Lion of Macedon (58 page)

“At last we meet,” she said.

“Where is my bride?” whispered Philip.

“She will be waiting for you,” said the hooded woman. “Tomorrow, on the night of the third mystery, she will be brought to your rooms. But there is something you must do, King of Macedon.”

“Name it.”

“You will not go to her until the third hour after midnight; you will not see her before then. At that appointed hour she will conceive your son—not a moment before, not a minute after. You will lie together in the third hour. If this is not done, there will be no marriage.”

Philip laughed. “You believe I will have a problem in that area?”

“I hope not, Philip,” she answered coldly. “Much depends on it. This son will be greater than any warrior before him, but only if he is conceived in the third hour.”

“As I said, I see no reason to fear failure.”

“Then I will give you two. If you fail, all your dreams of greatness will come to nothing; the gods will desert you. And secondly, you already have a son: Arrhidaeus. He is simpleminded, his limbs weak; your wife Phila died in giving birth to him. Apart from this one chance, Philip, all you will sire are daughters. What I offer you now is a chance—your only chance—to sire a perfect heir.”

“How did you know of Arrhidaeus?” whispered Philip.

“I know all your secrets. I know the secrets of the world. Be prepared, King of Macedon. Olympias will await you.”

Aida watched the Macedonian turn and stalk from the room. As the door closed behind him, she returned to her high-backed chair and sat, her thoughts uneasy, her emotions confused.

Philip was a powerful man, his personal magnetism compelling, yet something was wrong, and Aida’s tension grew. So much depended on this union, so many plans laid over so many years.

Aida had been a child when her mother first told her of the
dream of the dark birth and of the many failures that had followed. Only once in each fifty-year cycle did the harmony of the universe falter, giving rise to a unique moment of planetary confusion.

When the last alignment took place in Mesopotamia, Aida was fourteen. Her mother had bewitched the great king and prepared an acolyte of exceptional beauty. The wedding night had proceeded as planned, but the girl—her mind dazed by the drugs—had wandered from the balcony, falling to her death on the marble stone of the courtyard. Aida’s mother had been desolate, and for two months she refused to speak; then, just when it seemed she would recover, she slashed her throat with a bronze knife.

Now the moment was here once more. There would be no balcony for Olympias, no danger to the princess. Philip was a ram who would need no assistance to fulfill his … necessary … task.

So what could go wrong? Aida did not know. But she felt the icy touch of fear.

She closed her eyes and soared, her spirit rising high above the palace, moving over the green hills, seeking, ever seeking, without knowing what she sought.

The assassins sent from the city of Olynthus were dead, their boat destroyed in a sudden storm. Only one had reached the Samothracian shore, and his head had been crushed by a heavy rock wielded by two of Aida’s acolytes. There was no danger from assassins. Aida would know.

But she could not dismiss her fears. She trusted her talents and her intuition. Although she could not walk the paths of the past and future, still Aida was powerful, reading the hearts and minds of men, anticipating events. The rulers of the city of Olynthus feared Philip. It was not difficult to second-guess their intentions, especially now that the king’s former favorite, Nicanor, entertained an Olynthian lover at his home in Pella.

The storm had been costly—two of Aida’s acolytes sacrificed, their hearts torn from their bodies. But it was worth
more than even those to ensure that the lord of fire could be born in the flesh. Aida would sacrifice a nation for such a holy miracle.

Returning to her body, she opened her eyes.

Where is the peril?

Think, Aida! Use your mind!
She had searched the island, the seventeen villages and four ports. Nothing. She thought of Tamis, almost wishing her alive so that she could focus her hatred once more.

Would that I could have killed you a dozen, dozen times!
The old priestess had been a constant sore for decades. Curiously, her death had done little to ease Aida’s hatred. All that power wasted on the whore, she thought, remembering with exquisite distaste Tamis’ lovers.

The other priestess had worried her at first, but she also was flawed.

Where, then, the danger?

Closing her eyes once more, she flew across the seas, hovering over the temple. A tall man was tending the garden, and there were no supplicants waiting in the meadows. Swiftly Aida armored herself with protective spells, then entered the temple. It was empty.

Where are you, my dove?
she thought.

