.

‘A productive day?’ asked Attalus.

The Spart an shr ugged. ‘Perhaps. I w ish Philip w ere here: m any of t he cit ies w ould receive us now w it h cheers and w elcom e banquet s. I f w e leave it m uch longer, t heir backbones w ill st art t o m elt. They w ill hear of t he Great King’s preparat ions for w ar and w ill bar t heir gat es against us.’

‘You are st ill in t hat dark m ood, I see,’ said At t alus. ‘I t com es from drinking t hat Persian goat ‘s-piss. Good Greek w ine is w hat you need,’ he added, filling a golden w ine-cup and draining half t he cont ent s at a single swallow.

‘I am no longer in a dar k m ood,’ said Parm enion slow ly, ‘but our spies report that the Great King is building an army the like of which has not been seen since Xerxes invaded Greece. Messengers are t ravelling all over t he em pire - Cappadocia, Pisidia, Syria, Pont ica, Egy pt, Mesopot am ia Can you im agine how m any m en w ill com e against us?’

‘We will defeat them,’ said Attalus, settling down and stretching out his legs.

‘Just like that?’

‘Of course, strategos. You w ill t hink of a great plan for vict ory and w e will all sleep soundly in our beds.’

Parm enion chuckled. ‘You should have st art ed drinking years ago. I t agrees with you.’

‘I t is never t oo lat e t o learn. How ever, I am in agreem ent w it h you. I can’t w ait t o see Philip; it has been t oo long. The last I heard w as six m ont hs ago w hen Cleopat ra w as w ait ing t o give birt h t o her son and the King was planning the celebrations. It will be good to see him.’

At t alus laughed. ‘There w as a t im e, Spart an, w hen I w ished you dead.

Now I find you good company. Perhaps I’m getting old.’

Before Parm enion could reply, a serv ant announced t he arrival of t he m essengers from Pella. Parm enion rose and w alked out t o t he cent re of the room to meet them.

The first t o ent er w as Hephaist ion, follow ed by Cassander and t he cavalry general, Cleit us. Hephaist ion bow ed, but his face w as set and tension showed in his eyes.

‘A difficult journey?’ ventured Parmenion.

‘We hav e let t ers from t he King,’ answ ered Hephaist ion st iffly, approaching Parm enion. Cassander and Cleit us advanced t ow ards At t alus. Cleit us held a t ight ly rolled scroll of papyr us w hich he offered to the swordsman.

Parm enion had received such m essages on hundreds of occasions. Yet t here w as a t errible t ension in t he air and t he Spart an’s senses w ere aroused. His gaze flickered t o Cleit us; t he cavalrym an w as proffering a sealed scroll t o At t alus, but his right hand w as inching t ow ards t he dagger at his hip. Cassander also w as m oving t o At t alus’ left, his right hand hidden beneat h his cloak. I n t hat one aw ful m om ent, Parm enion knew what was to come.

‘At t alus! ‘ he cried. Hephaist ion leapt upon t he Spart an, pinning his arm s, and alt hough Parm enion st ruggled t he younger m an w as t oo st rong. The t w o officers drew t heir sw ords and rushed at At t alus. The old m an st ood st ock-st ill, t oo shock ed t o m ove. An iron blade clove int o his belly and he cried out. A second sw ord slashed int o his neck, opening a t errible w ound. At t alus’ knees buckled. Sw ords and k nives slashed int o his body even as he fell, and he w as dead befor e he struck the floor.

Hephaist ion loosened his grip on Parm enion w ho st aggered back, his hand trembling as he drew his sword.

‘Come then, you traitors!’ he yelled. ‘Finish your work!’

‘I t is finished, sir,’ said Hephaist ion, his face grey under t he t an. ‘That is what the King ordered.’

‘I do not believe it! You have just killed Philip’s best friend.’

‘I know, sir. But Philip is dead.’

The w ords st ruck Parm enion like poisoned arrow s and he reeled back.

‘Dead? DEAD?’

‘He w as m urdered as he ent ered t he am phit heat re w here he w as t o celebrat e t he birt h of his son. The killer w as hiding in t he shadow s and he stabbed Philip through the heart.’

‘Who? Who did it?’

‘Pausanius,’ answ ered Hephaist ion. ‘He nursed his hat red, t hough he m asked it w ell, but he never forgave Philip for refusing him j ust ice against Attalus.’

‘But why was the King not guarded?’

‘He or der ed t he Royal Guar d t o w alk som e t hirt y paces behind him, saying he did not wish to be seen as a tyrant who needed protection in his own realm. He died instantly.’

‘Sweet Hera! I cannot believe it! Not sorcery, not assassins, not armies could st op Philip. And y ou t ell m e he w as cut dow n by a spurned lover?’

‘Yes, sir. Alexander is King now. He w ill be here as soon as t he troubles in Greece are put behind him. But he ordered us to kill Attalus as soon as we arrived.’

Parm enion gazed dow n at t he dead m an, t hen dropped his sw ord and m oved t o a couch, slum ping dow n w it h his head in his hands. ‘What is happening in Macedonia?’ he managed to ask.

Hephaist ion sat beside him. ‘There w as alm ost civil w ar, but Alexander m oved sw ift ly t o elim inat e his enem ies. Am ynt as w as slain, as w as Cleopatra and her new child, followed by some thirty nobles.’

‘He began his reign by m urdering a baby? I see.’ Parm enion st raight ened, his eyes cold, his face a m ask. He st ood, gat hered his sw ord and slam m ed it back int o it s sheat h. ‘See t hat t he body is rem oved and t he blood cleaned from t he carpet s. Then get out of m y house!’

Hephaist ion reddened. ‘Alexander asked m e t o t ake At t alus’ place. I had thought to use his rooms.’

Then y ou t hought w rong, boy! ‘ said Parm enion. ‘Ther e w as a t im e w hen I believed y ou had t he seeds of great ness w it hin you, but now I see you for w hat y ou are: a m urderer for hire. You w ill go far, but you will not share my company - nor my friendship. Do we understand one another?’

‘We do,’ replied Hephaistion, tight-lipped.

‘Good.’ The Spart an sw ung t ow ards t he ot hers, his gaze raking ov er t hem; t hen he glanced dow n at t he body on t he floor. ‘He w as a m an,’ said Parm enion. ‘He had m any dark sides t o his nat ure, but he st ood by his King loyally. Many years ago he risked his life t o save Alexander. Well, you brought him his reward. Tomorrow we will have a funeral for him, with all honours. Do I hear an objection?’

‘I have’ Cassander began.

‘Shut your mouth!’ roared Parmenion.

‘We obey ed t he or ders of our King,’ said Cleit us, his face red and his eyes angry.

‘As did he,’ Parm enion ret ort ed, point ing t o t he corpse. ‘Let us hope you do not enjoy the same benefits!’

Wit hout anot her w ord Parm enion st rode from t he room. Several servant s w ere st anding grouped in t he corridor out side. ‘Do not be alarm ed,’ he t old t hem. ‘The killing is over. Rem ove t he body and prepare it for burial.’

A young girl st epped forw ard, her head bow ed. ‘There is a m an, lord; he cam e som e w hile ago. He said he is a friend t o you and t hat you would want to see him in private.’

‘Did he give a name?’

‘He said he w as Mot hac. He is an old m an and I t ook him t o your rooms. Did I do right?’

‘You did. But tell no one he is here.’

*

Mot hac sat quiet ly in t he soft glow of t he lam plight, his eyes st aring at not hing, unfocused, his gaze t urned inw ard. His em ot ions w ere exhaust ed now, and even t he m em ory of t he flam es and t he r uins could not stir fresh sadness within him.

What are you doing here? he asked him self. The answ er w as sw ift in coming: Where else could I go?

The old Theban heard foot st eps in t he corridor and rose from t he couch, his mouth dry.

Parm enion ent ered but said not hing. The Spart an sim ply rilled t w o goblet s w it h w at ered w ine and passed one t o Mot hac. The Theban drank it sw ift ly. ‘Everyt hing is dest royed,’ he said, slum ping back t o his seat.

Parmenion sat beside him. ‘Tell me.’

‘Thebes is in ruins: every house, every hall, every st at ue. There is nothing left.’

Parm enion sat silent ly, his face expressionless. ‘We r ose against t he invader,’ cont inued Mot hac, ‘but w e could not ret ake t he Cadm ea. The Macedonians closed t he inner gat es against us. Yet w e had t hem t rapped t here, at t he cent re of t he cit y, and for a w hile w e t hought w e would be free. But Athens refused to acknowledge us and we could get no aid from t he ot her cit ies. Even Spart a refused t o send soldiers.

Then Alexander cam e, w it h an arm y. We realized w e could not fight him and offered peace, but his soldiers st orm ed t he cit y. The killing w as t errible t o see - m en, w om en, children, cut dow n - for t here w as now here t o run. Thousands died; t he rest w ere t aken int o capt ivit y t o be sold as slaves. Alexander himself ordered the razing of the city, and the siegeengineers moved in. Every statue, every column was toppled and smashed to dust. There is no Thebes now it is all gone.’

‘How did you escape?’

‘I hid in a cellar, but t hey found m e. I w as dragged out and hauled before an officer. Luckily it w as Coenus and he recognized m e. He gave m e m oney and a fast horse, so I rode t o At hens and booked passage on a ship t o Asia. Why did Alexander do it? Why dest roy t he city?’

‘I cannot answer that, my friend. But I am glad you are safe.’

‘I am so t ired,’ w hispered Mot hac. ‘I have not slept w ell since t he t he dest ruct ion. I keep hearing t he scream s, seeing t he blood. What was it all for, Parmenion?’

The Spart an put his arm around his friend’s shoulder. ‘Rest here. We w ill t alk in t he m orning.’ Taking Mot hac’s arm, he led t he Theban t o the wide bed. ‘Sleep now.’

Obedient ly Mot hac st ret ched out and his eyes closed. Wit hin seconds he w as fast asleep. But t he dream s cam e again and he groaned, t ears seeping from his closed eyelids.

*

Parm enion left t he room and w andered dow n t o t he m oonlit gardens, the words of Tamis echoing from the corridors of time. The old seeress had com e t o him in Thebes four decades ago, j ust before he led t he attack on the Spartan-held Cadmea.

‘You st and, Parm enion, at a crossroads. There is a road leading t o sunlight and laught er, and a road leading t o pain and despair. The cit y of Thebes is in your hands, like a small toy. On the road to sunlight the cit y w ill grow, but on t he ot her r oad it w ill be br oken, crushed int o dust and forgot t en’ She had advised him t o t ravel t o Troy, but he had ignored her, believing her to be a Spartan spy.

Yet had he follow ed her advice he w ould hav e found Derae and t hey w ould have lived t heir lives t oget her in peace and harm ony. There w ould have been no Macedonian arm y, and he w ould never have sired Alexander.

Parm enion found his m ind reeling under t he w eight of all he had learned. Derae alive but now dead, Philip gone, At t alus m urdered, Thebes in ruins.

He could almost hear the Dark God’s laughter.

‘No,’ he said aloud, ‘do not even t hink of t hat! ‘ He sat dow n on a w ooden bench, his m ind w hirling w it h m any overlapping im ages:

Derae, y oung and vibrant - old and dying; Philip laughing and drinking; t he Golden Child Alexander in t he forest s of t he Enchant m ent; At t alus, t all and courageous, st anding against t he foe.

And from deeper w it hin his m em ory t he slender, ascet ic Epam inondas, sitting quietly in his study planning the liberation of Thebes.

So many faces, so many precious memories

Gone now. He could not quite believe it.

How could Philip be dead?

Such vitality. Such power. One dagger-thrust and the world changed!

Parm enion shivered. What now, Spart an, he asked him self? Do you serve t he child as you served t he m an? And w hat if t he Dark God has returned? Could you kill Alexander?

He drew his sw ord, st aring dow n at t he blade gleam ing in t he m oonlight, pict uring it cleaving int o t he new King. Shuddering, he t hrew t he w eapon from him. A cool breeze rust led t he undergrow t h and he st ood, w alking t o w here t he sw ord had fallen. St ooping, he lifted it, brushing dirt from the blade.

He had seen t he evils Philippos had visit ed upon his w orld. I f Alexander had become such a man

‘I will kill him,’ whispered Parmenion.

Ionia, Spring 334 BC But Alexander did not com e t o Asia, for new s arrived t hat t he t ribes of Paionia and Triballia had risen again in t he nort h of Greece and a Macedonian expedit ion, led by t he new King, w as forced t o m ov e against them.

The campaign was brilliantly fought, leaving Alexander triumphant, but Persian gold w as once m ore creat ing unr est in t he sout hern cit ies led by Sparta, and the seeds of revolt flowered.

In Athens the orator Demosthenes spoke out against the Macedonians, and Alexander m arched his arm y sout h, past t he ruins of Thebes, using a m assive show of st rengt h t o coerce t he Greek cit ies t o obedience. Though successful, it cost him t im e, and Parm enion w as left in Asia for m or e t han a year - short of m anpow er and supplies, playing a cat-and- mouse game with the Persian army.

Morale w as low as Parm enion and Hephaist ion m arched the beleaguer ed arm y along t he I onian coast, m aking fort r ess cam p in a bay close t o t he isle of Lesbos. Hast ily-built ram part s w ere t hrow n up and t he Macedonians set t led dow n t o a w ell-earned rest as t he sun sank int o t he Aegean. Supplies w ere short and t he m en gat hered around t heir cam p-fires t o eat t heir rat ions: one st rip of j erked beef and a section of stale bread per man.

Hephaist ion doffed his helm and ducked under t he canvas flap t hat form ed t he doorw ay t o Parm enion’s t ent. The old general and his Theban fr iend, Mot hac, w ere sit t ing on t he gr ound poring over m aps and scrolls.

Parmenion glanced up. ‘Are the scouts out?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ answered Hephaistion.

Parm enion nodded and ret urned t o t he m ap. ‘Tom orrow w e st rike through Mysia. There are several small cities there; they will buy us off with food and coin.’

‘The m en are get t ing t ired of running,’ Hephaist ion snapped. ‘Why can w e not st and and show t he Persians t he st rengt h of Macedonian spears?’

‘Because w e have not t he pow er,’ ret ort ed Parm enion. ‘Mem non now has close to fifty thousand warriors, highly trained and well armed. We would risk being crushed.’

‘I do not believe that.’

‘Believe what you will.’

Hephaist ion crouched dow n beside t he Spart an. ‘List en t o m e, sir, t he men are becoming downhearted. We must have a victory.’

Parm enion’s cold blue eyes locked t o Hephaist ion’s gaze. ‘You t hink I do not w ant a vict ory? Gods, m an! I w ould give m y right arm for one.

But look at t he t er rain,’ he said, gest uring at t he goat skin m ap. ‘Once w e accept bat t le t he Persians w ill envelop our flanks, cut t ing off any ret reat. Then w e w ould be lost. I know t his is not easy for a young m an like yourself t o accept, but w e have few er t han a t housand cavalry and only a few hundr ed bow m en. We could not hold t hem. But what w e can do is keep t he enem y on t he m arch, allow ing Alexander an unopposed crossing of t he Dar danelles w it h t he m ain arm y. Then we will have the battle you dream of.’

‘So speak s t he Lion of Macedon! ‘ m ut t ered Hephaist ion w it h a sneer.

‘There w as a t im e w hen t he very m ent ion of your nam e w ould send the enemy into flight. But all men grow old.’

Parm enion sm iled. ‘I f fort unat e w e grow w iser w it h age, child. And t he yapping of puppies bothers us not at all.’

The Spar t an ret urned his at t ent ion t o t he m ap and Hephaistion, sw allow ing his fury, left t he t ent. For an hour or m ore he pat rolled t he cam p, checking on sent ries, t alking t o t he m en, t hen he clim bed t he w inding pat h of t he east ern cliff and st ood in t he m oonlight gazing east over t he fabled lands of t he Persian Em pire. Such w ealt h for t he t aking! Such glory t o be w on! Beyond I onia w as Phrygia, rich in m et als, silver, gold and iron. Beyond t hat Cappadocia, Arm enia, Mesopot am ia. And t hen t he heart lands of t he Em pire: Babylonia, Media and Persia itself.

The annual revenue of Macedonia w as 800 t alent s of silver - a vast fort une. But, so it w as said, in Babylon t here w as a m inor t reasury containing 240,000 talents of gold.

Hephaist ion t r em bled at t he t hought of such riches. There w ere cit ies of gold and st at ues of purest silver. There w ere gem s t he size of a m an’s head. Persia! Even t he fabled Midas, w hose t ouch t ransform ed all to gold, could not in a single lifetime have created Persia’s wealth.

The m oon w as bright w hen Hephaist ion saw t he rider galloping his m ount across t he nar row plain. The m an w as w earing t he w idebrim m ed leat her hat sport ed by t he Paionian scout s and Hephaist ion w aved and shout ed t o at t r act his at t ent ion. The rider saw him and veered his pony to climb the hillside.

