Lion of Macedon (42 page)

“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 B.C.

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 marketplace beyond the high walls of the gardens. He could hear the stallholders shouting out prices, enticing customers, 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 toward 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 sickbed.

“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 marveled at his beauty. But now his skin was stretched and tight, the color pale and unhealthy. His eyes were red-skimmed and dull, his lips the blue of the consumptive. Philip looked away. Perdiccas was dying.

Philip sat for some time with his brother, then 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. Good night 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, prey to the bitter north winds of winter. The gardens were cold, the blooms colorless and ethereal under the moonlight. Philip found Beria sitting by the wall, her howls high and heartrending. 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 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 color 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 that 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 favorites 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 toward his dagger.