Dark Prince

Pella, Macedonia, Summer

The golden-haired child sat alone, as he usually did, and wondered whether his father would die today. Some distance away, across the royal gardens, his nurse was talking to the two sentries 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 with 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 the 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,' answered 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 Onomarchus defeated me when last we met. But.

.'his voice dropped to a whisper, '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 moment only Philip's face softened, his arm rising as if to reach out to his son. But the moment passed and the King stood. 'Be good,' he said. 'I will. . think of you.'

The sound of children's laughter brought Alexander's thoughts back to 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 sometimes from the window of his room. One child would be chosen as Hecate, Goddess of Death, and would chase the others, seeking out their 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 the hound to die; he had loved the pup. And he had tried so hard, concentrating always, so that whenever he stroked the dog his mind was calm. But one day the playful hound had leapt at him, knocking him from his feet. In that moment Alexander's hand had snaked out, lightly slapping the beast on the neck. The hound collapsed instantly, eyes glazing, legs twitching. It had died within seconds, but what was worse it had decomposed within minutes, the 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 to sing in the tall trees and Alexander smiled as he looked up at them. Closing his green eyes the boy allowed the bird-song to flow into him, filling his mind, merging with his own thoughts. The songs began to have meanings then, that he could just decipher. No words but feelings, fears, tiny angers. The birds were 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 sternly, approaching 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 still playing beyond the wall,' he argued. 'And I like to sit here.'

'You will do as you are told, young prince!' she snapped. His eyes blazed and he could almost hear the dark voice within himself whispering: 'Hurt her! Kill her!' He swallowed hard, quelling the rising tide of anger.

'I will come,' he said softly. Rising to his feet he walked towards her, but she stepped quickly aside to let him pass, following him slowly as he returned to his own rooms. Waiting until she had gone, Alexander slipped out into the corridor and ran to his mother's apartments, pushing open the door to peek inside.

Olympias was alone and she smiled as he entered, opening her arms to him. He ran forward and embraced her, pushing his face against the soft flesh of her bosom. There was never anyone, he knew, so beautiful as his mother, and he clung to her fiercely.

'You are very hot,' said Olympias, pushing back his golden hair and stroking his brow. Filling a cup with cool water she passed it to him, watching as he drank greedily.

'Did your lessons go well today?' she asked.

'There were no lessons, Mother. Stagra is ill. If I had a pony, would it die?'

He saw the pain on her face as pulling him to her she patted his back. 'You are not a demon, Alexander. You have great gifts; you will be a great man.'

'But would the pony die?'

'I think that it might,' she admitted. 'But when you are older you will know how to control. . the Talent. Be patient.'

'I don't want to kill anything. Yesterday I made a bird fly to my hand. It sat for a long time before flying away. It didn't die. Truly!'

'When your father returns to Pella we will all go to the sea, and sail on boats. You will like that. The breeze is cool, and we will swim.'

'Is he coming back?' Alexander asked. 'Some people say he will die against the Phocians. They say his luck is finished, that the 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, two years ago,' said the boy. 'Two thousand Macedonians dead. And now the Athenians raid our coastline 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 must not say that! Ever!' 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 told him, drawing him into her arms. '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 while they sat in silence, Alexander warm and sleepy in his mother's arms. 'I can see them now,' he said dreamily. 'There is a plain covered with flowers of purple and yellow. And there is Father in his golden armour. He is standing beside the grey gelding, Achea. And there are the enemy. Oh, Mother, there are thousands of them. I can see their shields. Look! There is the sign of Sparta, and there the Owl of Athens and… I don't know that one, but I can see the emblems 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 the scar above his blinded right eye and stared out over the Phocian battle-lines half a mile ahead. More than 20,000 infantry were massed on the plain, 1,000 cavalry behind and to the right of the main force. He transferred his gaze to the Macedonian lines, where 15,000 foot-soldiers waited in formation at the centre, his 3,000 cavalry to the left and right.

Everywhere there were flowers growing, some purple and yellow, others white and pink, and hi that moment it seemed to the King almost inconceivable that within minutes hundreds — perhaps thousands — of men would lay down their lives, their blood soaking into the earth. And he felt, with sudden regret, it was almost as great a crime against the gods of beauty that these flowers would soon be trampled into the dust beneath the pale grass of the Grecian Plain. 'Don't be foolish,' he told himself. 'You chose this battle-ground.' It was flat and made for cavalry and Philip now commanded the Thessalian lancers, the finest horse-soldiers in Greece.

Two days ago, during a lightning march across the shallows of the River Penios, the Macedonian army surprised the defenders of the port city of Pagasai. The city had fallen within three hours. By sunset the Macedonians manning the ramparts had seen a fleet of Athenian battle triremes sailing serenely across the gulf. But with Pagasai taken the triremes had nowhere to dock, and the soldiers they carried were lost to the enemy cause. The nearest shallow bay was a day's sailing and four days' march distant, and by the time the Athenian soldiers had come ashore the battle would be over.

Now, with the rear secured against an Athenian attack, Philip felt more confident of the coming battle. There was nowhere this time for Onomarchus to hide his giant catapults; no steep, tree-shrouded mountains from which he could send death from the skies. No, this battle would be fought man against man, army against army. Philip still remembered with sick horror the huge boulders raining down on the Macedonians, could still hear the awful cries of the crushed and dying.

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

And he had Parmenion. .

Glancing to his left Philip sought out the Spartan, watching him ride along the flank, talking to the riders, calming the younger men and lifting the spirits of the veterans.

A momentary anger touched Philip. The Spartan had come to Macedonia's aid seven years ago, when the nation was beset by enemies on all sides. His strategic skills had been vital then and he had trained Philip's fledgling army, turning them from farmers and peasants into the most feared fighting force in the civilized world.

'I loved you then,' thought Philip, remembering the heady days of victory over the Illyrians to the west, the Paionians to the north. City after city had fallen to Macedonia as her strength grew. But always the victories belonged to Parmenion, the strategos, the man whose battle plans had won victories for a quarter of a century, in Thebes, in Phrygia, in Cappadocia and Egypt.

Philip shaded his good eye and strained to see the Phocian centre, where Onomarchus would be standing with his bodyguard. But the distance was too great, the sun gleaming from too many breastplates, shields and helms for him to pick out his enemy.

'What I would not give to have your neck under my blade,' he whispered.

'Did you speak, sire?' asked Attalus, the King's Champion. Philip turned to the cold-eyed man beside him.

'Yes — but only to myself. It is time. Order the advance!'

Philip strode to the grey gelding, taking hold of the mane and vaulting to the beast's back. The gelding whinnied and reared, but Philip's powerful legs were locked to the barrel of its belly. 'Steady!' said the King, his voice soothing. A young soldier ran forward carrying Philip's high-crested helm of iron. It was polished until it shone like silver and the King took it in his hands, gazing down at the burnished face of the goddess Athena which decorated the forehead.

'Be with me today, lady,' he said, placing the helmet upon his head. Another man lifted Philip's round shield and the King slid his left arm through the leather straps, settling it in place on his forearm.

The first four regiments, 11,000 men, began the slow march towards the enemy.

Philip glanced to where Parmenion waited on the left with 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 when last he had met Onomarchus. It was a day like this one — brilliant sunshine, a cloudless sky — when the Macedonians had marched against the enemy.

Only then there were mountains on either side, and they had contained hidden siege-engines which hurled huge boulders down upon the Macedonians, smashing their formation, crushing bones and destroying lives. Then the enemy cavalry charged and the Macedonians had fled the field.

Long would Philip remember that day. For six years he had seemed invincible, victory following victory as if divinely ordained. And one terrible hour had changed everything. Macedonian discipline had reasserted itself by the evening and the army had re-formed in time for a fighting retreat. But, for the first time in his life, Philip had failed.

What was more galling even than defeat was the fact that Parmenion was not present at the battle. He was leading a force into the north-west to put down an Illyrian insurrection.

For six years the King had been forced to share his victories with his general, but the one defeat was his — and his alone.

Now Philip shook himself clear of the memories. 'Send out the Cretan archers,' he shouted to Attalus. The King's Champion turned his horse and galloped down to where the 500 archers were awaiting orders. Lightly armoured in baked leather chest-guards, the Cretans 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, Antipater, was waiting with 1,000

cavalrymen. Philip tugged on the gelding's reins and rode to take his position alongside him in the front line. The horsemen, mostly Macedonian noblemen, cheered as he approached and he rewarded them with a wave.

Drawing his sword he led the cavalry forward at a walk, angling to the 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!' bellowed Philip, kicking the gelding into a gallop, all his fears vanishing as the Macedonians thundered across the plain.

Parmenion's pale blue eyes narrowed as he scanned the battlefield. He could see Philip and his Companion Cavalry charging on the right, coming abreast now of the marching regiments of Macedonian infantry, with their shields locked, their eighteen-foot, iron-pointed sarissas aimed at the enemy ranks, the Cretan archers behind them sending volley after volley of shafts into the sky to rain down on the Phocian centre.

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

The King was the Supreme Commander of all Macedonia's forces, but Philip insisted always on riding into battle with his men, risking death alongside them, leading them from the front. His courage was both a blessing and a curse, Parmenion knew. With the King in their midst the Macedonians fought harder, yet were Philip to fall panic would sweep through the ranks faster than a summer fire over dry grass.

As always, with Philip at the heart of the fighting Parmenion took charge of the battle strategy, watching for signs of weakness, clues to the shifting changes in the fortunes of war.

Behind him the Thessalian cavalrymen awaited his orders, while before him the Fifth Regiment of infantry were standing calmly, watching the battle. Parmenion removed his white-crested helm, pushing his fingers through his sweat-drenched, short-cropped brown hair. Only one thought dominated his mind.

What was the Phocian planning?

Onomarchus was no ordinary general. During the past two years, since taking charge of the Phocian forces, he had moved his armies around central Greece with consummate skill, taking key cities in central Greece and sacking the Boeotian stronghold of Orchomenus. He was a wily and instinctive leader, respected by those who served him. But, more importantly to Parmenion, the man's strategy invariably relied on attack. Yet here his infantry regiments were positioned defensively, only his cavalry sweeping forward.

Something was wrong. Parmenion could feel it. Shading his eyes he scanned the battlefield once more. Here the Crocian Plain was virtually flat, save for a low line of hills to the far right and a small wooded area a half-mile to the left. There was no danger from the rear, now that Pagasai had been taken. So then, he thought again, what is the Phocian's battle plan?

Parmenion's concentration was broken as the Macedonian war-cry went up and the regiments broke into a run, the gleaming sarissas hammering into the Phocian ranks. Now the screams of the wounded and dying could be heard faintly above the 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-lengths back from the trees and send in scouts. If the woods are clear, turn again and watch for any signal from me. If not, stop any hostile force from linking with Onomarchus. You understand?'

'Yes, sir,' answered Nicanor, saluting. Parmenion waited as the 500 riders cantered out towards the woods, then swung his gaze to the hills.

The Macedonian formation would not have been hard to predict — infantry at the centre, cavalry on either wing.

Onomarchus must have known.

The infantry were now locked together, the Macedonians in tight phalanx formations sixteen ranks deep, one hundred and fifty shields wide. The First Regiment — trie King's Guards, commanded by Theoparlis — had pierced the Phocian lines.

'Not too far!' whispered Parmenion. 'Swing the line and wait for support!' It was vital that the four regiments stayed in close contact; once separated they could be enveloped by the enemy's greater numbers. But the Spartan relaxed as he saw the King's Guards holding firm on the left, the right driving forward, the phalanx half wheeling, forcing back the Phocians. The Second Regiment had almost linked with them. Parmenion switched his concentration to the Third Regiment. It was coming under heavy pressure and had ceased to move forward, the fighting line beginning to bend back.

'Coenus!' yelled Parmenion. A broad-shouldered warrior at the centre of the reserve regiment looked up and saluted.

'Support the Third,' the general shouted.

The 2,500-strong Fifth Regiment began to move. They did not run but held to their formation, slowly crossing the field. 'Good man,' thought Parmenion. With emotions heightened by fear and excitement, it was all too easy for a commander to lead his men in an early charge, or run them hard to reach the battle. Coenus was a steady officer, cool under pressure. He knew that his heavily armoured men would need all their strength when the fighting began — and not before.

Suddenly, on the left, the Macedonian line bulged and broke. Parmenion swore as he saw an enemy regiment burst clear of the centre, their shields tightly locked. He did not need to see the emblems on the enemy shields to know from which city they came: they were Spartans, magnificent fighting men feared across the world. The Third Regiment gave way before them and the Spartans moved out to encircle the Guards.

But Coenus and the Fifth were almost upon them. The sarissas swept down and the phalanx charged. Suddenly outflanked the Spartans fell back, the Macedonians regaining their formation. Satisfied the immediate danger was past, Parmenion swung his black stallion and cantered towards the right, the Thessalians streaming after him.

The King and his Companions were locked in a deadly struggle with the Phocian cavalry, but Parmenion could see the Macedonians were slowly pushing the enemy back. Glancing to the left he saw Nicanor and his 500 halted before the wood, the scouts riding into the trees.

Summoning a rider from his right Parmenion sent him to Nicanor with fresh orders, should the woods prove to be clear, then turned his attention to the hills.

If Onomarchus had planned any surprise strategy, then it was from here it must come. Returning his gaze to the centre, he saw Coenus and the Fifth had blocked the Spartan advance and were battling to link with Theoparlis and the Guards. The Third Regiment had merged with the Fourth and were once more cleaving at the Phocian lines.

Parmenion had two choices now. He could gallop in to aid the King, or swing his line to hit the enemy from the left.

Touching heels to the stallion he rode further along the right flank. A rider detached himself from the battle and galloped to where Parmenion waited; the man had several shallow wounds on his arms, and his face was gashed on the right cheek.

'The King orders you to support the right. The enemy are almost beaten.'

The Spartan nodded and turned to Berin, the hawk-faced Thessalian prince. 'Take five hundred men and swing out to the right before linking with Philip.'

Berin nodded, called out his orders and — his men fanning out behind him — cantered across the battlefield. The wounded messenger moved closer to Parmenion. 'The King ordered all the reserves into action,' he whispered.

'You have done well, young man,' said Parmenion. 'Now ride back to camp and let the surgeon see to those wounds.

They are not deep but you are losing a great deal of blood.'

'But, sir. .'

'Do as you are bid,' said Parmenion, turning away from the man. As the messenger rode away a second Thessalian commander guided his mount alongside the general. 'What are we to do, sir?' he asked.

'We wait,' Parmenion answered.

Philip of Macedon, his sword dripping blood, swung his horse's head and risked a glance to the rear. Berin and his 500 Thessalians had circled to the right and charged in on the flanks of the Phocian cavalry, but Parmenion still waited. Philip cursed. A Phocian rider, breaking through the Macedonian outer line, swept towards him with lance levelled. Philip swayed left, the iron point slashing to his right and plunging into his gelding's side. The beast reared in pain but, even while clinging to its back, Philip's sword sliced out in a reverse cut which tore under the Phocian's curved helmet to rip open his throat. Maddened with pain Philip's gelding reared again, then fell. The King leapt clear of the beast's back, but a flailing hoof cracked against his hip and hurled him from his feet.

Seeing the King fall, the Phocians mounted a counter-charge. Philip rolled to his feet, hurled aside his shield and ran at the first rider. The man's lance stabbed out, glancing from the King's breastplate. Philip leapt, dragging the lancer from his horse and stabbing him twice in the belly and groin. Leaving the dying man he ran to the horse, taking hold of the mane and vaulting to its back. But now he was surrounded by Phocian warriors.

A spear opened a long gash in Philip's right thigh, and a sword-blade glanced from his bronze wrist-guard to slice a cut on his left forearm. The King blocked a lunging sword, cleaving his own blade through the man's ribs.

Berin, Attalus and a score of riders attacked the Phocians, forcing them back from the King.

The enemy cavalry were split, the Macedonians surging forward now to engage the enemy infantry. In the brief respite Philip saw his enemy, Onomarchus, standing at the centre of the foot-soldiers, urging them on. 'To me!' yelled Philip, his voice rising above the clashing swords. The Macedonians gathered around him and the King kicked his horse into a run, charging at the first line of shields.

The Phocian line bent in on itself and almost broke, but Onomarchus ordered a second regiment forward to block the charge and Philip was pushed back. A lance plunged into his horse, skewering the heart. The beast collapsed, but once more Philip jumped clear.

'Where are you, Parmenion?' he bellowed.

The Spartan general could feel the increasing anxiety in the men behind him. Like all warriors, they knew that the balance of a battle could swing in a matter of moments. This one was teetering. If Philip's cavalry could be pushed back, Onomarchus would use the greater strength of his infantry to split the Macedonian centre and still achieve victory.

Parmenion looked to the left. A hidden force of foot-soldiers had charged from the woods, but Nicanor and his 500

were engaging them. From here it was impossible to gauge the numbers of men Nicanor and his troops were battling to hold, and the Spartan sent a further 200 men to his aid.

'Look!' shouted one of his Thessalians, pointing to the line of hills on the right.

Hundreds of cavalrymen had appeared on the crest. Philip and his Companion cavalry were caught now between hammer and anvil.

The Phocians charged. .

Parmenion's arm swept up. 'Forward for Macedon!' he shouted. Drawing his sword the Spartan kicked his stallion into a gallop, heading for the Phocian flank. Behind him the remaining 800 Thessalians drew their curved cavalry sabres and, screaming their war-cries, hurtled after him.

