Dark Prince

The City of Mieza, 337 BC

The man called Aristotle sat alone in the deserted gardens of the school building, gazing towards the north, watching the storm-clouds loom above the rearing Bora Mountains. A cold breeze blew and he shivered, drawing his grey woollen cloak more tightly about his frame.

Glancing back towards the house he saw his wife, Pythias, gathering herbs in the small cultivated patch of earth by the kitchen. It would soon be time to leave, putting behind him the last fourteen years — saying farewell to Mieza, to Macedonia, to Greece.

He sighed. Immortality was a burden and yet, like the narcotics of Egypt, wholly addictive. To be relieved of the prospect of death only heightened the fear of dying. The longer he lived the more bored he became, the more he longed for the peace of the grave, the more terrified he became at the thought of it.

And the memories. .

So many. . Three thousand years ago he had almost gone mad with them. But Pendarric had saved him, teaching him to use the Stones more wisely. Each life of his past had been reduced to a single key word, locked in his mind.

The Makedones years had become Iskander. Merely by summoning the word to conscious thought he could see again the Golden Child and the shining Gateway, and all the years that preceded it. But now he was reaching the point where even the keys shone in his mind like stars, thousands upon thousands.

What is there that is new, he wondered?

The answer came swift as a stab in the heart.

There is nothing that is new under the sun. All is vanity.

He smiled and unlocked the key to the life he had shared with the Philosopher. Golden days. A time when there were still discoveries to be made, surprises to be enjoyed.

Why are you so melancholy, he asked himself? Around the bench where he sat were a dozen seats, empty now, but not long ago they were occupied by the sons of Macedonian nobles — young men full of hope, nurturing dreams. And

— always at their centre, a bright shining sun in their lives — there was Alexander.

Now you have it, he realized.

Alexander.

Aristotle rose and wandered to the northern gate, pushing it open and walking out into the foothills of Mount Bermion. Throughout the ages he had seen men, great men, men of wisdom, men of war, secure in their arrogance, dismissive of the past. Yet the past held all the answers to life's mysteries and each successive generation unknowingly locked them away. Then searched for them in the unborn futures.

I had high hopes for you, Alexander, he thought. You have a fine mind, perhaps the most brilliant since the Philosopher ruled in Jerusalem. Certainly you rival Pendarric in the days when he reigned over Atlantis.

Yet what is it that calls you? Wisdom? The pursuit of knowledge? No. You hear the trumpets of war, you seek the Whore of Conquest. Even with the Chaos Spirit locked outside you, still you are a man, and men will always lust for glory.

And the others will follow you. He pictured them, their young faces bright with longing for a future they knew to be rich with promise: Ptolemy, Nearchos, Philotas, Nicci, Derdas and the others. Like all young men, they revelled in their strength and were scornful of the deeds of their fathers.

Aristotle stopped by a trickling stream, sitting with his back to a boulder out of the wind. A hawk swooped out of the sky, dropping like a stone, his talons ripping into a young rabbit just emerging from its burrow into the dusk. The captured beast did not struggle as the bird swept back into the air, it hung limply in the hawk's grip. Aristotle's spirit reached out to touch the creature. It was dead.

'A curse on all hawks,' he said aloud.

'He has mouths to feed,' said a voice. Aristotle looked up and smiled at the tall figure moving through the shadows of the trees to sit beside him. The man settled himself, wincing as his arthritic knee refused to bend.

'I thought I'd find you here,' said Parmenion, removing his helm and running his hand through his sweat-soaked iron-grey hair. 'Philip wants you to come to Pella for the wedding.'

Aristotle shook his head. 'I shall not be there, Parmenion.'

'Philip will not be best pleased '

'His anger is immaterial to me. I shall be walking the Dragon Paths to other worlds.'

'And Pythias?'

'I will leave her money. She will not mourn my passing; she kept my bed warm, but there is little love between us.'

He looked deeply into Parmenion's face, seeing the sharply chiselled lines, the dark smudges below the bright blue eyes. 'You look tired, my friend.'

Parmenion shrugged. 'I am sixty-three years old. I expect to be tired after a long campaign.'

'Surely you can rest now? Since Philip crushed the Athenians and Thebans at Chaironeia he has become, in all but name, the Lord of Greece. Where now are his enemies?'

'Everywhere,' replied Parmenion, with a wry smile.

'I accept that,' said Aristotle, returning the smile, 'but I meant where are the enemies that can cause him harm? There are no armies left for him to conquer. He rules from Thrace to Epirus, from Paionia to Thessaly. Everyone pays him homage — even Athens. I hear they erected a statue to him after Chaironeia. Unbelievable!'

'Not really. The Athenians expected us to march on their city and ransack it. Instead Philip returned their dead with full military honours and sued for peace. Their relief was immense.'

'Why did he spare them? Athens has been a thorn in his side for years.'

Parmenion shrugged. 'Philip has always remembered the deeds of his twin in Makedon. He was determined never to repeat such evils. But also he has a greater dream: he looks to extend his realm to the east.'

'Where else can he go? He cannot take on the might of Persia.'

'He has no choice. Macedonia now has a huge army — cavalry, siege-engineers, mercenaries. All need feeding, payment. Where else can he go? The Great King rules over a hundred nations, all rich.'

'And that is your answer,' said the magus. 'One hundred nations, all with armies. The Great King could put a million men in the field against you.'

'I know,' said Parmenion wearily.

Aristotle pushed himself to his feet, extending his hand to haul Parmenion upright. The Spartan's knee cracked painfully and he stretched his leg. 'I am better from the back of a horse these days,' he said.

'Come, let us go home. You and I shall have a farewell drink.'

Long into the night the two men sat talking in the small andron at the rear of the schoolhouse. A brazier of coals burned at the centre of the room, and several lanterns flickered on the walls. The room was warm, the night wind rattling the shutters on the single window.

'Are you content?' asked Aristotle suddenly. Parmenion smiled, but did not answer. 'Do you wish you had remained in Achaea?'

'Of course. But it is foolish to dwell on past mistakes.'

Aristotle nodded. 'You are wise in that. How is Philotas?'

Parmenion's face darkened. 'The same. We rarely speak now. His arrogance is all-consuming and yet he fawns on Alexander like a table slave. I try not to allow myself to become angry. It is not easy for the son of a general; he feels the need to prove himself better than his father.'

'He has great ambition,' said Aristotle softly.

'His mother fed him thoughts of glory from his birth. I should have stopped it long ago.'

'His ambition may bring you down one day,' Aristotle warned. 'He dreams of becoming King.'

'It will never happen. He has neither the wit nor the strength.'

'I know. I taught him for thirteen years. He will be an able captain, though. He might yet distinguish himself.'

'He did well in the Triballian campaign, but the glory was Alexander's. Philotas must have found that hard to bear.'

'He was not the only one.'

Parmenion shook his head. 'Do not believe all you hear, magus. Philip is not jealous of his son. He loves him and is proud of his achievements. So am I.'

'It is said that Philip's new bride is already pregnant — and that she will bear him a son. That will be hard for Alexander to take.'

'Why so?' queried Parmenion. 'Alexander is eighteen and the heir to the throne. Nothing will change that.'

'Come now, strategos, do not let your allegiance blind you. Use your mind. He is marrying Cleopatra, a high-born Macedonian. All his other wives are foreigners. She is the ward of Attalus. You do not think that many of the Macedonian nobles will see the child as the first true-born heir? You yourself are a mix-blood. Alexander's mother is an Epirote, which makes him a half-breed.'

'I do not wish to talk of this!' snapped Parmenion.

Aristotle sighed and lay back on his couch. 'Then we shall not. We will finish our wine and say our farewells.'

In the darkness just before dawn Aristotle, dressed for travel in a long tunic and heavy cloak, moved silently into the room where Parmenion slept. The Spartan was deeply asleep and the magus moved to the bedside. From the pouch at his hip Aristotle took a small golden stone, touching it to Parmenion's right knee. The Spartan stirred and groaned softly, but did not wake. The power of the Stone flowed into the sleeping man, the iron grey of his hair darkening slightly, the chiselled lines of his face becoming more shallow.

'One gift, my friend,' whispered Aristotle, 'but not the last. One day I will return.'

He backed away to the door and walked from his house, returning to the stream in the foothills and a shallow cave partly hidden by thick bushes. The new sun rose in glory and Aristotle paused to drink in the beauty of its light upon the verdant countryside.

'Why are you leaving now?' he asked himself. The answer leapt to his mind, sharp and bitter. The days of blood were coming and the Dark God was reasserting himself. He could feel the Spirit's presence hanging over the land like an unseen mist, swirling in the hearts of men, flowing into their minds, whispering in their ears.

Did Parmenion think the necklet could protect the boy for long? It was but metal, enhanced with the power of Sipstrassi Stone. It could be removed, torn from his neck with a single tug. And then?

The Dark God would return.

Will return, he corrected himself. Nothing will stop him.

You are running away, he realized: hiding from the great battle to come.

'I want to live,' he said aloud. 'I have done my part. Better to be a live dog than a dead lion.' But he was not convinced.

With a last glance over the Macedonian countryside he stepped inside the cave.

And was seen no more in the land of Greece.

Pella, Summer 337 BC

Alexander sat back, occasionally touching his lips to his wine-cup but swallowing little as he listened to his Companions discussing the forthcoming Persian campaign. As always, it was Philotas who had the most to say.

Alexander found it bizarre that a son could look so much like his father, yet enjoy so few of his sire's talents. Philotas was tall and slender, a fine runner and a good cavalry officer, but his grasp on the subtleties of strategy was tenuous at best. Yet, like so many men of limited talent, his main ability was in mastering the art of hindsight, always seeing where others had made mistakes.

'As at Chaironeia,' Philo was telling the others, 'my father should never have allowed the left to swing so wide. Had it not been for Alexander's charge, Philip would have been slain.'

Alexander smiled and said nothing. It did no harm whatever to have his comrades see him as a young god of war, but the truth — as always — was not as simple.

'We will each be kings,' Ptolemy declared. 'I shall have a golden throne and a thousand concubines.'

'You wouldn't know what to do with them,' said Nearchos, chuckling. Alexander laughed with the rest at Ptolemy's discomfort. The youngest of the Companions, Rolemy's good nature was legendary.

'I would have great pleasure in finding out,' put in Ptolemy, grinning.

'If you are all to be kings,' said Alexander, 'what will be left for me?'

'You will be the King of Kings, naturally,' Ptolemy told him. 'You will rule the world and we will be your satraps.'

'And kill all your enemies,' Philotas added.

'An interesting thought. What happens when I have no more enemies?'

'A great man always has enemies,' said Ptolemy. 'What would be the point of being great if that were not so? How dull it would be.'

'I take it,' asked Nearchos, 'that you are already building up a stock of enemies?'

'Yes. I've started with you, you low-born dolt!'

Nearchos' laughter rippled out, swift and infectious. 'Me? Is that wise? Do you no longer wish me to speak well of you to my sister?'

'A good point,' said Ptolemy, rubbing his chin. 'You are correct. It is not an opportune time to have you for an enemy.

It will have to be Philo then: he'll be my first enemy.'

'Enough of this talk,' put in Alexander. 'You are all a little drunk. Get off home with you! I intend to be riding at dawn. It is said there is a lioness raiding the cattle and goatherds at a small village north of the city. It should be a fine hunt.'

'I shall kill the beast with my bare hands,' said Nearchos, rising and flexing his muscles. Like his father, Theoparlis, he had enormous breadth of shoulder and a barrel chest.

'If that doesn't work, you could try breathing on him,' pointed out Ptolemy. 'Put all those onions to good use.'

Nearchos leapt at the slender youngster, but tripped and fell over a small table laden with sweetmeats. As he scrambled to his feet, chasing the younger man out into the royal gardens, Philotas turned to Alexander and bowed.

'Until tomorrow, sire,' he said softly.

'It is not fitting to call me sire. I am not a King,' said Alexander, his tone mild.

'Not yet,' said Parmenion's eldest son, bowing once more before striding from the room.

At last only Craterus was left. Older than the others, almost twenty, he was a quiet, introverted man, but he seemed at ease in the ribald meetings of the Companions.

'Something troubling you?' asked Alexander.

'Your ankle is still swollen from the fall and you are limping badly. Is this the right time to hunt lions?'

Alexander clapped the taller man on the shoulder. 'It will be better by morning, and I shall strap it well. But that is not the reason you have waited to see me.'

Craterus shrugged and smiled. 'No. I am uneasy, my lord. There is a lot of talk at court about the King's marriage and the child Cleopatra carries.'

The smile left Alexander's face. 'This should not concern you. It does not concern me. My father already has six wives.'

'Not like this one.'

'Do not take this any further, Craterus,' warned the prince. 'There are some things that should not be said.'

'Very well. As always I shall obey you. But know this — if you need me I will be beside you.'

'All the royal pages give oaths to serve the King. The King is Philip,' Alexander pointed out.

'That is as maybe. But I serve Alexander.'

The prince moved close to his friend, looking up into the man's deep-set dark eyes. 'It is comments like that which lead to the death of princes. You understand me? I will never lead a rebellion against Philip. Never! If I wished him dead I would have let him be slain at Chaironeia, when his horse was killed under him. Now say no more of this.

There is nothing to fear, Craterus. Nothing.'

The Companion bowed and departed, pulling shut the door behind him. Alexander wandered back to the centre of the room, lifting his wine-cup and sipping the contents. He had made the one cup last all evening, disliking the effect of alcohol on his system.

'You should listen to him, my son,' said Olympias, moving into the room from the shadows of the outer corridor.

'It is normally considered courteous, Mother, to announce your presence.'

'Are you angry with me?'

He shook his head and smiled. Stepping in close Olympias kissed his cheek. Her red-gold hair was touched with silver now, but her face was still youthful and her body slender. 'Why is everyone seeing danger in the shadows?'

asked Alexander. 'It is only a wedding.'

'She is the ward of Attalus. . and Attalus hates you.'

'He risked his life to save me once. I shall not forget that.'

'That was thenV she said, her eyes flashing. 'Now he poisons Philip's mind against you. Why can you not see it?'

'I choose not to. Philip built this realm from nothing. Beset on all sides, he alone made Macedonia feared and respected. What have I done? I took an army into the north and subdued the Triballians. How does that1 compare with the King who conquered Thrace, Illyria, the Chalcidice, Thessaly, Paionia — and crushed the combined armies of Athens and Thebes?' He laughed and gently took hold of his mother's shoulders. 'Do you understand what I am saying? He owes me nothing. If he chooses to make his new son the heir, what right have I to oppose him?'

'Right?' she stormed, pulling away from him. 'You are the heir — the first-born son. It is your destiny to rule. But think on this, Alexander: if you are dispossessed there will be those who will seek your death. You will not be fighting for a crown alone, but for your life.'

'No,' he told her. 'Philip would never order my death — any more than I would countenance killing him. But all this talk is dangerous. The words fall like sparks on dry grass and I will not have them spoken around me.'

'You are altogether too trusting,' she told him. 'But there is someone coming to Pella who may be able to convince you.'

'Who?'

'The Lady of Samothrace. Her name is Aida and she is a seeress of great power. She can tell you of your destiny.'

Alexander said nothing, but he turned away from his mother and strode towards the door. 'You will see her?' called Olympias.

'No, I will not,' answered Alexander, his voice cold. 'Can none of you see what you are doing? When Philotas calls me sire, when Craterus says he puts me above my father, when you seek to turn me against Philip — you are all only increasing any danger there might be. You keep this Aida away from me.'

'But it is all for you — because we care!' Olympias shouted. Alexander did not reply, but walked out into the moonlit gardens and away from the palace.

The grass was growing crimson, dripping blood to the parched earth beneath it. The sky was the colour of ash, grey and lifeless. Not a bird flew, no breath of wind disturbed the plain. Philip knelt and touched his hand to the crimson stems and blood smeared across his skin. He rose, trembling, noticing for the first time the bodies that lay all about him. Thousands upon thousands of corpses, the grass growing around them, from them, through them. He shuddered. A man was lying on his back with weeds growing from beneath his eyelids.

'What is this place?' shouted Philip. The sound died even as it left his lips.

'You are not comfortable here?'

He spun on his heel, sword snaking into his hand. Before him, dressed in armour of black and gold, stood Philippos, the Demon King.

'You are dead!' screamed Philip, backing away.

'Yes,' the Makedones King agreed.

'Get away from me!'

'Is that any way to treat a brother?' asked Philippos, drawing his own sword and advancing. Philip leapt to meet him, their blades clashing together, and his sword slashed across his opponent's neck to open a jagged wound that spouted blood. Philippos was hurled to the right, twisting to fall face-down on the ground. Slowly he rose to his knees with his back to his enemy. Philip waited. The Demon King stood and slowly turned. Philip cried out. Gone was the bearded face that mirrored his own. Now Philippos had golden hair, sea-green eyes and a face of surpassing beauty.

'Alexander?'

'Yes, Father, Alexander,' said the Demon King, smiling and advancing with sword extended.

'Do not make me kill you! Please!'

'You could not kill me, Father. No. But I shall slay you.'

Dark horns sprouted from Alexander's temples, circling back over his ears. His eyes changed colour from sea-green to yellow, the pupils slitted. Philip gripped his sword and waited as the demon before him moved slowly to the attack; he tried a swift lunge to the throat, but his arm was heavy, his movements slow, and he watched in sick horror as Alexander's sword parried his own and rose up gleaming and sharp, the blade slicing into his throat and up through his mouth, stabbing into his brain like a tongue of fire. .

Philip awoke and cried out. The woman beside him stirred but did not wake as the King sat up. His head was pounding, his body drenched in sweat. The old wound in his leg throbbed painfully, but he pushed himself from the bed and limped across to the nearest couch. The wine pitcher upon the small table was empty. Philip cursed and slumped down upon the couch, holding the pitcher in his lap.

The dream was always the same. He could never defeat Alexander.

'I should have killed him at birth,' he thought. A cold breeze whispered across the room and Philip shivered and returned to his bed. Beside him Cleopatra slept on. Tenderly he stroked her hair. So beautiful, so young. His hand moved down to rest upon her belly — still flat and taut, despite the three months of the pregnancy. In her was a son.

Not demon-possessed, not born of darkness and sorcery, but a true son — one who would grow to love his father, not plan his murder.

How could you do this to me, Alexander? I loved you. I would have risked anything for you.

At first Philip had ignored the reports that Attalus drew to his attention — the fawning remarks of Alexander's Companions, the criticisms levelled at the King and his generals. But as the months passed Philip became more and more convinced that Alexander would not be content until he sat upon the throne.

The Triballian campaign showed that. Does he think I am a fool? Oh yes, he crushed the enemy, forcing them to pay tribute. But in whose name did he demand it? Not for Philip. Not for Macedon. No, in the name of Alexander.

Arrogant whelp! Of course you beat the Triballians, for you had my army behind you. My army!

But is it mine? How they cheered the golden prince at Chaironeia, carrying him shoulder-high around the camp. And after the Triballian victory, when he awarded every warrior ten gold pieces, they gave him the salute of kings, swords beating against shields.

Is it still mine?

Of course it is, for I have Parmenion. Yes, the Spartan will always be loyal.

Philip smiled and lay back, resting his head upon the soft, satin-covered cushion. The Lion of Macedon is with me, he thought, and drifted once more into sleep.

The grass was growing crimson, dripping blood to the parched earth beneath it. The sky was the colour of ash, grey and lifeless. Not a bird flew, no breath of wind disturbed the plain. .

The bath had been designed and built by Philip, using only the finest marble. It took six slaves more than an hour to fill it with heated, perfumed water, and a dozen men could sit on the sunken seats or swim across the centre. The King had constructed it after the second Thracian campaign, when his right leg had been smashed and the bones had knitted badly, leaving him with an exaggerated limp and constant pain. Only immersed in warm water did the limb cease to throb, and Philip had taken to holding meetings in the bath with his officers around him.

Today only Parmenion was present and the two men sat side by side as slaves added boiling water, keeping the temperature high. Crimson flowers floated on the surface, their scent strong, and Parmenion felt the tension and weariness of his long ride ebbing away.

'He is gone then,' said the King. 'I shall miss him.'

'He sent you his best regards, my lord.'

Philip chuckled. 'You remember when he threatened to turn me into a lizard?'

'Yes. You took it well, as I recall.'

'Fine days, Parmenion. Days of strength. I miss them.'

The Spartan glanced at his King. Philip was beginning to show signs of age — his black hair and beard speckled with silver, the skin pouching below his eyes. But his grin was still infectious and his power alarming.

'Have we made contact with the Asian cities?' asked Philip.

'Yes. Mothac is receiving reports. We will be welcomed in all the Greek cities of Asia Minor, but the supply lines will be stretched. Thirty thousand men need a great deal of feeding.'

The Athenian fleet will supply us,' said Philip dismissively. 'What do you hear about the new Persian King?'

'He is a diplomat and a warrior. I knew him years ago; it was through him that I lost my commission and came to Macedonia. He is arrogant but not unintelligent. He will not rush at us; he will send his satraps against us at first and try to foment rebellion behind us. Already he has made contact with Sparta and Thebes, and his agents are in Athens and Corinth.'

Philip leaned forward, splashing his face and beard with perfumed water. 'This time it will avail them nothing. There is no army to tackle us — not even Sparta. No one could act alone.'

'Attacking Persia is a major enterprise,' said Parmenion. 'I hope you are not taking it too lightly?'

'Do not concern yourself with that fear, Parmenion. I have dreamt about this for nearly twenty years, but always I knew the dangers. Almost half a century ago Agisaleus of Sparta invaded Persia. What happened? He scored military successes but was summoned home when Thebes rose against him. It is the Persian way. With their limitless gold and our greed, they have kept us at each other's throats for centuries. That's why I waited so long, ensuring that Greece would be safe behind us. Now the Persians have no leverage here.'

'What command will you give Alexander?' asked the Spartan.

Philip's expression hardened. 'None. He will stay behind.'

'To rule in your absence?'

'No. Antipater shall be my Regent.'

'I do not understand, sire. Alexander has proved his competence.'

'It is not his competence that concerns me — it is his loyalty. He plots against me, Parmenion. Before long he will seek to overthrow me- led no doubt in his treachery by his Epirote whore of a mother. They must think me foolish, or perhaps blind in both eyes. Happily I still have friends who report to me.'

'I have never seen any sign of treachery,' said Parmenion.

'Truly? And would you tell me if you did?'

'How could you doubt that I would?'

Philip rose from the bath and limped across the marble floor. Two servants brought him warmed towels; throwing one around his waist, the King used the other to rub dry his hair and beard. Parmenion followed him. 'What is happening to you, Philip? How can you doubt your son's devotion? Twice he has saved your life, and never once have I heard him speak against you. What poison has Attalus been speaking — for I feel his presence in this?'

'You think I have no other spies than Attalus?' retorted the King. 'I have many. Alexander gave a banquet for his friends last month where he made a speech. You know what he said? "What will my father leave me to conquer?" He wishes me dead!'

'That depends on how you read the sentiment. I take it he was speaking of his pride in your achievements.'

'And what of your own son, Philotas? He is constantly speaking about your and — by implication — my failures: the sieges of Perinthos and Byzantion. He used the word stupidity. About me!'

'Stupid people are always the first to use such words. He is not bright, sire, but Alexander always rebukes him. And as for the sieges, well, we hardly covered ourselves with glory. We took neither city. Perhaps we were. . less than brilliant.'

'Why do you always speak up for Alexander?' roared Philip. 'Have I no right to expect your loyalty?'

'Every right,' responded Parmenion. 'And should I ever see a single shred of evidence that you are betrayed I will report it to you. More than that, I will kill any man — any man — who seeks to bring you down.'

Philip took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Then he smiled and relaxed. 'I know. But you are too trusting, Spartan. You still think of the Golden Child. Well, he's a man now, with his own ambitions. But enough of that -

what do you think of my new bride?'

'She is very beautiful, sire.'

'Yes — and sweet-natured. You know, once I thought I loved Olympias, but I am convinced now that I was bewitched.

I see her as she truly is — a vile harridan, foul of temper and viper-tongued. But Cleopatra is everything I could have wished for. She has given me true happiness. And soon I will have another son, one born of love.'

'Yes, sire,' said Parmenion, trying to hold the sadness from his voice.

The wedding festivities were scheduled to last for eight days and no one in Pella could remember any festival like it.

Free wine was distributed to every household, while all men over the age of fifteen received a specially struck gold coin bearing the head of Philip, with Cleopatra's portrait on the reverse. The coin represented half a year's wages to the poorer servants and land workers, and the celebrations were loud, raucous and unforgettable.

An athletics competition had been under way for twelve days, its size and scope rivalling the Games of Olympia, and the city was packed to overflowing as citizens from surrounding areas and guests from all over the country arrived for the wedding. All the champions of Greece were present at the Games and the King presented to each winner a crown of laurel leaves made from finest gold. There were only two Macedonian victors: Philotas won the middle-distance race, and Alexander rode Bucephalus to victory against horsemen from Thrace, Athens, Sparta, Thessaly and Corinth.

The 10,000 crowd sent up a thundrous roar as Alexander crossed the line on the giant black stallion, his nearest competitor some twenty lengths back. The prince cantered Bucephalus in a long circuit of the stadium, acknowledging the cheers, finally halting before the royal dais where Philip sat with Cleopatra beside him, flanked by his generals Parmenion, Antipater, Attalus and Cleitus.

'A fine victory,' said Cleitus, gazing admiringly at the young rider.

'Anyone would have won on that horse,' muttered Philip, pushing himself to his feet. Lifting the golden laurel crown from the table beside him, he handed it to Parmenion. 'Go,' he said, 'present the winner with his prize.'

The crowd fell silent as the general walked out to the prince. Everyone knew the King should have presented the prize and a confused murmuring began in the stands. Alexander lifted his leg and leapt from Bucephalus' back, bowing his head to receive the laurel crown. As it was placed upon his head he gave a wide grin and waved to the crowd, earning another ovation.

With the smile still in place he whispered to Parmenion: 'What is wrong with my father? Have I done something to displease him?'

'We will talk later,' Parmenion replied.

'I shall come to your home.'

'No, that would not be wise. Mothac has a small house in the western quarter, near the Temple of Healing. Be at the rear of the Temple at midnight. I will see you there. Be sure you are not followed.'

Still smiling, Alexander took hold of Bucephalus' mane and vaulted to the beast's back. Parmenion returned to the dais and, as he mounted the steps, caught sight of Attalus watching the prince riding towards the exit gates.

The years had not been kind to the swordsman. His hair was white and thinning, his face lean and skeletal, with deep lines carved into his cheeks, the skin of his throat loose and wrinkled. Yet he was barely sixty. Attalus saw Parmenion watching him and smiled. The Spartan nodded in reply, then took his place at the King's side as the boxing bouts began.

Parmenion waited for another hour, then he asked leave of the King and walked back from the dais, moving to the huge tents erected outside the stadium where food and drink was being served. Everything was free and many of the city's poor were congregating here, drinking themselves into a stupor. The Spartan moved slowly through the crowds towards the Officers' Tent.

He saw Philotas talking with the youngster Ptolemy and the sombre Craterus. The youths spotted him and Philotas broke away from them.

'I ran well,' said Philo. 'Did you see me?'

'I did. Your timing was impeccable.'

'Am I as fast as you were?'

'I would say faster,' Parmenion admitted. 'I never had a finishing burst of speed. I thought for a moment the Spartan would take you, but you destroyed him from the final bend.'

For a moment Philo stood as if shocked by the compliment, then his face softened.'Thank you, Father. I. .thank you.

Will you join us for a drink?'

'No, I am tired. I think I will go home.'

The young man's disappointment was sincere, but it was replaced almost instantly by the guarded, cynical look Parmenion had come to know so well. 'Yes, of course,' said Philo. 'I should have known better than to ask you to spend time with me. It is not possible to break the habits built up during a lifetime.' And he swung away, returning to his companions.

Parmenion cursed softly and moved on. He should have stayed, and guilt touched him. Philo was right: he had never had time for the boy, nor for any of his sons save one. Alexander.

At the rear of the Officers' Tent was the paddock where the horses were tethered. A servant brought him his mount and he rode slowly back through the city to his town house. Phaedra was not due until tomorrow, which gave him at least a few more hours of relative contentment.

He found Mothac in the small study to the rear of the house. The old Theban was poring over reports from Asia, and there were papers and scrolls scattered across the wide desk.

'Anything new?' asked Parmenion, removing his ceremonial helmet and laying it carefully on the bench beside him.

'New? It is all new,' answered Mothac. 'And yet as old as the balls of Zeus. Treachery, double-dealing, compromise.

New names, ancient vices. But I must say, I do love diplomacy.' He lifted a scroll and grinned. 'I have a letter here from a man named Dupias, assuring me that he is an ardent supporter of Philip. Through his good offices we can be assured of a fine reception in Tyre, should the Persian army be overcome by the "valiant Macedonians".'

'It sounds promising,' said Parmenion.

'True, and yet I have a report from another source that Dupias is in the pay of the Persians.'

'Even better. We can use him to feed Darius false information.'

'Yes. Life is wonderfully complex. I can remember the boring old days when all that counted was the strength of a man's sword-arm and the justice of his cause.'

'No, you can't,' Parmenion told him. 'It just seems that way. The past is all bright colours. The shades of grey have vanished. This is how it has always been. If you walk from here to the Guards Barracks and talk to those earnest young men, they will tell you of the justice of their cause and boast of the strength of their sword-arms. Their eyes will shine with glory. It is the way of young men.'

