Dark Prince (68 page)

“I do not think that was true,” said Hephaistion.

By dusk the trireme was sailing east on the busy trade lane to Cyprus, a stiff breeze billowing the great sail, the oars drawn in, the oarsmen resting at their seats on the three rowing decks. Hephaistion sat on a canvas-topped chair at the stern, eyes locked to the land sliding slowly by them.

First Caria, then Lycia, once so hostile but now merely small outposts of the empire of Alexander.

He remembered the ceaseless forced marches under Parmenion
four years before as the Macedonian advance troops sought to avoid major clashes with the Persian forces. How right the Spartan had been. Had he fought the Persians and won, then Darius would undoubtedly have gathered an even larger force and Alexander would have arrived in Asia to find himself confronted by an irresistible enemy. The lands of the Persian empire were more vast than Hephaistion could ever have imagined, its people more numerous than the sand grains of the beaches he could see to the north.

Even now, after almost six years of war and Alexander’s winning of the crown, there were still battles to fight against the Sogdianians of the north, the Indians of the east, and the Scythian tribesmen of the Caspian Sea.

Parmenion had marched a second Macedonian army to the east, winning two battles against superior numbers. Hephaistion smiled. Even close to seventy years of age, the Spartan was still a mighty general. He had outlived two of his sons: Hector had died at the Battle of the Issus three years earlier, while Nicci had been slain at Arbela fighting alongside his king.

Only Philotas remained.

“What are you thinking?” asked Callis, his huge arms resting on the tiller.

Hephaistion glanced up. “I was watching the land. It seems so peaceful from here.”

“Yes,” agreed the sailor. “All the world looks better from the sea. I think Poseidon’s realm makes us humble. It is so vast and powerful, and our ambitions are so petty alongside it. It highlights our limits.”

“You think we have limits? Alexander would not agree.”

Callis chuckled. “Can Alexander sculpt a rose or shape a cloud? Can he tame an angry sea? No. We live for a little while, scurrying here and there, then we are gone. But the sea remains: strong, beautiful, eternal.”

“Are all seamen philosophers?” Hephaistion asked.

The captain laughed aloud. “We are when the sea surrounds us. On land we rut like mangy dogs, and we drink until
we piss red wine. What war will you be fighting when you get back?”

Hephaistion shrugged. “Wherever the king sends me.”

“What will he do when he runs out of enemies?”

“Does a man ever run out of enemies?”

SUSA, PERSIA, 330
B.C.

The moment had come, as he had long known it would, and Philotas felt a sudden coldness in his heart. His father had been right all along. His mouth was dry, but he did not touch the wine set before him. Today he wanted his head clear.

Alexander was still speaking, his officers gathered around him in the throne hall at the palace of Susa. One hundred men, warriors, strong and courageous, yet they kept their gaze to the marble floor, not wishing to look up into the painted eyes of the king.

Not so Philotas, who stood with head held high watching Alexander. Gold ocher stained the king’s upper lids, and his lips were the color of blood. The high conical crown of Darius, gold and ivory, sat upon his head, and he was dressed in the loose-fitting silken robes of a Persian emperor.

How has it come to this? Philotas wondered.

Alexander had conquered the Persians, drawing the defeated army into the ranks of his own forces and appointing Persian generals and satraps. The empire was his. He had even married Darius’ daughter, Roxanne, to legitimize his claim to the crown.

And what a sham that was, for not once had he called her to his bed.

Philotas’ gaze flickered over the listening officers, whose faces showed their tensions and their fears. Once more Alexander was talking about treachery among them, promising to root out the disloyal. Only yesterday some sixty Macedonian
soldiers had been flogged to death for what the king called mutiny. Their crime? They had asked when they could go home. They had joined the army to liberate the cities of Asia Minor, not to march across the world at the whim of a power-crazed king.