The two forces crashed together on the hillside above the surging mass of warriors righting for control of the centre ground.

Onomarchus, seeing his cavalry intercepted, screamed out fresh orders to his men, who valiantly tried to form a shield-wall around him. But the Macedonians were pushing now on three sides: Theoparlis and the Guards at the front; Coenus and the Fifth forcing the Spartans back on the left; and the King, cutting and slashing a bloody pathway on the right.

Bodies lay everywhere, being trampled underfoot by the heavily armoured phalanxes, and no longer could a single bloom be seen on the churned earth of the battle site.

But Philip had long since ceased to think of the beauty of flowers. Mounted on his third horse he forced a path between the Phocian shields, hacking his blade down into a warrior's face, seeing the man disappear beneath the hooves of the Macedonian cavalry. Onomarchus was close now and the Phocian leader hurled a javelin which flew over Philip's head.

Suddenly the Phocians, sensing defeat was imminent, broke and fled in all directions. Onomarchus — his dreams of conquest in ruins — drew his sword and waited for death. Theoparlis and the Guards crashed through the last line of defence and, as Onomarchus turned to meet the attack, a sarissa clove through his leather kilt, smashing his hip and ripping the giant artery at the groin.

With the Phocian leader dead and his army fleeing in panic, the mercenary units and the contingents from Athens, Corinth and Sparta began a fighting retreat across the Crocus Field.

Philip dismounted before his dead enemy, hacking Onomarchus' head from his shoulders and thrusting the severed neck on to the point of a sarissa, which he held high in the air for all men to see.

The battle was over, the victory Philip's. A great weariness settled on the King. His bones ached, his sword-arm was on fire. Letting the sarissa fall, he pulled his helmet from his head and sank to the earth staring around the battlefield.

Hundreds of men and scores of horses lay dead, the numbers growing even now as the Macedonian cavalry hunted down the fleeing Phocians. Parmenion rode to where Philip sat. Dismounting, he bowed to the King.

'A great victory, sire,' he said softly.

'Yes,' agreed Philip as his one good eye looked up into the Spartan's face. 'Why did you not come when I sent for you?'

Other men — Attalus, Berin, Nicanor and several officers — were close by, and they looked to the Spartan, awaiting his answer. 'You asked me to watch over the battle, sire. I believed Onomarchus would have men in reserve — as indeed he did.'

'Damn you!' Philip roared, surging to his feet. 'When the 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 Parmenion come to you earlier you would have been trapped.'

'Be silent!' thundered Philip. Once more he turned to Parmenion. 'I will not have a man serve me who does not obey my orders.'

'That is a problem easily solved, sire,' said Parmenion coldly. Bowing once he turned and, taking his stallion's reins, stalked from the battlefield.

Philip's anger did not abate during the long afternoon. His wounds, though shallow, were painful, his mood dark. He knew he had been unfair to Parmenion, yet in a strange way it only increased his irritation. The man was always so right. The King's wounds were bound with wine-soaked bandages and despite the remonstrations of the bald surgeon, Bernios, Philip supervised the removal of all severely wounded Macedonians to a hospital area outside Pagasai before 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 captured by the cavalry. The killings lifted his mood.

Onomarchus had been a strong enemy, a rallying point for all those who feared Macedonia. Without him the roads to central Greece were now open.

At dusk Philip made his way to the andron, a large room with nine couches. The walls were covered with murals by the Theban artist, Natiles; they were mostly hunting scenes, horsemen chasing down several lions, but Philip was impressed by the artistry and the vivid colours used. The painter was obviously a man who understood the hunt. His horses were real, the lions lean and deadly, the attitudes of the hunters reflecting both courage and fear. Philip decided to send for the man once this campaign was over. Such scenes would look spectacular in the palace at Pella.

One by one Philip's officers arrived with details of the day's losses. Theoparlis, commander of the Guards, had suffered 110 dead and 70 wounded. Antipater reported 84 dead among the Companion cavalry. In all the Macedonians had lost 307 killed, with 227 wounded.

The Phocians had been virtually annihilated. Two thousand had been slain on the battlefield, with at least another thousand drowning as they fled from the beaches, trying in vain to swim to the waiting Athenian triremes.

This last news cheered Philip considerably. Stretching his powerful frame on the silk-covered couch he drained his fifth cup of wine, feeling his tension evaporate. Glancing at his officers, he chuckled. 'A good day, my friends,' he said, sitting up and refilling his cup from a golden pitcher. But the mood was sombre and no one joined him in a toast. 'What is the matter with you all? Is this how to celebrate a victory?'

Theoparlis stood, bowing awkwardly. He was a burly man, black-bearded and dark-eyed. 'If you will excuse me, sire,' he said, his voice deep with the burr of the northern mountains, 'I wish to see to my men.'

'Of course,' answered Philip. Nicanor rose next, then Coenus and Antipater. Within minutes only Attalus remained.

'What in Hecate's name is wrong with them?' enquired the King, rubbing at his blinded eye.

Attalus cleared his throat and sipped his wine before answering, then his cold eyes met Philip's gaze. 'They want to see Parmenion before he leaves Pagasai,' Attalus told him.

Philip put down his wine-cup and leaned back against the cushioned couch. 'I was too harsh,' he said.

'Not at all, sire,' ventured Attalus. 'You gave an order and it was disobeyed. Now you may have to give another.'

Philip stared at his Champion and sighed. 'Ah, Attalus,' he said softly- 'Once an assassin always an assassin, eh? You think I should fear the man who has kept Macedonia safe all these years?'

Attalus smiled, showing tombstone teeth. 'That is for you to decide, Philip,' he whispered. The King's eye continued to stare at the Champion, remembering their first meeting in Thebes nineteen years before when Attalus was in the pay of Philip's uncle, the King Ptolemaos. The assassin had — for whatever reason — saved Philip's life then and had served him faithfully ever since. But he was a cold, friendless man.

'I shall not have Parmenion killed,' said Philip. 'Go and ask him to come to me.'

'You think that he will?'

Philip shrugged. 'Ask anyway.'

Attalus stood and bowed, leaving Philip alone with the pitcher of wine. The King wandered to the window. From here he could still see the twelve Athenian triremes at anchor in the gulf, moonlight glinting from their polished hulls. Sleek, beautiful craft, yet deadly in battle, with three banks of oars to propel them at the speed of galloping horses so that the bronze rams at the prows could smash to shards the timbers of lesser ships.

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

His blind eye began to throb painfully and he turned away from the window, pouring yet another cup of wine.

Slumping to the 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 then and you were like a God of War

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

Parmenion entered, followed by Attalus. Philip moved to the 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 the door closed Philip turned. Parmenion was standing stiffly, his armour put aside, a pale blue tunic covering his slim frame, a grey riding-cloak hanging from his shoulders. Philip gazed into the tall 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 with me, yes?' said the King, forcing a smile. 'Well, I can understand that. Join me in some wine. Go on.' For a moment it seemed the Spartan would refuse, but he picked up the pitcher and filled a cup. 'Now sit down and talk to me.'

'What would you have me say, sire? You gave me two orders. To obey the one, I had to disobey the other. When you are fighting it is I who lead the army. You made this clear to me. "Take whatever action is necessary", you said.

What do you want of me, Philip? It is a long ride to Pella.'

'I do not want to lose your friendship,' said Philip, 'but you are making this hard for me. I spoke in haste. Does that satisfy your Spartan pride?'

Parmenion sighed, his tension sliding from him. 'You will never lose my friendship, Philip. But something has come between us these last two years. What have I done to offend you?'

The King scratched his black beard. 'How many victories are mine?' he asked.

'I do not understand. They are all yours.'

Philip nodded. 'Yet in Sparta they tell all who will listen that it is a renegade Spanan who leads Macedonia to glory.

In Athens they say, "Where would Philip be without Parmenion?" Where would I be?'

'I see,' said Parmenion, meeting the King's gaze. 'There is nothing 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 that. I am a strategos — that is my calling and my life. You are a king — a fighting king. A Battle King. The soldiers fight the harder because you are alongside them. They love you. Who can say how many battles might have been lost without you?'

'But the only battle I have led alone ended in defeat,' Philip pointed out.

'And would have done so whether I was there or not,' Parmenion assured him. 'Your Paionian scouts were complacent; they did not search the mountains as they should. But there is something else, is there not?'

The King returned to the window, staring once more at the distant triremes. He was silent for a long while, then at last he spoke.

'My son is fond of you,' he said, his voice low. 'Sometimes 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, Parmenion. Either that or he is a demon. 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, then turned to face his general. 'All of my battles were for him. I wanted a kingdom he could be proud of. I wanted… I wanted so much. You remember when we went to Samothrace? Yes? I loved Olympias then more than life. Now we cannot sit in the same room for twenty heartbeats without angry words. And look at me. When we met I was fifteen and you were a warrior grown, what. . twenty-nine? Now I have grey in my beard. My face is scarred, my eye a pus-filled ball of constant pain. And for what, Parmenion?'

'You have made Macedonia strong, Philip,' said Parmenion, 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 the horse will topple and die, rotting before my eyes. I remember nothing of the night on Samothrace when I sired him. I think 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 Parmenion, keeping the fear from his voice. 'Who else could be the father?'

'Some demon sent from Hades. I will marry again soon; I will have an heir one day. You know, when Alexander was born they say his first sound was a growl, like a beast. The midwife almost dropped him. They say also that when his eyes first opened they were slitted, like an Egyptian cat. I don't know the truth of it. All I know is that I love the boy.

. and yet I cannot touch him. But enough of this! Are we still friends?'

'I will always be your friend, Philip. I swear it.'

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

Outside the door Attalus felt his anger rising. Silently he moved away down the torchlit corridor and out into the night, the 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.

Parmenion. Always Parmenion. The officers adore him, the soldiers are in awe of him. Can you not see what is happening, Philip? You are losing your kingdom to this foreign mercenary. Attalus halted in the shadows of a looming temple and turned. I could wait here, he thought, his fingers curling round the hilt of his dagger. I could step out behind him, ramming the blade into his back, twisting it, ripping open his heart.

But if Philip found out… Be patient, he cautioned himself. The arrogant whoreson will bring about his own downfall, with all his misguided concepts of honesty and honour. No King wants honesty. Oh, they all talk of it!

'Give me an honest man,' they say. 'We want no crawling lackeys.' Horse-dung! What they wanted was adoration and agreement. No, Parmenion would not last.

And come the blessed day when he fell from favour it would be Attalus to whom Philip would turn, first to dispose of the loathsome Spartan and then to replace him as First General of Macedonia.

The strategos! What was so difficult about winning a battle? Strike at the enemy with the force of a storm, crushing the centre and killing the enemy king or general. But Parmenion had fooled them all, making them believe there was some wondrous mystery. And why? Because he was a coward, seeking always to hang back from the battle itself, keeping himself out of harm's way. None of them could see it. Blind fools!

Attalus drew his dagger, enjoying the silver gleam of moonlight upon the blade. 'One day,' he whispered, 'this will kill you, Spartan.'

The Temple, Asia Minor, Summer

Derae was weary, almost at the point of exhaustion, when the last supplicant was carried into the Room of Healing.

The two men laid the child on the altar bed and stepped back, respectfully keeping their eyes from the face of the blind Healer. Derae took a deep breath, calming herself, then laid her hands on the child's brow, her spirit swimming into the girl's bloodstream, flowing with it, feeling the heartbeat weak and fluttering. The injury was at the base of the spine — the vertebrae cracked, nerve endings crushed, muscles wasting.

With infinite care Derae healed the bone, eliminating adhesions, relieving the pressure on the swollen nerve points, forcing blood to flow over the injured tissue.

Drawing herself back into her body, the priestess sighed and swayed. Instantly a man leapt forward to assist her, his hand brushing against her arm.

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

'I am sorry, lady,' he whispered. Waving her hand, she smiled 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 the blind and no one questions my Gift. The lame walk and people say, "Ah, but she is a Healer." But so simple a matter as knowing an unspoken name, and there is awe. You touched me, 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 injured the bones of her back. I have taken away the pain and tomorrow, when I have rested, I will heal her. You may stay here this evening. My servants will bring you food.'

'Thank you,' he said. 'I have money. . ' Waving him to silence Derae walked away, her step sure. Two female servants pulled open the altar room doors as she approached, a third taking her arm in the corridor beyond and leading the blind Healer to her room.

Once inside, Derae sipped cool water and lay down on the narrow pallet bed. So many sick, so many injured. . each day the queues beyond the Temple grew. At times there were fights, and many of those who finally reached her had been forced to bribe their way to the altar room. Often during the last few years Derae had tried to put a stop to the practice. But, even with her powers, she could not fight human nature. The people beyond the Temple walls had a need only she could satisfy. And, where there was need, there was profit to be made. Now a Greek mercenary called Pallas had thirty men camped before the Temple. And he organized the queues, selling tokens of admission to the supplicants, establishing some order to the chaos.

Unable to thwart him fully, Derae had demanded he allow five poor people a day to be led to her, against ten of the richer. He had tried to trick her on the first day, and she had refused to see anyone. Now the system worked. Pallas hired servants, cooks, maids, gardeners, to tend to Derae's needs. But even this irritated her, for she knew he merely wanted her time spent earning him money by healing the sick, and not engaged in useless pursuits like gardening, which she loved, or cooking or cleaning. And yet, despite the motive, it did mean that more people were being cured.

Should I be grateful to him, she wondered? No. Greed was his inspiration, gold his joy.

She pushed all thoughts of him from her mind. Closing her blind eyes, Derae floated clear of her body. There was freedom here, with the flight of Spirit; there was even joy in the form of a transient happiness free of care. While her body rested Derae flew across the Thermaic Gulf, high above the trident-shaped lands of the Chalcidice and on across the Pierian mountains to Thessaly, her spirit called there by the lover of her youth.

So long ago now, she realized. Thirty years had passed since she and Parmenion lay together in Xenophon's summer home, lost in the exuberance of their youthful passion.

She found him in the captured city of Pagasai, walking from the palace. His step was unsteady and she saw that he had been drinking. But more than this, she sensed the sadness within him. Once Derae had believed they would spend their lives together, willingly locked into love, chained by desires that were not all of the flesh. Not all. .?

She remembered his gentle touch, the heat of his body upon hers, the softness of his skin, the power in the muscles beneath, the warmth of his smile, the love in his eyes. . Despair whispered across her soul.

She was now an ageing priestess in a far-off temple, he a general in Macedonia's triumphant army. Worse, he had believed her dead for these last thirty years.

Sorrow followed the touch of despair, but she put it aside and moved closer to him, feeling the warmth of his spirit.

'I always loved you,' she told him. 'Nothing ever changed that. And I will watch over you as long as I live.'

But he could not hear her. A cold breeze touched her spirit and, with a sudden rush of fear, she knew she was not alone. Soaring high into the sky she clothed her spirit body in armour of light, a sword of white fire burning in her hand.

'Show yourself!' she commanded. A man's form materialized close by. He was tall, with short-cropped grey hair and a beard curled in the Persian manner. He smiled and opened his arms. 'It is I, Aristotle,' he said.

'Why do you spy on me?' she asked.

'I came to see you at the Temple, but it is guarded by money-hungry mercenaries who would not allow me to enter.

And we must talk.'

'What is there to talk about? The child was born, the Chaos Spirit is within him, and all the futures show he will bring torment to the world. I had hoped to aid him, to help him retain his humanity. 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 small side gate in the western wall. Be there at midnight; I will open the gate. Now leave me in peace for a while.'

'As you wish,' he answered. And vanished.

Alone once more, Derae followed Parmenion to the field hospital, watching as he moved among the wounded men, discussing their injuries with the little surgeon, Bernios. But she could not find the peace she sought and took to the night sky, floating beneath the stars.

It had been four years since the magus who called himself Aristotle had come to the Temple. His visit had led to tragedy. Together Derae and the magus had sent Parmenion's spirit into the vaults of Hades to save the soul of the unborn Alexander. But it had all been for nothing. The Chaos Spirit had merged with the soul of the child, and Derae's closest friend — the reformed warrior Leucion — had been torn to pieces by demons sent to destroy her.

Returning to the Temple, she rose from the bed and washed in cold water, rubbing her body with perfumed leaves.

She did not allow her spirit eyes to gaze upon her ageing frame, could not bear to 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 the window waiting for midnight. Outside the Temple the campfires were burning, scores of them. Some supplicants would wait half a year to see the Healer. Many would die before they could redeem their tokens. Once, before the arrival of Pallas, she had tried to walk among the sick, healing as many as she could. But she had been mobbed, knocked to the ground, saved only by her friend and servant Leucion who had beaten the crowds back with a club.

Derae still mourned the warrior who had died defending her helpless body against the demons 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 before midnight, guided by her spirit sight, she crept down to the western gate, sliding back the bolt. Aristotle stepped inside. Locking the gate, she took him back to her room where the magus poured himself some water and sat on the narrow bed. 'Do you mind 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 took a silver winecup, holding it high. The metal twisted, folding in on itself to form a spout from which a flame flickered and grew, bathing the room in light. 'You are not looking well, Derae,' he said. 'Your duties are leaving you overtired.'

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

'No,' he answered. 'First we must talk of the many futures. Has it occurred to you that there is a contradiction in our travels through time?'

