Lion of Macedon (56 page)

“You have traveled 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 seven hundred Macedonian casualties, including Achillas and Petar. But six thousand 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 B.C.

Derae sat at Tamis’ bedside, waiting for the inevitable. The old woman had not eaten in over a week or 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 center 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 when you floated 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! I am a Spartan, and I will not surrender in this fight. Now,” she said, taking the woman’s arm, “tell me all you 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 of Macedon 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 will 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 that 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 will 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 B.C.

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 travelers, 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 toward 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 honor tonight, and tomorrow a hunt in the high hills.”

Philip took her hand, kissing the palm. “Thank you, lady. It is indeed an honor 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 toward 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 upward, 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 humor 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.