Lion of Macedon

Thebes Autumn, 371 BC

Philip of Macedon watched the cheering crowds as the flower-garlanded heroes of Leuctra marched through the streets. It had been an unbelievable victory. Never before had the Spartan army been defeated in such a manner. It was both impossible and somehow wonderful — even to a Macedonian.

Philip could understand the irrepressible joy of the multitudes, for they were celebrating an event few of them had believed credible — the Spartans crushed by a smaller force.

There was music from the streets, and Philip longed to leave the silent house and join them, to dance and forget his own private torments.

But Pammenes had told him to wait for a visitor.

The Theban had been unable to meet his eyes, shifting nervously as he spoke. Fear and anger had flared in Philip at that moment, but he masked both emotions until Pammenes had left. Moving back from the window, Philip poured himself a goblet of water and considered the problem.

He had heard nothing from his brother Perdiccas for two months, so the present fear was hardly new. Perdiccas was three years older than Philip, and therefore closer to the throne. He would be the first to die. So Philip wrote to him constantly, and to his cousins and nieces — asking about the royal horse herds, enquiring after the health of relatives. When the letters from Perdiccas stopped Philip's sleepless nights had begun, as he waited for the day of the assassin. Now it was here. They would not kill him while he was in Thebes, he reassured himself, for that would be bad manners. Idly he touched the dagger at his belt. Little use this would be. Though strong, Philip was a mere 14 years old and no match for any but the clumsiest adult warrior. And they would send no one clumsy.

'What shall I do, Crosi?' he asked the ghost of the old man. There was no answer, but whispering the name aloud helped ease his tension. He remembered the night of the knives, the old man moving silently into his bedroom with a short sword in his hand. Philip had been ten then. Crosi had led him to a shadowed corner of the room, ordering him to hide behind a couch.

'What is happening?' Philip asked.

'Blood and death,' replied the old man. 'But I will protect you, boy. Have no fear.'

Philip had believed him. At ten a child has faith in the fully-grown. Crosi had sat on the couch, sword in hand, and they had waited until the dawn. No one came.

Philip had crouched in the cold, wrapped in a blanket, too frightened to ask the nature of the peril. As the sun cleared the distant Crousian mountains, Crosi had relaxed.

'Come out, boy,' he said, taking Philip's hand and drawing him forth. He put his arms around the prince and hugged him briefly. 'Last night,' he said, 'your father died. Ptolemaos now rules in Macedonia.'

'But. . Father is so strong! He can't be dead!'

'No man can withstand a dagger in the heart, Philip.'

'Who did it? And why?'

'These are questions I will not answer, boy. But, for now — I hope — your danger is past.'

. 'Uncle Ptolemaos will look after me,' said Philip, but even at ten he saw the angry look in Crosi's eyes just before the old man stood and turned away. He did not fully understand it then, but now he remembered it clearly. Now he knew the answers, though no one had ever voiced them.

Ptolemaos had killed King Amyntas. Uncle Ptolemaos, who within three months had married Philip's mother, Eurydice, and buried her a year later beside her murdered husband. Philip's parents had been cold towards their youngest son, but even so the boy had loved them, worshipping his father and doing all in his power to please him.

The following year had seen Philip's boyhood washed away in the acid of intrigue and sudden death.

Philip's eldest brother, Alexander, had been found murdered at his summer home in Aigai, killed by unknown assailants. Three adult cousins died mysteriously.

Then had come the Theban demand for hostages, following a short, bitter month of conflict between the Macedonian army and a force led by Pelopidas, the great Theban warrior. The Macedonians had been crushed. Ptolemaos sent twelve hostages — including Philip — to Thebes, and for the first time in months the young prince felt safe.

They had not let Crosi come with him, and the old man had died of a fever last spring. Philip still mourned him, and prayed that his ghost would be allowed to walk alongside him until his own assassination. Then, maybe, together they could journey into the Lands of the Dead.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs jerked Philip's thoughts to the present. He stood — and found his legs trembling.

A tall warrior, in full armour and white-plumed helm, entered the room. The man was not old, perhaps eighteen, but his eyes were pale and cold.

He bowed. 'Good morning,' he said. 'I am here to accompany you home, Philip.'

'Do you bring letters?' he asked, proud that his voice did not betray his terror.

'Yes, sir. I have one from your brother Perdiccas.'

'He is well?'

'He is alive, sir, though he has suffered a fever from which he is now recovering. My name is At talus. I hope we can be friends.'

Philip nodded. 'Lifelong friends, I do not doubt,' he said, his dark eyes holding to the pale snake-like gaze of the warrior. The man blinked and Philip smiled. 'Do not concern yourself, Attalus. I do not judge you.'

'I am not here to kill you, sir,' the warrior told him. 'My orders are explicit: I am to take you to the capital. Nothing more.'

'Then let us walk for a while,' said Philip suddenly, striding past the astonished Attalus. The two of them wandered out into the streets, easing their way through the crowds that gathered on the thoroughfares, and on to the agora where Epaminondas was scheduled to speak. The general had been delayed by the throng, but the people were unconcerned. They sang, and danced, and drank; the strength of their happiness was almost as intoxicating as the wine. Philip felt better out here in the open, but glancing at Attalus he saw that the same could not be said of the tall warrior.

Philip took his arm and led him into a deserted side-street. Once there, he drew his dagger and held the point to his own breast.

'What are you doing?' asked Attalus.

Philip took the other's hand and held it to the hilt. 'If you have to kill me, you can do it here.

No one will see you, and you could say that I was slain by a Theban. It would make it so much more simple for you.'

'Listen!' hissed Attalus. 'I am the King's man. I do as he bids. Had he told me to kill you, then I would do it. But you are to return with me to Pella. How can I convince you?'

'You just did,' Philip told him, returning the dagger to its sheath. His heart was beating wildly and he grinned. 'These are dangerous days, Attalus.'

'They are certainly strange,' agreed the young man, with a tight smile. His teeth were too prominent, like marker stones, thought Philip. And he has the eyes of a killer. Remembering Parmenion's advice, he took the warrior by the arm and smiled warmly. 'I like you,' he said. 'So, if Ptolemaos ever decides to have me killed — request that he sends someone else. No man should be slain by a man he likes.'

'I'll try to remember that.'

The journey back to Pella was slow, and surprisingly pleasant as they rode along the line of the Pindos mountains, angling north-east to the city at Aigai. Attalus proved an interesting if unamusing companion, and Philip found himself admiring the man's single-minded ambition. As they rode he learned of events in the kingdom. The Paionians had raided from the north, but Ptolemaos had smashed their army, forcing their King to agree a yearly tribute of 200 talents. Macedonian joy was shortlived, however, as the Illyrian army of King Bardylis had defeated Ptolemaos two months later at a battle near the Prespa Lakes in the west. For this defeat Ptolemaos had agreed to pay Bardylis a yearly tribute of 250 talents.

'There are too many wolves seeking their meat in too small a sheep-pen,' said Attalus, and Philip nodded. It was not that northern Greece was truly small, but with Illyria, Macedonia, Paionia and Thrace all boasting armies, and countless independent cities like Olynthus and Amphipolis employing large mercenary forces, no one King could take control of the area.

Crosi used to say that Northern Greece was a mercenary's paradise. Never short of employment, he could grow rich on the proceeds of blood and violence and then buy himself a quiet farm in the more civilized south.

Everywhere that Philip and Attalus rode, there were signs of the frontier nature of the north.

Towns were walled, settlements stockaded, single farms or lonely houses unheard of. People gathered together, never knowing when an enemy would descend upon them with hot hearts and cold iron.

'It is a land for men,' said Attalus as they journeyed high in the Pierian mountains, their cloaks drawn tightly around them against the bitterness of the north winds of autumn.

'Men need wives and children,' said Philip. 'Children need education. Farmers need to be able to farm in peace. Macedonia is a rich land, with the finest timber in all of Greece. The land should yield tremendous riches. Yet it does not. For men must needs become warriors, and forget the earth and its treasures. There should be a more profitable way.'

'Perhaps one day you will be King,' said Attalus softly. 'A great King, maybe. Then you could conquer the Illyrians and the Thracians, and see your dream fulfilled.'

'I have no wish to be King,' said Philip. He smiled suddenly. 'And remember to report that to Ptolemaos!'

Pella, Macedonia, 371 BC

Pella was a growing city. Philip's father, Amyntas, had borrowed heavily in order to bring architects from the south, planning avenues and temples and enlarging the palace. The richer Macedonian nobles were also encouraged to move to the capital, building homes in the hills and bringing with them servants who needed cheaper housing. This influx of new residents brought with it merchants and tradesmen, and the city flourished.

Philip stood at the window of his palace bedchamber staring out over the market-place beyond the high walls of the gardens. He could hear the stallholders shouting out prices, enticing custom, and wished he could walk from the forbidding palace and mingle with the crowds.

But it was not to be. Ptolemaos made it clear that he did not wish his young nephews to venture far from his sight, claiming that he was worried for their safety. This surprised Philip, since he did not seem quite as concerned for his own son, Archelaos, who was allowed to ride and hunt and go whoring whenever the mood took him. Philip had no liking for Archelaos and — despite Parmenion's advice — could not bring himself to attempt to win over the boorish young man.

Archelaos was a younger version of his father: the same hook of a nose, the same cruel mouth and jutting chin.

Philip found it hard enough being pleasant towards his murderous uncle without having to abase himself before the heir to the throne. He said as much to his brother Perdiccas, as the older youth lay in his sick-bed.

'There would be little point in trying to win him over,' whispered Perdiccas, the effort of speaking sapping his strength. 'Archelaos is a pig; he would take any overture as a sign of weakness and do his best to exploit it. I hate the man. Do you know what he said to me last spring? He said that even if Ptolemaos lets me live, the first order he will give upon his own coronation will be for my death.'

'We could flee the country,' said Philip. 'You are nearly seventeen. You could become a mercenary and I could be your servant. We could gather an army and come back.'

'Dream on, little brother. I cannot shake off this fever. I feel weak as a two-day colt.' He began to cough and Philip brought him a wine cup filled with water. Perdiccas raised himself on one elbow and drank. Unlike his dark, almost swarthy brother, Perdiccas was golden-haired and, before his illness, men had marvelled at his beauty. But now his skin was stretched and tight, the colour pale and unhealthy. His eyes were red-rimmed and dull, his lips the blue of the consumptive.

Philip looked away. Perdiccas was dying.

Philip sat for some time with his brother, then he wandered back to his own rooms. Food had been left for him on silver platters, but he was not hungry. He had felt sick that morning, and had vomited painfully for an hour until at last only yellow bile came away. Now he drank a little water and lay back on his couch. Barking from the garden awoke him and he remembered that the hound, Beria, had recently produced a litter. Sitting up, he wrapped the cold meat of his supper inside a linen towel and carried it to the gardens, where he sat for some time playing with the black puppies and feeding them scraps of food. They clambered over him, licking and mock-biting.

It lifted his mood and he returned to his rooms. A servant came to collect the platter. He was a kindly old man named Hermon, white-bearded, with keen blue eyes under shaggy brows.

'You are feeling better, I hope, young lord?"

'Yes, thank you.'

'That is good, sir. Would you like some sweet honey-cakes? They are freshly made.'

'No, Hermon. I think I will sleep now. Goodnight to you.'

Philip's dreams were troubled and twice he awoke in the night. The dogs were howling at the moon, and a whistling wind was shaking the shutters. Finally the howling began to annoy him and he threw a cloak around his shoulders and strode down to the gardens. His room was the worst in the palace: close to the kennels and facing north, enjoying no sunshine, but prey to the bitter north winds of winter. The gardens were cold, the blooms colourless and ethereal under the moonlight. Philip found Beria sitting by the wall, her howls high and heart-rending. Around her lay the bodies of her six pups, black and lifeless. Philip knelt by them; the ground was stained with their vomit.

Taking Beria by the collar he pulled her away from the tiny corpses, then knelt hugging her great black head to his breast, stroking her ears. She whined piteously and pulled to return to her babies.

'They've gone, my lovely,' he told her. 'You come with me; we'll stay together, you and I.'

The mastiff followed him up the stairs, but padded to the window, howling once more. Philip tugged her collar and let her stretch out on the bed. Then he lay beside her with his arm around her, and she slept with her head resting on his breast.

As he lay there restless, he remembered the scraps of food he had fed to the puppies.

And thought of kindly old Hermon with the pale blue eyes…

Philip lay awake through the night, his anger overwhelming his fear. Poison was not a new way of eliminating enemies, but why not use the age-old method? The assassin's blade- it was swift and sure. The answer came easily; Ptolemaos was not popular with the army, having been defeated by both Bardylis in the west and Cotys, the King of Thrace, in the east. His only success had come against the weak Paionians of the north.

As with all Kings, Philip knew, Ptolemaos ruled by consent. The rich Macedonian nobles desired a man who could increase their fortunes; they wanted a King who could bring them glory. What else was there in life for a warrior people? And now they were no longer prepared to tolerate the seemingly endless — and obvious — murders of potential rivals. Ptolemaos was attempting to tread carefully.

Philip suddenly thought of Perdiccas. Of course! He too was being slowly poisoned.

But what to do? Who to trust? The answer to the second question was easier than the first. Trust no one. Rising from his bed he crept across the room, anxious not to awaken the mastiff. Out in the corridor he moved silently through the palace, down the narrow stairway to the kitchens; there were meats there, and fruit, and he ate his fill. Then he filled a small sack with provisions and carefully made his way to the room of Perdiccas. His brother was asleep and he woke him, gently pressing a hand to the young man's shoulder.

'What is it?' asked Perdiccas.

'I have brought you some food.'

'I am not hungry, brother. Let me sleep.'

'Listen to me!' hissed Philip. 'You are being poisoned!'

Perdiccas blinked and Philip told him of the dead pups. 'Anything could have killed them,' said Perdiccas wearily. 'It happens all the time.'

'You may be right,' whispered Philip. 'But if you are, you will lose nothing by playing my game.

If you are not, then your life will be saved.'

He helped Perdiccas to sit up and waited as his brother slowly ate a little beef and cheese.

'Fetch me some water,' asked Perdiccas. Philip filled a cup from a pitcher on the nearby table.

then stopped. Walking to the window, he emptied both cup and pitcher.

'We can trust nothing we do not fetch ourselves,' he said.

Once more he left the room, filling the pitcher from a barrel in the kitchen.

'No one must know we suspect them,' said Philip upon his return. 'They must think we are eating the food they give us.'

Perdiccas nodded. His head fell back to the pillow and he slept.

For four days Philip continued his nightly visits to his brother, and slowly the colour returned to Perdiccas' features. On the morning of the fifth day Hermon arrived at Philip's rooms, bearing a tray of cheese and figs and a fresh pitcher of water.

'How did you sleep, my lord?' he asked, his smile kindly.

'Not well, my friend,' Philip told him, keeping his voice low and tired. 'I cannot seem to recover from this vomiting. And my strength is not good. Should I see a doctor?'

'That is not necessary, lord,' said Hermon. 'These. . minor stomach ailments occur in autumn.

You will recover soon.'

'Thank you. You are very kind to me. Will you join me for breakfast? There is too much there for me.'

Hermon spread his hands. 'Would that I could, lord, but my duties are not yet completed. Enjoy your meal. I would advise you to force yourself to eat — only in this way will you rebuild your strength.'

When he had gone Philip put on a long blue cloak and, carrying the pitcher hidden within its folds, walked swiftly to the servants' halls and the rooms of Hermon. He knew the old man would be with Perdiccas and he entered his quarters. A fresh pitcher of water stood by the window. Leaning out over the sill, the youngster saw the gardens below were deserted and emptied Hermon's pitcher, refilling it from his own.

On the following morning a different servant brought the prince's breakfast. 'Where is my friend, Hermon?' Philip asked.

'He is unwell, sir,' said the man, bowing.

'I am sorry to hear that. Please tell him I hope he recovers soon.'

That afternoon Perdiccas rose from his bed. His legs were weak, but his strength was returning.

'What are we to do?' he asked his younger brother.

'This cannot go on,' Philip said softly. 'They will soon realize we are no longer taking the poison. Then, I fear, it will be the knife or the sword.'

'You mentioned running away,' offered Perdiccas. 'I think I am nearly strong enough to join you.

We could head for Amphipolis.'

'Thebes would be better,' said Philip. 'I have friends there. But we cannot wait too long -

another three days at most. Until then you must stay in your bed and tell any who ask that you are feeling weaker. And we will need coin, and horses.'

'I have no money,' said Perdiccas.

'I will think on it,' Philip promised.

Hermon knelt before the three men, glancing up nervously into the hawklike eyes of Ptolemaos.

'They must be very strong to withstand the powders, sire, but I will increase the doses. The older one will be dead in three days, I promise you.'

Ptolemaos turned to Attalus. 'I should have listened to you,' he said, his voice deep and sepulchral.

'It is not too late, sire,' replied Attalus. 'Perdiccas is weak. I could smother him in his sleep.

No one would be the wiser.'

'And Philip?'

Attalus hesitated.

'I'd like to kill him,' said Archelaos suddenly. 'It would give me pleasure.'

His father laughed. 'I do not know what it is about the boy that you detest. He is personable enough. But — let it be so. You kill him — but not tonight. Let Perdiccas die first. Philip can wait a week or so.' He swung to Attalus. 'You say that no one will suspect if the boys are smothered? Is there no sign?'

'None, sire.'

Ptolemaos gestured to his son, then whispered in his ear. The tall prince nodded and made as if to leave the room. Then suddenly he sprang upon Hermon, pinning his arms behind him.

'Show me!' ordered the King. Attalus took hold of an embroidered cushion and covered Hermon's face, pressing the material hard against the old man's nose and mouth. The victim struggled weakly for a while, then his legs twitched and gave way, the stench of open bowels filling the room.

Attalus lifted the cushion clear of the old man and Archelaos let go of the body, which sank to the floor. Ptolemaos leaned over it, staring hard into the dead face. 'I don't like the expression,' he said. 'He doesn't look like someone who died in his sleep.'

Attalus chuckled and knelt by the body, pushing shut the mouth and closing the dead eyes. 'Yes, that is better,' whispered the King. 'Good. Let it be done.'

As the evening approached Attalus sat in his rooms, sipping watered wine. He did not want to be drunk for this evening's work, yet his impulses urged him to drink the flagon dry. He prided himself on having an ordered mind and pushed away the wine cup. What is the matter with you? he asked himself. The answer came swiftly. He did not feel comfortable with the thought of Philip's death, though he could not think why. It was not as if he liked the boy — Attalus did not like anyone. And yet I do not wish to see him dead, he realized. The whole business was becoming disturbing. Ptolemaos was a fool; he was ruthless enough, but there his talents ended. Archelaos was no better. If anything, he had less talent than his father. Unrest was growing. Many of the nobles now stayed away from the palace, and the morale of the army was low. If Ptolemaos should fall, then his favourites would be dragged down with him, and Attalus had no wish to win a place among the fallen.

But what do I do? he wondered.

Attalus found his mood darkening along with the sky. He had no choice. Not yet. First kill Perdiccas, then find the leading Macedonian dissident and be ready to switch horses when the days of blood drew near. He cursed — and reached once more for the wine.

He waited until midnight and then walked silently along the deserted corridors, coming at last to the oak doors of Perdiccas' rooms. He could see light beneath the door and pushed his ear against the wood. There were voices within, though he could make out no words. He cursed softly, and was about to leave when the door was pulled open and he found himself facing Philip. The boy looked shocked, his hand flicking towards his dagger.

'There is nothing to fear,' said Attalus, easing past him and into the room. The older prince was sitting on a couch, eating bread and cheese; he looked stronger than Attalus had ever seen him.

The warrior turned to Philip. 'I was looking for you,' he lied easily, 'but you were not in your rooms. I thought you might be here.'

'Why should you seek me out in the night?' asked Philip, suspicious.

'There is a plot to kill you,' said Attalus, 'but then you know that. Hence the midnight feast. No wonder the poisons failed to take effect. But that is by the by. Ptolemaos has ordered me to kill your brother tonight. You are to die next week.'

Attalus heard the rasping whisper of an iron blade hissing from a scabbard and swung to see Perdiccas advancing with a sword. He had not realized how tall the prince was, nor sensed the power in him.

'That is not necessary,' he said, his voice low. 'I am not here to obey the order, I am here to warn you.'

'Why should I believe you?' countered Perdiccas, holding the point of the blade to Attalus'

throat.

'Wait!' urged Philip, as he saw his brother tense for the thrust. 'Let us not be rash! I believe him."

'Thank you,' whispered Attalus, slowly reaching up and pushing the blade from his skin. 'The question is, what do we do? I would suggest riding from the palace and heading for Amphipolis.

Once there you can gather support from discontented nobles and — perhaps — seize the throne.'

'No,' said Philip.

'What else is there?' put in Perdiccas.

'You take the throne tonight,' Philip said. 'Ptolemaos murdered our father and the throne is yours by right. We kill the King.'

'Gods, man! You are insane,' responded Perdiccas. 'We have no allies we know of. The guards are loyal to Ptolemaos — we'd be cut down.'

'Not so,' said Philip. 'Ptolemaos is not a popular man, so no one will feel any lingering loyalty when he is dead. I saw Archelaos ride from the palace this afternoon and I am told he is heading for Thebes. So he will be no threat. With the King dead, the nobles will gather to choose a successor — but by then the guards will already have declared their loyalty to you.'

'How can you be sure?'

'The nature of men,' said Philip. 'The desire to be led. And Attalus will speak to them. He is a Captain of the Guard and they will listen to him. Is that not so, Attalus?'

'Perhaps,' agreed the warrior cautiously. 'But the risks are still very great.'

Philip laughed. 'Risks? I have lived with the prospect of assassination for years. What risks? We may die? All men die, rich and poor alike. But if I am to die, then let it be while I fight, not like some bullock in a pen waiting for the axe to fall.'

Attalus listened as Philip outlined his plan, and his admiration for the young man grew. He found himself wishing that the boy was older; he would make a fine King, a man of power and insight. He glanced at Perdiccas. There was strength here also, but he was a lesser man than his brother.

Still, if this lunatic venture succeeded it was Perdiccas who would take the crown. Attalus waited until Philip had finished speaking, then he turned to Perdiccas and knelt.

'I hope, sire, that when we have succeeded you will not hold it against me that I served your father's murderer? I had no hand in it.'

Perdiccas looked down at the man, then laid his hand on his shoulder. 'I will forgive you that, Attalus. And I will see you rewarded for this night's work.'

The three men left the room, Attalus leading the way through the palace to the corridor before the King's apartments. There the brothers waited while he strode forward to where the two black-cloaked guards were sitting outside the bedroom door.

Attalus gestured to the guards to follow him and walked on. The men rose, glanced at one another, then moved to the end of the corridor where Attalus waited.

'Have you seen anything suspicious?' Attalus whispered.

'In what way, sir?' asked one of the men. Behind the guards the princes had moved out into the open. Attalus found his mouth dry. This is madness, he thought.

'Have you seen anyone in the corridor this evening?' he enquired, as the brothers crept towards the bedroom door.

'Only you, sir. And the King himself. Is there some trouble?'

'Probably not. But be vigilant.' Philip had opened the door, both princes were slipping inside.

'Of course, sir. We don't sleep on duty.'

Attalus watched the door of the bedchamber close. 'The world offers many surprises,' he said.

'Sometimes a man just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

'I don't understand,' the man replied.

'No, I am afraid you don't,' answered Attalus, his dagger flashing into the man's throat. The second guard stood rooted to the spot for a moment, then grabbed for his sword, but Attalus tore his dagger free and plunged the point through the man's eye.

From the King's bedchamber came a terrible scream. Attalus ran forward, throwing open the door.

Ptolemaos lay half out of the bed with two swords jutting from his chest and belly. The King fell to the floor and tried to drag himself towards Attalus, but Philip ran forward wrenching loose his sword. Ptolemaos screamed again — then the blade hacked through his neck.

Philip rose, turned and knelt before Perdiccas.

'You will never have to kneel to me,' promised the new King of Macedonia, lifting Philip to his feet. 'And I will never forget what you have done for me.'

The Temple, Summer, 359 BC

In the eleven years since Parmenion's victory at Leuctra, Derae had suffered many strange dreams -

visions of darkness and evil, demon-haunted and terrifying. At first Tamis would appear in her dreams, rescuing her, telling her of the servants of the Dark God who sought to destroy them both.

As the years flowed on Derae's powers grew and she found the night attacks less daunting. Yet now she was lost within a dark, troubled nightmare, shadows darting just out of her range of vision as she spun and twisted, trying in vain to glimpse them. But all she could see were grey castle walls, water glistening on cold stone.

Darkness rose like smoke around her and from within it she heard the sound of rasping breath, the scratching of talons on stone pavings. Piercing pain tore into her arms as a creature of scale and slime leapt at her. White light blazed from her fingers, and a terrible scream echoed along the stone corridors. Glancing down at her arms, she saw the marks of talons in bloody tears on her flesh; but of the creature there was no sign, only a fleeting memory of cold opal eyes and a wide-slitted mouth. Swiftly she healed herself and tried to soar, but the stone ceiling held her trapped, as did the walls and floor.

A black, stagnant pool of water ahead of her bubbled and rose, coalescing into the shape of a woman cloaked and hooded, pale of face and dark of eye. 'So, you are the Healer,' said the woman, her voice deep and husky. 'You are a pretty one. Come to me, pretty one!'

Derae laughed then, her fear evaporating. 'What do you want of me?'

'I want to know who you serve. You trouble me.'

'Why should you be troubled?' countered Derae. 'I am, as you say, a Healer. For more than twenty years I have dwelt in the temple. I do not even know you, lady.'

'Can you walk the many futures?' the woman asked.

'Can you?' responded Derae.

'What I can do is none of your concern!' snapped the hooded newcomer.

'I see that you cannot,' said Derae softly. 'Why is it of interest to you?'

The woman smiled, but her features did not soften. 'Can we not be friends? I too am a Healer, and a seer. I merely felt your power and wished to know more of you.'

Derae shook her head. 'We cannot be friends, you and I? we serve opposing powers. But then you do not desire friendship, do you? Speak the truth — or do you fear it will burn your tongue?'

'Burn! You wish to see burning?' hissed the woman. Flames leapt from the walls and Derae's robes caught fire, her skin blistering. She did not move, or scream. A soft golden light enveloped her, healing her skin, wrapping itself around her in a protective cloak. Angry now, Derae raised her hand. Twin spears of barbed light flashed through the woman's chest, hurling her back and pinning her to the wall; she screamed in pain, then touched the spears which disappeared in an instant.

The Dark Woman smiled. 'Very fine,' she said, 'and I was wrong about you. I have nothing to fear.'

The castle shimmered and vanished, and Derae awoke back in the temple.

The battle in the ghostly castle disturbed her and she sought out Tamis. The old woman was still asleep, spittle drooling to her chin. Derae touched her lightly, but she did not wake. The last two decades had not been kind to the old priestess: her powers were fading, along with her sight and hearing. Derae gripped her shoulder, shaking her more roughly.

'Eh? What?' muttered Tamis, rubbing at her eyes.

Derae brought her water and waited while the old woman adjusted from sleep to waking. 'Why did you disturb me? I was dreaming of my first husband. What a man! Ha! Like a ram, he was.'

Derae told her about the castle and the dark-cloaked woman. Tamis listened in silence, then shook her head. 'I don't know who she was. We are not alone in this struggle, Derae. There are others like us, with Talent and Sight. Some serve the Light, others the Darkness. Why did it trouble you?'

'She was frightened of me, but when I defeated her all her fear vanished. That makes no sense.

does it?'

Tamis sighed and rose from the bed. Dawn light was seeping through the shuttered window. She dressed in a simple robe of white wool and walked out into the garden, Derae following her.

'You say you defeated her. How?' asked Tamis. Derae explained and the old woman sighed. 'You tried to kill her, and in doing so she defeated you, for that is not the Way of the Source. And those who do not serve the Source serve only Chaos.'

'But that is not true,' protested Derae. 'I am a Healer. I am not evil.'

'No, you are not evil,' agreed Tamis, her voice weary. 'I have trained you badly. I have done so many things badly. My arrogance has been colossal. Cassandra tried to warn me but I would not listen. Yet I was wise once,' she said suddenly, stooping to smell a budding rose. 'I knew many secrets. But all wisdom is folly. We think we manipulate, but we are being manipulated. We think we have power, but we are as leaves in a storm. We do good works, that lead to evil. All is confusion. All is vanity.'

Derae took her hand. 'Are you ill, Tamis? I've not heard you speak like this before.'

'I am not ill. I am dying, Derae. And none of my work is finished. I wonder sometimes if we ever finish what we start. I am so tired of it all. I have done terrible things. . terrible. I thought I was being clever.' She laughed then, the sound a dry cackle which ended in a series of racking coughs. She cleared her throat and spat into the rosebushes. 'Look at me! Beautiful Tamis!

It is hard to believe that men once desired me.'

'What did you dream?' Derae asked.

'Dream?'

'You said you dreamt of your first husband. Tell me of it.'

'I saw how good it was to be loved, to be touched, to use and be used. I saw all that I have lost -

all my mistakes, my vanities.'

'Show me!' whispered Derae, laying her hands on the old woman's head. Tamis relaxed and Derae swam into her subconscious, seeing the young Tamis writhing beneath a powerful, bearded young man.

Derae did not watch the scene but floated high above it, twisting in the air, seeking. .

searching. Then she saw her, the dark-cloaked woman. She was laughing and pointing at the rutting couple. Derae moved closer. The woman was not alone, shadowy shapes hovered around her.

Derae surfaced into the cool of the dawn garden. 'It was no dream, Tamis; it was the woman I spoke of. She came to you, filling your mind with despair.'

'Nonsense. I would have seen her. I am still powerful!' protested Tamis. 'Why do you seek to undermine me?'

'I do not,' Derae told her. 'I promise you. We are under attack, Tamis. But why now?'

'The Dark Birth is close,' whispered Tamis. 'So close. Maybe within the year, certainly within two. Was she truly in my head?'

'Yes. I am sorry.'

'It does not matter. All powers fade.' Tamis sighed. 'I wish I could teach you more, but I cannot.

And one day you will hate me.' Tears fell from her eyes.

'You have taught me much, my friend… my dear friend. How could I ever hate you?'

'You saw the woman? Well, that is retribution of a poetic kind,' said Tamis. 'One day you will know why. But tell me, where is Parmenion?'

'He is in Susa. The Great King has presented him with a prize stallion following his victory in Mesopotamia.'

'He will be drawn into the battle for Macedonia,' Tamis said. 'That is the centre now. All the powers are being drawn there, it is the place. Go there! Go there now! See it. Feel it!'

'I cannot go now. I am worried about you, Tamis.'

'It is too late for your worries, my dear. The future is upon us. The Dark God is coming.'

'But we can still stop him?'

Tamis shrugged and stared around the garden. 'Look at the roses. There are hundreds of them. Every year there are thousands of blooms. If I were to ask you to trim and prune them all so that only one perfect bloom would emerge, and all other bushes remained green, could you do it?'

'I think so, but it would take all my power.'

'What if I asked you to prune all the roses in the world, so that only one bush produced one perfect flower?'

'What are you saying, Tamis?'

'Go to Macedonia, my dear. I will sit and watch the roses grow.'

Derae soared above the temple and fled west, passing over the mountains of Thrace and the plains of the great rivers Nestus, Strymon and Axios. Floating in a clear blue sky she relaxed her mind, closing her spirit eyes and riding the rhythms of power as they pulsed from the land below. She felt herself drawn south, over the sea and down towards a mountain range. Lower and lower she flew. Below her a group of horsemen were pursuing a lion. It ran into the rocks and then, out of sight of the pursuers, turned and prepared itself for the charge. One of the hunters, a handsome dark-bearded young man, had pulled ahead of the group. He galloped his horse into the rocks and leapt to the ground, a light hunting spear in his hand. The lion charged but the hunter did not panic or run. Dropping to one knee, he gripped his spear firmly and waited for the beast to charge.

Derae sped like an arrow towards the lion.

Macedonia, Summer, 359 BC

Philip dragged his horse to a standstill as he saw the lion lope into the rocks. The joy of the hunt was on him, the intoxicating spirit of danger proving — as always — stronger than wine. He leapt lightly to the ground, his short stabbing spear held firmly in his right hand, the iron point honed to razor sharpness.

The years since the assassination of Ptolemaos had been good to Philip. No longer a slim young boy, the prince was now broad-shouldered and powerful with a trimmed black beard, glossy as the pelt of a panther, adorning his face. At twenty-three Philip of Macedon was in his prime.

When Perdiccas took the throne Philip had known peace for the first time in years. He had moved south of the capital to the royal estates beyond the ancient capital of Aigai, and there had indulged in all the pleasures enjoyed by Macedonian nobles — hunting, drinking, whoring. But, of mem all, it was the hunt which most fired his blood. Bears, wolves, deer, wild oxen, boars and leopards — Macedonia was alive with game.

But the lion was growing scarce. Now a shaggy male had moved down from the mountains, attacking the sheep Socks, killing goats and cattle. For five days they had tracked it, losing the spoor only to find it again, moving always south. It seemed as if the beast was drawing them ever closer to Mount Olympus, the home of the gods.

Philip glanced south at the distant mountain. 'Be with me, father Zeus!' he whispered as he moved slowly into the rocks. He should have waited for his companions, but — as ever — Philip was anxious to make the kill, to be the first to strike.

The noon sun beat down on the prince's back as he inched his way forward. Lions did not like to be moving in the heat, he knew, preferring to find a shady spot to sleep. And this one had recently killed a large sheep, gorging himself on the fat-filled flesh. Philip hefted his spear. The point would have to enter behind the lion's shoulder, driving deep into his lungs and heart. Even then a single sweep of its paw could crush a man's ribs, the talons disembowelling the spearman.

Philip glanced back, seeing that Attalus and the others were still some distance away. The pale-eyed assassin would be furious if Philip made the kill without him. He chuckled. Attalus was already angry, for Perdiccas had taken the army west to challenge Bardylis, leaving him behind.

Despite the assassin's aid eleven years earlier, Perdiccas had never trusted him nor allowed him to rise to prominence; he was still a mere Captain of the Guard.

A low growl came from ahead, beyond the boulders. The sound was deep and rumbling. Fear touched Philip with fingers of fire, and he revelled in it as at the caress of a beautiful woman.

'Come to me,' he whispered.

The lion charged from the rocks. It was huge, seeming to Philip larger than a pony. There was no time to run to the side and deliver the killing thrust.

Philip dropped to one knee and grounded the haft of the spear, the point aimed at the lion's throat. It would not stop him, he realized. The haft would snap under the impact, then the fangs would tear at his face. Instantly he knew the day of his death was upon him, yet he stayed calm, determined he would not die alone. This monster would walk beside him on the road to Hades.

Behind him he heard the sound of hoofbeats, but his friends were too late to save him.

'Come on!' he roared at the lion. 'Come and die with me!'

Suddenly the beast twisted — as if in pain — the charge faltering. Its huge head lifted and a terrifying roar rent the air… And the monster halted, inches ahead of the iron spear-point.

Philip could smell the beast's rancid breath and found himself staring at the fangs, long and curved like Persian daggers. He looked up into the beast's tawny eyes.

Time ceased, the moment lingering.