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

He smiled and shook his head. 'But do they change? That is the question.'

'Of course they do. I remember old Tamis telling me she saw her own deaths in many futures. In one, she said, she fell from a horse, even though riding was abhorrent to her.'

'Exactly my point,' said Aristotle. 'Now, let me explain: Tamis saw herself falling from a horse. But that is not how she died. So then — who fell from the horse?'

Derae sat down on a cushioned chair, her spirit eyes locked to the magus' face. 'Tamis,' she answered. 'But the futures were changed by events in the past.'

'But that is where the contradiction lies,' he told her. 'We are not talking of prophetic visions here, Derae. You and I -

and Tamis once — can travel to the many futures, observing them. What we are seeing is happening. . somewhere.

All the futures are real.'

'How can they all be real?' she mocked. 'Tamis died but once — as will I.'

'I do not have all the answers, my dear, but I know this: there are many worlds, thousands, all akin to ours. Perhaps every time a man makes a decision he creates a new world. I don't know. What I do know is that it is folly to examine all these alternate worlds and base our actions upon events in them. I too have seen Alexander drag the world down into blood and chaos. I have seen him kill Philip and seize the throne. I have seen him dead as a child, from plague, from a dog-bite, from an assassin's blade. But, do you not see, none of it matters? None of the futures are ours. They are merely echoes, reflections, indications of what might be.'

Derae was silent, considering his words. 'It is an interesting concept. I will think on it. Now, to the point of your visit?'

Aristotle lay back on the bed, his eyes watching the flickering shadows on the low ceiling. 'The point — as always -

concerns the boy in this world. You and I took Parmenion into Hades, where the child's soul merged with the Spirit of Chaos. We took it to be a defeat. But it may not prove to be so.'

'A curious kind of victory,' sneered Derae. 'The boy carries a great evil. It is growing within him worse than any cancer, and he does not have the strength to fight it.'

'He had the strength to stop it destroying Parmenion in the 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 the folly of seeking to change the future. Had I known then what I know now, there would have been no Demon Prince.'

'I think that there would, lady,' said Aristotle softly, 'but it does not matter. The child is no different from the many who are brought to you each day — only he is not crippled in the flesh, he is tormented in the spirit. Neither of us has the power to cast out the demon. But together — and with the boy's help — we might yet return the Dark God to the Underworld.'

Derae laughed then, the sound full of bitterness. 'I heal wounds, 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 thundered, rising to his feet. 'I will not accept that from a woman of Sparta! What has happened to you, Derae? You are no lamb waiting for the slaughter. You are from a race of warriors. You fought the Dark Lady on Samothrace. Where is your spirit?'

Derae sighed. 'You seek to make me angry,' she whispered. 'You will not succeed. Look at me, Aristotle. I am getting 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 give you back your youth,' he said, his voice coaxing, his eyes bright with promise.

For a moment she stood silently, observing him without expression. 'So,' she said, at last, 'it was you. When I healed Parmenion of his cancer, I watched him grow young before my eyes. I thought it was the healing.'

'You can be young also. You can find your dream again.'

'You are a magus — and yet a fool,' she told him, her voice flat, her tone tired. 'Parmenion is married; he has three children. There is no place for me now. We may be able to meddle in the futures — but the past is iron.'

Aristotle stood and moved to the door. There he turned as if to speak, but shook his head and walked away into the darkness of the Temple corridor.

Derae listened until his footsteps faded, then sank to the bed, Aristotle's promise echoing in her mind: ‘I can make you young again.'

He was wrong, she knew. Oh, he could work his magic on her body, strengthening her muscles, tightening her skin.

But youth was a state of mind. No one, god or man, could give her back her innocence, the joy of discovery, the beauty of first love. Without that, what 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 the raiders who had abducted her; lived once more the moment when he first held her.

'I love you,' she whispered.

And she wept.

Before allowing herself the luxury of sleep, Derae traced the lines of three protective spells on the walls, door and window of her room. They would not stop a seeress with the power of Aida, but any disruption to the spells would wake Derae in time to protect herself.

It was almost five years since the last attack, when Leucion had died defending her against the demons sent by the sorceress. Since then Derae had heard little of Aida. The Dark Lady had left her palace in Samothrace and journeyed back to the mainland — travelling, according to rumour, to the northern edges of the Persian empire, there to await Alexander's coming-of-age. Derae shivered.

The child of Chaos, soon to be a destroyer such as the earth had seldom witnessed.

Her thoughts turned to Parmenion and she climbed on to the bed, covering herself with a thin sheet of white linen.

The night was warm and close, the merest breath of breeze drifting in through the open window. Seeking the sanctuary of sleep, Derae pictured Parmenion as he had been all those years ago — the bitter young man, despised by his fellows, who had found love in the tranquil hills of Olympia. Moment by moment she savoured the heady joys of their five days together, stopping her memories short of that awful morning when her father had dragged her from the house and sent her in shame back to Sparta. Slowly, dreamily, she drifted into a new dream where strange beasts

— half-horse half-man — ran through forest trails, and dryads, beautiful and bewitching, sat by sparkling streams. Here was peace. Here was joy.

But the dream moved on and she saw an army marching, cities ablaze, thousands slain. The warriors wore black cloaks and armour, and carried round shields emblazoned with a huge sunburst.

At the centre of the horde rode a warrior in a black cuirass edged with gold. He was black-bearded and handsome, and she recognized him instantly. Yet there was something about him that was strange, different. Floating close to him, she saw that his right eye was made of gold, seemingly molten, and she felt the black touch of his spirit reaching out like ice and flame to freeze and burn.

Recoiling she tried to flee, seeking the peace of the enchanted wood where the centaurs roamed. But she could not escape and a new vision flowed before her spirit eyes.

She saw a palace, grim and shadow-haunted, and a child weeping in a small room. The King came to him there.

Derae tried to block her ears and eyes to the scene. To no avail. The man approached the weeping child, and in his hand was a long, curved dagger.

'Father, please!' the child begged.

Derae screamed as the knife clove through the boy's chest. The scene shimmered and she saw the King leave the room, his mouth and beard streaming with blood.

'Am I immortal now?' he asked a shaven-headed priest who waited outside the room.

The man bowed, his hooded eyes avoiding the gaze of his King. 'You have added perhaps twenty years to your life-span, sire. But this was not the Golden Child.'

'Then find him!' roared the King, blood spraying from his lips and staining the man's pale robes.

The invisible chains holding Derae to the scene fell away and the Healer fled, coming awake in her darkened room.

'You saw?' asked Aristotle, his voice soft.

'So, it was your doing,' she answered, sitting up and reaching for a goblet of water from the table beside the bed.

'I sent you there,' he admitted, 'but what you saw was real. There are many sides to Chaos, Derae, in many worlds. In the Greece you saw there is already a Demon King.'

'Why did you show it to me? What purpose did it serve?'

Aristotle rose and walked to the window, staring out over the moonlit sea. 'You recognized the King?'

'Of course.'

'He has murdered all his children in a bid to achieve immortality. Now he seeks a child of legend, Iskander.'

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

'The enchantment in the world you saw is fading, the centaurs and other creatures of beauty dying with it. They believe that a child will come, a Golden Child, and that he will save them all. The King seeks that golden child; he believes that by eating his heart he will gain immortality. Perhaps he is right.' Aristotle shrugged. 'There are many ways of extending a life. However, even that is not the point. His priests can form small gateways between worlds, and now they 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?'

Aristotle's eyes narrowed. 'You think it desirable that another child should have his heart cut from his body?'

'I do not think I like you,' whispered Derae. 'You are not doing this for the Source, or even to fight Chaos.'

'No,' he admitted. 'It is for me alone. My own life is in peril. Will you help me?'

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

Pella, Macedonia, Summer

Alexander lifted his hand and stared at the blue and grey bird perched in the lowest branches of the tall cypress tree.

The tiny creature fluffed out its feathers and cocked its head to one side, regarding the golden-haired child.

'Come to me,' the boy whispered. The bird hopped along the branch, then took to the air, swooping over the child's head. Alexander waited, statue-still, his concentration intense. With his eyes closed he could follow the bird's flight up over the garden wall, circling back to the palace and down, ever closer to the outstretched arm. Twice the finch sped by him, but the third time its tiny talons sought purchase on his index finger. Alexander opened his eyes and gazed down at the creature. 'We are friends then?' he asked, his voice gentle. Once more the bird cocked its head and Alexander could feel its tension and its fear. Slowly he reached over with his left hand to stroke the finch's back.

Suddenly he felt the surge of killing power swelling within him, his heartbeat increasing, his arm beginning to tremble. Holding it back, desperately he began to 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 to the grass, the lust for death departing as swiftly as it had come. 'I will not give in,' he whispered. 'I will reach ten — 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 stood, forcing the voice away, deeper and deeper inside. The sun was beginning to drop towards the distant mountains and the boy moved into the cool shadows of the western wall. From here he could see the sentries at the gate, their armour bright, their bronze helms gleaming like gold. Tall men, stern of eye, proud, angry because they had been left behind when the King rode to battle.

The guards stiffened to attention, lifting their lances to the vertical. Excitement flared in the boy as the sentries saluted someone beyond the gate. Alexander began to run along the path.

‘Parmenion!' he cried, his high-pitched voice disturbing scores of birds in the trees. ‘Parmenion!'

The general returned the salute and walked into the gardens, smiling as he saw the four-year-old running towards him with arms outstretched. The Spartan knelt and the boy threw himself into his arms.

'We won, didn't we, Parmenion! We crushed the Phocians!'

'We did indeed, young prince. Now be careful you don't scratch yourself on my armour.' Detaching the boy's arms from around his neck, Parmenion loosened the leather thongs on the gilded ear-guards of his helmet, pulling it loose and laying it on the grass. Alexander sat down beside the helm, brushing his small fingers across the white horsehair crest.

'Father fought like a lion. I know, I watched it. He attacked the enemy flank, and had three horses killed under him.

Then he cut the head from the traitor, Onomarchus.'

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

'No,' said Alexander softly, shaking his head. 'He won't tell me. 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 promise you. But, if it pleases you, I will tell you of the battle.'

'I know about the battle. Truly. But Father should beware of neck cuts. With his blind eye he needs to swing his head more than a warrior should, and that bares the veins of the throat. He needs to have a collar made, of leather and bronze.'

Parmenion nodded. 'You are very wise. Come, let us go inside. I am thirsty from the journey and the sun is too hot.'

'Can I ride your shoulders? Can I?'

The Spartan rose smoothly and, taking the prince by the arms, swung him high. The boy squealed with excitement as he settled into place. Parmenion scooped up his helm and walked back towards the palace. The guards saluted once more, the prince's nursemaids dropping to their knees as he passed. 'I feel like a King,' shouted Alexander. 'I am taller than any man!'

Olympias came out into the garden, her servants behind her. The Spartan took a deep breath as he saw her. With her tightly-curled red hair and her green eyes, she was the image of the Derae he had loved so many years before. The Queen was dressed in a sea-green gown of Asian silk, held in place at the shoulder by a brooch of gold shaped like a sunburst. She laughed aloud as she saw the Spartan general and his burden. Parmenion bowed, Alexander screaming with mock fear as he almost came loose.

'Greetings, lady. I bring you your son.'

Olympias stepped forward, kissing Parmenion's cheek. 'Always the welcome visitor,' she told him. Turning to her servants, she ordered wine and fruit for her guest and ushered him into her apartments. Everywhere there were fine silk hangings, brocaded couches, cushioned chairs, and the walls were beautifully painted with Homeric scenes.

Parmenion lifted Alexander and lowered him to a couch, but the boy scrambled clear and took hold of the general's hand.

'Look, Mother. I can hold Parmenion's hand. There is no pain, is there, Parmenion?'

'No pain,' he answered.

'He saved Father's life. He led the counter-charge against the Phocian cavalry. They couldn't fool you, could they, Parmenion?'

'No,' the Spartan agreed.

Two female servants helped Parmenion from his breastplate and a third brought him a goblet of wine mixed with cool water. Yet another girl entered, bearing a bowl of fruit which she placed in front of him before bowing and running from the room.

The Spartan waited until the servants had been dismissed and then raised his goblet to the Queen. 'Your beauty improves with 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 widened in surprise. 'You should not speak of matters you do not understand,' she chided. 'You are too young to know what the King thinks.' Alexander met her gaze but said nothing, and the Queen looked back at the general. 'You will not leave us, will you?'

Parmenion shook his head. 'Where would I go, lady? My family are here. I will spend the autumn at my estates; Mothac tells me there is much to do.'

'How is Phaedra? Have you seen her?' asked Olympias, keeping her voice neutral.

Parmenion shrugged. 'Not yet. She was well when last I saw her. The birth of Hector was troublesome and she was weak for a while.'

'And the other boys?'

The Spartan chuckled then. 'Philotas is always getting into trouble, but his mother spoils him, giving way in everything. Nicci is more gentle; he is only two, but he follows Philo everywhere. He adores him.'

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

Parmenion drained his watered wine and stood. 'I should be riding home,' he said.

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

'A promise should always be kept,' said the Queen.

'Indeed it should,' the general agreed. 'So, young prince, ask me your questions.'

'How many Macedonian casualties were there?'

Leaning forward, Parmenion ruffled the child's golden hair. 'Your questions fly like arrows to their target, Alexander.

We lost just over three hundred men, with around two hundred badly wounded.'

'We should have more surgeons,' said the boy. 'The dead should not outnumber the wounded.'

'Most of the dead come from the early casualties,' the Spartan told him. 'They bleed to death during the battle — before the surgeons can get to them. But you are correct in that we need more 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 may be a little old by then, my prince. Your father is still a young man — and a mighty warrior.'

'I will be mightier still,' promised the child.

The meeting with the Queen and her son disturbed Parmenion as he rode north towards his vast estates on the Emathian Plain. The boy, as all men knew, was possessed, and Parmenion remembered with both fear and pride the battle for the child's soul in the Valley of Hades five years before.

It was a time of miracles. Parmenion, dying of a cancer in the brain, had fallen into a coma — only to open his eyes to a world of nightmare, grey, soulless, twisted and barren. Here he had been met by the magus, Aristotle, and together with the dead sorceress Tamis had tried to save the soul of the unborn Alexander.

Conceived on the mystic isle of Samothrace, the child was intended to be the human vessel of the Dark God, Kadmilos, destined to bring chaos and terror to the world. A small victory had been won in the Valley of the Damned. The child's soul had not been destroyed by the evil, but had merged with it, Light and Dark in a constant war.

Poor Alexander, thought Parmenion. A brilliant child, beautiful and sensitive, yet host to the Spirit of Chaos.

'Will you be my general, Parmenion?'

Parmenion had longed to say, 'Yes, my prince, I will lead your armies across the world.'

But, what if the Dark God won? What if the prince of beauty became the prince of demons?

The bay gelding crested the last hill before the estate and Parmenion drew rein and sat, staring down at his home.

The white stone of the great house shone in the sunlight, the groves of cypress trees around it standing like sentries.

Away to the left lay the smaller houses of the servants and farm-workers and to the right, the stables, 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 was Phaedra, sitting by the fountain with Philo and Nicci beside her, little Hector in her arms. Parmenion's heart sank. Swinging his horse to the east he rode down onto the plain, skirting the great house and angling towards the stable buildings.

Mothac sat in the hay stroking the mare's long neck, whispering words of comfort. She grunted and struggled to stand. Mothac rose with her.

'No movement yet,' said his assistant, Croni, a wiry Thessalian who stood at the rear waiting to assist the birth of the foal.

'Good girl,' Mothac whispered to the mare. 'You'll do right. This is not the first, eh, Larina? Three fine stallions you have borne.' Stroking the mare's face and neck, he ran his hands along her back and moved alongside the Thessalian.

The mare had been in labour now for several hours and was weary to the point of exhaustion. The old Theban knew it was unusual for a birth to be so delayed. Most mares foaled swiftly with few problems.

Always in the past Larina had delivered with speed, her foals strong. But this time they had covered her with the Thracian stallion, Titan, a huge beast of more than seventeen hands.

The mare grunted once more and lay down. Pushing Croni aside, Mothac gently eased his hand inside her, his fingers feeling for the water-sac.

'Be careful, master,' whispered the Thessalian. Mothac grunted 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 birth, both men knew, would likely see the foal born dead.

'I can't tell. But it's moving. Wait! I can feel the head. By Zeus, it's big.' Easing his hand back Mothac stood and stretched. For the last two years his spine had been steadily stiffening, his shoulders becoming arthritic and painful.

'Fetch some grease, Croni. I fear the foal is tearing her apart.'

The Thessalian ran back to the main house, reappearing minutes later with a tub of animal fat, mostly used for the painting of hooves, to prevent sand-cracks and splitting. Mothac took the tub and smelt it.

'This is no good,' he grunted. 'It's almost rancid. Get some olive oil — and be quick about it!'

'Yes, master.'

He returned with a large jug in which Mothac dipped his hands, smearing the oil inside the mare, around the head and hooves of the 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 two men waited beside the mare for some time before the 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 spouted over the membrane, dripping to the hay. The mare was sweating freely now, and in some distress as Mothac moved to the rear and gently took hold of the foal's front legs, easing them towards him. At any time now the membranes would burst, and it was vital the foal's head should be clear, otherwise it would suffocate. Mothac pulled gently while the Thessalian moved to the mare's head, talking to her, his voice low, coaxing and soft.

