Dark Prince (11 page)

“Not Asia,” said Mothac. “And Parmenion maintains the Chalcidice is safe for the time being. Therefore, it is Thrace.”

“What does he want?” hissed Parzalamis. “How much territory can any one man hold?”

“An interesting question from a servant of the great king.”

“The great king is divinely blessed. He is not to be confused with a barbarian warrior. Thrace, you say? Very well, I will bear that intelligence to Susa.” Parzalamis leaned back, staring at the low ceiling. “Now tell me of the king’s son.” The question was asked in a tone altogether too relaxed, and Mothac let it hang in the air for a moment.

“He is said to be a brilliant child,” the Theban answered. “When barely four he could read and write and even debate with his elders.”

“Yet he is possessed,” said Parzalamis. Mothac could feel the tension in the man’s voice.

“You see a four-year-old child as a threat?”

“Yes—not of course to Persia, which is beyond fear, but to the stability of Greece. You lived for many years in Persia and no doubt came to understand the true religion. There is light, which, as Zoroaster informed us, is the root of all life, and there is darkness, in which nothing grows. Our wise men say that this Alexander is a child of darkness. You have heard this?”

“Yes,” agreed Mothac, shifting uncomfortably under the Persian’s gaze. “Some talk of him being a demon. Parmenion does not believe it.”

“And you?”

“I have seen the child only once, but yes, I could believe it. I touched his shoulder when he came too close to a stallion. The touch burned me. I could feel it for weeks.”

“He must not live,” whispered Parzalamis.

“I’ll have no part in this,” answered Mothac, rising and walking to the door. Stepping outside into the gathering twilight, he looked around. There was no one in sight, and he returned to the room. The light was failing, and Mothac lit three lanterns. “It would be madness to kill the child. Philip’s anger would be colossal.”

“That is true. But we must consider where best such anger could be directed. In Athens the orator Demosthenes speaks out against Philip with great vehemence. If the assassin were to be in the pay of Athens, then Philip would march south, yes?”

“Nothing would stop him,” agreed the Theban.

“And it is well known that central Greece is a burial ground for ambition. All the great generals have fallen there.”

“How will the deed be done?”

“The matter is already in hand. A Methonian slave named Lolon will kill the child; he has been bribed to do so by two Athenians in our service. He will be taken alive, of course, and will confess that he was hired on the instructions of Demosthenes, for he believes such to be the case.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“The two Athenians have been told to flee north from Pella. It will not be expected. You will hide them here for some weeks. After that they can make their way to Olynthus.”

“You ask a great deal,” Mothac told him.

“I agree, my dear Mothac, but then—as you know—we pay very well.”

Parmenion sat in the western alcove of his
andron
, eyes fixed on a honeybee as it settled on a flowering yellow rose. The bloom slowly bent as the bee shuffled inside, seeking pollen.

“Is that all he said?” asked the Spartan.

“Is it not enough?” Mothac countered.

Parmenion sighed and stood, stretching his back. It had taken three years to infiltrate Mothac into the Persian spy system, and at last it was beginning to justify the effort. At first they had been wary of him, knowing him to be Parmenion’s friend. Then, slowly, as his information proved accurate, they had begun to trust him more. But this sudden sharing of such a powerful secret would need some serious consideration. “I will have the servant watched and put extra guards in the garden beneath Alexander’s window.”

“But you must tell the king,” put in Mothac.

“No, that would not be wise. There is great fear in Persia that—ultimately—Philip will lead his forces into Asia. It is making them reckless. The attack on Philip at the festival—the Olynthians would never attempt anything so rash. No, it was the Persians, and I don’t think it wise to tell Philip. But equally I do not want Parzalamis to know that you are no traitor.”

“Why is that so important?” asked the Theban.