Five days before that Alexander had had a vision: his officers were set to kill him. The vision told him who they were, and six men were garroted, one of them Theoparlis, the general of the shield bearers. Philotas had not liked the man, but his loyalty was legendary.

Ever since Hephaistion’s departure the king had been acting strangely, given to sudden rages followed by long silences. At first the generals had affected to ignore the signs. Alexander had long been known to possess unusual talents, though always before such behavior had been short-lived. But now it seemed that a new Alexander had emerged, cold and terrifying.

In the beginning the officers had talked among themselves of this transformation, but after the killings began there grew among the Macedonians such a fear that even friends no longer met privately in case they should be accused of plotting against the emperor.

But three days ago had come the final lunacy.

Parmenion and the Second Army had at last taken the city of Elam. More accurately, the ruling council of the city had negotiated a surrender. Parmenion had sent the city’s treasury—some eighty thousand talents of silver—to Alexander at Susa. Alexander’s reply had been to order the killing of every man, woman, and child in Elam.

Parmenion had received the order with disbelief and had sent a rider to question its authenticity.

Philotas had been summoned to the palace along with Ptolemy, Cassander, and Craterus. They had arrived to find Alexander standing over the body of the messenger.

“I am surrounded by traitors,” Alexander declared. “Parmenion has refused to obey the orders of his emperor.”

Philotas gazed down on the body of the messenger, a
young boy of no more than fifteen. The lad’s sword was still in its scabbard, but Alexander’s dagger was buried in his heart.

“You have always spoken against your father, Philo,” said Alexander. “I should have listened to you earlier. In his dotage he has turned against me. Against
me
!”

“What has he done, sire?” Ptolemy asked.

“He has refused to punish Elam for its rebellion.”

Philotas felt himself growing cold, a numbness spreading through him. All his life he had believed that one day he would be a king, the knowledge sure, set in stone, based on the promise of the only person who had ever loved him, his mother, Phaedra. But during the last year the stone of belief had slowly crumbled, the cold breeze of reality whispering against it, scattering his hopes, destroying his dreams. Lacking the charisma of a Philip or Alexander or the intellect of a Parmenion, he could not even inspire the troops he led into battle. Self-knowledge had come late to him, but at last even Philotas had come to recognize his mother’s folly.

No kingdom. No glory. His father had been right: he had built his future on a foundation of mist. What now? he wondered. If he remained silent, then Parmenion would be slain and he, Philotas, would remain as a general of the king. If not, he would be taken and murdered … and Parmenion would still be killed. His mouth was dry, his heartbeat irregular. To die or not to die? What kind of a choice was this for a young man? he wondered. “Well, Philo?” asked Alexander.

Philotas saw the king’s eyes upon him and shivered. “Parmenion is no traitor,” he answered without hesitation.

“Then you are also against me? So be it. Take his weapons. Tomorrow he shall answer for his betrayal before his comrades.”

Craterus and Ptolemy had marched Philotas to the dungeons below the palace. They had walked in silence until Ptolemy reached out to pull shut the cell door.

“Ptolemy!”

“Yes, Philo?”

“I wish to send a message to my father.”

“I can’t. The king would kill me.”

“I understand.”

The room was small, windowless and dark as pitch with the door bolted. Philotas felt his way to the pallet bed and stretched out on it.

Nicci and Hector were both gone now, and tomorrow the last son of the Lion of Macedon would join them. “I wish I’d known you better, Father,” said Philo, his voice quavering.

Despite his fears Philo slept and was awakened by the sound of the bolts being drawn back on the door. A shaft of light filled the cell, and the Macedonian blinked as armed men pushed their way inside.

“Up, traitor!” ordered a soldier, seizing Philo’s arm and hauling him from the bed. He was pushed out into the corridor and marched back to the throne room, where his fellow officers waited in judgment.

Alexander’s voice echoed in the vast hall, shrill and strident, his face flushed crimson. “Philotas and his father owe everything to me, and how do they repay me? They plot and plan to supplant me. What is the penalty for such treachery?”

