Lion of Macedon (54 page)

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 labored 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 or 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 partly 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 gray-bearded, dressed in a tunic of faded red, he carried a dish of water to her bedside and helped her 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 five 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?”

“Eleven 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 onto 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 into 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.

“Please 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 B.C.

Philip watched the thousand-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 the
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 armored 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 the 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 armor, 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 center. 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: armor from Boeotia and Phrygia, horses from Thrace, marble from the south, cloaks from Thebes, builders from Athens and Corinth.

The barracks were 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 two thousand 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-hilted 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 in 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 canceled 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 Greece would be free to be united, to be led into battle by a single warrior king.