‘What news?’ Hephaistion asked the scout.

‘The King is at Troy, sir,’ answered the rider.

Hephaist ion punched t he air w it h delight. ‘You are sur e?’ There had been many false reports of Alexander’s arrival.

‘I saw t he arm y m yself. He has w it h him m ore t han t hirt y t housand men.’

‘Then it has begun!’ shouted Hephaistion exultantly.

The Ida Mountains, 334 BC The t w o arm ies m et on a plain in t he shadow s of t he t ow ering I da!

Mount ains. Hephaist ion, riding alongside Parm enion, saw t he t ent s of t he Macedonians st rung out like pearls upon a necklace, w hit e against the green of the flatlands.

His soldier’s eye scanned t he regim ent s w ait ing ahead. He could see t he six brigades of t he Macedonian Foot Com panions, 9,000 m en st anding t o at t ent ion w it h spears held vert ically. Alongside t hem w ere t he 3,000 Shield Bearers, as Philip’s Guards w ere now know n. To t he left w ere t he At henians and Corint hians, around 7,000 allied t roops w hose presence gave t he expedit ion a unit ed Greek appearance. To t he right w ere t he m assed ranks of t he savage Thracians. I t w as difficult t o see how m any t here w ere, for t hey did not hold t o form at ion but j ost led and pushed in a heaving m ass. But t here m ust be, Hephaistion reckoned, more than 5,000 of them.

Alexander rode out from t he cent re of t he ar m y: his iron arm our shining like polished silver, his helm beneat h it s w hit e plum e glint ing w it h gold. Even Bucephalus w as arm oured now, w it h light chain-mail t ied around his neck and over his chest, silver w ires braided int o his black mane and tail.

Hephaist ion drew rein as Alexander approached, his capt ains riding behind him; Cassander, Philot as, Cleit us, Coenus and Parm enion’s second son, Nicci.

The King rode direct ly t o Parm enion and dism ount ed. The older m an followed suit and knelt before Alexander.

‘No, no,’ said t he King, st epping forw ard t o lift t he Spart an t o his feet.

I ‘ll never have you kneel t o m e. Well m et, m y friend.’ Alexander em braced t he t aller m an. ‘I w ant t o hear all your new s. But first I ‘ll address your men, and then we will talk in my tent.’

Parm enion bow ed and t he King t urned back t o Bucephalus. The horse knelt as he appr oached and he m ount ed and rode t o t he head of Parm enion’s 12,000 t roops. They sent up a great cheer as he approached t hem, and snapped t o at t ent ion. Their arm our and cloaks were dust-covered and the men looked tired and drained.

‘Well, m y lads,’ cried Alexander, ‘it is good t o see you again! You have led t he Persians a m erry chase. But t he r unning is over now; from t his m om ent w e run no longer. We t ake t he bat t le t o t he enem y and w e w ill crush t he m ight of Darius beneat h our Macedonian heels.’ A feeble cheer w ent up, but it soon died aw ay. Alexander rem oved his helm, running his fingers through his sweat-drenched golden hair. ‘Each m an am ong y ou w ill t oday receive a golden Philip, and I have brought a hundred barrels of Macedonian w ine t o rem ind you of hom e. Tonight w e w ill celebrat e your achievem ent s w it h a grand feast in your honour.’

Hephaist ion w as st unned. 12,000 gold Philips - each one a year’s pay for a com m on soldier and given so casually! A t rem endous roar went up from the soldiers which startled Bucephalus, and he reared on his hind legs. Alexander calm ed t he st allion and cant ered back t o where the officers waited.

‘Now t o serious m at t ers,’ he said soft ly and led t hem back t o t he m ain camp.

Thr oughout t he aft ernoon Alexander list ened int ent ly t o t he report s of Parm enion and Hephaist ion as t o t he nat ure and or ganizat ion of t he Persian arm y. Darius had given com m and of t he w arriors t o a renegade Greek nam ed Mem non, and he, Parm enion point ed out, w as a w ily and skilful general. The Persians num bered som e 50,000, half being cavalry from Cappadocia and Paphlagonia in the north.

‘Brilliant horsemen,’ said Hephaistion, ‘and utterly fearless.’

‘Have there been any major encounters?’ Alexander asked.

‘No,’ answ ered Parm enion. ‘Perhaps t w ent y skirm ishes bet w een outriders, but I avoided full confrontation.’

‘No w onder your t roops look ed so w eary,’ put in Philot as. ‘They have spent the last seven months running away from the enemy.’

‘Parm enion w as w ise t o do so,’ said Alexander. ‘Had w e suffered a m aj or defeat here, it is likely w e w ould have lost support in Greece.

That in t urn w ould have m ade t his current ex pedit ion alm ost im possible t o m ount.’ He sw ung back t o Parm enion. ‘How m uch support can we expect from the Greek cities?’

‘Very lit t le, sire,’ said Parm enion. ‘At first t hey w elcom ed us, sending delegat ions t o assure us of support. But as t he m ont hs w ent by t hey lost heart. And Darius has now st rengt hened t he garrisons in Myt ilene and Ephesus.’

Hephaist ion list ened t o t he exchanges and w at ched Par m enion. The Spart an seem ed st iff and ill-at- ease, his pale eyes nev er leaving Alexander ‘s face. But if t he King not iced his general’s st are he gave no indication of it.

‘Where is the enemy now?’ Alexander asked.

‘They are cam ped near t he t ow n of Zeleia,’ Parm enion t old him. ‘Tw o days’ march to the north-east.’

‘Then w e shall seek t hem out,’ said Alexander bright ly. Suddenly leaning forw ard, he gripped Parm enion’s shoulder. ‘Som et hing is troubling you, my dear friend. Speak of it.’

‘It is nothing, sire, I assure you. I am merely tired.’

‘Then you shall rest, and w e w ill m eet again t om orrow m orning,’ said Alexander, rising.

Hephaistion remained behind when the others had gone and Alexander t ook him by t he arm, leading him out int o t he m oonlight t o w alk around the camp.

‘What is wrong with Parmenion?’ asked the King.

‘As I w rot e you, sire, he w as angry at t he slaying of At t alus and he spoke against t he killing of Cleopat ra and t he babe. Also he w as soon j oined by t he Theban, Mot hac, w ho I under st and w it nessed t he dest ruct ion of his cit y. Som et hing changed in Parm enion t hen. He is not t he sam e m an. Perhaps it is j ust his age I don’t know. Except on matters of discipline or strategy, we rarely speak.’

‘You think I can no longer trust Parmenion?’

‘I do not t hink he is yet considering t reachery,’ answ ered Hephaistion carefully. ‘But there is a great bitterness inside him.’

‘I need him, Hephaist ion - perhaps not for m uch longer. But I need him now. He knows the Persians and their methods. And whatever else he may - or may not - be, he is still the greatest general of this age.’

‘He was once, sire. I am not sure about now; he is old and tired.’

‘I f t hat proves t o be t rue,’ w hispered Alexander, ‘t hen y ou shall see he joins Attalus for a very long rest.’

Parm enion drained his t hird goblet of m ead w ine and poured anot her.

He knew he w as drinking t oo m uch, but over t he last few m ont hs only alcohol could dull t he ache he felt, only w ine could lift t he w eight from his soul. I n his dream s he saw Philip and At t alus, young again and full of hope for t he fut ure. He saw t he Spart a of t he Enchant m ent, and held again the youthful Derae.

On waking he w ould gr oan and reach for t he w ine. So far his skills had not been affect ed - or had t hey? Could he hav e done m ore t o t hw art Memnon? Could he have defeated the Persian army? ‘I don’t know,’ he said aloud. ‘I don’t care.’ There w as an iron brazier at t he cent re of t he t ent, glow ing coals t aking t he chill from t he night air and cast ing dar k, dancing shadow s on t he canvas w alls. Parm enion drew up a padded leat her-t opped st ool and sat before t he fire, st aring into the tiny caverns within the flames.

‘Do you w ish t o be alone?’ asked Alexander, ducking under t he t ent - flap and approaching the seated man.

Parm enion did not rise. He shook his head. ‘I t does not m at t er. I am alone. Now and always,’ he answered.

Alexander seat ed him self opposit e t he Spart an and sat silent ly for several m inut es, scanning Parm enion’s face. Then he r eached out t o t ake t he general’s hand. ‘Talk t o m e,’ he urged. ‘There is som et hing dark inside you. Let us shine a light on it.’

‘Inside me?’ responded Parmenion, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Have I slain any babies of lat e? Have I ordered t he m ur der of a loyal general? Have I rem oved fr om t he face of Greece a cit y rich in hist ory and legend?’

‘I see,’ said t he King soft ly. ‘You ar e angry w it h m e. But you j udge m e t oo harshly, Parm enion; I have only done w hat you t aught m e t o do.

All those quiet lessons in strategy in the sunshine at Mieza and on your est at es. Well, w hat w ould you have done? Thebes rose against us.

Athens sent messages of support, but sat back to wait and watch what t he boy - king w ould do. Spart a sent an arm y nort h, five t housand m en cam ped at Megara. Ever y sout her n cit y w as ready t o break t heir t reat ies w it h Macedonia, for t hey w ere t reat ies m ade w it h Philip - t he warrior - king. Not w it h t he boy, Alexander. Persian agent s w ere everyw here, show ering t he Great King’s gold upon any w ho w ould declare enm it y t o Macedon. Philip could have cow ed t hem - but he w ould have had t he w eight of his reput at ion behind him. The boy had no reput at ion save for vict ories against crude t ribesm en.’ Alexander shook his head, his expression sorrow ful. ‘I w as negot iat ing w it h t he Thebans, t rying t o find a peaceful w ay t o end t he deadlock. But t here w as an incident near a post ern gat e in t he sout her n w all, w hen a group of young Thebans at t acked a scout ing part y of Macedonians led by Perdiccas. The Theban arm y t hen issued out, st orm ing our cam p.

We rout ed t hem sw ift ly and ent ered t he cit y, at w hich point our besieged garrison in the Cadmea opened their gates and attacked from w it hin. You have seen t he fall of cit ies, Parm enion - w arriors everyw here, sm all skirm ishes, running bat t les. Ther e is no order. And yes, t he slaught er w as great. I t t ook hours t o st op it, t o rest or e discipline.

‘The follow ing day I ordered t he dest ruct ion of t he cit y and m arched t he arm y sout h. The Spart ans ret reat ed. The At henians sent em issaries pledging t heir loyal support. The razing of Thebes w as like an eart h t rem or, dest roying t he foundat ions of rebellion. But it hurt m e, Parm enion. The glory t hat w as Thebes, t he hom e of Hect or’s t om b, t he w orks and st at ues of Praxit eles. You t hink it did not hurt me?’

The general looked up, saw what appeared to be anguish on the young man’s face and sighed. ‘And Attalus? Did that hurt you?’

‘No,’ adm it t ed Alexander, ‘but you k now I had no choice. He hat ed m e and feared m e. For years he t ried t o poison Philip’s m ind against m e: he w as m y fat her’s m an, he w ould never be m ine. But I t ell you t his, had he been living in ret irem ent on his est at es I w ould have let him live. But he w as not. He w as in Asia in j oint com m and of an arm y - an army he might have tried to turn against me.’

Parm enion could not argue w it h t he t rut h of t hat. Philip him self had com e t o pow er aft er having organized t he m urder of possible rivals.

But t here w as one last, lingering boil t o be lanced. ‘What of t he babe?’ he asked.

‘That w as a t errible deed-and none of m y doing. I am asham ed t o t ell you t hat I believe it w as m y m ot her, aided by a friend of hers from Samothrace - Aida. The night after my father’s murder the two women w ent t o Cleopat ra, w ho w as lat er found st rangled w it h a lengt h of braided silver w ire. Olym pias denied it - but w ho else could it hav e been? I t w as a ghast ly w ay for m y r eign t o begin - t he m urder of m y infant brother.’

‘You had no part in it?’

‘Did you think that I would?’ Alexander was genuinely shocked and the Spartan read the sincerity in his eyes.

Parm enion felt as if an aw esom e w eight had slid from his shoulders.

Reaching out, he em braced t he younger m an, and t here w ere t ears in his eyes. ‘I cannot t ell you how relieved I am,’ he said. ‘The killing of the child has haunted me. I thought’

‘You thought the Dark God had taken control of me?’

Parm enion nodded. Alexander reached dow n, draw ing a slender dagger from his belt. Taking Parm enion’s hand, he pressed t he hilt of t he dagger int o his palm. The Spar t an’s fingers closed around t he weapon and Alexander leaned his body forward so that the point of the dagger touched his chest.

‘If you doubt me, then kill me,’ he told Parmenion.

The Spartan looked into the young man’s eyes, seeking any sign of the Beast from t he Enchant m ent. But t here w as not hing. All he could see w as t he handsom e young m an his son had becom e. Let t ing slip t he knife, he shook his head. ‘I see only a King,’ he said.

Alexander chuckled. ‘By all t he gods, it ‘s good t o see you again, Parm enion! Do you rem em ber t he day w e sat in t he palace at Pella, discussing y our vict ory at t he Crocus Field? I asked y ou t hen if you would one day be my general. You recall?’

‘Yes, you were about four years old. I said I might be a little old by the time you became King. And indeed I am.’

‘Well, now I ask you again: Will t he Lion of Macedon lead m y ar m y t o victory?’

‘If the gods are willing, sire, he will.’

The River Granicus, 334 BC Bodies lay everyw here, and t he m ud-churned banks of t he Granicus w ere slippery w it h blood. Parm enion rem oved his helm, passing it t o Pt olem y w ho t ook it in t rem bling hands. The Spart an looked int o t he youngst er ‘s unnat urally pale face, saw t he sheen of cold sw eat upon his cheeks. ‘Are you enjoying the glory?’ he asked.

Ptolemy swallowed hard. ‘It was a great victory, sir,’ he answered.

‘Follow m e,’ t he general ordered. Par m enion and his six aides w alked slow ly across t he bat t lefield, st epping over t he bloat ed corpses of t he Persian slain. Dark clouds of crow s and ravens rose from t he bodies, t heir raucous cries harsh upon t he ears. Parm enion halt ed beside t he m ut ilat ed corpse of a young Persian noble, dressed in silk and sat in.

The fingers of his left hand had been cut aw ay, t hen discarded once t he gold rings had been st ripped from t hem. His face w as grey, his eyes t orn out by carrion birds. He w ould have been no older t han Pt olem y. I n t he m idday heat t he body had sw elled w it h t he gases of deat h and t he st ench w as t errible. ‘He dream ed of glory,’ said Parm enion harshly, t urning on his officers. ‘Yest erday he rode a fine horse and sought t o dest roy t he enem ies of his King. He probably has a young wife at home, perhaps a son. Handsome, is he not?’

‘Why are w e here, sir?’ asked Pt olem y, avert ing his eyes from t he dead Persian.

Parm enion did not answ er. Across t he field som e Macedonian and Thracian soldiers w ere st ill loot ing t he dead, and above t he bat t leground flocks of dark birds w ere circling, crying out in t heir hunger.

‘How many lie here, do you think?’ the Spartan asked.

‘Thousands,’ answ ered Per diccas, a t all, slender y oung cavalryman who had arrived in Asia with Alexander.

‘Som ew here near sixt een t housand,’ Parm enion t old him. To t he far left Macedonian work parties were digging a mass grave for their fallen com rades. ‘How m any did w e lose?’ cont inued t he general, looking at Ptolemy. The young man shrugged and spread his hands.

Parm enion’s face dark ened. ‘You should know,’ he t old him. ‘You should k now exact ly. When you ride int o bat t le your life depends on your com rades. They m ust be confident t hat you care for t hem. Can you underst and t hat? They w ill fight all t he bet t er for a caring com m ander. We lost eight hundred and sevent een Macedonians, four hundred and eleven Thracians, and t w o hundred and fift een allied Greeks.’

The general w alked on and, m yst ified, t he officers follow ed. Here t he bodies lay in gr oups, hundr eds one upon anot her. ‘The last st and of t he Royal I nfant ry,’ said Parm enion. ‘Wit h t he arm y fleeing ar ound t hem, t hey st ood t heir guar d t o t he deat h. Brave m en. Proud m en.

Do them honour in thought and word.’

‘Why should w e do t he enem y honour?’ asked Perdiccas. ‘What purpose does it serve?’

‘Who will rule this land now?’ said Parmenion.

‘We shall.’

‘And in years t o com e t he sons of t hese brave m en w ill be your subj ect s. They w ill j oin your arm ies, m arch under y our banners. But w ill t hey be loyal? Will you be able t o t rust t hem? I t m ight be w ise, Perdiccas, t o honour t heir fat hers now in order t o w in t he love of t heir children later.’

Parm enion knew he had not convinced t hem, but t he w alk am ong t he slain had becom e a rit ual, a necessary or deal - m ore, he realized, for himself than for the young men he forced to accompany him.