Philip slowly stood and then reached out, touching the spear-point to the lion's mane. The beast blinked but did not move. Philip sensed Nicanor behind him, drawing an arrow from his quiver.

'Let no one loose a shaft,' said the prince, his voice soft and low.

The lion moved forward, its pelt rubbing against Philip's leg; then it turned and ambled away into the rocks.

Attalus ran to the prince. 'I never saw anything like it,' he whispered.

Philip shivered. 'Nor I.'

'Do we give chase?'

'I do not think so, my friend. And I have lost all appetite for the hunt.' He glanced back to where the lion had been.

'Was it an omen of some kind? Was it really a lion?' Attalus asked.

'If it was a god, he had appalling breath,' answered Philip, glancing nervously at the distant peaks of Mount Olympus.

The huntsmen took a leisurely route back to Philip's summer home twenty miles south of the city of Aigai. They were almost there when the rider came galloping from the north and rode alongside Philip. His horse was lathered and close to exhaustion.

'The King is dead,' he said, 'the army destroyed.'

'Perdiccas dead? I do not believe it,' cried Attalus. The rider ignored him and looked to Philip.

'The King advanced on the Illyrians, but our centre gave way. Perdiccas tried to counter-charge, but the enemy were expecting it. The cavalry were cut to pieces, the King's head placed on a lance. We lost over 4,000 men.'

Philip had never been close to his brother, but neither were they enemies. The younger man had admired the King for his prowess as statesman and warrior. What now, he wondered? The King's son was only two years old and the army — whatever was left of it — would never agree to a babe being crowned, not with the nation under threat. He rode away from the men and dismounted; sitting on a boulder, he stared out to sea. He had never wanted to be King, had never desired anything more from life than to be able to hunt, and drink, and make love. Perdiccas understood that, which was why he had never considered having Philip assassinated.

For his part Philip mostly avoided affairs of state. He had warned Perdiccas of the perils of attacking the Illyrians, but such battles were common and very rarely decisive; the losers would agree to pay large sums in tribute to the victors, and then life would go on. But for the King to fall on the battlefield, along with 4,000 Macedonians! It was a tragedy of awesome proportions.

The balance of power in northern Greece was delicate at the best of times, and with this catastrophe it would be thrown into turmoil.

Perdiccas had proved a good King, popular and strong. But he was obsessed with the desire to crush Bardylis and nothing Philip had said would sway him.

'Send for Parmenion,' Philip had urged.

'I need no half-blood Spartan,' Perdiccas had replied.

'Would you like me to ride with you?'

For a moment he thought the answer would be yes. Perdiccas' handsome face softened, but then the hard look returned to his eyes. 'No, brother. You stay in Aigai. Enjoy yourself.'

As Philip had turned to leave, Perdiccas reached out and took hold of the younger man's shoulder.

'I never forgot what you did for me,' he said.

'I know that. You do not need to say it.'

'There are some who have urged me to kill you, Philip. There are some who believe. . ah, what does it matter? I did not kill Archelaos, and he has proved no threat.'

'Do not fear for me, brother,' Philip told him. 'I have no wish to be King. But beware of Bardylis. If you lose, he will set a tribute you may find hard to pay.'

Perdiccas grinned. 'I shall not lose.'

Now Philip shook himself loose of the memory and called the rider to him. 'Where are the Illyrians now?'

'They have not advanced, sire. They stripped the dead and now they are camped four days' ride from Pella.'

'Do not call me sire, I am not the King,' snapped Philip, waving the man away.

His thoughts raged like a storm in his mind. The balance of power was everything! To the west the Illyrians, to the north the Paionians, to the east the Thracians and to the south Thebes. While each nation had a strong army, there was little danger of full-scale invasion. But now, with Macedonia's army destroyed, the land was open to any with the courage to take it. Philip thought of his enemies. First Bardylis, the cunning King of Illyria; eighty years old, maybe more, but with a mind as sharp as a timber-wolf. After him Cotys, the King of Thrace; just turned sixty, a greedy, ruthless monarch whose avaricious eyes would now turn to the Macedonian mines no more than a day's ride from his Thracian borders in the east. Then the Paionians, tribesmen from the north who lived to fight and plunder. After them the power-hungry Thebans, the pompous Athenians. The gods knew how many others!

'One fear at a time,' he cautioned himself. What if, he wondered, he did not try for the crown?

One name soared into his mind: Archelaos, his stepbrother. The hatred between them was stronger than iron, and colder than a winter blizzard. Archelaos would fight for the throne — and his first action would be to see Philip dead.

Philip called to Attalus. 'I am riding for Pella,' he told the warrior. 'It is likely that Archelaos has not yet heard the news. When he does he will also come to the capital, but he will be travelling from Cercine. Take twenty men — and see that he does not survive the journey.'

Attalus smiled grimly. 'A task I'll enjoy, for sure,' he said.

The City of Susa, Persia, Autumn, 359 BC

'It is your own fault,' said Mothac, as Parmenion paced back and forth across the room. 'Who else can you blame?'

The Spartan moved to the wide doors leading to the gardens, where he stood staring out over the terraces with their hanging blooms and trees garlanded with blossom. The scents were sweet and the view exquisite, but Parmenion turned away, his face flushed, his eyes angry.

'Blame?' "he snarled. 'Who else but that cursed Persian brat? He loses seventy men because he cannot be bothered to clear the fighting ground of boulders. Seventy! Then he had the brass balls to tell me it doesn't matter, they were only peasants.'

'He is a royal prince, Parmenion. What did you expect when you revoked his commission? Praise?

Another prize stallion?'

'Persians!' hissed Parmenion. 'I am sick of them.'

'No,' said Mothac softly. 'You are sick of Persia, my friend. And you are too canny not to have understood the consequences of dismissing Darius.'

'What are you saying? That I wanted my own commission revoked?'

'Exactly that.'

'Nonsense! We have everything here that men could desire. Look around you, Mothac. Silks, fine couches, beautiful grounds. How many Kings in Greece can boast such a palace? Slaves to obey our every desire, and more coin than we could spend in two lifetimes. You think I willingly threw this away?'

'Yes.'

'Let's get some air,' muttered the Spartan, strolling out into the gardens and along the paved walkways. Mothac followed the general into the bright sunshine, silently cursing himself for forgetting his hat of straw. During the last ten years Mothac had grown steadily more bald, a calamity he blamed totally on the harsh Persian sun.

'How could he have been so stupid?' asked Parmenion. 'He knew he could get no chariot support unless he cleared the ground. And he had 1,000 men under his command. It would have taken no more than an hour, perhaps two. But no, our fine Persian prince leaves his men sitting in the sunshine and rides into the hills to bathe in a cool stream.'

'We were finished here anyway,' pointed out the Theban. 'The Satrap Wars are all but over. What else could the Great King have asked of you? You have won his battles in Cappadocia, Phrygia, Egypt, Mesopotamia and other places with names I cannot wrap around my tongue. We don't need any more wars. Let us just sit here and enjoy our dotage. The gods know we need no more coin.'

Parmenion shook his head. 'I am not ready for dotage, Mothac my friend. I want. .' He shrugged.

'I don't know what I want. But I cannot sit idle. What are the latest offers?'

'The Satrap of Egypt requests your services to counter tribal attacks in the south.'

'Too hot,' said Parmenion.

'The Olynthians are hiring mercenaries. They would like you to lead their forces into Macedonia.'

'Macedonia again. Tempting. What else?'

'The King of the Illyrians, Bardylis, offers you employment, as does Cotys of Thrace. The Thracian offer is a good one: two talents of gold.'

'What of the Macedonian King. . Perdiccas?'

'We have heard nothing from him.'

Parmenion sat silently for a while. 'I am not anxious to return to Greece. Not yet.'

Mothac nodded, remaining silent. He knew Parmenion's thoughts had turned again to Epaminondas. The Theban hero had crushed the Spartans, taking the Theban army to the outskirts of Sparta itself where the Spartan King, Agisaleus, had barricaded the streets, refusing all challenges.

Glory days had followed for Thebes, but the Athenians — fearing Theban ambition — had allied themselves with Sparta, and bloody battle followed bloody battle for seven years.

Then, while Parmenion was at the Great Court in Susa, came news of a battle near Mantinea. The Spartans and the Athenians together had come against Epaminondas. The Theban tried to repeat the tactics of Leuctra: the massed charge. But it was only partially successful and a contingent of Athenian cavalry smashed a path to Epaminondas. The general died at the point of victory, and the man who killed him was said to be an Athenian captain named Gryllus, the son of Xenophon.

'He was a great man,' whispered Mothac.

'What? Yes. How is it you always know my thoughts?'

'We are friends, Parmenion. I fear for Thebes now: Pelopidas dead in Thessaly, Epaminondas gone.

Who is there to fight for Thebes?'

'I don't know, but I'll take no part in it. Xenophon was right. Greece will never be united and the constant battles only weaken her further.'

A slave girl ran from the house, bowing before Parmenion and then turning to Mothac. 'There is a messenger, sir. He wishes to see the general.'

'From whom does this messenger come?'

'He is a Greek, sir.' The girl bowed her head and waited.

'See that he is given wine. I shall speak to him presently,' Mothac told her.

Parmenion waited in the sunshine until Mothac returned.

'Well, what was it?'

'He was an Illyrian. Bardylis has withdrawn his offer to you. It seems that without you he crushed the Macedonian army and killed Perdiccas. It might be a good time for you to take the offer of Cotys. Thrace and Illyria will now fight over the spoils. Macedonia is finished.'

'Who succeeded Perdiccas?'

'One of the princes. . Philip, I think he said.'

'I knew him in Thebes. I liked him.'

'Oh no,' said Mothac. 'Don't even think it.'

Think what?'

'I see that look in your eye, Parmenion. They have no army and the wolves are gathering — it is folly to even think of it. Anyway, this Philip has made no offer.'

Parmenion chuckled. 'No army, and strong enemies all around him. It is very appealing, Mothac.'

'There is nothing appealing about death!' snapped the Theban.

Archelaos was murdered as he crossed the river Axios to the north-west of Pella, and with his death opposition to Philip from within Macedonia was ended. But it did not end his problems. The Illyrians had crushed the Macedonian army in the north-west, and now the Paionian tribes of the north had invaded, sacking two cities and thirty villages. Worse was to follow for the new King.

In the east the Thracians were massing to invade — ready to install a distant cousin of Philip's, Pausanias, as a puppet ruler. And from the south came word that the Athenians were sponsoring yet another cousin, Argaios, and he was marching with an army to contest the throne.

'What surprises me,' Philip confided to Nicanor, his closest friend, 'is why anyone should wish to take over the kingdom now. There's precious little left that isn't already in enemy hands.'

'You'll win, though, Philip. You will. There's not a man in Greece to out-think you.'

Philip chuckled and threw his arm around his friend's shoulder. 'I would accept that compliment more readily if there was any basis for it in fact. But I need a miracle. I need Parmenion.'

'What can a Spartan do for us?'

'He can build me an army — and, by the bones of Heracles, I need one. Find him for me, Nicanor.

Send out riders, use the seers. Anything. Find him.'

Pushing the problems from his mind, he found himself remembering his days as a hostage in Thebes eleven years ago, when he had watched the legendary Parmenion training the Sacred Band. There was something about the man, a calm that spoke of great strength, and in his pale eyes Philip had seen an understanding, sensing an affinity with the Spartan warrior.

Then had come Leuctra and the defeat of the awesome Spartans. Parmenion's victory. From that time Philip had begun to look for news of the Spartan's travels, listening eagerly to tales of his victories in Egypt and Persia. Satraps offered him fortunes in gold and jewels, vying for the favours of the greatest general of the age. Even the Great King was said to be in awe of his skill.

Once an enemy army surrendered when they heard that Parmenion had been hired to lead a force against them. Even his name had power.

How I need you now, thought Philip.

Attalus approached the King as he stood by the window, his thoughts distant. 'What of the babe, sire?' he whispered. 'Do you wish it despatched?'

It was a reasonable question and Philip considered it. If allowed to grow, his nephew would one day perhaps seek to win his father's throne. And it was customary to eliminate all other claimants.

Philip sighed. 'Where is Simiche?'

'As you commanded, the Queen is a prisoner in her rooms. She still has three hand-maidens, and the child is with her.'

'I will do it,' said Philip. He walked swiftly from the throne-room and down the long corridor to the adjoining building in the east. Two guards saluted as he reached the Queen's quarters; he nodded to them and entered Simiche's private chamber. The Queen was a small woman, elfin-faced, her hair long and dark. She looked up as he entered and almost managed to keep the fear from her face. The toddler, Amyntas, smiled as he saw his uncle and tottered towards him.

Simiche stood and gathered the child to her, stroking his dark curls.

Philip dismissed the hand-maidens, who ran from the room. Simiche said nothing; she did not plead, she merely sat, cuddling her son. Philip was torn. His hand was on his knife-hilt, but he stood in the centre of the room confused and uncertain. Perdiccas could have ordered Philip's death, but he had not. Now Philip was standing before the woman Perdiccas had loved and the son he had adored.

He sighed. 'The boy will be safe, Simiche,' he said at last. 'No harm will come to him. You will go to my summer home and raise him there. I will see you have a good allowance for his education.'

'Do not deceive me, Philip,' she replied. 'If you plan to have us killed, do it now. Do not raise false hopes. Be a man — and use that knife. I will not resist.'

'You have my word, Simiche. There is no question of killing the boy."

She closed her eyes, her head dropping. Tears fell to her cheeks, the release of tension making her tremble as she hugged the boy to her, kissing his face. He struggled to be free of such intense emotion. Philip sat beside the Queen, putting his arm around her. The boy reached out, and giggled as he tugged the King's dark beard.

'May the gods bless you,' Simiche whispered.

'They are not making good work of it at present,' said Philip.

'They will,' she promised him. 'Perdiccas loved you, Philip — but he was in awe of you. He said you had greatness within you and I believe that now. What will you do?'

He shrugged and smiled, ruffling the boy's hair. 'I have no army, and am being attacked from the west, the north, the east and the south. I think I will shave off my beard and become a travelling actor — a reader of comedies.'

She laughed then. 'You will think of something. What is it that you need most?'

'Time,' he answered, without hesitation.

'Who is the greatest enemy?'

'The old wolf, Bardylis. His Illyrians have already crushed the army. If he marches on Pella, there is nothing I can do to stop him.'

'It is said he has a daughter of surpassing ugliness,' said Simiche softly. 'Her name is Audata and he has tried — unsuccessfully — to arrange marriages for her with lowly princes. I daresay he has given up thinking of a King for her.'

'A bride of surpassing ugliness? Something I have always wanted,' replied Philip, and their laughter filled the room.

The days passed with an ominous lack of movement from his enemies, and Philip worked long into the nights, preparing despatches for Athens, to friends in Thessaly to the south and Amphipolis in the east. He sent Nicanor to Bardylis in Illyria, formally requesting the hand of his daughter Audata in marriage, and promising to pay a tribute of 500 talents a year from the day of the wedding. To the Thracian King, Cotys, he sent a long letter assuring him of friendship; but carrying the assurance was the cold-eyed Attalus.

Philip gave him two small metal phials, each marked with different letters. 'This one,' said Philip, 'contains a deadly poison, but it is slow-acting. The other is an antidote. You must find a way to poison the King — without suspicion falling on you. Cotys has three sons, and they hate each other. Once the old man is dead they will never unite to threaten us.'

Attalus smiled. 'You are taking to this business rather well, my friend. I thought you had no desire to be King?'

'A man takes what the gods thrust upon him,' Philip answered. 'But it is vital that Cotys dies.

Before the deed is done, seek out the pretender Pausanias and tell him you are disenchanted with me. Tell him you wish to serve him against me. I leave it to you how you kill him. . but do it.'

'I do not wish to sound like a Cretan mercenary, sire, but it would be pleasant to know that I will return to some honoured position in your service.'

Philip nodded and took the tall warrior by the arm, leading him to a couch by an indoor pool of marble. 'You do not need to call me sire when there is no one else present. You are my friend, Attalus, and I trust you as I trust no other. You are the King's right hand, and as I prosper so will you. Do you trust me?'

'Of course.'

'Then do my bidding.'

Attalus chuckled. 'Already you sound like a King. Very well, Philip.'

The door opened and a servant entered and bowed. 'My lord, the Athenian ambassador is seeking an audience.'

Philip rose and took a deep breath. 'Tell him I shall be with him presently.' The King bade farewell to Attalus and then walked through to his bedchamber where he changed his clothes, dressing himself in a long pale blue tunic and a Persian cloak of fine dark blue wool.

Then he sat, allowing his thoughts to drift over his problems, identifying each and preparing himself for the meeting. To remove Athens from the fray was an urgent priority — but it would prove costly. Once again the city was struggling to be the leader of all Greece. Since Parmenion had crushed the Spartans the real power struggle had developed between Thebes and Athens, both forming alliances in bids to secure supremacy. Perdiccas had favoured the Thebans, sending Macedonian troops to the independent city of Amphipolis in the east to aid them against Athenian aggression. Understandably this infuriated the Athenians, who had ruled Amphipolis. It was an important settlement, controlling all trade routes down the great River Strymon, but its people wanted nothing to do with Athens and had been fighting for independence for more than fifty years.

But now the Athenians had despatched an army to remove Philip from the throne, and he had no force to oppose them. If they succeeded, Amphipolis would fall anyway.

Placing a slender gold circlet on his brow, he walked out into the throne-room to meet Aischines.

The man was short and stout, his face the unhealthy crimson of the weak of heart.

Philip greeted him with a broad smile. 'Welcome, Aischines, I trust you are in good health?'

'I will not complain, sire,' the man answered, his voice deep, his tones clipped and exact. 'But I see that you are in the best of condition, like a young Heracles.'

Philip laughed. 'Would that I had only twelve labours to perform! However, I must not burden you with my problems. I have sent messages to Athens — a city I have always admired — and I hope our friendship will be lasting.'

'Sadly, an attitude not shared by your late brother,' said Aischines. 'He seemed to prefer the Thebans and even — dare I mention it — sent troops against us in the battle to recover Amphipolis.'

Philip nodded. 'Sadly my brother did not share my view of Athens. He did not see the city as the father of democracy, nor understand the true nature of her greatness. I think he was dazzled by the exploits of Epaminondas and Pelopidas, and trusted our nation to prosper under the wisdom of Thebes. A great shame,' said Philip, shaking his head. 'But let us walk awhile and enjoy the cool of dusk as we talk.'

The King led the way to the outer corridors and the royal gardens, pointing out different blooms that Simiche had planted grown from seeds sent from Persia. As they walked Philip's mind was whirling. He needed Athenian acceptance, if not their direct support. An army financed by Athens was marching to steal his kingdom and place Argaios on the throne. As yet the Macedonian forces were unready for another major conflict; but could he be so rash as to surrender Amphipolis, a city so vital to the sea trade in the Thermaic Gulf?

Tread warily, Philip! he cautioned himself.

They halted by a high wall and sat beneath a tree heavily laden with purple blooms. Philip sighed.

'I will be frank with you, Aischines,' he said. 'After all, your spies already know of my contacts with Thebes.' Aischines nodded gravely, which amused the King since no such contacts had been made. 'They wish to send me an army in order — as we are both aware — not to protect Macedonia but to stop Athens from regaining Amphipolis. I need no more lengthy wars fought on Macedonian soil, and I desire no new masters. Rather, I wish for friendship with the premier city of Greece.'

'The Thebans,' said Aischines carefully, 'seek only the power of tyranny. They have no culture.

Where is their philosophy? In the power of the sword? In the last hundred years they have known only two great men, and those you have already mentioned. When Pelopidas was slain in Thessaly and Epaminondas fell at Mantinea they had no one to replace them. They are a failing power. Athens is once more in the ascendant.'

'I agree,' said Philip soothingly, 'but what choices do I have? The Illyrians have invaded my upper kingdom. Paionians are pillaging to the north. The Thracians are massing on my borders, seeking to install Pausanias. I am threatened everywhere. If Thebes is the only answer, then Thebes it must be — 5,000 hoplites would secure my throne.'

'Only for Thebes, sire. Not for you.'

Philip turned his gaze to meet Aischines' eyes. 'I have known you only a few moments, Aischines, but I see that you are a man I can trust. You are a fine spokesman for your city and an honest, noble man. If you tell me that Athens wishes friendship, I will believe you — and I will spurn the offer of Thebes.'

Aischines swallowed hard. Neither man had mentioned the Athenian force marching with Argaios.

'There is, still,' he said, 'the question of Amphipolis. As you are aware she is an Athenian city, and we would much like to restore her to the League. You currently retain a garrison there, I understand?'

'It will be withdrawn the moment we reach agreement,' promised Philip. 'Amphipolis is not considered by me to be Macedonian. In truth, the citizens requested our aid and my brother -

wrongly, as I believe — agreed to help them. Now, tell me, Aischines, what message should I send the Thebans?'

'I see that you are a man of culture and wisdom,' said the ambassador. 'I can assure you that Athens respects such men — and desires only friendship with them. I shall send my report to the council immediately, and will return to you directly.'

Philip rose. 'It has been a pleasant meeting, my dear Aischines. I hope you will join me tomorrow at the theatre; there is a new comedy I have been waiting to see. The players are Athenians and it would be an honour for them — and for me — if you would sit beside me.'

Aischines bowed.

Philip accompanied him back to the palace and then returned to his rooms, bis face darkening with fury. Nicanor was waiting for him.

'It did not go well with the Athenian?' asked his friend.

'Well enough,' snapped Philip, 'but if I give away much more of Macedonia I shall be the ruler of three trees and a stagnant pool. Tell me something good, Nicanor. Cheer me!'

'We have gathered almost 1,000 men from the remnants of the army. But morale is not good, Philip; we need a victory somewhere.'

'Is the gold still getting through from Crousia?'

'Some, but I think the governor is holding back, waiting to see who is likely to win. He may already be communicating with Cotys or Pausanius.'

'Then we can hire no mercenaries. So be it. A victory, is it? You have spoken to the officers so, tell me, which of them has the belly I need?'

Nicanor leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. 'Antipater is a good man. He kept his troops together well and they fought a tight retreat. I think he is respected. The others? There is no one special, Philip.'

'Send him to me. Tonight!'

'Who are we to fight?'

Philip laughed then and spread his hands. 'The one thing we are not short of is enemies. But it will be the Paionians. What news of Parmenion?'

'He won a battle for the Satrap of Cappadocia. He is in Susa, being honoured by the Great King.

But we have got word to him. I must say though, Philip, I cannot see why he should come. He must be rich by now. Why would he return to Greece? What can we offer him?'

Philip shrugged. There was no answer to that.

And the thought depressed him.

The faint light of pre-dawn bathed the slopes of the low range of hills overlooking the River Axios as Nicanor gently shook Philip awake. The King groaned and sat up, pushing aside his blanket and stretching his back. Around him most of the 1,000 cavalrymen were still sleeping. Philip stood and rubbed warmth into his powerful arms, glancing up at the sentries on the ridge.

'Any movement?' he asked Nicanor.

'No, sire.'

Philip lifted his bronze-reinforced leather breastplate and swung it into place, Nicanor adjusting the winged shoulder-guards and tying them securely. A black-bearded warrior walked through the gloom and bowed before the King.

'The enemy have camped in a hollow about a mile from here, due north. I count they have almost twice our number: they were reinforced last night.'

Philip wanted to curse. Instead he grinned. 'You have done well, Antipater. And do not concern yourself with the numbers. Just remember that we are Macedonian and that the King rides with you.'

'Yes, sire.' The man looked away. Philip guessed at his thoughts. Only weeks before, another King had probably said something remarkably similar — and that enterprise had ended in massacre and disaster.

'I am not Perdiccas,' said Philip softly. Antipater looked startled, but Philip thumped his shoulder and chuckled. 'Now we cannot consider two defeats in so short a time, can we?'

Antipater smiled nervously, unsure how to take this curious man. 'Do you wish to talk to the men, sire?'

'No. Tell them I'll give a victory speech later, and we'll all get drunk.'

'A speech before might bring better results,' Nicanor advised.

Philip swung on him. 'Perdiccas was a good speaker, is that not right, Antipater?' The warrior nodded. 'And did he not fill the men's hearts with fire on the night before the battle?'

'He did, sire.'

'Then tell the men exactly what I said. Now let us move; I want to be above their camp at dawn.

You, Antipater will, take half the men. I will command the others. We will hit them from east and west. I want no prisoners. Hit them hard — and hit them well.'

An hour later Philip led his 500 men up a steep hillside, where they walked their horses until they reached a ridge overlooking the enemy camp. There were scores of tents, and hundreds more men could be seen lying under blankets around dying fires. There were no sentries out, which in a strange way increased Philip's fury. He drew his sabre and pointed to the right. The Macedonians mounted their horses and moved out to form a long line across the ridge. There they waited. The sun was still hidden behind the distant Kerkine mountains, but the sky was brightening. Shading his eyes, Philip saw Antipater and his force of 500 come into view to the east, a cloud of dust billowing under the thundering hooves. Paionian warriors rolled from their blankets, grabbing for sword, lance or bow. But then Antipater was upon them. For a while the Paionians seemed likely to hold, then their centre broke and they fled for the hills where the King waited. Philip lifted his sword.

'Let them hear you!' he bellowed, and the Macedonian war-cry went up, a rolling wall of sound that echoed across the plain.

Philip kicked his black gelding into a run and galloped down the gentle slope. The Paionians were caught now between hammer and anvil, as they fled before Antipater directly at Philip and his riders. Panic set in and the tribesmen sprinted away in any direction that offered cover. The Macedonians bore down on them, cutting and killing. Philip dragged on his reins and saw a group of tribesmen some sixty or seventy strong, trying to form a square behind their wickerwork shields.

Bloodlust upon him, he galloped his horse into their midst, hacking at men with his sabre. A spear glanced from his breastplate, a sword sliced his thigh, opening a shallow wound. Nicanor, seeing the King in peril, led twenty riders to his aid — and the square broke.

What followed was a massacre. The Paionians threw away their shields and swords and ran, only to be hunted down by groups of riders intent only on revenge and the deaths of their enemies.

By dusk, as Philip sat in the enemy leader's tent, his thigh bandaged, almost 1,100 Paionians lay dead or wounded, for the loss of only sixty-two Macedonians — and one of these was killed when his horse stumbled and rolled on top of him. The camp was filled with plunder, gold and plate, silver coins, statues in precious metals. More than fifty Macedonian women had been held enslaved here, and so happy were they to be free that they gave to their rescuers with gusto the pleasures the Paionians had needed to obtain by force.

Philip ordered the treasures to be loaded onto carts and taken to Pella, then he fulfilled his promise and gathered the men about him in a great circle.

'Today,' he said, his voice resonant and deep, reaching every ear without apparent effort, 'y°u nave enjoyed a victory. Your enemy lies dead in his hundreds, and the north will soon be free of his pillaging. That is today. That is the beginning. Do not misunderstand me — today was not a great victory. Yet it was historic. For it is the first of many and I promise you this — there will come a day when the battle-cry of Macedon will shake the foundations of the world! It will be heard across oceans, it will echo above mountains. There will not be a man alive who does not know of it and fear the sound. That is my promise to you, warriors of Macedon. That is the promise of Philip.' He lapsed into silence and gazed at them. There was no cheering and the lack of sound or movement from them left him momentarily confused. Then he looked at them again, seeing that many had no breastplates and only a few sported helms. 'I will give you weapons,' he said, 'bright shining armour, sharp swords, greaves, helms and lances. I will bring you gold and riches, and grant you land for your sons to grow on. But for tonight I give you wine. Now… let us drink!'

There was polite applause led by Nicanor as the wine was brought out, and the men began to rise and move away to sit in groups around small camp-fires. Philip sought out Antipater.

'Was it such a bad speech?' he asked the warrior.

'Not at all, sire. But most of these men are from Pelagonia and the valleys of the Pindos. The Illyrians now control their homelands, their wives and children are lost to them. If you could tell them about an expedition against Bardylis

'But I cannot. . and I will not lie to them, Antipater. Not ever. Tomorrow you will take your 500 and scour the north. Hit any tribesmen you find. Drive them from Macedonia.'

'We will lose more men to desertion,' said Antipater softly. 'They will seek to go home.'

In the morning Philip was again among the first to rise. He bade Nicanor gather the men once more.

'Last night I made you promises,' he told them, 'Today I have something else to say. Many of you will be riding with Antipater — to push the Paionians from our lands. There will be those among you who will wish to return to your homes, seeking out wives and children. I understand that. What I ask of you all is this: choose from among yourselves a group of twenty men who will ride into the occupied lands, gathering news of lost families. Those men will receive full pay of twenty-five drachms a month while they are gone, their wages held in Pella against their return. The rest of you will be home within three months; I promise that also. But there will come a time when I will call on you and, if you are men of honour, you will come to me. Is that fair?" Philip pointed to a burly, dark-bearded warrior in the front row. 'You! Is that fair?'

'If it is true, yes,' answered the man.

'I have no way but time to prove my words. But you are the first of Philip's warriors — and I will never let you down.' His eyes raked the group, hovering on every face. 'There will be decisions you do not understand in the early days, but know this, that I live for Macedonia — and everything I do will be to further her cause. I ask for your trust.'

Spinning on his heel he stalked to his horse. Behind him the burly warrior climbed to his feet.

'The King!' he cried.

The King! The King!' shouted the others, surging to their feet.

Philip bowed and waited until the roar had died down, then his own voice boomed out. 'Macedon!

Macedon!'

The warriors cheered, and took up the cry as Nicanor moved alongside Philip. 'A proud moment for you, sire,' he said. 'You have won their hearts.'

Philip did not reply. Already he was thinking of the pretender, Argaios, and the Athenian army.

In the days that followed Philip worked tirelessly, gathering men from the south, hiring a group of 20 °Cretan archers at an exorbitant forty drachms per man a month, continuing his discussions with Aischines and waiting with ill-concealed tension the news from Thrace and Illyria.

The treasury was running low, supplies of gold from Crousia in the east drying up, and there was now only enough coin to support a month of campaigning.

Then news came that the rebel Argaios had landed at the port of Methone, two days' march from Aigai. With him were 3,000 Athenian hoplites, a group of 800 mercenaries and more than 100 rebel Macedonians.

Philip called Antipater to him. 'What force can we muster against them?' he asked the officer.

'We still have 500 men in the north, under Meleager, harrying the Paionians. Another 1,000 are waiting in the east with Nicanor, against possible Thracian attack. We could recall either, but it would leave us open.'

'How many here?'

'Not more than 700, but half of these fought with you in your first battle. They would ride with you into the fire of Hades.'

'It's not enough, Antipater — not against Athenian hoplites. Get Aischines here. Be polite, but get him here swiftly.'

Philip bathed and dressed in full battle armour — breastplate, greaves and bronze-reinforced kilt, his sword by his side, and waited in the throne-room. Aischines arrived within the hour, looking startled when he saw the King arrayed for war.

'I had not expected treachery,' said Philip, keeping his voice low and sorrowful. 'I trusted you, and I trusted Athens. Now you land an army at one of my ports. I have messengers ready to ride to Thebes, and I suggest with regret, Aischines, that you prepare to leave Pella.'

'There has been some mistake, sire. Please. .trust me,' said Aischines, his face reddening. 'I have sent many messages to our leaders, and I am sure the force at Methone will not advance into Macedonia. There was some confusion when they set out. But they will not make war on an ally — and that you are, sire. An ally.'

Philip stared long and hard at the man before he answered him. 'Are you sure of this, Aischines, or are you merely hopeful?'

'I received despatches today from Athens, and one is to be sent on to Manilas who commands the hoplites. They are to return home, I promise you.'

Philip nodded. 'Then send your despatch today, sir, and with some speed. For the day after tomorrow I inarch on the traitor.'

Antipater gathered the 700 horsemen and — despite what he had told Aischines — Philip led them that night on a lightning ride south, taking up a position at dawn on the slopes between Methone and Aigai, hidden from the road.

Two hours after dawn the enemy appeared in the distance. Philip shaded his eyes and scanned the advancing men. There were more than 100 cavalry leading the force and behind these almost 1,000

hoplites. The foot-soldiers were a motley crew, some sporting plumed helms and others wearing Thracian leather caps. The devices painted on their shields were many: the winged horse of Olynthus, the Theban club of Heracles, the crossed spears of Methone. But none bore the helm of Athena. Philip was exultant. The Athenians — as Aischines had promised — had not marched with Argaios.

Lying on his belly, Philip flicked his eyes left and right of the advancing enemy. They had no outriders and were moving in a straggling line stretched out for almost a quarter of a mile.

The King slid back from the peak, calling Antipater to him. 'Send the Cretans to that outcrop of rocks. Let them loose their shafts as soon as the enemy is within range. You take 400 men, keep behind the line of hills and hit them from the north. I will wait to give you time, then come in from the south.'

Antipater grinned. 'Do not be so rash this time, my lord. Stay with your men, and avoid charging single-handed into enemy ranks.'

The first volley of arrows from the Cretans decimated the leading horsemen, their mounts rearing in terror as the rain of death fell from the skies. The smell of blood in their nostrils brought panic to the horses, making them almost impossible to control.

Then Antipater's 400 came galloping from the north, their battle-cries echoing in the rocks. The Macedonians smashed their way through the confused mass of the enemy cavalry, hacking men from their mounts, then thundered into the milling foot-soldiers just as Philip's force hit them from the south.

The mercenary infantry, having lost more than half their number before they could form a defensive square, locked shields against a second attack, but Antipater wheeled his men and charged again at the cavalry, who broke and galloped from the battlefield.

Philip also pulled back his riders and the Cretan archers loosed volley after volley over the shield wall of the mercenaries.

At the centre of the shield square stood Argaios, his helm knocked from his head, his golden hair bright in the sunshine.

'Ho, Philip!' he shouted. 'Will you face me, or do you have no stomach for the fight?'

It was a desperate last throw from a man already beaten, but Philip knew the eyes of his men were upon him.

'Come out!" he called, 'and then we will see.'

Argaios pushed his way clear of the shield wall and strode towards Philip. The King dismounted, drawing his sword and waiting. Argaios was a handsome man, tall and slender, his eyes the blue of a spring sky. He looked so like Nicanor that Philip could not help but flick his eyes to his friend, comparing them. In that moment Argaios attacked. Philip's shield only half deflected the blow, which glanced from his breastplate to slice a narrow cut on his cheek.

His own sword lashed out, hacking into his enemy's bronze-reinforced leather kilt. Argaios threw himself forward, their shields clanging together. But Philip, though shorter, was more stocky and powerful and held his ground. His sword lanced out, stabbing low, piercing Argaios' left leg above the knee. The pretender screamed in pain as Philip twisted the blade, severing muscles and tendons. Argaios tried to leap back, but his wounded leg gave out beneath him and he fell.

Throwing aside his shield, Philip advanced on the injured man.

Argaios' sword slashed out, but Philip danced away from the gleaming blade, then leapt forward, his foot pinning Argaios' sword-arm to the dusty ground.

'I call upon the King's mercy,' screamed Argaios.

'There is no mercy for traitors,' hissed Philip, his blade plunging into Argaios' neck, through the windpipe and the vertebrae beyond.

By nightfall more than 600 of the enemy lay dead, a further 100 mercenaries held captive. The forty Macedonian prisoners were stoned to death by the troops after a short trial presided over by Philip. Of the rest, sixty-two were mercenaries who were freed to return to Methone and thirty-eight were Athenian volunteers; these were freed without ransom and Philip invited them to dine with him in his tent, explaining once more his policy of friendship with Athens.