Mothac sighed. 'I know that. I was trying to be light-hearted. What is the matter with you?'

Parmenion shrugged. 'It is all going sour, Mothac. I think Philip is preparing to assassinate Alexander.'

'What? I can't believe that!'

'He told me yesterday that he does not intend to take the prince with him on the Persian expedition. He will have a role in Macedonia. What does that suggest?'

The old Theban ran his fingers over his bald dome, scratching the skin of his crown. 'Philip is too canny to leave a potential enemy behind him — but to kill his own son? Are you sure?'

'I am sure.'

'What will you do?'

'I have no idea. I am meeting the prince tonight; I will advise him to leave Pella.'

'What is wrong with Philip?' asked Mothac. 'The boy loves him, there is no question of that. You know how many spies report to me, but none has ever suggested that Alexander would betray his father.'

'Unfortunately that is not true of his followers,' put in Parmenion. 'I have seen the reports of comments by Philo and Nearchos, Ptolemy and Cassander. The young men worship Alexander. And then there is Pausanius — an ugly business.'

'He brought it on himself,' muttered Mothac. 'Pausanius is a fool. Philip has always enjoyed the attention of young men, but none of them last in his affections. The boy was too pushy.'

'That may be true,' Parmenion admitted, 'but he is still a high-born Macedonian, and his punishment was cruel and ill-advised.'

Mothac said nothing. How could he argue? Pausanius had enjoyed the King's devotion and while the favourite had made an enemy of Attalus — making him the butt of many jokes and jibes. Attalus had waited for the youngster to fall from favour, and had then ordered Pausanius. to be soundly thrashed and abused by soldiers from his personal guard.

The humiliation was intense, for the young noble had been left, naked and tied, on a stall in the market-place. The incident had many repercussions. The young men who followed Alexander were all friendly to Pausanius, and saw his treatment as unjust. The older nobles at court were cheered by his humiliation, seeing it as a timely and salutary lesson for a youth they considered a loud-mouthed braggart.

It was also well known that Pausanius was a close friend to Alexander. Soon after his ordeal the noble approached the prince, asking for justice against Attalus; Alexander took his plea to the King in open court, but Philip dismissed it, calling the incident a 'prank' that should be forgotten.

But in the months that followed few forgot it, for it highlighted the extent to which Attalus' star had risen in the Macedonian court, and many men now walked warily, or openly courted the company of the one-time assassin.

'Cruel it may have been,' said Mothac at last, 'but it should not concern you. Attalus no longer fears you. You are not on his list of enemies — and that is how it should stay. You may be the foremost general of Macedonia, Parmenion, but Attalus is stronger now than he has ever been. Enmity between you will leave you dead.'

'We will not become enemies,' said Parmenion, 'unless he plans harm to Alexander.'

'If he does, it will be on the King's order,' warned Mothac, his voice a whisper.

'I know,' the Spartan answered.

The Temple, Asia Minor

The Temple grounds were overgrown; most of the roses were long since dead, strangled by wide-leafed ivy, or masked from the sun by the overhanging branches of the many trees. Grass was growing between the paving stones, pushing up with the slow strength of nature, distorting the paths and making the footing treacherous.

The fountains were silent now, the water stagnant. But Derae did not care. She no longer had the strength to walk the gardens and rarely left the room behind the altar. Only two servants remained, both women she had healed long ago before her powers had faded.

No longer were there ragged tents beyond the Temple, filled to overflowing with the diseased, the lame and the crippled. No one needed tokens now to see the Healer.

Shallow cuts she could seal, minor infections would still vanish at her touch. But no longer could she bring sight to the blind, nor draw the cancers from the lungs and bellies of the dying.

Now it was she who suffered, her limbs racked with arthritic pain, her joints swollen. If she moved slowly, supporting herself on two sticks, she could just reach the Temple doorway, there to sit in the afternoon sunshine. But she needed help to return to her room when dusk and the cool breeze of evening stiffened her limbs.

Derae sat on the marble bench with deep cushions around her, the afternoon sun warm on her face, and recalled the days when her power was at its height, when the blind saw again and the crippled were made strong.

She was lost in her memories when Camfitha came to her.

'There is a carriage coming, mistress. It is black, but adorned with gold. It must be some great lady. Soldiers ride before and behind and the carriage is drawn by six black stallions. It could be the Queen.'

'Let us hope she has but a chill,' answered Derae sleepily.

Camfitha settled her plump form alongside the slender old woman. 'Shall I help you into the altar room?'

'No, dear. I shall wait here. Bring some fresh water from the well, and some fruit. The travellers will be thirsty and in need of refreshment.'

'It will be dusk soon. I will fetch you a shawl.'

Derae listened as Camfitha hurried away, her heavy steps echoing in the hallway. She remembered the lithe child Camfitha had been — slim and beautiful, but with a twisted leg and a crippled foot. Derae had healed the limb, and Camfitha had sworn to serve her always.

'Do not be foolish, child. Go from here. Find a good man and bear him strong sons.'

But Camfitha had refused. And oh, how grateful Derae had been.

The sound of horses' hooves on the flagstones jerked her mind to the present. She was too tired now to use what remained of her Talent to look upon the newcomers. But there seemed to be at least a dozen horsemen; she could smell the lather on the mounts, mixed with the sweet, smoky aroma of worn leather.

The carriage had halted before the narrow gate and she heard the door being opened, the steps pulled out and thudding against the ground.

Suddenly a cold touch of fear swept through her, as if an icy wind had whispered across the ruined garden; she shivered. She heard the soldiers move away, but there followed a soft rustling, like a snake moving through dry grass and dead leaves. A sweet perfume filled the air and the rustling drew closer. Derae identified it then as the swishing of a woman's gown.

'Who are you?' she asked.

'An old enemy,' said a cold voice.

Derae's mind swept back to her first meeting with the Dark Lady and their clash of souls, the spears of lightning and the cries of the Undead. Then she saw again her journey to Samothrace and her efforts to prevent the conception of the Chaos Spirit.

'Aida?'

'The very same. And I do mean the same. My body is still young, Derae — not old and withered, not rotting on my bones.'

'I dare say the same cannot be said for your soul.'

Aida laughed, the sound full of humour. 'The dying dog can still bite, I see. Will you not ask me why I came?'

'To kill me?'

'Kill you? No, no, Derae. You will die soon without my help. I have watched you for these last years, revelling in your fading powers. But kill you? Why would I do that? Without you my precious boy could never have been born.'

'Your precious boy was defeated, cast out," said Derae. 'Alexander is now a strong, fine young man.'

'Of course he is,' Aida agreed. 'He is as I need him to be. I am a patient woman. The time was not right for the Dark God to become flesh. But now? Now is his time.'

'Empty words cannot frighten me,' Derae told her.

'Nor should they. But I am on my way to Pella, for the wedding of Philip to Cleopatra. And once I am there my words will seem less empty. You think a golden necklet will protect Alexander? A trifling ornament? It could have been removed at any time during these thirteen years, but it was necessary for the boy to become a man, to build his friendships, to prepare the way for the One to come.' Aida laughed again, and this time the sound was cruel. 'You will see him in his glory, Derae. And you will know the ultimate despair.'

'It will not be,' said Derae, her words sounding hollow and unconvincing. 'Parmenion will stop you.'

'He too grows old. His day is past. And Aristotle has run away to-distant worlds and other times. There is no one left to stop me.'

'Why did you come here?'

'To torment you,' said Aida brightly. To bring you pain. To let you know that the Day of the Dark God is dawning.

Nothing will stop him.'

'Even if you are right, it will only be for a short time. Alexander is not immortal. One day he will die.'

'Perhaps. Perhaps not. But what will it matter? Once his flesh has been devoured by carrion birds, or eaten by worms, or consumed by fire, the Chaos Spirit will be free once more and his disciples will find another suitable vessel for him. He is immortal.'

'Why do you serve him, Aida? He brings only pain and suffering, hatred and despair.'

'Why? How can you ask that? You sit there decaying even as I watch, while I am still youthful, thanks to his blessing. I am rich, with many slaves and soldiers. My body enjoys all the pleasures known — and many that are not known. What other master could give me all this?'

Now it was Derae's turn to smile. 'Such worthless treasures. You are welcome to them.'

'Worthless? I concede you have more experience of worthlessness than I,' hissed Aida. 'You only ever knew one lover. I have known thousands, both men and women — yes, and demons. I have been pleasured in ways you could not dream of.'

'Nor would I wish to. And you are wrong, Aida: you have never known a lover, for you are incapable of love. You have no conception of its meaning. You came to torment me? You failed. For once I hated you, and now I feel only pity. You have brought me a gift. . and I thank you for it.'

'Then here is another,' whispered Aida, rising. Parmenion will be slain by his son, Alexander. Cold iron will be thrust into his flesh. Everything you ever dreamed of will come to nothing. Ponder on that, you blind hag!'

Derae said nothing, but sat very still as the Dark Lady walked away. She heard the carriage door open, listened as the steps were withdrawn and heard the whip crack, the horses whinnying.

'Have they gone then?' asked Camfitha, laying the silver tray on the marble bench.

'Yes, they have gone.'

'Was it the Queen?'

'No. It was just a woman I once knew.'

Lightning speared the sky as Alexander walked from the palace, heading west along the wide, deserted avenue towards the marketplace. There were few people on the streets as midnight approached, but he was sure he was being followed. Twice he thought he caught glimpses of a tall man wearing a black cloak, but when he turned there was no one in sight.

twq prostitutes hailed him as he crossed the agora square, but he smiled and shook his head. 'A special price for you, handsome one,' called the younger of the two, but he spread his hands.

'No coin,' he answered and they turned from him, walking away arm in arm.

A flicker of movement came from his left and he spun with dagger in hand. There was no one there. Lightning flashed, black shadows danced from the giant pillars of the Temple of Zeus. Alexander shook his head.

Shadows. You are jumping at shadows. Slipping the dagger back into its sheath he walked on. Once he would have used his Talent to search those shadows, but ever since Parmenion had clipped the golden necklet to his throat his powers had vanished. A small price to pay for the peace he had enjoyed since the Dark God was banished from his body.

No one who had not endured his sense of solitude as a child could possibly understand the joy he had known since his return from the world of Achaea. To touch and not to kill, to embrace without fear and feel the warmth of another body against his own. So many simple pleasures. To sit, no longer alone, at the centre of a group of children, to ride, and to laugh, and to share.

Reaching up, he touched the cold gold of the necklet.

He moved on, cutting across the Street of Tanners and on to the wider Avenue of the Stallion, keeping close to the shadows and listening for sounds of pursuit.

How could it have come to this, he wondered? Slinking through the midnight streets for a secret meeting. The return from Achaea had been full of joy. Philip's good-humour had lasted for months, and even when away on his constant campaigns in Thrace or the Chalcidice the King had continued to send messages to his son at Mieza. Where had it gone wrong?

Could it have been the horse?

He remembered the day, five years before, when Parmenion had first brought Bucephalus to the King. The Festival of Artemis had been celebrated for the previous four days, and Philip was relaxed and mildly drunk when the Thessalian handler walked the huge black stallion on to the parade ground. Alexander's breath had caught in his throat. Seventeen hands high, the stallion was the most wondrous sight, powerful of shoulder and proud of eye. The King had sobered instantly. He was not lame then and he had leapt from the dais to approach the beast.

'Never,' said Philip, 'have I seen such a horse.'

'His sire was Titan,' Parmenion told him. 'I rode him only once and have never forgotten it.'

'I will give you five talents of silver for him,' the King announced.

'He is not for sale, sire, not even to you. He is a gift for Alexander.'

'This is no horse for a child. This is a war-horse.' Philip reached up to stroke the sleek black neck, his hand trembling.

'Ten talents, Parmenion. He can have another horse.'

The fifteen-year-old Alexander gazed up at the Spartan, saw his cheeks redden, his mouth tightening. 'You cannot buy another man's gift, my lord. I have several other war-horses I would be pleased to offer you.'

'I want this one!' declared the King, his voice deepening as his anger rose.

'No,' said Parmenion. The word was spoken softly, but there was no doubting the strength of feeling behind it.

Philip took a deep breath and swung to see Alexander watching him. 'If he can ride the stallion, he may have him,'

said Philip, striding back to the dais.

'Thank you, Parmenion,' whispered Alexander, moving forward to stand alongside the stallion. 'But how will I mount such a beast? I would need to carry steps.'

'Stroke his nose and blow gently into his nostril, then step back,' advised the Spartan. Alexander obeyed the instruction and was both amazed and delighted when Bucephalus knelt before him. Taking hold of the black mane, he vaulted to the horse's back. Instantly Bucephalus rose.

'Aia!' shouted Alexander, touching heels to the stallion's flanks. Bucephalus broke into a run, and the prince had never forgotten the intense exhilaration of that first ride — the incredible speed, the awesome power.

But his father's fury had lasted for days, and even when it faded an edge remained.

Alexander was not unduly troubled by it, for he knew the King was concerned with the coming war against Thebes and Athens, two enemies of fierce reputation. It was the Athenians who two hundred years before had destroyed a massive Persian army at the Battle of Marathon, and the Thebans who three decades ago had ended Spartan domination at the Battle of Leuctra. Now united against Philip, they posed the greatest threat ever faced by the Macedonian King.

Stopping at a public fountain Alexander drank a little water, taking time to cast furtive glances at the buildings around him. There was no sign of the man in the black cloak… if ever there was such a man, thought the prince with a wry smile. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, followed closely by a trident of lightning. The wind began to blow harder, but as yet there was no rain.

There had been lightning the night before Chaironeia, he remembered.

He had stood with Parmenion on the high ground overlooking the enemy camp. Almost 30,000 men: the battle-hardened warriors of the Sacred Band, Corinthian cavalry, Athenian hoplites, peltasts, javeliners.

'Does this make you sad?' whispered Alexander. 'I mean, did you not help to form the Sacred Band?'

'Yes, I did,' Parmenion answered, 'and down there will be some of the men I trained, and the sons of others I knew. It makes my heart sick. But I have chosen to serve your father and they have chosen to become his enemies.' The Spartan shrugged and walked away.

The battle had been fierce, the Sacred Band holding the Macedonian phalanxes, but at last Philip had led a successful cavalry charge against the enemy left, scattering the Corinthians and splitting the enemy force.

Alexander saw again the javelin that speared the heart of the King's horse and watched, with his mind's eye, his father being thrown to the ground. Enemy soldiers rushed towards him. Alexander had kicked Bucephalus into a run and led a wild charge to the King's aid. Philip was wounded in both arms, but Alexander had reached him in time, stretching out his hand and pulling his father up behind him. Bucephalus had carried them both to safety.

It was the last time Alexander could remember his father embracing him. .

The prince sighed. He was almost at the meeting place, and just crossing the Street of Potters, when three men appeared from the shadows. Alexander paused in his stride, eyes narrowing.

The men, all dressed in dark tunics, spread out, knives gleaming in their hands. Alexander backed away, drawing his own blade as he did so.

'We just want the necklet, young prince,' said the leader, a burly man with a silver-streaked black beard. 'We mean you no harm.'

'Then come and take it,' Alexander told him.

'Is a piece of gold worth your life?' asked another man, this one leaner and wolf-like.

'It's certainly worth more than yours,' Alexander retorted.

'Don't make us kill you!' pleaded the leader. Alexander took several steps back, then his shoulders touched the wall of the building behind him. His mouth was dry, and he knew he could not kill all three without suffering serious injury. For a moment only he was tempted to give them the necklet, then he remembered the touch of death and the terrible loneliness of his childhood. No, it would be better to die. His gaze flickered to the lean man; he would be the deadly one, swift as a striking snake. They moved in closer, coming from left, right and centre. Alexander tensed, ready to leap to his right.

'Put up the blades,' said a deep voice. The men froze, the leader turning his head to see a tall man in a black cloak standing behind them with a glittering sword in his hand.

'What if we do?' the leader asked.

'Then you walk away,' said the newcomer reasonably.

'Very well,' muttered the robber, easing himself to the right, his men following him. Once clear of the action, the three attackers turned and disappeared into the shadows.

'My thanks to you,' said Alexander, but his knife remained in his hand.

The man chuckled. 'I am Hephaistion. The lord Parmenion asked me to watch over you. Come, I will take you to him.'

'Lead the way, my friend. I will be right behind you.'

Mothac's house was in the poorer quarter of Pella, where he could meet and hold interviews with his many agents.

The building was two-storeyed and surrounded by high walls. There was no garden but to the rear of the property, facing east, was a small courtyard half-covered by a roof of vines. There was only one andron, windowless and unadorned, in which three couches and several small tables were set. It was in this room that Mothac spoke with his spies, for they could not be overheard from outside.

'What is happening to my father?' asked Alexander as Parmenion ushered the prince inside.

The general shook his head and shrugged. 'I cannot say with certainty.' The Spartan stretched out his lean frame on a long couch, and Alexander saw the weariness in the older man. It surprised him for Parmenion had always been his hero, seemingly inexhaustible. Now he looked like any man in his sixties, grey-haired and lined, his pale blue eyes showing dark rings. It saddened the prince and he looked away. 'Sometimes,' continued the Spartan, 'a man will find that his dreams were more magical before they were realized. I think that might be one answer.'

'I don't understand you. He is the most powerful King in Greece. He has everything he ever desired.'

'Exactly my point.' The general sighed. 'When first I met him in Thebes he was but a child, facing with courage the prospect of assassination. He never wanted to be King. But then his brother was slain in battle and Macedonia faced ruin. Philip took the crown to save the nation. Soon after that he began to dream of greatness — not for himself but for the kingdom, and the future of his unborn son. He wanted nothing more than to build for you.'

'But he has done that,' said Alexander.

'I know. But along the way something happened to the man. He no longer builds for you but for himself. And the older he becomes the more he regards you, your youth and your talent, as a threat. I was with him in Thrace when news of the Triballian revolt came through. He was ready to march home, for he knew the strength of the tribesmen, their courage and their skills. Any campaign against them would take months of careful planning. Then came word of your stunning victory. You outflanked them, outthought them and won the war in eighteen days. That was magnificent. I was proud of you. So, I think, was he. But it only showed him how close you are to being ready to rule.'

Alexander shook his head. 'I cannot win, can I? I try to please him by excelling, but that makes him fear me. How should I act, Parmenion? Would it be better if I were retarded, like my half-brother Arridaeus? What can I do?'

'I think you should leave Pella,' advised the Spartan.

'Leave?' Alexander was silent for a moment. He looked into Parmenion's face, but for the first time in all the years he had known him the Spartan refused to meet his eyes. 'He means to kill me?' he whispered. 'Is that what you are saying?'

The general's face was grim as, at last, he looked into Alexander's eyes. 'I believe so. Day by day he convinces himself- or is convinced — of your imminent treachery. He gathers information about you, and the words of your friends. Someone within your group is reporting to him. I cannot find out who.'

'One of my friends?' asked Alexander, shocked.

'Yes — or rather, someone who professes to friendship.'

'Believe me, Parmenion, I have never spoken against my father or criticized a single action. Not even to my friends.

Anyone who speaks against me is lying or twisting the truth.'

'I know that, boy! I know that better than anyone. But we must find a way to make Philip realize it. It would be safer for you to leave the city. Then I can do my best to convince the King.'

'I cannot do it,' said Alexander. 'I am the heir to the throne and I am innocent. I will not run.'

'You think only guilty men die?' Parmenion snapped. 'You believe innocence is a shield to turn away a blade? Where was the shield tonight when the assassins came? Had it not been for Hephaistion you would have been killed.'

'Perhaps,' agreed Alexander, 'but they were not assassins. They wanted the necklet.'

Parmenion said nothing, but his face lost its colour and he moved across the room to a table where a flagon of wine and two shallow cups had been left. He did not offer the prince a drink, but filled a cup and drained it swiftly. 'I should have guessed,' he said softly.

'What?'

'Aristotle leaving. It bothered me at the time. Now I know why.

Many years ago — just before you were born -1 went on a journey… a perilous journey. He accompanied me. But when it seemed that all was lost, he fled. As Chiron, he did much the same. You remember? When we came close to the Forest of Gorgon he became the centaur, returning to his own form only when the danger was past.'

'He told me of that; he said he was frightened.'

'Yes. There is to him an edge of cowardice he cannot resist. I have always seen it in him — and I do not blame him for it. It is his nature, and he tries hard to overcome it. But it is there nonetheless. Now he has run away again, and tonight someone tried to steal the necklet.'

'They could just have been robbers, surely?'

'Yes,' Parmenion admitted, 'they could. But I doubt it. Three men in a deserted street. What were they doing? Hoping some rich merchant would walk by after midnight? And the necklet is not readily visible, especially at night, nor does it look particularly valuable. No. Ever since we returned from Achaea I have lived in fear, waiting for the return of the Dark God.' The general refilled the wine-cup and moved back to the couch. 'I am no mystic, Alexander, but I can feel his presence.'

'He is gone from me,' argued the prince. 'We defeated him.'

'No, not gone. . waiting. You were always to be his vessel. All that protects you is the necklet.'

'They did not get it,' Alexander pointed out.

'This time! But there will now be other attempts. They must feel the time is right.'

'Twice in the last year I have almost lost the necklet,' said Alexander. 'In the battle against the Triballians an arrow struck my breastplate, the shaft snapping and the head tearing two of the gold links. I had it repaired. The goldsmith could not understand why I refused to take it off while he soldered the gold; he burned me twice. Then, while hunting, a jackdaw swooped down upon me, its talons hooking into the links. I struck the bird with my hand and it lost its grip upon the gold. But as it flew away the clasp snapped open. I managed to hold it in place while I refastened it.'

'We must be on our guard, my boy,' said Parmenion. 'Now, if you will not leave Pella, will you at least allow me one request?'

'Of course. You have but to ask.'

'Keep Hephaistion with you. He is the best of my young officers. He has a keen eye and a good brain; he will guard your back. Take him into your counsel, introduce him as a new Companion. Given time, he will find the traitor.'

Alexander smiled ruefully. 'You know, it is hardly accurate to describe a man who reports to the King as a traitor.

Indeed, this could be seen as treason: the King's general and the King's son in a secret meeting.'

'There are those who would see it so,' agreed Parmenion. 'But you and I know it is not true.'

'Answer me this, Parmenion: Where will you stand if my father goes against me?'

'By his side,' answered the Spartan, 'for I am pledged to serve him and I will never betray him.'

'And if he should kill me?'

'Then I will leave his service and depart from Macedonia. But we must ensure that it does not come to that. He must be made to see that you are loyal.'

'I would not harm him — not even to save my own life.'

'I know,' said Parmenion, rising and embracing the younger man. 'It is time for you to go. Hephaistion is waiting by the front gate.'

The Summer Palace, Aigai

Olympias knelt before the Lady of Samothrace, bowing her head to receive the blessing.

Aida leaned forward. 'You are a Queen now. You should not kneel to me,' she said.

'A Queen?' responded Olympias bitterly. To a man with seven wives?'

'You are the mother of his son, the heir. Nothing can take that away from you.'

'You think not?' asked Olympias, rising and sitting beside the black-clad Aida on the satin-covered couch. 'Cleopatra will bear him a son. I know this, he brags of it constantly. And he has grown to hate Alexander. What am I to do?'

Aida put her arm around the Queen, drawing her close and kissing her brow. 'Your son will be King,' she told her, holding her voice to a whisper and flicking a glance at the open window. Who knew what spies lurked close by? Her spirit snaked out, but there was no one within hearing distance.

'I used to believe that, Aida. Truly. And I was so happy on Samothrace before the wedding. I thought that Philip was the greatest King in all the world. My happiness was complete. But there has always been something between us, an uneasy… I don't know how to describe it. Only on that first night did we ever achieve the union you taught me to expect. Now he can scarce look at me without his face darkening in anger. Did he never love me?'

Aida shrugged. 'Who can say what is in a man's mind? Their brains hang between their legs. What is important is what we do now. You know you were chosen to bear a special child, a king of kings, a god. You have fulfilled that part of your destiny. Rejoice in that, sister! And leave your fears in my care.'

'You can help Alexander?'

'I can do many things,' she answered. 'But tell me of your son. What kind of man has he become?' The Queen drew back, her face suddenly radiant, and she began to speak of Alexander's triumphs, his goodness, his strength and his pride.

Aida sat patiently, assuming an expression of rapt fascination, smiling occasionally, even clapping her hands in delight at various points. Her boredom was almost at the point of exasperation when Olympias' voice trailed away. 'I am talking too much,' said the Queen.

'Not at all,' put in Aida swiftly. 'He sounds wonderful — everything we ever dreamed of. I saw him today, walking with a group of young men. He is very handsome. But I noticed that he was wearing a necklet and it interested me.

The workmanship is very old. Where did he come by it?'

'It was a gift, many years ago. He wears it always.'

'I would like to see it. Can you bring it to me?'

Olympias shook her head. 'I am sorry, I cannot. You see, there was a time when he seemed. . possessed. The necklet protects him. He cannot remove it.'

'Nonsense! He was a gifted child with powers too strong to contain. But he is a man now.'

'No,' said Olympias. 'I will not risk that.'

'You do not trust me?' asked Aida, her face showing exactly the right amount of hurt.

'Oh no!' replied Olympias, taking Aida's hand, 'of course I trust you. It is just… I fear that the darkness that was once within him could return and destroy him.'

'Think on this, my dear. Without the necklet he will be so powerful no man will ever be able to kill him.'

'You think Philip would. .? No, I cannot believe that.'

'You have never heard of a King killing his son? Strange. It is not a rare occurrence in Persia.'

'Nor here,' Olympias agreed. 'But Philip is not that kind of man. When he became King, upon his brother's death in battle, he spared the life of his brother's son Amyntas. That surprised many, for Amyntas was the natural heir.'

'And where is he now?'

'Amyntas? He serves in the King's bodyguard. He is ferociously loyal to Philip; he has no desire to be King.'

'Not now, perhaps — but what if Philip were to die?'

'Alexander would be King.'

'And is Amyntas loyal to Alexander?'

Olympias frowned and looked away. 'No, they are not friends.'

'And Amyntas is a true-born Macedonian,' put in Aida softly. 'Is that not so?'

'Why are you trying to frighten me? Amyntas is no danger.'

'There is peril everywhere,' snapped Aida. 'I have been here but three days, and the whole court talks of nothing apart from the succession. The family of Attalus dream that Cleopatra's child will be King. Others swear allegiance to Amyntas. Still more talk of Arridaeus.'

'But he is retarded; he drools and cannot walk a straight line.'

'Yet he is Philip's son, and there are those who would seek to rule through him. Antipater, perhaps.'

'Stop this!' shouted Olympias. 'Do you see enemies everywhere?'

'Everywhere,' agreed Aida, her tone soft. 'I have lived for many, many years. Treachery, I find, is second nature to Man. Alexander has many friends and many enemies. But that is not important. The real secret is being able to tell which is which.'

'You understand the Mysteries, Aida, can you see where the peril lies?'

'There is one great enemy who must be slain,' answered the Dark Lady, her eyes holding to Olympias' gaze.

'Who?' whispered Olympias.

'You know the answer. I need not speak the name.' Aida's slender hand dipped into a deep pocket in her dark gown, then came clear holding a round golden coin which she lifted between thumb and forefinger. 'It is a good likeness, don't you think?' asked the sorceress, flipping the coin into Olympias' lap.

The Queen stared down at the golden, silhouetted head of Philip of Macedon.

Hephaistion stretched out his long legs, lifting them over the carved foot-rest at the end of the couch. His head was aching with the noise from the revellers and he merely sipped at the heavily-watered wine in the golden Persian goblet. At the far end of the room Ptolemy was wrestling with Cassander and several tables had been upturned, throwing fruit and sweetmeats to the floor. The two men slipped and slithered on them, their clothes stained with fruit-juice. Hephaistion looked away. Philotas and Alexander were playing a Persian game involving dice and counters of gold and silver. Elsewhere other Companions of the prince were either gambling or lying in a drunken sleep on the many couches.

Hephaistion was bored. A soldier since the age of fifteen, he loved the wild, open country, sleeping beneath the stars, rising with the dawn, following the horns of war. But this? Soft cushions, sweet wines, mind-numbing games. .

He sat up, his gaze drifting to where Philotas sat hunched over the table. So like his father in looks, he thought, yet so different. It was interesting to compare them. They even walked alike with shoulders back and eyes aware, the movements sure and catlike. But Parmenion merely showed confidence whereas Philo exuded arrogance. When the older man smiled men warmed to him, but with Philo it seemed he was mocking. Subtle differences, thought Hephaistion, but telling.

He stretched his back and stood. Approaching the table where Alexander sat, he bowed and asked for leave to depart.

Alexander looked up and grinned. 'Sleep well, my friend,' he said.

Hephaistion moved out into the torchlit corridor, nodding to the guards who stood to attention as he passed. The gardens were cool, the night breeze refreshing. He sucked in a deep breath and then, with a glance behind him, stepped into the shadows of the trees by the eastern gate. There was a marble bench here, hidden from the path by overhanging vegetation, and he sat down to wait.

An hour passed. . then another. Finally a cloaked figure left by the rear door, moving swiftly down the path. But he did not pass through the gate; instead he cut across the garden to a second inner gateway. Hephaistion stood and, keeping to the shadows of the wall, followed the 1 man. Hanging ivy grew thickly by the inner gate and the scent of roses came from beyond the wall. Hephaistion slowed his walk, moving with care through the undergrowth. He could hear low voices in the small garden beyond and he recognized them both.