Silent ly he st rode from t he bat t lefield, back along t he line of t he r iver t o w here t he horses w ere t et hered, t hen he m ount ed and led his sm all company on to the former Persian camp.

The victory had been swift and terrifying.

The Persian arm y of around 45,000 m en had fort ified t he far bank of t he River Granicus, cavalry on left and right, m ercenary infant ry and Royal Guards - and t he general Mem non - at t he cent re. By all t he rules of engagem ent it should have produced a st alem at e. But Parm enion had secret ly sent m en ahead t o gauge t he dept hs of t he river. It had been a dry season and the water was only hip-deep, slowmoving and sluggish.

Alexander had led t he Com panion cavalry in a charge on t he enem y’s left flank. Parm enion ordered Philot as and his Thessalian horsem en t o at t ack on t he right. The shocked Persians w ere slow t o react, and by t he t im e Parm enion sounded t he general advance t heir lines w ere already sundered. Only t he m ercenary infant ry and t he Royal Guard offered any stout resistance, the other units - and Memnon, the enemy leader - fleeing t he field. I t w as a bat t le for less t han an hour, a massacre for a further two.

Sixteen thousand Persians died before the sun reached its zenith.

The conquest of Persia was under way. Alexander’s legend had begun.

That night, Alexander held his vict ory banquet in t he t ent of a dead Persian general. He had brought w it h him t o Asia a Greek w rit er and poet nam ed Callist henes, a skelet al figure w it h a w ispy black beard and an unnat urally large head w hich had long since out gr ow n t he at t em pt s of hair t o cover it. Parm enion did not like t he m an but w as forced t o adm it he had great skill as a saga poet, his voice rich and deep, his timing impeccable.

During t he feast he perform ed an im provised w ork, aft er t he st yle of Homer, in w hich he sang of Alexander ‘s exploit s. This w as greet ed by t rem endous applause. The young King, it seem ed, had personally slain 2,000 of t he half-a- m illion Persians facing him, w hile Zeus, t he Fat her of t he Gods, st ret ched his m ight y hand across t he sky, opening t he clouds to look down upon this mightiest of mortals.

Callist henes sang of At hena, Goddess of War, appearing t o Alexander and offering him immortality on the eve of the battle, and of the young King refusing the honour since he had not yet earned it.

Parm enion found t he song st irring t o t he point of nausea, but t he younger m en clapped and cheered at each ex aggerat ed point. Finally Callist henes t old of t he m om ent w hen Alexander’s generals had counselled against him crossing t he ‘sw irling t orrent of t he Granicus’, and gave t he young King t he answ er t hat he ‘w ould be asham ed if, aft er crossing t he Hellespont, he allow ed t he pet t y st ream of t he Granicus to stand in his way’.

Hephaist ion, w ho w as sit t ing beside Parm enion, leaned in close. ‘That is not the way it was,’ he whispered.

‘None of it is the way it was,’ answered the general, ‘but it sounds very fine to the young and foolish.’

The feast cont inued long int o t he night and, bored, Par m enion m ade his w ay back t o his ow n t ent. Mot hac w as st ill aw ake, sit t ing st ret ched out on a huge padded Persian chair. The Theban had been drinking.

‘A w onderful day,’ he said as Parm enion ent ered. ‘Anot her nat ion ripe for conquest. More cit ies t o be bur nt and razed.’ His face w as flushed, his eyes bleary and red-rimmed.

Parm enion said not hing. Adding fuel t o t he brazier, he st ripped him self of his ceremonial armour and stretched out on a long couch.

‘Has t he god-King grow n t ired of hearing st ories about him self?’ asked Mothac.

‘Speak more quietly, my friend,’ Parmenion advised.

‘Why?’ asked Mot hac, sit t ing upright and spilling his w ine. ‘I have lived for m ore t han sevent y years. What can he do t o m e? Kill m e? I w ish I ‘d died t en years ago. You know, aft er t he razing of Thebes I could not even find the grave of my Elea. My sweet Elea!’

‘You will find her. She does not rest with the cloak of her body.’

Mothac wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘What are we doing here, Parm enion? Why don’t w e go hom e t o Macedonia? Raise horses and leave t his slaught er t o t he y oung m en. What do w e achieve here?

More death, more destruction.’

‘I am what I am,’ replied the Spartan. ‘It is all I have left.’

‘You should not serve him. He is not like Philip, fight ing t o save his nat ion. He is a killer. He w ill build not hing, Parm enion; he w ill ride across the world as a destroyer.’

‘I do not believe that. He is capable of greatness.’

‘Why are your eyes so blind t o his evil? What hold does he have on you?’

‘Enough of t his! ‘ roared Par m enion. ‘You are a drunken old m an, full of bitterness and despair. I’ll hear no more of it!’

‘Drunk I m ay be, but I am not fooled by him.’ Pushing him self t o his feet, Mothac stumbled from the tent.

*

The old Theban sucked in great gulps of t he cool night air and w andered aw ay from t he cam p, out t o a low range of hills t o t he south. He sat down against the hillside and lay back, trying to focus on t he st ars, but t hey sw am around m aking him feel nauseous. Rolling t o his side, he r et ched violent ly. His head began t o pound and he sat up, the screwed-up parchment falling from his hand.

He picked it up, sm oot hing it out. Perhaps if he show ed it t o Parm enion? No, it w ould serve no purpose, he knew. The report w ould be disbelieved. Parmenion was truly blind to any criticism of the young King.

The m oon w as bright and Mot hac read once m ore t he report from his agent in Pella. Much of it concerned t he new regent, Ant ipat er, left in charge of t he arm y at hom e, w it h Olym pias ruling as Queen. I t also spoke of unrest in t he w est ern r egions. But t he last sect ion spoke of the murder of Cleopatra and her baby son.

A palace servant t alked of t he double killing and w as t hen m ur dered him self. All t he slain m an’s friends, and t he fam ilies of t hose friends, were removed from Pella and executed.

But t he st ory survived, w hispered am ong Alexander ‘s enem ies. I t w as surely t oo appalling t o be t r ue, w rot e Mot hac’s agent. Alexander w as said t o have gone t o Cleopat ra’s apart m ent s and st rangled her w it h a golden w ire. Then he t ook t he babe t o t he r oom s of a foreign w it ch w om an from Sam ot hrace w here, in order t o ensure t he success of his bid for t he t hrone, he sacrificed t he child t o an unknow n god - and then ate the babe’s heart.

Sober now, Mot hac st ared at t he parchm ent. A chill breeze blew at his back and he shivered.

‘I t is t im e t o die,’ hissed a cold voice. A searing pain clam ped ar ound Mot hac’s heart w it h fingers of fire. The old m an st ruggled t o rise, but the agony was too great and he sank back to the grass, the parchment fluttering from his fingers.

As it t ouched t he ground t he docum ent burst int o flam es - w rit hing on the grass with dark smoke billowing from it.

Rolling t o his belly Mot hac t ried t o craw l, but a pow erful hand grasped his shoulder and t urned him t o his back. He looked up and saw a pair of yellow, slit t ed eyes, and felt t he long dagger slide under his breastbone.

Then all pain left him and t he grass w as cool against his neck. He rem em bered a day in a Thebes of long ago, w hen he had sat by a t rickling st ream w it h Elea beside him, her head r est ing on his shoulder.

The colours w ere bright, t he greens of t he cypress t rees above him, t he dazzling blue of t he sky, t he st at ues in t he gar den seem ingly carved from virgin snow. Life had been beaut iful t hat day and t he future was brimming with the promise of further joy.

‘Elea’he whispered.

*

Alexander rose slow ly from t he dept hs of a dark dream and drift ed up t ow ards consciousness, becom ing aw are first of t he silk sheet covering his naked fram e. I t w as luxurious and soft, clinging t o his skin, w arm, and com fort ing. He rolled t o his back and not iced t hat his hand seemed to be coated with mud, the fingers stuck together. Opening his eyes, he sat up. The daw n light w as bat hing t he out er w all of t he t ent and he lift ed his hand t o rub sleep from his eyes. He st opped and his heart began to hammer. Hand and arm were covered with dried blood, as w as t he bed. He cried out and dragged back t he sheet, searching his body for a wound.

Hephaistion ran into the tent, sword in hand. ‘What is it, sire?’

‘I have been st abbed,’ replied Alexander, on t he ver ge of panic, his hands pr obing t he skin of his body. Hephaist ion dropped his blade and moved to the bedside, eyes scanning the King’s naked torso.

‘There is no cut, sire.’

‘There must be! Look at the blood!’

But t here w as no w ound. By t he doorw ay of t he t ent lay a dagger, t he blade crust ed w it h congealed blood. Hephaist ion scooped it int o his hand. ‘It is your dagger,’ he said, ‘but the blood is not yours.’

Alexander padded across t o t he far w all w here a pit cher of w at er had been left on a sm all t able. Sw ift ly t he King w ashed him self clean, st ill searching for a cut or gash. He sw ung on Hephaist ion. ‘What is happening to me?’

‘I don’t understand you, sire,’ answered the young officer.

‘Last night the feast. When did I leave?’

‘Just before daw n. You had drunk a great deal and w ere st agger ing.

But you refused my offer of a helping hand.’

Alexander ret urned t o t he bed and sat w it h his head in his hands. ‘The blood must have come from somewhere!’

‘Yes, sire,’ said Hephaistion softly.

‘Am I going insane?’

‘No! Of course not! ‘ Hephaist ion crossed t he r oom, put t ing his arm around t he King’s shoulder. ‘You are t he King-t he great est King w ho ever lived. You are blessed by the gods. Do not voice such thoughts.’

‘Blessed? Let us hope so.’ Alexander took a deep breath.

‘You said you would talk to me, sire, about Parmenion.’

‘I did?’

‘Yes. But now t hat he has w on such a vict ory I doubt you’ll w ant him to join Attalus.’

‘What are you talking about? Is this a dream?’

‘No, sire, you rem em ber several night s ago? We discussed Parmenion and you said it might be necessary to kill him.’

‘I w ould never say such a t hing. He is m y oldest friend; he risked his life for me many times. Why do you say this?’

‘I m ust have m isunderst ood, sire. You w ere t alking about allow ing him a long rest, like Attalus. I thought’

‘You thought wrong! You hear me?’

‘Yes, sire. I am sorry.’

Men began shout ing out side t he t ent and Hephaist ion t urned, m oving sw ift ly out int o t he sunshine. Alexander rem ained slum ped on t he bed, trying t o rem em ber w hat happened aft er t he feast. He could pict ur e t he laught er and t he j est s and Cleit us, t he old cavalrym an, dancing on a t able. But he could not recall leaving t he feast, nor com ing t o his bed.

Hephaist ion ret ur ned and w alked slow ly across t he t ent, his face grave.

‘What is happening out there?’ asked the King.

Hephaist ion sat dow n but said not hing, his eyes not m eet ing Alexander’s gaze.

‘What is it, man?’

‘Parm enion’s friend, t he Theban Mot hac he has been m urdered.’

Hephaistion glanced up. ‘Stabbed, sire many times.’

Alexander ‘s m out h w as dry. ‘I t w asn’t m e. I loved t hat old m an. He t aught m e t o ride; he used t o lift m e upon his shoulders. I t w asn’t me!’

‘Of course it wasn’t, sire. Someone must have come into the tent while you were sleeping, and smeared blood upon you.’

‘Yes yes. No one m ust know, Hephaist ion. Ot herw ise st ories w ill start to spread you know, like in Pella about the child.’

‘I know, sire. No one will hear of it, I promise you.’

‘I m ust see Parm enion. He w ill be dist raught. Mot hac w as w it h him back in Thebes w hen Parm enion freed t hem, dest roying t he pow er of the Spartans. My father was there did you know that?’

‘Yes, sire. I will call your servants and they will fetch you clothes.’

Picking up t he bloodcovered dagger Hephaist ion dipped it int o t he m urky red w at er of t he pit cher, w ashing t he w eapon clean. Then he m oved t o t he bed, dragging clear t he bloodcovered sheet and rolling it into a tight bundle.

‘Why would anyone do this to me, Hephaistion?’

‘I cannot answ er t hat, sire. But I w ill double t he guard around your tent.’

Carrying t he blood-soaked sheet, t he young officer backed aw ay and Alexander sat silent ly st aring dow n at his hands. Why can I not remember, he thought. Just like in Pella after he had seen the woman, Aida.

She had held his hand and t old his fort une. Her perfum e had been st rong and she had t alked of glory. Her skin w as w hit er t han ivor y. He rem em bered reaching out, as if in a daze, and cupping his palm t o her breast. Her fingers had stroked his thigh and she had moved in to him, her lips upon his.

But aft er t hat? There w as no m em ory. Aida lat er t old him t hat she and Olym pias had m urdered Philip’s w idow and t he child. I t w as necessary, she had assured him. Alexander had not believed her, but he had done nothing to punish the women.

For t hen, as now, he had w oken in his bed w it h dried blood upon his hands and face.

*

It had seemed to Parmenion that there was no further room for pain in his heart and soul. The deat h of Derae and t he m urder of Philip had lashed his em ot ions w it h w hips of fire, leaving him spent and num b.

Yet now he knew he w as w rong. The killing of Mot hac opened anot her searing wound and the ageing Spartan was overcome with grief.

There were no tears, but the strategos was lost and desolate.

He sat in his t ent w it h his sons Philot as, Nicci and Hect or, t he body of Mot hac laid out on a narrow pallet bed. Parm enion sat beside t he corpse, holding Mothac’s still-warm dead hand.

‘Com e aw ay for a w hile, Fat her,’ said Nicci, m oving t o st and beside Parm enion. The Spart an looked up and nodded, but he did not m ove.

I nst ead his gaze sw ung t o his children: Philo t all and slender, t he im age of his fat her; Nicci short er, dark-haired and st ocky; and t he youngest, Hect or, so like his m ot her, fair of face and w it h w ide, innocent eyes. They were men now, their childhood lost to him.

‘I w as your age, Hect or,’ said Parm enion, ‘w hen first Mot hac cam e t o m y service. He w as a loyal friend. I pray you w ill all know such friendship in your lives.’

‘He w as a good m an,’ agreed Philo. Parm enion scanned his face for any sign of mockery, but there was nothing to see save regret.

‘I have been a poor fat her t o you all,’ said Parm enion suddenly, t he w ords surprising him. ‘You deserved far m ore. Mot hac never ceased t o nag m e for m y short com ings. I w ish I w ish’He st um bled t o silence, t hen t ook a deep breat h and sighed. ‘But t hen t here is not hing t o gain by w ishing t o change t he past. Let m e say t his: I am pr oud of you all.’ He looked t o Philo. ‘We have had our disagreem ent s, but you have done w ell. I saw you at t he Granicus, rallying your m en and leading t he charge alongside Alexander. And I st ill rem em ber t he race you w on against t he cham pions of Greece - a run of skill and heart.

What ever else t here is bet w een us, Philot as, I w ant you t o know t hat my heart swelled when I saw that race.’ He turned to Nicci and Hector.

‘Bot h of you have needed t o fight t o overcom e t he handicap of being sons of t he Lion of Macedon. Alw ays, m ore w as expect ed of you. But not once have I heard you com plain, and I know t hat t he m en w ho serve under you respect you bot h. I am grow ing old now and I cannot t urn back t he years and live m y life different ly. But here now let me say that I love you all. And I ask your forgiveness.’

‘There is not hing t o forgive, Fat her,’ said Hect or, st epping int o his fat her’s em brace. Nicci m oved t o Parm enion’s left, put t ing his arm around his fat her’s shoulder. Only Philo rem ained apart from t hem.

Walking to Mothac’s body, he laid his hand on the dead man’s chest.

Philo said not hing and did not look at his fat her, but his face w as t rem bling and he st ood w it h head bow ed. Then, w it hout a w ord, he spun on his heel and strode from the tent.

‘Do not t hink badly of him,’ said Nicci. ‘Most of his life, he has w ant ed nothing more than to win your love. Give him time.’

‘I think our time has run out,’ answered Parmenion sadly.

Mot hac w as buried in t he shadow s of t he I da Mount ains, in a hollow surrounded by tall trees.

And the army moved on towards the south.

The Issus, Autumn 333 BC Wit h a boldness few of his enem ies could have expect ed, Alexander m arched t he allied arm y along t he sout hern coast line of Asia Minor, t hrough Mysia, Lydia and Caria. Many of t he Greek cit ies im m ediat ely opened t heir gat es, w elcom ing t he vict orious Macedonians as liberat ors and friends, and Alexander accept ed t hen: t ribut es w it h a show of great humility

I t cont rast ed w it h t he savager y he unleashed on t hose t ow ns and cities who tried to oppose him.

The I onian cit y of Milet us w as st orm ed by t he King’s Thr acian m ercenaries, and appalling t ales of m ur der, rape and slaught er sw ept east across t he Persian em pire and w est t o t he cit ies of Greece. Even Alexander’s enemies could scarcely believe the scale of the atrocities.