Parmenion grinned. “I do not wish to find you with a knife between your ribs. And there is no doubt in my mind that Persia will one day be the enemy. It is the richest kingdom in the world, and Philip spends recklessly. Despite the mines and cities we have captured there is still not enough wealth in Macedonia to pay for the army. No, Persia is the ultimate prize; therefore, it is vital to maintain contact with Parzalamis.
But how do we save the prince without compromising you?”

“The Methonian servant could have an accident—break his neck?” offered Mothac.

Parmenion shook his head. “Too obvious. And the Athenians—whose names we do not know—would only hire someone else. It is a thorny problem. But I will work on it.”

“He gave no indication of how soon Lolon will strike. It could be tonight!” said Mothac.

“Yes,” answered Parmenion, holding his voice even, not allowing a flicker of emotion to betray his concern. “I will ride for Pella tomorrow. Now, tell me, how is Titan’s foal?”

“Suckling well with a milk mare. He is strong. He will survive.”

“Good. Now you should get home and rest. I need to think.”

Mothac stood. “This game is growing in complexity, my friend. I am not comfortable with it.”

“Nor I. But kingdoms are at stake, and nothing remains simple.”

When the Theban had gone, Parmenion strolled in the gardens, halting at the marble fountain. There were three statues at the center representing Aphrodite, goddess of love, Athena, goddess of wisdom and war, and Hera, the queen of the gods. In their midst stood a handsome youth holding an apple.

“Kingdoms are at stake, and nothing remains simple.”

The youth was Paris, a prince of Troy, and the three goddesses had commanded him to present the golden apple to the most beautiful among them. Parmenion gazed at the youth’s stone face, reading the emotion the sculptor had so exquisitely carved there. It was the look of the lost. If he gave the apple to one, then the others would hate him, not resting until they saw him dead.

“Kingdoms are at stake, and nothing remains simple.”

Paris had presented the prize to Aphrodite, and she had rewarded him by making the most beautiful woman in the world love him. His happiness was complete. But the woman was Helen, wife of Menelaus, king of Sparta, and Athena, allied
with Hera, conspired to bring a Greek army seeking vengeance. Paris saw his city conquered and his family slain and was himself stabbed to death as Troy burned.

Foolish boy, thought Parmenion. He should have ignored beauty and presented it to the strongest. How could Paris have believed that love alone could save him? Pushing such thoughts from his mind, he stayed by the fountain pool until dusk, concentrating on the problem set by Parzalamis.

Servants brought him food and wine, which he left untouched on the marble bench where he sat beneath a flowering tree that offered shade from the setting sun. As the hours passed, he was no nearer to a solution, and this galled him.

Loosen your mind, he told himself. Think back to your days with Xenophon and the advice the Athenian general offered so freely.

“If a problem cannot be tackled by a frontal assault,” Xenophon had said, “then try a flank attack.” Parmenion smiled at the memory.

Very well, he thought. Let us examine all that we know. The Persians wish to kill Alexander. They gave Mothac two reasons. First their
magi
believe him to be possessed. Second, if Athens could be implicated in the child’s murder, it would set Philip on the road to revenge. What facts do I possess? he asked himself.

The name of the assassin.

He sat upright. Why would Parzalamis have revealed the name? Why not just tell Mothac that a servant had been bribed? It would be safer that way. A mistake, perhaps? No, Parzalamis was too wily to fall victim to a loose tongue. The answer was suddenly chillingly obvious—they were still testing Mothac. Parzalamis did not need a hiding place for the Athenians. What he needed was to know whether his finest Macedonian spy could be trusted. Yet to tell him of the assassination attempt was perilous indeed, for if news came to Philip, he would certainly go to war with Persia.

Therefore, Parzalamis must have taken steps to prevent the information from reaching the Macedonian king.

It was as if sunlight had speared through the clouds of Parmenion’s troubled thoughts. Mothac would have been … must have been … followed. Once they had seen him rushing to Parmenion, they would know he had betrayed them.

The unarmed Spartan lurched to his feet. Parzalamis would have only one option now. Eliminate the danger. Kill Mothac and the man to whom he had confided the secret.