With a convulsive surge the sac came clear, dropping to the hay. Mothac peeled away the membranes from around the foal's mouth and nostrils, wiping the body with fresh hay. The new-born was a jet-black male, the image of its sire down to the white starburst on its brow. It lifted its head and shivered violently.

'Aya!' exulted Croni. 'You have a son, Larina! A horse for a king! And such a size! Never have I seen a bigger foal.'

Within minutes the foal tried to stand and Mothac helped it to its feet, guiding it towards the mare. Larina, though exhausted, also rose, and after several unsuccessful attempts the new-born found the teat and began to feed.

Mothac patted the mare and walked out into the sunshine, washing his hands and arms in a bucket of water. The sun was high and he picked up his felt hat, covering the sensitive skin of his bald head.

He was tired, but he felt at peace with the world. Foaling always brought this feeling — the beauty of birth, the onward movement of life.

Croni moved alongside him. 'There is great loss of blood, master. The mare may die.'

Mothac looked down at the little man, noting his concern. 'Stay with her. If she is still bleeding in two hours, come and find me. I shall be in the western pasture.'

'Yes, master,' answered Croni. The Thessalian gazed up at the hills. 'Look, master, the lord is home once more.'

Glancing up, Mothac saw the rider. He was still too far away to be recognized by the old Theban, but the horse was Parmenion's second mount, a spirited bay gelding with a white face.

Mothac sighed and shook his head. 'You should have gone home first, Parmenion,' he thought sadly.

'Another victory for the Lion of Macedon,' said Mothac, pouring Parmenion a goblet of wine.

'Yes,' answered the general, stretching his lean frame out on the couch. 'How goes it here?'

'With the horses? Twenty-six foals. The last is a beauty. Larina's, the son of the Thracian stallion. Pure black he is, Parmenion, and what a size! Would you like to see him?'

'Not now, my friend. I am tired.'

The thick-set Theban sat opposite his friend, filling his own goblet and sipping the contents. 'Why did you not go home?'

'I shall. I wanted first to see how the farm fared.'

'I have to clear enough horse-dung all day,' snapped Mothac. 'Don't bring it into my house.'

Parmenion loosened the thongs of his riding-boots, pulling them clear. 'So tetchy, my friend! Maybe it is for the joy of your company. 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 know that I do not. But you have a wife and family waiting for you — and beds far more comfortable than any that I can offer.'

'Comfort, I find, is more to do with the spirit than the softness of beds,' said the Spartan. 'I am comfortable here. You are getting more irritable these days, Mothac. What is wrong with you?'

'Age, my boy,' answered the Theban, controlling his temper. 'But if you don't want to talk to me I won't press you. I will see you this evening.'

Mothac found his anger growing as he walked from the house and up the long hill to the western pasture. For more than thirty years he had served Parmenion, as both servant and friend, but these last five years had seen the Spartan become more distant, more secretive. He had warned him against marrying Phaedra. At seventeen the child was too young, even for the ever-youthful Spartan, and there was something about her… a coldness that radiated from her eyes. Mothac remembered, with an affection born of hindsight, Parmenion's Theban lover — the former whore, Thetis.

Now there was a woman! Strong, confident, loving! But, like his own beloved Elea, she was dead.

He paused at the brow of the hill, watching the workers clear the dung from the first pasture. It was not a task his Thessalians enjoyed, but it helped control the worms which infested the horses. While grazing, a horse would eat the worm larvae in the grass. These would breed in the stomach and develop into egg-laying worms, the new eggs being passed in the droppings. After a while all pastures would be contaminated, causing stunted growth, or even deaths, among the young foals. Mothac had learned this two years before from a Persian horse-trader, and ever since had ordered his men to clear the pastures daily.

At first the Thessalians had been hard to convince. Superb horsemen, they did not take well to such menial tasks. But when the worm infestations were seen to fade and the foals grew stronger, the tribesmen had taken to the work with a vengeance. Strangely, it also helped to make Mothac more popular among them. They had found it hard to work for a man who rarely rode and, when he did, displayed none of the talents for horsemanship so prized among their people. But Mothac's skills lay in training and rearing, healing wounds and curing diseases. For these talents the riders grew to respect him, viewing even his irascible nature with fondness.

Mothac wandered on to the training field where young horses learned to follow the subtle signals of a rider, cutting left and right, darting into the charge, swerving and coming to a dead halt to allow the rider to release an arrow.

This was work the horsemen loved. In the evenings they would sit around communal camp-fires discussing the merits of each horse, arguing long into the night.

The training was being concluded when Mothac approached the field. The youngster, Orsin, was taking a two-year-old black mare over the jumps. Mothac leaned on a fence-post and watched. Orsin had rare talent, even among Thessalians, and he sailed the mare 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 youngster ran to the fence and clambered over it. On the ground the boy was ungainly to the point of clumsiness.

'There will 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 time to ask him. But I will. There is a Persian trader due in the next few days.Heseeks five stallions — the best we have. He is due to come to me at the house, but I don't doubt he will ride out to check the horses before announcing himself. Watch out for him. I do not want him to see the new Thracian stock, so take them to the High Fields.'

'Yes, master. But what of Titan? There is a horse even I would 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 Mothac, 'but on the day you would be wise to consider placing a different bet. Now finish your grooming — and remember what I said about the Persian.'

Parmenion was mildly drunk, and at ease for the first time in months. The wide doors of the andron were open to the north winds and a gentle breeze filtered through the hangings, leaving the room pleasantly cool. It was not a large room, with only three couches, and the walls were bare of ornament or paintings. Mothac liked to live simply and never entertained, yet there was a warmth about his home 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 the grain, the horses and the cattle. It makes me part of the land. Yes, I am content.'

Parmenion nodded, his expression grave. 'That must be a good feeling.' He grinned and sat up. 'Do you still miss Persia and the palace?'

'No. This is my home.' The Theban leaned forward, gripping the Spartan's shoulder. 'We have been friends for a lifetime, Parmenion. Can you not tell me what is troubling you?'

Parmenion's hand came up to grip Mothac's arm. 'It is because we are friends that I do not. Five years ago I had a cancer in my brain. That was healed. But now there is a different kind of cancer in my heart — no, not a real one, my friend,' he said swiftly, seeing the concern in the old Theban's eyes. 'But I dare not talk of it — even to you — for it would put a heavy burden on you. Trust me in this, Mothac. You are my dearest friend and I would die for you. But do not ask me to 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 strengthen their muscles. After that I shall be horse-trading with a Persian named Parzalamis.'

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

The two men walked out into the night and Mothac saw a lantern burning in the foaling stable. Cursing softly he walked across to the building, Parmenion following. Inside Croni, Orsin and three other Thessalians were sitting round the body of the mare, Larina. The pure black foal was lying beside its dead mother.

'Why did you not call me?' thundered Mothac. Croni stood and bowed 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.

Mothac moved past the dark-haired boy and knelt by the mare, laying his huge hand on her neck. 'You were a fine dam, Larina. The best,' he said.

Croni sidled forward. 'It is the curse of Titan,' he said. 'He is a demon beast, and the son will be the same.'

'Nonsense!' said Parmenion, his voice harsh. 'Have Titan in the riding circle tomorrow. I shall tame him.'

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

Turning on his heel Parmenion strode from the stable. Mothac caught up with him, grabbing his arm. 'You should not have said that,' he. whispered. 'The Thessalians know their horseflesh. The beast is insane — and so are you if you attempt to ride him.'

'I have said what I will do,' Parmenion muttered. 'I have not seen a horse I cannot ride.'

'I hope you can say that tomorrow,' grunted Mothac.

The great house was silent as Parmenion rode through the cypress grove towards the main doors. Not a light showed at any window, yet as he reached the front of the house his manservant, Peris, ran forward to take the gelding's reins.

Parmenion leapt to the ground. 'Well met, Peris, does nothing escape your attention?' he asked, smiling.

The servant bowed. 'I saw you this afternoon, lord, on the hilltop. I have been waiting for you. There is cold meat and cheese in the andron, and some pomegranates. Eissa made cakes this afternoon. I will have some brought to you if you desire it.'

'Thank you. How is the arm?'

Peris lifted the leather-covered stump at the end of his right arm. 'It is healing well, lord. There is little pain now, but what there is seems to come from the fingers — as if they are still there. But — as you said -1 am becoming more skilful with my left.'

Parmenion patted the man's shoulder. 'I missed you at the Crocus Field. I felt almost unsafe.'

Peris nodded, his dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. 'I would like to have been there, lord.' Then he smiled and glanced down at his swelling belly. 'But, even had I the use of both 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.'

'It was less than nothing, lord,' replied Peris, bowing, his plump face reddening.

Parmenion walked on into the house. In the andron at the rear two lanterns were burning, casting a soft glow over the room. It was large, boasting twenty couches and thirty chairs, and L-shaped. When Parmenion entertained guests the full room was used, but now the lanterns glowed only in the alcove by the large doorway to the west-facing gardens.

The general moved out onto the patio, breathing in the scent of the honeysuckle growing by the wall. The house was peaceful and only at times like this did he enjoy being here. The thought was depressing.

He heard a movement behind him and turned, expecting to see the crippled Peris.

'Welcome home, husband,' said Phaedra. He bowed stiffly. His wife was wearing a robe of shimmering blue that clung to her slender frame, her golden hair pulled back from her face and bound with silver wire into a pony-tail that hung to her narrow waist. Parmenion 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 then, the sound chilling. 'I lost my powers when I gave myself to you, general, but I will never forget the vision I saw when first you touched me. Your first-born will rule the world. I know it. And he is Philotas.'

Parmenion felt his mouth go dry. 'You are a fool, woman,' he said at last. 'A fool to believe it, and doubly foolish to say it aloud. Think on this: if Philip or Olympias hear of your vision, will they not seek to have the child slain?'

All colour drained from her face. 'How would they hear?' she whispered.

'Who is listening now?' he asked. 'How do you know which servant may be walking in the gardens, or sitting within earshot?'

'You are just trying to frighten me.'

'Indeed I am, Phaedra. For they would not only kill the babe but the mother, brothers and father. And who would blame them?'

'You will protect him. You are the Lion of Macedon, the most powerful man in the kingdom,' she said brightly.

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

'Will you be joining me, husband?'

He wanted to tell her no, but always the sight of her body aroused him.

'Yes. Soon.' Her smile was triumphant and he swung away from it, listening to the soft sound of her footfalls as she left the room. For some time he sat in silence, his heart heavy, then he rose and moved through to the upper nursery where his children slept. Hector was lying on his side in his crib, sucking his tiny thumb. Nicci, as always, had climbed into bed with Philo and the two slept with arms entwined.

Parmenion gazed at his eldest son. 'What is she raising you to be?' he wondered.

He knew — had known for years — that Phaedra regarded him with contempt. The knowledge hurt, but the greater pain was in the lie that bound them together. She had been a seeress and she had seen a golden future. But she had misread it. Parmenion could not tell her of her mistake, or even risk putting her aside; for Phaedra, in her vengeance, could cause incalculable harm. She had been the closest friend of Olympias, who had known of her virgin powers. If she went to the Queen and told her of the vision. . Parmenion felt the swell of panic within him. No, at all costs the secret must be kept. The only final answer would be to kill Phaedra and this he would not, could not, do.

'Oh, Philo,' whispered Parmenion, stroking his son's head, 'I hope you will be strong enough to withstand your mother's ambitions for you.' The boy stirred and moaned in his sleep.

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

Parmenion awoke in the hour before dawn. Silently rising from the large bed, careful not to wake Phaedra, he padded across the scattered rugs that covered the timbered floor. Back in his own rooms he washed himself down with cold water and then rubbed oil into the skin of his arms and chest, scraping it clear with an ivory knife.

Dressing in a simple chiton tunic, he walked down to the gardens. The birds still slept in the trees and not a sound disturbed the silent beauty of the pre-dawn. The sky was dark grey, streaked with clouds, but in the east the colour was lighter as Apollo and his fiery chariot grew ever closer. Parmenion breathed deeply, filling his lungs, before gently stretching the muscles of his thighs, groin and calves.

The garden gate lay open as he loped out in to the countryside. His muscles still felt stiff and his calves were beginning to burn long before he reached the crest of the first hill. It had been impossible to run during the months of the Phocian campaign, and now his body complained bitterly. Ignoring the discomfort he increased his pace, sweat gleaming on his face as the miles flowed by beneath him.

He had never understood the miracle of his healing, the tightening of his skin, the strength of youth once more surging through his body, but he did not need to understand it to glory in it. He had never found any activity to match the constant joy of running — the perfect communion, between mind and body, the freeing of inhibition, the cleansing of spirit. When he ran his mind was free and he could think through his problems, finding solutions with an ease that still surprised him.

Today he was considering the Thracian stallion, Titan. He had cost a great deal of money and yet he was — by Persian standards — cheap. His pedigree was incredible, sired by the finest prize stallion in Persia and born to the fastest mare ever to win the Olympics. Two of his brothers had been sold for fortunes beyond the reach of all but the richest kings, yet Parmenion had acquired him for a mere 2,000 drachms.

Since then the stallion had killed two other horses and maimed one of his handlers, and now was kept apart from the main herd in a pasture ringed by a fence the height of a tall man.

Parmenion knew how foolhardy it was to boast of riding him, but all other methods had failed. The Thessalians did not believe in 'breaking' their horses in the Thracian manner, loading them with heavy weights and running them until they were near exhaustion before putting a rider on their backs. This method, said his men, could break a horse's spirit. It was always important, the Thessalians believed, to establish a bond between mount and man. But for a war-horse and his rider such a bond was vital. When trust was strong, most horses would willingly allow riders upon their backs.

Not so with Titan. Three handlers had been hurt by him, jagged bites or kicks cracking limbs. But on the last occasion he had thrown and then stomped the legs and back of a young Thessalian, who now had no feeling below the waist and was confined to his bed in the communal barracks. There, before long, according to Bernios, he would die.

Parmenion loped on along the line of the hills, his mind concentrating on the day ahead. The Thessalians believed Titan to be demon-possessed. Perhaps he was, but Parmenion doubted it. Wild, yes; untamed, certainly. But possessed? What profit would there 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 until the dawn streaked the sky with crimson, then halted to watch the transient splendour of diamond stars shining in a blue sky, slowly fading until only the North Star remained, tiny and defiant against the arrival of the sun.

Then that too was gone.

The breeze was cool upon the hilltop and his sweat-drenched body shivered. Narrowing his eyes he gazed over the lands that were now his, hundreds of miles of the Emathian plain, grassland, woods, hills and streams. No man could see it all from one place, but from this hilltop he looked down on the seven pastures where his herds grazed. Six hundred horses were kept here, and beyond the line of the eastern hills there were cattle and goats, five villages, two towns and a small forest that surrendered fine timber which was eagerly sought by the shipbuilders of Rhodes and Crete.

'You are a rich man now,' he said aloud, remembering the days of poverty back in Sparta when his tunic was threadbare, his sandals as thin as parchment. Swinging round he stared back at the great house with its high pillars, its twenty large guest-rooms. From here he could see the statues adorning the landscaped gardens and the score of smaller buildings housing slaves and servants.

A man ought to be happy with all this, he admonished himself, but his heart sank with the thought.

Picking up his pace again, he ran on towards the stables and pastures, his eyes scanning the hills, picking out the giant form of Titan alone in his pasture. The horse was running also, but stopped to watch him. Parmenion's scalp prickled as he ran alongside the fence under Titan's baleful glare. The stallion's domain was not large, some eighty paces long and fifty wide, the fence sturdily constructed of thick timbers. Not a horse alive could leap such an obstacle but even so, when Titan cantered towards him Parmenion involuntarily moved to his right to put more distance between himself and the fence. This momentary fear infuriated him, fuelling his determination to conquer the giant.

He saw Mothac talking to the slender Croni and the boy Orsin at the far gate, and more than twenty Thessalians had gathered to watch the coming contest. One of the men clambered up on to the fence, but Titan raced across his pasture, rearing to strike out at the man who threw himself backwards to safety, much to the amusement of his fellows.

'It is not a good day for such a ride,' Mothac told Parmenion. 'There was rain in the night and the ground is soft.'

Parmenion smiled. The old Theban was trying to give him an easy way out. 'It was but a smattering,' said Parmenion.

'Come, let us be starting our day. Which of you brave fellows will rope the beast?'

Mothac shook his head, his concern obvious. 'All right, my boys, let's be seeing some Thessalian skills!'

Several of the men gathered up long, coiled ropes. There was no humour evident now — their faces were set, their eyes hard. Two men ran to the right, keeping close to the fence, waving the coils and calling to Titan who charged at them, the fence-posts rattling as he struck. To the left, unnoticed by the enraged beast, Orsin and Croni climbed into the pasture, angling out behind the black stallion. Suddenly the beast swung and darted at Orsin. Croni's rope sailed over the stallion's great head, jerking tight as he reared to strike the youngster. Feeling the rope bite into his neck, Titan turned to charge Croni. Now it was Orsin who threw a loop over the stallion's head and neck, hauling it tight.

Instantly the other Thessalians clambered over the fence, ready to help, but Titan stood stock-still, his great frame trembling.

The huge head slowly turned, his malevolent gaze fixing on Parmenion as he jumped down into the pasture.