'Is he talking treason yet?' Philip asked.

'Not as such, sire. But he grows more discontented day by day. I asked him tonight how he felt about the coming campaign and he outlined his plans for the taking of a walled city. He speaks like a general, and I think he sees himself leading the army.'

Hephaistion's eyes narrowed. That was not as it had been. He had listened to that conversation and Alexander had merely pointed out — when pushed — that patience was needed when besieging fortified towns.

'Attalus believes,' said Philip, 'that my life is in danger. Do you agree with him?'

'Hard to say with certainty, sire. But I detect a great jealousy over your recent marriage. All things are possible.'

'Thank you,' said the King. 'Your loyalty does you credit-1 shall not forget it.'

Hephaistion slipped deeper into the shadows and knelt behind a thick bush as the man reappeared. He waited there for some minutes then rose and walked out into the night, making his way past the Guards Barracks to Parmenion's house. There was a single lantern burning in the lower study, thin lines of golden light showing through the wooden shutters of the small window.

The soldier tapped at the wood and Parmenion pushed open the shutter, saw him and gestured him to the side door.

Once inside the general offered him wine but Hephaistion refused, accepting instead a cup of water.

'Is it Philo?' Parmenion asked.

Hephaistion nodded. There was no expression on the general's face as he returned to the wide leather-covered chair behind the desk. 'I thought so. Tell me all.'

The soldier did so, reporting the twisted facts Philotas had relayed to the King. 'What does he gain, sir? The prince is his friend and the heir to the throne. Surely his future success would be assured under Alexander?'

'That is not how he views it. You have done well, Hephaistion. I am pleased with you.'

'I am sorry that the information I gained should bring you grief.'

Parmenion shook his head. 'I knew it anyway — deep in my heart.' The Spartan rubbed at his eyes, then lifted a full wine-cup to his lips, draining it at a single swallow.

'May I now return to my regiment, sir?' asked the soldier. 'I am not suited to palace life.'

'No, I am sorry. I think Alexander is in danger and I want you close to him for a little while longer. Will you do this for me?'

Hephaistion sighed. 'You know I will refuse you nothing, sir. But please let it not be too long.'

'No more than a month. Now you should get some rest. I understand Alexander rides on a hunt tomorrow. . today

… at dawn.'

Hephaistion chuckled. 'That will come as a welcome relief.' His smile faded. 'What will you do about Philotas?'

'What I must,' Parmenion answered.

Parmenion awoke soon after dawn, but he was not refreshed by his sleep. His dreams had been full of anxiety and despair, and on waking he felt no better.

Rising from the bed, he opened the shutters of his bedroom window and stared out over the city. When men looked at him they saw Macedonia's greatest general, a conqueror, a man of power. Yet today he felt old, weary and lost.

One son, Alexander, was being betrayed by another, Philotas, while the King Parmenion loved was fast convincing himself of the necessity of murdering his heir.

This was no battlefield where the strategos could work one of his many miracles. This was like a web of poisoned thread, weaving its way through the city and the kingdom, corrupting where it touched. But who was the spider?

Attalus?

The man was cold-hearted and ambitious, but Parmenion did not believe him capable of manipulating Philip. Yet who else stood to gain?

He summoned two of his manservants, ordering them to prepare him a bath. Only a few years before he would have first left the house for a morning run, loosening his muscles and refreshing his mind. But now his limbs were too stiff for such reckless release of energy. There was a tray of apples by the window and he bit into one. It was sweet and overripe and he threw the remainder from the window.

Who was the spider?

There were no easy answers. The King was middle-aged now and it was natural for young men to turn their eyes to a successor. There were many who favoured Alexander, but others would be happier with the half-wit Arridaeus, while still more remembered that Amyntas was the son of Perdiccas, the King before Philip.

But Parmenion pushed such thoughts from his mind. He knew Amyntas well; the boy had no desire for the crown, and less aptitude. He was easygoing and friendly, a capable officer, but with little imagination or initiative.

No, the answer lay with Philip and his increasing mistrust of Alexander. Philotas was feeding him lies and half-truths, but he had neither the wit nor the natural cunning to build such a web.

Parmenion lazed in the deep bath for an hour, wrestling with the problem, but was no nearer a solution when Mothac arrived to discuss the messages from agents in Asia Minor.

'The Great King has strengthened his forces in the west and sent troops to the Greek cities of the coast. But not many.

Maybe three thousand. Curious,' said the old Theban.

'Persia is vast,' said Parmenion. 'He could gather an immense army in little more than a month. No, he is just letting us know that he knows. What news from Thebes?'

'There's been the usual unrest. No one likes having a foreign garrison in the Cadmea. You should remember that!'

'I do,' Parmenion agreed, remembering his days in the city, when a Spartan force occupied the fortress at the centre of Thebes.

'There is some talk in the city of Persian gold for the hiring of a mercenary army to retake the Cadmea.'

'I don't doubt the money is there,' said Parmenion. 'The Great King will be throwing gold in every direction: Sparta, Athens, Corinth, Pherae. But this time the Persians will fail. There will be no revolt behind us.'

'Do not be too sure,' muttered Mothac. 'Thebes has freed herself of conquerors before.'

'There was Epaminondas then, and Pelopidas. And Sparta was the enemy. The situation is different now. Sparta was forced to tread warily for fear of starting another war with Athens. Now Thebes would stand alone, and she is no match for even one-fifth of the Macedonian army.'

Mothac grunted and shook his head angrily. 'Spoken like a Macedonian! Well, I am Theban and I do not agree. The Sacred Band is being re-formed. The city will be free again.'

Parmenion rose from the bath, wrapping a thick towel around his waist. The old days are gone, Mothac; you know that. Thebes will be free — but only when Philip decides he can trust the Thebans.'

'Such arrogance,' hissed Mothac. 'You were the man who freed Thebes. Not Epaminondas. You! You helped us retake the Cadmea and then came up with the plan to crush the Spartan army. Don't you remember? Why is it so different now? How do you know there is not a young Parmenion even now in Thebes, plotting and planning?'

'I am sure that there is,' answered Parmenion with a sigh. 'But the Spartan army was never more than five thousand strong, and they were spread thin. Philip can call upon forty-five thousand Macedonians, and half again that number of mercenaries. He has a forest of siege-engines, catapults, moving towers. It is not the same.'

'I would expect you to take that view,' said Mothac, his face crimson.

'I am sorry, my friend, what else can I say?' asked Parmenion, approaching the old man and laying his hand on Mothac's broad shoulder. But the Theban shrugged it away.

'There are some matters better left undiscussed,' muttered Mothac. 'Let us continue with other problems.' He scooped up his papers and began to leaf through them. Then he stopped, his bald head sagging forward, and Parmenion saw there were tears in his eyes.

'What is it? What's wrong?' Parmenion asked, moving to sit alongside him.

'They are all going to die,' said Mothac, his voice shaking.

'Who? Who is going to die?'

'The young men of my city. They will rise, swords in their hands. And they will be cut down.'

Understanding flowed into Parmenion's mind. 'You have been helping them to organize?'

The old man nodded. 'It is my city.'

'You know when they plan to attack the Cadmea?'

'No, but it will be soon.'

'It need not end in bloodshed, Mothac. I will send another two regiments into Boeotia and that will give them pause.

But promise me you will sever your connections with the rebels. Promise me!'

'I cannot promise that! You understand? Everything I do here makes me a traitor. Ever since Chaironeia, when you crushed the Theban army. I should have left you then. I should have gone home. Now I will!'

'No,' said Parmenion, 'don't leave. You are my oldest friend and I need you.'

'You don't need me,' said the old man sadly. 'You don't need anything. You are the strategos, the Death of Nations. I am getting old, Parmenion. I shall go home to Thebes. I will die in the city of my birth and be buried alongside my love.'

Mothac rose and walked, stiff-backed, from the room.

City of Aigai, Midwinter 337 BC

They had many names and many uses, but to Aida they were the Whisperers. The Persians had worshipped them as minor demons or daevas; the ancient peoples of Akkady and Atlantis believed them to be the souls of those who had died evil. Even the Greeks knew them, in a corrupted form, as Harpies.

Now they gathered around Aida like small wisps of mist, barely sentient but pulsing with dark emotions, exuding the detritus of evil, despair, melancholy, gloom, mistrust, jealousy and hatred.

The cellar was colder than the heart of a winter lake, but Aida steeled herself against it, sitting at the centre as the smoky forms hovered about her.

The house was set apart from the city, a former country home for a minor Macedonian noble who had died in the Thracian wars. Aida had purchased it from his widow, for it had a number of advantages. Not only was it secluded but there was a garden hidden behind a high wall where her acolytes could dispose of the bodies of the sacrifices -

those unfortunates whose blood had been needed to keep the Whisperers strong.

She reached out her hand, summoning the first of the ghostly shapes. It flowed over her fingers and immediately images formed in her mind. She saw Philip slumped on his throne, his thoughts dark and melancholy, and she laughed aloud. How simple it was to twist the minds of men! Summoning a second form, she watched Attalus plotting and scheming.

One by one she received her image reports before sending the Whisperers back to their human hosts. Then, at last, the cold began to seep into her bones and she rose and left the room, climbing the dark stairs that led to the lower gardens.

All was well and Aida was deeply satisfied. Soon Philip would face his doom, and the Lady of Samothrace would be on hand to guide his son to the throne. Such a handsome boy! Oh, how she would aid him, supplying such joys and then, while he was asleep, she would remove the necklet and open the gates of his soul.

Aida shivered with exquisite pleasure. All her life she had dreamed of this coming day, as had her mother before her.

Her mother's hopes — and worse, her spirit and her will to live — had been crushed by Tamis. But there is no one now to thwart me, she thought.

Soon Philip of Macedon would be dead, slain in his palace while he slept.

Arousal stirred in her and she summoned two of her guards. Mostly she found the touch of men distasteful, but on occasions such as this there was a satisfaction in using them that bordered on pleasure. It was always heightened when she knew her lovers were about to die. As their youth and strength was expended on her, she gloried in their coming demise.

The two men were handsome and tall, mercenaries from Asia Minor. They smiled as they approached her and began to remove their clothing.

The first reached her, arrogantly laying his hand on her breast, pulling clear the dark robe she wore.

Tomorrow, she thought, your soul will be shrieking on its way to Hades…

Pella, Midwinter

Philip was drunk and in high good humour. Around him were his friends and generals — twenty men who had served the King well over the last two decades — and they were celebrating the last night of the wedding festival. Philip leaned back in his chair, his gaze moving from man to man.

Parmenion, Antipater, Cleitus, Attalus, Theoparlis, Coenus. . men to march the mountains with. Strong, loyal, fearless. A movement at the far end of the table caught his eye. Alexander was smiling at some jest made by the youngster, Ptolemy.

Philip's good humour evaporated. The joke was probably about him.

But he shrugged the thought away. Tonight was a celebration and nothing would be allowed to mar it.

Servants cleared away the last of the food plates and jugglers came forward to entertain the King. They were Medes, with curled beards and flowing clothes of silk and satin. Each of the three carried six swords which they began to hurl into the air, one by one, until it seemed that the blades were alive, spinning and gleaming like metal birds above the throwers. The Medes moved apart and now the swords sliced through the air between them, scarcely seeming to touch the hands of the throwers so fast did they move. Philip was fascinated by the skill and wondered, idly, if the men were as talented when it came to using the blades in battle. According to Mothac's reports the Persian king had 3,000 Medean warriors in his army.

At last the display finished and Philip led the cheers. Several of Alexander's companions clapped their hands, which made the King frown. It was becoming the custom to show appreciation by slapping the palms together, but for centuries such clapping had been considered an insult. It had originated in the theatre, used by the crowd to drown out bad actors and forcing them to leave the stage. Then the Athenians began to use clapping at the end of a performance to signify approbation. Philip did not like such changes.

The jugglers were replaced by a knife-thrower of exquisite skill. Seven targets were set up and the man, a slim Thessalian, found the centre of each while blindfolded. Philip rewarded him with a gold coin.

There followed four acrobats, slim Thracian boys, and a saga poet who sang of Heracles and his labours. Through it all Philip's cup was never empty.

Towards midnight several of the older officers, Parmenion among them, asked leave of the King and returned to their homes. But Philip, Attalus, Alexander and a dozen others remained, drinking and talking.

Most were drunk, Philip noted, especially Attalus who rarely consumed alcohol. His pale eyes were bleary, but he was smiling blissfully, which brought a chuckle from the King who clapped him on the shoulder.

'You should drink more often, my friend. You are altogether too solemn.'

'Indeed I should,' Attalus replied, enunciating the words with great care and total concentration. 'It is… an…

extraordinarily. . fine feeling,' he concluded, standing and performing an exaggerated bow.

Philip flicked a glance at Alexander. The boy was cold sober, nursing the same cup of wine he had ordered some two hours before. 'What's the matter with you?' he roared. 'The wine not to your liking?'

'It is very good, Father.'

'Then drink it!'

'I shall — in my own time,' responded the prince.

'Drink it now!' the King ordered. Alexander raised the goblet in a toast, then drained it at a single swallow. Philip summoned a servant. 'The prince has an empty cup. Stand by him and see that it does not become empty again.'

The man bowed and carried a pitcher to the end of the table, positioning himself behind Alexander. Satisfied with the young man's discomfiture Philip swung back to Attalus, but the swordsman had fallen asleep on the table with his head resting on his arms.

'What's this?' shouted Philip. 'Is the King to be left to celebrate alone?'

Attalus stirred. 'I am dying,' he whispered.

'You need some wine,' said Philip, hauling the drunken man to his feet. 'Give us a toast, Attalus!'

'A toast! A toast!' roared the revellers.

Attalus shook his head and lifted his wine-cup, slopping half the contents to the table. 'To Philip, my ward Cleopatra and to their unborn son.' The swordsman saw Alexander and smiled. 'Here's to a legitimate heir!' he said, raising his cup.

A stunned silence fell upon the revellers. Alexander's face lost all colour and he pushed himself to his feet. 'What does that make me?' he demanded.

Attalus blinked. He could not believe that he had used the words. They seemed to spring to his lips unbidden. But once said they could not be withdrawn. 'Do you hear me, you murderous whoreson?' Alexander shouted. 'Answer me!'

'Be silent!' bellowed Philip, surging to his feet. 'What right have you to interrupt a toast?'

'I will not be silent,' responded Alexander. 'I have taken your insults long enough. But this is not to be borne. I care nothing for the succession — you can leave your crown to a goat for all I care — but any man who questions the legitimacy of my birth will answer for it. I will not sit by and allow my mother to be called a whore by a man who clawed his way to eminence over the bodies of men he has poisoned or stabbed in the back.'

'You've said enough, boy!' Philip pushed back his chair and rushed at Alexander, but his foot cracked against a stool and he stumbled as he reached him. His crippled leg gave way beneath him and he began to fall. His left hand flashed out, reaching for Alexander, but his fingers only hooked into the necklet gleaming at the prince's throat. It tore clear instantly and Philip crashed into the table, striking his head on a chair as he fell.

Alexander staggered, then righted himself. There was no sound in the hall now, and the lamps flickered as a chill breeze swept through the open windows.

The prince looked down at the fallen man. 'There he lies,' he said, his voice deep and uncannily cold. 'The man who would stride across the world cannot even cross a room.'

Alexander backed away towards the door, Ptolemy and Craterus following him. The prince spun on his heel and strode from the hall.

Parmenion did not hear the hammering on the main doors, for the feast had left him exhausted and he had slumped into a deep, dreamless sleep. The past days had been full of gloom and heartache, with the departure of Mothac and the arrival of the shrill Phaedra.

A servant silently entered his room, gently shaking the general's shoulder. Parmenion awoke. 'What is it?' he mumbled, glancing through the open window at the still dark sky.

'The King sends for you, sir. It is urgent.'

Parmenion sat up, rubbing his eyes. Swinging his legs from the bed, he waited while the servant brought him a clean chiton and a fur-lined hooded coat. The winter was drawing in and now there was a chill to the night air.

Dressed at last, he walked downstairs and saw Philotas, cloaked and ready to accompany him.

'Do you know what's happening?' he asked his son.

'Alexander has fled the city,' answered Philo. 'There were heated words after you left.'

Parmenion cursed inwardly and strode from the house, Philo following him. The younger man increased his pace and came alongside Parmenion.

'There could be civil war,' said Philo. Parmenion glanced at his son, but said nothing. 'Craterus, Ptolemy and Cassander have all gone with Alexander,' the younger man continued. 'And that officer of yours, Hephaistion. I never trusted him. How much of the army do you think will desert to the prince?'

Parmenion paused and turned on his son. 'There will be no civil war,' he said, his voice colder than the night air. 'No matter how hard you may push for it, Philo.'

'What does that mean?'

'The words are not hard to understand,' snapped Parmenion. 'You have carried your lies and your twisted half-truths to the King, and you — and whoever you serve — are responsible for tonight's events. But there will be no war. Now get away from me!'

Parmenion swung away from his son and marched on towards the palace, but Philo ran alongside, grabbing his father's arm.

'How dare you treat me like a traitor!' stormed the youth, his eyes blazing with anger. 'I serve the King loyally.'

Parmenion looked into his son's face and took a deep breath. 'It is not your fault,' he said at last, his voice echoing his sorrow. 'Your mother was once a seeress, albeit not a good one. She became convinced you were to be a great King.

And when you were too young to understand she filled your mind with thoughts of future glories. She was wrong.

Listen to me now: she was wrong. Everything you strive for will only see you slain.'

Philo stepped back. 'You have always hated me,' he said. 'Nothing I have ever done has earned your praise. But Mother's vision was not wrong. I know it; I can feel it within me. I have a destiny that will dwarf all your achievements. Nothing will stop me!' The younger man backed away still further, then stalked off into the night.

Parmenion sighed, the weight of his years seeming suddenly intolerable. He shivered and walked on to the palace.

Despite the lateness of the hour servants and slaves still moved through the halls and corridors and he was led to the throne-room where Philip waited with Attalus. The swordsman was sober now. He nodded to the Spartan, but said nothing as Philip outlined the events of the evening.

'You cast doubts on his legitimacy?' asked Parmenion, swinging to face Attalus. 'I can't believe it!'

'I don't know why I said it. I swear to Zeus the words just leapt from my mouth. I was drunk. But if I could take them back, I would.'

'This has all gone too far,' said Parmenion, turning back to the King.

'I know,' said Philip softly, sitting slumped on his throne. 'Suddenly I see everything differently: It is like the sun emerging following a storm. I cannot believe I have treated him so badly. He is my son! When I fell I struck my head and was dazed for a while. But when my senses returned it was as if I was looking through another man's eyes. All my fears were gone and I felt free. I went looking for him to apologize, to beg his forgiveness. But he was gone.'

'I will find him, sire,' Parmenion promised. 'All will be well again.'

'He saved my life. Twice,' whispered Philip. 'How could I think he wanted me dead?'

'I don't know, sire. But I am glad you now see him for what he is, a fine young man who worships you.'

'You must find him, Parmenion.' Philip pushed himself to his feet and limped towards the taller man. 'Return this to him, for I know it means much.' Extending his hand, he opened his fingers.

The Spartan looked down — and felt as if a knife had been thrust into him, cold iron to the heart. The necklet glistened in the lamp-light and Parmenion took it with a trembling hand.

'How. . did you come by it?'

'As I fell, I reached out. My fingers hooked into it.'

In that moment Parmenion realized just why the King's paranoia had disappeared. The magic of the necklet prevented any evil from entering the heart or mind of the wearer.

But what had its loss meant to Alexander?

'I will ride at once, sire,' he said.

'Do you know where he has gone?'

'No, but I know where to look.'

'I will come with you,' said Attalus.

'I do not think that would be wise,' the Spartan told him.

'Wise or not, I will apologize to his face.'

'He may kill you — and I would not blame him.'

'Then I will die,' said Attalus. 'Come, let us go.'

The River Axios, Winter 337 BC

Sleet had begun to fall, icy needles that penetrated the thickest cloak, and the waters of the nearby river — swollen by incessant rain over the last few weeks — surged angrily against the bank. Hephaistion built a fire against a fallen log and the Companions gathered around it, huddled into their cloaks.

'Where shall we go?' asked Ptolemy, holding out his slender hands to the flickering flames. Alexander did not reply.

He seemed lost in thought.

'West to Epirus,' said Craterus. 'We all have friends there.'

'Why not north-west into Pelagonia?' put in Cassander. 'The army there are the men we rewarded after the Triballian campaign. They would rise in Alexander's name.'

Hephaistion looked to the prince, but still Alexander gave no indication that he was listening. Hephaistion added fuel to the fire and leaned his back against a rock, closing his mind to the cold.

It had been a night like this when first he had met Parmenion ten years ago, with sleet turning to snow on the high ground. Only then there had been the sound of the hunting dogs howling in the night, the stamping of hooves as the hunters searched for the runaway boy. Hephaistion had been thirteen years old, living with his widowed mother on a small farm in the Kerkine Mountains. Early one morning Paionian tribesmen from the north had raided into Macedonia, sweeping down from the high passes, killing farmers and sacking two towns. Outriding scouts had come to their farm. They had tried to rape his mother, but she fought so hard that they had killed her, stabbing her through the heart. The young Hephaistion slew the killer with a hand-axe and then ran for his life into the woods. The scouts had war-dogs with them and these had raced after him. Despite the cold the boy had waded through swollen streams, throwing them off the scent for a while. But as midnight approached the dogs had closed in.

Hephaistion shivered as he recalled what had happened. He had picked up a sharp rock and was crouched waiting.

The dogs, two huge beasts with slavering jaws, had bounded into the clearing, closely followed by the six scouts on their painted ponies.

On a shouted command from the leader — a slim, wiry man wearing a yellow cloak — the dogs halted before the boy.

Hephaistion had backed away to a boulder, the rock in his hand.

'See the dogs, child,' said the leader, his voice guttural and cruel. 'In a few moments I will order them to rip you to pieces. See how they stand, as if leashed? They are well trained.' Hephaistion could not keep his eyes from the hounds. Their lips were drawn back over heavy muzzles, showing long, sharp, rending fangs. In his terror the boy's bladder had given way and the six riders had laughed aloud at his shame.

A tall man in bright armour stepped from behind the rocks, a short, stabbing sword in his hand. The dogs howled and charged but the warrior moved swiftly in front of the boy, his sword sweeping out and down, half decapitating the first hound and skewering the heart of the second.

The action had been so swift that the men had not moved. But the leader, seeing his war-dogs slain, dragged clear his sword and kicked his horse forward. Arrows sliced through the night air. The first shaft took the leader behind the ear, punching through to his brain. He toppled sideways from his mount. The other Paionians tried to escape, but the arrows came from all sides. Within a few heartbeats all six men and four of the horses were dead or dying.

Hephaistion dropped the rock and turned to the tall warrior, who was wiping blood from his blade.

'Thank you, sir,' he managed to say. The man sheathed his sword and knelt before him, his eyes seemingly grey in the moonlight.

'You did well, boy,' he said, reaching out to grip Hephaistion's shoulders. 'You stood your ground like a warrior.'

The boy shook his head, tears beginning to flow. 'I wet myself in fear.'

'And yet you neither ran, nor begged for your life. Do not be ashamed of a momentary weakness of the bladder.

Come, let us go somewhere warm and find you some dry clothing.'

'Who are you, sir?'

'I am Parmenion,' answered the man, rising to his feet.

'The Lion of Macedon!'

'The very same.'

'You saved my life. I shall not forget it.'

The general had smiled and moved away into the centre of the clearing, where Macedonian archers were stripping the corpses. A young officer led Parmenion's horse forward and the general smoothly vaulted to its back. Then he held out a hand to Hephaistion. 'Come, ride with me!'

Hephaistion smiled at the memory.

'He is coming,' said Alexander suddenly.

'Who?' asked Ptolemy.

'Parmenion. Attalus is with him.'

The youngster stood, staring south through the sleet. 'I see no one, Alexander.'

'They will be here within the hour,' said Alexander, almost dreamily.

'How do you know?' asked Craterus.

'A vision from the gods,' the prince answered.

'If it is a true vision, how could Parmenion know where to find us?'

'How indeed?' responded Alexander, his sea-green eyes gleaming as they focused on Hephaistion.

'I left a message for him, telling him we had headed north,' said the officer.

'What?' roared Craterus. 'You are a traitor then!'

'Be quiet, my friend,' said Alexander, his voice soft and almost gentle. 'Let Hephaistion speak.'

'The general asked me to watch over the prince, to see that no harm befell him. I have done that. But Parmenion is Alexander's only true friend among the elders. I felt it vital that he should know where to look for us.'

'And yet he brings Attalus with him,' put in Ptolemy. 'How do you read that situation?'

Hephaistion slowly placed two thick branches on the guttering fire. 'I trust Parmenion,' he said at last.

'As do I,' said Alexander, moving across the fire to sit beside the officer. 'But can I trust you, soldier?'

'Yes,' Hephaistion told him, meeting his gaze.

Alexander smiled. 'Do you have dreams, Hephaistion? Ambitions?'

'Of course, sir.'

'My dreams will take us all across the world. Will you follow me to glory?' His voice was soothing, almost seductive, and Hephaistion felt himself drifting, visions filling his head of great armies marching, tall cities burning, rivers of gold flowing before his eyes, rivers of blood swirling around his feet. 'Will you follow me?' asked Alexander again.

'Yes, sire. To the ends of the earth.'

'And maybe beyond?' the prince whispered.

'Wherever you command.'

'Good,' said Alexander, clapping the young man on the shoulder. 'Now let us wait for our visitors.'

The sleet turned to snow, icy flakes that stung as they touched exposed skin. Craterus, Ptolemy and Cassander began to strip branches from surrounding trees, trying in vain to build a small shelter but being constantly thwarted by the gusting winds.

Alexander sat silently by the tiny fire, snow settling on his cloak and hair as his eyes gazed into the flickering flames.

Hephaistion shivered, drawing his own woollen cloak more tightly about him. The prince's mood worried him: Alexander seemed in an eldritch state, uncaring of danger, seemingly comfortable even within this sudden blizzard.

The cold seeped into Hephaistion's bones and he rubbed his hands together, blowing hot air to his palms.

'This is more to your liking, is it not?' asked Alexander suddenly.

'My lord?'

'The cold, the naked sky, enemies at hand. You are a soldier — a warrior.'

'I like it a little warmer than this,' Hephaistion answered, forcing a smile.

'You prowled my rooms like a caged lion, never at ease.'

'I was doing as the lord Parmenion ordered.'

'Yes, of course. You worship him.'

'Not worship, my prince. I have much to thank him for. After my mother was killed I was forced to sell our farm at auction, in order to pay the fees at the military academy. When I came of age the deeds to the farm were returned to me. Parmenion had bought it.'

'He is a kindly man — and I understand he saved you from Paionian raiders?'

'Yes. How did you know of it? Did he tell you?'

'No,' said Alexander, 'but I like to know all about the men who follow me. Why do you think Attalus is with him?'

Hephaistion spread his hands. 'I am a soldier, not a strategos. How many men are with them? Did your vision show you?'

'They are alone.'

Hephaistion was truly surprised. 'That seems unlikely, sir. Attalus has many enemies and should rightly now judge you among them.'

Alexander leaned in close. 'Where will you stand if I go against Attalus?'

'By your side!'

'And against Philip?'

'The same answer. But do not ask me to fight Parmenion.'

'You would be with him?'

'No — that is why I do not want you to ask me.'

Alexander nodded, but said nothing. Swinging his head he saw his three Companions huddling under a rough-built shelter, but a sudden gust of wind toppled it over them. The prince's laughter rippled out. 'These are the men who would conquer the world for me,' he said.

They struggled clear of the wreckage and gathered around the fire. 'Do you not feel the cold?' Ptolemy asked Alexander. The prince grinned. 'It cannot touch me.'

The Companions began to joke about Alexander's new-found powers and Hephaistion leaned back against the rock, closing his ears to their banter, letting it wash over him like the background noise of the river, blending in with the shrieking of the wind.

He was both amazed and angry at his exchange with the prince: amazed because of the surprising way he had pledged himself to follow him, angry at himself for his easy betrayal of Parmenion. That he had grown to like and respect Alexander was understandable: the prince was a man of honour and courage. But Hephaistion had never guessed how deep this respect had become, and understood now that it bordered on love. Alexander was the sun and Hephaistion felt warm in his company. But do you not love Parmenion, he asked himself? The answer was swift in coming. Of course, but it was love born of debt, and debts can always be repaid.

The snow eased, the wind dying away. The fire crackled and grew, dancing tongues of flame licking at the wood.

Hephaistion opened his cloak, allowing the warmth to bathe his upper body.

Alexander was looking at him. 'Our guests are almost upon us,' said the prince. 'I want you to ride out behind them and scout for any larger force that might be following.'

Hephaistion's mouth was suddenly dry as he stood and bowed. 'As you command,' he answered.

And here it was, the moment of betrayal. If the Companions slew Parmenion and Attalus, it would mean civil war.

But Alexander had given Hephaistion a way out. He would not be present when the killing began. The officer felt nauseous as he strode to his mount.

But he rode away without a backward glance.

Parmenion saw the distant camp-fire and reined in his mount. The light appeared like a flickering candle and, at this distance, it was not possible to make out the men around it.

'You think that's them?' asked Attalus, riding alongside.

'It is likely,' the general answered. 'But it is possible they are a band of robbers.'