I t w as even w hispered t hat t he Macedonian King him self w as present, dressed as a com m on soldier and urging t he Thracian savages t o even greater depths of depravity.

When Alexander heard of it he flew int o a t ow ering rage and an im m ediat e inquiry w as launched, headed by an At henian general.

Milet ian survivors w ere quest ioned and brought t o t he Macedonian cam p. The Thracians w ere order ed t o st and in file w hile t he survivors w alked am ong t hem, point ing out soldiers alleged t o have t aken part in t he at r ocit ies. By dusk on t he fift h day of t he inquiry, som e sevent y Thracians had been executed.

The sw ift ness of Alexander’s j ust ice earned him credit am ong t he allies, and the Macedonian army moved on.

By t he spring of t he follow ing year Alexander had reached t he sout hern sat rap of Cilicia on t he coast line of t he sea of Cyprus. No Persian army had come against him and Darius’ general, Memnon, had m oved his offensive t o t he sea - sailing t hrough t he Aegean w it h a force of 300 w arships, dest roying Macedonian supply ships and raiding the coastal cities which had declared support for Alexander.

I n t he capt ured port of Aphrodesia Parm enion w at ched t he unloading of t hree Greek ships w hich had br ok en t hr ough t he Persian blockade.

The first, an At henian t rirem e, carried supplies of coin desper at ely needed t o pay t he t roops. Alexander had decreed t hat t her e should be no plunder of t he liberat ed lands. All goods w ould be paid for and any soldier found guilt y of loot ing or t heft w ould be inst ant ly execut ed.

This w as good policy, for it m eant t hat t he King could cont inue t o be seen as a liberat or and not an invader. But it carried w it h it a serious problem. I f soldiers had t o pay for food or clot hing or w om en, t hen they needed coin - and that was in short supply.

Three gold shipm ent s so far had been int ercept ed by t he Persian fleet, and no Macedonian had r eceived pay for m ore t han t hree m ont hs.

Disquiet was growing, morale low.

Parm enion count ed t he chest s as t hey w ere carried from t he ship and loaded on ox-cart s, t hen m ount ed his st allion and led t he convoy t o t he cit y t reasury. Here he w at ched t he unloading of t he cart s and left Pt olem y and Hect or t o supervise t he st oring of t he t reasure in t he vaults below the palace.

Alexander w as w ait ing in t he upper r oom s, Hephaist ion and Crat er us with him. The King looked tired, thought Parmenion, as he entered the room and bow ed. Alexander, in full arm our of shining gold-embossed iron, was sitting on a high-backed chair by the wide window.

‘The coin is safely st ored, sire,’ said Parm enion, unt ying t he chinst rap and lift ing his helm from his head. His grey hair w as st reaked w it h sw eat and he m oved t o a nearby t able w here a pit cher of w at ered wine had been set, with six goblets around it.

‘What new s of Darius?’ asked t he King, st anding and m oving t o w here Parmenion stood.

The Spar t an had reached for t he pit cher but now he paused. ‘The m om ent is com ing,’ he said. ‘Last year t he Greek King order ed a full conscript ion from all t he sat rapies. But he w as persuaded t hat our invasion w as m erely a sw ift incursion int o Asia Minor in order t o plunder t he I onian cit ies. Now he has realized his error. Our report s are not as com plet e as I w ould like, but it seem s he is am assing an army of great size.’

‘Where?’ asked the King, his eyes gleaming.

‘That is difficult t o say. The t roops are m oving from all over t he Empire. One army is reported at Mazara, which is some three weeks to t he nort h-east of us. Anot her is said t o be at Tarsus, a w eek’s m arch to the east. Yet another is gathering in Syria. There may be more.’

‘How many will come against us?’ asked Hephaistion.

The Spart an’s m out h w as dry and he found him self longing t o lift t he pit cher, t o feel t he st rengt h of t he w ine flow ing in his lim bs. He shook his head. ‘Who can say?’ He reached for the wine.

‘But you can guess?’ Alexander insisted.

‘Perhaps a quart er of a m illion,’ Parm enion answ ered. Sw ift ly he filled a goblet and lift ed it t o his lips, int ending only t o sip at t he w ine, but t he t ast e w as alm ost overpow ering and w hen he replaced t he goblet on the table it was empty.

Alexander refilled it for him. ‘A quart er of a m illion? Surely not! ‘ argued the King.

The Spartan forced himself to ignore the wine and moved to a couch at t he cent re of t he room. Rubbing his t ired eyes he sat dow n, leaning back against the silk-covered cushions. ‘Those who have never been in Asia,’ he began, ‘find it difficult t o visualize t he sheer size of t he Em pire. I f a y oung m an w ant ed t o ride slow ly around it s out er borders he w ould arrive back at his st art ing point m iddle-aged. Years and years of t ravel, t hrough desert s and m ount ains, lush valleys, im m ense plains, jungles and areas of wilderness that stretch on a hundred times furt her t han t he eye can see, even from t he t allest m ount ain.’ He gazed around t he r oom. ‘Look at t he w ine pit cher,’ he t old t hem. ‘I f that is Greece, then this palace is the Persian Empire. It is so vast that you could not count t he Great King’s subj ect s: a hundred m illion two hundred million? Even he does not know.’

‘How then do we conquer such an Empire?’ Craterus asked.

‘By first choosing t he bat t leground,’ answ ered Parm enion, ‘but m ore im port ant ly by w inning t he support of it s people. The Em pire is t oo vast to defeat as an invader. We must become a part of it. Darius took t he t hrone by poisoning his rivals. He has already faced his ow n civil w ars and w on t hem. But t here are m any w ho dist rust him. Macedonia w as once considered a part of t he Em pire and w e m ust build on t hat.

Alexander is here not only t o liberat e t he Greek cit ies, he is here t o liberate the Empire from the usurper.’

Hephaistion laughed. ‘You j est, Parm enion! How m any Persians w ill accept that an invading Greek is a liberator?’

‘More t han y ou w ould believe,’ said Alexander suddenly. ‘Think of it, m y friend. I n Greece w e hav e m any cit y st at es, but w e are all Greeks.

Here t here are hundreds of different nat ions. What do t he Cappadocians care if it is not a Persian sit t ing on t he t hrone? Or t he Phrygians, or t he Syrians, or t he Egy pt ians? All t hey know is t hat t he Great King rules in Susa.’ He t urned t o Parm enion. ‘You are correct, strategos, as alw ays. But t his t im e you have surpassed yourself.’ The King br ought Parm enion a fresh goblet of wine, w hich t he Spart an accepted gratefully.

There is st ill t he quest ion of t he Persian arm y,’ point ed out Crat erus.

‘Who will lead it?’

‘That is a problem,’ Parm enion adm it t ed. ‘Mem non is a skilled general.

We defeat ed him at t he Granicus because he w as not aw are of t he scale of reinforcem ent s w hich had arrived w it h Alexander. He w as m arginally out num bered. But w herever t his bat t le is fought, w e will face a ten-to- one disadvantage.’

‘Do not concern yourself w it h Mem non,’ said Alexander, his voice curiously flat and emotionless. ‘He died two nights ago.’

‘I had not heard that,’ said Parmenion.

‘Nor should you,’ said the King. ‘I saw it in a vision: his heart burst like an overripe melon.’

Alexander walked to the window and stood staring out over the sea.

Hephaistion moved to his side, speaking so softly that Parmenion could not make out the words. But Alexander nodded.

‘The King wishes now to be alone,’ Hephaistion stated.

Parm enion rose and gat hered his helm, but Alexander rem ained at t he window. Baffled, the Spartan followed Craterus from the room.

‘I s t he King w ell?’ he asked t he younger m an as t hey w alked out int o the sunlight.

Crat erus paused before replying. ‘Last night he t old m e he w as about t o becom e a god. He w as not j oking, Parm enion. But t hen lat er, w hen I asked him about it, he denied ever saying it. He has been so fey of lat e. Visions, t alks w it h t he gods. You have great experience, sir, of m en and bat t les and long cam paigns. Do you under st and w hat is happening to him?’

‘Have you spoken of this to anyone?’

‘No, sir. Of course not.’

‘That is w ise, m y boy. Say not hing - not t o Hephaist ion, nor any of your friends. Even if others discuss it in your presence, stay silent.’

Craterus’ eyes widened. ‘You think he is going insane?’

‘No! ‘ replied Parm enion, m ore forcefully t han he int ended. ‘He has genuine pow ers. He had t hem as a child: t he abilit y t o see event s a great dist ance aw ay, and ot her Talent s. Now t hey have ret urned.

But they create in him terrible pressures.’

‘What do you advise?’

‘I have no more advice to offer. He is marked for greatness. All we can do is support him and follow him. He is strong-willed and I hope this..

. malaise will pass.’

‘But you do not think it will?’

Parm enion did not reply. Pat t ing t he young m an’s shoulder t he Spart an w alked aw ay, his t hought s som bre. For t oo long he had pushed aw ay t he doubt s, t urned his eyes from t he t rut h. Mot hac had been right, he had blinded himself to the obvious.

The strategos had allow ed em ot ion t o m ask int ellect, had even dulled his reason w it h w ine. How m any t im es had he w arned his j unior officers of just such stupidity? But now he was forced to face, head on, the fear he had lived with for so long.

The Chaos Spirit had returned.

Battle at the Issus, 333 BC The m or ning w as chill as Parm enion, in full bat t le arm our, rode t he grey, Pax us, t ow ards t he nort h, and st eam billow ed from t he st allion’s nostrils. The sky w as t he colour of iron and a sea-m ist had crept in from the west, seeping across the camp-site, dulling the sounds as the Macedonian infant ry m oved int o form at ion. Parm enion t ied t he chinstraps on his helm and swung to watch the gathering men.

For five days t he Macedonians had m arched sout h, appar ent ly fleeing before Darius’ vast arm y, but now - as t he daw n light bat hed t he Mediterranean - t he Greeks sw ung back t o t he nor t h, m arching through a narrow rock-strewn pass.

Wit h t he Persian cam p less t han four m iles dist ant, Parm enion rode warily at the head of the Macedonian infantry with Alexander alongside him. Throughout t he night t he Spart an had list ened t o r eport s from t he scout s concerning t he Persian posit ions. Believing Alexander t o be fleeing from him, Darius - as Parm enion had hoped - had becom e careless. His vast forces num bering m ore t han 200,000 w ere cam ped by a river sout h of t he t ow n of I ssus, and it w as here t hat Parm enion int ended t o force t he bat t le; for t he flat lands sout h of t he t ow n ext ended for only a m ile and a half, and it w ould be difficult for t he Persians t o use t heir num erical advant age t o envelop t he Macedonian flanks.

Alexander w as unnat urally quiet as t hey r ode, and none of t he officers felt inclined to break the silence.

This w as t he m om ent of t rut h and ever y m an, m arching or riding, peasant or noble, knew it. I t w as not even t he quest ion of vict ory or defeat-save in t he m inds of t he generals and capt ains. Today w ould see each m an face t he prospect of deat h or m ut ilat ion. New s had spread of t he size of t he force opposing t hem and Alexander had t oured t he cam p - t alking t o t he m en, exhort ing t hem, lift ing t hem.

But even such charism at ic encouragem ent seem ed t hin and as w ispy as the mist on this cold morning.

The land ahead w idened, t he hills t o t he east flat t ening and t he m ount ains receding behind t hem, and Alexander or dered t he infant ry t o fan out on t o t he plain. Led by t he silver-bearded Theoparlis, t he Shield Bearers - elit e foot - soldiers t rained by Parm enion - m oved out t o t he right, leaving t he Macedonian infant ry under Perdiccas in t he cent re. Allied soldiers and m ercenaries rem ained on t he left and t he advance cont inued on a w ide front, t he m en m arching now in r anks eight deep.

Alexander and his officers rode along t he line t o t he w est w here t he allied cavalry and Thessalians fanned out from t he cent re like t he wings of an eagle.

At last Alexander spoke, guiding Bucephalus alongside Parm enion’s m ount. ‘Well, m y general, t he day is finally here.’ He grinned and reached out t o clasp Parm enion’s hand in t he w arrior’s grip, w rist t o wrist. ‘We will meet again in victory - or in the Elysian Fields.’

‘Victory would be preferable,’ answered Parmenion, with a wry smile.

‘Then let it be so! ‘ agreed t he King, t ugging on t he reins and galloping t o t he far right, his Com panion cavalry and Lancers st ream ing behind him.

Parm enion rode back t o t he colum n of light ly-arm oured archers, m arching behind t he phalanxes. The m en w ere Agrianians from West ern Thrace, t all and w olf-like, m ount ain m en carrying short, curved hunt ing bow s of bonded w ood. The archers w ere fine fight ers - calm, unflappable and deadly in bat t le. Calling t heir officer t o him, Parm enion or dered t he bow m en t o angle t heir m arch t o t he right int o the mist-clad foothills.

‘Darius w ill alm ost cert ainly send cavalry t o out flank us. Harry t hem.

Tur n t hem back if you can. I f you cannot, t hen m ake sure t hey suffer great losses.’

‘Yes, sir,’ answ ered t he m an. ‘We’ll send t hem running.’ He gave a gap-t oot hed grin and loped off t ow ards t he east, his m en filing out behind him.

The Spartan rode back to the cavalry on the left, his eyes scanning the long line of flat beach t o t he w est. He sw ung t o Berin, t he haw k-faced Thessalian prince w ho had fought beside him at t he Cr ocus Field so m any years before. Berin w as grey-bearded now, but st ill lean and st rong, his face t anned t o t he colour of old leat her. The Thessalian sm iled. ‘They m ay t ry t o at t ack on t he flat by t he sea,’ he said. ‘You want us to ride out there?’

‘No. Take your m en behind t he infant ry and dism ount. I do not w ant you seen until the enemy are committed to a flank attack.’

Berin gave a casual salut e and led his m en back along t he line. Dust w as rising now behind t he m arching m en and t he Thessalians dism ount ed and hung back, prot ect ing t he delicat e nost rils of t heir m ount s. Som e even spilled precious w at er on t o dry clot hs, w iping dust from the mouths of their horses.

The arm y m oved on. I n t he dist ance t he Persian defences cam e int o sight, across a narrow ribbon of a river w here eart hw orks had been hastily thrown up, pitted with stakes.

Brightly-garbed Persian cavalry could be seen m oving t hrough t he foot hills on t he right, but Parm enion forced him self t o ignore t hem, t rust ing t o t he skills of t he Agrianian archers t o cont ain t hem. Slow ly t he advance cont inued, Parm enion angling t he 2,000 allied cavalry further to the left and ordering the men to spread out.

As he had hoped, a large force of Persian horsem en forded t he river, heading w est t ow ards t he beach. His t rained eye w at ched t hem st ream ing out from t he enem y right, t hree t housand, four, five, six…

Pt olem y m oved alongside Parm enion. ‘Can w e hold t hem?’ asked t he young man nervously. The Spartan nodded.

‘Order Berin and his Thessalians to mount.’

Parm enion sw ung his gaze back t o t he cent re, w here t he Macedonian infant ry w ere alm ost at t he river. Now w as t he t est ing t im e, for t her e w as no w ay t he m en could cross t he w at er and m aint ain form at ion.

And t hey faced a solid m ass of w ell-arm ed and arm oured Persian Guar ds and at least 5,000 renegade Greek m ercenaries, m any from Boeot ia and Thebes, m en w it h deep hat r ed for t he Macedonian conquerors.

Parm enion w as confident t hat his w ild Thessalians could t ur n t he Persian cavalry on the beach, protecting the left, and had great faith in t he skills of t he Agrianian archers guarding t he foot hills on t he right.

But every t hing now depended on t he Macedonian cavalry breaching t he enem y cent re. For, if t he Persians w ere allow ed t o sw eep forw ard, sheer w eight of num bers w ould cleave like a spear t hr ough t he eight deep ranks of the infantry.

The Spart an cleared his t hroat, but could not raise enough saliva t o spit. All rested now on the courage and strength of Alexander.

*

Alexander t ight ened t he st raps on t he iron buckler at his left forearm, t hen knot t ed Bucephalus’ r eins. From here on he w ould cont rol t he war-horse only w it h his knees. Philot as called out and Alexander t urned t o see Persian cavalry on t he right m oving int o t he foot hills.

Glancing back, he saw t he bow m en m oving out t o int ercept. He haw ked and spat, clearing t he dust from his m out h; t hen draw ing his sw ord he raised it high above his head and kicked Bucephalus int o a run for t he river. The Com panion cavalry, led by Philot as, Cleit us and Hephaist ion, raced aft er him. Arrow s and st ones flashed by t he King’s head as he char ged, but none of t he m issiles t ouched him as Bucephalus splashed into the water, sending up great arches of spray.

Thousands of Persian horsem en rode t o m eet t he Macedonian at t ack, and Alexander w as t he first t o com e int o cont act. Wit h a w ild cut he ham m ered his blade int o t he shoulder of a silk-clad rider and t he m an fell screaming into the mud-churned water.