'He knows,' thought Parmenion, with a sudden rush of fear. 'He is waiting for me!'

The Spartan moved towards the horse, always keeping in its line of vision until he stood beside the 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.'

Still the stallion waited, like a black statue. Parmenion eased his fingers under the second rope, sliding it up along the neck, over the ears and down the long nose, waiting for the lunging bite that could tear away his fingers.

It did not come.

Stroking the trembling flanks, Parmenion took hold of the black mane, vaulting smoothly to the stallion's back.

Titan reared as the Spartan's weight came down, but Parmenion locked his legs to the horse's body, holding his position. Titan leapt high in the air, coming down on all four hooves with bone-crunching force, dipping his head and dragging his rider forward. Then he bucked. But Parmenion was ready for the manoeuvre, leaning back and holding to his point of balance.

The black stallion set off at a run, then rolled to his back, desperate to dislodge and crush his tormentor. Parmenion jumped to the ground as the stallion rolled, leaping over the belly and flailing hooves, and springing once more to Titan's back as the horse lunged to his feet. The Thessalians cheered the move.

The giant stallion galloped around the pasture, twisting, leaping, bucking and rearing, but he could not dislodge the hated man upon his back.

Finally Titan charged towards the fence. It was a move the Spartan had not anticipated, and instinctively he knew the stallion's intent. He would gallop towards the timbers and then swing his flanks to crash against the wood, smashing the bones of Parmenion's leg to shards, crippling the Spartan for life. Parmenion had only one hope — to leap clear -

but if he did so the stallion would turn on him.

Seeing the danger the youngster Orsin clambered over the fence and leapt into the paddock, shouting at the top of his voice and waving his coiled rope around his head. The move disconcerted the stallion, who swerved and found himself running head-first at the timbers.

'Sweet Zeus, he'll kill us both!' thought Parmenion as Titan thundered towards the wooden wall.

But at the last moment Titan bunched his muscles, sailing high in the air, clearing the fence with ease and galloping across the hills. The horse herd grazing there scattered before him. Never had Parmenion known such speed, the wind screaming in his ears, the ground moving by below him like a green blur.

'Turn, my beauty!' he yelled. 'Turn and show me your strength.' As if the stallion understood him he swung wide and thundered back towards the pasture.

Mothac and Croni were pulling open the gate, but perversely Titan swerved once more, galloping straight at the highest point of the fence.

'Sweet Hera be with me!' prayed the Spartan, for here the highest bar of the fence was almost seven feet high. The stallion slowed, 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. Immediately the stallion turned on him, rearing above him with hooves lashing down. The Spartan rolled and came up running, diving between the fence bars and landing head-first in a patch of churned earth. The Thessalians roared with laughter as Parmenion staggered to his feet.

'I think,' said the Spartan, with a grin, 'he may take a little breaking yet. But what a horse!'

'Look out!' yelled Croni. Titan charged the fence once more, leaping it without breaking stride. Parmenion dived out of the way, but the stallion swung, seeking him out. When Croni ran forward with his rope, Titan saw him and swerved towards the Thessalian, his huge shoulder crashing into the little man and punching him from his feet.

Before anyone could move Titan reared above the Thessalian, his front hooves hammering down into Croni's face.

The skull dissolved, the head collapsing in a sickening spray of blood and brains. Orsin managed to get a rope over the stallion, but twice more the hooves smashed down into the limp body on the grass. Titan felt the noose settle on his neck and jerked hard, tugging Orsin from his feet. Ignoring the boy he thundered towards Parmenion. The Spartan threw himself to his left but, as if anticipating the move, Titan reared high, his blood-spattered hooves plunging down. Parmenion dived again, this time to his right, his back striking a fence-post. Titan loomed above him.

Suddenly the stallion's neck arched back, an arrow jutting from his skull.

'No!' screamed Parmenion. 'No!' But a second shaft buried itself deep in Titan's flank, piercing the heart. The stallion sank to his knees, then toppled to his side.

Parmenion rose on unsteady legs, staring down at the 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.'

Movement by Titan's dead eye caught Parmenion's attention. Thick white maggots were crawling from under the lid and slithering down the horse's face, like obscene tears. 'There are your demons,' said Parmenion. 'His brain must have been alive with them. Gods, they were driving him mad!'

But the Thessalians were no longer in earshot. They had gathered around the body of their friend Croni, lifting him and carrying him back towards the main house.

The death of the stallion left Parmenion's spirits low. Never had he seen a finer horse, nor one with such an indomitable spirit. But worse than this, the slaying of Titan made him think of the child, Alexander.

Here was another beautiful creature, possessed by evil. Intelligent — perhaps brilliant — and yet cursed by a hidden malevolence. An awful image leapt to his mind: the child lying dead with fat, pale maggots crawling across his lifeless eyes.

Forcing the vision from his thoughts, he toiled alongside the men as they cleared the fields, helping them rope the young horses, getting them accustomed to the needs of Man.

Towards midday the Spartan wandered out to the lake where Mothac was exercising lame or injured mounts. The men had built a floating raft of timbers which was anchored at the centre of a small lake, a bowshot's length from the water's edge. A horse would be led out into the water, where he would swim behind the boat leading him until the raft was reached. Once there the lead rope would be thrown up to Mothac who would encourage the horse to swim around the raft. The exercise built up a horse's strength and endurance, while putting no strain on injured muscles or ligaments. Mothac, his bald head covered by an enormous felt hat, was walking the perimeter of the raft, leading a bay mare who struggled in the water alongside.

Removing his tunic Parmenion waded out into the cold water, swimming slowly towards the raft, his arms moving in long, lazy strokes. The cool of the lake was refreshing, but his mind was 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 wet body. Mothac summoned the boat, throwing the lead rope to the oarsman.

'That's enough for today,' he shouted. The oarsman nodded and led the mare back to dry land. The old Theban sat beside Parmenion, offering him a jug of water.

'That hat looks ridiculous,' remarked Parmenion.

Mothac grinned and pulled the floppy hat from his head. 'It's comfortable,' he said, wiping sweat from the 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.

Parmenion smiled ruefully. 'I was talking of the horse. Though you are correct, I should have been thinking of the man. But Titan must have been in great pain; those maggots were eating his brain. I find it obscene that such a magnificent beast should have been brought low by such vile creatures.'

'He was only a horse,' said Mothac. 'But I shall miss Croni. He had a family in Thessaly. How much shall I send?'

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

'He was popular,' Mothac answered. 'But they are hard men. You impressed them with your ride.' He chuckled suddenly. 'By Heracles, you impressed me!'

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

'I think you might. The foal is the image of his sire. And he will be big — he has a head like a bull.'

'I saw him in the stables last night — with his dead mother. 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 the water-jug and leaned back on his powerful forearms. 'What is wrong between you and Philip?'

Parmenion shrugged. 'He is a King is search of a glory he does not wish to share. I cannot say I blame him for that.

And he has the lickspittle Attalus to whisper poison in his ear.'

Mothac nodded. 'I never liked the man. But then I never liked Philip much either. What will you do?'

The Spartan smiled. 'What is there to do? I will fight Philip's battles until he decides he has no more need of me.

Then I will come here and grow old with my sons around me.'

Mothac grunted and swore. 'You would be a fool to believe that — and you are no fool. If you left Philip, every city in Greece would vie for your services. Within a season you would be leading an army. And, since there is only one great enemy, you would be leading it against Philip. No, Parmenion, when 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 Mothac, unconvinced. 'So, where will the next war be fought? Will you march on the cities of the Chalcidice, or down through Boeotia to sack Athens?'

'That is for the King to decide,' answered Parmenion, his gaze straying 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 know. More to the point, he does not know. He is not the man I once knew, Mothac; he is driven now. He had hundreds of Phocians executed after the Crocus Field, and it was said he stood and laughed as they died. Yet before we left Macedonia I watched him judge several cases at court. I knew, on this particular day, that he wanted to hunt and was hoping to conclude by early afternoon. At last he declared an end to the proceedings, telling the petitioners to come back on another day. But as he left the judge's chair an old woman with a petition came close to him, calling out for justice. He turned and said, "No time, woman." She just stood there for a moment and then, as he walked on, shouted: "Then you've no time to be King!" Everyone close by held their breaths. Was she to be executed? 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.'

Mothac rose and waved for the boat to come out to them. '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 trust him. Neither 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 Attalus. 'What more can I say to you? There are killers in Pella, just waiting for the opportunity to come at you. Why are you set on this course?'

'Because I am the King!' thundered Philip.

Attalus sat back on the couch staring sullenly at his monarch. 'You think,' he asked finally, 'that you are a god? That cold iron cannot penetrate your body, cannot slice your heart?'

Philip smiled and relaxed. 'No delusions, Attalus. How could I?' he added, touching the scar above his blinded right eye. 'But if I cannot walk in the streets of my own capital, then my enemies have truly won. You will be there. I trust you to protect me.'

Attalus looked into the King's face, seeing no compromise there, and recalled the first time they had met, in Thebes nineteen years ago. The King had been merely a boy then, a frightened boy waiting for the assassin's blade. Yet in his eyes had been the same fierce glow. His uncle the King, Ptolemaos, had tried to have him quietly poisoned, but the boy outwitted him, saving his brother Perdiccas and killing Ptolemaos as he lay in his bed. This he had achieved as a thirteen-year-old. Now, at thirty-two, Philip had united Macedonia, creating a nation to be feared.

But such pride was double-edged, Attalus knew, bringing either greatness or an early grave. Macedonian spies in the Chalcidean city of Olynthos reported that an elite group of assassins had been hired to end the threat of Philip of Macedon. It took no genius to realize they would strike at the Festival of Thanksgiving when the King, dressed only in tunic and cloak, walked unarmed among the crowds to the Temple of Zeus.

'Think of Alexander,' urged Attalus. 'If you are slain, then he will be in great peril. You have no other heirs, which means the nobles will fight amongst themselves to succeed you. Alexander would be killed.'

For a moment only Philip wavered, stroking his thick black beard and staring from the wide window. But when he turned back Attalus knew the cause was lost. 'I will walk among my people. Now, have enough flowers been distributed along the route?'

'Yes, sire,' answered Attalus wearily.

'I want them strewn before my feet. It will look good; it will impress the ambassadors. They must see that Macedonia is with me.'

'Macedonia is with you — regardless of whether they throw flowers.'

'Yes, yes. But it must be seen. The Athenians are stirring up more trouble. They do not have the finance to mount a campaign themselves, but they are working hard on the Olynthians. I do not desire a war — yet — with the Chalcidean League. Now how do I look?'

Attalus curbed his temper and gazed at the King. Of medium height, he was broad-shouldered and powerful, his black tightly curled hair and beard shining like a panther's pelt, the tawny flecks in his single green eye highlighted by the crown of golden laurel leaves. His tunic 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. 'Always so gloomy, Attalus. Have I not made you rich? Are you even now not content?'

'I will be content when the day is over.'

'I will see you in the courtyard,' said Philip. 'Remember, no more than ten Guards to walk behind me.'

Alone now, Philip moved back to the long table, spreading the goatskin map across the surface. For too long the great cities, Athens, Sparta and latterly Thebes, had fought to rule Greece; their own enmities causing war after bloody war. Athens against Sparta, Sparta against Thebes, Thebes against Athens, with all the minor states sucked in.

Endless permutations of broken alliances, changing sides, shifting fortunes.

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

Philip knew the endless wars were self-perpetuating, for the hundreds of cities and towns of northern Greece all paid homage to different masters. Any dispute between such cities could — and would — draw in the major powers. In Macedonia alone, when Philip came to power, there were more than twenty supposedly independent cities who offered no allegiance to the throne. Instead they formed alliances with Sparta, Athens, or Thebes, each city boasting its own small army or militia force. Many of them were coastal settlements, which meant safe landing for an invading army. One by one, during the seven years since he became King, Philip had taken these citadels, sometimes 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 was essentially simple: remove all threats from within the kingdom by stealth or war.

He had established an early treaty with Athens, which enabled him to concentrate on crushing his enemies in the west and north. Now he had forged strong links with Thessaly in the south by destroying the Phocian army, which had ravaged central Greece.

But the storm-clouds still gathered. Philip's army had swept into the independent city of Amphipolis on his eastern border — a city Athens coveted. The shock invasion was not without its critics — including Pannenion.

'You promised Athens you would let them rule the city,' the general had pointed out.

'Not so. I told them I did not see it as Macedonian. There is a difference.'

'A small one,' replied Pannenion. 'You let them believe you meant them to take control. It will mean war with Athens. Are we ready for it?'

'It is a small risk, my friend. The Athenians are not rich enough to wage a full war at this distance. And I cannot allow Amphipolis to be a secret base for Athens.'

Parmenion had laughed then. 'There is no one else here, Philip. You do not need to take such a high tone.

Amphipolis is rich; she controls the trade routes to Thrace, and all of the southern reaches of the River Strymon. You are running short of coin, and the army must be paid.'

'There is that,' answered Philip, his grin infectious. 'By the way, the army is not yet large enough. I want you to train me ten thousand more men.'

The smile vanished from the Spartan's face. 'You already have more than enough to secure the realm. From where will come the danger? Thrace is divided, the three kings warring among themselves; the Paionians are finished, and the Illyrians will never rise to their former glory. You are building an army now of conquest — not defence. What is it you want, Philip?'

'I want ten thousand more men. And before you ask another question, my Spartan friend, was it not you who once advised me to keep my plans more secret? Very well, I am following 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.'

'Indeed he did, sire,' admitted Parmenion, 'but as with all strategies there is the question of scale. Armies must be supplied, lines of communication need to be open and swift. Your greatest advantage over Athens is that your commands are instantly obeyed, whereas the Athenians must gather their assembly and argue for days, sometimes 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 greatest danger. Parmenion had been right.

The taking of Amphipolis and other independent citadels had struck fear into the hearts of his neighbours, who were busy enlisting mercenaries, hoplites from Thebes, javeliners from Thrace, archers from Crete.

And Athens, in the distant south, had declared war, sending agents to all northern realms and cities urging them to stand against the Macedonian aggressor. Now that the Phocians were crushed the game was becoming complex, for no single enemy would dare raise his head above the ramparts and no single battle could solve Philip's dilemma.

His enemies would wait for a sign of weakness — then strike together, coming from east, west and south. If he moved against any one foe the others would fall upon his back, causing a war on two or more fronts.

The greatest immediate danger lay to the east, from Olynthos, the leader of the Chalcidean League of cities. Philip's finger traced over the trident-shaped lands of the Chalcidice. Between them the cities could raise 20,000 hoplites armed with spear, sword and shield, more than 3,000 cavalry and, perhaps, a further 7,000 — maybe 8,000 -

javeliners. A war with Olynthos would be costly and dangerous. Whoever won would be so weakened they would fall to the next aggressor. That was why the Olynthians were relying on the assassins they had sent to Pella.

The King heard the sounds of the Guards marching into the courtyard below his window. 'Walk with care today, Philip,' he warned himself.

Attalus gathered the ten members of the Royal Guard, inspecting their bronze breastplates and helms, their scabbards and greaves. They shone like burnished gold. Moving behind the lines, he glanced at their black cloaks. Not a trace of dust or grime showed. Satisfied, he walked back to stand before them.

'Be aware,' he said slowly, 'that the King is always in danger. Always. It does not matter that he walks in the heart of his realm. It is immaterial that the people love him. He has enemies. As you march behind him, keep your eyes on the crowd. Do not look at the King. Watch for any sudden movement. Is that understood?' The men nodded.

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

'Of course.'

'Are you speaking in general terms, or is there a particular threat today?'

Attalus looked closely at the man, trying to remember his name. 'As I said, the King is always in danger. But it is a good question. Be vigilant.'

Taking his place at the centre, he waited for the King. The route would take them along the main Avenue of Alexandros, through the market-place and on to the Temple of Zeus. A walk of no more than a thousand paces, perhaps less, but the crowd would be pressing in. Attalus had stationed soldiers along the line of the parade, but they would be stretched to keep back the thousands of citizens. Philip's popularity was high and that made for great danger on a day such as this, for the people would be excitable — straining to touch him, pushing against the thin line of soldiers. Sweat dripped into Attalus' eyes. A trained assassin himself, he knew how easy it was to kill a man no matter how well protected. At no time would Philip be more than five paces from the throng. A sudden dash, the flash of a knife, the spurting of royal blood. .

For the hundredth time he pictured the route, the white-walled buildings and narrow alleyways.

Where would you make the attempt? he asked himself again. Not at the start when the guards would be at their most alert, but towards the end. Not near the temple, where open ground would prevent the assassins' escape. No. The attack would come close to the market-place with its scores of alleyways. Two hundred paces of sheer terror awaited him.

Damn you, Philip!

The King walked from the palace doors, the ten guards beating their fists upon their breastplates in greeting. Attalus was slow to follow, his mind preoccupied. 'I see you, Coenus,' said Philip, smiling at the man whose name Attalus had been struggling to remember. 'And you, Diron. I would have thought you'd have had enough of my company.'

One by one Philip greeted each of the men. It never ceased to amaze Attalus how the King memorized the names of the men under his command. Coenus — now Attalus remembered him. He had been promoted by the whoreson Parmenion to command the reserve phalanx at the Crocus Field.

'Are we ready?' asked the King.

'Yes, sir,' Attalus answered.