Attalus chuckled. 'Would they be a match for the two greatest swordsmen in Macedonia?'

Parmenion smiled. 'Once upon a time, my friend. I fear age has withered our skills a fraction.'

'Speak for yourself, Spartan. I am as fast now as ever.'

Parmenion glanced at the white-haired swordsman, surprised at the conviction in his voice. He actually believed the words he spoke. The Spartan offered no argument, but heeled his horse forward.

Closer they came to the camp-fire. The ears of Parmenion's stallion pricked up and he whinnied, the sound being answered from the trees beyond the fire.

'It is them,' said Parmenion. 'That was Bucephalus. He and Paxus were stable companions.'

'What if they come at us with swords?' Attalus asked.

'We die,' answered Parmenion, 'for I'll not fight Alexander.'

The clouds broke and the moon shone bright upon the snow-covered land, the nearby river glinting like polished iron. Parmenion rode to the camp-fire and dismounted. Alexander sat cross-legged before the flames, but he rose as the general approached.

'A cold night,' remarked the prince, looking past Parmenion at Attalus.

'Yes, sir,' the swordsman agreed. 'A cold night following hot words.'

'What do you wish to say to me, Attalus?'

The swordsman cleared his throat. 'I have come. . to. .' he licked his lips. 'I have come to apologize,' he said, the words flowing out swiftly as if their taste was acid upon his tongue. 'I don't know why I made that toast. I was drunk.

I was as shocked as you were, and I would do anything to withdraw the words.'

'My father sent you to say this?'

'No, it was my choice.'

Alexander nodded and turned to Parmenion. 'And you, my friend, what have you to tell me?'

'Philip is deeply sorry. He loves you, Alexander; he wants you home.'

'He loves me? There is a thought! I have not seen much evidence of such love in a long time. How do I know that I do not ride back to Pella in time for my own murder?'

'You have my word,' said Parmenion simply. 'Now, will you not ask your Companions to join us? They must be frozen stiff waiting in the woods.'

'They will remain where I order them,' said the prince, cloaking the refusal with a smile. 'Let us sit down by the fire and talk for a while.'

Alexander added more fuel and the three men sat while Parmenion outlined Philip's regret and sadness. Finally the Spartan opened the pouch at his side, producing the necklet. 'When the King touched this, all his thoughts and fears concerning you vanished. You understand why? The magic of the necklet cut through the spells that were weaving about him.'

Alexander gazed down at the necklet. 'You are saying he has been bewitched?'

'I believe so.'

'Then perhaps he should wear it?'

'You do not want it back?'

'I have no need of it; it served its purpose. Obviously the Dark God has chosen another vessel. I am free of him.'

'What harm would it do to wear it once more?' asked Parmenion softly.

'No harm at all — save that I do not wish to. Now, you say my father is anxious to welcome me home and that I should trust you. Therefore I shall. For you have always been my friend, Parmenion, and the man I most admire — save for Philip. Will you ride with me to the King?'

'Of course, sir.'

Attalus cleared his throat once more. 'Am I forgiven?' he asked.

'Why would I not forgive you, Attalus? Your actions have brought about a change I have been longing for through these many years. I am grateful to you.'

'What change is that?' asked Parmenion sharply.

'The return of my father's love,' answered Alexander smoothly. 'Now let us ride.'

The City of Aigai

Aida dismissed the Whisperers, for they had served their purpose and the Dark Lady was exultant. She had felt the moment when Philip ripped the necklet from Alexander, experiencing a surge of emotion wonderfully similar to a sexual climax.

Now she knelt in the darkened cellar beneath the house with the bodies of her two recent lovers stretched out on the cold floor, blood drying on their chests.

Aida smiled and, reaching out to the nearest body, traced a bloody line with her finger from the chest wound to the belly. Throughout history there had been many forms of payment — the Akkadians using crystal, the Hittites iron, the Persians gold. But for the demonic forces beyond the ken of mortals there was only one currency. Blood. The source of life.

Aida closed her eyes. 'Morpheus!' she called. 'Euclistes!'

Even now the assassins would be approaching Pella, and it was vital that the palace guards were removed from the fray.

She called again and the darkness in the room deepened, the cold increasing. Aida felt their presence and whispered the words of power. Then the demons vanished and with them went the bodies of the slain. Not even a single spot of blood remained on the marble floor.

Aida rose and trembled with excitement. Tonight the new era would be born. Tonight the King would die.

Pella, Winter 337 BC

Unable to sleep, Philip rolled from the bed, walking out on to the balcony. He shivered as the winter wind touched his naked body but remained where he was, enjoying its caress. I have been such a fool, he thought, recalling his treatment of his son. How could a man be so wise in the ways of the world, he wondered, yet so blinded to the values of his own flesh and blood?

For years Philip had schemed and plotted to rule Greece, organizing an army of agents and subversives in all the major cities, outwitting the likes of Demosthenes and Aischines in Athens and the most brilliant minds of Sparta, Thebes and Corinth. Yet here in Macedonia he had perhaps lost the love of his son by misreading the young man's intentions.

It was galling.

He shivered again and returned to his room, wrapping himself in a warm, hooded cloak of sheepskin before returning to the balcony.

His mind fled back over the years, seeing himself once more a hostage in Thebes, waiting for his own death.

Unhappy days of solitude and introspection. And he remembered the sick sense of horror when he had heard of his brother's death in the battle against the Illyrians and had seen the shape of his own destiny. He had never wanted to be King. But what choice was there? His country was surrounded by enemies, the army crushed, the future dark with the promise of despair.

He gazed out over the sleeping city to the low hills beyond. In little more than twenty years he had made Macedonia great, putting the nation beyond the reach of any enemy.

Philip sighed. His leg was throbbing and he sat down on a narrow chair, rubbing at the scar above the old wound. His bones ached and the constant pain of his blind eye nagged at him. He needed a drink.

Rising, he swung to enter the royal bedroom and stared, surprised, at the thin white mist that was seeping under the bedroom door. At first he thought it was smoke, but it clung to the floor, rolling out to fill the room. Philip backed away to the edge of the balcony. The mist followed but, once outside, the night winds dispersed it.

But inside the room it flowed over the rugs and chairs and up over the bed in which Cleopatra lay sleeping. As he watched the mist slowly faded, becoming at first translucent and then almost transparent. Finally it disappeared altogether. Philip stepped back into the room, crossing swiftly to where Cleopatra lay. His fingers touched the pulse at her neck. She was sleeping deeply; he tried to rouse her, but could get no response Concerned now, he limped across the room, pulling open the door to summon the guards. Both men were slumped in the corridor with their spears beside them.

Fear swept into the King's heart as, throwing aside the cloak, he moved to the rear chambers. On a wooden frame hung his armour and shield and he swiftly buckled on breastplate and a bronze-reinforced leather kilt. Dragging his sword from its scabbard, he returned to the outer room.

All was silence. His mouth was dry as he stood in the doorway listening. How many assassins would there be?

Don't think of that, he cautioned himself, for there lies defeat and despair.

His thoughts turned to Cleopatra and the child she carried. Was she safe? Or also a target for the killers? Crossing to the bed he lifted her clear and lowered her to the floor, covering her with a blanket and easing her body under the bed and out of sight.

You are alone, he realized. For the first time in twenty years you have no army to call upon. Anger touched him then, building to a cold fury.

Once more he moved to the doorway, listening. To his right was the stairway leading to the great hall and the lower andron s, to his left the corridors of the women's quarters. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out over the sleeping guards. A curtain to his left flickered and a dark-robed assassin leapt from hiding. Philip spun, his sword plunging through the man's chest and ripping into his heart. Dragging the blade clear, he whirled round as a second swordsman, hooded and masked, ran at him from the left. Philip blocked a savage cut, then hammered his shoulder into the man, knocking him to the floor. From behind he could hear the padding of many feet upon the rugs. Philip leapt over the fallen man and ran for the staircase. A thrown knife thudded against his breastplate, ricocheting up and slicing the skin behind his ear.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he halted. Three more guards were down, stretched out in a drugged sleep. Snatching up a fallen spear, the King turned to see seven men racing towards him along the corridor. Philip waited. As they closed upon him his arm went back, the muscles bunching, then swept forward, the spear flashing into the chest of the first man and punching through to emerge by the spine. Blood gushed from the assassin's mouth and he stumbled.

Philip did not wait for the others to reach him but ran down the stairs, taking them three at a time, trying to keep the weight on his good leg.

Half-way down he stumbled, pitching forward and losing his grip on his sword. He hit hard, rolling to the foot of the stairs and striking his head on the base of a statue. Half-stunned, he struggled to rise. His sword was ten steps above him, but there was no chance to recover it, for the six remaining assassins were almost upon him.

Glancing to his right, he saw the bodies of two sentries and ran towards them. An assassin leapt to his back, a wiry arm encircling the King's throat, but Philip ducked his head, twisted on his heel and threw the man into the path of his fellows. His vision blurred, Philip staggered on towards the fallen guards, desperate to lay his hands upon a weapon. A thrown knife slashed into his leg, but he ignored the pain and threw himself full-length to fall across the body of a guard. He just had time to grab for a sword before the assassins were upon him. Rolling, he thrust the blade upwards, lancing it through a man's groin. A booted foot cracked against his temple and a knife plunged into his thigh. With a roaring battle-cry Philip came to his knees and launched himself at the killers. The sword was knocked from his right hand, but his left caught an assassin by the throat — the man stabbed out at the King, but the blade was blocked by Philip's breastplate. The King's fingers dug into the man's neck, closing like an iron trap around his windpipe; a sword lanced into his hip, just below the breastplate, and he cried out, releasing his hold on the assassin's throat. The man staggered back, gasping for breath. Philip's fist cracked against another man's chin and, for a moment only, he had space. Lurching to his left the King staggered towards an open doorway — the assassins sprang after him but he reached the empty room and slammed shut the door, dropping the narrow bar into place.

The assassins hurled themselves at the door, which creaked and tore at its hinges.

Knowing they would not be thwarted for long, Philip swung round, seeking a weapon. But the room was the lower, small andron. Windowless, it boasted only six satin-covered couches, a row of tables and an iron brazier filled with glowing coals. Earlier that evening he had sat here with Cleopatra calmly discussing their future.

A door panel cracked open and the King moved into the centre of the room, blood gushing from the wounds in his leg and hip. The entire door sundered and the five remaining assassins pushed inside. Philip ran to the brazier as they advanced. One assailant, bolder than the rest, charged at the King, but he swept up the brazier to hurl it into the man's face. Hot coals struck the assassin's mask, falling into his hood and down behind the neck of his dark tunic. He screamed as smoke and flames billowed up around him, and the smell of scorched flesh filled the air. The man fell, hair and beard alight, and writhed screaming as flames engulfed him.

The four remaining killers edged forward to encircle the King.

Weaponless and wounded, Philip waited for death.

But the assassins suddenly froze and the King saw their eyes widen in fear and shock. One by one they backed away from him, turning to flee from the room.

Philip could scarce believe his luck. Then a cold breeze whispered against the back of his neck and he turned.

The far wall shimmered, then darkened — a huge, bloated shape forming from floor to ceiling. A head emerged, gross and distorted, lidless eyes peering into the room. The mouth was rimmed with long fangs, curved like sabres. The King blinked, unable to believe what his eyes were seeing. It must be a nightmare, he thought, but the pain from the wounds in his leg and hip were all too real.

With a whispered curse Philip started to run towards the door — just in time to see it slam shut, bars of fire dancing across it. He swung back to the monster. The creature had no arms, but in their place huge snakes grew: heads the size of wine barrels, fangs as long as swords. A sibilant hissing came from the snakes and they writhed towards the King.

Backing away, Philip came to the corpse of the assassin he had struck with the brazier and, stooping, lifted the man's knife. It seemed but a tiny weapon against the monstrosity emerging from the wall.

The creature came clear at last and stood on its huge fur-covered legs, its head touching the high ceiling, its eyes focused on the man before it. The snake arms swept out.

Left without an avenue of retreat, the King advanced on the enemy.

Parmenion's mount, the grey Paxus, found itself hard pressed to keep up with Bucephalus, who cantered on ahead tirelessly, and the Spartan did not push him. Paxus was a thoroughbred of the same blood-line as Titan, Bucephalus'

sire, but there was no comparison between the stallions. Though fast, Paxus could not match the awesome speed of the black, nor his stamina.

Yet still Parmenion had to hold back on the reins, for Paxus dearly wanted to run, to take on his rival. The general's thoughts were sombre as he rode behind Alexander. The prince had dismissed his Companions, assuring them of his safety and — disgruntled and unsure — they had ridden away. But it was not their unease that bothered Parmenion. It was Hephaistion. The young officer had approached them from the south, spoken quietly to Alexander and then angled his mount away to the south-west. He did not speak to Parmenion and avoided the general's gaze.

Parmenion was hurt, though his face did not show it. He had been surprised when Hephaistion was not present at the camp-site, and now he knew that the young man's loyalty was no longer his for the asking. Youth will always call upon youth, he told himself, but the hurt remained.

The moon was high when the trio rode into Pella. The mounts of both Parmenion and Attalus were lathered and tired, but Bucephalus' black flanks merely gleamed. Alexander waited while the others came alongside and grinned at Parmenion. 'Never was a prince given a greater gift,' he said, patting the stallion's sleek, dark neck.

At the stables a sleepy groom, hearing hoofbeats on the flagstones, wandered out into the night, bowing as he saw the prince. 'Give him a good rub-down,' ordered Alexander as he dismounted. The prince seemed in good humour as he walked towards the palace — but then he stopped in mid-stride, his eyes narrowing.

'What is wrong?' Attalus asked.

Parmenion saw instantly what was troubling the prince. 'There are no sentries,' hissed the general. Drawing his sword, Parmenion ran towards the huge bronze-reinforced oak doors beneath the twin columns at the front of the palace. As he reached them he saw a fallen spear in the shadows and his heart began to hammer. 'The King!' he shouted, hurling himself at the door on the left. It slammed open and the Spartan ran inside.

Lamps flickered on the walls and by their dim light he saw the sentries lying flat upon the floor. A shadow moved to his right and four armed men emerged from the lower andron; they were clad in dark chiton s and leggings, their faces hooded and masked. Seeing the Spartan they ran at him, long knives in their hands, and Parmenion leapt to meet them. Veering, three of the assassins tried to make a break for the doorway, but Alexander and Attalus moved into their path.

Parmenion swayed aside from a vicious thrust, sending his own blade slashing down into the outstretched arm. The iron edge bit deep, smashing bone and severing arteries. Screaming, the knifeman fell back. Parmenion stepped forward to plunge his sword into the man's chest.

Behind him Alexander despatched another assassin with a thrust to the belly, while Attalus grappled with a third.

The fourth man ran out into the night. Attalus' sword was knocked from his hand, then a fist cracked against his chin and he sagged against the wall. Alexander moved in behind the attacker and, just as the man's knife rose above Attalus' throat, the prince's blade clove into the killer's back.

Attalus staggered as the man fell, then stooped to gather his sword.

Parmenion had started to climb the stairs when a weird, unearthly cry came from the lower andron. Alexander was first to the door, which seemed to be locked. The prince hurled himself against it, but it did not move despite the fact that the hinges were torn loose.

Nothing seemed to be holding the door in place, yet it stood as strong as iron.

Alexander stepped back and stared for a moment at the wood. Then he raised his sword.

'That will not cut. .' began Parmenion.

The sword slashed down and the door seemed to explode inwards, shards and splinters flying into the room.

Alexander leapt inside, with the two officers following him. All three froze as they saw the huge demon at the far end of the andron, the King advancing upon it.

Snake arms slashed out to circle the King's waist and drag him from his feet. Alexander and Parmenion sprang forward. Attalus, horror-struck, found he could not move.

The King was slowly lifted towards the creature's cavernous maw, its fangs dripping saliva on his chest. Alexander ran forward but then stopped, his sword-arm swinging back like a javeliner. His hand flashed forward, the iron blade slicing through the air. Just as the fangs were about to close on Philip the sword punched home through the demon's eye. As its neck arched back, Philip thrust his dagger into the stretched, scaly skin of the throat. Black blood bubbled from the wound and the snake arms went into spasm, dropping the King to the mosaic floor where he landed heavily and lay winded. Parmenion ran in, hacking and cutting at the creature as Alexander moved to the King, pulling him back across the centre of the room.

Smoke billowed from the demon's wounds, filling the andron and choking the lungs of the warriors.

'Get back!' Parmenion shouted.

Attalus joined Alexander and together the two men lifted Philip, carrying him out into the corridor. Parmenion joined them and together the trio carried the wounded King out of the palace, laying him down between the twin pillars of the doorway.

'Fetch a surgeon,' ordered Parmenion, but Attalus knelt by the King, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.

'He must not die!' the swordsman whispered.

Parmenion shook him roughly. 'Nor will he! Now fetch a surgeon!'

'Yes. . Yes,' muttered Attalus, pushing himself to his feet and running to the Guards Barracks.

'The wounds are deep,' said Alexander, 'but I do not think they are mortal. Already the gash in the thigh is clotting.'

'He is a tough man.' The moon emerged from behind the clouds, bright silver light bathing the palace entrance. 'Look at that!' whispered Parmenion, pointing to Philip's iron breastplate. The metal was twisted and bent where the snake arms had coiled around it. Swiftly the two men unbuckled the armour, pulling it clear; then with a dagger Alexander slit Philip's chiton tunic. The King's upper body was covered in bruises. Parmenion pressed a finger to Philip's ribs.

'One at least is cracked,' he announced.

The King stirred, his eyes opening. 'Alexander?' he whispered.

'I am here, Father.'

'Thank. . the. . gods. Will you forgive me?'

'There is nothing to forgive. Parmenion says you have suffered under a Dark Enchantment. All is well now. We are together.'

Philip struggled to rise, but Parmenion gently pushed him back. 'Wait for the surgeon.'

'A pox on all surgeons!' snorted Philip. Parmenion shook his head, but helped the King to a sitting position.

'What was that thing?'

'Euclistes,' answered Alexander. 'Once a Titan, but now a servant to all with the power to call upon him.'

'How do you know of him?' Parmenion asked.

The prince smiled. 'I had a fine teacher. Aristotle told us many tales of the damned.'

'You saved my life again, boy,' said Philip, reaching out and gripping his son's arm. 'Three times now.' Suddenly the King chuckled. 'You know, I think I might just live for ever. Gods, if eight assassins and a beast like that cannot kill me, then what can?'

Aigai, Summer 336 BC

Philip awoke to the brightness of the summer sunshine streaming through the open window. He stretched and rose from the bed, listening to the sounds of bird-song from the garden below his rooms. The scent of flowers filled the air and he felt almost young again.

He padded to a long bronze mirror, standing before it and gazing at his reflection. No longer was he overweight; the muscles of his belly stood out ridged and firm, and his black beard and tightly curled hair shone with health. The scars on his hip and thigh had faded now to faint white lines against his bronzed skin. 'I am in my prime,' he told his reflection. He had seldom felt better. The wound in his leg rarely troubled him now, and the pain from his blinded eye was but a memory.

Servants brought him his white tunic and ceremonial cloak and he dressed and dismissed them before wandering out to the balcony. The sky was wondrously blue, not a cloud in sight. High above the palace a golden eagle banked and glided on the warm air currents.

It was a good day to be alive!

Last evening Cleopatra had delivered him a son — a healthy, bawling babe with jet-black hair. Philip had raised him high, carrying him to the window and holding him up for the troops and crowds outside to see. Their cheers had almost made the palace tremble. Today they would celebrate his birth in true Macedonian style with marches, games, parades and performances from the finest actors in Greece. It would be a day to remember — and not just for the arrival of a new prince.

At midnight Philip had received word from Parmenion. The forward troops had crossed the Hellespont into Persia unopposed. Several of the Asian Greek cities, including Ephesus, had risen against the Persian overlords. Philip's dreams were all coming true.

Twenty years of planning, scheming, battling and plotting- and here it was: the culmination of all he had fought for.

Athens had finally agreed to Philip becoming the Leader of Greece. All the city states had followed her lead, save Sparta; but Sparta no longer counted. The Greek army had invaded Persia and soon Philip would join them. Then they would free all the Greek cities of Asia and the Persian King, Darius, would pay a fortune in tribute to prevent Macedon's army from marching further into his empire.

Philip laughed aloud, the sound rippling out over the gardens.

In the five months since the demon almost slew him, the King had rediscovered the joys of living. Olympias' face appeared before his mind's eye and he scowled, but not even thoughts of her could dampen his mood.

A servant entered and announced that Alexander was waiting outside.

'Well, bring him in, man!' ordered Philip.

Alexander was dressed in the black and silver armour of the Royal Guard, a white-plumed helm on his head. He bowed and smiled. 'You look splendid, Father. White suits you.'

'I feel good. It will be a fine day.'

'Indeed it will. The crowds are already gathering and the procession is ready.'

'As am I,' Philip announced. Together the two men strode from the palace. Outside the great gates the marchers were preparing themselves. There were horsemen from all the provinces and troops from every district. There were actors and singers, poets, jugglers, tumblers.

Two white bulls garlanded with flowers were led out at the start, gifts for Zeus the Father of the Gods. They were followed by twenty carts bearing carved wooden statues of Artemis, Apollo, Ares, Aphrodite and all the gods of Greece.

A crown of golden oak leaves upon his head, Philip walked at the centre of the procession, flanked by the Royal Guard with Alexander at their head. Behind them came ambassadors from the city states of Athens, Corinth, Thebes and even Sparta, plus representatives from Boeotia, Pherae, Euboea, Thrace, Illyria and Paionia.

Philip glanced back over his right shoulder at the towering distant mountains, then forward again to the great sweep of the Emathian Plain. Macedonia. His land!

Unlike Pella, where the King's palace stood at the centre of the city, here in this ancient capital it was built on the top of a high hill, with the city spread out below white and glistening. In the distance Philip could see the amphitheatre where he would address his people, and from the foot of the hill to the entrance the crowds lining the route.

Handlers urged the white bulls forward and they began the long descent to the plain, passing on the left the disguised tombs of Macedonia's Kings, buried deep beneath the hillsides with tall trees growing above them. Lying here were Philip's ancestors, their riches hidden from the prying eyes of would-be thieves.

One day I will lie in such a place, he thought. And shivered, despite the sunshine.

The procession stretched for almost a quarter of a mile, and the crowds on either side of the avenue threw flowers under the feet of the walkers. Philip waved to his people, acknowledging their cheers, feeling the power of their love wash over him.

'Long live the King!' someone shouted, and the cry was taken up all along the route.

His leg began to ache, but they were close now to the amphitheatre where 2,000 Macedonians, and other dignitaries, waited to see their King and listen to his words of future glories. None of them yet knew of the success Parmenion and Attalus had enjoyed in the invasion of Persia, and Philip shivered with anticipation, his speech prepared.

'Fellow Macedonians, we stand at the gates of a new era. The power of the Persians is finished, the dawn of freedom awaits. .'

The procession cut off to the left, ready to enter the arena from the wide gates. Philip and his Royal Guard moved to the right, to the low tunnel leading to the royal dais. In the shadows of the tunnel he paused, looking back at the armed men guarding him.

'I do not wish to enter here surrounded by swords,' he said. 'It will make me appear as a tyrant. I shall go in first; you follow me some thirty paces back.'

'As you wish, Father,' Alexander agreed.

Philip stepped into the shadows, his single eye fastened on the square of light ahead.

The Ruins of Troy, Winter 335 BC

Parmenion rode Paxus to the brow of the hill overlooking the broken columns of Troy. His aides came alongside him

— six young men, sons of Macedon's noble families.

That is where Achilles fought and fell,' whispered Perdiccas, his voice trembling.

'Yes,' said Parmenion, 'where Priam the King stood fast against the armies of Greece. Where Hector was slain and where the beautiful Helen lived with the adulterer Paris. That is all that remains of the glory that once was Troy.'

'May we ride down, sir?' Ptolemy asked.

'Of course. But be wary. There are many villages nearby and the inhabitants may be none too friendly.'

The nobles urged their mounts forward, galloping down the hillside towards the ruins. To the south Parmenion could see a white-walled temple and he touched heels to Paxus and cantered towards it.

There were no Persian troops within a day's ride, and his warning to the young men had been largely unnecessary.

Yet he liked his officers to be constantly on their guard.

As he approached the Temple a short, plump woman opened a side gate and walked out to meet him. Parmenion reined in the stallion and halted before her.

'Would you be the Lion of Macedon, sir?' she asked.

Parmenion was surprised. Fifteen thousand Macedonian soldiers were in the vicinity, and there were at least a dozen officers of his own age and height.

'I have been called that, lady. Why do you ask?'

'My mistress sent me to find you. She is dying.'

'I am no Healer; I am a soldier. What did she tell you?'

'She said I was to walk from the Temple and approach the warrior riding the grey stallion. That is all, sir. Will you come?'

Parmenion shivered, suddenly cold despite the sunshine. Something stirred in his subconscious, but he could not raise it to full awareness. He looked down at the woman. Could this be a trap? Were there soldiers or killers waiting within those white walls?

No, he decided. There was no tension in the woman before him; she was simply a servant following the orders of her mistress. Parmenion dismounted and led the stallion through the narrow gate, following a twisted path through an overgrown garden.

Still his thoughts were troubled.

What was it about this place?

It was tranquil here, harmonious and restful, but his senses were shrieking at him and he found himself growing more tense.

He halted before the main doors and tied the stallion's reins to an overhanging tree branch. 'Who is your mistress?' he asked.

'She was the Healer, sir,' the woman answered.

It was dark within the Temple and Parmenion was led to a small room where the single window was covered with a thick, woollen curtain. An old woman lay on a narrow bed; her face was emaciated, her eyes blind. Parmenion moved to the window, drawing back the curtain. Bright sunshine filled the room.

The Spartan looked down on the brightly-lit face of the old woman and his breath caught in his throat. He staggered back, gripping the curtain to stop himself from falling. And then the memory surged up from the darkest recesses of his mind. He saw again the garden at Olympia, where he and Derae had first embraced. And he saw her lying in his bed and heard again her soft, sweet voice.

'I dreamt I was in a temple, and all was darkness. And I said, "Where is the Lion of Macedon?" The sun shone then and I saw a general in a white-plumed helmet. He was tall and proud, and standing with the light at his back. He saw me. . '

'Sweet Hera!' whispered Parmenion, falling to his knees. 'It cannot be you, Derae. It cannot!'

The old woman sighed. 'It is I,' she said. 'When they threw me from the ship I did not die. I reached the shore. I waited here for years, thinking you would come for me.'

With trembling fingers Parmenion reached out and took her hand. 'I thought you dead. I would have walked across Hades for you.'

'I know.'

'Why did you not get a message to me?'

'I couldn't. I became a Healer, a priestess. And when I found out where you were, I saw you living in Thebes with another woman.' There was nothing he could say and he felt incapable of forcing words through the lump in his throat. He merely sat, holding her swollen, arthritic hand as she told him of the years spent at the Temple, of the spirit journeys across the seas, of saving him and Thetis from the plague in Thebes and guiding him through the underworld to save the soul of Alexander, healing Parmenion of his brain tumour and returning to him a portion of his youth. Lastly she told him of her journey, disguised as Thena, into the world of the Enchantment. This time he groaned aloud.

'Why did you not show yourself to me?'

'I think I would have — but then you found the other. . me.' His tears fell then and she felt a soft, warm droplet touch her hand. 'Oh, my dear, do not be sad. I have had a wonderful life, healing many. And I have watched you and watched over you. I feel no sorrow. I have treasured our days together, holding them warm and glowing in my memories.'

'Don't die!' he pleaded. 'Please don't die!'

She forced a weak smile. 'That is beyond my powers to grant,' she said. 'But I did not send Camfitha to find you so that you should suffer. I needed to warn you. The Lady of Samothrace. . Aida, you remember?'

'Yes.'

'She is in Macedonia. She intends to rob Alexander of his necklet of power, but she must be stopped. Without the necklet the Dark God will win.'

'I know. Do not concern yourself. I will protect Alexander.'

'Her powers are very great. You must be on your guard at all times.'

'I will be,' he said wearily. 'But tell me: is there a way to defeat the Chaos Spirit? Can you kill the demon without harming Alexander?'

'No,' she answered, 'he cannot be killed. And even when Alexander dies he will live on — once the host body is destroyed, consumed by fire or devoured by worms or carrion birds, he will be free once more.'

'But if we hold him back will he not tire of trying to possess Alexander? Surely it would be simpler to find another human and capture his soul?'

'He cannot do that,' she answered. 'That night in Samothrace where you. .' Pausing for a moment, she squeezed his hand and gave a gentle, almost apologetic smile, then went on,'. . where Alexander was conceived was not chosen at random. It was a special, unholy time. Great spells were cast, the blood of innocence was spilt. The purpose of it all was to bond the conceived child to the evil of Kadmilos. The child became the Gateway through which the Beast could pass. As long as Alexander lives, he will be linked to Kadmilos. Equally the Dark God cannot leave Alexander; they are chained together for as long as the body survives.'

'Then there is no hope?'

'There is always hope, my dear,' she told him. 'Evil does not exist alone. There are balances.'

Her voice faded and, for a moment only, he thought she had died. All thoughts of the Dark God fled from his mind.

Gripping her hand, he called her name. Her blind eyes opened and she gave a weak smile.

'Let us not talk of this any more,' he whispered. 'Tell me of your years here. Let me share them with you.'

