Dark Prince (63 page)

The two armies met on a plain in the shadows of the towering Ida mountains. Hephaiston, riding alongside Parmenion, saw the tents of the Macedonians strung out like pearls on a necklace, white against the green of the flatlands.

His soldier’s eye scanned the regiments waiting ahead. He could see the six brigades of the Macedonian foot companions, nine thousand men standing at attention with spears held vertically. Alongside them were the three thousand shield bearers, as Philip’s guards were now known. To the left were the Athenians and Corinthians, around seven thousand allied troops whose presence gave the expedition a united Greek appearance. To the right were the massed ranks of the savage Thracians. It was difficult to see how many there were, for they did not hold to formation but jostled and pushed in a heaving mass. But there must be, Hephaistion reckoned, more than five thousand of them.

Alexander rode out from the center of the army, his iron armor shining like polished silver, his helm beneath its white plume glinting with gold. Even Bucephalus was armored now, with light chain mail tied around his neck and over his chest, silver wires braided into his black mane and tail.

Hephaistion drew rein as Alexander approached, his captains riding behind him; Cassander, Philotas, Cleitus, Coenus, and Parmenion’s second son, Nicci.

The king rode directly to Parmenion and dismounted. The older man followed suit and knelt before Alexander.

“No, no,” said the king, stepping forward to lift the Spartan to his feet. “I’ll never have you kneel to me. Well met, my friend.” Alexander embraced the taller man. “I want to hear all your news. But first I’ll address your men, and then we will talk in my tent.”

Parmenion bowed, and the king turned back to Bucephalus. The horse knelt as he approached, and he mounted and rode to the head of Parmenion’s twelve thousand troops. They sent up a great cheer as he approached them, and snapped to attention. Their armor and cloaks were dust-covered and the men looked tired and drained.

“Well, my lads,” cried Alexander, “it is good to see you again! You have led the Persians a merry chase. But the running is over now; from this moment we run no longer. We take the battle to the enemy, and we will crush the might of Darius beneath our Macedonian heels.” A feeble cheer went up, but it soon died away. Alexander removed his helm, running his fingers through his sweat-drenched golden hair. “Each man among you will today receive a golden Philip, and I have brought a hundred barrels of Macedonian wine to remind you of home. Tonight we will celebrate your achievements with a grand feast in your honor.”

Hephaistion was stunned. Twelve thousand gold Philips—each one a year’s pay for a common soldier … and given so casually! A tremendous roar went up from the soldiers that startled Bucephalus, and he reared on his hind legs. Alexander calmed the stallion and cantered back to where the officers waited.

“Now to serious matters,” he said softly and led them back to the main camp.

Throughout the afternoon Alexander listened intently to the reports of Parmenion and Hephaistion as to the nature and organization of the Persian army. Darius had given command of the warriors to a renegade Greek named Memnon, and he, Parmenion pointed out, was a wily and skillful general. The Persians numbered some fifty thousand, half being cavalry from Cappadocia and Paphlagonia in the north.

“Brilliant horsemen,” said Hephaistion, “and utterly fearless.”

“Have there been any major encounters?” Alexander asked.

“No,” answered Parmenion. “Perhaps twenty skirmishes between outriders, but I avoided full confrontation.”

“No wonder your troops looked so weary,” put in Philotas. “They have spent the last seven months running away from the enemy.”

“Parmenion was wise to do so,” said Alexander. “Had we suffered a major defeat here, it is likely we would have lost support in Greece. That in turn would have made this current expedition almost impossible to mount.” He swung back to Parmenion. “How much support can we expect from the Greek cities?”

“Very little, sire,” said Parmenion. “At first they welcomed us, sending delegations to assure us of support. But as the months went by, they lost heart. And Darius has now strengthened the garrisons in Mytilene and Ephesus.”

Hephaistion listened to the exchanges and watched Parmenion. The Spartan seemed stiff and ill at ease, his pale eyes never leaving Alexander’s face. But if the king noticed his general’s stare, he gave no indication of it.

