Lion of Macedon (63 page)

A man had appeared in the center of the meadow and was walking toward the gate. Casting his eyes beyond the newcomer, Leucion scanned the ground for any dips or hollows. Surely he would have seen him when first he looked east. The stranger’s tunic was bright yellow, almost gold, his hair short and gray, his beard curled in the Persian fashion. He could not have just stepped from the air, Leucion assured himself. Unless … the warrior’s mouth was suddenly dry.

Unless he was a god—or a demon.

Cursing himself for leaving his dagger in his room, Leucion ran to the parapet steps and down to the eastern gate, which lay open to the fields. Stepping out, he waited for the newcomer.

“May the blessings of Olympus be upon your home,” said the stranger cheerfully.

“You cannot enter,” said Leucion. “Be on your way.” Sweat dripped to his eyes, and he blinked it away. The man
did not seem to be armed, but this was small comfort to the warrior. If this stranger was a demon, he would need no sword to dispatch a human opponent.

“I come seeking the healer,” the man said. “Is she here?”

“There is no one here but me. Now go—or work your sorcery and be damned to you!”

“Ah,” said the man, smiling, “I see you observed my arrival. I am no threat to you or the lady who dwells here. You could say I am a friend. An ally.”

Leucion’s face darkened.
“Friend
, you are hard of hearing. If you do not turn away, I will be forced to fight you.”

The stranger backed off a step. “How can I convince you? Wait! I have it.” Lifting his hand to his breast, he closed his eyes. Leucion felt a weight in his right hand and, glancing down, saw that he now held a gleaming short sword. “There,” said the man. “Is that more comfortable?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Aristotle. And think on this, friend. Had I wished to harm you, I could have made the sword appear not in your hand but in your heart. Yes? And another point to consider: The last time someone came here intent on bringing harm to the healer, she needed no help, did she, Leucion? When you and your friends sought to rape and kill her. You remember?”

Leucion dropped the sword and staggered back. “I … I have tried to atone for that day.”

“And you have done well,” the man said, walking through the gateway. “Now show me to her, there’s a good fellow. Ah, I see there is no need.”

Leucion swung to see Derae standing on the pathway. Wearing a new gown of glimmering green, her hair shining gold and silver in the sunlight, she looked to Leucion indescribably beautiful.

“What do you want here?” she asked the stranger.

“I wish to talk of times of peril, my dear.”

“You are not of the source,” she said, her voice cold.

“Neither am I of chaos. I am my own man.”

“That is not possible,” she told him.

“All things are possible, but let us say that I dwell upon the borders of both lands, serving neither. Yet we have a common purpose, Derae. I have no wish to see Kadmilos take on the mantle of flesh.”

“Why come to me?”

Aristotle chuckled. “Enough of games, healer! An old friend asked me to visit you, to help where I could. Her name is … was? … Cassandra. Now may we go inside? I am hot and thirsty, and my journey has been long.”

Derae was silent for a moment. As she closed her eyes, her spirit leapt free, merging instantaneously with the soul of the stranger. Yet fast as she was, the man was faster still, closing vast areas of memory, locking them away from her, allowing her only to glimpse bright fragments of his life. She withdrew from him and turned to Leucion.

“Aristotle is to be our guest for a little while, my friend. I would be grateful if you would treat him with courtesy.”

Leucion bowed. “As you wish, lady. I will prepare a room for him.”

After Leucion had gone, Derae moved to stand by the sword Aristotle had created. “A small though clever example of power,” he said.

“Not small,” she told him, “and let us see it for what it is.” Kneeling, she held her hand over the blade, which shimmered and changed, becoming a long black snake, its head hooded. “Had he tried to stab you with this, the snake would have reared back and killed him.”

“But he did not,” said Aristotle lamely.

“Understand this and understand it well. Had he died, I would have sent your soul screaming into Hades.”

“The point is well taken,” he assured her.

“See that it is.”

PELLA, MACEDONIA

“I will build him an empire,” said Philip as they lay on the broad bed, his hand resting gently on Olympias’ distended belly. “He will have everything he needs.”

“You were magnificent on that first night,” she said.

“I remember nothing of it, more’s the pity. But I remember the morning after. You have been a fire in my blood for two years—ever since the dream. Only the gods will know how I have missed you these last seven months. Why did you have to spend so long in Epirus?”

“I suffered problems with the pregnancy. To have traveled might have meant losing your son.”

“Then you were wise to wait. Everything I have built has been for you—and for him.”

“He will be your heir?” she asked, whispering the question.

“My only heir, I promise you.”

“What of your sons from future wives?”

“They will not take his place.”

“Then I am content, Philip. Truly content. Will you attack the Olynthians?”

Philip chuckled and sat up. “Parmenion told me you were a student of strategy. I did not believe him. Why do you concern yourself with such matters?”

Her green eyes hardened. “My father was a king, from a line of kings. You think I should learn to weave and grow
flowers? No, Philip, that is no life for Olympias. Now tell me about the Olynthians.”

“No,” he said, rolling from the bed.

“Why? Do you think me stupid? I want to help you. I want to be a part of your plans.”

“You
are
a part of my plans,” he said, swinging to face her. “You are the mother of my son. Can you not be content with that? I have many advisers, but few are those with whom I share my private thoughts. Can you understand that? No one can betray my plans if no one knows the full extent of them.”

“You think I would betray you?” she snapped.

“I never met a woman yet who knew when to hold her tongue!” he roared. “And you are proving no exception.” Philip threw a cloak around his shoulders and strode from the room.

It was close to midnight, and the corridor beyond was deserted, only two of the seven lanterns still flickering. The king marched to the end of the corridor, wrenching open the doors. The two guards beyond snapped to attention. Ignoring them, Philip stepped out into the moonlit gardens. The guards glanced at one another, then followed him.