He sat and listened as the sun faded from the sky, unaware that his officers had arrived and were standing silently by the doorway. They did not intrude on his obvious grief.

Finally, as the first stars of evening were appearing in the sky, Derae drew in a deep shuddering breath.

And was gone. .

No goodbyes, no tearful farewell. One moment she was alive, the next her soul had departed.

As her breathing stopped Parmenion fell back, and there came over the room a sense of peace that none present would ever forget. It was warm and comforting, uplifting and filled with love, touching heart and mind and soul.

Ptolemy moved forward and embraced his general. The others followed.

And with great gentleness they led the weeping Spartan back to the gardens where his war-horse waited.

Greater Phrygia, 336 BC

In the weeks that followed Parmenion threw all his energies into the planning of the campaign, working from before dawn to after dusk and exhausting even his younger officers. He checked the supplies, ordered cartographers to map the countryside, organized food wagons, sent riders to watch for the Athenian supply ships and arranged billets, pushing himself to his limits.

Attalus tried to reason with him, begging him to slow down, but the Spartan would not be opposed. Ignoring all advice, he pressed on. In the past he had been aided by Mothac, whose organizational skills had been breathtaking.

But now he felt he could trust no one. An army soon to number 30,000 would be moving across the Hellespont.

Horses would require safe pasture, the men would need meat, cereal and water. Battles, in the main, could almost take care of themselves, but keeping men ready for war was an art in itself. A four-ox cart could carry thirty barrels of water across a desert, but the oxen needed to drink and after ten days there would be only fifteen barrels left. Such were the problems in which Parmenion immersed himself to cloak his soul from the pain of Derae's death.

Then there were the squabbles and fights that flared within an army made up of such ancient enemies as Paionians, Illyrians, Macedonians, Athenians and Thracians. Blood feuds were reported daily, and many men were slain in duels. Parmenion and Attalus were often called upon to judge the survivors of such combats and it irked the Spartan to sentence good fighters to death.

But even these considerations were better than the constant, acid thought that Derae had been alive all these years and now had been taken from him for good.

In the mid-afternoon of his fifth week in this outpost of the Persian Empire, scouts brought word of a group of Macedonian officers who had landed from an Athenian ship. There was no sign yet of Philip and Parmenion cursed inwardly.

The Persians had fled before the invading force, and many of the Greek cities had invited the Macedonians to liberate them. Yet Parmenion could not spread the advance army so thin that a counterattack would crush it, and he was forced to wait for the arrival of the King and the rest of the army. This delay, he knew, would soon lead to a weakening of resolve in the cities, and many would withdraw their support.

The Spartan had commandeered a house in the captured city of Cabalia, and this he shared with Attalus. The swordsman had been in fine mood since the invasion and enjoyed sharing the command. In the main the two men got on well, Attalus leaving what he regarded as the minutiae to Parmenion, while he rode out every day hunting or scouting the land ahead.

The old warrior had even become popular with the troops, for he never hesitated to ride at the front of the battle-line and had distinguished himself in the first clashes with the Persian army.

Parmenion pushed the papers across the broad desk and stretched his back. He was tired. Bone-weary. It had not been hard to march into Asia, but a long campaign called for more stamina, nerve and sustained concentration than he had needed for longer than he cared to remember.

Three years was the timetable he had given Philip. Three years to control Asia Minor and make the land safe. Three years and 60,000 troops. This was no small undertaking and, at sixty-four, Parmenion wondered whether he would live out the campaign.

There were so many problems to overcome, foremost among which was food for the army. They had brought supplies for thirty days when they crossed the Hellespont, and two-thirds had already been consumed. Foraging parties were bringing in what could be found locally, but Parmenion was anxious for the supply ships to reach the designated — and defended — bays. Philip had a mere 160 ships. Should the Persian fleet move into the Aegean Sea, the Macedonian vessels would be outnumbered three to one, and the land-based army could be starved into submission or withdrawal.

But even with food supplies assured, there was still the problem of the Persian army. Given time the new King, Darius, could raise an army of almost a million. This was unlikely, Parmenion knew, but even if he chose only to conscript warriors from central Persia the Macedonians would face more than 120,000 well-armed, disciplined men.

Among these were almost 40,000 trained slingers and archers. Even when Philip arrived with reinforcements, the Macedonians would have only around 1,000 bowmen.

Parmenion believed that despite his awesome skills Philip had never truly understood the Persian Empire and its composition.

The Great King ruled from Phrygia in the west to the distant lands of the Hindu Kush, from fertile farmland to arid desert, from ice-covered forests to unpenetrable jungle. But it was the method of his rule that made conquest of the empire so difficult. Satraps and vassal kings were mostly autonomous, raising their own armies and setting local taxes. Even if Philip were to crush Darius he would still have a score of powerful enemies to face, each of them capable of bringing to the field an army greater than Macedon's.

Two million square miles of territory, one hundred different nations. All of Philip's past triumphs would count for nothing against such odds!

The sun was dipping into the west when the Spartan strode through the camp, stopping to examine the picket-lines and the guards who patrolled the horse paddocks. He found one young sentry sitting quietly eating bread and cheese, his helmet and sword beside him. As the boy saw the general he scrambled to his feet.

'I am sorry, sir. I have not had an opportunity to eat today.'

'It is difficult to eat with your throat ripped open,' Parmenion told him. 'This is an enemy land and you have few friends here.'

'I know, sir. It won't happen again.'

'That is true. Next time I find you slacking I shall open your throat myself.'

'Thank you, sir… I mean. .'

'I know what you mean,' grunted the Spartan, moving away.

They were all so young now, beardless children playing a game of war.

For an hour or more he wandered the camp outside the city, then returned to the house. It was white-walled, with beautiful statues lining the walks and gardens, and the rooms were large, the windows tall and wide. The floors were not crafted with mosaics but covered with rugs and carpets, deep and soft beneath the feet. Huge paintings adorned the inner walls, depicting the gods of the Persians, the mighty Ahura Mazda, the Wise Lord, and the minor daevas that served him.

A slave-girl brought the general a pitcher of mead wine made from honey. He accepted a goblet, then dismissed her.

As dusk approached another girl moved in, lighting the copper lamps that hung on the walls. The room was soon bathed in a soft golden glow and the Spartan removed his breastplate and greaves, settling down with his mead on a wide couch.

Attalus found him there in the early evening. The swordsman was dressed in a long grey chiton, his white hair held in place by a black leather band edged with silver.

'A productive day?' asked Attalus.

The Spartan shrugged. 'Perhaps. I wish Philip were here: many of the cities would receive us now with cheers and welcome banquets. If we leave it much longer, their backbones will start to melt. They will hear of the Great King's preparations for war and will bar their gates against us.'

'You are still in that dark mood, I see,' said Attalus. 'It comes from drinking that Persian goat's-piss. Good Greek wine is what you need,' he added, filling a golden wine-cup and draining half the contents at a single swallow.

'I am no longer in a dark mood,' said Parmenion slowly, 'but our spies report that the Great King is building an army the like of which has not been seen since Xerxes invaded Greece. Messengers are travelling all over the empire -

Cappadocia, Pisidia, Syria, Pontica, Egypt, Mesopotamia. . Can you imagine how many men will come against us?'

'We will defeat them,' said Attalus, settling down and stretching out his legs.

'Just like that?'

'Of course, strategos. You will think of a great plan for victory and we will all sleep soundly in our beds.'

Parmenion chuckled. 'You should have started drinking years ago. It agrees with you.'

'It is never too late to learn. However, I am in agreement with you. I can't wait to see Philip; it has been too long. The last I heard was six months ago when Cleopatra was waiting to give birth to her son and the King was planning the celebrations. It will be good to see him.'

Attalus laughed. 'There was a time, Spartan, when I wished you dead. Now I find you good company. Perhaps I'm getting old.'

Before Parmenion could reply, a servant announced the arrival of the messengers from Pella. Parmenion rose and walked out to the centre of the room to meet them.

The first to enter was Hephaistion, followed by Cassander and the cavalry general, Cleitus. Hephaistion bowed, but his face was set and tension showed in his eyes.

'A difficult journey?' ventured Parmenion.

'We have letters from the King,' answered Hephaistion stiffly, approaching Parmenion. Cassander and Cleitus advanced towards Attalus. Cleitus held a tightly rolled scroll of papyrus which he offered to the swordsman.

Parmenion had received such messages on hundreds of occasions. Yet there was a terrible tension in the air and the Spartan's senses were aroused. His gaze flickered to Cleitus; the cavalryman was proffering a sealed scroll to Attalus, but his right hand was inching towards the dagger at his hip. Cassander also was moving to Attalus' left, his right hand hidden beneath his cloak. In that one awful moment, Parmenion knew what was to come.

'Attalus!' he cried. Hephaistion leapt upon the Spartan, pinning his arms, and although Parmenion struggled the younger man was too strong. The two officers drew their swords and rushed at Attalus. The old man stood stock-still, too shocked to move. An iron blade clove into his belly and he cried out. A second sword slashed into his neck, opening a terrible wound. Attalus' knees buckled. Swords and knives slashed into his body even as he fell, and he was dead before he struck the floor.

Hephaistion loosened his grip on Parmenion who staggered back, his hand trembling as he drew his sword.

'Come then, you traitors!' he yelled. 'Finish your work!'

'It is finished, sir,' said Hephaistion, his face grey under the tan. 'That is what the King ordered.'

'I do not believe it! You have just killed Philip's best friend.'

'I know, sir. But Philip is dead.'

The words struck Parmenion like poisoned arrows and he reeled back. 'Dead? DEAD?'

'He was murdered as he entered the amphitheatre where he was to celebrate the birth of his son. The killer was hiding in the shadows and he stabbed Philip through the heart.'

'Who? Who did it?'

'Pausanius,' answered Hephaistion. 'He nursed his hatred, though he masked it well, but he never forgave Philip for refusing him justice against Attalus.'

'But why was the King not guarded?'

'He ordered the Royal Guard to walk some thirty paces behind him, saying he did not wish to be seen as a tyrant who needed protection in his own realm. He died instantly.'

'Sweet Hera! I cannot believe it! Not sorcery, not assassins, not armies could stop Philip. And you tell me he was cut down by a spurned lover?'

'Yes, sir. Alexander is King now. He will be here as soon as the troubles in Greece are put behind him. But he ordered us to kill Attalus as soon as we arrived.'

Parmenion gazed down at the dead man, then dropped his sword and moved to a couch, slumping down with his head in his hands. 'What is happening in Macedonia?' he managed to ask.

Hephaistion sat beside him. 'There was almost civil war, but Alexander moved swiftly to eliminate his enemies.

Amyntas was slain, as was Cleopatra and her new child, followed by some thirty nobles.'

'He began his reign by murdering a baby? I see.' Parmenion straightened, his eyes cold, his face a mask. He stood, gathered his sword and slammed it back into its sheath. 'See that the body is removed and the blood cleaned from the carpets. Then get out of my house!'

Hephaistion reddened. 'Alexander asked me to take Attalus' place. I had thought to use his rooms.'

Then you thought wrong, boy!' said Parmenion. 'There was a time when I believed you had the seeds of greatness within you, but now I see you for what you are: a murderer for hire. You will go far, but you will not share my company — nor my friendship. Do we understand one another?'

'We do,' replied Hephaistion, tight-lipped.

'Good.' The Spartan swung towards the others, his gaze raking over them; then he glanced down at the body on the floor. 'He was a man,' said Parmenion. 'He had many dark sides to his nature, but he stood by his King loyally. Many years ago he risked his life to save Alexander. Well, you brought him his reward. Tomorrow we will have a funeral for him, with all honours. Do I hear an objection?'

'I have. .' Cassander began.

'Shut your mouth!' roared Parmenion.

'We obeyed the orders of our King,' said Cleitus, his face red and his eyes angry.

'As did he,' Parmenion retorted, pointing to the corpse. 'Let us hope you do not enjoy the same benefits!'

Without another word Parmenion strode from the room. Several servants were standing grouped in the corridor outside. 'Do not be alarmed,' he told them. 'The killing is over. Remove the body and prepare it for burial.'

A young girl stepped forward, her head bowed. 'There is a man, lord; he came some while ago. He said he is a friend to you and that you would want to see him in private.'

'Did he give a name?'

'He said he was Mothac. He is an old man and I took him to your rooms. Did I do right?'

'You did. But tell no one he is here.'

Mothac sat quietly in the soft glow of the lamplight, his eyes staring at nothing, unfocused, his gaze turned inward.

His emotions were exhausted now, and even the memory of the flames and the ruins could not stir fresh sadness within him.

What are you doing here? he asked himself. The answer was swift in coming: Where else could I go?

The old Theban heard footsteps in the corridor and rose from the couch, his mouth dry.

Parmenion entered but said nothing. The Spartan simply rilled two goblets with watered wine and passed one to Mothac. The Theban drank it swiftly. 'Everything is destroyed,' he said, slumping back to his seat.

Parmenion sat beside him. 'Tell me.'

'Thebes is in ruins: every house, every hall, every statue. There is nothing left.'

Parmenion sat silently, his face expressionless. 'We rose against the invader,' continued Mothac, 'but we could not retake the Cadmea. The Macedonians closed the inner gates against us. Yet we had them trapped there, at the centre of the city, and for a while we thought we would be free. But Athens refused to acknowledge us and we could get no aid from the other cities. Even Sparta refused to send soldiers. Then Alexander came, with an army. We realized we could not fight him and offered peace, but his soldiers stormed the city. The killing was terrible to see — men, women, children, cut down — for there was nowhere to run. Thousands died; the rest were taken into captivity to be sold as slaves. Alexander himself ordered the razing of the city, and the siege-engineers moved in. Every statue, every column was toppled and smashed to dust. There is no Thebes now… it is all gone.'

'How did you escape?'

'I hid in a cellar, but they found me. I was dragged out and hauled before an officer. Luckily it was Coenus and he recognized me. He gave me money and a fast horse, so I rode to Athens and booked passage on a ship to Asia. Why did Alexander do it? Why destroy the city?'

'I cannot answer that, my friend. But I am glad you are safe.'

'I am so tired,' whispered Mothac. 'I have not slept well since the. . the destruction. I keep hearing the screams, seeing the blood. What was it all for, Parmenion?'

The Spartan put his arm around his friend's shoulder. 'Rest here. We will talk in the morning.' Taking Mothac's arm, he led the Theban to the wide bed. 'Sleep now.'

Obediently Mothac stretched out and his eyes closed. Within seconds he was fast asleep. But the dreams came again and he groaned, tears seeping from his closed eyelids.

Parmenion left the room and wandered down to the moonlit gardens, the words of Tamis echoing from the corridors of time. The old seeress had come to him in Thebes four decades ago, just before he led the attack on the Spartan-held Cadmea.

'You stand, Parmenion, at a crossroads. There is a road leading to sunlight and laughter, and a road leading to pain and despair. The city of Thebes is in your hands, like a small toy. On the road to sunlight the city will grow, but on the other road it will be broken, crushed into dust and forgotten. .' She had advised him to travel to Troy, but he had ignored her, believing her to be a Spartan spy.

Yet had he followed her advice he would have found Derae and they would have lived their lives together in peace and harmony. There would have been no Macedonian army, and he would never have sired Alexander.

Parmenion found his mind reeling under the weight of all he had learned. Derae alive. . but now dead, Philip gone, Attalus murdered, Thebes in ruins.

He could almost hear the Dark God's laughter.

'No,' he said aloud, 'do not even think of that!' He sat down on a wooden bench, his mind whirling with many overlapping images: Derae, young and vibrant — old and dying; Philip laughing and drinking; the Golden Child Alexander in the forests of the Enchantment; Attalus, tall and courageous, standing against the foe. And from deeper within his memory the slender, ascetic Epaminondas, sitting quietly in his study planning the liberation of Thebes.

So many faces, so many precious memories. .

Gone now. He could not quite believe it.

How could Philip be dead?

Such vitality. Such power. One dagger-thrust and the world changed! Parmenion shivered. What now, Spartan, he asked himself? Do you serve the child as you served the man? And what if the Dark God has returned? Could you kill Alexander?

He drew his sword, staring down at the blade gleaming in the moonlight, picturing it cleaving into the new King.

Shuddering, he threw the weapon from him. A cool breeze rustled the undergrowth and he stood, walking to where the sword had fallen. Stooping, he lifted it, brushing dirt from the blade.

He had seen the evils Philippos had visited upon his world. If Alexander had become such a man. .

'I will kill him,' whispered Parmenion.

Ionia, Spring 334 BC

But Alexander did not come to Asia, for news arrived that the tribes of Paionia and Triballia had risen again in the north of Greece and a Macedonian expedition, led by the new King, was forced to move against them.

The campaign was brilliantly fought, leaving Alexander triumphant, but Persian gold was once more creating unrest in the southern cities led by Sparta, and the seeds of revolt flowered.

In Athens the orator Demosthenes spoke out against the Macedonians, and Alexander marched his army south, past the ruins of Thebes, using a massive show of strength to coerce the Greek cities to obedience. Though successful, it cost him time, and Parmenion was left in Asia for more than a year — short of manpower and supplies, playing a cat-and-mouse game with the Persian army.

Morale was low as Parmenion and Hephaistion marched the beleaguered army along the Ionian coast, making fortress camp in a bay close to the isle of Lesbos. Hastily-built ramparts were thrown up and the Macedonians settled down to a well-earned rest as the sun sank into the Aegean. Supplies were short and the men gathered around their camp-fires to eat their rations: one strip of jerked beef and a section of stale bread per man.

Hephaistion doffed his helm and ducked under the canvas flap that formed the doorway to Parmenion's tent. The old general and his Theban friend, Mothac, were sitting on the ground poring over maps and scrolls.

Parmenion glanced up. 'Are the scouts out?' he asked.

'Yes,' answered Hephaistion.

Parmenion nodded and returned to the map. 'Tomorrow we strike through Mysia. There are several small cities there; they will buy us off with food and coin.'

'The men are getting tired of running,' Hephaistion snapped. 'Why can we not stand and show the Persians the strength of Macedonian spears?'

'Because we have not the power,' retorted Parmenion. 'Memnon now has close to fifty thousand warriors, highly trained and well armed. We would risk being crushed.'

'I do not believe that.'

'Believe what you will.'

Hephaistion crouched down beside the Spartan. 'Listen to me, sir, the men are becoming downhearted. We must have a victory.'

Parmenion's cold blue eyes locked to Hephaistion's gaze. 'You think I do not want a victory? Gods, man! I would give my right arm for one. But look at the terrain,' he said, gesturing at the goatskin map. 'Once we accept battle the Persians will envelop our flanks, cutting off any retreat. Then we would be lost. I know this is not easy for a young man like yourself to accept, but we have fewer than a thousand cavalry and only a few hundred bowmen. We could not hold them. But what we can do is keep the enemy on the march, allowing Alexander an unopposed crossing of the Dardanelles with the main army. Then we will have the battle you dream of.'

'So speaks the Lion of Macedon!' muttered Hephaistion with a sneer. 'There was a time when the very mention of your name would send the enemy into flight. But all men grow old.'

Parmenion smiled. 'If fortunate we grow wiser with age, child. And the yapping of puppies bothers us not at all.'

The Spartan returned his attention to the map and Hephaistion, swallowing his fury, left the tent. For an hour or more he patrolled the camp, checking on sentries, talking to the men, then he climbed the winding path of the eastern cliff and stood in the moonlight gazing east over the fabled lands of the Persian Empire. Such wealth for the taking! Such glory to be won! Beyond Ionia was Phrygia, rich in metals, silver, gold and iron. Beyond that Cappadocia, Armenia, Mesopotamia. And then the heartlands of the Empire: Babylonia, Media and Persia itself.

The annual revenue of Macedonia was 800 talents of silver — a vast fortune. But, so it was said, in Babylon there was a minor treasury containing 240,000 talents of gold.

Hephaistion trembled at the thought of such riches. There were cities of gold and statues of purest silver. There were gems the size of a man's head. Persia! Even the fabled Midas, whose touch transformed all to gold, could not in a single lifetime have created Persia's wealth.

The moon was bright when Hephaistion saw the rider galloping his mount across the narrow plain. The man was wearing the wide-brimmed leather hat sported by the Paionian scouts and Hephaistion waved and shouted to attract his attention. The rider saw him and veered his pony to climb the hillside.

'What news?' Hephaistion asked the scout.

'The King is at Troy, sir,' answered the rider.

Hephaistion punched the air with delight. 'You are sure?' There had been many false reports of Alexander's arrival.

'I saw the army myself. He has with him more than thirty thousand men.'

'Then it has begun!' shouted Hephaistion exultantly.

The Ida Mountains, 334 BC

The two armies met on a plain in the shadows of the towering Ida! Mountains. Hephaistion, riding alongside Parmenion, saw the tents of the Macedonians strung out like pearls upon a necklace, white against the green of the flatlands.

His soldier's eye scanned the regiments waiting ahead. He could see the six brigades of the Macedonian Foot Companions, 9,000 men standing to attention with spears held vertically. Alongside them were the 3,000 Shield Bearers, as Philip's Guards were now known. To the left were the Athenians and Corinthians, around 7,000 allied troops whose presence gave the expedition a united Greek appearance. To the right were the massed ranks of the savage Thracians. It was difficult to see how many there were, for they did not hold to formation but jostled and pushed in a heaving mass. But there must be, Hephaistion reckoned, more than 5,000 of them.

Alexander rode out from the centre of the army: his iron armour shining like polished silver, his helm beneath its white plume glinting with gold. Even Bucephalus was armoured now, with light chain-mail tied around his neck and over his chest, silver wires braided into his black mane and tail.

Hephaistion drew rein as Alexander approached, his captains riding behind him; Cassander, Philotas, Cleitus, Coenus and Parmenion's second son, Nicci.

The King rode directly to Parmenion and dismounted. The older man followed suit and knelt before Alexander.

'No, no,' said the King, stepping forward to lift the Spartan to his feet. ‘I’ll never have you kneel to me. Well met, my friend.' Alexander embraced the taller man. 'I want to hear all your news. But first I'll address your men, and then we will talk in my tent.'

Parmenion bowed and the King turned back to Bucephalus. The horse knelt as he approached and he mounted and rode to the head of Parmenion's 12,000 troops. They sent up a great cheer as he approached them, and snapped to attention. Their armour and cloaks were dust-covered and the men looked tired and drained.

'Well, my lads,' cried Alexander, 'it is good to see you again! You have led the Persians a merry chase. But the running is over now; from this moment we run no longer. We take the battle to the enemy and we will crush the might of Darius beneath our Macedonian heels.' A feeble cheer went up, but it soon died away. Alexander removed his helm, running his fingers through his sweat-drenched golden hair. 'Each man among you will today receive a golden Philip, and I have brought a hundred barrels of Macedonian wine to remind you of home. Tonight we will celebrate your achievements with a grand feast in your honour.'

Hephaistion was stunned. 12,000 gold Philips — each one a year's pay for a common soldier. . and given so casually! A tremendous roar went up from the soldiers which startled Bucephalus, and he reared on his hind legs.

Alexander calmed the stallion and cantered back to where the officers waited.

'Now to serious matters,' he said softly and led them back to the main camp.

Throughout the afternoon Alexander listened intently to the reports of Parmenion and Hephaistion as to the nature and organization of the Persian army. Darius had given command of the warriors to a renegade Greek named Memnon, and he, Parmenion pointed out, was a wily and skilful general. The Persians numbered some 50,000, half being cavalry from Cappadocia and Paphlagonia in the north.

'Brilliant horsemen,' said Hephaistion, 'and utterly fearless.'

'Have there been any major encounters?' Alexander asked.

'No,' answered Parmenion. 'Perhaps twenty skirmishes between outriders, but I avoided full confrontation.'

'No wonder your troops looked so weary,' put in Philotas. 'They have spent the last seven months running away from the enemy.'

'Parmenion was wise to do so,' said Alexander. 'Had we suffered a major defeat here, it is likely we would have lost support in Greece. That in turn would have made this current expedition almost impossible to mount.' He swung back to Parmenion. 'How much support can we expect from the Greek cities?'

'Very little, sire,' said Parmenion. 'At first they welcomed us, sending delegations to assure us of support. But as the months went by they lost heart. And Darius has now strengthened the garrisons in Mytilene and Ephesus.'

Hephaistion listened to the exchanges and watched Parmenion. The Spartan seemed stiff and ill-at-ease, his pale eyes never leaving Alexander's face. But if the King noticed his general's stare he gave no indication of it.

'Where is the enemy now?' Alexander asked.

'They are camped near the town of Zeleia,' Parmenion told him. 'Two days' march to the north-east.'

'Then we shall seek them out,' said Alexander brightly. Suddenly leaning forward, he gripped Parmenion's shoulder.

'Something is troubling you, my dear friend. Speak of it.'

'It is nothing, sire, I assure you. I am merely tired.'

'Then you shall rest, and we will meet again tomorrow morning,' said Alexander, rising.

Hephaistion remained behind when the others had gone and Alexander took him by the arm, leading him out into the moonlight to walk around the camp.

'What is wrong with Parmenion?' asked the King.

'As I wrote you, sire, he was angry at the slaying of Attalus and he spoke against the killing of Cleopatra and the babe. Also he was soon joined by the Theban, Mothac, who I understand witnessed the destruction of his city.

Something changed in Parmenion then. He is not the same man. Perhaps it is just his age. . I don't know. Except on matters of discipline or strategy, we rarely speak.'

'You think I can no longer trust Parmenion?'

'I do not think he is… yet… considering treachery,' answered Hephaistion carefully. 'But there is a great bitterness inside him.'

'I need him, Hephaistion — perhaps not for much longer. But I need him now. He knows the Persians and their methods. And whatever else he may — or may not — be, he is still the greatest general of this age.'

'He was once, sire. I am not sure about now; he is old and tired.'

'If that proves to be true,' whispered Alexander, 'then you shall see he joins Attalus for a very long rest.'

Parmenion drained his third goblet of mead wine and poured another. He knew he was drinking too much, but over the last few months only alcohol could dull the ache he felt, only wine could lift the weight from his soul. In his dreams he saw Philip and Attalus, young again and full of hope for the future. He saw the Sparta of the Enchantment, and held again the youthful Derae.

On waking he would groan and reach for the wine. So far his skills had not been affected — or had they? Could he have done more to thwart Memnon? Could he have defeated the Persian army?

'I don't know,' he said aloud. 'I don't care.' There was an iron brazier at the centre of the tent, glowing coals taking the chill from the night air and casting dark, dancing shadows on the canvas walls. Parmenion drew up a padded leather-topped stool and sat before the fire, staring into the tiny caverns within the flames.

'Do you wish to be alone?' asked Alexander, ducking under the tent-flap and approaching the seated man.

Parmenion did not rise. He shook his head. 'It does not matter. I am alone. Now and always,' he answered.

Alexander seated himself opposite the Spartan and sat silently for several minutes, scanning Parmenion's face. Then he reached out to take the general's hand. 'Talk to me,' he urged. 'There is something dark inside you. Let us shine a light on it.'

'Inside me?' responded Parmenion, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Have I slain any babies of late? Have I ordered the murder of a loyal general? Have I removed from the face of Greece a city rich in history and legend?'

'I see,' said the King softly. 'You are angry with me. But you judge me too harshly, Parmenion; I have only done what you taught me to do. All those quiet lessons in strategy in the sunshine at Mieza and on your estates. Well, what would you have done? Thebes rose against us. Athens sent messages of support, but sat back to wait and watch what the boy-king would do. Sparta sent an army north, five thousand men camped at Megara. Every southern city was ready to break their treaties with Macedonia, for they were treaties made with Philip — the warrior-king. Not with the boy, Alexander. Persian agents were everywhere, showering the Great King's gold upon any who would declare enmity to Macedon. Philip could have cowed them — but he would have had the weight of his reputation behind him.

The boy had no reputation save for victories against " crude tribesmen".' Alexander shook his head, his expression sorrowful. 'I was negotiating with the Thebans, trying to find a peaceful way to end the deadlock. But there was an incident near a postern gate in the southern wall, when a group of young Thebans attacked a scouting party of Macedonians led by Perdiccas. The Theban army then issued out, storming our camp. We routed them swiftly and entered the city, at which point our besieged garrison in the Cadmea opened their gates and attacked from within.

You have seen the fall of cities, Parmenion — warriors everywhere, small skirmishes, running battles. There is no order. And yes, the slaughter was great. It took hours to stop it, to restore discipline.

'The following day I ordered the destruction of the city and marched the army south. The Spartans retreated. The Athenians sent emissaries pledging their loyal support. The razing of Thebes was like an earth tremor, destroying the foundations of rebellion. But it hurt me, Parmenion. The glory that was Thebes, the home of Hector's tomb, the works and statues of Praxiteles. You think it did not hurt me?'

The general looked up, saw what appeared to be anguish on the young man's face and sighed. 'And Attalus? Did that hurt you?'

'No,' admitted Alexander, 'but you know I had no choice. He hated me and feared me. For years he tried to poison Philip's mind against me: he was my father's man, he would never be mine. But I tell you this, had he been living in retirement on his estates I would have let him live. But he was not. He was in Asia in joint command of an army — an army he might have tried to turn against me.'

Parmenion could not argue with the truth of that. Philip himself had come to power after having organized the murder of possible rivals. But there was one last, lingering boil to be lanced. 'What of the babe?' he asked.

'That was a terrible deed- and none of my doing. I am ashamed to tell you that I believe it was my mother, aided by a friend of hers from Samothrace — Aida. The night after my father's murder the two women went to Cleopatra, who was later found strangled with a length of braided silver wire. Olympias denied it — but who else could it have been?