“Where is the enemy now?” Alexander asked.

“They are camped near the town of Zeleia,” Parmenion told him. “Two days’ march to the northeast.”

“Then we shall seek them out,” said Alexander brightly. Suddenly leaning forward, he gripped Parmenion’s shoulder. “Something is troubling you, my dear friend. Speak of it.”

“It is nothing, sire, I assure you. I am merely tired.”

“Then you shall rest, and we will meet again tomorrow morning,” said Alexander, rising.

Hephaistion remained behind when the others had gone, and Alexander took him by the arm, leading him out into the moonlight to walk around the camp.

“What is wrong with Parmenion?” asked the king.

“As I wrote you, sire, he was angry at the slaying of Attalus and spoke against the killing of Cleopatra and the babe. Also,
he was soon joined by the Theban Mothac, who I understand witnessed the destruction of his city. Something changed in Parmenion then. He is not the same man. Perhaps it is just his age … I don’t know. Except on matters of discipline or strategy, we rarely speak.”

“You think I can no longer trust Parmenion?”

“I do not think he is … yet … considering treachery,” answered Hephaistion carefully. “But there is a great bitterness inside him.”

“I need him, Hephaistion, perhaps not for much longer. But I need him
now
. He knows the Persians and their methods. And whatever else he may or may not be, he is still the greatest general of this age.”

“He was once, sire. I am not sure about now; he is old and tired.”

“If that proves to be true,” whispered Alexander, “then you shall see he joins Attalus for a very long rest.”

Parmenion drained his third goblet of mead wine and poured another. He knew he was drinking too much, but over the last few months only alcohol could dull the ache he felt, only wine could lift the weight from his soul. In his dreams he saw Philip and Attalus, young again and full of hope for the future. He saw the Sparta of the enchantment and held again the youthful Derae.

On waking, he would groan and reach for the wine. So far his skills had not been affected—or had they? Could he have done more to thwart Memnon? Could he have defeated the Persian army?

“I don’t know,” he said aloud. “I don’t care.” There was an iron brazier at the center of the tent, glowing coals taking the chill from the night air and casting dark, dancing shadows on the canvas walls. Parmenion drew up a padded leather-topped stool and sat before the fire, staring into the tiny caverns within the flames.

“Do you wish to be alone?” asked Alexander, ducking under the tent flap and approaching the seated man.

Parmenion did not rise. He shook his head. “It does not matter. I am alone. Now and always,” he answered.

Alexander seated himself opposite the Spartan and sat silently for several minutes, scanning Parmenion’s face. Then he reached out to take the general’s hand. “Talk to me,” he urged. “There is something dark inside you. Let us shine a light on it.”

“Inside me?” responded Parmenion, shaking his head in disbelief. “Have I slain any babies of late? Have I ordered the murder of a loyal general? Have I removed from the face of Greece a city rich in history and legend?”

“I see,” said the king softly. “You are angry with me. But you judge me too harshly, Parmenion; I have only done what you taught me to do. All those quiet lessons in strategy in the sunshine at Mieza and on your estates. Well, what would you have done? Thebes rose against us. Athens sent messages of support but sat back to wait and watch what the
boy
king would do. Sparta sent an army north, five thousand men camped at Megara. Every southern city was ready to break their treaties with Macedonia, for they were treaties made with Philip, the
warrior
king. Not with the
boy
, Alexander. Persian agents were everywhere, showering the great king’s gold upon any who would declare enmity to Macedon. Philip could have cowed them, but he would have had the weight of his reputation behind him. The
boy
had no reputation save for victories against
‘crude tribesmen.’
” Alexander shook his head, his expression sorrowful. “I was negotiating with the Thebans, trying to find a peaceful way to end the deadlock. But there was an incident near a postern gate in the southern wall, when a group of young Thebans attacked a scouting party of Macedonians led by Perdiccas. The Theban army then issued out, storming our camp. We routed them swiftly and entered the city, at which point our besieged garrison in the Cadmea opened their gates and attacked from within. You have seen the fall of cities, Parmenion—warriors everywhere, small skirmishes, running battles. There is no order. And yes, the slaughter was great. It took hours to stop it, to restore discipline.