“Leave me be!” he thundered.

“We cannot, sire. The Lord Attalus—”

“Who is the king here?” he bellowed, glaring at them. They shifted uneasily, and his anger passed. He knew their problem. If the king walked away into the night to be murdered, their own lives would be forfeit; they were in an impossible situation. “I am sorry, lads. A burst of temper, no more than that.” He sighed. “Women! They bring out the worst and the best in any man.” The men grinned. “All right, follow me to the home of Parmenion.”

The half-naked king and the two black-cloaked guards crossed the gardens to the western wing of the palace. Lantern light could be seen from Parmenion’s quarters, and the king did not bother to knock on the narrow side door. Opening it, he stepped inside.

Parmenion was sitting with his servant and friend, the Theban
Mothac. Both men were poring over maps. The Spartan glanced up, showing no surprise at the king’s entrance.

“And what are we studying?” asked Philip, striding across the room to stare down at the maps.

“The upper reaches of the River Axios, north of the Bora mountains,” said Parmenion. “The maps came today. I commissioned them last year.”

“You are anticipating problems in that area?” Philip inquired.

“There is a new Illyrian leader named Grabus who is trying to organize a league with the Paionians. They could prove troublesome.”

Philip sat on a couch and swung to Mothac. “Pour me some wine, Theban,” he commanded.

“Why?” responded Mothac, eyes blazing. “Have you lost the use of your arms?”

“What?” shouted Philip, his face reddening, his earlier anger returning with redoubled force.

“I am no Macedonian—and not your servant,” Mothac told him. Philip lurched to his feet.

“Enough!” stormed Parmenion, leaping between the two men. “What nonsense is this? Mothac, leave us!” The Theban made as if to speak, then spun on his heel and stalked from the room. “I am sorry, sire,” the Spartan told the king. “He is not himself. I cannot believe he would act in that manner.”

“I’ll see him dead,” snarled Philip.

“Calm yourself, sire. Here, let
me
pour your wine. Sit for a while.”

“Do not seek to soothe me, Parmenion,” muttered Philip, but he sank back to the couch, accepting the silver cup. “I’ve had my fill of people today.”

“A problem between you and the queen?” asked Parmenion, seeking to change the subject.

“She is inside my mind. When I look at the sky, her face is there. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep. She has bewitched me. Now she wants to hear all my plans. I’ll not have it!”

Parmenion kept his expression even. “She is very young,
Philip. But she is the daughter of a king; she has been well trained and has a fine mind.”

“It is not her mind that interests me. I am surrounded by men with fine minds. A woman should have a fine body and a sweet temperament. Do you know that she raised her voice to me? Argued with me! Can you believe that?”

“In Sparta women are encouraged to speak their minds. In all matters—save war—they are considered the equal of men.”

You think I should
explain myself
? Never! This is not Sparta. This is a man’s kingdom, ruled by men, for men.”

“The kingdom,” said Parmenion softly, “is yours. It will be ruled as you say.”

“And never forget that!”

“Why would I forget?”

“Will you discipline your servant?”

“No, sire, for he is not a servant. But I apologize on his behalf. Mothac is a lonely man, a man of sorrows and sudden tempers. He has never taken well to being treated with scorn.”

“You take his part? Against
me
?”

“I will take no man’s part against you, Philip. But listen to me; you came in here full of anger. And, in anger, you treated him like a slave. He reacted. True, he reacted in a manner unworthy of him, but still it was a
reaction
. Mothac is loyal, trustworthy, and the finest of friends.”

“You do not need to speak for me,” said Mothac from the doorway. He walked across to Philip and knelt. “I ask your pardon … sir. It was ill-mannered of me. And I am sorry to have brought such shame to the house of my friend.”

Philip looked down at the kneeling man, his anger still great. But he forced a laugh. “Maybe it was as well.” Standing, he raised Mothac to his feet. “Sometimes, my friend, a crown can make a man too arrogant, too swift to react in the name of pride. Tonight is a lesson learned well. Now … let
me
pour
you
a cup of wine. And then I shall bid you good night.”

Philip filled a cup, passing it to the astonished Theban. Then he bowed and left the house. Parmenion watched him walk away in the moonlight, flanked by his guards.

“He is a great man,” said Mothac, “but I do not like him.”

Parmenion pushed shut the door and looked into his friend’s eyes. “Most kings would have had you killed, Mothac. At best they would have seen you whipped or banished.”

“Oh, he is clever, all right,” the Theban responded. “He values you and your talents. And he has the strength to overcome his baser desires. But what is he, Parmenion? What does he want? Macedonia is strong—no one can doubt that. Yet still the army grows, the recruiting officers moving from village to village.” Mothac sipped his wine, then drained it in a single gulp. Sinking back to the couch, he pointed at the maps spread on the wide table. “You asked me to coordinate information from lands surrounding Macedonia. We now have a constant stream of news from merchants, soldiers, travelers, wandering actors, builders, and poets. Do you know what is happening in Upper Macedonia?”

“Of course,” answered Parmenion. “Philip is building a line of fortress towns against any future Illyrian invasion.”

“True. But he is also forcibly expelling any of Illyrian blood from lands they have held for centuries. Vast tracts of timberland, valleys, and pastures—all stolen from their owners. Some of the men expelled are former soldiers in the Macedonian army.”

Parmenion shrugged. “For centuries the Illyrians have been blood enemies of Macedon. Philip is trying to end the threat once and for all.”

“Oh, yes!” snorted Mothac. “I can see that; I am not a complete dullard. But who acquires these lands? It is the king or Attalus. Last month three Pelagonian timber merchants were stripped of their wealth, their lands, their houses. They appealed to the king, but before the appeal could be heard, they were mysteriously slain, along with their families.”