By dawn Philip was still awake, hearing from Antipater of Macedonian losses. 'Forty men dead, three crippled, seven recovering from wounds,' Antipater told him.

'Find out the names and whereabouts of the dead men's families, then send 100 drachms to each. The crippled men will receive double that, and a pension of ten drachms a month.'

Antipater was surprised. 'The men will be heartened by this news,' he said.

'Yes — but that is not why it is being done. They died for Macedon, and Macedon will not forget that.'

Antipater nodded. 'I will not forget it either, sire — and neither will the warriors who ride for you.'

After the officer had gone Philip lay down on his pallet bed, covering himself with a single blanket. The Paionians were defeated, and one pretender had been despatched. But still the major enemies had to be met.

Where are you, Parmenion?

The Thracian Border, Autumn, 359 BC

Parmenion tugged lightly on the reins as he saw the man sitting on the rock ahead. 'Good day to you,' said the Spartan, glancing at the surrounding boulders, seeking out any men who might be hidden there.

'I am alone,' said the stranger, his voice agreeable, even friendly. Parmenion continued to study the nearby terrain. Satisfied the man was indeed alone his gaze flicked down on the distant River Nestus and then up towards the far blue peaks of the Kerkine mountains and the borders of Macedonia. Returning his attention to the man on the rocks, he dismounted. The stranger was not tall, but sturdily built, his hair grey, his beard curled in the Persian fashion, his eyes the colour of storm-clouds. He was wearing a long chiton of faded blue and a pair of leather sandals which showed little indication of wear. But there was no sign of a weapon of any kind, not even a small dagger.

The view is pleasant,' said Parmenion, 'but the land is desolate. How did you come here?'

'I walk different paths,' the man answered. 'You will be in Pella in seven days. I could be there this afternoon.'

'You are a magus'?'

'Not as the Persians understand it, although some of the magi will one day walk the paths I use,'

answered the man smoothly. 'Set you down for a while and dine with me.'

'Let's leave him here and ride on,' said Mothac. 'I don't like this place, it is too open. He's probably a robber.'

'I have been many things in my time, Theban, but never yet a robber. I have, though, been waiting for you, Parmenion. I thought it wise that we sat and talked — of the past, the future and the echoes of the Great Song.'

'You sound Greek,' said Parmenion, moving to his left and continuing to scan the surrounding rocks.

'Not. . exactly. . Greek,' said the man, 'but it will suffice. You accomplished great deeds in Persia; I congratulate you. Your attack on Spetzabares was brilliant. Outnumbered, you forced him to surrender, losing only 111 men in the process. Remarkable.'

'You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I know nothing of you.'

'I am a scholarly man, Parmenion. My life is devoted to study, to the pursuit of knowledge. My wish is to understand all creation. Happily I am not yet close to any real understanding.'

'Happily?'

'Of course. No man should ever completely realize his dreams. What else would there then be to live for?'

'Look!' shouted Mothac, pointing to a dust-cloud further down the mountain slopes. 'Riders!'

'They are coming to take you to Cotys,' said the man. 'Either that or to kill you. The Thracian King has no wish to see Parmenion helping the Macedonians.'

'You know a great deal,' said Parmenion softly. 'I take it you also know a way to avoid these riders?'

'Naturally,' said the man, rising smoothly to his feet. 'Follow me.'

Parmenion watched him stride towards a sheer rock-face which shimmered as he reached it. The Spartan blinked. The stranger was gone.

'He's a demon or a demi-god,' whispered Mothac. 'Let's take a chance on the riders. At least they are human.'

'Swords can cut a man faster than spells,' said Parmenion. 'I'll take my chance with the magus.'

Taking the reins of the stallion in his right hand, he led the beast towards the rock-face. As he approached the temperature dropped, the rocks seeming translucent. He walked on, passing through them, feeling weightless and disoriented.

Mothac emerged from the wall behind him, sweating heavily as he drew alongside his friend. 'What now?' the Theban whispered.

They were in a huge, subterranean cavern, enormous stalactites hanging from the domed roof. From around them came the steady, rhythmic dripping of water, and there were many dark pools shining on the cavern floor.

The stranger appeared some fifty paces ahead of them. 'This way,' he called. 'You are only half-way home.'

'Half-way to Hades more like,' muttered Mothac, drawing his sword.

The two men led their horses across the cavern floor to a wide natural opening, leading on to a lush green meadow where a small house had been built — the roof red-tiled, the walls smooth and white.

Parmenion walked on into the sunshine and stopped. The countryside was hilly and verdant, but there were no mountains to be seen in any direction and of the great River Nestus there was no sign.

Mounting their horses, the two men rode down to the house where the stranger had set a wide table with cold meats, cheeses and fruits. Pouring his guests goblets of wine, he sat in the shade of a flowering tree. 'It is not poisoned,' he said, as his guests stared at the food.

'Are you not eating?' Parmenion asked.

'I am not hungry. But think on this: a man who can make mountains disappear is unlikely to need to poison his guests.'

'A valid point," agreed Parmenion, reaching for an apple.

Mothac grabbed his hand. 'I will eat first,' said the Theban, taking the fruit and biting into it.

'Such devotion,' observed the stranger. Slowly Mothac sampled all the meats and cheeses. Finally he belched.

'Best I ever tasted,' he said. Parmenion ate sparingly, then moved to sit alongside the stranger.

'Why were you waiting for me?'

'You are one of the echoes of the Great Song, Parmenion. There have been many before you and there will be many after. But I am here to offer my help. First, though, how is it you greet my magic with such indifference? Has anyone else ever moved a mountain for you?'

'I have seen the magi turn staffs into snakes and make men float in the air. And there is a magician in Susa who can make men think they are birds, so that they flap their arms and try to fly. Perhaps the mountains are still there, but you stop us seeing them. I care not. Now what is this Great Song you speak of?'

'It is a war between dream and nightmare. An eternal war. And you are part of it. Homer sang of it, transferring the battles to Troy. Other nations sing of it in different ways, placing it in different times, through Gilgamesh and Ekodas, Paristur and Sarondel. They are all echoes. Soon we will see the birth of another legend, and the Death of Nations will be at the centre.'

'I know nothing of this, and your conversation is plagued with riddles. I must thank you for your food and your hospitality, but let us speak frankly: who are you?'

The man chuckled and leaned back against the trunk of the flowering tree. 'Straight for the heart, eh? Ever the general. Well, there's no harm in that, my Spartan friend. It has served you well over the years, has it not? Me? As I said, I am a scholar. I have never been a warrior, though I have known many. You remind me much of Leonidas the Sword King. He was a man of great prowess, and had a gift for making men great.'

'The Sword King died more than a century ago,' said Parmenion. 'Are you telling me you knew him?'

'I did not say I knew him, Parmenion. I said you reminded me of him. It was a shame he felt he had to die at Thermopylae; he could have made Sparta truly great. Still, he also was a strong echo of the Great Song, 300 men against an army of 200,000. Wondrously brave.'

'When I was in Thebes,' said Parmenion, 'there was a man who tried to teach me to catch fish with my bare hands. Talking to you reminds me of those days. I hear your words, but they slip by me, the meanings obscure. How can you help me?'

'At this moment you do not need me, Spartan,' said the man, his smile fading. Reaching out, he gripped Par-menion's arm. 'But there will come a time. You will be given a task, and my name will come into your mind. It is then that you must seek me out. You will find me where first we met. Do not forget that, Parmenion — much will depend on it.'

Parmenion stood. 'I will remember, and once more I thank you for your hospitality. If we go back the way we came, will we see again the river and the mountains?'

'No. This time you will emerge in the hills above Pella.'

The grey-haired man stood and offered his hand. Parmenion took it, feeling the strength in the grip. 'You are not as old as you look,' said the Spartan with a smile.

There is great truth in that,' the man answered. 'Seek me out when you have need. And by the way, even as we speak the Thracian King is dying, poisoned by one of Philip's friends. Such is the fate of greedy Kings, is it not?'

'Sometimes,' agreed Parmenion, vaulting to the stallion's back. 'Do you have a name, scholar?'

'I have many. But you may call me Aristotle.'

'I have heard of you — though never as a magus. It is said you are a philosopher.'

'I am what I am. Ride on, Parmenion — the Song awaits.'

The trench was more than 200 feet long, the fifty men digging with picks and shovels through layers of clay and rock, the sun beating down on their bare backs as they laboured. Other soldiers worked to clear the debris, which they threw on to the banks of the trench.

Philip drove his pick into the ground before him, feeling his shoulders jar as the metal edge struck rock once more. Laying the tool aside he dropped to his knees and dug into the clay, hooking his fingers around the stone and dragging it clear. It was larger than he had first thought, its weight as great as that of a small man. He was about to call for help when he saw several of the men looking at him and grinning. He smiled back, placed his arms alongside the rock and heaved it to his chest. With a powerful surge he rose and rolled the offending stone to the bank. Then he climbed out and walked the line of the trench, stopping to speak to the workers, gauging their progress.

At each end the trench turned at right-angles, the workers following the lines of ropes pegged to the ground. Philip walked back from the site and pictured the new barracks. It would be two storeys high, with a long dining-hall and seven dormitories housing more than 500 men. The architect was a Persian who had been trained in Athens, and Philip had demanded that the building should be completed by next spring.

The workers were all soldiers from the Pelagonia and Lynkos districts to the north-west, land currently occupied by Bardylis and his Illyrians. The men worked cheerfully enough, especially when the King struggled alongside them, but he knew they remembered his promise that they could return to their homes within three months of the victory against the Paionians.

That was five weeks ago — and still there was no treaty with Bardylis. Yet, looking on the positive side, Philip thought that was promising, for the Illyrians had not marched further into Macedonian territory and Bardylis was considering Philip's offer to marry his daughter. As a gesture of good faith and 'continuing brotherhood' Bardylis had requested that the Macedonian King hand over to Illyria all the lands between the Bora mountains and the Pindos range; six districts in all including Pelagonia, rich in timber, with good grazing and fine pastures.

'Ugly brides do not come cheaply, it seems,' Philip had told Nicanor.

Now the King was ridding himself of tension by sheer physical labour. The trench would be finished by tomorrow, then the footings could be completed and he could watch, with pleasure, the growth of the barracks.

No simple structure of wood and mud-brick, the frontage would be carved stone, the roof clay-tiled, the rooms airy and full of light.

'But you are talking of a palace, sire,' the architect had objected.

'And I want three wells and a fountain in the central courtyard. Also a special section for the commanding officer, with an andron to accommodate twenty — no, thirty men.'

'As you wish, sire. . but it will not be cheap.'

'If I wanted cheap, I would have hired a Spartan,' Philip replied, patting the man's thin shoulder.

The King wandered to a pile of rocks and sat down. A workman brought him a goblet of water from a cool stone jar; it tasted like nectar. He thanked the man, recognizing him as the burly, bearded warrior who had led the cheering after the first battle.

'What is your name, friend?'

'Theoparlis, sire. Most call me Theo.'

'It should be a fine building, Theo. Fit for the troops of the King.'

'Indeed it will, sire. I am sorry I shall not enjoy the pleasure of living in it, but in two months I shall be returning to my wife in Pelagonia — is that not true?'

'It is true,' agreed Philip. 'And before another year is out I will come to you there — and offer you a place in this fine barracks and a house for your wife in Pella.'

'I will look forward to your visit,' said Theo, bowing and returning to his work. Philip watched him go and then swung his gaze to the east, where two riders were making their way from the city centre. He drained his water and watched them. The lead rider wore a bronze breastplate and an iron helm, but Philip was more intent on the horse, a chestnut stallion of some sixteen hands. All Macedonian nobles were raised as horsemen, and Philip's love of the beasts was second to none. The stallion had a fine head, eyes set well apart — a good indication of sound character. Its neck was long, but not overly so, the mane cropped like a helmet plume. Philip strolled towards the riders, angling so that he could see the stallion's back and flanks. Its shoulder-blades were sloping and powerful, which would give the beast long sweeping strides, making it fast and yet comfortable to ride. Straight shoulders, Philip knew, led to jarring steps and discomfort for the rider.

'You there!' came a voice and Philip glanced up. The second rider, a short stout man riding a sway-backed grey gelding, was pointing at him. 'We are looking for the King. Take us to him.'

Philip studied the man. He was bald, but red and silver hair grew over his ears like a laurel crown. 'Who wants him?' he asked.

'That is none of your concern, peasant,' snapped the rider.

'Gently, gently, Mothac,' said the other man, lifting his leg and jumping to the ground. He was tall and slim, though his arms were well muscled, showing the scars of many fights. Philip looked up into the man's eyes; they were pale blue, but the face was tanned to the colour of leather, making them as grey as storm-clouds. Philip's heart leapt as he recognized Parmenion, but quelling the urge to run forward and embrace the Spartan he kept his face free of emotion and wandered forward.

'You are a mercenary?' Philip asked.

'Yes,' replied Parmenion. 'And you are a builder?'

Philip nodded. 'It is to be a barracks, I am told. Perhaps one day you will be quartered here.'

'The footings are deep,' observed the warrior, walking to the trench and watching the workmen.

'There are occasional earthquakes,' Philip told him, 'and it is essential for the foundations to be sound. It does not matter how pretty the building — without good foundations it will fall.'

'The same is true of armies,' said the warrior softly. 'Did you fight against the Paionians?'

'I did. It was a good victory.'

'Did the King fight?'

'Like a lion. Like ten lions,' said Philip, smiling broadly.

The man nodded and was silent for a moment, then he turned to the King and he too smiled. 'I am glad to hear it — I would not wish to serve a coward.'

'You seem sure the King will employ you?'

The warrior shrugged. 'Did you like my horse, sire?'

'Yes, he is a fine. . how did you know me?'

'You are much changed from the boy I saw in Thebes, and I might not have recognized you. However, you are also the only man not working — and such, I would guess, is the King's prerogative. I am hot, and my throat is dusty — and it would be pleasant if we could find a place out of the sun and discuss why you asked me here.'

'Indeed we shall,' said Philip, smiling broadly. 'But first let me say that you are a prayer answered. You have no idea how greatly you are needed.'

'I think I have,' answered Parmenion. 'I remember a young boy telling me of a country surrounded by enemies — Illyrians, Paionians, Thracians. A soldier remembers such things.'

'Well, it is worse now. I have no army to speak of and little but my wits to hold back our foes.

Gods, man, but I'm pleased to see you!"

'I may not stay,' warned Parmenion.

'Why?' Philip asked, a cold fear touching his heart.

'I do not yet know if you are a man I would wish to serve.'

'You speak frankly, but I cannot question the wisdom behind the words. Come with me to the palace; there you can bathe and shave and refresh yourself. Then we can talk.'

Parmenion nodded. 'Did you really fight like ten lions?' he asked, his face expressionless.

'More like twenty,' replied Philip, 'but I am modest by nature.'

Parmenion climbed out of the bath and strolled to the window, allowing the water to evaporate from his skin, cooling it. Running his fingers through his thinning hair, he turned to Mothac.

'What did you think of him?'

Mothac shook his head. 'I don't like to see a King in a loincloth, digging dirt like a peasant.'

'You've been among the Persians too long, my friend.'

'Will we stay?'

Parmenion did not answer. The journey had been long across Asia Minor and into Thrace, crossing mountains and rivers. And despite the saving of a week's travel after the meeting with Aristotle, he was tired and felt the dull ache of the old spear-wound under his right shoulder. He rubbed himself down with a towel, then lay on a couch while Mothac massaged oil into his back.

Macedonia. It was greener than he had imagined, more lush. But he experienced a slight disappointment, for he had hoped to feel that he had come home. Instead it was just another land, boasting tall mountains and fertile plains.

Dressing in a simple tunic and sandals, he wandered out to the courtyard to watch the setting sun.

He felt old and bone-weary. Epaminondas was dead — slain at Mantinea just as Tamis had foretold.

Parmenion shivered.

Mothac brought him a pitcher of wine and they sat in comfortable silence. As the sun set Mothac lit a lantern and the two men ate a frugal meal of bread and cheese.

'You liked him, didn't you?' asked Mothac at last.

'Yes. He reminds me of Pelopidas.'

'He'll probably end his life the same way,' remarked Mothac.

'By Heaven, you're in a sour mood,' snapped Parmenion. 'What's wrong with you?'

'With me? Nothing. But I want to know why we left Susa to come here. We had the life of princes; we were rich, Parmenion. What does this frontier land hold for us? The Macedonians will never amount to anything. And what do you have to gain here? You are known as the greatest general in the civilized world. But it is not enough, is it? You cannot resist the impossible challenge.'

'You are probably right. But I asked you if you wanted to stay in Persia. I put no bridle on you, Mothac.'

The Theban grunted. 'You think friendship has no chains? Well, it has. Even to following you — and your pride — into this wilderness with its half-Greek barbarians.'

Parmenion reached out and gripped his friend's arm.

'You shame me, Mothac. And I am sorry if this enterprise does not meet with your approval. I don't understand all the reasons that drew me here. Partly it was the call of blood. My ancestors lived on this land, fought for it, died for it; I had to see it. But there is truth in what you say. I know what men call me, but are they correct? I have always led well-trained armies, mostly outnumbering the enemy. Here, as you observe, there is a challenge. The Illyrians are disciplined and well-led, the Thracians ferocious and many, the Olynthians rich enough to hire the best mercenaries. What glory would there be in leading any of them? But Macedon?' He smiled. 'I cannot resist it, my friend.'

'I know,' said Mothac wearily. 'I have always known.'

'That we would come to Macedonia?"

'No. It is not easy to put into words.' He was silent for a while, his green eyes fixed to Parmenion's face. Finally he smiled, reaching forward to grip his friend's shoulder. 'I think -

deep inside — you are still the mix-blood boy in Sparta, striving to prove your worth. And, if you succeed here — which is doubtful — you will hunt the impossible challenge elsewhere. And the foolish Mothac will be with you. And now I'll say goodnight.' The Theban rose and walked away to his rooms.

For a while Parmenion sat alone, his thoughts sombre, then he strolled out into the gardens beyond the courtyard and up the steps of the high wall, where he leaned on the parapet looking south towards Thessaly.

Mothac was right, he knew. The boy Savra remained within the general Parmenion — sad and lonely, still seeking a home, a love, happiness. He had hoped to find it in Persia, in wealth and renown.

But fame was no answer, and fortune merely served to remind him of all the joys he could not buy.

All was darkness beyond the city, but somewhere out there to the south Pelopidas had fallen, fighting alongside the Thessalians against the Tyrant of Pherae. The enemy advancing on all fronts, Pelopidas had charged into their centre, cleaving his way towards the Tyrant. It had changed the course of the battle, but the Theban had died in the charge. The victorious Thessalians had cut the manes and tails from their horses in honour of the dead general.

Parmenion shivered. He had thought Pelopidas invulnerable. 'But no man is,' he whispered. 'May the gods bless your spirit, Pelopidas. May you know joy in the Hall of Heroes.'

'Do you believe that he does?' asked Philip, moving up the steps and sitting opposite Parmenion.

The older man sighed. 'It would be fitting. You should have seen him at Leuctra — like a god of War he clove the enemy, striking down the Battle King.'

Philip nodded. 'While you charged the enemy centre, sending their javeliners and archers running from the field. It was your victory, Parmenion, the forerunner of many more in Cappadocia, Phrygia, Egypt, Mesopotamia. You have never lost. Why is that?'

'Perhaps I fight like twenty lions, sire.'

'It was a serious question, strategos.'

'Your barracks supplies the answer. The footings must be right, the foundations solid, the walls resting on firm ground. An army needs many things, but above all it needs confidence, belief that it will win the day. Training gives confidence, those are the footings. Good officers are the foundations.'

'And the walls?' asked the King.

'Infantry, sire. No army can hope to conquer without good infantry.'

'Could you build me an army within a year?'

'I could — but what would you do with it?'

Philip chuckled. 'We are in a difficult position here, you and I. You are a mercenary — which means that at any time you could be standing alongside Cotys or Bardylis. I cannot tell you all my plans. And I would guess that, unless I do, you will not serve me. How do we resolve this problem?'

'Tell me all you have done so far, sire, leaving nothing out. And that includes the murder of your stepbrother.'

'Why not?' answered Philip. For almost an hour the King spoke of his efforts to stave off disaster, of his wooing of Athens, his offer to Bardylis and his assurances to Cotys in Thrace. At last he faded to silence and looked at Parmenion's face in the moonlight. The Spartan was expressionless, his eyes locked to Philip's.

'And that is all?' he asked finally.

Philip considered lying, but on impulse shook his head. 'No, that is not all. Cotys may already be dead.' He watched Parmenion relax.

'Indeed he is, sire. But that still leaves the pretender Pausanius.'

'Who also will soon be dead,' said Philip, his voice barely above a whisper. 'That is all I can tell you.'

'How many men would you require within the year?'

'Two thousand horsemen, and 10,000 infantry.'

'Too many,' said Parmenion. 'They would be inadequately trained. Content yourself with 6,000 foot-soldiers — that should give you enough men to tackle Bardylis. How does your treasury stand?'

'Almost empty,' admitted Philip.

'Then your first action must be to relieve the governor at Crousia and restore your fortunes. Then you must purchase armour and weapons. In Phrygia they make fine breastplates of baked leather, lined with thick cloth — not quite as effective as bronze, but lighter. The Phrygian helm is also highly regarded.'

'You are giving me good advice, strategos, but you do not say whether you will join with me.'

'I'll stay for the year, sire. I'll train your army. After that. . we'll see.'

Philip stood and gazed out over the lantern-lit city. 'Normally it is the King who is petitioned, but here you have reversed the position. What did I say that made you decide to stay?'

'It was nothing you said, sire. It was something you did.'

'But you will not tell me?'

'Exactly, sire. Now to the terms. Tomorrow I would like to meet those of your officers and friends who are presently in Pella. My position will be that of First General, answerable to no man but yourself. I will warrant no argument as to the methods I use in training the men, nobles or peasant. You will give me your full backing in everything connected with training. Do you agree?'

'I agree. But what will you be seeking to do first?' asked Philip.

'The formation of an elite force, the King's Infantry Companions, the Royal Guard — 500 men, the best you have.'

'Like the Sacred Band of Thebes?'

'Better,' said Parmenion. 'For they will be Macedonian!'

With the trench foundation complete, the soldier workers made way for the stone-masons, carpenters and wall-builders. Idle now, the men gathered in small groups to dice and gamble and talk of going home. Rumours spread through the ranks. The King was preparing to invade Illyria, to win back their homelands, the Thebans were marching on Pella, the Thracians were massing an army.

Theo took little notice of the stories. He was more interested in events closer to the capital, and listened intently to the gossip about the pale-eyed Spartan now seen with the King and his officers. Only yesterday those same officers had been seen running in the hills, sweat shining on their bodies, their legs trembling. It had been a source of much amusement for the men. Horsemen did not take well to running. The Spartan had run with them, long loping strides that carried him far ahead, drawing them behind him like tired hounds in pursuit of a stag.

But, despite the amusement it offered, it set Theo to thinking. Why should they run? What point was there?

Now 100 volunteers had been sought to attend the Spartan at the new training field. Theo was the first to step forward.

One hour after dawn he rose from his blankets and joined the straggling line of men who wandered to the field where the Spartan sat waiting. The man was wearing a woollen tunic and carried no weapons. Yet around him were stacked wooden shields and a pile of short clubs.

When the men had gathered he gestured for them to sit, then cast his eyes slowly over the group.

'What is the prime objective in a battle?' he asked suddenly, lifting his hand, finger pointed. He stabbed it out in the direction of a man to theleftofTheo.

'To win it,' answered the man.

'Wrong.' The finger moved again and Theo could feel the tension around him as men willed it to pass them by. The Spartan's hand dropped to his lap. 'Does any man have an answer?'

Theo cleared his throat. 'Not to lose it?' he said.

'Good,' said the Spartan. 'Think about that for a moment.' His pale eyes studied them. 'Victory in battle is a fickle spirit that floats in the air, never knowing where to settle. A cavalry charge smashes the enemy, forcing the opposing King to retreat. Has he lost? Not yet. If his flanks can close in around the cavalry, robbing them of mobility, he can yet draw Victory to him. But, if he does, has he won? No, not if the cavalry are tight-knit and continue to drive directly at him, killing his guards. Why did Bardylis destroy your army?' Once again the finger rose, pointing at a man at the rear of the group.

The gods favoured him,' answered the man, to a chorus of approval.

'Maybe they did,' said the Spartan. 'But, in my experience, the gods always favour the clever and the strong. You lost because your King — a brave and dynamic man — threw everything into a single charge. When it failed — he failed. You failed.'

'And the Spartans would have done better?' shouted a man behind Theo.

'Perhaps not,' snapped Parmenion, 'but you will. The King has asked me to find for him a special group of fighting men. They will be the King's Companions, and they will fight on foot.'

'We are horsemen,' said the same man. Theo glanced round, recognizing Achillas.

'Indeed you are,' agreed the Spartan, 'and as such you will earn your twenty-five drachms. But the men I select will be double-pay men. Each will have fifty drachms a month. Those men interested should remain, the others are free to return to their duties.'

Not a man moved: fifty drachms was a fortune. They were all small farmers, needing money for the purchase of horses, or bulls or goats, or cereal seed. It was not a sum to be dismissed lightly.

The Spartan stood. 'Be warned that from every hundred I may choose only five, maybe ten men. The King desires the best. Now stand.'

As they rose Parmenion opened a box by his side and took out a small brooch the size of a man's thumbnail. It was made of iron. 'On this brooch is the club of Heracles. When a man has five of these, he will have won his place in the King's Company. With every badge goes a prize of ten drachms. The first will be won by a man who can run. Ten circuits of the field. Prepare yourselves.' The men began to remove their breastplates. 'Stop,' said Parmenion. 'When you charge the enemy you will not discard your armour. You will run as you are. Go!'

They set off at a murderous pace that faltered within a lap. Theo settled in at the centre of the leading group, feeling his breastplate rubbing at the back of his neck. By five circuits the leaders had pulled half a lap clear of the following pack, and by seven had started to overtake the back markers. Theo finished fifth and slumped to the ground as Achillas stepped up to receive his badge.

The Spartan waited until all the men had finished.

'Take up shields and swords,' he ordered them. The swords were wooden, but of the same weight and length as the short stabbing blades used by most hoplites. 'Now we will see how you fight,' he said. 'Choose an opponent and form into two lines. You will fight only until a blow is struck which with a real sword would kill or disable. The loser will walk back to sit on the right, the victor to the left.'

The contest took more than an hour and by the end the men were cheering the finalists as they circled one another, blocking with shields, lunging, parrying. Theo had won his first two bouts, but had been beaten on the third. Achillas had reached the last four, but had lost to Damoras who now fought Petar, a man from Theo's area in the north of Pelagonia. Damoras was stronger but Petar, the shorter man, had greater speed and his wooden blade cracked against Damoras' skull, causing his opponent to stagger. 'Killing blow!' shouted Parmenion. Petar dropped shield and sword and punched the air with delight, taking his badge from Parmenion and holding it up for his friends to see.

'Now, gentlemen,' said Parmenion, 'for a little amusement. Pair off with the first man you fought.' As the warriors shuffled into place the Spartan lifted two badges from the box. 'You will run five laps of the field, carrying your partner on your back. You may choose when to carry, or be carried. But the first pair to return here will receive a badge each.'

Theo found himself paired with a slender man from Lyncos. There was little chance of the warrior being able to carry him at speed, so Theo offered to do the carrying. The man leapt to his back.

'When you are ready!' yelled the Spartan. 'Go!'

The fifty pairs set off. Theo, his powerful legs pumping hard, took an early lead; but before half a lap he felt himself losing strength. Gritting his teeth he struggled on, being passed by several pairs. On the second lap he had to stop. The slender warrior tried manfully to keep up with the pack, but under Theo's formidable weight he stumbled and fell. Theo had regained his breath. The problem was trying to run while holding his partner's legs in place. Pushing the man in front of him he ducked down, lifting the warrior to his shoulders. The man hooked his legs behind Theo's back and the huge Macedonian set off in pursuit of the pack. There was no question now of changing places and Theo did not try to sprint. Conserving as much of his strength as possible for the final lap he slowly reeled in the leaders. By the final circuit Theo was third. The second pair stumbled and fell, leaving him chasing Achillas and his partner.

Achillas was tiring as Theo came up behind. The man Achillas was carrying glanced back, and shouted to his partner to put in an extra effort. But Achillas was finished; he dropped his partner and ran around to change places. It was all Theo needed. Putting in a last desperate push, he reached the finish two paces ahead of the second pair.

Parmenion stepped forward with the victors' badges, but the young warrior with Theo refused.

'I did not earn it,' he said.

'What is your name, lad?' asked the Spartan.

'Gaelan.'

'What shall I do with the badge, Gaelan?'

'Give them both to my partner. He did all the work.'

'And what do you say?' Parmenion asked Theo.

Theo put his arm around Gaelan's shoulder. 'We were a team.' He took the badge from Parmenion and pressed it into Gaelan's hand. 'We won as a team and will share the prize."

'Good,' said the Spartan. 'A fine way to end a morning's work. Go away and eat. Return in two hours, when the final badges will be won.'

As Parmenion sat alone at the training field, drinking water and eating a simple meal of figs and fruit, the King rode up with two of his officers.

'How goes it, strategos?' Philip asked.

Parmenion rose and bowed. 'There are some with promise,' he said. 'But we shall see.' He strode forward, rubbing his hand down the chest of the King's horse. 'A good animal — fine lungs and strong legs.'

'A Thracian sire and a Macedonian dam,' Philip told him, patting the stallion's neck. 'But he's young yet; he'll learn. Will you sell me your stallion? He would make a magnificent breeder.'

Parmenion laughed. 'I'll not sell him — but you are free to put him in with your mares. I daresay he will enjoy the experience.'

Philip nodded. 'Tell me, are all Persian cavalrymen mounted on such beasts?'

'No, sire. He is special, from the Great King's herd. Only the Royal Guard will have mounts of similar quality.'

'And how many men make up the King's Guard?'

'One thousand, sire.'

Philip looked thoughtful, then he grinned. 'Tune for the hunt,' he said. 'I will leave you to your lunch.' Touching heels to the stallion he cantered away towards the distant forest, his officers trailing behind.

Parmenion finished his meal and thought back to the morning's work. The Macedonians were game enough, sturdy and tough, but still he sensed their suspicion. One year to train 6,000 men, to build an infantry army from cavalrymen.

One day at a time, Savra, he cautioned himself. He glanced up to see the men returning; they formed a great semi-circle around him and waited for his orders.

'I want you to pick three generals from among you,' he told them.

'For what purpose?' asked Achillas.

Parmenion smiled. 'What purpose does a general serve? You will lead your men into battle — here on this training field. Now choose!'

Parmenion sat back and watched as the debates began, listening intently to the names proposed, studying the reaction of the men named. As he guessed Achillas was the first to be nominated, but the arguments raged on. Parmenion did nothing to interfere, even when tempers began to flare.

Theo stood up. 'Stop this!' he shouted. Silence fell. 'We'll be here for days if this keeps up.

Surely it is a simple task? The strategos has asked for three men. All those in favour of Achillas raise a hand.' Two-thirds of the men did so. 'Then Achillas is one,' said Theo. 'Now, many of you were shouting for Petar. How many in favour?' This time the vote was more evenly split, and Theo counted the hands before announcing Petar to be the second general. 'Who will nominate a third?'

asked the black-bearded warrior.

'I will,' said Parmenion. 'I nominate you — and there will be no voting on it. Let the three generals step forward.' He stood with them before the seated men. 'Each of you in turn will select a warrior to make up your army. One at a time, so that no one can say any general had a greater advantage. You will each choose twenty-five men. Achillas, you may begin.'

Parmenion walked back to his seat and watched the process. In the early stages the chosen men stood, raised their hands and walked out to stand behind their leader, while the others cheered.

But as the choosing continued a hush settled over the waiting men. No one wanted to be left unchosen and the tension grew. As the last man was selected, Parmenion turned to the generals.

'Over there, by the trees, you will find shields and weapons. Go, arm yourselves.' As they trooped away, Parmenion turned to the twenty-two men still seated.

'There is no worse feeling in the world than this,' he told them. 'When I was a young man in Sparta many games would begin this way. Always I would be the one chosen last, or chosen not at all. We can tell ourselves that it is unfair; we can tell ourselves the choosers were wrong.' He scanned their faces. 'But ultimately we must accept that we have been judged by our fellows. Some of you will have been left here because you are small, weaker than your friends. Others will be here because they are not popular with any of the three generals. It does not matter why. I am now your general for this. . test. We will compete with the others, and we will see if they were wrong. Now follow me.'

He led the disconsolate group to where the others waited. 'Gentlemen, this will be your first battle as infantry units. The rules are simple. Each force has a general. The object for the enemy will be to kill or capture that general — which will be considered done if any warrior touches an enemy general. Is that understood? Good. Achillas, take your warriors to the southern end of the field, Theo to the west, and Petar to the east. When I give the signal you can move forward

— against any other group. I will command the northern section. One last point: there are two badges to be won here. One will go to the general commanding the victorious army, the second will be awarded by that general to the man he believes was the most valiant of his men. Generals, take up your positions!'

The groups marched off, armed with shields and clubs. Parmenion turned to the men waiting patiently behind him. 'Look at the weapons,' he said. There were clubs and shields, but beyond them ten-foot-long staves left in a ragged pile.

Theo called his men together at the western edge of the field. 'The most dangerous group will be led by Achillas,' he told the warriors. 'He is closer to Petar than to us. We will march across the field towards them, but hold back as they clash, then we will hit the victor.'

'What about the Spartan?' Gaelan asked.

'You've seen the men he has,' Theo answered. 'We'll keep a watch on him. I think he will also hang back.'

Achillas' group was the first to move and, as Theo suspected, they angled directly towards the men with Petar. With a great shout they surged forward, clashing with the enemy, clubs cracking against shield and skull. One of Petar's men broke through, racing at Achillas, who leapt back from a blow and then cracked his club against the warrior's chin, stunning him. Petar fell under a series of hits. But then Theo and his group charged in, taking Achillas from the rear. The warrior tried to seek refuge behind his men, but Theo leapt at him, bearing him to the ground.

The Spartan!' yelled Gaelan. Theo rolled to his feet.

'Back!' he ordered his men. Pulling out of the melee, his group locked shields and watched the Spartan approach. His smaller group was also in tight formation.

'Do we charge them?' asked Gaelan.

'Wait!' replied Theo.

The defeated men sat down to watch the clash. Suddenly the Spartan's force surged forward, their long staves lancing out to punch men from their feet. Theo's front line went down. 'Move back!'

Theo bellowed, and the men ran to the southern end of the field, turning once more to face the advancing formation. Swiftly Theo outlined a plan to Gaelan and the others. Then they waited, shields locked together. Once more the Spartan's army charged. The front rank again went down, and the enemy pushed on over them, closer to Theo who had placed himself at the back of his force.

Inside the Spartan square Gaelan rose from beneath his shield and touched Parmenion on the shoulder with his club. 'Killing blow!' shouted Gaelan.

A great cheer went up from the watching warriors. Parmenion took hold of Gaelan's arm and raised it in the victor's salute, then he led all the men back to the north of the field.

