Dark Prince (8 page)

He heard a movement behind him and turned, expecting to see the crippled Peris.

“Welcome home, Husband,” said Phaedra. He bowed stiffly. His wife was wearing a robe of shimmering blue that clung to her slender frame, her golden hair pulled back from her face and bound with silver wire into a ponytail that hung to her narrow waist. Parmenion looked into her cold blue eyes and stiffened.

“I will not be here for long, lady,” he told her.

“Long enough to see your son, I would hope.”

“Sons,” he corrected her.

“There is only one for me,” she said, her face expressionless. “Philotas—he who will be great, the greatest of all.”

“Do not say that!” he hissed. “It is not true! You hear me?”

She laughed then, the sound chilling. “I lost my powers
when I gave myself to you, General, but I will never forget the vision I saw when first you touched me. Your firstborn will rule the world. I
know
it. And he is Philotas.”

Parmenion felt his mouth go dry. “You are a fool, woman,” he said at last. “A fool to believe it and doubly foolish to say it aloud. Think on this: if Philip or Olympias hears of your vision, will they not seek to have the child slain?”

All color drained from her face. “How would they hear?” she whispered.

“Who is listening now?” he asked. “How do you know which servant may be walking in the gardens or sitting within earshot?”

“You are just trying to frighten me.”

“Indeed I am, Phaedra. For they would kill not only the babe but the mother, brothers, and father. And who would blame them?”

“You will protect him. You are the Lion of Macedon, the most powerful man in the kingdom,” she said brightly.

“Go to bed, woman,” he told her, his voice weary.

“Will you be joining me, Husband?”

He wanted to tell her no, but always the sight of her body aroused him.

“Yes. Soon.” Her smile was triumphant, and he swung away from it, listening to the soft sound of her footfalls as she left the room. For some time he sat in silence, his heart heavy, then he rose and moved through to the upper nursery where his children slept. Hector was lying on his side in his crib, sucking his tiny thumb. Nicci, as always, had climbed into bed with Philo, and the two slept with arms entwined.

Parmenion gazed at his eldest son. “What is she raising you to be?” he wondered aloud.

He knew—had known for years—that Phaedra regarded him with contempt. The knowledge hurt, but the greater pain was in the lie that bound them together. She had been a seeress and had seen a golden future. But she had misread it. Parmenion could not tell her of her mistake or even risk putting her aside, for Phaedra, in her vengeance, could cause incalculable harm. She had been the closest friend of Olympias, who
had known of her virgin powers. If she went to the queen and told her of the vision … Parmenion felt the swell of panic within him. No, at all costs the secret must be kept. The only final answer would be to kill Phaedra, and this he would not, could not, do.

“Oh, Philo,” whispered Parmenion, stroking his son’s head, “I hope you will be strong enough to withstand your mother’s ambitions for you.” The boy stirred and moaned in his sleep.

And Parmenion left the room, drawn by lust to a woman he despised.

Parmenion awoke in the hour before dawn. Silently rising from the large bed, careful not to wake Phaedra, he padded across the scattered rugs that covered the timbered floor. Back in his own rooms he washed himself down with cold water and then rubbed oil into the skin of his arms and chest, scraping it clear with an ivory knife.

Dressing in a simple
chiton
tunic, he walked down to the gardens. The birds still slept in the trees, and not a sound disturbed the silent beauty of the predawn. The sky was dark gray, streaked with clouds, but in the east the color was lighter as Apollo and his fiery chariot grew ever closer. Parmenion breathed deeply, filling his lungs, before gently stretching the muscles of his thighs, groin, and calves.

The garden gate lay open as he loped out into the countryside. His muscles still felt stiff, and his calves were beginning to burn long before he reached the crest of the first hill. It had been impossible to run during the months of the Phocian campaign, and now his body complained bitterly. Ignoring the discomfort, he increased his pace, sweat gleaming on his face as the miles flowed by beneath him.

He had never understood the miracle of his healing, the tightening of his skin, the strength of youth once more surging through his body, but he did not need to understand it to glory in it. He had never found any activity to match the constant joy of running—the perfect communion between mind and body, the freeing of inhibition, the cleansing of spirit.
When he ran, his mind was free and he could think through his problems, finding solutions with an ease that still surprised him.

