Lion of Macedon (61 page)

“Was she beautiful?” asked the young man, laying his spear against a rock and sitting opposite the general.

“She was very beautiful … but she died. Are you married?”

“Yes, sir. I have a wife and two sons in Crousia. They are moving to Pella as soon as I can afford to rent a house.”

“That may be some time.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, sir. There’ll be another war soon. With fighting wages, I should see Lacia again within six months.”

“You want a war, then?” Parmenion asked.

“Of course, sir. It is our time. The Illyrians are destroyed, the Paionians also. Soon it will be to the east in Thrace or south against Pherai. Or maybe Olynthus. Philip is a warrior king. He will see the army is looked after.”

“I expect that he will,” agreed Parmenion, rising. “And I hope you get your house.”

“Thank you, sir. Good night.”

“Good night, Cleiton.” The general returned to his blankets, but his sleep was haunted by dreams. Derae was running on a green hillside, her eyes wide with fear. He tried to go to her, to explain that all was well, but as he approached, she screamed and sped away. He could not catch her and stopped by a stream, where he gazed down at his reflection. Pale eyes in the bronze mask of chaos stared back at him. Pulling the helm from his head, he called out to her.

“Stop! It is I, Parmenion.”

But she did not hear him and vanished from sight.

He awoke with a start and sat up. His back was aching, and a slow, painful pounding hammered within his skull. “You fool,” he told himself, “you forgot your sylphium.” There was water heating on a fire. Dipping a cup into the pot, he almost
scalded his fingers. Then, adding his dried herbs to the liquid, he stirred it with his dagger, waited for it to cool, and then drained the infusion. Almost at once the pain departed.

Bernios approached. “You look dreadful, my friend,” said the surgeon. “Do you ever sleep?”

“When I need it.”

“Well, you need it now. You are not a young man anymore. Your body needs rest.”

“I am forty-three years old,” Parmenion snapped. “That is hardly ancient. And I can still run twenty miles should I so choose.”

“I did not say you were decrepit, I merely pointed out that you are no longer young. You are very sharp this morning—that also is a sign of age.”

“My back aches, and do not tell me it is because I am old. There is an iron spear point lodged under my shoulder blade. But what of you? Why do you not sleep?”

“Another man died in the night. I sat with him,” said Bernios. “No one should die alone. He was stabbed through the belly; there is no worse pain than that. But he didn’t complain, save at the end.”

“Who was he?”

“I did not ask—and don’t lecture me about it. I know the importance you place on such details, but I cannot remember all the faces.”

“What did you give him?”

“The gift of poppies,” answered Bernios. “A lethal dose.”

“That is against the law. I wish you would not tell me these things.”

“Then don’t damn well ask!” responded the surgeon. He was instantly contrite. “I am sorry, Parmenion; I also am weary. But you are beginning to worry me. You have been tense now for days. Is something troubling you?”

“It is nothing of importance.”

“Nonsense. You are too intelligent to concern yourself over trifles. Do you want to talk of it?”

“No.”

“You are ashamed of it?”

“Yes,” admitted the Spartan.

“Then keep it to yourself. It is often said that confession is a healing process. Do not believe that, Parmenion; it is the mother of all pain. How many know of your … shame?”

“None save myself.”

“Then it did not happen.”

“It would be pleasant if it were that simple,” said Parmenion.

“Why complicate it? You expect too much of yourself, my friend. I have some bad news for you: you are not perfect. Now get some rest.”

“Walk with me,” Olympias commanded Parmenion as they made camp on the second night in a hollow on the Emathian plain. The Spartan followed the queen as they strolled toward the small campfire set by Phaedra. The queen saw that he was ill at ease and took his arm, enjoying the sudden tension in his muscles. So, she thought, he is not impervious to my beauty. “Why have you avoided me, General?” she asked sweetly.

“It is not a matter of avoiding you, your Highness. But my duty is to see you safely to your husband in Pella. That priority engages my mind, and I fear I am not good company.”

She sat down on her cushions, a gold-embroidered woolen shawl around her shoulders.

“Tell me about Philip,” she said. “There is so much I do not know. Is he kind to his servants? Does he beat his wives?”