'This afternoon,' he told them, 'you saw almost all the major problems faced by infantry. Petar, you experienced what happens when a charge comes unexpectedly, the sheer force of it carrying the enemy through to the centre. Achillas, you suffered the double envelopment, being hit on your flank as you engaged Petar. Theo, despite being the victor, you saw what happens when a foe is better armed, the spear giving greater length and penetration than the sword. Your ploy was a good one and I do not belittle it; indeed I will learn from it. But in a real battle, though you might have destroyed the enemy general, your troops would have been cut to pieces — and you would have died in the process.'

He presented the badges, watching with pleasure as Theo handed the second to Gaelan.

'Tonight all badge-holders will be given their prizes. Now, gentlemen, you may return to your duties — all except the generals.'

As the men wandered away, Theo, Achillas and Petar sat down with Parmenion. 'Tomorrow,' said the Spartan, 'I will be riding south to Aigai to begin training the men there. I will be gone for a week. During that time you will bring the men here every day; you will make them run, you will fight mock battles and you will issue badges. One of you will command, the other two will be under-officers. For this you will all be paid an extra drachm a day.'

'Which of us is to command?' asked Achillas.

'Who would you choose?'

'Myself,' Achillas said.

'And, if it was not to be you, who then?'

Theo.'

Parmenion turned to Petar. 'For whom would you vote, if not yourself?'

'Theo,' answered the blond-bearded warrior.

'Before you ask me,' said Theo, 'let me say that I cannot make a choice. Achillas is an old friend and a warrior I respect. Petar is a good man, but I do not know him well. I sense that I will have the deciding vote on this issue, and I protest the unfairness of such a vote. You are the strategos. We are all strangers to you and you have seen us — and judged us. So play no more games, Parmenion. You choose!'

'You have a fine mind,' said Parmenion, 'but do not complain of life's unfairness. It is never fair — at best it is impartial. I believe that all three of you have qualities of leadership, but at this moment I would not presume to judge which of you has the greatest potential. All of you are fine swordsmen, brave men. Each of you has won the respect of his fellows. I will ask you to decide now, among yourselves, who is to lead the training.'

The men looked at one another, but it was Achillas who spoke first.

'It should be Theo,' he said. Petar nodded in agreement.

'So be it,' said Parmenion. 'I thank you all. Now, Theo, let us walk together and discuss strategy.'

'It is an insult!' stormed Attalus. 'Twenty men! How can a King travel into hostile lands with only twenty men?' A murmur of agreement ran round the officers gathered in Philip's throne-room.

'What do you say, Parmenion?' asked the King.

'Bardylis is the victor. He destroyed Macedon's army. He wants the world to see that you go to him as a supplicant and not as a King.'

'And your advice?'

'Do as he says,' Parmenion answered.

'What else would you expect from a Spartan?' hissed Attalus. Parmenion chuckled and shook his head as Philip gestured Attalus to silence.

'Give us the benefit of your reasoning,' he urged Parmenion.

'It does not matter what the world sees now. In fact it could be argued that it is better for Macedon to seem. . vulnerable. What we need is time. Next year you will have an army the equal of Bardylis. A year after that, and it will be the envy of Greece.'

'But,' said Nicanor, 'there is the question of pride, of honour.'

'This is the game of Kings, young man,' Parmenion fold him. 'Today Philip must suffer for his brother's defeat. But soon it will be others who will feel the shame.'

'What of you, Antipater?' asked Philip. 'You have said littie.'

'There is little to say, sire. I agree with Attalus. The situation is not to my liking. Yet you must go — or there will be no wedding. Without the wedding, an invasion is sure.'

Philip sat back on his couch and looked at the four men. So different all of them, but each with unique skills. Cold-eyed Attalus, who could kill without remorse as long as it served to further his ambition. Nicanor, gloriously brave and doggedly loyal, a man who would ride into the whirlwind if Philip ordered it. Antipater, cool and efficient, a warrior respected by the army.

And Parmenion, who in a few short weeks had revitalized Macedonian morale, gathering a core of warriors and filling them with pride and camaraderie.

So different in looks too: Attalus thin and hatchet-faced, his skin tight around his cheekbones, his teeth too prominent, giving him the appearance of a hastily covered skull; Nicanor almost feminine of feature, fine-boned and honest-eyed; Antipater, his black beard shining like a jaguar's pelt, his dark eyes keen, observing more than his expressions showed; Parmenion, tall and slim, seeming younger than his forty-two years, his pale eyes so knowing.

On you all will I build Macedonia, thought Philip. 'We will take only four riders,' he said suddenly. 'We here will ride to Illyria and collect my bride.'

'That is worse than madness, sire,' protested Attalus. 'There are robbers, outlaws, people dispossessed of their homes.'

'We will not ride alone all the way,' Philip assured him. 'Only the last few miles in Illyria.

There we will be met.'

'But why only four, sire?" Nicanor asked.

The King gave a cold smile. 'Because I choose four. No man, not even Bardylis, tells Philip how many will accompany him.'

After the meeting Philip walked with Parmenion out into the palace gardens. 'How is the training coming, strategos?

'Better than I had hoped. Until the new armour arrives from Phrygia we are keeping the work simple

— running, single combat and a few elementary unit exercises. What is heartening though, sire, is the quality of the men and their willingness to accept new ideas. I already have several under-officers of great potential.'

Philip nodded and the two men walked to a quiet area at the back of the gardens, sitting in the shade of a high wall. 'I know it would be easier for you, Parmenion, if we could gather all the men in one place. But you know why I cannot. If word gets out that I am building an army, Bardylis will invade swiftly.'

'Only if he believes he is the target,' Parmenion pointed out. 'When you see him, explain that you are planning to strike against the Paiones, that you are tired of their incursions into Macedonian territory.'

'You don't know Bardylis, he's the wiliest wolf in all of Greece. He must be around eighty now -

even the goddess of Death can't seem to summon up the courage to claim him.'

'How strong is his hold on Illyria?'

'Strong enough,' Philip answered. 'There are three main tribes, but the Dardanoi of Bardylis are by far the strongest. And his army is well trained and disciplined. Better than that — they are used to victory. They won't crack.'

'We'll see,' said Parmenion.

Philip rose. 'I am riding east to Crousia. The gold supplies have started again — but they are low. While I am gone, you will have charge of the army. All reports will come to you.'

'How long do you plan to be away?'

'No more than two weeks. Then we head for Illyria — and my marriage.'

Philip took 200 warriors with him on the ride north-east towards the towering Kercine mountains north of Crousia. He had never seen the mines, nor met the governor there, Elyphion. But reports of the man were not promising: he had close links with Cotys, the late King of Thrace, and was a second cousin to the murdered pretender, Pausanius. But still Philip was prepared to forgive these connections, if he could woo Elyphion to his cause.

They crossed the river Axios and rode across the great Emathian plain, passing through villages and towns, woods and forests. Game was plentiful here and they saw the tracks of bear and lion, boar and deer. It was said that to the north there were panthers with black pelts, but none had been seen in a hundred years.

Just before dusk on the third day Philip led his troop up a high hill, cresting it as the sun was sinking behind the western peaks of Mount Bermion. The sky was heavy with broken grey clouds, and beyond them sunlight turned the heavens to purple and crimson. Philip hauled on his reins and stared out over the rolling grasslands, the forests and the mountains, shading his eyes against the setting sun.

'Why are we stopping, sire?' asked Nicanor, but Philip ignored him, his keen gaze swinging to the east, past the proud, rearing peaks of Mount Messapion and on to the mighty Kercine mountains, stone giants with beards of snow and cloaks of timber.

Around the King the men waited. Philip dismounted and walked to the hill's crest. The wind blew at his cloak, the night cold whispering against his bare arms, but the beauty of the land was upon him and he felt nothing but the spell of the sunset.

Nicanor approached him, laying his hand on the King's shoulder. 'Are you well, Philip?' he asked softly.

'Look upon it, my friend,' said Philip. 'Long after we are dust the land will still be here, these mountains and forests, the plains and the hills.'

'They are all yours. Everything you see belongs to you.'

'No. That is folly. I am the steward, no more than that. But that is enough, Nicanor. This is a proud land. I can feel it, seeping into my bones. I will not see it conquered-not in my lifetime.'

Striding to his horse, he took hold of its mane and vaulted to its back. 'Ride on!' he ordered.

Six days of easy travelling brought them to the foothills of the Messapion range, where they camped in a hollow surrounded by trees.

'Tell me more about the governor Elyphion,' Philip ordered Attalus. 'I want to be prepared tomorrow.'

Attalus spread out his cloak and lay alongside the fire. 'He's fat — very fat. He dresses always in blue. He has three wives, but spends most of his time with young boy slaves. He has been governor for eleven years. He has a palace that rivals any in Pella — even yours. He is a collector of statues and works of art — most of them Persian.'

Philip grunted. 'My gold supplies dry up, but he collects works of art and builds a palace! I think I am beginning to know the man. What of the mines themselves? How are they run?'

'How would I know, sire? I have never seen one.'

'You will tomorrow,' Philip assured him.

'What a fascinating prospect,' muttered Attalus. Philip laughed and thumped him on the shoulder.

'Aren't you interested in where our gold comes from?'

'No,' admitted Attalus, 'only that it comes.'

'What of you, Nicanor? Do you wish to see the mines?'

'If you command it, sire. But what is there to see? Men grubbing in the earth like moles. Darkness and stench. And as they go deeper, the constant danger of a roof-fall. I want to be buried when I am dead, not before.'

Philip shook his head. Then I give you leave to seek the fleshpots of Crousia. Antipater will accompany me.'

'A singular honour for him,' Attalus sneered.

'It is always an honour to walk with the King,' said Antipater, masking his anger, though his dark eyes remained fixed on Attalus.

'You do not like me, do you?' asked Attalus, sitting up and returning the soldier's stare.

'I neither like you nor dislike you, Attalus. In fact I think of you rarely.'

'Be careful how you speak to me!' Attalus snapped. 'I make a bad enemy.'

'Be silent, the pair of you!' stormed Philip. 'You think we do not have enough trouble? When Macedonia is free then. . perhaps… I will allow you to declare your enmity. Perhaps. But know this, if either of you fights I will have the winner executed. If you cannot be friends for my sake, then at least suffer one another. You understand me?'

'I wish for no enmity, sire,' said Attalus.

'Nor I,' added Antipater.

Philip settled down in his blankets, his head resting on his folded lionskin chabraque, and gazed at the bright stars — so distant, so far from all the troubles of the world. He closed his eyes, and slipped into sleep.

He was walking on a grass-covered hillside under a silver moon when he saw the woman sitting beneath a spreading oak. He looked around, surprised that he was alone. When he approached her and bowed, she looked up, pushing back the dark hood of her cloak. Her face was pale and beautiful, her eyes dark and yet luminous.

'Welcome, Great King,' she whispered. He sat beside her.

'I am not great, woman. But I am a King.'

' You will be great — that is the promise ofAida; the gods have decreed it. But there is something you need, Philip. There is a talisman you must acquire.'

'Where do I find it?'

'It will find you. Look!' She pointed down the hill to where a small stream was sparkling in the moonlight. There sat a second woman. 'Go to her — and know the joys of the universe.'

Philip was about to ask a question when the dark woman vanished. He stood and walked to the stream. The woman there was little more than a girl, her figure slim, her breasts small and round.

Her hair was red, like reflected firelight, her eyes green as jewels. When he knelt beside her she reached out and stroked his beard, her hand dropping to his chest and stroking his belly. He realized he was naked, as she was, and passion flooded him. He pulled her down to the grass, kissing her face and neck, his hand caressing her inner thigh. He could feel his heart pounding.

'Love me!' she whispered. 'Love me!'

He entered her, and so exquisite was his pleasure that his orgasm was instant. Incredibly though, he stayed erect, his passion seeming inexhaustible. He felt her trembling beneath him, moaning and crying out. He rolled from her, but she would not let him go — stroking him with gentle fingers, caressing him with soft lips. Finally he groaned and rolled to his back, where he lay with his arms around her.

'Who are you?' he asked her. 'I must know. I must have you.'

' You will see me again, Philip. With you I will have a child, the son of a King.'

'Where can I find you?'

'The time is not yet. I will meet you two years from now on the Island of Mysteries. There we will be wed; thereyour son will be conceived.'

'Your name, tell me your name!'

'Tell me your name!' he shouted.

'What is it, sire?' asked Nicanor, moving to where the King lay. Philip opened his eyes and saw the stars, bright in the night sky.

'It was a dream,' he whispered. 'A gift from the gods.'

Unable to return to sleep, Philip sat for the rest of the night reliving the scene of his vision.

In two years, she had said, she would be on the Island of Mysteries. Samothrace.

He had never been there — had never wished to. But now, he knew, only death would stop him from keeping that appointment.

Soon after dawn he woke the others and they rode down into the valley of the mines. Crousia was not a large settlement, fewer than 1,000 people dwelt here, and Elyphion's palace overshadowed the town with its white pillars and elegant statues, its high pointed roof bearing a beautiful relief showing the goddess Athena rising from the brow of her father Zeus.

The 200 riders reined in their horses before the building and Philip dismounted. An elderly servant emerged from an outbuilding and stood slack-jawed, staring at the army before the palace.

'You!' shouted Philip. 'Take my horse.' The man stumbled forward.

'Are you. . expected?' he asked, his eyes fearful.

'I would hope not,' answered Philip, tossing him the reins and striding towards the huge double doors beyond the pillars. Attalus, Nicanor and Antipater followed him into the building and the four men stopped in the great hallway within. Persian carpets covered the floor, statues lined the walls and an enormous mosaic decorated the ceiling — showing the Trojan prince, Paris, with the goddesses Aphrodite, Hera and Athena.

Philip felt almost humbled by the awesome surroundings. He noticed that his muddy boots had marked the carpet, and that his hands were grime-smeared.

'Elyphion!' he bellowed, the word echoing in the marble hallway. Servants ran from hidden doorways with panic in their eyes. One, a slender boy with golden hair, cannoned into Antipater and fell to his knees. The soldier helped him to his feet.

'Don't kill me!' the boy begged.

'No one is going to kill you,' Antipater told him. 'Fetch your master. Tell him the King is here.'

'Yes, sir.' The boy began to move towards the stairs, then turned. 'I am sorry sir, but. .

which King?'

'The King of Macedonia,' said Antipater.

An older man stepped forward and bowed to Philip. 'Sire, perhaps you would like to wait in the andron. I shall fetch you refreshments.'

'At last,' said Philip, 'a servant with his wits about him.' The group followed the man into a long room to the right. Here there were silk-covered couches, and the walls were painted with hunting scenes: riders chasing a white stag, Heracles slaying the Nemean lion, archers loosing their shafts at a huge bear. 'By the gods,' said Philip, 'it makes Pella look like a cattle-shed.

I would be envious, if it wasn't for the fact that it was built with my gold.'

The servant brought them wine from Elyphion's vineyard — red, sweet and fortified with spirits.

Philip lounged down on a couch, lifting his filthy boots to the silk and smearing mud on the cloth.

His mood was dark and his companions said nothing as they waited. At last Elyphion appeared.

Attalus had said the man was fat, but this proved an understatement — great folds of flesh hanging beneath his chin, his enormous belly pushing at the blue Persian robes he wore. His dark hair was cut short and sat atop his head like a small, badly-fitting cap. He tried to bow, but the belly defeated him.

'Welcome, sire,' he said. 'Had I only known of your visit, I would have prepared a sumptuous welcome.' The voice was deep and attractive, as indeed, Philip noticed, were the man's large brown eyes.

'I came to see the mines,' Philip said.

'But why, sire? There is little for a man of breeding to see. Great gaping holes in the earth, and a few tunnels full of stench. I will gladly show you the smelting houses.'

Philip's voice dropped low and a dangerous glint showed in his eyes. 'You will show me what I wish to see,' he said slowly. 'You will do this, Elyphion, because you are my servant. Now, take me to the mines.'

The King rose.

'Yes, of course, sire, I will just dress; I will not be long.'

'Attalus!' snapped Philip.

'Yes, sire?'

'If this fat fool disobeys one more instruction, take your knife and open his belly from groin to throat.'

'Yes, sire,' Attalus replied, grinning at the mortified Elyphion.

'Now, sir — the mines, I think,' said the King.

'At once. . sire,' stammered Elyphion. The fat governor shouted for his carriage and within minutes a wagon was brought to the front of the palace. Drawn by four black geldings, it resembled a giant chariot save that it had a wide cushioned seat. Elyphion settled himself in place and a servant climbed in beside him, flicking the reins.

Despite their avowed disinterest in mining Attalus and Nicanor rode behind Philip, unwilling to miss the King's visit.

They rode for almost an hour until they came to a small valley where the earth had been gouged as if by a huge pick. Far below them they could see the slaves digging in the earth, and others shuffling from tunnels in the hillside.

Slowly the riders descended.

Nicanor's eyes raked the working groups. Both men and women laboured here, their skeletal bodies covered in weeping sores, while around them stood guards armed with short, wicked whips. To the right a woman carrying a basket of rocks stumbled and fell, cracking her head against a boulder.

She did not cry out, but wearily pushed herself to her feet and stumbled on.

Ahead Philip rode to the nearest tunnel mouth and dismounted.

Elyphion climbed ponderously from the wagon. 'As you ordered, sire. This is the mine.'

'Take me inside.'

'Inside?'

'Are you deaf?'

Elyphion walked slowly towards the darkness of the tunnel, halting to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Lanterns hung from the walls, but the tunnel was full of choking dust.

Elyphion's servant, the man who had led the King to the andron, poured water on a linen cloth and gave it to his master. Elyphion held it to his face and walked further into the mine. The ground sloped ever down and the air grew thick and stale. From far ahead, they could hear the sound of metal tools hacking at rock.

A shower of dust clattered to Attalus' breastplate and the warrior glanced nervously at the timbers shoring up the roof. One of them showed a split, through which earth was filtering.

Still they walked on.

They came to the body of a young woman which had been pushed to the side of the tunnel. Dirt had covered her eyes and filled her open mouth. The tunnel roof was lower here and they walked on with heads bowed. But it dropped lower still.

Elyphion stopped. Tdon'f know what you want to see, sire,' he whimpered.

'Move on!' ordered Philip. Elyphion dropped to hands and knees and began to crawl forward. Philip turned to the others. 'Wait here,' he said, then followed the governor.

Nicanor turned to Attalus. 'Do you think we could move back just a little, to where the roof is higher? Would Philip mind, do you think?'

Sweat was streaking the grime on Attalus' face. He felt cold and full of fear; but he stood his ground and looked at Antipater. 'What do you think?' he asked.

'I… er… do not believe the King would object,' Antipater answered. The three men inched their way back to the wider tunnel, stopping where they could just see the glint of sunlight in the distance. There they waited. Nicanor could not stop himself from staring at the dead woman.

'Why did they not bury her?' he asked.

'You saw the slaves,' said Antipater. 'They've barely the strength to stand.'

'It's like a valley of the damned,' whispered Antipater. Footsteps came from the tunnel entrance and the three men moved back as a line of slaves bearing empty wicker baskets on their backs shuffled by them, heading into the gloomy depths of the mine.

'I am going back to the sunlight,' said Nicanor. 'I can't stand this.'

'The King said to wait,' Attalus reminded him. 'I like it no more than you do. But let us be patient.'

'I think I will go mad if I don't get out of here,' Nicanor replied, his voice rising in pitch.

Antipater put his arm on the young man's shoulder. 'Someone should go and tell the men that everything is all right. We have been down here a long time, and some of them may be concerned.

Wait for us outside, Nicanor.'

As Nicanor nodded and ran back towards the light, Attalus turned on Antipater. 'Who are you to countermand the King's order?' he hissed.

'The man was close to cracking. If I had not allowed him to go, he would probably have run anyway.'

'So? He would have run. What has that to do with you?'

Antipater nodded as understanding came to him. 'I see. He might have fallen from favour. Gods, Attalus, do you have no friends? Is there no one you care for?'

'Only a weak man needs friends, Antipater. And I am not weak.'

Antipater said nothing, and the two men waited in silence for what seemed an age. Finally the fat figure of Elyphion appeared, his blue robes streaked with grime. Behind him came the King, his face thunderous; he stalked from the tunnel out into the sunlight, dragging in great gulps of air, then he turned on Elyphion. The fat man stepped back a pace, seeing the fury in the King's eyes.

'What have I done, sire? Tell me? I am loyal, I swear it!'

Philip could hardly speak. 'Someone get me a drink!' he thundered, and Nicanor ran forward bearing a water skin. Philip rinsed his mouth and spat out the water. 'This is my gold-mine,' he said at last. 'Mine. Macedonia's. Tell me something, fat fool, what do you need in order to get gold from the ground?'

'Tools, sire. Picks, digging tools. . baskets.'

'And who uses these tools?'

'As you see, slaves, criminals, thieves, murderers. Men are sentenced and sent here. Women also.'

'You do not see it, do you?' roared Philip. Around them all work had ceased; the guards with their whips were no longer watching the labourers, who sank wearily to the ground, dropping their tools.

All eyes were on the unfortunate Elyphion.

'I see only that I have done my best,' whimpered Elyphion. 'The gold is not as plentiful as once it was, but is that my fault? The veins go deeper, where we cannot follow.'

Philip turned towards a guard. 'You!' he bellowed. 'Fetch everyone from the mine. Get them all into the daylight.' The man bowed and ran towards the tunnel. 'Elyphion,' said the King softly, 'I could forgive you your greed, your lust for wealth. I could even forgive your theft of my property. What I cannot forgive is your stupidity. Tools, yes. But what kind of an imbecile allows his tools to reach such a state? Starved to the borders of death, covered in sores, living without hope, how can these people work? Digging requires strength, powerful arms, a good back. For this a man needs food, good wholesome food, and wine for the spirit. Attalus!'

'Yes, sire.'

'You will take over the running of this enterprise. I will leave you with 100 soldiers. I want the slaves fed and rested for two weeks, and I will send others here. Find yourself a good foreman, and break the work-load so that each man works no longer than twelve hours.' Philip looked into the warrior's eyes and suddenly smiled. Attalus had no liking for this role and it showed. 'Also,'

concluded the King, 'you may keep one part in a hundred of all the gold mined.'

'Thank you, sire,' said Attalus, his eyes gleaming as he bowed low. 'But what of Elyphion?'

'Who is the foremost judge in Macedonia?' responded Philip.

'The King, sire.'

'Indeed he is. For his greed, I sentence Elyphion to five years working in this mine. See to it that he works well.'

Elyphion threw himself to his knees.'I beg you, sire. .'

'Get him out of my sight!' roared the King. Three soldiers dragged the weeping man away.

'What of his wives?' Nicanor asked.

'Buy them a house in Crousia and give them an allowance. The treasures are to be brought to Pella.

Where is the man's servant?'

'Here, sire. My name is Paralus.' Philip looked into the man's eyes. He was of medium height, his hair short and tightly curled, his nose hooked, his complexion dark.

'You are a Persian?'

'Phrygian, sire.'

'How long have you served Elyphion?'

'Since he bought me eleven years ago, when I was twelve.'

'How did you serve him?'

'At first I was his catamite — one of them. Then he had me trained to keep his accounts.'

'Where does he hide his gold?'

'There is a store-room beneath the palace.'

'Attalus, have the contents sent to me — less one hundredth. Now, Paralus, you have a new master.

Will you serve him well?'

The servant glanced from Attalus to the King. 'Sire, Elyphion promised me my freedom on my twenty-fifth year. He said he would then pay me for my work. Does his promise still hold true? Or do I remain a slave under this new master?'

'I give you a better promise. In three months you will be a free man. From this moment you will be paid according to the value Attalus sets on your work. Now I ask you again, will you serve us well?'

'I will, sire — and honestly.'

'Let it be so,' Philip told him.

Illyria, Autumn, 359 BC

Bardylis sat very still as the razor-sharp knife scraped away the hair beneath his braided top-knot. The skin of his scalp was loose and wrinkled, but the servant's hands were steady as the blade caressed the skin.

'One nick and I will have your hands cut off,' said Bardylis suddenly. The servant froze for a moment, then rubbed more oil into the King's face and head to soften the bristle. The knife slid over the skin above Bardylis' right ear, then the servant moved to stand in front of the King.

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

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

The man shrugged. 'I don't know, lord.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grigery bowed. 'Good morning, sire. I trust you are well?'

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

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

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

Grigery chuckled. 'I would imagine not.'

'Who are the four?'

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

'I know that name,' said Bardylis. 'I offered him employment.'

'He served the Great King in Persia, I understand. He was also a friend to the Theban Epaminondas.'

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

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

'Of course. Now that his army is destroyed he has little choice.'

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

'The man's a fool. Much as I would wish it otherwise, my interest in women perished a decade ago.

Still, let us turn to matters of greater importance; I want Philip well treated while he is here -

but also he must be made to realize who is the master now.'

'How should I engineer this, lord?'

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

'Which one, sire?'

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

'You will employ him?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Have you seen him?' asked Bardylis, holding his daughter's hands.

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

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

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

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

'Whatever pleases you,' she said. They sat and talked until Grigery returned and announced Philip.

Audata left swiftly but waited outside the throne-room, watching the scene through the partly closed door.

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

'A King should not kneel to another King,' chided Bardylis.

'But a son should honour his new father,' replied Philip, rising to his feet.

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

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

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

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

'Of course I will not forget.'

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

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

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

'I will be careful, Mother. I promise you.'

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

Parmenion swung his legs to the couch and relaxed, sipping the cooling drink. Like many of the southern Greeks, the Illyrians drank from shallow dishes. Only in Thebes had the Persian goblets found a natural second home. He finished the sylphium and settled back, his muscles weary from the long ride. The King had left his 20 °Companions near Mount Babouna in the south, promising to return within five days. They had been met by the man Grigery and 100 Illyrian cavalrymen. It was a tense ride to the Palace of Bardylis, and Parmenion was weary hours before they sighted the long, single-storeyed building. It was unadorned by statues and there were no gardens, merely stables for the King's horses; but the rooms they had been given were comfortable, and each man had been assigned a servant.

Parmenion was just settling down to sleep when he heard the sound of knuckles rapping at his door.

'Who is it?' he called.

'Grigery, sir. The King has requested your presence.'

Parmenion sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He glanced to his cuirass and helm where they lay on the floor alongside his sword, then stood and walked to the door, pulling it open. Grigery bowed. Parmenion stepped from the room and followed the warrior along the wide corridor to the King's apartments. The man walked well, perfectly balanced, moving on the balls of his feet. He was an athlete, Parmenion knew — and more than that, a warrior to watch.

Grigery ushered him in to an anteroom and announced him to Bardylis. To the Spartan's surprise the King was alone. He did not rise from his couch when Parmenion entered, but acknowledged the Spartan's bow with a wave of his hand.

'Welcome to my home, Parmenion. It is an honour to have such a famous general in Illyria.'

'It hardly matches the honour for me, your majesty. It is rare to be invited to a private audience with a King of such renown.'

'You speak well, Spartan, but let us put aside such niceties,' snapped the old man. 'Come and sit beside me, and tell me what you are doing in Macedonia.'

Parmenion sat alongside the King. 'A general moves where there is employment. I fear I almost outstayed my welcome in Asia. King Philip was kind enough to offer me a temporary commission.'

'Temporary?'

'I am to train a few hundred warriors in order that he may guard his borders with Paionia. And also to supply him with a royal guard.'

The King smiled, showing badly discoloured teeth. 'And what of Illyria? How does he feel about those borders?'

Parmenion thought swiftly. 'He does not like the current situation — but then, would you? But I have told him there is little he can do. It would take considerable resources, an army of mercenaries, and even then he would face a less than even chance of success.'

'You are extremely forthright,' said the King, surprised.

'I am speaking no secrets, your majesty. And I sense it would be… inappropriate to lie to you.'

'Would you come to my employment?'

'Of course, sire. But I have given my word to Philip that I will stay one year and train his Guard. After that? I will be seeking a new post. However, I do not think you need me. I am usually employed by men who have lost; very few victors have need of a mercenary general.'

'That is true,' Bardylis agreed. 'Tell me, do you like Philip?'

'Very much. He is a kind man, in some ways a gentle man. Where I have travelled, such men are few.'

'Is that why he did not kill the son of Perdiccas?'

'I imagine so, your majesty. But it is difficult to know all that is in the King's mind.'

'One last question, Parmenion: if Philip did raise an army, would you march against me?'

'Naturally, your majesty. I would be a curious general if I did not.'

The King chuckled. 'I could have you killed, you know.'

'All things are possible,' admitted Parmenion, looking closely at the old King. 'But I don't think you will.'

'Why?'

'Because you're bored, sire, and, small a threat as he is, Philip intrigues you.'

'You are an observant man. I think I should watch you. But go now — and enjoy your stay in Illyria.'

For three days Philip was feted as Bardylis arranged banquets, athletic displays, dances and the staging of a Corinthian comedy at a theatre on the outskirts of the city. The Macedonian King seemed to be enjoying the pageants, though for Parmenion the days grew increasingly irksome. The warrior Theoparlis seemed tense and upset, and twice Parmenion had seen him in conversation with the sneering Grigery.

The Spartan approached Theo as the crowds left the theatre.

'Is everything all right?' he asked.

'I am well,' responded Theo, striding on ahead.

Parmenion put the problem from his mind as Philip came alongside, linking arms. 'A good play, did you not think?' Philip asked.

'I am not a lover of comedies, sire.'

Philip leaned in close. 'To marry someone like Audata, a man must need to love comedy,' he whispered.

Parmenion chuckled. 'There is more to love than beauty, I am told.'

'Yes, but looks must count for something. I sat with her for two hours yesterday, and throughout that time I sought one physical feature that I could compliment her on.'

'What did you find?'

'I thought of telling her she had very nice elbows.'

Parmenion laughed aloud, the tension easing from him. 'What happened then?'

'We made love.'

'What? In her father's palace? Before the wedding? And how did you manage it — if you found nothing attractive in her?'

Philip looked suddenly serious. 'I had a dream, Parmenion. I pictured the woman I saw in it — the woman I will meet next year on Samothrace.' As they walked back to the palace, Philip told the Spartan of the mystic encounter.

'And you are sure it was an omen?'

'I would stake my life on it — and I would give my life to make it true. She was wonderful, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She is a gift from the gods, Parmenion, I know it. She promised to bear me a son, a child born of greatness.'

As they approached the palace Philip took Parmenion's arm and stopped. 'This afternoon,' said the King, 'Bardylis wants me to see his army. It should be enlightening.'

'Indeed it should,' agreed Parmenion. 'So what concerns you?'

'Theoparlis. He has grown sullen, and I think the man Grigery has been baiting him. He must not be drawn into a fight. Antipater has been asking questions about Grigery; it seems he is the King's champion, and a demon with a sword."

'I shall prevent any duel between Macedonian and Illyrian,' promised Parmenion.

'Good. Have you seen Bardylis again?'

'No. I think I convinced him there was no intention of a war with Illyria.'

'Do not be too sure,' warned Philip. 'I think the man is a sorcerer, a reader of minds.'

In the afternoon Philip and his companions watched the Illyrian cavalry charging across a wide field, their lances bright in the sunlight. Then the infantry marched forward in phalanx formation. Each man was armed with a spear and a short sword and carried a square shield of bronze-reinforced wood; they wore crested helms, breastplates and greaves, though their thighs were bare. At an order from their general the phalanx smoothly changed formation, moving out in a long line three men deep, spears levelled. Philip and his Macedonians were standing at the edge of the field when the King noticed the Illyrians on either side edging back.

'Stand firm, no matter what,' whispered Philip.

With a thunderous roar the infantry charged. Philip watched the spearmen closing on him and, for a moment, wondered if this was the end of his life. It seemed that nothing could stop the charging mass, and that within seconds an iron point would plunge into his unprotected breast. But he stood still with hands on hips, facing the charging men.

At the last possible second the phalanx halted. Philip gazed down at a spear-point hovering a ringer's breadth from his chest. Slowly he lifted his hand to it, rubbing his thumb on the metal.

He looked into the spearman's eyes.

'There is rust on this,' he said softly. 'You should take better care.' Then he turned away.

Not one of his company had moved a muscle during the charge, and this filled Philip with pride.

Bardylis waved and Philip joined the old King on a wide seat at the head of a table laden with food.

Parmenion was about to take his seat at the table when he noticed Grigery and Theo some twenty paces away. Once more the Illyrian was making some sneering comment, and even from this distance Parmenion could see Theo's face redden, his hand moving towards his sword-hilt.

'Theo!' he roared, and the soldier froze. Parmenion walked over to the two men. 'What is happening here?' he asked.

'This louse-ridden dog has challenged me,' said Grigery.

'I forbid it,' stated Parmenion.

'It is not for you to forbid anything in Illyria,' retorted Grigery, his dark eyes gleaming.

Parmenion took a deep breath. 'Did Theoparlis strike you?' he asked softly.

'No.'

'I see. So, there was nothing like this,' said Parmenion, lashing Grigery's face with a backhanded blow that spun the man from his feet. A great roar went up from the officers who were preparing to dine. Parmenion ignored the warrior, who was scrambling to his feet, and walked to Bardylis. He bowed low.

'Your majesty, I must apologize for this unseemly scene. But your man, Grigery, has challenged me to battle with him, and I seek your permission to accept.'

'It was not with you!' Grigery shouted.

'Then you do not wish to fight the man who struck you?' asked Parmenion.

'Yes… I mean. .' His eyes turned to the King.

'All men have seen the beginning of this quarrel,' said Bardylis. 'Now we must see the end. I give you permission to fight.'

'Thank you, lord,' said Parmenion. 'Might I — as a guest — ask one favour? It seems only right, since we have interrupted a fine meal, to give you a spectacle not just of skill, but of courage.

Would you therefore have any objection if we fought in the manner of Mesopotamia!! nobles before their King?'

Bardylis stared hard at Parmenion. He had no idea of how Mesopotamia!! warriors fought, but equally had no intention of disclosing this fact.

'As you will.'

'Let a brazier be prepared,' said Parmenion, 'with hot coals to the depth of a man's forearm.'

Bardylis ordered two servants to fetch the brazier. Parmenion walked some distance from the table, and Philip and the others joined him there.

'What in Hades is happening here?' Philip asked.

'I had no choice, sire. I promised you no Macedonian and Illyrian would fight. Whatever happens here will be seen to be between a Spartan and a warrior of Bardylis.' He swung to Theo. 'There is honey on the table. Fetch it — and some red wine. Find bandages and soak them in the wine.'

'What is this manner of fighting?' asked Antipater.

'It is something new,' Parmenion told him.

'You lied to Bardylis?' the King whispered.

'Yes. You need not worry, sire; he cannot read minds.'

Four servants, using crossbars of thick wood, carried a burning brazier out into the field.

Parmenion removed his breastplate and helm, tunic and greaves and, drawing his sword, walked out to stand before the brazier. Nonplussed, Grigery also stripped himself and moved to stand opposite him. The King and his officers formed a circle around the warriors and waited for the battle to begin.

'You need a fire to keep you warm, old man?' asked Grigery.

'Do as I do,' Parmenion told him. The Spartan turned to the brazier and thrust his sword-blade deep into it; leaving it there, he stood back with arms folded across his chest. Grigery plunged his blade alongside Parmenion's.

'Now what?' the Illyrian asked.

'Now we wait,' the Spartan told him, locking his gaze to Grigery's eyes.