Today he was considering the Thracian stallion, Titan. He had cost a great deal of money, and yet he was—by Persian standards—cheap. His pedigree was incredible, sired by the finest prize stallion in Persia and born to the fastest mare ever to win the Olympics. Two of his brothers had been sold for fortunes beyond the reach of all but the richest kings, yet Parmenion had acquired him for a mere two thousand drachmas.

Since then the stallion had killed two other horses and maimed one of his handlers, and now he was kept apart from the main herd in a pasture ringed by a fence the height of a tall man.

Parmenion knew how foolhardy it was to boast of riding him, but all other methods had failed. The Thessalians did not believe in breaking their horses in the Thracian manner, loading them with heavy weights and running them until they were near exhaustion before putting a rider on their backs. This method, said his men, could break a horse’s spirit. It was always important, the Thessalians believed, to establish a bond between mount and man. But for a war-horse and his rider such a bond was vital. When trust was strong, most horses would willingly allow riders upon their backs.

Not so with Titan. Three handlers had been hurt by him, jagged bites or kicks cracking limbs. But on the last occasion he had thrown and then stomped the legs and back of a young Thessalian, who now had no feeling below the waist and was confined to his bed in the communal barracks. There, before long, according to Bernios, he would die.

Parmenion loped on along the line of the hills, his mind concentrating on the day ahead. The Thessalians believed Titan to be demon-possessed. Perhaps he was, but Parmenion doubted it. Wild, yes; untamed, certainly. But possessed? What profit would there be for a demon trapped inside a horse at pasture? No. There had to be a better explanation—even if he had not yet discovered it.

He ran until the dawn streaked the sky with crimson, then
halted to watch the transient splendor of diamond stars shining in a blue sky, slowly fading until only the North Star remained, tiny and defiant against the arrival of the sun. Then that, too, was gone.

The breeze was cool upon the hilltop, and his sweat-drenched body shivered. Narrowing his eyes, he gazed over the lands that were now his, hundreds of miles of the Emathian plain, grassland, woods, hills, and streams. No man could see it all from one place, but from this hilltop he looked down on the seven pastures where his herds grazed. Six hundred horses were kept here, and beyond the line of the eastern hills there were cattle and goats, five villages, two towns, and a small forest that surrendered fine timber that was eagerly sought by the shipbuilders of Rhodes and Crete.

“You are a rich man now,” he said aloud, remembering the days of poverty back in Sparta when his tunic was threadbare, his sandals as thin as parchment. Swinging around, he stared back at the great house with its high pillars, its twenty large guest rooms. From here he could see the statues adorning the landscaped gardens and the score of smaller buildings housing slaves and servants.

A man ought to be happy with all this, he admonished himself, but his heart sank with the thought.

Picking up his pace again, he ran on toward the stables and pastures, his eyes scanning the hills, picking out the giant form of Titan alone in his pasture. The horse was running also but stopped to watch him. Parmenion’s scalp prickled as he ran alongside the fence under Titan’s baleful glare. The stallion’s domain was not large, some eighty paces long and fifty wide, the fence sturdily constructed of thick timbers. Not a horse alive could leap such an obstacle, but even so, when Titan cantered toward him, Parmenion involuntarily moved to his right to put more distance between himself and the fence. This momentary fear infuriated him, fueling his determination to conquer the giant.

He saw Mothac talking to the slender Croni and the boy Orsin at the far gate, and more than twenty Thessalians had gathered to watch the coming contest. One of the men clambered
up onto the fence, but Titan raced across his pasture, rearing to strike out at the man, who threw himself backward to safety, much to the amusement of his fellows.

“It is not a good day for such a ride,” Mothac told Parmenion. “There was rain in the night, and the ground is soft.”

Parmenion smiled. The old Theban was trying to give him an easy way out. “It was but a smattering,” said Parmenion. “Come, let us be starting our day. Which of you brave fellows will rope the beast?”

Mothac shook his head, his concern obvious. “All right, my boys, let’s be seeing some Thessalian skills!”

Several of the men gathered up long, coiled ropes. There was no humor evident now—their faces were set, their eyes hard. Two men ran to the right, keeping close to the fence, waving the coils and calling to Titan, who charged at them, the fence posts rattling as he struck. To the left, unnoticed by the enraged beast, Orsin and Croni climbed into the pasture, angling out behind the black stallion. Suddenly the beast swung and darted at Orsin. Croni’s rope sailed over the stallion’s great head, jerking tight as he reared to strike the youngster. Feeling the rope bite into his neck, Titan turned to charge Croni. Now it was Orsin who threw a loop over the stallion’s head and neck, hauling it tight. Instantly the other Thessalians clambered over the fence, ready to help, but Titan stood stock-still, his great frame trembling.