Returning to Samothrace, she searched the island once more—carefully, thoroughly, each hill and wood.

At last, weary and almost spent, she returned to the palace and walked to the kennels below the outer wall. The black hounds began to bay as she entered. Pulling open the wooden gate, she moved in among them, crouching down as they surged around her. Summoning the image of Derae, she cast the picture into the mind of each hound, imprinting it, holding it until the baying stopped. Then, lifting her arm, she pointed to the open gate.

“Go!” she shouted. “Taste of her blood, break her bones! Go!”

* * *

Derae sat in a hollow below the branches of a flowering tree, her mind alert. She sensed the search and located Aida’s spirit as she soared from the palace. Calming the fluttering of panic that beset her, she leaned back against a tree trunk, her arms crossed, her hands on her shoulders. She merged her mind with the tree, feeling her way into the bark, through the oozing sap that killed most insects, on into the capillaries where water was drawn to the leaves and flowers.

She was Derae no longer. She was the tree, her roots deep and questing, seeking moisture and goodness from the dark earth, her branches growing, stretching, flowing with slow life. She felt sunlight on her leaves and concentrated on the seed-bearing blossoms that would ensure her existence through eternity. It was peaceful within the tree … so peaceful.

At last she withdrew her spirit and searched for Aida. The witch woman had returned to the palace. Derae rose and walked slowly down to the meadows, close by the wood, where tonight the acolytes would celebrate the third mystery. There was a stream here, and she drank deeply.

In the distance she heard the baying of hounds, ready for the hunt.

Adjusting her veil, she waited, sitting on a boulder, not looking in the direction from which she knew he would come. His footfalls were soft, unconsciously stealthy.

“We meet again, lady,” he said, and she turned.

“How are you, Savra?”

“I am well—even better now that I have seen you again.”

Her spirit eyes scanned his face. The boyish features had long since been replaced by the angular, almost harsh lines of the man. Yet still he was the Parmenion of memory. Her Parmenion!

“How prettily you speak—for a soldier.”

“Not usually, lady. You bring out the best in me. What is your name?”

She was suddenly torn, filled with the desire to remove her veil, to show him her face, to tell him how she had missed
him through all those lonely years. She turned away. “No names,” she said at last.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, moving closer.

“Nothing,” she replied, forcing gaiety into her voice. “It is a beautiful day.”

A sleek black hound padded from the woods, coming closer to them. Suddenly its lips drew back to show long fangs, a low growl rumbling in its throat. Parmenion stepped in front of Derae, his hand on the dagger at his side.

“Be off with you!” he roared, and the hound backed away several paces—then charged at Derae. Parmenion’s dagger flashed into the air. The hound leapt at the woman, but the Spartan threw himself at it, his arm curling around the dog’s neck, the dagger blade plunging into its side. As he rose to his feet, two more hounds came running from the woods.

Parmenion turned to see Derae walking toward the palace, the hounds closing in on her.

“No!” screamed Parmenion in the sudden realization that he could not reach her in time. Yet even as the beasts prepared to leap, they slumped to the ground. She did not turn to see this apparent miracle but walked on through the palace gate.

Parmenion moved to the hounds. They were sleeping peacefully. Bewildered, he sheathed his dagger and ran into the courtyard.

There was no sign of the woman.

“Look at this,” said Philip, pointing to the long white cloak and the silver full-faced helm that lay on one of the couches. “Can you believe I am supposed to wear that
during
the consummation?”

Parmenion hefted the helm. It was beautifully crafted of shining silver edged with gold, the ear guards embossed with what appeared to be demons bearing jagged knives. At the nape of the neck were protective plates of silver, no wider than a man’s thumb. There was no crested plume, but to the sides two black ram’s horns curved from the temples to the neck.

“It is stunning,” said the Spartan, “and very old. The workmanship is rare.”

“Rare?” stormed Philip. “Rare it may be. It is also rare to ask a man to mount a woman wearing such a … such a … bridal hat!”

Parmenion smiled. “You said yourself that this marriage has been ordained. Surely you expected a little ritual. Even Bardylis made the wedding ceremony last a full day, with dances, speeches, and athletic contests between his guards.”