Two soldiers opened the gates and Philip strode from the palace grounds to be greeted by a thundrous roar from the citizens beyond. Attalus kept close behind him. Brushing the sweat 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 the cross section the main parade was waiting: cavalrymen from Thessaly, ambassadors from Thebes, Corinth, Pherai, Olynthos and Thrace. Behind them were jugglers and acrobats, jesters and actors in masks of gleaming bronze. At the rear of the parade two white bulls, garlanded with flowers, were led on their last walk to the sacrificial altar of Zeus.

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

Attalus, hand on his sword-hilt, saw the crowd surge forward against the thin line of soldiers on either side who fought to keep the way open. Philip walked on, waving and smiling. A small boy dashed from the left, running up to the King. Attalus' sword was half drawn. He slammed it back into its scabbard as Philip swept the 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 the King walked the boy back, handing him to a woman in the crowd.

Attalus cursed. One thrust now and it was all over…

But Philip moved back into the centre of the avenue and continued on his way at the head of the parade.

As they approached the market-place, Attalus' gaze flickered left and right over the crowd, watching faces, looking for signs of tension. Still the flowers came, the avenue carpeted with myriad colours.

Suddenly the crowd surged again. Three men broke clear, running towards the King.

Knives flashed in the sunlight, as Attalus sprinted forward.

A long dagger plunged into the King's side.

'No!' screamed Attalus. Philip staggered, his hand sweeping aside his cloak and coming up with a hidden sword. The blade smashed through the first assassin's neck. A second knife lunged for the King's throat, but Philip parried the blow, sending a reverse cut that opened the man's arm from elbow to shoulder. Attalus killed the third man as he tried to stab Philip in the back.

The crowd were screaming now. As Philip advanced on the wounded assassin, the man flung himself to his knees.

'Spare me. I will tell you all!' he pleaded.

'You have nothing of worth to say,' said the King, his sword plunging between the man's collar-bones.

'Get a surgeon!' yelled Attalus, moving alongside Philip and taking his arm.

'No!' countermanded the King. 'It is not necessary.'

'But I saw him stab you.'

Philip made a fist and tapped at his tunic. A metallic 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.

Later that night as the King relaxed in his chambers, growing steadily more drunk, Attalus asked the question that had been gnawing at him all day.

'Why did you kill the last assassin? He could have named the people who hired him.'

'It would have achieved nothing. We both know the men came from Olynthos. If such news became public I would be forced into a war with the Chalcideans; the people would demand it. But it was 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 game, my friend. We cannot hide. The gods use us as they will, then discard us. Today my people saw their King; they watched him march, they saw him fight and conquer. Their pride was fed. So, then, the Olynthians only helped my cause. I feel grateful to them — and to you for protecting my back. I trust you, Attalus, and I like you. You make me feel comfortable — 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?' answered Attalus. The young prince, fearing Attalus had been sent to kill him, gave him the chance in an alleyway where there were no witnesses. And Attalus had been tempted. At the time he served King Ptolemaos, and Philip was but a boy the King desired dead. Yet he had not struck the blow. . and still did not know why.

'What are you thinking?' asked Philip.

Attalus jerked his mind to the present. 'I was re-living that day, and the journey back to Macedonia. Why do you trust me, Philip? I know myself, and all my failings. I would not trust me — so why do you?'

The smile left the King's face as, leaning forward, he gripped Attalus' shoulder. 'Do not question it,' he advised.

'Enjoy it. Few men ever earn a King's trust, or his friendship. You have both. It does not matter why. Perhaps I see in you a quality you have not yet found. But, were I beset by enemies, you are the man I would most want by my side.

Let that be enough.' The King drained his wine, refilling the cup. He stood — staggered — and wandered to the window, staring out to the west.

Attalus sighed. Exhausted by the tension of the day, he took his leave and walked slowly back to his own rooms in the 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 tired to climb the stairs to his bed, he lay back on the couch and slept.

'An impressive herd, my dear Mothac. How is it that a Theban develops such a talent for horses?' The Persian stroked his golden beard and leaned back in his chair.

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

The Persian smiled thinly, but his pale eyes showed no trace of humour. 'Of course — it is from my country, and I would guess at least ten years old. Am I correct?'

'It would surprise me if you weren't.'

'A kind compliment,' said Parzalamis, rising from the chair and walking to the open doorway where he stood looking out over the western hills. Mothac remained on the couch, but his gaze followed the silk-clad Persian. Such clothes, he thought! What was the point of such luxury? Parzalamis wore loose trousers of blue silk, edged with silver wire which in turn held small pearls. His shirt was also silk, but the colour of fresh cream, the chest and back embroidered with gold thread forming the head of a griffyn, part-eagle part-lion. He had no cloak, but his heavy coat of embroidered wool had been flung carelessly across a couch. Mothac's gaze moved down to the man's boots. 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.

Parzalamis swung and walked back to his seat. Rich Persian perfume wafted to Mothac as the man crossed the room and he chuckled. 'What amuses you?' asked his guest, his expression hardening.

'Not amusement — embarrassment,' said Mothac swiftly. 'Happy as I am to see you, your magnificence makes my home feel like a pig-sty. Suddenly I see all the cracks in the wall, and notice that the door-frame has warped.'

The Persian relaxed. 'You are a clever man, Theban. Your tongue moves faster than a cheetah. So, I have bought your horses and now let us move to more serious matters. What are Philip's plans?'

Swinging his legs from the couch, Mothac refilled his goblet. 'Parmenion assures me he is still securing his borders against his enemies. The Great King has nothing to fear.'

'The Great King fears nothing!' snapped Parzalamis. 'He is merely interested in his vassal king.'

'Vassal?' queried Mothac. 'As I understand it, Philip sends no tribute to Susa.'

'The point is immaterial. All Macedonia is part of the Great King's empire. Indeed, the same can be said for all of Greece. Athens, Sparta and Thebes all accept the sovereignty of Persia.'

'If Macedonia is indeed a vassal,' said Mothac, choosing his words carefully, 'then surely it is strange that the Phocians paid their army with Persian gold when all men knew the army would march against Philip.'

'Not at all,' answered Parzalamis. 'The general Onomarchus travelled to Susa and knelt before the Great King, offering his allegiance to the empire. For this he was rewarded. And let us not forget it was Philip who marched against the Phocians, not the reverse. And I am unhappy with this idea of securing borders. Where does it stop?

Philip already controls Illyria and Paionia. Now the Thessalians have made him their King. His borders grow with every season. What next? The Chalcidice? Thrace? Asia?'

'Not Asia,' said Mothac. 'And Parmenion maintains the Chalcidice is safe for the time being. Therefore it is Thrace.'

'What does he want?' hissed Parzalamis. 'How much territory can any one man hold?'

'An interesting question from a servant of the Great King.'

'The Great King is divinely blessed. He is not to be confused with a barbarian warrior. Thrace, you say? Very well, I will bear that intelligence to Susa.' Parzalamis leaned back, staring at the low ceiling. 'Now tell me of the King's son.'

The question was asked in a tone altogether too relaxed and Mothac let it hang in the air for a moment.

'He is said to be a brilliant child,' the Theban answered. 'When barely four he could read and write, and even debate with his elders.'

'Yet he is possessed,' said Parzalamis. Mothac could feel the tension in the man's voice.

'You see a four-year-old child as a threat?'

'Yes — not of course to Persia, which is beyond fear, but to the stability of Greece. You lived for many years in Persia and no doubt came to understand the true religion. There is Light which, as Zoroaster informed us, is the root of all life, and there is Darkness, in which nothing grows. Our wise men say that this Alexander is a child of Darkness.

You have heard this?'

'Yes,' agreed Mothac, shifting uncomfortably under the Persian's gaze. 'Some talk of him being a demon. Parmenion does not believe it.'

'And you?'

'I have seen the child only once but, yes, I could believe it. I touched his shoulder when he came too close to a stallion. The touch burned me. I could feel it for weeks.'

'He must not live,' whispered Parzalamis.

‘I’ll have no part in this,' answered Mothac, rising and walking to the door. Stepping outside into the gathering twilight he looked around. There was no one in sight and he returned to the room. The light was failing and Mothac lit three lanterns. 'It would be madness to kill the child. Philip's anger would be colossal.'

'That is true. But we must consider where best such anger could be directed. In Athens the orator Demosthenes speaks out against Philip with great vehemence. If the assassin were to be in the pay of Athens then Philip would march south, yes?'

'Nothing would stop him,' agreed the Theban.

'And it is well known that central Greece is a burial ground for ambition. All the great generals have fallen there.'

'How will the deed be done?'

'The matter is already in hand. A Methonian slave named Lolon will kill the child; he has been bribed to do so by two Athenians in our service. He will be taken alive, of course, and will confess that he was hired on the instructions of Demosthenes, for he believes such to be the case.'

'Why are you telling me this?'

'The two Athenians have been told to flee north from Pella. It will not be expected. You will hide them here for some weeks. After that they 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.'

Parmenion sat in the western alcove of his andron, eyes fixed on a honey-bee as it settled on a flowering yellow rose.

The bloom slowly bent as the bee shuffled inside seeking pollen.

'Is that all he said?' asked the Spartan.

'Is it not enough?' Mothac countered.

Parmenion sighed and stood, stretching his back. It had taken three years to infiltrate Mothac into the Persian spy system, and at last it was beginning to justify the effort. At first they had been wary of him, knowing him to be Parmenion's friend. Then slowly, as his information proved accurate, they had begun to trust him more. But this sudden sharing of such a powerful secret would need some serious consideration. 'I will have the servant watched, and put extra guards in the garden beneath Alexander's window.'

'But you must tell the King,' put in Mothac.

'No, that would not be wise. There is great fear in Persia that — ultimately — Philip will lead his forces into Asia. It is making them reckless. The attack on Philip at the Festival — the Olynthians would never attempt anything so rash.

No, it was the 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.

Parmenion grinned. 'I do not wish to find you with a knife between your ribs. And there is no doubt in my mind that Persia will one day be the enemy. It is the richest kingdom in the world — and Philip spends recklessly. Despite the mines and cities we have captured there is still not enough wealth in Macedonia to pay for the army. No, Persia is the ultimate prize, therefore it is vital to maintain contact with Parzalamis. But how do we save the prince — without compromising you?'

'The Methonian servant could have an accident — break his neck?' offered Mothac.

Parmenion shook his head. 'Too obvious. And the Athenians — whose names we do not know — would only hire someone else. It is a thorny problem. But I will work on it.'

'He gave no indication of how soon Lolon will strike. It could be tonight!' said Mothac.

'Yes,' answered Parmenion, holding his voice even, not allowing a flicker of emotion to betray his concern. 'I will ride for Pella tomorrow. 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.'

Mothac stood. 'This game is growing in complexity, my friend. I am not comfortable with it.'

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

When the Theban had gone Parmenion strolled in the gardens, halting at the marble fountain. There were three statues at the centre representing Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and War, and Hera, the Queen of the Gods. In their midst stood a handsome youth holding an apple.

'Kingdoms are at stake and nothing remains simple.'

The youth was Paris, a Prince of Troy, and the three goddesses had commanded him to present the golden apple to the most beautiful among them. Parmenion gazed at the youth's stone face, reading the emotion the sculptor had so exquisitely carved there. It was the look of the lost. If he gave the apple to one then the others would hate him, not resting until they saw him dead.

'Kingdoms are at stake and nothing remains simple.'

Paris had presented the prize to Aphrodite, and she had rewarded him by making the most beautiful woman in the world love him. His happiness was complete. But the woman was Helen, wife of Menelaus, King of Sparta, and Athena, allied with Hera, conspired to bring a Greek army seeking vengeance. Paris saw his city conquered, his family slain, and was himself stabbed to death as Troy burned.

Foolish boy, thought Parmenion. He should have ignored beauty and presented it to the strongest. How could Paris have believed that Love alone could save him? Pushing such thoughts from his mind he stayed by the fountain pool until dusk, concentrating on the problem set by Parzalamis.

Servants brought him food and wine which he left untouched on the marble bench where he sat beneath a flowering tree that offered shade from the setting sun. As the hours passed he was no nearer to a solution and this galled him.

Loosen your mind, he told himself. Think back to your days with Xenophon, and the advice the Athenian general offered so freely.

'If a problem cannot be tackled by a frontal assault,' Xenophon had said, 'then try a flank attack.' Parmenion smiled at the memory.

Very well, he thought. Let us examine all that we know. The Persians wish to kill Alexander. They gave Mothac two reasons. Firstly their magi believe him to be possessed. Secondly, if Athens could be implicated in the child's murder, it would set Philip on the road to revenge. What facts do I possess, he asked himself?

The name of the assassin.

He sat upright. Why would Parzalamis have revealed the name? Why not just tell Mothac that a servant had been bribed? It would be safer that way. A mistake, perhaps? No, Parzalamis was too wily to fall victim to a loose tongue.

The answer was suddenly chillingly obvious — they were still testing Mothac. Parzalamis did not need a hiding-place for the Athenians. What he needed was to know whether his finest Macedonian spy could be trusted. Yet to tell him of the assassination attempt was perilous indeed, for if news came to Philip he would certainly go to war with Persia.

Therefore Parzalamis must have taken steps to prevent the information reaching the Macedonian King.

It was as if sunlight had speared through the clouds of Parmenion's troubled thoughts. Mothac would have been. .

must have been. . followed. Once they had seen him rushing to Parmenion, they would know he had betrayed them.

The unarmed Spartan lurched to his feet. Parzalamis would have only one option now. Eliminate the danger. Kill Mothac and the man to whom he had confided the secret.

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

A figure leapt from the shadows, moonlight gleaming on an upraised knife-blade. Parmenion ducked and hammered his left fist into the man's face, hurling him off balance. A second attacker grabbed him from behind, but Parmenion dropped to one knee, taking hold of the assassin's arm and pitching him into his comrade. A third man ran at him with a short stabbing sword in his hand. Surging to his feet Parmenion swayed left, the blade slashing past his hip.

His fist cannoned against the assassin's chin, staggering him. The other men had regained their feet and were advancing. Parmenion backed away. They came at him in a rush. With a savage scream the Spartan launched himself feet first into their midst, smashing one of the attackers from his feet. The sword cut a shallow wound in his thigh, a knife sliced his scalp. Parmenion rolled to his left. The sword-blade clanged against the stone of the path, sending up a shower of sparks. Parmenion's right leg swept out, knocking the swordsman to the ground. The Spartan's hand fell against a large stone, which he threw into the advancing knifeman's face. Blood spurting from his crushed nose the man cried out, dropping his knife. Parmenion dived for it and rolled to his feet.

The swordsman aimed a wild cut at his head. Parmenion ducked once more and then stepped inside, ramming the knife into the man's belly and ripping it up through the lungs. As the assassin screamed and fell, his comrades turned to run. Parmenion's arm swept up, the blood-covered knife slicing through the air to plunge into one assassin's back.

The man stumbled but ran on. Scooping up the fallen sword, the Spartan gave chase. The fleeing warriors ran to the western gate, where their mounts were tethered. The first man vaulted to his horse but his wounded comrade, blood streaming down his back, could not summon the strength to mount. 'Help me, Danis!' he begged. Ignoring him, his companion kicked his horse into a gallop.

Parmenion raced through the gateway and hacked the sword through the wounded attacker's neck. Seizing the reins of the assassin's horse, he swung himself to the beast's back and set off after the third man.

The fleeing rider had a good start, but he was no horseman and steadily Parmenion gained. His mount, a sway-backed dun gelding, was not quality but he had staying power and slowly Parmenion closed the distance. His erstwhile attacker, a slim bearded man, cast a nervous glance over his shoulder as the horses thundered up the hillside heading east. Suddenly the assassin's horse stumbled, pitching his rider to the earth. The man hit hard, but pushed himself to his feet and started to run. Parmenion galloped his horse alongside the man, the flat of the sword-blade rapping his skull and toppling him to the ground.

Reining in the gelding, Parmenion leapt down. His would-be killer backed away.

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

The man's face hardened. ‘I’ll tell you nothing, you Spartan scum-bucket.'

'Unwise,' said Parmenion, plunging the sword into the man's belly. The warrior died without a sound, toppling face-first to the grass. Parmenion remounted and galloped the gelding down past the paddocks and stables, leaping to the ground outside Mothac's house.

The Theban walked out to greet him. His face was ashen and a dagger jutted from his shoulder. 'I think you should forget about keeping contact with Parzalamis,' Mothac grunted.

Parmenion walked into the house where the Persian was lying on the floor, his head twisted at an impossible angle.

'He was waiting for me,' said Mothac, 'but I don't think he expected an old man to be so strong. And like so many of his ilk he wanted to talk before he fought, to make me feel fear, to force me to beg, perhaps. He knew of my meeting with you; he called me a traitor. I think 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 the assassination of Alexander is set for tonight. Take Bessus — he's the fastest we have.'

Parmenion ran to the stable. But even as the stallion 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 dreams were troubled. He saw a dark mountainside and a stone altar around which black-robed priests were chanting, calling out a name, summoning. .

'Iskander! Iskander!'

The voices were sibilant, like storm winds through winter branches, and he felt a terrible pull on his chest. Fear swept through him.

'They are calling me,' he realized, and his dream eyes fixed on the sharp knives they carried and the blood channels carved into the altar.