The Persians w ore lit t le arm our save brocaded breast plat es, and t he Macedonians surged through them to the far bank.

‘Kill! Kill! Kill! ‘ roared Alexander, his voice carrying above t he ringing clash of bat t le. As t he King pushed on a lance clanged from his breast plat e, t earing loose a gold-em bossed shoulder-guard. Alexander ducked under a slashing sabre and disembowelled the attacker.

At t he t op of t he slope t he King reined in his m ount and cast a sw ift glance t o his left.

Darius’ renegade Gr eek m ercenaries had count ercharged against t he Macedonian infant ry and t he t w o forces w ere bat t ling at t he cent re of t he shallow river, all form at ions lost.

Behind the Greeks stood the Persian Royal Guards, poised to follow the m ercenaries int o t he at t ack. I nst ant ly Alexander realized t hat w ere they to enter the fray now the Macedonian centre would be sundered.

Sw inging Bucephalus,

Alexander charged at t he Guar ds, t he Com panion cavalry desperat ely t rying t o support him. I t w as a m ov e of dazzling courage and t he Macedonians st ruggling in t he w at er saw t heir King, single-handedly it seem ed, cleaving his w ay t ow ards t he Persian centre.

A great cry went up and the phalanxes surged forward.

Alexander, w ounded on bot h arm s, cont inued his advance, for he had caught sight of his enem y, Darius, st anding in a golden chariot draw n by four w hit e horses. The Persian King w as t all and fair, his golden bear d long and t ight ly curled. Upon his head w as a conical crow n of gold set upon a silver helm et. A w hit e silk scarf w as bound about his face and neck, flowing down over a cloak of silver thread.

‘I see you, Usurper! ‘ bellow ed Alexander. Hephaist ion and t he Com panion cavalry cam e alongside t he King, prot ect ing his flanks, but once m ore Alexander urged Bucephalus forw ard. The Persian Guards fell back before t he ferocit y of t he char ge, a great heaving m ass of men jostling before the chariot of their King.

On t he far side of t he field, Berin and his Thessalians had broken t hrough t he Persian ranks and w ere sw eeping t o t he right in a bid t o reach Alexander.

Dism ayed by t he onslaught, t he Persians st ruggled t o form a fight ing square around Darius. Alexander saw the Persian monarch snatch up a spear and t ry t o t urn his chariot t o face t he invader, but t he w hit e horses - alarm ed by t he noise and t he sm ell of blood and deat h - panicked and bolt ed, draw ing t he golden chariot clear of t he field.

Darius fought t o cont rol t he m addened beast s, but it w as beyond his powers and the chariot sped towards the north.

Seeing t heir King apparent ly fleeing t he bat t le, m any of t he Persians fled w it h him, opening huge gaps in t he ranks. Thessalian riders burst through them to link with Alexander.

Wit hin m om ent s t he bat t le becam e a rout, Persian foot - soldiers running for t he hills, t hrow ing aw ay sw ords and shields as t hey w ent.

Whole regim ent s w hich had not yet com e int o t he bat t le ret reat ed back towards the relative safety of the town of Issus.

As t he sun reached noon only t he last of Darius’ Royal Guards offered any resist ance, but t hese few w ere sw ift ly overcom e and slain. Just under 3,000 renegade Greek mercenaries laid down their weapons and offered to surrender to Alexander. But the King refused.

‘You have bet rayed your nat ion,’ he t old t heir m essenger. ‘You have fought on t he side of t he Usurper against t he avenging ar m y of Greece.’

‘But w e are m ercenaries, sir,’ t he m essenger replied, his face pale under his tan. ‘It is our way. Darius offered to hire our services and we served him loyally. How can you call us t rait ors w hen w e are only following our calling?’

‘He paid you t o fight,’ answ ered Alexander coldly. ‘So fight. Pick up] your weapons and earn your pay.’

‘This is m adness! ‘ cried t he m essenger, t urning t o seek support from Alexander’s generals.

‘No,’ hissed t he King, ‘t his is m adness.’ And st epping forw ard he ram m ed his dagger int o t he m an’s neck, forcing t he blade up under the chin and into the brain. ‘Now kill them all!’ he screamed.

Before t he m ercenaries could gat her up t heir w eapons t he Thracians and Macedonians surr ounding t hem r ushed in, hacking and cut t ing.

Draw ing his sw ord Alexander ran in am ong t hem, his blade plunging into the back of the nearest renegade. With a wild roar the entire army descended on t he m ercenaries, cut t ing and st abbing unt il not one enemy soldier was left standing.

One by one t he Macedonians fell back from t he slaught er unt il only Alexander, blood-drenched and scream ing, ran am ong t he dead seeking fresh victims.

A t errible silence set t led on t he ar m y as t hey w at ched t he King’s frenzied dance of deat h am ong t he slain. Hephaist ion, w ho had t aken no part in t he slaught er, w alked forw ard t o speak soft ly t o Alexander, who sagged into his friend’s arms and was helped from the field.

Lindos, Rhodes, 330 BC Aida w as cont ent as she sat under t he shade of an aw ning, her gaze rest ing on t he glit t ering sea far below. The cast le here w as built on a t ow ering cliff abov e a sm all village t hat nest led bet w een t w o bays.

From w here she sat Aida could see only t he sm aller bay, a shelt ered cliff - prot ect ed bow l w here ships could anchor t o escape t he w int er gales that raged across the Aegean.

A t rirem e w as beached in t he bay, it s huge sail furled, it s t hree banks of oars draw n in. I t sat on t he beach like a child’s t oy and Aida w at ched as several sailors leapt ashore and an officer began t he long walk up the winding cliff-path to the castle.

The sea air w as fresh and Aida dr ew in a deep breat h. She could t ast e t he Dark God’s pow er upon her t ongue, feel his sw elling presence in t he air ar ound her, blow ing on t he sea br eeze from Asia. She licked her lips, revelling in dreams of tomorrow.

There w ere t hose w ho t alked of good and evil. Foolish not ions. There w as only st rengt h and w eakness, pow er and helplessness. This w as at t he heart of all t he Myst eries she had so painfully learned during her long, long life.

Eart h m agic could prolong life, ext end st rengt hs, earn riches for t he m an or w om an w ho underst ood it. But eart h m agic required blood and sacrifice; it needed screaming souls to feed it.

This m uch had been underst ood since t he first rays of t he first daw n.

Thr oughout hist ory t he w ise had know n of t he pow er of sacrifice. But only the true initiates understood the nature of the power released.

Yes, you could kill a bull and gain a part icle of pow er. But a m an? His fear j ust before deat h w ould sw ell t he part icle, filling it w it h dark energy, releasing Enchantment into the air.

Aida’s dark eyes looked to the east, across the wide waters.

Thousands upon t housands of m en had died t here a year ago, at Arbela, slain by t he ever-vict orious Macedonian arm y. Darius t he King w as dead, m urder ed by his ow n disenchant ed m en as t hey ret reat ed.

Alexander was crowned King in Babylon.

Alexander, King of Kings. Alexander the god

No, she r ealized, not yet t he god. St ill t he m ort al fought t o hold back the power living within him.

But not for m uch longer She closed her eyes, her spirit soaring across t he blue sea t o t he cit y of Susa, w here Alexander sat upon a t hrone of gold st udded w it h rare gem s. He w as dressed now in flow ing silks, a cloak of golden thread upon his shoulders.

Aida hovered unseen in the air before him. ‘Master!’ she whispered.

There w as no response, but she could feel t he pulsing force of t he god w it hin him. Alexander w as like a m an clinging t o a r ock-face far above t he ground, his arm s t ired, his fingers cram ping. She could sense his fear. His soul had proved st ronger t han Aida w ould have believed possible, holding t he god from his dest iny - and such a dest iny! Once he w as in full cont rol his pow ers w ould grow, radiat ing far beyond t he frail hum an shell he inhabit ed. The m ight of Chaos w ould t hen surge across t he eart h, draw n int o ever y living being, ever y t ree and rock, every lake and stream.

And t hen t hose w ho had served him fait hfully w ould gain t heir rew ard: a life of et ernal yout h, an infinit y of pleasure, an int ensit y of experience and sensat ion never before at t ained by t hose of hum an birth.

Soon would come the blessed day.

Each vict ory, each deat h by Alexander’s hand, added st r engt h t o t he darkness within him.

Not long now, thought Aida.

Ret urning t o her body she leaned back on t he couch, r eaching for a goblet of wine. The sun was dipping now towards the west and she felt its rays hot upon her legs. St anding, she pushed t he couch furt her back into the shadows before stretching out again.

Soon t he m essenger w ould be here, hot and t ired from w alking t he st eep cliff-pat h. She had w rit t en t o Alexander, begging leave t o com e t o his court w here she could offer t he benefit of her sage counsel.

Once t here she could speed t he process, adding t he necessary narcotics to his wine, lessening his will to resist.

Such joys awaited

Her t hought s t urned t o t he w om an Derae and she found her good m ood ev aporat ing. Old fool! She had been so dism issive, seem ingly so content trapped within that frail, arthritic shell.

‘How cont ent are y ou now,’ w hispered Aida, ‘now t hat t he w orm s feast on your flesh? You underst ood not hing. All your healing and your good w orks! You m erely fed upon t he Enchant m ent of t he w orld, giving not hing back. I f w e w ere all as you, t hen t he Enchant m ent w ould die.

What would the world be then? A sprawling mass of humanity with not a shred of magic upon it.’

She shivered at the thought. A young red-haired acolyte moved before her, bow ing deeply. ‘There is a m an t o see you, m ist ress,’ she said.‘An officer of Alexander.’

‘Bring him to me,’ ordered Aida, ‘and fetch wine.’

The girl backed aw ay. Aida sm oot hed her gow n of black silk and w ait ed. A young m an, t all and dar k-bearded, st epped int o view. His breast plat e w as black, edged w it h gold, and he held a w hit e-plumed helm in his left hand. His face was handsome, burnished bronze by the Asian sun, and show ed not a t race of sw eat from t he long clim b t o t he castle.

He bow ed. ‘I am Hephaist ion, lady. I am sent by Alexander t o bring you to his court.’

She looked int o his dar k eyes and disliked him im m ediat ely. Though she despised m en, Aida had com e t o rely on t heir adorat ion. But Hephaistion was unaffected by her beauty. It irked her, but she did not show it. Instead she offered the young man a dazzling smile.

‘I am honoured,’ she said, ‘t hat t he Great King should invit e m e t o Susa.’

Hephaist ion nodded. ‘Your hom e here is beaut iful,’ he said. ‘May w e walk the walls?’

Aida disliked st rong sunlight, but Hephaist ion w as know n as Alexander ‘s closest friend and she had no w ish t o offend him. ‘Of course,’ she t old him. Taking up a w ide black-brim m ed hat, she st ood and led him t o t he nort hern w all. From here t hey could see t he w ider of t he t w o bays of Lindos and w at ch t he gulls sw ooping and diving above the small fishing boats returning from the sea.

‘The King is t roubled,’ said Hephaist ion. ‘He believes you can be of great help to him.’

‘Troubled? In what manner?’

Hephaist ion sat back on t he par apet. ‘There are t w o Alexanders,’ he said soft ly. ‘One I love, t he ot her I fear. The first is a kindly friend, underst anding and caring. The second is a rut hless and t errifying killer.’

‘You are speaking very frankly, Hephaistion. Is that wise?’

‘Oh, I t hink so, m y lady. You see, he t old m e about your st ay in Pella and the aid you gave him.’

‘Aid?’ she asked, nonplussed.

‘How you helped him to take the throne.’

‘I see.’

‘I t hink y ou do,’ said Hephaist ion soft ly, his dark eyes holding t o her gaze. ‘When t he King received your let t er, he asked m e t o com e t o you t o t hank y ou for all you have done for him. He gave m e t w o instructions. Both were different, but I am becoming used to that.’

‘What were these instructions?’

‘Firstly, as I have said, he asked me to bring you to him.’

‘And the second?’

‘Well, that brings me to a problem. Perhaps you could help me with it?’

‘If I can,’ she told him.

‘As I t old you t her e are t w o Alexanders, and each of t hem gave m e separat e inst ruct ions. Whose should I follow? The friendor t he one I fear?’

‘I t is alw ays w ise,’ said Aida carefully, ‘t o respond w it h caut ion t o orders from m en one fears. The friend can be forgiving. The ot her w ill not.’

Hephaist ion nodded. ‘You are very w ise, lady.’ Leaning forw ard, he t ook her arm s and lift ed her t o sit on t he parapet w all. ‘Wise, and beautiful. I shall take your advice.’

‘Then our relationship has begun well,’ she said, forcing a smile.

‘Indeed it has,’ he agreed, ‘and ended well.’

‘Ended?’ Aida’s mouth was dry and she felt the beginnings of fear.

‘Yes, lady,’ he w hispered. ‘For, you see, m y friend asked m e t o bring you to him. The other Alexander told me to kill you.’

‘That cannot be. I am his loyal servant, I alw ays have been. He w ould not order m y deat h. You are m ist aken, Hephaist ion. Now let m e dow n.

I have had enough of this nonsense.’

‘Perhaps you are r ight,’ he t old her. ‘I t is so hard som et im es t o t ell t hem apart. But in Pella you helped him t o kill a child; you even convinced him he should eat it s heart. I don’t believe m y King has need of your counsel.’

‘List en t o m e’ she began. But Hephaist ion’s hand t ook hold of her legs, tipping her back into space.

Aida felt herself slide clear of the wall.

Far below her t he j agged rocks w ait ed, and her scream s echoed over the village.

*

Hephaist ion leaned over t he par apet t o w at ch Aida fall - her body spiralling dow n, her shrieks carried aw ay on t he w ind. I t seem ed t o t he Macedonian t hat she looked like a huge crow, her black robes flut t ering like brok en w ings. He w at ched her st rike t he rocks, hear d her scream s cut off, t hen saw a flock of gulls descend upon her, t heir white forms slowly masking the black robes.

Stepping back he t ook a deep breat h. He had never killed a w om an before, but he felt no regret s. Her evil had been alm ost palpable and he was sullied by touching her.

He had t old her t he t rut h, in part at least. Alexander had adm it t ed t o fearing her and w ishing her dead - yet lat er, his voice cold, he had ordered her brought t o court. During t he t w o years since t he bloody slaught er at t he I ssus Alexander had spoken oft en of his fears, of t he dark force eat ing aw ay at t he cent re of his soul. Hephaist ion knew more of t he King’s secret s t han any m an - even Parm enion, w ho now commanded a second Macedonian army and rarely saw Alexander.

I t w as Hephaist ion in w hom Alexander confided, and Hephaist ion w ho recognized w hen t he Dark God w as close t o t he ascendant. The King’s voice would grow cold, his eyes distant. Then he was chilling

As on t he night in t he capt ured cit y of Persepolis w hen he had led a drunken m ob of t orch-bearers t o dest roy one of t he great w onders of t he w orld, t he beaut ifully carved w ooden t em ple t o Ahura Mazda cont aining t he w orks of t he prophet, Zoroast er. Hephaist ion had st ood by, st unned, as Alexander hurled oil over t he ox-hides on w hich t he words of the prophet were written in gold.

Tw ent y t housand hides, t he m ost t reasured possession of t he Persian people, dest royed in one night of debauchery, billow ing flam es claw ing at wooden carvings which had lasted for centuries under a Persian sun.

Alexander remembered nothing of it the following morning.

Then had come the Night of the Spear.

A lat e-night feast had ended w it h t he cavalry general, Cleit us, asking t he King w hy he had t aken t o w earing Persian robes and insist ing on t he Persian pract ice of forcing his subj ect s t o prost rat e t hem selves before him, kissing the ground at his feet.

Alexander w as em barr assed by t he quest ion, for t here w ere several Persians present and Hephaist ion knew t hat, t hough t he King did not like t he r it ual, he w as endeavouring t o act like a Persian m onar ch, honouring t heir cust om s. But he had never asked his Macedonian officers - nor any Greek - to prostrate themselves before him.

Cleit us w as drunk, and unhappy at being asked t o sit aw ay from t he King’s right hand, his place being taken by a Persian general.

Hephaist ion had t r ied t o pull Cleit us aw ay from t he t able, urging him t o ret ur n t o his t ent and sleep off his drunkenness, but t he old cavalrym an pushed him aw ay and st um bled t ow ards t he King, shout ing: ‘I served your fat her, your arrogant puppy, and I never had to kiss his feet. Damned if I’ll kiss yours!’

Hephaist ion saw Alexander st iffen and w at ched in sick horror as his eyes grew pale. Never before had t he t ransform at ion happened publicly and he ran t ow ards t he King, desperat e t o get him aw ay from t he rev ellers. But he w as t oo lat e. Alexander st epped back, seized a spear from a guard and t hr ust t he iron blade t hrough Cleit us’ belly.