“Yes, he did,” said Philip, “but there I was at the center. Here I feel like a bystander, an incidental player.” He stalked to the window and stared out over the night-dark woods and the distant fires. Parmenion joined him. “Listen to them,” said the king as the night breeze carried sounds of laughter and music from the woods. “You know what they are doing?”

“No, sire.”

“Neither do I … and that irritates me, Parmenion. They are probably dancing naked around those fires, and I am sitting here waiting to be led into my bride like a prize ram. Am I so ugly that I need a helmet to disguise myself?”

“I think,” offered Parmenion, “that you are nervous. I would also advise you to hold back on the wine; you have drained almost a full pitcher.”

“Wine has no effect on my abilities,” snapped Philip. “Why don’t we sneak out there and watch them. What do you think?”

“I think that would not be wise.”

“Gods, man, you are so staid!” Philip slumped down on a couch and poured the last of his wine. “Get me some more drink, would you; there’s a good fellow.”

Parmenion wandered out into the deserted corridor, following the stairs down to the kitchens. It was close to midnight, and even he was beginning to feel a sense of rising excitement over the forthcoming wedding.

The mysteries fascinated Parmenion, as indeed did the culture of this volcanic isle. Xenophon himself had been initiated here but had told Parmenion little of the ceremonies
save that they involved arcane knowledge of the “greater gods.” One of these, Parmenion recalled, was Kadmilos, the ram-horned immortal, the spirit of chaos.

The Spartan walked into the empty kitchens, located a pitcher of wine, and returned to the king’s rooms. Philip was once more drinking happily.

“You found some more,” said Parmenion, seeing the golden pitcher beside the king.

“A woman brought it. You cannot fault the hospitality here, Parmenion, and it is the finest wine I’ve ever tasted. Have some.”

“I saw no woman, sire. From where did she come?”

Philip shrugged. “The palace is like a maze. Who knows? Come. Drink.”

Parmenion poured a goblet of the king’s wine and tasted it. It was strong, heavy, and almost sweet. Just then they heard the chanting, and he put down his wine and wandered to the window. A torch-lit procession was moving from the woods. “Your bride is coming, sire,” said the Spartan. Philip leaned out, his hands gripping the stone sill.

At the front of the procession, dressed like an ancient Minoan princess, was a flame-haired girl of great beauty, her hair tied with golden ribbons, her breasts bared and rouged, her hips clad in swirling silk.

“By all the gods of Olympus!” whispered Philip. “Is that not a sight on which to feast the soul?”

Parmenion swallowed hard. The girl was the image of Derae: the wide-set eyes, the full, sensual mouth. The Spartan stepped back from the window, tearing his eyes from the scene. The procession moved on into the palace, the chanting becoming muffled and distant. Philip poured yet another goblet of wine, draining it at a single swallow.

“It is almost time, sire,” said Parmenion. “You should prepare.”

“Yes,” replied Philip, his voice slurring. “Pre … prepare.” He struggled from his
chiton
, staggered toward the white
cloak, and fell onto a couch. “Damn!” he muttered. “Legs betrayed me.” Parmenion ran to him.

“What is it, sire?”

“Don’t … don’t know. Help … me up.” Parmenion pulled the king upright on the couch. “I’ll be all right. Get me some water.”

The Spartan heard sounds of footfalls in the corridor outside and listened as the door of the bedchamber opened. Moving to the hangings between the rooms, he drew them tight, then took water to the king. Philip’s eyes were swollen and bleary. “They are here, sire,” whispered Parmenion. “You must stir yourself.” Philip took the water, which spilled to his naked chest. He tried to drink, but his head sagged back, the goblet falling from his hand.

Parmenion cursed softly. It was beyond belief. He had watched Philip on many drinking bouts; the man’s capacity for wine or ale was legendary. Never had Parmenion seen him like this. And after only two pitchers of wine? It was inconceivable.

The smell of sweet incense drifted through the hangings, and he heard the acolytes withdraw from the chamber. Silently he crept across the room, opening a small gap in the drapes. The room beyond was lit by yellow-flamed lanterns, and the naked form of Olympias lay on the broad bed. She was writhing and moaning softly.