Parmenion settled himself beside the fire. “Where would I start, lady? He is a king, and he behaves like one. No, he does not beat his wives—or his servants—but neither is he soft or weak. There is only one other wife, Audata, the daughter of King Bardylis. But she dwells now in Pelagonia—by choice.”

“She has a child by Philip, I understand,” she said, her hand unconsciously moving to her own swollen belly.

“She has a daughter, a beautiful child.”

“Strange from so ugly a mother,” snapped Olympias before she could stop herself.

“There are many kinds of beauty, my lady, and not all of them fade as swiftly as the flesh,” he told her, his voice cool.

“Forgive me,” she said swiftly. “It is hard not to be jealous. And I wish us to be friends. Will we be friends?” she asked suddenly, her green eyes holding to his own.

“All the days of our lives,” he told her simply.

After he had gone, Phaedra moved close alongside the queen. “You should not flirt, Olympias, not among these Macedonians.”

“I was not flirting, though he is a handsome man, save for that hawk nose. Philip is a warrior king, and he will take many wives. I need to ensure that my son remains the true heir to the throne, and it is never too early to win allies. Parmenion destroyed the power of the Spartans, raising Thebes to greatness. Last year he crushed the Illyrians. Before that he fought for the great king. He has never been defeated in battle. A good friend to have, do you not think?”

“You have learned much,” Phaedra whispered.

“Oh, there is more that I know. The king has three advisers he trusts above all others. First is Parmenion, preeminent in strategy; then comes Attalus, cold and deadly, the king’s assassin. Lastly there is Antipater, the second general, a tough, worthy warrior.”

“What of the women?”

“Philip thinks little of women, save for Simiche, his brother’s widow. He trusts her, confides in her. I will win her friendship also.”

“Your plans seem well laid,” commented Phaedra.

“They were set in Samothrace by the Lady Aida. She knows all things, past and future. I was chosen, and I will not disappoint her.”

“Did you love her?” asked Phaedra.

“Are you jealous, sister of my heart?”

“Yes, jealous of all who touch you or even look upon you.”

“You should take a man. I will arrange it for you if you desire it.”

“I can think of nothing worse,” said the seeress, snuggling close to her friend.

At that moment there came the sound of music from the campfire of the soldiers, soft and mournful. A voice was raised in song—not a battle hymn but a love song of surprising gentleness, accompanied by the high, sweet tones of a shepherd’s pipes. Olympias stood and walked through the trees to where the soldiers sat in a great circle around the piper and the singer. She shivered as she gazed upon the scene: men of war, in breastplates and greaves, their swords beside them, were listening to a tale of two lovers. The singer was Nicanor. He saw the two women approach and faded to silence, the soldiers standing as the new queen walked among them.

“No, please,” said Olympias, “do not stop, Nicanor. It is beautiful.” He smiled and bowed; the piper began to play, and Nicanor’s voice once more rang out. Olympias settled down in the circle with Phaedra close beside her. The seeress shivered, and Olympias opened her shawl, the girl once more snuggling in close with her head on the queen’s shoulder. Nicanor sang for more than an hour. The soldiers did not cheer or whistle as each song ended, yet there was tremendous warmth in the air and Olympias felt like a child again, safe and comfortable with these tough riders. Phaedra was asleep, her head a weight on Olympias’ shoulder.

Parmenion appeared and crouched down beside her. “I will carry her back for you,” he said, his voice soft so as not to wake the sleeping seeress.

“Thank you,” answered Olympias. When Parmenion knelt and lifted Phaedra to his arms, she murmured but did not seem to wake. The soldiers banked up the fires and drifted to their blankets as the general led the way back to the carriage. Nicanor opened the door, and Parmenion laid the seeress on the cushions within, covering her with two woolen cloaks.

“Your singing was beautiful, Nicanor,” said Olympias. “I shall treasure the memory.”

He blushed. “The men like to hear the songs; it reminds them of home and family. I cannot tell you how much your pleasure means to me.” Bowing, he backed away. Parmenion followed, but Olympias called him back.

“Will you sit with me a little while, General?” she asked.

“As you wish,” he answered. Her fire had died low, and he added fuel, building the blaze. The first cold winds of winter were sweeping across the plain, and already there was snow in the mountains. “What is it you fear?” he whispered.