Blood gushed inst ant ly from t he old m an’s m out h and he fell back, t he spear t earing loose from t he w ound. For several m om ent s t he st ricken m an w rit hed on t he floor, scream ing. Then, w it h a gurgling, choking cry he died.

A stunned silence followed.

Alexander blinked and st aggered as Hephaist ion reached his side, t aking his arm. ‘What have I done?’ w hispered Alexander. ‘Sw eet Zeus! ‘ Turning t he spear upon him self he t ried t o fall upon t he blade, but Hephaist ion w rest led it from him. Tw o guar ds cam e t o his aid and the weeping King was helped from the tent.

The follow ing day, his hair covered w it h ash, Alexander led t he funeral procession behind Cleit us’ body. I nst ead of follow ing t he Macedonian cust om of burning t he corpse and placing t he bones in a cerem onial casket of gold, he had ordered Egy pt ian em balm ers t o preserve t he body, int ending t o have it placed in a cryst al case and displayed in a specially built tomb of marble.

The King’s grief w as obvious t o all and t he soldiers, w ho loved Alexander, forgave him sw ift ly. But his officers, having seen him m urder a loyal brot her, w ere silent, and Hephaist ion k new t heir thoughts. Who will be next?

The em balm ing of Cleit us w as a m em ory Hephaist ion w ould never forget.

A slender Egy pt ian m oved t o t he body carrying a box of cedar w ood from w hich he produced a long, narrow spike, bent and forked at t he tip.

‘What is he doing?’ Hephaistion asked the King.

Alexander ‘s reply w as det ached, his voice dist ant and cool. ‘He m ust rem ove t he int ernal m at t er of t he skull t o pr event it rot t ing. So t hat t he face is unm arked, he w ill insert t he spike in t he nost ril and hook it into the brain, dragging it out.’

‘I need t o know no m ore,’ snapped Hephaist ion, t ur ning and r ushing from the room.

Lat er he m ade Alexander pr om ise t hat if he, Hephaist ion, ever fell in battle, he was to be buried in the Macedonian way.

The gulls m oved aw ay from t he brok en body on t he r ocks below and Hephaist ion st epped back from t he parapet and w alked from t he clifft op cast le dow n t he long w inding pat h t o t he sm all bay. The t rirem e’s captain - a short, stocky Rhodian called Callis - met him on the beach.

‘Will she be long?’ he asked. ‘The t ide is t urning and w e need t o sail within the hour.’

‘She w ill not be t ravelling w it h us, capt ain. Sadly, t he Lady Aida is dead.’

‘What a w ast ed j ourney,’ said Callis, cursing. ‘Ah w ell, it w ill be a relief t o t he m en. No sailor likes a w om an aboard. And t hey say she w as a witch who could foresee the future.’

‘I do not think that was true,’ said Hephaistion.

By dusk t he t rirem e w as sailing east on t he busy t rade lane t o Cyprus, a st iff breeze billow ing t he gr eat sail, t he oars draw n in, t he oarsm en rest ing at t heir seat s on t he t hree r ow ing decks. Hephaist ion sat on a canvas-topped chair at the stern, eyes locked to the land sliding slowly by them.

First Caria, t hen Lycia, once so host ile but now m erely sm all out post s of the Empire of Alexander.

He rem em bered t he ceaseless forced m arches under Parm enion four years ago as t he Macedonian advance t roops sought t o avoid m aj or clashes w it h t he Persian forces. How right t he Spart an had been. Had he fought t he Persians and w on, t hen Darius w ould undoubt edly have gat hered an even larger for ce and Alexander w ould have arrived in Asia t o find him self confront ed by an irresist ible enem y. The lands of t he Persian Em pire w ere m ore vast t han Hephaist ion could ever have im agined, it s people m ore num er ous t han t he sand grains of t he beaches he could see to the north.

Even now, after almost six years of war and Alexander’s winning of the crow n, t here w ere st ill bat t les t o fight - against t he Sogdianians of t he nort h, t he I ndians of t he east and t he Scyt hian t ribesm en of the Caspian Sea.

Parm enion had m arched a second Macedonian arm y t o t he east, w inning t w o bat t les against superior num bers. Hephaist ion sm iled.

Even close t o sevent y years of age, t he Spart an w as st ill a m ight y general. He had out lived t w o of his sons: Hect or had died at t he Bat t le of t he I ssus t hree years ago, w hile Nicci had been slain at Arbela fighting alongside his King.

Only Philotas remained.

‘What are you t hinking?’ asked Callis, his huge arm s rest ing on t he tiller.

Hephaistion glanced up. ‘I was watching the land. It seems so peaceful from here.’

‘Yes,’ agreed the sailor. ‘All the world looks better from the sea. I think Poseidon’s realm m akes us hum ble. I t is so vast and pow erful and our ambitions are so petty alongside it. It highlights our limits.’

‘You think we have limits? Alexander would not agree.’

Callis chuckled. ‘Can Alexander sculpt a rose or shape a cloud? Can he t am e an angry sea? No. We live for a lit t le w hile, scurrying here and t here, t hen w e are gone. But t he sea rem ains: st rong, beaut iful, eternal.’

‘Are all seamen philosophers?’ Hephaistion asked.

The capt ain laughed aloud. ‘We are w hen t he sea surr ounds us. On land w e rut like m angy dogs, and w e drink unt il w e piss red w ine.

What war will you be fighting when you get back?’

Hephaistion shrugged. ‘Wherever the King sends me.’

‘What will he do when he runs out of enemies?’

‘Does a man ever run out of enemies?’

Susa, Persia, 330 BC The m om ent had com e, as he had long k now n it w ould, and Philot as felt a sudden coldness in his heart. His fat her had been right all along.

His m out h w as dry, but he did not t ouch t he w ine set before him.

Today he wanted his head clear.

Alexander w as st ill speaking, his officers gat hered around him in t he throne-hall at t he palace of Susa. One hundred m en, w arriors, st rong and cour ageous, yet t hey kept t heir gaze t o t he m arble floor, not wishing to look up into the painted eyes of the King.

Not so Philot as, w ho st ood w it h head held high w at ching Alexander.

Gold ochre st ained t he King’s upper lids and his lips w ere t he colour of blood. The high conical crow n of Darius, gold and ivory, sat upon his head, and he w as dressed in t he loose-fit t ing silken robes of a Persian emperor.

How had it come to this, Philotas wondered?

Alexander had conquered the Persians, drawing the defeated army into t he ranks of his ow n forces and appoint ing Persian generals and sat raps. The Em pire w as his. He had even m arried Darius’ daught er, Roxanne, to legitimize his claim to the crown.

And what a sham that was, for not once had he called her to his bed.

Philot as’ gaze flickered over t he list ening officers, w hose faces show ed t heir t ensions and t heir fears. Once m ore Alexander w as t alking about t reachery am ongst t hem, prom ising t o root out t he disloyal. Only yest erday som e sixt y Macedonian soldiers had been flogged t o deat h for w hat t he King called m ut iny. Their crim e? They had asked w hen t hey could go hom e. They had j oined t he arm y t o liberat e t he cit ies of Asia Minor, not t o m arch across t he w orld at t he w him of a pow ercrazed King.

Five days before that, Alexander had had a vision: his officers were set t o kill him. The vision t old him w ho t hey w ere, and six m en w ere garrotted - one of t hem Theoparlis, t he general of t he Shield Bearers.

Philotas had not liked the man, but his loyalty was legendary.

Ever since Hephaistion’s departure the King had been acting strangely, given t o sudden r ages follow ed by long silences. At first t he generals had affect ed t o ignore t he signs. Alexander had long been know n t o possess unusual Talent s, t hough alw ays before such behaviour had been short - lived. But now it seem ed t hat a new Alexander had emerged, cold and terrifying.

I n t he beginning t he officers had t alked am ong t hem selves of t his t ransform at ion, but aft er t he killings began t here grew am ong t he Macedonians such a fear t hat even friends no longer m et privat ely in case they should be accused of plotting against the emperor.

But three days ago had come the final lunacy.

Parm enion and t he Second Arm y had at last t aken t he cit y of Elam.

More accurat ely, t he r uling council of t he cit y had negot iat ed a surrender. Parm enion sent t he cit y’s t reasury - som e 80,000 t alent s of silver - t o Alexander at Susa. Alexander’s reply had been t o or der t he killing of every man, woman and child in Elam.

Parm enion had received t he order w it h disbelief and had sent a rider to question its authenticity.

Philot as had been sum m oned t o t he palace along w it h Pt olem y, Cassander and Crat erus. They had ar rived t o find Alexander st anding over the body of the messenger.

‘I am surrounded by t rait ors,’ Alexander declared. ‘Parm enion has refused to obey the orders of his emperor.’

Philot as gazed dow n on t he body of t he m essenger, a young boy of no m ore t han fift een. The lad’s sw ord w as st ill in it s scabbar d, but Alexander’s dagger was buried in his heart.

‘You have alw ays spoken against your fat her, Philo,’ said Alexander. ‘I should have list ened t o y ou earlier. I n his dot age he has t urned against me. Against meV ‘What has he done, sire?’ Ptolemy asked.

‘He has refused to punish Elam for its rebellion.’

Philot as felt him self grow ing cold, a num bness spreading t hrough him.

All his life he had believed t hat one day he w ould be a king - t he know ledge sure, set in st one, based on t he pr om ise of t he only person w ho had ever loved him, his m ot her Phaedr a. But, during t he last year, the stone of belief had slowly crumbled, the cold breeze of reality w hispering against it, scat t ering his hopes, dest roying his dream s.

Lacking t he charism a of a Philip or Alexander, or t he int ellect of a Parm enion, he could not even inspire t he t roops he led int o bat t le.

Self-know ledge cam e lat e t o him, but at last even Philot as had com e to recognize his mother’s folly.

No kingdom. No glory. His fat her had been right: he had built his fut ure upon a foundat ion of m ist. What now, he w ondered? I f he rem ained silent, t hen Parm enion w ould be slain and he, Philot as, w ould rem ain as a general of t he King. I f not, he w ould be t aken and m urdered and Parm enion w ould st ill be killed. His m out h w as dry, his heartbeat irregular. To die or not to die? What kind of a choice was this for a young man, he wondered? ‘Well, Philo?’ asked Alexander.

Philot as saw t he King’s eyes upon him and shivered. ‘Parm enion is no traitor,’ he answered without hesitation.

‘Then you are also against m e? So be it. Take his w eapons. Tom orrow he shall answer for his betrayal before his comrades.’

Craterus and Ptolemy had marched Philotas to the dungeons below the palace. They had w alked in silence unt il Pt olem y reached out t o pull shut the cell door.

‘Ptolemy!’

‘Yes, Philo?’

‘I wish to send a message to my father.’

‘I can’t. The King would kill me.’

‘I understand.’

The room w as sm all, w indow less and dark as pit ch w it h t he door bolted. Philotas felt his way to the pallet bed and stretched out upon it.

Nicci and Hect or w ere bot h gone now, and t om orrow t he last son of t he Lion of Macedon w ould j oin t hem. ‘I w ish I ‘d know n you bet t er, Father,’ said Philo, his voice quavering.

Despit e his fears Philo slept, and w as aw akened by t he sound of t he bolt s being draw n back on t he door. A shaft of light filled t he cell and the Macedonian blinked as armed men pushed their way inside.

‘Up, t rait or! ‘ order ed a soldier, seizing Philo’s arm and hauling him from t he bed. He w as pushed out int o t he corridor and m arched back to the throne-room where his fellow officers waited in judgement.

Alexander ‘s voice echoed in t he vast hall, shrill and st rident, his face flushed crim son. ‘Philot as and his fat her ow e everyt hing t o m e - and how do t hey repay m e? They plot and t hey plan t o supplant m e. What is the penalty for such treachery?’

‘Death!’ cried the officers. Philotas smiled. Only a few days ago his had been one of the voices shouting for the death of Theoparlis.

Slowly Philo rose to his feet, all eyes turning to him.

‘What do you say, prisoner, before sent ence is carried out?’ asked Alexander.

‘What w ould you have m e say?’ responded Philo, his voice st eady, his gaze locked to the unnaturally pale eyes of the King.

‘Do you wish to deny your villainy, or to plead for mercy?’

Philo laughed t hen. ‘There is not one m an in t his room save you w ho believes that Parmenion would ever plot against you. For myself I have not hing t o offer by w ay of defence. For if a m an as loyal as Theoparlis could be found guilt y, t hen w hat chance does Philot as have? I have follow ed you and fought bat t les alongside you - bat t les t hat m y fat her w on for you. My t w o brot hers died t o ensur e you w ould sit upon t hat t hrone. I should have no need t o defend m yself. But let it be clearly underst ood by all present t hat Parm enion is no t rait or. You or dered him t o t ake a cit y - and he t ook it. Then you ordered t hat ev ery m an, w om an and child in t hat cit y should be put t o deat h as an exam ple t o other rebels. That he would not do. Nor would any other decent Greek.

Only a madman would order such an atrocity.’

‘Condem ned out of his ow n m out h! ‘ roared Alexander, rising from t he t hrone and advancing dow n t he room. ‘By all t he gods, I ‘ll kill you myself.’

‘As you killed Cleitus?’ Philotas shouted.

Alexander ‘s dagger sw ept t ow ards Philo’s t hroat, but t he Macedonian sw ayed t o his right, t he blade slashing past his face. I nst inct ively he st ruck out w it h his left fist, w hich cannoned against Alexander’s chin.

The King fell back, t he dagger falling from his hands. Philo sw ept it up and leapt upon him, bearing him t o t he m arble floor. Alexander’s head cracked against t he st one. The point of t he dagger in Philo’s hand t ouched t he skin of Alexander’s neck, and Philo bunched his m uscles for the final thrust.

Alexander ‘s eyes changed colour, sw irling back t o t he sea-green Philo remembered from the past.

‘What is happening, Philo?’ w hispered t he King, his voice soft. Philo hesit at ed t hen a spear ram m ed t hrough his unprot ect ed back, ripping int o his lungs and heart. He reared up, and a second guard drove his blade into the dying man’s chest.

Blood gushed from Philo’s m out h and he slum ped t o t he floor beside t he sem i-conscious Alexander. The King rose shakily, t hen backed aw ay from t he corpse. ‘Where is Hephaist ion? I need Hephaist ion! ‘ he cried.

Crat erus m oved alongside him. ‘He is gone, sire, t o Rhodes, t o fet ch the Lady Aida.’

‘Rhodes?’

‘Let me take you back to your rooms, sire.’

‘Yes yes. Where is Parmenion?’

‘I n Elam, sire. But do not concern yourself. He w ill be dead by tomorrow. I sent three of our finest swordsmen.’

Alexander gr oaned, but for a m om ent he said not hing. He could feel t he Dark God fight ing back inside him, st orm ing t he bast ions of his m ind. Yet he held on and drew in a deep breat h. ‘Get m e t o t he stables,’ he ordered Craterus.

‘The stables? Why, sire?’

‘I need to stop them, Craterus.’

‘You cannot ride out alone. You have enemies everywhere.’

The King looked up int o t he ear nest young m an’s eyes. ‘I am not insane, Craterus. But there is a demon inside me. You understand?’

‘A demon, sire, yes. Come and rest. I will send for the surgeon.’

‘You don’t believe me? No, but then why should you? Leave me!’

Alexander pushed Crat erus aw ay and ran dow n t he long corridor, em erging int o t he bright sunshine of t he court yar d. Tw o sent ries snapped t o at t ent ion, but he ignored t hem and cont inued t o run along the tree-lined road to the royal stables.

Bucephalus w as in t he east ern paddock and his great head lift ed as he saw t he King. ‘Com e t o m e! ‘ called Alexander. The black st allion trotted t o t he fence and Alexander opened t he gat e, t ook hold of t he black mane and swung himself to Bucephalus’ back.

There w ere shout s from t he w est and t he King t urned t o see Crat erus and several of the officers running after him.

Alexander kicked Bucephalus int o a r un and rode for t he sout h-east, t hrough t he r oyal park and out on t o t he road t o Elam. The cit y w as som e sixt y m iles aw ay on t he coast, t he road pet ering out int o r ocky tracks and high hills.

There w ere robbers in t he hills, savage t ribesm en w ho loot ed m any of t he t rade caravans from t he east, but Alexander did not t hink of t hem as he rode. I nst ead he pict ured t he Spar t an, rem em bering his gallant ry in t he lands of t he Enchant m ent and his quiet counsel in t he years that followed. Now there were assassins on their way to kill him.

Sent by me!

No, not by me. Never by me!

How could I hav e been so foolish, t hought Alexander. The m om ent his fat her had t orn t he necklet from his t hroat he had felt t he surging force of t he Dar k God. But he had believed he could cont rol t he evil, holding it back, using it w hen necessary. Now he knew t hat even t hat belief had been merely one more example of the cunning of Kadmilos.

Kadm ilos! Even as he t hought t he nam e of t he Beast he could feel t he claw s of pow er pulling at his spirit, draw ing him dow n, t he dizziness beginning

‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Not this time!’