A figure moved forward, the moonlight shining on his face. Alexander almost screamed then, for the man was his father, 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 turned and Alexander saw that his blind eye was no longer like an opal. Now it shone pure gold and seemed to burn with a yellow fire.

'I see him.!' yelled the King, pointing directly at Alexander. 'But he is so faint!'

'Come to us, Iskander!' the priests chanted.

The pull grew stronger.

'No!' screamed the child.

And woke in his bed, his body trembling, sweat covering his tiny frame.

Lolon crept into the royal gardens, keeping to the shadows of the 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 reminded himself. It was not like killing a real child. Not as the Macedonians had done to his own two sons back at Methone, when the troops poured through the breached wall, killing all who stood in their way. The mercenaries guarding the walls had been the first to die, alongside the city militia. But then it was the citizens — cut down as they fled, the women raped, the children butchered.

The survivors had been herded together in the main square. Lolon had tried to protect his wife, Casa, and his sons.

But what could he do against armed men? They dragged Casa and the other women away, killing the children and making a mound of their tiny bodies. Then they marched the men north, the women east, where the ships waited to take them to the slave markets of Asia.

The city had been destroyed, razed utterly, every surviving man and woman sold into slavery.

Lolon felt the weight of his heartache and sank to the soft ground, tears welling in his eyes. He had never been rich.

A maker of sandals, he eked out a living, often going hungry himself so that Casa and the children could eat. But the Macedonians had come with their siege-engines, their long spears and their stabbing swords.

There was no place in the tyrant's heart for an independent city within Macedonia. Oh, no! Bend the knee or die.

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

But now — thanks to the Athenians — he had a chance to repay the tyrant in blood. A simple thrust with the knife and the Demon 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 marched first to Pelagonia in the north-west, where the new slaves were put to work building a line of fortresses along the borders of Illyria. For a year Lolon had toiled in the stone quarries. He had spent his evenings making sandals for other slaves before his handiwork was observed by a Macedonian officer. After that he was removed from the work-force and given a better billet, with warm blankets and good food. And he made sandals, boots and shoes for the soldiers.

In Methone his work had been considered fair, but among the barbaric Macedonians he was an artist. In truth his talent did swell, and he was sold on at great profit — to the household of Attalus, the King's Champion.

It was then that the Athenians had come to him. He had been walking in the market-place, ordering leather and hide, and had stopped for a cool drink.

'Surely I know you, friend,' came a voice, and Lolon turned. The speaker was a short, stout man, bald and beardless.

Lolon did not remember him, but glanced down at the man's sandals. These he knew; he had made them two years before — a month before the Macedonians came.

'Yes, I remember you,' he answered dully.

As the weeks passed he saw the man, Gorinus, more often, at first talking of better days, and then — the floodgates of his bitterness giving way — speaking of his hatred. Gorinus had been a good listener, becoming a friend.

One morning, as they met in the market-place, Gorinus introduced a second man and they took Lolon to a small house behind the agora. Here the plot was hatched: kill the demon child, said Gorinus, and then come with us to Athens.

At first he had refused, but they fed his bitterness, reminding him of how the Macedonians had killed the children of Methone, taking the youngest by their ankles and dashing their brains to the walls.

'Yes! Yes!' cried Lolon. 'I will have my revenge!'

Now he cowered beneath the trees, staring up at Alexander's window. Easing himself from the shadows, he ran to the wall, his heart beating wildly. Slipping through a side door into the corridor beyond he moved carefully in the darkness, climbing the stairs, stopping every few steps to listen for the sentries. There was no guard on Alexander's door, the Athenians had assured him, but two warriors were stationed at the end of the corridor.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he glanced out. The soldiers were standing some twenty paces away, talking in hushed voices, their whispers carrying to the waiting assassin. They were discussing a coming horserace. Neither was looking in Lolon's direction. Swiftly he crossed the corridor, pushing his back against the door to Alexander's room.

Slowly he drew the dagger.

Alexander swung his legs from the bed and jumped to the floor, the dream still strong in his mind, his golden hair lank with sweat. Moonlight streamed through the open window of his room, bathing the 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 whispered, sitting down at the centre of a goatskin rug and pressing his hands to his ears. 'No, I won't! You are dreams. You are not real!'

The rug was warm and he lay down upon it, staring up at the moonlit ceiling.

Something was wrong in the room. He gazed around, the dream forgotten, but could see nothing amiss. His toy soldiers were still scattered about the floor, with his small siege-engines. His books and drawings were on the tiny table. Alexander stood and walked to the window, climbing up on the bench seat below it so that he could look out into the gardens. Leaning out on the sill he gazed down… at the moon.

The gardens had disappeared and stars shone all around the palace, above and below, to left and right. In the distance there were no mountains, no plains or hills, no valleys and woods. Only the dark of an all-consuming sky.

The boy's fear was forgotten, lost as he was in the wonder of this miracle. He did not often wake in the night.

Perhaps it was always this way, but no one had bothered to tell him. The moon was an incredible sight, no longer a silver disc but a scarred and pitted shield that had seen many battles. Alexander could see the marks of arrows and stones upon the surface, the dents and cuts.

And the stars were different also, perfectly round, like a slinger's stones, glowing, pulsing. In the distance he saw a movement, a flashing light, a dragon with a tail of fire. . then it was gone. Behind him the door opened, but he was aware of nothing but the beauty of this colossal night.

Lolon saw the boy at the window. Softly closing the door, he swallowed hard and advanced across the room. His foot came down on a wooden soldier, which broke with 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 think that way, he cautioned himself. Think of revenge! Think of the pain you will cause the tyrant!

Suddenly Alexander cried out and fell forward, losing his grip on the sill. Without thinking Lolon's hand snaked out, grabbing the prince by the leg and hauling him back. A terrible, soul-searing pain swept through the slave and he staggered, clutching his chest. The agony coalesced into a burning ball in his heart and he sank to his knees, gasping for air.

‘I’m sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!' wailed Alexander, the stars forgotten. Lolon began to tremble, then pitched face-first to the floor. ‘I’ll get help,' shouted the prince, running to the door and pulling it open. But there was no corridor, no stone walls, no familiar hangings. The door opened on to the vault of the night, huge, dark and irresistible. The boy teetered on the edge of the abyss, his balance failing him. With a last despairing cry he fell. . tumbling among the stars.

The voices came roaring back to him as he hurtled through the sky, and he heard a shout of triumph from the priest:

'He is coming! The Golden Child is coming! '

Alexander screamed and saw again the face of the man who looked like his father — a malevolent grin on his bearded face, his golden eye gleaming like a ball of fire.

The Temple, Asia Minor

The man's heart was weak, the valves hard and inelastic. His lungs were huge now, distorting his rib-cage, and he could move only a few paces before exhaustion forced him to rest. Derae sat beside his bed, her hand resting on his chest, and gazed down into his tired eyes.

'I can do nothing for you,' she said sadly, watching the 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 the bed his wife began to weep. 'So… soon. . then?' he whispered.

Derae nodded and his head sagged back to the pillow.

'Please help him!' begged the wailing woman, throwing herself to her knees before the Healer.

The man on the bed tensed suddenly, his face darkening. His mouth opened but no words came forth, only a long, broken 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 tired. I can be of little use to you. Go away.' Pushing past him, she forced her weary body on. Behind her Aristotle dipped his hand into the pouch at his side, lifting clear a golden stone.

Derae walked on, her mind locked to the merchant whose death she could not prevent. She took a deep breath. The air felt good in her lungs, refreshing, invigorating. How strange, she thought, as her weariness evaporated. She felt better than she had in years and remembered how cool it was in the sea, how good to run down to the beach and wade out into the crystal-clear waters, feeling the sun warm on her back.

Suddenly she laughed. It was too long since she had last left the temple to walk the cliff path. And she was hungry.

Ravenous!

Pushing open the door to her room, she wandered to the window. How clear the air, she thought as she stared out over the sea. White gulls circled the cliffs and she could see each bird as it wheeled and dived. Even the clouds were sharply denned. Then she realized she was not using her spirit eyes. Her blindness had gone. Glancing down, she looked at her hands. The skin was smooth and unlined. Anger flared in her and she swung to face the magus who stood, silently, in the doorway.

'How dare you!' she thundered. 'How dare you do this to me!'

'I need you,' he responded, moving into the room and pushing shut the door behind him. 'And what is so terrible about youth, Derae? What is it you fear?'

'I fear nothing!' she stormed, 'unless it be the suffering I cannot heal. Did you see the man they carried in? He was a prince; he was kind, caring. But his heart had rotted within him, moving far beyond my 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? Everything I ever desired has been denied me. Why should I want to live any longer?'

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

'If you wish then I will return your body to its former. . glory? But first will you help me? Will you aid Parmenion?'

Derae moved to the mirror and stared at her youthful reflection. 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 what would you have done, Spartan?' sneered Attalus. 'Promoted them, perhaps?'

Parmenion swung away from the man, focusing on the King who sat hunched on the throne, his face grey from exhaustion, his eyes dull. In the two days since the disappearance of the prince, Philip had not slept. The 3,000

Guards had scoured the city, searching every house, attic and cellar. Riders had swept out into the countryside, 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 told us nonsense, an incredible fabrication. I don't even remember it all. Something about stars. . Tell him, Attalus.'

'To what point, sire? It will bring us no closer to recovering the prince. He is being held somewhere for ransom; someone will contact us.'

'Tell him anyway,' said Philip.

'They said that the corridor disappeared and a great wind swept them from their feet. All they could see were stars, and they heard the prince cry out as if from a great distance. They both swore to it; it was lunatic.'

'Perhaps so, Attalus,' said Parmenion softly, 'but if your life was at stake would you invent such a ridiculous tale?'

'Of course not. You think they were telling the truth?' Attalus chuckled and shook his head.

'I have no idea what the truth is… yet. But the guards at the gate say no one passed them. The sentries on the walls outside reported no screams or shouts. Yet the prince is gone. Have you identified the 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 that was left was his tunic. It was poor cloth — even a servant would have worn better.'

'That is a good point,' said the King. 'See to it, Attalus. Now!' he added, as the warrior made to speak. Attalus, his face reddening, bowed and left the throne-room.

'We must find him,' Philip told Parmenion. 'We must.'

'We will, sire. I do not believe him dead. If that was the purpose, his body would have been found by now.'

Philip glanced up, his single green eye gleaming with a savage light. 'When I find those responsible they will suffer as no one has ever suffered before. I will see them die — and their families, and their city. Men will talk of it for a thousand years. I swear it.'

'Let us first find him,' said Parmenion.

The King did not seem to hear him. Rubbing at his blind eye he rose from the throne with fists clenched, knuckles ivory-white. 'How could this happen?' he hissed. 'To me? To Philip?' Parmenion kept silent, hoping the murderous rage would pass. In this mood Philip was always unpredictable. The Spartan had not told him of the Persian, Parzalamis, and had sworn Mothac to secrecy. No matter what Philip believed, Parmenion knew the Macedonians were not yet ready for a war against the Persian empire. Parzalamis' body had been secretly buried on the estate, and while the slaying of the three assassins could not be kept from the King, no one knew where they came from nor who had sent them.

The wound on Parmenion's thigh itched as he stood silently watching the King, and he idly scratched at it through the linen bandage. Philip saw the movement — and smiled.

'You did well, Spartan,' he said, the tension seeping from him. 'To kill three was no mean feat. How many times have I urged you to have guards at your estate?'

'Many times, sire, and I shall listen to your advice from now on.'

Philip sank back to the throne. 'I thank the gods Olympias is not here. And I hope to Zeus that we find him before news reaches Epirus. She will return like an avenging Harpy, threatening to rip my heart out with her bare hands.'

'We will find him,' promised Parmenion, forcing a confidence into his voice that he did not feel.

'I should not have killed the sentries,' said Philip. 'It was foolish. You think there may be sorcery in this?'

There is too much we do not know,' Parmenion answered. 'Who was the man in the room? Why did he carry a dagger? Was his mission to 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 we would have found the body. Yet, why would he be taken? Ransom? Who would live to spend such wealth? Let us, for argument's sake, assume that the Olynthians were responsible. They are not fools. They know Macedonia's army would descend on them with fire and sword; the lands of the Chalcidice would run with blood.'

'Athens,' muttered Philip. 'They would do anything to cause me pain. Athens. .' Parmenion saw again the gleam in the eye, and spoke swiftly.

'I do not think so,' he said softly. 'Demosthenes makes great play about your tyranny and your supposed evils. His honeyed words seduce many of the lesser cities. How would he appear if named as a child killer? No. If Athens sent assassins their victim would be you, not Alexander. What did the priestess say when you saw her?"

‘Pah!' snorted the King. 'She is an old fool. She walked around the boy's room pretending to talk to the spirits. But, at the end, she could tell me nothing.'

'But what did she say?'

'She told me the boy's spirit was not in Macedonia. Nor in Hades. Now you tell me how that could be true. He had not been gone more than half a day. Even if he was carried away by an eagle he would still have been in Macedonia when she spoke. Senile old hag! But I tell you this, she was frightened. She trembled when she entered his room.'

'You should rest,' Parmenion advised him. 'Go to bed. Send for one of your wives.'

'That's the last thing I need, my friend. They are hard-pressed to keep the glee from their eyes. My son and heir is missing- maybe dead. All they can think of is opening their legs and supplying me with another. No. I shall not rest until the truth is known.'

Attalus entered the throne-room and bowed. 'There is a slave missing, sire,' he said, his face ashen. 'His name is Lolon; he is a sandal-maker, a Methonian.'

'What do we know of him?' asked Parmenion, keeping his expression even.

'I bought him from the commander of Pelagonia some months ago. He was a good worker. The other slaves say he was a quiet man, keeping to himself. I know no more.'

'What was he doing in my son's room?' thundered Philip. 'He must have had a reason.'

'He told Melissa — one of my slave-girls — that he had a family in Methone. His children were slaughtered, his wife taken from him.' Attalus cleared his throat and swallowed hard. 'I think he wanted revenge.'

Philip surged from the throne. 'He must have had accomplices — or else where is the boy? How many other Methonians have you brought into the palace?'

'There are none, sire. And I did not know he was Methonian, I swear it!'

'Attalus is not at fault, sire,' said Parmenion. 'We have stormed many cities and flooded the land with slaves. That is why the price per man is only forty drachms against two hundred three years ago. Almost every slave in Pella would have reason to hate you.'

'I care nothing for their hate!' snapped Philip. 'But you are right, Parmenion, Attalus is blameless.' Turning to his Champion, he patted the man's shoulder. 'Forgive my anger, my friend.'

'There is nothing to forgive, sire,' answered Attalus, bowing.

Later, as Parmenion sat alone in one of the forty palace guest-rooms, Attalus came to him. 'Why did you speak for me?' he demanded. 'I am no friend to you — nor desire to be.'

Parmenion gazed into the man's cold eyes, seeing the tension there and in the tight lines of his hatchet face, the grim gash of his almost lipless mouth. 'It is not a question of friendship, Attalus,' he said, 'merely of truth. Now I do not enjoy your company and, if you have nothing else to say, be so kind as to leave me in peace.'

But the man did not leave. Walking further into the room, he sat in a high-backed chair and poured a goblet of watered wine, sipping it slowly. 'This is good,' he said. 'Do you think the story about the stars is important?'

'I don't know,' admitted the Spartan, 'but I intend to find out.'

'And how will you accomplish this?'

'When first I came to Macedonia I met a magus — a man of great power. I will seek him out. If there is sorcery involved, he will 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 mud beneath his rain-soaked body. He had fallen, screaming and lost, through the star-filled sky, losing consciousness as bright lights and myriad colours blazed across his eyes.

Now there were no colours, only a bone-numbing coldness and the dark of a mountain night.

He was about to move when he heard the voices and instinctively he crouched down, staring at the shadow-haunted tree-line from where the voices came.

'I swear to you, sire, the child is here. The Spell took him and drew 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 — though this time not from the cold. The second voice was like his father's, though deeper and more chilling. He could not yet see the speakers but he knew they were coming closer. There were bushes nearby and the child crept into them, hunching his naked body down.

The glittering light of many torches flickered in the trees and Alexander saw the man with the golden eye walk out on to the mountainside, the dark-robed priest alongside him. Behind him came a score of warriors holding torches aloft, scanning the undergrowth, searching, pushing aside the bracken with long lances.

The leaf-covered soil was damp and soft beneath the boy and he dug his fingers deep into it, rolling silently to his back and pulling earth and rotted vegetation over his legs and chest. He could feel small insects scurrying in panic over his skin, and a soft worm slid over his left calf. Ignoring the discomfort, he smeared mud 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 where he lay, Alexander could see the legs and feet of the searchers as they neared him. They were barefoot, but their calves were protected by greaves of bronze, showing intricate designs. But each one that he saw had a central motif, a stylized sunburst. This surprised the child, for the sunburst was the symbol of Macedonia and yet the armour the men wore was neither Macedonian nor Phrygian — the breastplates more elaborate, the helms bearing raven's wings, 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 enormous clap of thunder sounded, lightning forking across the sky.

A lance-point sliced through the bush above him, the branches parting. Then the lance pulled clear and the man moved on.

Alexander stayed where he was until all sounds around him faded away. At last, as the rain stopped, he moved his frozen body, crawling from the shelter of the bush and standing on the mountainside.