“The following day I ordered the destruction of the city and marched the army south. The Spartans retreated. The Athenians sent emissaries pledging their loyal support. The razing of Thebes was like an earth tremor, destroying the foundations of rebellion. But it hurt me, Parmenion. The glory that was Thebes, the home of Hector’s tomb, the works and statues of Praxiteles. You think it did not hurt me?”

The general looked up, saw what appeared to be anguish on the young man’s face, and sighed. “And Attalus? Did
that
hurt you?”

“No,” admitted Alexander, “but you know I had no choice. He hated me and feared me. For years he tried to poison Philip’s mind against me. He was my father’s man; he would never be mine. But I tell you this: Had he been living in retirement on his estates, I would have let him live. But he was not. He was in Asia in joint command of an army—an army he might have tried to turn against me.”

Parmenion could not argue with the truth of that. Philip himself had come to power after having organized the murder of possible rivals. But there was one last, lingering boil to be lanced. “What of the babe?” he asked.

“That was a terrible deed—and none of my doing. I am ashamed to tell you that I believe it was my mother, aided by a friend of hers from Samothrace—Aida. The night after my father’s murder the two women went to Cleopatra, who was later found strangled with a length of braided silver wire. Olympias denied it, but who else could it have been? It was a ghastly way for my reign to begin—the murder of my infant brother.”

“You had no part in it?”

“Did you think that I would?” Alexander was genuinely shocked, and the Spartan read the sincerity in his eyes.

Parmenion felt as if an awesome weight had slid from his shoulders. Reaching out, he embraced the younger man, and there were tears in his eyes. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am,” he said. “The killing of the child has haunted me. I thought …”

“You thought the Dark God had taken control of me?”

Parmenion nodded. Alexander reached down, drawing a slender dagger from his belt. Taking Parmenion’s hand, he pressed the hilt of the dagger into his palm. The Spartan’s fingers closed around the weapon, and Alexander leaned his body forward so that the point of the dagger touched his chest.

“If you doubt me, then kill me,” he told Parmenion.

The Spartan looked into the young man’s eyes, seeking any sign of the beast from the enchantment. But there was nothing. All he could see was the handsome young man his son had become. Letting slip the knife, he shook his head. “I see only a king,” he said.

Alexander chuckled. “By all the gods, it’s good to see you again, Parmenion! Do you remember the day we sat in the palace at Pella, discussing your victory at the Crocus Field? I asked you then if you would one day be my general. You recall?”

“Yes, you were about four years old. I said I might be a little old by the time you became king. And indeed I am.”

“Well, now I ask you again: Will the Lion of Macedon lead my army to victory?”

“If the gods are willing, sire, he will.”

THE RIVER GRANICUS, 334
B.C.

Bodies lay everywhere, and the mud-churned banks of the Granicus were slippery with blood. Parmenion removed his helm, passing it to Ptolemy, who took it in trembling hands. The Spartan looked into the youngster’s unnaturally pale face, saw the sheen of cold sweat on his cheeks. “Are you enjoying the glory?” he asked.

Ptolemy swallowed hard. “It was a great victory, sir,” he answered.

“Follow me,” the general ordered. Parmenion and his six aides walked slowly across the battlefield, stepping over the bloated corpses of the Persian slain. Dark clouds of crows and ravens rose from the bodies, their raucous cries harsh upon the ears. Parmenion halted beside the mutilated corpse of a young Persian noble dressed in silk and satin. The fingers of his left hand had been cut away, then discarded once the gold rings had been stripped from them. His face was gray, his eyes torn out by carrion birds. He would have been no older than Ptolemy. In the midday heat the body had swelled with the gases of death, and the stench was terrible. “He dreamed of glory,” said Parmenion harshly, turning on his officers. “Yesterday he rode a fine horse and sought to destroy the enemies of his king. He probably has a young wife at home, perhaps a son. Handsome, is he not?”