‘You are mine,’ came the whispering voice from deep within him.

‘Never!’

‘Always,’ came the response. ‘Look on, Alexander - and despair!’

The hidden doors of his m em ory opened and he saw again t he m urder of Philip, but worse than this he saw himself the night before, speaking w it h Pausanius and ur ging him t o seek revenge. ‘When I am King,’ he heard himself saying, ‘your rewards will be great indeed.’

‘Poor, naive Pausanius,’ w hispered t he voice in his m ind. ‘How surprised he w as w hen you leapt across t he body of t he fallen King and plunged your sword into his chest.’

Alexander ‘s spirit reeled from t he shock. Ther e w as no doubt ing t he vision. For years he had pract ised self-deceit, never dar ing t o search for t he t rut h. Ot her im ages sw arm ed int o his m ind - t he deat h and m ut ilat ion of Philip’s w ife and son, t he killing of Cleit us and Mot hac, the murder of Theoparlis loyal, trusting Theoparlis.

The King cried out as he rode and t he dem on w it hin him laughed and rose.

‘No,’ said Alexander again, quelling t he em ot ions of hat red and fear, hauling him self clear of self-reproach and guilt. ‘Those deeds w ere yours, not m ine.’ His concent rat ion deepened and he pushed t he demon back.

‘You cannot resist m e for long,’ Kadm ilos t old him. ‘You w ill sleep, and I will rise.’

I t w as t rue, but Alexander did not allow t he fear t o dom inat e his t hinking. The cow ardice of Kadm ilos - his spirit fleeing as t he point of Philo’s dagger t ouched t he skin of Alexander ‘s t hroat - had given t he King one last chance at redem pt ion, and his t hought s w ere of Parmenion as he rode.

The great st allion galloped on, seem ingly t ireless, t he drum m ing of his hooves echoing through the hills.

‘Father Zeus,’ prayed Alexander, ‘let me be in time!’

The City of Elam, 330 BC Parm enion aw oke from a dr eam - filled sleep and sat up, pushing back t he t hin sw eat - soaked sheet. The sky beyond t he narrow w indow w as st reaked w it h grey as he clim bed from t he bed and padded across t o t he sm all t able w here last night ‘s pit cher of w ine st ill st ood. I t w as almost empty, but he poured the dregs into a goblet and drained it.

He w as about t o ret urn t o his bed w hen he t ur ned and caught sight of his naked body reflect ed in a m irror of polished br ass. His hair w as w hit e now, and t hin, his face lean and shar p, t he haw k-nose m ore prom inent t han ever. Only t he pale blue ey es w ere t he sam e. He sighed and dressed in a simple chiton of silver grey, t hen belt ed on his dagger before walking down to the long gardens behind the house.

Dew lay upon t he leaves and t he m orning w as chill as he st rolled t he w inding pat hs, halt ing by a ribbon of a st ream t hat gushed over a bed of coloured crystals.

Seventy years - fifty of them as a general.

He shivered and walked on.

Parm enion. The Deat h of Nat ions. So m any he could no longer find t heir nam es w it hin his m em ory. The early days w ere t he easiest t o recall: t he fall of Spart an pow er, t he defeat of I llyria, Paionia and Thrace. The sack of the Chalcidice, the overthrow of Thebes

But t he last few years had seen t he dest ruct ion of dynast ies t oo m any t o recall: Phrygia, Cappadocia, Pisidia, Cilicia, Syria, Mesopot am ia, Persia, Parthia

The st ream opened out on t o a w ide pond ar ound w hich st at ues had been set. A leopar d, beaut ifully craft ed and vividly paint ed, st ood at t he edge of t he pool leaning it s head forw ard as if t o drink. A lit t le dist ance aw ay st ood a st riped horse, and beyond t hat several deer. All still, motionless, frozen in time.

The sun broke t hr ough in t he east, t he w arm t h t ouching t he Spart an but not lifting his spirits. He walked on towards the eastern wall. There were alcoves there, fitted with carved wooden seats.

I n t he furt hest of t hese Par m enion seat ed him self, looking back across t he pond and up t ow ards t he great house w it h it s rearing colum ns and red-tiled roof.

Som e t en paces t o his left sat a st one lion. Unlike t he ot her anim als in t he garden, he w as not paint ed; his great albino head w as cocked t o one side, as if list ening, and t he m uscles of his flanks w ere m agnificent ly rendered. Parm enion found t he st at ue t o be am ong t he best he had ever seen, wondering why he had never noticed it before.

As t he Spart an st ared t he lion suddenly m oved. Slow ly and w it h great grace it st ood, and st ret ched it s m uscles of m arble. Parm enion blinked and focused on t he st at ue. The lion w as st ill again, ret urning t o it s former position with head cocked.

‘I am back,’ said a soft voice. Parm enion t ur ned his head and w as not surprised t o see Arist ot le sit t ing beside him on t he w ooden bench. The m an had not changed. I n fact he seem ed if anyt hing a lit t le younger, his grey beard streaked now with auburn hairs.

‘Why did you create the lion?’

The magus shrugged. ‘I like t o m ake a dram at ic ent rance.’ But t her e was no smile and his voice was subdued.

‘Why have you come?’

‘It was time.’

Parm enion nodded, t hough he did not underst and. ‘Alexander is losing his bat t le w it h t he Dark God,’ he said, ‘and I am pow erless t o save him. He no longer list ens t o m e, and t he m essages from his court are all of murder and madness. Can you help him?’

Arist ot le did not answ er at once, but reached out and laid his hand on Parm enion’s arm. ‘No, m y friend. The Dark God’s pow er is far great er than mine.’

‘Alexander is my son. My flesh, my blood, my guilt. His evil is upon my hands. I should have killed him years ago.’

‘No,’ said Arist ot le. ‘The dram a is not yet played out. I t ook t he libert y of fetching this from your rooms.’ The magus held out a small pouch of soft hide.

‘It is useless now,’ said Parmenion.

‘Take it anyway.’

The Spart an t ucked t he pouch int o his belt. ‘You said it w as t im e. So what is to happen?’

Aristotle leaned back, turning his face to stare up towards the house.

‘Three m en are dism ount ing at t he m ain ent rance. Soon you w ill see t hem st riding dow n t his pat h. Kadm ilos - t he Dark God - sent t hem.

You understand?’

Parmenion took a deep breath and his eyes narrowed. ‘I am to die,’ he said.

A door opened at t he rear of t he house and t hree m en began t he long w alk dow n t he pat h by t he glit t ering st ream. Parm enion st ood and turned to Aristotle.

But the magus had disappeared

*

Parm enion w alked slow ly t ow ards t he t hree m en. He did not know t hem by nam e, but had seen t hem w it h Alexander. Tw o w ere Parthians, dressed in oiled black leat her t unics and long riding-boots, t heir dark hair cropped short t o t he skull. The t hird w as a high-born Persian w ho had ent ered t he King’s service. The Spart an sm iled as he saw that the man carried a sealed scroll.

‘We have a m essage for you, sir,’ called t he Persian, increasing his pace. He w ore loose-fit t ing silk t roos and an em broidered shirt, beneath a cape of soft leather which hung down over his right arm.

‘Then deliver it,’ Parm enion t old him. As t he Persian cam e closer, Parm enion could sm ell t he sw eet, perfum ed oil w hich coat ed his dark tightly-curled hair. He offered t he scroll w it h his left hand, but as t he Spartan reached for it the man’s right hand emerged from beneath the cape. I n it w as a slender dagger. Par m enion had been w ait ing for t he move and, sidestepping, he slapped the man’s arm aside and drove his ow n dagger hom e int o t he assassin’s chest. The Persian gasped and st um bled t o his knees. The t w o Part hians leapt at Parm enion w it h sw ords draw n. The Spart an t hrew him self at t hem, but t hey w ere young m en, sw ift of reflex, and he no longer had t he advant age of surprise. A sw ord clove int o his left shoulder, snapping t he bone of his arm. Spinning, he hurled his dagger at t he sw ordsm an, t he blade slicing home into the man’s throat to tear open the jugular.

Something struck Parmenion in the lower back. It felt like the kick of a horse and t here w as no sensat ion of a cut or st ab, but he knew t hat a sword-blade had plunged int o him. Anger flared, for his w arrior’s heart could not bear t he t hought of dying w it hout at least ensuring t hat his killer j oined him on t he pat h t o Hades. Pain roared t hrough him as t he assassin wrenched the blade clear. The Spartan staggered forward and fell to the path, rolling to his back.

The Part hian loom ed over him. Parm enion’s fingers closed over a rock and, as t he sw ordsm an prepared him self for t he deat h st rike, t he Spart an’s hand flashed forw ard, t he rock cracking against his assailant’s brow. The man staggered back, the skin above his right eye split.

Wit h a curse he r an at t he w ounded Spart an, but Parm enion’s leg lashed out t o sw eep t he Part hian from his feet. The m an fell heavily, losing his grip on his sw ord. Par m enion r olled t o his belly and st ruggled t o rise. But for once his st rengt h w as not equal t o his w ill and he fell.

He heard t he Part hian clim b t o his feet and felt t he sudden pain of t he sword-blade as it pierced his back, gouging int o his lung. A boot cracked against his head, then a rough hand tipped him to his back.

‘I am going t o cut your t hroat slow ly,’ hissed t he Part hian.

Dropping his sw ord t he assassin drew a curved dagger w it h a serrat ed edge, laying it against the skin of the Spartan’s neck.

A shadow fell across t he killer. The m an looked up in t im e t o see t he short sw ord t hat ham m ered int o his t em ple. He w as cat apult ed across Parm enion’s body and fell face-first int o t he st ream, w here his blood mingled with the water that rippled over the crystals.

Alexander knelt by the stricken Spartan, lifting him into his arms.

‘I am sorry. Oh gods, I am so sorry,’ he said, t ears falling from his eyes.

Parm enion’s head sagged against t he young m an’s chest and he could hear Alexander’s heart beat, loud and st rong. Lift ing his arm, t he Spart an pulled t he pouch clear from his belt and pushed it towards the King. Alexander t ook it and t ipped t he cont ent s on his palm; t he gold necklet glittered in the sunshine.

‘Put it on,’ pleaded Parm enion. Alexander low ered him back t o t he ground and t ook t he necklet in t rem bling fingers, looping it over his head and st ruggling w it h t he clasp. At last it sat proud, gleam ing and perfect.

Arist ot le appeared alongside t he t w o m en. ‘Help m e t o car ry Parmenion to the eastern wall,’ he said.

‘Why? We should get a surgeon,’ said Alexander.

The magus shook his head. ‘No surgeon could save him. But I can. His time here is done, Alexander.’

‘Where will you take him?’

‘To one of m y hom es. I shall heal him, do not fear for t hat. But w e must hurry.’

Toget her t hey carried t he unconscious Parm enion t o t he w hit e lion, laying him dow n on t he grass beside t he st at ue. The st one beast reared up upon it s hind legs, gr ow ing, w idening, unt il it loom ed above t hem like a m onst er of legend. The belly shim m ered and disappeared, and t hrough it Alexander could see a large room w it h a vault ed window, opening on to a night-dark sky ablaze with stars.

Once m ore t hey lift ed t he Spart an, carrying him t o a w ide bed and laying him upon it. Arist ot le t ook a golden st one from t he pouch at his side, placing it on the Spartan’s chest. All breathing ceased.

‘Is he dead?’ Alexander asked.

‘No. Now you m ust ret ur n t o your ow n w orld. But know t his, Alexander, that the magic of the necklet is finite. It may last ten years, but more likely the power will fade before then. Be warned.’

‘What will happen to Parmenion?’

‘It is no longer your concern, boy. Go now!’

Alexander backed aw ay and found him self st anding in t he sunlit garden st aring back int o t he m oonlit room w it hin t he st at ue. Slow ly t he im age faded and t he lion shrank, t he great head com ing level w it h the King - the jaws open, the teeth long and sharp. Then it sank to the eart h and slow ly crum bled, t he st one peeling aw ay like snow flakes, drifting on the breeze.

Behind him he heard t he sound of r unning feet and t urned t o see Craterus and Pt olem y, follow ed by a score of w arriors from t he Royal Guard.

‘Where is Parmenion, sire?’ Ptolemy asked.

‘The Lion of Macedon is gone from the world,’ answered Alexander.

Babylon, Summer 323 BC Seven years of const ant bat t les had t aken t heir t oll on Alexander. The young m an w ho had left Macedonia w as now a scarred w arrior of thirty-t w o, w ho m oved w it h difficult y follow ing a w ound t o his right lung and the slashing by a hand-axe of the tendons in his left calf.

His vict ories st ret ched across t he Em pire, from I ndia in t he east t o Scyt hia in t he nort h, from Egy pt in t he sout h t o t he nor t hern Caspian Sea. He w as a living legend t hroughout t he w orld - adored by his t roops, feared by t he m any enem ies he had forced back from t he frontiers of his new realm.

Yet, as he st ood on t his bright sum m er m orning by t he w indow of his palace rooms, he thought nothing of his reputation.

‘Are you st ill set on t his course, sire?’ asked Pt olem y, m oving for w ard to embrace his King.

‘I have no choice, my friend.’

‘We could seek t he help of w izards - t here are som e in Babylon said t o be most powerful.’

Alexander shook his head. ‘I hav e t ravelled far t o find a w ay t o fight t he Beast. All are agreed t hat I cannot defeat him. He is im m ort al, everlast ing. And t he pow er of t he necklet is fading fast. Do you w ant to see the old Alexander return?’

‘No, m y lord. But I w ish Hephaist ion w ere here. He w ould be able t o advise you better than I.’

Alexander did not answ er, but sw ung his head t o st are from t he w indow. I t w as t he deat h of his beloved Hephaist ion w hich had decided him upon t his course of act ion. The Macedonian - t he m ost t rust ed of t he King’s officers - had been found dead in his bed, apparent ly choked t o deat h. Of t he night in quest ion, t w elve w eeks before, Alexander could remember nothing.

The surgeons had found a chicken-bone w edged in Hephaist ion’s throat, and it appeared that the officer had died while dining alone.

Alexander wanted to believe it. Desperately. For Hephaistion, above all his friends, had helped him during t he seven y ears since Arist ot le had t aken Parm enion. As t he pow er of t he necklet faded, it w as Hephaist ion w hose const ant love and friendship had been t he rock t o w hich Alexander had clung w hen t he Beast had been claw ing at him, dragging him down.

Now Hephaistion was gone and the final battle was here.

‘You will do as I bid - no matter what?’ he asked Ptolemy.

‘Oh my life I promise it.’

‘No one must lay their hands upon it.’

‘Nor shall they.’

‘You m ust go t o Egypt. Make t he land your ow n. Hold it against all t he others.’

‘There may be no war, sire. We are all friends.’

Alexander laughed. ‘You are friends now,” he said. ‘Leave m e, Ptolemy. And tell no one what I plan.’

‘It will be as you say.’

The general bow ed once and t urned t o leave. Then suddenly he sw ung back t o Alexander, em bracing him and kissing his cheek. No m ore w as said and, t ears in his eyes, t he officer left t he room, pulling shut t he door behind him.

Alexander w alked t o t he t able and filled a goblet w it h t he w ine he had prepared earlier. Wit hout hesit at ion he lift ed it t o his lips and drank.

Then m oving t o a bronze m irror on t he far w all, he exam ined t he necklet. There w as lit t le gold show ing now; t he int erlaced w ires had become black as jet.

‘Just a little longer,’ he whispered.

His servant s found him lying on his bed at dusk. At first t hey m oved around him, t hinking him sleeping, but aft er a w hile one of t hem moved to his side, touching his shoulder.

‘My lord! Sire!’ There was no answer.

I n panic t hey ran from t he room, sum m oning Perdiccas, Cassander, Pt olem y and t he ot her generals. A surgeon w as called - a slim, w iry Corint hian nam ed Sopeit hes. He it w as w ho found t he pulse st ill beating at Alexander’s t hroat. While no one w as w at ching him, Pt olem y t ook t he goblet cont aining t he dregs of t he dr ugged w ine and hid it in the folds of his cloak.

‘He is not dead,’ said the surgeon, ‘but his heart is very weak. He must be bled.’

Three t im es during t he next five days a vein in t he King’s arm w as opened, but at no time did he regain consciousness.

Tim e slipped by, and soon it becam e apparent t o all t hat Alexander w as dying. Pt olem y quiet ly m ade t he arrangem ent s Alexander had ordered, then he sat by the King’s bedside.

On t he t w elft h night, w it h only Pt olem y beside him, Alexander’s voice whispered out for the last time: ‘Kadmilos.’

The Void, Time Unknown Alexander sat at the mouth of the tunnel, a golden sword shining in his hand and cast ing it s light upon t he grey, dead soil of t he Void. Som e dist ance aw ay, sit t ing upon a boulder w at ching him, w as a t w in Alexander dressed in silver arm our, w hit e hair fram ing his handsom e face, ram’s horns curving back from his temples.