It was a ghastly way for my reign to begin — the murder of my infant brother.'

'You had no part in it?'

'Did you think that I would?' Alexander was genuinely shocked and the Spartan read the sincerity in his eyes.

Parmenion felt as if an awesome weight had slid from his shoulders. Reaching out, he embraced the younger man, and there were tears in his eyes. 'I cannot tell you how relieved I am,' he said. 'The killing of the child has haunted me. I thought. .'

'You thought the Dark God had taken control of me?'

Parmenion nodded. Alexander reached down, drawing a slender dagger from his belt. Taking Parmenion's hand, he pressed the hilt of the dagger into his palm. The Spartan's fingers closed around the weapon and Alexander leaned his body forward so that the point of the dagger touched his chest.

'If you doubt me, then kill me,' he told Parmenion.

The Spartan looked into the young man's eyes, seeking any sign of the Beast from the Enchantment. But there was nothing. All he could see was the handsome young man his son had become. Letting slip the knife, he shook his head. 'I see only a King,' he said.

Alexander chuckled. 'By all the gods, it's good to see you again, Parmenion! Do you remember the day we sat in the palace at Pella, discussing your victory at the Crocus Field? I asked you then if you would one day be my general.

You recall?'

'Yes, you were about four years old. I said I might be a little old by the time you became King. And indeed I am.'

'Well, now I ask you again: Will the Lion of Macedon lead my army to victory?'

'If the gods are willing, sire, he will.'

The River Granicus, 334 BC

Bodies lay everywhere, and the mud-churned banks of the Granicus were slippery with blood. Parmenion removed his helm, passing it to Ptolemy who took it in trembling hands. The Spartan looked into the youngster's unnaturally pale face, saw the sheen of cold sweat upon his cheeks. 'Are you enjoying the glory?' he asked.

Ptolemy swallowed hard. 'It was a great victory, sir,' he answered.

'Follow me,' the general ordered. Parmenion and his six aides walked slowly across the battlefield, stepping over the bloated corpses of the Persian slain. Dark clouds of crows and ravens rose from the bodies, their raucous cries harsh upon the ears. Parmenion halted beside the mutilated corpse of a young Persian noble, dressed in silk and satin. The fingers of his left hand had been cut away, then discarded once the gold rings had been stripped from them. His face was grey, his eyes torn out by carrion birds. He would have been no older than Ptolemy. In the midday heat the body had swelled with the gases of death and the stench was terrible. 'He dreamed of glory,' said Parmenion harshly, turning on his officers. 'Yesterday he rode a fine horse and sought to destroy the enemies of his King. He probably has a young wife at home, perhaps a son. Handsome, is he not?'

'Why are we here, sir?' asked Ptolemy, averting his eyes from the dead Persian.

Parmenion did not answer. Across the field some Macedonian and Thracian soldiers were still looting the dead, and above the battleground flocks of dark birds were circling, crying out in their hunger.

'How many lie here, do you think?' the Spartan asked.

'Thousands,' answered Perdiccas, a tall, slender young cavalryman who had arrived in Asia with Alexander.

'Somewhere near sixteen thousand,' Parmenion told him. To the far left Macedonian work parties were digging a mass grave for their fallen comrades. 'How many did we lose?' continued the general, looking at Ptolemy. The young man shrugged and spread his hands.

Parmenion's face darkened. 'You should know,' he told him. 'You should know exactly. When you ride into battle your life depends on your comrades. They must be confident that you care for them. Can you understand that? They will fight all the better for a caring commander. We lost eight hundred and seventeen Macedonians, four hundred and eleven Thracians, and two hundred and fifteen allied Greeks.'

The general walked on and, mystified, the officers followed. Here the bodies lay in groups, hundreds one upon another. 'The last stand of the Royal Infantry,' said Parmenion. 'With the army fleeing around them, they stood their guard… to the death. Brave men. Proud men. Do them honour in thought and word.'

'Why should we do the enemy honour?' asked Perdiccas. 'What purpose does it serve?'

'Who will rule this land now?' said Parmenion.

'We shall.'

'And in years to come the sons of these brave men will be your subjects. They will join your armies, march under your banners. But will they be loyal? Will you be able to trust them? It might be wise, Perdiccas, to honour their fathers now in order to win the love of their children later.'

Parmenion knew he had not convinced them, but the walk among the slain had become a ritual, a necessary ordeal — more, he realized, for himself than for the young men he forced to accompany him.

Silently he strode from the battlefield, back along the line of the river to where the horses were tethered, then he mounted and led his small company on to the former Persian camp.

The victory had been swift and terrifying.

The Persian army of around 45,000 men had fortified the far bank of the River Granicus, cavalry on left and right, mercenary infantry and Royal Guards — and the general Memnon — at the centre. By all the rules of engagement it should have produced a stalemate. But Parmenion had secretly sent men ahead to gauge the depths of the river. It had been a dry season and the water was only hip-deep, slow-moving and sluggish.

Alexander had led the Companion cavalry in a charge on the enemy's left flank. Parmenion ordered Philotas and his Thessalian horsemen to attack on the right. The shocked Persians were slow to react, and by the time Parmenion sounded the general advance their lines were already sundered. Only the mercenary infantry and the Royal Guard offered any stout resistance, the other units — and Memnon, the enemy leader — fleeing the field. It was a battle for less than an hour, a massacre for a further two.

Sixteen thousand Persians died before the sun reached its zenith.

The conquest of Persia was under way. Alexander's legend had begun.

That night, Alexander held his victory banquet in the tent of a dead Persian general. He had brought with him to Asia a Greek writer and poet named Callisthenes, a skeletal figure with a wispy black beard and an unnaturally large head which had long since outgrown the attempts of hair to cover it. Parmenion did not like the man but was forced to admit he had great skill as a saga poet, his voice rich and deep, his timing impeccable.

During the feast he performed an improvised work, after the style of Homer, in which he sang of Alexander's exploits. This was greeted by tremendous applause. The young King, it seemed, had personally slain 2,000 of the half-a-million Persians facing him, while Zeus, the Father of the Gods, stretched his mighty hand across the sky, opening the clouds to look down upon this mightiest of mortals.

Callisthenes sang of Athena, Goddess of War, appearing to Alexander and offering him immortality on the eve of the battle, and of the young King refusing the honour since he had not yet earned it.

Parmenion found the song stirring to the point of nausea, but the younger men clapped and cheered at each exaggerated point. Finally Callisthenes told of the moment when Alexander's generals had counselled against him crossing the 'swirling torrent of the Granicus', and gave the young King the answer that he 'would be ashamed if, after crossing the Hellespont, he allowed the petty stream of the Granicus to stand in his way'.

Hephaistion, who was sitting beside Parmenion, leaned in close. 'That is not the way it was,' he whispered.

'None of it is the way it was,' answered the general, 'but it sounds very fine to the young and foolish.'

The feast continued long into the night and, bored, Parmenion made his way back to his own tent. Mothac was still awake, sitting stretched out on a huge padded Persian chair. The Theban had been drinking.

'A wonderful day,' he said as Parmenion entered. 'Another nation ripe for conquest. More cities to be burnt and razed.' His face was flushed, his eyes bleary and red-rimmed.

Parmenion said nothing. Adding fuel to the brazier, he stripped himself of his ceremonial armour and stretched out on a long couch.

'Has the god-King grown tired of hearing stories about himself?' asked Mothac.

'Speak more quietly, my friend,' Parmenion advised.

'Why?' asked Mothac, sitting upright and spilling his wine. 'I have lived for more than seventy years. What can he do to me? Kill me? I wish I'd died ten years ago. You know, after the razing of Thebes I could not even find the grave of my Elea. My sweet Elea!'

'You will find her. She does not rest with the cloak of her body.'

Mothac wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. 'What are we doing here, Parmenion? Why don't we go home to Macedonia? Raise horses and leave this slaughter to the young men. What do we achieve here? More death, more destruction.'

'I am what I am,' replied the Spartan. 'It is all I have left.'

'You should not serve him. He is not like Philip, fighting to save his nation. He is a killer. He will build nothing, Parmenion; he will ride across the world as a destroyer.'

'I do not believe that. He is capable of greatness.'

'Why are your eyes so blind to his evil? What hold does he have on you?'

'Enough of this!' roared Parmenion. 'You are a drunken old man, full of bitterness and despair. I'll hear no more of it!'

'Drunk I may be, but I am not fooled by him.' Pushing himself to his feet, Mothac stumbled from the tent.

The old Theban sucked in great gulps of the cool night air and wandered away from the camp, out to a low range of hills to the south. He sat down against the hillside and lay back, trying to focus on the stars, but they swam around making him feel nauseous. Rolling to his side, he retched violently. His head began to pound and he sat up, the screwed-up parchment falling from his hand.

He picked it up, smoothing it out. Perhaps if he showed it to Parmenion? No, it would serve no purpose, he knew.

The report would be disbelieved. Parmenion was truly blind to any criticism of the young King.

The moon was bright and Mothac read once more the report from his agent in Pella. Much of it concerned the new regent, Antipater, left in charge of the army at home, with Olympias ruling as Queen. It also spoke of unrest in the western regions. But the last section spoke of the murder of Cleopatra and her baby son.

A palace servant talked of the double killing and was then murdered himself. All the slain man's friends, and the families of those friends, were removed from Pella and executed.

But the story survived, whispered among Alexander's enemies. It was surely too appalling to be true, wrote Mothac's agent. Alexander was said to have gone to Cleopatra's apartments and strangled her with a golden wire. Then he took the babe to the rooms of a foreign witch woman from Samothrace where, in order to ensure the success of his bid for the throne, he sacrificed the child to an unknown god — and then ate the babe's heart.

Sober now, Mothac stared at the parchment. A chill breeze blew at his back and he shivered.

'It is time to die,' hissed a cold voice. A searing pain clamped around Mothac's heart with fingers of fire. The old man struggled to rise, but the agony was too great and he sank back to the grass, the parchment fluttering from his fingers.

As it touched the ground the document burst into flames — writhing on the grass with dark smoke billowing from it.

Rolling to his belly Mothac tried to crawl, but a powerful hand grasped his shoulder and turned him to his back. He looked up and saw a pair of yellow, slitted eyes, and felt the long dagger slide under his breastbone.

Then all pain left him and the grass was cool against his neck. He remembered a day in a Thebes of long ago, when he had sat by a trickling stream with Elea beside him, her head resting on his shoulder.

The colours were bright, the greens of the cypress trees above him, the dazzling blue of the sky, the statues in the garden seemingly carved from virgin snow. Life had been beautiful that day and the future was brimming with the promise of further joy.

'Elea. .'he whispered.

Alexander rose slowly from the depths of a dark dream and drifted up towards consciousness, becoming aware first of the silk sheet covering his naked frame. It was luxurious and soft, clinging to his skin, warm, and comforting. He rolled to his back and noticed that his hand seemed to be coated with mud, the fingers stuck together. Opening his eyes, he sat up. The dawn light was bathing the outer wall of the tent and he lifted his hand to rub sleep from his eyes. He stopped and his heart began to hammer. Hand and arm were covered with dried blood, as was the bed. He cried out and dragged back the sheet, searching his body for a wound.

Hephaistion ran into the tent, sword in hand. 'What is it, sire?'

'I have been stabbed,' replied Alexander, on the verge of panic, his hands probing the skin of his body. Hephaistion dropped his blade and moved to the bedside, eyes scanning the King's naked torso.

'There is no cut, sire.'

'There must be! Look at the blood!'

But there was no wound. By the doorway of the tent lay a dagger, the blade crusted with congealed blood.

Hephaistion scooped it into his hand. 'It is your dagger,' he said, 'but the blood is not yours.'

Alexander padded across to the far wall where a pitcher of water had been left on a small table. Swiftly the King washed himself clean, still searching for a cut or gash. He swung on Hephaistion. 'What is happening to me?'

'I don't understand you, sire,' answered the young officer.

'Last night. . the feast. When did I leave?'

'Just before dawn. You had drunk a great deal and were staggering. But you refused my offer of a helping hand.'

Alexander returned to the bed and sat with his head in his hands. 'The blood must have come from somewhere!'

'Yes, sire,' said Hephaistion softly.

'Am I going insane?'

'No! Of course not!' Hephaistion crossed the room, putting his arm around the King's shoulder. 'You are the King-the greatest King who ever lived. You are blessed by the gods. Do not voice such thoughts.'

'Blessed? Let us hope so.' Alexander took a deep breath.

'You said you would talk to me, sire, about Parmenion.'

'I did?'

'Yes. But now that he has won such a victory I doubt you'll want him to join Attalus.'

'What are you talking about? Is this a dream?'

'No, sire, you remember. . several nights ago? We discussed Parmenion and you said it might be necessary to kill him.'

'I would never say such a thing. He is my oldest friend; he risked his life for me. . many times. Why do you say this?'

'I must have misunderstood, sire. You were talking about allowing him a long rest, like Attalus. I thought. .'

'You thought wrong! You hear me?'

'Yes, sire. I am sorry.'

Men began shouting outside the tent and Hephaistion turned, moving swiftly out into the sunshine. Alexander remained slumped on the bed, trying to remember what happened after the feast. He could picture the laughter and the jests and Cleitus, the old cavalryman, dancing on a table. But he could not recall leaving the feast, nor coming to his bed.

Hephaistion returned and walked slowly across the tent, his face grave.

'What is happening out there?' asked the King.

Hephaistion sat down but said nothing, his eyes not meeting Alexander's gaze.

'What is it, man?'

'Parmenion's friend, the Theban Mothac… he has been murdered.' Hephaistion glanced up. 'Stabbed, sire. . many times.'

Alexander's mouth was dry. 'It wasn't me. I loved that old man. He taught me to ride; he used to lift me upon his shoulders. It wasn't me!'

'Of course it wasn't, sire. Someone must have come into the tent while you were sleeping, and smeared blood upon you.'

'Yes. . yes. No one must know, Hephaistion. Otherwise stories will start to spread. . you know, like in Pella about the child.'

'I know, sire. No one will hear of it, I promise you.'

'I must see Parmenion. He will be distraught. Mothac was with him back in Thebes when Parmenion freed them, destroying the power of the Spartans. My father was there. . did you know that?'

'Yes, sire. I will call your servants and they will fetch you clothes.'

Picking up the blood-covered dagger Hephaistion dipped it into the murky red water of the pitcher, washing the weapon clean. Then he moved to the bed, dragging clear the blood-covered sheet and rolling it into a tight bundle.

'Why would anyone do this to me, Hephaistion?'

'I cannot answer that, sire. But I will double the guard around your tent.'

Carrying the blood-soaked sheet, the young officer backed away and Alexander sat silently staring down at his hands. Why can I not remember, he thought. Just like in Pella after he had seen the woman, Aida.

She had held his hand and told his fortune. Her perfume had been strong and she had talked of glory. Her skin was whiter than ivory. He remembered reaching out, as if in a daze, and cupping his palm to her breast. Her fingers had stroked his thigh and she had moved in to him, her lips upon his.

But after that. .? There was no memory. Aida later told him that she and Olympias had murdered Philip's widow and the child. It was necessary, she had assured him. Alexander had not believed her, but he had done nothing to punish the women.

For then, as now, he had woken in his bed with dried blood upon his hands and face.

It had seemed to Parmenion that there was no further room for pain in his heart and soul. The death of Derae and the murder of Philip had lashed his emotions with whips of fire, leaving him spent and numb. Yet now he knew he was wrong. The killing of Mothac opened another searing wound and the ageing Spartan was overcome with grief.

There were no tears, but the strategos was lost and desolate.

He sat in his tent with his sons Philotas, Nicci and Hector, the body of Mothac laid out on a narrow pallet bed.

Parmenion sat beside the corpse, holding Mothac's still-warm dead hand.

'Come away for a while, Father,' said Nicci, moving to stand beside Parmenion. The Spartan looked up and nodded, but he did not move. Instead his gaze swung to his children: Philo tall and slender, the image of his father; Nicci shorter, dark-haired and stocky; and the youngest, Hector, so like his mother, fair of face and with wide, innocent eyes. They were men now, their childhood lost to him.

'I was your age, Hector,' said Parmenion, 'when first Mothac came to my service. He was a loyal friend. I pray you will all know such friendship in your lives.'

'He was a good man,' agreed Philo. Parmenion scanned his face for any sign of mockery, but there was nothing to see save regret.

'I have been a poor father to you all,' said Parmenion suddenly, the words surprising him. 'You deserved far more.

Mothac never ceased to nag me for my shortcomings. I wish… I wish. .'He stumbled to silence, then took a deep breath and sighed. 'But then there is nothing to gain by wishing to change the past. Let me say this: I am proud of you all.' He looked to Philo. 'We have had our. . disagreements, but you have done well. I saw you at the Granicus, rallying your men and leading the charge alongside Alexander. And I still remember the race you won against the champions of Greece — a run of skill and heart. Whatever else there is between us, Philotas, I want you to know that my heart swelled when I saw that race.' He turned to Nicci and Hector. 'Both of you have needed to fight to overcome the handicap of being sons of the Lion of Macedon. Always, more was expected of you. But not once have I heard you complain, and I know that the men who serve under you respect you both. I am growing old now and I cannot turn back the years and live my life differently. But here. . now… let me say that I love you all. And I ask your forgiveness.'

'There is nothing to forgive, Father,' said Hector, stepping into his father's embrace. Nicci moved to Parmenion's left, putting his arm around his father's shoulder. Only Philo remained apart from them. Walking to Mothac's body, he laid his hand on the dead man's chest.

Philo said nothing and did not look at his father, but his face was trembling and he stood with head bowed. Then, without a word, he spun on his heel and strode from the tent.

'Do not think badly of him,' said Nicci. 'Most of his life, he has wanted nothing more than to win your love. Give him time.'

'I think our time has run out,' answered Parmenion sadly.

Mothac was buried in the shadows of the Ida Mountains, in a hollow surrounded by tall trees.

And the army moved on towards the south.

The Issus, Autumn 333 BC

With a boldness few of his enemies could have expected, Alexander marched the allied army along the southern coastline of Asia Minor, through Mysia, Lydia and Caria. Many of the Greek cities immediately opened their gates, welcoming the victorious Macedonians as liberators and friends, and Alexander accepted then: tributes with a show of great humility. .

It contrasted with the savagery he unleashed on those towns and cities who tried to oppose him.

The Ionian city of Miletus was stormed by the King's Thracian mercenaries, and appalling tales of murder, rape and slaughter swept east across the Persian empire and west to the cities of Greece. Even Alexander's enemies could scarcely believe the scale of the atrocities.

It was even whispered that the Macedonian King himself was present, dressed as a common soldier and urging the Thracian savages to even greater depths of depravity.

When Alexander heard of it he flew into a towering rage and an immediate inquiry was launched, headed by an Athenian general. Miletian survivors were questioned and brought to the Macedonian camp. The Thracians were ordered to stand in file while the survivors walked among them, pointing out soldiers alleged to have taken part in the atrocities. By dusk on the fifth day of the inquiry, some seventy Thracians had been executed.

The swiftness of Alexander's justice earned him credit among the allies, and the Macedonian army moved on.

By the spring of the following year Alexander had reached the southern satrap of Cilicia on the coastline of the sea of Cyprus. No Persian army had come against him and Darius' general, Memnon, had moved his offensive to the sea -

sailing through the Aegean with a force of 300 warships, destroying Macedonian supply ships and raiding the coastal cities which had declared support for Alexander.

In the captured port of Aphrodesia Parmenion watched the unloading of three Greek ships which had broken through the Persian blockade. The first, an Athenian trireme, carried supplies of coin desperately needed to pay the troops.

Alexander had decreed that there should be no plunder of the liberated lands. All goods would be paid for and any soldier found guilty of looting or theft would be instantly executed. This was good policy, for it meant that the King could continue to be seen as a liberator and not an invader. But it carried with it a serious problem. If soldiers had to pay for food or clothing or women, then they needed coin — and that was in short supply.

Three gold shipments so far had been intercepted by the Persian fleet, and no Macedonian had received pay for more than three months. Disquiet was growing, morale low.

Parmenion counted the chests as they were carried from the ship and loaded on ox-carts, then mounted his stallion and led the convoy to the city treasury. Here he watched the unloading of the carts and left Ptolemy and Hector to supervise the storing of the treasure in the vaults below the palace.

Alexander was waiting in the upper rooms, Hephaistion and Craterus with him. The King looked tired, thought Parmenion, as he entered the room and bowed. Alexander, in full armour of shining gold-embossed iron, was sitting on a high-backed chair by the wide window.

'The coin is safely stored, sire,' said Parmenion, untying the chinstrap and lifting his helm from his head. His grey hair was streaked with sweat and he moved to a nearby table where a pitcher of watered wine had been set, with six goblets around it.

'What news of Darius?' asked the King, standing and moving to where Parmenion stood.

The Spartan had reached for the pitcher but now he paused. 'The moment is coming,' he said. 'Last year the Greek King ordered a full conscription from all the satrapies. But he was persuaded that our invasion was merely a swift incursion into Asia Minor in order to plunder the Ionian cities. Now he has realized his error. Our reports are not as complete as I would like, but it seems he is amassing an army of great size.'

'Where?' asked the King, his eyes gleaming.

'That is difficult to say. The troops are moving from all over the Empire. One army is reported at Mazara, which is some three weeks to the north-east of us. Another is said to be at Tarsus, a week's march to the east. Yet another is gathering in Syria. There may be more.'

'How many will come against us?' asked Hephaistion.

The Spartan's mouth was dry and he found himself longing to lift the pitcher, to feel the strength of the wine flowing in his limbs. He shook his head. 'Who can say?' He reached for the wine.

'But you can guess?' Alexander insisted.

'Perhaps a quarter of a million,' Parmenion answered. Swiftly he filled a goblet and lifted it to his lips, intending only to sip at the wine, but the taste was almost overpowering and when he replaced the goblet on the table it was empty.

Alexander refilled it for him. 'A quarter of a million? Surely not!' argued the King.

The Spartan forced himself to ignore the wine and moved to a couch at the centre of the room. Rubbing his tired eyes he sat down, leaning back against the silk-covered cushions. 'Those who have never been in Asia,' he began, 'find it difficult to visualize the sheer size of the Empire. If a young man wanted to ride slowly around its outer borders he would arrive back at his starting point middle-aged. Years and years of travel, through deserts and mountains, lush valleys, immense plains, jungles and areas of wilderness that stretch on a hundred times further than the eye can see, even from the tallest mountain.' He gazed around the room. 'Look at the wine pitcher,' he told them. 'If that is Greece, then this palace is the Persian Empire. It is so vast that you could not count the Great King's subjects: a hundred million. . two hundred million? Even he does not know.'

'How then do we conquer such an Empire?' Craterus asked.

'By first choosing the battleground,' answered Parmenion, 'but more importantly by winning the support of its people.

The Empire is too vast to defeat as an invader. We must become a part of it. Darius took the throne by poisoning his rivals. He has already faced his own civil wars and won them. But there are many who distrust him. Macedonia was once considered a part of the Empire and we must build on that. Alexander is here not only to liberate the Greek cities, he is here to liberate the Empire from the usurper.'

Hephaistion laughed. 'You jest, Parmenion! How many Persians will accept that an invading Greek is a liberator?'

'More than you would believe,' said Alexander suddenly. 'Think of it, my friend. In Greece we have many city states, but we are all Greeks. Here there are hundreds of different nations. What do the Cappadocians care if it is not a Persian sitting on the throne? Or the Phrygians, or the Syrians, or the Egyptians? All they know is that the Great King rules in Susa.' He turned to Parmenion. 'You are correct, strategos, as always. But this time you have surpassed yourself.' The King brought Parmenion a fresh goblet of wine, which the Spartan accepted gratefully.

There is still the question of the Persian army,' pointed out Craterus. 'Who will lead it?'

'That is a problem,' Parmenion admitted. 'Memnon is a skilled general. We defeated him at the Granicus because he was not aware of the scale of reinforcements which had arrived with Alexander. He was marginally outnumbered.

But wherever this battle is fought, we will face a ten-to-one disadvantage.'

'Do not concern yourself with Memnon,' said Alexander, his voice curiously flat and emotionless. 'He died two nights ago.'

'I had not heard that,' said Parmenion.

'Nor should you,' said the King. 'I saw it in a vision: his heart burst like an over-ripe melon.'

Alexander walked to the window and stood staring out over the sea.

Hephaistion moved to his side, speaking so softly that Parmenion could not make out the words. But Alexander nodded.

'The King wishes now to be alone,' Hephaistion stated.

Parmenion rose and gathered his helm, but Alexander remained at the window. Baffled, the Spartan followed Craterus from the room.

'Is the King well?' he asked the younger man as they walked out into the sunlight.

Craterus paused before replying. 'Last night he told me he was about to become a god. He was not joking, Parmenion. But then later, when I asked him about it, he denied ever saying it. He has been so… fey of late. Visions, talks with the gods. You have great experience, sir, of men and battles and long campaigns. Do you understand what is happening to him?'

'Have you spoken of this to anyone?'

'No, sir. Of course not.'

'That is wise, my boy. Say nothing — not to Hephaistion, nor any of your friends. Even if others discuss it in your presence, stay silent.'

Craterus' eyes widened. 'You think he is going insane?'

'No!' replied Parmenion, more forcefully than he intended. 'He has genuine powers. He had them as a child: the ability to see events a great distance away, and other. . Talents. Now they have returned. But they create in him terrible pressures.'

'What do you advise?'

'I have no more advice to offer. He is marked for greatness. All we can do is support him and follow him. He is strong-willed and I hope this. . malaise. . will pass.'

'But you do not think it will?'

Parmenion did not reply. Patting the young man's shoulder the Spartan walked away, his thoughts sombre. For too long he had pushed away the doubts, turned his eyes from the truth. Mothac had been right, he had blinded himself to the obvious.

The strategos had allowed emotion to mask intellect, had even dulled his reason with wine. How many times had he warned his junior officers of just such stupidity? But now he was forced to face, head on, the fear he had lived with for so long.

The Chaos Spirit had returned.

Battle at the Issus, 333 BC

The morning was chill as Parmenion, in full battle armour, rode the grey, Paxus, towards the north, and steam billowed from the stallion's nostrils. The sky was the colour of iron and a sea-mist had crept in from the west, seeping across the camp-site, dulling the sounds as the Macedonian infantry moved into formation. Parmenion tied the chinstraps on his helm and swung to watch the gathering men.

For five days the Macedonians had marched south, apparently fleeing before Darius' vast army, but now — as the dawn light bathed the Mediterranean — the Greeks swung back to the north, marching through a narrow rock-strewn pass.

With the Persian camp less than four miles distant, Parmenion rode warily at the head of the Macedonian infantry with Alexander alongside him. Throughout the night the Spartan had listened to reports from the scouts concerning the Persian positions. Believing Alexander to be fleeing from him, Darius — as Parmenion had hoped — had become careless. His vast forces numbering more than 200,000 were camped by a river south of the town of Issus, and it was here that Parmenion intended to force the battle; for the flatlands south of the town extended for only a mile and a half, and it would be difficult for the Persians to use their numerical advantage to envelop the Macedonian flanks.

Alexander was unnaturally quiet as they rode, and none of the officers felt inclined to break the silence.

This was the moment of truth and every man, marching or riding, peasant or noble, knew it. It was not even the question of victory or defeat- save in the minds of the generals and captains. Today would see each man face the prospect of death or mutilation. News had spread of the size of the force opposing them and Alexander had toured the camp — talking to the men, exhorting them, lifting them. But even such charismatic encouragement seemed thin and as wispy as the mist on this cold morning.

The land ahead widened, the hills to the east flattening and the mountains receding behind them, and Alexander ordered the infantry to fan out on to the plain. Led by the silver-bearded Theoparlis, the Shield Bearers — elite foot-soldiers trained by Parmenion — moved out to the right, leaving the Macedonian infantry under Perdiccas in the centre. Allied soldiers and mercenaries remained on the left and the advance continued on a wide front, the men marching now in ranks eight deep.

Alexander and his officers rode along the line to the west where the allied cavalry and Thessalians fanned out from the centre like the wings of an eagle.

At last Alexander spoke, guiding Bucephalus alongside Parmenion's mount. 'Well, my general, the day is finally here.' He grinned and reached out to clasp Parmenion's hand in the warrior's grip, wrist to wrist. 'We will meet again in victory — or in the Elysian Fields.'

'Victory would be preferable,' answered Parmenion, with a wry smile.

'Then let it be so!' agreed the King, tugging on the reins and galloping to the far right, his Companion cavalry and Lancers streaming behind him.

Parmenion rode back to the column of lightly-armoured archers, marching behind the phalanxes. The men were Agrianians from Western Thrace, tall and wolf-like, mountain men carrying short, curved hunting bows of bonded wood. The archers were fine fighters — calm, unflappable and deadly in battle. Calling their officer to him, Parmenion ordered the bowmen to angle their march to the right into the mist-clad foothills.

'Darius will almost certainly send cavalry to outflank us. Harry them. Turn them back if you can. If you cannot, then make sure they suffer great losses.'

'Yes, sir,' answered the man. 'We'll send them running.' He gave a gap-toothed grin and loped off towards the east, his men filing out behind him.

The Spartan rode back to the cavalry on the left, his eyes scanning the long line of flat beach to the west. He swung to Berin, the hawk-faced Thessalian prince who had fought beside him at the Crocus Field so many years before.