Slowly the minutes passed. The spectators' eyes flicked from the naked men to the blades, which had begun to glow a deep red.

The leather binding on the grip of Grigery's blade twisted and cracked, then smouldered, black smoke rising from it. Slowly it peeled away. Parmenion's sword had a metal grip, bound with fine gold wire over snakeskin. The skin burst into flame, the wire falling loose.

'When you are ready,' said Parmenion, 'take your sword and begin.'

Grigery licked his lips and stared at the smouldering swords.

'You first,' he hissed.

'Perhaps we should do it together. Are you ready?'

Grigery reached out, but the heat close to the hilt was unbearable and his hand flinched back.

Gazing around the crowd, seeing their fascination with the contest, his eyes rested on the King whose features were cold. Grigery knew what was expected of him and he looked back at the red-hot sword.

The longer you wait, the hotter it will become,' said Parmenion mildly.

'You miserable whoreson!' screamed Grigery, his hand grabbing for his sword and wrenching it clear. The agony hit him as his flesh blistered and peeled away, sticking to the sword-hilt. With a terrible cry he hurled the weapon from him. Parmenion reached out his left hand, drew his sword from the flames and walked to Grigery.

The Spartan's face was without expression, but his breathing was quick and shallow, his teeth clenched and bared. Lifting the sword he wiped the gleaming blade across Grigery's chest. The sizzling of burning hair and flesh carried to all the listeners and Grigery leapt back, falling to the grass.

Parmenion turned to Philip and bowed, then he raised the red-hot blade and saluted Bardylis.

Parmenion's arm flashed down and the sword plunged into the earth by his feet. The Spartan walked through the crowd to where Theo waited with the honey, which he smeared on the blistered, weeping flesh. 'The bandages,' he croaked. Theo lifted them from the shallow wine dish, squeezed the excess liquid from them and carefully wrapped the general's hand.

'How did you do that?' asked Theo.

'Can't talk… at… the moment,' said Parmenion, closing his eyes as the cool bandages drew the heat from his palm. He felt sick and weak and his legs were trembling. Gathering his strength, he looked at Theo. 'Take the honey and the rest of the bandages to Grigery. Do it now!'

As Theo moved away, Parmenion heard footsteps approaching. He turned to see Bardylis and Philip, followed by a score of officers.

'You are an interesting man, Parmenion,' said the old King, 'and I should have known better than to allow a test of endurance against a Spartan. How is your hand?'

'It will heal, your majesty.'

'But you were not sure, were you? That is why you used your left.'

'Exactly so.'

'Are you strong enough to dine with us?'

'Indeed I am, sire. Thank you.'

The pain was indescribable, but Parmenion willed himself to sit through the meal, even to eat, contenting himself with the knowledge that Grigery was nowhere to be seen.

The Temple, Autumn, 359 BC

Life was increasingly difficult for Derae as Tamis' mental condition deteriorated. The old woman now spent her days sitting in the temple gardens, often talking to herself, and at times it was impossible to communicate with her. Her sense of despair had grown and the duties of the Temple rested on Derae alone. Every day supplicants would arrive — long lines of sick or crippled folk, rich and poor, waiting for the hands of the Healer.

The work exhausted Derae, especially now that the old helper Naza had died, and there was no one to do the work around the garden or to gather the vegetables planted in the spring.

Only occasionally did Derae find the time — and more rarely, the energy — to observe Parmenion.

Day by day she laboured on.

Then she herself fell sick, a fever coming upon her swiftly, leaving her legs weak and her mind hazy. Despite her powers she could not heal herself, nor tend to the sick who waited in vain outside the closed gates. Tamis was no help, for when Derae called out to her the old woman seemed not to hear.

For eleven days Derae lay sick and exhausted, floating between strange dreams and confused awakenings. Once she awoke to see, with her spirit eyes, a man beside her bed.

He had part lifted her and was spooning a broth into her mouth. Then she slept again.

Finally she awoke and felt the sunlight coming through the open window. With no sense of the passing of time, she knew only that she was tired but no longer sick. Her bedroom door opened and a man entered. Tall and grey-bearded, dressed in a runic of faded red, he carried a dish of water to her bedside and helped her to drink.

'You are feeling better, priestess?' he asked.

'Yes. Thank you. I know your voice, don't I? But I don't remember. .'

'My name is Leucion. I came here a long time ago and you advised me to go to Tyre. I took that advice. There I found love and a good wife, and we reared fine sons and two daughters.'

Derae lay back and spirit-gazed upon the man, remembering the look in his eyes as he had tried to rape her. 'I remember. Why did you come back?'

'My wife died, priestess, and my eldest son now sits at the head of the table. But I never forgot you. I wanted… I wanted to see you again. To apologize. But when I came here you were ill, and there was no help. So I stayed.'

'How long have I been in bed?'

'Twelve days,' said Leucion. 'At first I thought you would die, but I managed to get you to eat. I fed the old woman too, but I do not think she even knows I am here.'

'Eleven days? How is it that my bedclothes are so clean?'

'I changed them for you, and washed the others. When you are well again I shall leave.'

Derae took the man's hand. 'I thank you for your help, and I am glad you came back. I am glad also that your life has been happy. And if you are seeking forgiveness — I gave that a long time ago, Leucion.'

'There are many people waiting for you. What shall I tell them?'

'Tell them I shall be with them tomorrow.' Derae pushed back the covers and stood; her legs were unsteady, but she could feel her strength returning. Leucion brought her clothes and offered to help her dress. 'It is all right,

Leucion, I may be blind, but I can dress myself.' She chose a simple white gown and walked to the gardens, where Tamis was sitting by the fountain.

'Please don't hate me!' whimpered the old woman.

Derae cuddled her, stroking her hair. 'You look tired, Tamis. Why don't you rest?'

'It's all wrong. All of it. I haven't served the Light at all. It's my fault, Derae.' The younger woman took Tamis by the arm and led her to her own quarters. Tamis sank on to the bed and fell asleep instantly.

'Is she still taunting you?' whispered Derae, sitting beside the old priestess. 'Let us see.' She soared and looked around but there was no one close, and no sign or feel of the hooded woman. What then, Derae wondered, was the source of Tamis' despair? With the priestess asleep, she decided to find out. Never before had she entered Tamis' mind unbidden, but it was useless now to try to elicit information. Her decision made, Derae's spirit flowed into Tamis, becoming one with the sleeping woman. She saw many years flow by, felt Tamis' hopes, dreams, despairs; saw a child of unique talent become a woman of power and influence; watched her grow, observed — and shared — her lovers and her bereavements. Finally she saw the first vision Tamis had seen of the birth of the Dark God — and watched in horror as Tamis orchestrated the death of the Persian girl who was to bear the babe.

'We cannot use the weapons of the enemy,' Tamis had said. And yet, fifty years ago, the seeress had entered the mind of the pregnant Persian, taking control of her limbs. Then she had walked her to the top of the tower, forcing her to climb the parapet and leap to her death. Derae shook herself clear of the shared memory and, with growing unease, continued her journey. As the years moved on, her mood darkened. Tamis had begun to manipulate events. She it was who asked Xenophon to teach the boy strategy; she also used her powers to keep Parmenion separated from the other boys of his barracks, instilling in them a dislike for the young mix-blood.

But worst of all, Derae found the answer to a lifelong mystery.

Though she had loved Parmenion desperately, she had never understood why they had been so reckless in their love-making, so stupid and so open.

Now she saw. .

Now she knew. .

For, as with the hooded woman in Tamis' dream, so Tamis herself had floated above the lovers, using her power to blind them to peril, urging them on, driving them to their destruction.

Worse, it was Tamis who had spirit-led the raiders to her, Tamis who had caused her horse to bolt, leaving her with no escape. It was Tamis who had filled Nestus with the craving for vengeance, who had planted in him the desire to see Derae killed.

Tamis had engineered it all.

Parmenion had been manipulated, steered like a horse with invisible reins — led to Thebes, led to Persia, led to Macedonia.

But the last lie was the worst of all. Derae saw herself battling against her bonds in the sea after being thrown from the ship. The leather at her wrists had stretched in the water and she had torn her hands free and swum for her life, the thunder of the breakers coming ever closer. She was strong and young, and she had battled the force of the deep almost to the beach when a huge wave picked her up and dashed her head against a rock. Seconds later, Naza had waded out and dragged her in to the shore.

'She is alive!' said the old man.

'Carry her to the temple,' Tamis ordered. Alive! Not chained by the bonds of death at all. Lies, lies, lies! She could have left at any time and gone to Parmenion; she could have saved him from his life of emptiness and torment.

'Phase don't hate me!'

Derae fled to her body and rose, staring down at the old woman as she slept. She wanted to strike her, to wake her and scream the truth at her.

A servant of the Light? A woman who professed to believe in the power of love?

Derae staggered back from the force of her own hatred and ran from the room, colliding with Leucion in the corridor beyond. She almost fell, but his arms went around her.

'What is wrong, lady?'

'Everything,' whispered Derae.

And the tears followed.

Pella, Spring, 358 BC

Philip watched the 1,000-strong Foot Companions form into a fighting square and charge across the field. At a shouted order from Parmenion they halted, still in formation, and wheeled to the left.

Another order saw the rear five ranks pull clear and stream out to widen the front line.

The discipline was good and the King was well pleased. He saw the men gather up their sarissas -

spears three times the length of a tall man — that Philip had personally designed. Each spear had an iron point and, at the base, a spike. The warrior in the front row of the phalanx held the sarissa shaft in the crook of his right arm, while a second man behind him took up the weight of the spear, ready to ram it forward into the enemy ranks. It was an unwieldy weapon, but Philip believed it would give the raw Macedonian infantry a tactical advantage in their first battles.

The phalanx would advance against the enemy, who would come to meet them expecting the surging, shoving clash of armoured men. But with the sarissa Philip felt he had an edge.

Parmenion was not so sure. 'They are formidable, sire, at the front, but an enemy could sweep to flanks, making them useless.'

'True, strategos, but to do that an enemy would have to change the tactics of his entire army -

tactics used for a century or more.'

'Even so, we need a secondary tactic of our own,' said Parmenion.

And he had supplied it.

No longer would Philip's cavalry adopt a frontal charge on the enemy; this would be left to the new infantry, the cavalry taking position on both flanks of the phalanx, forcing the enemy army in upon itself.

Day by day through the autumn and winter the army grew. Villagers and peasants flocked to Pella to undergo rigorous training in order to win the new Phrygian armour, the black breastplate and red-crested helm. By midwinter Parmenion had selected the men for the King's Guard, each of whom had black cloaks of the finest wool and a bronze-edged shield bearing the Star of Macedon at the centre. These had been purchased with gold from the Crousia mines. Under Attalus the mines had once more produced a plentiful supply of the precious metal, and Philip spent the proceeds even as they arrived in Pella: armour from Boeotia and Phrygia, horses from Thrace, marble from the south, cloaks from Thebes, builders from Athens and Corinth.

The barracks was finished now and the Guards lived there, eating the finest food, drinking only the best wine, but earning their privileges with extraordinary displays of endurance and stamina under the eagle eye of Parmenion.

Theoparlis and Achillas had remained with the King after his return from Illyria. Having seen their families in Pelagonia and supplied them with enough coin to last the winter, the two men now commanded phalanxes of infantry each 2,000 strong.

Achillas had won glory in Paionia, where Philip had blooded his new troops the previous autumn.

The Paionian King had been killed, his army put to flight. Philip rewarded Achillas with a golden-hiked sword.

For another hour Philip watched the soldiers in their training, then mounted his new black stallion and rode back to the palace at Pella.

Nicanor came to him there.

'The Queen is now settled hi the estate at Aigai,' Nicanor told him. 'Simiche said she was glad of the company.'

'How is Audata?'

'She suffered sickness on the ride, but she is well. The physicians are with her; they are still concerned over the narrowness of her hips, and her age. But the seers say the pregnancy will go well for her; according to Diomacus, she will have a daughter.'

'She wanted to stay in Pella,' said Philip, 'but I told her it would be best to move south.' He sighed. 'She's not a bad woman, Nicci. But I do not want her here. This palace is for a special bride.'

'The dream again?'

'It keeps coming to me, each time more powerful than the last. I can see her now more clearly than I see you.'

'She is bewitching you, Philip,' said Nicanor, his eyes betraying his concern.

'If she is, then it is an enchantment a man would die for — or kill for. She tells me we will have a son — a man of unique greatness. I believe her. And I must build a kingdom worthy of him. But I cannot do it while I am paying such a high tribute to Bardylis.'

'What will you do?'

Philip smiled. 'I have already done it. I have cancelled the tribute.'

'Does Parmenion know?'

'Is he the King here?' thundered Philip.

'No, sire; that is not what I meant. Bardylis will have no choice but to invade. Are we ready?'

'I think that we are,' said Philip. 'Macedonia's time has come, and I will not travel to Samothrace as another man's vassal. When I bring her home, it will be to a victorious nation.

Either that or I shall be dead and have no concern for sons and glory.' Taking Nicanor by the arm, he leaned in close. 'What I am saying now must not be repeated to any man.'

'I will say nothing,' promised Nicanor. Philip nodded.

'Macedonia will be free,' said the King.

Later, after Nicanor had left, Philip moved to the long window in the western wall and sat watching the sun falling behind the distant mountains.

He had not told Nicanor everything, nor would he.

The grand strategy had begun. First Bardylis, then Thessaly to the south, then Thrace to the east.

And then. .?

Ever since the first dream, Philip's ambition had grown day by day. He began to see events in a different way, on a larger scale. For centuries the great cities had sought to impose their will on their fellow Greeks, but all had failed. Mighty Sparta, invincible on land; Athens, Queen of the Seas; Thebes, Lord of Boeotia. None had succeeded for long. They never would, Philip realized, for ultimately their dreams were small, bound to their own cities.

But if a nation should rise up strong, confident and far-sighted, then the cities would topple and all of Greece would be free to be united, to be led into battle by a single warrior King.

Then would the world tremble.

Philip shivered. What am I thinking? he wondered. Why has this ambition never shown itself before?

Because you are a King now, whispered a small voice in his mind. Because you are a man of power and insight, wisdom and courage.

By the time Parmenion arrived to give his report, the King had consumed several jugs of wine. He was in a merry mood, witty and convivial, but the Spartan sensed a tension behind the good humour.

The two men lounged on couches and drank until near midnight; it was then that Philip asked the question Parmenion had been waiting for.

'So tell me, strategos, are the men ready?'

'For what, sire?' Parmenion hedged.

'To fight for the freedom of Macedonia.'

'Men are always ready to fight for freedom. But if you are asking me whether we can beat the Illyrians, I don't know. In another six months we will have 2,000 more men trained; then my answer will be yes.'

'We do not have six months,' said Philip, refilling his wine cup.

'Why is that?' asked Parmenion mildly.

'I have cancelled the tribute. We have less than six weeks before the Illyrian army crosses the mountains.'

'May I share your reasoning?' enquired Parmenion.

'I spent the money on armour and weapons, so there is nothing left for Bardylis. Can we beat him?'

'It depends on what tactics he chooses, and on the terrain. We need flat ground for the infantry, and space for the cavalry to strike at his wings. But then, sire, it is down to the fighting soul of the army.'

'How do you see the battle developing?'

Parmenion shrugged. 'The Illyrians will begin confidently, expecting another easy victory. That will be an advantage for us. But when we push back, they will form the fighting square. After that it is down to strength, courage and will. Something will crack, break. . them or us. It will start with one man turning to run, the panic spreading, the lines shifting and pulling apart. Them or us.'

'You are not filling me with confidence,' muttered Philip, draining his wine.

'I am confident enough, sire. But we will be evenly matched — there is no question of a guaranteed victory.'

'How is your hand?' asked Philip, switching the subject.

Parmenion lifted his left hand, opening his fingers for the King to see the scarred flesh of his palm. 'It has healed well enough, sire, for me to hold a shield-strap.'

Philip nodded. 'The men talk of that day. They are proud of you, Parmenion; they will fight for you; they will not break unless you do. They will look to you — you will be the fighting soul of Macedonia.'

'No, sire — though I thank you for the compliment. They will look to the King.'

Philip smiled, then laughed aloud. 'Give me this one victory, Parmenion. / need it. Macedonia needs it.'

'I shall do my best, sire. But long ago I learned the hazards of placing everything on a single race.'

'You won, though,' Philip pointed out.

'Yes,' said Parmenion, rising. He bowed and walked from the palace, his thoughts in turmoil.

Why had the King taken such a terrible risk? Why not delay until the result was more sure? Philip had changed since the dream-woman had come to him, becoming at times more moody and intense.

The following morning Parmenion called his main under-officers to him and walked with them on the training field outside Pella. There were twelve men in the group, but foremost of these were Achillas and Theoparlis — two of his first recruits.

'Today we begin a new series of training routines,' he told them, 'and the men will work as never before.'

'Is there something we should know?' Theo asked.

'An army is like a sword,' Parmenion told him. 'Only in battle can you judge its worth. And now ask no further questions. Concentrate on the men under your command — find the weak ones and remove them. Better to be undermanned than to carry a coward into battle.'

Slowly he looked around the group, meeting each man's eyes.

'Sharpen the sword,' he told them softly.

The Lyncestian Plain, Summer, 358 BC

The two armies were drawn up in battle order on a dusty plain a day's ride into Upper Macedonia.

The Illyrians, with 10,000 infantry and 1,000 cavalry, outnumbered the Macedonians by almost two to one.

Philip dismounted and walked to the Foot Guards, who sent up a cheer as he hefted his shield and took his place at the centre of their ranks. Parmenion remained mounted with Attalus and Nicanor beside him, 400 cavalrymen waiting patiently behind. The Spartan looked beyond the three phalanxes to where Antipater commanded 300 Macedonian horsemen on the right flank; the black-bearded warrior was issuing last-minute instructions to his men.

'By Hecate,' whispered Attalus, gazing at the Illyrian lines, 'there are enough of the whoresons.'

'There will be fewer later,' Parmenion assured him. The Spartan tied the chin-straps of his white-crested helm and glanced once more at the enemy ranks less than a half-mile distant.

Bardylis had drawn up his men in a fighting square with the cavalry to his right. The old wolf had gained the first advantage, Parmenion knew, for the square would be hard to break and, in the first stages of the battle, this could damage Macedonian morale beyond repair.

'Forward!' bellowed Philip, and the Guards lifted their sarissas and marched towards the enemy, the phalanxes of Theo and Achillas close behind. Parmenion lifted his arm and touched heels to his stallion; the cavalry followed, angling out to the left of the marching men.

Dust billowed but a strong wind dispersed it, leaving a clear field of vision. Parmenion watched the Guards break into a run, his heart beating faster now as he studied their formation. It was still tight, compact. He willed it to remain so.

'Here they come!' shouted Attalus. Parmenion wrenched his eyes from the infantry to see the Illyrian cavalry charging across the plain.

'Remember the wedge!' yelled Parmenion, raising his spear and kicking the stallion into a gallop.

The Macedonians streamed after him.

Closer and closer came the horsemen, their lances levelled. Parmenion raised his buckler, chose his opponent and then risked a glance to left and right. Attalus and Nicanor were beside — and just behind — him, the cavalry forming a giant spear-point. Parmenion looked to the front, where bearing down on him was a yellow-cloaked rider on a chestnut gelding. Parmenion's eyes moved to the man's lance, which was resting across his mount's neck; as the point flashed up, he kneed his stallion to the left and his opponent's lance slashed the air by Parmenion's face. At the same time the Spartan stabbed his own weapon into the warrior's throat, hurling him to the ground.

Blocking a thrust from another spear, he plunged his lance into the unprotected belly of an Illyrian rider. As the man fell, Parmenion's lance snapped. The Spartan drew his sword and hacked and cut his way deep into the enemy ranks.

The Macedonian wedge split the Illyrians, who tried in vain to gallop clear and re-form. But as they did so Antipater came from the right, thundering into their flanks. Caught now in a pincer, the Illyrians battled for survival.

A sword clanged against Parmenion's helm and a spear thudded against his breastplate, dropping to open a narrow gash in his thigh. His own sword rose and fell, spraying blood into the air.

Slowly the Illyrians were pushed back into a tight mass where the majority could not fight, encumbered as they were by their fellows. Horses went down, trampling screaming warriors, and the cavalry battle became a rout — the Illyrians forcing a path to the south and fleeing the field.

Antipater set after them but Parmenion, Attalus and Nicanor recalled their own men and re-formed behind the battle-lines.

Philip had no time to watch the clash of the horsemen. As the Guards came within thirty paces of the Illyrian line, he ordered a halt. The phalanx slowed, then stopped, allowing Theo's regiment to link on the left, Achillas holding back to prevent a flank attack on the right.

They were close enough now to see the faces of the enemy and the wall of spears and shields that awaited them.

'Victory!' bellowed Philip.

The line moved forward, 300 shields wide, ten deep. As they closed on the Illyrian square, the Macedonian front line dug in their heels and halted once more — the sarissas held loosely, points gleaming in the sunlight. The men in the second rank lifted the hafts of the long spears and, at a shouted order from Philip, ran forward, propelling the awesome weapons into the first Illyrian rank. The iron sarissa points clove through shields and breastplates, punching men from their feet. Then the spears were drawn back to plunge yet again into the second rank.

In that first clash it seemed to Philip that the Illyrians would break and run, such was the panic that threatened to engulf the enemy. But then an Illyrian warrior, speared through the belly, seized the sarissa that was killing him and held on to it. Other men saw this act of defiant courage and followed his lead, grabbing at the wooden hafts and rendering the weapons useless.

'Down spears!' shouted Philip, whereupon the leading line dropped the sarissas and drew their short, stabbing swords. 'Forward!' the King yelled. Once again the Macedonians drove on, stepping over the bodies of the

Illyrian slain. But now the battle changed and the advancing line was stopped by the wall of Illyrian shields; Macedonians began to fall before the stabbing spears of Bardylis' hoplites.

Achillas, who had held back, saw the charge falter.

'Level spears!' he called, and led his men in a second charge to aid Philip's right. Once more the Illyrians fell back, the deadly sarissas opening their ranks, but soon these too were seized and rendered useless and all three Macedonian phalanxes were locked in lethal combat.

Parmenion and the cavalry waited and watched with growing concern.

'Should we ride in?' Nicanor asked.

'Not yet,' Parmenion told him.

'But they are holding us — and they have thousands more soldiers. The weight alone will force us back if they counter-charge.'

'Not yet,' repeated Parmenion. The Spartan stared at the milling mass, wishing he could be in there at the heart, willing Theo to recall the manoeuvres they had practised so many times.

The Macedonian line in front of Philip was torn open by an Illyrian unit. The King ran forward, stabbing his sword into the groin of the leading warrior who went down with a terrible cry. Philip leapt over him, ramming his shield into the face of a second warrior. Around him the Guards tightened the line, but the King was now hi the front rank, facing the spears and swords of the enemy.

To the King's left, Theo at last shouted the order Parmenion had been waiting for.

'Ranks seven! RANKS SEVEN!'

The men to the left pulled back, while those to the right locked shields, powering forward, swinging the phalanx and separating from the Guards. As the gap between the regiments opened the Illyrians surged forward, like the sea rushing through a broken dyke.

'Now!' screamed Parmenion, and the Macedonian cavalry kicked their horses into a gallop, aiming for the gap and the disordered Illyrians. Too late the enemy soldiers realized their peril and tried to re-form. But Macedonian warriors were now on both sides of them, the cavalry thundering towards them.

The Illyrians were tough men, seasoned in war. As best they could, they formed their shield-wall and waited. But the cavalry smashed through them and on into the heart of the Illyrian square.

All was chaos and confusion now — the square broken, the Macedonians, tight and compact still, grinding their way towards Bardylis and his generals.

The old King stood firm, his own royal guard closing in around him. But the battle had now become a massacre, the Illyrian hoplites cut down in their hundreds by the advancing Macedonians.

Bardylis tried one last desperate move, ordering his guards to attack the line where Philip stood; but the regiments of Achillas and Theoparlis had closed in, stabbing at their flanks. Even so, four warriors hacked and cut their way through to Philip. The King killed the first with a stabbing thrust to the throat, his guards closing on the other three, scores of blades hacking them down.

Bardylis waited for death, drawing his own sword and hefting his heavy shield. But on a shouted order from Philip, the Macedonians drew back.

'Come forward, Father,' called the Macedonian King. Bardylis sighed. Sheathing his sword, he eased through the last line of his guards and walked to stand before his son-in-law.

'I suppose you want me to kneel,' said the old man.

'One King should never kneel to another,' replied Philip, returning his sword to its scabbard.

'Was it not you who taught me that?'

'What do you require of me?'

'I want only my kingdom returned to me. All Illyrians and all of Illyrian blood will be moved to Illyria. The tribute will remain — save that it is you who will deliver it to me.'

'You have travelled a long way in a short time, my son. And you fought well. What happens now to Audata? Will you throw her aside?'

Philip saw the anguish in Bardylis' eyes and he moved to him, laying his hands on the old man's shoulders. 'She is dear to me,' Philip assured him, 'and she is pregnant. She has her own estate now, near the sea. But I will send her to you for a visit when the babe is born.'

Bardylis nodded, then turned to Parmenion who had dismounted and approached. 'I might have need of you now, Spartan,' he said, forcing a smile.

Parmenion said nothing, but he bowed deeply.

The old man turned away and walked to the surviving guards.

At that moment a tremendous cheer rose from the Macedonian ranks and Philip found himself hoisted to the shoulders of the guards and carried back from the field.

Parmenion stood and surveyed the battle site. Bodies were everywhere, men and horses; at that moment it seemed there were too many to count. Later he would learn of 700 Macedonian casualties, including Achillas and Petar. But 6,000 enemy warriors had perished on this day, the power of Illyria shattered beyond rebuilding.

'Help me,' came a voice from the ground by his feet, and Parmenion glanced down to see Grigery, his face a mask of blood. A sword had slashed across his brow, putting out both his eyes, and there was a deep wound in his groin. The lifeblood was pouring from him.

Parmenion knelt by the dying man, cradling his head.

'Did we win?' asked Grigery.

'Yes, we won,' said Parmenion.

'Who are you?' whispered the Illyrian, his voice fading.

'I am. . Savra.'

'Oh gods, there is so much blood in my eyes. Wipe them clear. I can't see."

'Rest, my friend. Lie back. Do not struggle. There is nothing left for you to fight for.'

Grigery lay quiet once more, and Parmenion thought he had died. But he spoke again. 'I… thought we… would lose. You know what they call. . the Spartan? The Death of Nations. Destroyed his own city. Everywhere he walks. . death follows. Not any more, though, eh, Savra?'

Grigery's head sagged back, his last breath rattling in his throat.

Sadness hit the Spartan and he rose and gazed at the sky. Carrion birds were circling, waiting for the feast.

The Temple, Summer, 357 BC

Derae sat at Tamis' bedside, waiting for the inevitable. The old woman had not eaten in over a week, nor spoken in days. When Derae took her hand it was hot and dry, the skin loose over bone.

Tamis' flesh had melted away and her eyes had a haunted, lost look that filled Derae with sorrow.

She tried to use her powers on the dying woman, but felt Tamis struggling against her.

It was close to midnight when the old priestess finally died. There was no movement or sound to indicate her passing. One moment her spirit flickered faintly, the next it was gone. Derae did not weep, though sadness filled her. Covering Tamis' face, she returned to her own room and climbed into bed.

Leucion had left by the bedside a jug of water and a bowl of fruit. But neither hungry nor thirsty, she drifted into a deep sleep.

The sound of music awoke her and she opened her eyes to an unfamiliar scene. She was beside a great lake sparkling in a natural bowl at the centre of a range of tall, snow-cloaked mountains.

Beside her sat a woman of wondrous beauty, tall and elegantly formed, wearing a long chiton of shimmering gold.

'Tamis?' whispered Derae.

'As once I was,' answered the priestess, reaching out and tentatively touching Derae's arm. 'What can I say to you?' she asked. 'How can I ask for forgiveness? I should never have lied, nor should I have meddled. Pride is not a gift of the Source and I fell victim to it. But we have little time, Derae, and I have much to tell you. Those ancient gateways I showed you, across continents and oceans — you must not use them. You must not pit yourself against the Dark God, or his servants.

They will corrupt you.'

'I can fight them alone,' said Derae. 'It is what you trained me for.'

'Please, Derae, listen to me! Go from the Temple. Find Parmenion. Do anything you will — but do not follow my path.'

Derae laughed then. 'Where were your doubts, Tamis, when you led the raiders to me, when I was tied behind the leader's horse? Where were they whenyoufloated above me, blocking my fears, urging me to rut with Parmenion and be damned for it?'

Tamis fell back from the Spartan's anger. 'No, please! I have asked forgiveness of you. Please?'

'Oh, Tamis, my friend,' said Derae softly, her eyes cold. 'I give you my forgiveness. But I saw how you prevented the last Dark Birth. How clever of you — to enter the girl's mind and get her to leap from the tower. Perhaps that is the method I will choose this time. I will think on it.'

'Stop this! I beg you, Derae. I was wrong. Do not continue my folly.'

Derae closed her eyes. 'I must stop the Dark Birth. You took away my life, Tamis — you lied, deceived, manipulated. If the Dark God succeeds, all is for nothing. I won't have that! lama Spartan and I will not surrender in this fight. Now,' she said, taking the woman's arm, 'tell me allyou know about the Birth.'

'I cannot!'

'You owe me, Tamis! For all I have lost. Now tell me. Or I swear I will bring death to Philip ofMacedon, and all other servants of the Dark God.'

Tears welled in Tamis' eyes. 'You are my punishment,' she whispered. 'You are Tamis born again.'

'Tell me what I need to know,' Derae urged.

'Do you promise me you will not kill?'

'I promise you I will never stoop to murder.'

Tamis sighed. 'Then I will trust you, though my soul may be damned if you betray me. You have seen the events in Macedonia? Of course you have. The rise of Philip, the birth of a nation. That birth heralds the coming of the Dark God. His body of flesh will be conceived in Samothrace, during the Night of the Third Mystery at High Summer; it is all arranged. The mother witt be Olympias, daughter of Neoptelemus, King of Epirus. The father will be Philip of Macedon. He has been primed, bewitched. You have but one real opportunity to succeed. In order for the Dark God to live, the conception must take place when the stars reach a certain alignment which will last for only an hour on that one night. If you are determined to go on with this quest, then you must journey to Samothrace and disrupt the ceremony.'

'High Summer is only ten days from now,' said Derae. 'How can I reach Samothrace in time?'

'The Gateways I showed you lead to paths between worlds, between times. Listen to me, Derae, for this is the last time you witt see me and you must learn your lessons well.'

Derae opened her eyes to see dawn light creeping across the sky, the stars retreating before it.

She rose and poured a goblet of water, sipping it slowly.

Samothrace, the Isle of Mysteries. She shivered. Tamis had once called it the Dark God's realm.

The thought of the journey brought a sudden stab of fear, almost panic. .yet Parmenion will be there, she realized. For the first time in almost a quarter of a century they would be together.

But what then? She was no longer the flame-haired adolescent of his memory, nor he the shy young warrior-to-be. More than time separated them now. Yet it would be good to be close to him once more.

She had watched with mixed feelings his successes for Philip: first, last year, the crushing of the Illyrians; but since then the march into Thessaly, securing the southern borders, the invasion of Paionia and the besieging of the city of Amphipolis.

Now the wolves of the major cities viewed Macedonia with different eyes. Where once they saw only a lamb, ripe for ownership or slaughter, now they faced a lion — young and powerful, proud and arrogant.

Derae's pride at Parmenion's achievements was tinged with sadness, for the more powerful Macedonia became, the more deadly would be the effect when the Evil One sat upon the throne.

Fear flooded her. She felt like a child facing a forest fire, a huge wall of flames that threatened to engulf the world. And what do I have to halt it, she wondered? Looking down, she saw the goblet of water in her hand. She smiled then and walked back to Tamis' room.

'I will keep my promise to you, Tamis. I will not murder. But if the servants of the Dark God come for me, then they will die. For I will not be thwarted in this.'

The sheet still covered the body. When Derae pulled it back, all that lay there was a disconnected skeleton, the bones loose. As she lifted the sheet, the skull was dislodged from the pillow and fell to the floor, shattering into shards.

Samothrace, Summer, 357 BC

The crossing had been calm and the vessel glided smoothly into dock, the three banks of rowers backing oars to slow its progress. Seamen threw ropes to the men waiting at the quayside and the great ship settled into place.

Philip strode down the gangplank, followed by Parmenion.

'I can barely contain my excitement,' said the King as the two men stood on solid ground, staring at the tree-lined hills. 'You think she is here already?'

'I don't know, sire,' replied Parmenion, 'but I am uneasy about your lack of guards. There could be assassins hired by any number of enemies.'

Philip laughed and lightly punched Parmenion on the shoulder. 'You worry too much. We are just travellers, wandering men, mercenaries. Few know of my plans.'

'Antipater, Attalus, Nicanor, Theoparlis, Simiche. . the gods know how many more,' Parmenion muttered. 'One wrong word is all it would take.'

Philip chuckled. 'It will not happen, my friend; this has been ordained by the gods. And, anyway, I have the Lion of Macedon to protect me.' He laughed again at Parmenion's discomfort. 'You know, you should really consider taking a wife — or a lover. You are altogether too serious.'

A tall woman in robes of black moved towards them, bowing deeply.

'Welcome to Samothrace, Lord Philip,' she said.

'Wonderful,' whispered Parmenion. 'Perhaps a parade has been planned.' The woman looked at him quizzically, then returned her attention to Philip.

'There is a feast in your honour tonight, and tomorrow a hunt in the high hills.'

Philip took her hand, kissing the palm. 'Thank you, lady. It is indeed an honour and a privilege to be greeted by one of such beauty and grace. But how did you know of my arrival?'

The woman smiled, but did not reply.

She led them through the crowded city port to where two other women waited, holding the reins of two white stallions. The first pointed to a white palace a mile to the north. 'Your rooms have been prepared, my lords. I hope the horses are to your liking.'

'Thank you,' answered Philip. The beasts were pretty to look at but their chests were not deep, and this, he knew, indicated little room for lungs and heart and therefore a lack of stamina and strength.

The two men mounted the horses and rode slowly towards the palace, the walking women trailing behind.

In fields to left and right other horses were cropping grass. They were spindly-legged beasts, many of them roach-backed, the spine curving upwards thus making them uncomfortable to ride.

Philip found his disgust hard to conceal. 'What is the point of breeding such useless animals?' he asked Parmenion.

The Spartan pointed back to the port. 'Chariots and wagons, sire, but no horsemen. Obviously they do not concern themselves with riding.'

The King grunted. Nothing offended a Macedonian more than poor horse-breeding.

His good humour was restored at the palace when they were met by three beautiful women, dressed in robes of yellow and green. 'Are there no men here?' he asked.

'Only you and your companion, sire,' one of them replied. They were led to sumptuous apartments with silk-covered couches and gold-embroidered curtains.

'If there is anything you require, my lord, you have merely to ask,' said a young raven-haired girl.

Philip smiled and took hold of her waist. 'Exactly what is meant by anything?' he asked.

Her hand slid under his tunic, caressing the skin of his inner thigh. 'It means exactly what you want it to mean,' she told him.

Parmenion strode to the window, drawing back the hangings and staring out over the fields and meadows. He was tired and wished only for a bath. Hearing the girl giggling behind him, he cursed softly.