“Why should I fear anything?” she responded, sitting close to him.

“You are young, lady. I am not. You hide it well, but it is there.”

“I fear for my son,” she said, her voice so low that he could barely hear her. “He will be a great king—if he lives. He
must
live!”

“I am a soldier, Olympias. I can make no promises as to his safety. But for what it is worth, I will protect him as best I can.”

“Why?”

It was such a simple question, yet it ripped at Parmenion’s mind with a whip of fire. He could not answer it directly and turned to the blaze, idly stoking it with a branch. “I serve Philip. He is Philip’s son,” he said at last.

“Then I am content. They say in Epirus that Macedonia will soon move against the cities of the Chalcidice. They say that Philip seeks to rule Greece.”

“I do not discuss the king’s plans, lady, nor am I always party to his thoughts. As far as I am aware, Philip seeks to secure Macedonia. For too long the country has been ruled by others, its security resting on the whims of politicians in Athens, Thebes, or Sparta.”

“Yet Philip took Amphipolis, an independent city.”

“No one is independent. It was an Athenian enclave, giving them a foothold in Macedonia,” he told her, uncomfortable with her direct line of questioning.

“But then what of the Chalcidean League and Olynthus? Are they not a threat? Olynthus has close ties with Athens, as have the cities of Pydna and Methone.”

“I see you are a thinker and wiser than your years. Yet you are not wise enough to hold your tongue on matters best not discussed in the open. Do not trust me overmuch, Olympias. I am the king’s man.”

“That is why I do trust you,” she answered him. “I am Philip’s woman. My son’s life rests on his survival. If a king dies, is it not the Macedonian way for the new king to kill his predecessor’s heirs?”

“It has been, lady, though you will be aware that Philip did not kill his brother’s son. But what I am saying to you is that you should trust no one. Not me … not Nicanor … not anyone. Direct your questions to Philip.”

“Very well, Parmenion. I am chastened. Will you forgive me?” Her smile was an enchantment, but Parmenion fought to remain untouched by its magic.

“Now
that
is a weapon you should use,” he said.

“Ah, how wise you are. Will I have no secrets from you, Parmenion?”

“As many as you wish, lady. You are very beautiful and yet intelligent. I think you will continue to captivate the king. But make no mistake, he is also a man of wit and discernment.”

“Is that a warning, General?”

“It is the advice of a friend.”

“Do you have many friends?”

“Two. One is Mothac, the other Bernios. Friendship is not a gift I give lightly,” he said, holding her gaze.

Reaching out, she touched his arm. “Then I am honored. But is not Philip a friend?”

“Kings have no friends, lady. They have loyal servants and bitter enemies. Sometimes the two can be interchangeable; it is the mark of the man how well he recognizes this.”

“You are a fine teacher,” said Olympias. “But one last question, if I may.”

“As long as it does not touch upon strategy,” he answered, smiling. For a moment she was silent. The smile had changed his face, making him almost boyish.

“No, not strategy—at least, not directly. I was wondering about you, Parmenion. What ambitions are there for a man with your reputation?”

“What indeed?” he said, rising. Bowing to her, he turned and strolled back to the soldiers’ campfire, checking on the sentries before allowing himself the luxury of sleep.

Back in the carriage Phaedra lay awake, her heart pounding. When Parmenion lifted her, she had been jerked from sleep by the power of his spirit. It was too strong to read, and she had felt swept away by a sea of images of enormous intensity. But through them all was one overriding vision. It was this which made her heart beat so, which left her mouth dry and her hands trembling.

All her life Phaedra had known of the one way to lose the curse of
seeing
. Her mother had told her of it.

“When you give yourself to a man, the powers will wither and die like a winter rose.”

The thought had been so disgusting that Phaedra would sooner keep the curse than surrender it in that way. In truth, the thought was still disgusting—but the rewards! She summoned the vision from memory, watching again the glories of the future.

How could she not take the risk?

Sitting up, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and stared at the stars shining bright beyond the carriage window. She could hear Parmenion and Olympias talking by the fire. His voice was soft, almost gentle, yet his words were confident and born of an inner strength.