Berin was grey-bearded now, but still lean and strong, his face tanned to the colour of old leather. The Thessalian smiled. 'They may try to attack on the flat by the sea,' he said. 'You want us to ride out there?'

'No. Take your men behind the infantry and dismount. I do not want you seen until the enemy are committed to a flank attack.'

Berin gave a casual salute and led his men back along the line. Dust was rising now behind the marching men and the Thessalians dismounted and hung back, protecting the delicate nostrils of their mounts. Some even spilled precious water on to dry cloths, wiping dust from the mouths of their horses.

The army moved on. In the distance the Persian defences came into sight, across a narrow ribbon of a river where earthworks had been hastily thrown up, pitted with stakes.

Brightly-garbed Persian cavalry could be seen moving through the foothills on the right, but Parmenion forced himself to ignore them, trusting to the skills of the Agrianian archers to contain them. Slowly the advance continued, Parmenion angling the 2,000 allied cavalry further to the left and ordering the men to spread out.

As he had hoped, a large force of Persian horsemen forded the river, heading west towards the beach. His trained eye watched them streaming out from the enemy right, three thousand, four, five, six. .

Ptolemy moved alongside Parmenion. 'Can we hold them?' asked the young man nervously. The Spartan nodded.

'Order Berin and his Thessalians to mount.'

Parmenion swung his gaze back to the centre, where the Macedonian infantry were almost at the river. Now was the testing time, for there was no way the men could cross the water and maintain formation. And they faced a solid mass of well-armed and armoured Persian Guards and at least 5,000 renegade Greek mercenaries, many from Boeotia and Thebes, men with deep hatred for the Macedonian conquerors.

Parmenion was confident that his wild Thessalians could turn the Persian cavalry on the beach, protecting the left, and had great faith in the skills of the Agrianian archers guarding the foothills on the right. But everything now depended on the Macedonian cavalry breaching the enemy centre. For, if the Persians were allowed to sweep forward, sheer weight of numbers would cleave like a spear through the eight deep ranks of the infantry.

The Spartan cleared his throat, but could not raise enough saliva to spit. All rested now on the courage and strength of Alexander.

Alexander tightened the straps on the iron buckler at his left forearm, then knotted Bucephalus' reins. From here on he would control the war-horse only with his knees. Philotas called out and Alexander turned to see Persian cavalry on the right moving into the foothills. Glancing back, he saw the bowmen moving out to intercept. He hawked and spat, clearing the dust from his mouth; then drawing his sword he raised it high above his head and kicked Bucephalus into a run for the river. The Companion cavalry, led by Philotas, Cleitus and Hephaistion, raced after him. Arrows and stones flashed by the King's head as he charged, but none of the missiles touched him as Bucephalus splashed into the water, sending up great arches of spray.

Thousands of Persian horsemen rode to meet the Macedonian attack, and Alexander was the first to come into contact. With a wild cut he hammered his blade into the shoulder of a silk-clad rider and the man fell screaming into the mud-churned water.

The Persians wore little armour save brocaded breastplates, and the Macedonians surged through them to the far bank.

'Kill! Kill! Kill!' roared Alexander, his voice carrying above the ringing clash of battle. As the King pushed on a lance clanged from his breastplate, tearing loose a gold-embossed shoulder-guard. Alexander ducked under a slashing sabre and disembowelled the attacker.

At the top of the slope the King reined in his mount and cast a swift glance to his left. Darius' renegade Greek mercenaries had countercharged against the Macedonian infantry and the two forces were battling at the centre of the shallow river, all formations lost. Behind the Greeks stood the Persian Royal Guards, poised to follow the mercenaries into the attack. Instantly Alexander realized that were they to enter the fray now the Macedonian centre would be sundered.

Swinging Bucephalus, Alexander charged at the Guards, the Companion cavalry desperately trying to support him. It was a move of dazzling courage and the Macedonians struggling in the water saw their King, single-handedly it seemed, cleaving his way towards the Persian centre.

A great cry went up and the phalanxes surged forward.

Alexander, wounded on both arms, continued his advance, for he had caught sight of his enemy, Darius, standing in a golden chariot drawn by four white horses. The Persian King was tall and fair, his golden beard long and tightly curled. Upon his head was a conical crown of gold set upon a silver helmet. A white silk scarf was bound about his face and neck, flowing down over a cloak of silver thread.

'I see you, Usurper!' bellowed Alexander. Hephaistion and the Companion cavalry came alongside the King, protecting his flanks, but once more Alexander urged Bucephalus forward. The Persian Guards fell back before the ferocity of the charge, a great heaving mass of men jostling before the chariot of their King.

On the far side of the field, Berin and his Thessalians had broken through the Persian ranks and were sweeping to the right in a bid to reach Alexander.

Dismayed by the onslaught, the Persians struggled to forma fighting square around Darius. Alexander saw the Persian monarch snatch up a spear and try to turn his chariot to face the invader, but the white horses — alarmed by the noise and the smell of blood and death — panicked and bolted, drawing the golden chariot clear of the field. Darius fought to control the maddened beasts, but it was beyond his powers and the chariot sped towards the north.

Seeing their King apparently fleeing the battle, many of the Persians fled with him, opening huge gaps in the ranks.

Thessalian riders burst through them to link with Alexander.

Within moments the battle became a rout, Persian foot-soldiers running for the hills, throwing away swords and shields as they went. Whole regiments which had not yet come into the battle retreated back towards the relative safety of the town of Issus.

As the sun reached noon only the last of Darius' Royal Guards offered any resistance, but these few were swiftly overcome and slain. Just under 3,000 renegade Greek mercenaries laid down their weapons and offered to surrender to Alexander. But the King refused.

'You have betrayed your nation,' he told their messenger. 'You have fought on the side of the Usurper against the avenging army of Greece.'

'But we are mercenaries, sir,' the messenger replied, his face pale under his tan. 'It is our way. Darius offered to hire our services and we served him loyally. How can you call us traitors when we are only following our calling?'

'He paid you to fight,' answered Alexander coldly. 'So fight. Pick up] your weapons and earn your pay.'

'This is madness!' cried the messenger, turning to seek support from Alexander's generals.

'No,' hissed the King, 'this is madness.' And stepping forward he rammed his dagger into the man's neck, forcing the blade up under the chin and into the brain. 'Now kill them all!' he screamed.

Before the mercenaries could gather up their weapons the Thracians and Macedonians surrounding them rushed in, hacking and cutting. Drawing his sword Alexander ran in among them, his blade plunging into the back of the nearest renegade. With a wild roar the entire army descended on the mercenaries, cutting and stabbing until not one enemy soldier was left standing.

One by one the Macedonians fell back from the slaughter until only Alexander, blood-drenched and screaming, ran among the dead seeking fresh victims.

A terrible silence settled on the army as they watched the King's frenzied dance of death among the slain.

Hephaistion, who had taken no part in the slaughter, walked forward to speak softly to Alexander, who sagged into his friend's arms and was helped from the field.

Lindos, Rhodes, 330 BC

Aida was content as she sat under the shade of an awning, her gaze resting on the glittering sea far below. The castle here was built on a towering cliff above a small village that nestled between two bays. From where she sat Aida could see only the smaller bay, a sheltered cliff — protected bowl where ships could anchor to escape the winter gales that raged across the Aegean.

A trireme was beached in the bay, its huge sail furled, its three banks of oars drawn in. It sat on the beach like a child's toy and Aida watched as several sailors leapt ashore and an officer began the long walk up the winding cliff-path to the castle.

The sea air was fresh and Aida drew in a deep breath. She could taste the Dark God's power upon her tongue, feel his swelling presence in the air around her, blowing on the sea breeze from Asia. She licked her lips, revelling in dreams of tomorrow.

There were those who talked of good and evil. Foolish notions. There was only strength and weakness, power and helplessness. This was at the heart of all the Mysteries she had so painfully learned during her long, long life.

Earth magic could prolong life, extend strengths, earn riches for the man or woman who understood it. But earth magic required blood and sacrifice; it needed screaming souls to feed it.

This much had been understood since the first rays of the first dawn. Throughout history the wise had known of the power of sacrifice. But only the true initiates understood the nature of the power released.

Yes, you could kill a bull and gain a particle of power. But a man? His fear just before death would swell the particle, filling it with dark energy, releasing Enchantment into the air.

Aida's dark eyes looked to the east, across the wide waters.

Thousands upon thousands of men had died there a year ago, at Arbela, slain by the ever-victorious Macedonian army. Darius the King was dead, murdered by his own disenchanted men as they retreated. Alexander was crowned King in Babylon.

Alexander, King of Kings. Alexander the god. .

No, she realized, not yet the god. Still the mortal fought to hold back the power living within him.

But not for much longer. . She closed her eyes, her spirit soaring across the blue sea to the city of Susa, where Alexander sat upon a throne of gold studded with rare gems. He was dressed now in flowing silks, a cloak of golden thread upon his shoulders.

Aida hovered unseen in the air before him. 'Master!' she whispered.

There was no response, but she could feel the pulsing force of the god within him. Alexander was like a man clinging to a rock-face far above the ground, his arms tired, his fingers cramping. She could sense his fear. His soul had proved stronger than Aida would have believed possible, holding the god from his destiny — and such a destiny! Once he was in full control his powers would grow, radiating far beyond the frail human shell he inhabited. The might of Chaos would then surge across the earth, drawn into every living being, every tree and rock, every lake and stream.

And then those who had served him faithfully would gain their reward: a life of eternal youth, an infinity of pleasure, an intensity of experience and sensation never before attained by those of human birth.

Soon would come the blessed day.

Each victory, each death by Alexander's hand, added strength to the darkness within him.

Not long now, thought Aida.

Returning to her body she leaned back on the couch, reaching for a goblet of wine. The sun was dipping now towards the west and she felt its rays hot upon her legs. Standing, she pushed the couch further back into the shadows before stretching out again.

Soon the messenger would be here, hot and tired from walking the steep cliff-path. She had written to Alexander, begging leave to come to his court where she could offer the benefit of her sage counsel. Once there she could speed the process, adding the necessary narcotics to his wine, lessening his will to resist.

Such joys awaited. .

Her thoughts turned to the woman Derae and she found her good mood evaporating. Old fool! She had been so dismissive, seemingly so content trapped within that frail, arthritic shell.

'How content are you now,' whispered Aida, 'now that the worms feast on your flesh? You understood nothing. All your healing and your good works! You merely fed upon the Enchantment of the world, giving nothing back. If we were all as you, then the Enchantment would die. What would the world be then? A sprawling mass of humanity with not a shred of magic upon it.'

She shivered at the thought. A young red-haired acolyte moved before her, bowing deeply. 'There is a man to see you, mistress,' she said.'An officer of Alexander.'

'Bring him to me,' ordered Aida, 'and fetch wine.'

The girl backed away. Aida smoothed her gown of black silk and waited. A young man, tall and dark-bearded, stepped into view. His breastplate was black, edged with gold, and he held a white-plumed helm in his left hand. His face was handsome, burnished bronze by the Asian sun, and showed not a trace of sweat from the long climb to the castle.

He bowed. 'I am Hephaistion, lady. I am sent by Alexander to bring you to his court.'

She looked into his dark eyes and disliked him immediately. Though she despised men, Aida had come to rely on their adoration. But Hephaistion was unaffected by her beauty. It irked her, but she did not show it. Instead she offered the young man a dazzling smile.

'I am honoured,' she said, 'that the Great King should invite me to Susa.'

Hephaistion nodded. 'Your home here is beautiful,' he said. 'May we walk the walls?'

Aida disliked strong sunlight, but Hephaistion was known as Alexander's closest friend and she had no wish to offend him. 'Of course,' she told him. Taking up a wide black-brimmed hat, she stood and led him to the northern wall. From here they could see the wider of the two bays of Lindos and watch the gulls swooping and diving above the small fishing boats returning from the sea.

'The King is troubled,' said Hephaistion. 'He believes you can be of great help to him.'

'Troubled? In what manner?'

Hephaistion sat back on the parapet. 'There are two Alexanders,' he said softly. 'One I love, the other I fear. The first is a kindly friend, understanding and caring. The second is a ruthless and terrifying killer.'

'You are speaking very frankly, Hephaistion. Is that wise?'

'Oh, I think so, my lady. You see, he told me about your stay in Pella and the… aid you gave him.'

'Aid?' she asked, nonplussed.

'How you helped him to take the throne.'

'I see.'

'I think you do,' said Hephaistion softly, his dark eyes holding to her gaze. 'When the King received your letter, he asked me to come to you… to thank you for all you have done for him. He gave me two instructions. Both were different, but I am becoming used to that.'

'What were these instructions?'

'Firstly, as I have said, he asked me to bring you to him.'

'And the second?'

'Well, that brings me to a problem. Perhaps you could help me with it?'

'If I can,' she told him.

'As I told you there are two Alexanders, and each of them gave me separate instructions. Whose should I follow? The friend. .or the one I fear?'

'It is always wise,' said Aida carefully, 'to respond with caution to orders from men one fears. The friend can be forgiving. The other will not.'

Hephaistion nodded. 'You are very wise, lady.' Leaning forward, he took her arms and lifted her to sit on the parapet wall. 'Wise, and beautiful. I shall take your advice.'

'Then our relationship has begun well,' she said, forcing a smile.

'Indeed it has,' he agreed, 'and ended well.'

'Ended?' Aida's mouth was dry and she felt the beginnings of fear.

'Yes, lady,' he whispered. 'For, you see, my friend asked me to bring you to him. The other Alexander told me to kill you.'

'That cannot be. I am his loyal servant, I always have been. He would not order my death. You are mistaken, Hephaistion. Now let me down. I have had enough of this nonsense.'

'Perhaps you are right,' he told her. 'It is so hard sometimes to tell them apart. But in Pella you helped him to kill a child; you even convinced him he should eat its heart. I don't believe my King has need of your counsel.'

'Listen to me. .' she began. But Hephaistion's hand took hold of her legs, tipping her back into space.

Aida felt herself slide clear of the wall.

Far below her the jagged rocks waited, and her screams echoed over the village.

Hephaistion leaned over the parapet to watch Aida fall — her body spiralling down, her shrieks carried away on the wind. It seemed to the Macedonian that she looked like a huge crow, her black robes fluttering like broken wings. He watched her strike the rocks, heard her screams cut off, then saw a flock of gulls descend upon her, their white forms slowly masking the black robes.

Stepping back he took a deep breath. He had never killed a woman before, but he felt no regrets. Her evil had been almost palpable and he was sullied by touching her.

He had told her the truth, in part at least. Alexander had admitted to fearing her and wishing her dead — yet later, his voice cold, he had ordered her brought to court. During the two years since the bloody slaughter at the Issus Alexander had spoken often of his fears, of the dark force eating away at the centre of his soul. Hephaistion knew more of the King's secrets than any man — even Parmenion, who now commanded a second Macedonian army and rarely saw Alexander.

It was Hephaistion in whom Alexander confided, and Hephaistion who recognized when the Dark God was close to the ascendant. The King's voice would grow cold, his eyes distant. Then he was chilling. .

As on the night in the captured city of Persepolis when he had led a drunken mob of torch-bearers to destroy one of the great wonders of the world, the beautifully carved wooden temple to Ahura Mazda containing the works of the prophet, Zoroaster. Hephaistion had stood by, stunned, as Alexander hurled oil over the ox-hides on which the words of the prophet were written in gold.

Twenty thousand hides, the most treasured possession of the Persian people, destroyed in one night of debauchery, billowing flames clawing at wooden carvings which had lasted for centuries under a Persian sun.

Alexander remembered nothing of it the following morning.

Then had come the Night of the Spear.

A late-night feast had ended with the cavalry general, Cleitus, asking the King why he had taken to wearing Persian robes and insisting on the Persian practice of forcing his subjects to prostrate themselves before him, kissing the ground at his feet.

Alexander was embarrassed by the question, for there were several Persians present and Hephaistion knew that, though the King did not like the ritual, he was endeavouring to act like a Persian monarch, honouring their customs.

But he had never asked his Macedonian officers — nor any Greek — to prostrate themselves before him.

Cleitus was drunk, and unhappy at being asked to sit away from the King's right hand, his place being taken by a Persian general.

Hephaistion had tried to pull Cleitus away from the table, urging him to return to his tent and sleep off his drunkenness, but the old cavalryman pushed him away and stumbled towards the King, shouting: 'I served your father, your arrogant puppy, and I never had to kiss his feet. Damned if I'll kiss yours!'

Hephaistion saw Alexander stiffen and watched in sick horror as his eyes grew pale. Never before had the transformation happened publicly and he ran towards the King, desperate to get him away from the revellers. But he was too late. Alexander stepped back, seized a spear from a guard and thrust the iron blade through Cleitus' belly.

Blood gushed instantly from the old man's mouth and he fell back, the spear tearing loose from the wound. For several moments the stricken man writhed on the floor, screaming. Then, with a gurgling, choking cry he died.

A stunned silence followed.

Alexander blinked and staggered as Hephaistion reached his side, taking his arm. 'What have I done?' whispered Alexander. 'Sweet Zeus!' Turning the spear upon himself he tried to fall upon the blade, but Hephaistion wrestled it from him. Two guards came to his aid and the weeping King was helped from the tent.

The following day, his hair covered with ash, Alexander led the funeral procession behind Cleitus' body. Instead of following the Macedonian custom of burning the corpse and placing the bones in a ceremonial casket of gold, he had ordered Egyptian embalmers to preserve the body, intending to have it placed in a crystal case and displayed in a specially built tomb of marble.

The King's grief was obvious to all and the soldiers, who loved Alexander, forgave him swiftly. But his officers, having seen him murder a loyal brother, were silent, and Hephaistion knew their thoughts. Who will be next?

The embalming of Cleitus was a memory Hephaistion would never forget.

A slender Egyptian moved to the body carrying a box of cedar wood from which he produced a long, narrow spike, bent and forked at the tip.

'What is he doing?' Hephaistion asked the King.

Alexander's reply was detached, his voice distant and cool. 'He must remove the internal matter of the skull to prevent it rotting. So that the face is unmarked, he will insert the spike in the nostril and hook it into the brain, dragging it out.'

'I need to know no more,' snapped Hephaistion, turning and rushing from the room.

Later he made Alexander promise that if he, Hephaistion, ever fell in battle, he was to be buried in the Macedonian way.

The gulls moved away from the broken body on the rocks below and Hephaistion stepped back from the parapet and walked from the cliff-top castle down the long winding path to the small bay. The trireme's captain — a short, stocky Rhodian called Callis — met him on the beach.

'Will she be long?' he asked. 'The tide is turning and we need to sail within the hour.'

'She will not be travelling with us, captain. Sadly, the Lady Aida is dead.'

'What a wasted journey,' said Callis, cursing. 'Ah well, it will be a relief to the men. No sailor likes a woman aboard.

And they say she was a witch who could foresee the future.'

'I do not think that was true,' said Hephaistion.

By dusk the trireme was sailing east on the busy trade lane to Cyprus, a stiff breeze billowing the great sail, the oars drawn in, the oarsmen resting at their seats on the three rowing decks. Hephaistion sat on a canvas-topped chair at the stern, eyes locked to the land sliding slowly by them.

First Caria, then Lycia, once so hostile but now merely small outposts of the Empire of Alexander.

He remembered the ceaseless forced marches under Parmenion four years ago as the Macedonian advance troops sought to avoid major clashes with the Persian forces. How right the Spartan had been. Had he fought the Persians and won, then Darius would undoubtedly have gathered an even larger force and Alexander would have arrived in Asia to find himself confronted by an irresistible enemy. The lands of the Persian Empire were more vast than Hephaistion could ever have imagined, its people more numerous than the sand grains of the beaches he could see to the north.

Even now, after almost six years of war and Alexander's winning of the crown, there were still battles to fight -

against the Sogdianians of the north, the Indians of the east and the Scythian tribesmen of the Caspian Sea.

Parmenion had marched a second Macedonian army to the east, winning two battles against superior numbers.

Hephaistion smiled. Even close to seventy years of age, the Spartan was still a mighty general. He had outlived two of his sons: Hector had died at the Battle of the Issus three years ago, while Nicci had been slain at Arbela fighting alongside his King.

Only Philotas remained.

'What are you thinking?' asked Callis, his huge arms resting on the tiller.

Hephaistion glanced up. 'I was watching the land. It seems so peaceful from here.'

'Yes,' agreed the sailor. 'All the world looks better from the sea. I think Poseidon's realm makes us humble. It is so vast and powerful and our ambitions are so petty alongside it. It highlights our limits.'

'You think we have limits? Alexander would not agree.'

Callis chuckled. 'Can Alexander sculpt a rose or shape a cloud? Can he tame an angry sea? No. We live for a little while, scurrying here and there, then we are gone. But the sea remains: strong, beautiful, eternal.'

'Are all seamen philosophers?' Hephaistion asked.

The captain laughed aloud. 'We are when the sea surrounds us. On land we rut like mangy dogs, and we drink until we piss red wine. What war will you be fighting when you get back?'

Hephaistion shrugged. 'Wherever the King sends me.'

'What will he do when he runs out of enemies?'

'Does a man ever run out of enemies?'

Susa, Persia, 330 BC

The moment had come, as he had long known it would, and Philotas felt a sudden coldness in his heart. His father had been right all along. His mouth was dry, but he did not touch the wine set before him. Today he wanted his head clear.

Alexander was still speaking, his officers gathered around him in the throne-hall at the palace of Susa. One hundred men, warriors, strong and courageous, yet they kept their gaze to the marble floor, not wishing to look up into the painted eyes of the King.

Not so Philotas, who stood with head held high watching Alexander. Gold ochre stained the King's upper lids and his lips were the colour of blood. The high conical crown of Darius, gold and ivory, sat upon his head, and he was dressed in the loose-fitting silken robes of a Persian emperor.

How had it come to this, Philotas wondered?

Alexander had conquered the Persians, drawing the defeated army into the ranks of his own forces and appointing Persian generals and satraps. The Empire was his. He had even married Darius' daughter, Roxanne, to legitimize his claim to the crown.

And what a sham that was, for not once had he called her to his bed.

Philotas' gaze flickered over the listening officers, whose faces showed their tensions and their fears. Once more Alexander was talking about treachery amongst them, promising to root out the disloyal. Only yesterday some sixty Macedonian soldiers had been flogged to death for what the King called mutiny. Their crime? They had asked when they could go home. They had joined the army to liberate the cities of Asia Minor, not to march across the world at the whim of a power-crazed King.

Five days before that, Alexander had had a vision: his officers were set to kill him. The vision told him who they were, and six men were garrotted — one of them Theoparlis, the general of the Shield Bearers. Philotas had not liked the man, but his loyalty was legendary.

Ever since Hephaistion's departure the King had been acting strangely, given to sudden rages followed by long silences. At first the generals had affected to ignore the signs. Alexander had long been known to possess unusual Talents, though always before such behaviour had been short-lived. But now it seemed that a new Alexander had emerged, cold and terrifying.

In the beginning the officers had talked among themselves of this transformation, but after the killings began there grew among the Macedonians such a fear that even friends no longer met privately in case they should be accused of plotting against the emperor.

But three days ago had come the final lunacy.

Parmenion and the Second Army had at last taken the city of Elam. More accurately, the ruling council of the city had negotiated a surrender. Parmenion sent the city's treasury — some 80,000 talents of silver — to Alexander at Susa.

Alexander's reply had been to order the killing of every man, woman and child in Elam.

Parmenion had received the order with disbelief and had sent a rider to question its authenticity.

Philotas had been summoned to the palace along with Ptolemy, Cassander and Craterus. They had arrived to find Alexander standing over the body of the messenger.

'I am surrounded by traitors,' Alexander declared. 'Parmenion has refused to obey the orders of his emperor.'

Philotas gazed down on the body of the messenger, a young boy of no more than fifteen. The lad's sword was still in its scabbard, but Alexander's dagger was buried in his heart.

'You have always spoken against your father, Philo,' said Alexander. 'I should have listened to you earlier. In his dotage he has turned against me. Against meV

'What has he done, sire?' Ptolemy asked.

'He has refused to punish Elam for its rebellion.'

Philotas felt himself growing cold, a numbness spreading through him. All his life he had believed that one day he would be a king — the knowledge sure, set in stone, based on the promise of the only person who had ever loved him, his mother Phaedra. But, during the last year, the stone of belief had slowly crumbled, the cold breeze of reality whispering against it, scattering his hopes, destroying his dreams. Lacking the charisma of a Philip or Alexander, or the intellect of a Parmenion, he could not even inspire the troops he led into battle. Self-knowledge came late to him, but at last even Philotas had come to recognize his mother's folly.

No kingdom. No glory. His father had been right: he had built his future upon a foundation of mist. What now, he wondered? If he remained silent, then Parmenion would be slain and he, Philotas, would remain as a general of the King. If not, he would be taken and murdered. . and Parmenion would still be killed. His mouth was dry, his heartbeat irregular. To die or not to die? What kind of a choice was this for a young man, he wondered? 'Well, Philo?' asked Alexander.

Philotas saw the King's eyes upon him. . and shivered. 'Parmenion is no traitor,' he answered without hesitation.

'Then you are also against me? So be it. Take his weapons. Tomorrow he shall answer for his betrayal before his comrades.'

Craterus and Ptolemy had marched Philotas to the dungeons below the palace. They had walked in silence until Ptolemy reached out to pull shut the cell door.

'Ptolemy!'

'Yes, Philo?'

'I wish to send a message to my father.'

'I can't. The King would kill me.'

'I understand.'

The room was small, windowless and dark as pitch with the door bolted. Philotas felt his way to the pallet bed and stretched out upon it.

Nicci and Hector were both gone now, and tomorrow the last son of the Lion of Macedon would join them. 'I wish I'd known you better, Father,' said Philo, his voice quavering.

Despite his fears Philo slept, and was awakened by the sound of the bolts being drawn back on the door. A shaft of light filled the cell and the Macedonian blinked as armed men pushed their way inside.

'Up, traitor!' ordered a soldier, seizing Philo's arm and hauling him from the bed. He was pushed out into the corridor and marched back to the throne-room where his fellow officers waited in judgement.

Alexander's voice echoed in the vast hall, shrill and strident, his face flushed crimson. 'Philotas and his father owe everything to me — and how do they repay me? They plot and they plan to supplant me. What is the penalty for such treachery?'

'Death!' cried the officers. Philotas smiled. Only a few days ago his had been one of the voices shouting for the death of Theoparlis.

Slowly Philo rose to his feet, all eyes turning to him.

'What do you say, prisoner, before sentence is carried out?' asked Alexander.

'What would you have me say?' responded Philo, his voice steady, his gaze locked to the unnaturally pale eyes of the King.

'Do you wish to deny your villainy, or to plead for mercy?'

Philo laughed then. 'There is not one man in this room save you who believes that Parmenion would ever plot against you. For myself I have nothing to offer by way of defence. For if a man as loyal as Theoparlis could be found guilty, then what chance does Philotas have? I have followed you and fought battles alongside you — battles that my father won for you. My two brothers died to ensure you would sit upon that throne. I should have no need to defend myself.

But let it be clearly understood by all present that Parmenion is no traitor. You ordered him to take a city — and he took it. Then you ordered that every man, woman and child in that city should be put to death as an example to other rebels. That he would not do. Nor would any other decent Greek. Only a madman would order such an atrocity.'

'Condemned out of his own mouth!' roared Alexander, rising from the throne and advancing down the room. 'By all the gods, I'll kill you myself.'

'As you killed Cleitus?' Philotas shouted.

Alexander's dagger swept towards Philo's throat, but the Macedonian swayed to his right, the blade slashing past his face. Instinctively he struck out with his left fist, which cannoned against Alexander's chin. The King fell back, the dagger falling from his hands. Philo swept it up and leapt upon him, bearing him to the marble floor. Alexander's head cracked against the stone. The point of the dagger in Philo's hand touched the skin of Alexander's neck, and Philo bunched his muscles for the final thrust.

Alexander's eyes changed colour, swirling back to the sea-green Philo remembered from the past.

'What is happening, Philo?' whispered the King, his voice soft. Philo hesitated. . then a spear rammed through his unprotected back, ripping into his lungs and heart. He reared up, and a second guard drove his blade into the dying man's chest.

Blood gushed from Philo's mouth and he slumped to the floor beside the semi-conscious Alexander. The King rose shakily, then backed away from the corpse. 'Where is Hephaistion? I need Hephaistion!' he cried.

Craterus moved alongside him. 'He is gone, sire, to Rhodes, to fetch the Lady Aida.'

'Rhodes?'

'Let me take you back to your rooms, sire.'

'Yes. . yes. Where is Parmenion?'

'In Elam, sire. But do not concern yourself. He will be dead by tomorrow. I sent three of our finest swordsmen.'

Alexander groaned, but for a moment he said nothing. He could feel the Dark God fighting back inside him, storming the bastions of his mind. Yet he held on and drew in a deep breath. 'Get me to the stables,' he ordered Craterus.

'The stables? Why, sire?'

'I need to stop them, Craterus.'

'You cannot ride out alone. You have enemies everywhere.'

The King looked up into the earnest young man's eyes. 'I am not insane, Craterus. But there is… a demon inside me.

You understand?'

'A demon, sire, yes. Come and rest. I will send for the surgeon.'

'You don't believe me? No, but then why should you? Leave me!'

Alexander pushed Craterus away and ran down the long corridor, emerging into the bright sunshine of the courtyard.