'What is wrong with you, strategos?' asked Philip, and Parmenion turned. The girls had gone.

'I am just ill at ease.'

'You should take my advice. Enjoy these women, it is good for the soul.'

'Maybe I will,' Parmenion told him.

Philip filled two wine cups from a pitcher on a small table, passing one to Parmenion. 'Sit with me a while, my friend,' said the King, leading Parmenion to a couch. 'When I was in Thebes they told me about your love for a priestess called Thetis. .'

'I do not wish to talk of it, sire.'

'You have never spoken to me of her, nor of the other woman you loved. Why is that?'

Parmenion swallowed hard and looked away. 'What point is there in talking of the past? What does it achieve?'

'Sometimes it lances the boil, Parmenion.'

The general closed his eyes, fighting back the rush of memories. 'I… have loved two women. Both, in different ways, died for me. The first was called Derae and she was Spartan. Because of our.

love. . she was sacrificed: thrown into the sea off the coast of Asia. The second was Thetis; she was killed by assassins sent by Agisaleus. There have been no others. Never again will someone I love die for me. Now, if it please you, sire, I would prefer. .'

'It does not please me,' said Philip. 'It is a fact of life that people die. My first wife, Phila, died only a year after our wedding. I adored her; on the night she died I wanted to cut my throat and follow her to Hades. But I didn't — and now I am about to meet a woman of dreams.'

'I am pleased for you,' said Parmenion coldly. 'But we are different men, you and I.'

'Not so different,' Philip put in. 'But you wear armour, both on your body and on your spirit. I am younger than you, my friend, but in this I am as a father to a frightened son. You need a wife, you need sons^of your own. Do not concern yourself about love. Your father, whoever he was, gave you as his gift to the world. You are his immortality. In turn your sons will do that for you.

Now, I will preach no more. I shall bathe, and then I shall send for that sweet-limbed young girl.

You, I suspect, will walk around the palace grounds examining natural defences and seeking out hidden assassins.'

Parmenion laughed then, the sound rich and full of good humour. 'You know me too well, young Father.'

'I know you enough to like you, and that's a rare thing,' said Philip.

The Spartan wandered out to the palace gardens and beyond to the hillsides overlooking the bay. He saw a flock of sheep and a young boy guarding them. The boy waved. Parmenion smiled at him and walked on, following a dry-stone wall that curved up to a high hill-top. He was drawn towards a grove of trees, their branches weighed down by pink and white blooms, where he sat in the shade and dozed.

He awoke to see a woman walking towards him, tall and slender. He stood, his eyes narrowing to see her face. For a moment only, it seemed to him that her hair had changed colour. At first it appeared to be the colour of Same, flecked with silver, but as he looked again it was dark. It must have been a trick of the light, he thought. He bowed to her as she approached. At first sight her robes were black as the night, but as she moved the folds caught the light, shimmering into the rich blue of the ocean. Her face was veiled, a sign of the recently bereaved.

'Welcome, stranger,' she said, her voice both curiously familiar and strangely exciting.

'Is this your land, lady?'

'No. All that you see belongs to the Lady Aida. I too am a stranger. Where are you from?'

'Macedonia,' he told her.

'And before that?'

'Sparta and Thebes.'

'You are a soldier then?'

'Is it so obvious?' he asked, for he was dressed in only a pale blue chiton and sandals.

'Your shins are lighter in colour than your thighs, and I would guess they are normally shielded by greaves. Similarly, your brow is not the deep brown of your face.'

'You are very observant.' He tried to focus on the face below the veil, but gave up. The eyes as he saw them seemed to be opaque, like opals. 'Will you sit with me awhile?' he asked her suddenly, surprising himself.

'It is pleasant here,' she said softly. 'I will bide with you for a little while. What brings you to Samothrace?'

'I have a friend — he is here to meet his bride. Where are you from?'

'I live across the sea in Asia, but I travel often^ It is long since I was in Sparta. When was it you lived there?'

'Through my childhood.'

'Is your wife a Spartan?'

'I have no wife.'

'Do you not like women?'

'Of course,' he answered swiftly. 'I have no male lovers either. I… had a wife. Her name was Thetis. She died.'

'Was she your great love?' the woman enquired.

'No,' he admitted, 'but she was a good woman — loyal, loving, brave. But why must we speak of me?

Are you in mourning? Or can you remove your veil?'

'I am in mourning. What is your name, soldier?'

'My friends call me Savra,' he said, unwilling for her to hear the name being whispered in cities across the world.

'Be happy, Savra,' she said, rising gracefully.

'Must you go? I… I am enjoying our conversation,' he said lamely.

'Yes, I must go.'

He stood and reached out his hand. For a moment she hung back, then touched his fingers. Parmenion felt his pulse racing, and longed to reach up and draw aside the veil. Lifting her hand to his lips he kissed it, then reluctantly released her.

She walked away without a word and Parmenion slumped back to sit on the ground, amazed by his response to the stranger. Perhaps the conversation with Philip had touched a deep chord in him, he thought. She had disappeared now beyond the hillside. Swiftly he ran to catch a final glimpse of her.

She was walking towards the distant woods, and as the sunlight touched her it seemed once more that her hair was red-gold.

The beginnings of cramp in his left arm awoke Philip an hour after dawn. He glanced down at the blonde acolyte whose head rested on his bicep and gently eased his arm loose. Someone stirred to his right. A second girl, dark-haired and pretty, opened her eyes and smiled up at him.

'Did you sleep well, my lord?' she asked, her fingers sliding slowly over his belly.

'Wonderfully,' he told her, his hand seizing her wrist. 'But now I would like the answers to some questions.'

'Can the questions not wait?' she whispered, rolling to face him.

'They cannot,' he told her sternly. 'Who owns this palace?'

'The Lady Aida.'

'I do not know the name.'

'She is the High Priestess of the Mysteries,' said the girl.

'Well, darling one, tell her I wish to see her.'

'Yes, lord.' The girl threw back the sheet and stood. Philip gazed at her long back and slim waist, his eyes drawn to her rounded hips and perfect buttocks.

'Now!' he said, more powerfully than he intended. 'Go nowl'

The blonde girl awoke and yawned. 'Out!' roared Philip. 'And get someone to send in a pitcher of cool water.' After they had gone the King rose, squeezed his eyes shut against the hammering in his head and dragged open the curtains on the wide window.

Sunlight lanced his brain and he turned away from it, cursing. The wine had been strong, but it was the dark seeds that he remembered so vividly. The girls carried them in small silver boxes, and had offered them to Philip after the first bout of love-making. They dried the tongue, but fired the mind and body. Colours seemed impossibly bright while touch, taste and hearing were all enhanced. Philip's strength had surged — along with his appetites.

But now his head pounded, his body feeling weak. The latter sensation was not one he enjoyed.

Dressing in a clean chiton of dark green, he sat on a couch and waited for the water. The dark-haired girl brought it and he drank greedily. She offered him the silver box, opening the hinged lid to display the dark, shrivelled seeds.

'They will restore your strength,' she promised.

He was sorely tempted, but waved her away. 'What of the High Priestess?' he asked.

'She will be here at noon, lord. I will tell her of your request.'

'How many other guests are there in the palace?'

'Only one at the moment, the Lady Olympias.'

'Olympias? Where is she from?'

'Epirus, lord. She is the daughter of the King.'

'I'll see her then,' said Philip.

The girl looked shocked — and then frightened. 'No, lord, that is forbidden. She is undergoing the Rite of Union. No man may see her before the appointed night — especially her betrothed. The gods would strike him blind!'

'Send Parmenion to me.'

'He is not in the palace, lord. He was seen running in the hills just after dawn.'

'Then tell him when he returns,' snapped Philip. 'Now leave me alone!'

After she had gone the King felt momentary regret for treating her shabbily, but so great was his irritation that the feeling soon passed.

He paced the room for an hour, then ate a breakfast of pears and goat's cheese and wandered out to the meadows beyond the palace. His mood was not lightened by seeing the horses there, thin-legged and weak. He sat on a wide gate and scanned the hills where sheep and goats were grazing, tended by a slim boy.

What is the matter with you, Philip? The women were wonderfully willing and endlessly creative.

Normally, after a night of love-making, he awoke feeling like a young Heracles. Those cursed seeds, he thought. Never again! He saw Parmenion running down the hillside and shouted to him. The Spartan slowed his run.

'Good morning, sire. You are awake early.'

'I have been up for hours,' said Philip. Parmenion leaned against the fence, stretching the muscles of his calves. 'You are still fast, Leon. I think you could beat them all even now.'

'Would that it were true, sire. But I do not fool myself. What is wrong?'

'Is it so plain?'

'You look like thunder.'

'It is the waiting, Parmenion. Two years I've longed for this day, and now I can bear it no longer. She is here. Her name is Olympias. . and I am not allowed to see her. Gods, man! I am Philip! I take what I want!'

Parmenion nodded. 'We have been here but a day, sire. Be patient. As you said, this was ordained by the gods, so let it take its own course. Why don't you run for a while? It will clear your head.'

'I'll race you to that grove of trees,' said Philip, suddenly sprinting away. The morning breeze felt good in his face and the contest made him feel alive, his headache disappearing. He could hear Parmenion just behind him and he powered on up the hillside. It mattered nothing to him that the Spartan had already run for more than an hour. The contest was everything. He hurdled a low boulder and raced for the trees a hundred paces ahead. His breathing was more ragged now, and he could feel the burning in his calves, but also he could hear the Spartan just behind him. He slowed in his run. Parmenion came alongside. Philip thrust out his arm, pushing Parmenion off balance. The Spartan half stumbled and lost ground, giving Philip just the edge to reach the first tree and slap his palm against it.

'Unfair tactics!' Parmenion shouted.

'Victory,' answered Philip weakly, sinking to the ground and raising his arm, his face red, his breathing fast and shallow. Within minutes he had recovered and the two men sat in the shade gazing out over the fields and mountains, but again and again Philip's eyes were drawn to the white marble palace.

'I'll have a home like that,' he said. 'Even the gods will be glad to live there. I'll have it all one day, Parmenion.'

'Is that all you want, sire?'

'No. What does any man want? Excitement. Power. I think of Bardylis often — old, withered, as good as dead. I look at myself and I see a strong, young body. But I am not fooled, Parmenion. Bardylis is only a reflection of the Philip to be. I want to live life to the full. I want not a single regret to haunt my dotage.'

'You are asking a great deal, Philip,' said Parmenion softly. 'All men have regrets — even Kings.'

Philip looked at Parmenion and smiled. 'For two years I have asked you to call me Philip when we are alone — yet you wait till now. Why is that?'

The Spartan shrugged. 'These are strange days. Yesterday you spoke to me like a father. Then I met a woman and I felt excitement such as I have not known in a decade. Today I feel. . different -

like a man again.'

'Did you bed her?'

Parmenion chuckled. 'Sometimes, Philip, your predictability dazzles me. No, I did not bed her.

But, in truth, I wanted to. And that sensation has been a stranger to me for too long. By the way, how many women did you have in your rooms last night? By the sounds it must have been a troupe of dancers.'

'A mere twenty or thirty,' answered Philip. 'So what was this woman's name?'

'I don't know.'

'Where does she live?'

'I don't know that either.'

'I see. You don't think it might be a little difficult to further this relationship? What did she look like?'

'She wore a veil.'

'So, the general Parmenion has fallen for a woman whose face he has not seen and whose name he does not know. I am at a loss to understand the nature of your arousal. Did she have nice feet?'

Parmenion's laughter rippled out. He lay back on the grass and stared at the sky. 'I did not see her feet,' he said. Then the laughter came again; it was infectious and Philip began to chuckle, his dark mood evaporating.

After a while both men returned to the palace where the King ate a second breakfast. The dark-haired girl came to him just after noon. 'The Lady Aida will see you now, lord,' she said. Philip followed her down a long corridor to a high-ceilinged room where statues of young women lined the walls. A woman was waiting by the southern window and she turned as Philip entered. She was dressed in a dark, hooded robe, her face pale as ivory. Philip swallowed hard as he recognized her from his first dream.

'At last we meet,' she said.

'Where is my bride?' whispered Philip.

'She will be waiting for you,' said the hooded woman. 'Tomorrow, on the night of the Third Mystery, she will be brought to your rooms. But there is something you must do, King of Macedon.'

'Name it.'

'You will not go to her until the third hour after midnight; you will not see her before then. At that appointed hour she will conceive your son — not a moment before, not a minute after. You will lie together in the third hour. If this is not done, there will be no marriage.'

Philip laughed. 'You believe I will have a problem in that area?'

'I hope not, Philip,' she answered coldly. 'Much depends on it. This son will be greater than any warrior before him. . but only if he is conceived in the third hour.'

'As I said, I see no reason to fear failure.'

'Then I will give you two. If you fail, all your dreams of greatness will come to nothing; the gods will desert you. And, secondly, you already have a son: Arrhidaeus. He is simple-minded, his limbs weak; your wife Phila died in giving birth to him. Apart from this one chance, Philip, all you will sire are daughters. What I offer you now is a chance — your only chance — to sire a perfect heir.'

'How did you know of Arrhidaeus?' whispered Philip.

'I know all your secrets. I know the secrets of the world. Be prepared, King of Macedon. Olympias will await you.'

Aida watched the Macedonian turn and stalk from the room. As the door closed behind him she returned to her high-backed chair and sat, her thoughts uneasy, her emotions confused.

Philip was a powerful man, his personal magnetism compelling, yet something was wrong and Aida's tension grew. So much depended on this union, so many plans laid over so many years.

Aida had been a child when her mother first told her of the Dream of the Dark Birth, and of the many failures which had followed. Only once in each fifty-year cycle did the harmony of the universe falter, giving rise to a unique moment of planetary confusion.

When the last alignment took place in Mesopotamia, Aida was fourteen. Her mother had bewitched the Great King and prepared an acolyte of exceptional beauty. The wedding night had proceeded as planned but the girl — her mind dazed by the drugs — had wandered from the balcony, falling to her death on the marble stone of the courtyard. Aida's mother had been desolated, and for two months she refused to speak; then just when it seemed she would recover, she slashed her throat with a bronze knife.

Now the moment was here once more. There would be no balcony for Olympias, no danger to the princess. Philip was a ram who would need no assistance to fulfil his… necessary. . task.

So what could go wrong? Aida did not know. But she felt the icy touch of fear.

She closed her eyes and soared, her spirit rising high above the palace, moving over the green hills — seeking, ever seeking, without knowing what she sought.

The assassins sent from the city of Olynthus were dead, their boat destroyed in a sudden storm.

Only one had reached the Samothracian shore, and his head had been crushed by a heavy rock wielded by two of Aida's acolytes. There was no danger from assassins. Aida would know.

But she could not dismiss her fears. She trusted her Talents and her intuition. Although she could not walk the paths of the Past and Future, still Aida was powerful, reading the hearts and minds of men, anticipating events. The rulers of the city of Olynthus feared Philip. It was not difficult to second-guess their intentions, especially now that the King's former favourite, Nicanor, entertained an Olynthian lover at his home in Pella.

The storm had been costly — two of Aida's acolytes sacrificed, their hearts torn from their bodies. But it was worth more than even those to ensure that the Lord of Fire could be born in the flesh. Aida would sacrifice a nation for such a holy miracle.

Returning to her body, she opened her eyes.

Where is the peril?

Think, Aida! Use your mind! She had searched the island, the seventeen villages and four ports.

Nothing. She thought of Tamis, almost wishing her alive so that she could focus her hatred once more.

Would that I could have killed you a dozen, dozen times! The old priestess had been a constant sore for decades. Curiously, her death had done little to ease Aida's hatred. All that power wasted on the whore, she thought, remembering — with exquisite distaste — Tamis' lovers.

The other priestess had worried her at first, but she also was flawed.

Where then the danger?

Closing her eyes once more she flew across the seas, hovering over the Temple. A tall man was tending the garden and there were no supplicants waiting in the meadows. Swiftly Aida armoured herself with protective spells, then entered the temple. It was empty.

Where are you, my dove? she thought.

Returning to Samothrace she searched the island once more — carefully, thoroughly, each hill and wood.

At last, weary and almost spent, she returned to the palace and walked to the kennels below the outer wall. The black hounds began to bay as she entered. Pulling open the wooden gate she moved in among them, crouching down as they surged around her. Summoning the image of Derae she cast the picture into the mind of each hound, imprinting it, holding it until the baying stopped. Then lifting her arm, she pointed to the open gate.

'Go!' she shouted. 'Taste of her blood, break her bones! Go!'

Derae sat in a hollow below the branches of a flowering tree, her mind alert. She sensed the Search and located Aida's spirit as she soared from the palace. Calming the fluttering of panic that beset her, she leaned back against a tree-trunk, her arms crossed, her hands on her shoulders. She merged her mind with the tree, feeling her way into the bark, through the oozing sap which killed most insects, on into the capillaries where water was drawn to the leaves and flowers.

She was Derae no longer. She was the tree, her roots deep and questing, seeking moisture and goodness from the dark earth — her branches growing, stretching, flowing with slow life. She felt sunlight on her leaves and concentrated on the seed-bearing blossoms that would ensure her existence through eternity. It was peaceful within the tree… so peaceful.

At last she withdrew her spirit and searched for Aida.

The witch-woman had returned to the palace. Derae rose and walked slowly down to the meadows, close by the wood, where tonight the acolytes would celebrate the Third Mystery. There was a stream here, and she drank deeply.

In the distance she heard the baying of hounds, ready for the hunt.

Adjusting her veil she waited, sitting on a boulder, not looking in the direction from which she knew he would come. His footfalls were soft, unconsciously stealthy.

'We meet again, lady,' he said and she turned.

'How are you, Savra?'

'I am well — even better now I have seen you again.'

Her spirit eyes scanned his face. The boyish features had long since been replaced by the angular, almost harsh lines of the man. Yet still he was the Parmenion of memory. Her Parmenion!

'How prettily you speak — for a soldier.'

'Not usually, lady. You bring out the best in me. What is your name?'

She was suddenly torn, filled with the desire to remove her veil, to show him her face, to tell him how she had missed him through all those lonely years. She turned away. 'No names,' she said at last.

'Is something wrong?' he asked, moving closer.

'Nothing,' she replied, forcing gaiety into her voice. 'It is a beautiful day.'

A sleek black hound padded from the woods, coming closer to them. Suddenly its lips drew back to show long fangs, a low growl rumbling in its throat. Parmenion stepped in front of Derae, his hand on the dagger at his side.

'Be off with you!' he roared and the hound backed away several paces — then charged at Derae.

Parmenion's dagger flashed into the air. The hound leapt at the woman, but the Spartan threw himself at it, his arm curling round the dog's neck, the dagger blade plunging into its side. As he rose to his feet two more hounds came running from the woods.

Parmenion turned to see Derae walking towards the palace, the hounds closing in on her.

'No!' screamed Parmenion, in the sudden realization that he could not reach her in time. Yet even as the beasts prepared to leap, they slumped to the ground. She did not turn to see this apparent miracle, but walked on through the palace gate.

Parmenion moved to the hounds. They were sleeping peacefully. Bewildered, he sheathed his dagger and ran into the courtyard.

There was no sign of the woman.

'Look at this,' said Philip, pointing to the long white cloak and the silver full-faced helm which lay on one of the couches. 'Can you believe I am supposed to wear that during the consummation?'

Parmenion hefted the helm. It was beautifully crafted of shining silver edged with gold, the earguards embossed with what appeared to be demons bearing jagged knives. At the nape of the neck were protective plates of silver, no wider than a man's thumb. There was no crested plume, but to the sides two black ram's hdrns curved from the temples to the neck.

'It is stunning,' said the Spartan, 'and very old. The workmanship is rare.'

'Rare?' stormed Philip. 'Rare, it may be. It is also rare to ask a man to mount a woman wearing such a… such a… bridal hat!'

Parmenion smiled. 'You said yourself that this marriage has been ordained. Surely you expected a little ritual? Even Bardylis made the wedding ceremony last a full day, with dances, speeches and athletic contests between his Guards.'

'Yes, he did,' said Philip, 'but there I was at the centre. Here I feel like a bystander, an incidental player.' He stalked to the window and stared out over the night-dark woods and the distant fires. Parmenion joined him. 'Listen to them,' said the King, as the night breeze carried sounds of laughter and music from the woods. 'You know what they are doing?'

'No, sire.'

'Neither do I. . and that irritates me, Parmenion. They are probably dancing naked around those fires — and I am sitting here waiting to be led into my bride like a prize ram. Am I so ugly that I need a helmet to disguise myself?'

'I think,' offered Parmenion, 'that you are nervous. I would also advise you to hold back on the wine; you have drained almost a full pitcher.'

'Wine has no effect on my abilities,' snapped Philip. 'Why don't we sneak out there and watch them? What do you think?'

'I think that would not be wise.'

'Gods, man, you are so staid!' Philip slumped down on a couch and poured the last of his wine.

'Get me some more drink, would you, there's a good fellow?'

Parmenion wandered out into the deserted corridor, following the stairs down to the kitchens. It was close to midnight, and even he was beginning to feel a sense of rising excitement over the forthcoming wedding.

The Mysteries fascinated Parmenion, as indeed did the culture of this volcanic isle. Xenophon himself had been initiated here, but had told Parmenion little of the ceremonies save that they involved arcane knowledge of the 'Greater Gods'. One of these, Parmenion recalled, was Kadmilos -

the ram-horned immortal, the Spirit of Chaos.

The Spartan walked into the empty kitchens, located a pitcher of wine and returned to the King's rooms. Philip was once more drinking happily.

'You found some more,' said Parmenion, seeing the golden pitcher beside the King.

'A woman brought it. You cannot fault the hospitality here, Parmenion — and it is the finest wine I've ever tasted. Have some.'

'I saw no woman, sire. From where did she come?'

Philip shrugged. 'The palace is like a maze. Who knows? Come. Drink.'

Parmenion poured a goblet of the King's wine and tasted it. It was strong, heavy and almost sweet.

Just then they heard the chanting, and he put down his wine and wandered to the window. A torchlit procession was moving from the woods. 'Your bride is coming, sire,' said the Spartan. Philip leaned out, his hands gripping the stone sill.

At the front of the procession, dressed like an ancient Minoan princess, was a flame-haired girl of great beauty — her hair tied with golden ribbons, her breasts bared and rouged, her hips clad in swirling silk.

'By all the gods of Olympus!' whispered Philip. 'Is that not a sight on which to feast the soul?'

Parmenion swallowed hard. The girl was the image of Derae: the,vide-set eyes, the full, sensual mouth. The Spartan stepped back from the window, tearing his eyes from the scene. The procession moved on into the palace, the chanting becoming muffled and distant. Philip poured yet another goblet of wine, draining it at a single swallow.

'It is almost time, sire,' said Parmenion. 'You should prepare.'

'Yes,' replied Philip, his voice slurring. 'Pre. . prepare.' He struggled from his chiton, staggered towards the white cloak and fell on to a couch. 'Damn!' he muttered. 'Legs betrayed me.'

Parmenion ran to him.

'What is it, sire?'

'Don't. . don't know. Help. . me up.' Parmenion pulled the King upright on the couch. 'I'll be all right. Get me some water.'

The Spartan heard sounds of footfalls in the corridor outside, and listened as the door of the bedchamber opened. Moving to the hangings between the rooms he drew them tight, then took water to the King. Philip's eyes were swollen and bleary. 'They are here, sire,' whispered Parmenion. 'You must stir yourself.' Philip took the water, which spilled to his naked chest. He tried to drink but his head sagged back, the goblet falling from his hand.

Parmenion cursed softly. It was beyond belief. He had watched Philip on many drinking bouts; the man's capacity for wine or ale was legendary. Never had Parmenion seen him like this. And after only two pitchers of wine? It was inconceivable.

The smell of sweet incense drifted through the hangings and he heard the acolytes withdraw from the chamber. Silently he crept across the room, opening a small gap in the drapes. The room beyond was lit by yellow-flamed lanterns and the naked form of Olympias lay on the broad bed. She was writhing and moaning softly.

Parmenion cursed again and returned to the King.

The hour was upon them.

And Philip lay in a drunken stupor.

Derae slipped from the palace after the torch-lit procession had passed by. Swiftly she made for the hills and the old stone circle half hidden by the trees of the apple orchard. Her spirits were high and she fought to stem the heady sensation of victory.

'I did it, Tamis,' she whispered. 'I stopped him. There will be no Dark God!'

Running down a hillside she saw the darkness of the trees looming. Her spirit eyes caught a flicker of movement in the shadows and she dropped to her knees, waiting, scouring the trees.

There! By the undergrowth to the right.

Derae's spirit swept into the sky, hovering over the trees. A young woman in black robes was waiting, knife in hand. Derae flew to the left, but another woman crouched there, similarly armed.

Returning to her body Derae retraced her steps up to the hill-top — then made an angling run to the left. She was only a few minutes from the stone circle. Once there, no assassin could follow.

She could hear her pursuers crashing through the undergrowth, shouting to other, unseen, companions.

Suddenly she sensed Aida!

Darkness fell on her like a cloak thrown over her head. She was blind! Panic swept through her as, falling to her hands and knees, she crawled forward. Leaves brushed her face. Her fingers ran over the bush. It was thick and high. Crawling into its centre, she pulled the branches around her, scooping dead leaves and dirt over her robe.

Then her spirit rose again.

Her blindness remained, but now her concentration deepened. Fire blazed from her eyes and the Spell of Darkness gave way.

A scaled hand lanced for her face, talons sinking deep into her spirit flesh. The pain was agonizing, but her own hand came up to grip the reptilian wrist. Flames burned along the length of the arm, sweeping down over the demon and enveloping him in fire.

In an instant Derae was armoured in breastplate and greaves of white silver, a Spartan helm on her head, and in her hand a sword of blinding starlight.

'Where are you, Aida?' she called. 'Face me if you dare!'

'I dare, child,' came the whispering sound of Aida's voice and Derae spun to see the dark-cloaked woman hovering nearby. Aida smiled. 'Foolish girl to come here in the flesh. Even now the sharp knives are closing in on your hiding-place. Fly to it, Derae!'

'I have beaten you,' Derae shouted. 'It does not matter if I die.'

'And how have you beaten me, child? I am still here.'

'There will be no Dark Birth,' answered Derae, glancing down to where the acolytes were searching the undergrowth, moving ever closer to her hidden body. She did not want to die and fought to contain her fear.

Aida's laughter cut through her like a cold knife. 'You think a child — even a talented child -

can thwart the powers of Kadmilos?' She raised her arms. Black snakes fountained from her finger-tips, hissing through the night air to cover Derae in a writhing mass, their fangs glittering in the moonlight.

Ignoring the pain, Derae closed her eyes. The snakes changed colour, shifting from black to red, their shapes twisting into tiny circles, until they fell from her as rose-petals, drifting down to the ground.

'You cannot harm me,' said Derae softly. 'Whereas. .'

A dazzling sphere of light blazed up around Aida, trapping her at its centre. Derae fled for her body just as an acolyte discovered it.

The knife-blade swept down but Derae's hand grabbed the wrist. Rolling to her knees, the priestess lashed her fist into the woman's face, hurling her back. Then she was up and sprinting for the stone circle.

Behind her the pursuers screamed their hatred. Derae ran on. A hurled knife flashed by her head as she leapt over a fallen stone column. Turning in the centre of the circle she raised her arms. The world shimmered. As the Gateway closed around her, she heard Aida's voice whisper in her mind.

'There will be another time, my dove!'

Olympias lay on the silk-covered bed, her body floating on a sea of pleasure, her skin tingling, her mind exploding with colours. She licked her lips, running her fingers over her breasts and belly, aware of an almost painful desire.

'Philip!' she called. The room was spinning, the drugs in her system approaching the height of their powers. She had danced at the fire, felt the touch and caress of a score of acolytes, their lips soft and sweet with wine. The secrets of the Third Mystery had come to her with the music of the night, the breeze from the distant, holy peak of Korifi Fengari. She would give birth to a god-king, a man of awesome talents. His name would echo throughout history, his deeds remaining unequalled as long as the stars hung in the sky. 'Philip!'

Even in her drugged state she could feel the passing of time — sense that the mystical hour was almost spent. She rolled to her side.

The curtains parted.

There he stood, naked but for his cloak and the ram-horned helm of Kadmilos. He strode towards her and she opened her arms. For a moment he stood and gazed at her body, then harshly he entered her.

She screamed, her hands pulling at his back, the metal mask of the helm cold against her face.

Her fingers moved up to touch the metal, stroking the black horns.

His head lifted and she found herself gazing into the eyes within the helm. Then the drugs overwhelmed her and she slid into darkness, her last thought a strange one.

In the lantern light Philip's green eyes seemed — impossibly — to have changed to blue.

The Temple, Summer, 357 BC

Derae awoke just before noon. Throwing back the sheet, she moved to the window, her heart light.

She had seen Parmenion and she had destroyed the plans of Aida. Today she would leave the temple and journey to Macedonia, there to await Parmenion's return.

She knew now that he still loved her, and they would at least have many years to enjoy together.

She felt young again, full of life and laughter.

It had been so easy to drug Philip's wine. All the years of fear had been so unnecessary.

The sun was warm on her face — but at her back she felt the blast of cold air and turned swiftly.

A shadow was growing on the wall by the door, swelling like a winged demon. Derae prepared herself for the attack, but it did not come, the shadows swirling into a cloak around the spirit form of Aida.

'What do you want here?' Derae asked.

'I wanted to thank you,' said Aida. 'Without your help, and that of your miserable predecessor, my dreams could not have been fulfilled.' The hooded woman laughed, the sound chilling. 'You can walk the paths of the past and the future. Walk them now — and weep, my dove!'

In an instant she was gone.

Derae sat back on the bed and closed her eyes, flying once more to the palace on Samothrace, feeling her way back through the hours. She saw herself bringing the wine to Philip, pouring him a drink, watching him drain it. She saw her flight, and her battle with Aida.

Then with a sense of dread she returned to the palace, watching Parmenion's attempts to rouse the King. She cried out when she saw the Spartan stand up and remove his clothes, donning the helm and cloak of the Chaos Spirit.

'Oh, sweet Heaven!' she whispered as he embraced the naked girl.

Derae fled the scene, opening her eyes back at the temple.

'Without your help. . my dreams could not have been fulfilled.'

She saw it all now, the arrogance and the stupidity.

Tamis had seen the vision of the Dark Birth and then the face of Parmenion. Believing him to be a human sword she could wield against the forces of darkness, Tamis had entered his life — moulding his future, forcing him along a path of bitterness and hatred. She had created in him the perfect warrior, the perfect killer of men. .

The perfect human father for the Dark God.

Anger flared in Derae. The years of dedication, of healing; the years of hopes and dreams. All for nothing!

Now there would be no life with Parmenion, no journey to love in Macedonia.

She gazed out of the window, over the rolling hills and meadows and the cloud-shrouded mountains, seeing again the visions of bloodshed and horror that had haunted her for decades. Annies marching across bloody battlefields, widows and orphans, ruined cities, fallen empires. Sometimes the Dark God had been Greek, at other times Persian — a chief from Parthia, a young prince from the tribes to the far north. Once he had even been black, leading his troops from the lush jungles far to the south of Egypt. These myriad futures no longer existed in the same form. Derae allowed the Oceans of Time to lift and carry her into distant tomorrows, and there she saw a young man with golden hair, his face beautiful, his armour bright with the glow of gold.

In every future the armies of Macedon were marching, their long spears stained with blood.

She studied the golden figure through hundreds of possible — even probable — futures. All were the same — the Dark God triumphant, becoming immortal, a creature of blood and fire, the human flesh burning away, the full evil of the Horned One sitting on the thrones of the world. Despite her despair Derae searched on, finding at last a glimmer of hope like the fading spark of a winter fire.

The child had been conceived at the last stroke of the Unholy Hour, giving him at least a spark of humanity. The Dark God would be powerful within him, but at that moment Derae decided to spend her life fanning that spark, seeking to feed the human spirit within the devil who was to be.

'At the last you were right, Tamis,' she said sadly. 'We cannot fight them with their own weapons.

There can never be victory there.' And like the old priestess before her, Derae prayed for guidance.

And she saw, as Tamis had seen, one man standing beside the Dark God, a strong man — a good man.

Parmenion — the Lion of Macedon.

Lake Prespa, Midwinter, 356 BC

Phaedra closed her eyes, seeking to locate the source of the danger. Around her the sounds were all reassuring — the steady, slow, almost rhythmic hoofbeats of the royal guard, the rolling of the brass-rimmed wagon wheels over the shifting shale and scree, conversation and laughter from the soldiers on either side of the heavily-curtained carriage.

But somewhere deep within her Phaedra could hear the screams of the dying, while scenes of blood and violence flashed across her mind. Yet she could not pin them down. She opened her pale blue eyes and gazed across the carriage cabin to where Olympias lay on pillows of down-filled silk. The princess was asleep. Phaedra longed to reach over to her. Anger flared briefly, but the seeress swiftly quelled it. Olympias was beautiful, but that beauty was now marred by her marriage to the barbarian from Pella, ruined by the babe swelling her belly to twice its size. She tore her gaze from the sleeping face.

'I don't love you any more,' she whispered, hoping that by speaking the lie she could make it true. It was a vain hope.

We are sisters again, no more than that, thought Phaedra. Their love was now as dead as the blooms of summer. The seeress sighed, remembering their first meeting three years ago. Two fourteen-year-old girls in the

King's palace; Phaedra shy and yet blessed — cursed? — with the gift of Seeing, and Olympias, gregarious and joy-filled, her body already sleek, her skin glowing with health, her face beautiful beyond imagining.

Phaedra felt comfortable with the princess, for she had never been able to see her life, nor read the secrets hidden in the dark corridors of her mind. Olympias made her feel ordinary, and that was a gift beyond price.

No one understood the loneliness of Seeing. Every touch brought visions. A kind, handsome man stoops to kiss your hand, but you see the lecher, the dominator, the possessor. A woman smiles, pats your arm, and you feel her hatred at your youth. All the cobwebs of the human soul laid bare to your all-seeing eyes. Phaedra shivered.

With Olympias it was so different. No visions, no unpleasantness. Just love, first as sisters, then. .

The carriage lurched as the huge wheels rolled over a stone. Phaedra pulled back a curtain and stared out of the window. To the left was the glittering Lake Prespa, beyond it the rearing Pindos mountains separating Macedonia and Illyria.

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

'Soon we will reach the plain,' answered Phaedra. 'There we will be met by the King's escort.'

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

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

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

.

She screamed and fainted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Olympias rose, her green eyes angry, her chin held high.

'You will die for this,' she promised them.

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

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

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

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

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

The Illyrians mounted and galloped towards the waiting Macedonians.

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

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

'That is the price, you whoreson!' she shouted.

The Illyrians broke and fled, the Macedonians reforming their lines and galloping after them. But the rider on the grey, followed by three officers, approached the women.

'Philip!' called Olympias, running to meet him.

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

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

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

'The gods gave you two hands, Peris — you must learn to use the left. It is not so bad. You are not a foot-soldier, so you will not need to worry about forming the line. You are a cavalryman -

aye, and a good one. You have too much courage to let such a small wound overcome you."

'I am no good with my left, general.'

'We will work on it, you and I.'

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

The surgeon, Bernios, rose to greet him as he finished his rounds. 'We did well,' said Bernios, wiping the sweat from his bald head with a blood-stained towel.

