Lion of Macedon (57 page)

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 awhile, 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 armor, 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 defenses and seeking out hidden assassins.”

Parmenion laughed then, the sound rich and full of good humor. “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 hilltop. He was drawn toward 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 toward 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 color. At first it appeared to be the color of flame, 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 color 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 inquired.

“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 toward the distant woods, and as the sunlight touched her, it seemed once more that her hair was red-gold.

The beginnings of a cramp in his left arm awoke Philip an hour after dawn. He glanced down at the blond 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
now
!”

The blond 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 lovemaking. They dried the tongue but fired the mind and body. Colors 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, shriveled 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 lovemaking, 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.