Lion of Macedon (45 page)

“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 a thousand 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 had 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 northwest 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 northwest, 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 outthink 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 earlier, 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 favors 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 dispatched?”

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

Philip dismissed the handmaidens, 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 center 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 traveling 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 dispatches 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 five hundred 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 vials, 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 die. 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 honored 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 favored 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 dispatched 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 labors 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 from seeds sent from Persia. As they walked, Philip’s mind was whirling. He needed the Athenians’ 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?