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

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

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

'Are there scouts out?' asked the general.

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

'Good. You fought well today. The King will be proud of you.'

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

'Yes,' answered Parmenion, too abruptly. Nicanor looked up sharply, but Parmenion turned away.

'See to their needs,' he said over his shoulder as he walked to his blankets.

The younger man took up a wineskin which he carried back to the Queen's camp-fire. Olympias was sitting on some cushions brought from the carriage; the girl he took to be her maid was tending the blaze.

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

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

'Nicanor. I am Parmenion's First Captain.'

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

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

'And yet you like him?'

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

'But he is not Macedonian,' Olympias pointed out.

'Half Macedonian,' replied Nicanor. 'He was raised in Sparta.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Do you love Philip?' asked Phaedra suddenly.

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

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

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

'You should sleep in the carriage. You will be warmer.'

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

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

She had waited, her mind spinning, the colours super-naturally bright… red hangings, yellow silks, golden cups.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'/// do not perform within the Sacred Hour the wedding will be cancelled. Can you believe that, Parmenion?'

But that was not why the Spartan had donned the ancient helm. He had looked upon the naked woman -

and he had wanted her, as he had desired no one since his love had been stolen from him a quarter of a century before. He had made love to her and, when she slept, he went to Philip, dressing the unconscious King in the helm and cloak and carrying him to her bed.

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

The night was chill and Parmenion rose. Wrapping his black woollen cloak tightly round his shoulders, he strolled out to where the sentries kept watch.

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

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

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

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

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

Looking up at the stars, Parmenion pictured Derae's face, her flame-gold hair, her green eyes.

'What am I without you?' he whispered.

'Talking to yourself, general?' said a voice from close by. A young soldier moved from the shadows of the river-bank.

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

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

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

'Was she beautiful?' asked the young man, laying his spear against a rock and sitting opposite the general.

'She was very beautiful. . But she died. Are you married?'

'Yes, sir. I have a wife and two sons in Crousia. They are moving to Pella as soon as I can afford to rent a house.'

'That may be some time.'

'Oh, I don't think so, sir. There'll be another war soon. With fighting wages, I should see Lacia again within six months.'

'You want a war then?' Parmenion asked.

'Of course, sir. It is our time. The Illyrians are destroyed, the Paionians also. Soon it will be to the east in Thrace, or south against Pherai. Or maybe Olynthus. Philip is a warrior King. He will see the army is looked after.'

'I expect that he will,' agreed Parmenion, rising. 'And I hope you get your house.'

'Thank you, sir. Good night.'

'Good night, Cleiton.' The general returned to his blankets, but his sleep was haunted by dreams.

Derae was running on a green hillside, her eyes wide with fear. He tried to go to her, to explain that all was well, but as he approached she screamed and sped away. He could not catch her and stopped by a stream where he gazed down at his reflection. Pale eyes in the bronze mask of Chaos stared back-at him. Pulling the helm from his head, he called out to her.

'Stop! It is I, Parmenion.'

But she did not hear him, and vanished from sight.

He awoke with a start and sat up. His back was aching and a slow, painful pounding hammered within his skull. 'You fool,' he told himself, 'you forgot your sylphium.' There was water heating on a fire. Dipping a cup into the pot he almost scalded his fingers. Then adding his dried herbs to the liquid, he stirred it with his dagger, waited for it to cool and then drained the infusion. Almost at once the pain departed.

Bernios approached. 'You look dreadful, my friend,' said the surgeon. 'Do you ever sleep?'

'When I need it.'

'Well, you need it now. You are not a young man any more. Your body needs rest.'

'I am forty-three years old,' Parmenion snapped. 'That is hardly ancient. And I can still run twenty miles, should I so choose.'

'I did not say you were decrepit, I merely pointed out that you are no longer young. You are very sharp this morning — that also is a sign of age.'

'My back aches — and do not tell me it is because I am old. There is an iron spear-point lodged under my shoulder-blade. But what of you? Why do you not sleep?'

'Another man died in the night. I sat with him,' said Bernios. 'No one should die alone. He was stabbed through the belly; there is no worse pain than that. But he didn't complain — save at the end.'

'Who was he?'

'I did not ask — and don't lecture me about it. I know the importance you place on such details, but I cannot remember all the faces.'

'What did you give him?'

'The gift of poppies,' answered Bernios. 'A lethal dose.'

'That is against the law. I wish you would not tell me these things.'

'Then don't damn well ask!' responded the surgeon. He was instantly contrite. 'I am sorry, Parmenion; I also am weary. But you are beginning to worry me. You have been tense now for days.

Is something troubling you?'

'It is nothing of importance.'

'Nonsense. You are too intelligent to concern yourself over trifles. Do you want to talk of it?'

'No.'

'You are ashamed of it?'

'Yes,' admitted the Spartan.

'Then keep it to yourself. It is often said that confession is a healing process. Do not believe that, Parmenion; it is the mother of all pain. How many know of your. . shame?'

'None — save myself.'

'Then it did not happen.'

'It would be pleasant were life that simple,' said Parmenion.

'Why complicate it? You expect too much of yourself, my friend. I have some bad news for you: you are not perfect. Now get some rest.'

'Walk with me,' Olympias commanded Parmenion as they made camp on the second night in a hollow on the Emathian Plain. The Spartan followed the Queen as they strolled towards the small camp-fire set by Phaedra. The Queen saw that he was ill at ease and took his arm, enjoying the sudden tension in his muscles. So, she thought, he is not impervious to my beauty. 'Why have you avoided me, general?' she asked sweetly.

'It is not a matter of avoiding you, your highness. But my duty is to see you safely to your husband in Pella. That priority engages my mind, and I fear I am not good company."

She sat down on her cushions, a gold-embroidered woollen shawl around her shoulders.

'Tell me about Philip,' she said. 'There is so much I do not know. Is he kind to his servants?

Does he beat his wives?'

Parmenion settled himself beside the fire. 'Where would I start, lady? He is a King and he behaves like one. No, he does not beat his wives — or his servants — but neither is he soft or weak. There is only one other wife, Audata, the daughter of King Bardylis. But she dwells now in Pelagonia -

by choice."

'She has a child by Philip, I understand,' she said, her hand unconsciously moving to her own swollen belly.

'She has a daughter — a beautiful child.'

'Strange from so ugly a mother,' snapped Olympias before she could stop herself.

'There are many kinds of beauty, my lady, and not all of them fade as swiftly as the flesh,' he told her, his voice cool.

'Forgive me,' she said swiftly. 'It is hard not to be jealous. And I wish us to be friends. Will we be friends?' she asked suddenly, her green eyes holding to his own.

'All the days of our lives,' he told her simply.

After he had gone Phaedra moved close alongside the Queen. 'You should not flirt, Olympias, not among these Macedonians.'

'I was not flirting — though he is a handsome man, save for that hawk nose. Philip is a warrior King and he will take many wives. I need to ensure that my son remains the true heir to the throne and it is never too early to win allies. Parmenion destroyed the power of the Spartans, raising Thebes to greatness. Last year he crushed the Illyrians. Before that he fought for the Great King.

He has never been defeated in battle. A good friend to have, do you not think?'

'You have learned much,' Phaedra whispered.

'Oh, there is more that I know. The King has three advisers he trusts above all others. First is Parmenion, preeminent in strategy, then comes Attalus, cold and deadly, the King's assassin.

Lastly there is Antipater, the Second General, a tough, worthy warrior.'

'What of the women?'

'Philip thinks little of women — save for Simiche, his brother's widow. He trusts her, confides in her. I will win her friendship also.'

'Your plans seem well laid,' commented Phaedra.

'They were set in Samothrace by the Lady Aida. She knows all things, past and future. I was chosen

— and I will not disappoint her.'

'Did you love her?' asked Phaedra.

'Are you jealous, sister of my heart?'

'Yes, jealous of all who touch you — or even look upon you.'

'You should take a man. I will arrange it for you, if you desire it.'

'I can think of nothing worse,' said the seeress, snuggling close to her friend.

At that moment there came the sound of music from the camp-fire of the soldiers, soft and mournful. A voice was raised in song — not a battle hymn but a love song of surprising gentleness, accompanied by the high, sweet tones of a shepherd's pipes. Olympias stood and walked through the trees to where the soldiers sat in a great circle around the piper and the singer. She shivered as she gazed upon the scene: men of war, in breastplates and greaves, their swords beside them, were listening to a tale of two lovers. The singer was Nicanor. He saw the two women approach and faded to silence, the soldiers standing as the new Queen walked among them.

'No, please,' said Olympias, 'do not stop, Nicanor. It is beautiful.' He smiled and bowed; the piper began to play and Nicanor's voice once more rang out. Olympias settled down in the circle with Phaedra close beside her. The seeress shivered and Olympias opened her shawl, the girl once more snuggling in close with her head on the Queen's shoulder. Nicanor sang for more than an hour.

The soldiers did not cheer or whistle as each song ended, yet there was tremendous warmth in the air and Olympias felt like a child again, safe and comfortable with these tough riders. Phaedra was asleep, her head a weight on Olympias' shoulder.

Parmenion appeared and crouched down beside her. 'I will carry her back for you,' he said, his voice soft so as not to wake the sleeping seeress.

'Thank you,' answered Olympias. When Parmenion knelt and lifted Phaedra to his arms, she murmured but did not seem to wake. The soldiers banked up the fires and drifted to their blankets as the general led the way back to the carriage. Nicanor opened the door and Parmenion laid the seeress on the cushions within, covering her with two woollen cloaks.

'Your singing was beautiful, Nicanor,' said Olympias. 'I shall treasure the memory.'

He blushed. 'The men like to hear the songs; it reminds them of home and family. I cannot tell you how much your pleasure means to me.' Bowing, he backed away. Parmenion followed, but Olympias called him back.

'Will you sit with me a little while, general?' she asked.

'As you wish,' he answered. Her fire had died low and he added fuel, building the blaze. The first cold winds of winter were sweeping across the plain and already there was snow in the mountains.

'What is it you fear?" he whispered.

'Why should I fear anything?' she responded, sitting close to him.

'You are young, lady. I am not. You hide it well, but it is there.'

'I fear for my son,' she said, her voice so low he could barely hear her. 'He will be a great King

— if he lives. He must live!'

'I am a soldier, Olympias. I can make no promises as to his safety. But, for what it is worth, I will protect him as best I can.'

'Why?'

It was such a simple question, yet it ripped at Par-menion's mind with a whip of fire. He could not answer it directly and turned to the blaze, idly stoking it with a branch. 'I serve Philip. He is Philip's son,' he said at last.

'Then I am content. They say in Epirus that Macedonia will soon move against the cities of the Chalcidice. They say that Philip seeks to rule Greece.'

'I do not discuss the King's plans, lady, nor am I always party to his thoughts. As far as lam aware, Philip seeks to secure Macedonia. For too long the country has been ruled by others, its security resting on the whims of politicians in Athens, Thebes or Sparta.'

'Yet Philip took Amphipolis — an independent city?'

'No one is independent. It was an Athenian enclave, giving them a foothold into Macedonia,' he told her, uncomfortable with her direct line of questioning.

'But then what of the Chalcidean League and Olynthus? Are they not a threat? Olynthus has close ties with Athens — as have the cities of Pydna and Methone.'

'I see you are a thinker, and wiser than your years. Yet you are not wise enough to hold your tongue on matters best not discussed in the open. Do not trust me overmuch, Olympias. I am the King's man.'

'That is why I do trust you,' she answered him. 'I am Philip's woman. My son's life rests on his survival. If a King dies, is it not the Macedonian way for the new King to kill his precedessor's heirs?'

'It has been, lady, though you will be aware that Philip did not kill his brother's son. But what I am saying to you is that you should trust no one. Not me… not Nicanor. . not anyone. Direct your questions to Philip.'

'Very well, Parmenion. I am chastened. Will you forgive me?' Her smile was an enchantment, but Parmenion fought to remain untouched by its magic.

'Now that is a weapon you should use,' he said.

'Ah, how wise you are. Will I have no secrets from you, Parmenion?'

'As many as you wish, lady. You are very beautiful and yet intelligent. I think you will continue to captivate the King. But, make no mistake, he is also a man of wit and discernment.'

'Is that a warning, general?'

'It is the advice of a friend.'

'Do you have many friends?'

'Two. One is Mothac, the other Bernios. Friendship is not a gift I give lightly,' he said, holding her gaze.

Reaching out, she touched his arm. 'Then I am honoured. But, is not Philip a friend?'

'Kings have no friends, lady. They have loyal servants and bitter enemies. Sometimes the two can be interchangeable; it is the mark of the man how well he recognizes this.'

'You are a fine teacher,' said Olympias. 'But one last question, if I may?'

'As long as it does not touch upon strategy,' he answered, smiling. For a moment she was silent.

The smile had changed his face, making him almost boyish.

'No, not strategy — at least, not directly. I was wondering about you, Parmenion. What ambitions are there for a man with your reputation?'

'What indeed?' he said, rising. Bowing to her, he turned and strolled back to the soldier's camp-fire, checking on the sentries before allowing himself the luxury of sleep.

Back in the carriage Phaedra lay awake, her heart pounding. When Parmenion lifted her she had been jerked from sleep by the power of his spirit. It was too strong to read and she had felt swept away by a sea of images of enormous intensity. But through them all was one overriding vision. It was this which made her heart beat so, which left her mouth dry and her hands trembling.

All her life Phaedra had known of the one way to lose the curse of seeing. Her mother had told her of it.

'When you give yourself to a man, the powers will wither and die like a winter rose.'

The thought had been so disgusting that Phaedra would sooner keep the curse than surrender it in that way. In truth, the thought was still disgusting — but the rewards! She summoned the vision from memory, watching again the glories of the future.

How could she not take the risk?

Sitting up, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and stared at the stars shining bright beyond the carriage window. She could hear Parmenion and Olympias talking by the fire. His voice was soft, almost gentle, yet his words were confident and born of an inner strength.

'I could grow to love him,' Phaedra assured herself. 'I could will it so.' But she did not believe it. 'It does not matter anyway,' she whispered. 'I do not need to love him.'

She waited until Parmenion had gone, and pretended sleep when Olympias climbed into the carriage.

Slowly the hours passed. Steeling herself, Phaedra slipped from the carriage and moved stealthily through the camp seeking out where Parmenion lay; he had made his bed away from the soldiers in a sheltered hollow. As she gazed down on his sleeping form her courage almost fled from her but, steeling herself, she slipped from her dress and lay down beside him, carefully lifting the single blanket over her slender body. For some time she lay still, unable to summon the courage to wake him. But again the vision came to her — more powerfully than before. Gently her fingers touched the skin of his chest. He was still impossible to read, random scenes pouring over her like a wave and engulfing her senses.

Her hand slid lower, stroking his belly. He groaned in his sleep, but did not wake. Her fingers touched his penis and — for a moment only — she recoiled. Gathering her courage she touched him again, fingers circling him, feeling him swelling under her touch. He awoke then and turned towards her. His right arm moved over her, his hand touching her shoulder, sliding down over her breast.

'I have you!' she thought. 'You are mine! And our son will be the god-King. He will rule the world!'

And she saw again the vision of a Battle King leading his troops across the world.

Parmenion's first-born.

My son!

The Temple, Asia Minor, Winter, 356 BC

Derae lay on her bed and loosed the chains of her soul, floating free of the temple and soaring into the blue winter sky. In the distance clouds were bunching for a storm, but here by the sea the day was fine. Gulls arced and dived around her invisible form and she gloried in their freedom.

Swiftly she sped across the sea, crossing the trident-shaped land mass of the Chalcidice and on to Pella — seeking, as always, the lover fate had denied her. She found him in the throne-room. .

and wished she had chosen another day for the journey. For beside him stood Olympias.

Sadness struck Derae like a blow.

The mother of the Dark God!

The mother of Parmenion's child.

Hatred touched her and her vision swam. 'Help me, Lord of All Harmony,' she prayed.

She watched Olympias walk forward into Philip's embrace, saw the momentary spasm of jealousy on Parmenion's face.

'What did we do to you, my love?' she thought, remembering her years with Tamis as they had battled to prevent the conception of the Dark God. According to the old seeress, Parmenion was the Sword of the Source, the one man capable of preventing Kadmilos from being born in the flesh. How vain they were. . and how stupid. Tamis had secretly manipulated events in Parmenion's life, creating in him a warrior like no other in the civilized world: a fighter, a killer, a strategist beyond compare. All this so that he would be ready to destroy the Dark God's plans. Instead, the opposite had been achieved.

Derae's anger grew. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to use her power to obliterate the babe in the belly of the new Queen. Frightened by the impulse, she fled back to the temple.

And here her anger turned to sadness, for she floated above her own body, staring down at the careworn face and the silver-streaked hair. Once she had been a beauty like Olympias. Once Parmenion had loved her. Not any more. No, she thought, if he could see you now he would turn away, his eyes drawn to the youthful skin and the earthly joys of girls like Olympias.

Returning to her body, she slept for two hours.

Leucion awoke her. 'I have prepared a bath for you,' he told her. 'And I bought three new gowns for you at the market.'

'I need no gowns. And I have no coin.'

'The clothes you have are theadbare, Derae. You are beginning to look like a beggar. Anyway, I have my own money."

For a moment only she considered rebuking him, but dismissed the thought. Leucion was a warrior who had chosen to travel to the Temple to serve her. He asked for nothing in return.

'Why do you stay?' she asked him, her spirit eyes scanning his hawk-like face, so stern and strong.

'Because I love you,' he answered. 'You know that. I have said it often enough.'

'It is my vanity that makes me continue to ask,' she admitted, 'but I feel guilty, for there will never be any more than we have. We are brother and sister, now and always.'

'It is more than I deserve.'

She traced a line on his cheek, her finger running the length of his jaw. 'You deserve far more.

You must not let your mind drift back to our first meeting- that was not you. There are forces in the world which use us, abuse us, discard us. You were possessed, Leucion.'

'I know,' said the silver-haired warrior. 'I too have studied the Mysteries. But the Dark One can only enhance what is already there. I almost raped you, Derae, and I would have killed you. I did not know there was such darkness in my soul.'

'Hush! There is Darkness in every soul, and Light also. For you the Light was — ultimately -

stronger. Be proud. You have saved my life, and remain my only friend.'

Leucion sighed, then smiled. 'It is enough for me,' he lied.

The warrior prepared a fire and left Derae sitting before it, her thoughts distant, her spirit eyes watching the dancing flames.

'I need help,' she whispered. 'Where are you, Tamis?'

The fire surged to life, the flames dancing high, twirling in on themselves to form a woman's face. Derae lifted her hands, soft light spilling from her fingers and surrounding her with a shield of brightness.

'You do not need protection against me,' said the face in the fire. 'And you can no longer call upon Tamis. I am Cassandra.'

The face became more solid, framed by hair of flickering flames. Warily Derae let the spell of protection fall.

'You are the Trojan priestess?'

'Once upon a distant day,' answered Cassandra, 'I warned Tamis of her folly. But she did not listen. When Parmenion sired the Dark God, Tamis was filled with despair. Her soul is far from us now, broken like crystal, fragmented like the moon on water.'

'Can you help her?'

'No. Though all others forgive her, she cannot forgive herself. Perhaps in time she will return to the Light. For myself I doubt it. But what of you, young Spartan? How can I help you?'

'Tell me how to fight the evil that is coming?'

'My gift in life — if a gift it can be called — was to speak the truth and never to be believed.

That was hard, Derae. But I obeyed the Source in all things. Tamis was corrupted by pride. She believed she alone was the instrument to bring down Kadmilos. Pride is not a gift of the Source.

In teaching you the ways of the Mysteries, Tamis instilled in you a sense of that same pride. My advice is to do nothing. Continue to heal, to work with those in pain, to love much.'

'I cannot do that,' Derae admitted. 'I was as much to blame as Tamis. I must at least try to make it right.'

'I know,' said Cassandra sadly. 'Then use your mind. You have seen Aida and her wickedness. Do you not think she also has seen you? If she is prepared to destroy a Persian child, will she not — even more powerfully — seek to destroy you?'

'She and I have met twice,' said Derae. 'She has not the power to overcome me.'

'There speaks pride,' answered the face in the fire. 'But Aida has many servants and can call upon spirits, demons if you will. They have the power. Believe that, Derae!'

The fear returned and Derae felt the cold breeze from the curtained window behind her. 'What can I do?' she whispered.

'All that a human can do. Fight and pray, pray and fight. Yet if you fight, Aida wins, for to fight successfully you must kill, and in killing there is the joy of the Dark, touching, corrupting, changing.'

'Then I should let her kill me?'

'That is not what I am saying. The battle between Light and Dark is not without complexity. Follow your instincts, Derae. But I advised you to use your mind. Think of what Aida must do in order for her dream to be fulfilled. There is one great enemy she must kill.'

'Parmenion?'

'There speaks the voice of love,' said Cassandra. 'Not Parmenion. Who is the great enemy, Derae?'

'I don't know. How many men and women are in the world? How can I see them all, follow all their futures?'

'Think of a fortress, with high walls. Impregnable. Where would the enemy most wish to be?'

'Inside,' answered Derae.

'Yes,' Cassandra agreed. 'Now use your mind.'

'The child!' whispered Derae.

'The golden child,' Cassandra confirmed. 'Two souls in one body, the Dark and the Light. As long as the spirit of the child lives, Kadmilos can never truly conquer. There is a bird, Derae, that builds no nest. It lays its egg in the nest of another, alongside other eggs. When it hatches it is larger than the other chicks, and one by one it pushes them from the nest to fall to their deaths on the ground below. It does this until it is the only survivor.'

'And Kadmilos will push out the child's soul? Where will it go? How can I protect it?'

'You cannot, my dear; you have no link to it. When the birth is close the child's spirit will be thrown into the Underworld, the Caverns of Hades, the Void. There it will burn like a bright flame

— for a little while.'

'What then?'

'Its brightness will summon the creatures of the Dark and they will destroy it.'

'There must be a way!' protested Derae, pushing herself to her feet. 'I cannot believe it can end like this!' Walking to the window, she felt the breeze on her face and struggled for calm.

'You say I have no link,' she said at last, turning back to the face in the fire. 'Who does?'

'Who else, my dear, but his father?'

'And how can Parmenion travel to the Underworld?'

'By dying, Derae,' said Cassandra simply.

The Temple, Spring, 356 BC

For weeks the words of Cassandra returned to haunt and torment Derae, but no matter how hard she tried she could not summon the fire woman again.

'Perhaps she was a demon,' offered Leucion, after Derae had finally confided in him.

'Would that she were,' said Derae, 'for then I would be able to dismiss her words. No, Leucion, she was no demon. I would have sensed any evil. What am I to do?'

The warrior shrugged. 'All the world's problems are not yours, Derae. Let others take up the battle. I know very little of the ways of the gods. They do not — thankfully — take too much interest in me, and for my part I avoid them utterly. But surely it is they who must concern themselves with the coming of this. . Chaos Spirit?'

'You do not know the whole story — nor will I tell it,' answered Derae, 'but Tamis and I are in large part responsible for the coming evil. Cassandra gave me advice similar to yours. But, do you not see why I cannot take it? I live to heal. I serve the power of Harmony. How could I live the rest of my life in the knowledge that I had brought such horror into the world?'

Leucion shook his head. 'Some mistakes cannot be rectified. But even so, lady, why should you blame yourself? You did not set out to do the work of Darkness.'

'No, I did not,' she agreed. 'But I was raised in Sparta, Leucion, and no Spartan would consider leaving the fight until it was won — or he lay dead upon his shield. The babe must have a chance at life. Cassandra says that if the soul is still alive when the child is born, then Kadmilos will be forced to share the body. That would give us a chance to work on the child, to hold the Chaos Spirit at bay.'

'But for this the man you love must die,' pointed out Leucion. Derae closed her eyes, saying nothing. 'I do not envy you,' said the warrior, 'but it seems there is a contradiction here.

Cassandra tells you there must be no killing, or else you serve the Darkness. Yet in order to win -

albeit temporarily — you must kill Parmenion. There is no sense in it.'

Turning away from him Derae moved to the window, staring out over the hills and the distant sea beyond. Leucion left her there and wandered out into the gardens. The roses were growing wild now, the blooms crisscrossing each other in a profusion of colours, the pathways becoming choked.

Leucion strolled up to the ramparts of the eastern wall, sitting on the parapet and gazing over the fields. Suddenly he blinked.

A man had appeared in the centre of the meadow and was walking towards the gate. Casting his eyes beyond the newcomer, Leucion scanned the ground for any dips or hollows. Surely he would have seen him when first he looked east? The stranger's tunic was bright yellow, almost gold, his hair short and grey, his beard curled in the Persian fashion. He could not have just stepped from the air, Leucion assured himself. Unless. . the warrior's mouth was suddenly dry.

Unless he was a god — or a demon.

Cursing himself for leaving his dagger in his room, Leucion ran to the parapet steps and down to the eastern gate which lay open to the fields. Stepping out, he waited for the newcomer.

'May the blessings of Olympus be upon your home,' said the stranger cheerfully.

'You cannot enter,' said Leucion. 'Be on your way.'

Sweat dripped to his eyes and he blinked it away. The man did not seem to be armed, but this was small comfort to the warrior. If this stranger was a demon, he would need no sword to despatch a human opponent.

'I come seeking the Healer,' the man said. 'Is she here?'

'There is no one here but me. Now go — or work your sorcery and be damned to you!'

'Ah,' said the man, smiling, 'I see you observed my arrival. I am no threat to you or the lady who dwells here. You could say I am a friend. An ally.'

Leucion's face darkened. 'Friend, you are hard of hearing. If you do not turn away, I will be forced to fight you.'

The stranger backed off a step. 'How can I convince you? Wait! I have it.' Lifting his hand to his breast, he closed his eyes. Leucion felt a weight in his right hand, and glancing down saw that he now held a gleaming short sword. 'There,' said the man. 'Is that more comfortable?'

'Who are you?'

'My name is Aristotle. And think on this, friend, had I wished to harm you I could have made the sword appear — not in your hand — but in your heart. Yes? And another point to consider, the last time someone came here intent on bringing harm to the Healer, she needed no help, did she, Leucion? When you and your friends sought to rape and kill her? You remember?'

Leucion dropped the sword and staggered back. 'I… I have tried to atone for that day.'

'And you have done well,' the man said, walking through the gateway. 'Now show me to her, there's a good fellow. Ah, I see there is no need.'

Leucion swung to see Derae standing on the pathway. Wearing a new gown of glimmering green, her hair shining gold and silver in the sunlight, she looked to Leucion indescribably beautiful.

'What do you want here?' she asked the stranger.

'I wish to talk of times of peril, my dear.'

'You are not of the Source,' she said, her voice cold.

'Neither am I of Chaos. I am my own man.'

'That is not possible,' she told him.

'All things are possible, but let us say that I dwell upon the borders of both lands, serving neither. Yet we have a common purpose, Derae. I have no wish to see Kadmilos take on the mantle of flesh.'

'Why come to me?'

Aristotle chuckled. 'Enough of games, Healer! An old friend asked me to visit you, to help where I could. Her name is… was?. . Cassandra. Now may we go inside? I am hot and thirsty and my journey has been long.'

Derae was silent for a moment. Closing her eyes her spirit leapt free, merging instantaneously with the soul of the stranger. Yet, fast as she was, the man was faster still, closing vast areas of memory, locking them away from her, allowing her only to glimpse bright fragments of his life.

She withdrew from him and turned to Leucion.

'Aristotle is to be our guest for a little while, my friend. I would be grateful if you would treat him with courtesy.'

Leucion bowed. 'As you wish, lady. I will prepare a room for him.'

After Leucion had gone Derae moved to stand by the sword Aristotle had created. 'A small though clever example of power,' he said.

'Not small,' she told him, 'and let us see it for what it is.' Kneeling, she held her hand over the blade, which shimmered and changed, becoming a long black snake, its head hooded. 'Had he tried to stab you with this, the snake would have reared back and killed him.'

'But he did not,' said Aristotle lamely.

'Understand this, and understand it well. Had he died I would have sent your soul screaming into Hades.'

'The point is well taken,' he assured her.

'See that it is.'

Pella, Macedonia

'I will build him an empire," said Philip as they lay on the broad bed, his hand resting gently on Olympias' distended belly. 'He will have everything he needs.'

'You were magnificent on that first night,' she said.

'I remember nothing of it, more's the pity. But I remember the morning after. You have been a fire in my blood for two years — ever since the dream. Only the gods will know how I have missed you these last seven months. Why did you have to spend so long in Epirus?'

'I suffered problems with the pregnancy. To have travelled might have meant losing your son.'

'Then you were wise to wait. Everything I have built has been for you — and for him.'

'He will be your heir?" she asked, whispering the question.

'My only heir, I promise you.'

'What of your sons from future wives?'

'They will not take his place.'

'Then I am content, Philip. Truly content. Will you attack the Olynthians?'

Philip chuckled and sat up. 'Parmenion told me you were a student of strategy. I did not believe him. Why do you concern yourself with such matters?'

Her green eyes hardened. 'My father was a King, from a line of Kings. You think I should learn to weave and grow flowers? No, Philip, that is no life for Olympias. Now tell me about the Olynthians.'

'No,' he said, rolling from the bed.

'Why? Do you think me stupid? I want to help you. I want to be a part of your plans.'

'You are a part of my plans,' he said, swinging to face her. 'You are the mother of my son. Can you not be content with that? I have many advisers, but few are those with whom I share my private thoughts. Can you understand that? No one can betray my plans, if no one knows the full extent of them.'

'You think I would betray you?' she snapped.

'I never met a woman yet who knew when to hold her tongue!' he roared, 'and you are proving no exception.' Philip threw a cloak around his shoulders and strode from the room.

It was close to midnight and the corridor beyond was deserted, only two of the seven lanterns still flickering. The King marched to the end of the corridor, wrenching open the doors. The two guards beyond snapped to attention. Ignoring them, Philip stepped out into the moonlit gardens.

The guards glanced at one another, then followed him.

'Leave me be!' he thundered.

'We cannot, sire. The Lord Attalus. .'

'Who is the King here?' he bellowed, glaring at them. They shifted uneasily, and his anger passed.

He knew their problem. If the King walked away into the night to be murdered, their own lives would be forfeit; they were in an impossible situation. 'I am sorry, lads. A burst of temper, no more than that.' He sighed. 'Women! They bring out the worst and the best in any man.' The men grinned. 'All right, follow me to the home of Parmenion.'

The half-naked King and the two black-cloaked guards crossed the gardens to the western wing of the palace. Lantern-light could be seen from Parmenion's quarters and the King did not bother to knock on the narrow side door. Opening it, he stepped inside.

Parmenion was sitting with his servant and friend, the Theban Mothac. Both men were poring over maps. The Spartan glanced up, showing no surprise at the King's entrance.

'And what are we studying?' asked Philip, striding across the room to stare down at the maps.

'The upper reaches of the River Axios, north of the Bora mountains,' said Parmenion. 'The maps came today. I commissioned them last year.'

'You are anticipating problems in that area?' Philip enquired.

'There is a new Illyrian leader named Grabus who is trying to organize a league with the Paionians. They could prove troublesome.'

Philip sat on a couch and swung to Mothac. 'Pour me some wine, Theban,' he commanded.

'Why?' responded Mothac, eyes blazing. 'Have you lost the use of your arms?'

'What?' shouted Philip, his face reddening, his earlier anger returning with redoubled force.

'I am no Macedonian — and not your servant,' Mothac told him. Philip lurched to his feet.

'Enough!' stormed Parmenion, leaping between the two men. 'What nonsense is this? Mothac, leave us!' The Theban made as if to speak, then spun on his heel and stalked from the room. 'I am sorry, sire,' the Spartan told the King. 'He is not himself. I cannot believe he would act in that manner.'

'I'll see him dead,' snarled Philip.

'Calm yourself, sire. Here, let me pour your wine. Sit for a while.'

'Do not seek to soothe me, Parmenion,' muttered Philip, but he sank back to the couch, accepting the silver cup. 'I've had my fill of people today.'

'A problem between you and the Queen?' asked Parmenion, seeking to change the subject.

'She is inside my mind. When I look at the sky, her face is there. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep.

She has bewitched me. Now she wants to hear all my plans. I'll not have it!'

Parmenion kept his expression even. 'She is very young, Philip. But she is the daughter of a King; she has been well trained, and has a fine mind.'

'It is not her mind that interests me. I am surrounded by men with fine minds. A woman should have a fine body and a sweet temperament. Do you know that she raised her voice to me? Argued with me!

Can you believe that?'

'In Sparta women are encouraged to speak their minds. In all matters — save war — they are considered the equal of men.'

'You think I should explain myself? Never! This is not Sparta. This is a man's kingdom, ruled by men, for men.'

'The kingdom,' said Parmenion softly, 'is yours. It will be ruled as you say.'

'And never forget that!'

'Why would I forget?'

'Will you discipline your servant?'

'No, sire — for he is not a servant. But I apologize on his behalf. Mothac is a lonely man, a man of sorrows and sudden tempers. He has never taken well to being treated with scorn.'

'You take his part? Against me?

'I will take no man's part against you, Philip. But listen to me; you came in here full of anger.

And, in anger, you treated him like a slave. He reacted. True, he reacted in a manner unworthy of him, but still it was a reaction. Mothac is loyal, trustworthy and the finest of friends.'

'You do not need to speak for me,' said Mothac, from the doorway. He walked across to Philip and knelt. 'I ask your pardon. . sir. It was ill-mannered of me. And I am sorry to have brought such shame to the house of my friend.'

Philip looked down at the kneeling man, his anger still great. But he forced a laugh. 'Maybe it was as well.' Standing, he raised Mothac to his feet. 'Sometimes, my friend, a crown can make a man too arrogant, too swift to react in the name of pride. Tonight is a lesson learned well. Now.

. let me pour.you a cup of wine. And then I shall bid you good night.'

Philip filled a cup, passing it to the astonished Theban.

Then he bowed and left the house. Parmenion watched him walk away in the moonlight, flanked by his guards.

'He is a great man,' said Mothac, 'but I do not like him.'

Parmenion pushed shut the door and looked into his friend's eyes. 'Most Kings would have had you killed, Mothac. At best they would have seen you whipped or banished.'

'Oh, he is clever all right,' the Theban responded. 'He values you and your talents. And he has the strength to overcome his baser desires. But what is he, Parmenion? What does he want?

Macedonia is strong — no one can doubt that. Yet still the army grows, the recruiting officers moving from village to village.' Mothac sipped his wine, then drained it in a single gulp. Sinking back to the couch, he pointed at the maps spread on the wide table. 'You asked me to co-ordinate information from lands surrounding Macedonia. We now have a constant stream of news from merchants, soldiers, travellers, wandering actors, builders and poets. Do you know what is happening in Upper Macedonia?'

'Of course,' answered Parmenion. 'Philip is building a line of fortress towns against any future Illyrian invasion.'

'True. But he is also forcibly expelling any of Illyrian blood from lands they have held for centuries. Vast tracts of timberland, valleys and pastures — all stolen from their owners. Some of the men expelled are former soldiers in the Macedonian army.'

Parmenion shrugged. 'For centuries the Illyrians have been blood enemies of Macedon. Philip is trying to end the threat — once and for all.'