Glancing up, he gazed at the stars in the now clear sky — realizing with a sharp stab of fear that he knew them not at all. Where was the Bowman, and the Great Wolf, the Spear Carrier and the Earth Mother? Seeking out the North Star he scanned the heavens. Nothing was remotely familiar.

The searchers had moved down the mountain behind him and the boy decided to walk in the opposite direction.

The trees were shrouded in darkness, but Alexander swallowed his fear and moved on, deeper into the wood. After a little while he saw the 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 was deserted, but under a spreading oak a small fire still smouldered. Alexander ran to it, kneeling down and blowing flames to life. He searched for dry wood, but there was none and he sat by the dying blaze, holding his trembling hands to the fading heat.

'Where is this place?' he whispered. 'How can I get home?' Tears welled and he felt the beginning of panic. 'I will not cry,' he said. 'I am the son of a King.'

Gathering wet twigs, he laid them in the hot ashes at the edge of the fire to dry, then rose and began to scout the area.

He needed fuel for the fire; without it he could die in this cold. The altar yielded nothing and he walked further into the wood. Here the darkness was deeper, the tree branches interlaced like a great domed roof. But the ground was dryer underfoot, and Alexander found several broken branches which he gathered in his arms before returning to the fire.

Patiently he worked at the small blaze, careful not to smother it, feeding small twigs to the dancing fingers of flame until at last his trembling body began to feel the growing heat.

Three times he returned to the heart of the wood, gathering fuel, building up a store which he hoped would last the night. On his fourth journey he thought he heard a sound in the darkness and paused. At first there was silence, then came a stealthy padding that filled him with terror. Dropping the wood he ran for his fire, sprinting across the clearing and crouching beside the blaze, seizing a burning branch and hoisting it above his head.

From the woods came a hunting pack of grey wolves, padding out to circle him — yellow eyes gleaming, fangs bared.

They were huge beasts, taller even than the war-hounds of his father, and he had no weapon save the burning branch.

He could feel their hunger beating upon his mind, coming at him in waves. They feared the fire, but their empty bellies were fuelling their courage.

Alexander stood very still and closed his eyes, reaching out with his Talent, sliding through the haze of hunger and fury, seeking the pack leader, touching his soul fire and merging with his memories. The child saw a birth in a dark cave, tumbling tussles with brothers and sisters, more bitter fights and battles as he grew — scars and pain, long hunts, victories.

At last the boy opened his eyes. 'You and I are one,' he told the great, grey wolf. The beast cocked its head and advanced on him. Alexander returned the branch to the fire and waited while the wolf came closer, his jaws level with the boy's face. Reaching out slowly, 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 mind wander further, scouring the mountainside and the woods beyond until at last he felt the beating of another heart- a doe sleeping. Alexander shared the image with the wolf-leader and pointed to the south.

The wolf padded silently away, the pack following. Alexander sank to 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 move. 'Do not fear me, lad,' said the man, moving out into the boy's range of vision and squatting by the fire. 'I am not your enemy.' The newcomer was not tall, his hair short-cropped and grey, his beard tightly curled. He was wearing a kilt of leather and a bow was slung across his broad shoulders. A horse moved out into the clearing; it wore no chabraque or bridle but came close to the man, nuzzling his back. 'Be at ease, Caymal,' he whispered, stroking the stallion's nose. 'The wolves are gone.

The young prince dismissed them in search of a doe.'

'Why did I not sense your presence?' asked Alexander. 'And why 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 many things,' the man told him. 'But despite all my virtues I have one irritating vice: I am by nature curious, and I find this 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 newcomer laughed and dipped his hand into a leather pouch by his side. The pouch was small, yet — impossibly — the man drew from it a woollen tunic which he tossed to the boy. 'What we see is not always the complete truth,' he said. 'Put on the tunic.' Alexander stood, lifting the garment over his head and settling it into place. It was a perfect fit, the material soft and warm, edged with leather. When he sat down 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,' responded the boy, the smell of the roasting meat 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 into darkness. Chiron sat silently as the boy talked, then questioned him about Macedonia and Pella.

'But surely you know of my father,' said Alexander, surprised. 'He is the greatest King in all of Greece.'

'Greece? How interesting. Let us eat.' Chiron lifted the meat from the spit, pulling it apart and handing a section to the boy. Alexander took it gingerly, expecting the hot fat to burn his fingers. But although well-cooked 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 further. This is not Greece, but a land called Achaea. And here the great power is Philippos, Lord of the Makedones _ the Demon King. It was he who stood upon this hillside, his priests calling you from your home.

It is he who hunts you even now. And, though my power temporarily blocked the magic 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 to 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 sharply. 'I think you are… not telling me the truth.'

'You are quite right, young prince. And let us leave it that way for the moment. We will sleep now, and tomorrow I will take you to my home. There we can think and plan.'

The child looked into the grey eyes of the man, not knowing whether to trust him nor how to arrive at a decision concerning him. Chiron had fed him and clothed him, offering him no harm, but this in itself gave no indication of his longer-term plans. The fire was warm and Alexander lay down beside it to think. .

And slept.

He was awoken by the man's hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him, and it was some moments before he realized that the killing 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.

'Caymal kept watch for us,' the magus answered. 'Now listen to me, this is most important. You are about to meet another friend. He will surprise you, but you will trust him. You must. Tell him that Chiron wants him to go home.

Tell him the 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. 'Watch and learn.' Rising swiftly, he ran to the stallion and turned to face the boy. The stallion's great head rested on the man's shoulder, and the two stood as still as statues. Alexander blinked, and it seemed that a heat-haze danced over man and horse. Chiron's chest swelled, his head thickening, beard darkening. Great bands of muscle writhed over his chest, while his legs stretched and twisted, his feet shrivelling into hooves.

Alexander sat transfixed as horse and magus became one. Gone was the stallion's head. Now the torso of a man reared up from the shoulders of the stallion. The centaur stamped his front hoof and reared, then, seeing the boy, trotted forward.

'Who are you?' boomed a voice deep as distant thunder. Alexander stood looking into the distorted face. Nothing of Chiron remained. The eyes were wide-set and brown, the mouth full, the beard chestnut-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 the centaur gave a great cry, a mixture 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 centaur moved closer, dipping his torso until he looked over the 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 to take me with you,' lied the boy swiftly, 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 swung Alexander to his back and cantered from the clearing. The boy slipped and almost fell. 'Hold to my mane,' called Camiron. Alexander looked up. Long hair grew from the centaur's spine and he took hold of it with both hands. The centaur broke into a run, and then a gallop, coming clear of the tree-line and thundering into the open.

Directly ahead of them were some fifty cavalrymen. Camiron dug in his front hooves, skidding to a stop that almost dislodged the prince. The riders saw them and fanned out in a wide circle to trap them. Camiron notched an arrow to his bow. 'I kill Makedones,' he said.

'No!' shouted Alexander. 'Home. Go home. Chiron needs you!'

The centaur grunted and leapt to the gallop. An arrow sliced the air by his head. At full run Camiron loosed his own shaft; it hammered into a warrior's chest, toppling him from his mount. More arrows flew at them and one slashed through the muscles of Camiron's hip. He shouted in pain and rage, but continued to run.

They were almost encircled now and Alexander felt a growing sense of despair. Just as it seemed they would be run down the centaur swerved and cut to the right, loosing an arrow into a second rider. The man fell, and for a brief moment a gap appeared in the Makedones' line. Swift as a storm wind Camiron leapt through it, his hooves thundering on the plain as he swept clear of the riders, who streamed after them.

The centaur increased his speed, his laughter carrying back to the warriors who screamed curses after him.

'I fool them!' shouted Camiron. 'The greatest am I.'

'Yes,' agreed Alexander, clinging to the mane. 'You are great. How far is home?'

'Long way for you to walk,' said the centaur. 'Not far for Camiron to run. Are you truly friend to Chiron?'

'Yes, I told you.'

'It better be truth,' the centaur told him. 'If Chiron is not there — I will kill you, Human, and dine on your marrow.'

The Thracian Border, Macedonia

Parmenion reined in the gelding and swung to look back over the hills towards the distant River Axios. He could no longer see the rider, but he knew without a shred of doubt that he was still being followed. The Spartan found this irksome, but not as yet worrying.

He had spotted him on his second day from Pella, a distant dot on the horizon, and had changed his course, veering north-east before cutting back to the main trail. From a heavily wooded hill-top Parmenion had then watched the rider also change direction.

The distance was too great for identification. All Parmenion could see was that the man wore a burnished helm and breastplate and was riding a tall, dappled grey. The Spartan rode on, wary now for Thrace was close and he wished no confrontation with the border guards.

The land stretched ahead in a series of folds, gulleys and hollows, thinly wooded and undulating. There were shallow streams here, sparkling in the sunlight, offspring of the great River Nestos that flowed through the land to merge with the sea north of the island of Thasos.

Parmenion guided the chestnut gelding into a small wood and dismounted by a stream. The gelding stood quietly with ears pricked, nostrils quivering with the sweet smell of mountain water. Parmenion removed the lionskin chabraque from the horse's back and rubbed him down with a handful of dry grass. Mothac had urged him to take the stallion Bessus, but instead the Spartan had chosen the chestnut. The beast was sure-footed and sound of temperament, having no great speed but enormous levels of stamina. Parmenion stroked the gelding's face and led him to water. There was no need to hobble the 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 travelled this route heading west into Macedonia and had met the magus, Aristotle.

'Seek me out when you have need,' Aristotle had told him. Well, thought Parmenion, the need could not be greater.

Untying the chinstraps of his baked leather helm Parmenion pulled it clear, running his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. Despite the imminence of winter the weather remained hot and dry and he could feel sweat trickling down his back under the leather breastplate.

Phaedra could not understand why he had clothed himself like a poor mercenary. Worse still, she had asked openly why he should embark on such a quest at all.

'You are the real power in Macedonia,' she whispered. 'You could seize the throne. The army would follow you — and then Philo would have the future the gods ordained for him. Why should you care what happens to the demon child?'

He had not answered her. Settling his chabraque over the gelding, he had ridden from the great house without a backward glance.

Skirting the villages on his estate, his first stop had been in a small town in the shadows of the Krousian Mountains.

Here he bought supplies, dried meat and fruit, grain for the gelding. The town was expanding — new buildings being erected on the outskirts, evidence of Macedonia's growing wealth. Many of the new settlers were mercenaries, buying land with their wages from Philip's campaigns. Others were crippled ex-soldiers who had earned good pensions from the King's service. The town bustled with activity and Parmenion had been glad to ride from it, heading for the sanctuary and peace of the countryside.

Now, as he sat by the stream, he considered again the problems facing him. He had no idea where Alexander was being held — nor why — and his hopes were resting on the promise of a magus he had met in the flesh only once. And what if the Persians had smuggled Alexander out of Macedonia? Suppose he was being held hostage in Susa? How could one man hope to rescue him? And if he did would not Philip, hungry for revenge, take his armies east into the heart of the Persian kingdom?

These sombre thoughts fluttered around Parmenion's mind like irritating moths and angrily he brushed them aside, remembering Xenophon's advice:

'When asked to move a mountain, do not look upon its size. Merely move the first rock.'

The first rock was to find Aristotle.

Allowing the gelding to rest, Parmenion walked to the crest of the hill and stared out over his back-trail, seeking the rider who was following him. But a heat-haze shimmered over the land and he could see no sign of movement.

Riding until dusk, Parmenion made camp in a hollow in the mountains, setting a small fire against a boulder and enjoying the reflected heat. Tomorrow he would reach the pass where first he had met the magus. Praying that Aristotle would be there, he slept fitfully.

Two hours before dawn he reached the foothills of the Kerkine Mountains. The breeze was colder here as he urged the gelding up the scree-covered slope towards the pass, and he pulled his black cloak more tightly about him. As he crested the slope he saw four mounted men blocking the narrow pass. Beyond them were two more horses.

Parmenion flicked his gaze to the rocks on the left, where two archers waited with arrows notched.

'A fine day to be riding,' said a swarthy warrior on a sturdy black stallion. The man touched heels to his mount and rode forward. He was hatchet-faced, a thick black beard failing to disguise the pockmarks on his cheeks. His eyes were dark and deep-set. His comrades hung back, waiting silently, hands on their swords.

'Indeed it is,' agreed Parmenion. 'What do you require of me?'

'You have entered Thracian lands, Macedonian, and we require a toll. Be so kind as to hand over the contents of that pouch by your side.'

'Firstly,' said Parmenion, 'I am no Macedonian, and secondly it should take no great mind to reason that a mercenary has no coin when he is riding towards Persia. Only when he returns.'

'Ah, well,' answered the man, smiling, 'you do have a fine horse. That will have to do.'

The warrior suddenly tensed. Instantly Parmenion kicked the gelding into a run. Two arrows slashed through the air where the Spartan had been. The gelding's shoulder cannoned into the stallion, who bucked violently, throwing his rider. Drawing his sword the Spartan charged at the remaining men, but they scattered before him and then re-formed to give chase.

The pass curved to the right. Out of sight of his pursuers Parmenion hauled on the reins, turning the gelding back the way he had come. It was the last move the robbers had considered. As they rounded the bend, expecting to see their quarry running away from them, they found themselves instead facing a charge.

The gelding hurtled fearlessly into their midst. Parmenion hacked his blade into one rider's neck, spilling him to the ground with blood spurting from his open jugular. The gelding reared, kicking out at a second man whose horse stumbled and fell.

The swarthy leader screamed a battle-cry and lunged at the Spartan. But Parmenion blocked the wild cut, sending a riposte that sliced the skin of the man's face, tearing out his right eye.

The other robbers galloped clear. Parmenion dismounted and approached the fallen leader. The man was struggling to rise, his hand pressed against his ruined eye, trying in vain to stop the flow of blood.

'You whoreson!' he shouted, lifting his sword and running at Parmenion. The Spartan side-stepped, his own blade cleaving into the man's groin, and with a cry of anguish the Thracian toppled to the ground. Parmenion slashed his sword through the man's neck, then 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 Champion leapt lightly down from the dappled grey and walked across to where Parmenion waited. 'Not overjoyed to see me? Ah, well, that is I suppose understandable. But you intrigued me with your tale of sorcerers and rocks; I thought it might amuse me to meet the man.'

Parmenion shook his head. 'I would as soon sleep with 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 known as a man who thinks well, Spartan.

I respect you for that. But you are not thinking now. Suppose this. . wizard. . can lead you to the child — do you think you will be able to rescue him alone? You may not like me, Parmenion, but you cannot argue against the 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.

'Is that all? Gods, man, what do you expect me to do — cut your throat while you sleep?'

'Perhaps. But you will not have the opportunity for I will travel alone.'

'I do not think that wise,' came a third voice and both men swung to see a grey-haired man sitting cross-legged on a flat-topped boulder.

'You move silently,' whispered Attalus, easing his sword from its scabbard.

'Indeed I do, young Attalus. Now put your sword away — it would be bad manners to attack a man who is arguing on your behalf.' Aristotle looked to Parmenion. 'I think you may find that the King's Champion will be an aid to you on this quest. And believe me, you will need help to recover the prince.'

'Where is he held?' asked Parmenion.

'In a kingdom of the damned,' answered the magus. Jumping down from the boulder, he walked back towards a towering rock-face and disappeared. Ignoring Attalus, Parmenion tugged the gelding's reins and followed Aristotle.

As before, the seemingly solid wall of rock proved no more substantial than mist, and man and horse found themselves in a cold cavern where great stalactites hung like dragons' teeth from the domed roof. The gelding did not like this dank, cold place and began to tremble. Parmenion patted the 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?'

Parmenion pointed to a distant shaft of golden sunlight and the two men headed towards it, emerging at last from a wide cave-mouth which overlooked a verdant valley. At the bottom of the slope was a white-walled house, built alongside a mountain stream. Mounting their horses, the two warriors rode down to the house where Aristotle was waiting beside a table laden with food and wine.

'Now to the point of your visit,' said Aristotle as the meal was 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 world — that is why his guards reported seeing stars in the corridor. In order to rescue him, you must travel into that world. I can show you the way.'

'This is nonsense,' stormed Attalus, rising from the table. 'Are you going to sit and listen to this horse-dung?' he asked the Spartan.

'Before making judgements,' Parmenion told 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?'

'It's a trick of some kind,' muttered Attalus, swinging round to stare at the unfamiliar horizon.

Ignoring him, Parmenion turned back to Aristotle. 'Why did they take the boy?'

Aristotle leaned forward, resting his elbows on the broad table-top. 'There is a King there, a man possessed. He desires immortality. To win such a prize he must devour the heart of a special sacrifice. His priests told him of a golden child… a special child.'

'This world — is it like our own? Can we find our way through it?' asked the Spartan.

'I cannot fully answer that,' the magus told him. 'There are great similarities and yet enormous differences. There are centaurs there, and all the creatures you would hear of only in myth — werebeasts and Harpies, gorgons and beasts of darkness. It is a world of magic, my friend. And yet it is Greece.'

'The King you spoke of- he has a name?'

‘Philippos, King of the Makedones. And, before you ask, yes, he is Philip, the image of the man you serve.'

'This is insane,' sneered Attalus. 'Why do you sit and listen to such gibberish?'

'As I told you before,' said Parmenion coldly, 'you are more than welcome to return to Pella. As for myself, I will travel into this other Greece. And I will find the prince. Will you come with me, Aristotle?'

The magus shook his head and looked away. '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.'