The huge head slowly turned, his malevolent gaze fixing on Parmenion as he jumped down into the pasture.

He knows, thought Parmenion, with a sudden rush of fear. He is waiting for me!

The Spartan moved toward the horse, always keeping in its line of vision until he stood beside the neck and head. Carefully his hand reached up to the top rope, loosening it and lifting it clear.

“Steady, boy,” he whispered. “Your master speaks. Steady, boy.”

Still the stallion waited like a black statue. Parmenion eased his fingers under the second rope, sliding it up along
the neck, over the ears, and down the long nose, waiting for the lunging bite that could tear away his fingers.

It did not come.

Stroking the trembling flanks, Parmenion took hold of the black mane, vaulting smoothly to the stallion’s back.

Titan reared as the Spartan’s weight came down, but Parmenion locked his legs to the horse’s body, holding his position. Titan leapt high in the air, coming down on all four hooves with bone-crunching force, dipping his head and dragging his rider forward. Then he bucked. But Parmenion was ready for the maneuver, leaning back and holding to his point of balance.

The black stallion set off at a run, then rolled to his back, desperate to dislodge and crush his tormentor. Parmenion jumped to the ground as the stallion rolled, leaping over the belly and flailing hooves and springing once more to Titan’s back as the horse lunged to his feet. The Thessalians cheered the move.

The giant stallion galloped around the pasture, twisting, leaping, bucking, and rearing, but he could not dislodge the hated man on his back.

Finally Titan charged toward the fence. It was a move the Spartan had not anticipated, and instinctively he knew the stallion’s intent. He would gallop toward the timbers and then swing his flanks to crash against the wood, smashing the bones of Parmenion’s leg to shards, crippling the Spartan for life. Parmenion had only one hope—to leap clear—but if he did so, the stallion would turn on him.

Seeing the danger, the youngster Orsin clambered over the fence and leapt into the paddock, shouting at the top of his voice and waving his coiled rope around his head. The move disconcerted the stallion, who swerved and found himself running headfirst at the timbers.

Sweet Zeus, he’ll kill us both! thought Parmenion as Titan thundered toward the wooden wall.

But at the last moment Titan bunched his muscles, sailing high in the air, clearing the fence with ease, and galloping across the hills. The horse herd grazing there scattered before
him. Never had Parmenion known such speed, the wind screaming in his ears, the ground moving by below him like a green blur.

“Turn, my beauty!” he yelled. “Turn and show me your strength.” As if the stallion understood him, he swung wide and thundered back toward the pasture.

Mothac and Croni were pulling open the gate, but perversely Titan swerved once more, galloping straight at the highest point of the fence.

Sweet Hera be with me! prayed the Spartan, for there the highest bar of the fence was almost seven feet high. The stallion slowed, bunched his muscles, and leapt, rear hooves clattering against the wood.

As Titan landed, Parmenion swung his right leg clear and jumped to the ground. Immediately the stallion turned on him, rearing above him with hooves lashing down. The Spartan rolled and came up running, diving between the fence bars and landing headfirst in a patch of churned earth. The Thessalians roared with laughter as Parmenion staggered to his feet.

“I think,” said the Spartan with a grin, “he may take a little breaking yet. But what a horse!”

“Look out!” yelled Croni. Titan charged the fence once more, leaping it without breaking stride. Parmenion dived out of the way, but the stallion swung, seeking him out. When Croni ran forward with his rope, Titan saw him and swerved toward the Thessalian, his huge shoulder crashing into the little man and punching him from his feet. Before anyone could move, Titan reared above the Thessalian, his front hooves hammering down into Croni’s face. The skull dissolved, the head collapsing in a sickening spray of blood and brains. Orsin managed to get a rope over the stallion, but twice more the hooves smashed down into the limp body on the grass. Titan felt the noose settle on his neck and jerked hard, tugging Orsin from his feet. Ignoring the boy, he thundered toward Parmenion. The Spartan threw himself to his left, but as if anticipating the move, Titan reared high, his blood-spattered hooves plunging down. Parmenion dived again, this time to
his right, his back striking a fence post. Titan loomed above him.