“Death!” cried the officers. Philotas smiled. Only a few days before, his had been one of the voices shouting for the death of Theoparlis.

Slowly Philo rose to his feet, all eyes turning to him.

“What do you say, prisoner, before the sentence is carried out?” asked Alexander.

“What would you have me say?” responded Philo, his voice steady, his gaze locked to the unnaturally pale eyes of the king.

“Do you wish to deny your villainy or to plead for mercy?”

Philo laughed then. “There is not one man in this room save you who believes that Parmenion would ever plot against you. For myself, I have nothing to offer by way of defense. For if a man as loyal as Theoparlis could be found guilty, then what chance does Philotas have? I have followed you and fought battles alongside you, battles that my father won for you. My two brothers died to ensure you would sit upon that throne. I should have no need to defend myself. But let it be clearly understood by all present that Parmenion is no
traitor. You ordered him to take a city, and he took it. Then you ordered that every man, woman, and child in that city should be put to death as an example to other rebels. That he would not do. Nor would any other decent Greek. Only a madman would order such an atrocity.”

“Condemned out of his own mouth!” roared Alexander, rising from the throne and advancing down the room. “By all the gods, I’ll kill you myself.”

“As you killed Cleitus?” Philotas shouted.

Alexander’s dagger swept toward Philo’s throat, but the Macedonian swayed to his right, the blade slashing past his face. Instinctively he struck out with his left fist, which cannoned against Alexander’s chin. The king fell back, the dagger falling from his hands. Philo swept it up and leapt on him, bearing him to the marble floor. Alexander’s head cracked against the stone. The point of the dagger in Philo’s hand touched the skin of Alexander’s neck, and Philo bunched his muscles for the final thrust.

Alexander’s eyes changed color, swirling back to the sea-green Philo remembered from the past.

“What is happening, Philo?” whispered the king, his voice soft. Philo hesitated … then a spear rammed through his unprotected back, ripping into his lungs and heart. He reared up, and a second guard drove his blade into the dying man’s chest.

Blood gushed from Philo’s mouth, and he slumped to the floor beside the semiconscious Alexander. The king rose shakily, then backed away from the corpse. “Where is Hephaistion? I need Hephaistion!” he cried.

Craterus moved alongside him. “He is gone, sire, to Rhodes, to fetch the lady Aida.”

“Rhodes?”

“Let me take you back to your rooms, sire.”

“Yes … yes. Where is Parmenion?”

“In Elam, sire. But do not concern yourself. He will be dead by tomorrow. I sent three of our finest swordsmen.”

Alexander groaned, but for a moment he said nothing. He could feel the Dark God fighting back inside him, storming
the bastions of his mind. Yet he held on and drew in a deep breath. “Get me to the stables,” he ordered Craterus.

“The stables? Why, sire?”

“I need to stop them, Craterus.”

“You cannot ride out alone. You have enemies everywhere.”

The king looked up into the earnest young man’s eyes. “I am not insane, Craterus. But there is … a demon inside me. You understand?”

“A demon, sire, yes. Come and rest. I will send for the surgeon.”

“You don’t believe me? No, but then, why should you? Leave me!”

Alexander pushed Craterus away and ran down the long corridor, emerging into the bright sunshine of the courtyard. Two sentries snapped to attention, but he ignored them and continued to run along the tree-lined road to the royal stables.

Bucephalus was in the eastern paddock, and his great head lifted as he saw the king. “Come to me!” called Alexander. The black stallion trotted to the fence, and Alexander opened the gate, took hold of the black mane, and swung himself to Bucephalus’ back.

There were shouts from the west, and the king turned to see Craterus and several of the officers running after him.

Alexander kicked Bucephalus into a run and rode for the southeast, through the royal park and out onto the road to Elam. The city was some sixty miles away on the coast, the road petering out into rocky tracks and high hills.