'Oh, yes!' snorted Mothac. 'I can see that, I am not a complete dullard. But who acquires these lands? It is the King, or Attalus. Last month three Pelagonian timber merchants were stripped of their wealth, their lands, their houses. They appealed to the King; but before the appeal could be heard they were mysteriously slain — along with their families.'

'That's enough, Mothac!'

'Indeed it is,' replied the Theban. 'So, I ask again, what does he want?'

'I cannot answer you; I do not believe Philip himself could answer you. But think on it, my friend. An army needs to be fed. The soldiers require payment. Philip's treasuries are not over full; therefore he must give his soldiers victories and plunder. But there is sense to it. A nation is strong only while it is growing. After that the decay begins. Why does this disturb you?

You saw Sparta and Athens struggling for supremacy, you watched as Thebes battled to rule Greece.

What difference now?'

'None whatever,' Mothac agreed, 'save that I am older, and I hope wiser. This is a land of great riches. If fanned with care, Macedonia could feed all of Greece. But now the farmers are being lured to Pella for fighting wages, and war-horses are being bred before cattle and sheep. All I see ahead is war and death. Not because the realm is in danger — merely to satisfy the glory quest of a barbarian King. You do not need to tell me what he desires. He will attempt to conquer Greece. I will see Thebes once more besieged. He will make slaves of us all.'

The Theban put down his wine cup and pushed himself wearily to his feet.

'He is not as dark as you believe,' countered Parmenion.

Mothac smiled. 'Try not to see him as a reflection of yourself, Parmenion. You are a good man, but you are his sword-blade. Good night, my friend. Tomorrow we shall speak of more pleasant things.'

Leaden clouds hung like a pall of smoke over Pella, distant thunder rumbling angrily in the sky as Olympias carefully made her way to the seat beneath the corner oak in the southern garden. She moved slowly, right hand supporting her belly, often stopping to stretch her back.

Her days with Philip were unsettling, alternating between the comfort of touching and sharing and the agonies of stormy rows when his face would redden and his green eyes blaze with anger.

Were I still slim I would win him over, she told herself. And I will be slender again. It was irksome that her graceful walk had become more of a waddle and that she could no longer embrace her husband, moving in close, arousing him. For in the ability to arouse lay power. Without it Olympias felt lost, insecure.

There were cushions on the long seat beneath the oak, and she stretched herself out, feeling the relief from the deep ache at the base of her spine. Every morning for months, it seemed, she had vomited — every night her stomach heaving, leaving her mouth tasting of bile.

But these last few days had been the worst. Her dreams were troubled and she could hear her baby crying,as if from a great distance. And, with the dawn, she would awake believing him dead in her belly.

She had tried to seek comfort in the company of Phaedra, but her friend was often missing from the palace — spending hours, days it seemed, in the company of Parmenion. It perplexed Olympias, knowing how strongly her companion loathed the touch of Man.

The rain began, gentle at first, then stronger, splashing to the stone pathway and bending the blooms of the garden. Here beneath the towering oak Olympias felt safe; the branches above her were thick and shielding, almost impenetrable.

Parmenion ran along the stone pathway towards his home, saw her and changed direction. Ducking under the outermost branches, he approached her and bowed.

'Not a safe place, my lady. Lightning may be drawn here. Let me cover you with my cloak and see you to your quarters.'

'Not yet, general. Sit a while,' she 'said, smiling up at him. Shaking his head he chuckled and sat down, stretching out his long legs and brushing raindrops from his shoulders and arms.

'Curious creatures, are women,' he remarked. 'You have beautiful rooms, warm and dry, yet you sit here in the cold and the wet.'

'There is a kind of peace here, do you not find?' she countered. 'All around us the storm, yet here we are safe and dry.'

The thunder came again, closer now, lightning forking the sky.

'The appearance of safety,' Parmenion replied, 'is not quite the same as being safe. You look sad,' he said suddenly, instinctively reaching out and taking her hand. She smiled then, holding back the tears with an effort of will.

'I am not really sad,' she lied. 'It is just… I am a stranger in a foreign land. I have no friends, my body has become lumpy and ugly, and I cannot find the right words to please Philip.

But I will, when our son is born.'

He nodded. 'The babe concerns you. Philip tells me you have dreams of its death. But I spoke to Bernios yesterday; he says you are strong and the child grows as it should. He is a good man and a fine surgeon. He would not lie to me.'

The thunder was now overhead, the wind screaming through the oak and shaking it violently.

Parmenion helped the Queen to her feet, covering her head and shoulders with his cloak, and together they returned to the palace.

Leading her to her rooms Parmenion turned to leave, but Olympias cried out and started to fall.

The Spartan leapt to her side, catching her by the arms and half carrying her to a couch.

Her hand seized the breast of his tunic. 'He's gone!' she screamed. 'My son! He's gone!'

'Calm yourself, lady,' urged Parmenion, stroking her hair.

'Oh, sweet mother Hera,' she moaned. 'He's dead!'

The Spartan moved swiftly into the outer rooms, sending in the Queen's three hand-maidens to comfort her, then ordered a messenger to fetch Bernios.

Within the hour the surgeon arrived, giving the Queen a sleeping draught before reporting back to Philip. The King sat in his throne-room with Parmenion standing beside him.

'There is no cause for concern,' the bald surgeon assured Philip. 'The child is strong, his heartbeat discernible. I do not know why the Queen should think him dead. But she is young and given, perhaps, to foolish fears.'

'She has never struck me as being easily frightened,' offered Parmenion. 'When the raiders attacked her, she killed one of them and faced down the rest.'

'I agree with the surgeon,' said Philip. 'She is like a spirited horse — fast, powerful, but highly-strung. How soon will she give birth?'

'No more than five days, sire, perhaps sooner,' the surgeon told him.

'She will be better then,' said the King, 'once the child is suckling at her breast.' Dismissing the surgeon, Philip turned to Parmenion. The Spartan was holding hard to the high back of the King's chair, his face ghostly pale and blood streaming from his nose and ears.

'Parmenion!' shouted Philip, rising and reaching out to his general. The Spartan tried to answer, but all that came from his mouth was a broken groan. Pitching forward into the King's arms, Parmenion felt a rolling sea of pain engulf his head.

Then he was falling. .

. . and the Pit beckoned.

Derae's spirit hovered above Parmenion's bed, feeling the unseen presence of Aristotle beside her.

'Now is the moment of greatest peril,' his voice whispered in her soul.

Derae did not answer. Beside the bed sat Mothac and Bernios, both men silent, unmoving. Parmenion was barely breathing. The seeress flowed her spirit into the dying man, avoiding his memories and holding to the central spark of his life, feeling the panic within the core as the growth reached out its dark tendrils in his brain. It had been an easy matter to block the power of the sylphium, but even Derae was amazed at the speed with which the cancer spread. Most growths, she knew, were obscene and ugly imitations of life, yet still they created their own blood supply — feeding from it, ensuring their own existence for as long as the host body would tolerate them. Not so this cancer: it multiplied with bewildering speed, spreading far beyond its own core. Unable to feed itself its longest tendrils merely rotted, corrupting the fatty tissues of the brain. Then another tendril would spring up, following the same pattern.

Parmenion was moments from death, gangrene and decay entering his bloodstream and carrying corruption to all parts of his body. Fresh cancers were flowering everywhere.

Derae hunted them down, destroying them where she found them.

'I cannot do it alone!' she realized, with sudden panic.

'You are not alone,' said Aristotle, his voice calm. 'I will hold the growth in the brain."

Calming herself, Derae moved to the heart. If Parmenion was to live through this ordeal his heart needed to be strong. All his life he had been a runner, and, as Derae expected, the muscles were strong. Even so the arteries and major veins were showing signs of wear, dull yellow fat clinging to the walls and constricting the blood flow. The heartbeat was weak and fluttering, the blood thin. Derae began her work here, strengthening the valves, stripping away the pale yellow wastes clogging the veins and restricting the flow of blood, breaking them down to be carried away to the bowels. His lungs were good and she did not tarry here, but swam on into the gall bladder where wastes had been extracted from the blood only to congeal into stones, sharp and jagged. These she smashed into powder.

On she moved, destroying the cancer cells lodging in his kidneys, stomach and bowel, finally returning to the central core where Aristotle waited.

The growth in the head was unmoving now, but covering still a vast amount of the brain, squatting within it like a huge spider.

'We have him now at the point of death,' said Aristotle. 'You must hold him here while I seek him out in the Void. Can you do it?'

'I do not know,' she admitted. 'I can feel his body trembling on the edge of the abyss. One error, or the onset of fatigue. I don't know, Aristotle.'

'Both our lives will be in your hands, woman. For he will be my link to the world of the living.

If he dies in the Void, then I will be trapped there. Be strong, Derae. Be Spartan!'

And then she was alone.

Parmenion's heartbeat remained weak and unsteady and she could feel the cancer pushing back against her power, the tendrils quivering, seeking to grow.

There was no sensation of waking, no drowsiness. One moment there was nothing, the next Parmenion was walking across a colourless landscape under a lifeless grey sky. He stopped, his mind hazy and confused.

As far as his eyes could see there was no life, no growth. There were long-dead trees, skeletal and bare, and jagged boulders, rearing hills and dark distant mountains. All was shadow.

Fear touched him, his hand moving to the sword at his side.

Sword?

Slowly he drew it from its scabbard, gazing down once more on the proudest memory of youth, the shining blade and lion-head pommel in gold. The Sword of Leonidas!

But from where had it come? How did he acquire it? And where in Hades was he?

The word echoed in his mind. Hades!

He swallowed hard, remembering the blinding pain, the sudden darkness.

'No,' he whispered. 'No, I can't be dead!'

'Happily that is true,' said a voice and Parmenion spun on his heel, the sword-blade extending.

Aristotle leapt back. 'Please be careful, my friend. A man has only one soul.'

'What is this place?' Parmenion asked the magus.

'The land beyond the River Styx, the first cavern of Hades,' answered Aristotle.

'Then I must be dead. But I have no coin for the ferryman. How then shall I cross?'

Aristotle took him by the arm, leading him to a group of boulders where they sat beneath the soul-less sky. 'Listen to me, Spartan, for there is little time. You are not dead — a friend is holding you to life even now — but there is something you must do here.' Swiftly Aristotle told Parmenion of the child's lost soul and the perils of the Void.

The Spartan listened in silence, his pale eyes gazing over the twisted landscape that stretched for an eternity in every direction. In the far distance shapes could be seen, darker shadows flitting across the grey land.

'How could any man find one soul in such a place?' he asked at last.

'It will shine like a light, Parmenion. And it must be close, for you are linked to it.'

'What do you mean?' responded the Spartan, fear in his eyes.

'You understand full well what I am saying. You are the boy's father.'

'How many know of this?'

'Myself- and one other: the Healer who holds your life back in the world of the Flesh. Your secret is safe.'

'No secret is ever safe,' whispered Parmenion, 'but this is not the time for debate. How do we find this light?'

'I do not know,' Aristotle admitted. 'Nor do I know how to protect it when we do. Perhaps we cannot.'

Parmenion stood and stared hard in all directions. 'Where is the Styx?'

'To the east,' answered Aristotle.

'And how do I tell which is east? There are no stars save one, no landmarks that I could recognize.'

'Why would you seek the River of the Dead?'

'We must start somewhere, Aristotle. We cannot just wander this desolate plain.'

Aristotle stood. 'To the best of my recollection it is beyond two jagged peaks, higher than the surrounding mountains. Let's see…" Suddenly the magus swung on Parmenion. 'Wait! What was that about stars?'

'There is but the one, flickering there,' answered the Spartan, pointing to a tiny glistening dot of light high in the dark sky.

'There are no stars in the Void. That's it! That is the soul-flame.'

'How do we reach a star?'

'It is not a star! Look closely. It is a tall mountain; the light rests there. Come. Quickly, now.

For it will draw evil upon itself, and we must reach it first.'

The two men began to run, their feet kicking up grey dust which hovered behind them before settling once more into place, undisturbed by any breeze.

'Look!' shouted Aristotle, as they sped across the plain. Far to the left shadows were merging, huge, misshapen creatures lumbering towards the light. 'It draws them with the power of pain. They must blot it out, destroy it.'

There was little sense of time passing as the two ran on, but the mountains loomed above them dark and threatening as they reached the lower slopes. Here there was a forest of dead trees, bleached white like old bones. Parmenion cut to the left, seeking a path.

'Not that way!' screamed Aristotle.

Parmenion tried to turn, but a long branch curled around his throat, twigs like talons piercing his spirit flesh. His sword smashed through the bough and he hurled himself to the ground, where white roots pushed up through the dead earth — skeletal fingers that tugged at his arms.

Aristotle leapt forward with arms extended, and a searing burst of light shone from his hands, bathing Parmenion. The roots turned instantly to powder and the Spartan lurched to his feet.

'That was unfortunate,' said Aristotle, 'and such a display of power will bring our enemies the more swiftly.'

Sword in hand, Parmenion followed the magus up the slope towards the light. As they approached a scattered group of boulders, dark shadows detached themselves from the rocks, skittering into the sky. Parmenion saw that they were birds without feathers or skin, black skeletons swooping and diving above them.

A low moan came from within the boulders. Parmenion halted in his run, turning to seek the source of the cry.

'There is no time,' Aristotle shouted.

Ignoring him, Parmenion edged to the right.

At the centre of the boulders lay a young woman, chains of fire holding her arms pinned to the rocks. Several skeletal birds were pecking at her flesh, peeling it back in bloody strips which healed instantly. Parmenion ran at the birds, shouting and waving his arms; they rose from the body, wings clicking. His sword smashed one to shards, the rest flying clear. Kneeling down he gently touched the woman's face, lifting her head.

'I know you, do I not?' he said, as her eyes focused on him.

'Yes,' she answered weakly, her voice dreamlike. 'I showed you my youth when you were in Thebes.

Are you a dream, Parmenion?'

'No, lady.' Extending his sword, he touched the blade to the chains of fire which fell away.

Sheathing the weapon, he helped Tamis to her feet.

Aristotle ran to his side. 'I tell you there is no time for this. The demons are gathering.'

The child is born?' Tamis asked.

'Not yet,' answered Parmenion. 'Come with us.' Taking her arm, he led her up the slope. Far behind them the shadows were gathering, merging, like a dark river flowing towards the mountain.

Higher they climbed, and here a cold wind whispered through the rocks. The light was closer now -

a flame of pure white as tall as a man, burning upon a black boulder. Around it the skeletal birds were circling, their high-pitched cries echoing across the mountain.

A darker shadow formed by the fire. . growing, spreading.

'Aida!' whispered Tamis, running forward.

The Dark Woman raised her arms. Darkness oozed from her fingers to flow over the fire, which guttered, shrinking down until it was merely the size of a lantern-flame.

'No!' screamed Tamis. Aida spun, dark spears flashing from her hands. A golden shield appeared on Tamis' left arm, the spears glancing from it. Aristotle tore open his tunic, his hand circling a tiny golden stone hanging from a chain of silver. The flame on the boulder rose into the air, struggling free of the dark slime which was seeking to smother it.

'Take it, Parmenion,' shouted the magus. The Spartan ran towards the flame, which floated on to his outstretched hand, settling upon his palm. There was no sensation of heat, yet an inner warmth touched Parmenion's heart and the flame grew, curling in on itself, becoming a globe of soft white light.

Tamis and Aida flew at each other. Lightning blazed from Tamis' eyes, searing through the robes of the Dark Woman. Aida fell back — and vanished. Tamis turned to Parmenion, her hands trembling above the globe.

'It is the unborn child,' she said, 'the child of your flesh. I understand now. Kadmilos must kill it, or for ever share the body.' Her fingers touched the globe, the light spreading over her hands. 'Oh, Parmenion! He is so beautiful.'

'What can we do?' the Spartan asked, turning to glance down the mountain where the demons were gathering — some walking, others slithering across the stones, their cries drifting on the cold wind.

Aristotle moved alongside him. 'I believe Mount Thanatos is close by. If I am correct there is a gateway to the Elysian Fields, the Halls of Heroes. But they might not let us enter.'

'Why should they not?' Parmenion asked.

'We are not dead,' answered Aristotle, forcing a smile. 'At least not yet.'

'Look!' said Tamis, pointing down the mountain where dark-armoured warriors on skeletal horses were riding towards them.

'The Gateway, then,' agreed Parmenion. The sphere burning brightly in his hand, he started to run up the slope, the two sorcerers close behind.

Isle of Samothrace

'Still she interferes,' hissed Aida, opening the eyes of her body and rising from the ebony throne.

'What happened, mistress?' whispered her acolyte, Poris. The woman in the black robes stared down at the kneeling girl.

'There are three who struggle against us, keeping the child alive. Tamis — curse her — and the man Parmenion. There is another also, a man I do not know. Wait beside me!' Once more the Dark Woman closed her eyes, her body slumping back against the ebony throne. The slender acolyte took Aida's hand, touching her lips to it.

For some time she sat stroking Aida's fingers, then the Dark Woman sighed. 'The man is a magus.

His body lies waiting for him at the healer's temple. The woman Derae lies there also, her soul in Pella holding Parmenion's body among the living. Well, they have stretched themselves thin, my dear. Very thin. And it is time they died.'

'You will send the Nighthunters, mistress?'

'Three should be sufficient. There is only an old man guarding their bodies. Walk with me, my pretty one.'

Poris followed her mistress out into the cold stone corridors of the palace and down to the torchlit tunnels below. Aida opened a leaf-shaped door and entered a small room; it was empty of furniture, save for a raised stone slab at the centre. Aida traced her fingers on the carved lettering there. 'Do you know what this says?' she asked Poris.

'No, my lady.'

'It is Accadian, carved before the dawn of our history. It is an incantation. Tell me,' she asked, laying her hand on the girl's shoulder, 'do you love me?'

'More than life,' the girl assured her.

'Good,' answered Aida, pulling her into a tight embrace, 'and I love you, child. You are more than a daughter to me. But Kadmilos must be served, and his well-being is all that concerns me.' The slender dagger plunged into Poris' back, through the ribs and into the heart. The girl stiffened, then sagged into Aida's arms.

The woman in black eased the corpse on to the slab and began to speak the words of power. Smoke rose from the letters engraved on the stone, covering the dead girl. A foul smell filled the room, the stench of decay. Aida waved her hand and the smoke drew back into the rock. All that now lay upon the slab was a tracing of white-grey ashes.

Shadows danced on the dark walls, grotesque shapes which once had been men.

Moving to each of them, she touched her hand to their misshapen brows. 'The temple is unprotected,' she told them. 'Find the body of the woman Derae and devour her flesh — and all with her.'

The shadows faded.

Aida walked to the slab, dipping her fingers into the ashes.

'I shall miss you, Poris,' she murmured.

Cresting the mountain, the hunted trio ran down the scree-covered slopes. Tamis fell and slid towards a precipice, but Aristotle hurled himself in her path, seizing her white robes and hauling her to safety.

On they sped, the cries of their pursuers coming ever closer. From above them came the sound of leather wings and Parmenion glanced up to see huge shapes hovering around them — their skins scaled, their forms barely human. But they did not attack and the Spartan ignored them as he ran on.

To the left!' shouted Aristotle, pointing to a pass between rearing black peaks.

Behind them the ghostly riders were closing fast. Parmenion risked a glance back over his shoulder, then returned his gaze to the pass ahead.

They were not going to succeed. With a muttered curse he halted and spun, sword in hand, to meet the enemy. There were more than twenty riders, faces hidden by the winged helms they wore. In their hands swords of red name glittered like torches.

Tamis came alongside Parmenion. 'Go on, I will hold them,' she cried.

'I cannot leave you to face them alone.'

'GO!' she shouted. 'The soul-flame is everything.'

For a moment only he hesitated, then turned and ran on. The riders swept towards the seeress and her hands came up, white fire blazing across the Void to hurl four demons from their mounts. The rest charged on, sweeping out to pass Tamis by. Once more the lightning flared, scything through the first rank, the long-dead horses collapsing with bones cracking and splitting.

Two riders bore down on the seeress. The first she slew with a spear of light, but the sword of the second pierced her breast, jutting from her back and setting light to her robes. Tamis staggered — but she did not fall. Blasting the rider from his mount, she half turned and saw that Parmenion and Aristotle had reached the pass.

Ignoring the dying woman, the riders galloped on after the running men. Tamis sank to the dust, her mind swimming. She saw again her first passing, remembering the pain and the bitterness. Her soul had fled to the furthest corners of the Void, lost and alone. It was there that the servants of Kadmilos had found her, binding her with chains of fire, sending the Death Crows to rip at her spirit flesh. In her despair, she had been unable to find the strength to fight them.

Taking hold of the sword of fire she drew it from her body, casting it aside.

So many mistakes, Tamis, she chided herself. But here, at the end, perhaps you have atoned. Far ahead of her she watched the soul-flame reach the Elysian Gates. The riders of Hades had halted some distance away, unable to cross the open pass before the gateway without further orders.

The quest is with you now, Parmenion, my son, she thought. And I did — despite my mistakes — train you well.

At last content, she surrendered to the second, final, death.

The gates were carved from shining black rock — as tall as three men, as wide as ten. Beyond them were green fields, flowering trees, tall snow-capped mountains and a sky the blue of dreams.

Parmenion ached to walk there, to put behind him the grey, soul-less horror of the Void.

But two guards stood in the gateway.

'You cannot pass,' said the first.

Parmenion approached the man. The guard's armour was archaic, the breastplate gilded, the bronze shield huge and oval, the helm full-faced and red-plumed. Only the blue of the man's eyes could be seen.

Parmenion lifted the flame. 'This is the soul of a child in peril. The Lord of Chaos seeks to walk the world of flesh, stealing his life, his body.'

'The world of flesh is nothing to us,' said the second guard.

'Is there no one beyond the gate to whom we can appeal?' put in Aristotle.

'Here there is no bending of the law,' the first man answered. 'The Word is absolute. Only the souls of dead heroes may pass this way, and those we will recognize by a star of light that shines on their brows.'

Parmenion heard movement behind him and turned. The horsemen had begun to edge forward, and beyond them a vast army of demons had filled the mouth of the pass.

'At least take the soul-flame,' Aristotle urged the guards.

'We cannot. He is of the living… as are you.'

Moving to a nearby boulder, Parmenion opened his palm, willing the flame to flow from his hand.

The white light streamed to the rock, leaving the Spartan with a powerful sense of loss. Drawing his sword, he ignored the guards and moved to stand at the centre of the pass.

'Wait!' shouted the first sentry. 'Where did you come by that blade?'

'It was once mine in life,' Parmenion answered.

'I asked how you came by it?'

'I won it in the General's Games. Once it was wielded by my city's greatest hero — the Sword King, Leonidas. He died more than a century ago, defending the pass of Thermopylae against the Persian invaders.'

'A century? Was it so long? You are Spartan, then?'

'lam.'

'Then you'll not stand alone,' said the man, walking from the gateway and taking a position on Parmenion's left.

'Go back,' said Parmenion, his eyes on the horde before them. 'It is senseless enough for one man to die in this way, and a second sword will make no difference.'

The sentry laughed. 'There are more than two, brother,' he said. 'Boleus will soon fetch the others.' Even as he spoke the sound of marching feet could be heard from behind them, and 300

armoured warriors moved out to form three fighting lines across the pass.

'Why do you do this for me?' Parmenion asked.

'Because you carry my blade,' answered the Sword King of legend, 'and because you are a Spartan.

Now stand back with your friend, and the soul-flame. The demons shall not pass while we live.'

Behind them the gateway disappeared, leaving only a cliff wall, black and impenetrable.

'You have powerful friends, it seems,' remarked Aristotle, taking Parmenion's arm and guiding him back to where the globe rested on the rocks.

The Spartan was still dazed. 'He is. .'

'I know who he is — Leonidas, the Sword King. The men with him are the heroes who died at Thermopylae and they are risking eternity for you, Parmenion. It is a humbling thought. But then the Spartans were always a strange people.'

'I cannot allow it,' whispered Parmenion. 'They died once for their city, and for Greece. They don't know who I am. I humbled their city, destroying its greatness! I must save them!'

'They know all they need to know,' hissed Aristotle, seizing the Spartan's arm. "The babe is everything!'

Parmenion tore himself loose of Aristotle's grip, then saw the globe flickering. The soul of a child. His child! Glancing to his left he saw the Spartan fighting lines — shields locked, spears pointed — and beyond them the vast army of demons.

The Sword King laid down his shield and sword, striding back to where Parmenion stood. 'They are waiting for something,' he said, 'but it gives us time to talk. What is your name, brother?'

'Savra,' Aristotle said swiftly.

The Spartan shook his head. 'That was my name as a child,' he said softly. 'Now I am Parmenion.'

The Sword King was silent for a moment, then he lifted his hands to his helm and removed it. His face was regular, though not handsome, his hair long and golden, his eyes the blue of a summer sky. 'I have heard of you; you have sent many Spartan brothers to the Elysian fields.'

'Yes. I wish there had been time to tell you the truth. But you were beside me so fast. Can you open the gateway and withdraw?'

'No. Nor would I if I could. It would have changed nothing, Parmenion. It still changes nothing.

We stand together.'

'I don't understand,' Parmenion whispered.

'That is because you are from a different age, brother. At Thermopylae we led a united Greek force against the invader. We stood firm then, and died. We did not die gladly but we did die willingly, brother beside brother. You are a Spartan and that is enough for us. Our blood is in your veins."

'You accept me?' asked Parmenion, all the tortures of his childhood roaring to the surface — the rejections, the beatings and the endless humiliations.

Placing his hands on Parmenion's shoulders, the Sword King smiled. 'Come stand beside me, brother, and the demons shall see how Spartans do battle.'

In that moment all Parmenion's bitterness dissolved, as if a fresh spring breeze had whispered through the cob-webbed recesses of his mind.

Acceptance! By the greatest Spartan who had ever lived!

Drawing his sword, he followed his King into the battle-line.

The Temple

It seemed to Leucion that the night was more beautiful than any he could remember. The sky was clear, sable-dark, the distant stars glittering like spear-points, the moon a huge coin of shining silver. He had once received a coin like that, minted in Susa, when he served as a mercenary in Egypt. Since most of the warriors were Athenians the Persians had stamped the coin with the owl of Athena. His wonderment at its beauty had lasted only one night, when he had given it to a Numidean whore.

Now, staring at the moon from the ramparts of the temple, he wished he had kept it. Sighing, he turned from the wall and wandered down the steps to the moonlit garden. There were no colours to the roses now; all were shades of grey under the moon, but the fragrance remained.

Walking through the Healing Hall he mounted the stairs to Derae's room and sat between the two beds. On one lay the sorcerer Aristotle, arms folded across his chest, his right hand curled around the stone on his necklet. On the other was Derae, still dressed in the gown of green which Leucion had purchased in the market. Reaching out, he stroked her cheek.

She did not move, and he recalled with fondness his return to the temple when he had found Derae in the grip of a fever. He had bathed her, tended her, fed her. He had been happy then; she was his, like a child.

Her face was pale and she was scarcely breathing. For two days she had been thus, but Leucion was not concerned. Five, she had said. Then she would return and all would be as it once was; the healing of the sick, then the slow walks in the gardens, quiet conversations on moonlit nights.

The sorcerer moaned softly, his right arm sliding clear of the neck-chain. Leucion leaned forward to peer at the golden stone. It was streaked with black lines and seemed to glow faintly.

Returning his gaze to Derae, he was struck again by her beauty. It touched him like a spell, painful and yet welcome. Stretching his back he rose, his scabbard rattling against the chair and breaking the silence. He was uncomfortable with the sword now, the years at the temple having dulled his warrior's spirit. But the sorcerer said it was necessary that the bodies be guarded at all times.

From what? Leucion had enquired.

Aristotle had shrugged. 'From the unpredictable,' he replied.

Leucion turned towards the door. . and froze.

It was no longer there. The wall too had disappeared, to be replaced by a long narrow corridor of pale, glistening stone. The silver-haired warrior drew his short sword and dagger, eyes straining to pierce the gloom. Two shadows detached themselves from the corridor walls, and Leucion stepped back as their huge misshapen forms moved slowly towards him. Their heads and shoulders were scaled, their arms and torsos the grey of decaying corpses; their taloned feet scraped on the stone and, as they came closer, Leucion saw with sick dread that their mouths were rimmed with pointed fangs.

Backing away once more, his legs touched the bed on which Derae lay.

The first demon hurled itself at the warrior. Leucion sprang to meet the charge, ramming his short sword into the beast's belly and ripping it up towards the heart. Talons tore at his shoulder, slicing through flesh and muscle and snapping his collar-bone. As the demon fell the second creature lunged for the wounded warrior, talons closing on his right side, shattering the hip beneath. Leucion plunged his dagger into the beast's neck, just below the ear. Grey slime pumped from the wound, drenching the warrior's hand and burning the skin. In its death throes the demon hurled Leucion from him and the warrior fell to the floor, dropping both dagger and sword.

Blood was pouring from the wound in his shoulder, and the agony of his broken hip was almost unbearable. Yet still Leucion struggled to rise.

Gathering up his short sword, he pushed himself to his feet, taking the weight of his body on his left leg. The two demons were gone, but the corridor remained.

'I did it,' he whispered. 'I saved her.'

Five talons the length of swords hammered through his back, bursting from his chest before closing in on themselves and dragging him back.

Blood bubbled from his ruptured lungs and his head fell forward.

The demon hauled the body across the bed, where Leucion's limp arm fell upon the golden stone on Aristotle's chest. The stone blazed into light. New strength poured into the dying warrior.

Reversing his sword, he plunged it back into the belly of the demon behind him.

The talons slashed into his body once more, ripping clear his head.

Dropping the body the demon staggered, then its slitted opal eyes focused on the still form of Derae. Saliva dripping from its fangs, it advanced.

The demon horde filled the mouth of the pass, standing motionless, their eyes on the 300 crimson-cloaked warriors who barred their path to the light.

'Why are they waiting, do you think?' Parmenion asked the Sword King.

'They are waiting for Him,' whispered the King, pointing his sword at a dark, rolling storm-cloud in the distance.

'I see no one.'

The King was silent and the cloud came closer, moving across the land, blotting out the slate-grey sky. As it neared Parmenion saw that it was no cloud, merely a darkness deeper than any he could have imagined. The beasts cowered from it, running to hide behind boulders or into nearby caves.

The Darkness slowed as it reached the pass, and then a breeze blew across the waiting soldiers, carrying with it the touch of terror. All the fears known to man were borne on that dread breeze, all the primal horrors of the Dark. The line wavered. Parmenion felt his hands begin to tremble, his sword dropping to the ground.

'Spartans, stand firm!' the King shouted — his voice thin, reedy and full of fear. Yet still it was the voice of the Spartan King, and the warriors' shields clashed together in a wall of bronze.

Parmenion knelt, gathering his sword. His mouth was dry and he knew with grim and terrifying certainty that nothing could withstand the power of the Dark.

'All is lost,' said Aristotle, pushing through the line and tugging at Parmenion's arm. 'Nothing can stand against Hun in his own kingdom. Come away, man! I can return you to the flesh!'

Parmenion shook him loose. 'Go, then!' he commanded.

'You fool!" hissed Aristotle, his hand cupping the stone at his breast. Instantly he was gone.

The Darkness rolled on towards them while from within the cloud came the sound of a slow drumbeat, impossibly loud, like controlled thunder.

'What is that noise?' asked Parmenion, his voice shaking.

'The heartbeat of Chaos,' answered the Sword King.

And still the Spartans stood firm.

The demonic army gathered itself and edged forward, filling the pass, while the Dark hovered behind them.

The warmth of life touched Parmenion's back and he swung to see the globe of light swelling upon the boulder, growing, bathing the rocks, rising, glowing like sunlight over the pass.

The horde faltered, shielding their eyes from the brightness, and Parmenion felt the weight of fear lifting from his heart. The heartbeat of Chaos sounded again, louder, and the Dark oozed forward.

Light and Dark, terror and hope, came together at the centre of the pass, merging, twisting, rising higher into the sky, swirling into a great, streaked sphere, lightning lancing from its centre.

The army of Hades stood still, all eyes turned to the colossal battle being waged in the sky. At first the darkness appeared to swamp the light, but the soul blazed back, rending and tearing, shining clear in golden shafts that lit the pass with sudden flashes.

Higher and higher the battle swirled until, at last, only the faintest sparks could be seen. Then there was nothing, save the unremitting grey of the Hades sky.

The Sword King sheathed his blade and turned to Parmenion.

'Who is the child?' he asked, his voice hushed, his tone reverential.

'The son of the Macedonian king,' answered Parmenion.

'Would that he were Spartan. Would that I could know him.'

'What is happening?' asked Parmenion, as the demonic army began to disperse, the creatures of the Void moving sullenly back from the pass, seeking their eternal homes of shadows and gloom.

'The child is born,' said the Sword King.

'And the Dark God was defeated?'

'I fear not. They are locked together, and will remain so, in a constant struggle. But the child will be mighty. He may yet conquer.'

'Then I failed,' whispered Parmenion.

'There is no failure. He will be a child of Light and Dark. He will need friends to guide him, to help him, to strengthen him. And he will have you, Parmenion.'

The Gates to the Elysian fields shimmered open, the sunlight glorious. The Spartan king took Parmenion's hand. 'Your life beckons you, brother. Go back to it.'

'I… I have no way to thank you. You have given me more than I believed was possible.'

The King smiled. 'You would do no less for a kinsman, Parmenion. Go. Protect the child. He is born to be great.'

Aristotle opened his eyes just as the demon reached for Derae.

'No!' he screamed. A shaft of light smote the creature's chest, pitching him back against the far wall, his skin blistering, flames licking from the wound. Within moments fire covered the beast, black smoke filling the room.

The magus rose from the bed, a sword of golden light appearing in his hand. Moving swiftly forward, he touched the blade to the blazing beast which disappeared instantly.

The corridor vanished, the walls of the room reappearing; Aristotle gazed down on Leucion's dismembered corpse.

'You fought valiantly,' whispered the magus, 'for there would have been more than one.' The sword flowed into Aristotle's hand, becoming a ball of fire which he laid on Leucion's chest. The body was healed of all wounds and the head drawn back into place. 'It is better for Derae to see you thus,' Aristotle told the corpse, reaching out to close the dead eyes. Fishing into the pouch at his side, he produced a silver obol which he placed in Leucion's mouth. 'For the ferryman,' he said softly. 'May your journey end in light.'

Returning to the bed, Aristotle took Derae's hand, calling her home.

Pella, Spring, 356 BC

Mothac was beside the bed when the miracle occurred. The colour flowed back into Parmenion's face, the flesh filling out, but more than this — his hair thickened and darkened, the lines around his eyes, nose and chin fading back and disappearing.

He looked younger, a man in his twenties. Mothac could not believe what he was seeing. One moment his master and his friend was dying, the next he looked stronger than he had been for two decades.

Lifting Parmenion's wrist, he felt for the pulse. It was beating strongly, rhythmically.

At that moment a tremendous cheer went up from the soldiers ringing the palace. Louder and louder it came.

Parmenion stirred and awoke. 'By all the gods, I don't believe it!' Mothac shouted.

Parmenion sat up, embracing his friend, feeling Mothac's tears wet against his face. 'I am back.

And I am well. What is the reason for the cheering?'

'The King's son is born,' said Mothac.

Parmenion threw back the sheet covering his body and walked to the window. Thousands of soldiers had surrounded the palace, chanting the name of the heir to the throne.

'Alexander! Alexander! Alexander!'