With a whispered curse he started to run back toward the house.

A figure leapt from the shadows, moonlight gleaming on an upraised knife blade. Parmenion ducked and hammered his left fist into the man’s face, hurling him off balance. A second attacker grabbed him from behind, but Parmenion dropped to one knee, taking hold of the assassin’s arm and pitching him into his comrade. A third man ran at him with a short stabbing sword in his hand. Surging to his feet, Parmenion swayed left, the blade slashing past his hip. His fist cannoned against the assassin’s chin, staggering him. The other men had regained their feet and were advancing. Parmenion backed away. They came at him in a rush. With a savage scream the Spartan launched himself feet first into their midst, smashing one of the attackers from his feet. The sword cut a shallow wound in his thigh; a knife sliced his scalp. Parmenion rolled to his left. The sword blade clanged against the stone of the path, sending up a shower of sparks. Parmenion’s right leg swept out, knocking the swordsman to the ground. The Spartan’s hand fell against a large stone, which he threw into the advancing knifeman’s face. Blood spurting from his crushed nose, the man cried out, dropping his knife. Parmenion dived for it and rolled to his feet.

The swordsman aimed a wild cut at his head. Parmenion ducked once more and then stepped inside, ramming the knife into the man’s belly and ripping it up through the lungs. As the assassin screamed and fell, his comrades turned to run. Parmenion’s arm swept up, the blood-covered knife slicing through the air to plunge into one assassin’s back. The man stumbled but ran on. Scooping up the fallen sword, the Spartan gave chase. The fleeing warriors ran to the western
gate, where their mounts were tethered. The first man vaulted to his horse, but his wounded comrade, blood streaming down his back, could not summon the strength to mount. “Help me, Danis!” he begged. Ignoring him, his companion kicked his horse into a gallop.

Parmenion raced through the gateway and hacked the sword through the wounded attacker’s neck. Seizing the reins of the assassin’s horse, he swung himself to the beast’s back and set off after the third man.

The fleeing rider had a good start, but he was no horseman, and steadily Parmenion gained. His mount, a swaybacked dun gelding, was not quality, but he had staying power and slowly Parmenion closed the distance. His erstwhile attacker, a slim bearded man, cast a nervous glance over his shoulder as the horses thundered up the hillside, heading east. Suddenly the assassin’s horse stumbled, pitching his rider to the earth. The man hit hard but pushed himself to his feet and started to run. Parmenion galloped his horse alongside the man, the flat of the sword blade rapping his skull and toppling him to the ground.

Reining in the gelding, Parmenion leapt down. His would-be killer backed away.

“Speak swiftly,” said the Spartan. “Your life depends on it.”

The man’s face hardened. “I’ll tell you nothing, you Spartan scum bucket.”

“Unwise,” said Parmenion, plunging the sword into the man’s belly. The warrior died without a sound, toppling face-first to the grass. Parmenion remounted and galloped the gelding down past the paddocks and stables, leaping to the ground outside Mothac’s house.

The Theban walked out to greet him. His face was ashen, and a dagger jutted from his shoulder. “I think you should forget about keeping contact with Parzalamis,” Mothac grunted.

Parmenion walked into the house, where the Persian was lying on the floor, his head twisted at an impossible angle.

“He was waiting for me,” said Mothac, “but I don’t think he expected an old man to be so strong. And like so many of
his ilk he wanted to talk before he fought, to make me feel fear, to force me to beg, perhaps. He knew of my meeting with you; he called me a traitor. I think he was truly offended by my duplicity.”

“We must get that knife out,” Parmenion said.

“No time, my friend. Before we fought, he taunted me with the fact that the assassination of Alexander is set for tonight. Take Bessus—he’s the fastest we have.”

Parmenion ran to the stable. But even as the stallion galloped clear of the buildings, the Spartan felt an icy terror.

There was no way he could reach the capital in time …

PELLA, MACEDONIA, AUTUMN