Two sentries snapped to attention, but he ignored them and continued to run along the tree-lined road to the royal stables.

Bucephalus was in the eastern paddock and his great head lifted as he saw the King. 'Come to me!' called Alexander.

The black stallion trotted to the fence and Alexander opened the gate, took hold of the black mane and swung himself to Bucephalus' back.

There were shouts from the west and the King turned to see Craterus and several of the officers running after him.

Alexander kicked Bucephalus into a run and rode for the south-east, through the royal park and out on to the road to Elam. The city was some sixty miles away on the coast, the road petering out into rocky tracks and high hills.

There were robbers in the hills, savage tribesmen who looted many of the trade caravans from the east, but Alexander did not think of them as he rode. Instead he pictured the Spartan, remembering his gallantry in the lands of the Enchantment and his quiet counsel in the years that followed. Now there were assassins on their way to kill him.

Sent by me!

No, not by me. Never by me!

How could I have been so foolish, thought Alexander. The moment his father had torn the necklet from his throat he had felt the surging force of the Dark God. But he had believed he could control the evil, holding it back, using it when necessary. Now he knew that even that belief had been merely one more example of the cunning of Kadmilos.

Kadmilos! Even as he thought the name of the Beast he could feel the claws of power pulling at his spirit, drawing him down, the dizziness beginning. .

'No!' he shouted. 'Not this time!'

'You are mine,' came the whispering voice from deep within him.

'Never!'

'Always,' came the response. 'Look on, Alexander — and despair!'

The hidden doors of his memory opened and he saw again the murder of Philip, but worse than this he saw himself the night before, speaking with Pausanius and urging him to seek revenge. 'When I am King,' he heard himself saying, 'your rewards will be great indeed.'

'Poor, naive Pausanius,' whispered the voice in his mind. 'How surprised he was when you leapt across the body of the fallen King and plunged your sword into his chest.'

Alexander's spirit reeled from the shock. There was no doubting the vision. For years he had practised self-deceit, never daring to search for the truth. Other images swarmed into his mind — the death and mutilation of Philip's wife and son, the killing of Cleitus and Mothac, the murder of Theoparlis. . loyal, trusting Theoparlis.

The King cried out as he rode and the demon within him laughed and rose.

'No,' said Alexander again, quelling the emotions of hatred and fear, hauling himself clear of self-reproach and guilt.

'Those deeds were yours, not mine.' His concentration deepened and he pushed the demon back.

'You cannot resist me for long,' Kadmilos told him. 'You will sleep, and I will rise.'

It was true, but Alexander did not allow the fear to dominate his thinking. The cowardice of Kadmilos — his spirit fleeing as the point of Philo's dagger touched the skin of Alexander's throat — had given the King one last chance at redemption, and his thoughts were of Parmenion as he rode.

The great stallion galloped on, seemingly tireless, the drumming of his hooves echoing through the hills.

'Father Zeus,' prayed Alexander, 'let me be in time!'

The City of Elam, 330 BC

Parmenion awoke from a dream-filled sleep and sat up, pushing back the thin sweat-soaked sheet. The sky beyond the narrow window was streaked with grey as he climbed from the bed and padded across to the small table where last night's pitcher of wine still stood. It was almost empty, but he poured the dregs into a goblet and drained it.

He was about to return to his bed when he turned and caught sight of his naked body reflected in a mirror of polished brass. His hair was white now, and thin, his face lean and sharp, the hawk-nose more prominent than ever. Only the pale blue eyes were the same. He sighed and dressed in a simple chiton of silver grey, then belted on his dagger before walking down to the long gardens behind the house.

Dew lay upon the leaves and the morning was chill as he strolled the winding paths, halting by a ribbon of a stream that gushed over a bed of coloured crystals.

Seventy years — fifty of them as a general.

He shivered and walked on.

Parmenion. The Death of Nations. So many he could no longer find their names within his memory. The early days were the easiest to recall: the fall of Spartan power, the defeat of Illyria, Paionia and Thrace. The sack of the Chalcidice, the overthrow of Thebes. .

But the last few years had seen the destruction of dynasties too many to recall: Phrygia, Cappadocia, Pisidia, Cilicia, Syria, Mesopotamia, Persia, Parthia. .

The stream opened out on to a wide pond around which statues had been set. A leopard, beautifully crafted and vividly painted, stood at the edge of the pool leaning its head forward as if to drink. A little distance away stood a striped horse, and beyond that several deer. All still, motionless, frozen in time.

The sun broke through in the east, the warmth touching the Spartan but not lifting his spirits. He walked on towards the eastern wall. There were alcoves there, fitted with carved wooden seats.

In the furthest of these Parmenion seated himself, looking back across the pond and up towards the great house with its rearing columns and red-tiled roof.

Some ten paces to his left sat a stone lion. Unlike the other animals in the garden, he was not painted; his great albino head was cocked to one side, as if listening, and the muscles of his flanks were magnificently rendered. Parmenion found the statue to be among the best he had ever seen, wondering why he had never noticed it before.

As the Spartan stared the lion suddenly moved. Slowly and with great grace it stood, and stretched its muscles of marble. Parmenion blinked and focused on the statue. The lion was still again, returning to its former position with head cocked.

'I am back,' said a soft voice. Parmenion turned his head and was not surprised to see Aristotle sitting beside him on the wooden bench. The man had not changed. In fact he seemed if anything a little younger, his grey beard streaked now with auburn hairs.

'Why did you create the lion?'

The magus shrugged. 'I like to make a dramatic entrance.' But there was no smile and his voice was subdued.

'Why have you come?'

'It was time.'

Parmenion nodded, though he did not understand. 'Alexander is losing his battle with the Dark God,' he said, 'and I am powerless to save him. He no longer listens to me, and the messages from his court are all of murder and madness. Can you help him?'

Aristotle did not answer at once, but reached out and laid his hand on Parmenion's arm. 'No, my friend. The Dark God's power is far greater than mine.'

'Alexander is my son. My flesh, my blood, my guilt. His evil is upon my hands. I should have killed him years ago.'

'No,' said Aristotle. 'The drama is not yet played out. I took the liberty of fetching this from your rooms.' The magus held out a small pouch of soft hide.

'It is useless now,' said Parmenion.

'Take it anyway.'

The Spartan tucked the pouch into his belt. 'You said it was time. So what is to happen?'

Aristotle leaned back, turning his face to stare up towards the house.

'Three men are dismounting at the main entrance. Soon you will see them striding down this path. Kadmilos — the Dark God — sent them. You understand?'

Parmenion took a deep breath and his eyes narrowed. 'I am to die,' he said.

A door opened at the rear of the house and three men began the long walk down the path by the glittering stream.

Parmenion stood and turned to Aristotle.

But the magus had disappeared…

Parmenion walked slowly towards the three men. He did not know them by name, but had seen them with Alexander. Two were Parthians, dressed in oiled black leather tunics and long riding-boots, their dark hair cropped short to the skull. The third was a high-born Persian who had entered the King's service. The Spartan smiled as he saw that the man carried a sealed scroll.

'We have a message for you, sir,' called the Persian, increasing his pace. He wore loose-fitting silk troos and an embroidered shirt, beneath a cape of soft leather which hung down over his right arm.

'Then deliver it,' Parmenion told him. As the Persian came closer, Parmenion could smell the sweet, perfumed oil which coated his dark tightly-curled hair. He offered the scroll with his left hand, but as the Spartan reached for it the man's right hand emerged from beneath the cape. In it was a slender dagger. Parmenion had been waiting for the move and, sidestepping, he slapped the man's arm aside and drove his own dagger home into the assassin's chest. The Persian gasped and stumbled to his knees. The two Parthians leapt at Parmenion with swords drawn. The Spartan threw himself at them, but they were young men, swift of reflex, and he no longer had the advantage of surprise. A sword clove into his left shoulder, snapping the bone of his arm. Spinning, he hurled his dagger at the swordsman, the blade slicing home into the man's throat to tear open the jugular.

Something struck Parmenion in the lower back. It felt like the kick of a horse and there was no sensation of a cut or stab, but he knew that a sword-blade had plunged into him. Anger flared, for his warrior's heart could not bear the thought of dying without at least ensuring that his killer joined him on the path to Hades. Pain roared through him as the assassin wrenched the blade clear. The Spartan staggered forward and fell to the path, rolling to his back.

The Parthian loomed over him. Parmenion's fingers closed over a rock and, as the swordsman prepared himself for the death strike, the Spartan's hand flashed forward, the rock cracking against his assailant's brow. The man staggered back, the skin above his right eye split.

With a curse he ran at the wounded Spartan, but Parmenion's leg lashed out to sweep the Parthian from his feet. The man fell heavily, losing his grip on his sword. Parmenion rolled to his belly and struggled to rise. But for once his strength was not equal to his will and he fell.

He heard the Parthian climb to his feet and felt the sudden pain of the sword-blade as it pierced his back, gouging into his lung. A boot cracked against his head, then a rough hand tipped him to his back.

'I am going to cut your throat. . slowly,' hissed the Parthian. Dropping his sword the assassin drew a curved dagger with a serrated edge, laying it against the skin of the Spartan's neck.

A shadow fell across the killer. The man looked up… in time to see the short sword that hammered into his temple.

He was catapulted across Parmenion's body and fell face-first into the stream, where his blood mingled with the water that rippled over the crystals.

Alexander knelt by the stricken Spartan, lifting him into his arms.

'I am sorry. Oh gods, I am so sorry,' he said, tears falling from his eyes.

Parmenion's head sagged against the young man's chest and he could hear Alexander's heartbeat, loud and strong.

Lifting his arm, the Spartan pulled the pouch clear from his belt and pushed it towards the King. Alexander took it and tipped the contents on his palm; the gold necklet glittered in the sunshine.

'Put… it… on,' pleaded Parmenion. Alexander lowered him back to the ground and took the necklet in trembling fingers, looping it over his head and struggling with the clasp. At last it sat proud, gleaming and perfect.

Aristotle appeared alongside the two men. 'Help me to carry Parmenion to the eastern wall,' he said.

'Why? We should get a surgeon,' said Alexander.

The magus shook his head. 'No surgeon could save him. But I can. His time here is done, Alexander.'

'Where will you take him?'

'To one of my homes. I shall heal him, do not fear for that. But we must hurry.'

Together they carried the unconscious Parmenion to the white lion, laying him down on the grass beside the statue.

The stone beast reared up upon its hind legs, growing, widening, until it loomed above them like a monster of legend. The belly shimmered and disappeared, and through it Alexander could see a large room with a vaulted window, opening on to a night-dark sky ablaze with stars.

Once more they lifted the Spartan, carrying him to a wide bed and laying him upon it. Aristotle took a golden stone from the pouch at his side, placing it on the Spartan's chest. All breathing ceased.

'Is he dead?' Alexander asked.

'No. Now you must return to your own world. But know this, Alexander, that the magic of the necklet is finite. It may last ten years, but more likely the power will fade before then. Be warned.'

'What will happen to Parmenion?'

'It is no longer your concern, boy. Go now!'

Alexander backed away and found himself standing in the sunlit garden staring back into the moonlit room within the statue. Slowly the image faded and the lion shrank, the great head coming level with the King — the jaws open, the teeth long and sharp. Then it sank to the earth and slowly crumbled, the stone peeling away like snowflakes, drifting on the breeze.

Behind him he heard the sound of running feet and turned to see Craterus and Ptolemy, followed by a score of warriors from the Royal Guard.

'Where is Parmenion, sire?' Ptolemy asked.

'The Lion of Macedon is gone from the world,' answered Alexander.

Babylon, Summer 323 BC

Seven years of constant battles had taken their toll on Alexander. The young man who had left Macedonia was now a scarred warrior of thirty-two, who moved with difficulty following a wound to his right lung and the slashing by a hand-axe of the tendons in his left calf.

His victories stretched across the Empire, from India in the east to Scythia in the north, from Egypt in the south to the northern Caspian Sea. He was a living legend throughout the world — adored by his troops, feared by the many enemies he had forced back from the frontiers of his new realm.

Yet, as he stood on this bright summer morning by the window of his palace rooms, he thought nothing of his reputation.

'Are you still set on this course, sire?' asked Ptolemy, moving forward to embrace his King.

'I have no choice, my friend.'

'We could seek the help of wizards — there are some in Babylon said to be most powerful.'

Alexander shook his head. 'I have travelled far to find a way to fight the Beast. All are agreed that I cannot defeat him. He is immortal, everlasting. And the power of the necklet is fading fast. Do you want to see the old Alexander return?'

'No, my lord. But… I wish Hephaistion were here. He would be able to advise you better than I.'

Alexander did not answer, but swung his head to stare from the window. It was the death of his beloved Hephaistion which had decided him upon this course of action. The Macedonian — the most trusted of the King's officers — had been found dead in his bed, apparently choked to death. Of the night in question, twelve weeks before, Alexander could remember nothing.

The surgeons had found a chicken-bone wedged in Hephaistion's throat, and it appeared that the officer had died while dining alone.

Alexander wanted to believe it. Desperately. For Hephaistion, above all his friends, had helped him during the seven years since Aristotle had taken Parmenion. As the power of the necklet faded, it was Hephaistion whose constant love and friendship had been the rock to which Alexander had clung when the Beast had been clawing at him, dragging him down.

Now Hephaistion was gone and the final battle was here.

'You will do as I bid — no matter what?' he asked Ptolemy.

'Oh my life I promise it.'

'No one must lay their hands upon. . it.'

'Nor shall they.'

'You must go to Egypt. Make the land your own. Hold it against all the others.'

'There may be no war, sire. We are all friends.'

Alexander laughed. 'You are friends now,'' he said. 'Leave me, Ptolemy. And tell no one what I plan.'

'It will be as you say.'

The general bowed once and turned to leave. Then suddenly he swung back to Alexander, embracing him and kissing his cheek. No more was said and, tears in his eyes, the officer left the room, pulling shut the door behind him.

Alexander walked to the table and filled a goblet with the wine he had prepared earlier. Without hesitation he lifted it to his lips and drank. Then moving to a bronze mirror on the far wall, he examined the necklet. There was little gold showing now; the interlaced wires had become black as jet.

'Just a little longer,' he whispered.

His servants found him lying on his bed at dusk. At first they moved around him, thinking him sleeping, but after a while one of them moved to his side, touching his shoulder.

'My lord! Sire!' There was no answer.

In panic they ran from the room, summoning Perdiccas, Cassander, Ptolemy and the other generals. A surgeon was called — a slim, wiry Corinthian named Sopeithes. He it was who found the pulse still beating at Alexander's throat.

While no one was watching him, Ptolemy took the goblet containing the dregs of the drugged wine and hid it in the folds of his cloak.

'He is not dead,' said the surgeon, 'but his heart is very weak. He must be bled.'

Three times during the next five days a vein in the King's arm was opened, but at no time did he regain consciousness.

Time slipped by, and soon it became apparent to all that Alexander was dying. Ptolemy quietly made the arrangements Alexander had ordered, then he sat by the King's bedside.

On the twelfth night, with only Ptolemy beside him, Alexander's voice whispered out for the last time: 'Kadmilos.'

The Void, Time Unknown

Alexander sat at the mouth of the tunnel, a golden sword shining in his hand and casting its light upon the grey, dead soil of the Void. Some distance away, sitting upon a boulder watching him, was a twin Alexander dressed in silver armour, white hair framing his handsome face, ram's horns curving back from his temples.

'Poor Alexander,' taunted Kadmilos. 'He came to slay me. Me? He thought to use his pitiful sword against a spirit that has lived since before time. Look around you, Alexander. This is your future. No kingdoms here in this world of ash and twilight. No glory.'

'You are a coward,' the King told him wearily.

'Your words are useless, Human. Even if I allowed that sword to strike me I would not die. I am eternal, the living heart of Chaos. But you, you are pitiful. Your body still lives in the world of flesh, and soon I shall take possession of it. The drugs you swallowed will not deter me. It will be a matter of moments to nullify them. Then I shall heal your ruined lung and your wasted leg.'

'Come then,' offered Alexander, 'walk by me.'

Kadmilos laughed. 'Not yet. I shall walk the path to your soul when it pleases me. Look at your sword, Alexander.

See how it fades. The last lingering Enchantment of the necklet is almost gone. When it dies, your blade will die with it. You know that?'

'I know,' answered the King. 'The priests of Zeus-Ammon warned me of it.'

'Then what did you hope to achieve?'

The King shrugged. 'A man must always fight for what he believes to be right. It is his nature.'

'Nonsense. It is a man's nature to lust, to long for all he cannot have, to kill, to steal, to plunder. That is why he is -

and will always remain — a creature of Chaos. Look at you! By what right did you lead your armies into Persia? By what right did you impose your will upon the world? Your name will be remembered as a killer and a destroyer — one of my more glorious disciples.'

Kadmilos laughed again, the sound chilling. 'No arguments, Alexander? Surely you can summon some small defence for your actions?'

'I have no need of defence,' answered the King. 'I lived in a world governed by war. Those who did not conquer were themselves conquered. But I fought my enemies on the battlefield, soldier against soldier, and I risked my life as they risked theirs. I carry no shame for any action of mine.'

'Oh, well said,' sneered Kadmilos. 'Will you deny the surging passions aroused when you marched into battle, the lust for slaughter and death in your own heart?'

'No, you are wrong,' replied Alexander. 'I never lusted for slaughter. Battle, yes, I will admit to that. Pitting my strength and my will against my enemies — that gave me pleasure. But you it was who gained the most satisfaction from random butchery.'

Kadmilos stood. 'Your conversation is dull, Human, and I see your sword is now but a miserable shadow. Therefore we must end this meeting. Your mortal form awaits me.'

Alexander looked down at the fading sword, and even as he gazed upon it the weapon vanished from his hand.

'Enjoy your despair,' hissed Kadmilos, his form swelling, changing, becoming a dark cloud that flowed over Alexander, swirling into the tunnel and on towards the flickering light in the far distance.

The Void was empty now, save for a floating mist that seeped across the barren rocks. Alexander sighed, his heart heavy.

A figure moved from the mist, and the King saw it was Aristotle. The magus smiled and reached out to take Alexander's hand.

'Come, my boy, I cannot stay here long. But there is time enough to lead you to the Elysian Fields where your friends await.'

'Did I win? Did I hold him for long enough?'

'We will talk as we travel,' the magus answered.

The Spirit of Chaos surged into the body of Alexander. The eyes were open and through them Kadmilos could see a high, painted ceiling. He tried to move, but found the body paralysed. This was of small concern and he turned his powers inward, seeking out the poison soaked into the veins and nerves of the frail human form.

Foolish mortal, he thought, to believe that such a narcotic could foil the ambitions of a god. Swiftly he started to eradicate the drug. Feeling began to seep back into the body. He felt a cool breeze from a window to the left and a dull ache from the wounded leg. Ignoring the poison, he switched his attention to the injured limb, rebuilding the wasted muscle.

That was better! Pain of any kind was anathema to Kadmilos.

Returning to the poison, he cleaned it from lungs and belly.

Soon, he thought. Soon I shall awake.

He heard people in the room, but still the paralysis gripped the body. Footsteps sounded and he saw a shadow move into his range of vision. A dark-skinned man loomed over him.

'The eyes are incredible,' said the man. 'Truly he was blessed by the gods. It is a pity we cannot save them.'

'Are you ready to begin?' came the voice of Ptolemy.

'Yes, lord.'

'Then do so.'

Into Kadmilos' vision came a hand, holding a long spike forked at the tip.

'No!' screamed the Dark God, soundlessly.

The spike pressed hard into the opening of the left nostril, then drove up into the brain.

A City by the Sea, Time Unknown

Parmenion stared out over the harbour where great ships, larger than any he had seen, were docked, with curiously clad men moving about their enormous decks. Switching his gaze to the buildings surrounding the wharves, he marvelled at their complex design, the great arches supporting huge, domed roofs. Below in the narrow cobbled street he could hear what he imagined to be shopkeepers and stall-holders shouting about their wares. But the language was unknown to him.

He turned as Aristotle entered. The magus had another name here, and another appearance. His hair was long and white, a wispy beard grew from his chin, and he wore a long coat of velvet and trousers of embroidered wool.

'How are you feeling?' asked the magus.

Parmenion swung away from the window. Against the far wall was a mirror of silvered glass and the brilliance of its reflection still stunned the Spartan, though he had looked upon it many times during his five days in Aristotle's home.

He was healed of his wounds and the image in the mirror showed a young man in the prime of health — tall, slender, with a full life ahead of him. The clothes he wore were comfortable, but unnecessarily fussy he thought. The voluminous white shirt, with its puffed-out sleeves slashed with sky-blue silk, looked very fine, but the material was not strong. One day in the harsh Persian sun or the bitter rains of Phrygia, and the garment would be worthless, as indeed would be the ridiculous skin-tight leggings. And as for the boots! They were raised at the heel, making walking difficult and uncomfortable.

'I am well, my friend,' he answered, 'but what will I do in this place? I understand none of its customs, and the language I hear from the streets below is strange to me.'

'You will not be staying here,' Aristotle told him. 'Now that you are strong again I shall take you to a better world -

one which I think you will enjoy. But that is for later. Tonight we will eat fine food and drink strong wine, and all your questions will be answered.'

'You have learned the truth? You know what happened?'

'Yes,' answered the magus. 'It has taken a little time, but I think you will find the wait was worthwhile.'

Tell me.'

'Have patience. Such tales are best left for the evening.'

Throughout most of the afternoon Parmenion waited, but towards dusk he wandered through the house seeking the magus. In the north of the building was a flight of wooden stairs leading to a brightly-lit studio below the roof. Here he found Aristotle sitting at an easel, sketching a dark-haired woman who sat on a high-backed leather chair before him.

As the Spartan entered the woman smiled and spoke. He did not understand her words and merely bowed. Aristotle laid down his charcoal and stood. He said a few words to the woman, who stretched her back and rose. The magus walked her to the door, leading the way downstairs, then returned to the studio.

'I did not realize it was so late,' he said, reverting to Greek.

Parmenion was standing before the sketch. 'It is a good likeness. You have great talent.'

'Centuries of practice, my boy. Come, let us eat.'

After the meal the two men sat in comfortable chairs by an open leaded-glass window through which the stars could be seen glittering like diamonds on sable.

'What happened to Alexander?' asked Parmenion.

'He died some seventeen hundred years ago,' the magus answered, 'but in death he won his finest victory.'

'How so?'

'The Dark God took control of his body at the end. But Alexander had ordered it embalmed.'

'What difference could that make?'

'Kadmilos was spiritually joined to the body of Alexander. He could only be released from it when the body was destroyed by fire or consumed by carrion eaters, or rotted to nothing. But embalmed? Alexander's body would never rot and Kadmilos was trapped.

'When the King died there was a civil war among his generals. Ptolemy stole the embalmed body and took it to Egypt, to Alexandria, where he had a huge mausoleum built to accommodate it. For centuries men came from all over the world to gaze upon the still, perfect form of Alexander the Great. I myself stood before it with an emperor of Rome five hundred years after Alexander died. And Kadmilos was still a prisoner within. I could feel his evil pulsing through the crystal that held the body.'

'Is it still there?' Parmenion asked.

'No. Barbarians sacked Alexandria hundreds of years ago. But the priests of Alexander carried the crystal coffin into the mountains and buried it there, deep and far from the gaze of men. No one knows where now it lies. Save me, of course… for I found it. The body is still perfect, the Chaos Spirit trapped — perhaps for eternity.'

Parmenion smiled. 'Then no more will demon-possessed kings bring evil upon the world?'

'Not this demon, at least,' answered Aristotle, 'but there are others. There will always be others. But their powers do not rival those of the Dark God.'

'Poor Alexander,' whispered Parmenion. 'His life was cursed from the beginning.'

'He fought the demon with great courage,' the magus said, 'and he knew friendship and love. What more could a man want? But let us think of you. .'

'Where can I go?' asked Parmenion, with a sigh. 'What is there for me, Aristotle?'

The magus chuckled. 'Life. Love. It is time, I think, to say our farewells. There is someone waiting for you.'

'Who?'

'Who else but Derae?'

'I never went back. That was decades ago.'

Aristotle leaned forward, clapping his hand to the Spartan's shoulder. 'It is only Time. Have you learned nothing?'

The Gateway, Sparta, 352 BC

Derae drew the woollen cloak more lightly about her as the clouds covered the moon and the night winds swirled.

Six hours had passed since Parmenion walked back through the shimmering Gateway to the unknown world beyond.

She shivered and stared up at the cold stone pillars. The magus had asked her to wait here, but now she was alone beneath the empty sky.

'Derae!' called a voice, soft as the whisper of a distant memory. At first she thought she had imagined it, but it came again, tiny but insistent.

'I am here,' she answered aloud.

Something shimmered at the edge of her vision and she saw two ghostly shapes — faint, almost transparent — standing before her on the hillside. It was difficult to make out their features, though she could see that one was male and the other female.

'Who are you?' she asked.

'Close your eyes,' came the faraway voice. 'Use your powers.'

'I have no powers.'

'Trust me. Close your eyes and draw us in.'

Fear sprang into her heart, but she quelled it. What harm could they do to her? Was she not a Spartan, strong and proud? Closing her eyes she concentrated on the voice. It grew a little stronger and she recognized the magus, Chiron.

'I have someone with me,' he said, 'and I have a favour to ask.'

'Name it,' she told him.

'I want you to open your mind and allow her to enter your heart.'

'No!' answered Derae, suddenly fearful.

'She will leave when you request it,' he assured her.

'Why are you doing this?'

'For love,' he told her.

Instantly she became aware of the second spirit. 'It is her! You are trying to kill me. It was all a trick, wasn't it?

Parmenion loved her and now she wishes to steal my body. Well, she cannot have it! You hear me?'

'That is not true,' he said gently. 'But it is your choice, Derae. Look into your own heart. Would you steal the body of another?'

'No,' she admitted.

'Not even to save your life?'

She hesitated. 'No,' she said firmly. 'Not even for that.'

'Then why would she?'

'What do you want of me?'

'Let her come to you. Speak with her. She will ask nothing from you. But through her memories you will see Parmenion — his life, his dreams.'

'And then?'

'If you wish it, she will depart from you and I will take her to another place.'

'She's dead, isn't she?'

'Yes.'

Derae fell silent, then opened her eyes to look once more upon the stone Gateway through which her love had passed.

'I will speak to her,' she said softly.

A great warmth flowed through her, images tumbling into her mind — a different Sparta, another life, a temple, a turbulent ocean of sick, injured, diseased or dying people, begging, praying, a lifelong struggle against the evil of Kadmilos. Derae reeled under the weight of those memories and felt herself slipping into a daze.

Light blazed, the sun shining high above a hillside.

'Thank you,' said another voice and Derae blinked, for sitting beside her was a woman in white, young and beautiful, with red-gold hair and wide green eyes.

'You are me,' said Derae.

'No — not quite,' the woman replied.

'Why have you come?'

'Aristotle. . Chiron. . found me. He said it would warm my soul to know you. He was right.'

Derae felt a great sadness growing within her. 'Your dreams were never realized, were they?'

The woman shrugged. 'Some were. But there are those who walk through life and never know love. They are the ones to pity.'

'He is coming back to me,' said Derae. 'But it is you he wanted, you he loved. I am only a… copy.'

'Not at all,' the woman assured her. 'You are everything he could want; you will be happy.'

'Why did Chiron bring you to me? What does he want me to do?'

'He wants us to become one.'

'Two spirits in one body?'

'No. There can be only one. He believes we can merge, one soul with two paths of memory.'

'Is that possible?' Derae asked.

The woman spread her hands. 'I do not know. But if you have doubts, then do not attempt it. There is no need for you to do this for me. Parmenion will soon be here, and your lives together will be rich and fulfilled.'

Derae looked at her twin and reached out her hand. 'Let us try,' she said.

The woman looked surprised. 'Why? Why would you do this?'

'Would you not do it for me?'

The woman smiled. 'Yes, I would.' Their hands met and the light faded.

Derae found herself sitting once more in the moonlight in the shadows of the Gateway. There were no ghosts and no voices, and the stars were bright above her. Taking a deep breath, she summoned her memories.

For a time she sat unmoving. The corridors of the past were branched now and there were two histories to scan. She remembered her life as a child in the Sparta of the Enchantment, and also as a young woman in the world of Parmenion. The years spiralled on, from youth to the first grey hairs, and she recalled with a shiver her arthritic joints, felt again the constant pains of old age, the fading of her powers. Her powers? I had no powers, she thought.

Of course I did, she reminded herself. They were developed by Tamis when first I came to the Temple. But I had to give my sight to acquire them.

I have never been blind! An edge of panic touched her, but the memories flowed on, filling her mind, covering her like the warm blankets of childhood.

'Which one am I?' she asked aloud, but there was no answer. The memories were all hers — and identity was based, she knew, on memory.

It was not just the years of healing at the Temple that she could recall, but all the emotions and yearnings that had accompanied those years. Yet, similarly, she could remember vividly her time as Sparta's Queen with the first Parmenion, and her childhood with Leonidas.

'Which one?' she asked again.

Glancing down she saw a small white flower with fading petals, its time finished, its beauty disappearing. Reaching out, she held her hand above it; the petals swelled with new life. All confusion left her then.

'We are One,' she whispered. 'We are Derae.'

The panic faded, to be replaced by a quiet longing. Her gaze swung to the hill above her and the twin columns of stone.

The Gateway shimmered with golden light and a tall young man stepped out on to the hillside.