‘Poor Alexander,’ t aunt ed Kadm ilos. ‘He cam e t o slay m e. Me? He t hought t o use his pit iful sw ord against a spirit t hat has lived since before t im e. Look around you, Alexander. This is your fut ure. No kingdoms here in this world of ash and twilight. No glory.’

‘You are a coward,’ the King told him wearily.

‘Your w ords are useless, Hum an. Even if I allow ed t hat sw ord t o st rike m e I w ould not die. I am et ernal, t he living heart of Chaos. But you, you are pit iful. Your body st ill lives in t he w orld of flesh, and soon I shall t ake possession of it. The drugs you sw allow ed w ill not det er m e.

I t w ill be a m at t er of m om ent s t o nullify t hem. Then I shall heal your ruined lung and your wasted leg.’

‘Come then,’ offered Alexander, ‘walk by me.’

Kadm ilos laughed. ‘Not yet. I shall w alk t he pat h t o y our soul w hen it pleases m e. Look at your sw ord, Alexander. See how it fades. The last lingering Enchant m ent of t he necklet is alm ost gone. When it dies, your blade will die with it. You know that?’

‘I k now,’ answ ered t he King. ‘The priest s of Zeus-Am m on w arned m e of it.’

‘Then what did you hope to achieve?’

The King shrugged. ‘A m an m ust alw ays fight for w hat he believes t o be right. It is his nature.’

‘Nonsense. I t is a m an’s nat ure t o lust, t o long for all he cannot have, to kill, to steal, to plunder. That is why he is - and will always remain - a creat ure of Chaos. Look at you! By w hat right did you lead your arm ies int o Persia? By w hat right did you im pose your w ill upon t he world? Your name will be remembered as a killer and a destroyer - one of my more glorious disciples.’

Kadmilos laughed again, the sound chilling. ‘No arguments, Alexander?

Surely you can summon some small defence for your actions?’

‘I have no need of defence,’ answ ered t he King. ‘I lived in a w orld governed by w ar. Those w ho did not conquer w ere t hem selves conquered. But I fought m y enem ies on t he bat t lefield, soldier against soldier, and I risked m y life as t hey risked t heirs. I carry no sham e for any action of mine.’

‘Oh, w ell said,’ sneered Kadm ilos. ‘Will you deny t he surging passions aroused w hen you m arched int o bat t le, t he lust for slaught er and death in your own heart?’

‘No, you are w rong,’ replied Alexander. ‘I never lust ed for slaught er.

Battle, yes, I will admit to that. Pitting my strength and my will against m y enem ies - t hat gave m e pleasure. But you it w as w ho gained t he most satisfaction from random butchery.’

Kadm ilos st ood. ‘Your conversat ion is dull, Hum an, and I see your sw ord is now but a m iserable shadow. Therefore w e m ust end t his meeting. Your mortal form awaits me.’

Alexander looked dow n at t he fading sw ord, and even as he gazed upon it the weapon vanished from his hand.

‘Enj oy your despair,’ hissed Kadm ilos, his form sw elling, changing, becom ing a dark cloud t hat flow ed over Alexander, sw irling int o t he tunnel and on towards the flickering light in the far distance.

The Void w as em pt y now, save for a float ing m ist t hat seeped across the barren rocks. Alexander sighed, his heart heavy.

A figure m oved from t he m ist, and t he King saw it w as Arist ot le. The magus smiled and reached out to take Alexander’s hand.

‘Com e, m y boy, I cannot st ay here long. But t here is t im e enough t o lead you to the Elysian Fields where your friends await.’

‘Did I win? Did I hold him for long enough?’

‘We will talk as we travel,’ the magus answered.

*

The Spirit of Chaos surged int o t he body of Alexander. The eyes w ere open and t hr ough t hem Kadm ilos could see a high, paint ed ceiling. He tried to move, but found the body paralysed. This was of small concern and he t urned his pow ers inw ard, seeking out t he poison soaked int o the veins and nerves of the frail human form.

Foolish m ort al, he t hought, t o believe t hat such a narcot ic could foil t he am bit ions of a god. Sw ift ly he st art ed t o eradicat e t he dr ug.

Feeling began t o seep back int o t he body. He felt a cool breeze from a w indow t o t he left and a dull ache from t he w ounded leg. I gnoring t he poison, he sw it ched his at t ent ion t o t he inj ured lim b, rebuilding t he wasted muscle.

That was better! Pain of any kind was anathema to Kadmilos.

Returning to the poison, he cleaned it from lungs and belly.

Soon, he thought. Soon I shall awake.

He heard people in t he room, but st ill t he paralysis gripped t he body.

Footsteps sounded and he saw a shadow move into his range of vision.

A dark-skinned man loomed over him.

‘The eyes are incredible,’ said t he m an. ‘Truly he w as blessed by t he gods. It is a pity we cannot save them.’

‘Are you ready to begin?’ came the voice of Ptolemy.

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Then do so.’

I nt o Kadm ilos’ vision cam e a hand, holding a long spike forked at t he tip.

‘No!’ screamed the Dark God, soundlessly.

The spike pressed hard int o t he opening of t he left nost ril, t hen dr ove up into the brain.

A City by the Sea, Time Unknown Parm enion st ared out over t he har bour w here great ships, larger t han any he had seen, w ere docked, w it h curiously clad m en m oving about t heir enor m ous decks. Sw it ching his gaze t o t he buildings surrounding t he w harves, he m arvelled at t heir com plex design, t he great arches support ing huge, dom ed roofs. Below in t he nar row cobbled st reet he could hear w hat he im agined t o be shopkeepers and st all-holders shouting about their wares. But the language was unknown to him.

He t urned as Arist ot le ent ered. The magus had anot her nam e here, and anot her appearance. His hair w as long and w hit e, a w ispy bear d grew from his chin, and he w ore a long coat of velvet and t rousers of embroidered wool.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked the magus.

Parm enion sw ung aw ay from t he w indow. Against t he far w all w as a m irror of silvered glass and t he brilliance of it s reflect ion st ill st unned t he Spart an, t hough he had looked upon it m any t im es during his five days in Aristotle’s home.

He w as healed of his w ounds and t he im age in t he m irror show ed a young m an in t he prim e of healt h - t all, slender, w it h a full life ahead of him. The clot hes he w ore w ere com fort able, but unnecessarily fussy he t hought. The v olum inous w hit e shirt, w it h it s puffed-out sleeves slashed w it h sky-blue silk, looked v ery fine, but t he m at erial w as not st rong. One day in t he harsh Persian sun or t he bit t er rains of Phrygia, and the garment would be worthless, as indeed would be the ridiculous skin-tight leggings. And as for the boots! They were raised at the heel, making walking difficult and uncomfortable.

‘I am w ell, m y friend,’ he answ ered, ‘but w hat w ill I do in t his place? I underst and none of it s cust om s, and t he language I hear from t he streets below is strange to me.’

‘You w ill not be st aying her e,’ Arist ot le t old him. ‘Now t hat you are st rong again I shall t ake you t o a bet t er w orld - one w hich I t hink you w ill enj oy. But t hat is for lat er. Tonight w e w ill eat fine food and drink strong wine, and all your questions will be answered.’

‘You have learned the truth? You know what happened?’

‘Yes,’ answ ered t he magus. ‘I t has t aken a lit t le t im e, but I t hink you will find the wait was worthwhile.’

Tell me.’

‘Have patience. Such tales are best left for the evening.’

Throughout most of the afternoon Parmenion waited, but towards dusk he w andered t hr ough t he house seeking t he magus. I n t he nor t h of the building was a flight of wooden stairs leading to a brightly-lit studio below t he roof. Here he found Arist ot le sit t ing at an easel, sket ching a dark-haired w om an w ho sat on a high-backed leat her chair before him.

As t he Spart an ent ered t he w om an sm iled and spok e. He did not underst and her w ords and m erely bow ed. Arist ot le laid dow n his charcoal and st ood. He said a few w ords t o t he w om an, w ho st ret ched her back and rose. The magus walked her to the door, leading the way downstairs, then returned to the studio.

‘I did not realize it was so late,’ he said, reverting to Greek.

Parm enion w as st anding before t he sket ch. ‘I t is a good likeness. You have great talent.’

‘Centuries of practice, my boy. Come, let us eat.’

Aft er t he m eal t he t w o m en sat in com fort able chairs by an open leaded-glass w indow t hrough w hich t he st ars could be seen glit t ering like diamonds on sable.

‘What happened to Alexander?’ asked Parmenion.

‘He died som e sevent een hundred years ago,’ t he magus answ ered, ‘but in death he won his finest victory.’

‘How so?’

‘The Dark God t ook cont rol of his body at t he end. But Alexander had ordered it embalmed.’

‘What difference could that make?’

‘Kadm ilos w as spirit ually j oined t o t he body of Alexander. He could only be released from it w hen t he body w as dest royed by fire or consum ed by carrion eat ers, or rot t ed t o not hing. But em balm ed?

Alexander’s body would never rot and Kadmilos was trapped.

‘When the King died there was a civil war among his generals. Ptolemy stole the embalmed body and took it to Egypt, to Alexandria, where he had a huge m ausoleum built t o accom m odat e it. For cent uries m en cam e from all over t he w orld t o gaze upon t he st ill, perfect form of Alexander the Great. I myself stood before it with an emperor of Rome five hundred years aft er Alexander died. And Kadm ilos w as st ill a prisoner w it hin. I could feel his evil pulsing t hrough t he cryst al t hat held the body.’

‘Is it still there?’ Parmenion asked.

‘No. Barbarians sacked Alexandria hundreds of years ago. But t he priest s of Alexander carried t he cryst al coffin int o t he m ount ains and buried it t here, deep and far from t he gaze of m en. No one know s where now it lies. Save me, of course for I found it. The body is still perfect, the Chaos Spirit trapped - perhaps for eternity.’

Parm enion sm iled. ‘Then no m ore w ill dem onpossessed kings bring evil upon the world?’

‘Not t his dem on, at least,’ answ ered Arist ot le, ‘but t here are ot hers.

There w ill alw ays be ot hers. But t heir pow ers do not rival t hose of t he Dark God.’

‘Poor Alexander,’ w hispered Parm enion. ‘His life w as cursed from t he beginning.’

‘He fought t he dem on w it h great courage,’ t he magus said, ‘and he knew friendship and love. What m ore could a m an w ant? But let us think of you’

‘Where can I go?’ asked Parmenion, with a sigh. ‘What is there for me, Aristotle?’

The magus chuckled. ‘Life. Love. I t is t im e, I t hink, t o say our farewells. There is someone waiting for you.’

‘Who?’

‘Who else but Derae?’

‘I never went back. That was decades ago.’

Arist ot le leaned forw ard, clapping his hand t o t he Spart an’s shoulder.

‘It is only Time. Have you learned nothing?’

The Gateway, Sparta, 352 BC Derae dr ew t he w oollen cloak m ore light ly about her as t he clouds covered the moon and the night winds swirled.

Six hour s had passed since Parm enion w alked back t hrough t he shim m ering Gat ew ay t o t he unk now n w orld beyond. She shivered and st ared up at t he cold st one pillars. The magus had asked her t o w ait here, but now she was alone beneath the empty sky.

‘Derae! ‘ called a voice, soft as t he w hisper of a dist ant m em ory. At first she t hought she had im agined it, but it cam e again, t iny but insistent.

‘I am here,’ she answered aloud.

Som et hing shim m ered at t he edge of her vision and she saw t w o ghostly shapes - faint, almost transparent - standing before her on the hillside. I t w as difficult t o m ake out t heir feat ures, t hough she could see that one was male and the other female.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘Close your eyes,’ came the faraway voice. ‘Use your powers.’

‘I have no powers.’

‘Trust me. Close your eyes and draw us in.’

Fear sprang int o her heart, but she quelled it. What har m could t hey do t o her? Was she not a Spart an, st rong and proud? Closing her eyes she concent rat ed on t he v oice. I t grew a lit t le st ronger and she recognized the magus, Chiron.

‘I have someone with me,’ he said, ‘and I have a favour to ask.’

‘Name it,’ she told him.

‘I want you to open your mind and allow her to enter your heart.’

‘No!’ answered Derae, suddenly fearful.

‘She will leave when you request it,’ he assured her.

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘For love,’ he told her.

I nst ant ly she becam e aw are of t he second spirit. ‘I t is her! You are t rying t o kill m e. I t w as all a t rick, w asn’t it? Parm enion loved her and now she w ishes t o st eal m y body. Well, she cannot have it! You hear me?’

‘That is not t rue,’ he said gent ly. ‘But it is your choice, Derae. Look into your own heart. Would you steal the body of another?’

‘No,’ she admitted.

‘Not even to save your life?’

She hesitated. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Not even for that.’

‘Then why would she?’

‘What do you want of me?’

‘Let her com e t o y ou. Speak w it h her. She w ill ask not hing from you.

But t hrough her m em ories you w ill see Parm enion - his life, his dreams.’

‘And then?’

‘I f you w ish it, she w ill depart from you and I w ill t ake her t o anot her place.’

‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

Derae fell silent, t hen opened her eyes t o look once m ore upon t he stone Gateway through which her love had passed.

‘I will speak to her,’ she said softly.

A great w arm t h flow ed t hrough her, im ages t um bling int o her m ind - a different Spart a, anot her life, a t em ple, a t urbulent ocean of sick, inj ured, diseased or dying people, begging, praying, a lifelong st ruggle against t he evil of Kadm ilos. Derae reeled under t he w eight of t hose memories and felt herself slipping into a daze.

Light blazed, the sun shining high above a hillside.

‘Thank you,’ said anot her voice and Derae blinked, for sit t ing beside her was a woman in white, young and beautiful, with redgold hair and wide green eyes.

‘You are me,’ said Derae.

‘No - not quite,’ the woman replied.

‘Why have you come?’

‘Arist ot le Chiron found m e. He said it w ould w arm m y soul t o know you. He was right.’

Derae felt a great sadness gr ow ing w it hin her. ‘Your dream s w er e never realized, were they?’

The w om an shrugged. ‘Som e w ere. But t her e are t hose w ho w alk through life and never know love. They are the ones to pity.’

‘He is coming back to me,’ said Derae. ‘But it is you he wanted, you he loved. I am only a copy.’

‘Not at all,’ t he w om an assured her. ‘You ar e everyt hing he could want; you will be happy.’

‘Why did Chiron bring you to me? What does he want me to do?’

‘He wants us to become one.’

‘Two spirits in one body?’

‘No. There can be only one. He believes w e can m erge, one soul w it h two paths of memory.’

‘Is that possible?’ Derae asked.

The w om an spread her hands. ‘I do not know. But if you have doubt s, t hen do not at t em pt it. There is no need for you t o do t his for m e.

Parm enion w ill soon be here, and your lives t oget her w ill be rich and fulfilled.’

Derae looked at her t w in and reached out her hand. ‘Let us t ry,’ she said.

The woman looked surprised. ‘Why? Why would you do this?’

‘Would you not do it for me?’

The w om an sm iled. ‘Yes, I w ould.’ Their hands m et and t he light faded.

Derae found herself sit t ing once m ore in t he m oonlight in t he shadow s of t he Gat ew ay. There w ere no ghost s and no voices, and t he st ars w ere bright above her. Taking a deep breat h, she sum m oned her memories.

For a t im e she sat unm oving. The corr idors of t he past w ere branched now and t here w ere t w o hist ories t o scan. She rem em bered her life as a child in t he Spart a of t he Enchant m ent, and also as a young w om an in t he w orld of Parm enion. The years spiralled on, from yout h t o t he first grey hairs, and she recalled w it h a shiver her art hrit ic j oint s, felt again t he const ant pains of old age, t he fading of her pow ers. Her powers? I had no pow ers, she t hought. Of course I did, she rem inded herself. They w ere developed by Tam is w hen first I cam e t o t he Temple. But I had to give my sight to acquire them.

I have never been blind! An edge of panic t ouched her, but t he m em ories flow ed on, filling her m ind, covering her like t he w arm blankets of childhood.

‘Which one am I?’ she asked aloud, but t her e w as no answ er. The m em ories w ere all hers - and ident it y w as based, she knew, on memory.

It was not just the years of healing at the Temple that she could recall, but all t he em ot ions and yearnings t hat had accom panied t hose y ears.

Yet, sim ilarly, she could rem em ber vividly her t im e as Spart a’s Queen with the first Parmenion, and her childhood with Leonidas.

‘Which one?’ she asked again.

Glancing down she saw a small white flower with fading petals, its time finished, it s beaut y disappearing. Reaching out, she held her hand above it; the petals swelled with new life. All confusion left her then.

‘We are One,’ she whispered. ‘We are Derae.’

The panic faded, t o be replaced by a quiet longing. Her gaze sw ung t o the hill above her and the twin columns of stone.

The Gat ew ay shim m ered w it h golden light and a t all young m an stepped out on to the hillside.

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